Flaming Hot Gay BDSM – Shoot!
by
Tom Farrell
Copyright Tom Farrell, 30 January, 2012
Published by Firm Hand Books at Smashwords
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Chapter 1
Kirk felt sick. He felt physically sick. All the smugness that had built up over the past twenty-four hours was wiped away in a flash. The cocky expression that had been permanently on his face was struck off as if by an invisible slap.
With his head reeling, his guts twisting - the brown paper envelope that had arrived by special delivery was cast onto the kitchen table, its contents safely forced back inside. It sat there malevolently, hiding the headline on the newspaper beneath that floridly boasted Kirk’s new claim to fame.
The youngster stared at it. Every nightmarish demon known to man taunted him from the plain canvass – the image it contained was so clear in his mind - the envelope was made invisible, transparent to his eyes.
How could this have happened?
He knew that it had. The picture was for real. And there could be no denying, it was Kirk McTaggart who was captured on the A4 sized colour portrait. His cheeky roguish face was as clear as day – a face that was now known to most of Scotland, and a few interested parties south of the border, or so his agent had confidently boasted last night when they had chatted after the match...
“The Premier League next season for us boy. No question about it now lad - I’ll have them queuing up for you after this. Sod the SPL – the Old Firm is dead. Chelsea or Man. United. Arsenal as a last resort – but whatever one we go for, it’ll be Millionaire’s Row and more fanny than you can handle. I take it you’re okay with me getting things rolling.”
It was the logical next step, although a huge one to take, having only recently broken through on the Scottish main stage. Becoming established in England, and the most competitive soccer league in the world, was a daunting prospect, even for a cocky lad who thought he was God’s gift to the sport. But Kirk still agreed for his agent to go ahead. After yesterday’s game anything had seemed possible...
It was arguably football’s greatest rivalry – Glasgow’s Old Firm, Celtic vs. Rangers, the ‘Bhoys’ in green with home advantage. There had been twenty minutes to go in a tedious goalless affair when Kirk was brought off the bench. It was the stuff of dreams for young Mr. McTaggart. At the tender age of only nineteen, he’d already broken into the first team squad, and had been in the starting line up on several occasions, challenging the established strikers for a regular place. But this was the big one - to play against Rangers, the arch enemy of old, with the league title at stake, the pressure weighing heavy on everyone’s shoulders. And Kirk had responded magnificently. Within a couple of minutes of the substitution he won the ball near the half way line, surged up the field, dribbled left then right and left again tearing the defence apart, to finally shoot into the top corner of the net, a cracker of a goal, the home crowd going wild and chanting his name. Several of the Sunday newspapers had compared it to Archie Gemmill’s famous goal against Holland in the ’78 World Cup. Others said Celtic had found a new Jimmy Johnstone, the greatest player ever to don the green hoops. Of course there would be interest south of the border with accolades like that.
And now this - his moment in the sun cast into thundercloud shadow. The taste of fame made bitterly sour. Ignominy beckoned. His career could be in tatters, ripped apart like the Rangers defence.
Kirk reached out and touched the envelope, shivering with repulsion as he did so. It still didn’t seem possible. If he’d been hit by a bus, he’d have felt less crushed – the whole situation was totally surreal.
With an eye-flick to the door to make sure his flatmates were still abed, Kirk steeled himself and picked up the offending material again. He uncovered his picture on the newspaper beneath – a typical pose of sporting exuberance, a cocky young lad blessed with Celtic good looks, giving it large in front of the Celtic Main Stand, milking the crowd and his moment of glory – for a moment in time, the happiest man in the world. Then with trembling hands another picture was revealed, one that wasn’t displayed on the sports pages of every newspaper across the land. Kirk removed it again and stared at it in horror – his descent into misery knowing no bounds.
“How?” he asked for the umpteenth time. “How the fuck did some bastard manage to get hold of that?”
It was a mystery indeed. A private moment so graphically captured – the quality of shot terrifyingly good, rivalling his own right footed strike that had secured his team a win in yesterday’s derby. The caption above it said ‘McTaggart Shoots!’ But instead of a football as one might expect, it showed our young sporting hero with a bottle of whisky.
No problem in that, everyone might harp. He was of legal age to partake of a dram, and it was good quality stuff – Famous Grouse no less – no Scotsman could find fault with his choice of blend. But unfortunately the bottle wasn’t in Kirk’s hand pouring out a well deserved measure, or even in his mouth slugging back a swally, which would have been mildly embarrassing but no big deal – the Park Head faithful would have applauded such an image. Applause however weren’t coming Kirk’s way, for this wasn’t a picture of noble patriotism, showing Scotland’s latest sport’s star enjoying the national drink. He was enjoying himself all right, but not by drinking.
‘McTaggart’ shoots!’ Well they’d got that right - the caption at the top had got it spot on. Kirk, the dirty rascal, was shooting all right. He was firing into the air - spunk in this case, and an impressive load at that, out of an equally impressive looking cock in his hand.
Still no big deal I can hear you say. All healthy young lads enjoy a good wank, and ‘McTaggart Shoots!’ sounds like a shot to be proud of, if not something you’d want your mum to look at. Ah but listen to this and appreciate Kirk’s angst. Remember the whisky - the Famous Grouse that was mentioned – it was there in the picture, bold as brass, and the neck of the bottle was stuffed up Kirk’s arse! And trust me folks, when it comes to football, in Glasgow especially, that gives his cum shot a whole different flavour.
Kirk threw the image back down on the table, the glossy photograph now dangerously on display. Head in hands, he tried to make it go away. He clutched at his hair, clawed at this skull, banged with his fists and wished, wished, wished. But when he raised his eyes the picture was still there – a piece of depraved filth where Kirk had the starring role alongside the wrong type of bird.
“Shit!” Kirk cussed as he recalled the incident, still mystified over how it had been so spectacularly captured. “Shit! Shit! Shit! This isn’t fair! It was just curiosity!” he protested. “I’m not gay! I can’t be - I’ve screwed loads of women. I just... I just... Oh fuck oh bloody fuck!”
Chapter 2
Curiosity!
Okay, let’s be generous here. Kirk was indeed being a tad inquisitive when he decided to try a few things out - curious in particular to know what it would be like to shoot off a load with something wedged up his ass, as he’d heard on the grapevine that it was a blast and a half – the best climax a man could have.
It all sounded a bit gay, which was a something of a concern to this straight acting lad who had indeed fucked several women. But Kirk’s curiosity had been mightily roused, and as we already know, he went ahead with the act. What had brought him to this point we’ll come to later – let’s just say for now that in his straight sex life, Kirk had inadvertently tasted some forbidden fruit and he hankered for a little more.
The decision to use a whisky bottle for the fun he had in mind wasn’t immediately arrived at. Once he had taken the decision to play anally around, Kirk had pondered for several days what to try beyond his fingers, which he’d enjoyed a few times whilst jerking himself off. A cock of course was totally out of the question – that would be more than a little bit gay; and way too risky as the owner might blab, not something Kirk could ever entertain. A dildo would be safer if purchased discreetly, but still had the wrong connotation. Some fruit perhaps – a banana or a cucumber? But again that was viewed as way too perverted for our straight acting soccer playing lad!
Then as luck would have it, whilst innocently trawling through the internet for inspiration, Kirk stumbled on something that looked just the trick. It was a picture of a porn star, Damien Crosse, having a wank as he squatted over a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, fucking himself on the neck. It was a scene from a film – a celebrated piece of gay smut as it happens. Dangerous material for a footballer stud, but Kirk wasn’t put off by that. The guy looked so butch, all rugged and manly, not like the camp faggots he’d occasionally seen around town, which Kirk associated with being queer. And it was all in a good cause – a matter of research. So Kirk electronically parted with thirty bucks so he could check out the action in more detail.
Flustered but excited, having downloaded the film, Kirk set the skin flick running. Damien’s wank turned out to be the opening scene, but out of curiosity Kirk watched the whole thing. There was actually a plot, albeit a thin one: cowboy themed and Kirk liked a good western, so his motives were arguably decent. It lasted a couple of hours, and Kirk stayed glued to the screen, watching scene after scene of men fucking men, telling himself it was only curiosity, wanting to know how the story would end. The fact that he jerked off a couple of times during the show bothered him a bit, but he convinced himself it was just a lark – a phase he was going through that would pass in a flash... just as soon as he’d tried shoving a bottle up his ass!
It would be a once and once only experiment Kirk had sworn – perhaps that’s why he decided to make an event of it, and even bought some clothing to get fully into the part. Sure that he’d benefit from a bit of Dutch courage – he elected for Grouse instead of Jack Daniel’s as he preferred the taste of whisky to bourbon. The bottle shape as well looked more interesting for his purposes, although he didn’t dwell too much on that.
Choosing his moment, Kirk waited for an evening when he was alone in the flat - the two teammates he shared with having gone out on the razz. In the added privacy of his bedroom Kirk got himself attired. He felt silly at first as he dressed for the gig in tight fitting blue jeans with a thick leather belt, cowboy boots which he said he’d bought for a laugh, and a blue checked shirt with a blue vest to match. But a few swigs of whisky as he set up his props soon sorted out the niggling concern that he bore a frightening resemblance to a member of the Village People. He knew he was taking it all a bit far, but it was innocent enough, and who would ever know – at least that’s what he’d thought at the time!
Still convincing himself it was just a bit of a lark, Kirk put on the porn flick and watched the opening scene: Damien Crosse enjoying a cigarette – Kirk sensibly electing to pass on that particular vice. Getting hard in anticipation as he looked at the actor’s rugged face, Kirk joined him in removing his shirt. Savouring the build up, Kirk then paced the room as the cowboy on the screen walked to an outhouse where his belt was removed and laid on the ground - Kirk doing likewise, getting well into the role.
Then Damien had a shower. He did so fully clothed to start with, and Kirk copied him in dryness, stroking his body and rubbing his denim covered cock. On the screen a hand went exploring, unbuttoning the wet jeans then forcing inside. In his bedroom alone, Kirk did the same to himself – groping his meat, fondling his erection. The action continued, both on the screen and in the room. Kirk’s vest came off, and teasingly so, to reveal his smooth well toned teenage torso – developing pecs and a washboard stomach, a nice pair of lats and good broad shoulders. Following Damien’s lead, our adventurous young hunk then used the cotton material to rub down his body, as the actor did likewise to his wet rugged frame.
Kirk knew this was going further than he had ever intended. Watching gay porn was one thing. Having a sneaky wank as he did so was surely no big deal for a stud like himself who’d fired into more than a dozen women. Planning to put a bottle up his arse and coming like that was stretching things a tad, but still could be put down to curiosity. But simulating all this in the build up was a whole different matter – that was acting queer – it was more than just curiosity.
Yet Kirk couldn’t stop himself – he was having a ball of a time and was hugely turned on by the fun. Continuing to copy as the shower scene ended, Kirk sat down on the bedside unit he’d turned on its side for the occasion, to mimic the bench being used in the film. His boots came off then jeans and socks, just like Damien Crosse’s. Underwear was pushed down – Kirk’s were skimpy whites which he really liked. Damien was wearing blue tartan boxers which looked pretty sexy as well - different, manlier, more rugged some might say – just like the actor himself. Then out came two cocks, hard and bloated – Damien’s a good size, although Kirk reckoned his erection was a fraction larger. Some saliva was spat out for lubrication then the boys were off.
It started leisurely, Kirk mimicking the action, jerking his meat whilst pawing at his chest. He watched Damien all the while – the man’s hairy body so different from his own – so different from a woman’s – more exciting if he was honest, which he vowed never to be on this particular score.
“Once and once only,” Kirk muttered to the room. Then surrendering himself to ‘curiosity’, Kirk imagined what it would be like to run his fingers through all that manly fur he was seeing, and feel the hard muscles beneath. He felt his own, and liked what was there, but at that moment in time he wished it was Damien’s he was touching. From the depths of his psyche now rising to the fore, Kirk wanted to experience that sexy chest. He wanted to sniff it, and he wanted to lick it. Bugger it all – if the truth be known – he wanted to ravish it, to worship the horny stud!
With Kirk sailing away on a forbidden fantasy, he wanked with a man, jerking together. Damien looked at his cock; Kirk looked at it as well, his eyes feasting on the actor’s rock hard meat. He stroked his shaft and massaged his knob – playing with his own, dreaming of Damien’s. Mentally wanking that big hunk of beef, our footballer hero was having a ball of a time.
After a couple of minutes the pair of them stood up and the underwear came off. Erections were flicked and slapped against firm stomachs. Then they sat back down for more spit and more jerking.
Knees bent and legs spreading, Kirk copied the gay cowboy as he shoved a finger up his arse. No longer pretending, lost to the act, Kirk wished it was Damien who was frigging him instead. Feeling horny as hell, yearning for the man, he watched the big hunk play with his hairy hole whilst his own smooth pucker was rubbed and prodded then pierced again to be frigged really hard.
Lustfully gazing, Kirk grinned as a question flashed in his head - how many men had been up that rancher’s meaty butt? Hundreds must be the answer, if not a hell of a lot more – he was a porn star after all and a horny looking bloke who apparently played it both ways – of course he’d been fucked by hoards of men. Unlike Kirk McTaggart where the score was less flattering – he was ‘straight’ after all – or at least a guy who fucked women. And even if there was a slight inclination that went beyond the mere curious where men were concerned – he was a football pro and they should never get rode, or engage in any form of gay sex – that was an unspoken rule of the national game and in Glasgow a death wish if broke.
Not thinking of this in the privacy of his room, Kirk carried on wanking for a few minutes more. Then the moment came that he’d been waiting for – bourbon and whisky came into play. On the screen before him, a bottle was produced, the top came off, and a slug was taken then poured over a hairy chest and a hard cock for good measure. Now that made for a very tasty looking scene in Kirk McTaggart’s straight brown eyes – for tonight and tonight only, he would happily convert to bourbon if he could get his tongue around some of that! Just for curiosity’s sake of course – to see what it would be like to fill his mouth with a bourbon flavoured knob or a pair of bourbon laced balls.
Kirk copied the action as best he could – knocking back some whisky before dousing himself in the booze. But he didn’t need a stiffener for what he was about to do – he was feeling horny as fuck and well up for the act.
Wishing that Damien was with him in the room, and that it was his cock, not a bottle of Grouse he was about to experiment with, Kirk got up and placed the re-capped bottle down on the unit. Staring all the while at the hunk on the screen, Kirk planted his feet on the floor and placed his left hand on the unit to the side of the bottle. Holding it steady in his right hand, he positioned himself so his asshole was directly above the bottle and slowly lowered. Contact was made. Kirk tensed. His pucker clenched shy of the invasion. But Kirk forced it to relax – he wanted this so much – to satisfy his youthful curiosity – to quench a burning need that was his ‘honest’ teenage libido.
Kirk pushed himself down. He’d cheated a little, but then Damian had probably done so as well, and lubed up his ass generously in advance. It still came as a shock though when the neck slid in. Kirk gasped as his ring was breeched – it was no excessive girth the youngster was tackling, but it still stretched his hole wider than it had ever been, his fingers being the only thing to have ever gone up there. Then accepting the brief pain that flashed though his body, he sank again engulfing the neck until his full pert butt cheeks bottomed out on the rounded swell of the bottle.
“Oh fuck yes!” Kirk cried, stunned by the sensation as he clenched around the glass. He took a moment to gather himself, unused to having anything alien inside him. Then gazing longingly at the actor , Kirk started to bob along with the man, slowly at first to make sure the bottle didn’t slide, then speeding up, bouncing up and down as he imagined he was riding Damien’s fat shaft, impossible as that might seem to this tight assed young lad.
Supporting himself with his left hand, riding the bottle as hard and fast as he could, Kirk seized his cock and started jerking the meat. Thrilled to bits, by what he felt and what he saw, Kirk groaned and groaned as he bounced up and down. He wanked his cock then flicked the erection, letting it spring up to slap against his stomach before grabbing it again to jerk the rock hard shaft.
“Fuck yes!” cried Kirk again as he got more and more into the action. He tightened his muscles to enjoy the friction – a sensation that gave him such an enormous buzz. He slammed himself down, howling out loud, watching a man who in his mind he was riding, simulating a fuck that was so real in his head. He bounced and he jerked. He was shafted by a bottle as he gazed at a cock, dreaming of that beautiful erection inside him.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” he repeatedly grunted.
It felt so good. It looked so fine. The bottle and Damien’s cock merged into one. He was here in his room and there in the Wild West, riding bareback, true to himself.
“Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me you big stud. Fuck me and shoot your mess inside me!” Kirk cried without thinking what he was saying. A curious remark from a ‘straight’ young lad - and not something you hear called from the Park Head terraces. Not something the faithful would appreciate hearing either, especially from one of their players, but Kirk was oblivious to any of that. Football and its supporters were a world away from where Kirk McTaggart was at. He was so into the fun – physically and mentally having a hell of a blast.
Damien was getting really into it as well: riding the bottle harder; wildly fucking himself with glass. The actor’s eyes were closed – Kirk’s were wide open. The young footballer leered at the hairy hunk as he rode the whisky bottle, moaning and groaning, jerking and flicking, imaging the porn star was there behind him, all hot and sweaty in the wide open heat, raw and rugged, smelling of man mixed with neat bourbon – his lovely fat cock wedged up Kirk’s ass, throbbing and ready to shoot off a load.
Shoot!
It had to happen, and Kirk had never been more primed to blow in his young life. The groans got louder, the jerking got faster, bourbon and whisky got rode harder and harder. Then a splash of white announced what was to follow – on the screen a fat cock was mightily thrashed. Spunk erupted. Damien spewed it all out, shaking his cock so it flew everywhere, onto his leg and onto the ground, the man spurting the stuff out as he put on a show for the camera.
As you’d expect from a hot-shot striker, Kirk timed his own shoot to perfection. In that instant the youngster exploded as well and a geyser of white blasted into the air. His eyes were now closed, dreaming the dream, so he didn’t actually witness the ejaculation himself, mightily impressive as it was. But just like with Damien, some other bugger managed to catch it on film – life can be such a sod...
It was there on the breakfast table, two weeks later, the delivery perfectly timed as well - a picture of depraved orgasmic ecstasy; a sexy young lad torn apart by his passion as he rode a bottle of whisky – his head tossed back as he filled the air with his grunts, his incredible release of teenage cream spewing out of his bloated erection. The first ribbon of spunk that had blasted out of his cock was splattered across his climactic flushed features, and a second strand climbed high in the air, rising above his newly famous face.
‘McTaggart shoots!’ and by God he did. It was a hell of a shot – Kirk firing so powerfully, his face covered in spunk, and his ass impaled by a bottle of Grouse. Any porn star would be proud to have such an image in his portfolio – Kirk McTaggart was mortified to see it there on the kitchen table. The lad crapping himself as he wondered where else the picture lay.
“How?” Kirk asked, shaking his head in disbelief, tears welling in his dark soulful eyes as he sought some comfort in denial. “How the fuck could this have happened? I’ve shagged women, so I’m obviously not gay! I’ve never been with a bloke, not proper like... It was just curiosity... This isn’t right... It’s not fair! How? How could this have happened?”
But the ‘how’ was irrelevant – the deed was done. The real question Kirk McTaggart should have been asking was... Why?
Chapter 3
The next couple of hours were a torment from hell – Kirk had no idea what to do. There were people he could have turned to for advice and support: his parents, his agent, his flatmates, or the staff at the club. But the idea of involving anybody he knew filled young Kirk with dread. What would he say anyway? That he wasn’t gay! That it was just curiosity! Who would believe him with a picture like that!
Not able to face anyone, he retreated to his room before his flatmates got up, taking with him the envelope and its damning content. He sat on his bed in a state of shock, his mind reeling as he tried to make sense of what this could mean. Every way that he looked at it boiled down to the same thing – he was going to be denounced as a football playing poof – a raving woofter that took it up the ass! An embarrassment to the sport in other words, who had to be hounded out the game.
What else could it mean! Kirk was sure that he was about to hit the newspapers again, this time on the front pages rather than the back. A tabloid exposé had to be on its way. Whilst he was hardly in the same league as the Beckhams of this world – Kirk’s Saturday performance had gained him exposure and local fame - there would be money to be made out of some quality dirt. The staff at the club had coached him on such stuff – his agent as well had given him some tips – the ‘dos’ and the ‘don’ts’ for an up and coming star. ‘Whatever you get up to, keep it behind closed doors’ being the main piece of advice that had been given. Well he had bloody well done that, and still he was fucked, figuratively, and some might say literally, by a bottle of Famous Grouse!
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” cried Kirk, falling deeper and deeper into despair. It never struck the lad in any way strange that by delivering him the snap, he’d been anonymously tipped off and given the chance to prepare. He was just nineteen, and for all his cocky bravado, he was still relatively wet behind the ears. Football was what he played, not games of manipulation. But a spectacular winning goal in the Old Firm derby was about to change all that.
‘But it’s not fair!’ screamed the lad silently in his head. ‘It suggests something that isn’t the case. Curiosity – that’s all it was. I’ve never been with a bloke... Unless of course,’ Kirk recalled with a shudder. ‘But that can’t possibly count.’
But of course it did – it counted for a lot more than all those women he’d screwed. Nineteen and ‘curious’ – Kirk didn’t end up in this pickle of a mess purely by chance. He had been with blokes in a roundabout way – two as it happens, and both at the same time...
Okay, so a little bit of background might help us out here. Our young hero was never what you might call ‘big with the ladies’. To be honest he was still a virgin by the time he reached eighteen, which is a little bit strange in this day and age. Strange or not, it was Kirk’s state when he left his home town of Perth and moved to Glasgow to become a professional footballer. He was a good looking lad and there had been girls aplenty who were interested in him, but he was dedicated to his sport where a promising future lay ahead, so no eyebrows were raised when he spurned them all.
On arriving in Glasgow, as a means of easing him into his new life, Kirk was housed in a plush furnished flat owned by the club, the rent docked from his wages. He found himself sharing with two other new recruits, Jock and Finlay who were both a year older, and a darn sight more experienced in a multitude of ways. It seemed like a great setup to young Mr. McTaggart – he was realising his dream, playing football for a living, and he had a couple of ready-made mates to hang out with and help him find his feet. Cocky and out-going, Kirk fitted in well. He was one of the lads, a real bloke’s bloke. Then the first free Saturday night turned things around – Jock and Finlay went out clubbing and came home with a couple of tarts!
Suddenly sex was there in his face. Suddenly questions were there to be raised. A good looking lad in the Celtic squad – it stood to reason that he should be getting himself laid.
Jock and Finlay certainly were! It became a ritual. Every Saturday night, unless there was a Sunday match to be played, the lads would go out and pull a couple of whores. They would normally fuck them both before pairing off for the rest of the night, having another ride in the morning before kicking them out. Like Kirk, they were players knocking on the door of the first team, relatively flush for Glaswegian youths, and members of the Celtic squad which was a passport to sexual favours – they just needed to appear in any club around the city and they were guaranteed a shag from some wannabe WAG (that’s footballer’s ‘Wives And Girlfriends’ in case you didn’t know).
It became increasingly awkward. Kirk felt pressurised. If he’d been brought up religious he could have fallen back on that. If he’d been as ugly as sin then perhaps there was an excuse, but even then it would have sounded weak. He might have been wet behind the ears but he still worked it out pretty quick - if he didn’t fuck some whore, sooner rather than later, then suspicion would arise that could jeopardise his career.
So after a couple of months Kirk joined the boys, going out to the clubs, acting Jack the Lad. He was a new face on the scene, a new cock to be rode, a new target for all the wannabe footballer’s wives - an arrogant little shit but the girls didn’t mind for that went with the glamorous territory they stalked. Picking up a floosie was easy as pie. Fucking her was harder, but Kirk rose to the occasion, doing the business then showing her the door – staying over wasn’t an option he was prepared to entertain. It became something he did – an act for the boys – screwing some bird – having his hole. And he actually believed that this was what he wanted – anything else was unthinkable, for he had to fit into the footballer stereotype that demanded he was straight as an arrow.
It was just after he’d turned nineteen when something odd happened that was to impact Kirk’s life dramatically. It was a Tuesday evening and Jock was feeling randy, so he called one of his many ex-conquests and arranged for her to come round. He took her to his room which was adjacent to Kirk’s. Kirk went to bed shortly afterwards and lay there listening to the sounds of their sex, feeling pretty horny himself.