Imitation Of Peg

You read all the time about boys’ boarding schools being hotbeds of young lust, of unbridled orgies or smaller teens being forced to service bigger ones with everyone including the faculty either in on the action or at least tolerant.  Well, my experience was different.  For one thing Broke-Dick Bible Academy (not its real name, but close) was located near both a girls’ school and a town full of sluts, so there was rarely any need to resort to “plan b”, and for another the majority of students, myself included, were from more urban, less urbane areas and nobody wanted to be labeled a fag for any reason.  I found out later there were a few sexual shenanigans going down, even participated in some (though no orgies, unfortunately) but these activities were clandestine to the extreme, and at the time of this story, when I was a fourteen-year-old freshman and still a virgin, I had no idea they occurred.

Masturbation was sort of a different story.  I mean, nobody talked about it, but everybody did it and not only was there no way to hide it there was no point.  Privacy was non-existent.  The toilet stalls had no doors, a failed attempt to keep students from smoking there, and who wanted to beat off when the your neighbor was dropping logs anyway?  The shower was open because we all had the same equipment.  The closest you could come to doing your business in peace was in your dorm, and we all had roommates.  You knew each other did it, you did it in the same room (under the covers), occasionally you did it at the same time.  You just didn’t talk about it.  It was a clause in the unwritten Roommate Credo:  don’t snitch on your roomie, don’t fart too much and don’t discuss spanking the monkey.  Period.

Take my roommate that year.  Harry Dingus (which was his real name, do you think I could possibly make that up?) was what we used to call “a long and tall drink o’ water”, lithe and limber and standing 6’3 in his stocking feet, with tousled blond hair he only ever finger-combed, perfect dimples and a cleft chin you could sip tea from—he was the sort of guy whose attractiveness sum was greater than the assorted and really quite ordinary parts.  Contrary to his name Harry was smooth all over, even under his arms and on his legs, with only a small patch of curly blond pubes above his circumcised and frankly below-average flaccid member (this was my first experience with communal showers and I’d become an avid dick-cataloguer, though I had to be careful not to look too long or risk popping a stiffy and being labeled a fag).  Big, full balls though, and his ass was dynamite, smooth and high and round, the result of his dedication to sports.  Track and field in the fall and winter, baseball and basketball in spring.  Letters in all of them.  Harry had the jock mentality too.  He wasn’t stupid, don’t get me wrong, but he could be crass and arrogant without trying or caring.  Nice guy, mostly, but not interested in tact or restraint.  He was a senior that year (why they put a freshman in with a senior was beyond me, unless it was because we were both on full scholarships—his athletic, mine scholastic) and the golden boy of the school, popular with everybody, to include panting teenage girls.  I hated him on general principle but I admired him too, mainly for his carefree take-what-you-like-and-damn-the-consequences attitude.

Anyway, to get back to the story, Harry was a masturbation fanatic.  Three times a day, every day, without fail (yeah, I know I’m breaking the Roommate Credo, but this is years ago).  First thing in the morning, after lunch and at bedtime, always under his blanket and whether I was in the room or not.  I usually was in the room (actually I made a point of being there, not that he ever seemed to notice) and nine times out of ten I’d slide under my own blanket, beating my own to his audible rhythm and listening to his gasps and whispers and squelchy wanks.  After he finished he’d immediately arise, his half-hard still drooling into the cotton of his Y-fronts, wipe off his belly with the rag he kept under his mattress for the purpose and go about his routine, not noticing or commenting when I obviously blew my own load not-so-obviously imagining him blowing his.  Keep in mind here, this was an everyday occurrence.  We just didn’t talk about it.

Harry was the one who broke our pact.  It was fairly late at night, after dinner but before lights out.  We were at our desks, me working on an essay due the next day and him working on whatever homework indulgent professors handed out to golden boy athlete students, when he suddenly leaned back, the top of his chair clicking against mine, and said out of the clear blue sky, “You’re queer, ain’t you?”

I choked.  I mean, literally choked.

“Don’t have a cow, lil dude,” he said, his low voice amused.  “I don’t have a problem with it, I just noticed the way you watch dicks in the shower and me when I beat off under the covers.”

I choked again.

“Like I said, don’t have a cow.”  His voice gone from amused to impatient.  “You can trust me, I ain’t planning on telling nobody.  And I need to know I can trust you because I think I know a way we can help each other out, if you’re interested.”

Intrigued despite my terror and without confirming my leanings one way or the other I stammered, “You can, you can trust me, I swear.”

“Cool.  You ever hear of pegging?”

“Uh, yeah?”

Harry knew I was lying.  “It’s when a chick fucks a dude up the ass with a strap-on dildo.”

An immediate boing! in my pants, not so much at the chick part but at the casual mention of ass-fucking dudes.  “Is that, is that what you like?”

A long pause, as if he were still deciding if he could trust me, before he admitted, “I didn’t think I would, but last time I was home I met this chick and she talked me into trying it once.  It hurt like a bitch but felt incredible too, and when she sucked me off after I thought I was gonna blow off the top of her head.”

Harry was messing with me.  Had to be.  Still, on the off chance he wasn’t, I said, “I’ve heard the prostate is sensitive to stimulation.”

“Prostrate?  I call it a joy buzzer cuz every time she hit a certain spot electricity shot off behind my eyes.”

“Y-yeah, sounds like your prostate.”  Where was he going with this?  Did he intend to—

“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, dude.  There was something so fucking hot about this tiny slip of a girl your size—” (I was too turned on to be offended) “—pounding my jock ass, forcing me to take her cock.  I’ve tried sticking my finger in but can’t hit the right angle, you know?  And I’m kinda skeery about shoving a carrot or something up there, what if it got lost?  And it’s not like something you could ask a chick to do either, at least not until at least the sixth or seventh date and I never get that far.  So I was thinking since you’re queer you could fuck me in my ass then suck me off after and neither one of us tells us anyone else ever.”  All of it spilling out in a rush.

Was he serious?  His voice sounded serious but I couldn’t see his face.  Was he smirking at me behind my back, playing a game with me that would end with me being labelled a—

“Oh for shit’s sake, lil dude.”  Past impatient into annoyed.  His desk chair squeaked as he jumped to his feet.  “Does this convince you I’m not fucking with you?” he asked, shoving off his shorts, leaving him dressed in his tee-shirt only and his half-hard dangling free, then grabbing my unresisting hand, bending over and dragging my fingers to his crack.  “Do you think I’d let you touch me here for a joke?”

No, I didn’t think he would.  I rubbed against his anus, feeling it nip at my fingertip, and his breath caught, goosebumps sprinkling his muscular ass cheeks.

“So do you believe me now?”

“I, I believe you.”

Harry stood up and turned around, his cock not flaccid anymore (though sadly still below-average, I judged) and I marveled.  My finger caused that?

“So do you wanna do this?  Oh, you gotta lick my asshole first though.  The second time we did it she said it would help me relax and it did.  And you can’t cum in me, that’s just nasty.  So how ‘bout it?  You in?”

What do you think my answer was?  “Y-yeah.  I’m in.  But, uh, in the interest of full disclosure . . .”  I steeled myself and unzipped.  Like I said, I was an avid dick-cataloguer, and I knew my own worth.

Harry’s eyes rounded, and he looked uncertain for a moment, but for all his trepidation his small dick was rock-hard and pearling.  Finally he gulped and said, “I can take that.  The third time we did it she used one almost as big.” 

“Allrighty, then,” I said, eager to get started and hoping I’d last long enough to enjoy it, “how do you wanna do this?”

“Make sure the door is locked,” he said, sounding as eager as I.  When I turned around I found him buck naked and kneeling face down on his bed, his shoulders pressed to the mattress and his legs wide, hands spreading those dynamite cheeks to reveal his twitching hole and swinging balls.  If I hadn’t been daily matching Harry’s jerk-rate I would’ve shot at the sight, and I would’ve anyway had I dared touch my erection.  “Eat my ass, lil dude.”  Almost whining with need.

For me.  A talented, popular jock (and a senior, let’s not forget) was requesting nerdy, scrawny freshmen me for a service that, at present, only I might perform for him.  Who would’ve thought kneeling down behind and getting ready to tongue someone’s asshole could feel so fucking powerful?  I leaned in close, took a deep breath.  Mostly soap (meaning he’d prepared for this, you know how gross jocks can be) but with an earthy, musky undertone belonging solely to Harry.  I hadn’t been thrilled at the notion of rimming but now I was here I thought I might just enjoy the detour.

“You can’t, can’t tell anybody about this,” he warned again, his voice quavering.

“Who am I gonna tell?” I asked, my words bouncing off his ring.  Harry shuddered and if he were going to reply we’ll never know, because the instant my tongue touched dead to his center he groaned, long and low and dirty.  Encouraged, I dug deeper, liking the way his sphincter pinched at my tongue.  The taste was sour but not unpleasant, just tangy enough to remind you how naughty you were being.  Still afraid to touch myself, I rubbed and smacked at his cheeks, spreading them wider so I might delve deeper.  He pushed out, gaping himself, so I licked around the rim and then, slowly, pressed my index finger inside to the first knuckle.  “More,” he grunted.  I pushed deeper, rubbing past a spongy mass I knew instantly was his prostate, the way he stilled and then reared back against me, rotating his hips and squeezing my fingers, splotches of goosebumps pebbling his cheeks.

“Shit, Harry, be quieter or the whole dorm will know what we’re doing!”  I thought for a sec he hadn’t heard me but he softened his whimpers and moans enough for me to clearly discern the squelch as I pushed a second finger inside.  He didn’t object.  Frigging him in steadily lengthening strokes, licking up and down his crack and occasionally spreading my fingers so I could lick him inside too.  The taste had grown on me, and even today if I could find a flavored coffee called Harry Dingus’s Asshole I’d order a Trenta in a hot gay minute.  Sensing him loosening further, I slid in my third finger, arrowing all three together and crooking to hit his sweet spot.  The fit was tighter, and though he spluttered in incoherent approval I knew it was time to bring in the professional.

“You got lube?” I asked.  He was beautifully responsive and elastic but somehow I didn’t think spit would be enough to fit my length and girth inside.

“Under my mattress.  You know this, lil dude!  Hurry!”

Actually I hadn’t known about the lube under his mattress but figured now was not the moment to debate.  Finding it with my free hand, I squelched out of him, causing him to hiss disapproval, and poured a thin stream of oil on my fingers.

“Be generous, lil dude.  Like she said the fourth time we did it, too much is better’n not enough.”

Fourth time?  How many times had he been pegged?  Enough to know the ins-and-outs, I guess.  Properly greased, I returned my attention to his impatiently awaiting hole.  Finding it still gaped but twitchy, I took a chance and shoved all three fingers back inside him at once.  He bucked against my penetration, cursing into the mattress, but didn’t try to pull away.  I prodded him in smooth, steady and deep strokes, either avoiding a direct hit on his prostate or creaming it dead on, while he whined and alternately clutched my fingers or stretched enough to take more of me.  Right about the time I was wondering if I dared attempt to give him reach-around he growled, “Go ahead and put it in me, lil dude, I’m slick enough.  Fingers are annoying and the fifth time we did it I figured out I liked the burn.”

Taking him at his word, I pulled out (causing another hiss of disapproval) and slicked myself up pretty damn quick, using too much oil.  I’d been afraid I’d shoot the instant I touched myself but my dick seemed onboard with the idea of waiting awhile.  As I awkwardly crouched behind him and he impatiently shoved his ass backwards, a thought occurred to me and I dared issue my first suggestion.  “Turn over on your back, Harry.”  I wanted to see his face as I breached him.

He stilled.  Hesitated.  I waited him out, denying him my touch.  “I don’t know, lil dude.  I don’t think I wanna look at you while we do this.  I’m pretending you’re Peg.”

Peg?  The girl who’d pegged him was named Peg?  I swear, you cannot make this shit up.

“C’mon, Harry, turn over for me,” I cajoled.  “This position is awkward for me because of the way I’m squat-kneeling.”  Our beds really were close to the floor.  “If I’m not fighting gravity it’ll be easier to make it good for you.”

He thought about it, and I knew he was weakening, the way his asshole snapped in yearning told me so.  “You won’t try to kiss me, will you?”  Was that his issue?  Why would I try to kiss him?  He was straight, or so he kept indirectly insisting in a manner suggesting he felt no need to insist upon it directly, as it was a settled matter, and I was too happy with the terms of our arrangement to consider endangering it.  Even with no experience as yet and Harry spread out before me like a stuffing-ready turkey, I intuited enough about we-can-fuck-but-no-kissing straight jock reasoning to be wary.

“I won’t try to kiss you,” I assured him.

Turns out his sexual self-image wasn’t the cause of his concern, at least not primarily.  “Because your tongue has been in my ass.  The sixth time we did it Peg kissed me after and it was gross.”

I personally thought his ass tasted delicious (remember the flavored coffee remark?) but figured I could press the point later.  Or never; he was already arrogant enough.  “I won’t kiss you,” I reassured him.

Again, he thought about it, but I knew the gist of his answer, right down to the number.  “Well, I was nervous at first but the seventh time we did it she said on my back would feel better and it did.  Something about the angle.”  Grabbing his pillow to stuff underneath his head, he rolled over, his stiffy bouncing at the movement, and, sliding to the edge of the mattress, raised and spread his meaty, meaty, meaty thighs.  Why I had I never noticed his thighs?  They looked yummy.  Holding his knees, his greasy asshole twitching, his balls bouncing ever-so-slightly with the quivering of his hard-on, he rumbled, “Will you get inside me now please, lil dude?”  Gruff, but with the hint of a whine.  Begging without begging.

So I decided to tease.  “Hmm, are you sure you don’t need more stretching first?”

“You’re killin’ me, lil dude, killin’ me!  No, I don’t need more stretching.  I swear.”  His desperation called to me, so I shuffled closer.  Eyeing my bobbing cock, he added, “Just go slow.”

Grabbing hold, I placed my glans at his opening, and he shivered, whimpering low in his throat.  I pushed and his slick, already-distended hole widened further, allowing me entrance.  Harry groaned, his head dropping back on his pillow, baring his neck.  “Slow but steady, slow but steady, easy, easy . . . “

Slow but steady, easy, I inched inside, his buttered-steel walls clinging to my shaft like I owed them money.  I glanced back and forth between my breaching cock and his crimson, contorted face, savoring both views with greedy gratification.

“Wait, lil dude, you’re, you’re too big, please stop, please.  I can’t do this.”  His voice breathy, straining, but somehow lacking in conviction.  So I took another chance.

“No,” I said, smirking, and he whined.  But he didn’t try to squirm away.  “You wanted this, you’re gonna take it.”  More whining, and pre drooled onto his heaving belly.  “Would Peg stop just because big bad Harry Dingus was being a crybaby bitch?”

He froze, and I worried for a moment I’d gone too far—I hadn’t meant to call him a bitch, the insult spilled out before I could stop it—but instead of freaking he turned petulant.  “Harry Dingus ain’t no bitch,” he muttered and suddenly, surprising us both I think, he hunched and twisted against me, sucking me fully inside until my pubes were pressed against him and my balls smacked against his skin.  He gasped, gulped, grunted, grunted again, grunted a third time, pained but sated too.  “Suh-see, t-told ya.”

I made no answer, simply savored Harry around me, so intent on his dry heat I forgot to be worried about spooging instantly.  In all my relentless imaginings, I never suspected just how damn good being balls deep inside a tight hole might feel.

“Dammit, lil dude, fuckin’ move, would ya please?  You’re killin’ me here!”

I smiled, slow and mean.  “You saying you want me to fuck you?”  He gaped at me—his mouth this time.  “Say it, Harry.  Like you mean it.”  I was pushing my luck but figured he’d let me know if I stepped over the line.  Either way, we were too far in to quit now, and both of us knew it.  So I stayed still, rammed to the hilt inside him, and waited for his answer.

“Fine!  I want you to fuck me, lil dude!”  Again, his voice gruff, petulant, but with the needy edge I was coming to thoroughly enjoy.  “Jeez, you’re meaner than she was the eighth time we did it.  Fuck my sorry white boy ass, okay, lil dude?  You happy now?”

I smiled the slow and mean smile again, grabbed his thick ankles in my scrawny hands, and ground into him.  “Say when.”

He gasped.  “Now, goddammit!”

So I gave it to him.  Pulling out until only my glans remained inside, I punched back into him, driving a grunt from his throat so powerful I got a faceful of spit.  I didn’t care.  I repeated the move, and he gurgled, his small cock drooling onto his six-pack, his eyes rolling back in his head.  I settled in, fucking him hard but not rough, smooth but not simple, and he writhed under me, taking every inch I gave him.  Surrendering to temptation (I’d never touched any dicks besides my own, after all) I settled my fingers around him, enjoying the way he throbbed with my rhythm, but I’d barely gotten a good grip when he knocked my hand away.

“You’ll make me cum, lil dude,” he warned.  “Don’t touch my dick.”  I’m taking out all the stutters and squeals, rendering them would only annoy me and you both.  Not that it wasn’t a turn-on at the time.  “I wanna shoot down your throat while you finger my sweet spot and I’m close already.”

“Guess it feels good, huh?” I teased.

“It don’t feel like a strap-on. It’s harder but softer too.  Different.  I’m kinda glad the ninth time we did it she suggested I try the real thing sometime.  Now would you shut up and fuck me please, lil dude?  Don’t talk, Peg’s voice don’t crack like yours does.”

Again, too turned on to be insulted but, figuring I’d pushed the teasing dominance thing enough (for now, because although I could tell he got off on it, it made him uneasy too—I was a ‘lil dude’, not a girl, after all)  I shut up and fucked him.  For the first time since I’d slid into his grip I considered my own orgasm.  I was going to cum, and no doubt explosively, but not right this second.  Part of it, as I noted earlier, was I’d been nutting often and regularly lately, which certainly helped, but the main reason I wasn’t on a hair trigger was because I wasn’t focused on the physical pleasure but instead on the sheer and utter bliss of power.  Sure, his eyes were closed and his mumblings clearly indicated he was fantasizing this Peg chick in my place, but Harry Dingus was putty in my hands.  I’m the one who made his head roll back and forth on his pillow, the one who stroked slobber from his lips and pulsed drool from his sweet spot.  I, a scrawny freshman nerd with a big dick, had reduced a senior jock to a babbling puddle of plundered flesh.  I’d always been undecided whether I’d be a top or bottom, now I knew.  To be a top was my calling.  Gripping those meaty thighs (seriously, why had I never noticed his gorgeous, enticing thighs?  I planned to lick them, and soon) for leverage, I ground back and forth inside him, rolled around and around, relishing the way he jerked and ticked at each unexpected jab or swipe.  I’d pull out, watching the way his hole gaped, thrilling to his agonized pleas for “Peg” to stick it back in, stick it back now, goddammit please goddammit!  (Bible school here, remember; his muttered oaths were not entirely mindless.)  Then I’d shove back inside, one fell plunge, and he’d gasp and his countenance would bloom an ever-richer shade of crimson.  I traded short jabs with gut-punching probes, leaving him unsure of the next angle or depth of attack.  I could’ve played for hours, just observing the way he melted under my touch, but eventually he cracked open his dazed, bloodshot eyes and croaked, “You getting’ close, lil dude?  I can’t take much more.”

“I can be.”  Given permission, the steam began rising in my balls.  Yeah, this orgasm was gonna be explosive, I could already tell.

“Good.”  Again, taking out all the grunts and whimpers.  “Cuz I am too and I still wanna shoot it down your throat.”

I immediately began wondering if I could make him cum hands- or mouth-free.  Feeling devilish, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.  So I adjusted my angle and started hammering, not slamming but gliding back and forth across his prostate, gouging hard so more goosebumps and pre sprouted and drooled.  His head fell back, his thighs quivered under my relentless grip, his gurgling voice pleaded, “Don’t do, stop, gonna make me, stop, stroking, too much, gonna oh, oH, OH!”

And he blew.  Boy did he blow.  His entire body convulsed and, without a single touch, his small cock strained and erupted, jizz spurting out to paint his sweaty torso in thick lines.  Harry screamed, a quiet one but a scream all the same, and clamped down on me so hard I felt every throb of his orgasm, almost milking me.  The sensation as well as the sight of him losing his mind tipped me over the edge.  Colors swam in my vision, fire sizzled in nerves as I rammed myself far as I could reach, my seed pumping out to flood his innards, so deep he’d be tasting it tomorrow, and bit my lip in a near-vain effort to keep from hollering my satisfaction.  I’d been right.  My nut was explosive, and I kept myself buried inside until the aftershocks faded and I could breathe again.

A sudden rapping made us both jump.  “Lights out!” the dorm monitor called, and luckily he didn’t rattle the door handle on his way past; our locks were more hints than deterrents.  It was also lucky he hadn’t come by even thirty seconds earlier, or the sounds Harry made when cumming (although he tried he wasn’t exactly quiet, bless his heart) might have prompted our discovery.

“Ready?” I whispered, and Harry nodded, both of us wincing as I eased out.  Another shiver of satisfaction drifted through me as droplets of my spunk dribbled from his swollen, twitching hole.  He let his feet fall to the floor as I scooted away, figuring better than to stand on my shaky legs, and switched off the overhead; the dorm monitor didn’t play and would definitely open the door if he saw any light escaping under the crack.  Resting there on my butt, my back against my bed, I regarded Harry, now lit only by the blind-sliced glow of the streetlamp outside, looking thoroughly debauched on his own.  We sat silent a couple minutes, catching our breaths, until he said, “That never happened before, even the tenth time we did it, and it was cool and all but I wanted to cum in your mouth.” 

“With my finger up your ass,” I said.  Climbing to my knees, I crawled between his legs.  “I remember.”

He saw me coming, didn’t flinch away.  “Appreciate the offer, lil dude, but I don’t think I can shoot again.  Not only was that number three today, I think you broke my balls.”  I reached up, swiped up a line of the cum splattered his torso.  Cold and clammy by now, but worth it for the way his softening cock perked back up.  “You can try, I guess,” he conceded as if doing me a great favor.  “I won’t stop you.”

I leaned in, took a long lick up each of his inner thighs (yummy, oh yeah) and he shivered.  “Ticklish,” he mumbled, then gasped as I nibbled up the seam of his cock and swallowed him whole, and he instantly swelled to a full-on rager.  “Don’t forget your finger,” he grunted.  Like I’d forget.  Not moving my mouth, merely sucking rhythmically and using my tongue to massage and flicker, I granted his request, pushing one digit into his hole, still loose and sloppy and destroyed.  He gasped again, grabbing my head with both hands as he fucked himself between my mouth and my touch, not frantically but smooth.  Slow.  Almost languid.  As I’ve mentioned before, Harry wasn’t blessed with an oversize penis but he had a mouthful, and although there were a couple iffy moments when his glans lodged in my throat I didn’t have much problem.  His head rolled back and forth on the pillow, again calling Peg’s name, and again I didn’t care.   Like with my dick, I knew my own worth.  He may have been the one holding my head to his crotch and hunching into my mouth, I was the one in control.  And like before, I didn’t even think about my own pleasure.  I may even have been entirely flaccid, I can’t remember.  Because this wasn’t about me.  It was about him.  About showing proper appreciation for all he’d given me, all I’d taken.  And, I admit, it was about enjoying his reaction to my dominance, more subtle than before but still potent.  So I licked and I sucked, I probed and prodded and rubbed, I alternately kneaded his balls and stroked through his small patch of curly blond pubes, moving a steady but not rushed pace until Harry finally groaned, his hands holding my face against his belly, his cock buried fully in my mouth, and rewarded me with thin and watery but still tasty squirts.  I suckled, knuckling his sweet spot, until he groaned again and pushed me away, twisting off my fingers with a pained hiss.

I leaned back against my bed again while he lay there recovering on his own, and all I kept thinking was I did this!  I made the senior jock twice my size fall apart!  Me!  I know I keep harping on the senior jock/freshman nerd thing, but that’s because I kept harping on it then too.  I’d never experienced such exhilaration in my life.  I’d tasted power, and I liked it.

I said nothing as his breathing calmed, waiting to see how he’d react now the act was finished.  Guilty?  Angry?  Perhaps violent?  I shouldn’t have worried, because when he did finally speak he only said, “Fuck.  Intense.”  He sat up, groaned, the sound nothing like his sex noises, more fatigued and sore.  Pushing himself to his feet, he farted, drippy and wet and loose, and I could picture my spunk dribbling out of his abused hole.  He glared at me in reproach, but it was half-hearted.  “I told you not to cum in me, lil dude.  Nasty.”  Had he told me?  I couldn’t remember.  Didn’t really care; I’d done it already, too late now.  Grumbling, he wiped the worst of the mess from his belly with his cum rag, snagged up his shorts (farting again as he bent to pull them on) and slipped out, bowlegged, for the bathroom, warning once more over his shoulder, “I mean it, lil dude.  Tell no one.  Or I’ll kick your ass.” 

Chuckling, I stood, stretched, grabbed my shower towel off the end of the bed to wipe Harry off me.  As I slid between the sheets I flashed on the essay our romp had interrupted but hell, I could finish it at breakfast, and I was asleep before Harry returned from his clean-up.  Even my dreams were smug.

I fucked Harry for the rest of the year, at least twice but more usually three to four times per week, far more than the ten times he’d admitted to with his girl, and we both enjoyed every pumpin’, thumpin’ minute.  But, and let me make this very clear here, Harry was not gay, nor was he bi.  It was because he was straight, I think, that he was able to throw himself so completely into what was undeniably gay sex.  He wasn’t concerned about his orientation; he knew who he was.  Although he tolerated, even slightly got off on my flashes of teasing dominance, he never failed to eventually tire of it and order me to shut up and fuck while he fantasized about Peg.  And while he always protested and needed to be “forced” when I reached the halfway point of my penetration, he wasn’t subconsciously forcing me to force him so he wouldn’t be responsible for his own pleasure, if you see what I mean.  If he were turned on by me personally at all, it wasn’t by my gender but by my size.  He enjoyed the illusion he was being taken against his will by someone so much smaller—and trust me, it was an illusion, he could’ve broken me over one of his magnificent and yummy thighs without even flexing.  He was using me, not that I minded, substituting my dick for a dildo instead of the other way around.  It’s even possible, nay, probable, he used other guys after me.  As he’d said, his kink wasn’t exactly the smoothest of conversation starters on a first date with a girl; much easier and more efficient to ask a gay guy who’d almost certainly jump at the chance.  To go one step further, I have no problem imagining him being fucked during threesomes with his first wife—although I have no idea if he ever married or not, he seemed to me to be the kinda guy who’d wed once for passion then a second time for love after the first inevitably fell apart.  But whatever happened to him and wherever he ended up, when I think of Harry Dingus these days I like to picture him happily married and monogamous, being soundly pegged at least twice a week by a knockout wife who may or not be named Peg.