Swim Team Ch. 02-03

I stared, pushing forward. His head twisted and facing his bicep, both arms above his shoulders, elbows bent, forearms above his skull. With each breath, his strong muscular pecks lifted up and down.

"Keith, Keith, man. You awake?"

The middle of my thighs reached the bed. I set the computer to near the bed corner. I tapped his shin, "Keith?"

He adjusted slightly. I maneuvered back; the laptop highlighting the seams between each defined muscle, chest, abdomen, and upper thighs. His sheer masculine beauty was incredible. I tiptoed to him again, silent and cautious. I patted his shin once more and called his name, louder this time.

Just a sniff, that's all, to appreciate his scent; know what his, what it smells like. I pushed my palms down against the bed, lifting each hip, then its knee onto it as well. My breath I held tight, kneeling. I wrapped my forefinger and thumb around his left ankle. Between my ears, my heart drummed. I lifted his ankle and swung it out, straightening his leg. The zipping glide of skin over bedsheet was the only sound. I slid closer, careful to minimize perceivable movement until my nose hung just millimeters from Keith's perfect cock. About five inches, it was—it was the hottest, most exquisite thing I'd ever seen. The shape, proportion, color, texture, circumcision scare, the parts of the whole, all of it, flawless, glorious. Onto my heels I squatted, tilting toward his groin, belly on my thighs, my cock smashed, aching. I risked spreading my legs, relieving the pressure on my prick and balls. They fell slightly toward the mattress. Closer, I wiggled and contorted. I grabbed a weighty breath through my nostrils. The aroma of him sent a shiver through my bones, goosebumps down my limbs.

I craved touching it, feeling it in my grip. He mentioned he's 'cool with gay stuff,' I justified. It doesn't matter, a hand is a hand. I convinced myself. Arms bent, elbows pointed toward my ass, my forearms resting on the mattress. I twisted to uncoil limbs and lift my rib cage, then wedge my elbows between my legs and chest. With my pointer finger, I extend to touch his tip, then added my thumb, lightly squeezing the head. His cock hardened. I gulped, working to control my breath. From top to base, I trace my fingers down his urethra.

With my other palm, I moved under his sack and held him. The heat of his crotch warmed my hand. I discerned the undulation of his testes under the skin of his sack. Keith had an impressive pair.

I wrapped my fist around his rod; I delivered a slight squeeze. It flexed, becoming harder. For a minute, I hesitated and took notice. His breath was unchanged.

A hand encircling him. I rubbed up, then down, then stopped, listening anew. I was good, no signs he was waking. Up and down, my hand pumped, my gaze locked on his tip. A drip of pre-cum accumulated like morning dew. I wished to sample it.

He was a hot-blooded teenage boy. How could he say no? He lusted after it, needed a warm mouth on his rod, just like all men. I needed to make Keith feel good. He'd appreciate this, and I'd love to give it.

I stuck out my tongue. The moment I touched the droplet; it spread over my taste buds, a complex sweetness with light notes of umami.

I salivated, needing more. I pulled his shaft towards my mouth and pressed the head against my tongue, closing my lips. On his glands, I lathered him in my fresh saliva. Now he was mine. I gripped his sack and dragged his cock in and out of my mouth. At first, l used my right hand to hold and stoke the shaft, then I wanted it all, all of him in me. My speed gained. The bed squeaked. I forced myself to ease. His hips trembled, offering me confidence. My eagerness flared. I needed to savor it all, swallow every ounce.

"Bret!" Keith yelled.

I fell backward onto the floor with a terrible thud. The air knocked out of me, my ribs stabbed with pain.

"What the hell, man?" Keith said, more quietly, but with just as much anger.

"I—I—I," tears pumped into my eyes, "I'm sorry."

It was too much. I broke into a sob.

"Fuck," he said, his fists punching the bed. "That's not cool, not cool!"

At the sight of my tears and fearful face, he softened, "Don't do that, man, please. Stop crying. I'm not mad. Well, I am, but not about—everything."

I choked back my tears, raising my blood-red eyes to brave Keith's face.

"It's not cool to make moves on people who aren't, ya know, aware or, uh, taking part."

My gaze drifted to the carpet.

"If you would have asked me," Keith paused, "Well, I would have said, 'no.'"

Teeth crushed down, he groaned.

Meekness in my expression, I peered up again.

"Goddamn it," he said.

He looked at the ceiling, his head shaking, his arms folded.

"What are we gonna do now?"

Keith eyed his crotch.

"God, it hurts, fucking blue as hell."

My eyes ricocheted between the floor and his face.

"Bret, man." Keith's head shook again, "it isn't cool what you did, but—"

I studied his face.

"But even less cool to leave a bro hanging like this."

My mouth gaped.

He said, "Get up here, and finish, ok?"

He laid back down. His hands gripping each side of a pillow tight over his skull.

I stood and approached. The computer still provided the only light. I cupped his balls, still drenched in my spit. His legs bent and squirmed in some kind of futile protest, a yell dampened by the pillow. Between my finger and thumb, I squeezed the base of his cock, pointing it to my lips. I devoured him fully. He tensed. If this was the last time I ever taste him, I was going to make it count. I bounced on his dick like I was a starving calf, slurping and drooling.

Keith ripped the pillow off his face. "Bret, oh my God, I'm gonna cum."

He held my face down on his shaft with both hands. His semen pumped to the back of my mouth, filling it. I gulped. He growled and gasped as I swallowed more. I had a part of Keith inside me. A deep sense of contentment radiated my body. He'd been my first, and I couldn't have dreamed it better.

"Fuckin' hell, Bret, why did you have to be so great at that?"

Keith rose, scooting back, his breath heavy, and face hunched over his drained prick.

"Shit, that was mind-shattering," he said.

He peered up at me. "There's no way I'm gonna take on that thing, no matter how great it was." He gestured with his chin at my erection draped over my legs.

"Get dressed, I'll drive you home," Keith said.

The drive was quiet and excruciating. We were halfway to my drop-off before Keith made a peep.

"Bret, hey." He clapped my shoulder. "You're a cool dude and a great teammate, but," Keith paused, looked out the side window.

"But there is no way in hell we can tell Stanley and this cannot happen again."

I nodded, staring ahead at the street.

"Seriously, I can't imagine what a shit show that would be."

"I get it. I won't say a thing," I said.

"Not your mom, not your dad, no—."

"Keith, I'm not gonna say anything, ok?"

"Good."

A quiet lingered. Homes and streets regressed the closer we got to my neighborhood. Potholes, ill-repaired cracks, completely faded lane markers, and disheveled and abandoned homes book-ended by filthy gas stations, liquor, and convenient stories on every main street corner.

He said again, "You have no business being so good at that."

I shifted my face from his view, forcing my lips together to disguise a grin. He said it shouldn't happen again, but I was willing if he needed a draining.

Now, at the cross streets, Keith pulled his truck off to the side. "Are you sure you don't want me to take you all the way?"

I smirked. "You said you didn't want to do that."

Keith shifted his jaw and swung his head around, "You know what I mean."

"I'm sure. Just leave me, uh, here, please. Go home and, uh, get some sleep." I said, adamant.

Continue Reading Swim Team - Chapter 4: On the Street