Jason's Basement

Jason's cock is so big that it doesn't leave room for thoughts when he's inside me. For such a skinny and laconic guy, he fucks with a bloody single-mindedness I find compelling. 

Compelling isn't the right word exactly, but I'm having trouble composing artful sentences because Jason is hitting my spot. He doesn't even seem to be breaking a sweat though I'm drenching his sheets in mine. My asshole spasms once, twice. Jason's cock rams deeper into me, and somehow it hits an as yet untouched spot. I scream something unintelligible into my own briefs, which are stuffed into my mouth as a makeshift gag.

You can't keep begging him do this to you, I tell myself. You have to stop.

It’s the little white lie I keep telling so I can retain some dignity: he's fucked everything else. 

"You been working out, Mr. Briar? You're firmer than usual." He slaps me hard on the ass and makes a 'mmm' sound as if confirming his own suspicion. "Yeah. Bet you've been doing some squats for me, huh? You work out that ass for me after school?" 

I answer, try to answer, but I'm gagged with my own underwear. Jason digs his knees deeper into the bed and finds a novel angle to push into me. I want to scream. It's not pleasant or comfortable, but his dick is wrenching a kind of pleasure out of me that I find myself craving these days. Often.

Always. 

I've tried using my fingers. I've tried using toys. Men from apps. An eggplant on a particularly desperate night. Nothing and no one else trashes that place in me, the one place that turns me into a panting, drooling cock slave. So I keep coming back to the basement after midnight; Jason keeps pounding me like an animal. 

"Get on your back, Mr. Briar. I want to watch you play with yourself." 

I wish he wouldn't call me that. I hate the way it makes me feel. Like a deviant. Like a fucking pervert. 

Jason was a student in my art class. He graduated last year and since then he's done nothing of consequence in his life so far as I can tell. We stayed in touch through email while he was applying to colleges, but after one rejection he tossed that plan. The emails tapered off until one day he sent one with a picture of his dick. He replied almost immediately saying it was a mistake, intended for someone else, but I kept thinking about it: cut, curved, so hard it stuck up in the air almost parallel from his stomach. His barely-legal cock turned me on something fierce. 

I asked if he wanted to get coffee and talk. I ended up in his parent's basement on his futon, knees digging into his dirty sheets. It hasn't stopped, though I've tried—half-heartedly—to stop it.

He's a pig. Lives like an animal. Even now, as he fucks me from behind I can see the spot where I shot my load last time: a streak of white on his dark blue sheets. That turns me on, too. 

He asks me to jerk off while he fucks me, but he barely watches me. For him this must be about control, about making sure that he can get me to do whatever he wants. I think he would prefer if I was a woman, but he'll take what he can get. At least he likes how firm my ass is. While I'm working it out, I think of him.

---

The next day I'm teaching a class on Pop Art. I'm telling my students about reproducibility and the importance of new technologies in the movement when I get a text from Jason. I've asked him not to distract me at work, which he's been good about, but today's text doesn't observe the distance that I've tried to cultivate between my work self and the version of myself that I become in his basement. 

The text contains a picture of us taken from above: my bare back and his crotch pressed flush against my ass. He's grinning into the camera. Just looking at the photo makes my ass clench and my dick harden. I put down my phone and stutter through my remaining thoughts on Pop Art while my phone continues to buzz in my pocket every thirty seconds or so. When I finally look at it again there's about thirty messages, each one of them a picture or video: us fucking, him stroking his beautiful cock, me sucking his cock, and so on. Each photo is more provocative than the last, until we get to the single line: When?

The answer is: 'not now,' and I close my phone. However, despite the generally warm spring weather I have to retrieve a sweater from my desk and pull it down over me because my polo shirt doesn't go all the way down my crotch and my wetspot has already seeped through my underwear and into my slacks.

I'm a pig, I think. But once I finish my lecture and my students go on to paint their own Pop Art inspired pieces, I pull up his texts and watch the video of Jason stroking his cock on silent while I play with my hard-on through my increasingly wet pants.

---

That night I meet up with Jason and we smoke up together. I don't usually do a lot of weed, so the high quality bud goes straight to my head and I start crawling all over him, trying to kiss his mouth and put my hands down his pants. He's patient with me, but firm: no kissing. But he lets me fondle his dick and balls inside his sweats for a bit before pushing me off of him. 

We watch cartoons and after about a half hour he lets me get naked and starts fingering my hole. I'm so fucking ready to take his cock, but he plays coy. 

"You didn't answer my texts earlier. What were you doing?" he asks. 

"Teaching." 

"Teachers use their phones in class all the time." 

"I try not to. You remember that." 

He gives me a challenging look. He slips a second slender finger into my hole. "Next time, I think you'll answer."

"Jason…" I'm stoned and I want him. "I'm stoned, and I want you." 

He pulls his fingers out of me, giggles, and says, "Good." 

We keep watching TV, but my mind is on his cock. I keep wheedling, trying to convince him through some sort of mentalism to fuck me, but his eyes remain fixed on the cartoon hijinks on the screen. I feel a frustrated, hysterical edge start to slide into my voice as I ask if I can ride his cock and he continues to rebuff me. I keep thinking about the stains on his bed and how I want to add to them. I want him to fuck me on his filthy sheets and use my body to pleasure himself. His straight cock in my ass is all I can think about, but he doesn't seem interested. 

"Maybe I should go," I say. 

He looks at me: brown eyes dulled, heavy lidded. "Cool. Don't make too much noise when you get outside. Parents are probably asleep." 

I spend nearly a half hour working up toward it, but eventually I leave his basement. Neither of us says another word. 

---

The next two weeks are marked by repeated efforts to get Jason to fuck me. I send him pictures of my ass, a video of me riding a dildo and murmuring his name, I text him straight porn links which he replies to with a thumbs up emoji, and I even send him two hundred dollars through a money transfer app for some new sneakers that I know he's had his eyes on. Again just a thumbs up emoji and a hasty 'thx' sent via text. 

I know I'm desperate. I know I'm embarrassing myself, but without him I feel cut off from my sexuality. I jerk off two to three times a day and don't feel the sense of relief wash over me. Not like when Jason pulls his cock out of me after a long, hard fuck. I jerk off to old pictures and videos of him and it's good, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough. 

It's the middle of the third sexless week and I'm teaching a class when my phone buzzes. The lecture is on artistic discipline; I jettison my plans once I realize it's Jason messaging me. He seems to delight in my eagerness. 

"You answered. Thought you had principles," he texts. 

"I want you more, I guess," I reply. 

"I like your honesty. Go to the bathroom right now and take off your underwear. Bring them to me later. We both know how you like to make noise." 

I excuse myself and head to the bathroom. I peel off my underwear and they're already full of precum. By the end of the school day, my jeans are a mess. But I don't care.

I feel every passing minute until midnight arrives and I pull up to Jason's house. Or his parents' house, anyway.

---

I'm high again. Jason says he likes how loose I get. He doesn't clarify if he means my manner, my hole, or both. I don't think to ask him until I'm already so deep into the experience that words seem to be more trouble than they're worth. 

We have some trouble fitting his cock into me, though I'm more than willing and he's as hard as I've ever seen him. We have to use a lot of lube and the condom breaks. He throws it away and puts another on the bed beside him. Unopened. He continues massaging the entrance to my hole with a lubed up finger, he leans forward, and whispers in my ear: "We could do it raw. This once." 

My cock turns to steel, but even in the weed haze I shake my head. "I…we can't…" 

"Up to you, babe," he says. 

The term of endearment makes me shiver. Or is that his fingers working their way inside me? He's never called me that before. He's rarely ever been sweet. It's a transparent effort to trade on my attraction to him, to dangle the idea of reciprocation before me like bait. My hole relents and he slides two fingers in. 

"It feels like you want it. Do you want it? My naked dick?" he asks. 

I'm older than Jason by at least a decade and a half. I've taken and taught classes on consent. But in this moment, on his dirty futon, as I spread my legs for him, I find that I do want to feel him slide into me: skin against skin. There's no rationalizing, no negotiation; I just reach down to grab his dick and press its bare head against my opening. 

Jason sliding into me after weeks of holding me at arms length feels like coming home. The fact that he's fucking me bare for the first time feels even better. 

Later, I'll call myself careless and silly, I'm sure, but in this moment there's no room for criticism. Jason's cock takes up all the extraneous space inside my thoughts. No, he takes more. I have to borrow against my rational mind to accommodate him and his pistoning hips. He twists my insides into incoherent shapes and I taste my own dried precum in my mouth as I holler into the makeshift gag.

"I'm going to make your hole so sloppy, Mr. Briar. I'm going to creampie you like a bitch," he says. 

I believe him. Fucking hell, do I believe him. He uses me like the young stud he is and my eyes just flutter. My mammalian brain worships his vitality and vigor, lets me shunt my limits to the side as the discomfort of the almost-too-deep dicking simmers in the back of my mind.

"I've got a couple friends I've told about you. They're curious. Never fucked a dude before. Think you'd be interested, Mr. Briar. You might know a couple of them from your class. It'd be a favor to me if you helped them out. Helped them like you're helping me right now. That's cool, right? Right, Mr. Briar?" 

I'm not proud that this nearly makes me cum: the idea of Jason and his dirtbag friends fucking my brains out. Using me to unload their young, full balls, and pay for their skunk weed. But I'm beyond pride, aren't I? I'm just a hole to be filled by dumb, straight dick. So I nod. I suck in air through my underwear gag, through the scent of my own dick and balls, and I groan: "I'll do whatever. Just fuck me, Jason. Fuck me."

BENJI BRIGHT © 2020-2022.

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