Brad Meets Troy

Early Tuesday afternoon calm let Josie Donahoe dust her knickknacks. The morning’s housework had not been difficult. She did her nails.

There had been time for coffee and a little gossip with Agnes Whittington next door. The Whittington boy, Dick, was away at college. Not much news about him. Used to be such a cut-up.

A good listener who stayed at home with Dick’s cat, Agnes was used to hearing the latest about fourteen-year-old Troy Donahoe. He made good grades, had friends at school, needed next-size clothes (first growth spurt). Usual teen problems, except no acne – yet.

Her grocery store visit around noon gave Josie a chance meeting with the mother of Troy’s idol, middle school sports star Brad Pittman. Exchanged pleasantries about two-for-one sale items, coupon clipping, and the deli section’s new potato-leek and reliable chicken-noodle soups.

They ate lunch there. Soup and crackers.

Mrs. Pittman spoke of tall, fifteen-year-old Brad’s popularity with teammates and the school’s two coaches. “They eat up a lot of his free time. He often doesn’t get home before suppertime. He’s at the stage when he doesn’t talk about what he does exactly – but he always arrives in time to eat. He’s developing so fast these days from all those workouts they give him. Why, he’s already manly. Big and tall and…long,” she bragged.”

* * * *

Laundry day. Josie, noticing certain track marks in her Troy’s briefs, spoke with him about the problems ahead. “Your emissions are a good sign, son. Do they just happen or do you make them happen?”

“Both already, Mom,” he was open. “First, when I was sleeping, then when I was running down the hall at school, and a lot after that. Miss Marwood noticed. Told me to check with Coach Adams about it. He checked me thoroughly all over to make sure I was all right. Real nice, he showed me how to work my fingers, you know, back and forth, and said to use tissues.”

She pulled him to her and kissed his head. “Let me know when you need a fresh box. How about your friends? Do Nathan and Brett use tissues?”

“Not when we’re comparing how far we can shoot during recess. We get it on our fingers.” A bit boastfully, Troy added, “Brett showed me and Nate how to wipe it in our cracks and, if there’s any left, to wipe that on our pants legs.”

“Really? Where did he learn to do that – from another boy?”

“No, ma’am, from the Coach. Can I tell you a secret?”

“I told you one, remember? – about when your Dad left with his friend and how we wouldn’t tell that to anyone else.”

“I haven’t.”

“Right,” she kissed his forehead. “So I won’t tell yours.”

“Well, Coach says he uses his fingers on Elton’s in the john then wipes it all inside Elton’s butt, a finger at a time. Elton says it gets absorbed and helps him grow. And, you know what, Mom? Elton’s already bigger than me or any of my friends.”

“Sweetheart, why is that a secret? When boys are growing up, it stands to reason they’ll benefit from a man’s help. Want me to call Coach Adams or Coach Menendez?”

“There’s something else I haven’t told you.”

Troy, sensitive to his Mom’s role as a single parent, did not want to hurt her feelings. But he was honest. Had to be. She taught him that.

His eyes went watery when he said, “Coach says dads are supposed to inject their sons to help them grow.” He tried to whisper, “Elton’s dad, Mr. Ganzwich, pumps him with man juice first thing before breakfast every morning.” His voice broke, “Mr. Schmidt started feeding his juice to Nate a week ago and Mr. Haley’s been doing it for Nathan longer than that.” He sniffled, putting his face in Josie’s apron, “I don’t have a dad. So I’m not growing fast like they are, Mom,” he looked up in pathos.

Her son needed a man. All the men she knew had sons to deal with. Unmarried men – she didn’t run in those circles. Her job was at home with her knickknacks and darling Troy. A hand on Troy’s bottom was a comfort to them both.

As she patted him there, it dawned that his bottom was small and tight. “Sweetheart, let Mommy see where you’ve wiped your emission.”

Bared was a site certain men would pay to see. A circle, pinker than the fleshy mounds surrounding it, damp in its center with bits of crust further out. So tiny its entry point that Josie had to ask, “Are you able to get your finger in there?”

“Not really. Nathan’s and Nate’s fingers can poke through when they push. Maybe you can?” He sounded hopeful.

“Mommy would but she’s just done her manicure. Anyway, we need to get you someone who’s right for the job. Let’s see, tomorrow’s Saturday…”

* * * *

Martha Pittman was elated. Her Brad, with no sports events scheduled for Saturday, would be making pocket money working for Josie Donahoe, coaching her precious Troy. Very good. He could transmit to that wimpy boy some of what he got from his coaches at school.

For his part, handsome Brad welcomed the opportunity. Except when she was cooking meals for him, his clueless mother’s mind was on her Bridge game strategies. She had no idea about what men and teens did. Mrs. Donahoe, on the other hand, did and was willing to pay him for it.

She had told him exactly what she wanted from him. To be like a grown-up.

Throbbing as he rang the Donahoe doorbell, he thought,I get paid for paying it forward.

The door opened. Josie Donahoe, with a radiant smile, looked at Brad’s movie-star face, sports-broad shoulders, hewn muscularity, advantageously long fingers, and – Oh my goodness! – dashing pole pointing sideways in his pull-ons. Before thinking to invite in her Dad-stand-in, she trilled, “Troy! Come here, Mommy’s got a surprise for you.”

Ca-ching! – went Troy’s eyes. Josie could practically hear his heart’s drumroll.

“Baby, don’t faint. Brad’s going to update you. He’s with us all day. Come over here and feel what he’s got for you.”

Drool from Troy’s open mouth shone on his chin as he reached tentatively to touch what had been only in his daydreams. While he touched and ran desperate fingers along length behind stretchy cloth, Brad collected some of the drool and returned it to the teen’s mouth.

“Take this back. We’re going to need it.”

Until lunchtime, when Josie took them to Burger Bob’s nearby (letting them gorge on favored junk food), Troy learned about his personal diameter from one of Brad’s fingers. He was uncertain which, but it did not matter.

A lot of saliva eventually led to single-knuckle penetration. From behind while Troy stood, legs together, Brad insinuated his gigger (or middle finger), let it be repelled, stuck it in again, and, after several times and more of what he called “eco-friendly lube” from Troy’s lips, he barraged the hole like a machine gun – solely with that first knuckle.

Troy leaned back seeking relief, was caught by strong Brad, and pierced to the second knuckle.

Two knuckles were rapidly driven in and out before the finger hooked him like a fish and pulled.

“Be still. You’re my catch.”

An hour followed ‘full-finger-four,’ as Brad called his four-inch finger. “You take it, take it from me – like you’re supposed to. And stop making that noise or, or…I’ll go home. You want to disappoint your mother? Or you want her to know you appreciate how much she loves you to get me over here?”

The reaming slowed and stopped when Troy called out, “Mom, I’m getting it!”

He did, for the next hour – with two fingers extending his diameter’s dimension. Discomfort ebbed with sphincter’s exhaustion.

At lunch, Troy wriggled as he chewed his salty French fries and listened to Brad spinning a tale about his coaches. “They got through to me because, naturally, with my athletic ability running parallel to my early puberty in elementary school, I was eager. Coach Menendez took me under his care. Pretty soon, in addition to the exercises I started on Troy here, I was pole-vaulting. Coach taught me a lot about approaches and landings.”

Josie asked, “What motivations did he use to get the most out of you?”

“It was mostly what he put into me,” Brad beamed, “and how he pointed to Coach Adams’ work with Dick Whittington. Over and over, as he was plying me with everything he had, he’d tell me, ‘Brad, Dick’s going off to college soon. You can take his place under Coach Adams’ guidance. I’m grooming you for that. Now let’s work on some new positions.’

“His personal interest even went so far as to hide me with him in a special area of the locker room so I could, like, spy on Dick’s final prep sessions of college, the last two ’specially because they involved State College Coach Linebacker testing Walt’s readiness for team play.”

“You must have been terribly excited.”

“Oh Mrs. Donahoe, I would’ve messed up bad if Coach Menendez hadn’t pinioned me from the start and was holding me tight against him, one hand covering my mouth. Convinced me to give it up. He drilled me right there, standing up – even pinched my nose to keep me quiet.

“After that and ever since, he and Coach Adams infuse me before any, I mean every game, or match, or event like Track and Field – and I always place or win. Now they’re training me extra hard because I’m going up for the MVB Trophy.”

Troy looked up, “What’s MVB?”

Voice close to normal, Brad said, “Most Valuable Butt. Dick won it – and look at where he is now, on full scholarships and all.”

“Honey,” Josie solicited her son, “hear that? Scholarships for college?” Waiting, she sucked the straw for the last of her orange soda.

“Mom, I’m fourteen. I just got partially opened. What do you want from me?”

Brad answered, “Your enthusiastic consent, Troy.” He leaned close, “When we get back to your place, we’ll revisit one and two, then go to three – three fingers, you understand. Then I’m going to give you the real thing.”

To the two Donahoes’ astonishment, Brad took the check, paid for the meal with a credit card, and said, “Let’s go.” Very in-charge behavior.

* * * *

“Stop that. No playing with your dick while I’m fingering you. Want to do something useful, play with your balls. Smack ’em, pull ’em, but no masturbating. My rule.”

Brad’s words recalled those of Coach Menendez. His driving fingers the same. How good it was to dominate! Troy whined, was threatened with a spank, toned himself down, was fed second and third fingers, gave up resisting, felt himself being scoured inside, relaxed into certain strokes, received the compliment, “Good boy,” and was entered from behind by what unmistakably must be his idol’s cock, fully two inches longer than his own.

Lean, shaven-hairless flanks propelled the cock with enthusiasm. Brad watched himself, documentary images of spear-chuckers and harpoon-tossers flitting through his mind.

His brow grew damp with the need to control shifting moves, accelerations, precipitous dives deep, bottomings-out, more thoughtful ascents and descents, before gathering determination and speed to catapult a fresh balls-load of white stuff into the back gate of Troy.

Wait.

With a shake of his head to clear it of orgasmic haze, Brad looked to see what he knew to be happening, Troy’s instinctual ejection of his ass’s invader and tightening clasp to retain its deposit. His cock’s coating reflected light. Pride filled his chest.

Without washing, he donned pants and, shapely torso bare, went to find Mrs. Pittman.

“Oh Brad, are you done already? I’ll get my purse.”

“No ma’am. I just wanted to let you know that round one has been completed. Troy needs some time to rest.”

“Would you like a towel? Something to drink?” To be solicitous was part of her nature. She ogled his fifteen-year-old perfection. Thought about the good fortune of being able to deliver it to her precious Troy.

“No ma’am, I’ll have a better idea about Troy after our next round, but I’m thinking he may be something special.”

“How’s that?”

“There’s a chance he may have a future with the athletic department at school – as our mascot.”

Bolt upright, she stared.

“You see, the coaches are switching me over to share some of their duties. That means some of our coming athletes will need help. If I’m right, Troy could rack up some good mileage in our locker room, get phys-ed credit for it, and go with us when we’re on the road. That would be,” he used one of his coach’s expressions, “very broadening.”

Their conversation lasted until Brad felt his duty was to return to Troy for their second round.

Hardly had he slipped off his pull-ons than the sight of sleeping Troy’s luscious bottom raised his manhood. A dollop of KY gel effected an easier entry than otherwise. He was half in before Troy was awakened. The remainder met no resistance.

“You going to do that again?” was muffled by a mouthful of bedsheet.

“Yes, I’m going to search you really well now and again later. That’ll be re-search. Don’t you get it?”

“I’m getting it, but it’s not funny.”

“What is it then?” He flexed in and out with sinuous flow of pelvis.

“Nnnngh…nnngh…I don’t…know…but it’s feeling better this time. Can you do it for a long time?”

“Shall I?” His steady pace seemed just what Troy could handle.

“I think Mom wants you to. I heard what you were talking about. I like it now.”

“Your mother knows best,” Brad parroted.

For minutes, he blanketed Troy with his body until satisfied that the boy was ready for some excitement. Flashbacks to Coach Menendez’ pummeling when he was much younger prevented too vigorous a fuck. “Only what you can absorb,” he had said, “until you can benefit from more.”

So, Brad screwed.

Troy moaned quietly.

Brad removed his hands from the boy’s shoulders and scooted them beneath his undeveloped chest. Troy’s nipples responded to pinches. That is, his bottom did – by jolting back and up.

More pinches, more jolts.

“Troy,” Brad caught his breath, “you’re fucking me!”

Not with either of his coaches had Brad responded in such fashion. This was new.

He regularized the work of his thumbs and forefingers.

Troy’s butt bounced reflexively stripping skin and pole better than a masturbating hand. In little time, the action had Brad’s body humming, thrumming, cumming.

He splashed into Troy’s rectum and thrashed uncontrollably in the mix of personal effluvients swimming there. His climax wrested from him by the virgin boy he was there to open! A madness to keep under cover – for the right moment.

My god, what we could do with him as our mascot.

Head a-spin, Brad abandoned Troy, who snuggled with his sheet and drifted off again.

“Round two, Mrs. Donohoe,” he made an okay sign with KY-shiny fingers.

“Was Troy a good boy?”

“Better than good – amazing.”

“Already?”

“Coach Adams would call him a quick study. I’m thinking that if Troy makes it through round three with anything like what just happened, he’ll be a shoe-in for mascot at school.”

She handed him a glass of cool water, “Tell me about Miss Marwood at school. Troy said she first pointed him to Coach Adams when she spotted his problem.”

“She’s amazing – I know, I use that word a lot – but it’s true. She’s our disciplinarian and does counseling and oversees students with homework problems. Tough cases are referred to her – with parental consent – and she treats them using her methods.”

“And what are those?”

He swigged. His Adam’s apple moved up and down like a crazy elevator. He asked, “More, please.” He drank most of another glass, “Nobody talks about them except hush-hush. They say she’s got restraints and these, like, halter things she puts on them. Anyway, I don’t want to find out. That’s why I’m such a good student overall and 'in' with my coaches.”

Her smile beguiled. “Want to take some water to Troy? He’s probably dehydrated.”

His ass isn’t.

Glass in hand, he woke Troy. “Here, your mom, wants you freshened up for me.”

Troy sat up. Sipped before swallowing. Handed back the glass. Looked longingly at Brad and said, “I got a lot out of your last visit.”

The glint in the boy’s eyes proved titillating for one new to studly pursuits. That glint caused his scrotum’s nerve endings to itch and his man-part to quicken, eager to sow seeds a third time.

I’ll show him.

Troy showed Brad his bottom – by toppling to his back and raising his legs. “What if you do me this way?”

“No KY for you. Here, spit in my hand.”

His cock thus laved, Brad took Troy’s ankles, pretending he knew the position he had only heard about for guys and girls. He shoved them up, then way back, nudged the hole and, in his huskiest voice, ordered, “Put it in.”

He sank in where moist muscles quivered with anticipation.

“Fuck me.” Troy’s tone – somehow shadowy, even cold.

“You ready for it?”

“Fuck me. Or I’ll call Mom…and tell her not to pay you.”

As he began the motions, at first imperceptibly as if guided by impulse not to hurry, Brad noticed Troy’s eyes closing. Ecstasy? Certainly, his look was one of concentration, possibly on the sensation. Easy were the strokes he took within Troy’s now narrowed canal. Differences – how could there be differences?

The head of his hypersensitive cock sensed more friction and less liquescence. Had Troy metabolized previous fluid deposits? He, Brad, had never done that after infusions from his coaches – not even the times both had fucked him repeatedly in the same afternoon. Bent over a saw horse and on a wrestling mat, those events up his ass had his skin everywhere crawling wonderfully.

He laid into Troy with something of the sort in mind as an outcome for the boy. The harder he worked at it, the closer his face got to Troy’s, to Troy’s closed eyes and parted lips, lips that exposed the tip of a swimmingly wet crimson tongue. Would it be like anything in his life if he were to…

He did. He pursed his lips, pressed in deep down below, and moved forward to claim his prize.

Tongue met tongue about the time dick poked prostate. Everything dormant came to life at once. They banged together tight as a Gordian knot for about two seconds then cut loose. Sexual imperatives only teens could survive sent them ripping and tearing at each other. Their wild embraces squeezed the breath from themselves. Had both wheezing for air, pausing for same, then fucking past orgasms until totally drained.

In steady descent from their stratospheric high, cheek to cheek murmuring incoherently, both relished spasms of their connection. Brad’s cock seemed not to know what to do as encompassing Troy trembled around its shrinkage. Once out, its owner toppled off his dominant position and fell to one side spent.

Troy straightened his legs, dropped them to the floor, and stood up. He regarded Brad’s disheveled hair and weakened state with sympathy, clutched his anus to secure what it held, looked for something wrap around himself, stepped to the bathroom for a towel, and walked into the kitchen.

“Hi, Mom. Doing a crossword?”

“I am, a not very challenging one, themed around nursery rhymes. How’s Brad?”

“Needs some time to rest.”

“Everything’s okay?”

“My bed’s in shambles.”

“Have some milk. There’re cookies – the one’s you like, Oreos – in the pantry.”

Smalltalk, some over the crossword, occupied the conspirators until Brad woke. They heard him rustling for his clothes, stumping a toe, uttering a curse, yawning, running the lavatory. Finally, he entered their space.

Troy asked, “How are your hips?”

Brad tested by making hula moves. Laughed. Looked at Mrs. Donahoe, “Am I approved for pay?”

She handed over an envelope, “In full.”

“And I’m full,” said Troy putting down his empty milk glass, “in both places.” He rose from the table, rubbed his stomach. He held still casting a look in his mom’s direction. She reached over to pat his butt.

“Troy and I wish you a very good remainder of the weekend. We may be interested in your idea of his serving as athletic department mascot.”

“Oh wow! That would be great.”

“Why don’t you check with those two coaches and see whether they can drop in on us tomorrow. I want to meet them.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

Learn more (or remind yourself) about Miss Marwood's educational methods.

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