Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32

Hell makes a small-town college quarterback a Bi stud

*

St. Naphtali State College was under the gun. We had been district champs for years–since before I became a student–but our football record was threatened by money. Money and a legion of robots.

The money was Vazcla College. With a statewide collection of Internet students, it had money. Wallowing in it, in fact. With a huge budget from endowments, it was a temple of the “naturally” rich. The disadvantaged need not apply.

St. Naphtali, on the other hand, was a peaceful small-town school in rural California, more than 100 miles from the freeways of LA, and more than 100 years away from the stresses. St. Naphtali was on the grounds of an ancient Spanish mission. The ruins of the old chapel still stood in a dark copse of trees at the far end of the campus.

Our football team was young, mostly sophomores and freshmen. Only two juniors and one senior. Compared to St. Naphtali players, the Vazcla team was a meatgrinder. Our coach was wringing his hands and tearing out his hair. I knew because the coach was my father.

The robots of the Vazcla football team were a carefully scouted and recruited platoon of Navy Seals and sumo wrestlers posing as students. Chief of the robots–the only one a genuine student–was Wolf Dante, their big linesman. He rolled across the opposition like a Patton tank, and he earned his name. He was fierce, vicious, and dirty–I saw him break a guy’s arm when the refs weren’t looking.

On the street Wolf Dante was Agent 007 in a varsity jacket. I saw him in St. Naphtali once. Handsome guy–sleek and chic. Elegant in custom-fit clothes. Neck-length black hair bound in one large ponytail: John Travolta in “Pulp Fiction.” Drinking coffee at the campus sidewalk café in a halo of sophistication, charm, and glamour, our small-town coeds came on to him like bees drawn to honey dripping out of a big cock. Walked by seductively, they “forgot something” and had to come back. Stopped and talked to him. Tossed their hair. Smiled.

At the curb was a Maserati Spyder Corsa with “WOLF” plates and the top down. I watched him drive off with one of the local babes. He pulled open her blouse as they drove around the corner.

Locker room legend said Wolf Dante had scored the cherries of 15 or 20 St. Naphtali coeds–in addition to countless pussies plundered at Vazcla. They said he could lift weights with his balls.

As August wore on, Dad grew more nervous, even to the point of muttering, “Vazcla! What can we do about those bastards!–Not fair!–Playing moneyball!”

Mom tried to comfort him, of course, but they were an old, established couple–married long enough that they no longer paid much attention to each other. I was the youngest of their kids and the only one still at home.

Home was an old house on the edge of the campus, a Victorian mansion built in the early 1900s as the college president’s home. Current presidents resided in a modern mansion in the Oak Cove part of town, so the old place was let out to lesser faculty members. It was quite spacious but very obsolete–high ceilings, creaking floors, ancient wiring, etc. Took a lot of maintenance. Dad was always hammering on this or pulling out that.

But in those days Dad’s big worry had nothing to do with the house. He would look at me from time to time and shrug his shoulders or roll his eyes up into his head. Our first game at the end of August was with Vazcla. And I was his quarterback.

Our first pre-season practice game with Vazcla was a bloodbath. Our blood, Vazcla’s bath–a Roman bath featuring first the slaughter of the innocents then the rape and pillage of the village.

I was sacked four times, threw three interceptions, and their final score looked like a miles-per-hour posting at the Indianapolis 500.

That night, after the trampling Vazcla gave us, our police station was swamped with calls raving about “crazy, drunken Vazcla students grabbing college girls on the street.” Emergency rooms and police stations the next morning were full of girls (those brave enough to report it) complaining of rape by “those damned boys,” and who knew how many more were sitting at home, crying and gnashing their teeth?

I had no doubt that in nine months, St. Naphtali would have either a brace of unwed mothers in the classrooms or a number of coeds dropping out of school to get jobs as waitresses.

Last year, St. Naphtali’s championship was captained by quarterback Bill Collins, a natural talent. But this year, I was all Dad had. The only quarterback.

And I was a moron, an idiot. Out of my head in love with a Vazcla girl.

I didn’t mention anything about it to Dad, of course, although it was his fault. He told me to drive over to Vazcla one afternoon earlier in the summer to watch their team practice.

While there I saw the most beautiful woman in the world–a Vazcla cheerleader. Damn! As graceful and willowy as a silk streamer in a breeze, she tossed her pom-poms and did flips while I gazed in awe. I hatay escort found myself quiet, unmoving, watching a beautiful butterfly, holding my breath not to frighten it away. I forgot all about the football practice.

The breeze played with her hair–a shimmering black swirl like a flowing, moonlit river. And that body! Sculpted in soft tan, graceful, sinuous, like a Stradivarius. A masterpiece. Not a straight line anywhere. Perfect breasts, the exact size and shape to accent the rest of her body. A waist so slender and graceful, it cried out for my arm around it.

So natural and unselfconscious in her movements, every gesture was nimble and poetic. Angelic. Her face was so beautiful, it was holy. She really was an angel, a member of the heavenly choir in a tight Vazcla sweater and a pleated skirt.

And oh, God, that skirt–so short, her every move gave me breathtaking views, heart-stopping glances of tight blue silk, cheerleader panties covering the Pearly Gates.

I was so hard, I felt a little dizzy–all the blood had gone to my cock. God, I wanted to jack off.

Those legs. Oh, those tanned, perfectly proportioned, long, long legs! My face was hot, and I was breathing harder. Her legs were long enough to wrap around my back. That cheerleader was extraordinary. Like finding the Kohinoor diamond in the middle of the stadium weeds.

I moved casually closer and watched her for the rest of the practice. When everything was over, and the cheerleaders finally flounced off the field, I left. I was so hard I could hardly walk.

Back at St. Naphtali, the report I gave on the Vazcla team was a masterpiece of bullshit. But it hardly mattered. What good is strategy to a mouse about to tangle with a bobcat? St. Naphtali got the shit stomped out of us anyway.

After that pre-season slaughter, as I drove home and got out of my car, I looked up into the sky. Far from the city lights in the Los Angeles basin–where stars never appear in the nighttime sky–evenings over St. Naphtali were jet-black with a mind-boggling panorama of trillions of twinkling lights, almost like the “galaxies upon galaxies” view through the Hubble Telescope.

That late August night I spotted a comet. Right smack in the constellation of Sagittarius, my astrological sign. Shit. A comet means bad luck. I had been warned.

The first game of the season–the suicide meeting with Vazcla–was in a couple of weeks. I was depressed.

My parents were out late–they had gone to dinner with somebody from the college. I heard them come in later. A little noisier than usual. A little tipsy. They went into their bedroom laughing and giggling.

Later I heard something I’d never heard before: Dad was fucking Mom.

My parents were Straight and Strict. No cussing. No smoking. No alcohol in the house. And although my two older brothers and me were proof that they had connected (somehow), none of us had ever heard, seen, accidentally walked in on, or overheard through the wall anything whatsoever to show that my parents had sex.

That’s why a few minutes later I was astounded to hear through my bedroom wall: “Harold, stop it! I mean it!”

I held my breath.

After a long time, I heard what sounded like oohing and ahing. Couldn’t believe my ears. Then my mother’s voice again: “Ahh, God, what’s got into you! You’re so big tonight!”

That did it. I plastered my ear against the wall.

I heard bedsprings! And Mom was begging. Couldn’t quite hear for what, but she was whimpering and pleading, “Please, please more–”

Jesus Christ! I rubbed my cock against the bedpost as I listened.

I heard my father: “Oh, yeah, baby, beg me for it!” More squeaking bedsprings, then Mom’s voice:

“Ohmigod, Ohmigod, Charlie, your cock! Harder, harder!” By then I had abandoned the bedpost and was jacking myself off full speed.

There was a long stretch of nothing but groans and moans–every once in a while a grunt from Dad followed by a whimper from Mom. Then silence. By then I had blasted my own jizz against the wall and was fretting how I was going to cover it up.

Mom and Dad had been fucking like dogs in heat! Nothing could have astounded me more. I never heard such language from them! Didn’t think Mom even knew such words. I jacked off to the memory nearly all night.

When I got up the next morning, Mom was moving around the kitchen, singing to herself. Dad sat at the table like Alexander the Great after defeating the Persians. Proud. Triumphant. And wearing nothing but his underwear.

I was dumbfounded. Nothing but a tank-top undershirt and his white boxers. Dad was hairy. Coarse fur covered his shoulders and legs, and his pot belly hung out obscenely, also covered with hair. “You, uh, run out of clean clothes, Dad?”

“Naw. Just figured we could loosen up a little around here.” Mom was at the counter, pouring him some coffee. She looked back at him and smiled.

“We met somebody last night,” Dad went on, “somebody I think will hatay escort bayan turn our football program around.” Mom served him his coffee. “A dream kid. Like an answer to prayer. Never heard of him before, but he sure knows how to play football. I’ll introduce Herald to the team this afternoon.”

“Harold? Same name as you?”

“No, not Harold. Herald. H-e-r-a-l-d. Sounds a little different.”

Herald? What’s he announcing? “But how could you tell he’s good at football in a conversation at a dinner table?”

Dad leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Don’t know, really. Just something about him. The way he talked. The way he carried himself.”

As Dad leaned back in his chair, I saw something that made me choke on my toast. Dad’s hard cock was sticking up through the slit in his boxers.

Damn! That was something I’d never seen, and I was stunned. Dad had a big cock! Probably six inches and quite thick. Circumcised, just like me, and sticking straight out.

I gulped. Never saw anything like it. A big, red cockhead topped the shaft like the head of a giant nail, and it jutted proudly out of his white shorts, a clear manifestation of my father’s masculinity.

Mom moved smoothly behind him, reached down, grasped the big thing, and with a quick squeeze, moved it back inside his shorts. Dad reached up to her face, brought it down to him, and they kissed. She moved back to the counter. Neither looked at me.

My cock hardened until it pressed against the underside of the table and I had to adjust it. Something had changed. Maybe the new football guy had restored Dad’s confidence.

-==(^)==-

That afternoon in the team meeting, Dad introduced the new guy. “Gentleman, meet Herald Cobalt.”

God!

A big man stood up. Damned big. Head and shoulders above anybody else in the room, he outweighed everybody except, embarrassingly, my father the coach. Shoulders so broad, when he sat back down, they touched the guys in the chairs on either side of him. A chest like a jukebox. Muscles like iron.

Fuck! It’s Superman!

Out on the practice field, he turned out to be a supernatural being–beyond good. Heismann stuff. I was amazed. A quarterback, he hit every man he threw to. When he carried, he ran perfectly, dodging the defenders, coordinating with the blockers like he could read their minds. They ran interference for him as if they could read his.

We were watching somebody with the powers of the ancient gods–Staubach, Nameth, Marino. This one guy could make us winners!

When we got to know him later, Herald turned out to be “a nice guy,” as they say. Whereas other football “heroes” we’d met were energetic, in-your-face types, Herald was quiet, almost mysterious.

In spite of his physical might, he had an intelligent air and looked older than he was. Wore his smoke-gray hair in a tangled bush, Einstein-like.

As days went by, in the practices we got to know him better and liked him. Then came the dreaded home game with Vazcla.

I ran out onto the field with the rest of the team, but at the flip of the coin, I sat on the bench. I was listed as the “main quarterback,” but Herald was starting the game. I knew it was permanent. In the next game I would be listed as “backup QB” again.

The upside was that I was free to look across the field at the Vazcla cheerleaders. Nice. Tight sweaters. Perky tits. I spotted her. Wow. She lit up the whole field.

I spent the rest of the time watching her. I think there was a football game at the same time; I didn’t notice.

Too bad. It was a historic game. Afterward, Dad called Herald Cobalt the “Robot Killer.” Herald almost single-handedly turned the rout of the pre-season game into a triumph The Vazcla score looked like a tennis match.

The infamous Wolf Dante, for all his size, got knocked on his ass by our quarterback! Nothing could stop Herald. The sacrifice of St. Naphtali virgins would still go on that night, but St. Naphtali guys would pluck the cherries.

When the game was over, I ran to the other side of the field, shaking hands, greeting people as the happy victor, but searching for her.

I found her gathering up her pom-poms. “Hi!”

She looked up coolly. “”Hi. Congratulations, St. Naphtali boy.”

“Ah, come on, are you going to hold that against me?” Anything! Let it be anything, baby, but hold it against me! Rub it against me!

She smiled. “Oh, I guess not, but it’s more than just a game, you know.”

“It’s not? A week from now, nobody will remember the score.” I was glad I hadn’t played–I wasn’t sweaty.

“You know what I mean. School loyalty. School spirit. It goes on, strengthens the college.”

I was on pins and needles. “Hey, let me apologize. Give me a minute to get out of this suit, and we’ll go get some coffee. I know all the hot spots in town–both of ’em.”

She laughed (to my great relief). “Well, I don’t usually go slumming. What’s your name?”

“Eric.”

“Nice escort hatay to meet you, Eric. I’m Juliette.”

Juliette! What else? The beautiful daughter of the enemy. Everything was going just fine when–

–“Excuse me, asshole!” Wolf Dante shouldered me aside and knocked me down.

He took her hand. “Come on, Juliette, let’s go home.” He yanked her away down the sidewalk into the darkness. A few moments later I heard the 12 cylinders of the Maserati.

I stared after them. “Let’s go home”? She couldn’t be his wife. His sister? Juliette Dante? Talk about beauty and the beast. I drove home shaking my head. Back to Square One.

-==(^)==-

As football season progressed, we won every game, and Herald became a campus icon. His big physique was obvious–couldn’t hide it whatever he wore–so he didn’t try. He became famous for T-shirts that looked two sizes too small and nylon hiking shorts.

One night I slipped out of town and drove over to Vazcla. I found Juliette on the campus. At first she was hesitant. “I can’t go out with somebody from St. Naphtali. I mean, we don’t know ‘where you’ve been.’ Seals could be broken. Ingredients aren’t fresh. Could’ve been tampered with–to say nothing of processed with dirty hands.”

I smiled. “Hey, I’m farm-fresh! No artificial ingredients!”

We laughed. And we got to know each other.

I began a secret life. Nearly every other night I drove over to Vazcla to see Juliette. She liked me, I could tell. And every night when I got home, to the sounds of my parents rutting in the next room, I jacked off to visions of heavenly Juliette.

-==(^)==-

The more football games we won, the more we realized we were in the presence of football royalty. Every time Herald threw what looked like a bad pass, miraculously the receiver would turn in time and actually run to it. The guys he passed to made coordinated runs, blending with their blockers almost like a dance team–literally in step. They moved as one, knocking aside the defenders until the runner reached the end zone.

It was amazing to watch. Like Herald had mind control. The other players were his slaves. I wondered where the antenna was. He was hell on wheels.

In social circles on the St. Naphtali campus, Herald was also hell on the women–broke a series of hearts and God knows how many hymens. I heard a lot of jealous words about Herald–“She’s not good enough for him,” etc.–but never anything against him. The girls loved him. In fact, even the mention of his name made many of them shift uncomfortably in their seats. Some would sigh and blush.

I saw secret photos of him circulated among the gay students and spotted a calendar-size shot of him on the wall in a male dorm–a nude picture somebody got in the showers.

Seeing him in the showers explained a lot. The tall stud was so buff, he looked like a cover model for a wrestling magazine. The shower spray splashed in whitewater rapids over the boulders of his belly, and guys who saw his cock for the first time stared like their numbers had just turned up in the lottery.

And what a cock. No wonder the coeds squirmed. A dong that huge would make anybody ache. The mega-cock fit the guy in scale–if you saw it in a picture and didn’t know how big he was, it would look “normal.” But anybody seeing (or feeling) it in real life knew that skin cylinder belonged on a horse, and the huge balls that danced beneath it loaded him up with shotgun shells–Herald could knock up a marble statue.

And something else. Something that bothered me: I thought it was beautiful. A beautiful cock. What kind of a thought is that? Am I queer?

But it was true. I saw him once with a hardon–must’ve been thinking of his date that night. The big cock jutted out of his crotch in a graceful curve like an F-16 taking off from an aircraft carrier. Like a master-crafted Samurai sword. Strong. Powerful.

And beautiful.

Herald worried me. I didn’t want to get curious. Didn’t want to turn gay. I was in love with the Vazcla cheerleader, and until I found out what my luck would be with her, I wanted to stay 100% male.

September went by, and St. Naphtali won more games. The appearance of Herald Cobalt was a watershed event–thereafter things were “B.H.” or “A.H.”–Before-Herald or After-Herald.

My father A.H. had trimmed himself down from a pot-bellied stove to a hard-bellied stud. I saw him every day in the weights room. He jogged several miles every day. My mother served fat-free meals.

Nighttime at my house was a soundtrack from a porn movie. Every night. “Oh, my God, Harold, you big fucker! Harder! Make me scream!” and “Gonna knock you up, baby! I love your legs up in the air for me. You surrender, babe??” The knock-up bit was an empty threat, of course, Mom had gone through menopause years before.

But none of us got to sleep before very late–intercourse to the max on their side of the wall, nonstop jackoff sessions on mine. I was beginning to think more kindly of the before-Herald days.

And breakfast. Mom got Dad some of those bikini briefs, and he took to coming to the table wearing nothing else. Wore them low on his hips. Wasn’t hard to see his cock outlined in the fabric. The head stood out like a big plum. Sometimes wet spots, even a white smear here and there.

Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32