Me & Frank Got Down

Frank and I have been friends since the 6th grade. We're 28 years old now. He's as cool as they come, little stud with jet-black, wavy, dark hair, about 5ft 11 inches, in shape, not too bulky. He's solidly built but not in any exaggerated way. The ladies always thought of him as "cute" or "adorable." In high school our class voted him "class cutie."

I always envied Frank. He started his own floor tile company right out of college and was making decent money. He didn't have the social pressures I had: I'm a masculine, good-looking dude who secretly wasn't into the pussy always thrust upon, and expected of, me--I loved cock. Frank didn't have those pressures. He was relaxed, somebody every guy wanted to hang around and talk sports and chicks with, and every girl wanted to make him hers. He just was a cool guy to call your friend, and if you were in a bind, he'd do anything for you.

Frank had been seeing a nice-looking girl named Tara, with blonde hair and the type of figure that elicits cat calls and a "nice ass" from any straight guy's drooling mouth. They met when our fraternity sponsored a formal with her sorority on campus. I was always secretly jealous of that girl. "Tara the bitch," I thought I'd love to say to her one day. Why was she a bitch? Well, ever since pre-cum first oozed from my tingling dick in the 6th grade, the day our teacher introduced a new student to us named Frank, I've wanted him. I just couldn't share him.

I wanted him when I watched him in junior high changing into gym clothes, that bulge in his tightie whities viscerally destroying me and causing me to need him to reveal more than his well sculpted legs. I yearned for him at the senior prom when I surreptitiously kept looking over my date's shoulder on the dance floor to inhale the image I saw of his firm, bubble ass extruding in tuxedo pants, which on the opposite side showed another extrusion that just about killed me. I was so wishing it was me who'd be exploring the pleasures and scent below his belt at the close of the evening.

I wanted him at the town pool where we were both lifeguards during college, summer breaks, where I'd check out--safe from detection, behind opaque sunglasses--the nice, hot, little trail of hair traversing south along his tight torso, leading to that healthy, mouth-watering, and impressive mound in his Red Cross shorts. I've always wondered what the end of that trail would look like. Hey, I admit it--I didn't want to share Frank with anyone.

He and his girl were always looking to hook me up with friends of hers. I guess they couldn't understand why I had no girlfriend. Here I was, 6 ft. 2 in., halfway decent body, nice smile, not too shabby face. I know a lot of girls have hit on me in the past, but I was always secretly into cock. I've always thrown myself into work, so as to have kind of an excuse for not dating like Frank always had.

How could I explain to Frank that I wasn't at all interested in girls? I didn't just want Frank's cum down my throat, his cock up my ass, or his ass in my face; I wanted to remain good friends with him. I was always crazy about him. I didn't want to jeapordize that friendship. I couldn't take the risk of confessing to him. How does one man say to another that, for at least 4,000 nights, he's violently assaulted his meat, squeezed it dry of all goo, while thinking of tasting the other's asshole and semen?

But I did always fantasize about telling him one day that I wanted him. I've always been a pig at heart when it came to Frank. Whereas another gay guy might be thinking about "making love" to Frank, I'd be daydreaming about his asshole, what it would taste like if I slurped on it. I've always wanted him sitting on my face while I pushed my tongue up inside him. I used to have one sick fantasy that I could shrink to a centimeter tall and just live on his balls, or in the slit of his dick, or in his ass for awhile. LOL, I know, it's twisted, but Frank is so freaking hot, he does that shit to me.

But after over 10 years of being buddies with him and secretly wanting him, I'd grown pretty accustomed to suppressing my raging hard-on for him. I learned to wear baggy jeans, not so much for the style but moreso to hide my starving and furious 7 incher. I guess I kind of gave up long ago of my fantasy of really having him one day. Beating off and fantasizing about choking on his cum or being impaled by his manhood were all I could hope for. He was too straight anyways. Better for me to just go looking for some gay guy who was similar to him.

Don't think I haven't tried. I've had a lot of one night stands where I'd dump down a guy's throat, pound his ass, or give head to some married jock who commanded a little extra-marital attention to his manhood. But none of these guys, not even the local professional baseball player whom I met through an internet ad, and proceeded to tie up and plow without lube because he "needed it that way," could get me as intoxicated as I got when I thought of what lay between Frank's legs, between those beautiful ass cheeks.

So one day last week, Frank gives me a call, asks if I could help him paint his apartment. You know I'd never say no to being together with Frank, so I canceled a meeting I had with some hot, little, Rican stud who's ass could almost make me forget Frank's for a night.

I showed up with a pizza and some beers and Frank and I scarfed most of it down before starting to work. He looked so fucking hot in his dark, navy-blue, work pants, the kind a cop would wear. I just wanted to bury my face in the cotton fibers, in the crotch and ass, and inhale deeply, taking his manly scent into my veins, while feeling the epicenter of his manhood pressed against my face.

His t-shirt was a little ripped and sexy looking. I thought Johnny Depp and Brad Pitt are nothing compared to Frank. I could see the slight, dark hair he had on his chest. And there, of course, was that famous, beckoning bulge below his belt.

I could always count on a hefty bulge to the right of Frank's fly, whenever he wore corduroys or jeans or work pants. Come to think of it, no type of pants could conceal the apparent beast behind his fly. I just knew he was packing, wasn't exactly sure if the monster bulge was from thickness or length, but I just knew it was pretty damn exciting to think about taking it in my mouth and ass.

I knew that whatever lay behind the Levi's, denim curtain was making my mouth water, making my cock outraged, with a maniacal, almost ferocious need to be released from its own tethered solitude. But I was an expert on not letting him catch me hungering for his manhood or his cute ass. I couldn't let him see my hard-on. Sometimes, though, I'd get a little scared that my excitement would be detected if he should accidentally look down, even if I were wearing baggie jeans. One time when Frank wore a new pair of jeans, I literally creamed in my pants. Luckily the jeans I had on were dark, so Frank couldn't see the incriminating stain.

After toiling with edging and mixing and rolling paint for about 3 hours, and talking about chicks, baseball, and cars, Frank suggested we take a little break, finish what was left of the pizza and beer. We reclaimed our "kitchen table," 16 tiles of the floor that we and the food sat on. The actual table was covered with plastic, and I joked about the accommodations, but Frank wasn't laughing. I knew he had something weighing heavily on his mind.

After so many years of hanging together, I knew when Frank was bothered by something. I asked him what was up. He just stared at me, looking kind of grave.

"Dude, it's alright, it's me, Bobby, here. It can't be that bad. Talk to me," I pleaded.

He studied me and then answered with deep worry: "I'm kind of worried that in all the years we've known each other, I've never seen any of your girls."

SHIT, I thought. "Tara Bitch" must have talked to him. That CUNT! I had gone out on one date with one of her friends, one girl she fixed me up with. The girl was all over me the first (and last) date. I didn't want any part of that. She must have told Tara, and then Tara must have told Frank that I wasn't into her advances! Who would be? The slut cunt!

"Well, Frank, you know how it is," I tried to casually worm out of it. "I like to see what's out there, ya know." I took a big gulp of my beer, tried to look as rugged as I could as my throat was getting really dry and my heart was racing. Was Frank going to abandon me, ridicule me and end our friendship?

"Bob, when are you going to talk straight with me?" he persisted.

"What are you talking about, Frank?" I shot back in the most macho of ways.

"C'mon Bob. We've known each other for, what, fifteen years? Open up man."

"Frank, I don't know what you're talking about, man."

He slowly stood up and leaned against a wall we had not painted yet. He had a "I got you nailed" look on his face. He began: "Bob, I heard you pussied out with that girl." He paused for a painful few moments. "And that ain't the first one either. There was another chick last summer we tried to fix you up with. You pussied out there too."

He was now looking at me with a real accusatory, goading, and arrogant expression. He seemed so damned sure, it was pissing me off--and terrifying me at the same time. Would I be able to bullshit my way out of this? Wouldn't he be able to detect my involuntary gulping and twitching if pressed with questions? Would I be able to hide that? Would I come out of this intact with us still being friends? He added, sternly: "Are you a virgin, Bob?"

I was getting deeply uncomfortable now. Not since Frank and I ran the NYC marathon in under 3 1/2 hours had my heart raced so fast. I stammered, tried to make a joke of it: "Yeah, sure, Frank. Yeah, I'm a virgin, sure."

"Okay, if you're not a virgin, then you're a faggot, a cocksucking, cum-gulping queer?"

"What are you saying, Frank? What are you talkin' trash like that shit for? It's me, Bobby, your friend!"

"You're gonnat try and tell me you ain't no bone smuggler, eh? You ain't no faggot? Huh?"

"No, of course not. Dude, what's gotten into you?"

"Don't 'Dude' me. Don't try to sound all masculine now ya faggot! Tara swears you are one, and when you were holding the ladder before, while I was painting, I got the vibe that your face was just a little closer to my cock than it needed to be. I asked you to hold the ladder, not stare at my shit! You think I didn't notice that?" His anger was alarming. I didn't know where this was headed. Was he going to hit me with one of his tools?

He continued his tirade: "You think as I was painting the ceiling I didn't wonder why your face had to be so close to my dick? And when I took another step up the ladder and turned away, you think I didn't feel you being hypnotized by my ass? C'mon Bob, if your face had been any closer to me I'd be sitting on your face. You were hurting for my sack and my ass. You were practically licking your lips, thinking I didn't see nothing." I wasn't sure how to respond. Before I could speak, he continued.

"But I saw you. The windows let off a nice reflection Bob. See for yourself." I turned to the window he was referring to, and, unmistakably, both of our images were lucidly displayed. His sinister and menacing reflection spoke to mine. What he said crushed me; I thought my life was over: "Face it my friend, I know, I know all about ya. You, Bob, are a cock-sucking, ass-rimming, faggot."

"Oh, you are really fucked in the head!" I dramatically shot back as I faced him. "You honestly believe that your bud from all these years is gay? I was just trying to steady the ladder. I ain't even noticed anything 'bout you." I deliberately tried to sound as straight and blue-collar cool as possible. Maybe I tried too hard. He knew I never talked like that, saying "bout you." Was I making a fool of myself trying to defend myself?

"Okay, aight" he non-chalantly answered. He gave another dark, diabolical pause before adding, "Of course, there is one way we can prove this."

"Prove what?" I defiantly replied. I was clinging desperately to the veneer of steady, masculine manhood.

"Prove you're a faggot," he continued in a smirking, solicitous tone. What he did next stunned me, scared me, and yet excited me as well to see where it could lead. His right hand began delicately, and at first just short of imperceptibly, caressing the bulging prize to the right of his fly. "Well, Bob, if you ain't gay, then you wouldn't want any of this, now would ya?" He gingerly and slowly rubbed the growing bulge, circling it with all the fingers of his right hand. I could see the delicious looking growth, like some enticing, forbidden fruit, expanding and calling me into the deep navy-blue abyss.

What he did next sent every drop of blood I had instantly to my cock, although terror was also a reality at this point. He started to methodically, and almost like a stripper swaying his hips and slowly moving his ass from side to side, undo his belt! "I'll tell ya what," he seductively said, as he slowly pulled the strap from the loops of his jeans and gently, ceremoniously, lay it on the floor. "I'm going to prove it to you." My heart was in my throat. My cock was engorged and out of my boxers and painfully raging against my zipper. Did he notice?

He grabbed the top button to his pants and unfastened it, and slowly unzipped. Watching this almost brought me to unconsciousness from excitement. I was silently praying my excitement was not noticeable. "If you ain't gay, then you ain't gonna want anything to do with this, now will ya?"

He asked that as he, in one seductive motion, brought down the Berlin Wall, the denim curtain to the most glorious looking earthly specimen I had ever seen or hoped to ever see. In one slow and tantalizing maneuver, his pants and boxers were resting on his paint-splattered, worn workboots and exposing to me finally, at age 28, my fifteen year, teen-tormented, nightly cock-beating, number-one-hoped-for dream.

I was witnessing what could only be described as the most astonishing worksmanship of manhood ever mastered--a throbbing, exhilarating, irrefutable perfection of cock. It was clearly 8-9 inches, with a humongous, mushroom head, purple, with throbbing, embittered, menacing, overflowing, and impassioned rage.

"I'm not gay, Frank. Get over it," I feebly answered. I tried to sound calm--and straight. I tried to keep my eyes at his level, but they kept wandering--my long-held, inner desires dictating their direction--to the greatest cock I'd ever seen, the unmistakable, undefeated, heavyweight champion of the cock and balls world.

His enormous appendage was impossibly straight up, and oozing cum. While I tried like hell to remove my eyes from the monster, Frank removed his shirt, turned around and bent over, spreading his beatifully built ass, showing me his delicious looking hole. "Like what you see, faggot?" Without waiting for a reply, he added, "Of course you do, my homo cum-slurper."

"You're crazy, Frank," is all I could offer as a retort while my cock was ready to bust the seams of my denim. My precum-soaked cock and pants were wetter than any pussy could get. I tried to think of a block of ice or the ugly, old administrator at our former college in order to quell the nascent possession now overtaking my groin, the enslaved entity at war in my pants. I didn't want Frank to see the prima facie evidence that I was what he said, a cock-sucking, cum-slurping faggot.

He turned around and held his cock. "You got 10 seconds, fag boy," he taunted.

Genuinely confused, I offered: "What?"

"I'm going to prove you're gay in 10 seconds. Ya see, in ten seconds after I begin counting, if you're not sucking my cock and slurping my hole and letting me pound the shit out of your faggot ass, then I'm going to get dressed and you will never, ever, ever have the opportunity to slurp my cum, eat my hole or have me pound your ass till you're begging me to stop. The choice is yours, faggot."

"You really are some piece of work, some asshole, Frank!" My retort was mechanical, forced. Yet I felt I had to maintain some dignity, some of my manhood. I couldn't jeapordize our friendship. Not now, not after all of these years.

He began, "Ten. Nine. Eight."

"Count all you want. I just can't believe what I'm seeing from you, Frank!"

More menacing now, he continued: "Seven. Six. Five."

"Dude, you're making a fool of yourself," I half-heartedly offered as a defense against my growing need for his cock.

The counting continued. When he reached "three," he bent down and grabbed his boxers to bring them back up. What happened next I can hardly believe came from me. Emanating from the depths of my being--I could only describe it as some primordial, ancestral, guttural scream--some type of animalistic entity which possessed my body forced itself to my vocal chords and out my mouth in a warlord, apoplectic, battle cry. I found myself lunging across the room, with fury, unadulturated frenzy, my face landing on Frank. I was screaming.

"PLEASE, don't get dressed, Frank!" I reflexively begged in what could only be described as psychotic, pathetic desperation. "Yes, I'm gay! I'm gay! I'm gay! I'm a faggot!" I shrieked, cried, begged and pleaded. I had no shame or pride left. I was a broken man in need, desperate, unmitigated, pent-up need. Before I knew it, I had my moist lips around his cock and my tongue was savagely beating his meat. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" is what I physically--if too occupied to say verbally--tried to communicate as I began gagging and deep-throating him to ensure the best head ever, to counter the terrifying possibility of him packing up and leaving.

I knew I must have been doing at least a satisfying job when I heard "There, there, eat it all up fag boy." Frank stroked my head, patted my hair, assuringly, and pushed me down on him and then pushed me off. He quelled my inner-most fears. He was fucking my mouth and with increasing velocity. "I knew you were gay. I guess I always knew. I always sensed you had a thing for my cock and ass," he continued as he now went from sensuously and rhythmically pumping my face to furiously invading my mouth. He then pumped recklessly, viciously, into my starving, and soon to be cum-splattered, face.

At his orders, after about ten minutes of servitude, I removed my exhausted head from his cock. He bent me over, ordered me to strip and then entered me. My entire being was split in two by his zeppelin. Once fully inside, he pulled me back to him and sat me down on his cock, with the two of us on the floor, my back to him. His cock was painful as it impaled my very being.

Before I could adjust to the entity, he spun me around on his cock until I was facing him. I felt his meat completely inside me, churning my insides. I felt convulsions upon convulsions of pleasure as my body let go of any discomfort and began rapturously, and ecstatically, acceding to these forbidden pleasures, long sought after, pleasures I had realistically abandoned--until this day.

"Kiss me, you faggot. Don't fags like to kiss?" I leapt at the chance, exploring his face and mouth with my tongue. He drooled into my mouth and I got seriously off on swallowing his spit.

He told me to jump up and down on his mammoth member. As much as I wanted to, I just couldn't. I didn't have experience getting fucked, and definitely not with a monster like this. I apologetically told him, "No, dude, I can't."

"You'll do it!" He was unforgiving in his ordering of me. "You will jump up and down on my cock and yell over and over, 'I'm a faggot,' ya hear me? Or I will pull out right now and pack up and go. You will never see my cock or taste my ass again."

I couldn't live with that, so I braved it. I began jumping up and down slowly at first, but each time I cautiously rose off his pole Frank placed each of his calloused hands on my shoulder blades and fiercely pulled me down onto him. After a few of these initially painful and violent encounters, I became inured to it. I liked it. I needed it. I began bouncing faster than he even hoped for me to move, as if on a bouncing ball, or some twisted, demonic, amusement ride. I was so hot with sexual rage that I didn't mind shouting at the top of my lungs to the upstairs neighbors as my ass assaulted his manhood, over and over: "I'm a faggot! I'm a fucking faggot! I'm a cock-sucking, cum-slurping faggot!"