Date: Sat, 4 Aug 2012 05:23:43 +0200
From: Author <brant-story@live.com>
Subject: Brant 3: A Course Corrected

Brant 3: A Course Corrected

It took Brant an hour and a half after unceremoniously vomiting all over
the football field to get back to his room. Coach Peterson and his friends
had immediately taken him to the campus medical station (after insisting
that he didn't need an ambulance, as some of his over-zealous friends
suggested), where the nurse, glad to finally have something to fill her
mostly endless days of magazine reading, ran as many tests as she could
think of. Brant ensured her, mustering up all the charm that had come so
easily to him just a day before (and it was there still, just buried
beneath a huge pile of confusion, disorientation and fear), that it was a
bad egg he'd eaten that morning for breakfast. The nurse wasn't convinced,
not least because Brant had in fact had muesli and toast, but because she
thought it was something else entirely: a panic attack.

Brant knew that she was right, but he also knew that the star footballer,
alpha male and head jock suffering a panic attack during practice would not
only ruin a pristine reputation, but begin to seed people's minds with
questions, especially if he couldn't get things back to the way they were
(the Old Brant part of him wanted to say back to normal,' but he somehow
knew it wasn't right). He went on the offensive, making the nurse out to be
a simpleton, then laying out his belief that it had been a simple case of
food poisoning, that to even suggest otherwise was ridiculous and that
everything was back to normal.

Once he was sure his friends and Coach believed his side of the story, he
sent them away. Five minutes later, leaving behind a nurse who was livid at
being shown up by Brant, especially when he was wrong, Brant made his way
back to his room.

He was there all of ten minutes, quickly showering (and pointedly *not*
jacking off, although he could feel the tension in his balls, as well as
the lingering sensitivity of his asshole), grabbing his rain-stained jacket
and leaving, turning off his cell and leaving it on his dresser (something
he almost never did) as he made his way out of the frat house and off
campus, making sure he wasn't seen by anyone.

He knew where he was going.

Del, meanwhile, was cleaning up the locker room, the end of practice
interrupted by the inelegant end result of Brant's food poisoning. Except
as he picked up the sodden used towels and ran a mop over the floor, he
couldn't help thinking that something was off. Very off. As a marine, he'd
been around the world with his squad, and stayed in some tough places. He
and his squad had to eat some pretty rough stuff, and he knew his way
around food poisoning, in all its glorious, gut-wrenching, often-deadly
glory. In those tough places, with green squad members on their first
mission, he'd also seen fear.

He knew which one he'd seen that afternoon.

Brant looked up at the faded, peeling sign: "Madame Siobhan" was written in
weathered lettering that looked more like something out of the
circus. Brant figured that the old crone must have been one of the stupid
acts in one circus or another, back when those dumb freak shows were
actually popular. For a moment, Brant felt more than a little stupid stood
outside this washed-up fortune teller's shop. He'd always heard rumors that
the old lady was some kind of witch, and since the age of twelve or so he'd
known better than to believe such superstitious nonsense.

Right now, however, he was a desperate young man, and extreme measures were
required. This time around, however, Siobhan seemed far less a washed-up
fortune teller to Brant than the first time he'd stood here.

He pushed the door open, despite the `closed' sign on the door. Once more,
the collection of tiny silver bells twinkled in chiming tones as the door
swung open surprisingly easily. Again, that strange mix of chemical and
earthy smells tickled his nostrils. Brant closed the door behind him and
the noise of the street outside seemed to recede as if down a very long
tunnel.

Taking a deep breath, Brant moved confidently through the shop, past the
overfilled shelves, into the dark corridor and emerging into the
fabric-swathed room he'd been banished from just two days before. Siobhan
was reclined once again upon the red velvet day-bed, this time in a
tight-fitting yet austere dress of what appeared to be dark violet, nearly
black in the dim light from the profusion of lamps. She seemed neither
surprised nor concerned with Brant's intrusion. For some reason, this
angered Brant.

"You've had your fun. I want you to change me back." Remembering how the
true words he'd never intended to speak had seemingly fallen from his mouth
the last time he was here, he stopped, aware that if Siobhan did indeed
have the power to restore him to his former self, then demanding such a
thing was not the way to achieve it. "Please."

At his final word, Siobhan looked up, a curiously sad smile upon her
face. She looked for several moments into Brant's eyes, making Brant feel
immeasurably uncomfortable yet unable to look away.

"That was the last word I said to you before you left here last time:
`please.' You never uttered that word once during your time here, never
even came close to thinking of it. I'm glad to see the change two days have
made upon you, Brant. Take a seat." Siobhan gestured languidly to the
day-bed, sitting up straight as Brant sat next to her, once more feeling
uncomfortable at being in such an intimate seating arrangement with the old
woman.

"I've changed a lot more than that, and you know it. I came here looking
for help and you put some spell on me or something and now I... now I'm a
fag." This was the first time Brant had acknowledged out loud the
transformation he'd undergone since leaving the old woman's shop two days
before. He kept on talking, not wishing to dwell on just how he felt about
the statement. "Whatever you did, however you made me think and do these
things, I want you to... would like you to undo it, to turn me
back. Please."

Rather than answer him, Siobhan stood from the day-bed and walked over to
the cabinet and reached inside. From it, she withdrew two glass bottles of
Coke, beaded with condensation. With a silver bottle opener she popped the
caps and walked back to Brant, proffering a bottle.  "Go ahead, its
ordinary Coke. Even witchcraft can't come up with a better drink." Brant
took the bottle and together they took pulls on the cold bottles. Remaining
standing before him, Siobhan began.

"First, you must understand that I am a witch; that I understand and
manipulate the arcane forces you cannot comprehend, or were even aware of
until so recently. If I'd told you this on our first meeting, you would
have dismissed me as a mad old crone and more than likely you would have
left there and then. As it was, you reeked of cynicism, but your pride and
single-minded pursuit of Penny forced you to consider rather more
unorthodox measures. This time, however, you are more able to accept what I
say as truth, with your own experiences of the past forty-eight hours
standing as evidence, and believe me also when I say that truth is the only
thing that ever passes from my mouth.

"Knowing this, I tell you now that your understanding of this situation is
backwards. Two days ago, I did not change you, although I used that word, a
foolish misstep on my part, and one of many missteps I have made concerning
you, Brant. That you are back here at all shows that I continue to misstep;
that you are back just two days later shows just how gravely.

"I did change you, though. Almost seven years ago, in fact. I am bound to
silence as to the exact reasons, and will never speak of them, but I will
explain to you now as much as I can, for I wronged you all those years ago
and was too blind to see the devastating effect it would have upon you, as
well as me.

"What you are feeling now, what you are rapidly hurtling towards is in fact
the real Brant. This is the person you were meant to be:
homosexual. Several years ago, I willingly agreed to smother that part of
your personality, turning you into Brant, the All-American Football
Jock. For seven years, you've been a living, walking cliché, your
actions dictated by a personality lacking in its most predominant feature."
Siobhan sounded almost desperately sad as she confessed to Brant, who
couldn't believe what he was hearing. But the depth of her sorrow only
confirmed his fears: that she was in fact telling the truth.

"So, you made me straight? And now, you've just taken it away again? What
about my football? What about my friends? What about my entire life? I
don't want this."

"I'm not explaining myself very well, Brant. Let me try again. I have
strength in several areas of magic: divination, the ability to see
information in the past, present or future; enchantment, the ability to
influence others, and transmutation, the manipulation of matter and energy,
and it is primarily transmutation, with some intricate and devastatingly
far-reaching enchantment, that effected your alteration.

"But I have no power in conjuring; I cannot create that which is not
there. That you are athletic, confident and charming are things that come
from you; but they are only one part of you. When I remolded your very
being, I hid away a huge part of yourself, and these other facets of your
personality expanded to fill the void left by the removal of your other
traits, like the exaggeration of a person's features in a caricature. I
repressed your homosexuality until it became something you couldn't
process; you couldn't even entertain such thoughts, or could never grasp
them for more than a mere moment, and would forget them just as easily. The
shard of heterosexuality that was within you -- that other sexual half
that resides within us all, to some extent or another, was swollen and
inflated to fill your entire being, forcing you into a sexuality that was
primarily not your own, but you nevertheless quickly adapted and thrived,
more than I would ever have imagined. As for what will happen to the life
you have made for yourself now that your true self is known to you, I
cannot foresee or predict, as my path is so closely entwined with yours it
obscures my powers of divination where you are concerned, but I can and
have undone the causes that set you on this path." In another great swig,
Siobhan emptied her Coke and set the bottle upon the coffee table. Brant
sat there, taking in all that had been said, the bottle still half-full and
dripping condensation onto his jeans.

Old Brant wanted to disbelieve what she was saying but he somehow knew she
was not. Some force, like the one which made truth and brutal candor de
rigueur within these walls, told him that he was hearing the truth. He
could only sit in stunned silence and bewilderment, too many questions
buzzing around his mind as Siobhan continued.

"My final misstep in this whole sorry mess was to allow you to anger me
upon our meeting two days ago. How very weak and ignorant of me, to permit
your brutish arrogance and haughty superiority gnaw at my mind when I was
the very one to create such features in the first place! As a result of my
anger and petulance, I allowed you to partake in too much of the smoke
which was to unravel the bonds that had been placed upon you seven years
earlier." Brant suddenly sat forward, almost spilling the rest of his Coke.

"Will I always... I mean do I always have to..." Brant took a deep breath,
steeling himself for what he had to ask, afraid of the answer. "I can't cum
unless I... without..." Siobhan smiled, not unkindly, as she gently placed
a hand on Brant's shoulder to try and ease the confusion and discomfort he
was going through.

"You are craving that which you were denied for so long, and this is
overriding almost all of your other emotions at the moment.

"You were meant to slowly come back to what you were, to naturally discover
your real orientation, just as any other gay person realizes their true
self. Your macho high school days were to become nothing more than a
hiatus, a self-imposed denial, and you should have integrated the lost
parts of your personality seamlessly into yourself once more over a period
of weeks, maybe months; maybe you would have remained a star football
player, or maybe you would have followed other interests that began to
resurface. I was to give you back that which I had taken away and you would
have been none the wiser. In a pique of rage at your arrogance, I decided
to thrust those things back upon you all at once, going even further than I
should have, making you ravenous for that which has been held from you for
so long. This may change much, or may change nothing, although I fear that
from the little you have told me, some change may be unavoidable.

"I cannot stop it, and I cannot change it. Now that your true self is known
to you, I cannot make you forget it; that is entering into dangerous realms
of dark witchcraft that I will not tread. I also will not alter you any
more than I already have. I promised to myself long ago that I would
restore you when the time was right and meddle no more in the emotional
growth of others, and although I may not have done it as I initially
intended, it is nevertheless done. Any further interference on my part
would just be to manipulate you further."  Siobhan sat back down on the day
bed next to Brant, and they continued to talk for a little while
longer. Brant asked as many questions as he could think of (and he
certainly had a lot to ask), but Siobhan, despite being full of remorse,
was less than able to provide Brant with all the answers he had hoped
for. The relief, to be able to unload the burden she had carried for so
long, was obvious, even to Brant in his state of shock. He couldn't quite
make himself feel sorry for her, especially as the most important question
he could think of was the one he received no answer for.  "Siobhan, why did
you do this to me? The way you talk, it sounds that this is something you
have never done before. If so: why me? What did I do to you?"  "Brant, all
I can tell you is that I bore you no ill will, and had no knowledge of your
existence before this whole pitiful affair. But I cannot answer that
question any further. Just know that it did happen, and that I am truly
sorry for ever having done it in the first place, for more reasons than you
may think. What I did to you was something I had never attempted before,
and its effects were unknowable. I created an enchantment heavily bound by
transmutation spells that pushed me to my very limit, testing my skill and
demanding all of my resources. At the time the challenge was exhilarating,
for it had been years since I had truly tested my own boundaries. But, when
the enchantment took effect, it took its power from its creator, and I was
drained of virtually all my power, my vitality and my extended youth. Seven
years ago I was eighty-four years old, but I retained the potent beauty of
my youth. My own foolishness stripped me forever of this, and although I
can feel some of my power return to me now that you are restored, I am a
mere flicker compared to the inferno that I once was."  For a while longer
the two of them talked, with Siobhan patiently answering his questions, but
Brant could acquire no more answers or guidance and he eventually took his
leave. Outside, he was surprised to find that dusk was falling, and he'd
been in the store for over two hours. He turned back to look at the sign:
"Madame Siobhan," and suddenly had the feeling that if he were to ever come
this way again, the store, with its weathered sign would be gone as though
it had never existed.  After all, stranger things had happened.  Heaving a
heavy sigh, Brant set off on a roundabout course for the frat house,
deciding to walk as the weather was improving once again and he needed the
time to try and sort out his thoughts. He'd never experienced such polar
opposite emotions warring within him, and suspected that few people had to
such a degree; excitement, eagerness and anticipation versus fear,
revulsion and despair. He was gay, and he was eager to experience this side
of him he never knew existed; indeed, that side of him was so voraciously
hungry to make up for lost time that it was as if it was holding his body
to ransom until Brant gave it what it wanted (although another part of him
knew it was wrong to think of his body as dueling factions -- for the
first time in a decade, he was whole). This thrill of the experiences that
lay before him, that he was rushing towards, sent a small shiver of thrill
through him when he allowed himself to dwell upon it.  But there was ten
years of his life that hadn't contained one iota of homosexuality. Talking
with Siobhan, he'd come to realize just how completely whatever she had
done to him had blocked him from any kind of homosexual thought or
contact. He couldn't bring to mind the image of Coach Peterson's cock,
which he'd seen dozens of times in the changing rooms, because his mind had
actively forgotten it. He'd laughed along to gay jokes made by his friends,
but had never really understood them, simply keeping up appearances, never
questioning why he couldn't grasp what the others found so funny. For an
entire decade he'd been an uber-straight parody of every jock in every high
school, his natural charm, athleticism and egotism expanding to fill the
space that would have been his homosexuality.

In those ten years he'd developed from Brant the child to Brant the young
man; he'd undergone puberty (and had been decidedly unsurprised to discover
that his unusually early and potent pubescent development was also in part
caused by Siobhan's meddling, although this was an `unintended response.'),
forging friendships and a personality that was undeniably him, but at the
same time not who he really was at all. He was arrogant due to his
athleticism and alpha male status, but this was off-set by his natural
charm and likeability. These were all parts of him, but had been stretched
and distorted to fit a Brant that no longer existed. He was now of an age
where such a radical change in him would surely be impossible without
ruining everything he had, and he despaired at the thought of his friends
and family turning away from him if they learned what he truly was.

By the time Brant came out of his hurricane of thoughts, it was full dark,
and Brant had no idea where he was, having taken crossings at random,
without consciously thinking where he was heading. Having left his cell
phone in his room, he wasn't able to GPS his location, let alone call for a
cab, and it certainly didn't look like a neighborhood where cabs just
rolled on by every few minutes. What had pulled him from his maelstrom of
emotion was the pounding music that he could hear from the bar he was now
stood in front of, the neon beer signs flooding his eyes with garish
color. Despite it being a weeknight, it sounded pretty busy, and Brant felt
he could do with getting lost in a crowd, as well as a few beers to help
dull his incessant thinking. Checking his wallet - $30 and a bunch of
singles -- he pulled the door and stepped in.

The bar was called Hank's and was a real dive bar. Inside it was filled
with the stale stink of old beer and Brant nostrils flared at the thick fog
of smoke that clouded the entire bar. The Eagles were playing on some
ancient jukebox, and as Brant walked to the bar, he saw that it was
surprisingly full, with about ten or so guys sat around drinking their
beers, in a bar that would be considered packed at thirty bodies. He got to
the bar and ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser, so lost in his own
thoughts that he didn't even think about trying to act over 21 (but doing a
better job because of it), then took the drinks and sat at a small table
set by the back wall, the only empty table in the place. He took a large
pull of his beer and sent it on its way with the bourbon, then proceeded to
alternate between tearing the label from the beer bottle in small, jagged
ribbons and taking pulls from it as he wrestled with what he was becoming:
a `normal' life he'd lived for so many years screamed against what his
entire body was telling him was true, that he'd been in fact living a
lie. How was he meant to reconcile himself to that? But at the same time,
everything he'd done, said and felt for so many years was already receding
away from him, feeling more like an act.

"You ordering another drink, or you just gonna cover my floor with crap?"
Brant looked up and after a moment recognized the bartender -- a fairly
short, stocky guy, but looked like he'd played football back in school
before getting himself a stout, solid round belly. Brant found himself
thinking what nice eyes he had. "I'm just messing with you, buddy. You look
like you've got some pretty heavy thoughts. Want another?" The bartender
pointed at the vandalized bottle and gave Brant a hundred-watt smile. Brant
found himself smiling back.

"Sure, I'll take another beer and chaser. Thanks." The barkeep gave a grunt
of acknowledgement and picked up the shot glass and bottle along with the
five Brant handed him, and offhandedly swept the tatters of label from the
table top with a threadbare washcloth before heading back to the
bar. Brant's fresh drink arrived shortly afterwards, and he began the same
process, now with the added thoughts that he was finding chunky barmen in
dead-end bars attractive.  Sometime later, draining the last of his second
beer and feeling the bourbon coursing through his body like molten fire,
Brant needed to take a piss. He stood up and the bar seemed to wobble a
little; his chair barked a protest as Brant's leg jolted it backwards. He
turned to his right and headed through the archway to the corridor that led
to the restrooms, where he'd seen plenty of guys heading in and out from.

It was dingy, with the acrid stench of old piss, shit and sweat, with a
faint, bitter tang of chemicals like a half-forgotten memory. Along one
wall were a hand basin followed by three urinals, whilst three stalls lined
the other wall. Brushing the doorframe as he stepped into the restroom,
Brant saw that only the middle urinal was free, so immediately ducked into
the first stall, suddenly conscious that he'd be standing half-drunk
between two guys with their dicks out. He threw the lock, pulled down his
pants and sat heavily on the cold toilet seat, holding his head with one
hand, realizing that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. He took a deep breath
and looked up, almost shouting out as he saw the cock poking through a hole
in the stall partition he hadn't noticed. Brant sat there, stunned, looking
at it; it was stubby and fat, with a blunt, flared head. After everything
that had happened, he wondered whether it was a figment of his imagination:
that he was now hallucinating dicks growing out of the walls.

Before he realized what he was doing, he'd grabbed it, as gently as if he'd
captured a small bird. It was an incredibly weird feeling, to hold
something that you are intimately familiar with, but a completely different
version of it. The shape, texture, girth, warmth, hardness were all somehow
familiar yet completely alien to him, and the fact that it was just jutting
from a bathroom stall partition just heightened the sense of unreality. The
thick, fat cock throbbed within his hand, and Brant seemed to wake up from
his reverie. He was holding another man's dick!

Within a minute, Brant was back out on the sidewalk, almost
hyperventilating as he walked back down the street, resisting the urge to
sprint back to a crossing that looked like he'd be able to pinpoint his
location. He had grabbed another guy's dick! But, the initial reactions
that had propelled him from the bar now seemed stupid, almost
ridiculous. There wasn't revulsion, guilt or worry. Instead, he was
wondering what it would have been like, to hold it some more, to give that
stranger the relief he'd been after.

Almost an hour later, Brant had found his way back to campus, coming in
through the north entrance, having somehow circled around almost the entire
city, and it was almost midnight. He'd been spending the time trying to
wrestle with feelings of lost chances, frustration and disappointment, but
every time he thought he'd managed to corral them into a manageable bundle
he could box up and put away, they squirmed free, filling his mind's eye
with images of what could have happened if he hadn't panicked, how his
evening could have turned out if he had given in to desires that were
beginning to feel more normal to him than any he'd ever felt. But there was
stubbornness to Brant, and anger at how he'd been so unknowingly
manipulated. Now that he was able to feel the changes occurring within him
-- even though they were supposedly returning him to his true self --
he wanted to exercise at least some control over them, to prove that he was
not some pawn to be bent to another's will. These thoughts struck him as
overly dramatic and more than a little illogical, and before long he was
back to seeing that stout cock in his hand once more, just as he heard the
familiar whine of one of the campus security team's golf buggies, and
stopped to face it.

"Evening; it's pretty late to be strolling." Still only just within campus
grounds, the walkway was poorly lit, and a moment later a flashlight
blinded Brant, who raised his hand to shield his eyes. The guard had a
broad Mexican accent, and took a moment to look Brant over and make sure he
wasn't a threat. "Say, you're way over in the jock compound, right? Need a
lift? Climb in." Brant swung himself a little less than gracefully into the
buggy, colliding with the guard, who gave a low grunt but said
nothing. Either the buggy was small or the two of them were big, but Brant
fell like he was half falling out of the little electric cart as they
started trundling towards the first buildings. The guy didn't bother making
smalltalk, just looked ahead and drove them through the campus, obviously
used to ferrying students about campus late at night. Brant, curious,
looked over; all three buttons on the neck of the guard's blue polo shirt
were open, exposing a thick clump of black chest hair that indicated a
thick pelt beneath the rest of the shirt, which was fitted pretty snugly to
a pretty strong-looking body. Continuing down, Brant saw that the guy's
legs were also pretty solid, filling out the uniform pants as well. Between
them sat a full basket, straining against the navy cotton. Brant's mind
filled with images of the hard dick he'd held in his hand just an hour
before, of the disappointment he'd acknowledged he'd felt at fleeing the
bar so impulsively. He felt his own dick stiffening in his jeans, as it had
already done several times on the walk home thinking about what he would
have done...

"OK, you want to know how it is?" Brant snapped back to reality, realizing
they'd come to a stop, and must have been driving for a good five minutes
already. Instinctively, he felt panic flush through him. "You're drunk, I
could smell whiskey and beer on you before you got into the cart, and that
ain't allowed on campus. So, you got two choices. Either we head on up to
the faculty block to see what they have to say about this." The guard's
eyes locked with Brant's, searching his thoughts, trying to read his
reactions... daring Brant to ask him.

"Or...?" Brant had a vague sense of what was about to happen, but
everything was happening so fast, and this feeling of unreality that he'd
had back at the bar had settled over him once more.

"Or we go back to my hut, get you a coffee before we send you back to your
buddies, and we find a suitable way to help me forget about this evening."
He knew what this meant, and as if to leave absolutely no doubt, the guard
reached down and gave his bulge a firm squeeze. Brant stared at the bulge
dumbly, and as the guard's hand came away, it throbbed and actually got
bigger before his eyes, making him look away, his face blazing with shock
and embarrassment.

Brant's mouth was dry, his palms slick with sweat as he sat paralyzed in
the buggy. The guard looked fairly short, but this emphasized his powerful
body. His breath hitched in his chest, almost a sob of bewildered
frustration. Then, the last hour quickly tumbled through his mind, the
disappointment and frustration he'd wrestled with almost as soon as he'd
left the hard dick still throbbing through the gloryhole at Hank's. He
looked back at the guard, who was patiently awaiting Brant's reply. His
thighs still strained against the cheap cotton uniform slacks, and the
definite outline of a rapidly forming erection was clear in the ample bulge
at his crotch.

He wanted to suck this guard's dick.

The breath that he'd been holding escaped him in a relieved rush. He had
admitted it; A great flood of relief coursed through his for a moment. It
felt like the person his parents, teachers, friends and peers had wanted
him to be was just a 2-dimensional image on a sheet of tissue paper, held
in front of a burning ring of fire like the daredevil performers use at the
circus. With his admission, Brant had torn through this old, false image
and burst through his emotional ring of fire.

"The second option," Brant replied in a breathless whisper. Immediately,
the buggy whirred forward once more as Brant stared straight ahead,
exhilarated, petrified and hard as rock. Less than a minute later, they
turned a corner and pulled up outside the front of a small prefabricated
hut the night guards used when not doing rounds.

The guard swung out of the buggy in a single, practiced motion. He was even
shorter than Brant had expected, probably no more than 5'5", over half a
foot shorter than Brant, but was just as thickset as he had suspected. His
short stature made him look twice as thick as if he'd been Brant's height,
and he had to have been wearing his uniform a size too small to further
emphasize that despite his lack of height, he wasn't anybody to mess
with. He quickly pulled a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the hut,
stepping inside and leaving Brant outside with the door open. Knowing that
he could easily make a run for it without the guard reporting him, Brant
sat for a moment, then swung himself out of the buggy and headed inside,
stopping in the doorframe. The guard had his back to Brant, filling a
kettle from a small sink. His ass was displayed almost obscenely by the
snug cut of his pants. It was the first time Brant had ever openly looked
at and appraised another man's ass, the thought sending a small shiver up
his spine.

"Close the door." Brant complied, remaining standing in front of the cheap
wooden door as water sputtered into the kettle. Finally, the guard turned
around, plugged the kettle into a cord on a small shelf beneath the window
and looked up at Brant. He didn't flick the switch to actually turn on the
kettle. For a moment, the two of them stood there, neither quite sure how
to proceed. Brant could feel the burst of resolve ebbing from him, the
surge of adrenaline once again leaving him, and almost bolted. But he took
one last glance, without thinking, at the security guard's crotch. He could
see the chubby tube of half-hard flesh curled over balls that overfilled
the confined space so much that the seam running under the seat of his
pants cut through them, pushing them to either side. In the dim light from
the bare bulb above the guard's head, the shadows beneath these mounds were
stark and only made them seem bigger. A throb pulsed through the cock,
causing it to fatten and shift a little, and the guard gave a small
chuckle. "You lookin' pretty hungry, puto." For a moment, Brant felt a
small burr of indignation at the casual way this guy just referred to him
as a faggot. But at the same moment, the guard's strangely delicate hands
pulled the zipper and popped the button of his fly as quickly and deftly as
he'd swung himself from the golf buggy. Another moment later, he was stood
with his pants shoved a little way down over the thickset thighs, the hem
of his polo shirt now hanging just in front of his crotch, hiding whatever
was inside.

Brant's heart was pounding in his chest, in his throat, in his ears. He
could feel his own dick painfully hard in his own underwear, the feel of
his chest as it rose and fell in short, sharp breaths. He wanted to lift
the hem of that polo shirt, see what was beneath. The small portion of
exposed thighs was teeming with short black hair; Brant wanted to feel it
against his palms. Sweat had at some point sprung out on Brant's forehead --
he could feel a bead slowly tracking down his right temple as he stood,
transfixed, panting, his fear and doubt evaporating as lust and desire and
years of inhibited feelings took over. The guard gave another little
chuckle, breaking the spell that held them both in an endless moment that
teetered over the pivot-point of Brant's life. He could almost physically
feel his life rotating around some cosmic fulcrum, realigning itself. With
one hand, the guard pulled up the polo shirt; up over his white briefs,
almost overflowing with their engorged contents; up over the slightly
paunchy tummy over a faint six-pack, a thick treasure-trail surging upwards
from the waistband of his briefs; up over the big beefy chest, swirling
with unruly masses of black hair, two large brown nipples life islands in a
black sea. The guard was stood, his pants halfway to his knees, his top
hiked up almost to his chin, his white briefs starkly contrasted against
the dark skin and jet black hair that was almost everywhere, showing
himself off to Brant, inviting him to pleasure him.

Brant's life, swinging ever-faster around that unseen fulcrum; the feeling
of it coming to rest, the course of his life shifted... no, corrected. This
was RIGHT! This masculinity before him: muscle, paunch, hair, testosterone,
sweat, stubble... they were the things Brant had never known he'd always
craved. There was no conscious decision, no ticking of boxes, and no
selecting his preferences. These things were within him to his core;
fundamental and constant, and had always been there. He could feel that
now, as if his soul had been a house half packed up for the winter but
never knowing it; furniture that belonged to that house stowed under cotton
dust sheets, unseen.

White cotton dust sheets, finally torn away.

White cotton.

Torn away.

Suddenly back in his mind, for the first time since he could remember fully
in his own mind, his was knelt before the guard; his hands were pulling
down the white cotton briefs; the stiff length of the guard's cock arcing
heavily up and smacking against Brant's cheek. His nose and mouth pressed
deeply into the hollow of his crotch, wiry black hair engulfing his face,
filling his nostril with musk, with sweat, with the faint tang of piss,
with MAN. His hands stroked through the coarse leg hair as he pushed the
briefs and pants lower over the guard's muscular thighs, his face rotated
around to the left as his lips closed over the side of the solid, erect
shaft. The guard was murmuring under his breath, a rapid-fire tattoo of
Mexican obscenities, orders and random curses. Brant's mouth quickly
traveled higher, his tongue lapping over the hot, quivering length,
following a vein as it too surged upwards towards the head. Folds of dark
brown skin puckered over the bulging head, and without thought, Brant
consumed it. As his lips pulled back the soft foreskin, his mouth filled
with the smooth knob of the guard's head, the musky, salty taste of sweat
and precum on his tongue, his glands squirting a rush of saliva in
response.

"Yeah, jock-boy, take this spic verga," coaxed the guard, his free hand now
gently cupping the top of Brant's head, "suck on me, puto, make me cum."
Brant's breath streamed out in hot bursts through his nostrils, pulling in
lungfuls of the manly scent of the guard's crotch as he feasted on the hard
length. He inched further down the shaft as he rhythmically worked the
shaft, his spittle drooling from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down
his chin and over the hairy balls that were getting nearer with each thrust
of his head. He was running on pure instinct, the porn films he'd watched
alone and with friends coming back to him now as instructional videos. He
alternated between sucking on the knob, tasting the precum dribbling onto
his tongue as he ran it under the foreskin, then worked his way down the
shaft, making sure to keep his teeth away from the sensitive skin. The
guard's grip was becoming firmer, more insistent as his dick worked its way
deeper into Brant's mouth, and Brant knew what was coming.

Suddenly, his body convulsed as the guard's head struck the back of his
throat, and he violently coughed the stiff dick from his mouth, scraping
the head as it was ejected, making the guard hiss in protest. The feeling
was awful, he could still feel his stomach wanting to clench and heave.

"Fuck, pendejo! You supposed to suck my dick, not bite it off. This your
first time, carbon?" Brant, breathing heavily to bring himself back under
control, looked up with watery eyes and sheepishly nodded. "No fucking
excuse, puto, but you'd better not do that again or I'll tear your arms
off." The guard thrust his hips forward, and Brant's eyes dropped back to
the dark brown dick, just inches from his face and still more than half
hard, glistening with his spit and swinging pendulously from side to
side. He wanted to suck it so bad, to deepthroat it like the girls he'd
seen in those videos and on the internet. Gingerly, he slid it back into
his mouth, feeling it fully stiffen as he gently sucked, then began to work
his way down its length once again, scared that it would be just as bad but
even more determined to overcome it.

Then, the jarring feel of the guard's cockhead striking the back of his
mouth once again. Brant tensed, expecting the wave of repulsion, but
instead, only a slight shudder that ran through Brant as he tried
again. Still expecting the gag reflex to wrack him with convulsions, he
nevertheless pushed the cockhead into his throat, but the convulsions never
came, just that mild internal shudder as the head slid back out into his
mouth. The guard's hand was now gripping tightly as it shoved Brant back
down; the guard's voice crooned in a constant murmur of Spanish and
English; the dense knob once again ramming at the entrance to Brant's
throat, shoving aside his tonsils and uvula, stretching open his gullet as
it slid inside him all the way, his nose burying in the wiry tangle of
black hair, his breathing cut off by the solid dick embedded in his gullet,
his hands vice-like on the muscular, tensed thighs of the hairy Mexican
guard fucking his face as his murmurs were strangled into grunting moans.

Brant felt the polo shirt dropping onto his head, and a second later both
of the guard's hands were on his head, planted either side, clutching him
tightly as he pulled Brant slowly and deliberately off his dick. His airway
opened once again, his lungs refilling with sweet air. The polo shirt fell
forward, and Brant looked up to see the guard's face ravaged with
ecstasy. He was panting, scraps of Mexican Spanish escaping amongst gasping
moans as he slowly reversed Brant's head off his spit-slicked dick until
just the head lay heavily upon Brant's tongue.

"Shit, jock-boy, you the best mouth I ever fucked, and this really your
first ever time? You taking my dick like a fucking pro." Brant looked up at
the guard, sucking his head, his tongue lapping at the oozing precum as he
gently nodded. "Damn, puto, you ain't lyin'." It wasn't a question, but a
statement that was filled with awe. "Make me cum, jock-boy. Take that
mecos, puto."

Brant didn't need telling twice, even before the guard's hands started
shoving him back down the rigid length, he was doing it himself, feeling
the head pound through into his throat, his nose crushing against the hairy
crotch. Frenzied, Brant gorged himself upon the guard's dick, quickly
finding a rhythm that was furiously paced, but allowed him to take short
gulps of breath as the head popped back into his mouth, then quickly
driving it deep back into his gullet once more. Any thought of restraint
had left him; spit and precum slathered his cheeks and chin, spattering
onto his T-shirt in sticky threads. His throat made hungry gulping sounds
as he drew in air as hungrily as he did cock. The guard's balls, also
slathered with clear slimy spittle, slapped heavily against Brant's
chin. The guard's curses were now a torrent, completely in Mexican-Spanish,
increasing in intensity and volume.

"Puto, you going to take this. got to cum. Aaah...!" The guard's orgasm
quickly mounted, and his moan of pleasure was strangled and twisted into a
rumbling squeal that came from somewhere deep in his throat. Somewhere deep
in Brant's throat the dick pulsed and bucked and throbbed and erupted. The
guard doubled over and his lungs emptied as if he'd been kicked in the
stomach, as Brant felt his stomach inundated with the first, then second
wad of cum. The hands clutching his head suddenly pulled him back off the
jerking, spewing dick; the fat head was wrenched from his throat and back
into his mouth, where it continued to shoot thick cum into Brant's
mouth. His tongue swirled around the head as it heaved up wad after wad,
his lips and cheeks sucking inwards as he strove to drain the dripping,
hairy, churning nuts of their load and his abused throat worked as it
hungrily tried to swallow down every last drop of the guard's seed.
Rational thought was slowly seeping back into the two men, seeming to
replace the sudden lack of noise. Moments before the small hut had been
filled with the dirty noises of sex -- groans, curses, wet sounds of
pleasure given and received. Now there was just the sound of two men
panting as though they had run a marathon. Brant's nostrils were flaring as
he fought to fill his lungs, still reluctant to release the softening brown
cock in his mouth. The guard was leant against the small shelf, his hand
brushing the forgotten kettle as he struggled to catch his breath.

Finally, Brant let the limp dick slide from between his lips, replacing it
with mouthfuls of hot air thick with the smells of sex. He wiped his mouth
with the back of his hand, and it came away smeared with clear, viscous
fluid. Suddenly, a small, grubby towel appeared before him. Looking up, he
saw the guard regarding him with an unreadable expression. He got to his
feet, his knees howling in protest at having been against the bare wooden
floor for what felt like ages, and started to clean himself up. The entire
lower half of his face, his neck and most of the front of his T-shirt were
slathered in spittle, mucus and precum. He scrubbed his face and neck dry,
but the T-shirt would have to stay like it was.

"Jock-boy, you some kind of puto genius." He'd heard the word so many times
now, and realized its meaning had subtly shifted in the guard's mind when
he used it to refer to Brant; less derogatory. "You did things to this
verga I have never felt before. I never came so much -- no piruja could
ever do that." The guard then seemed to stop himself, realizing his was
heaping Brant with compliments, and awkward silence settled over them.

Brant quickly made his exit, refusing the guard's offer of a lift to his
frat house, and all but ran from the hut. He walked in the cool night air,
the drying T-shirt cold on his chest and stomach and crotch, his throat
feeling like it had been scraped raw and stretched to double its size; a
grin lit up Brant's face as he realized how close to the truth that was.

A moment later, another thought made him stop in his tracks. The wet
T-shirt was cold against his chest and stomach, but why could he feel cold
wetness in his crotch... The grin returned, now turning into a laugh as he
realized that as the guard had begun to fill him with his cum, he too had
shot his load -- without once touching himself.

His laugh pained his throat, but nevertheless he laughed into the still
night as he returned to his room, changed forever -- his true course set.