Pledges: Gay Erotic Stories (3 page)

I moved my head up and my cock out. It stood there, rigid between us. “For me or for you?” I asked.
He smiled and leaned in, my dick in his hand, his mouth on mine. The kiss tasted like beer and was soft as a cloud. Perfect if not a bit weird, considering my dick was so close to the action. Then he pulled an inch away and thwacked it against his lips. “I’m gonna fuck you, dude. While you suck yourself off.”
It was a novel idea, and one I wasn’t about to argue with. Especially once his lubed up fingers reached down, the middle one entering me before I could reply. My hole tightened up around it, my tummy tensing for a moment before they both relaxed. “Nice and easy, pledge,” he whispered, sucking on my lips and then my cock and then back again. A second finger was added, both pushed all the way in and back as my breath got sucked in. “Yeah, like that, pledge. Just like that. Feels good, don’t it?”
I nodded and again mashed my mouth into his, the kiss more insistent this time. And then he pulled away and slid the rubber on, then lubed his pole of a prick up before slapping the fat head against my tender exposed hole. “Now suck,” he said, placing my cock back inside my mouth.
I stared down as I sucked away, watching his cock enter me a millimeter at a time, fireworks going off inside my head as he filled me up, slow and steady, nice and easy, until the entirety of his fat prick was buried deep inside of me and my cock was crammed in my mouth.
“Fucking hot,” he repeated, sweat now dripping between his hairy pecs.
“Mmm,” I agreed, as best I could, what with my mouth full of pulsing prick.
And then he let me have it, his hairy ass rocking into me, cock pounding away at my asshole, until my entire body felt like it was on fire. Out and in, out and in, slamming away, and grunting as he did so. Fast, faster still, my mouth and his dick now on autopilot. And then he crammed every inch of it deep, deep up my chute, his head tilted back, mouth agape as he came and came, body jerking as he exploded, sweat flinging off of him.
A split second later, my balls up tight now, my cock fattened and shot, come filling my mouth before spilling out and down, thick gobs of it gliding over my balls before hitting the carpet.
I pulled my head back, more come spilling from my mouth while I gasped for breath.
He popped his prick out of my ass, his body spasming one final time. Then he leaned in and licked my face clean. “Think our dads did this, too?” he asked, his chin covered in spunk.
I giggled, despite the grossness of the idea. “Please don’t put that image in my head, Steve.”
He helped me de-pretzel myself and then sat down next to me on the floor. “Why, our dads were hot, back in the day.”
“Way back,” I said. “Way, way,
way
back.”
He laughed and put his arm around me, his body pressed snuggly up against mine. “Yeah, well, still, it’s nice to see the legacy continue.”
I turned and looked at him, my smile mirroring his. “Looks like that word just took on a whole new meaning, dude.”
“Legacy,” he repeated, a tender kiss placed on my lips. “Has a nice ring to it, yes?”
I nodded and returned the kiss in kind. “Sure does, brother,” I replied. “Sure as hell does.”

Dad was in one of his lecturing moods. Sure, I knew he wanted me to succeed, to build a better life, but a life as the Son in Harold Raleigh & Son, Plumbers. I knew I’d be making more money per hour than many university-educated people, because there was always a need for someone to fix your toilet, even in Pitfall Creek, population 1200, but I wasn’t so sure there was always the need for someone to explain the intricacies in the thinking of Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel and German Idealism.

The truth of the matter: I couldn’t tell a U-bend from a tap washer. Plumbing was not an option. Besides, I had my own ambition, buried deep until the day I could leave this town that passed dreams from one generation to another, smothering achievement with complacency.

Dad was still on about my future. “All I know about universities, Toby, is that guys in fraternities make contacts that last for life. Good contacts that you can use to better yourself. Contacts you can call in favors from in times of trouble.”

His dinner was getting cold. “I don’t mean the drinking and whoring, although a man has to sow a few wild oats before he settles down to his responsibilities.” He looked across at my mum who smiled indulgently.

“Just make sure you surround yourself with influential friends,” he said, his final word on the subject.
He needn’t have worried. I’d suckled ambition like mother’s milk from the day I was born. I may have given the outward appearance of being zombied out, a Stepford son; it was the only way to survive small-town life unscathed and unscarred. Country folk tend to take out their resentments in a physical way on anyone who is different. I learned that in kindergarten because I dared to kiss Melissa Leonard on the cheek. Miss Finch caned me, at the ripe old age of six, calling me a “filthy little animal” into the bargain.
From that day forth I played the game, damping down the snarling motherfucker that couldn’t wait to get out of the small-town suffocation. The world would be not only my oyster but my own personal fuck-hole, and it was gonna be sore by the time I’d finished working it over. I kept those feelings bottled until the day my dad drove me to the airport, hectoring me with a few last-minute warnings about “men things,” his words for sex. As my girlfriend, Dolores, and I had been going through the motions for the past two years, his talk was a little late.
“Look, son, no use beating around the bush. You’re a goodlooking young man, good bone structure thanks to me and your mum, good body from all that sport you play. Well, not to put too fine a point on it, you’ll be tempted. Sorely tempted. I’m not saying don’t, that would be inhuman, beyond any young man’s ability. What I’m saying is, just be careful. You don’t want to be shoehorned into marriage at your age, if you get my meaning. Especially with the wrong sort of girl.”
He fumbled in the glove compartment and handed me a small box in a brown paper bag. I knew what was inside without opening it.
“Thanks, Dad.”
Dolores didn’t come to see me off because we’d said our good byes the night before. We both had a fair idea this was as far as our relationship was destined to go. We both lied about leaving our options open.
The university campus was a totally alien environment, so it was baby steps until I knew my way around. After I’d enrolled, I went along to the student accommodation office. The guy behind the counter didn’t even bother looking up. “Frat boy orientation is down the hall.”
He wore a badge that identified him as Dorian. The name suited him: well-preserved forties, effete, precious, but buff.
“Thank you, sir,” I responded politely. “That answers one of my questions. Could you give me a little information as to which would be the top five male frat houses—?”
The “sir” did it. Show a man respect and you’ve got a really good chance of reeling him in. All I wanted was the inside information given to the privileged few.
“Well, young man,” he said, finally looking me up and down as if he were appraising a piece of jewelry to see if it was worth his time. “That depends on whether you mean for partying, academic achievement, or just plain lazing about in a marijuana haze for four years.”
“I’d be obliged, sir; I want the real inside information on the good, the bad and the ugly.”
I could tell by the way the skin around his eyes crinkled that he was amused by me, nevertheless he gave a rundown on each fraternity listing both their good and their bad points, the types of students in each and lots of other unofficial information that was borderline slanderous.
None of them sounded like what I was after. I must have screwed my face up disdainfully at the choice, because as I turned to walk away after thanking him obsequiously for his help, he stopped me with, “But…” Sighing in exasperation, he said, “You’re a hard man to read, but just this once I’ll take a chance.” Then, as if launching into a rehearsed spiel, he added, “You look like a young man who is interested in the unusual, the off-the-beaten-track experience.”
Did I really?
“No, I’ll rephrase that,” he said. I had an urge to turn around to see if he was reading his lines from a teleprompter. “You’ve neglected yourself, young man. You need to be brought out, and I have just the fraternity for you. They are very influential, very secretive, but you will never lack for friends and influence in later life. Their rules, however, are strict and few survive the pledging ritual.”
I went back to the counter, more enthused than when I first arrived. My interest was piqued. I smiled. This was exactly the information I sought.
“You’re a front-line recruiter for the fraternity?”
“Not only are you very cute, but that hayseed persona you’ve got going for you hides a very sharp intelligence. Let’s see if you can put it to good use.”
That was the first time a guy had ever called me cute. I shrugged. It takes all kinds to make a world.
“Turn,” he said, spinning his finger in the air.
I made like a male model, feeling fuckin’ ridiculous, praying nobody else would come in.
“Nice ass, plump package. You don’t have enhancements tucked down the front of your jeans, do you?”
“Enhancements?”
“A pair of sox, handkerchiefs, tissues.” He leaned across the counter and prodded my bulge with his finger.
“No, it’s all me.”
I could have (should have?) stepped away from the counter, but I knew subconsciously that if I broke contact with the guy then, any further correspondence about the frat in question would almost certainly not be entered into. He did not remove the offending finger but rather traced it along my semi-tumescent cock that was currently engorging because of the attention being paid it.
I had never before gotten hard from the attention of another male, especially not one that could scarcely keep the flaming faggot inside on a leash.
“Oh, honey,” he panted, dropping the façade. “You’re making momma’s mouth drool.”
I knew I was being tested. I also knew what was expected of me. How hard could it be? If I had to pay the recruiter commission by the inch to get the details I wanted, that was life. You get what you pay for. If the value of the information was not equal to, or higher than, the price I paid, then the fag across the counter would require stitches to that handsome face of his.
“You got somewhere private we can take this…uh…conversation?” I flirted.
He did. And we did, although he found it very difficult to uphold his end of the conversation with his mouth full of my grade-A sausage. Obviously not a vegetarian. Looking down at his head as it bobbed along the length of my shaft, I realized a guy choking on your cock was not all that different from a chick doing it. Except it seemed to me now, guys were definitely better at giving head. Unless, of course, I’d experienced chicks who were really bad at it and a fag who was one of the top cocksuckers in the country.
What the fuck? Why was I over-analyzing this shit? It was a blow job, all I had to do was lie back and enjoy it. I would have if I hadn’t been perched on a scabby old desk pushed up against a wall in a storeroom the size of your average outdoor latrine. The one saving grace was that it didn’t smell like one. Latrine, that is.
I’d dropped my jeans and Dorian had dropped to his knees, admiring my cock. I didn’t know how it fared in relation to other guys; I hadn’t majored in cock-size comparisons in high school, but his hum of appreciation seemed to confirm I was on the largish side.
Thanks, Dad.
Dorian licked my balls, running his hands up my body and pushing my shirt up to my neck so he could appraise the quality of my chest and stomach, I assumed. He flicked my nipples, which made them even harder than the little pink darts of flesh they already were. I groaned as he squeezed them between his fingers, making my cock throb in tandem.
Who knew there was a correlation between male tits and the tensile strength of an erection? Why
don’t
they teach this shit in schools?
“I gotta eat those pecs of yours,” he whispered, as he stood to lick my chest, taking my tit nub between his front teeth to nibble. I gasped with the pleasure and then the pain as he chomped down harder, milking my cock with his hand. If this fag had a cunt, I would have married him on the spot.
He licked down over my stomach, not as washboard hard as it could be but defined enough to impress, down past my leaking cock, on to my balls and then he kept going, licking that ridge that runs from your ball sac to your…holy shit! Dorian had pushed me back gently on the desk so that my ass was vulnerable.
Now I have a rule: nobody, but nobody touches my ass. I had a doctor go there once and unless I’m told there is some life-threatening reason that anyone needs to go there again, I’m getting No Trespassing inked on my butt as soon as first semester begins.
He parted my cheeks. Okay, I’d let him
look
at my asshole.
I was nervous as shit, probably not a good description in my present situation. He blew on my hole, his breath, not his cum. He…he…fuck, he licked my ass. Lapped along the crack like a cat laps milk. The feeling was not too bad. Each time he passed across my little puckered bud, I shivered. It felt so good I might have to reconsider inking my butt.
He clamped his mouth around my arsehole, licking and sucking, before pushing his tongue against the tight muscle that barred entry. Hell, what harm could a tongue do? I relaxed and he squeezed me open, lathering my entrance with spit. I was almost sorry when he lifted his mouth off, until he clamped his lips around my cock, vacuuming along the shaft until he had it wedged tightly in his throat. I felt his gag reflex kick in and he struggled for a moment before lifting off to grab a breath. His mouth was caked with mucous, which he wrapped around his index finger.
I lay back to allow him to work his magic, his face buried in my pubes as he suctioned, his tongue lathing the underside of my shaft. I bucked every time he put his lips around the sensitive head, slurping the precum from the slit, or else ran his tongue around the underside edge of the mushroom knob. I was oblivious to everything but the feelings in my cock as he rammed his face down to my balls, choking on my prick in the back of his throat and giving me the most intense agony in my balls, until his slicked finger pierced my anal resistance and his index finger slipped inside me.
It stung a little but not as much as the doctor’s surgical instruments had, and when Dorian found my prostate, as it was all explained to me later, I thought my dick would shoot fireworks. Rubbing the little nub with his finger as I pushed my prick in to fuck his tonsils, he had me begging for relief.
“Oh, shit; oh, fuck. Here it comes, baby. Take my load. Swallow all that warm spunk.”
I held his head and fucked it like a crazy man, filling his mouth with man slime and forcing him to swallow it all. When I finally released him, Dorian wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and gingerly removed the offending finger from my butt.
I suppose I could have been angry, but what was the point? It hadn’t killed me, unless I was likely to die from pleasure.
“Fuck, that was intense,” I said, as I tried to sit up.
He wiped his finger on his handkerchief, staring at me as if I was an alien. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
“I’ve had my share of chicks,” I corrected.
“No, I mean you’ve never done man-on-man before.”
“Ah…no.”
“Normally, if I’d done that to a straight guy—”
“Rammed your finger up his butt, you mean?”
“Yeah. For starters, straight guys don’t let you do that unless they’ve already got in touch with their inner prostate, or else they find themselves in dire need of a paramedic. You were so fuckin’ tight, that had to be a first. So, why?”
“First reason, you took me by surprise and it was fuckin’ amazing. Main reason, I’m ambitious.”
I pulled my pants back up, zipping my fly while he seemed to be thinking, trying to make a decision.
“How ambitious?”
I’m no dummy. “Give me a list of alumni.”
He rattled off the names of a number of the wealthiest and most influential men in the country, if not the world. I was impressed, even though I had no way of ascertaining if he was telling the truth.
“Not to mention yourself,” I said. “However, you seem to be a sad reflection on the singular success of the fraternity.”
“Don’t make the mistake of equating success to a dollar value. Personal satisfaction and happiness have more to do with success than you can possibly imagine at your stage of life.”
I began to object, but he went on.
“That’s not a putdown. Just remember some people dream smaller than others, but that makes them none the less successful if they achieve their dream. Besides, look what I just got to have sex with. Mister Not-So-Straight-Anymore.”
If I wanted a lecture I’d watch “Dr. Phil.”
“So, it’s a faggot frat?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Dorian sighed. “I don’t hear people calling…” He named a high profile Hollywood action star and a highly decorated military general. “You ever hear anyone call them fag?”
He had a point.
“You got me wrong. I was asking for clarification, it wasn’t a derogatory question.”
“Maybe,” he said, looking as if there were depths to me he hadn’t realized. “But faggot is a word best left for use in the bedroom between consenting adults. Got it?”
Yeah, I could have taken offence at the lecturing bastard, but if you don’t listen, you don’t learn.
I listened plenty over the next twenty minutes as he explained the process. It was the closest I was likely to get to really selling my soul to Satan and his hordes. In fact, I think it would have been a great deal easier and less painful if the Anti-Christ had been head of the fraternity. He wasn’t; Bud Weston was. He was a cruel, sadistic bastard who, when I stood before him later, looked me over and licked his lips like I was a human sacrifice.
That is precisely what I was.
This was initiation night. I’d already signed a waiver not to reveal anything that went on in the course of the evening. I’d already been made aware of what had happened to previous unsuccessful frat wannabe’s who’d blabbed. Terminal velocity when behind the wheel of a motor vehicle is not called “terminal” for nothing.
I was naked in a room full of naked frat brothers who salivated over my body like I was the Sunday roast. They were kneeling or seated around a low coffee table just shy of the size of a full-grown man, in the center of which was a padded section that spun like a lazy Susan. If Dorian hadn’t explained a little of what to expect, I would have been seriously freaked out by this time.
Weston had me kneel on the padded section of the table, a pile of solid cushions placed under my chest and stomach to relieve the pressure on my body while remaining in that position for a long period. My ankles were strapped to the edge of the table, forcing my legs apart so that I felt the warm air against my butthole. Fingers soon began to probe my bowels as I lay helpless, unable to see who was breaching my sphincter.