Brant 3: A Course Corrected
It took Brant an hour and a half after unceremoniously vomiting all over the football field to get back to his room. Coach Peterson and his friends had immediately taken him to the campus medical station (after insisting that he didn't need an ambulance, as some of his over-zealous friends suggested), where the nurse, glad to finally have something to fill her mostly endless days of magazine reading, ran as many tests as she could think of. Brant ensured her, mustering up all the charm that had come so easily to him just a day before (and it was there still, just buried beneath a huge pile of confusion, disorientation and fear), that it was a bad egg he'd eaten that morning for breakfast. The nurse wasn't convinced, not least because Brant had in fact had muesli and toast, but because she thought it was something else entirely: a panic attack.
Brant knew that she was right, but he also knew that the star footballer, alpha male and head jock suffering a panic attack during practice would not only ruin a pristine reputation, but begin to seed people's minds with questions, especially if he couldn't get things back to the way they were (the Old Brant part of him wanted to say back to normal,' but he somehow knew it wasn't right). He went on the offensive, making the nurse out to be a simpleton, then laying out his belief that it had been a simple case of food poisoning, that to even suggest otherwise was ridiculous and that everything was back to normal.
Once he was sure his friends and Coach believed his side of the story, he sent them away. Five minutes later, leaving behind a nurse who was livid at being shown up by Brant, especially when he was wrong, Brant made his way back to his room.
He was there all of ten minutes, quickly showering (and pointedly not jacking off, although he could feel the tension in his balls, as well as the lingering sensitivity of his asshole), grabbing his rain-stained jacket and leaving, turning off his cell and leaving it on his dresser (something he almost never did) as he made his way out of the frat house and off campus, making sure he wasn't seen by anyone.
He knew where he was going.
Del, meanwhile, was cleaning up the locker room, the end of practice interrupted by the inelegant end result of Brant's food poisoning. Except as he picked up the sodden used towels and ran a mop over the floor, he couldn't help thinking that something was off. Very off. As a marine, he'd been around the world with his squad, and stayed in some tough places. He and his squad had to eat some pretty rough stuff, and he knew his way around food poisoning, in all its glorious, gut-wrenching, often-deadly glory. In those tough places, with green squad members on their first mission, he'd also seen fear.
He knew which one he'd seen that afternoon.
Brant looked up at the faded, peeling sign: "Madame Siobhan" was written in weathered lettering that looked more like something out of the circus. Brant figured that the old crone must have been one of the stupid acts in one circus or another, back when those dumb freak shows were actually popular. For a moment, Brant felt more than a little stupid stood outside this washed-up fortune teller's shop. He'd always heard rumors that the old lady was some kind of witch, and since the age of twelve or so he'd known better than to believe such superstitious nonsense.
Right now, however, he was a desperate young man, and extreme measures were required. This time around, however, Siobhan seemed far less a washed-up fortune teller to Brant than the first time he'd stood here.
He pushed the door open, despite the `closed' sign on the door. Once more, the collection of tiny silver bells twinkled in chiming tones as the door swung open surprisingly easily. Again, that strange mix of chemical and earthy smells tickled his nostrils. Brant closed the door behind him and the noise of the street outside seemed to recede as if down a very long tunnel.
Taking a deep breath, Brant moved confidently through the shop, past the overfilled shelves, into the dark corridor and emerging into the fabric-swathed room he'd been banished from just two days before. Siobhan was reclined once again upon the red velvet day-bed, this time in a tight-fitting yet austere dress of what appeared to be dark violet, nearly black in the dim light from the profusion of lamps. She seemed neither surprised nor concerned with Brant's intrusion. For some reason, this angered Brant.
"You've had your fun. I want you to change me back." Remembering how the true words he'd never intended to speak had seemingly fallen from his mouth the last time he was here, he stopped, aware that if Siobhan did indeed have the power to restore him to his former self, then demanding such a thing was not the way to achieve it. "Please."
At his final word, Siobhan looked up, a curiously sad smile upon her face. She looked for several moments into Brant's eyes, making Brant feel immeasurably uncomfortable yet unable to look away.
"That was the last word I said to you before you left here last time: `please.' You never uttered that word once during your time here, never even came close to thinking of it. I'm glad to see the change two days have made upon you, Brant. Take a seat." Siobhan gestured languidly to the day-bed, sitting up straight as Brant sat next to her, once more feeling uncomfortable at being in such an intimate seating arrangement with the old woman.
"I've changed a lot more than that, and you know it. I came here looking for help and you put some spell on me or something and now I... now I'm a fag." This was the first time Brant had acknowledged out loud the transformation he'd undergone since leaving the old woman's shop two days before. He kept on talking, not wishing to dwell on just how he felt about the statement. "Whatever you did, however you made me think and do these things, I want you to... would like you to undo it, to turn me back. Please."
Rather than answer him, Siobhan stood from the day-bed and walked over to the cabinet and reached inside. From it, she withdrew two glass bottles of Coke, beaded with condensation. With a silver bottle opener she popped the caps and walked back to Brant, proffering a bottle. "Go ahead, its ordinary Coke. Even witchcraft can't come up with a better drink." Brant took the bottle and together they took pulls on the cold bottles. Remaining standing before him, Siobhan began.
"First, you must understand that I am a witch; that I understand and manipulate the arcane forces you cannot comprehend, or were even aware of until so recently. If I'd told you this on our first meeting, you would have dismissed me as a mad old crone and more than likely you would have left there and then. As it was, you reeked of cynicism, but your pride and single-minded pursuit of Penny forced you to consider rather more unorthodox measures. This time, however, you are more able to accept what I say as truth, with your own experiences of the past forty-eight hours standing as evidence, and believe me also when I say that truth is the only thing that ever passes from my mouth.
"Knowing this, I tell you now that your understanding of this situation is backwards. Two days ago, I did not change you, although I used that word, a foolish misstep on my part, and one of many missteps I have made concerning you, Brant. That you are back here at all shows that I continue to misstep; that you are back just two days later shows just how gravely.
"I did change you, though. Almost seven years ago, in fact. I am bound to silence as to the exact reasons, and will never speak of them, but I will explain to you now as much as I can, for I wronged you all those years ago and was too blind to see the devastating effect it would have upon you, as well as me.
"What you are feeling now, what you are rapidly hurtling towards is in fact the real Brant. This is the person you were meant to be: homosexual. Several years ago, I willingly agreed to smother that part of your personality, turning you into Brant, the All-American Football Jock. For seven years, you've been a living, walking cliché, your actions dictated by a personality lacking in its most predominant feature." Siobhan sounded almost desperately sad as she confessed to Brant, who couldn't believe what he was hearing. But the depth of her sorrow only confirmed his fears: that she was in fact telling the truth.
"So, you made me straight? And now, you've just taken it away again? What about my football? What about my friends? What about my entire life? I don't want this."
"I'm not explaining myself very well, Brant. Let me try again. I have strength in several areas of magic: divination, the ability to see information in the past, present or future; enchantment, the ability to influence others, and transmutation, the manipulation of matter and energy, and it is primarily transmutation, with some intricate and devastatingly far-reaching enchantment, that effected your alteration.
"But I have no power in conjuring; I cannot create that which is not there. That you are athletic, confident and charming are things that come from you; but they are only one part of you. When I remolded your very being, I hid away a huge part of yourself, and these other facets of your personality expanded to fill the void left by the removal of your other traits, like the exaggeration of a person's features in a caricature. I repressed your homosexuality until it became something you couldn't process; you couldn't even entertain such thoughts, or could never grasp them for more than a mere moment, and would forget them just as easily. The shard of heterosexuality that was within you -- that other sexual half that resides within us all, to some extent or another, was swollen and inflated to fill your entire being, forcing you into a sexuality that was primarily not your own, but you nevertheless quickly adapted and thrived, more than I would ever have imagined. As for what will happen to the life you have made for yourself now that your true self is known to you, I cannot foresee or predict, as my path is so closely entwined with yours it obscures my powers of divination where you are concerned, but I can and have undone the causes that set you on this path." In another great swig, Siobhan emptied her Coke and set the bottle upon the coffee table. Brant sat there, taking in all that had been said, the bottle still half-full and dripping condensation onto his jeans.
Old Brant wanted to disbelieve what she was saying but he somehow knew she was not. Some force, like the one which made truth and brutal candor de rigueur within these walls, told him that he was hearing the truth. He could only sit in stunned silence and bewilderment, too many questions buzzing around his mind as Siobhan continued.
"My final misstep in this whole sorry mess was to allow you to anger me upon our meeting two days ago. How very weak and ignorant of me, to permit your brutish arrogance and haughty superiority gnaw at my mind when I was the very one to create such features in the first place! As a result of my anger and petulance, I allowed you to partake in too much of the smoke which was to unravel the bonds that had been placed upon you seven years earlier." Brant suddenly sat forward, almost spilling the rest of his Coke.
"Will I always... I mean do I always have to..." Brant took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he had to ask, afraid of the answer. "I can't cum unless I... without..." Siobhan smiled, not unkindly, as she gently placed a hand on Brant's shoulder to try and ease the confusion and discomfort he was going through.
"You are craving that which you were denied for so long, and this is overriding almost all of your other emotions at the moment.
"You were meant to slowly come back to what you were, to naturally discover your real orientation, just as any other gay person realizes their true self. Your macho high school days were to become nothing more than a hiatus, a self-imposed denial, and you should have integrated the lost parts of your personality seamlessly into yourself once more over a period of weeks, maybe months; maybe you would have remained a star football player, or maybe you would have followed other interests that began to resurface. I was to give you back that which I had taken away and you would have been none the wiser. In a pique of rage at your arrogance, I decided to thrust those things back upon you all at once, going even further than I should have, making you ravenous for that which has been held from you for so long. This may change much, or may change nothing, although I fear that from the little you have told me, some change may be unavoidable.
"I cannot stop it, and I cannot change it. Now that your true self is known to you, I cannot make you forget it; that is entering into dangerous realms of dark witchcraft that I will not tread. I also will not alter you any more than I already have. I promised to myself long ago that I would restore you when the time was right and meddle no more in the emotional growth of others, and although I may not have done it as I initially intended, it is nevertheless done. Any further interference on my part would just be to manipulate you further." Siobhan sat back down on the day bed next to Brant, and they continued to talk for a little while longer. Brant asked as many questions as he could think of (and he certainly had a lot to ask), but Siobhan, despite being full of remorse, was less than able to provide Brant with all the answers he had hoped for. The relief, to be able to unload the burden she had carried for so long, was obvious, even to Brant in his state of shock. He couldn't quite make himself feel sorry for her, especially as the most important question he could think of was the one he received no answer for. "Siobhan, why did you do this to me? The way you talk, it sounds that this is something you have never done before. If so: why me? What did I do to you?" "Brant, all I can tell you is that I bore you no ill will, and had no knowledge of your existence before this whole pitiful affair. But I cannot answer that question any further. Just know that it did happen, and that I am truly sorry for ever having done it in the first place, for more reasons than you may think. What I did to you was something I had never attempted before, and its effects were unknowable. I created an enchantment heavily bound by transmutation spells that pushed me to my very limit, testing my skill and demanding all of my resources. At the time the challenge was exhilarating, for it had been years since I had truly tested my own boundaries. But, when the enchantment took effect, it took its power from its creator, and I was drained of virtually all my power, my vitality and my extended youth. Seven years ago I was eighty-four years old, but I retained the potent beauty of my youth. My own foolishness stripped me forever of this, and although I can feel some of my power return to me now that you are restored, I am a mere flicker compared to the inferno that I once was." For a while longer the two of them talked, with Siobhan patiently answering his questions, but Brant could acquire no more answers or guidance and he eventually took his leave. Outside, he was surprised to find that dusk was falling, and he'd been in the store for over two hours. He turned back to look at the sign: "Madame Siobhan," and suddenly had the feeling that if he were to ever come this way again, the store, with its weathered sign would be gone as though it had never existed. After all, stranger things had happened. Heaving a heavy sigh, Brant set off on a roundabout course for the frat house, deciding to walk as the weather was improving once again and he needed the time to try and sort out his thoughts. He'd never experienced such polar opposite emotions warring within him, and suspected that few people had to such a degree; excitement, eagerness and anticipation versus fear, revulsion and despair. He was gay, and he was eager to experience this side of him he never knew existed; indeed, that side of him was so voraciously hungry to make up for lost time that it was as if it was holding his body to ransom until Brant gave it what it wanted (although another part of him knew it was wrong to think of his body as dueling factions -- for the first time in a decade, he was whole). This thrill of the experiences that lay before him, that he was rushing towards, sent a small shiver of thrill through him when he allowed himself to dwell upon it. But there was ten years of his life that hadn't contained one iota of homosexuality. Talking with Siobhan, he'd come to realize just how completely whatever she had done to him had blocked him from any kind of homosexual thought or contact. He couldn't bring to mind the image of Coach Peterson's cock, which he'd seen dozens of times in the changing rooms, because his mind had actively forgotten it. He'd laughed along to gay jokes made by his friends, but had never really understood them, simply keeping up appearances, never questioning why he couldn't grasp what the others found so funny. For an entire decade he'd been an uber-straight parody of every jock in every high school, his natural charm, athleticism and egotism expanding to fill the space that would have been his homosexuality.
In those ten years he'd developed from Brant the child to Brant the young man; he'd undergone puberty (and had been decidedly unsurprised to discover that his unusually early and potent pubescent development was also in part caused by Siobhan's meddling, although this was an `unintended response.'), forging friendships and a personality that was undeniably him, but at the same time not who he really was at all. He was arrogant due to his athleticism and alpha male status, but this was off-set by his natural charm and likeability. These were all parts of him, but had been stretched and distorted to fit a Brant that no longer existed. He was now of an age where such a radical change in him would surely be impossible without ruining everything he had, and he despaired at the thought of his friends and family turning away from him if they learned what he truly was.
By the time Brant came out of his hurricane of thoughts, it was full dark, and Brant had no idea where he was, having taken crossings at random, without consciously thinking where he was heading. Having left his cell phone in his room, he wasn't able to GPS his location, let alone call for a cab, and it certainly didn't look like a neighborhood where cabs just rolled on by every few minutes. What had pulled him from his maelstrom of emotion was the pounding music that he could hear from the bar he was now stood in front of, the neon beer signs flooding his eyes with garish color. Despite it being a weeknight, it sounded pretty busy, and Brant felt he could do with getting lost in a crowd, as well as a few beers to help dull his incessant thinking. Checking his wallet - $30 and a bunch of singles -- he pulled the door and stepped in.
The bar was called Hank's and was a real dive bar. Inside it was filled with the stale stink of old beer and Brant nostrils flared at the thick fog of smoke that clouded the entire bar. The Eagles were playing on some ancient jukebox, and as Brant walked to the bar, he saw that it was surprisingly full, with about ten or so guys sat around drinking their beers, in a bar that would be considered packed at thirty bodies. He got to the bar and ordered a beer with a whiskey chaser, so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't even think about trying to act over 21 (but doing a better job because of it), then took the drinks and sat at a small table set by the back wall, the only empty table in the place. He took a large pull of his beer and sent it on its way with the bourbon, then proceeded to alternate between tearing the label from the beer bottle in small, jagged ribbons and taking pulls from it as he wrestled with what he was becoming: a `normal' life he'd lived for so many years screamed against what his entire body was telling him was true, that he'd been in fact living a lie. How was he meant to reconcile himself to that? But at the same time, everything he'd done, said and felt for so many years was already receding away from him, feeling more like an act.
"You ordering another drink, or you just gonna cover my floor with crap?" Brant looked up and after a moment recognized the bartender -- a fairly short, stocky guy, but looked like he'd played football back in school before getting himself a stout, solid round belly. Brant found himself thinking what nice eyes he had. "I'm just messing with you, buddy. You look like you've got some pretty heavy thoughts. Want another?" The bartender pointed at the vandalized bottle and gave Brant a hundred-watt smile. Brant found himself smiling back.
"Sure, I'll take another beer and chaser. Thanks." The barkeep gave a grunt of acknowledgement and picked up the shot glass and bottle along with the five Brant handed him, and offhandedly swept the tatters of label from the table top with a threadbare washcloth before heading back to the bar. Brant's fresh drink arrived shortly afterwards, and he began the same process, now with the added thoughts that he was finding chunky barmen in dead-end bars attractive. Sometime later, draining the last of his second beer and feeling the bourbon coursing through his body like molten fire, Brant needed to take a piss. He stood up and the bar seemed to wobble a little; his chair barked a protest as Brant's leg jolted it backwards. He turned to his right and headed through the archway to the corridor that led to the restrooms, where he'd seen plenty of guys heading in and out from.
It was dingy, with the acrid stench of old piss, shit and sweat, with a faint, bitter tang of chemicals like a half-forgotten memory. Along one wall were a hand basin followed by three urinals, whilst three stalls lined the other wall. Brushing the doorframe as he stepped into the restroom, Brant saw that only the middle urinal was free, so immediately ducked into the first stall, suddenly conscious that he'd be standing half-drunk between two guys with their dicks out. He threw the lock, pulled down his pants and sat heavily on the cold toilet seat, holding his head with one hand, realizing that he hadn't eaten a thing all day. He took a deep breath and looked up, almost shouting out as he saw the cock poking through a hole in the stall partition he hadn't noticed. Brant sat there, stunned, looking at it; it was stubby and fat, with a blunt, flared head. After everything that had happened, he wondered whether it was a figment of his imagination: that he was now hallucinating dicks growing out of the walls.
Before he realized what he was doing, he'd grabbed it, as gently as if he'd captured a small bird. It was an incredibly weird feeling, to hold something that you are intimately familiar with, but a completely different version of it. The shape, texture, girth, warmth, hardness were all somehow familiar yet completely alien to him, and the fact that it was just jutting from a bathroom stall partition just heightened the sense of unreality. The thick, fat cock throbbed within his hand, and Brant seemed to wake up from his reverie. He was holding another man's dick!
Within a minute, Brant was back out on the sidewalk, almost hyperventilating as he walked back down the street, resisting the urge to sprint back to a crossing that looked like he'd be able to pinpoint his location. He had grabbed another guy's dick! But, the initial reactions that had propelled him from the bar now seemed stupid, almost ridiculous. There wasn't revulsion, guilt or worry. Instead, he was wondering what it would have been like, to hold it some more, to give that stranger the relief he'd been after.
Almost an hour later, Brant had found his way back to campus, coming in through the north entrance, having somehow circled around almost the entire city, and it was almost midnight. He'd been spending the time trying to wrestle with feelings of lost chances, frustration and disappointment, but every time he thought he'd managed to corral them into a manageable bundle he could box up and put away, they squirmed free, filling his mind's eye with images of what could have happened if he hadn't panicked, how his evening could have turned out if he had given in to desires that were beginning to feel more normal to him than any he'd ever felt. But there was stubbornness to Brant, and anger at how he'd been so unknowingly manipulated. Now that he was able to feel the changes occurring within him -- even though they were supposedly returning him to his true self -- he wanted to exercise at least some control over them, to prove that he was not some pawn to be bent to another's will. These thoughts struck him as overly dramatic and more than a little illogical, and before long he was back to seeing that stout cock in his hand once more, just as he heard the familiar whine of one of the campus security team's golf buggies, and stopped to face it.
"Evening; it's pretty late to be strolling." Still only just within campus grounds, the walkway was poorly lit, and a moment later a flashlight blinded Brant, who raised his hand to shield his eyes. The guard had a broad Mexican accent, and took a moment to look Brant over and make sure he wasn't a threat. "Say, you're way over in the jock compound, right? Need a lift? Climb in." Brant swung himself a little less than gracefully into the buggy, colliding with the guard, who gave a low grunt but said nothing. Either the buggy was small or the two of them were big, but Brant fell like he was half falling out of the little electric cart as they started trundling towards the first buildings. The guy didn't bother making smalltalk, just looked ahead and drove them through the campus, obviously used to ferrying students about campus late at night. Brant, curious, looked over; all three buttons on the neck of the guard's blue polo shirt were open, exposing a thick clump of black chest hair that indicated a thick pelt beneath the rest of the shirt, which was fitted pretty snugly to a pretty strong-looking body. Continuing down, Brant saw that the guy's legs were also pretty solid, filling out the uniform pants as well. Between them sat a full basket, straining against the navy cotton. Brant's mind filled with images of the hard dick he'd held in his hand just an hour before, of the disappointment he'd acknowledged he'd felt at fleeing the bar so impulsively. He felt his own dick stiffening in his jeans, as it had already done several times on the walk home thinking about what he would have done...
"OK, you want to know how it is?" Brant snapped back to reality, realizing they'd come to a stop, and must have been driving for a good five minutes already. Instinctively, he felt panic flush through him. "You're drunk, I could smell whiskey and beer on you before you got into the cart, and that ain't allowed on campus. So, you got two choices. Either we head on up to the faculty block to see what they have to say about this." The guard's eyes locked with Brant's, searching his thoughts, trying to read his reactions... daring Brant to ask him.
"Or...?" Brant had a vague sense of what was about to happen, but everything was happening so fast, and this feeling of unreality that he'd had back at the bar had settled over him once more.
"Or we go back to my hut, get you a coffee before we send you back to your buddies, and we find a suitable way to help me forget about this evening." He knew what this meant, and as if to leave absolutely no doubt, the guard reached down and gave his bulge a firm squeeze. Brant stared at the bulge dumbly, and as the guard's hand came away, it throbbed and actually got bigger before his eyes, making him look away, his face blazing with shock and embarrassment.
Brant's mouth was dry, his palms slick with sweat as he sat paralyzed in the buggy. The guard looked fairly short, but this emphasized his powerful body. His breath hitched in his chest, almost a sob of bewildered frustration. Then, the last hour quickly tumbled through his mind, the disappointment and frustration he'd wrestled with almost as soon as he'd left the hard dick still throbbing through the gloryhole at Hank's. He looked back at the guard, who was patiently awaiting Brant's reply. His thighs still strained against the cheap cotton uniform slacks, and the definite outline of a rapidly forming erection was clear in the ample bulge at his crotch.
He wanted to suck this guard's dick.
The breath that he'd been holding escaped him in a relieved rush. He had admitted it; A great flood of relief coursed through his for a moment. It felt like the person his parents, teachers, friends and peers had wanted him to be was just a 2-dimensional image on a sheet of tissue paper, held in front of a burning ring of fire like the daredevil performers use at the circus. With his admission, Brant had torn through this old, false image and burst through his emotional ring of fire.
"The second option," Brant replied in a breathless whisper. Immediately, the buggy whirred forward once more as Brant stared straight ahead, exhilarated, petrified and hard as rock. Less than a minute later, they turned a corner and pulled up outside the front of a small prefabricated hut the night guards used when not doing rounds.
The guard swung out of the buggy in a single, practiced motion. He was even shorter than Brant had expected, probably no more than 5'5", over half a foot shorter than Brant, but was just as thickset as he had suspected. His short stature made him look twice as thick as if he'd been Brant's height, and he had to have been wearing his uniform a size too small to further emphasize that despite his lack of height, he wasn't anybody to mess with. He quickly pulled a set of keys from his belt and unlocked the hut, stepping inside and leaving Brant outside with the door open. Knowing that he could easily make a run for it without the guard reporting him, Brant sat for a moment, then swung himself out of the buggy and headed inside, stopping in the doorframe. The guard had his back to Brant, filling a kettle from a small sink. His ass was displayed almost obscenely by the snug cut of his pants. It was the first time Brant had ever openly looked at and appraised another man's ass, the thought sending a small shiver up his spine.
"Close the door." Brant complied, remaining standing in front of the cheap wooden door as water sputtered into the kettle. Finally, the guard turned around, plugged the kettle into a cord on a small shelf beneath the window and looked up at Brant. He didn't flick the switch to actually turn on the kettle. For a moment, the two of them stood there, neither quite sure how to proceed. Brant could feel the burst of resolve ebbing from him, the surge of adrenaline once again leaving him, and almost bolted. But he took one last glance, without thinking, at the security guard's crotch. He could see the chubby tube of half-hard flesh curled over balls that overfilled the confined space so much that the seam running under the seat of his pants cut through them, pushing them to either side. In the dim light from the bare bulb above the guard's head, the shadows beneath these mounds were stark and only made them seem bigger. A throb pulsed through the cock, causing it to fatten and shift a little, and the guard gave a small chuckle. "You lookin' pretty hungry, puto." For a moment, Brant felt a small burr of indignation at the casual way this guy just referred to him as a faggot. But at the same moment, the guard's strangely delicate hands pulled the zipper and popped the button of his fly as quickly and deftly as he'd swung himself from the golf buggy. Another moment later, he was stood with his pants shoved a little way down over the thickset thighs, the hem of his polo shirt now hanging just in front of his crotch, hiding whatever was inside.
Brant's heart was pounding in his chest, in his throat, in his ears. He could feel his own dick painfully hard in his own underwear, the feel of his chest as it rose and fell in short, sharp breaths. He wanted to lift the hem of that polo shirt, see what was beneath. The small portion of exposed thighs was teeming with short black hair; Brant wanted to feel it against his palms. Sweat had at some point sprung out on Brant's forehead -- he could feel a bead slowly tracking down his right temple as he stood, transfixed, panting, his fear and doubt evaporating as lust and desire and years of inhibited feelings took over. The guard gave another little chuckle, breaking the spell that held them both in an endless moment that teetered over the pivot-point of Brant's life. He could almost physically feel his life rotating around some cosmic fulcrum, realigning itself. With one hand, the guard pulled up the polo shirt; up over his white briefs, almost overflowing with their engorged contents; up over the slightly paunchy tummy over a faint six-pack, a thick treasure-trail surging upwards from the waistband of his briefs; up over the big beefy chest, swirling with unruly masses of black hair, two large brown nipples life islands in a black sea. The guard was stood, his pants halfway to his knees, his top hiked up almost to his chin, his white briefs starkly contrasted against the dark skin and jet black hair that was almost everywhere, showing himself off to Brant, inviting him to pleasure him.
Brant's life, swinging ever-faster around that unseen fulcrum; the feeling of it coming to rest, the course of his life shifted... no, corrected. This was RIGHT! This masculinity before him: muscle, paunch, hair, testosterone, sweat, stubble... they were the things Brant had never known he'd always craved. There was no conscious decision, no ticking of boxes, and no selecting his preferences. These things were within him to his core; fundamental and constant, and had always been there. He could feel that now, as if his soul had been a house half packed up for the winter but never knowing it; furniture that belonged to that house stowed under cotton dust sheets, unseen.
White cotton dust sheets, finally torn away.
White cotton.
Torn away.
Suddenly back in his mind, for the first time since he could remember fully in his own mind, his was knelt before the guard; his hands were pulling down the white cotton briefs; the stiff length of the guard's cock arcing heavily up and smacking against Brant's cheek. His nose and mouth pressed deeply into the hollow of his crotch, wiry black hair engulfing his face, filling his nostril with musk, with sweat, with the faint tang of piss, with MAN. His hands stroked through the coarse leg hair as he pushed the briefs and pants lower over the guard's muscular thighs, his face rotated around to the left as his lips closed over the side of the solid, erect shaft. The guard was murmuring under his breath, a rapid-fire tattoo of Mexican obscenities, orders and random curses. Brant's mouth quickly traveled higher, his tongue lapping over the hot, quivering length, following a vein as it too surged upwards towards the head. Folds of dark brown skin puckered over the bulging head, and without thought, Brant consumed it. As his lips pulled back the soft foreskin, his mouth filled with the smooth knob of the guard's head, the musky, salty taste of sweat and precum on his tongue, his glands squirting a rush of saliva in response.
"Yeah, jock-boy, take this spic verga," coaxed the guard, his free hand now gently cupping the top of Brant's head, "suck on me, puto, make me cum." Brant's breath streamed out in hot bursts through his nostrils, pulling in lungfuls of the manly scent of the guard's crotch as he feasted on the hard length. He inched further down the shaft as he rhythmically worked the shaft, his spittle drooling from the corners of his mouth, dribbling down his chin and over the hairy balls that were getting nearer with each thrust of his head. He was running on pure instinct, the porn films he'd watched alone and with friends coming back to him now as instructional videos. He alternated between sucking on the knob, tasting the precum dribbling onto his tongue as he ran it under the foreskin, then worked his way down the shaft, making sure to keep his teeth away from the sensitive skin. The guard's grip was becoming firmer, more insistent as his dick worked its way deeper into Brant's mouth, and Brant knew what was coming.
Suddenly, his body convulsed as the guard's head struck the back of his throat, and he violently coughed the stiff dick from his mouth, scraping the head as it was ejected, making the guard hiss in protest. The feeling was awful, he could still feel his stomach wanting to clench and heave.
"Fuck, pendejo! You supposed to suck my dick, not bite it off. This your first time, carbon?" Brant, breathing heavily to bring himself back under control, looked up with watery eyes and sheepishly nodded. "No fucking excuse, puto, but you'd better not do that again or I'll tear your arms off." The guard thrust his hips forward, and Brant's eyes dropped back to the dark brown dick, just inches from his face and still more than half hard, glistening with his spit and swinging pendulously from side to side. He wanted to suck it so bad, to deepthroat it like the girls he'd seen in those videos and on the internet. Gingerly, he slid it back into his mouth, feeling it fully stiffen as he gently sucked, then began to work his way down its length once again, scared that it would be just as bad but even more determined to overcome it.
Then, the jarring feel of the guard's cockhead striking the back of his mouth once again. Brant tensed, expecting the wave of repulsion, but instead, only a slight shudder that ran through Brant as he tried again. Still expecting the gag reflex to wrack him with convulsions, he nevertheless pushed the cockhead into his throat, but the convulsions never came, just that mild internal shudder as the head slid back out into his mouth. The guard's hand was now gripping tightly as it shoved Brant back down; the guard's voice crooned in a constant murmur of Spanish and English; the dense knob once again ramming at the entrance to Brant's throat, shoving aside his tonsils and uvula, stretching open his gullet as it slid inside him all the way, his nose burying in the wiry tangle of black hair, his breathing cut off by the solid dick embedded in his gullet, his hands vice-like on the muscular, tensed thighs of the hairy Mexican guard fucking his face as his murmurs were strangled into grunting moans.
Brant felt the polo shirt dropping onto his head, and a second later both of the guard's hands were on his head, planted either side, clutching him tightly as he pulled Brant slowly and deliberately off his dick. His airway opened once again, his lungs refilling with sweet air. The polo shirt fell forward, and Brant looked up to see the guard's face ravaged with ecstasy. He was panting, scraps of Mexican Spanish escaping amongst gasping moans as he slowly reversed Brant's head off his spit-slicked dick until just the head lay heavily upon Brant's tongue.
"Shit, jock-boy, you the best mouth I ever fucked, and this really your first ever time? You taking my dick like a fucking pro." Brant looked up at the guard, sucking his head, his tongue lapping at the oozing precum as he gently nodded. "Damn, puto, you ain't lyin'." It wasn't a question, but a statement that was filled with awe. "Make me cum, jock-boy. Take that mecos, puto."
Brant didn't need telling twice, even before the guard's hands started shoving him back down the rigid length, he was doing it himself, feeling the head pound through into his throat, his nose crushing against the hairy crotch. Frenzied, Brant gorged himself upon the guard's dick, quickly finding a rhythm that was furiously paced, but allowed him to take short gulps of breath as the head popped back into his mouth, then quickly driving it deep back into his gullet once more. Any thought of restraint had left him; spit and precum slathered his cheeks and chin, spattering onto his T-shirt in sticky threads. His throat made hungry gulping sounds as he drew in air as hungrily as he did cock. The guard's balls, also slathered with clear slimy spittle, slapped heavily against Brant's chin. The guard's curses were now a torrent, completely in Mexican-Spanish, increasing in intensity and volume.
"Puto, you going to take this. got to cum. Aaah...!" The guard's orgasm quickly mounted, and his moan of pleasure was strangled and twisted into a rumbling squeal that came from somewhere deep in his throat. Somewhere deep in Brant's throat the dick pulsed and bucked and throbbed and erupted. The guard doubled over and his lungs emptied as if he'd been kicked in the stomach, as Brant felt his stomach inundated with the first, then second wad of cum. The hands clutching his head suddenly pulled him back off the jerking, spewing dick; the fat head was wrenched from his throat and back into his mouth, where it continued to shoot thick cum into Brant's mouth. His tongue swirled around the head as it heaved up wad after wad, his lips and cheeks sucking inwards as he strove to drain the dripping, hairy, churning nuts of their load and his abused throat worked as it hungrily tried to swallow down every last drop of the guard's seed. Rational thought was slowly seeping back into the two men, seeming to replace the sudden lack of noise. Moments before the small hut had been filled with the dirty noises of sex -- groans, curses, wet sounds of pleasure given and received. Now there was just the sound of two men panting as though they had run a marathon. Brant's nostrils were flaring as he fought to fill his lungs, still reluctant to release the softening brown cock in his mouth. The guard was leant against the small shelf, his hand brushing the forgotten kettle as he struggled to catch his breath.
Finally, Brant let the limp dick slide from between his lips, replacing it with mouthfuls of hot air thick with the smells of sex. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and it came away smeared with clear, viscous fluid. Suddenly, a small, grubby towel appeared before him. Looking up, he saw the guard regarding him with an unreadable expression. He got to his feet, his knees howling in protest at having been against the bare wooden floor for what felt like ages, and started to clean himself up. The entire lower half of his face, his neck and most of the front of his T-shirt were slathered in spittle, mucus and precum. He scrubbed his face and neck dry, but the T-shirt would have to stay like it was.
"Jock-boy, you some kind of puto genius." He'd heard the word so many times now, and realized its meaning had subtly shifted in the guard's mind when he used it to refer to Brant; less derogatory. "You did things to this verga I have never felt before. I never came so much -- no piruja could ever do that." The guard then seemed to stop himself, realizing his was heaping Brant with compliments, and awkward silence settled over them.
Brant quickly made his exit, refusing the guard's offer of a lift to his frat house, and all but ran from the hut. He walked in the cool night air, the drying T-shirt cold on his chest and stomach and crotch, his throat feeling like it had been scraped raw and stretched to double its size; a grin lit up Brant's face as he realized how close to the truth that was.
A moment later, another thought made him stop in his tracks. The wet T-shirt was cold against his chest and stomach, but why could he feel cold wetness in his crotch... The grin returned, now turning into a laugh as he realized that as the guard had begun to fill him with his cum, he too had shot his load -- without once touching himself.
His laugh pained his throat, but nevertheless he laughed into the still night as he returned to his room, changed forever -- his true course set.