February 2010
"Justin tells me you'll take cock for fifty dollars."
The massively muscular dark chocolate Tulane all-American fullback, dressed only in athletic shorts, showing off the physique of a god, completely filled the doorway of the small basement bedroom in the Alpha Tau fraternity house. He was leaning against one side of the door frame, his muscular torso arched to the side, and he had his thumbs and index fingers latched onto his nipples and was rolling them. His eyes were slitted and his shorts were tented, promising an enormous erection. He was overripe for play.
The house's eighteen-year-old milk-chocolate houseboy, Kirk Shields, put aside the gay male skin magazine he'd been reading; stretched out on his single bed in just his briefs and a T-shirt, a hand down the front panel of those; and sat up on the side of his bed. He gave the black bull standing in his doorway, a campus god because of his football prowess and commanding presence, a long, cool, appreciative look, and pulled his T-shirt over his head. With this movement, the deal was struck.
Kirk was no slouch in the muscular development arena himself, but no one at the university could hold a candle to Trevor Jackson in that area. Against Jackson's six-foot-five tower of bulging muscle, Kirk's five-nine, lean, slender build was dwarfed. Still, it was good enough to show off to a guy who'd just asked if he took cock and it was as good a way as any to close the deal.
"Yes, I will," he said. He wondered if Trevor realized he'd gone right past "yes I do" to declaring that he would, indeed, take cock from the footballer. He'd love to be balled by the footballer.
Kirk also needed the money. It was so hard keeping it together. Tulane was for rich kids, like Trevor and the white guy, Justin, the fraternity president, the self-important, sarcastic rich kid who had found Kirk would lay down and open his legs for money in a couple of sweaty nighttime wrestling matches down here in the bowels of the fraternity house and who had passed that information on.
Mostly Kirk said he would, though, because he had worshipped Trevor Jackson—and his cock—for several months and had fanaticized about opening his legs for the football player.
Trevor had come downstairs in anger and the urge to beat and pillage someone, having just come from the house's second floor, where, in the fraternity's best bedroom, he'd seen Justin Wingfield fucking Trevor's apparent boyfriend, the Tulane freshman, Cameron Dixon, or, rather, Cameron fucking himself on Justin's cock. Justin was just lying there on his back, arms bent and hands folded behind his head, looking up at the ceiling with a self-satisfied look on his face, while, facing away from him, his hands clutching Justin's knees, Cameron straddled Justin's hips and rode the college senior's cock in a cowboy. When Cameron cried out, "Shit, yes, baby. You're the best!" Trevor pulled away from the crack in the door. Justin had taunted Trevor that he could have Cameron anytime he wanted, and this proved that he was right.
"Bitchy Justin Wingfield the best at fucking?" Trevor mumbled to himself as he stomped down the stairs to the fraternity house basement. "Maybe the best at spreading his influence and money around, but at cocking? Give me a break."
The Tulane fullback had come downstairs to break something—someone—in frustration and anger. Standing at the houseboy's basement bedroom door now and taking a look at the half-breed, his father white and his mother black, his father long gone and his mother struggling with a house cleaning business in Atlanta to help Kirk get a college education, all it took was a few seconds for the anger to drain out of him. In just a second the mood of anger was replaced with lust—and something else, wanting more than just that. Kirk hadn't noticed Trevor standing in the door, however, and the football hero had more than a few seconds to get in the mood. Watching the body of the honey on the bed, stretched out, pouring over his skin magazine, and stroking himself off inside his shorts really heated Trevor up. He was good to go before he spoke.
Trevor had seen the handsome, small, milk chocolate houseboy before, but he hadn't looked closely at him until now, right this minute. Trevor hadn't come down to the basement with specific thoughts of spiking Kirk Shields. But he hadn't seen Kirk before in nothing but briefs and a T, an obvious hard on inside those. And stroking himself off. He was a real honey.
After a short pause of looking each other over, Trevor entered the room and shut and locked the door behind him. He strode forward to the bed, standing between Kirk's spread thighs, as the houseboy pulled the big man's shorts down and off his crotch. Kirk knew what to do—what was expected of him.
"Holy shit you're huge," he murmured, with a gasp, as he two-handed a gigantic, jet-black erection, closed his lips over the bulbous purple mushroom cap, and began to tease it with his tongue and teeth and to suck it.
"Yes, yes, I am," Trevor answered, placing his hands on the buzz-cut skull of the smaller guy, slowly shaking his head from side to side, and producing a tinkly sound from the motion against each other of the metal beads on the tips of his long dreadlock strands. He began to pant and groan, the anger draining out of him. "Fuck, bro, you give good head."
Taking his mouth off the cock only briefly, Kirk said, "Yes, I do. Don't think I can get all of his meat down my throat, but I'll try."
Trevor laughed. "I know what I can get it all down. I can't wait. Lay down in that bed there, on your back, and prepare to take ten inches."
"Just a minute, then, we'll need these." Kirk pulled open the drawer to his nightstand and rummage around. "You'll need this size," he said, pulling out a foil-wrapped Trojan Magnum, and we'll need plenty of this, pulling out a bottle of lube. "I might even need this," he said, retrieving a bottle of poppers.
"Shit, this is the place to come, isn't it?" Trevor said, punctuating that with a laugh. "And this might be a good idea," he added, pulling out the ball gag he saw in the drawer. "We don't want to bring the house down over our heads with the screaming you might be doing."
"Fifty dollars? Just fifty dollars when I'll need a gag?"
"It's what I brought. You want to do this or not?"
