Message-ID: <181428Z27061995@anon.penet.fi>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: an151170@anon.penet.fi (...Mercury....)
X-Anonymously-To: alt.sex.stories
Organization: Anonymous forwarding service
Reply-To: an151170@anon.penet.fi
Date: Tue, 27 Jun 1995 18:03:41 UTC
Subject: Close Call (m/m/m)
Lines: 583

o
o        Oh Wise Master, I wonder who rules Alt.Sex.Stories ?
o        Why that is easy, young Grasshopper.  It is...
o
o                 ...  M  e  r  c  u  r  y  ...
o
o        For listen to the Wind.  Does it not whisper in your ear, 
o        "Mercury rulez A.S.S.!"  And listen to the babbling brook.
o        Does it not babble, "Mercury has the biggest dick of all!"
o        You see, Grasshopper.  All of Nature is in harmony with
o        Mercury, for he is one with the Universe!
o
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
o    
o    5,219.  (Trans.  Mike Kelly)
o    
o    Let's hide our kisses, darling, keeping
o    our love-making secret.  Our exciting
o    and beautiful love-making.
o    It is an extra delight to hide from notice,
o    to escape the supervision of guardians,
o    who think they miss nothing.
o    The need for secrecy gives making love
o    honey-sweetness,
o    more than open approval does.
o
o                                           -- Paulos
o
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
o
o      Notes :
o
o   1.  I did not write this story and do not know who did.
o   2.  If you're a biW/A m/f 18-24 looking for friends, write.
o
Msg#: 6501 *Gay-Stories-Fantasies*
05-02-94 10:47:00
From: DEEP THINKER
  To: ALL
Subj: CLOSE CALL 1/7
Sorry the original upload was screwed up.  Here it is again.

Close Call

    My knees were still shaking when I walked out the door
of the principal's office, and I felt weak, clammy, and
almost sick.  The sense of relief was starting to take hold,
but I still felt like I'd been through Hell in a rowboat.
Spending almost five hours answering questions that may send
a good friend to jail would never be a picnic, but it's sure
no fun to spend those five hours explaining the lies you
told earlier to try to keep him out of jail.  I felt bad for
Ken, and I sure hoped he could find an out, but I doubted
it.  I had nearly gotten my balls in a vice trying to help,
but in the end there hadn't been anything I could do.  When
you sell dope to an undercover narc, it really doesn't
matter that you were just raising money because you were
broke, and they couldn't care less that you didn't make any
profit.  At least, for the time being, I was in the clear.
The cops and the principal knew I wasn't involved, and they
had implied that if I didn't screw up again, they wouldn't
have to call my dad.

    "Oh, shit!"  All the feelings of relief I'd started to
have vanished in an instant.  It was almost six o'clock, and
when you live as far back in the Louisiana sticks I did,
it's a big deal to miss the school bus.  It's a bigger deal
to call your dad, who always wanted to be a Baptist preacher
instead of a farmer, and explain that you'd been delayed
because you were having a cozy little chat with the
principal and a couple of federal narcotics agents.  My ass
was grass and I knew it.

    Maybe, just maybe, the coach had kept the guys late at
football practice.  I might manage to catch a ride with
Terry, my older brother.  I was going to have to explain why
I had missed the bus, and he'd probably kick my ass
(something he did regularly anyway), but he wouldn't tell
Dad.  Terry and I didn't get along, but he wasn't a tattle
tale.  Even though I wasn't very hopeful, I broke into a run
for the field house.  I don't like football, and to Terry
that made me a wimp, but I could outrun him and all his
buddies, especially when my ass was on the line.

    When I rounded the corner of the gym, I was glad to see
that hunk of junk he called a car still sitting in the
parking lot.  The coach must have kept 'em late, because a
lot of the guys' cars were still there.  Maybe my luck
wasn't all bad after all.

    I dashed through the door of the field house yelling,
"Hey, Terry, I need a ..."  The words just died and I froze
in my tracks.  My brother and six of his buddies were
standing in the locker room, dropping money into a hat as it
passed from hand to hand.  The unusual part wasn't that they
were naked -- after all it was a locker room.  The unusual
part was that they were all fully hard and nobody seemed to
be hiding it.

    "What you need is to have the shit beat out of you,
Wimp!  I'll teach you to spy on me!"  Terry lunged for me,
and I side-stepped him out of reflex.  He never had won any
prizes for agility, for sure.  On the second attempt, he
made a wide swing, and I caught a pretty good lick to the
cheek, even though he'd been aiming for my mouth.
Temporarily, I forgot about the hard naked guys, and thought
only of getting out of this situation with as little damage
as I could.  Terry swung and missed a couple more times,
then managed to land one right to my gut with the full force
of his 200 pounds.  I crumpled to the floor and was sure I
was about to get a horrible ass kicking.  In a minute I
realized that the noise I was hearing wasn't the sound of me
getting beat up; it was the sound of Terry trying his
damnedest to get loose from the three guys who were holding
him off me.  Feeling extra lucky, I figured it was safe for
me to get up.

    "Look, Terry, all I want is a ride home.  I had to stay
after school and you know Dad will blow his stack if I call
him to pick me up.  I wasn't spying on you.  Chill out guy."
No longer scared shitless, I started glancing around the
room, noticing that several of the guys had already started
dressing, and nobody was still hard.  Nobody but me, anyway.
I realized with disgust that my own prick was still more
than half hard, and my mind started the accusations of
"Queer!" that were getting all the more common lately.
Maybe Terry was right.  Maybe I was a faggot.

    Terry quit struggling and the guys turned him loose,
but the anger was still flashing in his eyes.  "I'll tend to
you later," he promised, and I knew that was one promise he
meant to keep.  I didn't say anything simply because I knew
it wouldn't do any good.
    "Lay off, Terry.  It's no big deal.  Steve and his
friends probably have money jerks of their own.  And you're
the shithead who didn't lock the door," I heard Bob, the
team captain saying.  "Tomorrow afternoon, after practice,
we'll pick up where left off, but there's gonna be eight of
us tomorrow, 'cause Steve's gonna join us.  Leave him alone
for now.  If he says anything before tomorrow, we'll all
kick his ass.  And after tomorrow he won't have anything to
talk about.  Got it?"

    Terry started to cuss, but when Bob's expression turned
mean, even he knew it was time to shut up.

    "You're always talking about what a stud you are, and
what a wimp he is.  Tomorrow you get a chance to prove it,
and walk out with everybody's money.  In the meantime, keep
your damned mouth shut!"  I'd never heard anybody talk to
Terry and like that, and I really enjoyed it, even if it did
surprise me.

    Terry just nodded, then moved to get dressed.  Nobody
said anything, and I slid toward the door.  "Steve, just
remember.  Terry wasn't gonna give you a fraction of what we
will if you don't keep your mouth shut," was all I heard as
I headed to the outside.  Shit, what a day!

    It wasn't long till Terry came out and headed for the
car.  Neither of us said anything except for his usual "Get
your ass in gear, Wimp."  It took us about 20 minutes to get
home, and he never broke the silence until we were pulling
up in front of the house.  "Here's the line:  Pat (the team
manager) is gonna be out several weeks with mono.  You're
helping with the gear and stuff till he gets back.  Got it?"
I just nodded and headed toward the house.

    "Hi, Mom, Dad.  Sorry we're late; practice took a
little longer than usual and Wimp here's a poor excuse for a
manager.  It took him a long time to get everything done,
even with us having to help.  I guess Coach Jenkins is
desperate for help since Pat's not gonna be back for a few
weeks,"  I heard Terry saying it, but I wasn't paying much
attention.

    "Terrence, I don't want to EVER hear that sort of
language in my house again, do you understand?  And, while
I'm at it, Stephen, you needn't look so smug either."
Nobody had ever bothered to tell my mother that Southern
Belles were as dead as a magnolia bloom in winter; probably
because everybody knew she wouldn't have believed it anyway.
She was much more interested in the "proud heritage" of her
family's past than anything in the present, and as far as
she was concerned, the rules hadn't changed just because it
was 1988.  Hell, when she was talking to her friends -- all
from the Ladies' Circle at First Baptist -- she referred to
my dad as "Mr. Bailey."  If you were an outsider, you'd
think the guy she'd been sleeping with for 20 years just
rented a room.

    My dad looked up from the Baptist Record just long
enough to grunt, then went back to reading all the latest
news from his preacher friends.  Clearly, as long as I was
with Terry, his favorite son -- no -- his only son as far as
he was concerned, it didn't matter.  "Steve, if you're going
to substitute for the manager, do a good job so you don't
embarrass Terry.  Remember what the scripture says, 'In all
you do, work as unto the Lord,'" he said into the paper,
never even looking at me.

    I heard my mother saying something about Katy leaving
our plates in the oven, but I just muttered I wasn't hungry
and headed for our bedroom.  As I walked through the door of
the bedroom, my life seemed almost overwhelming.  I was
forced to share a room with a brother I despised so there
could be a "proper guest room" that sat empty, serving no
function but to give Katy, the black woman who cleaned and
looked, more work to do.  My mom was a nut case, my dad
spent all his time either wishing he were a preacher or
wondering why I couldn't be like my brother, and my brother
spent the majority of his time finding ways to make my life
Hell.  My best friend was probably going to jail, and there
was a chance I might wind up there with him if I didn't play
my cards right.  And tomorrow, God knows what was waiting
for me.  If I hadn't been afraid Terry would catch me, I'd
have just laid down and cried.  As it was, I grabbed a
shower and headed for bed.

    As I was drifting off to sleep, I remember that the
only thing standing out in the mishmash of my thoughts was
my curiosity about the next afternoon.  Just what the hell
was a "money jerk" anyway?  Were Terry and his friends
"queer"?  Was I?  Like nearly every other guy my age in
Bentley Parish, I'd dicked Marie Godchaux, but seeing those
guys in the field house yesterday....
    The first time I thought about alarm clocks was when I
woke up the next morning.  One glance at the clock told me
I'd already missed the bus.  Crap!  I'd have to hitch a ride
with Terry and listen to him call me "Wimp" or "Faggot" all
the way to school.  His Fruit of the Looms were laying in
the middle of the floor, the bathroom door was closed, and
the shower wasn't running.  That meant he'd walk out of the
bathroom any minute, ready for school, and he sure as Hell
wasn't going to wait on me.  If it hadn't been for the
somber warning Bob had delivered yesterday, I probably would
have faked being sick.  As it was, there was no choice but
to get ready for school as best I could.

    There was no time for another shower, so I just jumped
into my clothes, brushed at my hair, and grabbed my stuff.
I laid my books on the hall table and grabbed a Coke from
the refrigerator.  Luckily, Mom wasn't there to say, "Coca-
Cola is not an appropriate breakfast, young man.  Sit down
and eat like a civilized human being."  Instead, Katy just
shrugged and said "Morning."  I headed back out to the hall,
and just stood there, drinking Coke and waiting on Terry.  I
glanced at my reflection in the mirror that was one of my
mom's proudest possessions.  She reminded us regularly that
it had come from England in the early 1800's as a wedding
present to one of our ancestors.  Katy had instructions to
polish it every day, and the image reflected in the glass
that morning pleased me.  I might not be a football stud,
but I could hold my own.  At 5-8, 140 I realized I made a
tight, compact package.  The blondish red hair and green
eyes I used to hate actually looked pretty good.  Working
around the farm kept me in shape, my chest was developing
nicely and the contrast between my broadening shoulders and
little waist was sharp.  My 501's fit my ass just right,
even if Terry did say I had a "Nigger butt," and I knew I
caught a lot of admiring glances from the girls.  Luckily,
my complexion was completely different from Terry's and I
had never had a problem with acne.

    Terry sauntered out of our bedroom and headed toward
the door, interrupting my vanity.  His only communication
was a grunt, and that may have not been especially for me.
I followed him to the car without saying a word.
Surprisingly, the silence continued from the time I got in
till we got to school.  When we parked he broke the silence.
"Be at the field house at 3 and we'll get you set as the
temporary manager."  That was it, nothing more, nothing
less.  Not even a "Wimp" or a "Homo."

    When I took my seat in homeroom, Ken's place to my left
was empty.  Nobody seemed to know why he wasn't there, but I
was all too sure what caused his absence.  Luckily the bell
rang and Miss Herring started handing out Algebra tests
before I had time to think much about it.  I hadn't studied
for the test, but I've always had a knack for anything
mathematical, and was able to finish the test easily before
the period ended.  I sat there, not working, not thinking,
just letting my mind drift until the bell rang.  Like
everybody else, I handed in my test and headed to the next
class.

    I never heard a word that was said all day.  Oh, I
heard it all right, but I knew that if I took my brain out
of neutral all the worries from last night would come back.
So I just coasted for the rest of the day.  When the day
finally ended with the 2:50 bell, I grabbed my stuff and
headed to the field house.  "Just as well get it over with,"
I thought.

    When I got there Coach Jenkins was waiting.  "Terry
says you want to take over for Pat while he's sick.  He says
you already know how to take care of the equipment; you got
any questions?"

    "No, sir.  I just see that everything's clean and dry
and put away, right?"

    "Yeah, and on Fridays you wash everybody's stuff.  You
know how to work a washing machine?"

    In truth, I didn't.  Katy always did the laundry at our
house, but I knew it couldn't take a rocket scientist, so I
just nodded.  "Well you better get started on the washing
then.  Last Friday's never got done."
    I followed the coach to the washing machine and a huge
pile of jerseys, jocks and shorts.  He pointed to the
machines, the soap, and the dirty gear, then walked off.  I
figured I just as well get started, and began to load the
old heavy duty washer.  About a third of the way down in the
pile I noticed it.  Several jocks were on top of the
remaining stack and when I picked the top one up, it was
stuck to the one under it.  As I pulled them apart, I
couldn't help but notice the stiffness of the pouch.  Like
any guy past puberty, I knew what made that stiffness.
These jocks had been soaked with cum!  Hurriedly, I sorted
through the stack.  About half of the jocks in the wash
matched the first one I noticed -- they'd all had a huge wad
blown in the pouch, and obviously smeared around.  For the
first time all day, I let my mind wander to what might be
happening this afternoon, and my prick was as stiff as it
was ever gonna get.  My Baptist conscience was quick to kick
in and call me "Pervert."  Putting my brain on autopilot, I
finished loading the machine, added the soap and let it rip.

    The afternoon seemed to drag by.  The first load of
laundry finished, I moved it to the dryer, and stuffed the
last of the gear in the second load.  Finally, the guys
started dragging in from practice, sweating and pooped.
Coach Jenkins didn't like for the guys to drink Gatorade and
such, insisting instead that they drink water.  I'd filled
the old Igloo cooler with water and ice, and set the paper
cups beside it.  They drank cup after cup of the water, and
naturally, nobody bothered to throw the cups in the garbage,
tossing them on the floor instead.  Why bother to put them
in the garbage?  After all, football studs were ordained by
God to have somebody like me pick up after them, right?

    Before I was finished picking up the cups, more than a
few of the guys were getting ready for the shower.  The view
of those hot bodies, sweat still dripping from many,
parading around the locker room in just a jock or bare-ass
naked seemed like more than ample compensation.  My dick
felt like it was trying to rip its way out of my Levis, and
I realized I wasn't even arguing with myself about
"queerness" any more.  I was just enjoying the sights.

    Oddly, nobody had mentioned anything about a money
jerk, and I was beginning to wonder if the whole deal was
just a bad joke on me.  But when Bob passed by headed for
the showers, he mumbled, "Stay cool."

    Well, cool I wasn't, but I was definitely staying!
Since it was Friday afternoon, most of the guys hurried in
and out of the shower.  They dressed and hung around,
griping about Coach Jenkins being slow.  Just a few minutes
before five, he stepped back in.  "You guys practiced a
little better today, but a lot of you still act like faggots
at a tea party.  We'll get back to work Monday.  Have a good
weekend and stay out of trouble."  The speech ended, he
pulled a key off the ring dangling from his waist and handed
it to me.  "You can either finish the wash today or do it
over the weekend.  Either way, you'll need a key.  Be
careful with it, it's the only one I have."  With that, he
turned and was gone.

    I proceeded to get busy with odds and ends, dying to
know what was coming, but afraid to let anybody know it.
Terry and the other guys seemed to be in no rush, standing
around, sitting on the benches or leaning against the wall
shooting the shit.  When Drew Wilson walked out the door
yelling he had to hurry because some hot stuff was waiting
on him, I didn't think much of it.  But just a moment later,
Bob was saying, "Okay, guys, we got a little unfinished
business.  Today, somebody be sure to lock the door."

    Jay Hinson, a kicker with a great body, flipped the
deadlock just a second later as Bob pulled a wad of cash out
of his pocket.  It looked like a lot of money, but it really
wasn't.  It's just that twenty-one folded dollar bills looks
like a lot.  "Okay, Steve, it's time.  You're the only one
that hasn't anted."

    I walked into the main part of the locker room, trying
to look cocky, my heart pounding.  In my most studly voice I
said, "How much is the ante?"
    "Three bucks, winner take all plus the winner's bonus.
You know the rules?" Bob asked.

    Of course I didn't, but I sure as Hell wasn't going to
admit it.  I produced three bucks and nodded.  The other
guys were stripping, including Terry, so I just tried to act
cool and go with the flow.  As I started pulling off my
Levis I was wondering if they were going to razz me about
the hard on I was sporting, but Jay had already gotten
naked, and was standing there, hard as a rock, shuffling an
old deck of cards.  Obviously, I wasn't going to be the only
one.  My heart was pounding like a jack hammer when I slid
the old Fruit of the Looms off.  Glancing around the room, I
was happy to note that my tool compared favorably with the
others.  A few were a little longer, but none were any
thicker, at least not till Gary turned around.

    I was surprised Gary was even there.  His dad was the
minister at our church, and he seemed as straight laced as
the day is long.  But there's no denying he had the biggest
dick I've ever seen.  A lot longer than mine, which I knew
from painstaking measurement was 6 3/4 inches, and a good
bit thicker too.  Oddly, he had a flap of skin covering
about half the head of his dick.  I knew enough to realize
the term was "uncircumcised," but I'd never seen a hard dick
besides mine and an occasional glance at Terry's, masked by
the cotton of his Fruit of the Looms.  Gary's definitely
looked different.  I was lost in thought when I head Jay
saying, "Draw guy."  I pulled the 9 of diamonds out of the
deck, and stood there holding it waiting to see what would
happen next.  Like the other guys, I held it out where
everybody could see.

    Pete Cumberland had the three of clubs, and I heard Bob
saying "Okay, Pete, you're low man."  Pete moved toward the
center of the room and stood there.  The guy with the trey
of hearts moved to his left, but then Terry, who had the
five of spades moved between them.  It didn't take long to
figure out that as the rank of the cards moved up, each guy
got to pick where to stand.  By the time it was my turn,
five guys were already standing there.  I put the nine of
diamonds back on the pile, and moved so Gary was on my
right.  I still didn't know what was going on, but so far I
could fake it.

    When the eighth guy, Lee Martin, who held the King of
Hearts, moved to my left, I heard Bob saying, "Okay, y'all
know the routine.  Circle up and get ready."  The line moved
to be a circle, and I just tried to act like I knew what I
was doing.  "On the count of three:  One, Two... Three!"  To
my delight and horror, I felt Lee's hand on my cock, and as
I watched the other guys, I saw that every guy besides me
hand his hand on the cock to his right, stroking away.  I
shrugged metally and mimicked the rest.

    My mind was already reeling with the feel of Lee
slowly, teasingly jacking my dick, squeezing the head real
hard every time he got to the crown of my cock.  But when I
began to stroke Gary's huge dick, and felt the flesh pulsing
in my cupped fist, and realized the wetness I was feeling
was his pre-cum, I nearly lost it.  About the time my balls
were swelling to warn me of the coming shot, I heard Lee
moan "Oh, shit... Son of a Bitch!"  As I turned to look,
one, two, and then three wads of thick, white cream came
shooting out the end of his dick.  His cock was probably the
smallest in the room, but God he could pump a load!
Luckily, in his excitement he took his hand off my own cock,
and I was able to contain my load.  Lee stepped out of the
circle, and Jay moved in closer against me.  He soon had his
hand on my dick, doing a very ordinary pump job.  It was
clear from what the other guys were saying to tease Lee that
the idea was to be the last to cum.  I'd do my best.
    I focused on the hot tube of meat in my hand.  I
started flexing my grip randomly up and down the long shaft,
making sure the flat of my hand rubbed solidly over the very
tip on every stroke.  I knew from my nightly ministrations
to my own cock that that felt great, and I determined to
push Gary out of the competition as soon as possible.  He,
like several of the guys, was breathing hard and I could
tell from the twitching of his dick in my hand it wouldn't
be that long.  Jesus, that little extra flap of skin seemed
to help my hand slide up and down his shaft automatically,
and my own dick started quivering.  Two almost simultaneous
moans signaled that Jay and Pete, a freshman whose big build
had moved him up to varsity football a year ahead of
schedule, were no longer in the running.  When I looked up,
and caught sight of the cum oozing down Pete's thick, dark
dick toward those big, low hanging balls, I nearly shot my
own wad.  The sights in the room, the feel of my dick, and
the smell of an abundance of boy cum was almost more than I
could take.  As much as I wanted to do otherwise, I decided
to keep my head down and think of anything but sex.  I might
not win, but I HAD to beat Terry.  Luckily, when Jay stepped
backwards, my cock got a second respite, and I was trying to
force my thoughts to Algebra instead of cocks.  It wasn't
completely successful, but at least I wasn't shooting yet.

    I knew it was Bob's hand on my cock, and I knew it felt
good, but I was trying not to even think about that.  I
continued to pound and squeeze away at Gary's dick, trying
not to enjoy it too much.  I wanted to cum so bad my balls
were aching, but somehow, somehow I had to outlast Terry.
Moments later, I heard Walt yelling, "Oh, FUCK! I'm
cumming!"  Gary had done him in, but the pulsing dick and
the warm, wet, thick goo in my hand told me he Gary had met
the same fate.  His moans were so low and sexy, I couldn't
resist continuing to jack and squeeze that big dick as the
last few drops filled my hand.

    Reluctantly, I released my hold on that hot cock as the
two stepped back out of the circle.  I realized it was time
to do or die.  It was down to me, Terry and Bob.  Bob was
applying exquisite torture to my dick, and I began to jack
Terry with fury.  As my fist slid toward the bottom of his
shaft, I'd squeeze it hard, and pull up slowly.  When my
hand got to the crown of his dick, I slipped it on over the
top, and on the next down stroke made sure his cock
"bottomed out" into my cupped palm before sliding on down
the shaft.  Instead of looking at his dick, I was watching
Terry's eyes.  They had started to glaze over, and I could
tell from the quickening pulse in his dick that things were
getting as close for him as they were for me.  The
protruding jaw muscles told me he was gritting his teeth,
doing everything he could to hold himself together.  He
wanted to avoid losing to me as badly as I wanted to keep
from losing to him.

    Some of the guys noticed the special treatment I was
giving Terry's cock and began to cheer, "Alright, Steve,
pump that thing!"  "I want some of that next!"  "You act
like you know what you're doing, Steve!"  The remarks didn't
really register, but their tone spurred me on.  I was giving
Terry's dick the workout of his life, and I was determined
to make him feel so good he couldn't stand it any longer.
As I renewed my efforts, my hand was a blurr it was moving
up and down his cock so fast.  I began to make sure the
bottom of my fist thumped firmly but painlessly against
Terry's balls.  I knew from the sounds I'd heard coming from
the bathroom on occasion, he liked to really pound that
dick.  So I tried to pour everything that made me hot,
everything that made him hot, everything that had made the
other guys hot, everything I could think of into that hand
job.

    Seconds later, I heard Terry start to moan.  "Hold on,
Steve, hold on," I told myself.  My own balls were begging
for relief, and I focused on transferring all the lust I
felt in my own cock to Terry's.  It seemed the son of a
bitch was gonna beat me after all, and then he yelled
"Mother Fuck!" and the jizz came streaming out of his dick.
Long, stringy wads of man juice flew out the end of that
dick, landing on the floor about three feet away.  Watching
that jizz flying broke my own rule, but Hell, I didn't care
anymore.  I felt my own dick pumping creamy wads of cum, and
suddenly, I didn't care that I'd lost.  Every guy in the
room knew I was a bigger man than Terry.
    I smiled, dropped Terry's dick and stepped back.  The
smell of cum, the sight of seven other dripping dicks, in
various states of hardness, and the feel of the tingle still
emanating from my own pecker was victory enough.  I'd
forgotten all about Bob, when I heard him say, "I choose
Steve for the winner's bonus."

    He stepped closer to me, nudging his dick toward my
hand that was still wet with Terry's and Gary's cum.  I
started to stroke him, enjoying the feel of yet another
cock.  I used the same squeeze, stroke, palm, stroke,
squeeze I'd applied to the other guys.  This time though, I
wasn't afraid to watch the big dick I was stroking, and my
own cock got hard again as I savored the sights and sounds
of a stud getting ready to blow a big wad.  I began to pound
him hard, and all too soon, he groaned and let loose a huge
load.  I caught the first wad in my palm, and stroked and
smeared it along his dick as I continued to jerk on it.  The
spasms I was feeling in Bob's dick moved to my own, and I
realized I was shooting a second load without even touching
my dick.  I felt a hand on my cock, and realized it was Gary
milking the last of the jizz out for me.  I could have kept
playing with cocks forever, but I felt Bob's dick shrinking,
and knew it was over.

    All of a sudden, I felt embarrassed.  After all, wasn't
this queer?  One look at the expression of sheepish
humiliation on Terry's face told me I didn't give a shit
today.  And the good feelings in my dick said I probably
never would.


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