The Fortunes of Fausto (Siren Publishing Allure ManLove)

by Roland Graeme

  “That was the halftime entertainment. Now for the final quarter,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

  He reached down and jerked on his dick several times, making sure it was fully erect and ready to penetrate an asshole. Then he grabbed Marc’s thighs, hurling his legs once more up over his shoulders. Fausto seized a condom and ripped the foil packet open, tossing it aside as he quickly rolled the rubber down over his prick, sheathing it in the latex from its tip all the way down to his balls. A fast swipe of lubricant, and he was ready for action.

  “Hurry,” Marc urged him.

  Marc’s body shuddered in response when Fausto took a second blob of the lube and smeared it over the rim of his asshole, once again easing a fingertip inside in order to work some of the lube around the interior.

  “Oh, my God, fuck me fast. I can’t stand it. I can’t wait any longer!” Marc cried.

  “You won’t have to.”

  “Ah!” Marc yowled, as Fausto immediately made good on his promise. Marc felt the older man’s wide cock knob push its way into his tight butt. Unconsciously, he tried to squirm away from the battering ram that was being forced into his anus, in an instinctive attempt to protect himself. But his legs were now being held firmly up in the air and wide apart, by Fausto’s big hands gripping his ankles.

  “You okay?” Fausto asked.

  “Yeah. Go on. Give it to me!”

  With a grunt, the football star slid half the length of his tool into the younger guy’s silently protesting asshole, which cringed and spasmed in reaction to the force of the invasion. Then Fausto paused, breathing hard, while Marc got used to the fullness of his cock in his ass.

  Marc shivered when another inch of the hard prickshaft was pressed into his widely stretched asshole. But it wasn’t as painful as he had feared it would be, given the obvious size of Fausto’s endowment. The football player’s cock seemed to fill him completely. But Marc knew he still didn’t have all of it inside him. Bracing himself, relaxing his parted buttocks, he waited.

  He didn’t have to wait for long! With a growl of pleasure, Fausto leaned his considerable body weight forward, allowing the entire length of his lustful ramrod to sink between Marc’s muscular ass cheeks and slide up inside his anal canal. Marc’s ass was in exactly the right position, because of the way his pelvis was tilted back, to be given a long, hard reaming-out by another man’s cock—and Fausto took full advantage of the fact.

  Thrilling to the sensation of the stiff dick penetrating deep into his asshole, Marc wrapped his legs around Fausto’s hips as the broad, muscular chest of the other guy pressed hard against his own pecs and compressed his nipples. His arms went around Fausto’s back in a tight embrace, and his red, sensual lips opened wide to receive an exploring tongue. Now that he no longer needed to hold up Marc’s legs, Fausto pushed his hands between the mattress and the small of Marc’s back, holding Marc firmly in place under him as they fucked, so that there was no chance of Marc being pushed across the bed and away from him by the forward thrusts of his penis into him.

  With their bodies clamped tightly together, they humped.

  Fausto sped up his fucking, gyrating his pelvis, rubbing his belly against Marc’s once again rigid cockshaft each time he lunged forward to fuck him hard and deep. The power of Fausto’s muscular body excited Marc unbearably, making him pump his hips and butt upward to meet the cylinder of hard cock flesh pistoning into him, in thrust after thrust.

  As the prick screwing his ass started to swell even thicker, and Fausto’s stomach and balls slapped faster and harder against his upturned ass cheeks, Marc’s sperm once again began to rise inside his prick, which was sandwiched between their bodies. His fingernails dug into Fausto’s back, and his teeth fastened onto his fucker’s lower lip, drawing blood. With a long, moaning wail, he started to come, shooting his semen for a second time in a long spasm of convulsive release.

  Feeling Marc’s teeth bite into his lip and his nails digging into his back, feeling Marc’s jism wet his chest, Fausto started a shuddering series of rapid jabs into the young man’s ass. Just as Marc’s cock shot its spurting load of cream between their twisting bodies, Fausto stuffed his prickshaft as far as he could force it up into Marc’s asshole. He let go himself, with a volley of wet, thick bursts of jism. They remained trapped inside the condom he was wearing, but he could feel the wetness surge around the head of his dick, soothing its sexual agony.

  Sweating, straining, coming, they remained locked in each other’s arms, the perspiration running in rivulets down Fausto’s broad brown back. Then, with another grunt, he released his last jet of sperm, and slowly began to sink down onto the jism-smeared, well-fucked man beneath him. Marc also began to relax as his own spurts of cum died away to a trickle. He took his lips away from Fausto’s mouth, letting his head fall to one side on the mattress.

  Fausto had thought that they would never stop coming. He was sure that their bodies must be dehydrated, and that he had ejaculated his whole being, not just his sperm, inside that incredibly satisfying ass.

  But now, finally, it was over, and they lay on the bed panting, with Fausto pressed heavily on top of Marc, both men exhausted by the fuck. But Marc made no effort to pull away from Fausto, who could feel that he was still hard, lodged as he was within the boy’s asshole. He grinned through the sweat that beaded his face, as he stroked Marc’s hair and pressed his trick’s face against his.

  “Fausto?” Marc whispered.

  “Yeah?”

  “Can you do it again?”

  “Do what, Marc?”

  “Get it up again. So you can fuck me again. Fuck my ass.”

  Fausto sucked in a deep breath. “Yeah. I sure can!”

  “Then do it!”

  So Fausto fucked him again. It was even better this second time, because it took longer for them both to reach a climax, and they could draw the act out to excruciating, but exciting, length. That ass belonged to Fausto now, at least for one night, and he used it in every way possible, drawing upon his considerable erotic expertise to teach the younger man some of the finer points of sex between men.

  Marc took everything Fausto gave him, seeming to exult in the fact that Fausto’s body was joined to his. This time, Fausto leaned back and watched his cock plow into the deep furrow of Marc’s anus. He couldn’t believe it when he saw his meat disappear completely, repeatedly, totally, inside that muscular young body. Marc was writhing all over the bed, flailing his arms and legs about wildly and humping his butt upward against his fucker’s crotch, as Fausto’s prick stabbed into him again and again. Their mutual desire mounted slowly but steadily to its inevitable climax. Fausto filled a second condom with cum inside the boy’s butt.

  Then they rested, for a few moments—and then Fausto fucked Marc again, using a fresh rubber, taking him face to face this time, with Marc’s legs thrown over his shoulders. Fausto was exhausted by the time they’d both had a third orgasm—but he couldn’t remember when he’d last enjoyed himself in bed so thoroughly, or had put so much raw energy into a fuck!

  “God!” Marc exclaimed happily, as they lay in each other’s arms. “Do all pro athletes have your stamina, big guy?”

  “No,” Fausto boasted. “I’m exceptional.”

  “You sure are. Exceptionally well hung, for one thing. Which is why I’m exceptionally sore.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t apologize. I wouldn’t have missed out on this reaming for anything. I’ll pay for it in the morning, but it was worth it. What time is it, anyway? Oh, fuck—it already is morning. Past midnight, I mean. I have got to go,” Marc lamented, looking at the travel alarm Fausto had set on the nightstand. He began to pull his clothes on, with guilty haste.

  “Can’t you spend the night? Sleep with me?”

  “You know I’d love to, but I can’t. I have to get home. My Dad will kill me for coming in so late. I can always tell him we had a big party at the restaurant, and kept the kitchen open later than usual for them—
but I’ve used that excuse too often lately. It’s starting to wear thin. One of these times, he’s going to call the restaurant to check out my alibi, and then I’ll really be screwed.” Marc laughed.

  “Do you need cab fare to get home?" Fausto’s voice already sounded drowsy, even to his own ears, as he lay nude and spent on the bed.

  “No, I have my car, it’s parked right outside, downstairs.” Marc had finished dressing.

  “Wait. I want to give you something.” Fausto hauled his weary ass out of the bed. He had a few complimentary copies of his book in his suitcase, and he decided that Marc had certainly earned one of them. To Marc with a C, he scribbled on the flyleaf. Thanks for the “doggy bag!” Love, Fausto.

  Marc beamed when Fausto handed him the volume. “Thanks, man! I can’t wait to read it!”

  “You may be starring in the sequel,” Fausto warned him playfully.

  He kissed Marc goodnight at the door, let him out, then staggered back to the bed and collapsed on it, falling asleep almost at once. He didn’t dream—or, if he did, his dreams were too anticlimactic to be memorable.

  Now, at the bookstore the following afternoon, the caffeine was starting to kick in. The next person in line was an attractive woman in an elegantly tailored power suit. Fausto found himself smiling at her with genuine warmth, and not just because she’d bought half a dozen copies of the book.

  “Everybody in my office wants a signed copy,” she declared. “So I volunteered to come down here on my lunch hour.” With a businesswoman’s efficiency, she produced a list of her coworkers’ names, so Fausto could inscribe the books to her specifications. “Oh, can you write something a little bit explicit on the one for Tom? He’s our intern. He’s gay, and he’ll absolutely freak out. He worships you.”

  “I do enjoy being worshipped,” Fausto admitted, with a laugh. He racked his brain to come up with something “a little bit explicit,” and finally wrote, Dear Tom—if your boss gives you too hard a time, you can always come work for me as my very personal assistant!—which seemed innocuous enough.

  “Tom’s already read the excerpt that appeared in one of those gay magazines,” the woman informed Fausto. “I think he’s memorized it, as a matter of fact. The part about you and the other guy on the football team, back in college? Tom told us it’s so romantic, it made him cry.”

  “I think you’d better give me Tom’s phone number,” Fausto teased. “What time do you let him off work?”

  “He wanted me to ask you if you and that other boy ever stayed in touch. After you graduated from college, I mean.”

  “No,” Fausto said, matter-of-factly. “We sort of went our separate ways.” He handed the woman her stack of signed books. He smiled. “Tell Tom that not all love stories have a Hollywood happy ending. Unfortunately.”

  The woman left, positively glowing, and Fausto turned his attention to the next person in line. Smile, maintain eye contact, get the name right, accept the compliment, answer the questions—he went through the motions, but his mind was now elsewhere.

  He’d worked on the book with a ghostwriter provided by the publisher, of course, who’d asked Fausto questions, taped their conversations, and edited the material into publishable form. But most of the book really was in Fausto’s own words. He hadn’t gotten emotional during the sessions in which they’d discussed, with brutal candor, the many ups and downs of Fausto’s career. These had included his estrangement from some members of his extended family because of his open homosexuality, the hostility of some of his team mates, his injuries, the sex scandals, et cetera. But he had gotten emotional when he’d talked about his college teammate and buddy Gene Boudreau, who was given the discreet pseudonym “Jack” in the memoir. At one point, Fausto had had to tell his collaborator to turn off the tape recorder, because he’d started bawling. It was absurd that thinking about Gene could still have such an effect on him, after all these years!

  The queue of fans showed no sign of coming to an end. The bookstore’s employees were hauling out the reserve shipping cartons of books, and breaking them open. Fausto flexed his aching fingers and asked the assistant manager for a second cup of coffee. It wouldn’t look too good if he actually started to yawn in front of the fans! He forced himself to look alert and engaged, and concentrated with renewed energy on the task at hand.

  But his thoughts, as he smiled, maintained eye contact, accepted compliments, answered questions, and signed his name—over and over again—were far away. He was reliving a story about two college football players, teammates. It was one story that had not had a Hollywood happy ending. He was thinking about a hot August afternoon, on a dusty, sunbaked football field, in a decaying industrial town.

  Chapter Three:

  Lots of Guys

  All of the guys on the small college’s football team were a little uptight that hot August afternoon, and it showed in the number of fumbles and the team’s general lack of coordination. Their coach was edgy—and, even before he started to bellow at his players because of their mistakes, his anxiety was infectious. One of the guys claimed there was a recruiter from one of the major league teams sitting in the stands, watching the disorderly practice scrimmage.

  The only guys on the field who seemed to be keeping their cool were Gene Boudreau and David Carlyle. Gene was the team’s star quarterback, and he was putting on quite a show of confident nonchalance for the recruiter’s benefit. The irony, of course, was that Gene had no ambitions of playing professionally. He was probably good enough, but he had other options. Unlike some of the guys on the team, who had been accepted by the school on football scholarships, Gene was a good student. Furthermore, his family, if not exactly wealthy, was reasonably well-off. They could easily afford to pay his way through college.

  In addition to his undeniable talent as a football player, Gene was one of the best-looking guys in his class—and he was not unaware of the fact. He may have just turned twenty-one, but he was already a man, and there was something slightly intimidating about the combination of his build, his good looks, and the easy way he carried himself. Today, for example, he didn’t even seem to be sweating as much as the other players were—the cocky bastard!

  David Carlyle was the assistant coach. This was his first year at this school, so he was somewhat of an unknown quantity to most of the players. The guys liked him so far, though. David was in his late twenties, slim for an athlete, dark blond, handsome, and good-natured. One thing he and Gene had in common was that nothing ever seemed to ruffle either of them. David, unlike the head coach, never yelled at the players or bullied them, or tried to make them feel like idiots. Instead, he quietly corrected them when they made mistakes, treating them as his equals. Since he actually knew at least as much about football as his boss, his combination of encouragement and patience paid off in the long run.

  The team’s first-string pass receiver, Fausto Mardones-Gil, was getting quite a workout today, under that pitiless sun. He was breathing hard, like a dog, and his football pants and jersey were soaked with sweat and plastered to his torso and thighs. Despite the frequent breaks for water that David had insisted they take, Fausto was convinced he was going to pass out from a heat stroke before this grueling practice session was over!

  Under the circumstances, Fausto could care less about the pro ball recruiter, or the coach’s being uptight, or the mistakes the other guys were making. He wasn’t even interested in Gene’s and David’s detachment, once he’d taken note of it. Fausto just wanted this scrimmage from hell to end so he could strip off his filthy, sweaty football gear and stand under a cool shower—preferably for hours.

  Finally, David blew his whistle to signal the end of practice. Gratefully, the bruised, tired, and overheated young jocks staggered into the deserted athletic building, heading toward the locker room. The only classes being held during the summer were a few remedial English and math sessions for boneheaded students who’d flunked those subjects during the regular school year. The gym building, which was set
apart from the classroom buildings, always seemed eerily, unnaturally large and empty on the afternoons when football practice was held there.

  “Anybody want to pump a little iron before he hits the showers?” David asked with maddening cheerfulness, in the locker room. One of his innovations had been to set up a rigorous weightlifting program for the players, so they could build up some strength and muscle mass.

  His suggestion was greeted with groans of disgust by most of the players, who only wanted to shower, change into their street clothes, and get the hell out of there. But Gene—predictably—wanted to do a little bench-pressing. Fausto couldn’t imagine why. Gene already had an enviably thick chest and huge arms. But he was always trying to impress David, to get on the assistant coach’s good side. The fucking show-off!

  “We’ll need a third guy to spot,” David pointed out casually. Then he looked at Fausto, who was standing in front of his locker, already half-naked, and he smiled slightly. “How about it, Mardones-Gil?”

  “Oh, all right,” Fausto grumbled. “I guess I can stand the way I smell for a few more minutes, if you guys can!”

  He knew that the reason David wanted him to spot for Gene was because he and Gene were about the same height and weight—David noticed such things—although Fausto always felt clumsy and uncoordinated next to the other athlete.

  As the other team members hit the showers, Fausto followed David and Gene down a corridor, into the weight room that David had set up, with money he’d persuaded the board of regents to allocate for this pet project of his. At least it was cool in there. Fausto, having been interrupted in his undressing, was wearing nothing except his sweaty football pants and jockstrap, with his protective pads still thrust into the pockets down each thigh. David, as usual, looked more like a male model posing for a fashion spread than a coach, in his tight-fitting white gym shorts and knit polo shirt, both immaculately clean, and with his tousled blond hair.