Reputation and Honor
Chapter thirteen
By Roy Reinikainen
"Are you doing okay?" Eric asked, leaning close. When Marty turned to him, he raised his brows, silently repeating his question. Marty thought for a moment then lowered his eyes and shrugged.
"I don't know." He chewed gently on his lower lip, his brows drawn down in an expression of furious thought, as a muscle jumped in his jaw. He rubbed his forehead and adjusted his baseball cap. "No," he finally added, with a crooked grin. "No, I guess I'm not." He glanced toward Randy who, with Bobby at his side, continued to be surrounded by well-wishers. It was nice to see Randy behaving more like his old self . . . and the change in Bobby, over the past few weeks, was dramatic.
The change in Randy was no less surprising. Gone was the swaggering person whose ego seemed to know no bounds. In that person's place, stood a man whose confidence still shone through, yet he now exhibited a vulnerability that Marty had never seen in him. He stood at Bobby's side, smiling and laughing, but there continued to be a certain reserve about him. A tinge of anxiety flickered in his eyes, giving lie to his smile. He would glance toward Bobby, from time-to-time, as if he needed additional strength and support to not run away.
'This whole thing must be a challenge for him,' Marty thought, watching Bobby casually lay a hand on Randy's shoulder. 'At least, Randy's celebrating for the right thing,' Marty thought. 'He's faced the man who tortured him, taking a stand, both for himself, as well as any other guy Cline might have abused in the same way, and he's back with the team. He should be proud of himself, considering what he's overcome. I haven't overcome anything . . . and celebrating is the last thing I want to do.'
"I think I'd like to go home," he said, turning to Eric and smiling tiredly. "I wish I felt more like celebrating, but . . ." He shrugged. "Geez, Eric, y'know, I'm as glad as anyone that the coach is gone, and won't be badgering guys anymore. I can't help but think that he's probably gonna be facing worse stuff than he inflicted on anyone. I mean, I can't be happy about that, no matter how bad a guy he is. I wanted him to stop hounding me, and any other guys. I don't want him to be hurt as some sort of payback for whatever he's done."
Marty held out a hand to forestall any comment. "Oh, I know what he did to Randy was awful . . ." He removed his ever-present baseball cap and ran his fingers through his short hair. "I guess I'm not one of those people who are always out for revenge. I wish the coach could get some help. I mean, he's all messed up in the head. Y'think, wherever he's heading, someone might be able to do something for him? He puts on a macho mask, but I bet he's miserable inside. "Y'think?"
Eric thought for a moment. "I'm not sure he'd accept help if it was offered. I think that a person's got to want to change; otherwise, nothing anyone says or does is going to help. I'm thinking that Cline is a person who is able to convince himself of . . . anything. He doesn't think that he's done anything wrong. He's never at fault for what happens. So, I'm not so sure he will ever admit that he needs it, no matter how miserable he is. I do hope though, that some sort of counseling, or something, is offered. But, sure," he changed the subject, "if you want to go, there's nothing keeping us here."
Marty glanced over his shoulder, then touched Eric's arm. "Wait here. I'll be back in just a minute. I have to go tell Coach Bowen that I understand what he must be going through, right now. If I'm feeling all bummed, I can't imagine what he's feeling."
Eric watched the man who had become so important to him, make his way to Coach Bowen, who smiled as Marty approached. They spoke a few moments, then the coach patted Marty on the back. While Marty was returning, Coach Bowen caught Eric's eye, and raised a hand to his brow in a casual salute. Eric nodded, not quite sure how to respond. 'Marty's right,' he thought. 'There are just too many things going on in this room, right now.
The excitement in the locker room continued to run high, long after Coach Bowen left for home. One by one, or in groups, each of the players sat with Randy, telling him how much they missed him. It began when he was sitting on a bench outside the showers, shouting good natured jibes at each of the players about what he'd heard of their play. He was actually watching Bobby, who, aware that Randy was watching, was doing his best not to get an erection.
The fact that he personally wasn't repulsed by all the naked male-flesh also did not escape Randy's notice. 'I guess I am making progress,' he thought, feeling a surge of joy rush through him that had nothing to do with the capture of Cline. Not too many weeks before, he thought it inconceivable that he would ever be able to even look at another man and think of sex. During that brief time, due primarily to gentle and loving Bobby, things had changed.
Bobby had been wonderful for him. That first night, they had laid at one another's side, fully clothed, with Gus curled close-by. Bobby had held him while he trembled. He knew that Bobby would not hurt him, but . . . Later, in the middle of the night, he awoke and realized that he was holding Bobby, a fact that made him smile and fall into a night's sleep, with no nightmares.
Since that night, they had progressed; first to a few nights sleeping in their underwear, and last night . . . finally . . . to sleeping in the nude. He knew that him not being able to get an erection must be frustrating for Bobby, but the man never said a thing. They lay next to one another and tenderly kissed, then laughed, for the sheer joy of being together. It wasn't necessary for them to say anything. Being together was enough.
'Tonight, Cline is behind bars, awaiting the next chapter in his life, and I'm free,' he told himself, glancing toward Bobby, who was finishing his shower and was gathering his stuff. 'Tonight, Bobby and I can be together, and,' he smiled, 'if what I'm feeling right now is any indication, maybe I'll be able to get a hard-on. Then,' the smile broadened, 'who knows what might happen?'
"What you smiling about, Randy?" Someone called from the showers, as Bobby approached, his cock swinging from side-to-side, with each step. "You're looking mighty happy about something."
"Got big plans for tonight, guys," he shouted to the men still in the shower. He caught Bobby's eye. "I'm thinking about sowing some wild oats!"
"What?" Bobby squawked, coming to a halt.
Ross laughed, as he left the shower, one step behind Bobby, giving him a sharp swat on the butt. "Oats, Bobby, as in . . ."
Bobby brushed the hand away. "I know what kind of oats he's talking about. I just never heard Randy talk about being in a frisky mood before, is all."
Ross laughed. "From the looks of your dick, you may be in a frisky mood too, Mister Pickett!" The comment brought hoots of laughter from the guys nearby. Randy merely smiled, and watched Bobby, suffering a full-body blush, hurry past.
"Somebody better watch out tonight," Bobby called to the room at large, hidden by the lockers. "I'm thinking that I am in a frisky mood myself."
"Should we be warning anyone in particular?" someone called.
"Nah," Bobby laughed. "I'm sure the person doesn't need a warning, but," he added, a smile in his voice, "they better watch out. I may sneak up from behind and . . . pounce!"
"Yeow!" someone yelped. "Is this our Bobby? He's suddenly gotten all . . . assertive. Pounce! Uuuuuuu," sounds like it could be fun."
"Yep," Bobby shouted. "For sure, it's me. And, I'm horny enough that even you are beginning to look good! Had any lately, Hank?"
Randy smiled, as Hank shouted back. "I'd probably not even feel it."
"Oooooh, you're that stretched out of shape?" one of the assistant coaches laughed. "Bobby's definitely not sporting a wet noodle between the legs," the coach concluded.
"Thanks, Coach! I'm glad you noticed."
"I'm not available, Mister Pickett," the coach called back.
"Me neither," Hank shouted, "and, for your information, I am not stretched out of shape."
"Relax, guys," Randy called. He was leaning against the lockers at the end of Bobby's row, his arms crossed, as Bobby tried to coax his erection into his too-small shorts. "I'll see that Bobby's taken care of. After all, since he's a virgin and all, he needs someone to take him in hand."
"A hand-job doesn't qualify as losing your virginity," someone shouted, from across the room.
"Virgin!" Bobby shouted, with indignation, turning to Randy, with his hands on his hips. "Hell, I haven't been a virgin since . . . geez . . . last Monday, or something." He smiled brightly at Randy, then turned his back and pulled down his underwear, exposing his firm buttocks, pointing first at Randy, then to the cleft between his cheeks, and smiling brightly when Randy nodded.
"Since Bobby's so new to things," Randy shouted, "I'll make sure he gets some experience. I'll think of it as my civic duty," he intoned. "Protecting people from Pickett's poker," he concluded, ducking a shoe Bobby threw in his direction.
"I'm glad you're feeling relaxed enough to tease me," Bobby said, on their way home. Bobby had promised a celebratory meal that would go down in the annals of history.
"Just how long does such a meal take to prepare?" Randy asked, as they walked along the darkened sidewalk, while Bobby told him what he had in mind for dinner. He nudged Bobby with his hip, then reached out to grope his friend's butt. "I wouldn't want you to get started on something fancy, then not be able to finish because I'm distracting you." He grasped one of Bobby's ass cheeks, then the other. "You've got an awfully cute butt, y'know," he teased. "The front ain't too bad either, though I've never had the opportunity to taste it," he added. "Yet." He lowered his voice. "I wasn't joking when I was talking about wanting to sow some wild oats. You've got the sexiest butt of anyone on the whole team," he murmured.
"Better'n Phalen's or Marty's?" Bobby asked. They turned down the street, heading to his apartment, leaving the brightly lit road behind. "Way better," Randy murmured. "Why don't you unfasten your belt, so I can have a feel?"
"Here?"
Randy nodded, and smiled, as Bobby not only unbuckled his belt, but undid the button at the waistband to his shorts, and pulled down the zipper.
"It's yours," Bobby responded, breathlessly, maintaining a tight hold of the waistband of his shorts, to prevent them from sliding down his legs. "All of me is yours, as often as you want." He shuddered with pleasure as he felt Randy's hand snake beneath his shorts and squeeze his ass cheeks.
"Is your butthole itching for me to slide into you?" Randy asked, pleased with his own erection. "You aren't a virgin, are you? I mean really?"
"Uuuuu, I love it when you talk dirty," he smiled, nudging Randy with his hip. "But, to answer your question, it's been a while, but no, I'm not a virgin, and damn, Randy, you don't know how badly I've wanted you in me.
Randy stopped and turned to Bobby. "I'm thinking I'd like you in me too, my friend." He chuckled. "I'm thinking with such a sexy man leading the way, I may be back up-to-speed in no time. Then, I'll have months to make up for. Hell, you didn't have anything planned to do all summer did you . . . I mean, other than eat . . . and play around?"
"Geez, I wanna feel your sperm in me, so bad," Bobby groaned, as he squirmed, feeling Randy's finger push against his pucker.
Ed Bowen eased himself into his favorite easy chair, welcoming the familiar surroundings of his home. "Mary," he sighed, glancing at his wife who was standing nearby, concern written on her face. "Sit down, please. It's time to talk about everything that's been going on. The first part of it is over, but, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to face much more . . . unpleasantness. It's not going to be easy . . . for either of us, or for the family.
"Family?" Mary asked, sitting sideways, next to her husband. She took his hand. "What's wrong, sweetheart? What's happened?"
"You've read about the police widening their investigation into the three suicides of University students?" he asked. His wife nodded once, steeling herself for bad news. "Well," Ed continued, "you've not heard that . . . someone has been preying on some of my players." His wife's hand flew to her mouth.
"Don't tell me one of your players has died," she begged. "Please don't, Ed." Ed Bowen took his wife's hand and squeezed.
"No . . . thankfully, that didn't happen. But, one of my players . . . Randy Shaw . . ." Mary Bowen nodded, recalling the tall, dark-haired, self-assured young man with a ready smile and mischievous eyes. "He was a . . . a . . . victim." Ed tightened his grip, loosening it only when he saw his wife wince in pain. "Sorry," he murmured, running a thumb soothingly over the back of her hand. "Randy was about . . . ruined, by the experience. He was badly hurt, physically, but suffered most, mentally."
Ed Bowen plunged on. "Doctor Layson, the head of the Athletics Clinic, told me that when he first began treating Randy, the poor boy would vomit at the mere thought of someone touching him. According to the doctor, he was afraid of everything, and everyone."
"Oh, the poor, poor boy," Mary Bowen said, in a stricken voice. "Has anyone other than the doctor helped him? I hope he hasn't had to face his struggle alone."
"I saw him once, quite a while ago. He was a mess, but told me that he actually had improved quite a bit." Ed looked away. "I cannot imagine what he was like, when this whole thing started, if that was an improvement." He compressed his lips. "I saw him today, and he seems to be doing better. I know he's been seeing a psychiatrist, and, I found out today, that he's become close to another young man . . . one of the men on the team." Mary exhaled, at what seemed to be a happy ending. "Also," Ed continued, "Randy was given a hero's welcome by the entire team. Only a few of them know what he went through, but everyone was glad to have him back." Ed smiled. "That went a long way toward restoring his self-esteem."
"Oh, I am glad," Mary sighed. "He's such a nice boy. The thought, of someone treating another person like that . . . making them suffer . . ." she shook her head, "it's just awful."
Ed heaved a sigh. "Now, for the hard part, Mary." He looked at his wife with sad eyes.
"There's more?"
Her husband nodded. "The person who was preying on members of my team . . . and," he heaved another deep breath, "and, who may be directly or indirectly, we don't know yet, responsible for the three suicides, is Jackson."
"Mary's hand flew to her mouth, and she stood in shock. "No, Ed," she begged. "Tell me there's a possibility of someone having made a mistake. Please." She sank to her husband's side and took his hand, already knowing the answer.
Ed sadly shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I didn't want to believe the reports I'd been given. I couldn't imagine Jackson doing something like that, but . . . today . . . I heard him. I saw him, threatening young Marty Kelly." A helpless sound escaped his wife's mouth, as a tear ran down her cheek. "He was promising Marty a place on the team, if he would go to bed with him. Marty turned him down. Apparently, Jackson had been badgering Marty for a number of weeks or months; I don't know which."
"I confronted Jackson." Ed smiled, "after one of Marty's young friends, who had arrived without Jackson's knowledge, did a couple whiz-bang martial arts moves, which left Jackson on his back in a puddle of water on the shower room floor." Ed shook his head in wonder. "Quite a sight, I tell you. I don't believe Jackson ever realized precisely what hit him.
"Anyhow, I confronted Jackson. "He was still lying in the pool of water, dazed from being thrown across the room. "I fired him, and told him that I hoped never to see his sorry ass again . . . and . . . that I would do everything in my power to see that he paid for what he did to Randy and Marty." He turned toward his wife.
"Mary, we don't know for sure whether Jackson had anything to do with the deaths of those three other young men, but, deep down, I believe he did. After seeing him today, and seeing what he put Randy through, I have no doubt that he could . . . easily . . . have driven someone to suicide. He was awful, Mary, absolutely awful."
"What's next?" Mary asked. "What will happen to him?"
Her husband shrugged. "I honestly don't know. When he left the building, the police were waiting. He's in custody, and Mary, I fervently hope . . . I pray . . . that I'll be long-dead before that boy is free again."
Randy fell backward onto the pillow and covered his eyes with a forearm. "I'm sorry," he groaned. "I want to, so badly, but it just won't work."
Bobby gently moved the arm and knelt on hands and knees at Randy's side, looking him in the eyes. "I . . . do . . . not . . . care," he enunciated each word. "It's going to take time, I know that, and so do you. Just 'cause you're back to looking the way you always have doesn't mean that," he touched Randy's head with an extended forefinger, "up here has returned to normal." He leaned forward, tenderly kissing Randy's parted lips.
"I've got an idea," Bobby announced, causing Randy to tilt his head up and give his friend a wary look. Bobby rolled out of bed, causing Gus to jump free of the sudden commotion. Bobby yanked on the blanket, pulling the corner from beneath the man who still lay on the bed. "C'mon, handsome," he grinned. "We're going outside."
"Huh?"
"Outside, as in the out of doors, where nature is . . . you know? Now, grab the pillows, my arms are full of all these blankets." He turned and left the room, with Gus at his side, Bobby's butt flexing with each step, and Gus' tail in the air.
Randy shook his head. "Outside, where nature is," he snorted. "Suppose the fresh air will help me keep an erection?" He rolled out of bed, snagging the four large pillows Bobby slept with, then headed toward the patio. Bobby had told him that he sometimes chose to sleep outside, and he and Gus certainly seemed to have a plan. Bobby looked up and smiled, from spreading the blankets on the brick patio, and gestured to the makeshift bed.
"Gus and I sleep out here sometimes. We just have to ignore any falling oranges. A big one hit Gus one time . . . sorta like an orange-colored bomb falling out'a the darkness. I figure the impact used up a couple of her nine lives," Bobby laughed. "Since then, she now only sleeps inside." Bobby first knelt on the blankets, then lay back and looked up at Randy, who stood at the blanket's edge, looking down at him. "Why don't you join me? The moonlight's making you look sexy as hell."
Randy slowly knelt next to the man who was sprawled on his back in the center of the blanket. The silvery light from the full moon cast dappled shadows over both the man and the blankets. Somewhere, in the distance, a dog barked twice . . . the sound ending as abruptly as it had begun. Bobby reached up and took his hand.
"C'mon, handsome," Bobby coaxed. "I'm not asking anything of you but to join me, here, under the stars."
"Y'know," Bobby said, lying on his back while Randy, lying on his side, propped himself up on an elbow and lovingly ran a finger over Bobby's jaw, feeling the hint of beard-stubble. "I think that I almost fell in love with you that first day of practice. It was the first time I'd ever seen you." He rolled his head and grinned in Randy's direction. "I remember thinking, at the time, that I had never seen anyone so good looking. Of course, I didn't know anything about you, then, but I could appreciate how well you filled out your uniform." He reached out and ran a forefinger over Randy's lips, then tenderly kissed Randy's hand. "You were so sexy." He grinned.
"I fantasized about you almost every night, imagining you, just like this, at my side, either sleeping, or watching me masturbate." Bobby spread his legs and grasped his penis, and began to stimulate himself to an erection. "I like being watched, y'know." He smiled to himself. "When we were in the locker room, I would always shower close to you, so I could watch you, but also, I fantasized that you were watching me.
"I would watch as you would soap-up, imagining it was me who was washing you . . . rubbing my hands all over your body. When you'd reach between your legs, or soap-up your cock, I swear, I'd 'bout get hard, every time." Bobby wasn't masturbating, he was making love to his hand . . . slowly . . . sensuously, bringing himself to an orgasm. Your dick is so damned sexy, hanging there, always seeming half-hard, nestled below those thick pubes. I love how your nipples always seem to be hard. I love nipples . . . especially yours." Bobby's hand slowly glided up and down his erection, as he continued speaking.
"Damn, Randy, I'd kill to look like you. I saw you in the locker room once, totally hard." Bobby grinned, playing the scene on his closed eyelids. "I 'bout creamed, right there, just seeing you. You didn't think anyone was watching, as you sat on one of the benches, your legs spread wide so your balls could hang free. You were leaning against the wall with your eyes closed, and were masturbating with one hand and playing with your nipples with the other. Then," Bobby's voice reflected his irritation, "some assholes came into the locker room, slamming the door, and laughing, and stuff. Both of us jumped. Me, so I could move and you wouldn't know I'd been watching, and you, to cover up." Bobby sighed. "I don't know how many times I masturbated, imagining that I saw you shoot, and that I was kneeling between your spread legs, licking your cock and belly clean. Whenever I'd shoot, I'd lick my own stuff off my fingers, pretending I was tasting your sperm.
"I love your voice, y'know? Whenever you talk to me it's as if I'm being wrapped in some sort of erotic blanket. You make me tingle, just listening to you. And your smile! Oh, and your laugh. I love it when you laugh." Bobby's voice took on bashful tones. "I always dreamt that . . . someday . . . I'd do something to make you smile, or laugh. You always seemed so serious, and . . . recently . . . so sad.
"I've always admired how confident you are. You're not like the rest of us guys on the team, worrying about the next pitch, if we're holding the bat too tightly, or whatever. You're just like Phalen, y'know. When either of you approach the plate, with bat in hand, confidence sorta just oozes out of your pores. You know you're good. You know that people are watching, and you're determined to give 'em their money's worth. All of us guys on the team feel it. All of us wish we could be like you.
"But, no one else on the team has ever kissed you, like I have, or tasted your tongue." Bobby squirmed, as his self-stimulation increased in speed.
"No one but me has felt the weight of your body, or felt the heat of your breath against their cheek, as you rock your hips, rubbing your cock against mine. No one but me has had you tell them that you love them. No one but me has lain awake, with you at my side, feeling so happy I want to jump and shout to the world, telling 'em how good I feel.
"Last night, when you snuggled close and murmured my name in your sleep as you rubbed your erection against me, I shot, without even touching myself. You were erect . . . I mean . . . totally hard, and rubbing against me, Bobby Pickett, the luckiest guy on the friggin' planet." Bobby's furious pumping of his own cock slowed, then stopped. He took a ragged breath, then exhaled a groan, as his cock spewed three thick strands of sperm onto his belly.
He opened his eyes to find Randy, supporting himself on one elbow, watching him in rapt attention. "You really think of me like that?" Randy asked. Hell, Bobby I'm the lucky one. I've found a man who can care about me, despite . . ."
"Shhh," Bobby murmured. "Now, lay back, I've got a gift for you."
"Gift?"
Bobby nodded and grinned, as he scraped his fingers over his own belly, gathering up as much sperm as possible, while Randy watched, his lips parted. His eyes flicked from Bobby's, to the fingers and the sperm, then back.
"This is for you," Bobby grinned. He held his fingers above Randy's mouth, a less threatening means of getting Randy to taste his sperm, than by sucking him off. "Open up, handsome. I made this just for you." Randy watched the pearlescent liquid extend in a thick strand toward his tongue.
'This is Bobby's jiz,' Randy told himself. 'It's what you've been wanting, and he's found a way to give it to you without having to have sex.' The thick strand stretched into a string, dangling over his open mouth. "Lemme suck your finger," Randy groaned, as a dollop of cum landed on his tongue. He swallowed quickly, then reached out and took Bobby's hand and extended his tongue. He licked across the palm, the flavor of Bobby flooding his mouth. He'd tasted the sperm of possibly a hundred guys, but never had he tasted any so wonderful. 'This is Bobby,' he thought, sucking on each finger in turn. 'This is the man who loves me. This is part of the man I love.'
He released the hand, then rolled to his knees, as he gently pushed Bobby onto his back, all thoughts about the man who had nearly destroyed him, forgotten. 'I'm hard!' he shouted, to himself. 'Bobby did this to me . . . for me.' He leaned forward and buried his face in the wiry pubic hair, still unsure whether he was ready to have someone's . . . anyone's . . . penis in his mouth. "Ummm," he murmured, as he licked Bobby's pubes and belly clean. "So good," he mumbled, from where he had buried his face in Bobby's armpit, inhaling the clean maleness of him. One part of him told him he should pause and savor what was happening, so he could regain control of his rapid breathing and calm his trembling. Another part reminded him that he, not the man he loathed, was now in control of his sexual urges. He had already overcome the vomiting at the mere thought of sex. When Bobby touched him, he didn't panic. 'I'm healing,' he almost sobbed, in realization.
He was like a madman, as he lay on top of Bobby, seeking both release and recovery. "Hug me," he panted, as he found Bobby's open mouth and waiting tongue. "Hard."
"Aw, geeez," he groaned, as he arched his back, thrust twice more, then flooded Bobby's belly with the results of the first orgasm he'd had since that first night with Coach Cline. He could feel the perspiration drip onto the man beneath him, and the sperm, slippery at first, liquify, as he continued to slowly move, still captured in Bobby's embrace.
"Thank you," Randy sighed, his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. Thank you," he repeated, brushing an unruly lock of Bobby's curly hair away from his brow. Their lips met, and, eventually, he moved to Bobby's side as the darkness and the fragrance of night blooming flowers folded around them, the dappled moonlight their only blanket. Gus curled at the head of the makeshift bed, her peaceful purring lulling him into a peaceful slumber, where he dreamt of Bobby's laughter, the taste of his mouth and the sound of his voice, close to his ear, saying, "I love you."
"Hey, pretty boy," one of the grizzled coverall-clad men, who shared Jackson Cline's cell, cooed, his broad smile revealing crooked, yellowing teeth. The sound was totally out of character, coming from a man one could only describe as, enormous. Jackson found he couldn't move, focusing only on the man's smell and broken front tooth. The other two inhabitants of the cell snickered. All three appeared to have been picked up so they could sleep off their drunkenness in a jail cell, rather than lying in a gutter someplace. They smelled, were unshaven, and, from Jackson's point of view, were totally repulsive.
He sneered, in a voice which had always made people jump, "out of my face, you fat bastard."
The greasy smile of his tormentor faltered, then took on a decidedly dangerous twist. "Oooh hoo," he chuckled, "the pretty boy is trying to tell us that he has balls!" He pushed a grubby forefinger against Jackson's forehead. "One thing you are going to have to remember . . . pretty . . . boy . . . is that you are no longer in a world in which you give the orders. You are in our world, now." He paused a moment, as a deep gurgling cough overtook him, splattering Jackson with spittle. He gestured to his two friends, equally filthy, though slightly less intimidating, because of their smaller size. "We make the rules," he said, eliciting a rubbery nod from one of the onlookers, who blearily winked and elbowed the man next to him, giggling dementedly. The ringleader jabbed his forefinger against Jackson's head. "It's your job to do whatever we say. Understand?"
"Go get fucked," Jackson batted at the beefy forefinger, then rubbed his hand over his coveralls in an attempt to wipe away the taint of filth.
"It's not me who's gonna get fucked, little buddy," the ringleader snickered, as the three men laughed, circling Jackson. "The three of us are each gonna have a go at your butthole, my . . . pretty friend." Jackson tried to back away from the man's fetid breath, but found there was no place to go. He looked to his right, then left, almost in a panic as the men drew closer, their hands opening and closing, as if eager to touch him. He cursed himself for whimpering, as he backed against the warm concrete block wall of the cell.
The large man began stripping out of his sweat-stained coveralls, and turned to his friends. "Suppose he squeals like a girl when he's poked?" the guy asked, his belly jiggling, as he laughed at his own joke. He dropped his coveralls in an orange heap on the cell floor, groped himself, then wiped his hand over Jackson's cheek, leaving behind the odor of four day-old sweat and dried urine. "If anything's gonna make him squeal, this sausage will," he grinned, as he coaxed his cock to a full blue-veined, angry erection. "I'll warm him up for you, boys," he lewdly laughed, ignoring Jackson's disbelieving expression, which flicked from the man's face, to his groin, then back to his face.
"Once I've stretched his hole, you guys can have him." The skinny man cackled, broadly winking at his friend. By the time both of you have shot a load, I'll be ready to go again." He laughed, as he wagged his drooling erection. "I'm figuring each of us should be able to drop at least a couple loads before morning . . . y'think?" He turned to Jackson. "I bet'cha you're dying to have us guys dumping our spunk deep inside you. Aren't you?" he asked, leaning forward and roughly groping Jackson's cock and balls.
Jackson struggled as the three men attacked. They stripped him out of his orange coveralls, then pushed him onto his back. He was helpless, as his legs were forced apart and held back until his knees touched his shoulders, exposing his hairless, virgin, hole.
"Oh, my," his tormentor cooed, as he rubbed his fingers over Jackson's pucker, pausing to force a finger past the tight sphincter. "Would you look at the pretty boy's pussy-hole? I wonder if he shaves. And, would you take a gander at that puny thing he calls a dick!" He laughed, then spat onto Jackson's flaccid penis.
The man climbed onto the protesting cot, and smiled at the struggling, disbelieving, wide-eyed man on the bed in front of him. "I don't believe in using no lube when I'm gonna fuck a guy," he said, as he wiped the purple head of his engorged cock over Jackson's tight hole. "I figure that a guy wants to feel it when I slam into him. Don't matter to me, though, if he does or don't." He slapped the side of Jackson's muscular buttocks, a sharp sound which seemed to hang in the air. The look of hatred Jackson gave him meant nothing.
"Ready or not," he grinned, then speared Jackson's hole, burying himself pubic hair-deep in one swift stroke. A moment later, he laughed, as he leaned forward to kiss the man who was writhing beneath his bulk. "What'd I tell you, boys? I knew he'd squeal like a girl."
~ to be continued ~
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