When I first met the Frat Boy, he lived up to the nickname I mentally gave him. He belonged to a fraternity at a local college where he majored in political science, which for him I always took to mean, I have no real interest in the workings of politics or government at all, but my parents have vague lifetime hopes for me being a lawyer and I am doing this stupid major to get them off my back. Two years since, he’s graduated and proved me right (and his parents wrong) about his concentration by doing nothing but working part-time in a big-box retail store. From time to time he makes vague noises about doing something more, but I suspect he has a couple of more years of partying to get out of his system.
The Frat Boy is one of my most irregular regulars. I can’t even remember the last time we fucked, though from time to time I’ve seen him at the gay bar closest to home. He’ll be there in the dressy version of his old frat boy clothes—a clean baseball cap, a pair of cargo shorts so baggy they make his beefy legs look like toothpicks protruding from the openings, and a wrinkled plaid shirt that hugs his shoulders and waist. When he sees me with my friends, he’ll try to be coy and macho and give me a signal that he’s seen me, like raising his drink or lifting his chin in my direction. Unfortunately, despite the fact he thinks he’s being smooth about it, he’ll usually repeat his discreet signs so frequently that they’re no longer discreet, and instead seem downright spastic.
Not to mention unnecessary. “You know,” I said right in his ear, the next-to-last time I saw him at the bar, when he’d tipped his cheap beer at me so many times that he was giving the impression of attending a particularly toast-heavy wedding reception, or of having some kind of undiagnosed nervous disorder, “you are allowed to come up to me and say hello.”
“Huh. Oh yeah? Okay.” He grinned sheepishly, honestly surprised. “Well I didn’t know.”
So the last time I saw him sitting alone while out, a month or so ago, I beckoned him over to my table. He stood next to me with his arm around the back of my chair, nursing his cocktail and laughing sleepily from time to time as he pretended to understand my friends’ jokes. His contributions to the conversation were limited to outbursts like, “Whoa, really?”, “Um, I don’t know,” and “Oh yeah we got a sale on those at Best Buy,” but he was so amiable and pretty—and by the end of the evening, so tipsy that he was basically cuddled into the crook of my hip and resting his sleepy head on my shoulder—that my friends since have referred to him as your Poky Little Puppy.
To me he’s the Frat Boy, though, and when he texted last week with hey dude ru free today, I immediately told him to shower, get dressed, and come on over. Text me when you’re on you’re way, I said.
Though he was right on time, he naturally forgot to text me on leaving his place. I’m right outside ur house, he texted when he’d parked in front of my home. Then he got out of his car and, head down over his phone as he tapped at the keys, he texted immediately after, I’m walkin up ur walk. I was standing in my open front door both times my phone chirped on the table in the corner. “If you’re typing to tell me you’re at my front door, I'm one ahead of you,” I announced when he started tripping up the steps to the porch, still staring at his phone.
“Oh,” he said. Then he let loose with one of his slow-burning grins, and looked foolish.
Did I mention that the Frat Boy is a hot little fucker? Beneath the ragged baseball caps he wears when he comes to my house is thick, sandy blond hair that’s barely kempt. He’s got broad, dark eyebrows, puppy-dog brown eyes, juicy lips, and that lazy, incredulous smile that lights up a whole room. His body is surprisingly hairy. His legs are like a gorilla’s; his ass, when he shucks the ratty flip-flops he always wears in the summers and drops his cargo shorts and boxers, is covered with a dense quilt of fur.
He’s also the one boy I fuck who doesn’t seem to enjoy the rimming I always give him. He understands it turns me on, and occasionally grinds his hips to encourage my enjoyment, as I kneel on the floor of my bedroom and lap away at his little pucker. But it doesn’t seem to get him off. He could do without it, I think. The kissing he likes; his soft, pillowy lips always respond when I press my own against them. He sighs softly, and his hands reach around my body to pull me into him. He grinds in earnest with his hips when we make out, and he wraps his limbs around me like some kind of wild vine determined to cling to the strongest structure around.
The Frat Boy loves when I manipulate his hole with my index and middle fingers. When I stick both digits in my mouth to re-wet them, he always tastes of my spit and of soap and freshly-washed cotton. I’m not sure if he still lives at home with his folks, as he did last year, but someone surely is adding lots of Downy to his wash. He shifts, and thrusts up, and groans when I insert my fingers in to the second knuckle. Fingers get painful for him after that, though. Besides, he’s there for something else, and I intend to give it to him.
The Frat Boy’s oral skills are good, but by the point I’m standing on the floor and lifting his legs in the air, I’m dripping not because of his mouth, but because he’s allowed me to munch at his hole for so long. I spit on my dick and again on his hole, and begin to slide in. This is the position he likes best, on his back, legs up and forming a rigid V as I hold them at the ankles. He likes the sensation of being fucked. As I slide in, he lets out a long sigh that surely must empty his chest of all air. It never seems to end, that sigh. When I hit bottom, he inhales again, coming back to life. “Aw yeah dude,” he breathes. “That’s what I need. That right there.”
“Make it tight for me,” I order.
His ass contracts as he squeezes as hard as he can. I nod, flushed with pleasure. “You know how to do it,” I say in a genuine compliment.
“Thanks,” he says, in barely more than a whisper.
We don’t talk a lot when we meet. We make out, he sucks, I rim, we fuck. I know the Frat Boy well enough by now to judge his levels of arousal. Though his hand is flying furiously between his legs, he’s only beginning to pleasure himself. So I begin sliding slowly in and out, back and worth, watching as the insides of his hole glide out with my inches and then disappear as I plunge back in. I vary my strokes, some long, some short, some deep, some teasing the hole with my head.
He loves them all. His jaw is slack, and his breathing shallow. For long minutes I pleasure myself in that tight boyhole of his, feeling the pressure grow with every stroke around my dick’s base. “You know I’m gonna cum in you,” I tell him.
His eyes have been slits for the last few minutes. They open wide at my words. “Yeah?” he asked, staring at me. I nod. He drops his head back onto the mattress. “Fuck yeah,” he whispers, grinning. He thinks he’s being a real bad boy, and it turns him on to think of himself that way. I’m turned on watching his dick swell seemingly to twice its previous size. “Fuck yeah.”
Over and over he says those two words as I pick up my pace and fuck him harder. Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. Fuck yeah. He says them in time to my thrusts, as his own head lolls back and forth like a broken doll’s. His furry legs are limp in my hands. They’d drop if I let go. His hole, however, is anything but lifeless. It grips onto me like few asses do, as if molded for my dick and then shrunk slightly to increase the pressure.
I know I’m only getting one load with the Frat Boy. I make it a good one. My final stabs at his ass are savage as I focus on my need to fill him, and my need to come. He picks up on my increased heartbeat and my ragged breathing, and lifts his head again to look at me. He shakes it helplessly, and his mouth works out two weak words. “Breed me.”
He says it in such a hush, with such reverence, that it comes out almost prayerful.
“Breed me,” he repeats. Saying the two words, being such a bad, bad boy, makes him convulse. He starts to shoot. The sight of his short, thick dick spewing what looks like a pint of semen over his furry stomach pushes me over the edge. “Oh god yes,” he says, dropping his head so that the crown rests on the mattress. “I can feel it. I can fuckin’ feel your load in me, dude. Thank you. Fuck. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.” Over and over again he says the new two words until his voice trails off into silence.
Then five minutes later, he’s dressed, stuffed back into his frat boy uniform, jaunty, pecking me on the lips and he’s out the door, thumbs pounding away on his cell phone.
He’s a sweet kid, the Frat Boy. He could just stand to be a little more of a regular irregular regular, is all.