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I don’t know how I worked into this. Just lucky, I guess. Got my daddy’s genes. Horny stuff has happened to me since way back in high school. I was, what, eighteen?
Heat had a lot to do with it. Ninety degrees any day of the week in the summer and not much less even in winter. In 1950 St. Uanitá was a dusty little town in the deep South built around a crossroads. We lived on a farm, and southern Louisiana humidity made it a suffocating place. Crops didn’t grow, only weeds did. And bugs. Clouds of bugs.
The heat made me horny all the time, just like everybody else, I think. Every guy I ever met from the deep South was horny. Think about it: they don’t have overpopulation in places like Finland or Alaska, but the Congo? The Philippines? Wherever it’s hot, millions of people!
I hit puberty early and grew into a very big kid, so in the Southern heat, when I discovered what I could do with my peter, jacking off and fishing became my only hobbies–every chance I got. When I reached St. Uanitá High School, I found out I was different: after the first days in the gym shower room, when we saw each other naked for the first time, I heard “horse-hung,” “plow-boy,” and “How can you walk with that thing, DePierre?”
Damn, I am bigger. Where I got the cock, I don’t know. From my pa, I guess. It’s just like his.
Soon I was no longer a virgin–I had a couple high school girls–but it was always hard to score. The girls screamed and jumped out of the truck when they got a glimpse of my cock. Even the two guys I got were trouble.
Oh, yeah, the guys. I discovered what I could do with guys one afternoon almost by chance. Very hot that day. I was very horny.
I didn’t candy-and-flowers them; it was a matter of force. By then I was 6′2″ and 195 pounds. Yeah, yeah, big for my age, heard it all the time. I had good genes–Pa was a big man–but I got most of my build from working on the farm. Lot of lifting. Lot of running here and there. Lot of sweating in the heat.
And yeah, the heat. Sun beating down on me, humidity rolling in from the Gulf. Dust in those feeble breezes. Grit all over me. Animal life. Not only a big kid, I was an animal. And always horny.
Good old St. Uanitá Parish High School had a wrestling-practice room they made out of a storage area. It didn’t have air conditioning (practically nothing did in those days). Just a large, dark, wallboard-paneled room with no ceiling–open through the cobwebby rafters to a tin roof that radiated the Louisiana heat down into the room. The school used it only for practice–competitions were out in the gym, on mats on the basketball floor.
In that hot, sweaty room I fucked two guys in a single after-school wrestling practice. Never forget it: the single window in the west wall let in the terrible afternoon sun, focusing heat in the room, showing clouds of dust in the light, heating the green mat that took up nearly all the floor space, making the rubber soft and hot. It felt like kneeling on a sweaty breast.
Alone with my first opponent, I wrestled him down to the point he couldn’t resist me. He panicked and fought when he felt me pulling his trunks down. He still had on his jockstrap, but that didn’t help–the white leg straps were just elastic cotton road markers to his bare asshole.
I fucked him, then let him go. He ran from the room screaming.
Then another guy walked in and asked if I wanted to practice. I said yes–and did the same to him: gradually overpowered him and pulled down his trunks.
But with him I decided to go slower. Took me about a half-hour to work my cockhead past his asshole. All the time he was screaming and yelling, but he never told me to stop.
I took a long time with him, fucking very slow and easy until finally he begged: “Damn, go faster, DePierre, you bastard! Ram it in, make me cum!” He lurched his hips at me, trying to drive me in deeper.
I let myself go and saw for the first time what became my trademark: groaning and panting, the guy stiffened up, all his muscles tensed, and he let out a long, strangled moan. His asshole cinched tight around my cockshaft in intoxicating clenches.
Wondering, I reached under. Cum dripped from his jockstrap, slimy and hot. Sonofabitch. He ejaculated before I did!
Couldn’t believe it. Without even touching himself. His orgasm came from my fucking. Started in his asshole.
The very idea that I had fucked him to glory sent me into my own climax. Dripping with sweat, breathing hard, I had an orgasm like an atomic bomb.
When we were finished, we lay together on that sweaty rubber mat for a long time, cuddling, rubbing our sweaty bodies together. Kissing. Licking each other’s sweat. God, it was hot in that room.
Never forgot the smell. Pungent, close, woody odor of the hot old room. Heady aroma of sweat and moist jockstraps. And cum, the dizzying, unmistakable smell of sperm.
The guy blew my mind: wanted me to do him again! Pestered me for the rest of the year for more. I often obliged.
After that, I taught three or four members of the football team how to enjoy me. Same story: didn’t want to let me into their pants but suffered the same fate once I got in. Once my cockhead passed their rectums, they tried to resist me, tried not to submit but finally found my big cock made their bodies betray them. After long stroking, they tensed up, tightened their muscles, and their cocks exploded in massive orgasms that left them panting and limp under me. Drenched in sweat. Covered with dust.
And always they came before I did. It hit me: all men want me to fuck them; they just don’t know they do.
I went on to get most of the guys on the football team, then in season I went on to the basketball team. They always put up a big fight at the beginning, but once they got their first orgasm through the ass, they changed. Open, you could say, to all possibilities. And to me.
My first grown-man experience was the Communications teacher–my favorite class. I did best in Communications. I liked reading radio dramas and producing little TV programs. I even had a weekly one-hour show on the low-powered high school FM radio station. Experimental rock.
Mr. Fedibruck was a trip. Wasn’t from the South. Rumor had it he was from the Northeast, Maine or somewhere. After disgracing the family in some terrible scandal, he had to leave town, and St. Uanitá is about as far from Maine as you can get.
Nobody knew what the scandal was, so of course rumor supplied one. Seems he murdered the husband of his lover or robbed the state lottery or something like that. Or maybe it was he did something traitorous in the Army, sold secrets to the Nazis, something devilish.
I liked Mr. Fedibruck. His narrow face with those aristocratic high cheekbones looked haughty, but his blue eyes were friendly and mischievous. Blond hair tumbled over his forehead in disarray, making him look like either a Hollywood movie star or the degenerate son of a rich family–probably closer to the truth. He had voluptuous lips, almost too beautiful for a man, but misshapen, hyena teeth pulled him back into ugly masculinity. A strange, complicated face. And who knew what seethed within.
He was in good shape. Rumor had it he had been a paratrooper in the war. Hero of St. Lo or some such thing.
And he had money. Supposed to get a huge “allowance” from up North, and folks said his teaching high school in St. Uanitá was some sort of penance. He did live well. Apartment in the Sedsofle Hotel. Nice boat in the marina.
In fact, one Saturday he took two of us from the school radio station out on that boat for a fishing party. I loved fishing, and I jumped at the chance for a ride on Mr. Fedibruck’s sailboat.
Once aboard, we changed to swimming suits. Mr. Fedibruck and the other guy, Mark, wore boxer trunks. I had a Speedo. Again the approving murmurs, but nobody actually said anything. Mr. Fedibruck told us how to hoist the sails, and we moved out into the Gulf.
Out of sight of shore, we set a drag anchor, then lazed around sunbathing, fishing, and swimming. And drinking. Mr. Fedibruck pressed a button, and a bar folded out of the cabin wall. “We’re all 18 and over, right? So let’s drink a toast.” We all drank Scotch & Soda. Six or eight. I lost track. Funny thing–drinking age in Louisiana was 21. Who cared.
In late afternoon, I went snorkeling with Mr. Fedibruck. After a half-hour or so, we swam back to the boat, and I was waiting at the diver’s step to get out when he swam up behind me and grabbed me! Like in a friendly wrestling match. Like he was an octopus or a squid or something, and I was the struggling shark.
We wrestled in the water, splashing and laughing, each trying for the winning hold, but we were so wet and slippery, it was hard. I was, anyway.
The more we struggled, the more I got the upper hand, and the harder my cock. Even though he was older and a healthy man–I was still bigger. At one point, I had him in a grip from behind, locking his legs by blocking them with my own, my right arm under his armpit and up to lock my hand behind his neck.
I’d been horny all day and really had the urge since the moment he grabbed me. My cock was throbbing.
With my left hand I yanked down his trunks. He laughed at first, but when he felt my cockhead nudging between his ass-cheeks, he let out a bellow. “Hey, dammit, what in hell do you think you’re doing?”
But by then we had moved far enough from the boat that Mark on board could not understand what Fedibruck was saying–it sounded like more good-natured horseplay. “You’re gonna like this,” I grunted in his ear, and then he really struggled. I held on, though, my cockhead constantly pressing against his asshole (by that time I was pretty good at keeping myself centered).
And finally, with his, “Oh, God, no!” I sank in, stretching his ass-ring, and before he could let out a scream, I jerked us both under the surface. His scream came out as a big stream of bubbles. Then back to the surface for a breath.
The water served as a sort of lubricant. I slid into his hypersensitive, overstretched backdoor as slow as I could, and in the water, it was hard to go fast, anyway (no floor, no walls, nothing to push against). But when I was in all the way, I knew my glans bumped against his prostate with every stroke, and that would turn the pain into a horny pleasure with every ram.
Sure enough, gradually he stopped struggling, finally went limp in the water, making my deep strokes a little easier. He went so limp, in fact, that I released my grip on his shoulder and neck and gripped him tight around the chest.
Then I could really go to town. I humped him for all I was worth, and suddenly he tensed, flexing all his muscles, and I saw the proof–big globules, white bubbles of sperm burst out into the water in front of him.
I got him. My specialty.
I’d reached the point where I didn’t work toward my own climax so much as let it build, waiting for my fuckee to prove my power, and when the guy cummed for me, my own climax was a triumph, a victory.
I worked toward my own orgasm and finally scored–I drove into him to the max, a vicious gouge, a signal he was mine and could never swim back to the way things were. My balls throbbed as I filled him full of the family jism.
I’m always curious to hear what they say when I let them go. “Jesus God!” he gasped as he turned around in the water to face me. “DePierre, that was incredible! Never had such a fucking orgasm in my whole fucking life!”
I chuckled. “You got the water all slimy.”
“Yeah, I got it leaking out of my ass now, too.” He caught me in his arms. “It was worth it.” He pulled me closer. “I fucked a couple of guys in the Navy, but God, who knew!”
Who knew, indeed. We all thought he had been in the Army.
He pulled me still closer and kissed me. Great kiss. We sank under the surface as both poured everything into it, a gut show between two men. Our tongues fought in the cave of our mouths like two tigers.
When we finally rose to the surface again, we were panting. He wrapped his legs around my back. “God, I was fucked by a moose,” he said, nibbling at my lips. As he stared into my eyes, I knew I had him. He was my bitch.
We swam back to the boat. Don’t know if Mark suspected anything, but when both of us climbed back aboard without swimming suits, two plus two wasn’t too hard to put together. Mark didn’t say anything, but the Legend of Mr. Fedibruck no doubt got an update when we got back to the marina.
That senior year in high school, I had quite a little black book. With all my friends and Mr. Fedibruck almost every day, my balls were always empty.
When I finally graduated, Mr. Fedibruck sent me with my audition tapes to Channel X in the big city. Said he set me up with an appointment there with a Mr. Sonnenheiss.
I stood like a little kid gazing up at the Channel X Building. Steel and glass. All angles and gleaming panels. Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Channel X was the flagship of Fathingwil Broadcasting, and I felt like a peasant knocking on the door of the palace.
Inside was more awesome. A cathedral! As I walked down the long, long marble hallway, I gaped at backlit photos of Channel X stars between tall Art Deco columns. As I continued the walk toward a steel & glass desk at the far end, an itchy little thought in the back of my mind snickered, Those columns look like long, tall cocks!
Look at the capitals: rounded at the top, flaring at the bottom–cockheads! The columns are bumpy and carved in snaky designs, and each has a long, straight bulge right up the middle–cockshafts!
At the far end, behind the desk, were two huge, spotlighted Art Deco sculptures of what I figured was David and Goliath–or maybe it was Superman and Batman. Awesome statues. I figured 20 feet high. Heroic physiques.
At the desk below sat a receptionist who looked like Demi Moore in a dress so tight it looked sprayed on–I could see her nipples. She looked up at me like a roach that had somehow gotten into the building.
“Hi, uh, I’m here to see, uh, Mr. Sonnenheiss.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Yeah. Mr. Fedibruck from St. Uanitá High School made it for me.”
She gave me a sneering smile. Freeze ice on it. She looked at a schedule book. “Oh, yes, here it is. Please wait over there, Mr.–Deepire.”
I sat on a leather couch near the wall, and the Ice Queen went back to her book. A few minutes later, she answered the telephone, then without looking at me, “You can go in now.”
To my amazement, the sculptures behind her separated–David and Goliath moved apart (out of what might have been an embrace) and moved to opposite sides of the hall. As they separated, I noticed the sculptor had given them very, very healthy packages. Huge stone bulges. Again that itchy thought: Whoever designed this place was horny.
The wall behind the retreating statues held a large, ornately carved door. Again, the carvings were of athletes, warriors, and Greek gods. First time I ever saw a jockstrap carved in wood. I was getting a hardon.
I opened the door. The handle was a brass casting that at first glance was the open snout of a boar. But the long, fat nose that flared into nostrils at the tip, with a wider lower jaw rounded into two sagging jowls–Damn, anybody with the slightest touch of horny could see that as a cock and balls!
In spite of the air conditioning, the place was getting hot! I began thinking about asking for the men’s room for a quick jackoff.
Beyond the door was a small room with wood-paneled walls, ornately carved–again with the gods and warriors. It had a brass handrail at waist-level. I was wondering why a handrail when the door swung closed behind me, and the room took off–it was an elevator. But there were no floor buttons. I was going where it wanted.
A few moments later, the door clicked ajar. I pushed it open and walked into–God!–the mother of all Offices. The door into the penthouse office was like a door into the jungle. The ceiling high above was all glass, as were all the walls, like an atrium or a greenhouse. Wild, exotic plants everywhere. Palm trees in large pots marched down the sides, shading the room with their fronds.
I walked between them to the far end, to a large desk in dark mahogany, carved with bas-reliefs, but this time of dragons, snakes, and demons. No more naked men, this was lethal stuff. Damn, talk about intimidating.
Behind the desk sat an old man in a wheelchair. Narrow face, large ash-gray eyes. Hooked nose. Wore his fine, gray hair combed straight back. Jesus, a gray-haired vampire in a wheelchair.
Frail. Pale skin. Expensive-looking suit. “Mr. DePierre? I’m Arnold Sonnenheiss.”
I walked over to the desk and stuck out my hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sonnenheiss.” He did not reach out to shake my hand; finally I dropped it. “I’ve–uh–got an audition tape here.”
“I’ve already seen it. Corbin Fedibruck sent one to me.” He leaned back in the chair. “He and I go back a long way.” He picked up a clipboard from the desk and looked at it. “I think we have something for you, Mr. DePierre. Please ask the receptionist to send you to Mr. Paulson.”
“Thanks very much, Mr. Sonnenheiss, I–”
“That will be all. Please take the elevator down to see Miz Rizaki.”
So I got a job at Channel X!
I had to move away from home, of course. Sad day at my house, mother crying, etc.
When I found an apartment in the big city, I still felt the heat. Worse, the big city was just as hot but also had the smog.
After working there a few weeks, I asked one of the guys in the editing room what put Mr. Sonnenheiss in a wheelchair.
Seems he was riding in a steeplechase, his horse stumbled, and he fell from it and broke his back. Damn, that’ll do it.
The Channel X building had its own exercise room for the benefit of employees to keep fit and trim for on-air appearances. It also had a swimming pool, which I used a lot.
After four or five months there, one night after working at the tape machine until late, I decided to have a short workout to relax me before I went home–I’d been crouched over the damned tapes for hours. No one else was there. I used the weight machine for a while, working up a nice sweat, then took a shower before going home.
While in the showers, I heard a loud voice. “Ave Atque Vale!” It sounded like Mr. Sonnenheiss.
Ave Atque Vale? Hail and Farewell?
Then I heard a loud splash.
A little worried, I grabbed a towel and ran out into the pool room. Ripples were spreading out over the surface of the water, and when I looked down into it, I saw a wheelchair at the bottom. And Mr. Sonnenheiss down there with it. He was naked.
I dove into the water, swam to the bottom, and grabbed Mr. Sonnenheiss under the arms. I leaped off the floor of the pool, shooting us to the surface and swam with him to the shallow end. Finally I lifted him up from the water and onto the deck.
He was unconscious. Not knowing exactly what to do in such a case, I rolled him over onto his belly and began to press against his back to expel the water. It seemed to work, but I figured I needed to get the water out seriously. I lay back on the floor beside him, then rolled him over onto me, his back to me, holding him around his chest, I gave him the Heimlich Maneuver. If it worked to get out food stuck in the windpipe, surely it would get water out of the lungs.
It worked. After a couple of hard squeezes, and many gushes of water out of his mouth, he coughed.
He’s alive! I rolled him off me and onto his back, and gradually he came to. He opened his eyes. When he focused on me, “DePierre, what have you done?”
“Mr. Sonnenheiss, you fell in the pool–”