Lance's Secret

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Sticking it to Lance.
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sr71plt
sr71plt
3,017 Followers

Nearly every college fraternity house on the North American continent has one. At some it's a cook or a cleaner or a coed at the college—or a townie slut from across the tracks. In some it's the cougar mother of a frat brother whose family lives in town and who only was rushed by the fraternity because his mother was half-decent looking and put out like a rabbit. Typically, this individual is called the house punch. When it's a male, though, as it is at the Digamma Theta Theta fraternity house at the Calgary, Canada, university, he's called the house reliever.

At the Calgary DTT, the house reliever's name was Lance. Lance was brought in in perpetual pledge status purely for his reliever duties. It was a jock fraternity, where the dumbest but hunkiest of the team animals were put together with a team of smart guys whose duty it was to get all of the important athlete brothers just over the bar of passing each semester. The alumni would do anything for these athletes that they could get away with. They even paid the fees for a house reliever.

Lance was a student in the dental college, and he was lucky to get into any fraternity, as the dental students were considered the nerdiest and most obnoxious of any of the students in the university. Lance was a model of this rather than an exception. He'd been there six years on a four-year program thus far and still had trouble remembering how a mouth and teeth were supposed to work for anything but a blow job. This didn't stop him from trying to be the authority on any topic, of course, and the only recourse the fraternity brothers had when he got wound up on a topic he knew nothing about was to stuff his mouth with cock. That calmed him down, and he obviously enjoyed it. Some thought he even avoided taking his degree so he could stay in the DTT house as the reliever.

Lance knew blow jobs. And that was the full extent of Lance's duties at the DTT house—to relieve the tensions of the frat brothers who found they had awakened with a hard-on, or had built one up for the date that had fallen through that evening, or had slipped a porn DVD in the machine to take a break from the mind-numbing demands of adding 5 and 2 for their take-home math quiz, had raised a boner they couldn't get to go down, and had a class to go to. Lance was made for times like this. His name would be bellowed, and before the echo died out, Lance would scurry in, kneel in front of the needy 250-pounds of muscle and steroids, shape his mouth in a perfect O, and relieve the frat brother of his tensions.

Invariably, Lance would whine to be ass fucked as well, but the DTT frat brothers would have nothing to do with that. They were strictly hetero, they declared. When they wanted to fuck, they strutted down the campus walks until some coed, woman professor, or townie nymphet pulled them into the bushes and rode their cocks to lift off. DTT was the frat house for the hulking hunks. They had no need for a scrawny little ass like that of the pimply faced Lance. He was just there for occasional tension relief. There was nothing fag about a blow job received—or so the DTT men proclaimed. And no one contradicted them, the university woman not wanting them to think they were anything but hetero stud muffins. Thus, no one even dared mouth the word "bi" around the DTT guys—because everyone knows there's just hetero and homo and nothing in between.

Lance probably wouldn't have been kept around at all, except that his whining could be effectively stopped by stuffing his mouth with a plump man sausage—and all had to concede that he really did know how to give a blow job. What was really irritating about Lance, though, couldn't so easily be taken care of like his silly arguments about stuff he didn't know anything about could. Lance liked to wear short, wool plaid skirts—and nothing else. This would be a lot less of an irritant if he was built like the other, athletic frat brothers. But he was such a scrawny little thing—and was so whiny and mouthy when his throat wasn't stuffed—that the frat brothers, used to plump, luscious pussy, could only stay around him long enough to get their relief and then they were drop kicking him into the next room.

"Lance, dude, why you wearin' that damn short skirt again? It makes you look sure as hell silly, even though it goes with the way you mince around here and strike poofter poses."

"It's not a skirt, George," Lance would say with pursed lips, hands on hips and looking slightly wounded and Bette Davisish. "It's a kilt. Can't you tell by the tartan plaid? This is the Baird pattern. I'm Scottish. I'm Scottish proud."

"You ain't no Scottish guy, Lance. And you ain't no Baird either. You're Canadian. Well, not real Canadian. And your last name be Trubouche and you come from Montreal. So, if you anything, you just a little Frenchie prick. Now git you mouth over here and do me right."

Not more than thirty minutes later, there'd be a bellow from the other end of the frat house, and Lance would be swinging his little hips and sashaying over there to relieve Spike or Harold or Steve.

"God, Lance, if you shimmy in here one more time just in that skirt, I think I'm gonna upchuck. You on your way to a sickos' costume party or something?"

"No. It's Scotland Day, and I'm celebrating my heritage."

"You're no Scot, Lance. Lance," Harold said again. Then he giggled. "Lance. Lance. Lance. What sort of fuckin' fag name is that?"

"I'll have you know that there were lairds of Scotland named Lance." The indignant Lance stretched himself up to his full five foot four height of sagging flesh.

"Queens, more like," Harold said, a chuckle still tickling the back of his throat. "Lance. Lance. Lance. It just makes me see pink tutus, not Scottish kilts, whenever I say that name—and I'll bet it isn't Scotland Day, either. You're such a liar and know nothing. I don't think you're even capable of seeing the truth, let alone speaking it. Now get your whiny little ass over here and unhinge your jaw. Big one incoming."

"My ass?" Lance asked hopefully. "You know I'd just loved to be ass fucked by a big bruiser like you, Harold. Would you like to see what's under my kilt?"

"Oh, shit no. Spare me that. And look what you've done now. I'm not even at half staff anymore. Just the thought of fucking your whiny little butt. Get the hell out of here. And next time I call for you, don't be wearing a skirt and only use your mouth for what I need."

No matter what the frat brothers did to try to make Lance not wear those kilts, or to put on more clothes, or just not to lie or pontificate on what he didn't know with everything he said, it just didn't work. He was either stubborn or too dumb to get it—or, most likely, both. No one ever accused Lance of being the ripest banana in the bunch.

Lance slept in the pledges' dormitory at the top of the DTT house, in the attic, which was just one big room with a sloping ceiling set at weird angles. There were eight military cots for eight pledges. Counting Lance, though, there were nine pledges. There were only eight pledge slots each year, but Lance was only a pledge in name on the record books. This was the fourth year of his one-year pledge period. Lance's only reason for being here was to rap his mouth around a frat brother's fat cock when he was summoned to do so.

Lance slept on a pad at the end of the last pledge cot in the room. The rule for him when he was in the pledge dormitory and any other pledge was there was that he had to move around on all fours like a dog. That wasn't a punishment, though. Lance enjoyed that. In fact, he worked the pledge class real hard, begging to be fucked like a dog in the dormitory. But the pledge class was made up of hulking hunks too. Except for when they need an emergency blow job, they all got their rocks off in the bushes with any number of willing young women just like their older frat brothers did.

To a man, they disdained Lance—and especially those kilts he wore, his whiny questions about who wanted to see what he wore under there, and his obsession with lying and pontificating about everything.

For some time in this pledge year session, the pledges didn't realize how much time Lance spent on the computer in the back corner of the dormitory when no one else was around. It was only the afternoon when the pledge Eric was coming into the dormitory when George bellowed for blow job service from two floors below and Lance popped up from behind the computer and ran downstairs that any of the pledges knew what Lance was doing on the computer. And it wasn't his dental school homework.

"Hey, come look at this, Cliff," Eric called to a pledge brother who was just coming up the stairs. "You gotta see what Lance has been looking at."

Within minutes five of the pledge brothers were gathered around the computer.

"What is that website?"

"It looks like some sort of big redneck guy's gay website. The name seems to be TruckinAnRammin. I think it's for truckers. And look at these threads on its forum. That's some pissy badmouthing. Some dude named Brassnkls is really whaling away at a bunch of truckers—calling them dirty faggots, poofters, and stuff and making fun of them—and they're all hissing back at him like a pit of snakes."

"So, who's this Brassnkls troublemaker?"

"It looks like it's our Lance. That's who he's checked in as. And boy is he acting like the world's toughest homophobe. Swinging in all directions in the middle of a gay truckers' forum, just seeing how much dust he can throw up into the air."

"Shhh. I think he's coming back," Clifford said. And the pledges scattered and worked at looking innocent.

When Lance came back into the room, he made the rounds of the five on his knees, asking if they wanted to see what he had under his kilt and begging them to give him a fuck.

It cleared the dormitory room in record time.

"I've had enough," Eric said to Clifford in the bushes next to the university chapel while the two were fucking coed twins.

"Well, go on then, I'm not done yet," Clifford answered.

"No, I don't mean this. I mean Lance lying all the time and begging for it while, out of the other side of his mouth, he's on line, pretending to be some hard-assed trucker homophobe when he's really a champion twinkle toes."

"So, what do you want to do about it?"

"Already started. I'll tell you when I'm finished in this pussy. Ahhhhhh, yes."

"You didn't," Clifford said that evening, when Eric pulled him over to the computer and showed him what he'd set up. Lance was downstairs whining loudly and declaring that he was the rightful queen of England, until George stopped up his mouth. Eric and Clifford decided then that they had at least fifteen minutes alone with the computer before Lance was finished sucking off George and would be coming upstairs.

"Yes, I did. Four of them live or drive near enough and took up the challenge."

"Four? How'd you get them to say they'd come?"

"I called them shitty names and followed them around the TruckinAnRammin website forum in the Brassnkls account name until I'd worked a bunch of them up to a frenzy, and then I challenged them to come and see if they could get a piece of me at this address."

"And they bit?"

"All four of them did. Set a time. Thursday at 4:00. Most of the brothers have practice then."

On Thursday at 3:45 Eric and Clifford, having made sure that only Lance would be in the house other than them, hid themselves in the dining room, off the communal living room. They barely made it into concealment before the doorbell rang and Lance was flouncing down the stairs in his little kilt to answer the door.

The trucker named Bubba had arrived early. Taken by surprise, Lance answered to the name Brassnkls when challenged. An uppercut to the chin and a fist to the solar plexus sent Lance reeling back onto the sofa in the living room. When BigRick arrived only five minutes early, Lance was already bent over the arm of the sofa, his kilt gathered up around his waist, and Bubba working on trying to reach Lance's tonsils from the inside with his nine-inch dick.

"That Brassnkls?" BigRick asked.

"Yep," Bubba answered. "I got nine inches in the little prick. You got something you want in there too? Gonna teach this little poofter about fuckin' with me."

"You think he can take ten at the same time?"

"I don't see why not. He's a real big talker on the forum—and from how he talks there, I'll bet he's empty on the inside and that there's lots of empty space room in there for both of us."

"OK, Turn him then and make some room for my approach. Hey, what's that dangling little thing between his legs?"

"Think that's what he thinks is a dick."

"Sheeet. You think so?"

"Here we go."

"Oh shit. Oh god. Oh pleazzzze!"

The plaintive screaming undoubtedly was the voice of Lance.

"You think we should try to call it?" Clifford whispered to Eric in the other room.

"Naw, the little bastard liar deserves whatever they give him," Eric answered in a voice full of steal. "Maybe this will make him think twice about jackassing and jerking guys around just to be a prick from now on."

Two new voices could be heard in the living room now. Eric and Clifford could barely hear what they were saying over the sobbing and grunting and groaning Lance was throwing up at the living room ceiling.

"That Brassnkls, the poofter?" a new voice said.

"Yep, Bubba answered. You here to give him your regards too?"

"Yep. Will there be anything left for us when yer done?"

"We'll see. Me and this guy both usin' his hole now, but one of you can take the mouth. Would be good to shut him up. After we're done, you two can have what we've got."

The fucking went on for a good half hour. Lance wasn't doing too much yelling or sobbing toward the end, though, and it progressively got quieter in the living room, accentuated eventually by four different expressions of ejaculation. When all Eric and Clifford could hear was low panting and soft moaning, they crept into the living room.

"He still with the land of the living?" Clifford asked.

"Yeah, looks like he's breathing," Eric said. And then he laughed. He sounded like he was trying to stifle it but just couldn't help himself.

"What?" Clifford asked.

"There, that," Eric said.

"What? I don't see anything."

"Yeah, that's the point. That little bump is the dick Lance has been telling us all he wanted to show us under that kilt of his. Talk about delusions of grandeur."

"Lance? He's that tiny and he calls himself Lance?"

The two shared a chortle.

"Well, no one ever questioned that Lance was delusional and thought a lot of himself without any reason," Clifford continued. "Do you think we should . . .?"

"Shit!" Eric exclaimed.

"What?" Clifford asked.

"The little fucker's smiling. And he's humming."

And indeed Lance was smiling, but he wasn't humming; he was softly singing, "And am the queen of the universe, I am," in a monotone.

"The little prick enjoyed it," Eric declared, his voice laced with disgust.

"It . . . it . . . was . . . delicious," Lance murmured. Then he changed his tune. "Roll me over in the clover; roll me over and do it again, do it again. Roll me . . . Come on, boys, take me. I'm all yours."

"I can't take it," Eric cried out, and both he and Clifford fled up the stairs in defeat.

sr71plt
sr71plt
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