BBC on Campus

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BBC ON CAMPUS

CHAPTER FIVE – MARLBORO MAN IN MONTANA

The six sophomore rock climbers living below me were a continual source of eye candy. Because the old gas station stayed so hot, particularly when the sun was out, the cut climbers typically wore nothing but their boxers. Often I had a view of three or four shirtless climbers when I climbed the two stories to my room above the gas stations. It was even money that one of them would be climbing the indoor rock wall, their hard body muscles flexed and straining. Ripped and cut, their bodies caught – and held – my attention.

The constant stream of visuals caused me to take advantage of Jesse's dancer boi ass more often than I liked to admit. The kid was an easy fuck, readily available whenever I wanted, and his lily white bubble butt was the perfect pin cushion for my big black cock. Maybe the auburn haired slut with the hard-as-flint ass was too easy. He and Kyle had more-or-less jumped on my cock, and with the benefit of hindsight, Sancho had been damn easy to manipulate. I hadn't had to work very hard to nail any of their holes.

Maybe I needed give myself a bigger challenge and a change of diet. Twinks were made to be fucked, but I found older men more intriguing. I needed a man I could hunt down and turn to my will. Chicago and Boston had offered a buffet of targets. Western Montana, not so much.

Despite the slim pickings, one man more than any tweaked my curiosity. He was the spitting image of the Marlboro Man. Admittedly the Marlboro Man had disappeared from advertising by 1999, so I had actually never seen an advertisement with the rugged cowboy. But the internet preserved images of the Marlboro Man, and after I stumbled on a reference to him, I spent a night at Harvard looking at shots from Marlboro commercials and fantasizing about taming a cowboy. Taming a rugged, masculine man that could stare down rattlesnakes but would surrender his holes to the snake in my pants. If anyplace was associated with the Marlboro Man, it was Montana.

The local reincarnation of the Marlboro man was one of the professors at Westcliffe. He looked and acted like he walked off of the pages of a Marlboro ad. Usually dressed in jeans, cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, he of course he drove a pickup truck. I thought he resembled Jake Gyllenhaal, but he was taller, had a squarer jaw and looked like an older, more macho version of Gyllenhaal. Maybe I thought he looked like Gyllenhaal because his name was, in fact, Jake. Jake Westbrooke. Jake taught business at the University, including ranch management – it was Montana, after all. The general consensus at the University was that Jake taught solely because he enjoyed it, as he was independently wealthy.

Jake's ass was a prize I wanted to claim. Despite my lust, I had done absolutely nothing to further the project when Jake stopped in my office late on a Friday night and said, "Dillinger, you doing anything tomorrow night? A couple of us get together for a low stakes poker game once a month or so, and we're missing a fourth. Thought if you're weren't tied up, you might be willing to join us. I'm on a little spread just outside of town, not far away. It's mostly an excuse to drink beer and have some fun while the wife is away."

I didn't hesitate, replying, "Yeah, sure, sounds great." I marveled at my sudden good fortune. The night of poker wasn't likely to amount to much, but there were worse ways to spend a Saturday night than gazing at Jake Westbrooke. Jake gave me a disarming smile and said he would text directions.

I discounted any chance of sex. Not only had Jake mentioned a wife – that alone wasn't dispositive – but the other two guys Jake had invited were even older than Jake. All three men had been married for decades. If I hadn't been so enamored with Jake's Montana cowboy look, I would have debated whether to accept his invitation. But I was stuck at Westcliffe for several years, so getting to know some of the older faculty members wasn't a bad thing. It would be one Saturday night that my cock wouldn't be let out to play.

Jake's `little spread' turned out to be a massive ranch on the east side of town. I after I turned off the main road and passed under an arch with an elaborate "W" brand for Westbrooke, I swear the driveway was five miles long. The house was like an Architectural Digest version of a western ranch house – massive wooden beams, an enormous fireplace and an inspiring view of Westcliffe and the red cliffs behind it. The place perched on a hilltop across the valley from the university and had commanding views north and south in addition to the view of the college town.

I was the first to arrive. Jake said 7:00 p.m., and I arrived more-or-less on time, but nobody else was there. I had debated what to bring, finally settling on a nice bottle of wine, although that seemed boringly typical. Jake, however, was effusive, thanking me for the wine and asking me how I got hold of it. I didn't get into the details of my relationship with the winery's owner, although my cock twitched slightly at the memory.

Jake was the perfect host, pouring a beer from a fancy bottle, and then taking me on a tour of the house. The mansion was huge, tastefully decorated and graced by avant-garde artwork. It was as much an art tour as an architectural tour. On one wall, Jake had a collection of black and white Cindy Sherman photographs. He commented that they cost a small fortune when he acquired them decades ago, but if all of his investments had appreciated in value as much as the photographs, he could buy the entire state of Montana. Idaho, too.

"By and large I like these photographs better than the Cindy Shermans," Jake said, pointing to a collection of photographs of Lenny Kravitz. "You probably get this all the time, but I think you resemble Lenny."

I conceded that Jake wasn't the first person to draw the connection. The obvious reason was the dreadlocks we shared, at least at many points in Lenny's long career. Aside from the dreadlocks, physically I was a longer, stretched version of Lenny. I was, after all, a foot taller. Lenny had dreadlocks in each of Jake's photographs and was naked or shirtless, too. In one, only a strategically placed guitar with a snake coiled around it stood in the way of a full frontal shot. In another, taken from the side, only Lenny's hand hid his junk. Lenny's broad chest and ripped eight pack were visible and on display in each of the photos. The man wasn't shy recording his big pecs and rock hard abs for posterity. Two elements tied the photographs together – dreadlocks and skin. A lot of skin.

We settled on an expansive deck facing west that had a complete outdoor bar and kitchen, even an outdoor television, along with a huge hot tub and fireplace. Jake pointed out the boundaries of his ranch, barely visible in the distance. His great-grandfather had settled the valley, and at one point Jake's family owned most of the fields we could see, including much of the land Westcliffe University occupied. Over the years, parts of the ranch had been given away or sold off, leaving the current spread merely one of the ten largest ranches in Montana.

Jake and I were watching the spectacular sunset above the mountains when a young man interrupted us. Glancing at him, I figured him for Jake's son. Perhaps 25, he was a younger version of Jake Gyllenhaal, compared to Jake's older version.

"Hey, dad, we're headed to Missoula," the guy said. "Don't wait up, we'll either be really late or we may just grab a motel room and drive back tomorrow."

"Get the motel room, Ben," Jake said. "It's not worth driving if you've had more than a beer, and you're not driving to Missoula to drink the water."

Ben chuckled and said, "Thanks, dad." His eyes strayed to me, no doubt surprised to see a black man with long dreadlocks sitting on the deck of his father's ranch.

"Dillinger, this is my son Ben," Jake said. "Ben, Dillinger. Dillinger's the smartest man within a thousand miles of Westcliffe and is working with Wang. So get a good look because he's going to be famous someday. Probably sooner rather than later."

I smiled at Jake's gracious introduction and thanked him. Whether he was following his father's instructions or not, Ben took a good, long look. His lingering gaze was either curiosity or, perhaps, something more. If I hadn't been a 6'5" black man with long dreadlocks – in other words, a huge curiosity in western Montana – I would have taken his look for much more than just casual curiosity. But Ben quickly took his leave and we watched as his silver sports car wound its way down Jake's driveway toward the main road.

"Nice kid," I said. I don't know why I called Ben a kid, when I was probably five years younger than he was. Something about Ben seemed young.

"He's had some rough patches, but kids do nowadays," Jake replied, sipping his beer. It felt odd to be discussing Ben with Jake as if I was Jake's age. Jake's voice betrayed his fears for his son. "Partied a little too much in college," Jake continued. "Well, way too much. He's still trying to find himself. Hell, 30 years ago kids his age would have settled down and be married by now. But not this generation. I think he'll be alright, though." Jake's optimism didn't hide his skepticism of his own statement.

The conversation veered to a different subject, and I was beginning to wonder if I was the only person Jake had invited when a car arrived and two other two professors stepped out. They were not bad looking for older men, but neither lifted the needle on my sex gauge. Certainly not the way Jake got my juices flowing.

Our foursome settled into Jake's game room, which was the epitome of every straight white man's man cave. Dark woodwork covered the walls, surrounding an elaborate bar along one wall and a massive projection television with booming speakers along another. Four red leather chairs were positioned around a big card table near the bar. In an alcove sat a fancy, carved pool table. In another stood an array of vintage pinball machines, their lights flickering. My favorite was an old time, mechanical Rocky-and-Bullwinkle pinball machine that would occasionally chirp, `Whatsamatta U?" Bullwinkle was the unofficial mascot of Westcliffe's sports teams, at least where college whimsy was welcomed.

The night of poker was okay. We talked sports, sports and more sports, with an occasional detour into news about the University. Apparently politics was off limits, which was fine with me. I wasn't optimistic about a conversation on marriage equality with three middle-aged or older white men in Montana, although given they were university types I might well have been wrong. The three men made polite inquiries about my background and my years at Harvard. Their frustrations from teaching were evident; distracted college students going through the motions were apparently the bane of Westcliffe's faculty.

I kept wondering why I was invited. To say I was a fish out of water was an understatement. I was young enough to be Jake's son, probably young enough to be the other men's grandsons. Our academic fields didn't overlap. Being nice to a new faculty member was one thing, but this night went beyond that. Having downed far too much beer, I began to wonder if Jake, despite being married and old enough to be my father, had invited me for some other reason.

It was a crazy idea, driven more alcohol and my own lust for Jake, but I began to fantasize that he wanted me. There was Jake's fondness for photos of Lenny Kravitz, showing the singer's hot body and long dreadlocks. The setup was ideal, too. His wife and son were gone for the night, and it was obvious the other two professors weren't in for a late night. My wild idea got more credence, at least in my mind, when I excused myself to go to the rest room, and on the way back, I noticed Jake had been pouring me a Belgian beer with twice the alcohol of regular beer. The other two professors were drinking watered down whiskey, and not much of it. Was Jake trying to get me drunk? Jake told his son not to drive home and to spend the night in Missoula after drinking. Did he plan on me spending the night after drinking one too many?

We finished several rounds of penny-ante poker, with college football games playing the background, and the other two professors took their leave. I intentionally didn't leave with them, waiting to see what might happen when Jake and I were alone.

To my annoyance, nothing happened. Jake continued to be the perfect host, pouring me another beer, still treating me as a University colleague. He plopped down in a big chair to watch the end of the football game. I sprawled on a couch. Jake wasn't going to make a move.

But I was. I had a crazy idea. I rationalized that I could always claim having drank too much. With the benefit of hindsight, what I was about to do would be impossible to explain away, even attributing it to being drunk.

I went to the rest room and, on the way back, stripped completely. I squeezed my cock a couple times to make it swell a bit, just to ensure it was thick and meaty as it swung between my thighs. Striding back to the theater area, I walked to Jake's chair and stood in front of the Marlboro man. Jake betrayed surprise, but with a bemused smile he assimilated my appearance like a man that had seen a lot of unusual things. I leaned over Jake, putting my hands on either side of his chair. Looking down on him, I waited for the silence in the room to build and then said, "I'm getting in the hot tub."

I stared into Jake's eyes, looking for signs of outrage or anger. Instead, I detected excitement and lust. Of course, I was on the verge of being trashed, so I might have been seeing what I wanted rather than what was really there. I took Jake's look as a green light to continue.

"For official consumption," I said, "I left right after the other professors did. I thanked you for your hospitality and the pleasant night. You said it was good to get to know me a little.

"Off the record, something else is gonna go down. Unofficially, of course; what is about to happen won't be documented. Neither one of us will talk about it tomorrow, or the next day. It won't be anything. It never happened."

I stood up, making sure my cock bounced a little in front of Jake's face, and headed to the hot tub.

Jake had fired up some heat torches on the deck earlier in the evening when we took a break from poker to get some fresh air, and their warmth felt good in the cool evening air. The lights of Westcliffe twinkled in the distance, with the moon and the stars bright overhead. I eased into the hot tub, stroking my black rod in anticipation. Still, I wondered if Jake would show up. I had almost concluded that I was hot tubbing alone when some music started on the outdoor speakers and Jake appeared, a big towel wrapped around his waist.

Jake's chest was amazing. He was well built, particularly for a guy nearing 50, and a lush forest of dark hair sprouted on his pecs. He trimmed it to a uniform length, but I liked the manscaped look on him. Jake's arms were strong, and wiry hair graced his forearms. He handed me yet another beer, and dropped his towel to climb into the hot tub. The music in the background sounded like Lenny Kravitz.

Jake's legs were thick, and the same hair that graced his chest covered his thighs. And, I was happy to note, it covered his furry ass cheeks, too. My eyes were drawn to the thick cock that sprouted from Jake's pubes. It wasn't the undisciplined teenaged boy cock I had been seen all semester. It was a man's cock, thick and uncut. I was disappointed when Jake lowered himself into the water, depriving me of the vision of Jake's manhood.

Lord knows I didn't need anything else to drink, but I quickly chugged the beer Jake brought and got to my feet. I intentionally groped myself, squeezing my balls and cock, feeling my rod start to thicken. Jake stared at me with a mixture of disbelief and anticipation. He had not uttered a word since I had appeared in the theater, naked. I took two steps, bringing my cock to within inches of Jake's rugged, tanned face.

Jake's hands slid across my thighs. One big hand began to massage my balls, and the other tentatively felt my shaft, squeezing it gently and then harder. I moaned and said, "Oh, yeah!"

Jake took his time, playing with my cock and balls, studying them, getting me rock hard. Then, looking up at me, he opened his mouth and carefully licked the head of my cock. Damn. By now I desperately wanted my dick in Jake's mouth. I used my hands to push his head forward. He took the head of my cock into his warm, wet mouth, using his tongue to play with it. With a deep breath, Jake looked into my eyes and, in one quick motion, swallowed me.

I saw stars and moaned as Jake's throat closed on my cock. He began to move back and forth, my thick black piece completely disappearing into his mouth and down his throat. After several fantastic minutes, Jake pulled off my cock, slowly pulling my foreskin up until it covered the head of my cock. His tongue dove inside, swirling around my cock head. Then he slid my foreskin down my shaft, just as slowly as he had pulled it up, pulling the skin on my head taut and making my dick throb. Just when his pressure threatened to be uncomfortable, Jake's mouth and throat collapsed on my pole and his big hands squeezed by nuts with just the right amount of pressure. He went back to sliding his throat over my fuck stick.

Damn! It was like Jake had the book on how to blow me and had studied it cover to cover. I began to thrust forward, flexing my ass as my cock skewered Jake's mouth, driving deep down his throat. Releasing his tight grip on the base of my cock, Jake continued to grind my balls with one hand while he shoved his other hand between my ass and my balls, using his knuckles to press against the sensitive area between my sack and crack that felt like an extension of my cock. It reminded me of a doctor I had fucked in Boston who told me I had an extremely sensitive and large anogenital area. Whatever. It sure as fuck was sensitive to Jake's practiced touch. Jake's hands and mouth drove me crazy and I grabbed Jake's head and resorted to face fucking him, ramming my cock down his throat.

Jake was giving me one damn good blow job. Too good. Given how drunk I was, it should have taken me forever to nut. But the visual of Jake, looking every bit like my fantasy of the Marlboro man, worshipping my big black cock with his mouth was overwhelming. He had probably only been deep throating me for ten minutes when, without warning, I felt my balls discharge. Too late to pull out of Jake's mouth, I flooded his mouth with a thick load of white cum. He swallowed it all, continuing to softly lick my cock and dig the last drop of cum from my piss slit.

I pulled Jake off my cock and bent down to kiss him, sinking my tongue into his mouth and tasting the last of my spunk. My dreadlocks covered Jake's head as we kissed.

My hand drifted down through Jake's luxurious chest hair to his cock. It was a nice sized piece and felt like carved stone. Nothing like my monster, but I liked thinking about the fact that my hand was wrapped on a cock that women – hell, maybe men – had fondled even before I was even born. I wondered what Jake looked like when he fucked his first hole, seeded his first pussy. I stroked Jake's cock several times. Breaking the kiss, I said, "I want a bucket of lube. That first load was just the kickoff. You've got a long, long night ahead of you."

We climbed out of the hot tub and Jake disappeared into the house, returning with the lube. I was stretched out on a chaise lounge, feasting on the image of Jake's naked body as he approached. He climbed on my chaise lounge, straddling my hips, and bent down to kiss me. My hand went immediately to Jake's ass and I began to work a finger into his pussy.

I don't know if Jake thought that I was going return the blow job or maybe he was going to get off by fucking me, but by going straight for his asshole, I let him know what was in store. It's an old trick, as old as the hills, but consistently effective. In one quick move, I gave Jake the script for the next scene. I pulled my finger from his asshole only long enough to squeeze some lube on it, then went back to playing with his hole, greasing it up, and exploring his prostate. Preparing him to get fucked by a monster cock.

Jake was slowly stroking my black cobra, and I grabbed his hand and filled it with lube. He coated my cock. With his hole and my hole-plugger greased, I was ready to fuck some man ass.

Doggy style was out, at least for the first fuck, because I wanted to see Jake's rugged face when I split his fuck chute, and I wanted to see that hairy, awesome chest as I poled him. I could see both if I let him ride me, but that wasn't going to happen. Missionary position was the winner.

I eased out from under Jake and put him on his back, his hairy legs on my shoulders, regretting for a moment that I couldn't also see the furry ass cheeks my black pole was about to enter. I would watch my cock drill his crack later. I swirled the head of my cock in the greased hair around Jake's hole and began to press inside him. Jake's eyes closed, but his cock stayed rock hard.

I forced my cock past Jake's sphincter, but he never gave me any indication that he was in pain, so I continued to sink my fuck rod into the cowboy beneath me. Sooner than I would have thought, my pubes were crushed against Jake's butt cheeks. I rolled his ass higher so I could thrust with my legs and I began to pull out and push in, slamming Jake's man cunt with my black hole splitter.

The Marlboro man had a sweet, sweet ass. If my cock was painful, he never let on. Drunk and hornier than hell, I rammed his manhole. The breeze, moderated by the heat lamps on Jake's deck, was just cool enough to keep me from sweating. I remembered thinking that I should have tied my dreadlocks in a ponytail because they kept obscuring my view of the man below me, his handsome, tanned face gazing at me intently.

I heard a howl in the distance. I was probably only a coyote, but in my mind, with my dick ramming Jake like a high speed piston, I was hearing a gray wolf on the hunt. A gray wolf intent on claiming his prey. Getting a blow job from Jake was great, but I wanted to breed him, to seed his ass with my black man cum.

I got my wish several times over. I piston fucked Jake's ass for a good twenty minutes, enjoying watching Jake's rugged face as I skewered his guts, enjoying the breeze on my ass and the sounds and smells of the night. Was I the first man to fuck the iconic cowboy beneath me? Who knew? But I was the man that was going to sear this experience in Jake's mind, making him think that he had lived for 50 years without knowing what sex could be. Without knowing what it felt like to be bred by a bull.

I paused a couple of times to prolong the experience, Jake's fuck tunnel wrapped around by cock. Each time after pausing, I slowly began to slide my cock in and out of Jake, gradually building speed until I was fucking him frantically, smacking my groin against his hairy ass. Finally releasing my dick for the home stretch, I leaned into Jake and slam fucked him a good fifteen or twenty times before blasting my load into Jake's ass.

I rested only long enough to catch my breath and until my cock wasn't overly sensitive. I barely took my cock out of Jake's ass before I put him on his knees and subjected him to another fuck, this time plowing him doggy style. As much as I liked watching Jake's hairy chest, I might have enjoyed gazing at his furry ass cheeks more.

Jake hadn't cum yet, but his cock was dripping with pre-cum, and halfway through the second fuck he started to stroke his dick. I grabbed his hand and wrenched it behind his back, snarling at him, "No. Your only job is to concentrate on what it feels like to be bred. To feel my bull cock in your guts."

Much, much later, I relented. Jake had been incredibly disciplined, not touching his cock after that first time, but during my third time breeding his ass – on the deck floor so I could straighten my legs and fuck his furry hole like I was doing pushups – I pulled him to his knees just before my climax so I could clamp my hand around his dripping cock. I wanted to feel his body convulse when he climaxed. Jake moaned as I lightly brushed my hand over his dick, then grabbed it with my fist and began stroking. My dick and my hand moved faster and faster until I was fucking him furiously and manhandling his cock. With a sudden grunt Jake blew his load, squeezing his ass around my cock at the same time. His body shuddered as his babymakers emerged into a thick pool of man cum. I made one last thrust into Jake's ass as my cock triumphantly exploded.

Drunk and exhausted, I remember slumping on Jake's back as soon as my cum finished rifling into Jake's hole. I vaguely recall Jake giving me another blow job. I think I was flat on the deck, but the recollection was fuzzy.

When I woke, light was streaming through a bedroom window. I was in a huge, carved wooden bed. It must have been Jake's bedroom, but he wasn't around. He had spent the night with me, however, because the sheets on the other side of the bed were rumpled. My clothes were folded neatly on a bench at the bottom of the bed. I had a pounding headache – surprise, surprise, after all I drank the night before – but I hauled myself into the shower. When I finished, I debated getting dressed, but for some reason I didn't, instead heading toward the noises in the kitchen.

On the way, I passed Jake's collection of Lenny Kravitz photographs. A long narrow mirror hung next to the photographs, and my reflection in the mirror made it look like I was in a photograph, too, side by side with Lenny. The only cock that was visible on the wall of photographs was my thick black fuck stick. Lenny's wasn't shown. I had a feeling Lenny was hung, too, but it was unlikely I would ever find out.

I found my way to the kitchen where Jake had fixed coffee and breakfast. As we ate, we talked as if nothing unusual had happened the night before. It was a surreal scene. Jake was dressed in his usual jeans and flannel shirt, wearing his worn cowboy boots. Across the breakfast table I sat stark naked, my face a little scruffy because I hadn't shaved, my big dick resting across my thigh after living in Jake's ass for a night. I kept thinking about Jake's hairy chest and his furry ass cheeks, the visuals occasionally making my cock perk up slightly.

Jake's one acknowledgement that I was butt naked came when he casually mentioned that Ben might be home soon. I doubt Jake wanted Ben to find me naked with my clothes in Jake's bedroom, and I had no desire to make things tough for Jake. He was close to 50, and an affair with a 21-year-old black man would be hard to explain in rural Montana. Harder still to explain to a wife and a son who was older than me.

I quickly dressed and headed back to town. As I left, I thanked Jake for a wonderful night and he smiled and said it was more memorable than he could have imagined only a day ago. I wanted to kiss him. Hell, I wanted to rip his clothes off and spend the day fucking his ass. But I took my leave, hoping the rock climbers would be studying so my room above the gas station would be quiet and I could get rid of my headache.

After our night together, Jake was cordial, charming and friendly. When we were in faculty groups, he was always talking up how great I was academically and how I was going to be famous. But the subject of getting together again never surfaced, and he never invited me for another night of poker. Or another night of fucking. I think in the cold light of day Jake was taken aback by what I had done to him and the prospect of gradually losing control if he continued to see me and submit to me. At his age and in his position, an affair with me made no sense. I thought about seeing how he would react if I invited myself over to his house, and I might have done that, but I was busy with other things. Other men. I had four more rock climbers to conquer and a field of college boi ass to fuck.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Stay tuned for chapter six. Hope you didn't mind Dillinger's diversion from the college boys, but I promise he'll return to campus in chapter six.

Reactions? Hate or love the brief switch from college boys? Send me your thoughts - Coltonaalto@gmail.com

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