17A: I AM JOE’S BROKEN DICK
"You coming to bed?" I asked John, "I think you mentioned something about me holding your cock soon enough…"
"Hold that thought," John said, "I’m right behind you." "That’s what worries me," I teased.
I had fallen asleep the night before almost as soon as my head had hit the pillow. The next morning I had a vague but pleasant recollection of John cutting off the light and snuggling into bed behind me, his arms holding me tight and his hard cock pressed up against the crack of ass. And then it wasSunday morning and I had to get my ass into gear and over to the library to write my seminar paper, which was due Monday afternoon. I had been working my ass off for the past three weeks, trying to climb out of the huge hole I had dug for myself - mostly with John’s cock - that semester. I could see the light at the end of the tunnel by that point, but I still had to take three exams Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday mornings - and write that fucking paper that day.
I had finished my research and written the lead paragraph for each section of a long essay advancing the argument that modern religious fundamentalists had hijacked the Founding Fathers, trashed the Founders’ actual religious and political beliefs, which had been firmly rooted in the Enlightenment, and created from whole cloth a new and demonstrably false founding myth of ‘America the Christian Nation.’ Basically what I had to do was stitch it all together, flesh out each section and write a killer conclusion. I groaned again. I might have to spend the day cloistered in the stacks writing about the Moral Majority and similar ass-clowns, I thought, but there was no reason I couldn’t do that with the taste of semen lingering in my mouth.
I turned over and pulled back the covers to check on John’s fat sleeping cock. It was cold out from under the comforter - and it was bitter fucking cold outside. Why I had ever had the crazy idea of venturing any further north than Memphis in search of a college education, I had no idea. Yep, I noted, John’s cock was still fat and still asleep. I pulled the comforter over my head and filled my mouth with fat sleeping dick and was soon feeling the pleasure I always feel as a soft cock swells to hard in my mouth. John had become accustomed to awakening with his cock in my mouth and a blow job in progress - in truth that is a pretty easy thing to get used to, I’m told. While that certainly didn’t happen every morning after we began sharing a bedroom, it did occur frequently and it usually ended in John getting me off after he came in my mouth. That day, though, I was still swallowing spooge as I climbed out of bed and went to wash my face. I was already an hour behind the schedule I had set for myself, so I skipped a shower and took my toothbrush with me so I could tackle the Moral Majority with the taste of cum still on my tongue.
I found my usual out-of-the-way nook at the back of the stacks and dove right into my work, making such good progress that by noon I began to think I might be finished in time to catch most of the mid-afternoon NFL game on the tube. That happy thought reminded me in turn of a list I had once made of the many advantages for a guy in having a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend. It was a reverse-order semi-tongue-in-cheek top-10 countdown -completely uninformed, however, by any experience of my own. I had not had either a boyfriend or girlfriend at the time, and whatever was on my list probably represented nothing more than my adolescent (gay) male fantasy. Except for the first item, the only thing I can remember being on it was: “7. You don’t have to bring your boyfriend flowers…ever.” Now I know that some guys do appreciate the gift of flowers, but I’ve never had one of those guys for a boyfriend, and I don’t think they’d like me very much.
Anyway, the first item on the list, obviously uninformed by any actual experience, was the one brought to mind by the thought of getting out of the library in time to watch the second NFL game with John: “1. You can watch the game on TV while you fuck your boyfriend.” The image of plowing some guy on his hands and knees on the floor right in front of the television, while we both paid rapt
attention to the Giants as they methodically drove down the field, had remained firmly fixed in my mind, and it still is today. As I sat in the stacks that Sunday the reality of actually paying attention to a football game on TV while John fucked me in the ass didn’t seem quite as keen as had my fantasy, but the fact that that very thing COULD be happening in one short week, if that was what John and I chose to do, felt incredibly empowering to me.
My first and greatest objection to playing bottom to John’s top had been the notion of losing any sense of ‘dominance,’ control or even equality in our relationship. Though I had not even had John’s knob in my hole yet, he had already shown me in the past three weeks or so how wrong my idea had been. Instead, I felt like I was the one in total control. No doubt, that was due in large measure to how much control John had yielded to me on questions like the time, place and manner of my fucking. He understood we were talking about what was going to happen to MY body, and while we were together he never let me forget that he knew whose ass was on the line. I never have forgotten the patience, respect and consideration with which John treated me, and that lesson served me well during my topping period.
It was a good thing that I had accomplished so much that morning because my afternoon writing was punctuated with distractions. I had checked my phone when I got out of bed (with a glob of cum on my chin) for any new overnight texts from Jack, but there weren’t any. In re-reading his last texts of the night before, though, I realized that he had to have been three sheets to the wind, shit-faced squared, to have dropped his guard as much as he had in his last series of texts, where he all but admitted that he had intended for John to share the texts with me, “knew” that I had read them, and that his goal had been to get me fucked in the ass last night. Even considering that he’d been drunk as a lord, it was a major fucking - and unprecedented - slip up, on a par with my handing my phone to John for him to read UNREAD messages from Jack. Fuck, I might’ve had to move into the stacks for the rest of the semester.
I wasn’t surprised that I hadn’t heard again from Jack - yet. He’s not one to care about who’s “turn” it is to text, he’ll just keep pinging away until he makes contact. But mostly I didn’t figure he’d be out of bed before about noon. I knew I’d hear from him soon enough after he woke up and found no response from me. I didn’t have a game plan - no game was underway - other than to be noncommittal about what, if anything, had transpired last night. I was leaning toward playing dumb about everything - John hadn’t shown me any texts from Jack, etc. - but had not made up my mind.
While I did not intend to answer any of the existing t/ms, I certainly wasn’t going to give Jack the silent treatment after he checked in today - that would signal that I was mad at him, and thus that I had read the texts and had probably gotten fucked in the ass. No, I figured I could keep Jack in the dark just as well, even better, by talking/lying to him than by ignoring him. My ‘plan’ such as it was, was to play it by ear, keep my options open, and let Jack’s cock do his thinking.
My gut instinct was that my best shot at getting Jack’s cock into either of my orifices lay in Jack being kept off balance for a couple of days, but (eventually) knowing (1) My ass was still virgin, not because I thought being first in would matter to Jack at all, but because his sentient cock would understand (without me pleading with Jack to fuck me in the ass, which could get Jack’s brain involved) that the conditions that had first caused me to plead with him to fuck me in the ass were still applicable; (2) I was eagerly awaiting Tex’s arrival on (date certain) to put an end to #1, implying that any window of opportunity that might exist was about to slam shut, thereby creating a sense of urgency in Jack’s cock (which had no real sense of time and couldn’t possibly grasp the concept that if I’d blow Jack on Thursday I’d just as readily blow him two weeks from Thursday); and (3) My attitude toward Jack had very subtly shifted in a not quite articulable way, but just enough to cause Jack’s brain to suggest to Jack’s cock that Joe’s ass/mouth was no longer such a sure thing…
Jack’s Brain: All I’m saying is there’s something about Joe I can’t quite put my finger on…but it’s almost like he doesn’t need us…you…anymore…not like he used to, anyway…
Jack’s Cock: That’s fucking ridiculous, you supercilious twit. Joe loves me more than oxygen. Just shut the fuck up!
Jack’s Brain: I know, I know…but Joe IS…different, somehow…almost like the most important thing to him all of a sudden is getting together again with that big Texas dick that Jack just remote-controlled straight up his a•hole…Just saying.
Jack’s Cock: STFU!! I can’t think straight with you yammering all the time! I’ll just fuck Joe in the ass and
prove you don’t know shit from Shinola. Fuck YOU!
Jack’s Brain: Spoken like a true penis, you fucking idiot. No, fuck YOU!
Jack’s Cock: No, fuck YOU!
I was killing it on the paper-writing front, mowing down those fucking fundamentalists paragraph by staccato paragraph, starting to think I might even see the 4th quarter of the first game, and most likely be personally thanked between games by The Ghosts of Washington, Jefferson, Hamilton, Madison, et al for straightening out ‘all that bullshit’ - ‘Would they be offended,’ I mused, ‘or think it was cool if I offered them a Sam Adams?’
[DING]. 12:43 p.m.
'No big deal, ' I thought, checking my watch, '12:45, about what I expected.' I straightened my note cards and recited my new mantra to myself: 'Play it by ear, Go with the flow, Keep your options open.'
I checked my phone. It was John, telling me how fucking hot I am, asking if I’d be home for dinner. “I’m fucking killing it, will be home before cocktail hour,” I texted back, then spread out my note cards again and got back to killing it some more.
[Ding] 12:50 p.m.
Note cards straightened, mantra repeated, phone checked. ‘For crying out loud, Mom, I’m in the library…I can’t text here’ ‘I know Mom I love you too’ ‘No I’m fine Mom, I’m killing it, really, it’s just that I’m risking my whole college career by texting now’
‘I do know that white chocolate brittle that Crown Candy Kitchen makes, sure I can pick some up [[Not a problem, right next to my dildo store]] ‘Mom, really, the librarian is coming…I could be expelled…bye 4 now’
[Ding] 1:07 p.m.
'Fuck the note cards, fuck the mantra,' I thought, 'what the fuck is it now…' I checked my phone. I had a message from my brother. I knew I needed to let this one sit a couple of minutes, and I didn't trust myself not to snatch my phone up and answer immediately. I pushed back from my desk and decided this would be a good time to go take that leak I'd been thinking about for the last 45 minutes, conspicuously leaving my phone behind.
I unzipped at the urinal and pulled my dick out. It felt good, looked good, a little heavier than normal, you know? Like, good blood flow, but not yet even a semi…exactly the kind of cock you want to have in the gym showers…my dick was killing it today, too…what a great fucking day, everything going so well…
I whizzed…and whizzed. Dick still looking good, feeling good, nice and full..shook it a couple of times…a couple more. Yep, my dick really has grown. Slip my hand into my fly and pull on my sweet fucking low hanging balls. Killer nuts, I think…fuck it, masturbation really is underrated. I flop my cock around a couple times, proud now that I see I can be hard as a nail in like…15 more seconds…Boom! WTF, I think, take aim and spit a big gooey blob of saliva straight down onto the head of my cock, perfect shot, of course, I’m killing everything today…fuck it, I think, as I unsnap my jeans, smearing that shit all around the head of my cock…I’ve never been this hard, this…big…in a library restroom before. Another perfect spit shot right on the shaft, pull all my junk free and lube my cock all the way up and down…and I know I’ll be blasting a load of cum against the back of the urinal in about 45 seconds, when…
…a stall door behind me bangs open! and my peripheral vision suddenly observes the outline of a humanoid form standing just behind me and to the left…but, I think, NO FAIR! THERE WAS NO FLUSH! I nearly jump out of my skin and, before I can intercept my cat-like reflexes, my reflexive response turns my body half around to face this non-flushing intruder, my big low hangers hanging low outside my jeans and my hardest library cock ever sticking straight out, held tightly in my hand. But in that split-second my reflexes saw the problem in showing wood to an intruder, so before I could think, I was spinning just as quickly back toward the urinal in order to hide my stiffy. I slammed my cock hard into the porcelain and fell against it, bending my poor fucking appendage back almost double, and for a second or two my now-bent johnson is sticking out there all on its own, pressed and highlighted, against the white porcelain of the urinal.
My brain registered through the haze of pain and embarrassment the image of a vaguely familiar…kid…a fucking pimply teenager…with big wide eyes…gaping at my half-masturbated and surely bruised and bent, if not broken, cock, this teenager with no fucking business on a college campus, let alone lurking in my men’s room, sneaking out of a stall without flushing, turns and makes for the door…out he goes and just before the door slams shut, I hear him say, “Badass boner, dude.”
I broke my dick, I think, and I just want to sit down and cry. I mash my painful broken cock back into my jeans and zip my junk up as fast as I can, catching one of my nuts (left) in the zipper and nearly amputating it in the process. I try to pack all my wounded shit away only to find my zipper jammed with pubic, no, nutsack hair. All I want in the world is to quit exposing myself in a library restroom, but first I have to lean back against the urinal and individually pluck 14 hairs out of my left nut so I can fucking zip my pants to keep my broken dick from poking out.
Finally my throbbing (and not in a good way) junk is packed up and I am washing my face in the sink (just in case I had cried). Just as I resolve to go write my conclusion and get the fuck out of the library as quickly as I possibly can, I remember Jack. ‘OMG,’ I think, ‘I just left Jack hanging there for like,’ and looking at my watch and calculating, ‘for like 7 minutes!’ Fuck, but it felt like The Day Time Stood Still.
I slowly limped back to my nook in the stacks, my broken dick and lacerated balls chafing and protesting every step of the way. ‘Jack texted!’ I remembered and reached exultantly for my phone like it was a tube of cock salve.
There was just the one new message from Jack.
Jack: ‘sup Joe?