TJ's Stories - Cruising Diaries (01)

I'm already hard walking across campus, and Maddie's still sitting at that Italian place downtown waiting for a text back that isn't coming.

I sent her something lazy twenty minutes ago. Sorry babe, coach called last-minute film session. Rain check? Total bullshit. Coach is probably three beers deep at his house right now watching the Braves. But she bought it, or she's pretending to buy it, and either way I'm not thinking about her anymore because my dick is already leaking in my gray sweats and some closeted freshman wrestler is about to choke on 10.5 inches behind the library.

The quad's still got people on it—couples on blankets, a frisbee game winding down, someone's Bluetooth speaker playing something I don't recognize. I cut left past the science building, pull my baseball cap lower, and take the packed-dirt trail that runs behind the academic row. It's that perfect time right after sunset when the sky's gone purple-blue and the lamp posts have kicked on, throwing these warm gold circles on the path. I can smell cut grass and that weird mulch smell the grounds crew uses.

Nobody follows me. Nobody ever does. I'm just another jock in a cap and sweats, and my face is in shadow.

The bench is about forty yards off the main trail, tucked behind a stand of overgrown bushes that the university hasn't trimmed in forever. You wouldn't see it unless you knew to look. Wooden slats, a little weathered, bolted into a concrete pad that's cracked and mossy on one side. During the day it's probably where some grad student eats lunch alone. At night it's mine.

I've fucked six guys here since sophomore year. Seven after tonight.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Maddie again. I don't even look.

The trail's empty now. I can still hear distant voices from the quad, someone laughing, a car door slamming in the parking lot on the other side of the building. But back here it's just crickets and my own breathing and the sound of my sneakers on the dirt.

I round the bushes and there it is. The bench. The lamp post about fifteen feet away throws just enough light to see by, gold and soft and perfect. The wood's still warm from the day.

I check my phone. The kid's late. Twelve minutes late.

Scriffies message: omw, 15 min

Sure, freshman. Sure you are.

I could wait in my sweats, but I don't. I never do when I'm early and this horny. I pull my cap down tighter, kick off my slides, strip the sweatshirt over my head, shove the sweats and boxer-briefs down and off. Everything goes in a pile on the bench except the cap and my sneakers. I sit down naked, legs spread, and let the warm air hit my skin.

Fuck, that's good.

I look down at myself in the lamplight. My pecs are huge, the kind of chest that makes guys at the gym stare when I'm doing flies. There's a deep line of cleavage between them when I flex, and right now I'm half-flexed just from being hard. My nips are small, sitting high on the muscle. My abs are a clean six-pack, the V-lines cut deep and shadowed. My thighs are thick, quads striated, calves solid from box jumps and sprints.

And my cock.

Ten and a half inches. Thick as a Red Bull can at the base. The head's fat and flushed dark, already shining with pre-cum. It's heavy. When I stand up it doesn't point up, it points out, and when I sit like this it rests against my abs, the tip almost reaching my belly button.

Maddie can take maybe five inches before she taps out. Five and a half if I get her drunk first. She'll try to be a good girlfriend about it, but she always ends up pushing at my hips and whimpering, and I have to pull out and jerk off on her tits because she can't finish me.

Guys, though. Guys are different.

I spit into my palm, wrap my hand around my shaft, and stroke slow. The wet sound is loud in the quiet. My cock jumps in my hand, leaking more, and I use my thumb to smear it around the head. The lamp light makes everything look gold and filthy. I can see the veins standing out, the way my fist barely closes around the girth, the shine of spit and pre-cum mixing.

I spread my legs wider. My ass is pressed against the warm wood, my glutes thick and round, the kind of ass that fills out sweats and makes girls grab it when they're drunk. I flex them just to feel the muscle. My balls are heavy, hanging low in the heat, and I cup them with my other hand while I stroke.

Sitting here alone, showing off for nobody, knowing someone's about to walk up and lose their fucking mind.

I hear footsteps on the trail.

I don't stop stroking.

The footsteps get closer, hesitate, then come around the bushes.

And there he is.

The kid stops dead, and his mouth actually falls open.

"Holy shit," he whispers.

I look him over. He's hotter than his pictures. Eighteen, maybe nineteen, short dark hair, pretty face with these big eyes that are currently staring at my cock like it's the first one he's ever seen in person. He's wearing a tight black t-shirt and joggers, and I can already see the outline of his body—compact, muscular, wrestler-tight. His pecs push against the shirt. His waist is narrow. And his ass, even in joggers, looks round and high and illegal.

"I thought you were a catfish," he says, still staring.

I don't smile. I just keep stroking, slow and deliberate, and tilt my head so the cap brim keeps my face in shadow.

"Strip," I say.

He blinks. "What?"

"You heard me. Strip."

He looks around, nervous, like someone's going to jump out of the bushes. Then he looks back at my cock, and I see the moment he decides. His hands go to the hem of his shirt and he pulls it over his head.

Fuck.

His pecs are perky, round, sitting high on his chest with small pink nipples that are already hard. His abs are tight, a clean six-pack, and his obliques cut in sharp. His skin's smooth, no hair anywhere, just muscle and youth and that glow people have when they're still teenagers.

"Joggers too," I say.

He shoves them down. He's wearing a jockstrap underneath, white with a black waistband, and it frames his ass like a fucking gift. The pouch is stuffed full, his cock hard and straining against the fabric. I can see the curve of his glutes, round and firm and perfect.

"Turn around."

He does. Slowly.

His ass is a bubble. High, round, the kind of ass that jiggles when you smack it. The jockstrap strap cuts right between his cheeks, and I can see the smooth skin, the way the muscle sits. I want to bite it.

"Strap off."

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband and pulls it down. His cock springs out, maybe six inches, cut, hard as a rock. His balls are tight and small. And his ass, without the strap, is even better—smooth, round, the crack deep and shadowed.

"Sit," I say, patting the bench next to me.

He sits. His thigh presses against mine. He's warm and he smells like cheap cologne and nervous sweat.

I take his hand and put it on my cock.

His breath hitches.

"Hold it," I say.

He wraps his fingers around my shaft. They don't meet. His hand is smaller than mine, and my cock looks even bigger in his grip. He squeezes, testing the weight, and a thick bead of pre-cum leaks out of my slit.

"Fuck," he whispers.

I reach over and grab his ass. The muscle is firm and the skin is soft and I spread him open just to feel the resistance. He gasps.

"You're gonna take this tonight," I say, stroking myself while he holds the base. "All of it."

"I don't know if I can—"

"You will."

I let go of his ass and grab the back of his neck. I pull him down toward my chest.

"Lick," I say.

He leans in and his tongue touches my right pec, just above the nipple. It's warm and wet and tentative. He licks again, more confident this time, dragging his tongue across the curve of muscle. I flex and he moans.

"That's it," I say. "Worship those tits."

He goes to town. His mouth is all over my chest, licking and sucking, his tongue tracing the line between my pecs, his lips closing around my nipple. He sucks hard and I feel it in my cock. I'm still stroking, slow and steady, and his hand is still on my base, squeezing every time I flex.

"Pits," I say.

He moves up, burying his face in my right armpit. I haven't showered since practice this morning, and I can smell myself—sweat and musk and deodorant that's worn off hours ago. He inhales deep and groans, his tongue lapping at the skin, the hollow, the sparse hair. It's filthy and he loves it.

I slide my hand down his back, over the curve of his spine, and grab his ass again. This time I spread him and push my thumb against his hole. Dry. Tight. He clenches and whimpers into my armpit.

"Relax," I say, and I spit on my thumb.

I push again, and this time my thumb sinks in to the first knuckle. He's hot inside, tight as fuck, and his whole body goes rigid. I work my thumb in and out, slow, feeling the resistance, the way his hole grips me.

"You're gonna take my cock in here," I say. "And you're gonna love it."

He pulls back from my pit, his face flushed, his lips wet. He looks at me—or tries to, but the cap keeps my face in shadow. He leans in like he's going to kiss me.

I turn my head and spit on his face.

"I don't kiss," I say. "Suck."

I pull my thumb out of his ass and push his head down toward my cock.

He goes.

His mouth opens and he takes the head in, and the heat is instant and perfect. His lips stretch around the girth, his tongue presses against the underside, and he sucks. Not great, not yet, but eager. So fucking eager.

I put my hand on the back of his head and push.

He takes another inch. Then another. His jaw is stretched wide, his eyes are watering, and he's making these little choking sounds that go straight to my balls. I can feel his throat trying to open, trying to take me, and I push a little harder.

He gags.

I pull him off and he gasps, spit stringing from his lips to my cock.

"Breathe," I say. "Then try again."

He does. He takes me back in, deeper this time, and I feel the head of my cock hit the back of his throat. He gags again but he doesn't pull off. He pushes through it, and suddenly I'm in his throat, and his nose is pressed against my pubes.

"Fuck yeah," I say. "That's a good little freshman."

I hold him there for a three-count, feeling his throat spasm around me, then I pull him off. He coughs and drools and looks up at me with wet eyes and I've never seen anything hotter.

"Again."

He goes down again. This time he takes me faster, his head bobbing, his hand stroking what he can't fit. Spit is everywhere—running down my shaft, dripping onto my balls, pooling on the bench between my thighs. The wet sounds are obscene. Slurp, gag, slurp, choke. His tongue works the underside, tracing the veins, flicking the spot just under the head that makes my toes curl.

My phone lights up on the bench next to me.

I glance over. Maddie's name. A text preview: Are you okay? You're worrying me.

I smirk and look back down at the kid choking on my cock.

"She can't even take half of this," I say, grabbing his hair and fucking up into his mouth. "My girlfriend. She taps out every time. But you? You're taking it like a fucking champ."

He moans around my cock, and the vibration makes me leak more pre-cum straight down his throat.

"Guys just know how to suck dick," I say, talking to myself as much as to him. "Girls try, but guys? Guys are fucking hungry for it."

I pull him off again and slap my cock against his face. Wet, heavy slaps on his cheek, his lips, his tongue. He opens his mouth and I lay my shaft on his tongue, balls to tip, and he just holds it there, drooling, staring up at me.

"You're so much better than her," I say, and I mean it.

I pull back and push into his mouth again. Deeper. Harder. His hands come up to my thighs, bracing himself, and I fuck his face with long, steady strokes. My balls slap against his chin. Spit flies. He's gagging on every thrust but he doesn't stop me, doesn't pull away, just takes it.

I'm getting close. My abs are tight, my thighs are shaking, and I can feel the pressure building in my balls.

I pull out.

"Not yet," I say. "I'm not wasting this load in your mouth."

He's panting, his face a mess of spit and pre-cum and tears. His lips are swollen. His cock is leaking onto the dirt.

"Stand up," I say. "Turn around."

He stands on shaky legs and turns. His ass is right in front of me, round and perfect and mine.

I grab his hips and pull him back. He stumbles and catches himself on the back of the bench, bent over, ass out.

I bury my face between his cheeks.

He yelps.

I don't care. I spread him wide with both hands and drag my tongue from his balls to his tailbone. His hole is tight and pink, and I lick it like I'm starving. Flat-tongued, slow, tasting him. He tastes like soap and sweat.

I spit on his hole and watch it run down. Then I lick it again, pushing my tongue against the center, feeling it start to give.

"Oh my god," he moans, and his legs are shaking.

I push my tongue inside. Just the tip, but it's enough. His hole clenches around me and he makes this high, broken sound that makes my cock jump.

I eat him like I'm trying to fuck him with my tongue. Sloppy, wet, nasty. Spit everywhere. I'm rubbing my face in his ass, my nose pressed against his taint, my tongue pushing in and out of his hole. I reach around and grab his cock, stroking him while I work his ass open.

He's leaking all over my hand.

I pull back and smack his ass. Hard. The sound cracks through the quiet and his cheek jiggles. I do it again, and again, until there's a red handprint on his right cheek.

"You like that?" I ask.

"Yes," he gasps.

"Yes what?"

"Yes sir."

I grin and spit on his hole again. I push two fingers in, slow, feeling the stretch. He's tight as fuck, gripping my fingers like a vice, but he pushes back, trying to take more.

"Greedy little slut," I say.

I'm about to add a third finger when I hear it.

Footsteps.

We both freeze.

Someone's jogging on the main trail. I can hear the rhythm of their steps, the sound of their breathing. They're close. Maybe thirty feet away.

My fingers are still in his ass. My face is still inches from his hole. We're both naked, lit by the lamp, and if they look hard enough they'll see us.

The footsteps get closer.

I don't move. I don't even breathe.

The jogger passes. I see a flash of movement through the bushes, a ponytail, white earbuds. Then they're gone, and the footsteps fade.

I pull my fingers out and stand up.

My cock is so hard it hurts.

"That was close," the kid whispers.

"I don't care," I say.

I line up behind him, my cock resting in the crack of his ass, and I spit on my hand. I stroke myself twice, spreading spit and pre-cum, and then I press the head against his hole.

He starts to say something but I push in and the words turn into a moan.

Fuck.

He's tight. So fucking tight. The head of my cock pops past the ring and he clenches hard, his whole body going rigid. I hold still, letting him adjust, feeling his hole pulse around me.

"Breathe," I say.

He does, and I push in another inch.

He whimpers.

"You can take it," I say. "You're gonna take all of it."

I push in slow, steady, feeling every inch sink into him. His hole is hot and tight and gripping me like it doesn't want to let go. I'm halfway in when he reaches back and grabs my hip.

He moans, loud, and I clap my hand over his mouth.

"Shut up," I say. "Someone's gonna hear you."

I bottom out. All ten and a half inches buried in his ass, my balls pressed against his, my hips flush with his cheeks. I hold there, feeling him shake, feeling his hole spasm around me.

"Good boy," I say.

I pull out slow, almost all the way, and then I slam back in.

He screams into my hand.

I do it again. And again. Long, deep strokes, pulling out to the tip and driving back in to the base. His ass is bouncing with every thrust, the cheeks clapping together, jiggling in the lamplight. I can see my cock disappearing into him, see his hole stretched tight around my shaft, see the shine of spit and pre-cum.

It's perfect.

I fuck him harder. My abs are flexing with every thrust, my pecs bouncing, sweat starting to drip down my chest. The bench is creaking under us. His cock is swinging, leaking, untouched. My hand is still over his mouth, muffling his moans, and I can feel his breath hot and fast against my palm.

"You take cock better than my girlfriend," I say, panting. "She'd be crying by now. But you? You're fucking loving it."

He nods, or tries to, and I feel him push back against me.

"That's it," I say. "Fuck yourself on it."

I let him. I hold still and he rocks back and forth, impaling himself on my cock over and over. His ass is doing all the work, squeezing and releasing, and I just watch. Watch his hole swallow me. Watch his cheeks bounce. Watch the way his back arches.

His phone lights up on the ground next to the bench.

Incoming call.

I glance down and my brain short-circuits.

The contact photo is a guy I know. A guy I know really fucking well. One of my best friends since freshman year. Same frat. Same major. We've been roommates twice.

The contact name: big bro

I'm balls-deep in my best friend's little brother.

The kid doesn't notice. He's too busy moaning and fucking himself on my cock.

But I notice.

And instead of stopping, instead of pulling out, instead of doing anything sane, I get harder.

I grab his hips and slam into him.

He gasps.

"You didn't tell me you had a brother," I say.

"What?" he pants.

"Your phone. Big bro's calling."

He twists to look and his face goes white.

"Oh fuck," he whispers. "Oh fuck, that's—"

I pull out and flip him over. He lands on his back on the bench, legs in the air, and I grab his ankles and push them back toward his head. His ass is open, his hole pink and puffy and leaking spit, and I line up and slam back in.

He's louder this time. I don't cover his mouth.

I fuck him face-to-face, staring down at him. His pecs are bouncing with every thrust, his nipples hard, his abs flexing. His face is wrecked—eyes half-closed, mouth open, drool on his chin. He's so fucking pretty.

I lean down and lick his lips. Just a tease. Then I pull back and let a long string of spit fall from my mouth into his.

He opens wider and takes it.

"Your brother's gonna lose his fucking mind if he finds out," I say, slamming into him. "His little bro takes cock like a slut."

"Please," he gasps. "Please don't—"

"Don't what? Don't tell him? Don't stop?"

"Don't stop."

I grin.

"You don't even know my name," I say. "And you're never gonna. You're just gonna remember this cock."

I fuck him harder. The bench is shaking. My balls are slapping against his ass. His cock is leaking all over his stomach, untouched, and I can see the puddle forming.

"Touch yourself," I say.

He wraps his hand around his cock and strokes twice before he's cumming. His whole body goes tight, his hole clenches around me like a fist, and he shoots all over himself. Thick ropes of cum on his abs, his chest, one streak that lands on his neck.

"Fuck," I grunt.

I'm right there. I slam in to the base and hold, and my cock pulses. Once. Twice. Three times. I'm coming so hard I see spots, filling him up, pumping load after load into his ass. It's too much. I can feel it leaking out around my cock, running down his crack, dripping onto the bench.

I hold there, buried, feeling the aftershocks.

Then I pull out.

Slow.

I watch my cock slide out of him, watch his hole gape and clench, watch my cum start to leak out. It's obscene. It's perfect.

I wipe my cock on his ass. Then I grab his jockstrap from the ground and wipe it again.

"Hey—" he starts.

I toss the strap on his chest and pull my sweats up. No underwear. I grab my sweatshirt and pull it on. Cap's still on my head, brim low.

I look down at him. He's still on his back, legs spread, hole dripping, covered in his own cum and mine. His phone is on the ground, screen dark now. Missed call from big bro.

"See you around, freshman," I say.

"Wait," he says, sitting up. "What's your—"

But I'm already walking away.

I cut back through the bushes, onto the trail, toward the quad. My legs are shaky. My cock is still half-hard in my sweats. I can smell him on me—sweat and spit and cum.

Behind me, I hear him moving. Getting dressed, probably. Trying to figure out what the fuck just happened.

I don't look back.

My phone buzzes. Maddie again.

I text her back: All good babe. Film ran late. See you tomorrow?

She responds immediately: Yes! Love you!

I pocket my phone and keep walking.