I failed out of college, and I pretty much stranded myself. Kicked out of the dorm, and started living on the streets.
It wasn’t that bad. I had a car, so if I put the seats down on the passenger side, I had enough room to put down cushions, and make a sort of bed.
I found work on a corner, where mostly undocumented immigrants hung around. Waiting for contractors to drive up in pickups, or panel vans.
Not as many Mexicans as you might think, most of them were Asians, and others African. Not African American, but from Africa. Nigeria, and Kenya mostly. A few eastern Europeans, and Middle Eastern Caucasians.
Through heavily accented English, I learned what that ment geographically. There were some Georgian Russians, Armenians, and Azerbaijani guys that all spoke Russian, I think. A little English, enough to talk to the redneck that pulled up, and said “No darkies. You, you, you, and you.” He pointed around. “You Jewish?”
“Azerbaijan,” he shook his head, “Ganja.”
“You smoke weed?”
“This is the city in Azerbaijan, call Ganja. Where I am from.”
“Well, get back with the rest of the muddites. It’s a 4 man job.” He pointed, “1, 2, 3, 4.” He pointed to himself. “So, I don’t need you, fuck off before I call INS.”
“Huh!” He shook his head, and swore in some language. I don’t know, it could have been Greek, or Turkish. He spoke those too, but I’m not racist. I don’t like Nazis, and I didn’t feel all that comfortable with working for one.
Let me get this straight, I’m not breaking Godwin’s Law here. He had a rebel flag bumper sticker on his truck, but back home, he had the real thing, an American Flag, a yellow one with a green snake, and “Don’t tread on Me,” and a real Nazi flag. Red with a black Schwastica, in a white circle. Another one clutched by a brass eagle on top of the flag pole in the corner.
I see that, and I’m calling you a Nazi. “Hey, man. Take that flag down.”
“It’s a free country.”
“Exactly.” I pointed out front. “That’s a free country, that.” The Rebel flag, “Is the flag of a bunch of slave owning traitors that left, and that.” The one with the Schwastica “Is the enemy of everything America stands for. So, take down the flag of a Free Country, and go back to Germany, or wherever the fuck you’re from.”
He pulled a pistol out of a drawer, and the other 2 guys just stood there. When they could have grabbed it before he loaded it, and pulled the toggle lock on top.
“Get the fuck out of my house, you nigger loving…”
I didn’t stick around to hear the rest, but we’re talking maybe $50.00 for the day, and I felt pretty good standing up for my country. I heard saws in the back, where he’d set up a chop saw, and framed out a shed. To put up the panels of a flat-pack roof, I assumed would be the 4 man job he hired us for.
I went back to take down the Flag he didn’t deserve to fly out front. Yeah, we take anyone, even those that side with every enemy of the US, but you can’t fly that flag on the outside, then proudly collect the flags of the most evil, and the one with the snake on it. I’d heard Don’t tread on Me before, but I didn’t know it was on any flag, let alone what country’s.
I wasn’t a History major, and I failed business school, but that made me feel a little better. At least I’m not that much of a loser, but I got mad that a racist fuck like that owns a house, and has a good enough job to hire immigrants. As long as they’re white enough, probably so he can try to tell them how it’s the other immigrants. The dark skinned ones that’re ruining this country.
Good luck with that, after kicking out the 1 guy that spoke enough English you could understand. Have fun with your Caucasian buddies, asshole.
Well, that anger got me back downtown, to my car, and then the adrenaline wore off. “Huh!” I had a little gas, so I drove over to the library, and looked some things up. Like that flag, turned out to be called the Gadsen Flag, and from the Revolutionary war.
Maybe if I stayed in school, and payed attention, I wouldn’t be homeless, but I couldn’t just swallow my pride, and say “Yes sir” to that fucking Nazi. No sir, you’re what’s wrong with America. This country was founded by Immigrants, and European Americans aint from around here, neither.
So, then I saw him again, another day, later. I don’t know, you don’t really keep track of the days when you have to. The seasons, maybe what month it is, but that’s just a reminder of how long I’d been a loser, a dropout, and a bum.
He came back, and followed through on calling Immigration. Sat across the street, watching the vans pull up with this smug look of satisfaction, and I got asked for my green card. “Don’t got one.” I had a driver’s license, “I’m from Eugene, born, and raised.”
They ran it, to make sure it wasn’t fake, and gave it back when it passed, but they threatened to call the PPD for vagrancy, and panhandling, then told me where I could look for work. Some yard, mostly full of Latinos, called Voz. Being Portland, they had a lot of European, African, and Asian immigrants, too.
Some guy named Natcho, sort for Ignatio, it was mostly to help Immigrants find work, get papers, and so forth, but they took everyone. Picked names out of a jar, at random, so you didn’t have problems like Tacoma Nazis picking just the White ones, and threatening to get the rest deported.
So, that’s where I heard about Saint Frances, where I could get in out of the rain, a dinner, and even showers 2 days a week. The dining room was open all day, so when it was too cold to hang out at Voz, I gave up after waiting too long for work, and headed over there to hang out.
This girl came over to the table, and called me “Hey, Teach?”
“That’s what they call me.” I pushed my glasses up, and put down my book.
“Well,” she pulled a book out of her backpack, “I need a little help with something.” She was taking 10th grade calculus. She was clean, and wore perfume which took a little while to get used to, but High School Calculus is basically College Pre-Calculus, which I managed to pass.
Basic stuff, Integration, and Differential Equations. It wasn’t the Homework she needed help with, but understanding the core concepts. Now, I’m not a Teacher. Well honestly, I wasn’t a very good student. I was hung over my last year, pretty much the whole semester from staying out too late, getting too drunk, and partying.
So, I stopped drinking, and started working toward getting off the streets. That girl, she doesn’t want me using my name. She said that she was grateful, and wanted to help, but then it was time to mop up. I’m one of those homeless people that’s too proud to take a handout, and that’s exactly what it is.
My pride, I volunteer at places like Saint Frances, because it feels more like work for food, than needing a handout. You do things like that, to feel better about yourself, or like less of a loser, but it’s depressing. You’ve got constant reminders of how you fucked up your life, and she Volunteered too. That’s what she was doing at the soup kitchen in the first place, volunteering to help feed the homeless.
I don’t know if you’re familiar with Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, but it’s basically a pyramid, and the higher level needs, like emotional ones are built up on the baser needs of Survival. Like food, water, shelter… So, you have to take care of those before you can work your way up to Self Actualization, all the way at the top.
“Oh yeah.” She’s taking Psychology, too. “So what you’re saying is, you really have to take care of yourself first, then you can worry about being a better person?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like, well. Self Actualization is a more complex subject.”
“We haven’t even started on Maslow yet, we’re still stuck on Freud, Jung, and Skinner.”
“Well, that’s a good example. They’re more about the baser needs which they had to figure out, in order to moved up to more advanced concepts of psycho-analytics, like Emotional Therapy.”
“Hm.” She looked down at my bag, when I grabbed a bottle from behind the trash can, and pulled out books to put it in the bottom. She laughed. “Hungry housewives, is that what I think it is?” Walking around the grounds, I signed in, and my job for the day was checking the campus for things like beer bottles, but once I poured the beer out of the Quart, somebody left stashed behind the trashcan to finish later, then apparently forgot. “How come you buy erotica, instead of reading it free on the internet?”
“Well,” I thought, “How do I put this?” I don’t have a phone, nobody to call or text, most of my friends can’t afford phones either, and the only place you can really plug one in to charge it is a good place to steal them. Sell for a couple bucks to buy a 4 pack, if you drink to forget your situation. Which I can’t afford to, because my alcoholism, and social drug use led to me being here in the first place.
“Actually,” she laughed, “I just realize, you don’t say that.”
“Actually, or well, actually.”
“Okay, that’s one of those rest words. You take music?”
“In elementary. That was required, though. You had to try and learn the recorder.” She mimed the flute.
“Right, but they also covered how to read sheet music.”
“Yeah, but I don’t really remember what notes.”
“Okay, so Actually is like saying Really.” That was her favorite rest-word, when a lot of high school kids said fuckin’, but fuckin’, that fuckin’ thing.
“Oh yeah.” She thought, “They didn’t call them rest words in English, but it’s like writing Really, when a better word will do.”
“Or just leaving it out entirely, because it doesn’t. Really add anything to the sentence, or Actually say anything.”
“Right?” She laughed, “Or actually make you sound smarter, than you Really are. Most of the guys that say that, well Actually.” She tapped her fingers together. She talks with her hands, but that’s something I remembered from Public Speaking. A Scholar’s Cradle which makes your point seem more important, or give you something to do with your hands. So you don’t fidget, which is distracting, but also her way of posing as a professor, or intellectual elitist.
“You don’t do that, though.”
I finished my patrol, while we talked about Scholar’s Cradles, but I think that I’ve probably bored you enough all ready. The point is that back in my parent’s day, they had Revenge of the Nerds, where the Nerd had to hide behind a Darth Vader Mask, and rape the hot chick by proxy. That’s what that scene is, it’s not a love scene, or a sex scene, it’s rape scene. It’s called Rape by Proxy, because the only way a Nerd could get a Hot Chick back then was by impersonating The Jock.
It’s a trope, but now-a-days, the social stigma of intelligence has slowly gone the way of the Polar Bear. It’s not completely extinct, but the guys that still cling to that are the same sort of guys that collect the flags of the racist enemies of America, to justify their image of a White Supremacist America.
I suppose the modern word is “Geeks.” They have shows like “The Big Bang Theory,” with commercials for the “Geek Squad” to come over, and help you install your flat screen TV. If you can afford a flat-screen TV, and a wall to hang it on. Yeah, they call me “Teach,” instead of “Professor,” because I like trivia, and I suppose I even lecture when the subject changes to one I’m interested in, which is a lot of them. So, the hipsters might say that I have an “Eclectic” taste in trivia, I’m an “Intellectual,” but not an Elitist.
I like books, and spend a lot of my free time at the library, but my hour on the Internet surfing sites like Wikipedia, and follow the [Citations] to the actual research, because I can do the math, and statistical analysis is one of those subjects I find interesting. Boring stuff like Methodology, while the vast majority of people are satisfied clicking on links, with absurd claims like [New Study Proves Pot Kills Cancer!]
Instead of reading the actual study, to find out that they’re actually using cannabinoids to tag cells for a new class of Chemo-therapy, that hasn’t even started development yet. So, [In theory, hemp extracts may be able to help treat cancer with other drugs, in the future, if they can be developed, and approved by the FDA] just isn’t as catchy, doesn’t get you the hits, and bring in as many advertising dollars.
“Uh huh? So, this is you.” I must have just went on, out loud. Since I had someone to talk to, but she was a good listener.
“Home sweet homeless.” They don’t let you park at the church, but they have a corral for your shopping carts, if you stole one from Fred Meyers.
“Well, I missed my ride, so I could really use one, but I’ve got gas money, and a couple of stops to make on the way, if you don’t mind.” She tends to run-on, when she decides to speak. Think it’s because she doesn’t want to interrupt. So, she saves up for when I pause to think of the next thing to say, and dumps everything at once. So, there’s a lot of callbacks to earlier in the conversation, such as:
“So, where did you get that book of Hungry Housewives erotica?”
“Well,” I had to think, “I don’t recall, off the top of my head.”
“Well, you know a really good place? There’s so many strip clubs, and sex shops. I really don’t know where to start, and you really should have a phone, so I can get in contact with you.”
“Right?” The sex industry here, “It surprised me when I moved here, but they don’t advertise that in the tourist brochures.”
She had her phone out, “Yeah, there’s actually more strip clubs than bike shops in Portland.” Just for correlation, come to Portland, where there’s a bike lane on every street, and while you’re here, stop by Dante’s Live.
“Turn up here.” Back to Hierarchy of Needs, ever since she showed up at my table, needing help understanding Differential Equations, I had thought of her as a teenager. Not a teenage girl, just a high school student, a volunteer, and a good listener. A friend at best, but now that the subject had changed to where I go to buy erotic stories, she became a sexual being, with erotic urges, and physical needs.
A home, job, food in her stomach, and money in her purse. A phone, and “Up here.” She pointed, so I signaled, and pulled in to “A drug store?”
“Yeah, I’ll be right back,” she got out, and while she was in there, making a stop I thought about the last time I got lucky. It was an odd job, before I’d stated going to Voz, and I helped translate for the Spanish speaking laborers, but he was in over his head. His wife wanted a sun porch, but a more appropriate term might be that she Demanded it.
That was the family dynamic, she was demanding, high maintenance, and bossy, but after she finished telling me everything she wanted, she went back inside, and kicked the kids out. While I helped her husband work up a budget, that he might be able to actually afford.
I didn’t bother asking what he got out of a marriage to an emotional abuser, and how having a mother like that obviously fucked up his kids, because that’s not how you talk to your boss for the day, if you want to get paid at the end of it.
Long story short, I was invited to stay for dinner, they offered me wine, I drank ice water, and then they offered me more money to stay the night. $200.00 to sleep with them, which is why she sent the children away.
So she could dress up in a leather corset, tie him up, and spank him for being a “Dickless sissy,” and fuck me while he watched, until he could get it up. Then, she payed me, and mounted him, while I put my clothes on, and went back to my car. Spent it on a room at the Joyce Hotel for a few weeks. It’s a Hostel, and a shithole, but a bed, and a shower I could use any time.
In case you’re wondering, that also happens to be how I got into Cuckhold/Cheating housewife stories. “Thanks,” my date came back out, and threw a shopping bag in my lap.
“What’s this?” I pulled out a box, with a phone. [Jitterbug Smart II] it was set up for seniors to learn all this newfangled technology. When back in their day, phones had dials, and plaques on the bottom to tell you it was property of Ma Bell. It was technically illegal to wire into another room. So, I heard, from my grandad, who got several from other people’s homes to wire up illegally, and have a phone in every room. He used to steal cable with a grey market box, too.
“It’s payed up for the month, but there’s some razors and stuff in there, too.”
“It’s the least I can do to thank you for all you’ve done, but can you do me a favor?”
“There’s this place around the corner, Babeland. I’m only 17, so you’ll have to go in for me, and buy me this?” She switched from the map to the online catalog, and tapped the image to blow it up.
[FST Double Cock Realistic Lockable Double Penis Gag with Real Leather Strap.]
[In Stock $24.99
Add to Cart]
“Okay, if you don’t mind me asking, who that’s for?”
“Oh, my boyfriend, maybe someone else, if they really want to join us.” I nodded.
“For threesomes.” I guessed.
“Yeah, we’re bisexual. I figured, since you like Hungry Housewives you at least wouldn’t be too judgemental about us cheating, or premarital sex.” She laughed, “Even if we met in a church.”
“Hahuh, yeah. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like that. Bought cigarettes for teenagers, or had a threesome with a married couple.”
“Oh, we’re not married. Right here,” she pointed, “I mean left, right up there.” Across the street, but I saw the sign. In time to signal, and get over to the middle lane, and wait for traffic.
Listening to the turn signal tick.
She didn’t say anything either, just left the rest unspoken. If anyone else wanted to join us. We’re bisexual, and it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done something like this. Had a threesome, with a couple, but not exactly like this.
For one thing, they were married, but straight. It was some sort of submissive cuckhold humiliation thing. He seemed to need someone to fuck his wife to get it up, but he also enjoyed the humiliation, bondage, and spanking.
“Yeah? Sounds pretty kinky.”
I parked, “Be right out,” and left her in the car. In the parking lot, right over the camera by the door, so hopefully the passenger seat was blocked by the roof at that angle, but I got my wallet out. Tucked the $20.00 bills fresh from the cash machine in while I got out my Driver’s license, and held it up to the window in the door.
It buzzed, I went in, and held up her phone. “Uh, you got one of these?” Her pink phone, with her name picked out on the back in tiny Rhine-stones I covered up with my hand across the back.
The guy behind the counter looked bored, and totally uninterested in even wondering if I was gay. Married, but liked being pegged, and cheated on, or homeless, and open to gay for pay sex with teenage bisexual couples.
There’s something about a place like this, that you get used to: No fucks, not one given, you have to pay, but that guy, woman, or old lady behind the counter? If they haven’t seen it by now, you’re still unlikely to surprise them. They certainly know better than to judge you for your sexual predilections when it’s their stock in trade. So, just swallow your pride, and go around the racks to the corner, where they have the sex toys.
It’s black, at least the one in the photo was.
“No, over by the BDSM stuff.” He waved me over, and rolled his eyes, impatiently. Campy, too. He’s gay, apparently, but as I’m here to buy sex toys for an underage girl to have some sort of scene in return for a prepaid cellular, and how much are those going for these days?
“Huh!” I’d do it for free of course, but I’m not turning the phone down.
“That be all?”
“Yeah,” he threw in a handful of rubbers, and tiny portions of lube the size of ketchup packets, without even looking. Like, you want fries with that?
No fucks given. Fresh out, but if you want, we can rent you some in teh preview booths out back. Watch where you sit, it might be a little sticky, but I got over my queasiness my first night at the Joyce Hostel, when I found the shit some tweaker left in the shower stall, literally right next to a toilet.
I dumpster dive, for bottles, which are worth a nickle each. I’m that desperate, not desperate enough to hang out at the portapotty with a hole cut in the side to hustle from money form closeted husbands, but this. This is one of those few times where once again, I have to ask myself, why me? What did I ever do to get this lucky? Not only to have sex with an attractive woman, or young lady, but to be paid for it?
I felt like a whore, a gigolo, and I liked it. It can’t be my rugged good looks, nor my hot bod, so it must be my charming conversation, but at some point you have to stop kicking yourself, get on, and enjoy the ride.
She had money, obviously, and while I was in there buying her a strapon/gag, she called her boyfriend to get a hotel room. So, when I got back, she told me the address, and switched to Navigator.
“Make the block. So, you ever done anything bisexual before?”
“Yeah, in college, but that was back before I got sober.”
“So that’s why you’re so disgusted by the beer bottle earlier.”
“Well, yeah. Honestly, that was the poison that ruined my life, so the last thing I need is to spend more money on that to forget, and sink deeper down the well to drown myself in misery, and suds.”
“So, beer specifically?”
“Yeah, beer and hard liquor. Mostly beer, because it was all over the place, and cheap if not free.”
“They buy you drinks?”
“No, but the frat-house parties usually had at least a keg, if not an open bar, and I was there to have a good time, but I found out that if I got drunk enough, it loosened up my standards of what I’d do for a good time.”
“So, it wasn’t like a frat-house initiation.”
“No, I wasn’t part of any fraternity I just got myself invited to their parties, for the free beer.”
“Left at the light.” I signaled, and pulled up in the turn lane. Behind a bike trailer.
“So, what did you do?”
“Well, I tried everything, I guess. They didn’t have any handcuffs, or paddles. So, not as much of the rough sex. If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Yeah, it might get pretty rough, but not on you. My boyfriend is really the one that likes it rough.”
“Yeah, but if you can’t get it up for that, it’s okay. I can handle that, now that we have this.”
She looked around, and took the box out of the plain white paper bag. “Ooh, it’s bigger than it looks in the picture!”
“Yeah, I don’t know, but.” I remember. But… Tocks. It’s pretty fuzzy, and no idea who’s they could have been, but definitely a guy’s. His balls, and soft dick dangling under it, but holding his cheeks wide open, and glistening with some sort of lubricant. His rectum prolapsed, then puckering back in with a girlish whine, then his voice. High pitched, and begging me.
“Fuck me, ihn! NEAH!” Squealing, and even being surprised by how lose, and soft he was on the inside, through the beer goggles, and the drunken fog.
“Huh, it shouldn’t be a problem, even sober. I don’t think, I have to be drunk to fuck a guy.”
“Good, because he loves it. And there’s something extra special awesome about nailing a dude. Expecially when he loves it, and begs for more. It’s green.”
“Oh, uh.” I stepped off the brake, then slammed on them before I ran into the brake lights ahead of me. the Bike/Trailer pulled around before the rest of the column even got going.
Waiting for them to go out, then following him up to the light where we had to stop again, when it changed.
“What’s he look like?”
“Oh yeah.” She switched from the Map to Photos, and brought some up. “Here he is,” at a beach, wearing swim trunks, but bare chested, and tan. “And here we are.” Together, fully clothed, and hanging off of his shoulder. Her foot up in a pose, showing the high heels.
“He looks tall,” she came up to his neck, with his arm over her shoulders in heels. Smiling, happy, not forced, or fake, but sincerely enjoying himself. “Even a little pretty.”
“Yeah, too bad we can’t save any nudes, because that’s technically child porn. Even though we’ve both been old enough for sex. For 2 years you can do it, but you can’t do sexual performance, because it’s a felony.”
“Well, there’s plenty of laws about that, and prostitution. I’m certainly not worried about you reporting me for that, so I wouldn’t call the cops on you for taking pictures.”
The light changed, and she took a moment to think. What to ask next, but it was out there, and honestly that little confession was enough of a relief. I have plenty of people to talk to on the streets, but not about that. I’m rather conflicted between the pride in being payed for sex, the equivalent of my dick being worth $200.00, and I don’t know how much this whole party ended up costing them in the long run, but the sex toy, and I still had her change from that. The hotel room probably ran at least $30.00 for the night, even though it’s not a particularly nice one, we’re not talking a literal shithole like the Joyce.
“Huh, I guess, it’s not unlike that. If you really think about it.”
“I did, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Once, I was picked up at the day labor store.”
“They have stores for that?”
“Well, no. They have offices, but if you don’t have ID, or any of the other paperwork you need for taxes, you don’t have to go to a legitimate one. There’s plenty of corners where you can stand around, this was behind a Plaid Pantry.”
“Huh.” Somehow avoided ever thinking about it that way. I suppose maybe he thought of it as picking up a male hooker to take home, and help out with his overbearing wife, but he got off on it too.
“Turn right, not at the light, but it should be right after 14th, before it turns onto Sandy.”
“Yeah, you stayed there before?”
“No, never even been inside, they just have pretty clean dumpsters.”
“Oh, I thought you stayed in your car.” I put the seats up, with the couch cushions stacked behind her on the passenger side back seat.
“Yeah, but I can get $5 to $10 bucks in bottles and cans on a good night. Saturday nights are the best.” One of few reasons to keep track of the weekends, when the tourists are in town, and drink a lot from the minibars. Lots of little bottles, and cans, each worth as much as a big heavy glass Voss water bottle.
“Huh,” but you can pull in the back. “There’s his car, so. He must be in.” She looked up the number in her text message, “Room 114.”
I tried to brace myself, while she was talking. Conversationally about bondage, pegging, and bisexual domination as if we’re discussing where to go for brunch.
“Hey, you must be.” He met us at the door, and offered his hand, but she slapped him.
“Shut up!” Pushed him back, “Get on the bed, and where’s my stuff?”
“In the closet.”
Just like that, she switched back to the soft voice, “You better go get cleaned up.” Tuesday was also a shower-day, but she bought me razors, and they were nicer than the disposable twin blades they give out at St. Frances, but that ment 4 tiny blades. Too close together to really cut through my beard.
I wondered if she wanted me to shave more, but I didn’t have any trimmer, or scissors to cut it down short enough to get with those blades. So, I just stepped into the bathtub, and closed the shower doors. On a track, across the side of the tub, but I hadn’t had a hot bath in. Well, over a year, so I didn’t bother figuring out the valve to switch the head, and just followed the instructions to close the drain.
Filled it up, and sat back. “Ah.” Stalled for time, when I didn’t even need the shower. I put on clean clothes and everything, hadn’t even taken a dump, but they obviously had to get ready. So, I tried to get in the right frame of mind. It honestly surprised me a little, at the first light, when I started getting a boner.
Vaguely remembering that frat boy, bent over, and getting fucked. Then stepping up when it was my turn. The other frat boys egging me on, but it was a sausage party. Yeah, there were some girls there, but not enough to go around, and those came with dates. PSU is a liberal enough college that you could have gay guys in your dorm, your fraternity if you picked the right one, and they didn’t give you too much shit about it.
I was just drunk enough for beer goggles, and not too drunk, so I didn’t have whiskey dick. Chalk it up to peer pressure, and that guy really liked getting gang banged. There was a line down the hall, and his frat mates. Plenty of them were drunk enough that a piece of his ass was just another piece of ass, but then he grunted.
“Ihn!” The pink sock sucked in, and squeezed out a drop of white fluid that rolled down his greasy taint, and stuck to his hairy balls. I dropped trow, and wasn’t even all that surprised to find a boner popping out. They cheered me on, and slapped my ass in encouragement. I even got off on it, but that’s what it took to get it up again.
“Huh!” I rolled the door open, and got out, to dry off. Scrubbed my pubes, balls, and raging hardon to keep it up. Then just dropped it on the floor to head out the door, while I was still good and ready.
“Ooh, yeah.” She wiggled her bare hips, backing off the glossy black veined shaft strapped into his mouth. “Look.” She threw her knee over to turn his head. “Huh, look at that big hairy dick, how hard his is for you. You see it?”
“Yeaw.” He managed around the short dick shaped butt plug, and strap holding it in his mouth.
“You want it, faggot.” No question, it sounded more like an order.
“You want it up your tight virgin ass, huh!”
“Yeawh, ph.” He opened his mouth wide, and somehow managed “Weash phugh meh.”
“Huh!” I just had to hold it tight. To keep the blood bulging, but he was kinda pretty. Real skinny, and he even had a long cock. A long, skinny circumcised cock, with a pink collar around it, and an almost red head like an up-side down heart.
“Here, help me get his other ankle.” Her stuff included some kind of straps, that were long enough to run completely under a queen sized mattress, and over the corners. Velcro cuffs around his wrists, and ankles, but she ripped her’s off on that corner, so I ripped mine off, and followed her lead.
She kicked her leg out, and turned around to hold it. Sitting on his chest, I handed her the other leg, and picked my dick up to stroke it, and squeeze it hard again. “The rubber’s in the bag, with a little lube.”
“Oh, yeah.” I shook my head, stone sober. I almost forgot, and attempted to dry fuck him, bareback, as soon as I saw his tight pucker. His dry, tight, wrinkled pucker, and I didn’t realize I could get any harder until I felt it swell with lust.
“Huh, I don’t know, why. I didn’t even think about doing this again sooner.”
“Yeah.” She said, there was really something extra special awesome about nailing a guy. That I had forgotten in the drunken haze of college parties, anonymous hookups, and frat boy gangbangs.
But by the time I’d gotten the rubber rolled on, she tore open one of the packets, and squeezed it out on his crack. Rubbing, then fingering it with one hand, while she picked out another, and tore the corner off with her teeth. Squeezed that out in a squiggly line across the top of the rubber like a close-up from an Oscar Mayer commercial.
So, I could spread it around with my thumb. She tore another one open, “Gimme your hand.” So she could squeeze that out in my palm, to slick around the bottom. “Get the tip really good.” Another packet, the last one. “Huh, I hope that’s enough,” but I lost count, and the room was filled with the glycerin tang of water based lubricant.
I couldn’t wait. In fact, he grunted in pain, and she stopped me. “Woah there.” Gently, “Slow down, he’s sensitive. Just press it like a button, don’t try to jam it in. Let him relax, and stretch out.” Around my head, until it slowly pushed through, and snapped tight around my head.
“Huh, fuck he’s tight!”
“It’s been a while, but keep going slow. Huh, let him feel every inch.” She let his balls drop, smeared with her greasy fingers, and wrapped them around his soft cock. “Huh, yeah, fuck him, but not too hard yet. Let him get used to that big hard dick.”
“Uph,” he grunted, when I bottomed out, ran into a dead end, or a bend. It had to be a bend in there, so there was somewhere for the shit to come form, but it felt more like a dead end, or a cervix?
“Pull out, slowly. Slowly, not all the way out, but get ready for the next thrust. Huh!”
That guy, that gay guy at the frat party, he was already broken in. No telling how many frat guys were in line before him, but I guess I was expecting a girl when I lined up. Then, I saw his feet sticking out between the other guy’s legs, and his bare ass pumping, between his legs, but obviously not a girl’s legs, and I can’t tell myself this is anything but an asshole, because it’s tight around the outside.
A vagina can pull tight around the opening. If she’s done her Kegels, and can hold her PCM tight, but not this long, and you have to loosen up and asshole. “A little faster, yeah, just a little faster, but not too hard. You don’t want to hurt him, or split him wide open. Fuch’m ’till, he bleeds.” She hissed, through her teeth, with her lips pulled back in a rictus like the opposite of a smile.
I had to remind myself, that she started that sentence with “Don’t.” Hurt him, fuck him too hard, split his ass open, and Don’t fuck him till he bleeds!
“Uh, huh! NGH! YRHHHHH!” I just sank in, all the way to feel the rubby tip fill up with spurt after spurt against the bend as deep inside him as it will go. “Uh, huh! Fuck, huh. Yeah, fuck, yeah.”
She held me, my head between his calf, and her neck. “Good,” she didn’t whisper, “You did good. You fucked him so good.”
“Uh!” I felt a tear squeeze out of the corner of my eye, and blinked, so it rolled down my nose. “Snh!”
I went soft, and crawled back through the rubber, he groaned feeling it dragged out in wrinkles, but I didn’t want to let go. I didn’t want to leave, I wanted to keep my dick snug, and comfortable up his warm tight soft satisfied back passage forever, but finally it wormed out all on it’s own, and fell sticky against my balls.
“Huh, Jesus that’s intense!”
“See, I told you.”
“Huh!” I sat back, and just looked at her. Filled with newfound admiration, but with the post coital glow of the best sex I can remember. Clearly, without the blurred soft focus of beer goggles. It’s just the kind of thing that leads to stupid pillow talk. I wanted to tell her I loved her, but my rational mind finally kicked in before I did.
I don’t love her, she’s got a boyfriend, and he’s got a boner that she’s busy tearing open another rubber to wrap it.
“Huh, I think I better go clean myself up.”
I made it to the bathroom before the tears of joy broke out again, but I saw myself in the mirror, smiled, and laughed. “Huh!” I looked so happy, it made me even happier, and I know that sex can be just as much a drug as the bottle.
“Up phuf!” The bed really getting a work out in there, and her quiet breathing punctuated with little grunts.
“Huh!” I’m a little jealous, of him. I guess, I don’t want her. I barely know her, but he couldn’t be old enough. I suppose to buy something like that dildo gag for himself, if that’s what he wanted. For her, if that was what she wanted, but when I was that age. Yeah I dated, but I never met a girl like that, and I didn’t even know to look for her.
“Uh!” I started crying again, when that lead to feelings of regret. So alone, and how I fucked up my life, but I got in the shower to wash away the tears as much as the sex sweat. I suppose to drown out their passionate lovemaking with the white noise too, but it was bitter sweet.
The tears were sweet with the joy, the relief of finding out something, I should have realized sooner. I’m bisexual, and now I’m wondering if that young man in there, is able to top? Maybe he can face fuck me with that dildo gag, and I can just imagine him looking up with my hard man meat bouncing, and slapping his face. Blinking when my balls flatten out over his nose, and cover his eyes with that big black veiny realistic dildo gag tight up my pucker.
Is that top, or bottom?
“Huh?” I haven’t gotten off that quick since I was a frantically masturbating teenager, but then again, I haven’t ever had a rezerection that quick, that I can remember.
So, I cut the water off, refreshed, picked up the towel to wipe my face off, but took it with me without a moment’s hesitation to find out.
#BDSM #Teen #Threesome