~With a Little Help from My Friends~
The following day, Stanley, Keith, and I woke up in bed together. Stanley made a trip to his house next door for an outfit he bought me.
"My dads checked in on you; I told them you're ok."
Keith asked, "Did you tell--"
"No, I didn't," Stanley interrupted. There was a pause. "But you should, they seem to suspect something."
Keith froze, staring at the sunlight brightening behind the closed blinds.
"Try not to think about it," his best friend said. "What happened last night was an experiment, that's all."
That thawed Keith somewhat. Still, he readied in silence, thoughts probably racing about the implications, his feelings, and the consequences of things getting out.
I remembered how I perseverated when Stanley and I fooled around in the pool bathroom. It was my first time.
We took separate showers and got ready, riding in Keith's Ford F150 to school. Through the rearview mirror, I saw Keith's smooth, masculine, unblemished face. What else would he be game for? Was he done messing around, or was this just the beginning? My mind boggled over how I, Bret Anderson, went down on the sexiest guy on campus. How did that happen? Did it really happen? If it weren't for last night, it could have dismissed it as a dream, something I'd merely fantasized.
I arrived early to swim practice to bust a quick nut peeking around for Stanley, behind the corner where he gave me my first BJ. Last night was hard-on jet fuel, inhaling Stanley's generous dick while he blew Keith, my head bobbing between both their muscular lean legs and under Stanley's defined trimmed pecks and washboard stomach. I drug my pants and underwear halfway down and tugged. My eyes closed, tongue hooking over my upper lip. I recalled myself balls deep in Stanley's throat, the warm pressure around my shaft. My lungs tightened, breath quick, I peeked under my eyelids, glimpsing a drop of pre-cum forming. I bit my lower lip and clenched my eyelids shut, lifting my chin while my palms were pistons on my cock.
"Jesus, Bret," Stan said.
I jumped. "Fucking hell, Stanley," I said amidst heavy breaths. "You scared the shit out of me!"
"Can I--?," he suggested, extended the last symbol.
I nodded, pumping anew, building back up. He dug out his swelling shaft, wetting each lip, and checking out my purple-headed dick. My brain steeped in his flavor, so sweet, so warm; I craved more.
I spun, kneeling before his growing dick. He surrendered his hold. I took over. Time was tight; I deep-throated him right away, pulling back and lapping up Stanley's sweet honey, and with a tight fist around the end of my cock, I propelled myself to the edge and back. He ran his fingers through my hair, gripping my scalp and yanking me down on his pipe. My eyes fluttered, pupils rolling back. With each powerful thrust, a primal grunt heaved from Stanley's throat. His tone turned to a guttural howl. My jaw stretched wide; he drove deep, pumping me full. I moaned around his shaft, the palpations through my lips, over my stomach, and passed my throat. My cum launched against the wall and floor between his legs, dripping.
"Fuck, man," Stanley said between deep breaths. "You're gifted--Damn."
A shy smile inched over my face. I licked my lips, delirious with delight. Was it possible to get enough of that cock?
Keith arrived about five minutes later. We and other swimmers congregated in the showers before swim, our speedos dampened, clinging to our junk. I'd seen almost all the boys on the team naked, but only two aroused. I fantasized that I'd get them hard, see how big they were, learn their smell, their taste, and drain every one. An increasing tightness in my suit provoked me to push the thoughts out.
During swim practice, I performed better than the previous afternoon. Coach moved me back to my usual lane with Michael, Aaron, and Cody.
Cody was the fastest in our lane, at freestyle. With an angular face, light tan skin, skeletal body, wavy blond hair, and braces, he was short for a swimmer, five foot six, exhibiting a succulent, fat package.
Aaron was a thin, athletic, five-foot-seven senior who wrestled in the spring as a lightweight. Whether wet or dry, his briar thick obsidian hair glistened, begging me to run my fingers through it. His skin a warm rusty brown, eyes shaped like lotus petals with a blackish green irises. Even soft, Aaron looked hung. I ruminated on how much that uncut cock could grow.
The last guy in my lane had medium-length chestnut hair parted to the side, skin a light brown with cool undertones, dark green eyes, soft features, smooth face, peach-fuzed arms and legs, and exquisitely white, straight teeth. Most of the guys stood tall in the water, serving up their glassy upper bodies for boys and girls alike to admire. Michael, however, sat low, submerged to his neck, legs together, arms crossed over his chest. He even avoided eye contact and barely spoke. I heard maybe two words out of his mouth, "Ok," twice. Not as physically defined as the other club swimmers, he swam the distance races. A baggy 'drag' suit draped loosely down over his waist, obscuring, but not hiding, his conspicuous gift. Of the boy swimmers, he was one I hadn't seen naked, and that drew my notice.
Over to the faster lanes, I gazed. There was Keith, looking at the pace clock, two fingers on his neck, red-faced, panting, veins bulging. Valleys sharply framed the borders of his chest, stomach, and oblique muscles, the water glittering as it flowed down his nearly hairless skin, the chlorinated water ebbed and crested at the drawstring of his suit.
After practice, we three rode together in Keith's truck. They complained about how behind they were in classes, but I troubled about Dwayne. He'd reach out at 10; I had to answer, or he'd track me down. I needed a distraction, anything.
"Hey," I interrupted their complaining. Stanley looked back at me, "Um, that, uh, that guy in my lane--"
"Which one?" Keith asked.
"The quiet one, Michael."
"Oh," Stanley grinned. "Michael's kinda cute."
"Uh, yeah, I little, but like, what's his deal?" I asked.
"Forget about him, Bello," Stanley said, imitating his Papa's accent. "His family is like super religious and shit. They're one of those, um, what are they called?"
He turned, squinting and showing teeth at Keith.
"Mormons?"
"Mormons, yeah, he's a Mormon," Stanley said.
"Ok, what does--what is that, a church or something?" I asked.
"Or something," Keith answered, and they both chuckled. "All I know is that they hate gay people, women, and condoms."
I furrowed my brows and darted my eyes around.
After we parked, Stanley ran home to finish some homework. I followed Keith to his kitchen, where he drew papers and books from his backpack, starting homework. Thoughts toggled between images of my nights with Keith, Stanley and Dwayne. My chest was tight. I looked at my math worksheet. The letters and figures on the paper just wouldn't come into focus. I sighed audibly.
"Hey Bret, if you're not comfortable working here, you can head up to my room," Keith said.
My hands damp, skin clammy, I said, "Ok." And headed upstairs.
To my wrist, I looked "7:23." Less than three hours. How would I explain? Use my dad as an excuse? I hadn't brought him up last time. Would they assume it'd be easy to evade him again? Was it normal to spend every night here? Would Keith's parents would grow tired of it?
In my pocket, my phone vibrated.
"comn ovr" texted Stanley.
Shortly after, I heard them climbing the stairs together. Dwayne, Michael, Keith, and Stanley Faris-wheeled through my head.
They opened door to the room and saw me sitting on the edge of the bed. "Couldn't concentrate," Stanley murmured.
Keith peered at me, then at his bestie. His jaw flexed, one cheek tugged his lips to one side. He gestured, agreeing.
In Keith's shorts, I could see the onset of an erection.
"I think we should clear the air a bit," Stan said.
"What does that mean?" Keith asked.
"We need to talk about last night," he clarified.
"That's easy for you, Stan," Keith responded, with a tinge of defensiveness. "You and your Dads talk about anything, everything. Not everybody is like that. What is there to say?"
I traded glances with them. I didn't move.
Stanley reached under Keith's bed and retrieved the half-empty bottle of rum we'd opened last night.
Keith stared, raising his eyebrows, "Opened me up, but didn't seem to have the same effect on you two."
"What if we made it part of a game?" Stanley's eyes darted around the ceiling. "Uh, like, um, truth or, uh, shot."
"Truth or dare?" Keith scoffed. "What are we, fourteen?"
"We don't have to," Stanley answered. "Any suggestions?"
"Well, I dunno--you're the one who thinks we need to talk," Keith said, continuing to evade.
"Yeah, I think we do," Stan reasserted. "How about this--" He inhaled heavily through his nose, eyes flitting, head swinging side-to-side.
"We ask each other questions, but no one has to answer and we take a shot when we want," Stanley said.
