Every Which Way

We stood there in the middle of the Atkinson Park parking lot, the three of us, watching the last of the cars picking up the members of the soccer team of the fall Henderson recreation league take off into the late afternoon waning sun. Ricky Rusk and I, both students at the Graham Hill Academy, Ricky eighteen and I nineteen, were staying back because Coach Denton was driving us home. He’d said he had to stay here until the rest had gone. Graham Hall was an all-male-student post-high school prep school to bring promising athletes up to the academic standards needed to get athletic scholarships to universities or to hone their athletic skills to go directly into the pros.

That wasn’t really why we were hanging back—that there was some reason he had to be the last one to leave—but that’s what Coach had told the others. Ricky and I knew otherwise. We both had every reason to know Coach Denton’s motives.

Clay Denton, at twenty-six, wasn’t that much older than the guys on the team he was coaching. We all were students at the Graham Hill Academy in northwestern Kentucky, across the Ohio River from Evansville, Indiana. Coach Denton had been a student there too once. He’d gone to the University of Louisville after leaving Henderson and having starred on the football team there, but he had married our friend, Greg Gerard’s, mother and come back to town to work in Mrs. Gerard’s real estate firm. She was old enough to be Coach’s mother, and just about everyone wondered what was up with that marriage other than that she was rich as sin and was still a good looker. Some of us at the prep school had very good reason to wonder why he’d gone after that tail, unless it was for protective coloring. We didn’t question, from experience, that Mrs. Gerard had an interest in younger guys—and in getting them into bed with her.

Greg, twenty, was still at the Graham Hill Academy but was dickering with semipro football teams for a starting position. He was working for a landscaping company into the fall, so he wasn’t playing soccer with us. I worked off and on there too, mainly off now that school had started, but I didn’t put in the hours that Greg did. I also hadn’t muscled up like Greg had from the hard manual yardwork, but I didn’t have a boy’s body anymore, either. In one way, that wasn’t working in my favor. But the change was inevitable, I knew. One can’t stay in a teenager’s body forever. I was muscling up a little late for an athlete, but that didn’t matter that much for a soccer player.

It also didn’t matter to Mrs. Gerard, who had hopped my bones a couple of months previously when I’d come to see if Greg wanted to do some pickup basketball. He wasn’t there, but Mrs. Gerard was there, in a revealing negligee and holding a liquor glass. She was half looped and on the prowl. I’m a young guy with testosterone, so, even though I was really interested in guys more than women, she was enticing enough. She was a voluptuous, experienced older woman, so, yes, I laid on my back on her bed while she rode my cock. And then three days later, knowing Greg wouldn’t be there, I went back and fucked Mrs. Gerard in a missionary. I was well on the way to being actively gay, but that gave me pause to consider the advantages of being bi instead. Other guys who went both ways had told me that sex was sex was sex—that the gender of the partner didn’t matter as long as I got off on it—and I had to say there was reason in that perspective. It helped that Mrs. Gerard didn’t fixate on me. She’d take any good-looking guy’s cock. She certainly took Coach Denton’s.

I wondered if she knew Coach Denton’s broader interests. He was the main one who told me that the gender didn’t matter that much as long as I could get it hard and get it off.

Coach Denton was coaching the academy team in the league to, he said, give back to his old prep school, but Ricky and I knew he had other reasons. Mrs. Gerard was a lot older than he was. The chatter between us guys in the school was that Denton hadn’t come back for Mrs. Gerard—that he’d come back for his older teen athletes at the prep school.

“What say we take a run on the paths through the wooded section of the park here next to the playing field before we knock off,” Coach said to Ricky and me when the last of the cars exited the parking lot. It wasn’t really a question. Coach was stripping his athletic shirt off his chest. He was a developed athlete. He’d played both soccer and football at Louisville and was in great shape, muscular and not an ounce of fat on him. He had a swirling black and blue tattoo covering his left breast and down that arm to his elbow, which made him look mean and dangerous—and cool. The coaches at our school strongly discouraged the guys getting tattoos, telling us that that was thuggish and they wanted their school to have a clean-cut reputation. That, of course, made tattoos that much more inviting to us student athletes, especially when coaches like Denton had them.

Denton wasn’t tall. He was compact and solid and was built close to the ground, which had made him hard to bring down when he was carrying the ball at Louisville. It also emphasized how muscled up he was. But he was a handsome, square-jawed guy, who exuded robust sexuality. Mrs. Gerard obviously liked that, but it also went a long way with the guys at the prep school, who were raging with hormones and imagination.

The chatter in the school was Mrs. Gerard had bought him to be her boy toy and that he’d married her to get close to the young guys in the school. When he and Greg, Mrs. Gerard’s son from her previous marriage and only six years younger than Clay Denton was, stood side by side, they looked more like brothers than stepdad and stepson. Greg had even grown into the same solid, athletic frame that Coach had. When some of us had heard that Mrs. Gerard and Denton were getting it on, there were jokes about how Greg and Denton looked alike and speculation that Mrs. Gerard was doing Denton because she really wanted to do her own son. When Greg heard that muttered about, though, he went ballistic and that talk stopped because Greg was popular at school. I didn’t think Greg knew that Mrs. Gerard would fuck boys Greg’s age—she fucked me—I must say I wondered about that, though, considering how fast Greg had heated up over rumors of the possibility.

“Sure, Coach,” Ricky said to coach’s proposal that we take another run with us. Ricky’s voice was a little uncertain, although I was sure he knew what we were doing here. It wasn’t his first time. Last year, when Denton had first coached the team, it had been me who played the rabbit here. It was no secret in the school that Coach cultivated eighteen- and nineteen-year-old boys, keeping it barely legal. It had just been a shock to me that he moved on as soon as his rabbit of the moment started to show signs of the “into a man” change. He concentrated on the soccer players at Graham Hill, because playing that game depended more on dexterity and swiftness than muscle and height. I was growing out of what he preferred when he could get what he wanted. And, here in Henderson, Clay Denton could get what he wanted. It’s probably why he came back.

Ricky spoke up, a bit uncertain, although I could see his body trembling in anticipation of what consumed his thoughts these days—as it did mine. “So, you want me to—?”

“You can take out first, Rick,” Coach said. “Kyle and I’ll follow after. There’s a bench near the water fountain half way into the woods. You remember where it is, I’m sure. Meet up with us there.”

Ricky stood there. He was wearing just athletic shorts and running shoes. We’d all ended practice with running two laps around the field. Coach had run along with us, being no more winded when we were done than any of the guys were.

All of the guys had stripped off their T-shirts. I had too. Ricky was just eighteen—just starting to develop muscularity—but he was a good-looking guy. His people were Greek, so he was olive-skinned, with dark hair. Short and slim, but he’d been starting to muscle up and looked real good. I didn’t have any trouble knowing why Coach was interested in him. I was him last year, but a blond, Nordic version of him. I’d muscled up pretty well in the last year, though, and sprouted up a good four inches to where I was as tall as Coach. Coach was still interested in me, but not like he was interested in Ricky—and not like he’d been interested in me when I was eighteen and just starting at the prep school and he’d held me back in the boy’s locker room at the soccer field and covered me and popped my male cherry. I hadn’t been surprised. I’d known it was coming and welcomed it. He just obviously preferred eighteen-year-olds, guys just starting to become men. In that he was no different than Mrs. Gerard. The more I experienced from both sides, the more I came to believe that gender didn’t matter—getting high on sex and carrying through didn’t really matter if you were doing it with man or a woman.

“Well, don’t just stand there. Take off,” Coach growled.

Ricky turned and ran on the path into the woods.

“Give me five minutes and then follow us in,” Coach said to me after we’d stood there, not looking at each other, for a couple of minutes after Ricky disappeared into the woods.

“Whatever you want, Coach,” I said.

“That’s right. Always remember that. It’s whatever I want, Kyle,” Denton said, as he grinned at me, turned, and loped down the path and into the trees.

When I got to the bench, it had already begun. Ricky lay, naked, on his back along the bench, panting, his butt on the end of the bench and his legs raised, spread, and bent. One arm was flung over his head, his fingers gripping the edge of the bench over his head, to hold himself steady on the wooden plank. The fingers of his other hand were buried in the reddish-brown curls on Coach’s head as Coach crouched in the dirt at the end of the bench, held Ricky’s legs up and out with a grip under his knees on either side, and buried his face in Ricky’s crack, eating the young guy’s ass out.

Ricky turned his head toward me as I entered the small clearing. As Coach’s mouth came up and enveloped Ricky’s cock and started to suck him off, Ricky arched his back, moaned, and gave me a look that conveyed that he was getting what he wanted. At the edge of the clearing, I went down on my haunches, pulled the waistband of my athletic shorts under my balls, fished my engorging cock out of the shorts, and began to stroke myself.

Still new to this and consumed by imagination, Ricky didn’t last long. When Coach felt the young man was going to blow, he pulled his mouth off, laughed, and hand stroked Ricky. The young man blew on the third pull.

God, I wished it was me rather than Ricky. Ricky was on his own. This wasn’t his first time, I knew. He wanted what he was getting from Coach. It had taken longer when Coach had initiated me; I had resisted him—and it—becoming a submissive to a man, for longer than Ricky had. Ricky had opened his legs right up for it. This year, what Coach liked and would do was more common knowledge than it had been last year when he’d chosen me. This year the guys, like Ricky, who wanted it, had known Coach would give it. They went right to him and begged for it. He worked his way inside them before they realized they probably should have started off with a cock that was a lot more manageable than his was.

Denton pulled away from his crouching position when Ricky had come, which was almost immediately, rose, and moved along the bench toward the young man’s head, keeping Ricky’s legs running up his torso. When he was in position above Ricky’s head, he grabbed the young man’s head by the hair, pulled Ricky’s face up, and pushed his thick cock between Ricky’s lips. With a moan and a groan, Ricky opened his mouth to the cock and gave Coach head.

Sitting a bit off on my haunches, I moaned and groaned too—and pulled on my cock. Shit, I wished it was me.

When Coach moved back down Ricky’s body, he took his time getting his shaft inside Ricky’s ass, while the young man writhed under him, panted hard, and palmed Denton’s heaving, bulbous pecs. Denton’s tattoo fascinated Ricky as much as it did me, but it was Ricky, not me, who was able to run his hands over it as Coach worked his cock in. As Coach fucked him in a missionary, again holding the young man’s legs raised and spread with a grip under his knees on both sides, Ricky turned his face toward me and gave me a dreamy, it’s me, not you, expression that had me groaning and spilling my seed on the ground.

Coach let loose of the leg on my side of the bench, which dropped, Ricky’s heel pressing into the earth by the bench and giving him leverage to join in the rhythm of thrusts of the cock inside his passage, and Denton ran the fingers of his freed hand into the mop of hair on Ricky’s head and pulled the young man’s chest up toward his, making Ricky look directly into Denton’s eyes, showing him the pain-pleasure of the fuck in Ricky’s eyes, while Coach picked up the pace of vigorous, deep strokes. Ricky was moving with him. He wasn’t just submissively being fucked. He was fucking Coach back. There was no doubt that Ricky was lost to Clay Denton—that this was what Ricky wanted from the coach.

Wanting Ricky’s surrender to be complete, Coach turned them, with a laugh, so that he was the one lying on his back on the bench. He made Ricky sit on his cock in a cowboy position, facing Denton’s head, the young man leveraging the rise and fall of his ass on the cock by pushing off on the ground on either side of the bench with his feet. Coach let Ricky do the work until he was close to coming and then he grabbed Ricky by the waist and slammed him up and down on his shaft, with Ricky flopping back and forth like a rag doll, his eyes rolled up in his head and his tongue hanging out. I could tell when Coach came, because they both tensed, let out their breath, and Coach let Ricky collapse onto his chest. Coach always preferred barebacking and coming inside the other guy’s channel.

We drove in Coach’s double-cab Dodge Ram to Ricky’s house to the west of Henderson, near the Henderson Community College campus, where Ricky’s mother taught. His stepfather, Steven, taught English at the Graham Hall Academy we went to. We drove in silence, but that Ricky had been fully satisfied was obvious. He was humming to himself and reaching over and touching Denton on the arm, on the thigh, and on the tattoo as if to assure himself the man was still there, as Coach drove the truck. Coach had fucked him good, and Ricky obviously had been just fine with that.

I, of course, sitting in the backseat, seemingly odd guy out and neglected, was consumed by jealousy and want and was wondering why I was there at all. Coach could have taken me home first—I lived across the Ohio River, in Indiana, in Evansville, but everything was close to everything else here despite there being two states with a river running between them. Henderson was on the less-populated side of the river, so my dad, a lawyer, wanted to live on the side with more money floating around.

Coach let Ricky out a block from his house.

“Should I come up to the front seat while we’re stopped,” I asked. I wanted to touch him too while he drove. I wanted to run my fingers over his tattoo and to feel how hard bodied he was. I wanted him inside me, pumping me with that thick cock of his. I wanted to feel his hot cum blasting me deep inside.

“No, stay back there. We aren’t going far,” he said. That deflated me. He was keeping me at arms’ length. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t eighteen anymore or that I was beginning to mature and muscle up—that my body wasn’t boyish and my cock and balls weren’t those of a younger guy, like Ricky’s were, anymore—or that I now was well used, that he didn’t have to work hard to get his shaft inside me. That he was no longer fucking a tight-channeled near innocent, like Ricky was, when he was on top of me.

I was festering for no good reason, though. We indeed were only driving a short distance—not even across the river into Evansville. He drove to the grounds of the Graham Hill Academy and into a vehicle garage that he had a garage opener to. As he lowered the garage door behind the tail end of the Dodge truck, he was getting out of the front seat and moving to the backseat.

In the backseat, he laid me on my back across the seat; pulled my athletic shorts off my legs while he possessed my mouth in a deep kiss; came down between my spread legs; thrust his hard cock into my channel, as I cried out for it; and fucked the shit out of me. I was in heaven. I fit him like a glove now. He slid right in and back out and then in deeper, and, with me moving with him, we became one efficient fucking machine. He put his forehead against mine and looked straight into my eyes, concentrating on me and only me as he pulled back and then thrust forward with his thick cock, pushing in deep, and beginning to pump. We did it smoother and more intense than he’d done it with Ricky. We were better at it. I lay back on the seat, slit my eyes, and moaned deeply as he reached into the very center of me and fucked me and fucked me and fucked me. I cried out in ecstasy as I felt him release is hot cum deep inside me.

Clay Denton still wanted me.

* * * *

Everyone said the Rusks had the best-kept lawn of anyone in Henderson. Mr. Rusk—Steven Rusk—an English teacher and head of the English department at Graham Hill Academy for the last eighteen years was the reason for that. He had River Landscaping in at least once a week to mow and trim his yard. The Rusks were prominent in the community. Mrs. Rusk was a professor at the nearby Henderson Community College and was president of the Graham Hill Academy Association, an organization including faculty, students, and interested parents. Their eighteen-year-old son, Ricky, who had just started at the academy and was on the academy’s summer league soccer team, was the lad Clay Denton, coach of the soccer team, was fucking this year.

Steven Rusk, pushing forty, wasn’t pushing it too hard. He was an unusually handsome man. He was tall and slim—one could say willowy—and had a Peter O’Toole look about him, which meant you couldn’t really tell whether he just moved with grace or whether he was a bit fey, a little limp wristed. (When the subject was hinted to his wife, she just said he admired the British and liked to emulate them—whatever that meant.) The fact was that if he had a choice of being on top of—or under, as she was a strong woman—his wife, Theresa, and pumping away or having a man on top of him, between his legs, he’d go with the man every time. And he’d happily be submissive to that man. I suppose knowing he was a bottom for men made it easier for me to see him coming across as effeminate. And it made me worried about appearing effeminate too, as I liked to lie under men. I guess it had me acting especially manly, to the extent that I could figure out what that was.

The reason Steven Rusk’s lawn was so immaculate was because he requested the services of hunky River Landscaping Company employee twenty-year-old Greg Gerard, stepson of soccer coach Clay Denton, every week—and sometimes more often—so that Steve could stand in an upstairs window and watch perfectly formed, hard-bodied Greg mow his lawn in just athletic shorts and sneakers—and then, when he could, find an excuse to come down to the garden shed while Greg was putting the mower away. Neither of them seemed to realize that Theresa Rusk stood at the kitchen window, also admiring and fantasizing over the young Greg.

Greg was fucking Steven Rusk. Greg was also fucking Steven’s son, Ricky. On occasion he’d fucked Theresa Rusk as well. For that matter, Greg was fucking me too. Greg was an aggressive top. He fucked any good-looking guy (or cougar) who would open his or her legs to him.

Greg had been fucking me since I was eighteen and he was nineteen. He took after his stepfather, Clay, in that fetish. He was still fucking me, just like his stepdad was, but he was fucking Ricky now too—just like his stepdad was. I knew he was doing that because, although school had started now and Ricky wasn’t around as much as he had been in the summer, on warm days in the summer when we came over to do the Rusks’ lawn—I came with Greg a couple of times a month to trim the bushes while he mowed—Ricky managed to be around and out by their backyard pool, posing in nothing but a skimpy Speedo. Greg would take him into the woods, lay him on the ground, and strip off Ricky’s Speedo. Ricky would quite willingly spread and raise his legs, roll his hips up, and pull Greg’s cock inside him. Then he’d moan and beg for it while Greg fucked him hard.

Greg didn’t care if I saw them doing it—and like his stepdad did the other day after soccer practice, it didn’t stop Greg from fucking me in the landscape truck before we took it back to the company garage that same day. Truth be known, I would lie on my back for Greg, spread and raise my legs for him, pull him inside me, and let him fuck me hard too.

I didn’t know until the fall that Greg was doing both Mr. and Mrs. Rusk. I shouldn’t have been surprised, considering the looks the two gave Greg while Greg was mowing their lawn and since Mr. Rusk seemed a little, well, girlish, and Mrs. Rusk was quite obviously on the prowl. I hoped I didn’t come across like Mr. Rusk did to Greg and Mr. Denton. Just because you’re submissive, you don’t have to prance around with limp wrists, I don’t think. Mr. Rusk was a little obvious—at least to me. I try my best not to be that obvious to anyone, although I’ll have to admit that all it takes from Mr. Denton or Greg is to give me “that look,” and I’ll lie down on my back and open my legs for them.

Thus, I wasn’t really surprised when one day right after school started Mr. Rusk came into the garden shed where the mowers were kept and Mrs. Rusk probably did her plant potting—because there was a bench with empty pots and bags of potting soil on it. That afternoon, I was perched on that bench, with my knees hooked on Greg’s hips, and he was crouched between my legs, one hand on the small of my back and the other cupping the back of my neck, both of us naked, while he stuffed his hard dick up inside me and fucked me in long strokes. Greg had a champion dick—at least in length and staying power—when he was hard.

Steven Rusk came in and saw us, but Greg didn’t seem to notice—or, if he noticed, he didn’t care. And, after a while it was clear that he knew Mr. Rusk was there. I looked away in embarrassment, thinking Mr. Rusk would leave in shock and that both Greg and I would be in trouble at the prep school, where Mr. Rusk was a department head. But I didn’t hear the shed door slam shut, and when I looked around, Mr. Rusk was leaning against a shelf with garden stuff on it, had his fly open and his dong out, and he was stroking himself and watching Greg fuck me.

“You want him too?” Greg asked Mr. Rusk, lifting and turning my leg to show Mr. Rusk how much of Greg’s cock was inside me and how big I’d dilated to take the shaft.

He laughed when Mr. Rusk said, in a husky voice, “You know what I want, Greg.”

“What do you want, Steve?” Greg asked, forcing Mr. Rusk to beg for it.

“I want what Kyle’s getting,” the man answered. Greg laughed, lowered my leg and thrust hard up inside me, making me jerk and cry out.

“Is this what you want too, Kyle?” he asked.

“Yes. Yes, fuck me hard, just like that,” I cried out. And he did, putting some serious backswing into his thrusts and both Mr. Rusk and I held there, panting hard and moaning.

After a few minutes I came, but Greg didn’t. As I noted, he had great staying power. He laughed, pulled out me, and sort of guided me off the bench and over to the side. He motioned to Mr. Rusk, who stripped off his trousers and briefs and perched up on the bench on his bare butt where I’d been. Greg put him in the same position he’d had me in, although Mr. Rusk got into the fuck more than I had. Instead of hooking his knees on Greg’s hips, he bent his legs and pressed the heels of his feet into the edge of the bench top, raising his pelvis, and swung his hips against Greg’s thrusts, fucking himself on Greg’s cock.

They knew what they were doing. They’d obviously done this before—often.

I crouched down on my haunches just as I had when I watched Mr. Denton fucking Ricky on the bench in the woods, took my cock in my hand, and stroked myself off while I watched the two fucking like they were old pros at it. As far as I knew they were.

When Mr. Rusk left, I asked Greg, “How long have you and Mr. Rusk been doing that?”

“Since I was eighteen, Kyle. That’s when he likes to pick an academy student out for sex.”

“So, he was—”

“Yes, he was my first. I got an A in English that year.” He laughed.

“Well, he never . . . with me.”

“That’s because you’re a bottom, like he is, Kyle,” Greg said. “He has no real use for you, but he might have felt you up and flirted with you until he found out that you didn’t match him. He likes the lookers, and you’re a looker. But he knew I was fucking you, so he knew from when you were eighteen that you didn’t match him.”

“And Ricky?”

“No. Ricky’s a bottom too. His stepdad hasn’t messed with him. He leaves that to me and my stepdad.”

“So, you know about your stepdad?”

“That he’s doing Ricky? Yes. I know he’s doing you too. I don’t mind sharing.”

“Mr. Rusk knowing you fuck me? That won’t make him . . . at school?”

“Nope. He’s not going to screw up a good thing he has going with the guys the prep school gives him access to.”

And, so that was it. Just about everyone doing everyone else. But I didn’t know it all yet.

* * * *

A week later the Graham Hill Academy held its first association meeting of the school year in the evening at the school. I was there as an usher. And I found it shocking to see that the Rusks and Clay Denton’s family were sitting together. I thought that was volatile in that it could lead to Ricky’s parents and Mrs. Gerard discovering the “everyone doing everyone else” games going on between their families. Clay Denton, in particular, seemed to look like he was oblivious to what trouble he could be in if Mrs. Gerard and Mrs. Rusk put all of the innuendo and looks going on between the men and boys in the two families together.

Greg Gerard was also an usher and when we were standing next to each other in a lull of the arrivals, I asked him, “Aren’t you worried about your mother and Mrs. Rusk putting it all together and causing a scene?”

“Not in the least,” Greg answered, with a smile. “My mother’s up front. She’s president of the association, so her attention is all on business. Mrs. Rusk doesn’t give two shits what Steven or Ricky do. It’s all just fine. This isn’t the Middle Ages, Kyle. None of us are kids. We’re all fine with it. When the meeting gets started, how about the two of us slipping off and . . . you know what?”

He was grinning at me. “You’ve got nothing on your mind other that getting your dick hard and dipping it, do you?” I answered.

“You got that right, Kyle. So, how about it? Have you gone more than a week without getting fucked? I don’t think you are any less interested in it than I am.”

“Let’s concentrate on our duties here, Greg,” I said. “Here are some more people and there aren’t many empty chairs to push their asses in left.”

I hadn’t answered Greg’s question. But I didn’t have to. He knew me and he knew what my answer was. When everyone was settled and the speeches had started to drone on, I went looking for Greg. The previous school year on nights like this, we’d meet in a men’s room at the end of an isolated dark passage and I’d kneel in front of him as he sat on a toilet in a cubicle and suck him off. Then I’d climb onto his lap and his cock and fuck myself on him while meetings were going on in the far-off auditorium. I was a total submissive and he was a master, even at twenty.

The remote men’s room was where I headed that night when the crowd was settled into the third dull speech of the evening. When I got there, though, it wasn’t Greg who I found. I hadn’t seen Clay Denton and Ricky Rusk leave the auditorium, but they obviously had done so as soon as the speeches started. Slipping silently into the darkened men’s room, cast in hazy light by a streetlight outside a large window by the urinals, I saw that Clay had just finished with Ricky. Ricky was lying on his back on the men’s room floor, in front of the line of sinks. He was still moaning and breathing hard and his pelvis was still lifted off the floor from the leverage of his feet on the floor and his legs bent and spread. One of his hands was encasing his hard cock, and I could see in a beam of light from the window the glitter of cum on his stomach. He’d just been done. His face was turned to the side where I could see his tongue hanging out and the expression of “I’ve been royally fucked” on his face.

Clay had apparently just left him, attracted to a second figure, a man this time, who I couldn’t identify as he was turned toward the wall at the bank of urinals, his head turned away from me and toward the window, with his cheek against the cinder block wall above a urinal and his arms stretched out and up, his palms flat against the wall. He was hovering, bare from the waist down, over a urinal, with his hips jutting out from the wall and moving back and forth. Clay, also naked from the waist down, was saddled up behind the man, gripping the man’s hips between his hands. Clay was half sheathed in the man’s ass. As I entered the men’s room, Clay was forcing his hard cock up farther into the man’s ass, and the man was crying out in ecstasy. The cock wasn’t fully buried and I watched its length expand and contract as Clay thrust his hips forward as the man thrust his pelvis back and then both men pulled back, exposing most of Clay’s shaft before it was buried on the next thrust. It was a mutual fuck, the man as much engaged in it as Clay was.

I only watched for a moment, but Clay quickly set up a rhythm of the fuck and the man was moving with him, thrusting his buttocks back to meet the thrusts of Clay’s cock and grunting a tune that matched the rhythm of the fuck. Clay slapped the man’s butt cheek hard and the man groaned. Clay slapped him again, the sounds of the slap and the grunt reverberating through the high-ceilinged men’s room. The man exclaimed “Fuck, yes!”

I backed out of the men’s room and turned in the darkened hallway, only to see that Greg was approaching.

“There’s someone in there,” I said, as Greg approached. “Let’s do it elsewhere.”

“The ladies’ room is just here, next door,” Greg said, with a grin. “It’ll be kicky to do it in there.”

I sucked Greg engorged, kneeling in front of him sitting on the toilet in a cubicle in the dark ladies’ room, murkily lit from the same streetlight outside the window that was dimly illuminating the adjacent men’s room, where Clay was getting his rocks off. Greg could tell as much as I could what was happening in the men’s room, as the man Clay was fucking was very vocal and the wall between the two chambers didn’t fully mask the sound. I must admit that the sound of fucking just next door was a turn on for me on this side of the wall.

I normally would ride Greg’s cock, sitting in his lap facing him or facing away from him, but when I rose to sit on Greg’s cock, he rose too, turned me to the wall, my cheek against the cool, rough cinder blocks behind the toilet, my palms against the wall on spread arms, and my butt jutting out over the toilet seat. Gripping my hips, Greg fucked me in the same position as Clay was fucking the unknown man in front of a urinal across the wall in the men’s room. I very likely had my cheek against the wall at the same point the man had his against the wall, and it all helped me imagining that it was Clay, with his much thicker cock, fucking me rather than Greg.

Greg must have been in tune with what was happening on the other side of the wall, because I sensed the rhythm of his fuck merging with the sounds of the reaction of the man in the men’s room to Clay’s fuck.

Greg brought a hand around and stroked my cock off as he fucked me. I came in short order and we held there, both panting, as we recovered. Clay’s fuck was still continuing. He had admirable control. Since Greg wasn’t moving, I had to believe he was going to fuck me again. That was just fine with me.

“It wasn’t just that someone is in the men’s room and taking a leak, is it, Kyle?” Greg whispered in my ear.

“No,” I answered. “Your stepdad was in there with Ricky. He’d just fucked Ricky on the floor when I entered and was going after some man I couldn’t identify at the urinals.”

“I’m not surprised. They always come before Clay does. You couldn’t see that that was Steven Rusk?” Greg asked. “I knew they were in there. I sort of thought we’d all get into a group fuck—everyone doing everyone else.”

“That was Mr. Rusk?” I asked, incredulous. “Your stepdad fucks Mr. Rusk?”

“Sure. Who do you think initiated Clay when he was eighteen and going to Henderson Prep? Those two have been going at it for eight years.”

“And your mom and Mrs. Rusk don’t know?”

Greg snorted. “Of course they know. They don’t give a shit. Those two are having it out with each other. It really is everyone doing everyone else here in sweet Henderson.”

And, point of fact, when Greg and I slid out of the women’s room as quietly as we could, there stood Mrs. Rusk.

“Ummm, sorry,” I said. “The men’s room was out of order, so we were—”

“I didn’t come here to relieve myself,” Mrs. Rusk said. “I came here for something else. Let’s the three of us go back in the ladies room.”

And so we did.