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The transfer jock (12) -- by Jack Richards

When I pulled my lips back a few inches and looked lovingly into his eyes...


If Jeff said anything else about my former partner or the rules of the game of pretend we’d been playing, I didn’t hear it because my face was buried in his exposed crack and I was hungrily lapping him up from the top of his crack to his taint to his big swinging ball•sack, then sucking those big fucking hen•eggs of his into my mouth one at a time, and working them over. By that point whatever words that had been coming out of Jeff’s mouth had been replaced by moans of pleasure.


My tongue eventually worked its way all the way up Jeff’s rock•hard eighteen•year•old cock and back down to his balls, taint and crack, then zeroed in on his perfect brown bulls•eye. When I spread his cheeks as far as I could and pushed my rolled tongue well inside his ass•hole, I heard him exclaim, “Holy fuck, Coach! How the fuck did you do that?” I looked up at him, grinning, and said, “Fucking magic,” before diving back in. Before he could really start moaning again I had my rolled tongue inserted further up his anal canal than you would think is humanly possible, a fucking magic ‘trick’ I’d been taught by my favorite fraternity brother at Tulane back in the day.
The next thing my favorite frat brother, who at that relatively young age was already a genuine cock•artist, had taught me was how to drive a guy wild by tongue•ing his nerve•laden interior smooth muscle lining in a semi•circular or side•to•side motion while the rimmer’s tongue was simultaneously darting in•and•out. That dude had certainly driven me wild with his precocious  tongue•artistry (before driving me even wilder with his precocious  cock•artistry). His artful style of rimming had a similar (but perhaps even more pronounced) effect on Jeff, who was begging me to fuck him after a couple of minutes of the sustained application of my tongue to his delicious hole.
My frat bro had been convinced that the strength of the tongue•recipient’s reaction was usually a pretty solid predictor of whether a guy who hadn’t yet settled into a predominant sexual role (top vs. bottom) would gravitate more toward bottoming or topping. On the strength of Jeff’s reaction to my tongue rotating in his anal canal, my old friend no doubt would have declared with certainty, ‘Another big swinging dick with the soul of a bottom,’ just as he’d said of me.
I wasn’t so sure about that in Jeff’s case, not yet, and I had found another technique for ‘testing’ for ‘the soul of a bottom’ (also passed on to me by the same college fuck•buddy) to be a more reliable indicator of which guys have ‘the soul of a bottom’ and which don’t. While my purpose wasn’t to ‘test’ Jeff in any sense, certain aspects of my friend’s ‘bottom test’ served, to my way of thinking, as an especially intimate opening act when fucking a new guy ‘the way he needed to be fucked.’
And so I finally began with Jeff, once neither of us could take any more of my artful rimming - Jeff, because he was thrashing around, demanding my cock; me, because my tongue was beginning to cramp. “Jesus, fuck, Coach,” Jeff said when I withdrew my tongue from his asshole the last time and pulled myself up to a rough approximation of where I would need to be to slide my cock straight up his ass. At least I was in the right neighborhood, and I was rock•hard, but I still needed lube and a condom, which I retrieved from my bedside table.
“Fuck the condom, Coach,” Jeff insisted, “and fuck me right fucking now.” I should have ignored him and rolled on the rubber I had in my hand, but I didn’t, and instead tossed it on the floor and slathered a generous helping of Astro•glide on my naked shaft, then lubed my new tight•end’s tight•end thoroughly with two fingers. I pushed the head of my cock into his re•puckered brown•eye, and Jeff yelped in relief when I drove about two more inches of hard dick into him. I loved feeling the velvety smoothness of his rectum enveloping my throbbing, unsheathed cock, so pleased to have irresponsibly dispensed with that thin layer of latex.
So pleased, in fact, that it took a fuck•ton of willpower not to drive into Jeff to the hilt, balls•deep, and then fuck him as hard as I could until I blasted off, however brief that fucking might have been. Instead, I stopped cold with no more than three inches of cock parked inside him, just enough to be sure I was fully engaged and at no risk of having my dick expelled by his spasming sphincter. And his sphincter was spasming, closing tightly around the foreign intruder, relaxing and clenching again. And then I simply waited, enjoying the sensation.

When he began to squirm, which didn’t take long, I waited some more.

Jeff, no doubt, was wondering what the fucking hold•up was. “C’mon, Coach,” he urged with some urgency. When he began to squirm, which didn’t take long, I waited some more. When he started trying to scrunch down on my cock, trying to gobble up more of it by adverse possession since I wouldn’t advance affirmatively, I managed a little sideways action, which calmed him momentarily. But within a few seconds Jeff was trying to wriggle his ass back down my cock again, his hands clenching double•handfuls of the comforter covering by bed. When he was able to claim another half•inch of cock up his butt, I withdrew a half•inch. He groaned pitiably.
I kissed Jeff with all the pent•up desire I was feeling myself, which again distracted him for another few seconds. When I pulled my lips back a few inches and looked lovingly into his eyes, what I saw was confusion and, if not pain, near•desperation. “Please, Coach, please, please, please...” he begged, as his rectum continued to involuntarily clench and release my cock. I nearly relented then, but held off by smothering his ear with kisses, then whispering soothingly to him.
Jeff was not soothed, however, and mounted a final backwards attack on my cock, determined to have all, or at least more, of me inside him. I was just as determined not to advance (yet) beyond the three modest inches of dick I’d allotted him. As he later told me, and as I’d already intuited, he’d been feeling an intense and unfamiliar ‘cock•hunger’ coursing through his bowels, which he described as ‘a fierce desire to be filled all the way up with cock, your cock, to surrender everything to you…it was like my body knew that if your cock were just a few inches deeper it would somehow complete me…and I HAD to have that completion, which I’d never even  known was missing.’
As my cock•artist frat brother would’ve said, “‘Another big, fat swinging dick...with the soul of a bottom.’ And that time I would’ve agreed with him wholeheartedly. Having ‘the soul of a bottom’ was a condition with which I was personally quite familiar, though I also loved topping dudes and had eventually settled well•enough into versatility that Jack had re•christened me as having ‘the soul of a bottom with the cock•sense of a top.’ I yielded completely to Jeff’s ‘cock•hunger,’ of course, and then did all I could to fill him if not all the way up, at least as full as I possibly could, and he fucked me back ferociously once I finally began pounding him with steady, long, deep thrusts.
That was an exquisite fuck, fortified both by the lack of latex, which intensified the friction between penis and lubricated smooth muscle wall, and by the fact that I’d nutted explosively inside him (and a condom) only a couple of hours earlier. Which is to say that as good as fucking Jeff felt, and I’d never enjoyed topping any horse•hung stud more, I was also able to fuck him emphatically, not unlike he’d fucked me, and for a lot longer than I would’ve predicted was possible while I was making him squirm for much more than three measly inches of coach•cock.
Fucking Jeff reminded me more than a little of fucking my former partner, who had not been horse•hung, and that was a bittersweet memory - sad that our relationship had ended, but happy to experience again the intensity of feeling that had marked our fucking during the best of our time together. If I momentarily confused those two partners (though I never called Jeff by my former lover’s name), I like to think Jeff would have understood my confusion as the highest compliment I could have paid him, because no other lover I’d had had come so close to ‘completing’ me in the way my former partner had.
Sometime during that exquisite fuck, closer to the end than the beginning, we changed positions so that I was thrusting hard and deep into him from behind, Jeff on his hands and knees howling like a well•fucked dog, my balls slapping time against his ass. As I felt the semen rising in my balls for the last time, the time that I wasn’t going to try any longer to delay the inevitable, I’d thought I would withdraw at the last moment and squirt my jizz all over Jeff’s sweaty, muscular back...but I miscalculated and, unable to recover, resigned myself to finishing strong, blowing my load deep inside him as I hammered away. Oh well...Jeff had never expected otherwise, so he wasn’t disappointed in me.


Jack Richards is the pen name of a southern lawyer and prolific Tumblr author of prose porn.
This piece appeared first on Jack's Tumblr website. More will follow.

(Cover art by R.A. Schultz)


  1. Enjoying this story - looking for missing chapters 15, 31, 35, 37 58 and 77.


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