Bound Rebound

Neal knelt down beside Rex next to the kitchen door. He had stood there momentarily at first, holding his breath, while he checked to see that Rex was still breathing. The vet had said that it was just a matter of a few days now—that she'd give the Townsends something to administer to him to make sure he didn't feel any pain, if they wanted to let him be at home.

Rex snuffled and opened his eyes wide and looked up trustingly at Neal, as the young man buried his face in the dog's neck and whispered how everything would be all right. At the same time Rex tried to zone out on the argument that was raging between his dad and mom in the dining room. It was more or less the same argument they had every weekday when his dad came home from the plant and found that his mom had been drinking most of the day away.

He was grateful Rex couldn't hear it—the dog had been deaf for nearly two years now. Rex had been part of Neal's life—perhaps the happiest part—for a dozen years, ever since Neal had started into first grade and the cocker Westie, a mix of cocker spaniel and West Highland terrier, had shown up on his sixth birthday. Rex had slept in Neal's bed every day since then up until recent weeks, when his dad told him that it was too painful for Rex to be moved anymore.

Rex hadn't necessarily agreed with that, and the first night they were to be parted, he'd struggled to get up from his warm basket next to the kitchen door. Neal had spent the first three nights from then on a sleeping bag next the basket in the kitchen himself. By the fourth day, though, Rex had been too zoned out to notice, and Neal, trying to hold back his tears, had gone to his room and slept there alone—or had tried to, mostly unsuccessfully for a couple of nights.

It had been while Neal was sleeping alone—or trying to—that he first let the thoughts creep in about how he would prefer to be sleeping. He did want a warm body against his, but he scared himself as he lay there, almost unconsciously playing with his developed, young man's athletic body, that the partners he conjured up weren't young women. They were other young men, and then mostly teammates of his at the Rock Hill Academy. Much of the time his thoughts went to Slick Johnson, the team's point guard, who was two years older than Neal was and would, this spring, be moving up from the post-high school prep school to an athletic scholarship at Duke—if he could keep his grades up.

It had been Slick who had gotten Neal's thoughts of other men going in the first place—by showing interest in Neal and because of what Neal had seen Slick doing with Dwayne Lee a few months earlier.

Basketball was everything to Neal. He'd been good enough in high school to attract the attention of several well-ranked university teams, although not teams quite as good as Duke, where the supertalented Slick was headed. But like most of the other guys at Rock Hill, his grades hadn't been good enough to go directly into the university. Some, like Slick, also had some discipline problems they had to get past.

"Please, please be here when I get home this afternoon," Neal whispered into Rex's thick coat before he stood and, with another look back at the dog that was looking up at him with those big, brown eyes and panting in shallow, ragged breaths, went out of the kitchen door and climbed into the old Chevrolet Camaro coup he was maintaining just shy of the junk yard. His parents, who left him more or less on his own, had said he could go to prep school as long as someone else paid for it and as long as he could get himself there. With luck, Neal had managed to get into Rock Hill, which was less than a forty-five-minute drive away from home and that had accepted the scholarship Wake Forest had offered him, to include two years at a prep school, as necessary.

Neal fretted through his classes that day, a feeling of dread at the back of his mind. Rex had been so weak that morning. Neal was afraid that today was the day. He'd been mentally prepared for it, but there was no emotional relief for him. Rex had been more family to him than his own parents had been.

Somehow he made it through the school day and the mandatory hour-long basketball practice afterward. But he wasn't sharp in practice, never connecting with the three-point basket he was famous for, and Coach Wilson noticed.

"Over here, Neal," he called out as the guys were heading for the shower. "Your head somewhere else today, guy?"

"No. Sorry, Coach. Something's on my mind, yes. But it will be OK in a few days, promise."

"It'd better be. We need your three-pointers. We have a game coming up with Flint Hill, and your team needs you to be focused. You going to go to MacDonald's with us and come back for the drill practice?"

"Uh, no, I don't think so. I'm needed at home tonight. Sorry."

"Well, get your head back on straight by tomorrow's practice," Coach said, and he gave Neal at slap to the rear to send him off to the showers.

The slap to his butt jolted Neal, making him think thoughts he'd tried to reserve for the privacy of his dark bedroom at night. This wasn't helped when he entered the showers and saw Slick and Dwayne, both chocolate giants—both tall and muscular—almost huddled together at one end of the shower and half turned to each other and turned away from the shower entrance. Neal imagined what they might be doing from the groaning sounds they were making. It had been like this when he'd seen them before. But then they hadn't been turned from him. They'd been standing close together, each with his hands on the other's cock—and Slick's had been huge—and they were rocking back and forth and pulling on each other's cocks.

Tearing his eyes away from them in the shower today, Neal went to the other end of the shower stall and turned toward the tiled wall, standing under a cascade of water, and trying not to let anyone see the effect his thoughts were having on his body. His own cock was hardening up. There wasn't anything he could do about it. This was one of the dreams he'd been having. He and Slick standing in the shower and doing what Slick and Dwayne undoubtedly were doing.

He shuddered and jerked at the feel of a touch on his thigh and turned, involuntarily and embarrassed because he had been pulling his own cock, to see that Slick was next to him and that it was obvious what he and Dwayne had been up to from what Neal could see below the black giant's flat belly. Slick's dong was pointing out a good eight inches, and it was this that had touched Neal's thigh. He sensed the presence on his other side and turned his head to see that Dwayne was there, leaning against the slick tiled wall, extending his hand and ready to touch him, reaching down for Neal's cock.

"Here, let us help you with that, Neal," Slick said in a low, thick voice.

Neal turned from both of them with a moan and padded toward the door to the shower to the sound of Slick's deep-throated laugh. He brushed by Coach Wilson as he went and retreated, dripping water and barely able to keep himself from sliding along the floor, to the locker area beyond. He couldn't tell if the coach had been looking into the shower area or not, but this was one too many pressures and complications in his life right at this moment. All Neal wanted to do was dress and get home.

When he had dressed, he came around the corner of a set of lockers and saw Slick straddling a bench between the locker banks. Dwayne was sitting in front of him on the bench and bending over Slick's lap with the top of his fuzzy-black-haired head brushing against Slick's belly. Dwayne's head was bobbing up and down, and Neal could hear the slurping sounds he made while he sucked on Slick's cock.

Neal stood there, mesmerized, and once more his hand ran down his belly and to his package, and he was rubbing his knuckles on the hard cylinder he could feel straining at the denim of his jeans. Slick looked up at Neal, no doubt hearing Neal's low groan, and smiled. Neal moaned and struggled to and out of the locker room door.

Neal's dad's car wasn't in the drive when Neal arrived home, and Neal noted that his dad uncharacteristically was late—and he regretted this because he knew the regular scream session that ensued when his dad arrived home from work hadn't happened yet. Neal was in no mood for that. There was too much drama going on without that. As soon as he opened the kitchen door, however, he knew what had happened and that he was too late. The house was deathly quiet and the dog bed beside the door was empty.

He knelt down, looking at the empty bed, willing it not to be empty, willing for Rex still to be in the house somewhere. But as he stood again, his mother appeared at the dining-room door. She looked uncharacteristically sober and was pale.

"We noticed not more than an hour ago. I'm sure it was peaceful," she said in a quiet, halting voice. "Your father has taken him—"

Neal heard no more. He was back out of the house in a flash and in the Camaro and roaring out of the driveway. He drove for an hour or more, haphazardly, not knowing where he was going. At first he had intended to drive to the vet's. But he knew it was too late for that.

He wound up back at the school gym, all alone. He changed into his gym shoes and went out on the court and started shooting baskets. That's all he could think of doing at this moment—retreat into himself. And while he shot baskets, he let the tears roll and murmured farewells to Rex in whispers. He needed time to rebound. He knew that much. He knew he could bounce back if he were just given time to rebound and get his bearings again.

"Neal, is that you? I thought you weren't coming back."

Coach Wilson was standing in the doorway to the gym. Whether or not Neal heard him, he didn't react. He just dribbled a ball out to half court, turned, set, and let loose of the ball as he jumped. The ball sailed through the air to the basket and went through the net without any rim sound.

"Not bad, Neal. You do power forward work like that against Flint Hill and we'll . . . what's wrong Neal? What is it?"

At the end of his jump, Neal didn't come done on his feet. He came down in a sobbing heap on the floor.

Wilson ran to him and helped him up and supported him with one arm around his waist and the other around his back. "What is it, son?"

"Sorry. Sorry," Neal whimpered. "It shouldn't be anything much. My dog has died. He's the only thing I—"

"Come on into my office with me," Coach Wilson said in a low, soothing tone. "You don't want the other guys to see you crying, and they'll be suited up and coming out here again in a few minutes. Come on in to my office. Your dog, you say? Sorry to hear it. I know that's like losing one of the family."

Wilson nearly carried Neal across the floor and into the tunnel leading to the locker room. But before they got to the locker room, he opened a door to the right. They went through the doorway and the coach closed the door behind them. He was hugging Neal close and stroking the young man's head with one hand. "There, there. You'll be OK," he was cooing.

They stood there, plastered to each other, rocking gently back and forth, and through his grief and tears, Neal could feel the increasing arousal of the coach. The man was breathing heavily. He groaned and murmured under his breath, "God, Neal."

"Coach," Neal responded in a strangled voice. "Shit, Coach."

But Coach Wilson was already moving his mouth to Neal's and stifling any further conversation. He was pushing Neal back onto his desk and forcing his legs between Neal's thighs.

"Coach," Neal murmured again when Wilson released his lips.

"Shush. It will be all right. I'll make it all right."

"Oh, shit, Coach. Yes."

"Yes?" Wilson asked, almost incredulous.

"Yes, Coach. I'm so tired of fighting it."

"Just relax," Wilson said. "I'll take good care of you."

They kissed again, a long kiss, and this time Neal opened his mouth to Wilson's probing tongue. Wilson pulled Neal's T-shirt over his head and then his own, and Neal felt the pelting of Wilson's chest against his skin, and, nonsensically, he welcomed it as a manifestation of Rex's fur against his body. He whimpered, though, as his jeans were unbuttoned and his zipper lowered and Wilson's hand found him and squeezed.

"I'm scared," he murmured.

"Don't be. First time?"

"Oh, god, yes."

Wilson trembled and gave a little moan. Then he repeated, in a husky voice. "I'll take good care of you."

Neal was laying on the surface of the desk, bits of this and that pushing at his back as Wilson kissed and licked his way down Neal's chest and belly and into his thatch. Neal shuddered as Wilson swallowed his cock. He came almost immediately.

Wilson laughed and gripped Neal's thighs and lifted them up and outward, rolling Neal onto the small of his back. Neal latched onto the sides of the desk in a white-knuckled death grip and became incoherently vocal as Wilson started working his asshole with his tongue and then playing with Neal's balls with teeth and mouth while he worked the young man's ass with his fingers.

Neal came again.

"Ah, the resilience of youth," Wilson chortled. Then he was back up on his feet. He kissed Neal on the mouth and then leaned further over him. He opened the center desk drawer above Neal's head, and Neal saw the tube of lubricant and the packets of condoms as they passed over his eyes.

Wilson had opened him well with his fingers, but Neal still cried out in virginal loss as Wilson slowly worked his cock inside him.

"Shush, shush. It's almost to the pleasure part. I told you I'd take good care of you. God, you're beautiful."

When he was fully saddled, Wilson lowered his mouth to Neal's nipples and fisted the young man's cock.

"Relax," he murmured. "There is no more worrying about it now. I'm going to show you a real good time now."

"Oh, god, Coach," Neal moaned.

Slowly, the coach began to deep pump Neal's ass as the young man moaned and felt his hips start to move in rhythm with the fuck.

Twenty minutes of continued pumping by the athletic sports coach later, with Neal having come a second time, the door to the corridor opened, and a surprised "Harold! What in the hell—?" rang out in a voice that unmistakably was that of the school's headmaster.

His eyes still tear stained, and his heart beating fast, Neal broke out from underneath Coach Wilson, stooped to scoop up his jeans and briefs, and pushed past the shocked headmaster and through the gym and out into the cold night.

Slick Johnson was standing outside at the bottom of the steps from the gym.

"Slick," Neal exclaimed, barely being able to focus on him in his embarrassment and confusion.

"I saw you and Coach. I want some of that that."

"Oh, god, Slick. No, not now. It's all just too—"

"You know I live on campus. We can go there. Or in your car. Or right here. But we're gonna do it. If you ain't been fucked before, you're sure as shit fucked now, so there's no reason you can't give me what you gave Coach."

Neal lay, belly down, on Slick's bed as it groaned under the weight of both of them and its headboard made rhythmically bumping noises against the cinder block walls. Slick's heavy, muscled body was stretched out along Neal's. His fists were holding Neal's wrists above his head. Only Slick's bulbous buttocks were in motion. With each bump of the head board, marking each downward thrust of Slick's thick, long, chocolate-brown cock, Neal groaned the reception of the deep thrustings inside him.

Neal knew he should be resisting, but he was loving this—and it was taking his mind off so much less that weighed so heavily on him.

Dwayne sat on the other bed in the dorm room. He too was naked and working his cock, as he leaned over toward the bouncing bed, licked his lips, awaiting his turn in the saddle.

Neal drove out into the night, crying and shuddering from what he had done—shocked more because he had enjoyed it and had wanted it to continue than who he had been doing it with—or how many times he'd done it. When Slick had pulled out of him to be replaced immediately by Dwayne, Neal had suddenly felt cheap, taken advantage of. He knew it was his vulnerability at this moment that had led to this. But Dwayne had made him moan for it too. He had no idea whether he could ever go back—or even if he wanted to. His whole world was imploding in on him.

He drove, almost blindly, without direction, until the Camaro ran out of gas. He looked around him for the first time after the engine had sputtered to a halt and found himself on a dirt road next to a railroad siding. He crawled out of the car and leaned against the hood, wrapping his arms around his chest and reliving what he'd done back there in Coach's office and then later, with the two black studs. He didn't want to think about it but at the same time it was all he could think about.

"Shit," he muttered. He wanted to do it again. There was no use denying that. But everything was so screwed up. What could he do now? How could he go back? There certainly wasn't anything at home for him to go back to now that Rex was gone. Had the headmaster called his parents yet? Neal shuddered at that thought.

That was when he heard the bark.

He looked up. There was a train standing on the railroad siding. Steam was coming out from underneath it like it was about to move. The barking was coming from a closed rail car with an open door in its side.

"Rex?" Neal called out, even though he knew that was nonsensical.

He could see the dog, in the opening of the rail car. And it looked like Rex. But a younger Rex. It was barking at him, but it wasn't a menacing bark. It was just like Rex's "wanna play?" bark from years earlier.

Neal strode toward the rail car. When he reached it, he raised his hands to the floor of the car at the opening, reaching for the dog, and the dog licked his face. He heard the whistle of the engine and the sound of machinery grinding, and strong hands gripped his upper arms and pulled him up into the dark car as the wheels of the train started to turn.

Neal found himself being roughly pushed back on a pile of what seemed to be hay with an old coat laying on top of it. It was dark, his eyes not having become adjusted to the blackout. The only light came from the open door to the railcar—and then only in flashes of passing lights of the town as the train picked up speed. The dog was sitting near the opening, fully illuminated by the passing lights. He was resting on his haunches, looking at Neal and whoever was now on top of Neal with his big, brown, trusting eyes and panting slowly and, apparently happily.

Neal struggled as his jeans and briefs were being stripped off him. But once the strong man on top of him had driven his dick deep inside Neal's ass, the young man relaxed and let his hips move with the fuck. There was no condom here. Neal shuddered at the size of the man's cock and the feel of skin on skin. And vigorous, like a piston. More like Slick than Coach.

He watched the dog, looking so much like Rex, and ran his hands into the hair of the man grunting above him and brought the man's mouth down to his. As long as the dog—friendly and looking so much like Rex—was here, this was as good a place for him to be as anywhere.