Turning Out The Curious

I staggered back to my desk, opened the bottom drawer, pulled out the bottle of Glenlivit, and poured myself a double. Robert Redford was right: "Drink only Scotch at least 12 years old."

And fuck only men at least 30.

Naw, that wasn't true. I loved to turn out the college guys too much. I certainly hadn't turned Brian out. He had turned me inside-out. Physically and sexually shot, I called one of the assistant coaches to take my remaining classes and took the rest of the day off.

Lorenzo and Paul

Sometimes the curiosity of the curious satisfies itself in ways other than peeking on authority figures. After one Saturday night, and after the post-game talk-down and critique, I go back to my office to fill out some paperwork. It has been a strenuous day, tough game, lot of stress, and just for a quickie little nap, I switch off the light in my office, put my feet up on my desk, and go to sleep.

I don't know how long I'm out, but when I wake, the hallway is dark, I hear no showers running. Everybody has gone home. I get up, leave my office, and head to the main door--when I hear something behind me, something familiar. Ohmigod, somebody's fucking in the locker room!

That I have to see. The place is pitch black, so I move carefully, entering the locker room like a thief. "Angh, god, yeah, man! Harder, deeper! Oh, fuck, yeah!" And a sound-effects track of squishing, liquid, sucking noises.

I move closer, but it's still too dark. I see shadows and silhouettes moving back and forth, but only vaguely.

So what the hell. I switch on the lights.

Paul ***, the big linebacker, lies on his back on the locker room bench, naked as the day he was born, his legs up and splayed out to the sides. Between them, his ass lurching like the steam-piston of a freight train, is the also-naked Lorenzo ***, the quarterback.

"Don't let me bother you, boys. This a little after-game practice exercise?"

The lights and my voice are like dumping the cooler of ice-cold Gatorade over the team members instead of the coach. I can almost hear their cocks shrink back into terrified pencils as Lorenzo backs out and turns to face me. Paul lowers his legs and blushes like a schoolgirl.

We lost the game that night, but suddenly I've got a winning scorecard. "Your parents know you two have extracurricular activities?"

Two faces turn pale, mouths open, eyes stare at me like baby birds looking up at the cat. Lorenzo finds his voice. "Please--oh, god--please, Coach! Don't tell my parents!"

Paul chimes in. "Yeah, please! We'll do anything!"

The words I've been waiting to hear.

To cut a long story short, a few minutes later, Paul leans back against a locker, burping up my semen and wiping spurts of it off his cheeks--and licking his fingers. He watches me show the quarterback how to play center, changing him from a passer to a receiver.

I love to watch the bravado of a guy used to having his own way in everything. And to see him change--in one ecstatic, cum-soaked episode--into a horrified but fascinated man newly taught the double rapture that can come from both cock and asshole. It never fails. They always start out as tops, letting guys suck them, finally getting into fucking their buddies, but once they get a cock up their own ass--and feel the fireworks spread out from the asshole like a forest fire in high winds--they're bottoms forever more.

I hear Paul licking his fingers. He's learned this lesson earlier, obviously, and he'll join the other members of my "private varsity" without much mental revolution.

Lorenzo, on the other hand, has just learned his Hispanic ass is a titanic joy, a revelation like his first discovery of masturbation. And he realizes he's not lost a jot of his manhood--once he thought anybody who sucked another guy's cock was a fairy--but even with my throbbing dong up his ass, he's still Lorenzo, still the quarterback, still the peppery Latin good-time Charley. With my semen still warm in his ass, drooling out and sliming his crotch and the locker room bench, he knows I've just thrust him into a New World.

It's unusual that my protégés know each other--or at least admit it. Across the team in the shower room, I can spot three or four guys I have sex with on a regular basis, but all of them ignore me, walking by prim and proper with towels around their waists. No winks, no nudges, no seductive little words. Paul and Lorenzo, on the other hand, have come out of the dark as a matched set, and I have plans for some ménage a trois action in the coming semester.

They beat me to it, though. In fact, it turns out that Lorenzo of the Newly Stretched Asshole has become a real cum-slut. I hear through the grapevine that he no longer fucks passive members of the football team with his big cock--nine good inches of brown meat. Now that big piece swings in the air under him as he bends over to take it up the ass and take it from the Confidants, also seducing the Blind (the straights).

God, between Lorenzo and Paul, there won't be a straight guy on the whole team. I wondered if there were some sort of Guinness World Record for the first NCAA football team that is totally gay.

-==(^)==-

That weekend I invited Lorenzo and Paul over to my apartment to spend the night, maybe two. I picked them up Friday night to drive them over. "God, Coach, a Maserati! Jesus Christ, I've never been in one of these before!

Just more of the Alpha male mystique, sonny, makes you awed, humble--and pliable. I didn't drive straight to my place; I cruised around a little to watch Paul and Lorenzo gloating as they spotted their friends staring at them in the new GranTurismo Coupe.

Once at my building, I let them into my apartment. Ultra-conservative. I often got visitors there, so I couldn't risk anything in the décor. English Victorian. The centerpiece was a Gothic Revival ebonized cherry architectonic desk on a trestle base with diagonal front legs. It was a big, black, gorgeous piece of furniture I saw pictured in a Harpers Weekly illustration. The couch and chairs were Egyptian Revival overstuffed beauties in gilt-decorated walnut. The sofa shimmered in purple satin, the chairs in Egyptian chenille tapestry.

The goal, of course, was to create the room of a genteel, conservative gentleman who enjoyed the good things of life, one who would never unbutton his pants, much less the pants of the men in his charge. I never got an "improper act" accusation in my life.

Once in my apartment, I poured Paul and Lorenzo a few drinks, we had a little chit-chat, and we stripped down. Naked, I led them to the bedroom, and the games started. The bedroom was my "Shock & Awe" room.

A chapel of eroticism. The walls were the tan of a lifeguard, wallpapered in a texture that looked almost like skin. I had the chairs specially made--old menswear mannekins in sitting poses were reinforced and supplied with struts under their asses to allow visitors to sit on their laps--and lean back on the big chest if they wished, resting their arms on the muscular arms of the plaster statues. Two of the chairs were "authentically detailed"--I fiberglassed a big dildo into each crotch, something to give a naked sitter a reason to fidget in his seat.

Two guys I brought to the bedroom actually had an orgasm in those chairs. They lunged and writhed until, their cocks spurting Success, they slumped over in an excess of pleasure and fell to the floor.

The bed was a gigantic BDSM fuck harness suspended from the ceiling. The black canvas straps held a double mattress on a square of plywood, making a floating bed that could not tap against the wall during energetic bouts, couldn't give my neighbors any reason to become suspicious. But like a real harness, it did indeed position a participant in a vulnerable position if he lay at the edge of the mattress, raised his legs, and submitted to my penetrations while I swung him back and forth, pulling and pushing on the webbing straps.

The washbasin sat in a slab of mahogany inlaid with mother-of-pearl penis outlines, a pervy piece I found on a cruise to India. The mahogany counter rested on the pelvises of four heroic statues cut off at the waist (more purchases in India). Their hard, plaster cocks stuck out to nudge and tickle me while I shaved. Mini-titillations every morning.

The centerpiece, rising from the circular whirlpool bath in the middle of the room, was a giant statue of heroic Zeus--naked, muscular, perfect manhood. He was hard, hands on hips, his huge cock a showerhead spritzing the warm water back into the bath.

Like all the rest, Paul and Lorenzo stood gaping, their dicks growing even harder, but they moved with me to the bed. After multiple gropings, fondlings, licking, and sucking, all three of us were so thoroughly familiar with each other's bodies that nothing was private anymore, nothing untouched, unfelt, unsmelled, untasted.

As we floating lazily in the air, swinging back and forth on the nasty bed, Lorenzo, husky-voiced, told us he wanted us to fuck him. Surprise, surprise. But he wanted us to fuck him. "Damn, boy, you want us both at once??"

"Yes! Both of you! I want that big cock of yours in my ass, Coach. And Paulie, I want you in there, too. Both at once!

Damn. Never done that before. Wasn't sure it was possible. Then the old dog learned a new trick. We T-boned Lorenzo.

I lay on the bed, my hard cock jutting up from its silver bush. Paul lay opposite me, sliding forward until his legs crossed over mine, bringing our cocks together, and when they touched, we held them together tightly, a single spear of meat.

To my amazement, the hyper-horny Lorenzo stood over us, centered himself, then slowly squatted over the double-barreled shotgun. It had to hurt. As my more intimate fans have often told me, my nine inches aren't "the point." The part that makes them wake up screaming is that my cock is three inches in diameter--over nine inches around--and Paul's teenaged cock was another piece of hefty meat, something he could be proud of in the shower room.

I had to wince as Lorenzo lowered himself onto us, squinting his eyes shut, biting his lip, gasping in pain. Only an elephant wouldn't complain.

And he made it! Astonishing. His ass settled onto our bellies, and we were in him to the hilt. His legs stuck out at a right angle to our interlocked bodies, and I gazed in awe. It had to hurt (even the pause to let him get used to a fuck of that caliber took a long time), but Lorenzo's cock was up, locked, and drooling precum like a leaky faucet.

God, what would it be like? We hadn't even started moving yet, and Lorenzo was already out of his mind, his head lolling, his mouth open, eyes shut, muttering wordless sounds. Damn, is he having an orgasm?

Sure enough, before the halftime entertainment even started, Lorenzo's cock spurted out gobs of Mamacita, splattering over my sheets, even reaching beyond the bed to slop onto the floor. Swaying above us like a drunken sailor, Lorenzo crouched on the pivot of our double cocks, and I saw how truly the male body can translate pain into pleasure.

Paul and I were somewhat incapacitated. Lying as we were with legs crossed over each other, we couldn't manage much of a hip-lurch, but Lorenzo took over. His eyes still closed in bliss, he rose up, drawing his stretched-open scabbard up our throbbing swords, then lowered himself again to hilt us in his guts.

An incredible fuck. Slow motion. The bed swayed like on a gentle, rolling ocean. Lorenzo was too spaced out, too in the moment. His strained-beyond-belief asshole must've been so feverish and inflamed, he felt very vein, bump, and irregularity in our fused cocks, and his asshole was undoubtedly sending him super-vibes of anal pleasure.

But his slow, sensual, maddeningly slow fuck strokes turned me on even more--Paul and I were prisoners, powerless, helpless to speed up the process even though our balls screamed for release.

What would become the most incredible climax of my life appeared in my balls faintly, like a far-distant camel caravan plodding slowly over the sand. I gritted my teeth and stiffened my legs, but still the pleasure approached slowly, gracefully, reducing me to a madman groaning out his frustration, beating my fists against the sheet.

Lorenzo's torture of the slow fuck continued, and as the ecstasy finally drew closer the sensation was incredible. Unlike the usual male orgasm that begins and quickly peaks, sending the man to ejaculation in about five seconds, Lorenzo's double-team fuck brought me up through the levels of ecstasy over a period of--God, it had to be a full minute!

And when I reached the point of no return, that, too, went on forever. Didn't know I had so much sperm. I shot dozens of times, hundreds! It had to have been a full quart of semen! When it finally stopped, my balls ached, and I actually worried I might have injured myself in there somehow.

Paul, too, had joined in the tidal wave, and when I opened my eyes and looked down, my crotch was covered in a thick layer of jism leaked from Lorenzo's asshole (then fire hydrant-sized), a river of cum that slithered over my thighs and onto the sheet below. God, I'll have to take this mattress out and shoot it.

Lorenzo fell back, still impaled on our cocks, and passed out. Pleasure past the point of human endurance. I, too, suffered an ecstasy just short of Intensive Care, and I lay there, eyes closed, until I finally fell asleep.

-==(^)==-

Life goes on at *** University. Next time I'll tell you what I can do with the Confidents.

~~~