In the musty office of Clifford Blossom, a local old-money tycoon who is well respected in the town of Rimmerdale, but scorned by most who know him personally, two high school seniors have waited patiently to make their pitch. The capitalist honored a meeting with the Rimmerdale High students, one of whom has found himself uncharacteristically intimidated by said meeting.
“I… um, sorry, Mr. Blossom… I…” Arnie Andrews stammered.
The handsome eighteen-year-old was not accustomed to asking for a handout, which was the primary reason for requesting Mr. Blossom’s time. Arnie was uncomfortable coming with hat in hand to a man whose reputation was one of corruption and general wrongdoing. The types of things that stood in stark contrast with the way Arnie’s father, Frank, raised his son.
“Quit sputtering, young man, and tell me why you’ve requested this meeting?” groused Mr. Blossom.
“What Arnie is asking, Mr. Blossom, is for a little generosity,” Veronique Lodge said, stepping in to assist her boyfriend. Veronique was the confident girlfriend of the Rimmerdale High Wildcats’ star quarterback. In the two years since she arrived in Rimmerdale, the young heiress has made a significant impact on the town where her parents, Efrem and Calliope Lodge, were raised.
“I’ve got it, Ronnie,” Arnie returned, pushing his nerves down. “Mr. Blossom, the Wildcats have been doing fine this season. But we can do better. Our game against the Stallions is in two weeks. They’re a formidable team. We came to see if you’d be willing to provide a donation for new uniforms and equipment. We’re reaching out to local business—”
“I assume your father declined this request, young lady,” Mr. Blossom hissed.
“He thought it would be more meaningful, for us and the team, if we raised the funds by reaching out to community leaders and businesspeople,” Veronique said.
Mr. Blossom stared at her coldly.
“Of course he did,” he finally replied. “How much?”
“We’re asking for one thousand dollars, sir,” Arnie said, astonished that Mr. Blossom took so little convincing.
“New uniforms and equipment for your high school football team are only one thousand dollars?” questioned Mr. Blossom.
“Well, no, sir,” Arnie answered. “We’re trying to raise seven thousand dollars. We’ve got a list of about thirty other people we’ll be asking for donations.”
“Pish posh,” Mr. Blossom said, pulling a checkbook from his ornate mahogany desk. “You need to focus on your game, Mr. Andrews. Seven thousand it is.”
Not believing their luck, Arnie tapped his girlfriend in the ankle. She returned the tap. Arnie figured she must be equally stupefied. On the drive over, the two rehearsed an entire spiel that they spent most of the previous evening writing. Veronique found several psychological studies that illustrated how sports teams performed better with new uniforms and equipment.
“I… don’t know what to say,” Arnie said.
“A ‘thank you’ will do, Mr. Andrews,” Mr. Blossom replied.
“Thank you, sir,” Veronique added. “Honestly, we’re just a little dumbstruck.”
“That’s nothing new for Arniekins, is it?” asked a voice from behind the two high school seniors. “What’s going on here?” It belonged to Sharon Blossom, their classmate, occasional friend, and more than occasional rival. Standing at the door, she looked annoyed not to be part of the conversation.
“Sharon, your friends were just excusing themselves,” Mr. Blossom said. “I’m sure they can enlighten you on their way out.”
“Mmmmm… Arnie, you’re looking particularly fetching tonight,” Sharon said with her customary snark. “Doesn’t he, Daddy?”
Clifford Blossom did not appear to be amused. Not in the slightest.
“See them out, young lady,” he repeated. “Then call your brother down. Mrs. Gunderson should have dinner ready shortly.”
“What’s the Patisse doing down here?” Sharon asked, noticing a painting set upon an easel in the corner of her father’s office.
“Yes, I admired that piece when we first came in, Mr. Blossom,” Veronique said. “It’s breathtaking. I’ve only seen it in pictures.”
“A guest wanted a personal viewing,” Mr. Blossom said. A warmth came over him as he lost himself in its beauty. “It’s been in our family for generations.”
“And one day it will be mine,” Sharon continued. “Right, Daddy?”
The warmth disappeared from Mr. Blossom’s face. Arnie could see, however tough Sharon Blosson might seem on her attractive exterior, she feared her father. Rightfully so, Arnie believed. Sharon hurried her two classmates to the door.
“So what exactly do you have to do for my father?” asked Sharon at the entrance of Thistlehill, the largest estate in town.
Arnie and Veronique exchanged confused glances.
“Nothing,” said Veronique.
“He didn’t mention repayment,” Arnie added.
Sharon giggled, holding her hand to her mouth, feebly containing her laughter. “Clifford Blossom gave you seven thousand dollars and didn’t ask for a thing in return? That is very un-Clifford Blossom. Well, keep your phones close because Daddy doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s going to want something from one of you. And that something is going to make you wish you’d never stepped onto the grounds of Thistlehill. That’s Clifford Blossom.”
Calvin Keller was running on fumes, yet was nevertheless excited about the date of his young life. His hair was on point, his blemish-free skin didn’t require an ounce of concealer, and his charcoal cashmere sweater presented his broad frame better than any of the previous three. Calvin wanted to look appealing for his clandestine rendezvous with Bull Mason, an older fullback for the Wildcats who is not open about his affinity for men.
There was just one problem, Calvin thought, looking toward his groin. His cock would not go down and it was impossible to hide the ten-inch monster that didn’t want to wait a few more hours for relief. Calvin got on his bed and tried to occupy his time by watching videos on his phone, but it was no use. As the clips played, he only had Bull on his mind; there was no hope of veering onto another subject.
The plan was to meet in the woods on the far side of Rimmerdale at midnight. Calvin knew he’d need to leave at 11:30 pm to arrive on time. It was 10:45 pm and felt like the minutes were moving backward. He decided to do the only thing any healthy eighteen-year-old would do in the same situation: he zipped down his fly.
Passing the time, and massaging his rod, Calvin reminisced about his previous non-sexual encounters between him and the man of his wet dreams. The two met in English Literature, the single course they shared together. Bull was paired with Calvin on a presentation about symbolism in poetry, one of Calvin’s strengths. Bull would meet his partner at the library each day after football practice, reeking of sweat. Calvin didn’t care. At all. He did the bulk of their work with a hard-on, wishing he could clean Bull’s sweaty nutsack with his tongue. While the two worked together, Calvin repeatedly tugged at his cock to ease the aching it felt. On their final day working on the assignment, Calvin, unable to edge any longer, sprayed his load in his jeans. He had to wait until the library emptied out before he found the courage to leave.
As Calvin stroked his tool in bed, he lifted himself up to remove his shirt and sweater. He had a propensity to shoot far, and he didn’t want to soil his clothes. Nor did he want to explain the soiling. Calvin reached over to his bedpost and pulled out a stolen jockstrap. He knew he should be ashamed he possessed it, but he couldn’t muster the emotion. Pulling his cock and pressing the pungent garment against his face, Calvin began to writhe on his bed. Each time he got close to climaxing, the young man stopped, wanting to stretch his masturbatory session as long as he was physically able.
“Oh fuck me, Bull… fuck me, Bull! Stick that fat cock inside me! Pop my fucking cherry!”
Incapable of withholding the tempest brewing in his balls any longer, Calvin lifted his pelvis high, stroking his cock directly toward his face, his mouth wide open. Streams of semen pelted the eager young man on his chest but, as planned, the majority of the wad landed in his mouth. Still covering the top half of his face with Bull’s overworked jockstrap, Calvin stroked his shaft until the last droplet of cum fell from its tip. He finally pulled the athletic supporter away and began cleaning up the remaining cum that dripped upon his muscled chest and six-pack.
Hearing a muffled noise outside his bedroom, the high-school senior looked to his left to find the unthinkable: his father, Tim Keller, was just outside the opened door with his cock in his hand and cum dripping from the head. Calvin lay motionless, not knowing whether he should be ashamed, shocked, upset, or all of the above. Tim, the sheriff of Rimmerdale, looked as equally surprised as his son. The man turned away fast without saying a word, and he was immediately out of sight. Calvin heard his father’s bedroom door slam closed before he could close his own door.
“What in the actual fuck was that?” Calvin wondered aloud. “Did he see me…? What the fuck?”
Grabbing his phone, Calvin began to text Veronique but stopped after he rethought sharing this with anybody. Was his father attracted to him? Or was he just hard up? Calvin’s mother had left the two men alone almost two years ago. Since then, his father has had a hard time finding his way back into the dating pool. It was 11:20 pm and Calvin knew he needed to decide if he was going to dwell on what just happened or meet up with Bull. He cleaned himself off, got his clothes back on, and raced from the house.
Driving across town, Calvin couldn’t get the image of his father’s cum dripping dick out of his mind. Or the distinct look of yearning on his face. Calvin came out to his dad when he was sixteen. He contemplated how long his father lusted after him if that’s what this was. But he kept shaking his head and saying, “this is crazy.” The man must just be lonely, he figured.
Turning past Hopper’s Bend, Calvin saw Bull’s car parked. It was so dark that if he didn’t know it was going to be there, he would have missed it. This reassured Calvin that they would have the privacy they needed.
“Hey,” Calvin said. “You made it.”
“Yeah,” Bull said. “I actually got here around 10:30. I was just listening to music and stuff.”
Calvin grit his teeth, wishing he thought to arrive early and thereby missing the still-unprocessed encounter with his father. He knew he needed to get that out of his head and concentrate on being in the moment with Bull. He stepped closer to his classmate.
“What kind of stuff?” asked Calvin.
“You know… uh…”
Reaching for Bull’s cock, Calvin gave it a squeeze through the front of the young man’s jeans. Bull looked as nervous as Calvin felt, but Tim Keller’s son knew how to put on a brave face. He wanted this to happen tonight.
“W-we can’t…” Bull mused.
“We can,” Calvin replied.
“Maybe I’m not…”
“You came here for a reason. The same reason I did.”
Pressing his lips against Bull’s, Calvin kissed the football player with all the passion he reserved for this particular night. He moved his hands all around his date while they made out. Calvin was excited to finally be able to feel the athletic build he’d admired for so many months. Bull got into it, pulling Calvin close. Their groins were pushed together and Calvin could feel to what extent he excited his companion. He pulled Bull’s zipper down, unleashing a second beast from its confines that evening.
“Damn,” Calvin observed. The nickname suddenly made more sense.
“We… uh…” Bull replied.
“Shhhhh… if you don’t like it, we can stop.”