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Dude, Are You Serious?


© 2014

by

Jonathan Longhorn


Copyright © 2014 by Jonathan Longhorn (jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com). All
rights reserved. Except for the use of less than two pages in any review, the
reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any
electronic, mechanical, or other means is forbidden without the express written
permission of the author. Express permission is granted to The Nifty Erotic
Stories Archive for storage, indexing, retrieval, and display of this work.

Disclaimer: The material in this work is for mature audiences only and contains
graphic sexual content and language. It is intended only for those aged 18 and
older. All of the characters in this work are assumed to be at least 18 years of
age.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and settings are fictitious.
Any resemblance to actual events, names, locales, organizations, or persons
living or dead, is entirely coincidental. In the real world having sex without
using a condom can be very dangerous to your health. Don’t ruin your life or
your future. Slip it on before you slip it in.

Note: There are some references in this story and others, to things mentioned in
another of my stories, Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord's Revenge, which you
can find here:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html.
The story itself is about the movie that had been seen or was being watched by
characters in several of my stories - in which an alien warlord bent on revenge,
‘has his way’ with an Earth Forces Brigade hero. While I hope that you would
enjoy reading that story, it may be a bit brutal for some readers and you do not
need to read that story first in order to understand or to enjoy this story.

All trademarks used in this work are the sole property of their owners and have
been used without permission or endorsement.



Chapter 1


Charles John Stockton, IV—Charley to almost everyone—looked over first one and
then the other of his shoulders; left, right, left, and—right. He wanted … no …
‘needed’ to ensure that no one else was within hearing range. Not for ‘this’
conversation. A conversation that had begun during last period Study Hall and
that had taken a sudden and unexpectedly bizarre spin.

He inhaled slowly as he took a moment for another look in both directions along
one of the three main corridors in the labyrinth that made up the first floor of
Complex ‘A’ of the high school. Finally, Charley allowed the air to slip even
more slowly through his barely parted lips—satisfied that they were alone. As
‘alone’ as anyone could be when standing smack in the middle of 2,000+ students
that were herding toward exit doors in what could only be explained as a
stampede.

A stampede.

Yeah, that about summed it up.

He could almost see a regiment of Lord Q’a’s army hovering just beyond. Looking
up and whirling around at the sound of pounding feet, cheers, laughter, and
exuberant ‘yeah!s’ as the three sets of double doors burst open and the crush of
humans spilled out into the afternoon sunlight. Spilled? More like ‘erupted’
from those doors and every other possible exit from the building.

He couldn’t help but smirk.

He could just imagine zombies diving for cover behind hedges and shrubs.
Fearless as they were, he envisioned cyborgs, eyes gone wide, gulping and then
disappearing into the beds of pickup trucks and into trash dumpsters … squeezing
through sunroofs and shimming through open car windows….

His eyes rolled at the mental vision of tentacle creatures freezing in place as
they joined crepe myrtle and mountain laurel plantings—their muscular bodies
taking on the shape of a tree trunk; their tentacles reaching up and out and
bent here and there like branches….

He saw Lord Q’a, himself. The fearless, self-absorbed, vindictive, ‘really
pissed off’ self-proclaimed Ruler of the Universe sighing at the reaction of his
warriors to a bunch of humans—not just ‘any’ humans but—‘teenagers’. Q’a’s
eyes—‘all’ of them—squinting, then widening with the dawn of realization hitting
him just in time. They were headed in his direction. Teenagers. Hundreds of
teenagers. Thousands of them. Perhaps his warriors knew more than he in this
particular case. He stepped aside and levitated upward to perch on a strange
metal contraption that stood 30’ above the ground—with 4 arms protruding outward
at the top; each capped by a lighting mechanism of sorts.

Charley’s nostrils flared and his eyes rolled as he admonished himself.

Really?

Seriously, dude?

That should teach him to go to a late, late showing of something like Target
Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge at 1:15 on a Friday morning … knowing full
well that he had a day filled with an early morning practice, hours of class,
and then another practice after school. Okay—‘that’ and the chili burrito and
fries with ghost pepper cheese sauce probably didn’t help matters, either. He
was still burping that shit. But it was ‘so’ good. What was he thinking? What
was Chelsea thinking? Well, she really wasn’t thinking at all—she fell asleep 30
minutes into the flick.

Sleep?

Seriously?

How in Hell could she ‘sleep’?

Sleep? Through ‘this’ movie? Like … friggin’ … hell. Charley found himself
strangely riveted by it. There was something … he wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was, but
… a stripped naked superhero and savior of the Earth, dangling at the ends of
multiple tentacles and being ravaged by the invading forces’ Supreme Commander.

Snort.

Ravaged? As if. Lord Q’a had raped the fuck out of the poor guy.

It was riveting.

Kinda spellbinding, actually.

Okay, it was kinda gay. A warlord raping a superhero, but….

Okay, yeah—it was way seriously gay, but….

He wasn’t 100% sure but he was fairly certain that the action on the screen had
nothing to do with the raging T-bone that he had the rest of the night. Yeah,
how could it? Why would something so … so … so … very … gay … throw his dick
into bonerville?


As the mental vision of retreating invasion forces evaporated into a fine mist,
and—his breathing exercise completed, Charley drifted back into the moment. His
eyes skimmed through the throng and he breathed a small sigh of relief. All
potential witnesses seemed to be at a relatively safe distance from them—for
now.

He felt the knot in his gut cinch a little tighter as he went over it … again …
what he had just been told during Study Hall. It had replayed in his head for
the 47th time in little more than what—eleven minutes? Yeah, maybe that long.
Maybe only seven-point-three minutes. He shifted awkwardly from one foot to the
other before steadying himself and taking a more firm stance.

He stared at the floor more than at the guy standing between him and a row of
lockers. His locker. Chelsea’s locker. Right next to his. And his best
friend—Ryan’s. And his other best friend—Bennett’s. And….

Stalling?

Hell, yeah he was stalling.

His brain was using the internal ‘pause button’ while it processed … ‘this.’

He supposed that this might be a good time to do something radical like … speak.

Yeah. Speak, Stockton! Speak!

Good idea.

Another quick look around. Immediate vicinity still clear. He leaned in and
offered a hoarse whisper.

“Dude, are you … serious?” He leaned closer still. “You know, about…?”

Dillon Jamison briefly copied his friend and made a quick survey of the area.
Scoping out any potential witnesses. He too checked for
too-close-for-their-own-comfort ears. This was ‘so’ not the kind of conversation
that he wanted to end up being broadcast through the campus grapevine. Hell—this
was the kind of conversation that he never in a million years would have thought
he’d be having with anyone—‘especially’ Charley Stockton.

‘This’ conversation? With Charley Stockton?

Seriously? Fuckin’ Hell if I know where it came from but yeah, I am. I really am
serious.


He was unsure how it had even got started—well, other than noticing the raging
boner in Charley’s pants every time that he saw him the entire day. Talk about
riveting. However, before he even knew it or was able to control it, his mouth
blew open and the words just started pouring out.

How? Why? He didn’t have a clue. To be honest, he was unsure he was ready to
face the most obvious of the ‘hows’ and ‘whys’ of it right now.

Sure, it had been rattling around in his mind for a while. Okay, a long while.
But that was where he had intended to keep it. In his mind and the darkness of
his bedroom late at night when he took matters in hand. He sure as hell hadn’t
walked into Study Hall this afternoon with a goal of saying what he was saying
before he could stop himself from saying it.

But.

There it was.

Rising to the surface once again.

He had taken note … again … of the raging bone in Charley’s pants when he walked
up to the table, pulled out the chair directly across from him and offered a
fist bump across the table that divided the two of them. He had silently
wondered if Charley had swallowed a dozen of those little blue pills last night
or something. This was obviously no sign of erectile dysfunction but more like
all systems go in ‘T’-minus 3, 2, well—NOW!


And.

Here he was.

Just a step or two away from the school’s undisputed #1 … god. Maybe co-god, if
you took into consideration Rhett Applegate. Combined, the two of them easily
had the makings for a second Mt. Olympus. They would be the first two that would
take their throne and don crown and toga and…. Okay, maybe crown and jock strap,
and….

Well, anyway—yeah, here he was, standing with god #1—Charley Stockton. And, they
were having ‘that’ conversation all over again.

Satisfied that they were safe, he returned his attention back to the athlete
standing in front of him. He felt his right knee bouncing like a loose fence
slat in the path of an approaching tornado. Was he hyperventilating? No—he had
to be breathing to hyperventilate and he was pretty sure he would pass out from
lack of oxygen at any moment.

Charley ran his fingers through his hair and then readjusted his backpack on his
shoulder. Dillon was gonna pass out. Or, worse—puke.

“Breathe.”

“Huh?”

“You’re gonna pass out, dude. Breathe.”

Oh. Breathe. Yeah. We learned about that in science class. You have to breathe
at least once a week. Right?

Dillon inhaled deeply, held it until his lungs started burning, and then let the
air escape. Slowly. So slowly that he could swear that he felt his toenails
growing. He finally nodded.

“So, seriously, dude.” Charley said with another quick perimeter scan. “You
really wanna … you know?”

Yeah—if you only knew….

Yeah. If Charley only knew how stiff and musky that tee was. The tee that was
stuffed between Dillon’s bed and the wall. He wouldn’t have to ask that
question. Or, for that matter … if he knew about the plastic zipper bags with
one of Charley’s sweaty jocks stuffed inside each. Or, for that matter, if
Charley only knew about the….

Well, yeah—anyway. If he only knew.

Geez, he’d become a pervert. A genuine, red-blooded, All-American, boy next
door, teenage pervert. When had all this happened? Where was he when all this
happened? Well, okay, he was right here during his conversion into a teenage
pervert because … well … okay, wrong time for self-psychobabble gabble.

Note to self: reserve time later for self-psychobabble gabble….

“Yeah, I know. Right?” A panic laugh. “Where the hell did this come from,”
Dillon said with a nervous tick making his words come more like a cricket chirp.
Smooth. Real smooth. How weird was that? He usually had a deep, husky, smoky
voice. Usually. Yeah, ‘usually.’ Where was that voice when he needed it? “I
mean, you know…,” he said with that faint tremor being followed by an aftershock
or twenty that rocked him. What the hell was he thinking? “Just…. I mean, um….
You know … I mean….”

Charley stepped closer. A curtain of bewilderment was closing across his drop
dead gorgeous face. Not the first curtain in the last few minutes. He cocked his
head; like that would help him translate the gibberish coming out of the mouth
of one of the gods of the school. Yeah. Yeah. He’d heard it all. He may have
that classical handsomeosity going on but … Dillon? The guy could smile up at
Lady Liberty and her knees would melt and she’d goo puddle on the spot. Dillon
Jamison was Labrador puppy cute and adorable … with muscles.

“I … you … I … you, know…?”

Charley laid a firm hand on his friend’s muscular shoulder and eased him back
against the locker behind him. ‘His’ locker, actually. The locker with ‘his’
books. The one where ‘his’ backpack hung when it wasn’t draped over his
shoulder. The locker with ‘his’ condoms and an extra 2-pack of jocks for when
his went missing—something that happened with a confusing frequency—‘his’ locker
with an extra jersey, extra pocket tee … that airtight plastic container of
cookies—chocolate chip … no nuts—that Chels had made for him….

Slick move there, Stockton. You just planted Dill between yourself and those
chocolate chip cookies….

If that tentacle monkey, Lord Q’a went near them, watch out. There would be a
throw down of all throw downs … goin’ down….

Charley found himself staring over Dillon’s shoulder. Taking in that locker
door. His locker door. Did alien warlords eat chocolate chip cookies? Duh. Of
course they did. ‘If’ they got their hands, erm, tentacles on them. He leaned
slightly to the side and looked down to the floor in front of the lockers. No
crumbs. No chocolate chips. Good, Q’a hadn’t been here—yet.

Dillon sucked in air. He was losing ground here. It had never been hard to talk
to Charley. Hell—he’d been talking to Charley since before either of them had
learned how to form ‘actual’ words.

This … should … not … be so … difficult!

Of course, they had never had ‘this’ conversation before. Oh, sure—they had
talked about sex. Come on, already—they were teenage males. Of course they had
sexversations from time to time. But, the sexversations up until ‘this’ one,
well, they had been on a one-way street to girlville. That was for sure. This
one had hung a left and gone south real fast.

Yeah, the words had just suddenly poured out of his mouth. He’d really said it.
Not only had Charley heard him say it, but—Dillon heard himself say it. Of all
the times for his voice to ring out in a tone that was precise, crystal clear …
unmistakable. The moment the words left his lips, his lungs froze. He felt like
he might pee. Right then. Right there. Pee like a race horse.


There they were, in the cafeteria that served as Study Hall Central in the
afternoons. And, bam!

‘The’ words.

‘Those’ words.

Those … 7 … words.

Can I give you a blow job?

What?

Can I give you a blow job?

Charley sat there staring at him like he’d just been hit in the head with a
baseball. He broke the stare between them and looked left … right … behind him …
and, back.

Dude, did you just ask if…?

Dillon nodded. Yeah. Yeah, he did. Go figure that one.

Yeah, Charley. I did. I asked if I could give you a blow job.

More silence.

More gazes around the cafeteria, checking their surroundings.

That incessant boner in Charley’s pants throbbed and danced and put in its two
cents worth. Blow job! Blow job! Did you hear that? Blow job! Say yes! Say yes!
Dude! Say yes!

In that brief moment, Dillon had a flash thought—dive out of the
floor-to-ceiling windows that were just a few feet away. What was a little glass
shard in the brain after what he’d just asked Charley Stockton? One glass shard.
Fifty million glass shards. Holy fuck, what had he just done?

Holy fuck!

Holy fuck fuck!

He had just propositioned Charley Stockton!

Charley Stockton? The reigning #1 everything?

No wonder Charley had just sat there and stared at him. Hell—probably thinking
through that stare of all the ways he could maim, torture, murderize him. Ways
that he could dispose of the evidence and the body, and…. Well, okay. Maybe that
was overboard. Charley Stockton sat there staring at him but he made no move to
reach across the table and slug him or to drag him out of Study Hall and into
some dark alcove where he could dismember him, body part by body part, organ by
organ.

Thank God Charley was pure class. He could have gone ape shit monkey freak dog
on his ass but no, he just sat there. Staring at him. Swallowing. Head tilting.
Eyes clouded with doubt before going crystal clear in the comprehension of the
question. Like you could misinterpret ‘that’ question. ‘That’ meaning.

They were more than classmates and teammates. They were tight friends. Not
‘best’ friends. They both had one of those. ‘Two’ in Charley’s case. Huh. Come
to think of it, why weren’t they best friends? Okay, well Ellis, Bennett, and
Ryan’s status on that list aside….

“Dude, are you serious?” Quick look around. Again. “You ‘really’ want to blow
me?”

Charley looked around the cafeteria once again. His left hand drifted under the
table. It fondled his aching nuts. It adjusted his throbbing cock. The same cock
that was still screaming out its own response to the question—yes! Blow job!
Over here! Blow job! Yes! Please … say … yes!

“Like, you know … ‘blow job’ blow me?”

“I don’t know, Charley. It’s … just…. I just … want….” He paused, closing his
eyes for a moment. Breathe. Yeah, good time to do that again. Breathe. At least
once per week. Had it already been a week since he last took a breath and…?
Okay, yeah—breathe. Long. Deep. Breath. Shoulder shrug. Yeah, shrug it off. Good
idea. He sighed heavily. On the verge of giving up. Yeah. Give up. Throw in the
towel. Walk away. Accept defeat with whatever terms of surrender were placed on
the table. Fall on the sword. Humiliation complete. “Maybe we should forget this
conversation ever….”

Charley leaned in, just an inch from his friend’s face. He felt his own breath
crash against Dillon’s face and then volley back at him.

“Nuh, uh … no way. Don’t wuss out on me, dude,” Charley said softly, his eyes
searching Dillon’s. “Tell me why.”

“You know, just to, um…. Just to see what it’s … like.” Blushing. Dillon felt
his cheeks burning. His neck was melting. He was sure that his neck was melting.
He unlocked from Charley’s intense gaze, letting his eyes drift down to the
floor. Maybe it would somehow open up and swallow him whole? How could he really
explain ‘this’? “Um, just … curious. Need to, I don’t know … um … find out?”

Charley nearly jumped out of his N’Balance Cross Trainers when a hand roughly
clamped on his shoulder and one of the guys from the football team ‘sup’d him
and then moved on toward the exit doors and the student parking lot. He offered
a too-late to be heard ‘‘sup’ back in the guy’s general direction and then
looked back down the hall in the other direction. Rhett was hauling Cullen Lee
Hargrove into that crawl space between two sets of lockers….

How weird was that?

He turned back to his friend who was studying the floor. He looked down to see
what had suddenly fascinated Dillon down there. Nothing. It was just the floor,
and—that dizzying tile pattern. The school board must have been smoking some
wicked bad ass fucked up shit when they picked this design. Maybe it was on
purpose? Maybe the design nullified the natural born thinking process in the
students and that enabled the faculty to implant chips and they were all being
programmed to become submissive, obedient….

Fuck. Maybe it was working.

Focus. Back to ‘here’ and ‘now’, Stockton. Maybe there ‘is’ a pod with my name
on it…?

Charley finally forced his eyes away from those patterns and looked up. Dillon’s
gun metal gray eyes were back on him. They were almost swirling with an unnamed
storm that was brewing deep inside. Poor guy was riding on the tail of a mental
tornado; he had to kind of admire him for opening up and being honest about what
was going on inside his head.

Wow.

Wait. WTF?

Holy … fu….

He wants to … do … what?

Wow.

Wow.

Wow … and … um, wow!

He swallowed nervously, hoping nobody in the vicinity was picking up any of this
conversation. Words. Vibes. Swallows. The fact that his dick had already come up
with an answer of its own. What the fuck was with that, anyway? Dillon Jamieson
had just propositioned him and his dick was soaring to aching proportions.

Yeah. His dick already had an answer. Now, it was throbbing and twitching,
nervously waiting for his brain to catch up and get on the same page.

Okay.

Seriously?

Sex was sex.

A teenager talking about sex was going to go into the bone zone no matter what.
Hell, if the grass grew, a teenager’s dick was going to steel up. Nature of the
beast. Right?

But, holy fuck!

Dillon had just…. He sure as hell had never expected ‘this’ tornado. Certainly
never coming from Dillon Jamison. Hell—the guy was one of the school’s most
envied, most admired, most sought after ‘stars’ in the athletic universe.
Everyone. Girl. Guy. Teacher. Coach. Admin. Little mice in the Science Lab….
‘Everyone’ … loved … Dillon.

Hell, ‘he’ loved Dillon, and ‘he’ was the king around these parts!

But, still….

Shit.

Another thought suddenly came to mind. Charley couldn’t help but wonder if
Dillon was ‘just curious’ what it would be like—just like he said, or—was this a
kind of adorably dorkified way for Dillon to test the ‘coming out’ waters? Was
that it? Was Dillon coming out to him? Holy fuck a duck! That would set the
grapevine ablaze if that was true and the buzz was that he came out. The much
loved and admired Dillon Jamison? Gay?

Wow.

Of course, it wouldn’t matter. Not in the least. Not to him, anyway. Dillon was
his friend. A very close friend. He loved the guy. He would stand by him. He
would defend him. He would support him. That’s what a ‘real’ friend would do.

But, seriously? Was that it? Was Dillon coming out to him?

And, why him? Why come to him? Why ‘come’ to him and why ‘come out’ to him?
Yeah, they were classmates, teammates … friends…. Always had been. Always would
be. No matter what. But….

Well, duh on that. Why not come to him? Dillon knew that Charley wouldn’t walk
away or beat him to Hell and back or ‘out’ him to anyone else—not even Chelsea.
Dillon trusted him.

That was the main cog in the cogwonker.

Dillon must have complete, unshakable trust in him. That had to be it, right?

Talk about being flattered. This was way beyond flattery, though. This was….
Hell, he didn’t know what this was but his dick was sure excited about the
prospect. If it throbbed much longer it would start leaving a nice, shiny, juicy
spot of evidence as to how excited it was by the whole idea. He reached down to
slip a hand into his pocket—impromptu car key check—which was more of a chance
to casually adjust his ever-growing problem; he hoped the whole time during the
adjustment period that nobody would notice. That Dillon wouldn’t notice.

Wait.

Wait … just … one … second. Seriously? Why ‘did’ he come to Charley with this
subject? Beyond the trust factor, anyway? This…. This … whatever the hell this
was?

Wait! Surely Dillon didn’t think…?

Another quick survey. Final bell was at least 15 minutes ago. Enemy troops were
dwindling now. There were still plenty of them around as they passed one way or
the other but still—none of them were within hearing distance. Still no cyborgs.
No zombies. No tentacle creatures. No … Lord Q’a—chocolate chip cookies with no
nuts thief that he was. Rhett and Cullen Lee were still behind those lockers….
What was up with that?

Yeah, it was still safe. For now. Charley made another casual adjustment down
below. An adjustment that did not go unnoticed by his dick. It throbbed against
his knuckles. Throbbed, and—was that a whimper? Did dicks whimper?

He squared his shoulders and steeled himself; he had to ask—even unsure as he
was that he wanted to hear the answer.

Uh oh. Busted!

His eyes returned to Dillon and it was obvious. Fuck! He had seen him do the
dickjustment move!

Fuck!

So much for my life as a Stealth Operative…. You’re safe Bond, James Bond.

Fuck!

Deflect! Deflect! Deflect!

“Dude. You don't think that ‘I’…?” Another survey. Deep breath. Back to Dillon.
“That I’m … you know…?”

A nervous chuckle escaped from Dillon’s lips. Lips which hooked Charley’s focus
and reeled him in for some reason. Two. He had two lips. One above the other.
One below the one above it. Full. Moist. Pouty. Wait. They were moving.
Concentrate. Dillon was saying something.

“…. What? No, of course not! How could you possibly be? Hell, dude—you’ve got
Chelsea, right?”

Chelsea?

Yeah.

Chelsea.

Charley had Chelsea.

They both nodded. Knowingly. One knowing what everyone ‘thought’ they knew. One
knowing what only he and Chelsea knew.

“It’s just that…. You…. We’re buds right? At least … I hope we’re still buds
after this conversation.” Dillon paused as Trey Rhome passed and gave him a nod.
He nodded back and waited until Trey was beyond the hearing perimeter. “I know I
can trust you with my rep here. This isn’t exactly the kinda thing that I want
very many people to know about.”

Charley looked around, still a bit nervous about any of this convo being
overhead. He exchanged silent jaw juts with Rhett Applegate who was standing
about twenty-five feet away—looking about as much in panic mode as Dillon was
right now. Strange. His tee was tucked when he hauled Cullen Lee behind those
lockers. It looked like Rhett was in the bone zone, too.

Maybe him and Cullen Lee just had a similar conversation behind those lockers?

Yeah. Sure they did. Right. Like this was a common conversation between high
school males. Right. Right. Yup. Yup. Yup.

Rhett took several deep breaths, ran his fingers through his hair, and then
gazed up and down the corridor. Foot shifting just like Charley’s had been
during this conversation. Anxious? Nervous? What was that about? Why did he haul
him back behind the lockers? Where was Cullen Lee? Hopefully he wasn’t chopped
and shredded and bagged and stuffed inside Rhett’s backpack.

Who knew?

Stranger things had happened around here.

Hell—even a tentacle warlord raping a superhero and turning him into his bitch.

Geez, Rhett was strangling the life out of the straps on his backpack. He’d have
to find a desolate area on the way home to dig a shallow grave and coat it with
Butterfinger wrappers and then, in the cloak of darkness, cover that backpack
with dirt and stomp it in place. So the ‘murdered backpack’ police wouldn’t find
it.

Geez, his imagination must have had a couple bowls of “Wheaties” this morning
when he wasn’t looking. First Lord Q’a’s alien invasion armies and now Rhett
strangling his backpack and now looking for a place to bury it. And, wondering
about Cullen Lee’s shredded body, and….

He slowly shook his head and sighed.

How did he get into this conversation anyway? Oh. Wait. Ding! Ding! Ding! He
knew the answer to this one! Wait. Coming. Coming. The answer was coming. Almost
there…. Oh, yeah. Study Hall. He was definitely way too young for even an early
onset of Alzheimer’s. Right?

Focus.

Focus.


They were sitting at an empty table during Study Hall with several hundred other
students scattered around the cavernous cafeteria. Somehow, an empty table
glowed its presence and whoosh—Charley and Dillon had aimed for it in full
attack mode from opposing directions at the same moment. No worries. There were
20 chairs at that table. Go figure they aimed for chairs directly across from
each other. They stood. They sat. They opened notebooks. They glanced at study
notes and then immediately dove into talk mode instead. They never looked at any
assignments the rest of the period. But, really? Who ever did? Not during Study
Hall, anyway. Yeah. As if.

Those two young, very cool new assistant coaches—Coach Jarrell and Coach
Stratham—were in the farthest corner of the Cafeteria, deep into a hushed
conversation. Elderly Miss Pippenschraeder—Miss Poopenscooper to most of the
kids—sat in another far corner totally lost in a romance novel with a nearly
naked cowboy on the cover. She had quickly covered it with another book, but
there was no mistaking what she was really reading.

Mr. Evans, the new Biology teacher stood by the now dark serving area—lost in
his tablet and, from the looks of the front of his bulging suit pants, he was
probably reading the X-rated version of what Miss Poopenscooper was
surreptitiously reading. Poor guy. He ‘really’ needed to get laid. He was such a
nice guy. Girls raced to his class every period and jockeyed for the front row
desks or the front lab tables. It was like a teenaged girl Monday Night Mud
Wrestling Throw Down on one of the cable channels up in the 900 range. He had to
admit, even for a guy, the dude was smokin’.

Whoa, that bulge had grown even larger in just those last few seconds of looking
at him in Study Hall. Yeah. For sure. Mr. Evans needed to get laid. Lucky lady
when that happened. The guy was obviously megadong’d. Maybe Dillon should
proposition Mr. Evans since he wanted to see what it was like to go dong diving?
Yeah. No. Dillon would freak and Mr. Evans was too good a dude to lose if they
got caught.

Okay. Where was he in this mystery?

Oh.

Yeah.

There they were—him and Dillon—claiming seats across from one another at the
empty table in Study Hall with almost no other occupied tables near them. Dillon
had seemed slightly off his game lately. Usually unflustered and focused, he had
seemed off center. What was up with that? Why the hell had he noticed and asked?
Look where it had got him—it got him into ‘this’ conversation. That’s where it
got him.


“Of course we’re friends, bro. It’s cool. We’re tight. It’s just,” he couldn’t
hold back a soft chuckle. “Well, I just never thought that we might be ‘that’
tight,” Charley snickered. He wondered if that comment blushed through his
cheeks like they just did Dillon’s. Light bulb. Wait. Yeah. Wait. “What about
Ellis? He’s your ‘best’ friend after all.”

Dillon rolled his eyes and snorted. Yeah, he was. Ellis was the best friend he’d
ever had. But, Ellis was…. Well. Ellis … was … Ellis. He could just picture this
conversation with ‘alpha dog’ Ellis. With ‘that’ personality? Right. Uh huh. Nuh
uh. He wasn’t sure their friendship could survive this sort of request; even if
it was ‘just’ curiosity, Ellis would hammer him to death about it. Or,
worse—walk away and never speak to him again. He hoped that would not happen.
But with Ellis? One just never knew what to expect. ‘Unpredictable’ was Ellis’
middle name.

Yeah—no. ‘So’ many reasons not to take ‘this’ curiosity to Ellis.

For some reason? Charley Stockton seemed more … safe? Trustworthy? Reliable?
Less likely to go all Kung Fu Dick Wad on him. And, well, there was the sizzle
factor. On the 1 to 10 scale Charley came in somewhere around … oh … say … 212.

“Ellis? Yeah, right. I like my balls right where they are, thank you very much.”

Charley sighed. Those chocolate chip cookies were so close … yet … so far away….

“But, Dude…. You and Ellis are….”

Charley let that one drift into hyper-non-existence. Yeah, they were talking
about Ellis Blackwell, after all. Yeah maybe Dillon was right; Ellis was kind of
intense. One never knew what could set Ellis off on one of his tirades. He was
as high strung as a monkey on a ski lift. It was beyond him how Dillon and Ellis
had become friends and how they had remained best friends ever since preschool.
Ellis was a good athlete. He was a good guy. Usually. But there were those
moments when he just turned into a total Alpha dick dork. The guy could be a
real jerk. Opposites attract even in friendship, he guessed. No two guys in the
school could be more opposite than Dillon and Ellis.

“Okay, yeah—Ellis can go a little maniacal at times.”

“A little? At times?”

Snickers collided between the two of them with that thought.

“I don’t know man,” Charley said with a slow shake of the head. “I mean. It’s
like…. I’ve never…. I mean with a ‘guy’ … you know? I’m gonna have to think
about this. You know? You can’t just spring something like ‘that’ on a guy and
expect an immediate….” Wait. Pause. Survey the corridor. “Plus,” he leaned
closer and lowered his voice. “What if Chels finds out? You ‘know’ she can’t
keep her mouth shut.”

Dillon ran his fingers through his auburn, sun-streaked hair as he thought for a
moment.

Oh.

Yeah.

There ‘was’ Chelsea. Dear, sweet, beautiful, airhead, superficial, Ph.D. in
Gossipology candidate in the making, severely high maintenance … Chelsea. Any
more high maintenance and she’d be carrying a mini-mechanic in her designer
clutch.

“Yeah, well, you’re right, there. Chelsea does have her fingers firmly wrapped
around the grapevine. But she’ll ‘never’ find out. Right? I mean, shit, ‘I’m’
certainly not going to tell her and I doubt very strongly that you’d risk your
balls being ripped off with those razor sharp lethal weapons that somehow pass
as nails.”

Charley cringed at that thought. Yeah, that would so not be cool. Of course, in
all the time that they had been together, she’d never even ‘seen’ his balls or
his dick or any of his skin, other than the usual stuff—his chest, stomach, arms
and legs. If she saw what he was packing down there she’d probably call the cops
and have them pick him up for concealed weaponage.

Again, she’d have to actually ‘see’ it and how big it got when not painfully
trapped and compressed by his jeans. He’d seen every inch of her and licked,
slurped, swirled, tongue dove inside…. But she wouldn’t look at him down there.
No look. No touch. Sure as hell no lick or suck or….

Okay, that was sad.

That was just really sad.

He was the king of the school and she was the queen. And she had him locked up
like a beast in a cave or something. For all the sex that he ‘wasn’t’ getting,
his dick might as well be locked in one of those cock cage things from that
‘Adult’ store on the other side of Trestle Ridge—the shop was called Bent Horn
Kink: Leather & Lace. Nearly everyone jokingly just called it Welcome to
Kinkville—with her holding the only key. A key that she’d ‘never’ use. Wait.
What? No! The shiver at that thought went all the way down his spine and somehow
kicked him in his nuts on the road to his ankles.

“I don’t know man. It’s like she’s got some bizarre way of finding stuff out,
stuff like….” Charley’s hazel eyes continued to scan the corridor they were in
when he wasn’t peering into his classmate’s gun metal gray eyes or getting dizzy
from the weird floor tile patterns. Or maybe, it wasn’t the floor tiles. Could
he even do this? Should he even be considering it? What would that say about
him? On the other hand—a blow job! A real … live … blow job! His dick bone
throbbed in agreement. Yeah, he got the point. He knew where his dick was
standing on the idea.

Straight.

Fucking.

Up.

“I don’t know. I’m gonna have to think about this, bro.”

Another gaze down the hallway.

Ah, there was Cullen Lee. He looked … irritated, or—something … but all in one
piece. No sign of blood or missing body parts; although—the button was popped
and his zipper was halfway down and he was on the same train to bonerville. Must
be an epidemic. Maybe those Q’alians had brought some hard-on virus with them
when they entered Earth’s atmos…. Wait. That was a movie. Just … a … movie.
Yeah. A movie. Only … a … movie….

Huh, Rhett had disappeared in the last few seconds before this latest survey.
Cullen Lee looked in their direction and offered a smile—a forced smile—he
nodded and then inhaled deeply and turned on his heel; he disappeared around the
next corner before Charley could offer any sort of ‘red flag’ about the button
and the zipper, and—that ‘very’ obvious boner.

Dillon looked up suddenly. The gears were spinning. Wait. Was there a glimmer of
hope in that ‘think about’ comment or was it the high-beamed headlights of an
18-wheeler barreling down the highway?

Aimed…

Right…

At…

Him?

Well, at least that wasn’t an outright ‘no’. I can work with that.

“That’s cool, man,” Dillon said, briefly glancing down at the bizarre floor
tiles, hiding the battle raging inside his soul between his disappointment in
the non-commitment of Charley’s response and the hope that there was actual
‘hope’ in that non-commitment. “I know you’ve never gone there with another guy
or anything, and….” He trailed off as another of the team walked by and fisted
Charley’s bicep. A little too hard, apparently. Charley winced and reached up to
rub his arm. Dillon forced a smile and an eye roll. “Thanks for not beating the
shit out of me for bringing up the idea.”

Charley’s brow furrowed as a lopsided smirk spread. “Dude, you know I don’t shit
beat my closest friends.” He glanced at the retreating bicep marauder as he
burst through the doors and raced out into the glaring afternoon sunlight. “Not
usually anyway.”

Dillon’s head tilted slightly as that sank in. Gray eyes locked onto and
searched hazel eyes. Eyes you could so easily lose yourself in.

“Closest … friends?”

Charley rolled his eyes and stepped forward with a look of utter exasperation.
How could Dillon not know this? He grabbed Dillon’s shirt and pulled him close
to his face. Twinkling hazel eyes locked onto gray.

“Yes, Dill…. ‘Closest’ friends. You are seriously in the tightest of my circle,
you dork.” He nodded in response to the rising brow on his friend’s forehead.
“You’re stuck with me, dawg. Get over it.”

“But….”

“Besides—you’re one of the few friends that I have, who have the ‘Chelsea Seal
of Approval’. She thinks you’re not only cute and hot but … smart, adorable, a
cuddle pup….” He rolled his head on his chiseled shoulders as he considered how
much she loved Dillon. “Besides, dude—she’s always going on and on and on about
you and your artistic abilities. Beyond that awesome athletic talent, your
fashion sense, your taste in everything from food to dogs to cologne to….”
Shudder. “Which flowers for what occasion…. It’s a little disgusting in fact.
Think you could tone down that crap now and then? It can really burst the
bubb….”

Dillon started to rebut some of that Charley sarcasm, but suddenly—stood up
straight, pulled away from Charley’s grasp and then turned toward his locker.

“Here she comes!” he whispered urgently.

Charley spun in the direction of Dillon’s nod and smiled innocently—he hoped it
looked innocent, anyway—as Chelsea scampered through the crowd, after breaking
away from some of her own volleyball and cheerleading minions, jumping into his
arms and sending both of them crashing into the lockers beside Dillon.

“Hi Sweetie,” Chelsea said in that effervescent bubble brewing cheerleader tone
that could either stoke you up or tear you down like nails on a chalk board. She
kissed Charley on the cheek and then winked. “Hi Dillon!”

“Hey, babe,” Charley choked out as her designer-of-the-moment clutch purse was
planted deep into his gut.

“’sup, Chelsea,” Dillon said with a genuine smile. Yes—she was an airhead and
seriously high maintenance but he ‘really’ liked her, and most of all—she was
dating Charley. He was no dummy. Stroke Chelsea? Get more Charley time. His eyes
caught the cascading colorama of polish on her daggers, er—fingernails. “Love
the cascade there, darling. Fabulous. Really.”

Chelsea grinned with pride and finger danced showing off her latest inspiration
of green, turquoise, powder blue, chartreuse….

Yeah, stroke Chelsea, get more Charley time.

Sigh.

If only ‘he’ could really ‘stroke’ Charley the way he wanted….

“Oh my God, Dillon!”

The shrillness was such a stratospheric pitch that it could have made a cat lay
scrambled eggs. Make nearby lockers burst into flames….

“Um, what?”

He quickly looked around. Was he on fire? Was he about to be attacked from
behind by alien tentacle creatures? Zombies had hit the halls? Cyborgs were
readying their weapons? He turned full-circle looking for the invasion force
from that wicked cool Sci-Fi movie over at the Stagecoach Multiplex, Target
Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge.

Thankfully he was probably safe after that ear-splitting squeal. Invading aliens
would be exploding like shattering glass from a high pitched tone like that.
Zombie goo would be dripping down the walls. Cyborg parts would be bouncing and
rolling along the geospasmodic tiles. Tentacles would be hanging precariously
from light fixtures and rafters….

He offered a quiet sigh of relief at finding no invasion force ready to do
unspeakable things to them. So what was Chelsea shrieking abo…?

“I … love … that … shirt! Oh my God, Dillon—pistachio is so perfect with your
skin tone. It really just makes you glow and it makes your muscles pop,” she
beamed as she nudged her boyfriend in the ribs. “See, babe? Guys ‘can’ look
really good in pastels.”

Glow? Pop? I sound like a home remodel….

Charley rolled his eyes and looked pleadingly at Dillon for assistance, here.

Pistachio? Skin tone? Well, yeah—for a fruit-n-slurp freeze over at Burkeholder
& Tinkermann’s—B&T’s Way Station. On the other hand, the color did look good on
Dillon. Of course, Dillon was the total package wrapped up in boy-next-door cute
as fuckness. He looked good in everything.

“It is ‘so’ hard to get Charley to try anything besides pocket tees or jerseys
or that friggin’ Letterman’s jacket.” She slipped behind him and slid a hand
around and up inside his charcoal gray and black Kenny Chesney ‘No Shoes Nation’
tee. The shirt followed her hand as it travelled even higher. “Of course, it’s
nice to run my hands up here when you’re in a tee,” she purred softly.

Charley sighed and shook his head. That was really unfair. He had other stuff
besides the pocket tees. There were those Polos. The Henleys. Those flannel
button ups. Mostly in grays or blues or reds or blacks or plaid…. Those
sleeveless…. Okay, maybe she had a point.

Dillon swallowed.

Hard.

His eyes focused on the bottom of Charley’s shirt as Chelsea inched it upward.
As it rose above the waistband of his jeans, Dillon noted that he was wearing
those two-tone navy blue boxer briefs today. He liked to see Charley in those.
Or, those other ones—the ones with the mesh pouch. Yeah. The mesh pouch. That
was sexy as fucking hell on Charley.

Up. Up. And, there was that trail. Looking almost like someone grabbed a piece
of artist’s charcoal and lovingly dragged it down his taut stomach, pointing the
way to…. God, he loved that trail. He’d stared at it in the locker room every
day for … how long? He’d envied and hated the water in the showers as it
cascaded down Charley’s perfectly chiseled chest and slalomed along those
magnificently carved abs and then licked its way through that trail before it
hit the treasure of all treasures. And, that ass. Oh holiest of fuck fantasies!
That magnificent ass. God—the things he could do to that ass….

And, then there was that long, thick, beautiful slab of meat that gently curved
down and over those plump twin orbs of delight. Oh, the stolen lip licks. The
stroke offs. The mind boggling orgasms as a result of lusting for that
deliciously perfect cock. Wondering what it would taste like. How it would feel
on his tongue. Getting a powerful blast of Charley’s wonderful, totally
masculine, intimate scent. He just couldn’t get enough of….


Chelsea was still chattering away. Something about ‘changing’ Charley. But, her
words were bouncing off the soft sponge that used to be his head. The muddle of
his brain was spreading outward. Now—Dillon was solely focused on that
tantalizing flash of skin … that trail his tongue would dearly love to follow …
that magnificent body just waiting to be worshiped … ravaged … plundered.

And, oh did he want to worship … ravage … and plunder that body. All over. Every
… spectacular … inch.

Wait. What?

Change him?

Change Charley?

Why the hell would she want to ‘change’ Charley? How could she possibly think
that she could change perfection? Was she insane? Charley was so fucking perfect
just like this. Well, okay—‘naked’ would be the absolute of perfect, like in the
showers, the locker room … his bedroom….

Wait!

Stop!

Stop right now!

You’re gonna bone in front of Chelsea over her boyfriend’s body and she’s going
to catch you and she’ll….

Chelsea giggled.

“Dillon…. You’re blushing even more than Charley was when I first walked up.
What are you two up to?” She tilted her head and looked suspiciously over
Dillon’s frame—head-to-toe. She had snagged the top ‘prize’ of the school but
still, Dillon was devastatingly handsome. She scrunched her nose teasingly.

“Huh?”

“What were you guys talking about?” Chelsea said suspiciously as she proceeded
to wrap herself more completely, more—possessively—around Charley. “You both
look as guilty as sin.”

Shit.

Shit.

Shit!



END of Chapter 1

To be continued . . .



Author’s Note: Please show your appreciation for this wonderful service and help
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http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html.

This is just the start of a story which may or may not be continued. If there is
enough interest, there MAY be additional chapters. The interest shown in it will
be a determining factor in continuing the story.

Please send your comments, thoughts, and ideas to Jonathan Longhorn using
jonathan_longhorn at yahoo dot com. Please start the “Subject” line with the
name of the story so I don’t toss your email as spam.

Thank you to those of you who have taken the time out of your day to write me
about my stories. The thoughts, comments, and feedback are VERY much
appreciated.


My other stories on Nifty can be found using the Nifty Prolific Authors page:
http://www.nifty.org/nifty/authors.html#jonathanlonghorn

 * ‘sup with you, dude? In the Gay/Adult Friends section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/adult-friends/sup-with-you-dude/
 * a Coyote’s Howl in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/a-coyotes-howl/
 * Behind the Incinerator in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/behind-the-incinerator/
 * Bitching Knight (A story about high school football rivalry in the
   Gay/Authoritarian and Gay/High School sections):
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/bitching-knight/
 * Reflections in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/reflections/
 * Revelations (A story of two brothers in the Gay/Incest section):
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/incest/revelations/
 * Squeeze Play in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/squeeze-play/
 * Str8 Down On It in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/str8-down-on-it/
 * Target Nemesis: The Tentacle Lord’s Revenge in the Gay/Science Fiction or
   Fantasy section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/sf-fantasy/target-nemesis-the-tentacle-lords-revenge.html
 * The Boiler Room (A story of college roommates in the Gay/College section):
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/college/boiler-room.pdf
 * The T-Bone Zone in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/t-bone-zone/
 * Goin’ Down In Four Horse Crossing in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/goin-down-in-four-horse-crossing/
 * Dude, Are You Serious? in the Gay/High School section:
   http://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/dude-are-you-serious/


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