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The Botany Professor

By: Coxswain



If I'd known the weeks would become months--and how they would end, I would've killed myself. Or at least that's the way I thought in those days. 

A botanical research trip to the jungles of Colombia was planned as a two-week summer jaunt, something to write papers about, post pictures on the university's website. I spoke Spanish, I'd lived in Mexico, I had no worries about visiting a Latin American country, especially a short visit to do scientific research. The Colombian government happily issued me the permits and visas, I flew to Bogotá, Bogotá hired a guide, rented a Jeep, and we took off for the jungles. We went deep into the country, to the town of Mitú, on the banks of the Río Vaupés, a tributary of the Amazon. 

I had no worries.

I should've. 

The heat and humidity of Colombia are hard to believe. In a humid season in Florida, when weeds and vegetation take over the lawns and gardens, people complain about how the plants are uncontrollable. Compared to the Colombian jungle, Florida is a desert. Instead of plastic flamingoes, Colombia has jaguars. Instead of garden snakes, Colombia has anacondas. Instead of Native Americans selling baskets alongside the highway, in the jungles around Mitú were secretive, shadowy tribes armed with blowguns and poisoned darts. 

Juan, my guide, was a nice guy. I contacted him through a government service in Bogotá. Tall and alert-looking, he knew his way around the city but had grown up in the rural areas. He also showed me which were the good local beers and which were orina.

The next day Juan drove the Jeep as we lurched into the jungle and continued several hours from Mitú through a world of green. Trees, vines, bushes, grass, flowers everywhere. 

Earth in the age of dinosaurs.

Juan babbled happily about "all I knows about thees land" and other nonsense, telling me "thees ees the famous Arbol Chicaraguay. She is grow only here in Colombia." 

We were looking at a Sego palm. I had one growing in my back yard in Florida. 

In a small clearing we set up camp. While Juan puttered with the propane stove, I looked around. Incredible. More plants than I could identify (and my PhD was in Tropical Botanica). There were surely some undiscovered herbs in there!

That night, after a dinner of boiled Survival Meals (it was more fun if we were "roughing it"), we set up the mosquito nets and lay back on the cots--too hot for anything like a blanket.

Juan surprised me by stripping naked before lying back on his bed. I thought that a little extreme. I, too, took off my clothes, but at least I still wore my boxer shorts and a t-shirt.

And something else. Juan, to put it politely, was superbly endowed. And uncircumcised. Like Dad. Like Bobby. 

I always wondered why they'd cut off my foreskin. Mom was quite an evangelical Christian, always reading the Bible. That was probably it. At least they didn't wait until I was a grown man to have my foreskin cut off, like Moses did.

I'd read that the glans of a circumcised man had no "protection" from daily friction against clothing and thus grew tougher and more insensitive, incapable of the extreme sensations of an uncircumcised penis. I hoped that wasn't true--but I would never know.

I'd always wished I still had my foreskin. When Bobby was born, I didn't let them cut him. He grew up with his dick in its holster.

And Juan had a big one. I wish I had a foreskin like that. But I shook my head and turned away. 

The following day in the woods, not far from our camp, I found a new kind of Erythroxylum catuaba! Little known in the USA, it's a small tree that produces yellow and orange flowers. Its genus contains several species that are sources of cocaine, but Catuaba contains none; it's famous in Brazil as an aphrodisiac used for generations--there are even songs praising the wonders of Catuaba and what it can do for male sex organs. A tea of its bark cures sexual weakness, impotence, nervous debility, and exhaustion. In many documented cases, Catuaba has contributed to penis growth.

As far as I knew, it had never been discovered that far north. Damn, I'm going to take home some of this stuff.

The next day, though, while I was carefully digging up a couple specimens, I found that Juan, my "expert guide" had taken us close to a camp of the Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias de Colombia, the infamous FARC, the insurgent terrorists of the Colombian jungle. When they discovered me, they ran toward me shouting and firing guns in the air. 

They grabbed me and dragged me into the jungle, where they tied my arms to my sides. When I was roped and helpless, they marched me at gunpoint through the woods. I noticed Juan walking along with the terrorists. 

My helpful guide, the bastard, turned out to be a bird-dog for the professional kidnappers--FARC picked up operating expenses by ransoming hostages. 

As we walked along, I managed to reach into my pocket to set my cell phone to auto-call 911, which would call that exchange in my home city. I was in that mode for 20 minutes or so when the hoodlums suspected I might have some kind of CIA or Colombian government tracking device concealed on me, so they forced me to strip--they found the cell phone, of course, and to make sure I didn't have anything else, they made me march naked through the jungle. And it started to rain.

After what seemed like hours of marching through the wet, we finally reached a clearing with a few shacks. When I explained that I was not a rich man, not an owner of a big business--one of them growled to me that if I brought no ransom, I would be obrero. Worker. But I knew it meant "slave." The alternative, though, would be that they just kill me and dump my body in the jungle. 

They tied me to a tree and, under a lean-to, started a fire for a meal. They gave me water. While the food was cooking, one of them walked up to me. "Luego comemos, pero primero vamos a coger." We'll eat later, but first let's fuck.

What?

The huge man kicked off his sandals and dropped his pants. Big cock. Then he moved closer. 

Somebody seized my elbows from behind and yanked them back, pressing his sweaty chest against me, and his cock--hard--mashed up against my backside. 

I was breathing hard, panicked. The rain had ceased, and I smelled the man in front of me, like damp leather. I struggled against the strong fingers digging into my arms, hyper-aware of the rigid hardness pressing against my butt, but I was overwhelmed. 

At that time of day, right after a shower, the jungle was quiet--all I heard was heavy breathing as I was manhandled by a dozen men, hot breath needling my neck. And the smell of fetid cigarettes. Faces so close to mine, I caught the aroma of what they'd just eaten. And coca leaves.

I tried to kick at them, but I was helpless. A hand gripped my balls, and my whole body came to attention. Somebody else spread my ass-cheeks. "No, No!" By then I was trembling. 

"Oh, sí!" A big hand smacked my butt. They kicked my legs out from under me, and squealing like a woman, I fell to the ground--on hands and knees. The first one, the one with the big cock, dropped to his knees in front of me, and there, right in front of my face, bobbed that monstrous brown boner. 

Ohmigod. Uncircumcised. Just like Dad. 

The huge thing had a broad, flaring helmet, and the foreskin flowed broadly around it, revealing only the tip of his ruddy glans. It was so close I could feel the heat as he jabbed it at me. He gripped my hair with one hand and steered the drooling phallus to my lips with the other. "Abre!" Open. 

Someone else held a machete in front of my eyes. 

I twisted and grunted, refusing, but the man behind me squeezed my balls so hard, I almost fainted. That worked. I opened my mouth. He laughed as he pushed his huge meat to the back of my throat. His foreskin slid back, and the slimy surface of his glans pressed against my palate. 

Sucking another man's pecker was the least of my troubles, though. Behind me many hands had pulled my legs apart, and somebody smeared something slimy up the crack of my butt. Then, when something pushed against the nub of my asshole--Oh, no!--I knew it was a cockhead.

As it pushed passed the tight ring of my ass, I screamed over the meat clogging my mouth. The man in back was a fucking elephant! Splitting me in half! I clenched shut my eyes, imagining what I looked like: crouching there sucking one man's dong and taking another's up my rear end. 

I was humped at both ends for what felt like hours (probably 15 or 20 minutes) when the guy kneeling in front of me let out a groan, and big gushes of something slimy filled my mouth.

Jism! I'm drinking another man's sperm! I was surprised I didn't puke--but it wasn't as sickening as I thought it would be. Salty. Creamy. With a chemical taste. I swallowed it all--couldn't spit it out with a huge cock spreading my jaws.

Then the guy in back slammed in deep, and with his long groan, I knew he was pumping me full from that end. Damn, my ass hurt, but I was glad it was over.

But it wasn't. 

A dozen men had kidnapped me, and that afternoon I was fucked by 11 more men, and I sucked 11 more cocks. I recognized Juan in the lineup. "You no the smart gringo, now you the pichi puto!" Motherfucker. He slapped my buttocks as he fucked me, leaving me with painful welts.

I just hoped that I sucked them before they fucked me, but I had no idea--and no choice in the matter. The rest of them ate or went on patrols while I fucked their comrades one after another, and by the time they finally left me alone and put a dish of fried meat--probably lizard--in front of me, I was too sore to eat. 

And that was my life for six solid months. I was the camp whore. 

I sucked and fucked every man in camp, including the asshole Juan, at least once a day. At first it was miserable. I thought I would die of rectal damage, internal wounds, something like that--but I didn't. Turned out all of them were (by coincidence) clean, and as far out in the jungle as we were, we were a "closed group." No danger of disease.

After a couple of days it no longer hurt to take them up my ass, and gradually I learned to deep-throat them the way they wanted--so they could lurch their hips and fuck my face. I was so ashamed, I wanted to kill myself, but I got no chance. 

I felt even worse when I realized I'd come to "recognize" them. Even if one of them approached me from behind and took me doggy-style, I knew him by his genitals and by his technique. When I heard a man come up behind me, grab my left arm while his right arm reached around to pinch my nipple--and his warm breath blew on my ear, I knew it was Juan. The bastard.

But on pain of death, I bent over and spread my legs, and he slid into me, ramming quickly down to the hilt. His prick was long, the one I'd admired that night in the tent, but when his foreskin slid back, he had a pointed cockhead that didn't cause a painful stretch. He could deflower anybody without causing much pain. Fucking him never hurt. 

But he was a real shit. Always slapped me around. Kicked me. ¡Ami tonto! Stupid American. The inimitable bastard, I wished I had some sort of disease I could pass on to him.

When I knelt at the creek washing their clothes (they made me do that) and I heard the snap of an elastic waistband, I knew it was the one they called El Gato. The Cat. Never did learn his real name. 

I automatically moved forward onto hands and knees and got a good jolt as he popped through my ass-ring, but he never sank in deep. He had a nice, fat cockshaft--but not very long. And he was rough. Slammed my hips so hard he often left bruises on my buttocks.

One of them always liked to fuck standing up, and he had a signature movement. He'd come up behind me, grab my throat with one hand, my right nipple with the other, and I soon learned to spread my legs. As he sank his member up my bum, he raised his left leg, wrapping it over my thigh, fucking me one-legged--so I had to provide the stability. Even more humiliating: I had to supply the balance, support, everything while he took his pleasure with me.

He was the youngest of the gang. They called him Chiquilin (Little Kid), although I figured him at about 18 or 19. As a young man, hot and peppery, he never took very long, and when he let out a loud groan, I got another of his specialties--my guts filled so jam-packed that a big gush of white ejaculate spurted out of me when he withdrew. 

If I hadn't fondled his scrotum for myself, I would've believed he had three balls. He cummed at least three times as much as anybody else. Always. Like a sperm-fountain. 

As time went by, I was ashamed to admit I had favorites. I liked Guillermo, who liked to strip down naked before he took me. Always wanted a blowjob first--"To wet me down, no?" His big, rough hand through my hair when I blew him was almost like petting his dog. I liked it. 

His body was a tawny, dirt-streaked statue of David in oak-brown. I was 5'10, so I guessed him to be about 6'2", and his shoulders looked as wide as I was tall. Chest that reminded me of a semi-trailer, big, square, and massive. Big nipples that jutted out when he got horny for me--and I found myself feeling a little proud I had caused that. I loved to see him naked.

He was a roof over me when he pushed me into the doggy-crouch and mounted. It rained all the time in that part of Colombia, and Guillermo was so massive, the rain didn't fall on me while he fucked. In fact, I came to think of him as sort of my tutelary stud--my guardian, protecting me. 

But just from the rain. When he was done, he kicked me over into the mud just like the rest.

In the early days, all of them took me doggy-style. Guillermo was the first to take me on my back, face-to-face, and those colossal nipples scratched against my chest with his lunges. I had to admit it: he really turned me on. I rubbed my hands up and down his sweat-slick sides, my fingers bouncing over the muscled ribs, then down over his narrow waist.

He had a nice smile--every once in a while. Reminded me of Antonio Banderas. Nice meat, too. Solid. Thick. Let me know I was being done by a man. He always gave me a funny feeling: when Guillermo got me, I felt bred. And then he'd give me that smile.

The scariest one was Gonzalvo, who seemed to be the leader. A brute. Mean bastard. A big guy but on the pudgy side. Ugly.

I knew he was coming after me even before I saw him. If he came up behind me, I could hear his footfalls. Heavy. Almost stomping. Landing forcefully on his heels. Like a commander. El Jefe. I shuddered.

He would be the one who killed me. He often threatened me with a gun or a knife. I was scared every time he came after me, and he treated me like shit. Usually punched me or at least pushed me around. 

He, too, had a signature movement. He, too, like it standing up, and just before he entered me, he'd stick his huge cock between my legs, push it against my ball-sack, then past it and out the far side, in front of me. First time he did that I was stupefied.

His bazooka stuck out from me a good six or seven inches! Even farther than my own, and his started from behind my butt! 

And it was thick! Like a big, hard fire hose spreading my legs apart. I was like riding it!

The sight of a colossal cock jutting out between my legs was stunning. And terrifying. With his foreskin retracted, his cockhead was ugly, pebbled, a sickly purple. A lethal organ.

The first time he did that, I stared down, trembling. And Gonzalvo didn't even pull down his pants, just fetched out that monster and stuck it into me, usually dry.

And he was big. The biggest. So long he bottomed out in me. The first time, I screamed. That titanic girth hurt! Burned like fire. Had to cause an injury! I knew I was bleeding! Torn up inside!

But I wasn't. When he finished with me, I fell to the ground groaning, but my fingers brought back no blood. I hated sex with him. It was always an agony.

At first.

I wouldn't have believed it, but the more he fucked me, the less it hurt. The more that gigantic cock rearranged my guts, the more I fit him, and one day he did it--his gonads ground against my ass as he sank the whole, fucking, arm-length thing up my ass. But it still hurt. 

But they gave me Catuaba tea to drink every day, and that stuff really worked. I was horny all the time. Once I started drinking it, I never struggled against them when they came for me. Didn't want to.

I fucked all the gang members hundreds of times--one day I figured it out in the mud: after once a day for six months, I had sucked and fucked each man 183 times. All of them together had fucked me (and I drank their cum) 2,196 times--not counting the extra times when they (or I) were ultra-horny. 

I'd say after the first 20 times, I could take any of them without discomfort, sometimes even without lube (although I learned early to wipe myself often with stem sap of the Hibiscus tiliaceus, the Hau plant, which is thick, slimy, and a good lube). 

Gonzalvo, though, was the only one who always hurt. His pecker was a monster. I never did get stretched out enough for it. And I bit my lip in shame as I realized I liked that hot stab of pain. It was like a thrill. It's true. I like him to hurt me. 



The Botany Professor Ch. 02



Back home I enjoyed a wonderful reunion with my wife and son. Running from the plane into their arms. Tears of joy, of relief, of a nightmare finally over. 

As I hugged Angela and Bobby, awash in waves of love and rejoicing, still a tiny thought itched in the back of my mind: Now I'm out of those bastards' power--but did they break me completely? Will I be able to get it up for her?

As Bobby held me close, my leg moved between his. Not intentionally. Not really. It was as much his move as mine, but I gnashed my teeth. You fucking pervert! He's your own son! "Oh, my family, it's so fabulous to be home!"

Both my father and father were there. Dad was retired, living with us since Mom died a few years ago. He leaned on his cane, tears in his eyes as we embraced. With Angela's father, somewhat younger than Dad, we had a group-hug.

Back home, and oh, how fine was my little white cottage, my lawn, my garage, everything that meant normal, real to me--even my hibiscus was blooming for me--maybe I could get over the nightmare. After the long kisses and hugs, discussions of my health, news of the family and home, gradually the conversation focused in on closer details of my "adventure."

They got a PG-rated version. Even the Army debriefers didn't know the whole story of the six-month homosexual orgy and servitude I lived through--except one SF medic, a Sergeant Feldman, in a camouflage-green closet of his own. His gaydar sensed my "availability," and he laid me in a copse of bushes while the rest of his team rounded up the FARC terrorists.

My family heard about privation, starvation, and beatings, not the gang-rape the first day, not my camp-whore status, not the creeping familiarity with and craving for sex with men. They didn't hear tales of my sucking and fucking the dozen members of the camp every single day.

I could never tell Angela how the greatest sexual orgasm of my life came from sodomy with a terrorist brute. His colossal phallus stretched my asshole past the point of pain. He fucked me into unbelievable exhilaration and total surrender. 

I could not tell them how I'd been "retrained" to climax from hard, virile cocks up my ass and how I lived all six months in constant willingness to spread my legs for those men or swallow their spunk.

They'd broken me. Made me their bitch, their cum-slut. And as much as I hated it mentally, I could not resist it physically. 

My teeth were on edge as Angela called us in for dinner. Will she discover the truth if I can't get it up for her? I was so nervous before I went into the dining room, I drank a double Scotch--and nearly choked on it when I remembered that too much alcohol can dull the libido. 

Throughout dinner I paid attention to my pecker and any incipient erection. None. It was as soft as if I were running through the jungle from a jaguar. Don't panic, what's it got to harden up for? A turkey dinner?

I wondered if anything would happen if I thought about... The day Gonsalvo made me their complete bitch. He laid me on my back, kissing me tenderly and affectionately (an astonishing change from the usual brutality). Horny from a constant diet of Catuaba tea, I was soon purring and expectant.

He had the most titanic dick I'd ever seen. Unearthly huge, grotesque, a pony would be proud of it! He must've been drinking Catuaba since childhood. 

After many weeks, fucking was no longer an agony to be feared, rather an agony to be wished, and that day, his first time fucking me face-to-face, his terrible male power swept me before him to the point I could not resist his passion, and screaming his name in guttural howls, I reached an orgasm--the fiery pain of his huge penis showed me who's boss.

And as he humped away, he drove me into another and another orgasm, finally so many I was in a trance, constant ecstasy. 

It worked! My organ was so hard under the table, I had to keep still, or it rattled my plate. Good sign. 

Then we all moved into the living room--I refused a glass of sherry. Sitting on the big Victorian couch with my loved ones, I was amazed at how upside-down my life had been for so long, and how familiar-but-new it seemed then. We chatted a little more. I told them about Colombian plants--I left out any mention of Catuaba--and as usual, anytime I started going on about plants, the boredom set in.

Dad finally got up, kissed me on the cheek, and went downstairs to his room. Angela's father said goodnight and left. Bobby went up to his room.

Finally Angela arose, and dragging her hand sensually over my shoulder, arm, and hand, she moved gracefully away to our bedroom. The Moment had come. I had to make love to her that night, of course. She'd suffered the opposite of my fate--she was without sex for six months, poor thing, and Angela was a spirited woman. 

She never refused me. Often initiated the calisthenics herself. Surprised me with sexy little negligees and nighties. 

Six months without sex meant she was in heat. 

I seized the moment of solitude for an important errand. From my rucksack I took the two Catuaba seed-pods and hurried out to the greenhouse. Angela would take a long time in "pregame warmup," so I hurriedly plucked the seeds from the two pods and planted them in starter pots. Catuaba would not cease to be a part of my life.

Poor Angela. I could never tell her of the depravity I'd been a party to--she would be horrified. Maybe even divorce me. In spite of her peppery nature, she was religious, pure, and devoted.

But delightfully horny. When I came into the bedroom after cleaning up in the greenhouse, she was still in the bathroom in female grooming rituals. 

She started our session that night by slinking into the room wearing a negligee of silk only a little thicker than fog and--I couldn't believe it--a white thong with "I ♥ Bill" in red letters. 

For my part, I wore only air, and with our first kiss, her fist was around my cock. 

Round One began with a very nice blowjob. Angela's face--those big, blue eyes, that button nose, that little mouth--always looked like Tinker Bell sucking Captain Hook's monstrous cock, a sight I found terribly arousing, but I realized that after six months of nonstop cocksucking, I was better at it than she was. 

When it was time for Round Two, I was in a cold sweat--Can I keep hard from her blowjob?

As I thrust in through her wet, eager pussy, a chill went up my spine when I felt my hose soften. In desperation I forced myself into a weird fantasy--I was Gonzalvo, and she was I, Dr. William Thomas, and my giant meat was thrusting into the agonized hole of the gringo.

It worked. I stayed hard and robust and had stamina enough to do her in the usual missionary position for 20 minutes or so--then I rolled her over and pulled her up onto hands and knees. "Oh, my," she gasped, but she didn't refuse to take it doggy-style, something new for us.

As a matter of fact, that new, wicked addition to our sexuality brought her to an orgasm. She tried to muffle her whining screams into a pillow, and in an inspiration, I brought my mouth down to her ear and talked dirty--"You miss my big boner rammin' into that tight pussy?"

She gasped, then "Mm--hm!" Poor thing, she doesn't realize I'm Gonzalvo fucking the gringo.

"Tell me what you want, baby."

She looked back up at me. "Oh, Bill, I can't say it..."

I reached under, gripped both her nipples and twisted them. She let out a yelp, then hissed, "What's come over you?"

"I missed you, you and this hot, tight cunt!"

"Oh, Bill, it makes me so hot when you talk like that!"

"What's the part of me you missed?"

"Oh, I can't!"

I grabbed a fistful of her long, brown hair and pulled back her head. "Say it!"

She gasped, then looked up at me with glazed eyes. "I missed your cock...that big prick." She growled. "It's even bigger than I remember it."

I rolled her over onto her back again and raised her ankles to my shoulders, another position we'd never tried. Then I bent over her, pulling her legs back to her shoulders, rotating her hips up to me, and I sucked one of her tits. 

"Oh, Bill, you're a madman! I love it!

"What do you want me to do?"

"You know. Do it."

"Tell me."

"Oh, I can't. I can't talk dirty."

I fingered her clit, which made her gasp. "Say it!"

Panting, she looked up at me with fire in her eyes, "C'mon, you big fucker! Plow that giant cock up my pussy and make me scream!"

And I did.

I did her so energetically and so long, I got her howling--without hiding it in a pillow. I worried that Bobby would hear us, but by then we were too far gone, too horny, too in the moment to care.

Later, as we lay nuzzling together in the afterglow--her cunny dripping my seed into the time-hallowed wet spot in the sheet--I asked her how she'd managed to go without sex for so long (I hinted that for my part, in the jungle I'd "relieved" myself manually). 

She kissed me. "Women without their husbands find ways." 

"What does that mean? This?" I fingered her hot-button, and she jumped. 

She giggled and kissed me again.

She lowered he voice to a whisper. "We were really loud this time." I grinned. She was the only one screaming. She went on: "You think Bobby heard us?"

"I dunno."

She giggle again. "Well, if he did, I don't think it would be anything he doesn't already know about. He's 20 now, and with kids these days, he's probably done things a lot wilder than what we just did."

I caught myself wondering how well my son was equipped. Bobby was a sophomore studying business management, still living at home to save money. We hugged and nuzzled for a few more minutes, then went to sleep--she did, anyway. I couldn't stop thinking of the picture she'd put in my head:

Bobby Thomas' hips lurched and lunged, and the blonde-haired cheerleader under him squealed and gasped as he drove her into orgasm. The huge penis spreading her pussy lips painful-wide made her thrash back and forth, hooked like a sleek salmon, growling wordless sounds as he kept her in high ecstasy!

I wanted to see him naked.

No, you don't, you pervert! He's your own kid!

I woke up the next morning, and Angela was gone, rattling dishes in the kitchen as she made breakfast. I heard Bobby singing in the shower. I have to take a leak. 

No, you don't!

Yes, I do. Just now I...have to.

You're going in there to look at Bobby's tool!

No! No, I'm not. It's morning, and I have to piss. I'm not. I'm...really...not going in there to see Bobby naked...

The bathroom was small, nothing unusual. The bathtub was surrounded by frosted glass--but the door was clear glass, not frosted. It was a mistake by the installers, but it was such a problem to get it replaced, we decided just to live with it. So through the door, the bather was clearly visible.

As I stood there pissing, I looked casually to the left. Bobby was busy scrubbing himself, looking away.

Look at that stud! What a body! My own kid! Varsity football player with the freckles and All-American good looks of Richie Cunningham. Unlike either Angela or me, Bobby was blond--foamy shampoo covered his crew-cut. Also unlike me, he had little hair on his body. Nothing under his arms. Nothing on his chest. Only a little hair between his legs. Damn, he's grown bigger than I am.

And damn, he's hung better than I am! I gulped. The gene for big meat must come from the maternal grandfather. I'd seen my Dad's cock. It was nice--I was fascinated by his foreskin--but it was nothing special. It was like mine--or like mine was before six months of Catuaba tea. I'd never seen Angela's father naked. At 78 he was in good shape--seemed like he could have a big one. Maybe he contributed it to Bobby because, damn, my son looked like he had a third leg. 

And that foreskin! Covered the flare of his cockhead like the nacelle of a jet engine, and the tip of his glans jutted out seductively. Like Gonzalvo's! I would love to suck that! My own pole twitched in my hand, and suddenly it got harder to piss. 

Damn, I loved looking at his hale and hearty body, the fruit of my loins, and I got such a throbbing hardon, no way could I pee. I shook my head in frustration. What in hell are you thinking? You sick, queer bastard! You would defile your own son??

I zipped up--or tried to--and left the bathroom in shame. Went into my study and poured myself a glass of Jim Beam. 

I looked out the window at the rising sun and swore in a soft voice, "I will never allow myself to touch Bobby!" I tossed back the whiskey and sat down, feeling a little better.

But the ache didn't go away. Bobby is straight, so leave him that way! I had to face it: I was a moral wreck, but my wife and son were still "whole." I had to protect them from the seething, testosterone-powered world out there.





The Botany Professor Ch. 02



He reached down and start stroking himself. What in hell is this? A student is sitting naked in a study room jacking off?

What happened next made me gasp. The door opened, and a larger man entered the room. On his shoulders was gray cloth--a sweatshirt, and as he walked, I spotted khaki pants--A coach! The kid has been caught by a coach! This ought to be good!

But the coach's arms fumbled in front of him, and suddenly--Ohmigod!--out jutted a faculty phallus! The naked student got up, went to his knees, and my mouth dropped open! So did his.

Not only was a university coach getting oral sex from a student, I saw who the coach was. Exulting in his power, and no doubt thrilling to the sucking mouth of the student, he stretched out his arms and raised his head to the heavens--and into my view.

Coach Kaugman!

Eyes closed in the madness of his orgasm, he didn't see me through the grate, but I was so dumbfounded I could hardly breathe. Oh. My. God. The sight was so erotic, I got a little frisson of arousal, my cock hard again.

This is too good to pass up. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and in the dark managed to switch off the flash and slow the exposure time. I took pictures. 

The scene below got even better. The kid bent over the desk, and I got good pix of Kaugman mounting a college student. He even cooperated by doing that "face-to-the-sky-in-rapture" move again, and I got pictures of his face.

Even got a "money shot." The coach apparently didn't want to breed the kid; he pulled out and shot his wad over the young back. Good close-ups of coach-sperm. I hope to hell these pictures come out!

When they'd finished, the kid had put his clothes back on, and they'd left, I scurried back down the ducting to the storage room, dropped down to the floor, replace the grate, and broke the speed limit getting home. There I locked myself in my study. 

I found that (1) the pictures came out pretty good, and (2) Photoshop could turn them into almost broadcast-worthy snapshots. 





The Botany Professor Ch. 03



In the quest for my son, I discover connections everywhere

I suppose I couldn't have been surprised by what happened at home, not really, not the way my luck had been running. After six months of cum-slut training, kidnapped by oversexed guerrillas in Colombia, I came home a dedicated cockhound--to a sexual desert. Nobody to plug my man-craving ass. 

Back at the university, desperate to get laid, I finally found some "fellow travelers"--who knew?--Brad Kaugman, the football coach and, right under my nose, Gary Zuborg, a hunky kid in one of my classes.

But the bombshell was the Zuborg-kid's remark upon pulling out and watching his jism drool from my butt: "You suck and fuck as well as Bobby!"

My son? My own son is gay? I didn't quite know what to think. The Colombian guerillas had broken me to the harness--I could get off just from the feel of a man's cock up my ass--but I wasn't sure I wanted my son to live such a "sneaking through the darkness" lifestyle.

But on the other hand, if Bobby was gay, he either developed it himself or, like me, something had turned him. Either way, just as I couldn't imagine myself ever again living without man-sex, so I figured Bobby's sexual fate, as Lawrence of Arabia would say, "was written."

So what's to keep me from sharing with him?

When that thought hit me in the car on the way home, I actually cummed in my pants. Damn, another pair of suit pants to the dry cleaners. That does it: no more light-tan suits.

Once home, I got out of the car with another hardon, a real thumper, hard to walk with. Bobby! I'm going to get it on with Bobby! I fought an attraction to his uncut pecker ever since returning from the jungle. I felt like shit for doing it, but I almost never missed "needing to take a pee" while he was in the shower. 

Heart pounding, I could get a good look at him through the clear glass of the shower door. Taller than I at six feet, Bobby could've been a surf-movie actor or a member of the Beach Boys. Tousled, yellow-blond hair, freckles, and a face like Richie Cunningham, he was almost the opposite of his mother and me--we're darker, brown hair, not such fair skin. Her father is Swedish, but her mother was Italian. My ancestry is Bavarian.

If I were judge and jury, I'd think Angela had maybe fooled around with one of the blond lifeguards at the beach, but she was such a kind, loyal friend, I knew mine was the only jism to splatter up inside her.

Bobby, on the other hand, was a slender version of my dream male--broad shoulders but sleek, streamlined musculature, like a competition swimmer. The shower water cascaded over pecs like shelves of muscle. I liked his nipples. And his powerful belly. 

My favorite, though, was his cock. I wouldn't let them cut him. Dad had a foreskin, but my evangelist mother made them "circumcise the flesh of his foreskin" so I would fit with the scriptures. I always wished I had a cock-hood.

But Bobby's organ was intact. Nice and long. Actually hung better than I, once he reached puberty. I was proud of him--and turned on. 

I was astonished, really, that when I returned from Colombia, suddenly I was again the better hung. After six months of drinking Catuaba tea, I outgunned him by an inch or so! 

I loved Bobby's pole, though. After Colombia, I dreamed of feeling that huge glans inside me. And then I had bouts of shame. Lusting after my innocent, un-perverted son. The clear glass of the shower was such a site of arousal to me that whenever I took a bath in there, I couldn't resist rubbing my dick against the glass door until I streaked it with some blessed relief.

The damned Walls of Jericho came crashing down when I heard that my own Bobby got it on with the student stud who laid me in my classroom. I exceeded the speed limit on the way home. I ran up the walk and onto the porch. I pulled open the front door--but holding the doorknob on the other side, was--"Sven!" 

My father was visiting. Looked like he was on his way out, though. "William! You are home early!"

"Yeah, Sven. What brings you by?"

"Ah, yes." He paused for a moment. "Is funny you are asking this. You are not believing. In 20 years of running business, I have always the translators, but now with so much time I am good with the English, and I let all Swedish translators go."

He smiled. "But in 20 years of importing the vodka, the Absolut, the Svedka, and"--he spread his hands proudly--"the Heavy Water"--he looked at me earnestly--"You are know this is contains isotope D2O, the heavy water Hitler and his nazisterna look for to make atombomb, ja?"

Sven always talked with his hands, gestures ffor all occasions, and he could wander from topic to topic like a pinball machine. He waved his hands in circles--He's erasing the blackboard, changing the subject--"But I am go to point. Never in all these years need I to know how to say the  omskärelse in English. I am thinking my daughter will know."

My father's mind moves faster than I can follow--at least as far as conversation is concerned. "And did she know the answer?"

"Ja, I am thinking she will know this." He winked at me. "She has, you know, the interest."

"Well, hey, Mr. Björl"-- --"Nej¸ you are always to call me Sven!"--

--"Right, Sven. Well, listen, Sven, why don't you hang around a while, and I'll get you a beer? Haven't talked to you in a long time. Sit down there, and let's get caught up." As I loosened my tie and took off my jacket, I heard a car pulling out of the driveway. I looked over at Sven. "Is Angela here?"

"Nej, she is going to groceries store as I am leave house. Now she is gone."

Hmm. "Is Bobby here?"

"Bobby? No, I have not see."

Just as well. I couldn't start talking about sucking his cock with his grandfather in the room.

I hurried to the bedroom, stripped off the damned pants with the big, wet circle around the zipper, leaped into a pair of shorts, then ran to the kitchen, got a couple of beers, and returned to the living room. Couldn't help myself: for a man his age, Sven was in great shape. Leaning back on the dark wool couch, the contrast was startling--Dressed in tan cotton pants (without wet-rings) and a tight white polo shirt, he was AARP eye-candy. Are you on another planet? He's your father! 

Couldn't help it, though. Sven Björl was from the stock that ravaged Europe in the Dark Ages and spread blond-haired children from Norway to Turkey. Marauding Vikings ravished local women who--I read this somewhere--were not entirely resisting. 

He was a big man, long blond hair. Reminded me of Farmer Hogett in the movie, Babe (I think his name was James Cromwell). Big, very masculine, large features.

I'd never seen him naked. Legend had it that Viking males were endowed like Africans--penises double the size of anybody else--and the legend went on to say that women in coastal villages and towns often did not exactly dread the appearance of Scandinavian raiders.

Years ago, Sven showed me a painting he kept in a closet in his bedroom. It showed Viking raiders plundering a town, and in one corner of the canvas was a Swedish warrior copulating with a local maiden. But the artist had painted her with an erotic smile on her face, and her legs were wrapped around his heaving buttocks.

Back in those pre-Colombian-kidnapping days, I was embarrassed and politely eased out of the bedroom and the situation. As we sat drinking beer, though, I wondered how to ask him to let me see that painting again.

Couldn't resist a glance down at Sven's equipment, and the bulge in Grandpa's pants was titanic. Almost obscene. Bigger than "normal." Damn, a hardon! I was speechless. The air almost crackled with electricity. Why the tension? Was it just me? Stop staring at it, idiot!

"They are treat you rough, these Colombianer?" Sven lowered his voice. "They no make the våldtäkt--the rape?" In another glance at his crotch, I swear it twitched. 

No fucking way! No way is he horny for me. He's probably thinking about his wife, rest her soul. But wow, he caught me off-guard, and I almost answered "Yes." 

But I caught myself. Changed the subject--"Uh, what was the word you asked Angela about?"

"Omskärelse. Means "circumcision."

I blinked. "How did that come up in the vodka business?" 

"Is strange. A fanatiker Jewish customer wants know about my workers." He laughed. "Nobody knows this word. Svenska män never use. You look, I show!" He did something I would not have believed--he unbuckled his pants, pulled open his zipper, and--Damn!--no underwear!

There it was. The bazooka that spawned Angela. He was in very good shape. His penis jutted up from his groin like an oar on a Viking ship. 

With a foreskin. I bit my lip, instantly horny.

He smiled. "Hey, is all right, I have the hårda kuk, the 'hard cock,' nej? Is okay. We both relax here, we sit back, we think of your adventures. We both men." 

In spite of what he's doing, asshole, he's not coming on to you! Everybody knows Scandinavians are into nudism and running around naked in sauna baths! He's just showing you his cock--like it was a handshake.

Yeah, that's right. In the brotherhood of men, we can admire other guys's packages without getting out of control! 

But I was so entranced, it was almost like a rainbow glowed over Sven's prick. It had a strange texture, randomly bumpy with veins and folds of skin. Actually muscular, like his cock had sinews under there. 

I knew that was impossible. I'm going nuts! Got to get control of myself! I was so horny, though, I felt a little drunk. I want to suck that big pump!

My mind buzzed with roaring arguments about wanting to, not daring to, self-control vs. lust, and then I heard Sven's soft voice: "You have the  omskärelse?"

"Yeah. I do." My voice was so husky, it was more a growl.

"You show."

My heart pounding, I unbuckled, unzipped, hooked my thumbs into the waistband, and slid my pants down.

He smiled. "You are the too old to wear the slip, the--how you say--briefs?"

I gulped. "Didn't, uh, think it had to do with age."

"These you take off. We see if you have the stor, the big.

He clapped his hands. "Ach, min gud! Look at this monster thing! Min gode son, is no wonder Angela is happy!" 

If an airliner crashed into the house, I could not have been more stunned. Never dreamed I would hear such words from my father. I know I blushed--but proudly--what a thrill to be as big as my towering blond father-in-law. Thank you, Catuaba!

But he was uncut, and my stem was bald-headed. 

Damn, I wanted to suck that thing. I looked up, and his eyes bored into mine. One corner of his mouth moved into a wry smile as if he'd seen what he suspected. He got up, swung one leg over me, knelt, straddling my chest, and he wiped his throbbing Swedish manhood from my nose to my chin, bobbling it over my lips. I never thought he'd do this! Never!

I didn't know Swedish, but I understood the message. I opened my mouth according to his will, and with a grunt, I sucked the big sex-gun to the back of my throat. Oh, yeah!

Suddenly I was glad of the long fuck sessions in Colombia. I was a master cocksucker and eager to show Sven what I could do. Inside my mouth, my tongue slid back his foreskin, slithered around it looking for smegma, then the tip of my tongue diddled into his piss-hole until I heard him gasp. 

I sucked him down my throat until his balls pressed against my chin. I could almost feel the sperm wriggling in them. The cummy taste of Sven's cock was by then the most familiar taste in the world to me. But something else: because his penis had sperm on it, he must've beat the meat only a short time ago. Maybe in the bathroom in my house!

Somehow I'd never thought of him doing such a thing--but then, I'd never thought I'd be sucking his cock, either. 

I gave him my Colombian-jungle "jet fighter" technique: a plane on an aircraft carrier revs up its afterburners--I hummed loudly through my nose, buzzing his cockhead in my throat--then the catapult shoots the plane into the air--I backed off Sven's shaft like it was shooting out of my throat, licking and sucking at it all the way, then stopped just before it would've popped out of my mouth and tongue-speared his piss-slit once more.

He hissed with pleasure, and I glowed with pride. I swear I could smell the fetid testosterone from his balls. He wasn't sweaty--meticulously clean--but he smelled male! Such a powerful scent raised the hair on the back of my neck.

"God!--William--you are--the cocksucker--magnifik!"

I worked him for a few more minutes, his breathing getting faster until finally, "Ach, min gud! Min lilla kuksugare--mine--little cocksucker!--I make--the cumming!"

Pow! I got a gush into my mouth of salty, slimy North Sea herring-juice. Damn, I could sure tell his ancestors were seafarers. My own orgasm was on its way, so I sucked harder.

But all my passion evaporated when I heard:

"Jesus Christ!" 

It was Angela's voice.

I looked around Sven's torso. There she stood, and she wasn't smiling. "You're sucking my father's cock!" My tiny wife, my dark-haired Tinker Bell, couldn't really manage much of a "threatening demeanor," but I got the feeling she was trying to.

I was caught in a crevasse in a Swedish glacier. Frozen. Immovable. Panicked. My jaws still stretched wide around her father's dick--and the bastard was still stroking into me! Then she blew my mind:

"So Dad talked you into it? He's been lusting after you for years." She giggled. "I never thought he'd actually get you to do it."

Whaaat? Angela? Angela, the petite wood nymph with the coal-black tidal wave of hair swirling around her face? Angela of the soft, gentle sprite-voice?

She talks with her father about cocksucking??

"Angela, min dotter, we make now the no more secrets, ja?"

Secrets? What's he talking about?

She looked back at me. "I think with you in that position, this might be a good time to let the cat out of the bag--or the pussy, so to speak." 

Her expression softened, and those huge, dark eyes melted me. "Bill, my father and I have a 'special relationship' since Mom died." She gave me a little smile. "Remember I told you about the 'little techniques' I had to comfort me while you were gone? 

"Dad is that little technique." 

She pulled open her blouse, unhooking her bra, and soon her big tits lolled into view (the real Tinker Bell could only envy), and her father reached out to grope them. 

Stupefied. My brain turned to sawdust. It hit me: Angela fucks her father.

Angela smiled down at me. "Sucking his boner is usually my job, but I'll share." She giggled again. "So now you're bi, Dad? What do you think of a blowjob from a man?"

That does it. I'm insane. I'm in a dream world. 

Nothing. Fucking nothing could have astounded me more: Angela knelt by the couch where her father straddled me, and as if to kiss me, she brought her face close to mine--but she licked and sucked at her father's cockshaft as it moved in and out of my mouth. She reached under to cup and fondle his scrotum while her old man squeezed and groped her rack. I could not believe my fucking eyes.

This is more than I can take! First I find out Bobby is getting it on with one of my students! Now I find my wife gets it on with her father??

"My two big cocks," she murmured. "Finally I get them together."

That seemed to push her father's button. Instantly I was gasping, drowning in Viking-spunk again. Damn, he had a fast reload! He pulled out as I coughed and gagged, but I succeeded in swallowing most of it. The rest Angela lapped up as it sputtered from the sides of my mouth.

When Sven got up from me, Angela nuzzled at my ear. "Bill, I hope you're okay with this. I don't mind if you suck his cock--after all, I do." She nibbled at my earlobe. "Dad is a great fucker." She lowered her voice to a deep purr. "Maybe someday you'll go so far as to let him plow you, too."

When Sven got up off me, my own boner throbbed so hard, I was afraid it would explode. Angela didn't miss that, either. She took Sven's place but moved over me to impale herself on the pride of Colombia. "Ohh, Bill, my Bill. You are the one. Yours is the perfect fit." She humped on me, holding onto my shoulders, and I grabbed both big breasts, squeezing them like reins. 

To my astonishment, Sven got to his feet and stood beside her as she lunged on me. I stared. Sven was half plumped-up already and said something to her in Swedish--must've been dirty because she closed her eyes, and as he patted her cheek, she drew a deep breath, spread her jaws wide, and took that big helmet into her little mouth. Wow, talk about all secrets being out. 

He shifted his hips, moving just enough that the big flare started down her throat. Damn! Angela can deep-throat! Once inside her, he cooed something in Swedish, and she shivered, going into an orgasm.

We fucked like that for, oh, 15-20 minutes, then I couldn't hold back any more, and Sven had reloaded completely. We gave her a two-gun salute that slimed her at both ends. Gushes of Daddy-jism spurted from the sides of her lips to drool and splatter over my chest. I pumped her plenty to run down her legs. Later, when we lay in purring afterglow, she murmured in my ear. "For years there's been a little secret in this family. I thought I'd keep it forever, but now I'm glad I don't have to any more." She kissed me. 

It hit me: Fuck, no wonder Bobby has blond hair! 

She went on. "I was so afraid you would hate me if you knew. You're such an upright, straight guy, I'm amazed my father talked you into trying cocksucking."

Oh, baby, if only you knew. 

She kissed me again, nibbling at my lips. "I guess even in the straightest guy, there's a little curiosity." She fondled my testicles. "After Mom died, at first I felt sorry for him--he's such a horny guy, always going nude around the house--but soon I couldn't resist that big prick of his. And now I crave the cocks of both my big men." 

She purred. "And now I can get them both at once!"

She lowered her voice to a hiss. "But don't tell Bobby or your father. They're the only members of the family who still aren't depraved." She kissed me. "From now on it looks like I get Swedish-American meatballed."

I'll never get a better chance to slide into this. "Angela. Honey. Maybe I am a little curious." I tried to look shy and sheepish. "Do you, you know, think your father would, you know...do such a thing with me." I bowed my head, then looked up at her like a little puppy. "What does it feel like to have that titanic thing inside you?"

She grinned. "It's to die for."





The Botany Professor Ch. 03



"Coach Kaugman talked to me about going out for the football team again. Maybe I will. I don't think I have the build for it, but he seemed to think I would do okay."

"Oh?"

"He came to me while I was in the showers. Real nice guy. Said he would work with me personally."

Once upon a time I would have taken that statement at face value. But Kaugman had sucked my cock earlier that very day, and my ass had been reamed by a hunky kid who had also told me Bobby was a good sucker and fucker. New translation: He cummed in me in the showers. Real hot guy. Said he would do me often.

I had a terrible urge to reach under the table and grip Bobby's crotch bulge, but he sat too far away. But Sven reached under and gripped mine, and I almost choked on a mouthful of Angela's cheese casserole.

Finally Sven got up. "Bill, Angela, I thank you for delicious meal. And delightful entertainment. We do again. But now I must leave. Have appointment."

I got up, and so did Angela. We walked with him to the door, out of sight of the dinner table where Bobby sat eating. Sven paused at the door, took Angela in his arms, and kissed her on the mouth. Then he grabbed me, pulled me to him, and kissed me on the mouth! 

I liked it. I sucked on his tongue.

"Ja. We do again." And he was gone.

Back in the dining room, I sat down with Bobby. "What else did you do with Coach Kaugman?"

"Oh, the usual. Running a couple of plays. Reaction tests."

Angela got up to get something in the kitchen, and I leaned over to Bobby, lowering my voice. "I heard that you also--"

He jumped up. "Well, I'm late! Got a date tonight." He looked at me and winked. "Wish me luck."

And he was gone.

Fuck!

Angela came back into the dining room with a dish covered with tin foil. "I made too much of that casserole. Why don't you drive over and give this to your father?"

"Yeah. May as well." Bobby's slipped through my fingers again.

All the way over to my parents' house, I had visions of Bobby. Naked. Sweating. Writhing and groaning under the big cock of Gary Zuborg, the student hunk who had tamed me in my classroom that very day. I wondered if that was his "date."

I smiled, wondering if Bobby ever got any of his own back. Since I'd learned the joy of fucking men--in addition to the wonderful ecstasy of a man having his way with me--I wondered what Gary's lusty buns would feel like sandwiched on either side of my thrusting cock. Maybe I'd try it the next time he cornered me in my classroom.

But after all was said and done, I preferred to release control and let the man above me rut me into ecstasy.

I bounced up the steps of my childhood home and pushed open the door. I didn't knock. I mean, I used to live there; I grew up there!

I should've. Would've given them a chance.

Dad was on his hands and knees on the living room carpet. Naked. Mounted on him was Sven. Also naked. Damn, he also gets my own father??

Never would've believed the sight. Like Farmer Hogett lying on a German goatherd. Like a PT Boat resting on a fishing dingy. Their heads together looking up at me reminded me of butter on whole-wheat toast. 

Stunning. Never would've believed it, but clearly I had to change my mind about a hell of a lot of things.

Dad gasped, "Bill! I--can explain!"

"Dad, I don't need an explanation." I took a deep breath. "I fuck men, myself."

Both of them spoke at the same moment: "You do? "

Angela's casserole cooled on the table while I watched them fuck, pulling off my own clothes as I stared. For the first time I got to feel my father's famous foreskin. I stroked him as Sven plowed his ass. 

Then I rolled under Dad and sucked him into my mouth. With some of my Colombian techniques, I got Dad to cum. Different flavor. Teutonic. Woodsy. Earthy. 

Dad was astonished that I was into man-sex, but once I got my head around the fact that my father was also gay, I got him to do what I never dared dream about--mount me for the supreme father-son bonding. Good glue, too. I could stay stuck to him like that forever. Oh, thank you, Colombia! The guerillas had reamed me out so well, Dad rammed up my ass without the slightest pain, just a little pleasure-stretch.

Later, with the sperm that made me dripping out of my ass, Dad lay on me purring. "I don't want you, though, to tell Angela or Bobby about this. They're not the perverts we are. Let them remain innocent. This can be our secret."

I couldn't believe it. I was connected with a whole series of threesomes, and I was the only member who knew the whole story.





The Botany Professor Ch. 03



Toward the end, I gave out. Knees collapsed. Fell back from Sven. Slid off the bed, collapsed onto the floor, almost passed out.

One by one the conga line disintegrated, members falling back--or forward--too ablaze with euphoria to do anything but collapse into a panting heap. Only sound was ecstatic groans and Dad's hiccups.

I also gloated over a private little triumph--I got my father's cherry. 

I crawled back onto the bed, and we lay there for a while, rolling back and forth, sucking here, groping there, teasing, and giggling. Finally Angela hissed, "It's time to get up! Bobby will be home any minute, and he can't catch us like this!"

Ah, yes, Bobby. What is it with that kid? I can't connect with him!

I would have to make a serious, well-laid-out plan.

Just then we heard a banging at the door. Fuck! I grabbed a bathrobe and hurried to answer it. At this hour of the night? What in hell is the matter?

I opened the door, and there stood Coach Kaugman. Oh, shit, this can't be good.

"Bill, it's Bobby! You've got to come with me!"

(to be continued) 

~~~~~~~~~



The Botany Professor Ch. 04



In revenge for my son, I regain my top-hood

*

Coach Kaugman pounded on the door (interrupting my first foursome with my wife, her father, and my father) to warn me about my son Bobby. "He's at a football team party, and it's getting wild."

He drove me over to the motel room site of the student whoopee, and indeed it had become a "drunken debauch." Naked cheerleaders all over the place. Naked football players chasing them. Florida is famous for such collegiate mischief.

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Look, Bill, I can't. I have sex with one or the other of those guys almost every day. I would get into more trouble than they would."

Huh? What does teacher-sex with students have to do with a drunken party? 

Further inside the motel suite was an astonishing sight. A significant number of the team were--for lack of a better term--very sexually flexible. Along with a few naked women, a dozen or so naked, drunken college men were fucking themselves to death. I recognized guys from both the varsity and junior varsity teams. Also the star quarterback and a few linebackers. 

Also Bobby, my own son. And something new: the pug-nosed hoodlum Gary Zuborg--who'd laid me on my own office desk--and Jed Nardon, another halfback, were both involved in foreplay with Bobby. 

Nardon was a 20-year-old sexual prodigy with a very big stem. "Pick him up," he said to Zuborg, who moved behind Bobby, reached his arms around my son's chest, and lifted him off the ground. 

Nardon, facing Bobby, reached down and with an arm under each of Bobby's knees, raised my son's butt up to meet with his throbbing, ready boner, and he sank it in. Bobby sighed. "Oh, yeah!"

Then it was Zuborg's turn. With a few more adjustments and shoving Bobby around, his purple cockhead nudged at Bobby's already-full hole, and--Yeow!--he made it in, too!

A double-fuck! I stared like an owl. 

Bobby was folded up in a V-shape, off the ground, his legs up over Nardon's arms, his back against Zuborg, suspended between two big athlets like a piece of happy meat between the jaws of a vise.

The Getting-Used-To Pause took a long time. I could see Bobby's teeth gritting and tears in his eyes until the pain finally went away. But he didn't scream--which made me wonder if he had done that before.

I wondered how both guys could fuck at once, but they'd developed a technique. One held still, keeping the passage tight, while the other lunged away. They took turns, one holding still, the other thrusting into Bobby.

At first it seemed like something we should protect him from, but damn, judging by Bobby's expression it looked great. Apparently a double-fuck, once you're past the initial pain, is the motherfucker of all fucks. Two horny men crammed in him at once, Bobby did like I always did--a true bottom--he climaxed when he felt his lovers cumming in him. Spurting his own jizz all over Nardon's chest and belly. 

Nardon couldn't complain. I've heard women say sperm is good for the complexion.

I thought we'd come to the motel to rescue him, but Bobby was doing his thing. I couldn't break in and interrupt it. He wanted it. And I felt a little stupid.

Until the police banged open the door. "Awright, you little perverts! You're all under arrest!" A dozen cops burst into the room, pushing some of the students around, knocking one of them down. The sons of bitches! Dressed in black riot gear! Did they think this was a nest of terrorists?

Kaugman grabbed my arm and yanked me back into the bathroom, "C'mon, there's nothing you can do to help now!" We both jumped out through the window and scurried away in the darkness to the parking lot, where we both calmly walked to his car, got in, and drove away. 

"Damn those bastards! Those kids are all of legal age. Consenting adults!" I pounded my hand on the dashboard. As he drove me home, Kaugman said the students would be taken to jail, their parents bail them out the next morning, and the worst would be a misdemeanor on their records--unless one of them ratted on the coach for some reason.

I gulped. We had been seen by a couple of the students, although not by the cops. 

I, too, would be in major trouble if the students mentioned me. I didn't think Bobby would say anything. For one thing he didn't know I was there, and for another, he wouldn't rat on his old man.

I thought about it: Bobby got into a double-fucking. Never saw such a thing. Didn't realize it was possible. And then he was in jail. For doing something that wasn't illegal. And the other students were pushed around and bullied. 

I went to the jail the next morning and paid his bail. He was very depressed on the way home.

Damn power-trip cops! Arrogant fuckers!

But something else. All those policemen were in excellent physical condition--had to be. Strenuous job. I was forced to admit it: I would love to fuck them.

And that gave me an idea. 

-==(^)==-

Catuaba is an herb that grows wild in the Amazon basin, and it's famous in the Brazilian jungle as a male tonic/aphrodisiac/enhancer, the jungle Viagra. On a daily diet of Catuaba tea for the six months I was a captive of the FARC terrorists, I found my libido heightened so terribly my sexual orientation switched around--the epitome of ecstasy to me became a horny, hunky male rutting me, dumping his seed in me, fucking me to smiling oblivion.

While puttering around with the Catuaba plants I'd grown from seed-pods brought back from Colombia, I discovered something fascinating. One day while doing some experiments with Catuaba bark, making a concentration of what I suspected were the active oils, I felt a little uncomfortable pinch in my underwear. Without thinking, I reached down into my pants to adjust the equipment. 

Almost immediately a glowing warmth spread in my prick, becoming a staggering wave of lust. Overcome, I fell back against the sink, yanked out my throbbing tallywhacker, and stroked myself to a climax. But it didn't stop! I beat my meat to orgasm after orgasm for a fucking hour! By then my dick was reddened and sore, and I was exhausted, desperate, fighting to control myself. What in hell happened?? 

Gradually, gradually, gradually the passion wore off. Oh, man! My balls were empty. I'd been dry-cumming for many minutes. When I finally had my wits about me, I realized Catuaba in such concentrations not only was an atomic-powered aphrodisiac, it also had powerful psychological effects. While it had me, I was drunk, literally inebriated, and in a weird way, somehow my brain was open to suggestion: a radio was playing in my laboratory, and for days I could not get that song out of my head!

Something else. My penis was red and sore, but during the sex-mania, there was no pain. It didn't hurt. Nothing did. I was almost numb. Barely felt my cock, just that it crescendoed over and over into consuming ecstasy. The stuff was an anesthetic--nothing I did to myself would hurt; I could've jerked myself bloody and not known it. Shit, that's powerful stuff!

I got an idea: I was pissed off about what the cops did to my son and to the other young men and women at that party. All were of legal age to drink, the noise level was not enough to warrant calling out the cops, and sex between consenting adults is not against the law! In spite of the orgy going on in the suite, there was not even so much rowdiness as to break any of the stupid pink plastic flamingos the motel thought of as Florida-chic.

Self-righteous cops who tried to force their mores on college kids really burned me. 

My PhD was in botany, not pharmacy, but I knew a little about chemistry--I tried an experiment. Few experimental subjects would allow me to swipe something strange on their penises, so I distilled the Catuaba-oil still further and mixed it with alcohol. It would have the same effect (maybe not as quickly) but absorbed through the skin of the fingers, the hand, the face, etc. 

In my first experiment, I spotted a cop running a radar trap on a country road at night. I sped past him, he came after me, blue lights flashing, and he pulled me over. 

He walked up to my window--guy about 35 or so. I read his nametag: Officer Canby. Big guy. Broad chest. Huge arms. Broad forehead, thick eyebrows, stubby nose. Like a young Karl Malden. If he hadn't been in a blue police uniform, I could've believed he was a mugger. 

I heard it said once that if you took the psychological profiles of cops and felons, mixed them up, and threw them onto a table, you couldn't read through them and separate the good guys from the bad.

Wearing rubber gloves inside leather driving gloves, I handed him my driver's license--thickly coated with Catuaba-oil. It worked. Five minutes later, he was helpless. Moaning. Staggering. Breathing hard. Gripping his crotch.

He was drunk but so lust-crazed he couldn't resist me when I got out of the car and walked up to him. "Ge'--bac'!" His voice was hoarse, and his hand kept groping his crotch.

I grabbed his arm and shoved him, lurching and trying to struggle, to the back of my car. He muttered drunkenly. "Fuc'--he'p me!"

I pulled open his shirt, and all the while, he was so sex-maddened, he kept groping and stroking at his crotch bulge. I pulled his shirt off, and bare-chested, he leaned back against my car, trying to jack himself off through his pants.

He couldn't resist me as I unbuckled his pistol belt and dropped it to the ground. Next I unbuckled and unbuttoned his pants. I yanked them down. Damn, he's wearing a jockstrap. I love jockstraps.

But in the throes of his lust, he struggled away from me and fell, wriggling on the ground, his bare ass switching back and forth, his legs snarled in the cloth of his pantlegs. Helpless, he gripped his strong pecker through the pouch and stroked. Couldn't help himself. Out of his mind with lust. Lying in the dirt jacking off.

A cop! I've got a huge, muscular cop out of control! I got him to his feet, and he stepped out of his pants. Wearing only a jockstrap and his shoes, he leaned back against my car, his eyes closed, groaning, still stroking his schlong through the jock-pouch.

Fuck, he's so mindless he can't even figure out to pull the jock-pouch aside! Trying to jack himself off through it!

I watched in awe. He's helpless. I can do anything I want to him. A giant cop's body is my plaything!

He couldn't resist when I turned him around and bent him over the car's trunk, but when I spread his legs, he moaned, "Ah--god--no--no fuc'--no--in ass!" But he could do nothing but continue to stroke his aching hardon with his right hand.

I was a little drunk, myself, with a terrible rush of power. From a small plastic bottle of lube in my pocket, I slicked him up. Then I was ready. Revenge time! I spread the white, elastic straps, fully baring him, and spread his cheeks.

Breathing hard, he arched his back, raising his head, staring blindly into the distance, and he reached behind with his left hand, gripping my cockshaft. Squeezing it, stroking. No resistance. He knew I was going to bust his cherry, but he could do nothing.

For his first fuck, the lucky bastard's numbed asshole would feel nothing but relief, wonderful relief. He groaned with passion when my cock pushed past his tight, cherry sphincter. I braced myself with my hands against his shoulders, gave a mighty lurch with my hips and got him, sinking in to the max. 

What he did get was a mind-blowing orgasm. With my very first insertion, he let out a loud groan and cummed in his jockstrap pouch. 

Powerful ejaculation. He splattered the bumper of my car and the green weeds beneath his spread legs. And that went on and on. Every time I sank my pole deep in him, he groaned in ecstasy. Fuck, this really must be messing with his mind!

The man was insane with lust. Multiple orgasms! Constant shuddering, shivering, moaning, and gasps.

As I finally reached my climax and bred him, he actually passed out. Oh, shit, now what have I done? Have I killed him?

He came to a couple minutes later. I knelt beside him and wiped my organ on his slimy jockstrap (didn't want him to get the smell of shit on me--I wanted everything about this experience to be pleasure), and sure enough, he reached out, grabbed it, and began sucking my erection, moaning, jerking his own dick again through his supporter.

When I pushed him back and spread his legs, he objected at first, but much more faintly. I pulled off his jockstrap--his last defense. Finally realizing he couldn't refuse me, he spread his legs wide, holding them back with his hands, and raised his head to watch my hose approaching his well-used ass-tunnel. 

I inserted my cock--his eyes wide--and I took him again. Gradually his face turned up to mine, and I stared down into his eyes. I could feel the power I had over him. And so could he.

My eyes boring into his, I spoke low, with a hard, athletic tone to my voice. "Your ass is mine. You are my bitch. From now on you belong to me."

"N-no--no bitch!"

About then I got my gun, and as I ejaculated into him (causing him another orgasm of his own), I gave the cop an order: "I am your master! You are my slave! Say it!"

"No!" But his feet pointed up into the sky for me. His legs spread for me. His asshole clenched and gripped against my cockshaft. "Anh!" He gritted his teeth, clenching his eyes shut, and finally, "Yeah--I slave--obey." His voice was helpless, a falsetto squeak as I pulled my meat out of him.

He lowered his legs, rose up and sucked my cock again, that time before I could clean it off. While he slurped and sucked, I bent over him. "Your cop-life is normal--until you hear me call your name." He moaned, still sucking. "Then you will obey me." He gasped but kept on with the blowjob. 

I went on: "You are my slave. I own you. As a sign of your surrender, cum for me!"

Almost instantly he stiffened, his head snapped back from sucking, and ka-blam! A jet of spunk shot out of his cock that went a good yard high! By a miracle I jerked out of the way and the big glob missed me.

Hadn't even touched himself. Ejaculation at my command.

I got back in my car and drove off, leaving him naked, cum-covered, and broken by the side of the road. Moaning in the passionflower vines, mixing his sweat and sperm-smell with the perfume of the purple flowers.

Passionflowers are the brood plants of the Gulf Fritillary butterfly. If they lay their eggs on that plant and any of them touch his semen, will we get a new species? I wondered how long he would lie there before pulling his uniform on and crawling back to his patrol car.

Man, does that stuff ever work! The experiment was a roaring success, and I set myself a new goal. I became an habitual speeder. Usually at night. Usually on empty roads.

Any cop who pulled me over and asked to see my driver's license soon found himself panting, horny, bent over my car begging me to take his cherry--and thereafter he was my servile, broken bitch. I left a trail of them behind me. 

As the weeks went by, whenever I'd spot one of my bitches, I'd catch his attention, make him take me back into an alley, then either get a blowjob, listening to him plead, "Please don't, man! I'm so fucking ashamed! I'm not gonna--Oh, god, there it is! And it's--oh, fuck!--hard--Agh, god, glomm, ungh, slurp!"

Or some of them I fucked standing up against the wall. To reinforce their bitch-hood. They begged me to let them take their cocks out so they wouldn't cream in their uniforms, but they didn't resist me. 

I refused. Let him ride around the rest of his patrols with a wet crotch. A dark spot in the front of his blue uniform pants. Let his partner wonder where that acrid odor was coming from. And if his partner was already my bitch, he'd look over at the guy with a grim, knowing smile.

Worked every time. Once one of my bitches heard me call his name, and once he knew I wanted sex, he was my cum-slut slave. So this is how the FARC terrorists in Colombia felt like with me! Damn, quite a power trip.

I even got the Chief of Police in his office--when he shook my gloved hand, he got a palm full of Catuaba. Behind the locked door, I laid him on the dark mahogany of his own desk. And he begged me to do it again.

After that I had a special status in the police station. Nice place, really. Tall palm trees on either side. Very formal. Like sentries.

When I walked in, cops all over the place looked up from their work. It dawned on me that I had every one of the patrol officers in my harem. Only the station-house staff didn't know what was going on.

On the fateful day when I asked to use the rest room, I was directed to the locker room. As I walked through it, every man there, those fully in uniform, those sitting on the benches changing from civilian clothes, and those still in street clothes looked up at me, their hands on the green locker doors, their eyes scared--but hungry. They feared to hear me call their names, summoning the demons inside them. 

They knew they were concubines in my harem. I was their alpha male, and they were broken, afraid to displease me, terrified I might order them to strip down and suck my tool. 

And they knew they would be unable to refuse. They were my slaves.

As I looked around, they ready my mind--those in the process of removing their clothes stopped when they were naked. Those in uniform began pulling them off again. Those in street clothes stripped. All in nervous silence. Not so much as the clank of a locker door.

When they were all naked, they looked around at each other. All were hard, all drooling precum. Everywhere I heard quiet murmurs of, "Oh, god, you too?" 

The men closest to me called softly, "Sir, don't. Please don't!"

I pulled open my fly. "Canby!" My first conquest. He got up, gritting his teeth, and came to me, his erect lance bobbing before him. He dropped to his knees, took my wood into his mouth, and sucked. The others stared, breathing hard.

"Okay, cops, I'm going to throw a little party this weekend. Let's call it a vodka-tasting party." I looked all around, making eye contact. "You all will be there. I've already checked your schedules; you're not on duty this weekend." 

I lowered my voice, more bass. "You will all wear PT uniform--black gym trunks and a white Police Department T-shirt. And a jockstrap."

They looked around at each other. 

"There I will assign you new owners." I smiled. "Perhaps they will be less demanding than I. You will strip, suck, fuck, do anything they wish. You will try to sell yourselves to the new owners." I looked around. 

Expressions of horror. Could've heard a pin drop.

"To confirm that you will be there, cum for me!"

Every one of the dozen or so men stiffened up, shuddering, throwing their heads back, eyes shut, and 12 cocks shot cop-jizz all over the lockers and floors. And all over each other. White slime dribbling down the green metal. Puddling on the tile floor. Dripping down tan skin. 

The incredible chemo-hypnotic power of Catuaba.

"Very well, gentlemen, see you at the Hotel Xenon." As I walked out, I turned back, "Since you now know you're all into man-sex, go ahead and enjoy yourselves!"

As I watched, they paired off, shyly at first, and embraced. After a few moments of hesitation and disbelief, each kissed the other on the mouth, fumbling for the other's erection. The police station locker room. What a sight. 

Catuaba had burned me into their consciousnesses as the pack leader, their soul-king. They could not refuse to obey me. They still had their own thoughts, though. One of them, Canby, the one who gave me the blowjob, moaned as I walked out, "Goddamn you, Thomas. What have you done to me?"




The Botany Professor Ch. 04



I turned back. "That's 'Sir' to you, and do you want me to stop?"

He gasped. "No, sir, no! I'll suck your cock!" He clasped his hands together. "You've taken my manhood. I can't fuck women any more. All I can think of is cock--your cock, sir--up my ass! All I beg is that you don't fuck me up as a cop. I can't lose this job!"

I realized that all of them had been turned into bottoms. Odd. Why didn't that happen to me when I touched myself with the stuff?

It hit me: I was already a bottom! Strange. In taking revenge for my son Bobby, I'd learned to be a top again. Damn, now I'm a bi bi! I can fuck men or women, and I can bottom or top!

I got with Coach Kaugman and arranged for another varsity party. It was a hard sell. If the other students were like Bobby, they were so humiliated by the arrest, the night in jail, and the subsequent taunts, they'd lost their spirits. 

I grieved for Bobby. My once-proud son had become paranoid and solitary. He needed a big boost to his ego. They all did. 

The only way Kaugman could get them to go to "a party" was to describe it as an athletic seminar to be held in the Hotel Xenon. I arranged for a suite there. Fabulous place, the Xenon. Tourist attraction. Big rooms. Penthouses. I didn't go that far--I reserved a suite on a lower floor.

Come Saturday night, all the young men were present, including Bobby, and Kaugman was blabbing something about physical conditioning. Then the knock at the door.

"Oh, god, not again!" 

But that time as the cops walked into the room, they wore only white t-shirts (most very tight, most showing the wearers' nipples) and black gym shorts (again very tight, every man with a noticeable crotch bulge). The cops looked around grimly, realizing the irony--they were to be given (or sold) to the very boys they had busted several weeks earlier. 

But when they saw me, any thoughts of refusal--or escape--vanished.

I addressed the fearful students. "Gentlemen of the college football team! These are the members of the city's police force, and they have a new attitude to demonstrate to you."

I looked around at the cops, and blushing, gritting their teeth, each pulled his shirt off over his head. The students gaped. Nude to the waist, the cops pushed their gym shorts down, letting them fall to the floor, and stepped out of them.

I smiled. As they stripped, the cops bumped against each other. Touching. Rubbing their butts against the guys behind them. Enjoying their growing nakedness.

My boys. Wearing just jogging shoes and jockstraps, they looked at me for direction.

I in turn looked at the student athletes. "Gentlemen, each of these police officers has come around to your way of thinking. Officers, please pull aside your jockstraps!" The students gasped. Twelve huge police cocks were upraised and hard. 

The sergeant--no one could tell his rank when he was naked, but his t-shirt had chevrons over his name--finally grunted, "Okay, boys, we're the main event." With that, he lay back on the bed and raised his legs. He looked around. "Who's first?"

Wow, that got me. I'd been thinking of a sort of auction, each cop pairing up with a new student-owner. An orgy and gang-fuck was the sergeant's idea, his libido running amok. 

What a sight. The powerful man, 50 or so, lay back flat on the bed, arms at his sides, his legs raised, spread, and--showing quite a bit of flexibility and muscle tone--his knees were drawn practically to his chest without holding them back with his hands. Completely open. Vulnerable. His asshole available to all.

"I'll be damned, you really like this, don't you?"

He looked up at me. "Yeah. By now, yeah. Gotta have it!"

I looked at the students. "Go ahead. Take 'em. They're yours! They want to be yours!" I looked at the faces of the cops. "Show them, gentlemen!"

The naked cops--slowly, timidly, hopefully--moved across the room to stand in front of the younger men. I was delighted that Officer Canby, my first, walked up to Bobby. "You really turn me on, sir," he murmured softly. "Take me. Make me your bitch."

Bobby was dumbfounded. Hesitating, shy, the cop reached out, took Bobby's hand, and pulled it down to the cop's throbbing dong. "Ah, yeah! I love the feel of your hand, sir!" The cop looked in Bobby's eyes. "Let me show you what I can do."

He dropped to his knees, reached out, and unzipped Bobby's pants. He fetched out Bobby's boner, that uncircumcised monster I'd been lusting after for months, and sucked it. The astonished expression on Bobby's face rapidly melted into horny ecstasy.

I looked around the room. There were more cops than students, and a couple of the boys had more than one suitor. Two burly policemen were trying to seduce the handsome quarterback, and three gathered around one of the big linebackers. "Take us," they begged, "we all wanna be your bitches." One blew the astonished kid while another knelt to suck his nuts. The third cop coyly leaned forward to kiss him. "We all want to serve a man," he murmured.

The sergeant who had invited all comers was skewered on the bed, a varsity rod up his ass, and he wrapped his legs around the heaving buttocks of the college student. Damn, what a sight! 

The kid fucking him was thrusting like a motorcycle piston, and both the sergeant's arms lay submissively at his sides. The young football player gripped both the sergeant's big pecs, squeezing them like tits, and the big cop's head rolled back, his eyes closed, humble, surrendering, a bitch.

My hell, he likes it! I wasn't sure if his lover was his new master--there was a line waiting to screw the sergeant.

I raised my voice. "You have all night to choose, gentlemen. These police officers are at your service. They want only to do your will. Sample them. Try them out. Pick which one--or ones--you want, and they will belong to you!"

I turned to the suite's bar with Kaugman and took a couple shots of vodka (Sven, my father had kindly donated a few bottles from his warehouse). The suite quickly filled with the aroma of man-sex: the fragrance of gonads, the scent of sweat, and the acrid stench of semen. They'll have to air this place out before they rent it again.

In every case, cop assholes were plugged with student cocks, and the changes in the young men--from what I could see--was miraculous. A kid off in the corner rode his cop doggy-style like a German Shepherd covering his bitch, and he reached down to smack the cop's ass as he lunged. "Yeah, bounce that big ass back at me, show me how much you want it!"

Another kid, one whose parents had thrown him out of the house--until a counselor from the school and their pastor had begged them to reconsider and take him back--stood ejaculating over the face of a cop kneeling before him with his mouth open. He smeared the slime over the policeman's face, and the cop murmured, "Yeah!--cum on me--all over--face!"

Incredible sight, really. A dozen big, fit, hard-cocked men giving their bodies to youths. Some of the students were still dressed, but most had stripped down to nakedness like their new lovers.

I raised my glass to Kaugman. "Well, I think we've done enough damage here for one night. Let's get out and give the lovers some privacy." 

Some privacy. A few of the boys appeared to have chosen their bitches, but others were moving from cop to cop, fucking here, getting a blowjob there--the floor, bed, couch, and chairs full of naked male bodies either getting it or giving it.

As we walked out to our cars, Kaugman and I made a little appointment for some whoopee in his office on Monday. Driving home, I thought once more about "getting Bobby fully into the family," that is, letting him discover that his grandfathers fuck each other and that they would let him fuck them. Also that his mother gets it on with his grandfathers. Also that I've been lusting after him since my return from Colombia.

I can't wait to get my mouth around Bobby's big, uncut meat! But somehow I couldn't imagine Bobby wanting to plow me. Unless he hated his father, it seemed to me most natural that a son would want his father's big cock juicing his ass with the elixir that made him. Maybe I could get him lay me, but I figured it was a pretty big order for a boy to make his own father. I had a rough time doing it to Dad. 

As a dedicated bottom, I had a problem finding people to fuck me. Coach Kaugman had fallen in love with my Catuaba-giant dick and was a total bottom to me. Only my father Sven was a Viking top, but he was often out of town for long periods. 

Luckily I had re-learned to top, but my truly favorite sex was getting it up the ass from a randy guy with a fat cock. I still had to search for somebody to show me who's boss.

-==(^)==-

The Kaugman Connection on Monday, doomed to be a peter-performance by Yours Truly (Kaugman groaning as he leaned over his desk) turned out to be postponed--I didn't cry--because the university had introduced a new, US Army Reserve Officer Training Corps program, and I had to attend the official reception. The new military faculty members met the rest of us. Wow. Big, brawny men, every one of them. 

One even turned out to be a relative. Oh, no, this is too much. A Master Sergeant Ed Thomas. A long-lost cousin. Turned out to be my mother's sister's son. 

"Oh, yeah, Ed! I remember you!" A lie. I'd never met him.

Powerful-looking guy. Close-cropped carrot-orange hair. Orange moustache. Face like an Irish Hulk Hogan. Broad chest. Shoulders like cannon balls. My own huevos stirred in appreciation.

His green uniform jacket had a chestful of ribbons. Golden chevrons on his sleeves. Fit him perfectly, like an Italian cut--broad shoulders, big chest, tapering down to a smaller waist, slim hips, close-tailored pantlegs. Captain America. A hero in green.

After the reception, he invited me over to his office to get better acquainted, talk about the relatives, share family gossip. He had a box of donuts on his desk. "Help yourself to a donut. I'm just gonna change out of this Class-A monkey-suit into my fatigues. "

"No problem, Sergeant Thomas."

"Call me Ed."

I took a donut, and Ed wandered off into another room while I stood eating. I happened to look down at his desk, where one of the drawers was pulled open. 

Damn. In the back, behind a line of file folders, was a magazine with a naked man on the cover. A gay porn mag! Hell, it really runs in the family.

I took the magazine out of the drawer and flipped through it. Typical stuff. I could have posed for a lot of those pictures myself, back in my Colombian jungle days, but looking at them, soon I was rock hard.

I tossed the magazine back into the drawer. I had just learned some military intelligence about MSG Ed Thomas that would be of use later.

Actually it was sooner. He'd come through the doorway dressed in cammo fatigues just as I tossed the magazine, and if he hadn't seen it, he heard the sound of the paper fluttering back into the drawer. "Like that magazine?" His voice was low.

"Yeah." My voice was soft, too.

He moved closer and put his arms around me. I chuckled. "Looks like we're going to be kissing cousins." His lips touched mine, and we moved rapidly into an open-mouthed, tonguing smooch. 

He'd just put on his fatigues, but I worked to get them off. Suddenly he broke the kiss and moved to the door to lock it. Then, staring into each other's eyes, we pulled off our clothes--my suit and tie over a chair, his uniform thrown over a file cabinet.

He moved close, put his hands on my waist and pulled down my boxers. I stepped out of them and again pressed my body to his for a kiss. After some tonguing, I pulled back, dropped to my knees, and pulled down his Army green boxers with my teeth. Ohmigod, he's wearing a jockstrap underneath!

It was an old, frayed, yellowed Bike #10. Vintage. An antique. A thing like that on Ebay could bring 50 bucks. 

The stained pouch sagged under something heavy. I was so fucking horny I could hardly breathe. 

Since I'd only pulled down the front of his boxers, I scrambled around to the back, and once again with my teeth I pulled down the waistband, baring his muscular bum and those sexy elastic straps.

He pulled me to my feet, and we kissed again, our cocks touching each other--mine bare and hard as iron, his thrusting out but contained in the mesh. Damn, it was even hornier than bare skin. 

What a thrill! I couldn't wait--I dropped to my knees, face-to-face with his erection. With my teeth I pulled the pouch aside.

Ohmigod, he's uncut! It stuck out hard and tight, almost straight out from his body. I licked it, and it bobbed a little. I licked the whole shaft--sweaty, musky--then took the crown into my mouth and shoved back his foreskin with my tongue. 

He gripped my hair a little painfully, and that's when I knew who was in charge. Yeah! It's about time! Gasping, off-balance, I grasped his hips with both hands and gave him my best jungle sex-slave techniques--sucking very gently, taking more inside my mouth, pulling away and teasing his cockhead with my tongue, shoving it down my throat again, holding him there, looking up at him. 

My dick leaked precum in a stream, and I could taste it from him, too. I groped his nuts, real low-hangers. Damn, never saw any so low. I backed off his rod and licked those big bastards. 

Amazing taste. Salty as potato chips with that earthy male flavor. He hasn't showered today. I sucked on his scrotum for a while then went back to his cock, but he had his own agenda. 

He yanked my head off his cock and pulled me up, turning me away from him. Ah, he's horny, too! His hand swiped something wet over the crack of my ass. Lube! He's ready for this!

Ed moved closer. Yeah! His voice was gruff: "Raise your foot up on the desk!"

Huh? As I lifted my right foot way up to rest it on his desk, he pushed me forward, forcing me to hold myself up with my hands on the desktop. Fuck, am I ever opened up, spread out, and helpless!

He placed that giant, purple knob against my backdoor, and I moaned. He started pushing, and his glans popped through, "Ugh!" The pain of admission.

He reached under to grip my nipples, pinching them, and he pushed harder, sliding in all the way. Oh, fuck! Oh, shit! But the pain gradually subsided as it always did. 

Another grunt: "I'm all the way now." And the fucking began. Slowly. 

Slowly? I wasn't expecting that; I figured he would be more hunter-killer, more militant, more savage. 

The surprise was very erotic--the suave beast. My bazooka was iron-hard as he went on like that, teasing me, keeping the sexual heat at a simmer. I groaned. All I wanted to do was boil!

He surprised me again when he moved his hands from my sore, jutting nipples and gripped my shoulders--then really laid into me. Faster, harder, forceful! Ah, yeah!

Every inch of his dick penetrated me, and I was in rapture--a big, powerful male was breeding me! I couldn't help myself--my cream splattered all over the floor and his desk. I was swimming in passion--Fuck, did I accidentally touch myself with Catuaba? 

Then Ed moaned, his hands moved from my shoulders to my hips, and--Fuck!--the pumping became hard and killer-savage! Vicious! Like a carnivore! Actually terrifying! Damn, he's going to injure me--but oh, yeah, it's coming!

He shoved all the way inside me with another loud grunt, and something shot into me. His orgasm re-sparked mine, and together we writhed in ecstasy, in the mindless joy of manhood. Yes, oh, YES! I floated through a universe of palm trees, jungle vines, and rivers of sperm. Insane. Mindless, joyous pleasure!

My orgasm was more intense than his; when I came to, he was massaging me, rubbing my back gently, his root still inside me, patting me like his dog. His bitch.

Yeah. I liked that. Pushing some bully cops around and dicking them was okay, but my greatest elation was to give up all control to a rampant male. I collapsed forward, flat onto the desk, and his dick pulled out. My ass leaked his cum--trickling down my legs. 

Knowing I'd been bred made me get a little harder again.

He got up, let me get up, and we turned to hold each other for a minute or two. His virile, sweaty body pressed wetly against mine as I purred in my afterglow made me sublimely contented--I was made, taken, subdued. Fucked! 

Damn, what a stud. And he's going to be around for a long time!

When I finally got back to my own office, hurrying to get ready for my next class, I realized I was too fucked-out to fuck Coach Kaugman anytime soon.

And Bobby. If Bobby has Officer Canby as his plaything, he's probably pretty fucked out, too. Damn. Somehow I've just got to get through to that boy!

~~~~~~~~~



The Botany Professor Ch. 05



There once was a policeman named Laidley Small, who didn't deserve it. He was a policeman, sure enough, but he wasn't small. 

And he couldn't get laid.

For months, ever since my return from six months as a hostage of terrorists in Colombia (where I was made to crave a good, stalwart cock and where I became a cum-slut), my life was one sexual adventure after another. I had sex with everybody--from other professors to a few of my students, from my father to my own father, and practically the whole damned police department.

Everybody except Bobby. Once I learned that my son was gay--the student who laid me on the desk in my own classroom told me he was Bobby's lover--I was dying to connect with Bobby if he would enjoy a little father-son bonding, a sort of professor & college senior interaction. 

And Officer Laidley Small was the key to Bobby's lock. But I wouldn't know that until I solved his problem, and I hadn't even met him yet.

-==(^)==-

After my last class on Thursday, I took the sacred bottle of Jameson's out of my desk drawer. I took a slug straight from the bottle. Everything is fine. My sex life has taken off deluxe. I was fucking everybody in my family--except my son, damnit! At age 20, Bobby was gay, so the problem was halfway solved already, but somehow he was always busy with this, busy with that. I needed the Irish whiskey to dilute my frustration.

Speaking of sex, though, I had an appointment in Coach Kaugman's office. We fucked several times a week, and while I preferred to get laid, he was such a pure bottom, he couldn't get it up to fuck me back, so I plowed him as the only option. 

I didn't mind, really. Kaugman was a man's man. Forty-five or fifty, he was bald, had a dark mustache, and was built like a football player--with just a touch of paunch. Hairy, too. A pleasure to fuck.

If there is such a thing, he didn't seem to be the "type" to be a bottom. I could relate, though. The FARC terrorists in Colombia really taught me what my asshole was for, and a combination hole-&-dick orgasm is the mightiest a man can have.

That afternoon we didn't have the usual hump over his desk, though. He was in a particularly horny mood and wanted the Deluxe Treatment: "Come on over to my apartment, where we can get naked and yell if we want to."

Hey, I'm all for naked yelling. Once through the door of his apartment, we didn't even make it to the bedroom. A trail of clothes led from the front door across the carpet to the bedroom door, but there, on the floor, he fell onto his back for me, his legs up high like goalposts, and I'll be damned if I didn't throw a touchdown pass into his asshole, sinking it in to my balls. 

We fucked for a good 20 minutes before he started his victory dance. "Oh, fuck--yeah--bastard!--ya got me!" He writhed like I was electrocuting him, and his rod splattered me with hot jizz.

As we lay there nibbling and kissing, gradually the conversation turned to sex (of course). I voiced the bottom's lament--"What can we do, both of us want to get fucked. I've been a good sport, sticking it to you when you got horny over seeing my prick, but you know, I wish I could get it up the behind."

He smiled, got up, and fetched something from under the couch. "Voila!"

He'd pulled out a big, black rubber apparatus that looked like two huge dildos at either end of a black plank. "Got it in Thailand." He set it down on the carpet. He flexed it; the "plank" was a firm panel of black rubber with two huge dildos at either end. The plank was about an inch thick. The dildos were long and thick, pointing up at the ceiling.

"Nice cocks, but how do you use it?"

"Well, first we have to get mounted." He grabbed the head of one of the dildos, ported it between his legs, then lowered himself onto it. "Oh, yeah! The glory of a big cock! Makes you know you're getting fucked." His eyes closed in bliss as he sank down over the gnarly shaft, finally sitting full on it. "Oh, it feels so good!"

He bounced a little, and finally let out a sharp gasp. "Yeah! There it is!" He looked up at me. "Look at the cock at your end--"

--"My end?"

"Yeah, you're gonna sit on that one. At the bottom of the shaft you see that big ball-shape? Once that slips inside, it won't slide back out unless you pull it out." He smiled. "Like a male dog's knot. Means you and I can move around without getting 'un-mounted'--without the cocks coming out of us." He smiled. "C'mon. Join me."

I squatted over the second dildo, ported it, and sat down, spreading my legs out over his. I, too, let out a groan. "Oh, fuck, he is a big guy!" When I was fully seated--and wriggled to work the knot inside me--we faced each other, his legs spread around and behind me, my legs spread out and over his. Both our cocks were hard.

He reached for mine; I reached for his. As we stroked each other, I moved to kiss him. Kaugman smirked as my face moved closer. His finger moved over my lips, tracing the shape. I sucked the finger inside, tonguing it like his cock. "Oh, yeah, yeah!"

He pulled the finger out and closed the distance with his mouth, his tongue tracing my lips like the finger did. I tongued out to lick his upper lip, then the lower, and finally, our mouths came together, begging each other for more stimulation.

My whole body tingled. We both twisted and writhed on the colossal rubber dongs taming us, and Kaugman's tongue came out and licked the sweat from my skin. When it was my turn, I bent over tightly and sucked one of his nipples. "Oh, man, you are hot," he hissed, and I glowed with pride.

"Oh, yeah--like you're--fucking me!" I was panting.

He kissed me again, then gave me a wink. "Watch this."

He pushed me backward, and as I lowered myself onto my back, the big, black bazooka rotated back with me on its flexible connection. I raised my legs, allowing Kaugman to pull his legs back and move to kneel over me. We were still connected at the ass.

He moved over me, crouching on hands and knees with a "gotcha" look. With another wink, he lurched his hips, rubbing our two cocks together. At the same time, the super dildo inside me moved back and forth. "Angh!--big bastard--fucking me!!"

It was a strange fuck. The angle was a little different--our peckers and family jewels pressed against each other, but hell, it was fucking, and it sure turned us on. When he moved forward, he forced my dildo deeper inside, and when he pulled back, it brought a delicious pain from the pressure on the knot.

It was certainly the weirdest screw of my life, but in only a couple of minutes, the multiple stimulations (kisses, nipple-sucking, crotch-rubbing, and the impossible double-cocks fucking us both) made both of us go off like sticks of dynamite. I went limp under the muscle-bound stud fucking me--"Ah, yeah--fuck me, Kaugman--hot bastard!--even though his fantasy was the opposite: "Angh, Thomas--hot fucker--got me going!"

At the peak of the exhilaration, we held each other tight, our assholes clenching uncontrollably from breeding each other. The spurts of his boiling sperm burned my chest and belly, and I shot mine to mix with his, the occasional gob hitting his belly when my tallywhacker slipped from contact with his.

It was fabulous! I swear to god we had one orgasm! We both shared it! I knew exactly what he was feeling, and he knew exactly what was going through me. We knew each other; we were one body connected by a double-cock! In the frenzy of the blissful madness, I swear I sensed his spunk surging up inside me. I knew that couldn't be true, but I swear I felt him breeding me! I wrapped my legs around his ass in my ecstasy. I wanted to let my lover know I loved his fucking; I craved his cum in me--or on me as the case may be.

When the mighty climax finally faded, and we purred through a long, long afterglow, he rolled off me, and we lay side-by-side, still connected at the asshole by the magical double-dildo. We kissed. We caressed each other. We teased and played. Finally he murmured, "Wanna disconnect? Have to pull the knots out over our assholes."

"Mm-mm. I want to stay like this forever."

He kissed me again. "Me, too."

Finally, though, I said, "I've got to go. All good things must end."

With a "Yipe!" and an "Ouch!" we pulled the dildo-knots past our rectums and slid out the wonderful rubber toys. "Don't lose that thing," I murmured, brushing my lips across his, "best invention since fire." I limped happily out to my car to drive home.

I even passed a police car and spotted one of "my boys" inside it. A little experiment with concentrated Catuaba oil had rendered almost the entire police department as pecker-loving sluts. Ordinarily I would've "pulled him over" for a blowjob, but I was too fucked out. 

-==(^)==-

No good deed goes unpunished, however, and every homosexual police department comes back to haunt you. 

The next day I got a phone call at my university office. The town's chief of police politely requested me to visit him at the police station. 

My blood ran cold. He spoke so carefully and so politely, I knew he was performing for whatever university recorders (or recorders at the police station) were making tapes of what he said. 

When I was pissed off at the police department for manhandling my son, I unleashed the powers of concentrated Catuaba on them. The near-magical herb from the Amazon had turned me into a cum-slut cocksucker while I was held captive by Colombian terrorists, and once home, puttering with some plants I grew from seeds, I developed a sort of concentrated "Instant Bottomizer" oil. 

When I met the police chief, and he shook my hand (in a Catuaba-soaked glove), he got a palm full of the oil, and only a few minutes later I bum-fucked him over his own desk. And he begged me to do it again.

The end, of course, was that I bottomized nearly ever member of the police department's patrol officers. Only the office staff were still "straight," theoretically, but then, who really knew?

The climax, of course, was that my cum-hungry sex-slaves were assigned as the "property" of the very college students they'd roughed up. After that I didn't know what happened to them. I suppose some of them were "freed" by their student owners. I didn't know if they still craved to trade their manhood for a guy's cock up their asses--didn't know how long the effects of Catuaba would last. It seemed to be permanent with me--my boner was still as long as it had grown in the jungle, and I still loved to get fucked.

Enough time had passed that I worried the police chief might have regained some of his moxie and would hold a grudge. I gulped. Maybe he found some law they can stick me with. Like income tax for Al Capone.

But when I entered his office, he got up and held out his hand. Oh, shit, is he trying to get me back? Is anything coating his palm? But what the hell. I shook his hand.

Didn't feel anything strange.

"Mr. Thomas, sir, we need your help."

"Uh, sure. What can I do?"

He moved behind me to lock his office door. "First thing you can to is give me that monstrous, nasty cock of yours." He pulled open his belt, dropped his blue pants, and bent over his desk. "C'mon and fuck me, and I'll tell you what we need while you show me who's boss."

Another guy you wouldn't think of as a bottom, the police chief--name of Smith--was about 50, crew-cut, craggy, lean face. Had a scar over his left cheek. A knife fight?

Like most cops, he was in excellent shape. Big muscles. Not terribly tall, though, about five-foot-eight or nine. 

But there he was, bent over and spread for me. Damn, with such an invitation, to refuse might be a form of Resisting Arrest. 

He wasn't hard to enter. He's done some practice. His man-pussy was flexible and eager. It clenched around me as I slid in, and he groaned. "Oh, yeah, you're the boss, all right."

As I thrust, he explained his problem, or tried to: "Agh, yeah--there, right there--Ah, yes!--Tell you what--we need--Oh, shit!--you to--switch over--ah, fuck, yeah!--our new guy!"

I reached under and pinched his nipples. "Oh, fuck!--Oh, shit, yeah!--Harder! Harder!!--New guy--fuckin' big--he--rape us all--once--finds out--we all cum-sluts!"

I didn't understand a lot more of what he said; my balls had their own agenda, and an orgasm was on me. I don't think he made a lot of sense, either, about then. His legs trembled, and his breath came in gasps.

Blam! He beat me. His jizz spurted out over his desk--made me a little proud, really, I fucked him into a climax--but the very idea pushed me over the edge, and I bred the police chief like another of my harem. I wondered what he told his wife when he got home smelling of semen.

Anyway, when he finally calmed down enough to tell me his problem, it turned out he had a new cop, an Officer Laidley Small, who, if he was telling the truth, was a male god. He gave me the address of Small's radar trap that day, so I went home, coated my driver's license with Catuaba-oil, pulled on my gloves, and took off.

-==(^)==-

When I went roaring past the black & white police cruiser parked off the road under some trees, he pulled out after me as expected. When I pulled over and looked in the mirror--damn!--the police chief's description was completely true; the cop was so titanic he blocked out the sun.

Damn, a fucking monster! Huge! Like Superman! Damn, even to the black hair and a curl over his forehead! And a build like a--he was right!--a male god! Not an ounce of fat, strong sinews stood out in his arms--damn, and also his neck! His blue uniform shirt stretched tight over him, and it was probably an XXL. His badge jutted out at the tip of a big--and I mean big--pectoral muscle. 

"Can I see your license and registration, please?" He stuck out a paw the size of a pizza platter.

Staring straight forward, trying not to look suspicious, I held up the card in my gloved hand, and he snatched it away. Damn, he's so big, I wonder if it will have enough effect!

I watched in the mirror as he went back to the squad car and got in. Now, if it works on him, he'll soon be falling out of the car trying to jack off.

Nope. In the mirror I saw him get out of his cruiser and come walking back to my car. Oh, shit. Still in control of himself. Is he fighting it but still able to walk? Maybe his huge size needed a little more oil.

He bent down to my window. His eyes look blank enough, though, like he's drunk. He didn't say anything. Could he be under the influence, after all? I risked: "You wanna suck my cock?"

He looked astonished. 

Oh, shit, what have I done?

Then he astonished me: "Are you serious? Pull it out!"

Oh, shit, he's not acting like all the rest. I gulped. Might as well roll with it and see what happens. I pulled open my zipper and brought out the Jungle Monster. It was hard and virile. It didn't know (or care) what was going on outside.

He pulled open my car door and dropped to his hands and knees--he was such a tall fucker, he had to get down low to be on the level of my cock. Hands under the car, he bent his head down and glommed onto my phallus like it was a water fountain at the end of Death Valley.

What a sight. Probably the biggest man I'd ever seen in my life was on his mighty hands and knees, bobbing his head up and down on my pole like he'd won the lottery. Pro technique, too. Deep-throated me with every lunge. And contented murmurs: "Mmmm, mmmm, mmmmm."

The cop-breaking routine didn't feature my cumming down his throat--my technique had been to seal the deal by fucking the guy bent over my car, so I cleared my throat. "Ahem! I've got a better place to dump my load. Get up, I'm going to fuck you!"

He backed off. "Yeah, oh, fuck, yeah!" He stood up and unfastened his gun belt.

He was wearing gloves.

It hit me: Ohmigod. The Catuaba didn't touch him!

But there he was, pants pulled down to his knees, leaning over my car, legs spread. "C'mon, do it! Fuck me!"

Incredible experience. He was so fucking gigantic, his legs so much longer than mine, I couldn't reach. "Get on the ground, get on the ground!" Damn, I'm growling cop language!

Instantly he dropped once more to hands and knees, and I crawled on. His ass-ring squeezed my dong as it sank in, and I had momentary worries about an asshole in a monster this strong, a rectum so powerful it could snap off my cock.

But it didn't. He let out such moans and groans of happiness that I knew this titanic monster was a genuine, from the balls up, bottom. "Fuck me, man, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!"

Damn, he was hot, so horny he dropped his head and chest into the dirt, spreading his arms out wide--which tipped his ass up, giving me a perfect angle, and I sank in every last millimeter, grinding my balls against his. He growled and groaned, puffing into the dirt, raising clouds of dust.

When I cummed in him, I pushed him into his own orgasm (my specialty) and his own pecker shot cop-spunk so hard the globs splattered off the ground, picking up pebbles and dust, and rattled against the car.

When it was all done, I lay on him, panting and spent, and heard his deep, bass voice: "Thank you, man. You saved my life."

Damn. Never got a compliment like that.

As he got up and pulled up his pants, dirt all over his uniform and his face, he told me he had a bottle of Jack Daniels under the seat of his car. "For medicinal purposes, you understand." He invited me to sit with him in his car and get acquainted. Said he didn't want to lose track of me. Wanted me to do him again. A regular.

I couldn't believe my ears. But what he told me in the car was even farther out.

"I don't quite know how to put this, but, hell, I'll just say it: I've got problems. Such a weight on my shoulders, I don't know if I can bear it. Everything about me is wrong. Hopeless."

Damn, what do I say to that? I let him go on.

"I look at myself in the mirror, and I want to smash the glass. I mean, it pisses me off! I stand 6'4", and I weigh 285 pounds. I made the terrible mistake of taking up weightlifting when I was a kid (before I realized how muscles would work against me), and now my chest is 58", my biceps 22" around, and I've got 30" thighs. I can't win--I have to exercise to keep fit; I can't let all that turn into flab."

By then I was truly shut up. What in hell is he talking about??

He reached down, unzipped himself, and out of those blue pants fetched a colossal hose. I hadn't seen it clearly while I was on his back fucking. Son of a bitch! A monster. Thick as my ankle. His jockstrap must be cast iron. And still soft, it would hang halfway to his knee. He continued speaking:

"Even worse, I'm hung"--No shit!--"I've heard horny women say they look at a man's hands. The legend is that a man's penis is as long as the distance from the heel of his hand to the tip of his middle finger. My hand is 13½ inches long. They also say "big feet = big cock. I wear a size 13½ shoe."

"But--but how is this a problem?" Fuck, he really is nuts!

He looked at me, pain all over his face. "Look at it this way: I 'outdo' anybody in the shower room. Longer. Thicker. Bigger foreskin. Balls twice as big as anybody else's. I have physical superiority, and it's frustrating. I could beat my fists against the wall." He looked into my eyes. "Because I'm gay." 

"Uh, about the police department, there's a little something you should kn--"

--"I'm dying here, and nobody will help me! I'm a bottom, and nobody will take me! Even when I find a man who's gay, he always expects me to be the guy on top. You see my problem? I can't get laid! You're the first guy to fuck me since I moved here!"




The Botany Professor Ch. 05



"Well, wait till you try your luck in the police sta--"

--"Oh, police stations! In the early days, I was cautious, not daring to come on to anybody in the station. I tried to give the signals to people I met. On patrols alone, if I pulled over a speeder, I made hints, hoping somehow to dredge up any homosexuals behind the wheel, but, fuck, in every case I got the 'Officer, I don't want a ticket. I'll do anything, and I mean anything.' He would reach out and try to touch my crotch, or he would come right out and tell me he would give me a blowjob.

"I always attract the wrong kind of men.

"Finally, one day, so horny I was a nervous wreck, when the speeder said, 'Please don't give me a ticket, Officer, I'll do anything,' for the first time, I moved closer and let him grope my bulge. I looked down at him, took a deep breath, and said, "Let me suck your cock."

"The guy gasped like I'd tossed a scorpion into his lap, and he snatched back his hand. 'Uh, no, Officer, I don't, uh, want to do anything, uh, obscene, and, uh, disrespectful to a policeman...and I don't wanna be entrapped.' 

"I let him go. I didn't write the ticket. The guy was so worried I was trying to entrap him, I figured giving him a ticket would only make it worse. And he wasn't going to let me suck his cock. Too afraid I was up to something.

"Damn, what's wrong with me??"

I'd never heard such a story. "Listen, Officer Small, you don't have a prob--"

--"Hey, you've fucked me. Call me Laidley." 

About then I was thinking the big cop was on the edge of a nervous breakdown, and I figured it was just lucky my Catuaba-dick and I had come along. I was just a part-time top, though; my real desire was to be on the bottom, so I wouldn't be "available" for the "regular exercise" he needed. 

He needed a confident top. Hmm, to get him randy is dandy, but liquor is quicker. After his duty day was over, I told him to meet me at my father's establishment. 

-==(^)==-

Sven Björl, a Swedish immigrant and descendant of Vikings (and my father), was the most rampant top I knew. When his wife died, he brought his daughter into his bed--and he'd continued to screw her even after she married me. I found that out as he fucked me on the living room couch and Angela walked in and caught us. She wasn't mad--in fact she joined in, and the three of us had become a frequent bi threesome. 

I also found out that when he met my father, the two of them got along very well together. I often wondered if Sven had fucked every person he'd ever met. And something else: he owned a vodka-importing company. His office was the warehouse, and he always had samples about.

"Hi, Sven, I'd like you to meet Sergeant Small."

He chuckled as they shook hands. "Small is not the good name for you. Unless the first name is Notso."

I decided there was no use in beating around the bush. "Sergeant Small has a big cock, and we're wondering if it's bigger than yours." They both looked at me with surprise--my father worried that he might have trouble with the cop, and the cop embarrassed that I'd outed him in front of a stranger. 

I had to let them both know we were all bi. I pulled down my zipper, pulled out my own woodie, and stroked it. "Go ahead, Sven, show him. And you take yours out, too, Laidley."

Together both men pulled out their dicks, and damn, what a display! Both hardened up fast, and I couldn't help it--I dropped to my knees and sucked from one to the other. 

"Ja, Officer Small, I am thinking you have me by the inches or two."

"But you've got a beaut, though." Small's voice was a growl. He pulled away from my sucking mouth and knelt before Sven. "Lemme suck that big thing."

Since I'd gotten the balls rolling, so to speak, I stepped out of the room for a minute to give them a moment alone. I also had to take a leak. 

I was gone only a minute, and while I walked back to the main office, I heard Laidley yell, but it was a yell of pleasure. As I came around the corner, My hell, Sven's corn-holing him already! Sure enough, they had skipped all the preliminaries, both of them stripped naked, and Sven was humping Laidley as he bent over the big wooden desk, his pistol belt and uniform piled on the floor along with Sven's shorts and t-shirt.

Wow, Small had a deep tan. All over--nope, he had a bikini line, and what a tiny one--must wear a thong at the beach.

Laidley's eyes rolled back in his head, and he moaned wordless garglings, a bitch in heat, as Sven went nuts on him. The big cop was so worked up, he turned sideways, looking back, and reached back with his right arm to grip Sven's left shoulder. Sven reached down to lifted Small's big right leg off the ground, turning him even more sideways. The cop stared back at his master--"Ah, god!--ya got me!" His mouth hung open, his tongue hanging out.

Sven's cock stabbed deep into the seething cavity of the cop's body, and before my very eyes, Laidley roared into an orgasm, an explosion that had him in epileptic fits, writhing and lurching in a rapture so intense his meat sprayed all over the universe. And he was panting, actually foaming at the mouth!

As he quieted down a little, Sven kept humping, and soon the Swede was doing the moaning. The experience of fucking Superman apparently made him dump a mega-load--I'll be damned if I didn't see Sven's jizz come spurting back out Laidley's sphincter around the Swede's driving cock. 

Finally Sven pulled out the mighty Viking prong. Son of a bitch! He's still hard! He looked at me. "I think now I fuck you. Make you naken."

Hell, yes, I would get naked! In a few seconds I stripped and lay back on the couch, spreading my legs and raising my feet to the sky. Soon Sven had me skewered and happy. Damn, I loved that big guy's cock--I was lucky to have it in the family. And Laidley knelt beside me and let me suck and lick at his spermy meat.

Man, what a taste. Thick stuff. Not watery. Powerful chemical taste. Semen from heavy duty testicles. Industrial quality stuff.

I was just feeling my train leaving the station when I heard the front door click and swing open--Oh, shit. Whoever it is, this won't be good. 

"Hey, Grandpa, I was wondering if you would--" 

Dead silence. 

Then, "Dad! My god!"

I looked up and around Laidley's torso, his prick still in my mouth. 

And Bobby stared down at me. 

Laidley pulled his organ out of my mouth, but I guess Sven was too close to his orgasm to stop. He bent over me and lunged in deep. He pushed my legs back even further, rolling my ass up, and with my son looking down at me, my father gave me a pounding.

I gave in, held onto his back, and rode with him.

"D-Dad--Grandpa--you're g-gay??"

Sven's bone in my ass had me a little delirious, but I forced myself to speak. "What I hear--you put out--too!"

Sven's thrusting had me on the edge of sanity, Oh, fuck, it's starting! "Bobby--let me--suck--cock!"

In a second, Bobby ran to the couch, and I moved so my head could fall back over the edge. I opened up, and my son Bobby stuck his boner into my upside-down mouth. Well, I'll be a son of a bitch, sucking my own son!

But at that moment, in my trademark response to a fucking, I went into an ejaculation without even touching myself. What a thrill! Shivering in rapture, I blasted gobs of jism all over my chest.

And I'll be damned. The sight shot my son to his climax, too. I guess the combination of seeing his father getting fucked, then getting a blowjob from his old man accelerated his system.

After only a couple minutes of sucking, a gush of the family cream made me cough. Sweaty. Salty. Ohh, the taste of Bobby. My own son.

And that did it--another orgasm! My unattended cock shuddered, then shot with Thomas-seed again, blasting out gobs to match my kid's big load machine-gunning down my throat.

About then Sven got his gun, and damn, it was hot! Like his body temperature was higher than 98.5. Sven's jizz was spatters of hot grease! Lucky I'm not a female; I'd be pregnant just from the smell of it!

What a scene. Even in Colombia I'd never been in such a combination of meat. Sven's cock in my ass, Bobby's cock in my mouth, and Laidley Small, biggest guy in the world, standing at the side jacking off.

A tiny thought: What about his mother? Angela doesn't know Bobby is gay.

But then, Bobby didn't know about his mother and her father. Or his mother and my father. Or his mother and her father and her father both at once, in both holes.

And something else: Connecting with Sven doesn't solve Laidley's problem. Sven is out of town most of the time. Then I remembered horny Coach Kaugman and his magic double-dildo. Those two were made for each other.

Things seemed to be working themselves out--and in--and out--and in...



The Botany Professor



Something about the terrible power of the big animal Gonzalvo--and this new, surprising, blind-siding gentleness--got to me. The pain, the erotic foulness of his sweat, and the heat of his body somehow combined into a terrible spiral of pleasure. Oh, god, no! My ass plugged to the max, his thrusts slugging me back and forth like a rag doll, to my horror I realized I was almost there! 

No! I can't cum for him! Can't lose the last shred of my manhood and self-respect!

But, damn, how I craved the frenzy! I hadn't had an orgasm in weeks. I bit my lip. Have to control myself! But my balls almost vibrated with arousal, and Yes! 

The jism shot up my tube, and I went insane as it spurted out all over me in boiling surges. I yelled hoarsely, lolling my head back and forth, finally groaning wordless, gargling encouragement to him, blinded by the brilliant, fiery light from his eyes.

I cummed! Massively! Without even touching myself! With the loud, wavering, guttural groans of a man in pleasure, I convulsed, writhing and bucking under him, out of my mind, eyes clenched shut, spurting still more boiling jism all over myself.

Finally, when I could open my eyes, he smiled down at me. He'd won. He'd conquered me.

I was his bitch.

He grinned, triumphant, still humping me. I still shook, gasping for breath, my chest heaving, absolutely flabbergasted. I didn't think a man could fuck another into cumming. I thought it took some handwork on my part. But he'd done it--fucked me into a mind-blowing, overwhelming orgasm. 

He reached down and stuck a finger under my balls and pressed firmly, closing off whatever exit vein was there, causing my cock to inflate again, and when he began a small, circular motion, I'll be damned if I didn't feel myself "reload." Like I could climb to another orgasm!

Incredible! He's some kind of sex god!

I looked up at Gonzalvo with new eyes. I figured him at around 35, maybe 40. His belly was flabby, but his shoulders were broad enough. His face was still ugly, but suddenly it looked "nice" ugly, like Mick Jagger or Broderick Crawford. 

And that cock. How I worshipped that mighty organ. It had fucked me into paradise! My chest and belly--and part of his groin--were covered with proof of his mastery over me, and we weren't done! He lay down on me again and humped more seriously. 

He kissed me again, and I had to admit it--I was in heaven. He kissed me on the lips, then my neck, then bent down to kiss my nipples. By then I was on fire and wrapped my legs around his hips and my arms around his neck.

I let out another loud moan and held on for dear life. He's doing it again! I'm going into an orgasm!

Hanging onto him like a baby monkey, my pole again sputtered my surrender, and again the big bastard drove me into mindless rapture. But still he fucked on, pounding me, slamming his hips into mine, and--Ohmigod, it's not stopping!--with each stroke fireworks went off in my head, and he piled one orgasm on top of another until I was in a constant state of climax! I couldn't hear anything but a roaring in my ears, but I must've been making animal sounds because the others gathered around to watch, pointing down at me and laughing. 

Gonzalvo must've enjoyed my noises. In the moments I could open my eyes, he looked down at me in triumph. Can't--believe--he constant--make me cum!

After what seemed like hours, his seed boiled up from those mighty gonads. I opened my eyes and looked up. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he thrust in so deep, I swear I could feel his cock between my lungs. His climax shoved me into one, last, earth-shaking orgasm, the most powerful ejaculation I'd ever had.

My testicles were dry--I'd shot all my semen by then--but the convulsions and catapults of my cock were so sublime, I actually passed out, floating in an ecstatic jungle-world of giant trees, giant flowers, and giant cocks.

When I came to, Gonzalvo was still grunting, thrusting into me in short, pleasant strokes, enjoying his afterglow. His sweat dripped onto me while his spend drooled out of me, around the huge cock, which had softened but still clung inside, the crown still gripped by the ring of my asshole. 

He opened his eyes and looked down. "Ahora sí, mi perra." Now you are my bitch.

What could I do? I kissed him. I wanted to thank him (but I forced myself not to).

He got up and stretched. "Ahora este se puede liberar. No nos va a escapar." Now you can turn this one loose. He's not going to escape from us. 

I hung my head in shame. I'd gone over. His bitch. Their bitch, actually. I fell back like a limp rag. Used. Fucked out. Bred.

Something had snapped inside me. When Gonzalvo got up and walked away, I realized he had no particular affection for me. He performed his natural instinct--spreading his sperm--and I was his receptacle. The "kindness" was just a ploy to break me.

But it worked. From somewhere deep within me, I knew when he pulled out, I should hold his cream inside me. When the giant meat slucked out of me, I clenched my ass shut--as best I could after such a stretch--straining to keep his essence within me. 

I felt like shit, but I couldn't shake the new feeling that I was somehow lucky. Out there in the jungle, I could afford to--I had to admit it--enjoy the predicament. I could relax and be their bitch. Surrender my manhood to them.

I eagerly drank the Catuaba they gave me. It made me horny. Wiped out guilt thoughts. And I even thought my woodies looked bigger.

But the lust grew worse. Once I couldn't deny I enjoyed sex with them, I craved those big cocks up my hungry bum, and--I'm so ashamed-- I begged them. I crawled over to them and pulled out their cocks to suck. When I caught the eye of one of them, I leaned back and spread my legs, inviting him. 

But I couldn't bring myself to beg it from Juan.

I drank so much sperm, I didn't need much water. Other than jism, I drank only Catuaba tea, anyway.

My shame was complete the day I found myself cumming not only for Gonsalvo but for every man who fucked me. Every time one of them screwed me, the blissful friction of his dong made me so horny, I ejaculated. And after three or four of them, when my balls had nothing left to shoot, I dry-cummed, writhing and moaning under them but spurting nothing. They'd broken me. Completely.

I'd become their fuck-slave. I wouldn't escape. I couldn't. I was aching for them by the time they got back from their sorties during the day. I sucked and fucked the cook and the guards six or seven times during the day until the rest got back. I was disappointed if one of them was gone or for some reason was too tired to service me.

I never jacked off. Nothing could match the sublime ecstasy of one of those big studs skewering me with his powerful bone. I ached to lie back and submit to them. I wrapped my legs and arms around them as they fucked me. When I kissed them, I sucked their tongues. When I sucked their dicks, I deep-throated them if they wanted it or buzz-sawed the men's frenulums, the "little bridles," the pleasure spots just under their cockheads. 

When I learned how much they liked rimming, I grew very good at it. With all the exercise, I could drive nails with my tongue. Anything to bring them to their pleasure--and to get them to send me into ecstasy as I took another load of their satisfaction.

Of course I missed my wife and son. I thought about them all the time. With shame. Shame and guilt. But I was powerless. Helpless. I bit my lip. There's nothing I can do.

I swore an oath to myself: If I ever get out of this, I will never, never repeat any of this degradation!

But for the time being, there's nothing I can do. And I was glad.

One of them really bothered me, though. Chico eerily reminded me of my son Bobby. He had blue eyes, as some Latinos do, and he was 19 or 20, about Bobby's age. And his voice sounded like Bobby speaking Spanish. Sucking his cock and bending over for him gave me the creeps.

But one day Chico--who was much stronger than Bobby, doubtless from living in the jungle so long--faced me and lifted me completely off the ground and lowered my naked ass onto his rugged cock, and having just finished a cup of Catuaba, I was horny and eager. 

I wrapped my legs around him and held onto his shoulders. The powerful man/boy fucked me while he held my whole body weight. Those powerful arms hugged me to him, and his dick plugged into me, skewering me with my own weight.

When he cummed in me, as always, my own excitement peaked, and I sputtered my own seed over his chest and belly. He grinned, proud of his himself--they'd turned the Yanqui into their eager whore. Then he let me fall back into the grass.

And I could not get rid of the feeling that I had just been fucked by Bobby. After a few minutes of peace as his jism slithered back out of me--after so many sessions of sex every day, I could no longer hold anything in--my mind took over, and again I thought about my home so far away. Bobby, forgive me. I would never harm you. I hated myself. What would he think if he knew his father loved to be fucked by dirty, sweaty Colombian thugs? What would he think if knew his father had just fantasized being fucked by his own son?

I wanted to escape--no, to be rescued--because for as much as I had become an all-out cum-slut for those men, I never forgot that I was a hostage, there only for ransom money. I never deluded myself that any of them held any affection for me, least of all Juan, who never missed an opportunity to kick me, shove me aside, or sometimes even piss on me. Naked at all times, eating dog and lizard, drinking filthy water, all parts of my life were miserable.

Except the fucking.

How I loved them to use me. I was in heaven--my orgasms actually moved from my balls to my asshole--a true bitch. And somehow I wallowed in it. Loved it! Catuaba is scary stuff.