Rough Trade (3 page)

“Yeah?” Ted’s mouth is dry.

“Yeah. You’d probably like to hear it. What do you say, cocksucker? You wanna hear what happens to a pussy like you in a place like Omega?”

Ted bites his lip again, unable to stop it. He should get up and leave; he shouldn’t stand for Larry’s abuse. But every time Larry calls him a cocksucker he feels a lump in his throat, and another lump between his legs, and a warm, loose feeling in his guts. Then Larry leans a little further back in his chair, just enough so that Ted can see the big, soft bulge pushing at the crotch of his jeans, and Ted knows he couldn’t move if he wanted to.

“Yeah,” Ted says. His voice is so hoarse it sounds like a croak.

Larry cocks his head and smirks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d like to hear the story.”

Larry shakes his head, like a teacher with a half-wit pupil who just can’t get it right. “Seems to me that guys like you ought to call guys like me
sir.
Why don’t you ask me again. Ask me to please tell you about the cocksucker in Omega.”

Ted is chewing his lip so hard it’s almost bleeding. He counts ten heartbeats before he manages to open his mouth. Ten rapid, throbbing pulses like drumbeats across his forehead. He wants to say,
Go to hell, asshole.

Instead he says: “Please—sir. Tell me about the cocksucker in Omega?”

Larry nods, baring his perfect white teeth. “That’s better, queerboy. Sure, I’ll tell you all about it. You just keep your hands away from your faggot dick while I’m doing it.” He gets up from the table and walks to a chest of drawers in the living room, rummaging inside. Ted looks after him, staring at his broad, tanned back, the deep silky cleft of his spine, the hard muscles of his ass and thighs packed into his skintight jeans. Suddenly his mouth is no longer dry, but slick and wet inside, the saliva gushing like a starving man with a slab of beef waved under his nose. “I think I got a couple of pictures of him somewhere,” Larry says. “Yeah, here they are.” He returns to his chair and tosses one of the photos on the table.

Ted picks it up, his hands shaking. The picture is a wallet-size color photo, a high school graduation portrait of an all-American boy in mortarboard and robe. Clean-cut, more cute than handsome. Coppery blond hair, bright blue eyes, and a bullish football player’s neck. Just a trace of baby fat in his freckled cheeks, bunched up to make room for his beaming grin. Like a face from a toothpaste commercial.

“Yeah, that’s Steve. And that’s him, too.” Larry tosses the second picture on the table.

The photo is a Polaroid lit by a flash, the background solid black, the foreground stark and grainy. Ted holds the two photos side by side and sucks in his breath.

He has to look hard to convince himself that the two photos show the same person. The smiling blond jock in the first photo, and in the second—a face even his own mother might not recognize. A face his mother wouldn’t want to recognize.

The Polaroid is a tight shot, taken from two feet away. The blond’s face is in profile, turned toward the camera just enough to show both of his startled blue eyes. His head is thrown back like a sword swallower’s—chin tilted up, shoulders scrunched against the back of his neck. Dark circles under his eyes. Eyebrows drawn together. Hair frazzled and damp. Cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s, bruised and smeared with sweat. Mouth opened wide, lips stretched thin—his whole face bent out of shape by the cock plugged down his throat.

The cock hangs downward, rubbery and thick, like a cock that’s already shot its load; half of it exposed, the other half buried in the blond’s distended throat—Ted can see the outline of the head bulging against his Adam’s apple. The rest emerges from the rim of his lips like a fat link of pale sausage, plump and greasy, arching upward and finally disappearing into a thatch of wiry black pubic hair matted with spit. The owner of the cock can’t be seen, except for a glimpse of his muscular thighs and washboard stomach; but Ted knows without being told that the cock belongs to Larry.

“Candid camera,” Larry says. He leans back and clasps his hands behind his neck again.

Ted can’t take his eyes from the photo. After the initial shock of seeing the blond’s contorted, cockswallowing face, it’s the dick in his mouth that Ted keeps staring at. Plump and swollen, not even fully hard, big enough to plug the blond’s throat with half the length—

“Yeah, Stevie boy turned out to be quite a dick lover. The kind that’ll crawl and beg for it. The kind that’ll sit there and let you call him cocksucker to his face.”

Ted looks up over the edge of the photos. Larry is staring at him, smirking, flexing the muscles in his arms and chest. The bulge at his crotch now extends halfway toward his knee.

Larry laughs, a low, growling chuckle. “Yeah, that was taken during Hell Week, two years ago. Shit, even a pussy like you must know a little of what goes on during Hell Week. That was my senior year. Stevie boy was a freshman, pledging Omega. Hell Week’s where we separate the men from the pussies. The usual stuff. Make ’em shave their crotches. Make ’em go to classes with a rubber plug up their butts. Get ’em drunk, load ’em in the trunk of the car—take away their clothes and make ’em walk back into town stark naked. Line ’em up, bend ’em over and warm their butts with a leather strap. A lot of the houses have softened up on Hell Week, but Omega is strong on tradition.

“And at the end of Hell Week comes the Gods Gauntlet. You ever hear of it? Any of those horror stories about hazing ever mention Gods Gauntlet at Omega House?”

Ted has been staring at the bulge between Larry’s legs. He tears his gaze away and looks into Larry’s eyes. Eyes as cold as steel. “No.”

“The final night of Hell Week. Draw ten names out of a hat, and those ten lucky pledges get to pass the Gods Gauntlet. Me and five other guys—we were the Gods that year. Top six men in the house. That was the year we came up with a little game called ‘Egg on His Face’ for the Gauntlet. You ever heard of that?”

Ted shakes his head.

“Egg on His Face. You line the pledges up outside the room, take ’em inside one at a time. Once you’ve got him alone, you make the pledge strip off his clothes. Knock him around a little, call him names, get him softened up. Then you give him an enema. Bend him over and stick the nozzle up his ass. That’s so his butt’ll be squeaky clean inside—just in case he loses the game. Lot of those guys never had an enema before, especially not with six guys looking on. They all blushed red as a beet, but you could tell that some of ’em like it. A lot of ’em got hard-ons, couldn’t help it. That made ’em blush even redder. Yeah, when it came his turn I could tell Stevie boy liked it. The way his little weenie stood up hard as a bone, poking up from his shaved crotch while we flushed him out.

“After the enema, you make the pledge stand naked in the middle of the room. Take a fresh egg, crack it in a cup, spoon out the yolk. Tell him to open wide, then slip the yolk inside. Make him hold it in his mouth. It’s only after you’ve got him bent over, grabbing his ankles with his butt in the air, that you explain the rules of the game—you ever been zapped with a cattle prod, Teddy boy?”

Ted raises his eyebrows. His heart races in his chest. “No.”

“That’s one part of Egg on His Face. My favorite part.” Larry smiles. “Except for what comes after.” He gets up from the table and walks to the chest of drawers. It takes only a second to find what he’s after. He holds up a long slender rod attached to a handle and battery pack. “A little souvenir. Yeah, this is the cattle prod that cracked Stevie boy’s ass wide open. Still works.” He gives Ted a sidelong glance, then laughs as Ted quickly turns his face away. Ted’s eyes land on the table, on the photo of Steve with his face turned up, his throat plugged with Larry’s cock.

“Rules of the game: You keep the egg yolk in your mouth. You don’t swallow it, you don’t spit it out. No matter what happens. No matter what we do to you. And you keep your hands around your ankles at all times. And when it’s over, when we take the egg yolk out of your mouth, it better be in one piece. If it’s not—if that yolk’s been split—all six Gods are gonna fuck you up the ass.”

Larry begins to pace around the room, fondling the cattle prod in his hands. “Lot of those pledges thought we had to be kidding. So we showed ’em right off we meant business. Started out by giving each guy a lube job, greasing up his asshole till it was slick as a wet pussy inside, ready to be dicked. A lot of the pledges got turned on—yeah, old Stevie boy’s peanut stayed hard as a rock the whole time I was pumping his hole with my middle finger. Then we’d throw a bunch of rubbers on the table—wouldn’t want to get the bitch pregnant, would we? Then pull out our dicks. Pump ’em up, get ’em stiff and ready to fuck. Some of the pledges started crying right then and there. But they all kept their mouths shut tight—kept that yolk in there—and held on to their ankles for dear life.

“Then each God would take a turn whipping the guy’s ass. Laying it on with the paddle, seeing who could zing his butt the hardest. There’s nothing like the sound of a wooden paddle connecting with a guy’s naked ass—that loud, sweaty crack, like gunfire. Like a big tree split wide open by a bolt of lightning. Listen to him gurgle and scream with his mouth clamped shut. Watch him tumble over on the floor, keeping his hands around his ankles. Make him scramble back on his feet and raise his ass up for more. Watch him break out in a cold sweat, turn red as a fireplug from head to toe, till his whole body’s as red as his blistered ass. Watch him jump and shake till he can hardly stand, all the time clutching his ankles and praying that yolk doesn’t bust open in his mouth.”

Larry is pacing the room like a jungle cat, his broad thighs and ass flexing inside his skintight jeans, his back and chest glistening with a thin sheen of perspiration. Ted grabs the seat of his chair to keep from shaking. “Then we’d bring out the cattle prod. Yank the guy’s head up by a fistful of hair, make sure he got a good look at it.” Larry laughs. “The look on their faces—the way they’d screw up their eyebrows, pout their lips. Ready to whine and beg—only they couldn’t. Not with a mouthful of yolk.

“We set the charge on the cattle prod real low—administration gets pretty riled if you carry these things too far. But it doesn’t take much to give a guy a heavy zap, especially when he’s already softened up and scared out of his wits, with six hard dicks lined up and ready to screw his ass.

“Run the tip of the prod up the back of his legs. Listen to it crackle. Make him dance. Slide it between his cheeks, nuzzle it up against the back of his balls, listen to him sob. Walk around front and tap it against the head of his dick. Just a tap. That’s usually enough to knock him flat on his back, grabbing his ankles and twitching like a frog. Follow him down with the prod and make him crawl on his back across the floor. And of course all the Gods get a turn. All of us laughing and pulling on our dicks, keeping it stiff, ready to start screwing the minute that yolk pops out of his mouth.”

Larry tilts the cattle prod up like a lance, runs his fingertip down the length. Looks Ted straight in the eye. “Funny thing, though. Not a one of those first nine guys broke. When it was over, when we shoved the cup under their lips and the egg yolk came drooling out, it was as perfect and round as if it had never come out of the shell. Except for Stevie boy.”

Larry walks back to the dresser, replaces the prod. Ted looks at the photos, this time at the picture of Steve in his mortarboard and robe, cheery-eyed and smiling, the happy graduate headed for Omega. “’Course, I cheated with Stevie boy, just a little. He was the last one to come through. We’d already had our fun with the others. They’d all passed the test. The Gods were getting antsy. Pretty worked up. Needed a hole to sink our dicks into. So when it came my turn with the prod, I turned up the juice. Just a little. Had a couple of the guys grab Stevie boy’s butt and pull his cheeks wide open. Laid the tip of the prod smack on his greasy asshole. Slipped it inside an inch or two and hit the buzzer.” Larry takes a deep breath, smiling at the memory. “They must’ve heard that sucker scream all the way to Old Main. Next thing you know he’s sprawled face-down on the floor, spread-eagled and clutching the carpet, twisting around like a snake on hot asphalt. Sobbing like a baby. With egg all over his face.”

“And then—then what—” Ted’s breath is so short he can hardly speak.

“What do you think? Six horny guys with greasy hard-ons poking out of their flies. Stevie boy lying naked on the floor, reaching back to grab his butt, showing off his greasy asshole. A couple of the Gods grabbed him and yanked him up on his feet, twisted his arms behind his back. My buddy Gary—good dude, Gary grabbed him by the hair and clamped Stevie’s head between his legs. And I had my dick up that sucker’s asshole so quick he must have thought I was zapping him with the prod again.”

Larry plops himself down in the chair, spreads his legs wide open, reaches down to casually squeeze the fleshy tube running down his pants leg. “Most of us plowed his ass more than once. Walk around front when we were finished and make him lick the slime off our rubbers while the next man climbed into the saddle. Yeah, I was the first to screw Stevie boy that night. And the first to use his mouth. Made him suck his own cherry juice off my dick. Screwed him a couple more times—seemed like my dick just wouldn’t go soft that night. Saved my last load for his cocksucking mouth. That’s when that picture was taken, about half a minute after I shot my wad down his throat. Gary walked in with his camera just as I was starting to pull out and caught Stevie boy in the act.” Larry laughs. “Damn, I thought Stevie boy was about to piss himself, the way he cried and carried on and begged us to give him that picture. Never saw a cocksucker so camera-shy.”