Date: Sun, 3 Jan 2016 09:16:59 +0100
From: Zachyboy <z.blake@mail.com>
Subject: Fred D

FRED D
By Zachyboy
With special guest Soaringtoad
teen/teen, oral, anal, high school

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Fred D was almost a goofy looking guy. All red hair and crooked grin, but
still handsome as hell. He had a sense of humor out of Bloom County. Think
of him as Bill the Cat with a huge, beautiful dick. I think he appreciated
that I let him fuck me (Let him?) because he was very gentle with
me. Gentle with his dick, gentle with his hands, gentle with his
emotions. If you kept your eyes closed, it was like being in bed with the
god of buttfucking.

I was 15-years-old and a scrawny-ass freshman when I met Fred D. in the
back of the band bus coming back from a football game he played
in. Cokeville at Wind River. Cavaliers vs. Cougars. We were the Cokeville
team. State champs five times since 1963. I played trumpet, Fred played
halfback. Later, during butt sex and conversations, Fred played offense, I
played defense. He was funny and I was adoring. I started out as a tight
end, but by the time Fred D got done with me, believe me, I was a wide
receiver.

I wasn't quite sure what Fred D was doing on the band bus. Later, I learned
he planned it that way, but at the time, it had me flummoxed. Perhaps he'd
missed his ride on the team bus that left long before ours did. We'd packed
up our band equipment fast after the game, but we left late that night
because our bus wouldn't start and they had to drive us over a new one
while we sat cold and huddled on the shivering bleachers, cursing our bad
luck and waiting for the replacement bus to come pick us up from the bus
garage back in our home town, an hour away. We shouldn't have been there
anyway, but the other team's band was out of state, at competition. So ours
was invited to play at halftime. Strangers in a strange land.

We'd won the game like we usually did, and perhaps the overwhelming stench
of overly-exited cheerleader coochie was just too much for Fred D to bear
that night and he decided to slum it with us band kids, grace us with his
presence, I had no idea at the time. But when he walked down the aisle,
this hulking, handsome, 17-year-old junior of a man, hair all matted with
shower and sweat, simultaneously a fish-out-of-water on a bus full of
braces and band kids but alpha-male smooth in spite of it, he simply sat
down next to me and said, simply, "Hey, band kid." And that is how scrawny
15-year-old me met virile, gentle, hulking, pulsing, pounding, urgent,
breathtaking, beautiful, kind and loving, teasing, pleasing 17-year-old
halfback-handsome, sweating-on-my-trumpet-case-and-smiling-at-me, perfect
Fred D.

I knew who he was, of course. You'd have to live under a rock not to. Star
football player. Star basketball player. Even ran track. Cross-country and
golf. It's like they had to reach into the school's athletic calendar every
year and dig way down deep in the potato chip crumbs, just to come up with
new sport he could excel at; to keep his unending level of prowess even
remotely satiated. After I saw his picture in the paper holding a track and
field trophy from some obscure meet last spring, I thought, that's it, by
fall they're just going to have to invent new sports for Fred D to
play. Nobody should be that good at everything. And oh boy. It turns out
Fred D. was good at everything. In fact, that's an
understatement. Everything.

"Hey, band kid," he said, sitting down and smiling at me and sweating on my
trumpet.

I may have gulped nervously, either actually, or in its literary
equivalent, because, well, the likes of Fred D did not often sit down
wet-headed and dripping, fresh out of a locker room shower to share a bus
seat with the likes of me, a skinny, scrawny, secretly gay freshman trumpet
player named Brian.

"Hey," I said back to Fred D, stuttering. "Um, great game tonight. G-good
job."

"Thanks," he said grinning at me, enjoying my nervousness. I looked at his
beautiful, calm smile and I felt about five shades of stupid. He radiated
confidence.

He wiped a drop of his sweat off my trumpet case. Football players have
that special post-shower sweat, where they play so hard, they can wash
their hair after a game, but their hair doesn't give a shit. Their hair
just says, "fuck it, I'm going to keep on sweating anyway," and it does.

It was sweat mixed with water and water mixed with sweat. I'd come to know
that mixture very, very well in the long nights ahead. Like beakers in the
science lab, I could mix it by rote. By salty-taste drip-memory. In
silence, in private, behind a locked door so his mom couldn't hear us, in
those long night sleepovers after a game, Fred D's sweat-head and I would
become best buddies that year. Confidantes. Intimate partners.

"What instrument do you play?" he asked me, nodding down at the case.

"Trumpet." I said. My mouth felt dry.

"You any good?" he smiled?

"Yeah," I said nervously. "Kinda. I guess."

"Kinda you guess?" he laughed gently.

I blushed. Felt dumb and little next to him. He looked so big and
manlike. I felt so dumb and little. But it was a good dumb. A good
little. I felt special. Singled-out. Tingly, and talked-to.

"I'm good," I said bravely. "At trumpet, I mean. Really good, I guess."

"I suppose it's all in how you blow," he grinned. And then he winked at me,
touched my leg, squeezed it (Ahhhh!), and then casually put his head back
on the seat, closed his eyes, intent on taking a nap during the long ride
home. How do you squeeze a kids leg, make a double-entendre, and then just
casually drop off to sleep? My mind was reeling. Two girls in front of us
heard him and giggled. I blushed even redder. My neck felt hot.

"Keep practicing," he grinned through closed eyes, reaching over and
squeezing my leg again. He left his hand there this time. Just left it
there. My penis woke up and reminded me it had the ability at 15 to get
instant hard-ons.

Fred D yawned and rubbed my leg a little more.

"Nighty-night, band kid," he smiled sleepily. ""Maybe if you've got good
enough trumpet lips, I'll let you blow it for me sometime."

My face was on fire. There was a buzz-heat humming in my head that wouldn't
go away and my dick was ready to jump out and walk home. The girls in front
of me giggled some more.

I was glad it was dark on the bus. I'm sure I must have looked like a
beet. Like a fire hydrant. Sitting there all hot and horny with my cock all
hard and Fred D's hand about five inches from feeling it, tingling all over
with buzzing-red fireflies; 15-year-old geeky, scrawny, aching, secret-gay
band kid desire.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

The first time I heard a kid in the hall call him Fred D way back when, I
thought he said "Freddy" like one word, only his voice had a hitch when he
said it. But nope. I noticed pretty quick that kids were making the full
glottal stop. Fred. D. Not Freddy. Okay, well, that's not a glottal
stop. That's something else. But you know what I mean. Fred. Dee.

It turns out he was Fred D, and not just Fred, because there was another
kid in school that year, Fred P, so you had to do first-letter last name so
you didn't get your Freds mixed up. I never got my Freds mixed up that
year, because Fred D was fucking me. Fred P? I don't know who that guy was
fucking. Probably his sister or a lesser cousin from the dorky looks of
him, but I know it wasn't me.

The band bus pulled into the school parking lot and Fred
D. woke. Yawned. Squeezed my leg again, looked directly at my erection
which hadn't gone down one inch in 65 miles and just sort of casually
smiled at the sight of it, lit through the glass bus window as we parked
under the schools streetlights.

The fact that he was looking directly at my dick bulge outlined in my pants
drove me wild with red lusty fireflies, the secret, scrawny gay kind.

Fred D said simply, "You got a ride home?"

"I was just gonna call my mom," I told him. I was still a year away from my
learner's permit.

"Nah," he said. "I'm parked right there in the student lot. Over by the
street light, see?"

He pointed over toward a yellow '73 Maverick with black stripes on the
sides and the hood. I only know what kind of car he drove because I asked
him later. I didn't know cars otherwise, but I wanted to know the kind of
car I was sucking him off in at the drive-in movie.

But this was all pre-suck, and it seemed pretty preposterous, a dumb,
geeky, secret-gay band kid getting a ride home in Fred D's car. I mean, I
was me. Fred D was Fred D. It defied the natural pecking order. There
should be a cheerleader in that car with him. And his hand should be up her
skirt the whole way home. Diddling her wet spot. Making her pom-poms
wiggle.

"Uh, nuh..that's okay," I said nervously. "I can really call my mom."

He picked up my trumpet case in one of his massively beautiful football
hands. If he catch a spiraling pigskin, reach up and catch it one-handed
from halfway down a night-lit football field, he could easily palm a
trumpet case, which he did, and then with his free hand, there in the dark,
slowly reached up and caressed my hard cock. Ran his hand up and down on it
slowly, and felt it straining through my pants.

Grinning, he simply stood up and left me there, astounded. Jaw open because
of what he'd just done to my dick. I wanted his hand back. I felt ghost
pain, like an amputee. I was speechless. He was halfway up the bus aisle
before I could find the single-needed syllable to say, "Hey!"

He turned around and smiled at me sweetly, confidently. The first of many
confident smiles that would make me follow him like a magnet that
fall. Polarity and need pulled me to him.

"Come on, band kid," he said to me kindly. "You live on my block,
man. We're like six houses away. You know you want to go for a ride with
me."

He nodded down at my dick again. "Somebody wants to go for a ride with me,
right Brian?"

We were alone on the bus. We were the last ones off. I looked at him,
stunned.

"You know my name?"

He just smiled and stared.

"And we live on the same street. We live on the same –"

"Brian," he said, rolling his eyes. "Stand up. Walk. Get in the car."

I heard John Travolta's Urban Cowboy line in my head. "Sissy, get in the
truck."

"Time to see what kind of trumpet lips you've got," he grinned, and with
legs as limp as noodles, I stood up and I followed him weakly off the off
the bus.

Knew my name. Felt my dick. See what kind of trumpet lips.

That time I did gulp. I real one, deep in my throat. It wasn't just a
literary device, it was an honest-to-God throat gulp that time. The first
of many, it would turn out.

God, I gulped him good that night.

Gulped him and let him fill me to overflowing. Both ends,
greedily. Everywhere.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Fred D. knew I was gay. He'd heard rumors about me and he told me he knew
all about me later. He'd been watching me all year. He even knew me when I
was in middle school and he was in high school. Secretly admired me. I had
no idea he lived six houses away, and he'd watch me from his bedroom
window, walking past his house every day.

Fred D liked skinny boys, he told me, ever since he fucked his first one
when he was 12 and the kid was 10. Fred D liked skinny boys at his school
back home. At the one he moved here from. And I was the first skinny boy he
saw when he moved here. So he watched me out of his window. And sometimes
he jacked off thinking about me.

I had no idea Fred D. jacked off thinking about anybody, let alone me. I
assumed he fucked cheerleaders. It turned out he did, but only for
show. Only for reputation. If I'd known he was thinking of fucking me when
he fucked his last cheerleader, something he freely admitted to me later, I
probably would have fainted. I probably would have expired on the
spot. "Here lies Brian B," it would have said on my tombstone. "Found out
Fred D fucked a cheerleader and pretended it was Brian B and simply died of
joy on this very spot."

Because I'd done some sex stuff before. Jacked off with a cousin. Sucked
dicks with another band kid. Even went to band camp one year, and when
nobody was watching, hiked off with one of the junior counselors, a kid
about 16, and let him fuck me up the butt. Let him cum inside my scrawny
secretly-gay band butt, which was 13 at the time, but already gay and
needy. It felt so good, I let him do it to me nine more times that summer,
which isn't bad, considering it was only a two-week camp, and the logistics
and all.

But I'd never been butt-fucked the way Fred D. butt-fucked me me.

Had he known I already knew how to do it before he tried to seduce me that
first night (Tried to?) I think he probably would have expired on the spot
too. "Here lies Fred D," his tombstone would have read, "Found out Brian B
had already been butt-fucked at camp ten times, so getting in his hole
would be easy as pie." Well, not easy, believe me. I had to take several
deep breaths, but had he known that the first time he drove me home, I was
already going to let him cum in my asshole, we'd have matching plots at
Willowbrook Memorial by now. "Here lies Fred D. He's on top. Here lies
Brian B. He's on the bottom. Leave your flowers, folks, and walk away
quietly. Be respectful. Their bones are still fucking each other, six feet
underground."

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Fred D. and I had a big discussion about the words "top" and "bottom" one
night. More like a fight actually. He'd just done it to me that night, in
that marvelous, slow-gentle, slow-brutal way of his that filled me so
completely, and pulling out and kissing the sweat off my brow, he grinned
and said, "That's my good bottom boy."

I got instantly offended.

"Why would you say that?" I said, immediately embarrassed. Instantly
sitting up and reaching for my underwear. My pants. Wanting to get dressed
and hurry away from him all of a sudden. I wasn't his property. Not a
joke. He couldn't just use me and just say something dumb like that. I was
pissed.

"Whoa!" he said, all smiles and mild surprise. "What's the big deal? You
take dick up your ass. You're a bottom. It's a compliment."

I zipped up my pants and reached for a shoe. Hearing him say it that
way. Like a joke, like a tagline, made me want to hit him. Made me want to
cry. I wasn't property like that. I wasn't his laugh. Wasn't his label.

"I'm not your bottom," I told him, wiping at my eyes with the back of an
angry hand. "I'm not your anything. I just let you do stuff to me. I
thought you –"

I stopped before I said it out loud. "Loved me," I wanted to finish, but
that would have been ridiculous.

Man-boys like Fred D didn't love scrawny secret gay boys like
me. Nuh-uh. That didn't happen in this or any other universe.

I was angry. I tied my shoes with flourish.

"I let you do stuff to me. Fuck my ass. Isn't that enough? Do you have to
give me a name for it?"

Bottom. It sounded wrong, when he laughed it out like that. Right after
fucking me. Dirty. Cheap. Like I was just a receptacle for him. A unit.

"Brian!" he laughed, but it wasn't a mean laugh. It was a gasp-laugh. And
incredulous, disbelieving impossible laugh because he'd hurt me. A breathy,
half-lost laugh, astounded I'd taken umbrage. "Relax, man! I'm really
sorry!"

"You relax," I grumbled, throwing the lube lotion bottle at him when it got
in my way, and starting toward his bedroom door pissed, seeing stars,
meaning to leave him, pants off, boner deflated, still sticky with my ass
trail, limpy and stunned.

"Whoa, whoa, Brian, stop," he said gently, and his face was four different
kinds of regret and pure kindness. "I'm really sorry, Brian. Really sorry,
man. I didn't mean anything bad by it, baby. Anything at all. And you know
I love you. You know I do."

And then I did start crying. He said it. He loved me. I didn't think he'd
ever let himself say that to me. I didn't think he did. I wept the way
children weep when impossible beautiful things start to happen. When it's
been dark so long and suddenly there's sunrise.

And he pulled me to him. And he wrapped me in his big safe arms. And he
kissed me, tenderly.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I love you, Brian."

And he tasted my tears away while I stood there and sobbed, until finally I
was okay enough to come up for air. To find his mouth. To give him my
tongue again. To kiss him back with need and seeking.

"I'm not a bottom," I pouted, shivering. He gave me goosebumps. Just from
the way he held me.

He caressed my hair softly. His tongue sent shivers though me as it licked
my pouting lower lip.

"Shhh," he whispered. "You're not a bottom. I'm sorry, baby. I'll never say
it again."

And he pulled me to him and kissed me again. Deep and full of want for
me. Sweet, prodding longkiss. Kiss that tasted like a daring, shared secret
and sweet Dr. Pepper.

"I'm not a bottom," I whimpered, melting into the aching, needful tasting
of him.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Not a bottom."

And kissing me, slowly, taking his time, he lifted my t-shirt over my
head. Kissed my neck and nibbled on my nipples. Tweaked me, teased
me. Smoothly reached for my zipper and slowly slid my pants down again. I
arched up, helping him make me naked. God, I needed to be naked for
him. God, I need to naked for him every night. Like this. Naked and
ready. Crying out to be filled.

I looked down and saw his beautiful manly cock, hard and apologetic,
begging for my mercy. Already upright and straining toward my mouth, as his
hands gently found the back of my head and lowered it down toward that
magnificent dick of his. The one I loved so much. The one I kept coming
back for. In my mouth and in my hungry numb butt, hungry for the majestic
length of him, I let him lower my head and I opened up to kiss it. Opened
up to love it again.

That beautiful cock of his. So much bigger than mine. So fierce. So
yearning for me. Upright and sorry baby, so, so sorry, dick more sorry than
his pleading, wide eyes.

"Please," he whispered. "Love my dick, Brian. I'll never call you that word
again. Love me dick, baby. Look how much it needs you now."

I opened my mouth wide and with a hunger I still can't properly articulate,
I swallowed it into forgiveness. I throated his wide cock and I hummed it
into mercy. I offered absolution.

And when he fucked me the second time that night, I cried as he came in me,
because his love for me was so raw, so real, so unforgettably rich.

"I love you," he whispered as he filled me and filled me.

To this day, I've never forgotten that beautiful year with Fred D, strong
beautiful boy-man, who'd watched the scrawny trumpet player, sat by him on
the bus, gave him a ride home, then fucked him that night, fucked him deep
just like this, that first sweet night and many nights after.

I never knew insatiable until the year I knew Fred D. Knew him in the way
that younger boys love older boys. In the way that strong and beautiful
football players love weak and scrawny band kids, the geeky kind who need
their love.

Open up and let it happen. Let a big boy fuck a little boy. Gasp in
jubilancy and let it lift you past the branches of memory. Two quiet riders
in a helium balloon, being desperately quiet so mom can't hear, but naked
like this, and safe in their secret basket, warm and colorful and rising
past rooftops.

Let a big boy fuck a little boy.

It's the natural order of things.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

I had never cum just from being fucked, before Fred D fucked me. Never
cried for dick, never spread myself in surrender and begged another boy for
penetration. Never gloried in knowing his hard meat with the core of me.

Oh, God, that big thing, the way it slid home to fill me, the way he held
it there, kissing my neck as I pulsed, or he pulsed, the way he gently
resumed; deep, gentle; deep, brutal; always in tune with me as I moaned, as
my storm clouds gathered and then broke, shattering my world and letting
out my soul, filling me, breeding me, making me cry out to take his cream,
sob with the glory of receiving it, sending me home with my hole pounding
in gratitude, my craving drawing me back each time to kneel before him, to
worship the thing of pleasure, to beg for another go.

I wonder where he is now. Somebody's crying out from the glory of opening
for him, of being filled with him, of taking him, receiving him. Begging
for him, taking his cream, creaming around his glorious pole. Freezing in
adoration of being bred, by that big male thing of his, shuddering with
longing for another virile thrust, another pulse.

Ever since Fred D came in and out of my life, I have no pride: I need dick,
I need a man to cum in the heart of me, I need to feel his male urgency,
his climax, the pumping, the final throbs of his dick as he empties his man
cream into me, knowing with the very core of me that I've satisfied him.

Whew. I guess I'm a bottom.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

THE END

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Thanks to my lovely old mate Soaringtoad for inspiring this story with his
beautiful and lyrical vignette, the beginning segment and the end segment
above, verbatim, which he generously let me mess up in the middle with my
usual nonsense and shenanigans, two of my lesser qualities he is more than
passingly familiar with. Happy New Year, old friend. Some old hacks are
just destined to share the journey, I guess.

z.blake@mail.com
soaringtoad@yahoo.com