Instead, he had to put up with that lunk-headed braggart called upon to giveprofessional guidanceto the boys’ polo team, sharing his unwanted opinions at every turn. He was not there in any official capacity, which was even more frustrating, for that would at least put him under the purview of Ichabod’s rule. No, instead he was treated as anhonored guest, regaling slack-jawed teenagers with his boasts of exploits and hijinks, infantile pranks pulled and callow capers enacted, and a very small bit of actual polo discussed.
Ichabod had decided that if he was never again forced to suffer the unbearable presence of Brom Bones again, he would die quite happily.And instead, you got hard spying on him having his cock sucked. A front row view to watch him ejaculate. He was still hard, and needed to quickly leave the area before he was caught out.
He did not possess the height and bulk of his new neighbors, and he more resembled a stretched-out skeleton than a strapping horseman, but he was light on his feet. Ichabod disappeared into another arm of the locker room where his own bag was stowed, foregoing the showers. He would have liked to have taken care of his own throbbing erection, rubbing one out under the hot spray of the showers, but he had no doubt that was where the two dullahans were headed next, to wash clean the evidence of their mutual pleasure.
Best to go home, to take the situation in hand in the privacy of his own room, absent of dullahans and their annoyingly appealing oral abilities. Where there were no polo horsemen, no marauding onlookers, and most importantly — he thought with no small dose of irritation over his throbbing erection and who was responsible for its turgid state — where the deep boom of Brom Bones’s mocking voice could not follow.
Thesecondtimeheencountered the duo, their voices were once more echoing noisily through the locker room.
The sound of the carnality taking placethatafternoon was, once again, one he knew well. The percussive smack of skin-on-skin, balls slapping as the cock thrusted, rhythmic grunts, timed like the arm of a piston, matching the gyration of their hips. A good, deep fucking, sounding nearly as sloppy as their blowjobs. He didn’t need to see to know what he was hearing; didn’t need to bear witness to be aware . . . but his feet moved him forward once more, quite without his consent.
His face heated at the sight. It was uncomfortable admitting to himself that the vision of what he had last witnessed in the locker room had revisited him on more than one occasion, and more than one night’s restful sleep was interrupted by the most malignant dreams he could possibly fathom.
In them, he was helpless. Absolutely at the mercy of the mouth that trapped his cock in its hot, wet confines. Every time he tried to pull away, the tongue would flutter over that spot at the base of his glans, licking, licking until his knees wobbled and he could barely stand. Every time he tried to voice his distress, he would be overcome with a wave of pleasure, the mouth sucking deeply and his eyes rolling back, a throaty groan replacing his words. Ichabod didn’t like to admit that he had woken from such a dream on more than one occasion with his spent cock laying limply against his thigh, the cum-smeared sheets sticking to it.
His somewhat transient lifestyle rarely led itself to serious relationships, and while he was adept at identifying the mothers who were most likely to get on their knees for him, those sorts of relationships took time; the gilding of such cock-hungry lilies needing to be undertaken with a careful hand. In the interim, he had amassed a tidy little collection of strokers and masturbatory aids, all fitting in a discrete travel bag that he nestled at the bottom of his suitcase whenever he was forced to pack up shop again.
One of the devices had a mouth at the opening of the tight silicone canal — plump lips open to receive, the contours of the tongue exceptionally lifelike when coated with a high-quality lubricant. It had become his favorite toy in the intervening weeks. He would thrust into the mouth of the toy with a groan, pumping his narrow hips as the tongue slid over his shaft, gripping the tube and pretending it was a severed head, covered in thick, wavy dark hair. A twist of the dial at the end increased the suction of the silicon inside, adding to the fantasy. He had emptied his balls into the toy more times than he cared to recount, filling the textured throat, ejaculating in Brom Bones’s mouth over and over again, smearing the full lips with his semen, imagining the way the cocky bastard he would lick it off.
It was unwise to add to his mental fodder, and he was certain he could die happily without ever needing to see the rhythmic contractions of the horseman’s orgasm again, but his traitorous feet carried him forth.
Fucking of course he was a top.Ichabod nearly snorted in derision, revealing himself. Instead, he swallowed down his disgust silently, moving to the edge of the lockers for the best view of the action before him. Brom fucking Bones was beneath the spray of the shower, hammering into the bent-over body of the other dullahan, a man whose name Ichabod did not know, his low-hanging balls slapping wetly against the other man’s skin. Their heads must have been sitting somewhere close by, for although Ichabod could hear their grunts and groans of pleasure, neither of the headless men held their faces.
He wanted to turn away, aggravated that he was forced to see Brom Bones’s pulsing release once more, but like the last time, he was unable to do so. Brom’s hands gripped the other man’s hips, pulling him back on his cock as he thrusted. His feet were planted firmly against the shower floor, as wide as his broad shoulders, the leverage lending an air of power to the way he pumped into the other headless man.
As much as he tried to avoid doing so, Ichabod couldn’t help but place himself in the other dullahan’s position, imagining what it would feel like to be powerless beneath the horseman’s huge body, all that rippling muscle pinning him down, thick cock stretching his ass and assaulting his prostate in the most delicious way. He would be limp and helpless, his own cock jerking in desperation as he was used for the polo star’s pleasure.
He was half the Brom’s size, half his weight, and Bones would likely be able to lift him like a ragdoll. He would hold Ichabod aloft, making him his fuck toy, filling him with his giant cock. He wondered if his stomach would bloat with the force of Brom’s ejaculation, coming endlessly and filling him like a water balloon. Better still — the horseman could fuck him from behind and suck him from the front, the absolute best of both worlds.
The fantasy shifted; his pleasure no longer ignored. From behind, Brom Bones would stretch him to bursting, his fat anaconda battering Ichabod’s prostate in a way that liquefied his innards, and from the front, the headless brute would swallow him, sucking his cock so deeply that his tongue could tickle Ichabod’s swinging sac, the cock within him exploding, filling him as he filled the horseman’s guzzling throat.
In the showers beyond, Brom Bones had nearly finished. Ichabod watched as he pulled out, cock thrashing like an eel as he held it against the other dullahan’s ass. Thick gobs of white coated the headless man’s lower back as his rival moaned out his completion, a creamy load that would have filled a juice glass to the top.
He thought that would’ve been the end, but the other man wasn’t finished and apparently was not going to be satisfied with a hand job. Ichabod watched with an open mouth and a stiffened cock as his rival assumed the position, bracing himself against the wall, presenting the round curve of his ass to the other dullahan. The man used the semen smearing his back to rub against the snug ring of muscle, coating his cock in it as well, before pressing his bulbous head into Brom Bones slowly.
It did not matter that day if someone caught him watching. The blow jobs were one thing. Being witness to this good, deep fucking was entirely different. Pulling down the waistband of his gym shorts, he took his erection in hand, pumping into the tight ring of his own fingers as he watched Brom Bones be fucked.
He tugged himself with hard, twisting strokes, visions of topping the big brute dancing behind his eyes. Ichabod was certain his entire body was barely the thickness of a single one of the horseman’s bulging thighs, but he would do his best. His fingers would dig into the flesh of Brom’s wide hips, gripping him tightly as his own pumped against him. The obscene sound of flesh would behisball sac bouncing off a full, peach-like ass,hisbony hips finding cushion in the horseman’s generous posterior.
He would heave against him as he came, his turn to pulse rhythmically, his balls lifting and his cock throbbing as he gave the bigger man a creamy filling . . . Ichabod nearly choked on his own moan as his cock spit up its voyeuristic pleasure, coating his knuckles and dribbling against the locker in front of him, just a few minutes before the second dullahan emptied his balls against the broad back of the town hero.
The edge of his soiled gym shorts was used to wipe the locker door, changing as quickly as he could. Ichabod Crane sucked in a lungful of the brisk autumn weather as soon as he was outside, ordering his composure to get its act together as he strode across the parking lot to his car.
Coming back to the racquet club would be a bad idea, he decided. Sure, membership was a nice perk of his position, but it wasn’t as if he himself were an athlete. There was nothing for which he was training, and he would do just as well to use the natatorium facilities on the school campus or, better yet, take up running. He could do that for free, right on his own block. He ought not to return to the Sleepy Hollow Racquet and Polo club, for he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know what he might catch the two doing the next time.
Fortunately,therewasmuchto keep his mind occupied.
His position as schoolmaster was largely an intermediary role — part disciplinarian, part mediator, part dignitary, and all salesman. He was expected to sell parents on the idea of the elite private school, not an altogether hard thing to do in a place like Sleepy Hollow. The pockets in these parts were deep — deep and well furbished. He had scarcely seen houses of such scale and ornateness and could barely remember a time when he had lived surrounded by such obvious prosperity.
It was the sort of town where everyone went out wearing Wellington boots and their most disgusting barn jacket as if they had all just come in from mucking out the stables. The people of Sleepy Hollow drove mud-spattered vehicles with 4-wheel drive, baked bread, and shopped at the farmers market. Their appearances and behavior ignored the reality that they brought their farmers market purchases home to kitchens in multi-million dollar houses, and that they paid the equivalent of a private college tuition for their horses to be kept in the lap of luxury, with organic hay and designer oats and a warm, well-appointed place to sleep, and most importantly, someone else to shovel out their shit.
Ichabod knew without question that the artificial trappings of living such a bucolic, sylvan-like existence was a sign of such extreme wealth and privilege that they didn’t even need to worry about being fashionable — the most privileged any one person could be.
Amidst all these suburbanite farmers with the bank accounts of oil barons, there grew a single, rare rose. She was pink-cheeked and precocious, with generous curves and delicate ankles, shown off by trendy autumnal ankle boots and denim dresses, with a designer plaid scarf looped around her neck. Her hips were wide and her tits were full and inviting, and he wanted nothing more than to fit in with the other residents of Sleepy Hollow and sample the local organic goods — in particular, the sweet honey between Katrina Van Tassel’s creamy thighs.
He wanted to coat his tongue in such a heavenly ambrosia, let her flood his mouth with its abundance, and once he had his fill — slurping up the excess and licking his fingers clean — he would repay the favor in kind, giving her a taste of his artisanal summer sausage.
She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest men in town, a member of the village council, looked up to by all. He owned the largest contiguous stretch of land in a Tri-County area, and every organic apple and alfalfa sprout that was sold to national food distributors lined the Van Tassel nest egg — an egg fair Katrina would be inheriting. For her to be beautiful and charming was one thing. For her to be beautiful and charming and possess the sort of physical attributes that made him want to sink his cock into her and never come out was another . . . That she was filthy rich on top of it all, Ichabod could simply not ignore. She was a flirt, but he was as well, and he prided himself on his dogged persistence.
