Jack swung around in a single athletic leap and, almost in the same motion, firmly yet not violently, he thrust his great cock all the way up Jeff's asshole. It was done so quickly I could only think it had been deliberately painful, but even at that moment of swift total penetration, Jeff's slim hips lifted up hard to ensure that the penetration be total. He locked his legs fast about Jack's broad back, hands pulling the other's head down to his own, their open mouths meeting in a deep, passionate kiss.
Jack pulled his mouth from Jeff's, raised his torso, braced his hands on the other's shoulders and began a hard, controlled fucking that jolted the slight body with every thrust. Even from my distance I could hear the loud slap as their bodies collided. Jack's balls swung wildly, crashed against the top of Jeff's buttocks. It seemed incredible the inexperienced boy could suffer this without pain, and yet the eager way he lifted his ass to
increase
the force of the total penetration testified to the great pleasure.
Was he comparing this to the intense but perceptive fuck he'd seen Hal giving Mr. Butterworth on film? Or with the passionate, loving fuck Tom had given Mr. Butterworth and Mr. Butterworth had given Tom? There was no subtlety here. It was controlled violence, an expression of overwhelming lust in its triumphant outlet. It was a hundred times more furious, more driving than any of the four brutal fucks that had riven his unprepared asshole, and yet it was completely different, for it was lust responding to lust.
It rose and rose incredibly to a peak of furious thrusting that seemed more than that slight body could possibly withstand. And yet with each great thrust, that delectable little ass pushed hard to grasp the gleaming, steaming piston-cock in a powerful vise, till it seemed Jack was only responding to the boy's demanding lusts and none of his own.
Now, now,
now!
Jeff screamed. He thrust hips high, entirely off the bed. After three great shouting thrusts Jack let go. His whole solid body throbbed in great spasms as the orgasm came, seemingly, from all parts of him.
And from the boy's exquisite but untended cock there burst a great fountain of sperm. Seeing it, Jack yanked his cock out and fell upon the other cock to lap up the pool overflowing the boy's belly. I envied him.
Jack pulled himself together with difficulty. As if he'd aged twenty years during that nearly-equal combat, he slowly got off the bed, retrieved his robe and put it on. Jeff lay panting on the bed, his beautiful body gleaming with sweat. His cock, for all its effort, was still up, but Jack's was limp even as he withdrew it.
Better put your clothes on, Jack said flatly.
In conscious, deliberate contrast to him, Jeff leaped from the bed and quickly put on his clothes. He was acutely aware who had best survived the combat. He unlocked and opened the heavy oak door himself. Will you want to see me again?
Jack looked at him a long time and pulled himself together with an effort. Only one to a customer, kiddo. You've had yours.
See you around, Jeff scooted out the door. Jack sank into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
I'd seen enough. I packed my gear and crept back to our room.
Jeff was taking a shower. He was singing happily, but emerged when he heard me. How was it? I asked. We have met the enemy and they are ours!
WAS IT SO TERRIBLE? I ASKED JEFF SOME TIME afterwards.
He grinned. Worst experience of my whole life. He put a hand on my shoulder. But
I
never hated him, Grunt. I was startled and pulled away. What's the matter?
I reflected. Was it a slip of the tongue? And why had it appalled me? For when Jack Foster had called me that, I'd loved him. It had special meaning. Even when he used it designingly later, it gave me a funny thrill. Why did you call me that?
Grunt? So it
hadn't
been a slip. I don't know. It suddenly came to me. Does it have bad associations?
Only one person ever used it. That's all.
Did you love him? He'd succeeded in startling me again. I didn't trust myself to speak. I nodded. Mr. Foster? I turned away. How could it still hurt? I think he must have loved
you,
he said quietly.
He never fucked me.
Because he loved you, that's why. He probably never associated fucking with love. He thought if he fucked someone he loved, it could only destroy. With some people, fucking is necessarily evil.
So Jeff
did
know exactly what had happened! You can call me Grunt, I said, but only on special occasions.
As he did?
As he did.
It won't mean you owe me anything, I added. He nodded. You enjoyed it when he fucked you, didn't you?
Goes to show you don't have to love the chef to enjoy the cooking.
If you know that, I guess I won't ever worry about you. If
he'd
known that...
Yes.
I'm glad you weren't acting. I wouldn't want you to be able to act that well, even for a worthy cause.
How fantastic it must be for Tom and Mr. Butterworthto be able to fuck like that
and
love each other.
Happens rarely. If it happened all the time, people would never read books or go to plays and movies.
We took the film down to Tom next morning. The whole school was on such a knife edge when I told the prissy school clerk to ask the headmaster if I could go with Jeff to his doctor in Waterbury, he said he knew in advance it would be all right. So off we went. I was amused that after we had signed the day book, the clerk wiped off the ballpoint pen with a tissue. I had the suspicion that if he indulged in any sex at all, it was probably antiseptic. I could imagine him putting on a Trojan and rubber gloves to masturbate.
I phoned Tom the next afternoon to ask how the film had come out. Well, it was better than I expected, he said.
But you don't think I ought to try to make a living at it?
Not shooting sex scenes, anyhow.
I didn't zoom at the right places?
At a few crucial moments, you zoomed right into blank space. I suspect you were more interested in what was going on than in your camera work. Can't say I blame you. It was a sensational fuck. Jeff surprised me. He's more muscular than he looks at first glance.
I hope this phone isn't bugged.
Trust me. I doubt if I could edit the film into an Academy Award, but I'll be able to get exactly the stills we need.
When we went down Saturday and saw the stills we knew they were exactly what the situation called for. I see you've made a silk purse out of a sow's ear, I said modestly.
What was the sow's ear? Jeff asked. My asshole?
The film I shot.
With Jeff's asshole to film, how could you go wrong? asked Mr. Butterworthhe of the world's greatest asshole.
As long as I was on target, I said wryly.
If Jeff hadn't been so good, Tom said, Grant wouldn't have gotten carried away from time to time.
He turned to me. You had an orgasm when they did, didn't you?
Yes, I admitted.
I could tell by the way the film shook. I concentrate so totally on what I'm doing I don't even get a hard-on.
Not even when you shot Hal fucking me? asked his lover.
Only when editing the film. Then I practically masturbated myself to death.
Glad you saved enough energy to come to the bar.
Just barely enough.
After all this, I wasn't certain I wanted to see the film I'd shot. But Tom showed it. Actually, it was better, warts and all, than I'd begun to fear, but there were lapses at exciting moments. The camera would zoom or swing wildly, and the effect was amusing. Sometime during the shooting, I had released my raging cock from my slacks and, incredibly, at the moment Jeff and Jack were having their orgasms, a jet of my own semen could be clearly seen cutting across the lens of the camera.
He fucks like a demon, Mr. Butterworth said. Once he got going, Jeff said.
Not him, Tom corrected.
You.
Oh, Jeff said, abashed.
Technically, Mr. Butterworth said,
he
was fucking
you,
but when you come right down to it,
you
were fucking the living daylights out of
him.
You could see when it was all over how far gone he was.
Bill and I don't think we'd have the stamina to fuck you, Tom said.
You wouldn't want to? Jeff sounded like a small boy who had a new toy that no one wanted to play with.
Just a question of stamina, Bill Butterworth said. Desire has nothing to do with it.
It was only because it was Jack Foster, I said. Nobody fucks the same way twice, even with the same person.
I know you're right, Tom said.
I had to fuck that way to enjoy it, Jeff said. And I didn't see any reason why I
shouldn't
enjoy it, do you?
It would have been masochistic
not
to enjoy it, Mr. Butterworth replied.
The stills were edited so that it was unmistakably Jack Foster doing the fucking, but in none of them could Jeff be identified. In many of them, actually, what you saw of him looked even younger than fourteen. For the first time I could see the sharp difference between erotic and pornographic. The long film of Mr. Butterworth and Hal was eroticthere was hardly a foot of it that
wasn't
erotic. There wasn't a single still in the fuck between Jack and Jeff that wasn't pornographic. I've seen many pornographic pictures, but none to surpass these. The most pornographic of all was one of Jack obscenely reaching his tongue to Jeff's asshole, a look of wild, uninhibited lust caught forever on his face. Jeff's cock was ample, but not large as cocks go, yet in one shot Jack's mouth seemed grotesquely distended while taking it into his mouth, eyes staring in near madness.
Every still was designed specifically for our purposes. Tom said in looking over the film that they'd been seriously tempted to print up some that were truly beautiful but would have spoiled our purposes. Why don't you print them up for us to see? Jeff asked.
You wouldn't mind? Tom asked.
I'd like you to have them.
And I'd like to see them, I added.
Tom exchanged glances with his lover. Okay. We'll probably fuck ourselves to death picking them out.
Glad I can be useful, Jeff said with a grin.
I think you could fuck yourselves to death looking at the telephone book together, I said. They grinned guiltily.
Tom suggested that instead of merely spying on the headmaster as he looked at the pictures anonymously left under his door, I should try to get it on film. He offered to pay for the film, paying tribute to my sense of economy, but I told him to take it out of the expense fund. As it turned out, it was a wise investment. But more of that later.
Anyway I was all set up in the attic over the headmaster's quarters, two cameras on the ready, when Jeff, after making certain the hall was empty, slipped the envelope under the headmaster's door. Once before when I had been the one knocking on the door, I got the impression the headmaster had hurried over to his priceless
prie-dieu
to be discovered praying. I may have been unjust, for as I was quietly setting up my cameras overhead, I could see him, apparently praying at the
prie-dieu.
After slipping the heavy envelope under the door, Jeff rapped sharply three times. The headmaster swiveled his head towards the door, a look of annoyance on his face. He spotted the envelope, struggled to his feet, and went to get it.
He examined the outside of the envelope carefully, as though it might tell him what was within. Open it! I silently commanded, the film-maker in action. And he did.
Yes, Tom would have zoomed in on his face; so I did. More than that, I zoomed in on his eyes. They widened as they saw the first photo of the lot, a come-on that was unmistakably Jack Foster stretched out over Jeff, his great genitals dangling over the boy's face insistently and obscenely. Jeff's face was viewed at an angle rendering it unidentifiable. But the look of open lust on the other face as he gazed down at those beautiful sleek young genitals was unmistakable.
To my disappointment, the headmaster shuffled rapidly through the whole stack of fifteen eight-by-tens, too quickly to do anything but confirm they were all of the same subject. And I'd hoped to catch variations of expressions on his face to see which of the perversions horrified him most. He put the pictures back in the envelope and placed it on a table.
I was about to turn the cameras off when suddenly the headmaster stripped off his billowy homespun cassock. He was stark naked underneath and had a raging erection. I lost only a moment in astonishment before I zoomed in close on those unbelievable genitals. From the brief glimpse I caught before, my impression had been that they were monstrously big; but on reflection I'd begun to wonder if my imagination could have been playing tricks.
No, I hadn't been deceived. Incongruous was the word for his genitals, the most restrained yet accurate word I can think of. They wouldn't have been out of place on a horse. I don't see how he could possibly have worn anything
but
a cassock for, in trousers, no matter how loose-fitting, he'd surely have looked like he was suffering from a severe case of elephantiasis. Which would've been unfair, for his genitals looked magnificently healthy, perfectly proportioned to each other, no matter how outrageously out of scale with the rest of his body. If forced to make an estimate I'd say in erection his cock was sixteen to eighteen inches in length, for it seemed even beyond the distance from his groin to his knees. In mere mortal men, two inches is a crucial difference. But with a cock the size of the headmaster's, it could make little differencetwo inches. His cock was surely four inches in diameter. The corona may have been as much as five inches, his balls at least four inches in diameter each.
The headmaster seated himself in an austere-looking black leather chair beside the table on which he'd placed the incriminating photos. He winced. The leather must have felt cold to his nakedness. He gave a strange, almost spastic motion and the chair seemed to collapse. Belatedly I realized the headmaster had permitted himself the effete luxury of a reclining chair. Now he stretched out, his incongruous cock sticking straight up, the mammoth balls bulging over his thighs.
As comfortable as he wanted to be, he picked up the envelope, removed the pictures, and carefully arranged them. It was clear he was arranging them in the order of personal arousal. What struck me as odd was that the picture we'd all agreed on as the proper teaserthe one that showed Jeff's spit-slick asshole and Jack staring avidly at itwas the one the headmaster put last, as his choice in the ultimate of eroticism.
Now that he had the pictures arranged to his satisfaction, he began going through them slowly, gently masturbating his outsized cock in the process. The pictures were on the table. Using only one hand, he picked them up singly, gazed intensely, gently stroking only the great pink chrysanthemum of a glans with his right hand. As he finished with each photo, he simply dropped it on the floor.
One might imagine such a gigantic cock would require a gigantic effort to bring it to orgasm, but from the careful, slow stroking the headmaster gave on the head, I guessed it was extremely sensitive and required a minimal effort.
One by one he went through the pictures. On his face was a look of hypnotic fascination. His hand, slowly stroking the head of his cock, kept up its steady pace unfalteringly. Only the sweat beading on his brow and finally over his whole body betrayed the growing intensity.
He was totally silent till at last he reached the final picture, the one clear, unimpeded shot of the beautiful young asshole. He let out a wild animal cry, dropped the picture, seized his cock hard with both hands and bent his body forward to clamp his open mouth over the great deep cleft. From the violent pulsing of the shaft and the gulping of his Adam's apple, I knew a fantastically large orgasm had exploded into his eager, waiting mouth.
Slowly, reluctantly, he lifted his mouth from his cock. But as still another glob issued from the cleft he dipped his head and his tongue darted out to lap it up as though to lose even one drop would weaken him.
He lay back. Slowly his cock subsided to a relatively small twelve inches, still seeming hardly less thick than his thighs, and reaching nearly to his knees.