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The Law of the Jungle
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Copyright 1991, The Minstrel Bi
The Law of the Jungle
"Tonight," whispered Art as he passed me in the hall. He didn't
have to elaborate; I knew exactly what he meant, and exactly what
he wanted. I thought, again, about the first time.
I don't even remember what it was that got him on my case in the
first place. All I remember is that he caught me in an out-of-
the-way spot on the way home from school, and punched me in the
stomach. He was a good deal bigger and older than me, and muscu-
lar where I was fat, and his fist knocked the wind out of me.
When I recovered, I got to my hands and knees and started to
stand up. He kicked me in the rump, then, sending me sprawling
in the grass.
My eyes watered with the pain, and Art figured I was starting to
cry. Maybe he was right. And who knows, if he hadn't thought so
maybe he wouldn't have had that next thought, and maybe things
would have turned out differently. But he did. "Goddamned sissy
boy," he said. "Wants his mama. Well, she's not here right now.
But I know what to do with sissy boys like you. I make them blow
me, that's what I do."
"No," I said, horrified. It wasn't so much that I was shocked by
the idea. I was a little curious, actually. I'd offered to blow
my buddy Tony once, if he'd do me, but he'd turned me down. I
was, however, terrified by the thought that word would get around
school about it. This was the Midwest in the late 60's, and I
didn't want a rep as a homo, as a queer who blew other guys.
Tony would have kept it quiet, but I didn't think Art would.
What he did then was grab me by the hair, drag my head backward,
and slap me across the face, hard. It hurt. "You're going to
blow me, aren't you, you little baby?"
I shook my head, and tears started to flow for real now. I
couldn't help it. "Please, no. Everybody will think I'm a
homo." I think I started crying for real, then.
He slapped me again. "Suppose I don't tell them. It'll be just
our little secret. You trust me, don't you?" I shook my head,
and he slapped me again. "You'd better start learning, then."
He slapped me again. "Ready to blow me now, crybaby?" I shook
my head again.
He repeated the process, same question, same response, six or
eight or ten times. I lost count, and finally I begged him not
to hit me again. "When you shut up and put my dick in your
mouth, then I'll stop." He raised his hand to strike again,
holding it in the air like a wordless question as he stared into
my eyes, and finally I nodded assent. I couldn't stand much
more, and I was sure Art was prepared to go on slapping me all
night. I could see it in his eyes.
"You're going to make my dick feel real good," he said. "Get on
your knees." He grabbed me by the neck of my shirt and pulled me
up, getting off my arms first. I knelt down in front of him, and
he unzipped his pants with one hand, not letting go of my collar.
He pulled down his underpants, and his dick sprang free, already
mostly hard. It was bigger than mine, and had a lot more hair
around it. "Do you know what to do?" he asked.
"No."
"Put it in your mouth. Don't let your teeth touch it, or I'll
knock them out for you. And don't talk -- it tickles." I knew I
was nervous when I laughed at that old joke.
He proceeded to give me detailed instructions, which continued
throughout my performance and which I was careful to follow.
This was obviously not his first blow job, and he knew exactly
how he liked it. My jaw ached before he was through, although
mercifully he shot in my mouth quite quickly and didn't expect
seconds. That is, not just then.
"Don't worry," he told me as he put on his pants. "I won't
tell." But he had an unpleasant grin on his face, and I was
convinced he'd tell everyone he knew.
But, surprisingly, he did keep his word. A week or so later I
found out why, when he cornered me after gym and said that he'd
been thinking about it, and that if I wanted him to keep his
mouth shut I was going to have to come across for him. At first,
stupid me, I thought he meant money. But no, he just wanted to
borrow my mouth for a little while, every once in a while. Then
I understood why he'd been grinning. He'd already thought of
this, even then.
He continued to be very picky about how he liked to be sucked
off, and I got pretty good at it over the next few months. I
also began to like it, or at least to get aroused by it. Art was
quick to notice it, and pointed out the boner in my pants when I
finished him. That scared me a little. But he still kept his
mouth shut. I never told anyone about it, not even my best
friend Tony.
But I kept thinking that if I hadn't been such a coward and a
sissy, if I'd taken my lumps and stood it, I wouldn't have to be
blowing the class bully every time he wanted it. It was the law
of the jungle, I thought. The sissies have to serve the bullies.
That's their place in the pecking order. The weaker animals
serve the stronger. My dick knew that, even if my brain didn't.
That night, after he'd spurted into my mouth, he told me that I
could jack off if I wanted, with his wet dick still half-hard in
my mouth. He often suggested this. It seemed to amuse him. "Go
ahead," he said. "You know having my dick in your mouth gives
you a big boner, so whip it out and enjoy yourself." So I did.
Without a word, without even letting his dick out of my mouth, I
unzipped my pants and started to jack myself off. Art was right,
I did have a serious hardon, and I did want to relieve it. My
hand felt good around my shaft.
That's when I heard it, a rustle in the bushes or something
behind me. I let Art's dick drop from my lips and turned to
look, suddenly scared to death. I'd been caught!
It was Jerry and Kevin, Art's two closest partners in crime.
Jerry was a lot like Art, older, bigger, a bully. Kevin was none
of the above, just a weasel who liked watching Art and Jerry
tormenting the other kids.
"I thought so," said Jerry. "You've been holding out on us."
I've never really decided whether he had followed Art or Art had
invited him, but in any case I was on my own now. I tried to
stand up, but Art grabbed me by the hair, and I remained on my
knees. "Does he blow good?"
"Best blow job I've ever had. He does it just the way I like
it."
"We'll see," said Kevin, unzipping his fly. I could see what was
coming, obviously, but if my name was going to be all over school
it didn't really matter whether I gave one blow job or three, did
it?
Jerry actually got me first, being bigger than Kevin and on more
solid terms with Art. I had a hard time with him, because his
dick was a lot bigger than Art's and he had a tendency to shove
it in deep on his own initiative, which made me gag. Art finally
told him to cool it, that I knew what I was doing, and once he'd
tried letting me take control he agreed.
Kevin commented that he'd heard that a real queer would let other
guys shove their dicks up his ass. This worried me, because he
made it sound like a suggestion, and it sounded painful. "No,"
said Art. "He might run home and tell mama, and then who would
we get to blow us?" So Kevin settled for a blow job, and he was
pretty easy. He wasn't circumcised, and he tasted as though he
didn't wash as carefully as I'd have liked, but he was horny, and
came quickly.
When I was through, I began thinking about how I would feel when
everybody in school knew about this. They'd all call me a queer
behind my back, even my best friends. But at least Art's hold
over me would be gone. I wondered whether I would miss having
his dick in my mouth.
"They won't tell," said Art, who knew me pretty well by this
time. "They don't want to screw up a good thing. Right?"
"Right," they answered.
So now I belonged to all three of them. It was the law of the
jungle. The sissies have to serve the bullies, and their
friends. My dick, still hanging out of my fly, didn't seem to
think that was really so awful.
I never thought how would it be later, when they all grew up and
had wives and families. Who would bully and threaten me then?
Who would grab my hair and make me kneel for his dick? How would
I live without their sardonic voices joking and telling me how
good my mouth felt? My dick couldn't think that far, and neither
could theirs. I knew I'd be back again and again, the way birds
return every season whether they want to or not, and so would
they.
It was the law of nature, the law of the jungle. Only the jungle
isn't there any more, and the stronger animals have moved to the
suburbs. The weaker animals have no one to serve but themselves.
Who would have thought, back then, that it would be so hard to
find a man to hurt me, to call me a cocksucker and make me do
obscene things to him? Maybe this is Art's final crude jest,
that now that I want him to bully me, he's not here to do it.
And that if he were, he wouldn't be enough.
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