Oscar

Oscar, Part 1

I was the only gay guy at my school. Actually, to be more accurate, the only one people knew about.

Where I'm from, word gets around quickly. When someone in your class sees you leaving a bowling alley toilet cubicle with another boy on a Sunday evening, red-faced and with a boner down your jean leg, even if you were only snorting coke the rumours would spread like wildfire.

Luckily for the other kid he went to a different school. Unluckily for me, we weren't snorting coke. And while I didn't have a choice in what happened next, I wouldn't have changed it for the world.

It wasn't the easiest of rides. Especially at an all-boys school. When I walked in the next day there were problems. Name calling. Segregation. Violence.

But it didn't bother me. None of it did. Even when the school bully thought it would be nice to throw rocks at me and then choke me over a car bonnet, I didn't care. I didn't even fight back. I was finally free.

Free from normality. Free from pretending to be the person everyone else wanted me to be. Free from all of that mundane shit. Then, like the juiciest cherry on top, I realised over the next few days there were plenty of perks to being the only openly gay guy in school.

Take my year, for example, of one-hundred seventeen-year-old lads. Modern statistics say that on average, one in ten men turn out to be gay. That's, what, ten boys for me to play with? Fifteen if you count the ones going through "phases".

Then there's the guys in the year above, and a few early starters in the year below. In the UK it's legal to start fucking at sixteen, and I swallowed my first cock at fifteen, so let's just say it didn't surprise me when my MSN started bleeping with friend requests I didn't recognise.

Naturally they wouldn't dare speak to me in person. I don't blame them after what happened to me. But behind the anonymity of a keyboard they would unload all sorts. All kinds of hormone-enriched desires and fantasies. It was like being the only flame in a world full of adolescent moths and life was getting hotter by the days.

My favourite came early. Adam. He was special. Not that we fell in love or had some kind of romantic connection. We definitely had something, but it was what he represented.

Adam was the leader. The head of the pack. Six-foot-six he was the guy every boy wanted to be and every girl in the neighbouring schools wanted to be with. He was captain of the rugby team and his house parties were legendary.

I was a social outcast that no team wanted, who turned to the solitude of swimming or jogging to keep the Gaydar messages coming. We couldn't have been more different, but, as it turned out, he and I shared something very striking in common.

It began, like the rest, with a message, popping up on my computer screen one evening after school:

`Hey Oscar. I hope you don't mind the add. I just wanted to say I heard what happened to you the other week and I hope you're ok. That guy's a dick.'

I must admit, now I find it heart-warming. That even though he would ignore me in the corridors or laugh with the crowd, he chose to reach out through kindness and concern. I certainly wasn't expecting it from him. Mr. Cool.

But, at the time, I didn't take solace in the irony. I just saw empty words. I knew exactly what he wanted. Because I wanted it too.

Unlike the rest though, Adam took time to crack. The others would get caught up in the excitement and then beg or threaten me to keep quiet. But tempers and fears are easily subdued with logic. If I talk, we stop fooling around, and neither of us want that, right? Boys like logic.

I guess Adam had more to lose. Social status means a lot at that age. He would talk to me for hours on end, almost every night, but he never gave anything away. Not even a hint.

He'd talk about sports and school and which girls he fancied. Others would do that too, but they'd usually end with something like "but she's so frigid" or "I heard she gives shit head". Something for me to latch onto. But not Adam. A real gentleman.

I'd reply to everything, pretending to care, waiting and waiting for my chance. I'd ask about his home and his family, about what he wanted to do with his life and where he wanted to live, but it was always just chat. No leads. Nothing.

Until one Friday. One Friday when I was close to giving up, I learned his parents would be away and he had the place to himself for the weekend. When I asked what time his inevitable party would be starting his answer was not what I expected.

`No party.'

`Why not?'

`Can't be bothered.'

`Fair enough. What you gonna do then?'

`Watch movies. Chill.'

Then the little on-screen pen started moving. There was more.

`Wanna join?'

My heart missed a beat. My cock twitched. Bingo.

`Sure. What time?'

`7pm?'

`Sweet.'

And it was. Sweeter than sugar. Sweeter than manna from heaven.

Not that I let myself believe it immediately. I was cautious. Wary. I'd heard horror stories, about guys getting lured to places and bashed by blood-thirsty mobs. So when I turned up the next night I watched his house. I had to make sure he really was alone. He was.

Knock, knock.

I can still remember what he wore like it was yesterday. Immaculate white sport socks covered his feet, size thirteen at least, heading up and underneath grey tracksuit trousers. The ones that cling in all the right places.

Around his torso was a tight white t-shirt that fit over his pecs like an extra layer of skin. His biceps bulged on either side, supporting two powerful arms, and his shoulders rose like a flawless peak beside his strong neck. His jaw, square, was smiling, and his blue eyes twinkled slightly under the hallway light below his full head of dark brown hair.

`Hey.'

His voice. I'd heard it hundreds of times before. In class, on the field, but never at me. Deep and commanding it reverberated through my body, sending chills down my spine. Like a delicious smoke I breathed him in.

I don't remember what I said back, but it must have been funny. He laughed, showing off a full set of gleaming white teeth. I remember following him to the kitchen. He got a couple of beers out of the fridge.

I remember watching the vein on his arm bulge, and his triceps and deltoids tense as he pulled the shiny metallic door open. We drank on aluminium stools around his kitchen island, facing each other; our knees a few centimetres apart. I remember the clink of glass as we toasted the weekend.

I remember the tour he gave of his house, the sound of the stairs creaking underneath us, the click of a doorknob as he showed me into a bedroom. His bedroom. I remember the double bed, unmade, with a plastic Tupperware box sitting on top. He asked me if I smoked pot.

`Fuck yeah.'

Picking up and opening the box he took a seat on the side of the bed and patted the area next to him. His mattress was firm, not hard, and I could feel the heat of his body all down my side. He smelt good. Too good. I had to fight every urge to touch him. Taste him. I watched his hands instead.

They selected two papers and turned them so the strips of shiny glue gleamed towards us. He lifted them to his mouth and stuck them together after a single stroke of his tongue. He smiled: I was staring.

Saying nothing he continued, placing the skins down and grinding the pungent green before mixing it with tobacco. He rolled it together quickly. It was textbook. Expertly made.

`Here. After you.'

Piss off,' I said. Roller's rights.'

He chuckled, put the small white spear between his thick lips and lit it. He breathed in deep, closing his eyes, and exhaled, billowing white into the air around us. He looked like a model.

His hand brushed against mine as he passed me the smoking stick.

`That's what I like about you,' he said.

`Huh?' I said after blowing out my own cloud; a gorgeous sticky, gloop beginning to drip through my head already.

`You don't take any shit.'

It was my turn to chuckle. All of that from going second?

`What's funny?'

`Nothing.'

`Bullshit.'

`Honestly, it's nothing.'

But I couldn't stop. The giggles had got me. I couldn't believe I was sat next to Adam Stanmore, captain of the rugby team, smoking his weed in his house, in his house. And like all laugher, it was infectious.

The rest I'll never forget. The joking and sniggering as we finished the joint. The play fighting and shoving afterwards. The give of his mattress as he pushed me onto it; the smell of his deodorant when he pinned my arms above my head; the weight of his body on mine; the silence as he held me down; his stare.

So I took my chance. He didn't pull back. He didn't stop me. Lying between my legs, our cocks hard as stone, grinding against each other under layers of fabric, we kissed.

Fuck he was a good kisser. No wonder all the girls wanted him. One hand supporting my neck, his thumb caressed my cheek, and the other ran down my chest, my stomach, under my t-shirt and behind onto my back. His tongue glided over mine and explored my mouth. His taste made my mouth water. But from more than just fresh beer and weed. He tasted like victory.

Releasing his hold his hand joined his other. Gravity pushed him down onto me harder. I threw my arms around his neck and felt his back tense as he pushed away from the mattress. He lifted us both up and whipped my t-shirt up and over my head, breaking my link and sending me back down. Expert hands indeed.

Enormous and dominating he knelt over me as the cool air of the room tickled my naked skin. Grinning he pulled up his own shirt. Slowly. Two, four, six-pack. His pecs, hairless and smooth, gleamed like golden silk in the dim lamp light. He threw the crumpled material to the floor. His eyes pierced into mine.

I licked my lips, taking in every inch of his perfect body. I followed his v-lines down and under his waistband to his bulge, almost ripping open the thin grey cotton keeping him hidden. I opened my mouth a fraction.

He got the hint.

Shuffling up towards my face, knee-step by knee-step, his towering figure grew. Bigger and taller until I could smell him: a faint trace of washing detergent mixed with the cum-infused sweat of his crotch.

`You want me to fuck your mouth?'

`Yes.'

A huge hand struck my face. Hard, but not painful. A heat prickled over my cheek. Pre-cum oozed onto my leg. I loved it when boys got rough.

`Yes, what?'

`Yes, please.'

`Good. Take them down.'

I took a hold of his waistband either side of his giant legs and peeled downwards. He wasn't wearing any underwear.

Thick, long and straight his cock sprung free and landed on my face with a thud. I kept pulling. His balls, big and full swung against my chin.

Without hesitating I licked them up into my mouth and rolled them over my tongue. Gently and carefully I gave them the occasional tug, sucking a little harder and revelling in the way his body shuddered. Thud-thud went his cock as he smacked himself against my cheek.

Opening my mouth I shifted direction, letting his balls hang against my chin again, wet and sticky. I stuck out my tongue and licked him from base to tip. Six inches, seven inches, eight inches, nine, until I felt the satin like softness of his head and tasted the saltiness of his pre-cum.

I couldn't wait any longer.

Grabbing hold of him I opened my jaw as far as it could go. He was big. The biggest I'd ever had. I sucked and sucked, running my hand up and down his shaft as more and more of his pre-cum mixed with my saliva and slid down my throat. Every taste bud savoured every part of him.

Seizing my hand he threw it away from him and grasped a tuft of my hair. He pulled my head towards him and drove himself in deeper. His pubes prickled my nostrils. My gag reflex tried to kick in but I didn't let it. Not this time. Not with him.

I put my hands on his legs to steady myself but he let go of my hair and I felt a vice-like grip around my wrists instead. My shoulders strained as he lifted my arms above my head, shackled together by only one of his hands. I didn't resist. I didn't want to.

I looked up and watched. He pumped in and out of my mouth. In and out, in and out. You are mine, his eyes said. And I was. I would have let him do anything to me.

Letting go of my wrists he grabbed the back of my head and pushed himself in harder. My throat stretched open as he choked me from the inside until my eyes watered. He groaned, deep and guttural, as he left himself there, slowly grinding into my face.

Holding my breath I took out my own cock. He pulled out, letting me grab a quick gulp of air, but quick it was. In no time he was thrusting again, faster and faster to match the rhythm of my beating hand.

Back and forth, back and forth, I took it like a champion. My lips kissed the base of his stomach each time he smashed against the back of my throat. His balls slapped against my chin. I gurgled and gulped: my mouth was full.

`Wow,' he said, sliding down so far tears fell from my eyes. Digging my fingers into his arse cheeks he let go of my head. I arched my neck back and took a long, full breath.

For a few seconds he watched me, lying on his bed. Panting. My body shaking and my own muscles tensing as I jerked myself. A strand of saliva dripped into my open mouth.

`You want my load?'

`Yes please.'

`You gonna blow too?'

`Yes, sir.'

This time he put both hands around my head, lifted it up and let rip. No mercy. He fucked my throat as hard as he could. My tonsils squeezed around him; his breath grew heavier by the second. I felt the blood rush to his cock from inside my mouth. The surge of my own climax began to crescendo. My cock tightened, my hole clenched, my fist pumped as fast as it could.

He pulled back, just in time, and, no hands, blew as my own load hit my abs and poured off in ten different directions. Hot and salty his filled my mouth. It cascaded over my tongue and down towards my stomach. But I closed my throat and let it pool. Not yet.

Black spots speckled my vision. Blood whirred through my head. My synapses flared into overdrive, flooding my body with pleasure. I closed my lips around him and sucked out every drop. For what seemed like minutes I unhurriedly licked him clean – his body jolting each time my tongue swept over his tip – until he could bear the sensitivity no longer.

He pulled out, bent over me and, with two thick fingers, wiped back in a gooey line that had spilled over my cheek. I opened wide and let him play with my mouth. He pushed himself and his load down until his knuckles touched my teeth.

Then I swallowed it all.

To be continued...

Learn more about Jack Ladd at www.jackladd.wordpress.com Copyright Jack Ladd 2015