Pledges: Gay Erotic Stories (17 page)

Bryant dropped the toothbrush and clawed at the tiles. The gliding plunge of cock into his ass was awesome, electrifying. He thought the big brother would ball right out his mouth; the dong was so huge and fulfilling. But balls pressed up against his buttocks, halting the heady descent of dick. Bryant and Marvis gasped for air, the two men joined in wicked fraternity.

The other pledges were getting their asses stuffed with cocks. Groaning and grunting filled the heated air. But Bryant could only concentrate on one ass and one cock at a time—the pipe plugging his butt. It shifted, pulling back, leaving gaping emptiness behind; then bulled forward again, pushing in utter fulfillment as Marvis fucked Bryant’s ass.

Bryant pushed back, meeting the meaty man’s thrusts, convulsing his butt muscles so that he sucked on the shunting cock. They moved faster and faster, as one, their groans of delight, the glorious smacking of their flesh, the velvety, searing friction of cock stoking chute, blotting out their minds to everything else.

Marvis pounded into Bryant’s bounding butt. Then jerked back and out just in time. Another cock instantly stuck Bryant’s ass, tunneling and torquing his chute as Marvis staggered off to hit and hammer another pledge’s sweet ass.

One cock after another barged into and banged Bryant, every brother taking a shot at every pledge. Until Bryant had actually dug up a tile from the floor, his burning body rocking to and fro with the wild free-for-all fucking, his brain jarred loose by the brutal and beautiful pounding he was taking and loving. His anus reamed raw as his emotions, his cock jutting out come-hard and jerking in rhythm to the anal assaults. He was ready to blow, to explode into a thousand specks of semen all over the basement.

“Good work, ‘pledge’!” Conrad grunted, stuffing his shiny pink dong into Bryant’s gaping wide asshole. “You showed the real pledges the way. Now you’ll get your just reward.”

The brother grabbed on to Bryant’s shoulders and pulled him upward on his knees. He kissed, licked and bit into Bryant’s neck, tongued his ears, and sucked on Bryant’s outstretched and flailing tongue as he pistoned cock into Bryant’s ass. And then he dropped a hand down Bryant’s sweat-slickened, heaving chest and grabbed on to the man’s onyx cock, pumping it to the pace of the frantic fucking.

Bryant jerked up against Conrad, bellowed. Superheated orgasm exploded inside him. His ass clamped Conrad’s cock, semen spraying out of his hand-jacked erection again and again. He hardly felt the sizzling spurts of joy from Conrad’s erupting cock in his anus, the mind-blowing bliss of total release carrying him away.

Bryant walked off the college campus with a noticeable spring to his carriage and a smile on his lips. He wasn’t even a student, let alone a member of a fraternity. But he’d be back next year to participate in another heavenly hell week, a ringer brought in to get pledges to fully engage with their brothers. It worked wickedly well for all parties concerned.

I struggled to hang on to every word that tumbled past Professor Carr’s juicy lips while I had Kwame sitting behind me in class grazing the tip of my asscrack with his finger. I fidgeted in the desk that mashed uncomfortably against my belly. I wanted Kwame to stop playing. It was neither the time nor the place for what he was doing.
Damn, I hope no one can see where he’s got his—shit that feels so good
. He knew how much I liked having my ass played with. He did it to torture me. All I could do was take it. I twirled my pen around my fingers. I couldn’t focus. I stopped taking notes.
Jesus, man, stop!
My dick was hard, knocking crazily against the crotch of my shorts that failed to compress my excitement. I looked to the big clock that hung above the green chalkboard. Eight more minutes of class left, eight more minutes of Kwame’s torment. I slid my hand nonchalantly under my desk and pulled at my crotch in an attempt to give my dick some room to stretch. Kwame kept taunting my asscrack, pressing his digit firmly between my booty-cleavage. It was fucked up what he was doing, but he had me so hot. I wanted out of there. I wanted to go somewhere. I wished Carr would shut the fuck up and let us go; let me out of this bitch so I could go to the nearest bathroom and rub out a quickie.

He finally ended the lecture.

“Don’t forget that your research papers are due next week. I will not, I repeat, I will not be accepting late papers.”
Yeah, yeah; blah, blah. I squeezed myself free of the desk and picked up my backpack that was slumped at the foot of the chair next to me. I looked at Kwame searching for an answer for why he felt the need to play with my ass in the middle of class, but all he did was look at me all devilish, perfectly aware that I secretly enjoyed every hot minute of what he was doing. Kwame and I stumbled out into the hallway. I didn’t say anything to him until we were free and clear of our fellow students.
“What the hell was that in there?” I asked.
“I was just playin’ around.” Kwame started laughing, but I didn’t think it was funny.
“What if somebody had have seen whatchu was doing?”
“No one saw anything.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Trust me. Nobody saw what was up, so chillax.” Kwame grinned.
“Well, damn, I’m glad one of us finds it funny.”
I was already starting to break a sweat as we made our way across campus in the hot September heat. Today was another scorcher. I hate the summer. It’s not a good look for a fat boy like me.
“And stop acting like you didn’t like what I was doing. ’Cause I know your dick did.” Kwame reached around and groped my privates. I jerked his hand away from my hard-on.
“Man, quit.”
“Yep, I thought so.” Kwame snickered.
“You want people to see?”
“I don’t care what they see. I don’t know them and they don’t know me.”
“Just stop with that shit in class. One of us at least wants to pass to graduate. I can’t concentrate when you got your hands down my pants.”
“You gotta admit I got you in the mood.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is the—” I blocked Kwame’s hand before he could make another ballsy move for my dick.
“I gotta go. I’m going to be late to my next class.”
“Oh, come on. You don’t put up a fight when I gotchu on all fours.”
“I’m just saying that we need to chill. This is a small conservative school in an even smaller conservative town. Everybody knows everybody around here.”
“Okay, I just left from getting a lecture. Why I gotta hear another one?”
I looked at Kwame knowing that what I was saying to him was not sinking in.
“You know what? I don’t have time for this. Later,” I said, as I pushed my hand in his face.
“Are we going to meet up later?” Kwame asked. “To work on our papers?”
I kept going down the hill, pretending I didn’t hear him.

Three days. Three days out of the week I get tortured. Kwame keeps his hands everywhere but to himself, sitting in class, teasing me, blowing his big bull breath on my neck. I thought about switching seats, but what would be the point? It wouldn’t stop me from feeling the way I feel about him. I’ve never told him about the crazy dream I had where he rips off my clothes, bends me over Professor Carr’s desk and fucks me right there in front of him and the whole class, and Professor Carr and everyone in class is cheering Kwame on as he’s mounting me. The morning of that dream, I had a hard-on that defied damn gravity. Shot the biggest load. I nutted all over my hands and lap, staining my down comforter with cum.

I met Kwame at this pansexual club over on Tharpe called Rehab. There were some hot guys, yeah, but Kwame was by far the finest brotha there. He was sitting at the bar talking to some chicken-head with big titties. I could tell he was sweet talking her, telling her all this shit he knew she wanted to hear. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, especially that double-bubble booty he was working with. I’m talking the type of ass I could eat out for days and have leftovers after. It’s what Phaedra from “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” describes as “donkey booty.” So he’s talking the girl up and the next thing I see is her hurling a drink in his face. Everyone at the bar turned in their direction. The girl hauled ass toward the bathroom while Kwame sat there wiping the alcohol off his face and shirt with a drink napkin. When he glanced angrily over the bar at me, I looked off to the TV hanging above the bar, playing out an episode of “The New Adventures of Old Christine.” I pretended I hadn’t seen him getting assaulted with a glass of Patron. Kwame walked outside where he lit up a Black & Mild. I felt sorry for him, so I walked outside to see if he was all right.

“Can I get one of those?” I asked, even though I was trying to quit at the time.
“Yeah, man let me—here you go,” he said, handing me one from his stash. The slim, straw-like fag hung off his full bottom lip. Kwame offered me a light. I was able to get a better look at him as we stood outside. He was tall as hell. He had to be about six-four. I’m not normally into men that are taller than me, but I knew with a cake like his, he had to be packing some serious Twinkie dick in the front, so I made an exception. With all those brick-hard muscles, I thought he was going to bust out of his shirt. He wasn’t just fine but
foine.
“I saw that back there.”
“What the…”
“The girl; she threw the drink in your face. I didn’t know chicks still did that,” I laughed.
“Yeah, I was contemplating breaking up with her, but now… yeah.”
“Oh, she’s your girlfriend?”
“About to be former girlfriend. She’s high maintenance and she’s a fuckin’ drama princess.”
“I know the feeling,” I said.
That night, Kwame filled me in on how she wants to get married and move in together.
“My brother is married and his lady’s got him completely pussy-whipped. I ain’t going down like that. Not as long as these balls swing between my legs.” Kwame took a drag from his Black & Mild, exhaling a thick body of smoke into the brisk fall air.
His girl hauled ass out of the club dressed in a gold sequin pencil dress and platform heels, bitching and moaning: “Take me the fuck home. I’m done with your trifling ass.”
She hadn’t even noticed me, she was so pissed. He finished up his cig and thrashed it to his feet. We looked at each other as if we were old friends and smiled. Kwame gave me this I’mabout-to-kill-this-bitch look. “All right, man. I’m outta here. What’s your name?” he asked.
“Cray,” I said.
“Cray. That’s w’sup. I’m Kwame. Nice to meetcha.” We came together in a half-hug, our fingers locking together, giving each other some dap.
“You comin’ or you gonna stand out here and talk shit with your boyfriend all night?” his girlfriend teased. It was then that I knew what Kwame meant. That night I wanted to take him home with me; rescue him from Ms. Drama Princess. I figured I would never see him again—until I saw him standing in line at the registrar’s office.
“Small world,” I said, as I went over and nudged him gently in the ribs.
“Cray, hey, man, w’sup?” He smiled exposing the prettiest set of pearl-white teeth. Kwame and I were both shocked to find that we had so much in common: our love for African American literature and horror movies, the same taste in cars and a deep disdain for Britney Spears, Lady Gaga and Barbie Doll Nicki Minaj. We became fast friends, hanging out at one of the local college watering holes, working out together, having lunches, going to basketball games. He was still with Bree, his crazy shorty from the club who threw the drink in his face. I thought he had broken it off with her but apparently not, being that she was blowing up his smartphone 24-damn-7. The one thing I never do is get myself caught in the middle. Been there, done that, and got the emotional battle scars to prove it. I didn’t get why he wouldn’t just break it off. He said he didn’t want to end up like his brother, but it looked to me like Bree was already wearing Kwame’s balls for chandelier earrings. I don’t know. It was none of my business.

I was watching this skinny, punky-looking white boy with green hair make my chicken wrap when I felt my phone vibrating against my waist. “If it’s my job. I’m not answering,” I whispered, not wanting anyone to see that I was talking to myself. “They’re always calling asking me if I can come in and work, and that shit ain’t about to happen with all the work on my plate. Be tryin’ to work a black man to death like I’m the only employee at the movie theater.” I studied the number that appeared on the face of my Droid Razor. It was Kwame. I was over what we had fussed about two hours earlier, and was in a better mood once I got a spot in this Intro to Shakespeare class I needed.

“‘Sup,” he said.
“Hey.”
“You still pissed about that stuff in Carr’s class?” “No. I’m good.”
“I just wanted to say that you were right. That wasn’t the

time or the place to be doing that.”
If Kwame was apologizing, I accepted.
“Well, I’m sorry too. I mean, I know I can be a drama princess sometimes.”

“Do you still want to get together and work on our papers?”
“Yeah, you can meet me tonight in the library. How does nine o’clock sound?”
“That’s w’sup.”
“They have started keepin’ the library open until two in the morning, so we don’t have to worry about being kicked out.” The skinny, green-haired boy handed me my sandwich and vitamin water while I in turn slipped him a twenty. He handed me back my change. I put two dollars in the tip jar he had sitting next to a stack of menus on the counter.
“’Preciate it,” he said, with a nod.
“Cool,” said Kwame.
I got my books for my other four classes and arrived at the library about a quarter till nine.
***
Bree was visiting her people in Philly the first time Kwame and I fucked. We were at his crib, polishing off a twelve-pack. While I was a little buzzed, he was headed to shit-faced city.
“She said she thinks we need some time apart,” he went on.
“You cool with that?”
“I really don’t give a fuck what she does. I’m tired of her ass being jealous all the time.”
We were sitting on opposite ends of this shabby, red sofa he had rescued from the Dumpster in his apartment complex. Surprisingly, the thing didn’t stink.
“I don’t know, man. I’m sick of girls and their bullshit.”
“I don’t blame you.” I took a swig from my bottle.
“I’m going cold bologna on these bitches out here.”
“You mean cold turkey?”
“Cold turkey, bologna, all that shit.”
“So you gonna start liking dudes?” I joked. Kwame looked over at me all buzzed from beer.
“Hell, maybe. Wouldn’t have to worry about the drama that’s for damn sure.”
I busted out laughing. “Oh, you think so, huh?”
“Guys just wanna fuck. They ain’t trying to ball and chain a brotha.”
I somehow was not surprised by Kwame’s revelation. He was drunk, yeah, but I knew enough about drunken college boys to know when they’re using alcohol as a reason to say and do crazy shit. Twelve beers later, I was sitting at the foot of his sofa, sucking him off in his living room. We woke up the next morning in his bed: him with down-low guilt in his eyes and me with a sore throat and a spent asshole. Whenever I would bring up that night, Kwame would simply brush it off. “It was just a cheap thrill, that’s all. Nothing else.” I let it go until he started calling, usually when Bree was at work or out of town.
“You wanna come over?” he would ask.
I wanted to refuse. God knows I did. I went from not wanting to be caught in the middle to my ass just not wanting to be caught. We fucked around once a week so as to not raise any suspicion. We never planned anything. It just always started with a call or a text message.
Bree is at the club with her girlfriends. Will be gone all night. You want to come over?
And I never refused. The sneaking around was kind of a turn-on. What she doesn’t know, you know? I just wish someone had have told me I would end up falling in love with Kwame. I hadn’t told him how I really felt. I didn’t want to lose the best friend I’ve ever had.