“I’m not a deadbeat.” Asad said.

Coach Henry Jacobs stood looking at the teenage boy, jaw clenched, his brawny arms folded across his chest. His green-hazel eyes were hard as slate giving him the forbidding appearance of a bald eagle. This had been arguing for some time now in his office, and Asad was going to be late for his AP Philosophy class.

It was a lost cause, of course, because Coach Jacobs was never known to have lost an argument with his players.

A clock ticked on the wall. Somewhere in the room a fly buzzed. The overhead florescent lights glinted off the sides of Coach’s gold Aggie ring. Asad knew he was not only angry (helplessly angry, an interior voice chimed in), but also scared, because time had seemed to slow down now; he couldn’t help but fixate on these little details in his environment.

Jacobs considered his response for what seemed a long time.

“Well, Asad, you might not be a deadbeat, but you are in deep shit, son” Jacobs said, at last, in his soft, Southern drawl.

“I’ll have the money-”

“You said that last week,”

“I thought I was going to-”

“And the week before that. Look, you don’t give me a choice here, Asad. You’re either going to pay off your debt, or you’re going to work it off. One or the other.”

“Work it off? How?”

Jacobs chuckled. He took on the weary, half-smiling expression of a correctional officer.

“What are you going to do with your life, Asad?” Jacobs said, avoiding his question.

The boy groped for an adequate answer. It was something had wrestled with for some time, and knew that saying the right words now was crucial. For such a strong, handsome boy, so fast, so ruthless on the field, he had a curious habit of folding under questioning by his elders.

“I-I don’t know. I’m going to U of H, to study engineering, but…”

“Don’t stammer in my office, boy. I expect better than that from my quarterback, especially since we’re going up against Westchester next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Asad said.

“Either pay up, already, or get ready to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty. I have a party Thursday night at my dad’s place in the country, and I’m hurting for wait staff.”

“Okay, Coach, okay.”

Asad Udovicic looked away from his Coach’s glare. The whole situation was surreal. He had snorted one thousand six hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine over a semester. Cocaine the older man had supplied him, and now the bill was past due.

Jacobs had to fight hard to look away from the waistband of Asad’s yellow jockey compression shorts peeking over his low slung gym shorts like a dazzling lemon wedge. The older man’s eye traced the contours of the teen’s impressive bulge, traveled upwards, and measured Asad’s pecs. The words Jefferson High Mustangs rippled across the boy’s chest.

“Go on to your next class,” Jacobs said.

Asad left, closing the door gently behind him.

Jacobs had developed a minor obsession with Asad Udovicic. The Croatian teen was tall, well-built, with the broad, handsome face, high cheekbones, and full lips typical of Slavic males. Asad’s black hair was neatly trimmed in a high and tight cut that Jacobs very much approved of. He also possessed a nine and half inch penis, as everyone at Jefferson Davis High School knew. His nickname on the team was “Anaconda.”

The problem was that this young Adonis belonged to what Jacobs termed Generation Wuss. When it came right down to it, these kids expected something for nothing, and they wanted it right now. Not that it lessened his attraction to the boy. Despite his shortcomings, Asad had real potential-maybe even pro potential. Watching the teen go, Coach Jacobs couldn’t help but feel a stab of hunger for the boy’s perfect ass, for his youth, for his vitality.


Asad walked to the senior parking lot later, as the school day drew to a close, feeling low. This whole mess was exactly what his father had warned him about. He was falling prey to Western decadence. There’ no way in hell he’d ask his family for the money.

He felt like talking to no one, but didn’t get very far before he was surrounded by a group of hangers on, and their girlfriends. It wasn’t easy to have a moment alone at Jefferson Davis High, not for the 2013 Gatorade Texas High School Football Player of the Year.

Still, the idea of having to wait tables for a private party as means to pay Coach back what he owed did not scare Asad in the least…

Not, at least, until the next day.

Asad Udovicic’s jaw dropped when Coach Jacobs informed him of the details.

Once again, they were in Jacobs’ office.

“I’m going to what?”

“Did I stutter? Go on and pick your jaw up off the floor, Asad. I told you you’d pay off what you owe, or you’d work it off. I didn’t say you were going to like it.”

“That’s really funny, Coach, I mean it. Everything you just told me. A real knee-slapper,” Asad said.

But there was nothing warm, or humorous about the way Henry was looking at him now.

“Not as funny as you’re going to look, serving food and drinks to all those older men in your tighty-whiteys, Anaconda.”

“No way, Coach, no way.”

“Then, I have no choice. I’ll have to let the boys know who talk to about collecting payment.”

“The boys?”

“Yeah, believe me, you don’t want the boys to have to pay you a visit,” Coach Jacobs said, an ominous note creeping into his voice.

The man who spoke these words was a total stranger to Asad. For years, Udovicic had felt an overwhelming surge of trust, and respect, laced with a healthy amount of fear, for Coach Henry Jacobs. He was Jefferson Davis High’s own General Patton.

But the man, the legend that was Coach Jacobs was also a bit of a father figure to many of the boys, and indeed, spent more time with them on average than their real fathers did. He reminded them, in fact, of Kyle Chandler on Friday Night Lights. Jacobs even quoted from that particular show frequently, citing the coach’s catchphrase, “Clear minds, full hearts, can’t lose,” before a big game.

So Asad was startled when Jacobs learned of his cocaine predilection, and said this to him:

“Don’t buy from other guys, they’re liable to rip you off,” Jacobs said, “I can get you anything you want, Asad, and a better deal, too. I know you’ll be good for it.”

Asad had never had the slightest inkling that Jacobs might be gay, or that this bargain would have such mighty strings attached.


Thursday had finally come around. It was time to do what had to be done; Coach Jacobs had made it clear that this was Asad’s last chance to make good on his debt before something unsavory occurred.

He climbed into his grey Silverado (the words “It’s all about the class of ’13!” scrawled across the back window in looping, childish handwriting by his girlfriend), and began his journey.

He chewed a little Copenhagen to help calm him down, a habit he’d picked up from his football buddies’ dads.

The drive to the Jacobs family lake house was long, and a bit expensive (thanks in part to SIRI, that whore, who refused to provide any routes that didn’t involve getting on a toll way), giving Asad plenty of time to steel himself for what lay ahead.

It was fifteen minutes of seven, before Asad finally arrived at the Jacobs estate. He drove his truck down a long drive lined by spruce trees to an elegant country house.

“You’re late, as usual,” Jacobs said, when he answered the door.

Coach Jacobs was smartly dressed in a black sports coat. In his hand, he held a plastic shopping bag.

“What’s that?” Asad asked.

“Your uniform. Come on,” Jacobs said.

The teen followed the older man through the family room, where cream colored Italian silk couches lied still beside pear wood panels, and up the stairs into a lavishly appointed guest room. There was another boy already inside, also eighteen. He was about six-two, lean, blonde, with the face of a choir boy. He was still fully dressed, but Asad surmised this wouldn’t be the case for long-for either of them.

“This is Jake. He’ll fill you in on what to expect. The guests begin arriving at eight. It shouldn’t take you very long to get into uniform.”

Jacobs left, closing the door behind him. There was an awkward silence.

“Hey,” Jake said, at last.

“How’s it going?” Asad replied, uncertainly.

“First timer, right? This must seem pretty crazy to you.” Jake said.

You could say that, Asad thought.

“These sorts of things do get rather tiresome after the third or second time,” the boy went on.

“So how many times have you done this?”

Jake’s casual, cheerfully exasperated tone gave Asad a sliver of hope. Maybe this won’t be all that bad, the Croatian stud thought. But he was about to be disappointed.

“Several times. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I’ve never been the quickest study. A glutton for punishment, you might say. I just hope my date tonight won’t be too ugly. Or old.” Jake said, with a rueful chuckle.

“What do you mean “date”?” Asad asked.

Jake sighed, turning away from Asad, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Come on now, I know you’re a jock, but you can’t be that dumb, sweetie. How else do you think you’re going to pay off your debt to Jacobs?”

“What did you just say to me?” Asad said.

The teen jock’s voice was booming, authoritative, the voice of a natural leader. Jake jerked his head back, startled.

“I’m s-sorry. Cool your jets, man, it’s not that bad, really. That’s all I meant. A guy bids on the rights for an evening of your company, which sets off a chain reaction of counter-bids, until you reach your goal. Your goal is whatever amount you’re in the hole for. At the end of the night, the money is collected, and bidders take home their prizes. A little wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and shit, honey, you’re a free man again.”

Their prizes, Asad thought. The jock was used to thinking of himself as something of a catch, but never in the context of a gay sex auction.

“You got to be kidding me,” Asad said.

Asad wanted very badly to get out, and leave. He wondered if the boys were around.

“What happens if someone doesn’t reach their goal?” Asad asked, his tone a little milder.

Jake was standing stark naked in front of him now. His pudenda was shaved. His dick was six inches soft. Asad looked away quickly, embarrassed in a way he never was with his friends in the locker room.

“Oh honey,” Jake said, “they’re going to go wild for you. I’ll be surprised if you don’t rake in twice what you owe. These good old boys love big football jocks.”

Yeah, no shit, Asad thought. He opened the plastic grocery bag Jacobs had handed him at the door, and took out a pristine white Under Armour jock, and a scuffed, plastic name tag with “Number 38″ printed on it. He would be wearing this in front of a hundred horny men, all of whom would be very drunk before the evening was over, and one of whom would be taking him home with the express purpose of using his body to satisfy perverted appetites. In that moment Asad resolved never to do coke, or any hard drugs again.

He looked up, and saw that Jake was already in his jock. For the first time, he noticed track marks running up and down the length of Jake’s arms.

Junkie, he thought.

“This is so fucked up,” Asad said, taking off his orange polo.

“It is. But consider the alternative. Jacobs is in with the Mexican mafia-I mean, have you seen what those guys do to people? Animales, man.” Jacobs said, shaking his head.

Udovicic felt a tremor of fear again. Jake observed this, and couldn’t help but smile a little.

He watched as the Croatian stud unzipped his jeans, and let them fall to his ankles. Asad’s legs were bone white, covered in hair, the bulging quads tapering to thick lower legs.

Asad hooked his thumbs into the red waistband of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and slid them down. The teen’s thick, circumcised porn star cock drew a sharp gasp from Jake.

“That thing is fucking beautiful,” Jake said.

“Thanks. I guess,” Asad said.

Jake wouldn’t look away however. Asad was standing less than six feet away. He wondered what would happen if he reached over, and…

“Don’t look at me, man.” Asad said.

Jake felt emboldened by Asad’s increasing nervousness.

“You’re straight as an arrow, aren’t you?” Jake said, “Coach Jacobs sure loves homophobic straight boys. If you ask me, the whole thing reeks of self-loathing. I guess that comes with having grown up in a different era, or whatever.”

Jake’s condescending attitude was beginning to grate, and Asad felt obliged to return it, a little.

“Here’s the thing, Jake: I don’t have a problem with gay dudes. I’m just into a little something called consent.”

“Can I give you some advice then? Try not to think of it as rape. Think of it as…a cultural experience.” Jake said.

Udovicic simply shook his head. He could not believe this was happening to him.

Technically, Asad had already been raped by one of his teachers…technically. That particular qualifier was always used when students and staff whispered about the affair, because even though he had capitulated to the desires of a woman who showed little interest in his consent, Asad had hardly been traumatized by the incident-at least, not by the sex itself.

The woman in question was Amy Bookman, Asad’s twenty-six year old Biology II teacher, and the first woman he had ever had anything like real feelings for.

She was pretty, auburn haired, with skin like an English rose, and wide, dark eyes that held a listener whole. She was unlike most of the teachers at Jefferson Davis; Mrs. Bookman was a friend, a confidant, an older sister to the girls on the cheerleading squad, and the muse of many a wet dream among the male students and faculty. It wasn’t unusual for one, or more of the girls in her class to speak openly to her about her boyfriend problems.

One name in particular kept coming up again and again: Asad Udovicic. The problem was always the same; namely, that boy’s dick was too big for them.

She discussed the teenager’s genitalia and his preferences in bed with all of the girls Asad had dated, soliciting detail after detail, and offering up her own sexual history in exchange. The young girls fancied themselves Carries, and Mirandas in training, and were delighted to indulge this worldly, and sophisticated seeming older woman’s every curiosity about the star quarterback’s private life.

They had no idea that beneath her desk, Mrs. Bookman’s panties had been darkening as she listened…

Amy formed a plan of action in her head, but didn’t act it out until the fall semester was nearly over.

“We need to discuss your grades,” Amy said, stopping Asad as he moved to the exit. It was the last class of the day, on the last day before Winter Break.

She waited until the other students had left, before asking him to have a seat.

Asad had noted her wedding ring earlier in the year (all of the male students had, in fact), and didn’t suspect anything was up…at least, not until Amy Bookman quickly locked the door.

The older woman looked at him, head tilted to one side, a smile spreading on her face. Asad felt the beginning of an erection.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” she said, cupping his genitals through his jeans. She quickly unzipped him, and dropped to her knees.

Asad felt his face turn red.

“I’m not so sure about-”

But before he could finish, half of his engorged penis had vanished into her hungry mouth.

Asad groaned, and began thrusting faster and harder.

He had passed Mrs. Bookman’s class with an A, of course, and they occasionally met afterwards in deserted parking lots, and Amy’s house, when her hubby was off on business.

The last time they had hooked up was the night before New Year’s Eve. Amy’s husband had just become a junior partner in his law firm, and she had no choice but to “break him off a piece”, in her words. Hans Erickson Bookman, thirty-five, tall, bespectacled, balding, and forever projecting the austere air of Puritan magistrate, was Amy’s cash cow, and he had just secured their financial future. It was difficult to work up much excitement over in him in bed, however, and twice they had to stop that night, because of how painful the friction became. The way Amy told the story, her vagina simply refused to moisten in anticipation or appreciation of Bookman’s penetration.

This surprised Asad, who knew her only as a “gusher” (or so he bragged to his friends on the team).

Thoughts of her consumed his days before long. His mind turned constantly toward the memory of her fragrance, her perfectly trimmed bush, her tanned runner’s legs with their graceful gazelle-like gait, her pendulous, creamy white breasts, firm brown nipples, and bleached asshole.

It was a very cozy sort of set up, and might have blossomed into something truly special…until the shit hit the fan.

Rumors of their illicit relationship had made the rounds in every corridor at Jefferson Davis High, and sometime between the start of Winter Break and the beginning of the spring semester, they had finally reached the attention of the principal, a priggish, bespectacled man easily embarrassed in matters of sex.

Mrs. Bookman was put on unpaid administrative leave pending an internal investigation. She no longer replied to his text messages, and refused to answer his calls. Word around town was that Mr. Bookman had filed for divorce.

It was all over. Just like that. It might have all been a dream.

Ever since then Asad had started using coke.


Asad stepped out into a spacious garden enclosed by carefully trimmed hedges. There were fifty tables spread out, with glowing Japanese lanterns strung up in rows, providing illumination. The effect was somehow classy and cheap at the same time.

He tottered out with his pad, and pen, on unsteady legs, like a foal.

Here goes nothing, he thought.

The older men at the tables openly leered at him. There were other boys, scurrying about, their bodies lean and tight, their jockstraps loaded, but somehow Asad felt that the men saw only him; he drew their eyes like pins to a magnet.

The teen had been perfectly honest with Jake, when he emphatically stated that he had no problem with the gays. Two of Asad’s closest friends, boys he’d known since fifth grade, had come out to him only a few days ago, in confidence. He had not turned them away. He was even moved a little by their naked, gnawing need for him, which had too long been repressed.

Of course, he could not return their feelings, and he told them so, in the kindest possible way. He held them as they sobbed into his shoulder… he pledged his continued friendship to them, for which they were only too grateful.

But this was a very different situation. He went around, presenting the aged lechers with a bill of fare for the evening, and his sculpted teenage body.

The guests at Jacob’s house were the crème de la crème of Houston society, and their friends. There was a brief shock of recognition as Asad realized that a few linemen for the Houston Texans would be partaking of tonight’s festivities, however, for the most part, these people were strangers to him. He was unaware that he was serving drinks to, and enduring wolf whistles, and pinches from judges, lawyers, real estate barons, a couple of writers for the Chronicle, a State Representative, the Music Director for the Houston Symphony Orchestra-even the President of the Gilbert & Sullivan society.

Thankfully, there was no real trouble to be had for the first hour…until Asad reached table number 17.

He began taking down orders from a blond, middle aged man who insisted he be addressed as “Monsieur.” He had clearly already had a few drinks, and was slurring through an explanation that he was a Francophile (despite having never set foot anywhere near Europe), when his fingers found themselves inside Asad’s jock.

The teen stud recoiled, a look of sharp anger in his face. He grabbed the blond man’s wrist, and yanked his hand back out with such, sudden, violent force as to draw a collective gasp from the table.

“Come, come now, what’s all this then?” said a darkly attired, patrician looking English gentleman sitting to the right of the Francophile.

“Poor baby, doesn’t know what he signed up for,” said a thin, willowy Japanese man to the left of the Francophile. He spoke with the kind of catty relish that was the exclusive province of high school age mean girls and certain gay men.

“I know its cliché, but it really must be hard to find good help these days,” the blond man said.

“Well, then, perhaps it might be good to find the help hard,” the Englishman said.

“You heard him. Go on, get hard for us, faggot!” The blond man shouted, in his high, reedy voice.

The Japanese man tittered at this outburst, as if the blond man had uttered a fabulously witty bon mot.

Asad was struggling to contain his anger. Any ordinary human being would have already buckled under the strain of knowing he was to be used to gratify the sexual desires of a dirty old man, quite against his will. It was no mean feat to keep a calm expression as fat, balding forty and fifty something Vice Presidents tucked twenties into one’s jock, merely to satisfy the urge to graze one’s pubic region, to caress the base of one’s cock, an urge they felt fully entitled to satisfy. And Asad was no ordinary individual; he was the definition of a Big Man on Campus, a boy used to other people trying to impress him.

And so the teen’s reaction when the blond man ran his hand over Asad’s washboard abs was inevitable.

“Fuck off!” Asad said.

The guests at the table broke into laughter. Other diners turned to look at the little comedy unfolding in their midst.

“What a dirty mouth you have on you, baby. I know just what will put it to good use,” the Asian said.

Asad ignored him, his cheeks burning hot. He turned, and began striding back toward the house, no longer fearing the consequences. He’d had enough.

Coach Jacobs trailed after him. The teen had made it half-way up the stairs, when the older man stopped him.

“I don’t know why you’re throwing a hissy fit. Do you, or don’t you want to be of debt?”

“Yeah, but fuck, man- I’m not going to let some old perv take my anal cherry.”

“But you are.”

Jacobs patted Asad on the shoulder. The teen lowered his gaze, his head hanging low.

“I’m going to be taking your anal cherry.”


“Why the hell not? I’m your coach. If anyone here is entitled to that particular prize, it’s me. Believe me, you’re getting a good deal. I have no idea where many of my guests have been, but a few of them like to travel abroad…”

Asad struggled to digest this. The teen had to admit he felt slightly better. If he had to engage in homosexual activity, at least it wouldn’t be with a total stranger. A part of the teen couldn’t help but be glad Coach was fit, and good-looking.

“What about my debt?”

“I’ll consider the matter settled, after tonight.”

Jacobs led Asad to the living room, and instructed him to sit down, and try to relax.

“Let me get you a drink. A little liquid courage is obviously what this situation calls for,” Jacobs said.

The older man went to his kitchen, and poured Asad a shot of apple brandy, a traditional French palate cleanser.

Jacobs then crushed a couple of Viagra tablets with the hilt of a steak knife. He scooped up the powder, and dumped it into the glass. The teen wasn’t going to know, but not knowing wouldn’t hurt him.

He returned to the living room, and handed Asad the drugged drink.

“Thank you,” Asad said.

The teen swallowed the shot. The liquid was hot and sweet going down his throat.

“Here, you need this tonight.”

Jacobs cut three lines of coke on a small mirror. He handed Asad a crisp dollar bill. The teen rolled it up, and bent down over the mirror…

One by one, the lines of coke disappeared.

Asad’s nose burned, but he felt his brain light up like a roman candle. His eyes widened, his lips curling into a smile.

“Feeling better now?” Jacobs asked.

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Get out there, and flash your pearly whites. It’s just one night, Asad.”

The teen walked back out into the garden.

It was impossible to encapsulate the feeling of total superiority Asad felt to these horny old queens, even as he paraded himself around for them like a common gigolo.

Asad moved from table to table, with the glorious unashamed feeling of someone pin wheeling out into oblivion. He was amused by the stares, by the sheer, undignified animal hunger he aroused in the carefully composed and groomed partygoer’s faces. He felt, in fact, like Superman. No, even better, like the Nietzsche ubermesnch he had written his paper on for his AP philosophy class. Faggots, he thought, with an undisguised smirk.

The old cocaine was working its magic.

In his mind, there was deep distinction between ordinary gay men he could respect as real human beings, like his old friends who harbored tender schoolboy crushes on him, and the openly predatory, mincing, ravenous faggots who had gathered at Jacobs’ house that night for a feeding frenzy of teenaged cock. Yes sir, he thought, there was real difference between the two, just as surely as a difference between ordinary black people, and…how did that Chris Rock routine go again?

Still, Asad managed to make his way to all the tables with a smile, after the shot of apple brandy, and the coke.

Eventually, he found his way back to Table No.17, the Francophile’ table. This time, he was able to feign a flirty attitude for the high society johns.

“Glad to see your attitude’s improved,” the platinum blond fag said.

Asad said nothing, as he set down a White Russian in front of him. The blond man rudely stuck his hand down Asad’s jock. He smiled up at the Croatian boy, as if daring him to say anything.

The teen maintained a stoic expression as he was fondled. The Francophile’s fingers were smooth, delicate, moisturized. They worked the length of Asad’s shaft, squeezing, and pulling with the eagerness of a freshman on his first date.

To his utter shame, Asad sprung an erection at once. He managed to keep his composure.

“Your attention is truly flattering, sir” Asad said, reasonably, “but table number seven is still waiting for their drinks.”

Blondie giggled.

“I like this one, he exudes a certain joie de vivre,” He said.

The older man slipped a hundred dollar bill into his jock, his knuckles brushing Asad’s sweaty scrotum. It was his first really big tip of the evening.

The Francophile watched Asad walk over to another table, making careful note of the boy’s firm ass in motion. Yes, it was exactly right. He eagerly placed his bid, jotting down two thousand dollars for No. 38 onto a slip of paper with his Mont Blanc Agatha Christie ballpoint pen. He was to be sorely disappointed, however.

The boy who collected the bid slips informed him that the Croatian stud was not to be bid on. Thoroughly flummoxed, the blond man sought out his host for clarification, and got it.

But the answer was not quite to his satisfaction.

“Come on, Henry, let me bid on the Arab,” the Francophile said.

“He’s ain’t Arabic. He’s a Croatian.” Henry explained.

“Oh, call it what you want, he’s perfect. I’ve never seen an ass like that. And his dick looks glorious tenting out that jock. Hell, the boy is just an all-around magnificent specimen, a fortuitous confluence of excellent genetics and rigorous self-discipline.”

“Exactly. We might be able to work something out for another night, but tonight I’m that boy’s master, Nikko,” Henry said.

The Francophile, not used to having his whims and desires thwarted in such a decisive manner, sulked, and wandered off to mingle with the other guests.

Henry wasn’t worried. Something would be worked out later, but tonight the boy was his. He had decided to forgive Asad’s debt, because despite his outwardly rugged exterior, Henry nursed a variety of remembrances and regrets dating from his own high school years. Being human, these remembrances and regrets every so often took precedence over monetary matters.

The world of literature had recorded many a story of men who had lost themselves for the love of an unattainable woman. The vast catalogue of this sort of affliction (this very particularly male sort of affliction) was by and large bereft of homosexual equivalents. And yet, there was hardly a gay man who in his time had not lived out his own pocket size variant of The Sorrows of Young Werther or Gatsby, and so it had been with Coach Henry Jacobs.

Even now, Jacobs was haunted by the beauty, the sheer masculine beauty of a boy he had once known, a boy very much like Asad Udovicic. Only his name had been Masood, and he had a much darker complexion, his speech rougher, less Americanized. Little details bubbled to the surface unexpectedly from time to time: taking Masood’s cock in his mouth, the first he had fellated, ever; the salty taste of the boy’s olive skin; the sun setting over South Padre island on the summer he lost his anal virginity to Masood, the dying rays of light burning a brilliant orange, as a cool breeze rose from the gulf.

These images and sensations played about in his head, colliding with other, less joyful recollections. He recalled Masood abruptly ending their relationship as graduation loomed near, the veins standing out his neck, as he intoned the word “abomination” in his thick, gun metal baritone…

It was time to lay the ghost of that summer to rest, Jacobs thought. Tonight, it would be done.

By the time the party began winding down around the start of the witching hour, Asad’s jock was ready to burst, as much as from the strain engendered by his mammoth penis as from the equally fat wad of cash all of the revelers had stuffed in there with it. The cumulative total of all these gratuities came to a princely nine hundred and seventy-six dollars.

“Great party, man,” the Asian queen said, in the foyer of Jacobs’ country house. His arm was draped around Jake, who was fully dressed again. He glanced slyly in Asad’s direction, and smiled.

Asad did not acknowledge the smile.

“Try not to rough up the Croatian’s ass too bad. Or at least, save me a piece, if you do,” the Japanese man said, laughing.

And then the door closed behind them, and there was silence. Asad and Jacobs were alone.

“You’ll be sucking dick tonight, boy,” Coach Jacobs said, hands on his hips.

Asad was already feeling like shit. Coming down from a coke high always left him feeling in the gutter, and his present circumstances were no help. He wanted more than anything for this night to be over.

Jacobs led the boy up the stairs once more, this time into the master bedroom, into the smell of sandalwood, and mint. Next to the big queen size bed was a bottle of bubbly, slanting, its long neck catching the moonlight in a thin, diagonal white slash. It had been sitting in a bucket of melting ice for a while now.

There were no wine glasses to be seen anywhere in the room. Asad had seen enough rap videos to know what was going to happen.

Jacobs picked up the bottle of champagne. It was a Louis Roederer Cristal Brut from 2005. The bottle’s gold foil wrapper gleamed elegantly in the dark.

Henry jabbed with his sommelier’s knife, and uncorked the bottle, making a single loud pop. Hissing foam splattered Asad’s face, the bubbles tickling his nose. He opened his eyes, just as another gout of cold, creamy Chardonnay splashed against his chest. Goose flesh rose up and down Asad’s arms as the sweet, sticky fluid streamed down his rippling abs, dripping onto the carpet below…

Coach Jacobs did not seem to care about that last, minor detail.

The older man stepped out of his shoes, and unzipped his pants. He took off his clothes with trembling, eager fingers. Jacobs was a fit, and very young looking forty-one. He was not overly muscular, but he exuded an aura of manliness that earned him respect from his boys, and attention from their moms. A dark treasure trail led down from his navel to this thick pubic patch.

His penis was six inches, flaccid.

The older man dropped to his knees. He pulled Asad’s soaked Under Armour jockstrap down, slowly, savoring the moment, giving the act an air of ceremony.

The teen’s penis was truly a sight to behold. Seeing it, Jacobs felt something like respect and awe; a cock like Asad’s lurked as an ideal, deep in the primitive lizard brains of men, and had done so, since time immemorial. Swords of war, scepters of royalty, and skyscrapers housing financial institutions could all trace their ancestry back to a collective unconscious need to venerate the power and majesty of thing that dangled between the teenager’s legs.

“So fucking beautiful,” Jacobs said, in the same, breathless tone as the blond junkie.

Asad felt the Coach’s hot breath on his exposed cock, as the man considered his next move…

But Henry pulled away from the boy’s dick at the last second. No, not just yet, he thought.

Jacobs brought the jock strap to his nose, and sniffed the delightful fruity notes from the champagne, blended with the natural, musky aroma from Udovicic’s cock and balls.

The Coach stuffed the wet white pouch of the support garment into his mouth, and sucked it until the flavor was gone.

Now, it was the boy’s turn.

He licked Asad clean from head to toe, while being careful to avoid the boy’s genitalia. Udovicic couldn’t help but be reminded of an old orange tabby cat he had once had, and how it had tended to, and groomed its babies, bathing them with her sandpapery tongue.

The older man enjoyed the taste of the boy, loved his clean, masculine scent, compounded of sweat and Gillette Arctic Ice.

Time for the main course, the older man thought. He could no longer restrain himself.

Jacobs pulled his lips over his teeth, and clamped them to a rubbery flap of Asad’s scrotal pouch. The Coach tugged and teased the teen’s balls

A wave of unreality swept over Udovicic. Coach Henry Jacobs was gargling his sack! The teen’s nerve endings were helpless against this attack…

The older man looked pleased with his effect on the teen. But it was not enough.

“I bet I suck better dick than that slut Amy,” Coach said.

Jacobs tickled the teen’s monstrous, coral colored glans with the tip of his tongue, until little moans of pleasure escaped from Asad’s throat. He began swallowing the enormous rod, savoring the taste, his tongue swirling manically around its prodigious girth. The dick’s thick dorsal vein throbbed against the roof of Jacobs’ mouth.

Little by little, the teen’s erection disappeared down the older man’s throat, until Jacob’s nose was buried in Asad’s dark pubic hair. The older man’s nostrils flared, greedily sucking up the teen’s scent.

“Shit, you’re really fucking good at this, Coach!” Asad blurted out, to his own surprise.

The teen threw his head back, eyes shut, mouth agape as a sound escaped his throat-a single vowel stretched out interminably, in the dark. Coach Jacobs brought him to the edge several times, all the while keeping a careful eye on the boy’s sack. When the teen’s nuts began to retract into his abdomen, he stopped what he was doing.

Jacobs waited until the teen’s erection nearly subsided, and then went to work, bringing it back to life.

This went on for a half hour, before Jacobs felt it was time for a little ass play.

The older man ran his finger along the intergluteal cleft, colloquially known as “the crack”. Coach Jacobs was a pygophile, and was obsessed with male asses, the way some Jefferson Davis High dads obsessed over certain brands of cigars, and their wives lost their minds over the perfect pair of shoes.

He raised his hand, and struck the kid’s ass with his flat palm, making a hard, angry sound. Asad jumped, startled. Henry did it again and again, in a paroxysm of animal rage –whack-whack-whack- until Asad’s cheeks bloomed an angry red.

Not satisfied, Coach Jacobs stood up, and slid his hard dick up and down vertically, between Asad’s ass cheeks, his balls bouncing against the boy’s hole…a little preview of coming attractions.

The older man spun the teen around to face him.

“You ever suck dick before?” Jacobs asked.

“No,” Asad said. The teen’s face was hard, the eyebrows furrowed, eyes unblinking, fearless.

“A first time for everything, though, ain’t that right?”

Asad looked away, unable to respond.

Coach Jacobs placed his hands on the teen’s shoulders, and exerted gentle downward pressure. The teen did not was resist, and was soon on his knees in front of Jacobs’ boner.

The older man held the boys’ head in his hands, like a vise, and lightly slapped Asad’s face with the business end of his dick.

Udovicic winced, closing his eyes shut.

“Now suck it,” Jacobs said.

Asad took the older man into his mouth, keeping his eyes closed.

“No. Look at me,” Coach said.

Asad looked up at the older man, with wide, innocent eyes. This must be what my girlfriends feel like, Udovicic thought. He was surprised, and relieved at how little the Coach’s penis tasted like anything.

The teen tried to replicate Jacobs’ moves, moving his tongue around the older man’s shaft.

Jacobs smiled down at the boy. He inserted himself all the way inside Asad’s handsome face, not stopping until he heard him gagging.

Then he started thrusting his cock like a jackhammer…

Jacobs face-fucked the teen until he about to spill his seed, and the he stopped.

“Get in bed, I want to fuck the shit out of you,” Jacobs whispered in Asad’s ear.

Asad climbed onto the bed. The Egyptian cotton was cool beneath his hands and knees. Nothing to it, but to do it, Udovicic thought.

Henry squirted a glob of KY Jelly onto his shaft. This was it. It was finally happening.

The Coach’s glistening dickhead tickled the teen’s virgin hole…

“Are you wearing a rubber, Coach?” Asad asked, straining to look back over his shoulder.

“Rubber? L-O-L, as you kids might say. Not in my house, son. I ride bareback.”

Jacobs thrust his cock inside Asad. The boy shouted in pain. It burned.

“Coach, go soft on me,” Asad said.

“Relax your sphincter,” Jacobs barked, ignoring his plea.

Asad was groaning, and grinding his teeth in agony as a column of fire shot up his anus with every thrust.

“Get into it, I want you to say, “Give it to me, motherfucker,” Jacobs said.

Coach brought his hand down on Asad’s ass like a carriage driver cracking the whip. The teen impaled himself on the older man’s erection again and again, ignoring the pain, his firm ass cheeks slapping against Jacobs’ thighs, the bed springs squeaking under him with every .


The temperature rose by degrees in the room. It filled with their exhalations, and body heat, until the atmosphere was almost swampy.

To his surprise, Udovicic was beginning to enjoy all this.

Asad’s erection became a leaky faucet, and a damp patch of spilled pre-cum grew quickly beneath it. The teen had always been curious about what it would be like to be the woman, after mounting more than his fair share. He had never imagined it could be this good.

Abruptly, Coach nailed Asad’s G-spot with a vicious thrust of his cock- the teen shuddered, unable to stifle a cry from deep within himself.

Music to my ears, Jacobs thought, grinning.

I must be gay, as well, Asad thought, dismally, before quickly correcting himself, no, bi, I must be bi. The latter option was infinitely more acceptable in his mind, galvanized as it was against bigotry by his American upbringing. His Eastern European roots were still strong enough to necessitate just such a sop to his masculinity.

May 2018
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