by William Wood
It all began one evening when I received an obscene phone call. It was nothing special, just some measured, heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I hung up and he called right back.
This time I pulled a little trick I’d read about somewhere, I quickly depressed and released the receiver button, which made a clicking sound on the line as though some kind of equipment had been turned on. I let him breathe on for a few seconds and then I announced in the coolest, butchest voice I could muster, “Yes, we’re tracing the call now… don’t worry we’ve got it all down on tape.”
At this point the Breather, no doubt scared shitless, let out all his breath in one flabbergasted gasp and hung up before you could say, “Six months imprisonment and a $500 fine.”
I figured that he was just your ordinary, common garden variety phone freak, a pervert or punky adolescent who got his kicks from annoying little old ladies who’d dialed my number by mistake. But when I mentioned the call to some friends I discovered that they’d all received similar calls. Apparently this nut had been going through the phone book getting his rocks off with anybody—male or female, straight or gay—who cared to listen to his heavy breathing act. “He never says anything, just breathes,” I was told repeatedly. Well, I thought, whatever turns you on.
A couple of days later I was visiting two friends, Stud and Polack, who share an apartment but are not lovers. You see. Stud is a leather man, very heavily into S&M, and is not interested in you unless you like to get fist-fucked eleven times a night, I’m mildly into S&M myself, but I rather like the idea of staying in one piece for a while; so Stud has always put me down, claiming that I don’t know what real leathersex is. Polack and I, on the other hand, had been sexualizing like crazy, but without any rough stuff.
The three of us were sitting there, me trying to talk Stud into a bondage and discipline three-way. Stud casting doubt on my ability to write a convincing fuckbook about leathersex and Polack fearing for his dubious virtue and should I talk Stud into helping me rape him, when the phone rang. Stud answered and it was the Breather, so he hung up. The phone immediately rang again.
“Let me answer it,” I insisted. I was in a rather horny mood and dirty talk not only comes easily to my cocksucking lips, it really turns me on, I picked up the receiver and held it to my ear,
“Uhhhhhh… uhhhhh… uhhhhh,” on the other end.
“Hello, faggot,” I barked cheerfully, in my best top man’s tone of voice. “Getting your rocks off, punk? Or are you just trying to get it up?” I gave a cruel little laugh,
“Ohhhhh!” he exclaimed, sounding delighted, He certainly had a nice butch voice.
I started talking so fast and nasty that the poor son-of-a-bitch didn’t have a chance to get a breath in edgewise; “So this is how you get your rocks off, you stupid, stinking, faggot, punk slave! Putting it to Ma Belt, freaking out over the phone. My God, what a joke, what a fucking farce. Dumb shit can’t even beat off by himself, the midget dicked, masturbating, motherfucking asshole! Instead of harassing a lot of poor little old ladies and hard working respectable gays, why don’t you be a real slave and get fucked “if you have the guts, which I doubt.
“Listen, creep! There are three of us here, two top men and a good potential bottom man. There’s nothing we’d like better than to get our hands on you and our cocks in you. We’ll string you up by your worthless balls and take a couple of layers off your tired hide and then take turns fucking your ugly face and asshole!”
I went on, elaborating the fantasy in language too lurid for even Gaytimes to print, venting all my hostility on this crazy fucker.
And he was lapping it up! My voice was cold and harsh and completely self-composed. Even though I was getting off on the trip I managed to conceal the fact. Not so the Breather. He was panting and grunting and groaning as if he were suffocating in a cloud of amyl nitrite fumes. And he was obviously beating himself off. I jeered at him some more and he only pounded his piston faster. It was also obvious that he was a young stud in good physical shape, otherwise he’d have had a fatal coronary by
My taunts got more castrating and Stud and Polack were gaping at me in sheer disbelief. I don’t know why they were so surprised; after all, they’d both read my novels.
“Well, I can’t waste any more time talking to a lousy, punk slave,” I announced casually. “Go fuck yourself, jerk,” I hung up.
Within seconds the phone was ringing furiously. I let him stew for nine or ten rings before I finally answered. “Whats your problem, slave?” I bellowed, sounding like a cross between Caligula and Attila the Hun.
“Unnnnnnnh! Unnh!” Mr, Masturbator groaned, “Oh, please, talk dirty to me!”
This delighted me and I laughed and made scatalogical jokes at his expense. Instead of speaking directly to him, I shouted deprecating remarks across the room to Stud and Polack. “This dizzy little faggot’s really getting off on this. Probably the first time he’s ever met a real man. I’ll bet he’s never had a good orgasm in his life, even jerking off.”
The Breather was offended. “I have too!” he grunted between gasps for breath. “I fuck all the time”
“Have you ever sucked another guy’s dick or been fucked up the ass?” I demanded quickly.!
“No, I fuck bitches with nice, big tits!” he boasted.
“You don’t know what real sex is,” I snickered.
“I’ll fuck you up your ass, buddy,” he threatened.
I loaded him with insults and burst out laughing. “Baby, I use punks like you to wipe my ass with every morning after I take a shit—with their tongues.”
This really got the old churn going. “Uh! Uh! Uh! Please—gimme your address—uh!—and lemme come over! Uh, uh!”
“You want to get fucked, slave?” I laughed. “Getting all hot and bothered, baby? You want to have some pipe laid in your ass?”
“Yeah—unhhh! Gimme the fucking address, please?”
I guffawed into the phone, “First we gotta know if you’re worth wasting our time on, slave. What do you look like?”
He described himself boastfully; blond hair, blue eyes, beard–and nine-inch cock!
“We don’t take anything less than twelve,” I quipped. “Sorry.” I hung up. When the phone rang again, I ignored it. Let the fucker sweat.
None of us really believed that the Breather was the humpy stud he described himself as being, but by now I was so hot to trot that I’d fuck Alexander Graham Bell himself. We discussed it and agreed that the chance to meet the Breather in the flesh was too good to miss. I picked up the still-ringing phone and condescendingly informed the Breather that he could come over—at once. I gave him the address and commanded him to get his hot little punk ass over there —or else.
I was so horny by then that I tore off most of my clothes and started fooling around with poor apprehensive Polack. Finally Stud suggested that we all go into his bedroom and dress up in his leather gear. Believe me, he has everything you’ve ever read about or imagined, and in sufficient quantity to outfit a small regiment of sado-masochists.
When the doorbell rang I answered it, wearing thigh-high boots with sharp-pointed spurs, a leather jockstrap, my motorcycle jacket and cap, leather gloves, leather mask and carrying a whip in my hand, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and had difficulty keeping a straight face. Stud and Polack were just as outrageously costumed.
Well, the joke turned out to be on us. The Breather was everything he’d claimed to be on the phone. I was face to face with a gorgeous blond stud who wasn’t more than twenty-one-or-two, who was all but shitting in his pants because he’d never had any kind of experience with gay sex before. Now, he was about to go all the way in one fell swoop.
When we got over the shock the three of us did what any decent, gay gentlemen would do under the circumstances—we raped the motherfucker! The Breather had never even heard of poppers, let alone used them, so one good whiff of Stud’s extra-strength, homemade formula was enough to send him higher than the latest space probe.
Stud, of course, wanted a standardized, ritualized leather scene, but Polack and I overruled him. We were just too horny to fuck around and we knew the Breather wasn’t really ready for such heavy shit, despite his unmistakable masochism. So we compromised on a naked free-for-all on the living room floor.
Polack deep-throated that lovely nine inch cock while Stud shoved his greased cock up the kid’s virgin ass and I stuck my own throbbing steel into his equally inexperienced mouth and fucked his face. We were playing with his balls and giving him amyl all the while, so the spaced-out freak didn’t know what was hitting him. And he loved every fucking second of it.
Deflowering this hitherto-fore innocent child-man was the heaviest trip that I’d ever been on. My performance thoroughly convinced Stud that I was in his league after all. And for a novice, the Breather astonished us with his ability to take punishment—and plead for more! “Teach me everything, guys,” he moaned during one of the brief intervals when he didn’t have a cock in his mouth, “Make me do It!” We obliged.
After a little of this delightful play, the Breather decided that he wanted to indulge in his far out perversion and asked to use the phone. I’m square enough so that I don’t like the idea of annoying total strangers, so I dialed my lover’s number. He’s a charming man, but slightly M, so I figured the two of them ought to get along just fine. When he answered I gave the phone to the Breather, who was lying face down, impaled on Stud’s very impressive prick.
“Hello?” my sweetheart asked. Little did he suspect,
“Ohhhh—they’re fucking me!” the Breather groaned, “He has his dick in my asshole! It’s so fucking big and it hurts like hell every time he shoves it in and out—unnh, unnh, fuck me harder, oh my God, fuck my ass, do it man!”
“Who the fuck is this?” my startled sugar blurted out, I took the phone,
“Hello, darling, it’s me.”
“I should’ve known. Are you gathering material for your new fuck book?”
“Baby, it’s already written, thanks to this nutty stud.” I described the scene for him in graphic detail, Stud came in the Breather’s ass and yanked his still-stiff meat out of that battered and bruised hole I mounted the dude and informed my lover that it was now my turn to try out our new slave.
He started gasping and grunting, poor thing, exactly like the Breather over the phone! “Wait,” he babbled, “Let me go upstairs and get on the bedroom extension so I can beat off with the vibrator while you talk dirty to me!”
“Long distance is the next best thing to being here,” I sighed. While my lover was racing upstairs I plunged my eager hard-on into the juicy love pit that Stud had so generously prepared for me, The kid’s ass was literally filled to over-flowing with Stud’s warm, sticky jism and fucking that beautiful butch butt was like sinking my cock into a chocolate eclair that’s still warm from the oven. Meanwhile, Stud was snapping a cockring around the Breather’s goodies and putting two clips on his tits, Polack was raping the kid’s mouth.
My lover came back on the line.
“Ready, darling? You hot to trot? Got that gorgeous dick of yours in your fist?”
A loud buzz as the vibrator was switched on was followed by a deep, sensual moan of intense auto-erotic excitement,
I went into my spiel, telling my sweet baby all about it as I plunged into the Breather’s guts, fucking him furiously as I taxed my imagination to come out with increasingly lurid terminology. If the FBI had had a tap on that phone, they’d have gotten enough to throw a whole shelf of books at us! My next gangbang would’ve been behind bars, no doubt with me on the bottom instead of the top. I told my lover, struggling to keep my voice steady as I started breathing hard, how I was straddling the guy’s body, how my cock was sliding freely in and out of his pulsing, writhing ass hole now, lubricated as it was by a soft bed of melting come. How my hands were kneading those muscular hot cross buns as I jabbed my impatient, ruthless instrument between them until we could both feel my dickhead pressing against the hard kernel of my slave’s prostrate and he groaned, almost choking on that solid Polish sausage that Polack was thrusting down into his throat.
I felt Stud’s big finger rubbing Crisco into my own ass. A moment later the huge, humpy top man was pressing himself against me from behind and my ass was stretching in a desperate effort to accept his monster cock! Within seconds the fucker was transformed into the fuckee, but by now I was too aroused to give a damn and I went right on screwing the Breather, giving him two strokes for every one Stud gave me. Over the phone, my lover’s pants and gasps and intakes of breath drowned out the buzz of the vibrator as he whacked himself into a frenzy.
We all blasted, one after another, like so many spark plugs in an engine block. Polack was the first, spraying the Breather’s tonsils with his fiery load. In a violent, gut-clutching chain reaction, Stud shot in me, I came and the Breather popped his own nuts—painfully swollen because of the tight cock ring he was wearing. One long, loud cry followed by whimpers of ecstasy came over the receiver I still had clenched in my hot, sweaty hand, assuring me that my lover was right behind us, his naked body no doubt spattered with the thick cream he’d milked from his cock
We collapsed into a shivering, sweat-soaked heap of naked male flesh, the smell of our lovemaking filling our nostrils as we all breathed deeply.
In the weeks that followed, the Breather didn’t have many opportunities to make his obscene phone calls. He was kept too busy servicing one or more of his four new and very demanding masters. We taught the kid everything that a quartet of lusty and totally amoral young men knew or could think up.
It wasn’t long before our scrumptious slave decided that it was more satisfying to get off on something more substantial than a mere disembodied voice.
