Part 3 - Gentlemen, Meet Your New Teacher

Then Mitch and I moved to the center of the room. We pulled a couple girls up with us, and started doing what we did best, feeling the pulse of testosterone through our veins as the hands started groping.

There's a marked difference between women dancing for men and vice versa. The rule when women dance is that no one touches. Strictly hands off. The policy is often brutally enforced, and the men are expected to maintain a certain respect and decorum.

When men dance for women, though, all bets are off. Women can lose themselves in reckless abandon. If they want to touch, they touch. If they want to tear something off, they do it. If they want to suck, that's their right.

My stepbrother and I had polar opposite styles to our dancing, and those styles in very short order tended to sift the audience into two different groups. When Mitch danced, he drew women that worshipped the ideal. They were drawn by his perfect, boyish face and Adonis-like body. His male form was strikingly beautiful. And he could satisfy that entire group, offering eye candy and groping stock for everyone who wanted it. He was a master at making every girl in the group think that sacrificing that new dress was worth getting to see just a little more.

On the other hand, though I was perfectly defined and very well muscled, my body had protrusions that didn't fit the ideal; while my face was attractive enough, it wasn't perfect. But I specialized in zeroing in on the timid girls who held back, the ones who felt they weren't popular enough, or weren't skinny enough, or weren't beautiful enough, and giving them my complete undivided attention for those few brief moments, making them feel like we were the only two people in the world and sparking fantasies within them that would warm them for a long time to come.

And if they had the money, they paid to get that feeling. They paid whatever it would take. And I milked that shamelessly. I figured it was a good trade. A shot of self-esteem, and maybe a self-gratifying orgasm or two later on when they were alone, instead of a new blouse or pair of shoes. Most of the girls in that category were happy with the deal.

And so the night progressed. As we felt we'd gotten enough for the privilege, we'd strip off an article of clothing. A girl who gave a little more money got a little special attention in return, or got to cop a longer feel, or got a little bump and grind. The music pulsated, the misty air lending a sultry atmosphere.

At one point, sometime after we'd lost our pants and were dancing in those matching stripsuits, Mitch learned the identity of the birthday girl. He signaled me, and we singled her out, pulled her to the middle of the floor, and gave her the time of her life. As she got into it, she started mouthing and groping Mitch's bulge, then turned to mine, pulling our swollen members into the open, licking and experiencing. We worked it, grinding, gyrating, bumping into her until she'd had her fill and stumbled light-headed back to the group.

The girls were wild by then and spontaneously surrounded us, groping and stuffing cash onto us. We plucked it together as quickly as we could, folding it all with practiced hands into our palms. More out of a desire for something solid to hold onto in the crush of screaming, grabbing women than anything else, I stood front to back to Mitch and wrapped an arm around his chest for balance.

Suddenly, most of the girls that noticed that went crazy, and a couple hundred dollars were immediately thrown at us. Holy shit, I thought. "They like us together, Mitch!" I had to yell to be heard. He yelled something in acknowledgement. Some of the girls were starting to yell at us to touch each other and rub each other. "Should we see how far we can take this?"

Mitch yelled back, "Yeah, let's try it," and we started actually dancing together, simulating sexual positions, groping and rubbing each other according to the beat of the music and the demands of the crowd.

Most of them loved it, absolutely fucking loved it. A 20 and a 50 and another pair of 20's found their way into my hands in rapid succession. My fist was bulging with money. Mitch was experiencing the same problem. The girls had moved back, darting in to feel and grab and lick and deposit a bill, then moving back, giving us room to move, but the screams punctuated by the throbbing music remained just as loud.

"Time for our ace in the hole!" yelled Mitch. "Let's bring it home!" We turned toward each other and quickly undid the concealed zippers on the suits and pulled them off one another, almost as one.

Bedlam erupted as this mob screamed, loving every second. I never could explain it, we could never produce such frenzy before or since, not even dancing together. It seemed to just be one of those spontaneous events you can't reproduce. But they wanted to see two men engaged sexually, and they started screaming it. "Suck him off!" "Make him cum!" reverberated in our ears as I moved behind him, grinding against him, my hands rubbing over the gossamer fabric, grappling with his engorged cock.

We'd now lost ourselves to the crowd's will. We really started having sex then, no more simulation. We weren't thinking. Girls reached in to tuck bill after bill, but we ignored it all. We sank to our knees and I pulled his cock out, stroking it, cupping his balls, his back leaning hard against my chest. The noise disappeared, and I was only aware of Mitchell and the lights.

Mitch flipped himself over and mouthed my cock through the gauze. He pulled down the skimpy suit and deftly untied the rubber around my package. Savagely, he engulfed my suddenly rock-hard cock to it's hilt. I exploded immediately, screaming savagely as I unloaded cum down Mitchell's throat. The crowd screamed with me, and I could pick out one or two voices whose scream was a little more guttural than normal. No sooner had I finished shooting into Mitch's mouth than he shoved me back onto my back and climbed on top of me, straddling my chest, grabbing my by the hair with one hand, pumping his cock with the other. I was vaguely aware that his rubber tubing had already been removed as his hot cum splashed out onto my face, into my mouth and up my nose, and Mitchell too screamed like a wounded animal. Once again, voices rose in response, and a lot of them were unmistakably orgasmic.

As I opened my eyes in a stupor, I looked straight up. Right over me, through the sea of feminine faces and figures, was a solitary man, looking down on us from the balcony with a strange smile on his face. He seemed familiar to me... Where had I seen...?

Quickly, the music died and the lights brightened. In response, the madly cheering crowd began to settle, moving back. As Mitch climbed off of me, I saw his virtually naked body coated in a sheen of sweat. He offered me a hand and I took it. We stood on an island littered with cash. I was aware of Molly moving to stand with us. She handed us a pair of hand towels, which we used to dry off our faces and necks.

"I think I speak for all of us," Molly said, getting the restless crowd's attention, "when I say that that was the hottest thing I've ever seen." The mob of girls cheered in response. Mitch and I grinned at each other and started picking up the cash, stacking it neatly in our palms, gathering what clothing we could find around us. Both our shirts had been shredded and not much was left. The seat of my pants was gone, jagged scissor marks around the gaping hole. The crotch of Mitch's had disappeared, along with one of the legs. Amazingly, the outer covering of both our stripsuits had survived intact.

Once we'd salvaged everything we could, we started moving out of the room. Calmer music had replaced the throbbing beats of earlier. The girls cheered again as we left, and Molly followed us toward the door.

When we reached it, I touched Molly on the shoulder. "Could you do us a favor?" I told her where we'd left our gym bags in my car and told her the keypad combination to get in. She smiled and walked out the door with a wink.

"That was quite a show," drawled a voice from behind us as soon as the door had closed. Turning we saw the same man I'd seen on the balcony. Tall, corded, youthful features and jet black hair belied the hard, intelligent look which probed into us from hazel-green eyes.

Then it all clicked. "You're Brian. You were on the squad two years ago."

"Good memory." He probed Mitchell. "You two really got into it out there."

Mitch shrugged noncommittally. "Gotta give the people what they want."

"Ah, but there was more, wasn't there? I saw your faces. You two weren't thinking. You weren't satisfying the crowd." His penetrating gaze turned to me. "You were fucking with each other."

My eyes narrowed. I knew about this guy, and I saw no reason to extend my trust. "What are you doing here anyway? It's a chick party."

He shrugged. "Molly's my sister. Our parents let her use the townhouse for her little parties. But I live here." He turned back to me. "I remember you. You were mediocre on the squad. You didn't really deserve the scholarship you got." His gaze shifted to Mitch. "And I remember you mentioned your stepbrother once."

"What do you want?" I demanded.

"Let me take a wild guess," he started. "Until lately, you two have been one hundred percent straight. But something happened recently, probably by accident, and you liked it. You've been experimenting with each other." He paused. I was suddenly wary. This guy wasn't somebody to underestimate. I knew the stories, and he didn't match them. His power of perception scared me. "But you're amateurs. You've no idea what kind of fire you're dealing with, and you know it. What you need, what you want is somebody to show you what manfucking is all about." His eyes met Mitch's and bored in. "Don't you?"

"Yes," Mitch answered immediately.

"Speak for yourself, Mitch. I don't trust this guy."

Brian continued smoothly, "Why don't I pay you a visit tomorrow, oh, about three. I'll teach you everything you need to know.

At that moment, the front door opened up and Molly handed us our bags, glancing at her brother momentarily before wishing us good night and walking away. We dressed quickly out of our bags, stuffing the cash and salvaged items into them. Brian watched us silently, almost disinterestedly.

As we finished and turned toward the door, Brian brought us up short. "Well?"

Mitch turned and looked at him. "1362 Elm Street. It's up on Blane Hill." He looked at me as I gave him a venomous look. "Sit it out if you want, Trevor. I don't give a fuck."

And with that we stepped out of the house, walked down the yard, and climbed into the car.

On the drive back home, I recounted to him what I'd heard about Brian. He'd been a sophomore on the squad when I was a freshman. He was good at wrestling. Really good. Until he failed a random drug test and was cashiered. He'd become a pariah on campus, relegated to the segment of the population reserved to the rest of the stoners and losers. I'd seen him from time to time in the university hallways, but we'd never spoken since he left the squad.

On top of that were the snickered rumors about the "little faggot" that used to be on the squad. Whispered were stories of the guy who was a blowjob slut and enjoyed the gang rape to which he had been subjected. It was rumored that he'd become a complete reprobate after he was kicked off the squad, with his reported crimes ranging from drug dealing to grand theft auto. With that kind of history, I concluded, how safe would this guy be to be around?

"Those stories are full of shit," said Mitchell matter-of-factly.

"How do you know?" I demanded.

"Did he strike you as the type to just bend over and take it up the ass? Some sort of cum slut? And this guy's smart. In control. No, I think there's a little more to those rumors than what you've heard."

As he spoke, Mitch reached into the back seat and grabbed the bags and pulled the accumulated cash from them. "I hope you're right about that," I said testily.

"I guess we'll find out tomorrow afternoon," he replied cooly as he started counting.

Our mood brightened quickly as the cash we'd collected went well into the fourth digit. Not bad for two hours' work. As always, we split it fifty-fifty.