My sex life began to take shape the day I got beat up by my girlfriend's little brother. In a single day my fantasies shifted.
After the fight, in my car, I had the beginnings of an erection. I did not know why. My girlfriend, Kelly Givens, said, "Wow, he really worked you over, didn't he?" She sounded almost gleeful. Her words, her attitude, gave me a full-fledged hard-on. Again, I did not know why.
At the age of nineteen I was home for the summer with a year of college under my belt. I expected to spend much of the summer with Kelly, a recent high school graduate who would go to Texas Tech in September. She had been captain of the cheer-leading squad and star of the field hockey team. In the Texas tradition she was beautiful and fit with wavy blond hair and a smile that could buckle your knees. But it was her eyes that set her apart. They were deep deep green with a luminescence that could melt any red blooded American guy. We'd been going out for two years. We did not have sex but I was patient because I loved her to pieces.
On my first day back in town I was hanging out in the 7-11 parking lot with Kelly and her best friend Viola, also a former cheerleader. It was a hot Saturday afternoon. Kelly's little brother Ritchie, a freckle-faced little a pain in the ass, joined us and kept calling me "college boy." He was sixteen, a high school sophomore. An altercation developed that I could not avoid. Kelly and Viola urged me to put little Ritchie in his place. He was just a little kid but in Pecos, Texas you don't take shit. A crowd began to gather (it's a predictable town). I knew that I would have to be careful not to hurt the kid.
The result was a disaster. It was hopelessly one-sided. The second time he knocked me down I decided not to get up. My head was swimming and I felt nauseous. I heard Kelly say, "Oh my God, what a punch!" She did not sound disappointed.
Ritchie proceeded to sit on my chest, pinning my hands to the hot pavement so that I could not move. In his high, girlish voice he said, "Look at the big tough college boy."
Finally Kelly said, "Okay Ritchie, he's had enough." There was an elation in her voice that I did not like.
Once my head cleared and my nose stopped bleeding I was okay to drive. Behind the wheel I began to re-live the debacle. As I thought of being held on the ground, helpless,squirming, my cock began to grow. Alongside me on the front seat, Kelly said, "Man, he landed some shots; and down you went--twice!"
How is it that being vanquished and rendered helpless can be sexy? I don't know. But it happened to me, and I got hard when I thought of it. And when Kelly rubbed salt in that wound I became wildly aroused. I maneuvered my hard-on so that it was a big visible bulge in my jeans, a cucumber along my right thigh. I hoped that she might stroke it. She had done that before. But it did not happen now.
Instead she squeezed my soft, thin arm and said, "Ever lift any weights?"
"Maybe you should," she said.
My cock was pounding. My heart was racing. I was confused.
It seems that I lost more on the pavement at 7-11 than a silly physical contest. I had taken a a public beating from a kid who was considerably younger and smaller than I. That will do things to your self esteem. I felt suddenly small. My self-worth vanished. It was as if a trap door in my gut had been sprung, my insides falling into nothingness. Filling the void was a raging erection. Why? Well, guys get erections, don't they? Do we have a choice in what makes us hard? The truth is that sometimes erections just arrive, like Christmas.
I was a dead horse that Kelly seemed hell bent on beating. Was she deliberately picking the bones of my carcass? Or was she merely proud of her brother's performance. The result was that I became an empty shell, an emotional skeleton with a boner.
She said, "Dude, he so
kicked your ass. He never even broke a sweat." I felt a warm stickiness on my thigh. Looking down at my jeans, I saw a wet spot the size of a quarter. I had sprung a leak.
After dropping Kelly off I drove home and went immediately into the basement where I made haste for my designated masturbation chair. It was a ragged old upholstered chair under which I kept a roll of paper towels. Hidden nearby was a stash of girly magazines, but I would not need them today. I pulled my jeans down to my knees and watched my cock as it waved back and forth, awaiting my familiar touch.
I'd never really had a sex life, beyond masturbation of course. With Kelly, our make-out sessions never led to much. Sometimes she would lightly rub my cock through the fabric of my jeans. I was allowed to feel her up as long as her bra remained in place. If I was lucky we would dry-hump. Sometimes, while dry-humping, I came in my pants.
But I wanted to be able to say to myself, "You are not a virgin." So I went into the city one night and bought a hooker. It was a clumsy affair, devoid of pleasure. But I was no longer a virgin. For all intents and purposes, of course, I still was.
Now, in the masturbation chair, I marveled at my erection. If my sex life sucked, well, my cock wasn't bad. Around the age of sixteen I was satisfied with my six inches. That seemed to be the norm. Dick jokes were usually six-inch jokes, weren't they? Then one summer I experienced a growth spurt. It happened so quickly that I almost didn't notice. Suddenly it was very thick and measured a full seven inches. I was delighted and played with it all the time. Touching it now, in my chair, I closed my eyes. I stroked softly, using delicate pressure on the sensitive trigger points I'd discovered after so many personal sessions.
Thick and hard, I needed a fantasy. With cock in hand, the mind will go where it pleases. On this occasion I felt the hot asphalt against my back, pinned and helpless, squirming with little Ritchie calling me names. I tightened my grip and stroked faster. I was building, but I needed a punchline, or rather, a cum-line. My resourceful mind delivered: He didn't even work up a sweat!
And I came like crazy. I cried out. With eyes closed there were colors flashing, cannons booming. It was my longest, most brilliant orgasm ever.
Afterward, of course, I felt stupid and small. It was sick wasn't it? To be held down on the ground and jerk off about it? But in fifteen minutes I was hard again, thinking the same thoughts.
The following afternoon Kelly and I occupied a booth in the Pecos Diner. We had finished our milkshakes. Across the table I could not help but admire my Kelly. Since I'd been away at school she had developed beautifully. She was wearing a tight sleeveless top. Her boobs were bigger, more spherical. Her shoulders were strong and prominent, her arms thicker with blue, vertical veins pushing out of her biceps. It occured to me that I may have committed a wardrobe faux-pas
by wearing a tank-top. She was making me look small. But what was one to wear in Pecos, Texas when it was 104 degrees?
A number of Kelly's cheerleader friends gathered around our booth to chat. Viola squeezed Kelly's arm and said, "Whoa, nice guns Kelly." The others agreed and Kelly was visibly flattered. Then Viola looked at me, as if sizing me up. She said, "I got an idea. Why don't you two arm-wrestle. Let's see what happens."
Kelly did not hesitate. She planted her elbow on the table, wiggling her fingers in anticipation. We locked hands. The strength of her grip alone told me I was in trouble. Beneath the table my dick stiffened. From the beginning I went after it with all I had. But it was like trying to move a brick wall. I leaned my body to gain an advantage, panting, straining. Kelly's arm remained motionless and still, cords of muscle popping. As I struggled, she held me at bay easily, a pretty smile on her face. From my wrist down to my elbow, from my elbow up to my shoulder, my entire arm trembled, shaking with fatigue.
Beaming, Kelly looked at me and said, "Really? That's all you got?" She proceeded to pull my hand down so that my knuckles rapped painfully on the table. There was a smattering of applause as Kelly flexed her shapely biceps.
Viola said, "My turn." Edging her way into the booth she said, "Scoot over Kelly, I can take him too."
I stood up and said, "That's all for today girls. We have to get going." I did not care if they saw the obvious bulge in my pants.
Kelly called me later in the day to cancel our date for that evening. We would never date again.
My life in Pecos, Texas became a life of masturbation. In bed at night I would jerk off; that was a given. I could never have slept otherwise. During the day I would squeeze out as many loads as I could, two or three at a minimum. I spent a lot of time in my designated chair in the basement. Since masturbation requires fantasies, I allowed my mind to provide them. They were predictable. It seems as if I liked being humiliated. What made me small made me hard. I forgot about my girly magazines. Who needs air-brushed, silicone boobs when you have humiliations? A humiliation is worth a thousand pictures. And I had a couple of juicy humiliations.
There was the 7-11 parking lot humiliation, the Pecos Diner booth humiliation. In fact, life in general had become something of a humiliation. Once I had been the confident, smart kid with a full scholarship to Baylor. Now I was the scrawny, stoop-shouldered loser who got his ass kicked by Ritchie Givens. Walking the streets of Pecos I felt the looks and heard the laughter of boys and girls who giggled behind my back. I saw Kelly driving by, a passenger in Danny Pearl's truck. Danny was a local football hero known for his sexual conquests. Kelly saw me and waved. How thoughtful.
In one of my favorite masturbation fantasies, I saw myself in the Pecos diner, straining mightily, hopelessly against the strength in Kelly's muscled arm. When she pinned my hand to the table I was close, very close. All I needed was a good cum-line: Scoot over Kelly, I can take him too.
And I came furiously, murmuring "oh.... oh!"
Ah, the miracle of humiliation! When you think you've hit bottom you are a fool because there is no bottom. When you celebrate your own demise you have achieved the status of insect but you are just geting started.
In the 7-11 I heard plenty of gossip about Kelly and Danny. I heard he was "fucking her brains out." I wondered if, after two years of my getting nowhere, Danny Pearl could get into her pants in a matter of days. It seemed wrong that she had never really broken up with me. She had just ignored me, refusing to return my calls. I decided to confront her, to demand that she dump me the right way. In so doing I would learn if she was fucking Danny Pearl. It would be written all over her face.
Her house looked empty when I pulled up. Both parents were working. When I got out of the car I saw Kelly hurrying around back. No one answered when I knocked on the back door. I headed for the old garage. The Givens had converted the garage into a clubhouse for their kids. It had a pool table and TV. I'd had many a make-out session with Kelly on the clubhouse sofa.
The door was ajar so I entered. Kelly was not there, only Ritchie. There was a gym mat on the floor with assorted free weights. Clearly he had been working out. He was shirtless, his chest flecked with sweat. He said, "Hey college boy."
"Sorry about the other day," he said. "I didn't wanna hurt ya."
As was usually the case of late, my erection was instantaneous. Little Richie Givens didn't wanna hurt me.
He came close to me and I thought he looked different somehow. He still had that freckled, boyish look with those long, girlish lashes. He had Kelly's green eyes. He was almost a full head shorter than me. I was apprehensive with him so close. My heart was beating fiercely, in tandem with my hardon; and my knees felt wobbly.
Observing my face he said, "The nose looks okay. I wasn't sure if I broke it."
"Nah, no breakage."
"Oh well," he said. "Maybe next time," and we both laughed.
"Really," he said, "there won't be a next time... unless you piss me off."
Much too quickly I said, "No no no... that will never happen."
He threw his head back and laughed at my response. That's when I noticed the changes in him. There were pads of muscle in his arms, shoulders and chest that not been their before. In addition to his work-outs, he was of the age when boys develop naturally (although it never happened to me). It occurred to me that, with his enhanced physique and natural meanness, I never stood a chance at the 7-11.
I could not help but watch as his hand stroked his upper arm, his chest. I was nervous and frightened. I felt weak. I think my entire body was trembling. He looked up at me. I fell into his gaze. I was mesmerized. He looked immensely pleased. It was a look of supreme confidence and domination. It was a look that told me everything I needed to know: my life was no longer my own.
Now his hand was flat against his muscled abdomen, the fingers moving down beneath the waistband of his gym shorts. Like me, he had a big bulge down there. I did not make a decision; I merely found myself on my knees, my fingertips probing those hard moist abs, my lips brushing against them. When I yanked down his shorts there was a frightening violence, like a wild animal escaping, a desperate dove seeking flight.
Ritchie's growth spurt had clearly been superior to my own. It was axe-handle thick as it reached for the sky. My hard-ons are horizontal, sticking straight out. Ritchie's was vertical, rocket-like with a decided arch, an inward bend that gave it a look of urgency. Capped with a brilliant red dome, it looked like some kind of medeival weapon. To make it more pronounced, he had yet to grow pubic hair. There were tufts of peach fuzz around the thick base. Ritchie said, "Merry Christmas college boy."
I was hesitant at first, unsure of myself. Then I began to use my fingers expertly, the way I worked on my own inferior cock. I took the fat head into my mouth and flashed back to when I was Ritchie's age. Yes, I'd done this before, on camping trips with my friend Steve. Fact of life: put two teen-age boys in a small tent overnight and orgasms will happen. I remembered the warmth and smoothness of it. There is something unusually pleasant about having a cock in one's mouth. As a rule, the things we put into our mouths are dead. But this was alive, throbbing with blood. This was a human being in my mouth. This was Ritchie, the little guy who beat me up.
I suddenly realized that I had not come here for Kelly; I'd come here for him, for this.
I'd come bearing tribute. I was delivering the spoils of his victory. While sucking, I looked up to see little Ritchie with his eyes closed. He looked immensely satisfied, almost regal. It was the countenance of triumph. Indeed his chest was puffed out with the pride of conquest.
Remembering the episodes with Steve, I began to swirl my tongue all over the swollen knob. I felt Ritchie's body stiffen. This thrilled me because it was an indication that I was pleasing him.
"What a surprise," he said. "College boy knows how to suck cock." When he ran his fingers gently through my hair I felt an aching in my heart. I dislodged my cock from my pants and began stroking it. It was so hard you could've hung a bucket of beer on it.
Somehow I got the strange feeling that we were not alone. With my limited vision I scanned the room and saw a familiar face in the garage window. Her brilliant green eyes were widened, as if propped open with toothpicks in order to drink in the spectacle.
If I had an audience, I would put on a show. I took the cock from my mouth and admired it. Then I kissed it tenderly, again and again. I kissed my way down to the thick base, kissing all around it. Little wisps of peach fuzz tickled my upper lip when I kissed him there. I kissed my way back up to the tip. I planted my lips on the sweet spot behind the swollen head and made out with it. Ritchie said, "Kiss it college boy, kiss it."
I kissed it the way you'd kiss the lips of the girlfriend you loved.
My kissing spree seemed to be effective as the fat red dome swelled appreciably, gleaming like a polished apple. Then he rammed it into me so far that I nearly gagged. I could only hope that my audience had a good view, that she might see how deep I could take him.
As it turns out I had been wrong about myself. I was neither an empty shell nor an insect. As a human being I was fulfilled, complete. I had a purpose, a mission. Somebody once said, "Know thyself." Now, after nineteen years, I knew myself. I was where I belonged, with whom I belonged. I was College Boy.
There in that Pecos, Texas garage, with a cock in my mouth, a cock in my hand, I locked eyes with Kelly Givens, and came.
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