The Neighborhood Hero

CW: over the top, far-fetched smutty work of fantasy. Humiliation, exposure, rough and reluctance/non-consensual elements, tons of SPH. Not nice. Skip it if it's not your thing. Otherwise, enjoy.

All characters depicted are well over 18 years of age.

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For the next week I refrained from jacking off, and stayed away from Wolcott's window. I put myself through some intense workouts at the gym, training with a particularly athletic friend of mine. He even had me spar in boxing gloves with him. I felt keyed up and strong. I was sweating testosterone.

I was just as horny as I'd been the past few days, constantly hard up in my pants, but I felt focused. It was like the fog in my mind had lifted, The confusion was gone and my goal was clear, tangible.

Even my Dad remarked on my renewed discipline and vigor. If only he knew what was motivating me.

On Saturday I made my move. I texted Bruce to see if he wanted to hang. When he responded I basically invited myself over. His parents were both out. We hung out in his childhood bedroom. The walls were lined with team photos and pennants, and his shelves were weighed down with awards. It even smelled like him, Old Spice, fresh sweat and clean laundry.

We made a little small talk and eventually I produced a large, well-rolled blunt supplied by a friend.

"Bruce, you want to smoke?" He laughed nervously. I forced myself to maintain eye contact until he looked down. I reminded myself that even if he didn't know it yet, I was in the driver seat. I wasn't some starstruck kid anymore. Despite his demigod physique and his past as a champ, I knew what he was, deep down.

I offered again and he balked. I laughed, and in a harsh voice I said.

"Come on, don't be a pussy." He winced at the epithet, unaccustomed to that kind of language from one of his adoring fans. I stared him down until he relented with a bashful shrug.

We leaned out of his open window. I sidled right next to him and passed the blunt, watching as he inhaled. He didn't shift away from my body so I threw an arm around his big waist. I felt him flinch but he didn't force me off him, and he eventually relaxed into my grip.

As we shared the joint I lightly squeezed his haunch, rubbing slightly. I wanted to push this, see how much affection he would accept, how much attention and imposition I could get away with. When the blunt was almost done I held it up to his lips and had him smoke it. I was getting boned up now, being so close to him and having this big stallion of a man let me do what I wanted.

"Hey, let's shotgun. Come here." He looked confused at the suggestion but the weed already had him dazed and pacified. As I suspected, he was a lightweight. I turned towards him and grabbed his shoulder to have him face me.

"Suck this in." I ordered, then took a big hit into my throat and held it there. I pulled his head down and brought my lips to his. I stared into his eyes as I exhaled two lungfuls of acrid weed smoke directly into his respiratory system. I thought of Wolcott blowing cigar smoke into his face. I wanted to do all the stuff that the old man had done to him. I left my mouth up against his, feeling how soft his big lips were. Bruce accepted my kiss and my polluting cloud, then we giggled at the intimacy of it.

Without asking I connected my phone to his soundsystem and put on some music.

Bruce asked if I wanted anything to drink and I told him to go get us beers. He smiled to himself and bowed his head a little bit. The big man really liked being told what to do. When he reappeared I told him to open my beer for me. The gratuitous order made him quiver a bit, and I winked at him. I kept my eyes on his, making him blush and look away.

I focussed on keeping my gaze steady and my face blank. Ironically, I found that I was emulating a man that Bruce and I both knew well. The head coach of the Vikings Football Team. Coach Mancuso was like a brick wall. He never smiled or laughed or offered any of the facial cues that put a person at ease.

As I remembered him, he had always just stared, his voice a low growl or a bark depending on his level of agitation he was. He seemed to expect complete acquiescence from everyone he dealt with. Even the other coaches and our fathers had appeared to be scared of him. Wanted to please him.

Emboldened by the beer, weed, and lust, as well as all the sordid things I knew about Bruce, I found it easy to imitate our former coach's swagger and domineering attitude. To take up more space, make my steps wide and heavy. I gratuitously scratched my package, hands down my waistband just like Coach's always was. After all, I knew I was packing something much bigger than that little thing Bruce had between his legs. When I caught him looking I gave him a wink. All I was missing was a pair of aviators and a mouthful of Skoal.

"Thanks buddy." I said, accepting the second round. I paused, hesitating for a moment, then reached over and slapped him on his large, pert ass. I watched his big buttock jiggle in his gym shorts and dared myself to cup it in my hand. It felt firm but welcoming - his perky can was made to be fondled like this. Felt up. He trembled at my touch but he didn't resist, didn't slap my groping hand away.

"Damn you've got huge glutes man. Your ass is amazing, Brucie. How much can you squat?" He told me his PR almost sheepishly.

"Holy shit!" I exclaimed, spitting some of my beer on his neck. He blushed, pleased with being praised for his body. I put my hands on back on his big ass.

"You're fucking incredible man." I ran my hand up his ass and thighs, like I was admiring his quads and hamstrings. I was, but I was also brazenly feeling him up. Bruce just remained obediently in place even as my hand squeezed his inner thigh or my fingers traced his crack while squeezing his cheek. I muttered about his dump truck appreciatively then gave him a hard slap on the ass, watching mesmerized as it shook. He was as docile as a showhorse.

I put my beer on his dresser and stepped in front of him. My hands traced up his sides and rested upon the swollen dome of his chest. I looked at him, right into his handsome, timid face. I gave him my best Coach Mancuso stare and he dropped his own gaze shyly.

"Take your shirt off, show me those pecs." He demurred, shaking his head, looking confused and bashful. I grabbed the fabric and began lifting it off of him. Astonishingly he raised his hands above his head and let me undress him. Let me strip the shirt right off his back. I laughed at how easy he was making this and tossed it across the room, then put my hands back on his body.

"Fuck man, it's like granite. You're a fucking superhero." I ran my hand over his enormous, shaven chest. Then I walked behind him, standing close. My hands went back to his waist and ran back up to his chest. I squeezed both pecs at once, and leaned in to whisper into his ear.

"Seriously, you've got a better rack than most chicks." I nearly licked his ear lobe when I said this, I was so close to him. I knew he could feel my hot breath on his ear and neck. I knew it stank of beer and weed. I groped his chest, truly fondling his breasts, even fingering one of his nipples. He gasped but remained stock still in my grasp.

"So smooth. Nice." I cupped his bountiful chest then dug my hands into his hairless armpits, fingering around there as he squirmed in place just a bit.

I finished my beer and belched over his shoulder, blowing it onto his neck and the side of his face.

"Brucie. Kill your beer. Go get us more." I sent him away with a slap to his ass and he dutifully paced out, shirtless, his face blushing red.

Alone in his bedroom I rifled through his drawers. I upended the piles of neatly folded size-38 underwear and found what I was looking for. I held it up to him when he returned with our beers.

"You've still got your old jockstrap. Go put it on, I want you to show off those muscles for me." I brandished the worn white undergarment, "Mitchell" written in faded black Sharpie on the inside of the waistband. His face darkened to an even deeper shade of red. He looked horrified that I was handling his intimate garment. Shamed that I had discovered he had held on to it all.

I claimed my beer and thrust his old jock onto him. He started to protest but I raised a hand, silencing him.

"Quiet, Brucie. You know you like showing off that incredible body. Your physique is fucking amazing. Be proud of it. Now you're going to change into just this, and pose for me." I kept my voice low and steady, boring into his eyes.

The confusion on his face was fascinating to me. It was like I could see him struggling to form words, to figure a way out of this or even recall how I had gotten him to this point. I stepped toward him and put my hand on his broad, bare shoulder, massaging the massive muscle of his trapezius.

"Just do it, Brucie." I spoke, calm but firm. I felt him relax into my touch.

"Go change." I gently turned his shoulders around to point him towards the door, and slapped him on the ass again like I was Coach Mancuso.

He reappeared, naked but for the jockstrap. His bare skin was even paler than the washed out cotton. His body looked incredible, straight from the pages of Men's Fitness, but he held himself like a captive, head down, defeated. Like a conquered warrior on the auction block. Bruce knew that he was in my custody.

"Damn, boy. Come here." I beckoned him to me and grabbed his chest again, which brought a shy smile to his face.

"Hell yeah, Man of Steel." I cheered as I curled my hand over his bulging deltoid. He posed like a bodybuilder.

"That's it flex, flex for me. Show it off." I grunted, grabbing and feeling up his bulging muscles between sips of beer.

It was all slightly ridiculous but he had a truly incredible physique. I ran my hands all over him. Felt his sides, his massive thighs. His flat, tight stomach. No happy trail, not even peach fuzz.

The smoothness was beguiling. He had the hard musculature of a man but his skin was hairless and soft as a woman's. I was fully hard in my gym shorts now and pawed at myself openly.

Eventually I turned him around and both my hands found their way down the small of his back to the wide, striped waistband of his jock.

"You're hot, man. Look at that ass." I said, snapping one of the straps that framed his huge, pert buttock. I copped another feel, holding his bare ass in my hands.

For the next few moments we both stood in silence, listening to the rap music blasting out of his speakers, as I jiggled his ass around. The big man just sort of squirmed in my grasp, clearly enjoying the attention. As I manhandled him I imagined myself as one of the boasting rappers, virile and bold. I considered how they would treat a hot, nearly naked bitch like Bruce. How they would grab at him and assert themselves. Bruce was my ho. It was my ass, mine to play with.

"Nice ass, bro." I praised, spanking both cheeks gently. He giggled, as demure as a woman. I kept my hands on those big beautiful cheeks and grazed a finger between his hairless crack. I'd never imagined a guy's rear end could be so sexy.

I changed the song to something by the same artist, something less aggressive and more rhythmic, more horny. A song for fucking the bitches.

Keeping my hands on his waist, I got right up behind him, swiveling my hips to the music. I pulled him down so that he bent his knees a bit and his rear end was at my crotch level. I pushed my tented hard-on into his ass. I was grinding on him, holding him against my crotch, forcing him to dance along. It turned me on, looking down and seeing my hairy legs and feet right up behind his smooth calves and bare feet.

I turned him around and pressed into him. Again the big man let me move him around as I pleased.

"It's got me hard, isn't that crazy?" I said insistently, staring into his blushing face.

"See?" I grabbed his hand and brought it to my crotch. He didn't resist as I clamped his fingers over my hard-on.

"Feel that?" He nodded, his breath was short. I saw that there was a small tent in the well-worn pouch of his old jock.

"Ha, you're chubbed up, too." His face was beet red now. I grabbed the waistband of his jock and yanked it down to his feet.

Unlike Wolcott I didn't burst out laughing at the sight of that pokey little pinky of a boner, I just stared at it in fascination. Bruce looked mortified at my inspection but the short, thin hard-on pulsed and ached, and it was wet around the tip with pre-cum.

"How long is it?" I took it in my fingers, which dwarfed it. It felt like holding a little flower. It was so soft and fragile.

"Four inches." He said in a voice-cracking whimper, avoiding my gaze.

"Damn. It's like you haven't gone through puberty." I said. He closed his eyes but his pecker remained rigid. I tapped his little dickhead. I lightly grabbed the throbbing glans then pulled it down until he winced, only to release it and make it slap against his hairless groin. I was acting on instinct - it felt like a penis this small only deserved to be prodded, toyed with.

I ran my fingers over his naked groin, taking in the strangely satisfying smoothness. I was pressed up against him, and he was leaning his heavy body on me. Like he could barely stand.

"And with no bush, no man hair... you look like a little boy, dude. Between the legs I mean. And you're older than me. On such a big guy too. So tiny, your little clit." He sighed into my shoulder, a strange moan of humiliation and pleasure, his laughably short stiffy bobbing up, as if nodding along eagerly in agreement.

"Probably better for you to be a bitch, don't you think? You don't have the cock hanging between your legs to be a man. You don't have a real man's penis. So you've just got to be a bitch, right Brucie?" He bowed his head in the affirmative.

"That's right, my big sexy bitch." I felt him up, thighs to chest, back down to his phenomenal wide ass.

"Get on your knees." I pressed gently on his shoulders and the nude colossus kneeled before me. I pointed my prick at his face. I was just about 7 inches but compared to him I was a porn star. I rubbed my cockhead against his lips, poked at his cheeks. My other hand held onto his hair.

"It doesn't matter that you've got such a small pecker, Brucie. I've got enough cock for both of us." I said gently as I thrust forward and he took me in his mouth. I gasped, his big soft lips caressed my shaft and brought me into his warmth.

Short of jacking off with friends I had never done anything sexually with a guy. Certainly never got blown by one. But again I was inspired by Coach Mancuso. How would Crazy Manc have forced another guy to suck him off?

That big, scary, shit-brick house of a man wouldn't have been tender and gentle, no Sir. He wouldn't have been patient or sweet. But he wouldn't have rushed it either. He'd take his time. Make the poor cocksucker wallow in it. Force him to revel in his superior manhood. He'd want the stooge on his knees to know that he was serving a real man.

"Lick my balls. Kiss each one." A shiver went up my body when he did this. Having another man worship the seat of my manhood, especially a specimen like Bruce Michell, was an incredible power trip. His massive form beneath me, his broad muscled shoulders, strong back, yet he was completely docile.

"Those are a man's balls. Do you understand?" He nodded solemnly as I tea-bagged him, spreading my hairy gonads over his face. My cock on his forehead and my balls in his mouth. I held the sides of his head as his lapping tongue tended to my testes.

I imagined all sorts of wild scenarios in my head while he did this. Bruce was a naked captive, a defeated warrior, surrendered, ruined. I was going to ravage him. Stripped of his armor, disarmed. All of his strength and power would be mine. I pulled his lips off of my hairy scrotum and began pounding his mouth again while these far out thoughts raced through my mind. His size and his strength meant nothing, he was a weakling, my POW. He belonged to me.

Wolcott had trained him well, he deepthroated me eagerly. Maybe my smaller piece and gentler demeanor was a relief from what he was used to. When he brought me close to orgasm I yanked his hair and pulled him off me, exhaling as I kept myself from busting. I humped into his face, grinding my junk and my wiry pubic thatch against his face.

I hadn't trimmed all summer, I was wild and unkempt down there with a big bush, bearded nuts and cactus spines of stubble at the base of my shaft. Usually I would have been self-conscious but now it made me feel manly. I wanted to rub it in his face, literally, my thick proud mane, when he was as bald as a little boy between his legs and everywhere else below his ears.

The sight of my curly dark brown pubes smearing against his handsome face drove me wild, made me want to dominate him even more. I wanted to put more of myself on him, in him.

"Get up, Brucie." I ordered, my voice hoarse with lust. We went into his parents' large bathroom, I dragged him by his neck without asking. He was too cowed to protest even while I saw the panic on his face.

I had him retrieve some of his mom's lingerie, a pink bra and panty set. The panties strained to make it up past his hugely muscled quads, but to his obvious shame they were more than adequate at encasing his tiny genitals in their silk pouch. The bra was a nonstarter - his Superman pectorals and trapezius muscles were just too wide and massive, and I actually ripped the dainty piece trying to clip it over his back.

Instead I grabbed a handful of necklaces from his mom's jewelry box on her night table, forced them over his head. Some of them were as tight as chokers around his broad neck, but many of them dangled between his great domed pecs. I wanted to decorate him. Make a woman of him.

Bracelets too, I put them around his wrists and his ankles. They jangled when he walked, it looked obscene, his big strong body decked out with gold and silver, chiming with each step when I sent him downstairs for more beers.

Bruce had been the paragon of All-American manhood to me, and I wanted to see him obscenely feminine, ruinously womanized, as he had been for Wolcott. That's why I pushed him up against the bathroom sink and clumsily applied his mother's lipstick to his big full lips. I had seen rapists do this to their bitch in prison movies. I got a giddy rush like I was defacing a famous and priceless statue.

I thought of adding more makeup but the ridiculously bright red lips were just the right amount of absurd that I still found sexy. I ran my hands along his sides, taking him in. The once proud warrior had been stripped and adorned with finery meant to humiliate him, dressed up and feathered to be paraded through the enemy city.

I turned him around and made him face the full length mirror, made him see what I'd done to him while I pressed my boner into his thighs and ran my hands all over his body. He quivered at the spectacle of himself but as always his little pink rocket was completely tumescent.

"Pretty little bitch. I'm gonna fuck you up the pussy just like your Daddy fucks your Mama." I growled in my best Coach Mancuso baritone, licking his ear. He squatted down a bit and pushed his rump back into my groin obligingly.

"I'm going to put a baby in your belly. Breed you." I rubbed his flat stomach up and down, imagining it swelling with my seed.

I spun him around again and held his hips. I pulled aside the tiny pouch of his panties and freed his stiffy. Then I took his mother's lipstick and carefully painted the tip of his little dick cherry red. It looked ridiculous, clownish, the pale pink stalk with a bright red lollipop head, all no longer than my pointer finger. I got another rush from vandalizing his private parts like this. I had made a cruel joke of his pathetic manhood.