Disclaimer: The story is not true and no malice or impeachment was intended.
Notes: BIGGEST AND VERY SPECIAL THANXX to Heather aka ScrewTheDaisies for actually taking her time to proof-read this for me! If anything doesn't read all that smoothly, that's only because I had the nerve to neglect some of her recommendations... so blame me and only me!
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What is this thing they call high school?
In case someone doesn't know, it can be the most fucked-up time in your life. You have to do a shitload of things you don't want to do; you're surrounded by a bunch of drama queens and pseudo-hunks, aka football gods; you have to fight at least fifty per cent of the time; and, most likely, you have no-one to talk to. Unless you're a drama queen or a pseudo-football-hunk, you don't really like high school.
Ah!
But of course, everything can change if one day someone new appears to blow that ever-boring scene up.
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Tommy only noticed the newcomer when the girls started all but fainting around him.
"Who's that?! Who is THAT?!!!"
"A hottie. That's who. What's-his-face... Vic?"
"Vince... Vince something... I think. Oh God, is he hot!"
The newcomer's name was Vincent Wharton. And God, was he hot.
The mere fact that Royal Oak High chicks cared for him told you something. Especially since he was no fucking football hunk, for sure.
Vince was not particularly tall, but he was well-built, and his white bell-bottoms - daring, naughty, low-sitting ones - and his white muscle T-shirt showed that alright. He had long blond hair - the unnatural, snowy whiteness of it suggested peroxide, as did those big brown eyes looking at the world defiantly from under the tousled blond fringe - eyes too dark for a blonde. Full sensual lips were drawn into a lazy smile that most girls immediately found irresistible. He walked into the hall as if he was some A-Class Hollywood movie star strutting his stuff along the red carpet on his way towards his tenth Oscar.
The girls smelled sex, sex and more sex, and were ready to jump him down.
Tommy was, too. But for a different reason.
He smelled rock'n'roll.
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"Hello. My name is Tommy. I'm a drummer in a band here."
Three short sentences. It's amazing how much time it took Tommy to compose this short monolog. And to scrape up the courage to recite it.
By lunch break, Tommy knew all there was to know about Mr. Vincent Neil Wharton. Cheap talk and rumors. Vince had been at Charter Oak High, but they kicked him out for smoking pot during classes. Vince had been arrested for beating up a guy in his class. Vince had fathered a boy before he was in high school.
And the most important one: Vince was a frontman in Rockandi, the hottest party band around.
The combination of all these undisputable virtues made Vince seem something unreachable in Tommy's eyes. Someone you could never measure up to. Someone you couldn't touch. Someone you couldn't talk to or even stare at unless you're the chosen or something. Someone like... God.
But he worked up some desperate bravery, came up to Vince in the school canteen and, his heart in his mouth (and booming there madly), said these three accursed sentences:
"Hello. My name is Tommy. I'm a drummer in a band here."
He wasn't sure what was going to happen. But he expected nothing good. The range of his expectations stretched from Vince's saying "Fuck off" to the earth opening right under his scrawny loser feet and swallowing him whole for ever daring to talk to a God like this.
But what happened was nowhere that tragic. Vince looked up from his sandwich and said, with no great interest, but good-naturedly enough:
"Oh, are you? I thought it was a football school or something."
Tommy gave a little laugh.
"I don't play football. From the looks of it, neither do you."
Vince gave him a longer look. Tommy trembled. Had he said something wrong?..
Vince sighed and shifted on the bank a little. It took Tommy a few seconds to realize that it was an invitation to sit down beside him. He did so, nervous as hell and almost high.
"I'm Vince," the blonde said. "And I really don't play football."
"I hear you're in a band."
"Yep. Rock Candy." He pronounced as though it was two separate words. Tommy couldn't help staring at his T-shirt. It had been ripped apart at the sides and sewn together with lace. Tommy never saw anyone in Royal Oak wearing anything like that.
Vince caught his stare and snickered. Tommy blushed. But he didn't have to give an account for his peering mode. There was Troy Marshall coming to their table, and he meant trouble.
If Tommy hated anyone at all - most of the time he didn't - it was Troy Marshall. He used to be the marching band captain - had been when Tommy joined them. The fucker broke his goddamn nose. Tommy didn't do anything to him at all, just played drums. Was it his fault that he could do it much better than Troy ever dreamed to? But he broke his fucking nose, and it never was straight again, and one thing you don't really want if you're sixteen, over six feet tall and all knees and elbows is a crooked nose.
Troy didn't stay in the marching band much longer. That fad had passed fast, and, with the other guys calling the drummers "band fags", there was nothing left there to fight for.
Tommy had serious suspicions Troy had taken up football.
"Do you think we need any more bleached hookers in our school?"
Vince was a threat to his authority now. A few girls sighed when Troy passed by, but they never drooled. When Vince strutted by - why, you could step on their tongues if you were following him close enough.
"We have enough hookers and enough troublemakers. Why would Charter Oak ship us some of theirs?"
Tommy waited, wondering what Vince would say. Something witty? Something simply rude? But Vince said neither.
He didn't waste time talking.
He sprang to his feet like a screw loose and delivered an awesomely well-aimed punch right in the middle of Troy's face.
Tommy heard a satisfying crunch - it seemed to him the most beautiful sound in the world. Troy shrieked. His hands flew up and covered his nose. Blood trickled through his fingers.
"And now you'll go and whine to your principal like a pussy that you are," Vince drawled. Tommy all but applauded. Troy was caught there. Everybody saw what happened; everybody heard what was said. If Troy did anything but fight now, he would stay The Pussy forever.
He didn't mess with Vince. He recoiled. Vince looked at Tommy. Yet another long look that made Tommy uncomfortable.
"I think I'm out of here for today," Vince said, spitting on the floor. "We're playing a party this Saturday - you might want to check us out."
He headed for the door. Tommy looked at his back, wondering why his bell-bottoms wouldn't fall right off him.
They sat so low, indeed.
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When you're looked down on for long enough, you forget that there are reasons for people to look at you other than your fly being unzipped. And when you're seen as a loser for long enough, that's all you yourself see when you look in the mirror. And you don't ever think that someone else might as easily see something different. You're not aware that you have your mother's huge velvet-brown passionate southern eyes, and gently curved lips, and soft auburn hair - your mother was Miss Greece once, and it is showing, but you don't see it. You never dare to suppose that someone might call you not scrawny, but lean.
And so, when someone looks at you, you think you know his reasons, and discomfort makes you twitch.
But do you really know why he is looking?
Well...
In fact, that's very unlikely.
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Quite a few background parties, and Tommy was went to each and every one of them. He saw Rockandi - or "Rock Candy", in Vince's rendition, - play. They tore the place up every given time. Tommy even felt sorry he had ever mentioned to Vince his own being in a band at all. Compared to this, his blues-covering four-piece was no fucking band, it was a fucking loser club. Rockandi were really good. They were tight. And Vince sounded so amazing. If you closed your eyes, you could think it was Robin Zander himself belting out "He's A Whore". And even if you opened your eyes, it seemed no worse. Not only did Vince sound like Robin Zander, he looked like David Lee Roth as well. Fuck it, he looked better than David Lee Roth! Always dressed in all white, his platinum hair fluffed up, his hips in constant motion as if he were going to fuck his mike stand, - Tommy was surprised a guy like that would even say hello to him when they met at school. Why Vince did so, he couldn't imagine.
He also knew a good deal more about Vince now. Much more than just rumors and cheap talk. He knew Vince really had a son, a few months old, named Neil, and Tommy even found out that Neil's mother, Tami, started going to their school as well, but he never saw her and Vince together. He knew Vince had dyslexia and that was why Tommy would never see him at any language or literature class. He knew Vince was half or so Mexican. Little bits of information that were useless to anyone else but him. They had no value; yet they were priceless.
And he knew by now Vince was no angel. At those parties, where Vince hardly noticed him but once, he saw him do all kinds of things. He saw him tell lies. He saw him steal. Saw him punch a chick in the face. And just once, he strolled into the house's parking lot and saw Vince fucking his guitarist's girlfriend on the hood of the guy's own car. Tommy turned and fled, terrified that any of them should notice him. He later saw Vince talking to the guitar guy, James, as if nothing had happened, and wondered if it was for the first time and if James was ever aware.
But somehow it never changed his attitude towards Vince. Vince was still God. And maybe... just maybe... maybe it was even worse than that. Much worse.
Tommy was afraid he was falling in love.
Afraid, scared, terrified. When he found he was going to the parties more to see Vince than to check out his band. When he found he couldn't take his eyes off these swinging hips. When he found himself wanting to turn around as he was fleeing from the parking lot, wanting to take another look, because Vince was naked.
That's not just awe, Tommy, baby, is it?
Blonde hair, brown eyes, black eyelashes. Lips and hips. White T-shirt with lace. White leg-warmers, so tight.
"Am I queer? Am I just a..."
Band fag?
"No, it can't be, I like girls, gosh, I love girls..."
Hips, moving.
Lips, smiling.
Getting him hot.
Hard.
Frightened.
------------------
Tommy has just taken a piss and was busy getting himself clean when the boys' room door shook.
Something - a hunch - made Tommy retreat into one of the cabins. In the corner. Just enough sight without too much exposure.
The door shook again. Someone was pushing it; must've forgotten he had to pull. Someone new to the environment.
Tommy knew it was Vince even before the door finally flew open and the infuriated blonde stormed in, slamming it behind him.
Infuriated; downright enraged. And Tommy could see why. Someone had played a pretty mean prank on him. Probably, threw water all over him.
Judging by what he looked like, must've been a full fucking bucket.
Wet fabric clung to him like second skin, wrinkled, transparent. His hair was wet, stuck to his cheekbones, lying flat on his forehead. Turned dark-blond.
"Fuck!" he hissed. "Fuck! FUCK!!!"
Tommy didn't know who'd done it. He'd know tomorrow, because whoever it had been would sport some pretty picturesque bruises for a week at least. One had only to look at Vince to be sure of it. The Cool Kid wasn't just snarling, he was ready to fuckin' bite.
That was one of the reasons Tommy stayed hidden. The other one was that he had a little problem to deal with before he was ready to expose himself to the public eye.
A little problem called "A Big Boner".
It was growing worse. Because Vince swore another time and began to take his T-shirt off.
It was more like scraping it off - wet, it stuck to his skin. Vince rubbed at it. Sighed. Tugged at it, making it part from his torso with a wet flopping sound. Started peeling it off upward. Revealing tanned flesh. Moist flesh, glistening in the sunlight that shot in through the window. Smooth flesh. Defined abdomen. Hairless chest. Dark nipples.
If Tommy moved a little closer to the door, he would drill it right through.
Vince finally managed to get the damned thing off. Squeezed it, arms tensing, muscles slightly bulging. A thin streamlet of water hit his chest. Sparkling. Vince rubbed it off absent-mindedly. With a palm. Probably not aware he was looking like a fucking porn movie extra. Touching himself.
Making Tommy squirm.
Vince flung his T-shirt - a miserable soaked piece of cloth - on top of a stall door and turned his attention to his pants. A bigger problem , 'cause he couldn't just take them off.
There was nothing but himself under these pants.
Vince was so wet that Tommy saw it quite clearly.
Vince looked at them. Sighed again. Looked at the window, squeezing the water out of his hair. Sighed once more. Put his palm on his thigh. Slid it down. Another sigh.
Want him. Want him. Want him.
Tommy shifted his weight from one foot to the other. And slipped. Bumped into a cabin wall, regained his balance, but a bit too late.
BUMP.
So awfully loud.
Vince's eyes widened, lips parted. Tommy would've liked this look, too, if it wasn't for the ice-cold horror he felt coming over him.
The blonde was at his stall door sooner than he could think, throwing it open.
Discovering Tommy there. Tall, awkward, blushed. His jeans still uzipped. His cock stiff and swollen and vertical.
A kiddie hard-on, har-de-har-har!!!
Vince stared at him. Slowly slid his eyes down. Back up. Down again. Tommy backed away, hit the john, tripped and sat on it.
Vince suddenly smiled. Then giggled. And then laughed.
Started laughing. Or, more like it, broke down laughing. Almost hysterically. Swaying a little. Blond hair flipping.
"Oh my," he moaned. "First that bastard with his wet jokes... and now THIS! Oh shit!.. Your day, Vinnie-boy!"
Tommy wished he could just fall through all the way to Hell. Together with the john he was sitting on.
"Is this... " Vince just couldn't stop laughing. "Is this thing... " he pointed at Tommy's boner, shaking with laughter. "Oh boy... is this thing for me?!"
Tommy dared not lie. He dropped his eyes and nodded.
Another burst of laughter.
"Guess I should beat the crap out of you," panting with laughter. "But shit, coming from you... it's almost... fuck, I'm flattered."
Tommy couldn't help but laugh, too.
And that woke Vince up. Made him snap out of his laughter.
"What are you laughing at, I wonder?" he drawled, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. "Oh, it is funny, no shit. The whole school would laugh their asses off, huh? The whole fuckin' neighborhood. Should someone tell them."
Tommy gasped, his breath caught in his chest. Band fag. Band fag. He'd be ruined. His punishment. The Hand of God.
But Vince didn't look like he was going to run out and call the world in on him. He was still staring at him. Still smiling a little. Just a little.
Tommy shifted nervously under his stare. He was still hard.
"A big one," Vince said suddenly.
Tommy looked at him, startled.
"A big one you got here," Vince pointed at his cock again. A lazy, casual gesture. "What's your name... Tommy?"
Tommy gave another sheepish nod.
"A drummer," Vince mused softly. "A drummer and his stick. This one's bigger than my own, long tall Tom. And that's remarkable."
Tommy cleared his throat. His erection began to hurt but just wouldn't die.
"Wanna compare?"
Tommy struggled not to let his jaw drop. Vince tilted his head. His hair was drying fast, getting all fluffy and snowy again.
"Hmm. I'd think you got no tongue, but I swear I remember actually talking to you. I said, Tommy, would you want me to drop my pants and compare our boys now?"
Tommy cleared his throat again and nerved himself into uttering, "Hell, why not?"
A bell rang and died away.
"Really," Vince purred. "Why not."
His bell-bottoms laced up front. Vince tugged at the lacing. Looked at Tommy. Snickered. Started undoing it.
Tommy's breathing was so heavy.
Vince unlaced his pants and peeled them off down to his knees.
He did have a big one, too. It emerged from the growth of dark hair - proving he did use peroxide. A really big one, thicker where Tommy's was longer.
And also hardening.
Tommy shivered.
"Yeah, quite a show," Vince giggled again. "So what do you say, Tommy? Tommy, who just doesn't want anyone to know he's got a hard-on for Vinnie. That leaves Vinnie in an advantaged position, huh? Classically, you should say you're ready to do whatever I want."
"And what do you want?" Tommy whispered, confused. "What do you want?"
Vince reached out. Fingertips brushed over Tommy's cheek. Outlined his lips. Rested a second on his chin. Trailed down his neck. Lower, down his chest. Over his stomach. Down to his groin. Stopping on the tip of his cock head.
Tommy gave a louder gasp.
"I want you to fuck me," Vince said. "How's that?"
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This simple phrase left Tommy speechless and breathless. Of all the things he expected to happen... this? Did he hear Vince right? Was Vince making fun of him?
Vince gave another slow smile and rubbed his thumb against the head of Tommy's cock. Tommy couldn't help whimpering. Looking in these eyes. Not bored, not defiant. Or, rather, not just bored and defiant. These eyes were jaded. So jaded. How could he have failed to see that?!
"You're thinking my terms over for too long. Or are you thinking at all, drummer boy?"
His dream come true? But it was still scary. It was the ultimate admitting that he really was into guys. Was into Vince. Would be no going back...
But Vince was getting annoyed. Would probably make him even madder, to offer himself to a loser kid like this and get turned down. Tommy didn't want to find out what a maddened Vince could do. Not now. Right now, he was so vulnerable.
"That's fine with me," he said, and his voice almost didn't tremble. "Now?"
Vince licked his lips. Smiled again.
"Fuck yeah. Only you're so worked up... you'd shoot before you could even aim." Snicker. "OK. We'll fix that."
Tommy watched on, dumbstruck, as Vince got rid of his pants altogether. Tan. Blonde mane. White-teeth smile. A golden boy of surfing.
Vince moved in yet closer.
"Get up. Get the fuck up."
Tommy slowly got off the john and straightened up, leaning against the cabin wall.
Vince's fingers closed around his aching cock. He was so close. Tommy was breathing in the scent of his hair. Sun and margaritas.
Vince pumped his cock. Tommy moaned. Very softly. Vince put his palm on Tommy's chest. Put his face up. Tommy got the message. Leaned in.
Vince's lips touched his cheek. Slid over it. Found his mouth.
A kiss.
A wet, slow, meaningful one.
Tongues battling for dominance for a few moments. Then Vince gave way. Deliberately. Letting Tommy in. Soft, yielding.
Pumping Tommy's cock all the while.
Tommy came, screaming into Vince's mouth. A muffled, whimpering scream.
Vince tore himself away.
"There, boy," he said, patting Tommy on the shoulder. Soothingly. Raised his hand to his mouth, his fingers coated with Tommy's cum. Slowly licked the creamy wet stuff off them. Tommy watched, unbelieving.
Such a whity-white fluffy paw-licking kitten.
Vince.
Vince, who, cum on his lips or no cum, was still in control of the situation.
"A big guy like you should be able to pop another hard-on pretty soon," he said calmly, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His clean hand. "And this time it should last longer."
He sounded so experienced. Tommy held back the questions ready to drop from his lips. He felt so weird. If ambiguity could be a feeling, he felt ambiguous. What had just happened sure felt good. And he knew he'd really get hard again soon, and he wanted to.
But being Vince's sex slave?
Vince gave him another one of those long the-fuck-you'll-guess-what-I-want stares of his, and Tommy decided he didn't care. The guy was ungodly hot. And he wanted Tommy. That's what mattered.
He didn't feel as much a loser as usual.
"Let's get out of here," Vince said. "I'd hate to trip and crack my head on the fucking thing," he gave the john a kick.
They moved over to the window. Tommy, holding up his jeans. Vince, graceful as ever, completely naked except for his sneakers. White ones, of course. The window glass was salient, so as to let in the light but leave no chance for the peepers.
"How long will it take?" Vince asked, impatiently. He sported an erection by now and wanted his wish granted. Oh, was he spoilt. That was one of the things that made him so special. To Tommy, anyways.
"I have no clue," Tommy said. And with a sudden fit of courage added, "Unless you speed it up."
Vince shot him a surprised glance.
"You beginning to learn to talk again, Tommy? Good," he shrugged. Smirked. "Guess I could speed it up."
Tommy was still wondering if he was going to get a slap in the face this time, when Vince dropped to his knees before him.
Tommy flinched in surprise. And gasped, this time really loud, on feeling Vince's mouth over his member.
This was something Tommy had never even dreamed of.
"Holy shit," he whispered. "Holy shit, Vince, what are you doing..."
Vince, understandably, didn't answer. He was busy. Sucking on Tommy's cock. Touching his own. Tommy felt dizzy. Dug his fingers into Vince's hair. It was just as soft as Tommy had thought it to be.
Vince's lips slid off.
"Looks like you're quite ready," he said, with just a tint of doubt, getting up.
Tommy grabbed him.
Pulled him close, let his greedy hands slide over his back, cup his ass. Kissed him. Hard. Vince made a little sound, half-surprised, half-protesting, but didn't really struggle. Tommy pulled at his hair, making him throw his head back, kissing his neck, sucking on it, biting it. Vince moaned. Loud. Tommy thought someone might just get in and find them fucking, and then realized he didn't give a shit. It all didn't matter. Vince mattered. Here, in his arms, in his hands. Tommy could feel him all over. Could taste him. And he did just that.
Vince clutched at his shoulders, moaning and crying out and moaning again.
"So strong," he whimpered. "You're so strong!"
Strong arms. Strong hands. Comes with lots of drumming practice.
Tommy's mouth went at Vince's chest hungrily, his fingers kneading Vince's buttocks.
"Aaaaahh!"
Vince's cock pressed against his thigh. Tommy's own rubbed on Vince's stomach.
"So you still want me to fuck you?" Tommy growled. "Do you... Vinnie?"
Vince's breath was shallow, his eyes bleary with excitement. He nodded.
"Yeah... fuck yeah... do it!"
Tommy turned him around and bent him over. Vince didn't say a word, just rested his elbows on the window sill. Biting his lips. Licking his lips. Biting again.
Tommy gave him a slap on the ass. Just because. Vince shivered all over and whimpered again. Oh God. He liked it? Tommy slid a hand between Vince thighs and pushed slightly. Vince's legs moved apart obediently. Was it really happening? Tommy slid his cock between Vince's buttocks. Vince's fingers scratched at the painted wood of the window sill.
Tommy shoved Vince's ass cheeks apart and slammed into him.
Vince screamed. Too loud. Tommy slapped a hand over his mouth.
"Mmmph!"
"I don't want no fucking janitor to break this up!" Tommy hissed. "I won't have anybody break this up!"
He rocked forward.
"Mmm..."
Vince's eyes were closed, his hand lying on the window sill, his hair obscuring his face. Tommy took his hand off these lips, but Vince didn't scream again. He sighed. A raspy, noisy sigh.
Tommy breathed in with a hissing sound. Vince was tight. And trembling. And hot. Feverish. He couldn't bring himself to stop even for a moment. Instead he found himself going faster. And faster.
Vince's sighs were falling into this rhythm.
"You... OK?" Tommy managed, thrusting into him. He was full-length in and he feared to hear the answer.
"More," moaned Vince, his eyes still closed. "More!"
Tommy obeyed.
Faster.
Harder.
Faster.
Harder.
"Your hand!" Vince cried.
"Wha?.." Tommy panted.
"Your hand... I'm going to scre-e-eam again..."
Tommy shut him up, and Vince's lips pressed against his palm, and in a few moments Tommy felt Vince coming, biting at his hand, convulsing all over, sweet convulsions, and Tommy held him tight and felt the scream that was shut inside him, and then he couldn't hold on any longer, and he shot his seed into Vince, burying his cry in Vince's hair, not aware that Vince whimpered and wiggled, and them gave up and grew still, very, very still.
In a few seconds Tommy came to senses . Took his hand off Vince's mouth. Pulled out of him. Vince pushed him off, and Tommy leaned against the wall, exhausted.
Vince looked at him. A little grudgingly.
"I didn't ask you to do that, fucker."
"Do what?"
"Fucking squirt into me, that's what."
Tommy's cum was trickling slowly down his thigh. His own left a whitish smear on the wall beneath the window.
Tommy shrugged, too tired to argue.
"I'm sorry."
Vince gave him a suspicious look and went for some toilet paper. Getting clean. White pants, Tommy thought, cum stains would ruin that. He snickered and pulled his own jeans back up.
Vince cleaned up and retrieved his bell-bottoms. They had gotten significantly dryer in the meanwhile. Vince looked up at Tommy, lacing them up.
"Just don't get ideas," he said.
Tommy gave another shrug. Whatever little power he had had over Vince was gone. Everything was back to normal. The Loser and the Cool Kid at their routine.
Vince put on his T-shirt. Hesitated a bit. Came up to Tommy. He had to look up to look him in the eye.
"It was... good."
"Yes," Tommy said with all sincerity. "It was."
Vince suddenly gave a little laugh.
"You have... good rhythm." They both laughed. Tension eased off a little. "Must be good at drumming. We should jam together someday."
"You bet," Tommy muttered, watching Vince head for the door. Watching the swing Vince put in his hips.
Jam together. Be actually cool enough to play in the same band with him.
You kidding.