Monday, August 2, 2010

Frat Boy

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.


  1. so hot...really enjoyed reading this. Hope that he becomes more of regular irregular. :)

  2. Not everyone gets into rimming. I'm usually want me to put my tongue where? Do it to me, and I'm likely to wriggle away until I fall off the bed. Fingering too.

    By now you might think that I wouldn't want anyone near my ass...sometimes I do play it like that, bro (ah, frat boys)...but after some serious and lengthy cock to hole teasing, I'm probably gonna growl slam me you son of a bitch. And so it's at those times it's like that.


  3. Well -- that started my morning with a hand job from/for me and just before I drive over to my straight guy to give him his blow job. Very hot! in the Breeder tradition.

  4. As a former frat boy myself, experiential cognition (like that?) compels me to say: Fuck yeah.

  5. I'm now hooked on this blog... Damn....
    Our emails yesterday made me realise I've been waiting too long to be bred.

    If you ever visit Ottawa, this teacher is waiting for your load.

  6. I'm jealous. Frat Boy sounds so much like my type. If only he was a) a top, b) hung and c) living in Toronto. :(

  7. PS: Tell that last anonymous poster to contact me, as I'm currently in Pembroke, ON, which is close to Ottawa, for the week (live in Toronto, but am visiting family here).

  8. @Tyler:
    If you're the Tyler I know, I just sent you a message. :-)

  9. Master_D,

    I wish he would, but he marches to his own rhythm, and it's a lot slower than mine, it seems!

  10. Seph,

    I'm with you on the fingering. Even during my bottom days, I didn't like it past the first joint. Too bony.

  11. Mr. Sammy Bear,

    Thank you, good sir!

  12. Anonymous & Tyler:

    Damn, hooking up on my blog! And not with me!

    At least send me photos!

  13. Your narrative of his obsessing over texting are is priceless! Thank you!

  14. I'm trying to hook up with you... :-) We emailed a bit yesterday... third grade teacher remember? And Tyler wants to watch you breed me. He's on my Facebook page and never knew he was into this. lol

  15. Thanks for another great hard-on inducing post!

  16. I want to know how frat boy has your number and gets to hook up with you??? I am crazy jealous

  17. Holy fuck that was hot.. your stories never cease to get me hard & throbbin.. :-)

  18. does it feel weird to have sex with someone who could be your kid? no judgment, just wondering.


    ps. oh, great entry, as usual. Very hot. Thanks!!!

  19. Luv2,

    It was my pleasure. Quite literally.

  20. Johnny,

    Well, he's local, for one thing!

  21. Hey Novastorm,

    Good to see you. Throbbin' is where I want you.

  22. Scott,

    All the guys I did in my youth were old enough to be my dad. So no, it doesn't feel strange at all. Does it feel strange to you?

  23. And deep inside me is where I want you.. :-)

  24. does it feel strange that you have sex with hot guys in their 20s? I guess from afar, it doesn't. It's kind of hot. Especially, the way you describe it.

    Would it feel strange if I, who is in my young 40s, would be with a 20 year old? I think it might. IDK. I've never experienced it. Because of my limited experience and what i feel is a strong emphasis on youth and looks in the gay culture and the culture at whole, I guess I'm programmed to think peeps should be having sex with peeps their own age.


  25. Great post ... there is nothing more energetic and willing to please than a college frat punk! Especially if you can find one who has that big "straight" persona ... 9 out of 10 times a little beer and ego stroking will have them bent over and begging to be filled!

  26. Scott,

    I think my experience with turning invisible, the moment I turned 30, to anyone younger than me, had led me to believe that all the young guys out there were ageists who would cut you dead if you weren't 29 or less.

    When I hit my forties, however, the young guys started crawling out of the woodwork after me. It was a bit of a shock, to be honest. But not unpleasurable!

    I don't see any harm in a gap in age between two consenting sexual partners. What I don't like are those guys my age and older who only chase after college-aged boys, as if they hope some of the youth will rub off on them. I've always found that creepy and repellant.

  27. Ranter,

    It sounds like you've been there. Hands up. Let's high-five.