Payback For Dad

PAYBACK FOR DAD

Ancient Cures for Modern Problems

PART ONE

Tim’s mouth dropped open. A ghost! A man in white chino pants and a new red Hecadock Junior College sweatshirt yelled instructions to students on the tennis court. He was about forty, six-foot-two, powerful build, blond hair, crewcut.

Dad! It’s Dad! Where in hell did he–

Tim shut his mouth. Get a grip, idiot, that face is from the picture on the mantel, Mom’s wedding picture in 1950! A look-alike.

He took a seat in the bleachers, and Sankha walked up beside him. Sankha’s English was very good, getting better every day–“What’s up, my dude? You are now suddenly being a tennis fan?”

“Tennis? Oh, yeah. Tennis. Sport of kings. You should take it up.”

“The sport of kings is horse racing–we do have it in India. We also have this tennis. Who is this you are so interested in?” Sankha followed Tim’s gaze, then looked back with a wry smile. “You are liking the older men–the old hunks?”

Tim drew in a deep breath. “It’s weird, man, like he’s the spitting image of my father. Looks exactly like him.”

Sankha looked back at the tennis coach. “How do you know? Did you not say he went away when you are eight, in what, 1959? How do you know what he looks like now in 1969?”

“That’s just it: that can’t be Dad. He looks like Dad in the wedding picture 20 years ago, not what he would look like today. By now Dad’s probably an old, wrinkled geezer.”

Tim bit his lip. The look-alike was not handsome. Actually on the ugly side. But Roman gladiator ugly. Powerful, chiseled, granite ugly. Masculine ugly. No wonder Mom was attracted to him.

The memories were vague and unpleasant–a big guy slapping his face, knocking him down. Knocking his mother down. A lot of shouting. A lot of crying.

“I hate him.”

“Hate him? My dude, you don’t even know him.”

“Sorry. Didn’t realize I was talking out loud.” Tim turned to look at Sankha. “You’re right. Flash from the past. Not even my game, tennis. Let’s get out of here.”

The Hindu student, the taller of the two and a year older, looked down at Tim and put his arm around him. “Hey, buck up, my bro. You’re not into the ancient men.” He looked around. No one was looking, so he reached the other hand into Tim’s crotch. “Whoa yes, my friend, you have the–how you say–woodpecker! This man is turning you on?”

Tim smiled. “Yeah, got a woodie. Shame to waste it. Want to go back to the apartment and see if you can outdo an old tennis coach?”

Sankha gave him a final squeeze. “We now must get registered for the classes, my dude, but wait until we are back in the apartment. First I brew you a cup of Masala Chai tea. Then I am giving your tennis racket a new handle.”

The two left the bleachers, but as they walked on to the admin building, Tim looked back.

A long-lost relative, maybe? Not very likely. Dad was a drifter, no family, settled in with Mom only when he knocked her up with me.

Sankha snickered, “Hey, my dude, why you do not sign up for his tennis class if you are so interested?”

“Maybe I will, maybe I will.” Tim punched Sankha’s shoulder. Good guy. Lucky I was a little late at the bike rack last week.

————

As Tim stooped to open the padlock chaining his bike to the rack, a tall, handsome student walked up and began to unlock the next bike. He had shiny black hair, brown skin, and an exotic, intelligent face. They smiled, and the new guy looked down at Tim’s ride. “A very nice bicycle there.”

“Just your run-of-the-mill ten-speed. But I got it cheap.”

The tall stranger pulled his own bike out of the rack, an unusual British-style touring bike. Tim admired the bike but liked even more what he saw in its owner. The foreigner was about six feet tall with a healthy frame—a swimmer’s build. Tim held out his hand. “I’m Tim. Tim Scinitek”

“I’m Sankha.” He reached out and gripped Tim’s hand.

“Sanka, like the coffee?”

“Not spelled the same. S-A-N-K-H-A. Sankha Krishnamirto.”

“Wow. Where are you from?”

“Bombay–in India. And you?”

Tim rolled his bike out of the rack. “I’m from right here in Pennsylvania. Born right here in Hecadock. Now I’m hoping to graduate so I can get out.”

“On your way home now?”

“Not yet, I think I’ll go have something to eat.” Tim paused. “Care to join me?”

The two rode off toward a street of cafes near the campus. Later, in a little bistro, Tim ordered coffee and a chicken sandwich. Sankha ordered the same–“but please, not with the coffee. You are bringing me tea, please. Thank you.”

As they got to know each other, Tim blinked. “You came all the way here to study drugstores?”

“Oh, more than that! India knows thousands of drugs and potions America does not know. But the America pharmacology is being more ordered, more with system. I am wanting to blend the two, American technology and ancient Indian knowledge of drugs.”

Tim’s lip curled. “I think America knows a lot about drugs. Every party you go mecidiyeköy escort to has acid or at least marijuana. Even the music is all about drugs.”

“Ah, yes, your American Jimi Hendrix, ‘Purple Haze.'”

“But how about Ravi Shankar? Sitar music and marijuana!”

“But Ravi Shankar has nothing to do with hashish. You Americans have added that to his music. And no, I am not studying the illegal drugs. I study the healing drugs and potions in India — we have things in India that cure illnesses that Americans go to a hospital for.” He smiled. “If I can make the combining of both knowledges–we have the happy ending!” He took a sip of his tea. “Ugh. In America you do not know how to make tea.”

Tim sipped from his cup. “Not as popular as coffee.” He looked down. “Just like happy endings. We don’t know how to make those, either. At least, I don’t”

Sankha looked up at him, and Tim dropped his glance. “Sorry. Don’t mean to be such a downer.”

“Not to worry. Family troubles?”

“What family? Father ran off, mother died”–he shook his head and straightened up in his chair. “No, let’s not go there. I’ve got a good job–in a drugstore, as a matter of fact!” He smiled. “Maybe I can get you a job there, too.” Then his face darkened. “I made it into college. Somehow I’ll get out of here.”

For a moment, the two looked at each other. In the black eyes across the table, Tim saw darkness and mystery–but also warmth. Friendship.

The young Hindu saw in Tim’s blue eyes an eagerness and determination–and something else, something hidden, a pain, a fear. Almost at the same instant, each put out a hand, and they clasped together gently on the table.

Tim smiled. “Have you got a place to live yet?”

“No, I am staying in a hotel until I am finding a good apartment.”

“How about sharing my apartment? I got a great deal six blocks from the campus. It’s a basement apartment, but hey, it doesn’t flood around here, and the rent is only $150.”

“Hey, thank you–dude. Let us go take a look at it.”

That night, over a cup of Sankha’s carefully brewed Assam Mumri tea, Tim’s lips met Sankha’s in the first touch of what later became an all-night exercise in international relations.

—————-

A week later, when summer school classes ended, Sankha and Tim wandered through the registration center to sign up for their semesters. Tim looked at the basketball class on his list, lined out the entry, and went over to the Tennis desk. Yeah, you just want to see more of Dad in a tight sweatshirt.

No. He’s not Dad!

The student assistant looked up at him. “Tennis class?”

“Yeah. I’m down in the pre-enroll for basketball, but can I change that to tennis?”

The assistant rummaged through his tray of cards. “What class number?”

“There’s one teacher–tall guy, blond hair–looks like he’ll be a–you know–good coach.”

“Coach Gannefic?”

“Dunno. Real big guy. Heavy build.”

“That’s him. Coach Ansel Gannefic. Used to be a tennis pro.”

“A tennis pro? He’s pretty big for a tennis pro.”

The assistant took a deep, thoughtful breath and looked at Tim. “Yeah, he’s big. You’ll like him.” He looked Tim straight in the eye. “He’s hard. Hard to beat.” His eyes still bored into Tim’s. “He can make a man out of you.”

Tim snorted. “Hey, man, I just want to learn tennis.” The assistant wrote Tim’s name on the list and gave him the card.

I’m a perv. I just signed up for a class from my dad. And what was all that about–oh, wow, I bet that guy was gay!

Tim stopped and looked back. The assistant looked up with a mysterious smile.

Damn! Wonder if he’s out of the closet. Tim resumed his trek to the next desk, his cock straining fully hard in his pants as he walked away. I wonder if I’ll ever dare come out.

He chuckled to himself. Damn glad I found Sankha.

——————-

Outside the admin building, the Hindu student waited on a bench near the sidewalk, drinking from a plastic bottle of green tea from a vending machine. When he saw Tim walking toward him, he grimaced. “Ugh. How you can drink this?” He stood up. “This took longer than I thought. I am thinking we should get credit for the hours we spend in registration.” He shouldered his backpack, and they started toward the bike rack.

Tim looked aside at his friend. One in a million shot, really, to find a gay guy without risking a broken nose. “Get everything you wanted?”

“Yes, almost everything. Did you sign up for the big tennis coach?

“Yeah, matter of fact, I did.”

At that moment they were passing by the gym, and Sankha tugged on Tim’s arm. “Let us walk through the gymnasium! Maybe we are getting another look at your surrogate father.”

The school day was over, the summer classes dismissed, and most students had gone home. The hallways were empty except for janitors, and as Tim and Sankha passed the doors to the locker room, they looked at each other. “Hey, what the hell, pendik escort Sankha, let’s go all the way. Ever cruised a locker room after hours?”

It was empty–long rows of green-painted lockers–but they heard running water. “Somebody left the shower running!” They moved quietly toward the door. “Ohmigod!”

Alone in the shower room, the big tennis teacher stood under the shower stream, facing away. Washing up before going home.

Sankha snickered. “Look at him! What a–how you say–stud!”

“Yeah. Wow.” The man’s torso from behind was like the spreading back of a peacock chair–a delta of hard, rippling muscle spreading out to broad, heavily armored shoulders. Hard, rounded buttocks so taut they didn’t jiggle or bounce. His brain spinning at 2,000rpm, Tim’s voice narrowed into a hiss: “Look at that ass!”

“I am thinking he is the weights-lifter. Either that or he is a Turkish warrior, but I do not think–

The man turned around.

God, a body like Batman. No body hair except–Tim gasped. Damn, look at that thing! He shut his eyes then opened them again for a harder look.

Sankha whispered, “My dear gods, how he is tucking this thing into his pants?”

Tim’s cock strained inside his own, and the annoying little tickle told him it had thrust out through his boxers’ fly-slit, his cockhead rubbing against the cloth of his jeans. But he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Son. of. a. Bitch! The naked man was a bodybuilding magazine cover-picture come to life. A perfect Bruce Wayne/Clark Kent/Charles Atlas dripping wet in the showers!

Was Dad like that? No wonder I’m on the earth.

When Coach Gannefic reached down to wash his crotch, the cock lengthened out a little, and Tim rocked back on his heels, a little dizzy.

Sankha leaned over and hissed, “My friend, if your father has one like that, it is perhaps the reason you are on this earth!”

Thrills shot up Tim’s back to hear his own thoughts out loud. But the tennis coach’s big cock was there and immediate–and if not the reason Tim was on the earth, it was the reason he was in the shower room.

Unable to stop himself, Tim pulled down his zipper and gripped his throbbing cock, and as he stared into the shower room, in only a half-dozen strokes–Ah, God!–his cock shot boiling gushes into the air, and his knees finally collapsed.

He fell back against Sankha, and the two fell to the floor beside the doorway. They hurriedly got up and scurried out of sight, back into the locker room.

“Tim, you are really turning on. I am thinking this man means more to you than you know.”

“Let’s get out of here; he’s about to come out.”

—————————

The following Monday, Tim looked forward to the first tennis class in a combination of breathless anticipation and nervous jitters. That morning, Sankha brewed up a “special tea” for him to calm his nerves, but in the locker room, Tim’s cock twitched in his hand as he slipped on his jockstrap, and as the mesh pouch strained against his swelling erection, he winced.

Down, boy! Come on, jockstrap, don’t fail me now!

He took his place on the tennis court, and a few minutes later the coach walked out. He was impressive, more like a football player, really. Hard to imagine him on a tennis court.

Not so hard, now, though, to imagine him naked, and Tim kept seeing through the man’s clothes at the huge cock between his legs.

“Tennis is one of the most effective exercise sports there is.” The big man’s bass voice filled the tennis court like a black velvet background, and against it his heroic physique stood out like Superman in a cape.

Tim looked from side to side. Compared to the big coach, the students were tiny, timid, and colorless.

Ouch. His cock swelled so hard inside his jockstrap, he knew he would have red, sore lines crisscrossing his dick from the mesh fabric. At least I don’t have a tent in my shorts.

Since it was the introductory class, the coach did most of the talking–“you will get this, you will bring that, you will do this, you will do that, blah, blah”–not even the relief of activity or exercise, and the coach’s constant flexing, turning, standing with feet apart and hands on hips had Tim sweating. He shifted uncomfortably with a hardon throughout the entire class and even while changing clothes again in the locker room.

As he walked away from the tennis courts, heading for his next class–damn!–the persistent erection again thrust out through the loose fly of his boxers and rubbed against the inside of his jeans. It gave his cock a secret mini-stroke with each step, and Tim gritted his teeth against the sensation, a delicious tickle gradually growing stronger until electric sparks gathered in his balls–ohmigod, I’m going to cum!

Think of something else! Anything! Psychology! Yeah, psychology! Tim hated psychology classes and the long, droning lectures about Freud–but images of Coach Gannefic hovered in his mind, and his thinking sancaktepe escort grew faster and hotter as he walked along–Big male hunk. Big muscles. Broad shoulders. Huge cock–

And with a rush, he had only seconds to lurch to a nearby park bench, pull his books across his lap, and–Ohmigod, ohmigod, Yeah!–a grenade explosion in his balls blew shards of pleasure through his body, and the orgasm left him shivering and panting on the bench. As he shuddered in the final throes of the ecstasy, he groaned softly, “Dad!”

A passer-by looked down at him and hurried over. “Hey, dude, are you okay? You an epileptic or anything?”

“No, I’m okay. Just–got a migraine.”

Tim looked down, glad his jeans were new, still dark blue. The cum load would soak through, but it wouldn’t show. But the smell grew.

The student bent over him for a moment, drew in a breath, then stood up, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Well, have a nice day.” He walked away slowly, occasionally looking back.

Incredible. Fucking incredible! A jackoff by walking around! Didn’t think you could do that.

Damn. What’s come over me?

Two classes later, Tim met Sankha at the bike rack. Sankha snickered, “So how was he? Is he conducting the class in the nakedness?”

“Very funny. No, he didn’t.”

“So what he is wearing?”

“Same thing as the first time: Hecadock sweatshirt, chino pants.”

“Tight?”

“Tight enough.” Tim’s mouth curled in a leering smile, “and I was thinking–“

–“Ah, yes. You are thinking how about seeing if we catch him in the showers again, no?”

“Sankha, my man, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

The two killed time on campus until the end of the school day–coffee and tea in the snack bar, browsing in the library–then ambled over to the gym. They watched students and faculty leave the building then meandered into the locker room.

Water was running in the showers again. And there he was again. Naked male magnificence.

Tim stared at the splattering water coating the blonde god in eerie, erotic, almost slow-motion flickers of light–a fantasy, a dream, a picture like one of the frenzied visions just before an orgasm. He sucked in his breath, in a daze.

Without thinking, without any decisions, his hand went to his crotch and squeezed his throbbing hardon. Then he unbuckled his belt, pulled open his pants, and gripped his cock–again jabbing out through the slit in his boxers. Sankha grinned.

Tim pulled open his shirt and dropped it to the floor followed by his underwear. Sankha’s smile faded, and he stared in disbelief.

Tim kicked off his shoes and socks, and wearing only the silver chain around his neck, he walked quietly into the shower room with the naked god. Sankha stared open-mouthed.

When Gannefic noticed the naked youth approaching, he growled, “Students not allowed in here after school hours.”

Tim didn’t know what to say. Completely on autopilot. “Thought you might need–help–scrubbing your back.”

The big man turned around to face him, and he glanced down at Tim’s hardon. “Well, well, well. Sure, kid, you can wash my back.”

He tossed Tim the soap, and when he caught it, the coach looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Getting the message, Tim dropped the soap then bent over slowly to pick it up, turning away, spreading his legs.

When Tim stood up again, he gasped at the monster cock jutting out at him. God! It’s impossible! Gigantic! Tim realized his mouth hung open, and he shut it with a snap.

“Don’t shut your mouth, boy.” The coach’s voice was like sandpaper on a bass drum. “Why don’t you get down and suck it?”

Ohmigod. Here it is. Dad’s cock–

No, he is not Dad!

His mind a chaos of flashing lights and ringing bells, Tim’s legs slowly buckled, and he knelt on the wet floor, hypnotized, his vision tunneling to focus on the wondrous cock. Everything around it was a blur, and a roaring sound grew in his ears.

Sankha stared from behind the door, breathing hard, his own cock in his hand, stroking furiously, his dark brown foreskin baring his dusky cockhead in quick flickers like an old-time movie.

Tim placed a hand on each of Gannefic’s hard thighs and lowered his face to the broad, purple helmet. At the last second, only the pebbly surface in focus, he opened wide to suck it.

But suddenly the huge cock smacked into the side of his face! Gannefic slapped Tim back and forth with his throbbing rod, leaving a panting, drooling zombie trying to catch it in his mouth.

Dad!

When Tim’s lips finally sank over it, spreading his jaws wide, he felt his balls churning, beginning the climb to an orgasm, and he knew the cock was in control. He was not sucking it–the cock was invading him, had thrust itself into him, spreading his jaws and commanding him to be obedient.

The monster organ jammed him so open, Tim was helpless, choking, getting dizzy–Oh, God, can’t breathe–but after a dozen or so thrusts, when he was about to black out, Gannefic withdrew The Cock, leaving Tim gasping, panting, desperately clawing back to consciousness.

But each time Tim caught his breath, the coach rammed The Cock back in again, lunging Tim back and forth between death and gasping life. The big penis had its way with him, making Tim its hole, its sheath, its meat, its slave.