Date: Wed, 20 May 2015 12:57:02 -0600
From: Colton <coltonaalto@gmail.com>
Subject: BBC on Campus - Chapter Four

The usual disclaimers:

* My experiences are in everything I write, sometimes just a view,
sometimes much more, but this story is fiction.  Any resemblance to actual
events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

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BBC ON CAMPUS

CHAPTER FOUR – CYCLING FOR ROCK BOY ASS

The ready availability of Jesse's dancer-boi ass acted like a pressure
relief value, taking the worst stress off on my balls and somewhat making
up for the absence of regular cum dumps and fuck buddies.  Dancing gave the
kid the proverbial buns of steel, and seeing his ass cheeks flexed when he
did the splits he drove me crazy.  He did them regularly while riding my
cock, his legs spread wide on each side of me at a 90 degree angle.
Watching his ass blew me away.  If I had let him, the fucking pussy boi
would have lived on my cock and probably would have claimed squatter's
rights – so to speak.

I wasn't giving up on my mission of boning the other five college rock
climbers, however.  Like a gray wolf, I watched them from afar, waiting for
the right opportunity to strike.

A couple of weeks after my first invasion of Jesse's ass, I decided to take
my mountain bike up one of the local trails.  The ride was a tough climb
but ended at a panoramic overlook above the town and the University.  The
weather was sunny and hot for mid-September, and I reasoned that I had best
take advantage of the opportunity to be outdoors, because Montana's winter
would descend soon enough.

I stretched and warmed up, and was about to clip into my bike pedals when
Sancho emerged from the gas station, wearing bike shorts and blinking in
the bright sun.  His shaggy, sun-bleached blond hair hung over his ears.
"You going for a ride?" he asked hopefully.

"Yeah, I heard the Marathon Point trail is a good workout," I answered.

"Huh," Sancho said, "if you don't mind your legs burning for the last five
miles.  That's where I'm headed.  There's a great wall at the top that I
want to climb.  Mind if I tag along?  I can't get anyone else to go."

I shrugged and said, "No problem."

Sancho was wearing a tight Lycra bike jersey that made his arms and chest
look awesome, but I quickly concluded that seeing the rock jock shirtless
would be better.  If I was going to struggle and sweat for three hours on
my bike, I might as well have a visual to take my mind off my screaming
lungs and legs.  I stripped off my bike jersey and said, "I'm thinking that
I don't want to carry any more weight up that mountain than I absolutely
have to."

Sancho smiled and quickly agreed, saying, "Fuck, that sounds right to me,"
as he stripped off his own jersey.  Shaggy haired surfer boys weren't
normally my thing, but Sancho had an upper body to die for.  His legs
weren't bad by any means, but his delts, triceps and biceps were art.  I
still was trying to figure out how a blond, blue eyed kid from North Dakota
ended up with the name Sancho.

We were an odd couple.  Sancho was probably 5'11," which meant I had six
inches on him.  His long, thick, bleached blond hair was a tousled mess,
while my black dreadlocks cascaded over my shoulders.  Oddly, even though
he was white and I was black, between Sancho's dark tan and my light
colored skin, we didn't look that different.

Marathon Point got its name because the trail was 26.2 miles to the top,
the exact distance of a marathon.  If the route had been flat or even
rolling, it would have been an easy bike ride, but instead the trail rose
more than a mile, a precise 1,700 meters.  The average grade was 4%, but
that easy-sounding number masked some steep sections between 15% and 18%.
Plus, being unpaved, the trail was much more challenging than smooth
asphalt.

In a way, the difficulty of the trail was good, because after we passed the
halfway point, we were the only two cyclists on the trail.  My bike shorts
were soaked with sweat by the time we summited, and I had gulped down most
of my water.  Fortunately we crossed a small stream near the top and
refilled our bottles.  There are times when cold, fresh water tastes like
the best thing ever.  Granted, at other times that category is filled by an
ice cold beer or a smooth, rich wine.

The climb ended on a rock shelf with a spectacular view of the valley
below, dotted with the buildings of the town and the university, stretching
to the mountains in the distance.  A strand of Aspen trees on the shelf was
already changing colors, and the uniform gold hue of the leaves was a clear
signal that fall was approaching.  The small, oval Aspen leaves shimmered
as they danced and twisted in the light breeze.  It wasn't the multicolored
riot of the changing leaves in New England, but instead a rich monotone.
Arrayed against the cobalt blue sky, the gold leaves were spectacular.

At the back of the shelf was the rock face Sancho wanted to scale.  He
rested for twenty minutes before tackling the climb.  "Climbing this after
killing myself on the bike is the dumbest fucking thing I'll ever do," he
muttered as he walked to the base of the cliff.

Sancho surveyed the route to the top before beginning the ascent.  He asked
me to help him get up to the first handhold, so I lifted him up, feeling
his smooth skin and straining muscles as he pulled his body weight up by
his fingers.  My hands moved to his hard ass muscles as he rose higher.
Finally he was on his own, dangling from hand holds that I could barely
see, if I made them out at all.

There was not much for me do other than to watch in fascination as Sancho
slowly but persistently worked his way upwards.  His fingers and toes found
tiny crevasses and ridges in the stone.  The rock face was a buff, light
tan color, and Sancho's tanned body stood out against the cliff as the sun
beat down on him.  Sancho angled higher and higher, and after several stops
and starts, he finally eased himself to the top.  Watching his climb was
impressive: elegant and powerful, a display of precision, strength and
stamina.

Sancho was the youngest of four farm boys, and while he was growing up his
older brothers considered him fair game, picking on him mercilessly.
Sancho wasn't one to run to his parents.  Whenever one of his brothers
would pull a stunt, Sancho blamed himself for being stupid enough to fall
for it or just accepted it as what older brothers did.  He took everything
his brothers dished out, never complaining.  Even though Sancho was a top
high school athlete, he never eclipsed his brothers' exploits, and between
being pummeled by this brothers at home and perceiving himself as inferior
at sports, the kid had zero self-confidence.

Unfortunately for Sancho, Travis and Alex picked up where Sancho's brothers
left off, nicknaming Sancho `biscuit' and calling him `farm boy.'  Sancho
wasn't dumb by any means – he was at Westcliffe on a partial academic
scholarship – but having grown up miles from any town with a traffic
light, his naivety and lack of sophistication made him seem slow.  Alex and
Travis kidded him constantly.  For Sancho, it was a continuation of the
treatment his brothers dished out, but he was good natured about it, even
dumping on himself now and then.  On top of everything, Sancho, channeling
his North Dakota farm boy upbringing, was as gullible as they came.  Travis
and Alex could talk him into doing almost anything they suggested, and
Sancho believed virtually everything they invented.  That combination made
him an easy target for Alex's pranks.  True to form, Sancho blamed himself
for whatever went down.

After Sancho's cliff climb, we sprawled out on the shelf overlooking the
valley, taking in the sun and the breeze.  I was enjoying the relaxed and
mellow feeling that descends after strenuous exercise and I almost thought
I could fall asleep.  One part of me, however, had no intention of
sleeping.  To say I had been neglecting my cock – at least compared to
the pace back in Chicago and Boston – was an understatement.  It pressed
against the Lycra of my bike shorts.

To make matters worse, I started thinking about how good Sancho's muscular
arms and chest and his tight stomach looked.  And how good his ass felt as
I lifted him up at the start of the climb.  My cock stirred and announced
its presence.  The one-time diversion into Kyle's fuck hole and the ready
availability of Jesse's tight ass notwithstanding, I hadn't gotten nearly
enough action since I moved to Westcliffe.  I never liked whacking myself
off, which meant my balls weren't getting drained often enough.  I didn't
need a boyfriend at this stage, but a couple of regular fuck buddies along
with a slut cum-puppy would have come in handy.

I glanced at Sancho to find him looking at my crotch intently.  Maybe he
had seen my cock move inside my tight Lycra shorts.  They weren't doing
much to hide my basket.  Sancho's face was still flushed from exertion,
making his ruddy cheeks stand out more than normal.  On the spur of the
moment, I squeezed my cock and dragged it out of my bike shorts.  Freed
from the confines of the tight Lycra, and with the waistband of my shorts
pressing underneath my balls, my cock responded with a happy lurch.

"Holy shit, that thing is huge!" Sancho blurted out.  His eyes looked like
they were about to bug out of his head.

"You've been scoping it out, why don't you touch it?" I asked.  I didn't
actually think Sancho had been checking me out, and I was not expecting
Sancho to do anything more than tell me to fuck off.  Still, if Alex and
Travis could get Sancho to do anything they suggested, it was worth a shot.

Sancho only said, "Fuck," staring at my dick with his mouth slightly open
like my prick had hypnotized him.

Sancho hadn't run away, which was promising, but he had hadn't jumped on my
dick, either.  I needed to break the stalemate.  I moved slightly,
eliminating the distance between us, leaving my big black cock inches from
Sancho's thickly veined hand.  To my amazement Sancho moved slowly forward
and touched my piece.  He cautiously pulled the foreskin down, watching
with fascination as the head of my uncut slab of black meat emerged and
expanded.

Sancho's actions didn't surprise me.  Straight guys are as curious about
other guys' dicks as gay boys are.  The difference is that straight boys
don't want to give into their curiosity for fear of appearing gay, and gay
boys' don't want to stop at mere curiosity.  By putting my big black cock
practically in Sancho's hand, I made it easy for Sancho to surrender to his
natural urge.

Most guys, gay or straight, check other guys out.  It's natural.  White
boys are extra interested when it comes to black men because they've heard
black men are hung.  It must have been a complete accident that Sancho
happened to be wondering about my dick at the instant I pulled it out of my
bike shorts.  Or maybe he was just amazed that my cock was so big and
wanted to see if it was real.  With my dick in front of him, Sancho acted
without thinking, mindlessly doing what I told him to do.

I grabbed Sancho's shaggy blond hair and forced his head toward my dick.  I
wasn't particularly gentle – well, I wasn't gentle at all – but the
thought of seeing Sancho go down on me was too enticing.  "Yeah, get on my
dick," I urged him.  "Put it in your mouth."  With my thickening dick
shoved in his face, Sancho did nothing for a few long moments, but then
tentatively licked my cock.  He stopped as if to reassure himself that it
didn't taste gross.  I wondered if he was even cognizant of my dick being
attached to my body, because he acted like he was visualizing it floating
in space in front of his eyes.  Perhaps in Sancho's mind I had turned into
one of his brothers and Sancho was doing what he always did, following
orders.

I moved slightly to position my piece against Sancho's lips, and I pressed
forward, demanding entrance.  The surfer boy didn't relent.  I was beyond
the point of no return by then.  I pried Sancho's mouth open with one hand
and grabbed his hair with the other, forcing his head down on my cock.  At
last, the warmth of Sancho's wet mouth surrounded my fuck stick.

I had to keep my hands on Sancho's head, guiding him, but in a couple of
minutes, he was giving me head, slowly taking me into his mouth, feeling
how a hard cock felt with his tongue.  I moaned, not believing that my big
black cock was slick with Sancho's spit and was disappearing between
Sancho's red lips, the kid's bleached blond hair bouncing as he bobbed up
and down on my piece.

Sancho worked my cock until it was hard, although admittedly it didn't take
much.  The kid was pathetic at giving head, undoubtedly his first time, but
I was so excited at the thought that he was sucking my cock – or at
least trying to – that it didn't matter.  However, I wasn't going to
settle for a bad blow job – or worse yet, a half-hearted hand job.  I
grabbed a handful of Sancho's shaggy blond hair and pulled him off my cock.
"You shouldn't have done that," I told him, my voice steely.  Sancho looked
up at me wide-eyed, as if he realized for the first time what he had spent
the last ten minutes doing.  Going down on another guy, giving him head.
"Because once I get hard," I went on, "I need an ass or a pussy to fuck,
and your ass is the only hole around.  You caused this problem, and now
your ass is going to solve it."

Before Sancho could react, I spun him around on all fours and pulled his
bike shorts down, revealing his a tight bubble butt.  And a stark tan line
just above his ass crack.  The farm boy obviously did his chores shirtless.
I had a vision of Sancho, shirtless and sweaty, as his muscles strained
with the effort of tossing bales of hay.

I was surprised by how furry Sancho's ass cheeks were.  He had a smooth
chest – hell, all of the rock boys were smooth – but below the waist
he was completely different.  The blond hair on his legs, glowing in the
sunlight, ran all the way up to his ass cheeks.  My type of ass.  Plump and
muscular all at the same time, ready to have a cock shoved inside it.  My
dick was slick with Sancho's spit, and Sancho's ass still glistened with
sweat, so Sancho's dance card had a single entry – a raw fuck.

Fucking outdoors is hot.  Even a slight breeze, blowing across naked skin,
adds an element of excitement.  And the risk of being caught or watched
introduces a measure of urgency and danger than can be a turn on.
Something about being naked, your ass and cock exposed to the sun and the
wind, feels good.  I was ready for a wild fuck in the wild, with my second
rock climber as my target.

I spread Sancho's ass cheeks and, before he could react, stuck a finger
inside him, then a second one.  "God, what are you doing?" Sancho gasped.
I had the blond twink's prostrate under my control, but I knew I needed to
move quickly before Sancho's brain put together what was about to happen.
Using a finger from each hand, I opened his ass crack wider and wider,
keeping the pressure on his prostrate while positioning my cock at his
hole.

Fucker never knew what hit him.  I withdrew my fingers and in their place,
eased the head of my cock into his hole.  Sancho blurted out, "Oh, shit!"
I wouldn't have been surprised to hear him scream at the top of his lungs
and tell me to get my fucking cock out of his hole.  But if that option
occurred to him, he never acted on it.  Instead his body was rigid as he
concentrated on dealing with my intrusion.  I saw his big hands, used to
pulling his body up the side of cliffs, clutch the rock shelf we were on.
Subconsciously he was gripping the rock to deal with the pain of my cock
ripping his guts apart.  He was well trained.

I was too sex-crazed to go easy on him.  As soon as I was halfway inside
his tight hole, I rammed my cock all the way in, causing Sancho groan and
exclaim.  Damn, the farm boy's ass was tight.  His hands were clenching the
rock so hard that thick veins had popped out of his forearms.  He was
holding his breath, just taking short, gasping gulps of air.

I began to ride him with quick strokes, pulling my dick out a couple of
inches before pushing back inside.  As I got into a good rhythm, I pulled
out farther and farther, until just the head of my cock stayed in Sancho's
hole.  With both of our bodies sweaty from the bike ride and the merciless
sun, in no time my groin was making loud smacking sounds as it slammed into
Sancho's wonderful ass.  My black pubes met Sancho's white-blond ass fur in
a blur.

My hands traced Sancho's taut back and arm muscles, feeling the smooth skin
stretched across thick, rock-hard mounds of muscle.  Sweat kept running
into my eyes, obscuring the visual of my black bull cock as it drilled
repeatedly into Sancho's ass.

Feeling Sancho's muscular back and seeing Sancho's arms flexed as he
grabbed the rock got me hornier than hell.  Keeping my cock wedged in
Sancho's ass, I got to my feet, squatting down so I could continue to power
fuck him.  It wasn't a position I could hold for a long time, particularly
as my thighs were already drained from the bike ride.  I rammed Sancho in
rapid-fire fashion, driving my cock into his tight college butt, feeling my
cum rise.

The change of position was good for Sancho in end – so to speak –
because I didn't take long before nutting inside him, blowing a huge load
of cum deep into his guts.  I pulled Sancho's ass onto my cock as I shot,
wave after wave of spunk rocketing into the farm boy's furry chute.

I had been totally focused on my own dick and hadn't even touched Sancho's,
so as I recovered, panting and with my dick still buried deep inside his
fuck hole, I reached around and grabbed his prick.  It was totally soft, so
I didn't bother with it.  I was a little disappointed that he hadn't gotten
hard, but then he was straight, so what should I have expected?

I pulled out and sat down to recover.  Sancho rolled over on his back.  He
mechanically pulled his bike shorts up, looking a little shell-shocked, as
if he couldn't recall how his bike shorts got pulled down to his knees in
the first place.  "Sorry about that, dude," I offered.  "I don't know what
came over me.  Too much studying and not enough recreation, I guess. You
kinda opened Pandora's box."

Sancho looked at me, suddenly terrified.  He took a big gulp and blurted,
"You can't tell anyone what happened."

It wasn't what I expected, but so far nothing about the day with Sancho had
been what I expected.  I should have reassured him, but instead I toyed
with him.  "What part of what just happened?" I asked.  "You going down on
a guy, you getting your ass fucked, or you taking my black ball juice in
your ass?  Or the fact that you enjoyed getting your ass drilled?"

Sancho's eyes widened, and he started, "I didn't..."  His voice trailed
off, as if he was trying to recall exactly what he was going to deny.  He
couldn't deny going down on me or getting fucked or the fact that my black
rod had invaded his ass.  But enjoying it?  Had he just realized that he
enjoyed some part of sucking me and getting fucked?  Or was he just doing
what he always did with his brothers, blaming himself?

Straight boys are predictable.  Thinking about getting fucked grosses them
out, and, most of all, violates their masculine self-image.  When a cock
invades their ass and it hurts, their take on butt sex is only reinforced.
But as their asses relax and the pain goes away, things start to change.
Straight boys' prostrates are usually unknown passengers in their bodies,
until their first bottoming experience, and after their prostrates send
feel-good sensations to their brains, they freak out.  Confusion reigns as
they wonder why it feels so good if they don't like guys.

"Fuck, yeah, you enjoyed it," I snorted.  "My dick didn't just fly into
your mouth by itself."  I wasn't above rewriting history a bit, and I also
wasn't above contributing to Sancho's confusion about what had happened.
"Hell, you loved it," I said, "but that's okay.  I'm cool with that."

Sancho stared at me blankly.  Cute boys aren't my thing, but if they were I
probably would have been hooked at that instant, because in his wide-eyed
terror and innocence, Sancho was adorable.  I debated pressing him further,
but decided to cut him a break, so instead I stuffed my cock back inside my
bike shorts and gave Sancho a light punch on the shoulder.  "Don't worry,
dude," I said, smiling.  "I'm just playing with you.  I don't talk about
the pussy I get or asses I fuck.  That's not cool."

Sancho looked partially relieved, but I could tell his mind was whirling
with the implications of what had happened.  He had just had sex with
another man, and the ass that got fucked was his.  "What happened is just
something we can laugh about – just the two of us, nobody else will
know," I told him, pulling myself to my feet.  Laughing was one thing
Sancho was unlikely to be doing when he recalled my cock being up his butt.

"Get your ass moving, slug," I said.  "Let's toast the downhill!"

We clipped in and had ridden barely a mile when two cyclists met us,
climbing up the trail.  They were the real thing, moving faster by far than
Sancho and I had been when we struggled up the last mile to the summit.  We
moved to the side of the trail to let the climbers pass, following protocol
and yielding to the uphill riders.  If the two guys weren't professional
cyclists, they were close; their matching one-piece Lycra team suits gave
them away, and they had the thin arms, massive thighs and shaved legs that
marked them as pros.

As the guys passed, they nodded and thanked us, but each gave me a long
stare and a faint smile.  I was used to curious stares, but Sancho got an
equally long stare and smile.  I wondered whether we might have had a
foursome if I had fucked Sancho just a few minutes longer at the top of the
trail.  Probably not.  An audience would likely have freaked Sancho out.
But watching the big thighs on the two cyclists reminded me of a hot Czech
road biker I had done a couple of times in Boston.  A cyclist with his
massive legs in air and a tight asshole could be addictive.

The 26 miles back to town took a little more than a third of the time it
had taken us to struggle up the ascent.  When we pulled up to the gas
station, I couldn't resist tweaking Sancho one more time.

"Whoa, dude, it looks like my cum is seeping out of your ass," I said.
Sancho's bike shorts were damp with sweat – mine were too – but the
idea that cum could seep through the thick padding on the shorts was
absurd.  However, the idea of my cum leaking from Sancho's ass wasn't
absurd.  The kid had probably noticed his ass was wetter and squishier than
normal all the way down the mountain.

Sancho got a terror-stricken look on his face and said, "Fuck!" turning
around to see if he could spot anything.  I stifled a snicker.

"Look, dude," I said, continuing to play Sancho now that he had reassured
himself that nothing could be seen on his bike shorts.  "I'm not saying
we're gonna have sex all the time, but you liked it, so maybe I'll fuck you
again.  Just don't, you know, hound me all the time."  Sancho stared,
unable to get words to form.  The kid must have been a ton of fun for his
brothers as he grew up.  I felt kind of bad to become the latest in the
line of guys that had played him.

As we stowed our bikes, Sancho found his tongue.  He caught my arm and
said, "About what I did, you're not going to say anything, are you?"  His
blue eyes were earnest and serious.

"Dude, relax," I said.  As tempted as I was, I liked the kid and decided
not have any more fun with him.  "I don't blame you for what you did.
Things like that just happen sometimes.  Like I said, I'm not one to talk.
The next time this will come up will be 20 years from now when we're having
a beer at homecoming, and we'll wish we could still ride up the Marathon."
Sancho nodded, as reassured as he was going to be.

* * *

Sancho was withdrawn for the rest of the day but back to his normal self by
the next morning.  Within a couple of weeks he had a steady girlfriend.
Maybe part of the reason she existed was to reassure Sancho that he wasn't
gay, but I knew the truth.  The kid was as straight as they come.  I didn't
mind the fact that he had a girlfriend, except I felt bad for Sancho
because she was cheating on him and seemingly everyone on campus knew,
other than Sancho.

For my part, I had had my fun with Sancho, and he was not a candidate to be
a regular fuck.  Like the gray wolf, I liked chasing down prey.  I enjoyed
the challenge of hunting a straight boy and bagging him.  But once
conquered, there was little point in putting up with the headaches that
came with straight boys.  Particularly when the only reward was a piece of
ass I had already bred.


TO BE CONTINUED...

Stay tuned for chapter five; Dillinger's quest takes a short detour.

Comments, reactions? Send them to me at Coltonaalto@gmail.com

© Copyright Colton Aalto 2015