Chris was slouched on an old, well-used couch, drinking beer from a white Styrofoam cup — something he hadn't done in a while. Alcohol wasn't allowed on campus, not even in the fraternity houses; when asked, the college administrators would go on about the college charter and the fact that they were located in a "dry county" but Chris was pretty sure they just didn't want to deal with the excesses to which youth was prone.

But Burlap's parents lived thirty miles east of the campus, in another county, and they were gone for the weekend. It hadn't taken much to convince Burlap to have a party; his one caveat was that all drinking and puking had to remain in the basement. His mother would kill him if anyone ralphed on a flower-print comforter or, heaven forbid, the white carpet in the dining room. Chris wasn't sure the white carpet would make it through the night, but they all knew if it didn't then they'd never be able to use this basement again.

It was a rowdy, drunken crowd: nine guys, all seniors, except Buck, and all on the football team, with Buck the only second-stringer. Basketball and baseball were Buck's strengths, but he was on an athletic scholarship, so he played just about every sport they let him.

Chris, like everyone else, had been too busy drinking to know who had started the latest competition. Chris wouldn't have put it past Buck, though. Buck was a rowdy one, and randy as well. Chris had been just as bad in his youth, but never quite as care-free as Buck; lately, he enjoyed watching Buck's antics even more than he enjoyed participating along side him. And it's not like they did everything together — they weren't joined at the hip, despite how close they were.

Chris never had figured out how Buck had pulled off the stunt during his freshman year which had earned him his nickname. Even though the entire campus had heard about it, only the senior members of the house knew who had been responsible. "Buck," they'd nicknamed him — and it had stuck — for managing to coax and then lock a deer and her two fawns in the dean's office during Homecoming. When anyone in the house asked how he'd done it, he only smiled and denied that it had been him. When Chris asked how he'd done it, Buck simply shrugged, saying, "Must be my animal magnetism."

"I win," Buck declared loudly. Chris looked up and saw Buck standing in the center of the basement, shoulder to shoulder with several of the other guys. Chris got up to have a look, swaying just a bit as he stood.

"No way, Buck," the Senator was saying, his speech a bit slurred from drink. Chris watched as the linebacker, laughing, dug into his trousers and whipped out his prick.

"Hey, that's cheating," Rabbit protested. "You're hard! You can't compare hard to ... to ... not hard."

Chris looked around at the small group; it was clear how drunk they all were. Their antics that evening had started out fairly sedate — two of the guys wrestling, a few others playing cards, the rest just sitting around bullshitting while a porno tape played on the television. But as the beer in the keg got lower and lower, the amount of activity in the room had increased. It had started with the card game turning into strip poker, and was quickly followed by the wresting getting a bit out of hand: Pongo had pinned Crash and refused to let him up, then Wallaroo pounced, using Crash's prone form to reenact one of the more athletic scenes from the porno movie. The guys cheered, egging Wallaroo on. When they finally let Rabbit up, he mooned the room, which seemed to give Pongo the idea of lighting fart gas. The singeing of the Senator's ass hairs put an end to that game fairly quickly, but other activities followed, somehow leading to this one: the comparison of cock sizes.

Chris looked from the Senator's hard-on to Buck's soft flesh and thought, even so, Buck couldn't be more than a quarter-inch shy; hard, he had to be longer than the Senator. But was he the longest in the group? Everyone seemed eager enough — and drunk enough — to want to find out, including Chris.

"Either get it up or I win," the Senator challenged them. All of the guys were there now and all hands went to zippers — trousers were dropped to the floor and jock-straps were pushed out of the way.

Chris chugged the last mouthful of his now-warm beer, tossed the empty cup over his shoulder, and joined in, thinking, "Damned if I'm gonna lose to this bunch of yahoos." Like everyone else, Chris fisted his meat, trying to jerk out enough length to beat both Buck and the Senator. Chris glanced over at Buck and found a huge grin plastered to his friend's face — he was loving every minute of this horse play. Chris wasn't surprised in the slightest.

"Okay, everyone in," someone said and they all narrowed the circle, their dicks in hand and pointing toward the center. A ruler suddenly showed up and was passed around; each guy measured his own prick, but the brother to his right read out the measurement to the group — less likely for exaggeration that way. Between six and seven inches was a popular length all around, though the Senator came in just over seven and a half inches and Rabbit hung his head with his meager five and three-quarters, but Buck beat them all with a solid eight inches.

Everyone declared a re-measure on Buck. Chris noticed he was still grinning. Buck measured himself again, and then even let one of the other guys measure him. Chris rolled his eyes; Buck didn't seem to care who touched his dick, male or female, as long as someone was touching it! One thing you could say about Buck: he wasn't modest, nor did he have a reason to be.

Buck was declared the winner, hands down, with his eight inches of wood. He stepped out of his pants and jock-strap and began pranced around the room. His dick bobbed about as Buck twirled the athletic supporter over his head. Pretty soon, the entire room was laughing hysterically at his spastic victory dance. Chris let out a cat-call and was joined by a few whistles and one proposal of marriage. Soon, beer cups were filled again, Buck pulled his jock strap back on (but couldn't find his pants, not that anyone else had bothered to redress), and, not long after that, Maestro, the captain of the football team, pulled out a feather duster.

"Good fellows, my comrades-in-arms, who is up for a game of rooster?" Everyone cheered. They all quickly stood up from where they were sitting and stripped off their shirts, leaving everyone clad only in shoes, socks and a jock strap. "Line up," Maestro told them. "About face!"

Every man-jack among them turned and faced the couch. Maestro walked behind them, and the sound of a hand slapping against firm, bare flesh occasionally echoed through the room.

"Any volunteers?" Maestro asked finally. There was silence, broken by a few drunken giggles. "Any nominations?" he asked.

"Bareback!" they all shouted, except for Chris, whose response was drowned out by the others. Then Buck said, "Come on, Maestro, you know Larabee's got the tightest ass on campus."

"Is that right? Well, I've heard the rumors ... let's see if they're true," he said. "Bareback, front and center. Everyone else, face front for the presentation." Chris reluctantly turned around and took several steps into the center of the room, his back remained to his fellow fraternity brothers. "Gentleman, I give you our wide receiver, Bareback Larabee. Tonight he's cock of the walk!" Maestro shoved the round, wooden handle of the feather duster between Chris's cheeks. Chris squeezed his buttocks tight, knowing the punishment for letting go of the duster.

"Okay, Bareback, you know the rules: defend your end, by any means necessary. If anyone grabs that duster from you, he's the winner."

Chris nodded that he understood. He knew this could easily get out of hand and that he could bow out right now, if he wanted. But he knew when they were all sober, he was faster than any of them, and he was pretty damn sure he hadn't drunk quite as much as everyone else that night, which was another advantage in his favor. He was confident he could win this. How could he lose?

"Pongo," Maestro called, "you're up first." He handed Buck a stopwatch and said, "Give me two minutes on the clock. Go!"

Pongo began to chase Chris around the room. Chris made him dodge around chairs and tables and even the keg of beer. And Chris was fast — he wished his name was "Fleet" or "Dash" instead of "Bareback," because he was a bit embarrassed by his nickname and felt something sports-related would have been more appropriate, but everyone knows you don't get to pick your own fraternity nickname. Chris was so fast that he had no problem out running or out maneuvering Pongo, who had a least 80 pounds on him and wasn't nearly as agile.

"Time!" Buck shouted. Pongo, panting hard, came back to the crowd, now standing in front of the couch, as Chris repositioned the feather duster and tried to catch his breath before the next guy was up and Maestro was calling "Go!" again. Chris hoped Buck was skimping on the time, but he doubted it. When he had a moment to check, it had looked like Buck was enjoying Chris's predicament entirely too much.

Rabbit was the next man up, and, as his nickname suggested, he was a much better sprinter than Pongo. It wasn't enough to simply dodge around obstacles in the room; Chris had to resort to an active defense. Rabbit managed to corner him between the couch and the television set, now playing a different porno movie. Chris's back was to the wall, the feather duster, for the moment, trapped and safe. Rabbit reached out and snapped the elastic on Chris's jock strap, causing Chris to yelp from the unexpected sting, then Rabbit grabbed his balls and squeezed. Chris reached out, not knowing what else to do, and pinched Rabbit's nipple, hard. Rabbit took a step back, as his hand whipped up to protect himself. Chris slipped by him in a flash. He rounded the edge of the pool table, Rabbit hot on his heels, just as Buck finally called "Time!"

Burlap stepped forward next, barely giving Chris time to catch his breath. Burlap was their field goal kicker, and he was damn good at it, which meant he was wiry, but not particularly fast, nor possessed of a great deal of stamina. Chris knew he had to get Burlap sprinting around, in order to wear him down. Chris took short, quick steps, to keep the handle of the feather duster lodged firmly between his ass cheeks as Burlaps started after him. He grabbed Chris's shoulder, but Chris ducked and spun out of his grasp, grabbing a discarded shirt along the way. He twisted the shirt into a rope, turned suddenly, and whipped Burlap smartly on the hip. Burlap gasped in surprise and then lost his footing on a discarded cup and a puddle of beer. Buck called time and Burlap slapped the linoleum where he'd fallen.

The Senator stepped to the middle of the floor, and as he helped Burlap up, Chris noticed the tip of the Senator's long, still-hard prick sticking out the top of his athletic supporter. They'd all jerked themselves just shy of ejaculation, in order to compare lengths, and now all this running about in nothing but their jock straps was clearly keeping everyone hard. The head of the Senator's dick looked a wicked purple color and Chris wondered just how painful his erection might be by this time. He wondered how he could use it to his advantage.

As soon as Burlap joined the masses on the sidelines, Maestro shouted "Go!" and Chris rushed forward. Clearly expecting Chris to run away, this move took the Senator completely by surprise. He hesitated a moment, then instinctively tried to spin away, like he would have done on the field had he been in possession of the football. Chris caught the Senator around the waist and slipped one hand down around the bulge in his jock strap. Chris gave a quick squeeze and a few swift strokes. The Senator groaned loudly and dropped to his knees, as if he'd been kicked in the balls. Everyone laughed at the Senator's agony, as he was clearly trying desperately not to come on the spot. Chris walked casually to the opposite side of the room, the feather duster swaying enticingly with each step.

Chris prepared for the next assault. Crash was on deck; he swaggered into the center of the room, patting the Senator consolingly on the shoulder — he'd had to endure Wallaroo's humping earlier in the evening, Chris recalled, so clearly sympathized. Chris had no strategy this time. He didn't know Crash's weaknesses or strengths. Chris was offense on the team and Crash was defense. He was a big guy, a tackler, and the last thing Chris wanted was to be thrown to the floor while he was clenching anything between his butt cheeks. His best bet, he figured, was evasion; he couldn't let Crash get a clear shot at him.

Chris immediate ran for the pool table, then dodged behind the on-lookers, who were cheering both of them on. This was a bad move on his part, though, because the Senator reached out and grabbed at Chris's crotch as he tried to slip past. Clearly trying for a bit a revenge, the Senator held on tight and Chris thought for sure his jock strap would be ripped from him if he tried to pull away. Crash was right behind him, when Chris grabbed the Senator's shoulders and spun them around. Crash ran right into the Senator's back, knocking the wind from him and causing him to release Chris. The three staggered a bit, but Chris recovered his footing first and danced away. He'd made it back across the room when Buck called "time" and then noticed Crash still latched onto the Senator. He looked pretty angry that someone had gotten between him and his quarry. His grip on the Senator's shoulders looked painful and the Senator grunted when Crash growled loudly and seemed to thrust suddenly against his ass before finally letting him go.

"People, people. Settle down," Maestro said, clearly trying to keep the situation from deteriorating into some testosterone driven frenzy of machismo and aching hard-ons. Once everyone seemed to remember that this was just a game and not some all-important football match, he said, "Wallaroo, my man. You are up! Bareback, you're 5-and-0' — can you hold off ol' Wallaroo?"

Chris stood up straight, narrowed his eyes, and gave an easy smile. Wallaroo drove a fist against his palm and the smacking sound echoed through the room, causing many whoops and hollers from the gallery. "Get him!" some yelled. "Wall-a-ROO, Wall-a-ROO!" others chanted. Chris decided taunting was his best defense.

"Come on, Wally," he said just barely loud enough to be heard over the noise of their audience. "You want this?" he asked, turning to the side and then wiggling his ass. "Wanna hump me, like you humped Crash? Think you're man enough?" Chris made little kissing sounds.

Wallaroo turned bright red. He yelled like a maniac and then charged like a bull. Chris dodged away at the last moment. Wallaroo tripped over a day-glo orange beanbag chair and then lay splayed on the floor. Chris walked over to him and put a foot on his ass, like a hunter who'd just felled a lion on safari. Everyone cheered.

But a moment later Wallaroo stirred. He grabbed Chris by the ankle with a hand so big and strong that Chris couldn't break free of his grip. A second hand came up and captured Chris's calf. Chris tugged, but he was trapped. Frantically, he looked around the room for something — anything or anyone — that might help him out. A hand came up to grab his thigh, too close to his ass, and in another moment Chris knew Wallaroo would be able to grab the duster.

Chris was determined not to lose to Wallaroo! Trapped and out of options, Chris reached into his jock strap, pulled out his dick, and shoved it in Wallaroo's face. Wallaroo had his mouth slightly open, breathing hard with his effort to capture Chris and the feather duster, and when his wet lips touched Chris's salty head, Wallaroo suddenly released Chris, recoiling, and falling back over the beanbag chair once more.

Chris was laughing hard at the stunned and surprised look on Wallaroo's face. Everyone else was laughing, too. Wallaroo shook his head as he got to his feet. He stared at Chris for a moment, feigned another grab for him, then let out a large breath when Buck called time.

"Damn, Bareback! You got guts," he said. "Get me a beer!" Wallaroo yelled as he headed back to the others. Someone handed him a cup and he downed the contents in one long gulp. "Ahh!" he exclaimed. "Salt and beer: can't beat the combination!" He laughed hard and, after a brief moment while they figured out his meaning, the others began laughing as well.

Chris was pretty winded by now — only Buck and Maestro remained. Maestro, being captain of the football team and president of the fraternity, would go last. He took the stopwatch from Buck and sent Buck onto the field. Chris hoped his friend would go easy on him, but Buck had a competitive side and he gave Chris a wide, predatory grin. Even as winded as Chris was, Buck clearly wouldn't be giving him any sort of a break.

"Go!" Maestro shouted. Chris dodged left, then right. Buck grabbed his arm, but Chris managed to twist and slip away — the sweat he'd worked up previously was now an advantage. Chris went sprinting around the pool table, but just as he rounded the corner, Buck dove, right across the felt, and deftly caught hold of enough feathers to snatch the duster from between Chris's cheeks.

Chris bent over, hands on his knees, defeated. His lungs ached, unable to be refilled fast enough, and his leg muscles burned with all the sprinting he'd been doing.

"38 seconds!" Maestro announced. "That's a new house record, Buck! Congratulations!" The seniors cheered, all except Chris. Buck might have won, but that made Chris the loser. "Winner's choice, Buck," Maestro told him and made a sweeping gesture at the room.

Chris watched Buck's face, wondering what he'd come up with. He saw his friend's blue eyes land on the pool table. It was only fitting, he supposed, given how Buck had won. He wasn't sure if facing his brothers would be more or less humiliating than facing away from them.

"Here," Buck said. He'd chosen the short side of the table, which meant Chris would be able to turn his head away and face the wall, if he wanted.

Chris walked up to the table, still breathing hard, and bent over until his forearms and bare chest were resting against the felt. Maestro walked over and handed something to Buck, then he leaned toward Chris and said, "Nice effort, Bareback!" Maestro smacked him hard on the ass before returning to the team who'd all come closer, forming a semi-circle at the side of the pool table in order to watch. Chris glanced briefly at his frat brothers; they were all sweaty and keyed up from the game. Each one had a jock-strap full of hard meat and the smell of testosterone was almost palpable in the air.

He knew all too well what these parties were like, how charged they became after too much beer, too much porno, too much sweat, and too much physical contact — it was like the buzz after a winning football game, only ten-fold. It was too late to say no to this, too late to walk away, like he'd told Buck he would if things got out of hand. But it didn't matter, because Chris Larabee was no quitter. He'd lost fair and square, and if he hadn't been willing to suffer defeat then he wouldn't have played in the first place.

Chris felt Buck's hands part his cheeks, then he felt something cold, a moment before something light brushed over his back — the feathers of the duster? Then he felt the smooth round handle being rubbed between his cheeks. Chris stared at the ill-used felt on the table, noting more than a few dark stains and one cigarette burn on the top of the nearest bumper.

Chris took a deep breath when he felt Buck's hand on his hip, steadying him, then slowly let it out as the handle of the feather duster entered him.

"Push it in, push it in, push it in," the frat boys all began to chant, some between gulps of beer, and Buck obliged. Deeper and deeper, Chris took it all until he thought he felt feathers tickling his ass cheeks, then Buck slowly withdrew the handle before gently thrusting it in again. It wasn't doing anything for Chris and he concentrated on staring at the felt and thinking only about Buck's warm hand on his hip.

Then the feather duster was removed and Chris thought things might be over, but the noise in the room told him it wasn't. These guys were rowdy and horny, a bad combination if ever there was one. Chris steeled himself and snuck a look to the side: some of the boys were still drinking, but most had their hands down their jock straps, fondling or fisting themselves. He knew the night would end in nothing less than a circle jerk, as most of their parties did, but this was more than he'd dared think about. A bunch of big, horny, drooling guys who were clearly determined to get their rocks off and soon.

When Chris felt Buck's hand against his lower back, he focused on the pool table again. He felt something large and blunt, firm yet soft, press against his hole. He swallowed and took a quick breath, suddenly hearing another chant: "Stick it in, stick it in, stick it in..."

Buck thrust home in one long, slow motion. Chris took it all, wishing he had something to hold onto. His fingertips scrapped across the green felt of the tabletop; when the flesh started to burn from the friction, he clenched his hands into fists. Buck was holding onto both his hips now, and though Buck felt twice his actual size, Chris had taken it all without too much discomfort and not a single sound of weakness.

Thank God that Buck knew what he was doing, was Chris's only thought.

Buck began to thrust just a few short heartbeats later and Chris did his best to block out the small group staring at them. He could feel Buck's hip bones press against his ass, setting a good, steady pace. With Buck's stamina, this could take a while, though Chris hoped he'd had enough excitement tonight not to want to drag this out for too long. He felt Buck change the angle a bit, putting pressure on Chris's hips to tilt them lower. Before he could stop himself, Chris let out a low groan when Buck unexpectedly struck his prostate. The frat boys cheered.

Not long after that, the room began to echo with the slap and squelch of flesh against flesh; Chris took a quick glance to the side and saw the semi-circle of his fraternity brothers all beating off as they watched Buck fuck him over the pool table. Pretty soon, it was Buck who was groaning. He pushed deeper into Chris, harder and faster, grunting with the effort. He pulled out suddenly and Chris felt warm splashes against his ass and the back of his thighs. He knew what that meant and he tried to prepare himself for it.

Maestro and Wallaroo came over as Buck panted for breath. They grabbed Chris and turned him around. They each took an arm and a leg and hoisted Chris onto the pool table, pushing him down until his shoulders were resting on the felt. The semi-circle of guys closed in on him. They were all beating themselves frantic at this point. The Senator was the first to spurt, the droplets splattering against Chris's stomach. Soon all the guys were coming on him, and he was covered from chin to balls with puddles and rivulets of white, sticky jizz.

Chris looked up to see Buck standing between his legs. His friend was grinning wickedly at him as he reached out and pulled Chris's jock-strap aside. Chris felt Buck's fingers wrap around his still-hard dick. Buck was easily the most experienced guy in the frat, with anything to do with sex, and his touch was amazing. Chris's gaze went hazy as Buck's fingers moved over his flesh and, for a few moments, nothing else seemed to exist except his dick and Buck's hand. Before he even realized he was close, Chris's abdominal muscles tightened as he came hard, adding his own jizz to what was already congealing on his chest and belly.

After, he just lay on the pool table — panting, tingling, existing in a fog of blissful release — for what seemed like hours. Then a towel hit him square in the face.

"Come on, Bareback. Get off the table before you get stuck to the felt," Maestro told him.

It wasn't long after that that the keg ran dry and the party broke up. The frat boys made their way upstairs and into the bedrooms. Buck and Chris took the room at the far end of the hall. It was conservatively furnished and sparsely decorated; it looked like a guest room. They each took a side of the queen-sized bed and flopped down, tired from the beer and the activities. Chris stared up at the ceiling for the longest time, his mind replaying his post-come high.

"You asleep?" Buck asked after a while and Chris told him no. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Chris said, then after a few moments pause added, "It's just..."

"What?"

"I knew things would get out of hand," Chris finally said.

"You could have left."

"I know. It's not that. It's ... I just ... I like it better when we have some privacy," Chris finally admitted.

"We have privacy now."

"Buck, I couldn't get it up again if I tried," Chris declared.

"We gotta work on that, pard," Buck said.

Chris stole a glance at his friend and saw Buck grinning, with a hand full of eight hard inches. "Doesn't anything get you soft?" Chris asked.

"Why don't we find out," Buck said with a laugh as he propped himself up on an elbow. He leaned over and pressed his lips against Chris's. It was one of the few things they'd never do in the basement with their frat brothers watching.

September 2005

Please do NOT repost this story anywhere outside of the Blackraptor Fiction Website.

This transitional work was inspired by "The Magnificent Seven," a television series owned by The Mirisch Group, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment, and CBS Worldwide, Inc.; this work in no way signifies any relationship with any of these companies or their affiliates. My intent is to entertain and encourage the continued interest in this television program. This work is not for profit and will not be sold for any reason. No copyright infringement is intended; any mention of copyrighted characters, places, or other story elements has been kept to a minimum and are being used under the Fair Use Rule of the United States Copyright Act of 1976.

Much thanks to my beta reader, Rick — first, for the idea and, second, for his very helpful comments which I believe greatly improved this fic.