Close Call

My knees were still shaking when I walked out the door of the principal's office, and I felt weak, clammy, and almost sick. The sense of relief was starting to take hold, but I still felt like I'd been through Hell in a rowboat. Spending almost five hours answering questions that may send a good friend to jail would never be a picnic, but it's sure no fun to spend those five hours explaining the lies you told earlier to try to keep him out of jail. I felt bad for Ken, and I sure hoped he could find an out, but I doubted it. I had nearly gotten my balls in a vice trying to help, but in the end there hadn't been anything I could do. When you sell dope to an undercover narc, it really doesn't matter that you were just raising money because you were broke, and they couldn't care less that you didn't make any profit. At least, for the time being, I was in the clear. The cops and the principal knew I wasn't involved, and they had implied that if I didn't screw up again, they wouldn't have to call my dad.

"Oh, shit!" All the feelings of relief I'd started to have vanished in an instant. It was almost six o'clock, and when you live as far back in the Louisiana sticks I did, it's a big deal to miss the school bus. It's a bigger deal to call your dad, who always wanted to be a Baptist preacher instead of a farmer, and explain that you'd been delayed because you were having a cozy little chat with the principal and a couple of federal narcotics agents. My ass was grass and I knew it.

Maybe, just maybe, the coach had kept the guys late at football practice. I might manage to catch a ride with Terry, my older brother. I was going to have to explain why I had missed the bus, and he'd probably kick my ass (something he did regularly anyway), but he wouldn't tell Dad. Terry and I didn't get along, but he wasn't a tattle tale. Even though I wasn't very hopeful, I broke into a run for the field house. I don't like football, and to Terry that made me a wimp, but I could outrun him and all his buddies, especially when my ass was on the line.

When I rounded the corner of the gym, I was glad to see that hunk of junk he called a car still sitting in the parking lot. The coach must have kept 'em late, because a lot of the guys' cars were still there. Maybe my luck wasn't all bad after all.

I dashed through the door of the field house yelling, "Hey, Terry, I need a ..." The words just died and I froze in my tracks. My brother and six of his buddies were standing in the locker room, dropping money into a hat as it passed from hand to hand. The unusual part wasn't that they were naked -- after all it was a locker room. The unusual part was that they were all fully hard and nobody seemed to be hiding it.

"What you need is to have the shit beat out of you, Wimp! I'll teach you to spy on me!" Terry lunged for me, and I side-stepped him out of reflex. He never had won any prizes for agility, for sure. On the second attempt, he made a wide swing, and I caught a pretty good lick to the cheek, even though he'd been aiming for my mouth. Temporarily, I forgot about the hard naked guys, and thought only of getting out of this situation with as little damage as I could. Terry swung and missed a couple more times, then managed to land one right to my gut with the full force of his 200 pounds. I crumpled to the floor and was sure I was about to get a horrible ass kicking. In a minute I realized that the noise I was hearing wasn't the sound of me getting beat up; it was the sound of Terry trying his damnedest to get loose from the three guys who were holding him off me. Feeling extra lucky, I figured it was safe for me to get up.

"Look, Terry, all I want is a ride home. I had to stay after school and you know Dad will blow his stack if I call him to pick me up. I wasn't spying on you. Chill out guy." No longer scared shitless, I started glancing around the room, noticing that several of the guys had already started dressing, and nobody was still hard. Nobody but me, anyway. I realized with disgust that my own prick was still more than half hard, and my mind started the accusations of "Queer!" that were getting all the more common lately. Maybe Terry was right. Maybe I was a faggot.

Terry quit struggling and the guys turned him loose, but the anger was still flashing in his eyes. "I'll tend to you later," he promised, and I knew that was one promise he meant to keep. I didn't say anything simply because I knew it wouldn't do any good. "Lay off, Terry. It's no big deal. Steve and his friends probably have money jerks of their own. And you're the shithead who didn't lock the door," I heard Bob, the team captain saying. "Tomorrow afternoon, after practice, we'll pick up where left off, but there's gonna be eight of us tomorrow, 'cause Steve's gonna join us. Leave him alone for now. If he says anything before tomorrow, we'll all kick his ass. And after tomorrow he won't have anything to talk about. Got it?"

Terry started to cuss, but when Bob's expression turned mean, even he knew it was time to shut up.

"You're always talking about what a stud you are, and what a wimp he is. Tomorrow you get a chance to prove it, and walk out with everybody's money. In the meantime, keep your damned mouth shut!" I'd never heard anybody talk to Terry and like that, and I really enjoyed it, even if it did surprise me.

Terry just nodded, then moved to get dressed. Nobody said anything, and I slid toward the door. "Steve, just remember. Terry wasn't gonna give you a fraction of what we will if you don't keep your mouth shut," was all I heard as I headed to the outside. Shit, what a day!

It wasn't long till Terry came out and headed for the car. Neither of us said anything except for his usual "Get your ass in gear, Wimp." It took us about 20 minutes to get home, and he never broke the silence until we were pulling up in front of the house. "Here's the line: Pat (the team manager) is gonna be out several weeks with mono. You're helping with the gear and stuff till he gets back. Got it?" I just nodded and headed toward the house.

"Hi, Mom, Dad. Sorry we're late; practice took a little longer than usual and Wimp here's a poor excuse for a manager. It took him a long time to get everything done, even with us having to help. I guess Coach Jenkins is desperate for help since Pat's not gonna be back for a few weeks," I heard Terry saying it, but I wasn't paying much attention.

"Terrence, I don't want to EVER hear that sort of language in my house again, do you understand? And, while I'm at it, Stephen, you needn't look so smug either." Nobody had ever bothered to tell my mother that Southern Belles were as dead as a magnolia bloom in winter; probably because everybody knew she wouldn't have believed it anyway. She was much more interested in the "proud heritage" of her family's past than anything in the present, and as far as she was concerned, the rules hadn't changed just because it was 1988. Hell, when she was talking to her friends -- all from the Ladies' Circle at First Baptist -- she referred to my dad as "Mr. Bailey." If you were an outsider, you'd think the guy she'd been sleeping with for 20 years just rented a room.

My dad looked up from the Baptist Record just long enough to grunt, then went back to reading all the latest news from his preacher friends. Clearly, as long as I was with Terry, his favorite son -- no -- his only son as far as he was concerned, it didn't matter. "Steve, if you're going to substitute for the manager, do a good job so you don't embarrass Terry. Remember what the scripture says, 'In all you do, work as unto the Lord,'" he said into the paper, never even looking at me.

I heard my mother saying something about Katy leaving our plates in the oven, but I just muttered I wasn't hungry and headed for our bedroom. As I walked through the door of the bedroom, my life seemed almost overwhelming. I was forced to share a room with a brother I despised so there could be a "proper guest room" that sat empty, serving no function but to give Katy, the black woman who cleaned and looked, more work to do. My mom was a nut case, my dad spent all his time either wishing he were a preacher or wondering why I couldn't be like my brother, and my brother spent the majority of his time finding ways to make my life Hell. My best friend was probably going to jail, and there was a chance I might wind up there with him if I didn't play my cards right. And tomorrow, God knows what was waiting for me. If I hadn't been afraid Terry would catch me, I'd have just laid down and cried. As it was, I grabbed a shower and headed for bed.

As I was drifting off to sleep, I remember that the only thing standing out in the mishmash of my thoughts was my curiosity about the next afternoon. Just what the hell was a "money jerk" anyway? Were Terry and his friends "queer"? Was I? Like nearly every other guy my age in Bentley Parish, I'd dicked Marie Godchaux, but seeing those guys in the field house yesterday.... The first time I thought about alarm clocks was when I woke up the next morning. One glance at the clock told me I'd already missed the bus. Crap! I'd have to hitch a ride with Terry and listen to him call me "Wimp" or "Faggot" all the way to school. His Fruit of the Looms were laying in the middle of the floor, the bathroom door was closed, and the shower wasn't running. That meant he'd walk out of the bathroom any minute, ready for school, and he sure as Hell wasn't going to wait on me. If it hadn't been for the somber warning Bob had delivered yesterday, I probably would have faked being sick. As it was, there was no choice but to get ready for school as best I could.

There was no time for another shower, so I just jumped into my clothes, brushed at my hair, and grabbed my stuff. I laid my books on the hall table and grabbed a Coke from the refrigerator. Luckily, Mom wasn't there to say, "Coca- Cola is not an appropriate breakfast, young man. Sit down and eat like a civilized human being." Instead, Katy just shrugged and said "Morning." I headed back out to the hall, and just stood there, drinking Coke and waiting on Terry. I glanced at my reflection in the mirror that was one of my mom's proudest possessions. She reminded us regularly that it had come from England in the early 1800's as a wedding present to one of our ancestors. Katy had instructions to polish it every day, and the image reflected in the glass that morning pleased me. I might not be a football stud, but I could hold my own. At 5-8, 140 I realized I made a tight, compact package. The blondish red hair and green eyes I used to hate actually looked pretty good. Working around the farm kept me in shape, my chest was developing nicely and the contrast between my broadening shoulders and little waist was sharp. My 501's fit my ass just right, even if Terry did say I had a "Nigger butt," and I knew I caught a lot of admiring glances from the girls. Luckily, my complexion was completely different from Terry's and I had never had a problem with acne.

Terry sauntered out of our bedroom and headed toward the door, interrupting my vanity. His only communication was a grunt, and that may have not been especially for me. I followed him to the car without saying a word. Surprisingly, the silence continued from the time I got in till we got to school. When we parked he broke the silence. "Be at the field house at 3 and we'll get you set as the temporary manager." That was it, nothing more, nothing less. Not even a "Wimp" or a "Homo."

When I took my seat in homeroom, Ken's place to my left was empty. Nobody seemed to know why he wasn't there, but I was all too sure what caused his absence. Luckily the bell rang and Miss Herring started handing out Algebra tests before I had time to think much about it. I hadn't studied for the test, but I've always had a knack for anything mathematical, and was able to finish the test easily before the period ended. I sat there, not working, not thinking, just letting my mind drift until the bell rang. Like everybody else, I handed in my test and headed to the next class.

I never heard a word that was said all day. Oh, I heard it all right, but I knew that if I took my brain out of neutral all the worries from last night would come back. So I just coasted for the rest of the day. When the day finally ended with the 2:50 bell, I grabbed my stuff and headed to the field house. "Just as well get it over with," I thought.

When I got there Coach Jenkins was waiting. "Terry says you want to take over for Pat while he's sick. He says you already know how to take care of the equipment; you got any questions?"

"No, sir. I just see that everything's clean and dry and put away, right?"

"Yeah, and on Fridays you wash everybody's stuff. You know how to work a washing machine?"

In truth, I didn't. Katy always did the laundry at our house, but I knew it couldn't take a rocket scientist, so I just nodded. "Well you better get started on the washing then. Last Friday's never got done." I followed the coach to the washing machine and a huge pile of jerseys, jocks and shorts. He pointed to the machines, the soap, and the dirty gear, then walked off. I figured I just as well get started, and began to load the old heavy duty washer. About a third of the way down in the pile I noticed it. Several jocks were on top of the remaining stack and when I picked the top one up, it was stuck to the one under it. As I pulled them apart, I couldn't help but notice the stiffness of the pouch. Like any guy past puberty, I knew what made that stiffness. These jocks had been soaked with cum! Hurriedly, I sorted through the stack. About half of the jocks in the wash matched the first one I noticed -- they'd all had a huge wad blown in the pouch, and obviously smeared around. For the first time all day, I let my mind wander to what might be happening this afternoon, and my prick was as stiff as it was ever gonna get. My Baptist conscience was quick to kick in and call me "Pervert." Putting my brain on autopilot, I finished loading the machine, added the soap and let it rip.

The afternoon seemed to drag by. The first load of laundry finished, I moved it to the dryer, and stuffed the last of the gear in the second load. Finally, the guys started dragging in from practice, sweating and pooped. Coach Jenkins didn't like for the guys to drink Gatorade and such, insisting instead that they drink water. I'd filled the old Igloo cooler with water and ice, and set the paper cups beside it. They drank cup after cup of the water, and naturally, nobody bothered to throw the cups in the garbage, tossing them on the floor instead. Why bother to put them in the garbage? After all, football studs were ordained by God to have somebody like me pick up after them, right?

Before I was finished picking up the cups, more than a few of the guys were getting ready for the shower. The view of those hot bodies, sweat still dripping from many, parading around the locker room in just a jock or bare-ass naked seemed like more than ample compensation. My dick felt like it was trying to rip its way out of my Levis, and I realized I wasn't even arguing with myself about "queerness" any more. I was just enjoying the sights.

Oddly, nobody had mentioned anything about a money jerk, and I was beginning to wonder if the whole deal was just a bad joke on me. But when Bob passed by headed for the showers, he mumbled, "Stay cool."

Well, cool I wasn't, but I was definitely staying! Since it was Friday afternoon, most of the guys hurried in and out of the shower. They dressed and hung around, griping about Coach Jenkins being slow. Just a few minutes before five, he stepped back in. "You guys practiced a little better today, but a lot of you still act like faggots at a tea party. We'll get back to work Monday. Have a good weekend and stay out of trouble." The speech ended, he pulled a key off the ring dangling from his waist and handed it to me. "You can either finish the wash today or do it over the weekend. Either way, you'll need a key. Be careful with it, it's the only one I have." With that, he turned and was gone.

I proceeded to get busy with odds and ends, dying to know what was coming, but afraid to let anybody know it. Terry and the other guys seemed to be in no rush, standing around, sitting on the benches or leaning against the wall shooting the shit. When Drew Wilson walked out the door yelling he had to hurry because some hot stuff was waiting on him, I didn't think much of it. But just a moment later, Bob was saying, "Okay, guys, we got a little unfinished business. Today, somebody be sure to lock the door."

Jay Hinson, a kicker with a great body, flipped the deadlock just a second later as Bob pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket. It looked like a lot of money, but it really wasn't. It's just that twenty-one folded dollar bills looks like a lot. "Okay, Steve, it's time. You're the only one that hasn't anted."

I walked into the main part of the locker room, trying to look cocky, my heart pounding. In my most studly voice I said, "How much is the ante?" "Three bucks, winner take all plus the winner's bonus. You know the rules?" Bob asked.

Of course I didn't, but I sure as Hell wasn't going to admit it. I produced three bucks and nodded. The other guys were stripping, including Terry, so I just tried to act cool and go with the flow. As I started pulling off my Levis I was wondering if they were going to razz me about the hard on I was sporting, but Jay had already gotten naked, and was standing there, hard as a rock, shuffling an old deck of cards. Obviously, I wasn't going to be the only one. My heart was pounding like a jack hammer when I slid the old Fruit of the Looms off. Glancing around the room, I was happy to note that my tool compared favorably with the others. A few were a little longer, but none were any thicker, at least not till Gary turned around.

I was surprised Gary was even there. His dad was the minister at our church, and he seemed as straight laced as the day is long. But there's no denying he had the biggest dick I've ever seen. A lot longer than mine, which I knew from painstaking measurement was 6 3/4 inches, and a good bit thicker too. Oddly, he had a flap of skin covering about half the head of his dick. I knew enough to realize the term was "uncircumcised," but I'd never seen a hard dick besides mine and an occasional glance at Terry's, masked by the cotton of his Fruit of the Looms. Gary's definitely looked different. I was lost in thought when I head Jay saying, "Draw guy." I pulled the 9 of diamonds out of the deck, and stood there holding it waiting to see what would happen next. Like the other guys, I held it out where everybody could see.

Pete Cumberland had the three of clubs, and I heard Bob saying "Okay, Pete, you're low man." Pete moved toward the center of the room and stood there. The guy with the trey of hearts moved to his left, but then Terry, who had the five of spades moved between them. It didn't take long to figure out that as the rank of the cards moved up, each guy got to pick where to stand. By the time it was my turn, five guys were already standing there. I put the nine of diamonds back on the pile, and moved so Gary was on my right. I still didn't know what was going on, but so far I could fake it.

When the eighth guy, Lee Martin, who held the King of Hearts, moved to my left, I heard Bob saying, "Okay, y'all know the routine. Circle up and get ready." The line moved to be a circle, and I just tried to act like I knew what I was doing. "On the count of three: One, Two... Three!" To my delight and horror, I felt Lee's hand on my cock, and as I watched the other guys, I saw that every guy besides me hand his hand on the cock to his right, stroking away. I shrugged metally and mimicked the rest.

My mind was already reeling with the feel of Lee slowly, teasingly jacking my dick, squeezing the head real hard every time he got to the crown of my cock. But when I began to stroke Gary's huge dick, and felt the flesh pulsing in my cupped fist, and realized the wetness I was feeling was his pre-cum, I nearly lost it. About the time my balls were swelling to warn me of the coming shot, I heard Lee moan "Oh, shit... Son of a Bitch!" As I turned to look, one, two, and then three wads of thick, white cream came shooting out the end of his dick. His cock was probably the smallest in the room, but God he could pump a load! Luckily, in his excitement he took his hand off my own cock, and I was able to contain my load. Lee stepped out of the circle, and Jay moved in closer against me. He soon had his hand on my dick, doing a very ordinary pump job. It was clear from what the other guys were saying to tease Lee that the idea was to be the last to cum. I'd do my best. I focused on the hot tube of meat in my hand. I started flexing my grip randomly up and down the long shaft, making sure the flat of my hand rubbed solidly over the very tip on every stroke. I knew from my nightly ministrations to my own cock that that felt great, and I determined to push Gary out of the competition as soon as possible. He, like several of the guys, was breathing hard and I could tell from the twitching of his dick in my hand it wouldn't be that long. Jesus, that little extra flap of skin seemed to help my hand slide up and down his shaft automatically, and my own dick started quivering. Two almost simultaneous moans signaled that Jay and Pete, a freshman whose big build had moved him up to varsity football a year ahead of schedule, were no longer in the running. When I looked up, and caught sight of the cum oozing down Pete's thick, dark dick toward those big, low hanging balls, I nearly shot my own wad. The sights in the room, the feel of my dick, and the smell of an abundance of boy cum was almost more than I could take. As much as I wanted to do otherwise, I decided to keep my head down and think of anything but sex. I might not win, but I HAD to beat Terry. Luckily, when Jay stepped backwards, my cock got a second respite, and I was trying to force my thoughts to Algebra instead of cocks. It wasn't completely successful, but at least I wasn't shooting yet.

I knew it was Bob's hand on my cock, and I knew it felt good, but I was trying not to even think about that. I continued to pound and squeeze away at Gary's dick, trying not to enjoy it too much. I wanted to cum so bad my balls were aching, but somehow, somehow I had to outlast Terry. Moments later, I heard Walt yelling, "Oh, FUCK! I'm cumming!" Gary had done him in, but the pulsing dick and the warm, wet, thick goo in my hand told me he Gary had met the same fate. His moans were so low and sexy, I couldn't resist continuing to jack and squeeze that big dick as the last few drops filled my hand.

Reluctantly, I released my hold on that hot cock as the two stepped back out of the circle. I realized it was time to do or die. It was down to me, Terry and Bob. Bob was applying exquisite torture to my dick, and I began to jack Terry with fury. As my fist slid toward the bottom of his shaft, I'd squeeze it hard, and pull up slowly. When my hand got to the crown of his dick, I slipped it on over the top, and on the next down stroke made sure his cock "bottomed out" into my cupped palm before sliding on down the shaft. Instead of looking at his dick, I was watching Terry's eyes. They had started to glaze over, and I could tell from the quickening pulse in his dick that things were getting as close for him as they were for me. The protruding jaw muscles told me he was gritting his teeth, doing everything he could to hold himself together. He wanted to avoid losing to me as badly as I wanted to keep from losing to him.

Some of the guys noticed the special treatment I was giving Terry's cock and began to cheer, "Alright, Steve, pump that thing!" "I want some of that next!" "You act like you know what you're doing, Steve!" The remarks didn't really register, but their tone spurred me on. I was giving Terry's dick the workout of his life, and I was determined to make him feel so good he couldn't stand it any longer. As I renewed my efforts, my hand was a blurr it was moving up and down his cock so fast. I began to make sure the bottom of my fist thumped firmly but painlessly against Terry's balls. I knew from the sounds I'd heard coming from the bathroom on occasion, he liked to really pound that dick. So I tried to pour everything that made me hot, everything that made him hot, everything that had made the other guys hot, everything I could think of into that hand job.

Seconds later, I heard Terry start to moan. "Hold on, Steve, hold on," I told myself. My own balls were begging for relief, and I focused on transferring all the lust I felt in my own cock to Terry's. It seemed the son of a bitch was gonna beat me after all, and then he yelled "Mother Fuck!" and the jizz came streaming out of his dick. Long, stringy wads of man juice flew out the end of that dick, landing on the floor about three feet away. Watching that jizz flying broke my own rule, but Hell, I didn't care anymore. I felt my own dick pumping creamy wads of cum, and suddenly, I didn't care that I'd lost. Every guy in the room knew I was a bigger man than Terry. I smiled, dropped Terry's dick and stepped back. The smell of cum, the sight of seven other dripping dicks, in various states of hardness, and the feel of the tingle still emanating from my own pecker was victory enough. I'd forgotten all about Bob, when I heard him say, "I choose Steve for the winner's bonus."

He stepped closer to me, nudging his dick toward my hand that was still wet with Terry's and Gary's cum. I started to stroke him, enjoying the feel of yet another cock. I used the same squeeze, stroke, palm, stroke, squeeze I'd applied to the other guys. This time though, I wasn't afraid to watch the big dick I was stroking, and my own cock got hard again as I savored the sights and sounds of a stud getting ready to blow a big wad. I began to pound him hard, and all too soon, he groaned and let loose a huge load. I caught the first wad in my palm, and stroked and smeared it along his dick as I continued to jerk on it. The spasms I was feeling in Bob's dick moved to my own, and I realized I was shooting a second load without even touching my dick. I felt a hand on my cock, and realized it was Gary milking the last of the jizz out for me. I could have kept playing with cocks forever, but I felt Bob's dick shrinking, and knew it was over.

All of a sudden, I felt embarrassed. After all, wasn't this queer? One look at the expression of sheepish humiliation on Terry's face told me I didn't give a shit today. And the good feelings in my dick said I probably never would.

written by anonymous

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