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“I’m not a deadbeat.” Asad said.

Coach Henry Jacobs stood looking at the teenage boy, jaw clenched, his brawny arms folded across his chest. His green-hazel eyes were hard as slate giving him the forbidding appearance of a bald eagle. This had been arguing for some time now in his office, and Asad was going to be late for his AP Philosophy class.

It was a lost cause, of course, because Coach Jacobs was never known to have lost an argument with his players.

A clock ticked on the wall. Somewhere in the room a fly buzzed. The overhead florescent lights glinted off the sides of Coach’s gold Aggie ring. Asad knew he was not only angry (helplessly angry, an interior voice chimed in), but also scared, because time had seemed to slow down now; he couldn’t help but fixate on these little details in his environment.

Jacobs considered his response for what seemed a long time.

“Well, Asad, you might not be a deadbeat, but you are in deep shit, son” Jacobs said, at last, in his soft, Southern drawl.

“I’ll have the money-“

“You said that last week,”

“I thought I was going to-“

“And the week before that. Look, you don’t give me a choice here, Asad. You’re either going to pay off your debt, or you’re going to work it off. One or the other.”

“Work it off? How?”

Jacobs chuckled. He took on the weary, half-smiling expression of a correctional officer.

“What are you going to do with your life, Asad?” Jacobs said, avoiding his question.

The boy groped for an adequate answer. It was something had wrestled with for some time, and knew that saying the right words now was crucial. For such a strong, handsome boy, so fast, so ruthless on the field, he had a curious habit of folding under questioning by his elders.

“I-I don’t know. I’m going to U of H, to study engineering, but…”

“Don’t stammer in my office, boy. I expect better than that from my quarterback, especially since we’re going up against Westchester next week.”

“Yes, sir,” Asad said.

“Either pay up, already, or get ready to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty. I have a party Thursday night at my dad’s place in the country, and I’m hurting for wait staff.”

“Okay, Coach, okay.”

Asad Udovicic looked away from his Coach’s glare. The whole situation was surreal. He had snorted one thousand six hundred dollars’ worth of cocaine over a semester. Cocaine the older man had supplied him, and now the bill was past due.

Jacobs had to fight hard to look away from the waistband of Asad’s yellow jockey compression shorts peeking over his low slung gym shorts like a dazzling lemon wedge. The older man’s eye traced the contours of the teen’s impressive bulge, traveled upwards, and measured Asad’s pecs. The words Jefferson High Mustangs rippled across the boy’s chest.

“Go on to your next class,” Jacobs said.

Asad left, closing the door gently behind him.

Jacobs had developed a minor obsession with Asad Udovicic. The Croatian teen was tall, well-built, with the broad, handsome face, high cheekbones, and full lips typical of Slavic males. Asad’s black hair was neatly trimmed in a high and tight cut that Jacobs very much approved of. He also possessed a nine and half inch penis, as everyone at Jefferson Davis High School knew. His nickname on the team was “Anaconda.”

The problem was that this young Adonis belonged to what Jacobs termed Generation Wuss. When it came right down to it, these kids expected something for nothing, and they wanted it right now. Not that it lessened his attraction to the boy. Despite his shortcomings, Asad had real potential-maybe even pro potential. Watching the teen go, Coach Jacobs couldn’t help but feel a stab of hunger for the boy’s perfect ass, for his youth, for his vitality.


Asad walked to the senior parking lot later, as the school day drew to a close, feeling low. This whole mess was exactly what his father had warned him about. He was falling prey to Western decadence. There’ no way in hell he’d ask his family for the money.

He felt like talking to no one, but didn’t get very far before he was surrounded by a group of hangers on, and their girlfriends. It wasn’t easy to have a moment alone at Jefferson Davis High, not for the 2013 Gatorade Texas High School Football Player of the Year.

Still, the idea of having to wait tables for a private party as means to pay Coach back what he owed did not scare Asad in the least…

Not, at least, until the next day.

Asad Udovicic’s jaw dropped when Coach Jacobs informed him of the details.

Once again, they were in Jacobs’ office.

“I’m going to what?”

“Did I stutter? Go on and pick your jaw up off the floor, Asad. I told you you’d pay off what you owe, or you’d work it off. I didn’t say you were going to like it.”

“That’s really funny, Coach, I mean it. Everything you just told me. A real knee-slapper,” Asad said.

But there was nothing warm, or humorous about the way Henry was looking at him now.

“Not casino şirketleri as funny as you’re going to look, serving food and drinks to all those older men in your tighty-whiteys, Anaconda.”

“No way, Coach, no way.”

“Then, I have no choice. I’ll have to let the boys know who talk to about collecting payment.”

“The boys?”

“Yeah, believe me, you don’t want the boys to have to pay you a visit,” Coach Jacobs said, an ominous note creeping into his voice.

The man who spoke these words was a total stranger to Asad. For years, Udovicic had felt an overwhelming surge of trust, and respect, laced with a healthy amount of fear, for Coach Henry Jacobs. He was Jefferson Davis High’s own General Patton.

But the man, the legend that was Coach Jacobs was also a bit of a father figure to many of the boys, and indeed, spent more time with them on average than their real fathers did. He reminded them, in fact, of Kyle Chandler on Friday Night Lights. Jacobs even quoted from that particular show frequently, citing the coach’s catchphrase, “Clear minds, full hearts, can’t lose,” before a big game.

So Asad was startled when Jacobs learned of his cocaine predilection, and said this to him:

“Don’t buy from other guys, they’re liable to rip you off,” Jacobs said, “I can get you anything you want, Asad, and a better deal, too. I know you’ll be good for it.”

Asad had never had the slightest inkling that Jacobs might be gay, or that this bargain would have such mighty strings attached.


Thursday had finally come around. It was time to do what had to be done; Coach Jacobs had made it clear that this was Asad’s last chance to make good on his debt before something unsavory occurred.

He climbed into his grey Silverado (the words “It’s all about the class of ’13!” scrawled across the back window in looping, childish handwriting by his girlfriend), and began his journey.

He chewed a little Copenhagen to help calm him down, a habit he’d picked up from his football buddies’ dads.

The drive to the Jacobs family lake house was long, and a bit expensive (thanks in part to SIRI, that whore, who refused to provide any routes that didn’t involve getting on a toll way), giving Asad plenty of time to steel himself for what lay ahead.

It was fifteen minutes of seven, before Asad finally arrived at the Jacobs estate. He drove his truck down a long drive lined by spruce trees to an elegant country house.

“You’re late, as usual,” Jacobs said, when he answered the door.

Coach Jacobs was smartly dressed in a black sports coat. In his hand, he held a plastic shopping bag.

“What’s that?” Asad asked.

“Your uniform. Come on,” Jacobs said.

The teen followed the older man through the family room, where cream colored Italian silk couches lied still beside pear wood panels, and up the stairs into a lavishly appointed guest room. There was another boy already inside, also eighteen. He was about six-two, lean, blonde, with the face of a choir boy. He was still fully dressed, but Asad surmised this wouldn’t be the case for long-for either of them.

“This is Jake. He’ll fill you in on what to expect. The guests begin arriving at eight. It shouldn’t take you very long to get into uniform.”

Jacobs left, closing the door behind him. There was an awkward silence.

“Hey,” Jake said, at last.

“How’s it going?” Asad replied, uncertainly.

“First timer, right? This must seem pretty crazy to you.” Jake said.

You could say that, Asad thought.

“These sorts of things do get rather tiresome after the third or second time,” the boy went on.

“So how many times have you done this?”

Jake’s casual, cheerfully exasperated tone gave Asad a sliver of hope. Maybe this won’t be all that bad, the Croatian stud thought. But he was about to be disappointed.

“Several times. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I’ve never been the quickest study. A glutton for punishment, you might say. I just hope my date tonight won’t be too ugly. Or old.” Jake said, with a rueful chuckle.

“What do you mean “date”?” Asad asked.

Jake sighed, turning away from Asad, as he unbuttoned his shirt.

“Come on now, I know you’re a jock, but you can’t be that dumb, sweetie. How else do you think you’re going to pay off your debt to Jacobs?”

“What did you just say to me?” Asad said.

The teen jock’s voice was booming, authoritative, the voice of a natural leader. Jake jerked his head back, startled.

“I’m s-sorry. Cool your jets, man, it’s not that bad, really. That’s all I meant. A guy bids on the rights for an evening of your company, which sets off a chain reaction of counter-bids, until you reach your goal. Your goal is whatever amount you’re in the hole for. At the end of the night, the money is collected, and bidders take home their prizes. A little wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am, and shit, honey, you’re a free man again.”

Their prizes, Asad thought. The jock was used to thinking casino firmaları of himself as something of a catch, but never in the context of a gay sex auction.

“You got to be kidding me,” Asad said.

Asad wanted very badly to get out, and leave. He wondered if the boys were around.

“What happens if someone doesn’t reach their goal?” Asad asked, his tone a little milder.

Jake was standing stark naked in front of him now. His pudenda was shaved. His dick was six inches soft. Asad looked away quickly, embarrassed in a way he never was with his friends in the locker room.

“Oh honey,” Jake said, “they’re going to go wild for you. I’ll be surprised if you don’t rake in twice what you owe. These good old boys love big football jocks.”

Yeah, no shit, Asad thought. He opened the plastic grocery bag Jacobs had handed him at the door, and took out a pristine white Under Armour jock, and a scuffed, plastic name tag with “Number 38” printed on it. He would be wearing this in front of a hundred horny men, all of whom would be very drunk before the evening was over, and one of whom would be taking him home with the express purpose of using his body to satisfy perverted appetites. In that moment Asad resolved never to do coke, or any hard drugs again.

He looked up, and saw that Jake was already in his jock. For the first time, he noticed track marks running up and down the length of Jake’s arms.

Junkie, he thought.

“This is so fucked up,” Asad said, taking off his orange polo.

“It is. But consider the alternative. Jacobs is in with the Mexican mafia-I mean, have you seen what those guys do to people? Animales, man.” Jacobs said, shaking his head.

Udovicic felt a tremor of fear again. Jake observed this, and couldn’t help but smile a little.

He watched as the Croatian stud unzipped his jeans, and let them fall to his ankles. Asad’s legs were bone white, covered in hair, the bulging quads tapering to thick lower legs.

Asad hooked his thumbs into the red waistband of his Calvin Klein boxer briefs, and slid them down. The teen’s thick, circumcised porn star cock drew a sharp gasp from Jake.

“That thing is fucking beautiful,” Jake said.

“Thanks. I guess,” Asad said.

Jake wouldn’t look away however. Asad was standing less than six feet away. He wondered what would happen if he reached over, and…

“Don’t look at me, man.” Asad said.

Jake felt emboldened by Asad’s increasing nervousness.

“You’re straight as an arrow, aren’t you?” Jake said, “Coach Jacobs sure loves homophobic straight boys. If you ask me, the whole thing reeks of self-loathing. I guess that comes with having grown up in a different era, or whatever.”

Jake’s condescending attitude was beginning to grate, and Asad felt obliged to return it, a little.

“Here’s the thing, Jake: I don’t have a problem with gay dudes. I’m just into a little something called consent.”

“Can I give you some advice then? Try not to think of it as rape. Think of it as…a cultural experience.” Jake said.

Udovicic simply shook his head. He could not believe this was happening to him.

Technically, Asad had already been raped by one of his teachers…technically. That particular qualifier was always used when students and staff whispered about the affair, because even though he had capitulated to the desires of a woman who showed little interest in his consent, Asad had hardly been traumatized by the incident-at least, not by the sex itself.

The woman in question was Amy Bookman, Asad’s twenty-six year old Biology II teacher, and the first woman he had ever had anything like real feelings for.

She was pretty, auburn haired, with skin like an English rose, and wide, dark eyes that held a listener whole. She was unlike most of the teachers at Jefferson Davis; Mrs. Bookman was a friend, a confidant, an older sister to the girls on the cheerleading squad, and the muse of many a wet dream among the male students and faculty. It wasn’t unusual for one, or more of the girls in her class to speak openly to her about her boyfriend problems.

One name in particular kept coming up again and again: Asad Udovicic. The problem was always the same; namely, that boy’s dick was too big for them.

She discussed the teenager’s genitalia and his preferences in bed with all of the girls Asad had dated, soliciting detail after detail, and offering up her own sexual history in exchange. The young girls fancied themselves Carries, and Mirandas in training, and were delighted to indulge this worldly, and sophisticated seeming older woman’s every curiosity about the star quarterback’s private life.

They had no idea that beneath her desk, Mrs. Bookman’s panties had been darkening as she listened…

Amy formed a plan of action in her head, but didn’t act it out until the fall semester was nearly over.

“We need to discuss your grades,” Amy said, stopping Asad as he moved to the exit. It was the last class of the day, on the last day before güvenilir casino Winter Break.

She waited until the other students had left, before asking him to have a seat.

Asad had noted her wedding ring earlier in the year (all of the male students had, in fact), and didn’t suspect anything was up…at least, not until Amy Bookman quickly locked the door.

The older woman looked at him, head tilted to one side, a smile spreading on her face. Asad felt the beginning of an erection.

“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” she said, cupping his genitals through his jeans. She quickly unzipped him, and dropped to her knees.

Asad felt his face turn red.

“I’m not so sure about-“

But before he could finish, half of his engorged penis had vanished into her hungry mouth.

Asad groaned, and began thrusting faster and harder.

He had passed Mrs. Bookman’s class with an A, of course, and they occasionally met afterwards in deserted parking lots, and Amy’s house, when her hubby was off on business.

The last time they had hooked up was the night before New Year’s Eve. Amy’s husband had just become a junior partner in his law firm, and she had no choice but to “break him off a piece”, in her words. Hans Erickson Bookman, thirty-five, tall, bespectacled, balding, and forever projecting the austere air of Puritan magistrate, was Amy’s cash cow, and he had just secured their financial future. It was difficult to work up much excitement over in him in bed, however, and twice they had to stop that night, because of how painful the friction became. The way Amy told the story, her vagina simply refused to moisten in anticipation or appreciation of Bookman’s penetration.

This surprised Asad, who knew her only as a “gusher” (or so he bragged to his friends on the team).

Thoughts of her consumed his days before long. His mind turned constantly toward the memory of her fragrance, her perfectly trimmed bush, her tanned runner’s legs with their graceful gazelle-like gait, her pendulous, creamy white breasts, firm brown nipples, and bleached asshole.

It was a very cozy sort of set up, and might have blossomed into something truly special…until the shit hit the fan.

Rumors of their illicit relationship had made the rounds in every corridor at Jefferson Davis High, and sometime between the start of Winter Break and the beginning of the spring semester, they had finally reached the attention of the principal, a priggish, bespectacled man easily embarrassed in matters of sex.

Mrs. Bookman was put on unpaid administrative leave pending an internal investigation. She no longer replied to his text messages, and refused to answer his calls. Word around town was that Mr. Bookman had filed for divorce.

It was all over. Just like that. It might have all been a dream.

Ever since then Asad had started using coke.


Asad stepped out into a spacious garden enclosed by carefully trimmed hedges. There were fifty tables spread out, with glowing Japanese lanterns strung up in rows, providing illumination. The effect was somehow classy and cheap at the same time.

He tottered out with his pad, and pen, on unsteady legs, like a foal.

Here goes nothing, he thought.

The older men at the tables openly leered at him. There were other boys, scurrying about, their bodies lean and tight, their jockstraps loaded, but somehow Asad felt that the men saw only him; he drew their eyes like pins to a magnet.

The teen had been perfectly honest with Jake, when he emphatically stated that he had no problem with the gays. Two of Asad’s closest friends, boys he’d known since fifth grade, had come out to him only a few days ago, in confidence. He had not turned them away. He was even moved a little by their naked, gnawing need for him, which had too long been repressed.

Of course, he could not return their feelings, and he told them so, in the kindest possible way. He held them as they sobbed into his shoulder… he pledged his continued friendship to them, for which they were only too grateful.

But this was a very different situation. He went around, presenting the aged lechers with a bill of fare for the evening, and his sculpted teenage body.

The guests at Jacob’s house were the crème de la crème of Houston society, and their friends. There was a brief shock of recognition as Asad realized that a few linemen for the Houston Texans would be partaking of tonight’s festivities, however, for the most part, these people were strangers to him. He was unaware that he was serving drinks to, and enduring wolf whistles, and pinches from judges, lawyers, real estate barons, a couple of writers for the Chronicle, a State Representative, the Music Director for the Houston Symphony Orchestra-even the President of the Gilbert & Sullivan society.

Thankfully, there was no real trouble to be had for the first hour…until Asad reached table number 17.

He began taking down orders from a blond, middle aged man who insisted he be addressed as “Monsieur.” He had clearly already had a few drinks, and was slurring through an explanation that he was a Francophile (despite having never set foot anywhere near Europe), when his fingers found themselves inside Asad’s jock.

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