Pledges: Gay Erotic Stories (6 page)

The Indian summer breeze drifted through the common room’s open windows, a final gasp of warmth that slithered through the colored leaves outside and sent the candle flames flickering. Mosaics of golden light illuminated the two cocks in Lincoln’s face demanding to be sucked.

They’d underestimated him. Soon after taking Connor’s cock onto his tongue, the proof was tangible, scattered about the room in the piles of discarded uniforms and makeshift Halloween costumes. Connor peeled off his other sweaty sock, which left him as naked now as Tom.

“You like that?” Connor taunted.

The ghost answered by licking Connor’s right big and second toes. Connor shivered, shrank.
“Oh, you’re a nasty girl.”
“Nasty, fuck yeah,” Tom said. “She knows how to take care of a man.”
Connor pumped his lanky cock. “If she’s that good all the time, she can sniff and lick my stinking feet as much as she wants.”
Taking that as permission to, Lincoln ran his nostrils and tongue along the sweaty bottoms of Connor’s toes. Toes to instep, instep to ankle, then he moved on to the other foot and from there up Connor’s hairy leg, all the way to the dude’s balls. Connor’s were riper than Tom’s, slick with sweat, loose and furry.
“Suck on my big come-tanks,” Connor ordered.
Lincoln gulped the left one through the mouth hole first then repeated on the right. Connor moaned and bucked backward, an action that tugged his lone nut to the limit of his sac. On the return, Connor choked up on his dick the way he would a baseball bat and took aim. Lincoln spit out the other man’s ball and swallowed before Connor could swing.
“Now who’s the hog,
hog
?” Tom grumbled.
The two upperclassmen moved together. Dual dickheads sought ownership of the ghost’s mouth.
Lincoln sucked. Tom nutted first, squirting a thick rope that jumped across the sheet’s cheek to paint the top side of Connor’s shaft.
“You busted on me, dude,” Connor huffed through clenched teeth. The mishap, however, pushed him over the edge. With Tom still squirting, Connor dumped several shots of the white stuff into the ghost’s hungry mouth.

Lincoln’s cock burned, rubbed raw to the verge of shooting under the sheet without so much as the privilege of a single stroke. The urge to pump out his skeet while gulping down the musky loads from Alpha Epsilon’s two hottest upperclassmen nearly possessed him, but the brains that had gotten him this far realized it was time to beat feet. He’d mastered the masters. Tom and Connor had underestimated a lowly plebe—still, best to not push his luck.

The two men fell back against the sofa, their balls drained, their dicks wet, still stiff and flouncing over muscled stomachs, almost ready for more. But the ghost stood quickly and vanished from the room.

“Hey, honey, get back here,” Connor called. “I got another load of what you need.”
“Fuck, yeah,” Tom said.
Rising, the two men gave chase.

Two naked upperclassmen appeared among the cops, superheroes and firemen. The party was winding down, growing sleepy. Life returned in a big, swooping cacophony of voices, some laughing, others hooting, pointing.

Lincoln stood near the keg where pledges served beer, the sheet abandoned elsewhere in the house. “Sir?”
“Shithead,” Connor said to him. “You see a ghost run through here?”
“Ghost?” Lincoln parroted.
Connor covered his crotch and got into Lincoln’s face. “Yeah, some chick in a white bedsheet with holes for eyes and a mouth, you moron.”
Lincoln pointed toward the front door. “That way,” he lied.
The two men started in the direction indicated. Connor ran a glance up and down the pledge. His bare feet skidded to a stop.
“Look at his junk, dude,” Connor said to Tom. “You throw wood at the sight of a couple of upperclassmen cocks, shithead?”
Lincoln choked down a swallow, the taste of their loads so fresh, so exhilarating. “No, Sir.”
Connor growled, made a fist and shook it. Tom clapped his shoulder. “Come on, we gotta find her.”
Connor turned and followed the other man’s lead. Over his shoulder, he called, “Stupid plebe.”
Lincoln grinned and licked his lips. “Stupid? Hardly,” he whispered. Then, smiling, he sang, “
Trick or treat, smell my feet; give me something good to eat.
”

Raf stood on the upper deck. The sky was cloudless and the ocean before him was an expanse of gentle ripples. Without any land in sight, the whole world was a powdery blue. All other colors came from the men who reveled on the ship. Lining the railing on either side of Raf and surrounding the swimming pool on the deck below, every man wore trunks the various shades of the rainbow. Speedos flaunted superhero physiques. Diesels boasted butts so round that Raf could sink his face in between their mounds. Guys were downing beer, clinking glasses, nibbling on cherries and pineapples that embellished their drinks. In his glass Raf twirled an ice cube with a toothpick that was topped with a pink paper parasol. He leaned on the railing to relish the wind. The sun darkened his body a ruddy tan.

He had never been on a cruise, much less a cruise in which the passenger list consisted exclusively of near-naked gay men. Hesitation didn’t exist for anybody onboard—hesitation to flirt, to touch, to share the same bed. Neither did apologies. This cruise existed for one reason alone: for those like Raf to have fun with as many partners as they pleased without any regrets. Far at sea, they were free of any law that could condemn them for fucking and loving.

From behind Raf, a pair of arms wrapped around his torso and a man’s crotch pressed against his ass. The man shoved a tongue into Raf’s ear and whispered, “You’re lost in thought. Anything wrong?”

It was Grant, his lover of five years, handsome Grant whose fuzzy arms tickled and warmed, whose sapphire eyes Raf drowned in whether they were disagreeing on a film or slurping soup from the same spoon.

For all the time they had been together, Raf never stopped marveling that their casual meeting at the gym had led to a relationship currently on its fifth year. Never mind that Grant grew up in a small town in the Midwest with scarcely a minority, while Raf was educated in an international school across the Pacific. So what that Grant’s daily diet had been peanut-butterand-jelly sandwiches, while Raf’s childhood meals consisted of coconut salad and mango pie. Love transcended culture and race. In honor of that love, Grant had presented this cruise to Raf for his fortieth birthday.

This was their second day at sea. Everything had been perfect until Raf picked up a magazine and happened upon a story about someone from his past. “Remember Tomas?” he asked.

“Tomas?”
“My friend when I was in college. My frat brother. My…” “Your first boyfriend, the guy who entered the military.” Raf was silent. He and Grant were face-to-face. Grant was

never taller and larger than he was at this instant—a powerhouse of strength shining with tanning oil. Regardless of his forty-eight years, his energy didn’t seem to diminish. Grant still hugged with the force of Goliath, and whenever he squatted to tie his sneakers, his thighs appeared to burst through his jeans. Though strands of white were beginning to lace his black hair, it remained as lush as when they had met.

Raf hugged him, pressed his own torso against his, then buried his face in his lover’s armpit. Grant’s meaty man smell sent Raf into a delirium.

“Hey, baby,” Grant said. “Whatever’s bothering you, it’s okay.”
“Is it?” asked Raf.

There was a time when Raf thought he could never love again after it ended with Tomas. Raf was eighteen and Tomas was twenty when they met. The first time they saw each other was in the dormitory. One afternoon, Raf walked into the common area to watch TV and toying with the foosball table was Tomas. He didn’t notice Raf at first, but Raf sure noticed him. With one look, feelings for guys that Raf had kept pent up in high school surged forth. Tomas was standing before an open window, green eyes darting across rows of plastic footballers impaled by metal bars. Sunlight speckled hair birch brown. Forearm muscles inflated upon the swift turn of a metal bar.

“Wanna play?” Tomas asked. A good two minutes could have passed before he saw Raf across the room, leaning against the back of a sofa and watching him.

“I came… well… for the TV,” Raf said.
“I was watching TV just before you got here. Trust me. Nothing good is on.” Tomas motioned with a sway of his head for Raf to come closer. “Please. One game.”
“I don’t know how to play.”
“Nobody does when he first gets here. I’ll teach you.”
Raf’s palms began to sweat. He was lousy at games. This guy would laugh at him, think him a dud. But fuck…he was inviting Raf. He really wanted Raf’s company. He extended a hand for Raf to shake. His hand was large. Manly fingers complemented the girth of his muscular neck.
“I’m Tomas,” he said. “Without an
h.
Never call me Tom or Tommy. Always Tomas.”
Raf took his hand. With that one touch, there was no going back.
Tomas was a patient teacher. He was consoling. “You’ll get the hang of the game,” he said, every time Raf missed a goal.
It snowballed from there. Foosball led to meals together, a midnight rerun of
The Rocky Horror Picture Show
in the Village, and talks while jogging around the track field and spotting each other in the weight room. Raf learned to play foosball and he learned to play well. But what he enjoyed learning most was about the life of this junior who had taken the hand of this freshman. Tomas Christiansen was half Argentinean, half German and born and raised in Cincinnati. A student of law and diplomacy, he planned on a military career upon graduation so that he could apply his knowledge toward creating a world less wracked by war and political dissension; such was his youthful idealism. He liked Ben and Jerry’s ice cream. His favorite color was brown because brown was the color of the earth. He knew the lyrics to the songs in
Xanadu
and he cried during
West Side Story.
He was a brother at Zeta Psi.
“You should rush,” he told Raf during one of their foosball games.
“I’m not the fraternity type,” Raf said.
“You would make a perfect brother.” Here Tomas was again, enticing Raf to do something he was unsure of. “Let’s make a deal,” Tomas said. “If I win this set, you rush. If you win, you…we discuss it.”
They played for nearly an hour, slamming the ball against the foosball table, swerving left to right in exercising their reflexes. Then Tomas raised his fists in victory and let out a triumphant yell. He placed an arm around Raf’s shoulders. Raf feigned disappointment.
The truth was that Raf let Tomas win.

The rushing was a semester of absurdities: running up and down the dorm stairs, naked save for a pair of underwear concealing his head; not bathing for a week; eating a raw onion. Come the end of spring, the brothers threw a welcome party for the initiates in the basement of the frat house, a brick structure with bars barricading the lower-level windows. Guys danced with girls to music blasting on a loudspeaker, and beer pumped out of a barrel and spilled on the floor. The basement was packed. And yet—like the scene in
West Side Story
in which Tony and Maria see each other for the first time across a crowded dance floor, bewitched, and the revelers blur into the distance like fog receding into a cave—Tomas and Raf were rooted to their spots at opposite ends of the room, their eyes on nobody but each other.

Raf could not mistake the look on Tomas’s face. It was the look he imagined on himself when he used to yearn for the older boys in his high school locker room. He had seen that look before on Tomas, but it had been a fleeting look during foosball or a walk to class and so he would dismiss it. Only tonight Tomas was not turning his head away.

Tomas cut across the basement. Guys parted from their girls to make way. He took Raf by the hand and he said, “Let me show you something.”

Tomas guided Raf up a flight of stairs to the rooftop. Washington Square below was bustling with listeners surrounding a street violinist. Throngs of people were strolling, rollerblading, and gathering around the fountain that jetted water aiming for the sky. Trees were in full bloom and the sun was beginning to set late.

The two stood against a cement ledge, contemplating the world around them. Tomas remained holding Raf’s hand. An amber glow cast down upon them. For the first time an awkward silence befell both.

At last, Tomas took Raf in his arms. Raf did not pull back. They stood motionless for several moments more. And then they kissed.

Raf had never kissed a boy before. He had never even kissed a girl. Yet what he was doing with Tomas, he did without having to think. It was instinctual, as natural as waking in the morning to live the day ahead.

They scurried to an alcove located across the rooftop. There they hastily undid their sneakers, dropped their jeans and underwear, and threw off their sweatshirts and T-shirts. Even though the door to the rooftop was on the other side and facing the opposite direction, Raf started to express hesitation.

“What if someone comes up?” he asked.
“No one will,” Tomas said.
“But…”
Tomas laid Raf down on their clothes. He lay beside Raf,

spat on a finger and tickled Raf’s anus. Losing himself to this new sensation, Raf placed his head on Tomas’s chest. “Stay right there,” Tomas said. “Listen.”
Thump
thump…
Thump
-thump…
Tomas’s heart pounded a hypnotic drumbeat in Raf’s head.
“But…” Raf began once more.
“Only I have access to the rooftop,” Tomas said. “I got a copy of the door key from the maintenance man. It’s forbidden to be up here.”
“How did you manage that?”
Tomas smiled slyly.
“I’ve wanted you since the first moment I saw you at the foosball table,” Raf said.
“I know.”
Tomas got up while Raf remained lying. He stood above Raf a man-boy demigod. His penis jutted out like a diving board, hungry for a buddy fuck. His muscles were robust and his skin was the shade of ginger.
This is so what I thought college in America would be like,
Raf thought. Where he came from, Americans were notorious for being sexually liberal.
Porky’s, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Animal House
—Tomas was proving those films to be no exaggeration. Thank god for that.
Raf got on his knees, grabbed Tomas’s dick. He looked beseechingly up at Tomas. His eyes watered from a mixture of joy and desperation. With the head of his cock, Tomas wiped away a tear that fell.
“I won’t hurt you, Raf,” he said, softly. “I promise I won’t hurt you. You’ve made it this far. You’re a brother now, my brother. Rushing was easy, but staying in… This is the real initiation. I can have you kicked out if you don’t do as I say. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
It looked as though a bee had stung Raf in the eye. “No, Tomas. No, I wouldn’t.”
Another tear fell. And this one Tomas wiped away with a kiss.
Raf could have sworn Tomas’s own eyes were glazed with a mixture of sadness and ecstasy. “I’ve never seen you like this, Tomas.” He took Tomas’s Argentinean-Germanic cock in his mouth, swallowed driblets of beer piss and dude jizz.
“Fuck your butthole with your thumb while sucking me,” Tomas said.
Raf did as ordered.
“Nibble on my balls.”
Raf did as ordered.
“My big balls full of cum that I’m gonna unload up your ass.”
At that, Raf munched ever more desperately. He grunted. He sighed. “Yeah, Tomas. That’s what I want. That’s what I’ve always wanted—a guy as wonderful and beautiful as you.”
“And that’s what you’re getting. But first…” Tomas said, “lick my frat-boy asshole.”
Tomas turned around so that his ass was level with Raf’s face. He leaned forward and rested his hands against a wall. Raf rammed his face up Tomas’s asshole. Tomas’s anal lips sucked on his tongue. His big brother’s rectum was pink and twitching and dank and soft.
“Do you wanna know how that feels?” asked Tomas.
“Yes, yes, I do.”
Tomas had Raf stand up so that he could lie down. “Sit on my face, my newly initiated little bro.”
Tomas’s tongue felt like soap slithering around Raf’s butt— titillating, nasty. Raf couldn’t contain himself. “Fuck!” he yelled and shot his load all over Tomas’s head.
Cum wet Tomas’s hair and spilled onto his forehead. Raf slid down so that they were face-to-face. He licked his own spunk off Tomas’s forehead then kissed him, spitting his semen into his mouth.
“I’m not done with you yet, you dirty bitch,” Tomas said.
He sat up and leaned his back against a wall. Raf faced Tomas and squatted down onto his penis. Raf let out another yell, but this one was of pain.
“Slowly. Slowly,” Tomas said. “I promise I won’t hurt you. Slide it in slowly.”
The pain was not quick to subside, but Raf did not want to stop. He focused on Tomas’s eyes, those eyes that were drawing him in, encouraging and consoling him. He felt Tomas’s embrace possess him. He smelled Tomas’s butt rank off his upper lip. His asshole opened up. His butt juices started to flow. They lubed up his first boyfriend’s fuck muscle.
Tomas sped up his humping. He was bouncing his hips up and down with increasing velocity. The most beautiful frat jock in the world was invading Raf’s most private orifice. Tomas’s penis was like a baton pummeling Raf’s ass, tearing open Raf’s sexed up boy-hole.
Pain? What pain?
“Your ass is like velvet on my cock,” Tomas whispered. His eyes were shut. His head was thrown back in surrender. He shot his load, climaxed inside Raf, marinated Raf’s ravaged asshole with his juices.
“Stay right there,” Tomas whispered. He opened his eyes. “Keep me inside you. Keep looking into my eyes. Just like that. Repeat after me.”
Tomas: “Raf belongs to Tomas. Tomas belongs to Raf.”
Raf: “Raf belongs to Tomas. Tomas belongs to Raf.”
Tomas: “Tomas and Raf are one.”
Raf: “Tomas and Raf are one.”
Tomas: “Forever.”
Raf: “Forever.”
Tomas: “I love you.”
Raf: “I love you.”