The StudBusters are back and this time putting a pair of sexy but deserving brothers through the ringer. Another classic collaboration between Jeff Kincaid and Cavelo!

For Asses Only - Parts 4 & 5
by Jeff Kincaid
Art by Cavelo
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Doug Mayo got the call that afternoon, a gentleman with a distinguished voice and a name well-known on the roster of the country club. "I think you might have gotten a raw deal in the Lunquist affair," he allowed, explaining that he "knew" Mary Ellen only too well and that her brother, the replacement pro, "wasn't anywhere near as inspirational" as his unjustly cashiered predecessor. "A number of us are thinking of taking lessons from you on the side, on our courts" - would Doug care to come out to the house to discuss it, and perhaps spend an hour going through his backhand?

"Sure," came the immediate answer, and at seven o'clock the hot young pro was, as instructed before the end of the call, walking directly from his car to the fenced-in court at the rear of a given address. A very impressive stone-facaded manse, no less (the Studbusters can call on some outrageously wealthy friends, should the need arise); the thought of ambush never entered his mind. He was dressed in his shorts and an open-necked cotton knit, piping around the plunging vee collar which was originally designed to show off the hair which had been profuse on the flat of his chest just under the collarbone. In our first encounter we'd denuded him of that sexy growth, but a stubble was beginning to grow back and it wasn't a turn-off, believe me.

The lights were on as Doug's caller had said they'd be, as though all were ready for the one-hour lesson across the net There'd be a lesson, all right, to quote Mario, but the fuzzy balls that Doug would be using wouldn't come in a can.

He checked the serve machine, loading it up and setting it on "high," utilizing the time before the arrival of the client to warm up, swatting the balls back with a very attractive fluidity indeed. Perhaps he wasn't in the McEnroe-Connors league, but there was talent there; too bad the punk was such a shit, in need of the hard training we were all set to put him through.

A clank, Doug looking up at the gate: his client arriving from the house, racket in hand. "Mr. Kincaid, sir?" Politeness personified. "Good evening."

Acknowledgement in the form of a nod as I crossed the court toward him. "Doug, nice to see you again. It's been too long since you bent me over double and made me suck my own schmuck."

It was as though the electricity I'd run through his brother's nuts was suddenly transferred to his own, the color disappearing instantly from his face. "Oh, shit" Of course he recognized me now. As a Studbuster. The one he bent over double in the middle of the night, making him suck his own tortured schlong. The grip on his racket became the grip one uses on a weapon. One step backward. Two, all the muscles tense. The arms. The thighs. His body rocked in readiness on the balls of the feet.

"You didn't really think you could do that to us and just walk, did you?" I advanced as, from the other corners of the field, the other Studbusters closed in, too. Zach was there with them. On our side, the tennis pro suddenly realized, whirling this way and that, backing up even more, until he was pressed against the center of the net.

"I only gave you back what you deserved," he said, measured, watchful. "Zach and me, we didn't do anything to that cunt that came close to the fucking over you bastards made us endure."

"And that's nothing to what we're going to make you 'endure' right now," Mario wanted him to understand, the circle getting smaller and smaller and smaller. The look on Doug's tension-wracked face was classic; we could read him like a book. He'd move - now - feinting one way and thrusting forward the other, attempting to bull his way through us and get over the fence, using his racket as a bat, flimsy as it might be.

Of course, because we could read him, because we had even planned in anticipation for just this move, we were prepared for it We unhooked the ends of the net and used it to wrap him in. The racket-bat was of no real use against the webbing; in fact, it flew out of his grip as we swathed him in the flexible grid, yanking the bottom of it to propel the sneakered feet up off the clay. Doug flipped over in the air, backward, yelping, then yelping again because Harker had retrieved the fallen racket and was using it as if it were a pledgmaster's paddle. Whack! Slap! Slam! "Hhhaaaggghhh - ! Hhhieeegghhh! Hhhuuuggggkkkk!" He was also yelling things like "stop, you bastards, stop, aaggghhhkkk," his fingers trying to rip through the webs locking him in place, his feet kicking, futile.

"You've been a bad-assed bullyboy, fuckface," Harker informed him as he paddled that ass, which Ryan and I had managed to strip of its shorts. "Take it and love it' yeah." It was only the first of a long night's festivities.Whap! Thunk! Splat!

"No, no more, uummgggfffhhh!" The "uummgggffhhh" was because Doug's brother Zach had figured a way through the squares of the net and was stuffing the pro's gaping mouth with nine fat inches of rampaging prick, hot and throbbing, each thrust timed to coincide with a blow to the other Mayo's backside, now looking as though the cheeks had been battered by a waffle iron.

"Just what I like to see," I said, loosening the webbing enough to insinuate my loins between Doug's, my hands flat on each of his thighs, widening them, raising them. My fuckstick was randy and ready, a deadly weapon ready to drill through the hole and strike home.

"Mmmpppfffflkk!" came the expected protest, muffled, which hardly prevented the penetration, my rampant dick overcoming the feeble resistance of Doug's defenseless twat and pounding through to the hairy hilt His "aaawwwggghhh" was probably more in reaction to the burn of the brillo against his paddled cheeks than the violation of his resisting rectum. But, who knows, maybe it was a combination of both. It sure became a combination when I was able to roll him, plugged, onto his side so that Ryan's hardon could join mine inside that ravaged tunnel.

"Isn't this fun, ass-cunt? Huh? Two giant fucksticks reaming out your pussy? One more hot pecker going to make you drink a load of slimy cum? Tell me you don't love it, boy, come on. Come on."

He couldn't actually "tell" anybody anything, being too busy sucking and getting fucked, the netting all around him writhing with every movement, the grommets slapping the ground as our free hands slapped his ass, his thighs, his face.

"I told you," Zach suddenly screamed. "I told you I'd unload down his throat!" He was, indeed, buckets of scum overflowing the tennis pro's handsome mouth, making him gag on the volume and the mucosity. That the muscular young plumber had anything left in his balls was a revelation, especially after the handcrank of my generator; that he had this much to flood his brother with suggested that the depth of the sibling resentment was deep, indeed.

The sight got to both myself and Ryan at the same exact moment Our pummeling peckers seemed to wrap around themselves within the slimy confines of that violated ass, firing bolt after bolt of Studbuster jizz deep into Doug's unprotected gut Our organs felt as though they were bathing in warm jello, slithering and slathering and sliding like a pair of snakes in heat, oozing back out into the open only when every last drop was completely extracted.

"Now it's your turn to have fun," I wanted our battered victim to know, unrolling him as though he'd been wound up in a carpet, dumping him sprawling and exhausted on the ground.

"What?" he moaned, not completely comprehending as he felt his gonads being manhandled, roughly, a length of rawhide encircling the sac. Once, twice, three times, then down between the eggs and up over the base of the boner, itself held up for the shagging by Mario, the Studbuster's shagging expert "Hhhuuuu..."

Now I led the length of rawhide upward, macrameing the length of his shaft with it, crossing under and over and drawing it tight just under the coronal ridge. The pressure popped the head of his dick outwards, ballooning it purple and red, expanding it to gross size. The piss slit gaped, and it had been a wide one to begin with.

"Good," said Harker, clear plastic rod in hand, narrow and smooth. "The easier the better." He threaded the rounded end of the thing into the opening.

"Ohmigawd," Doug gasped, thrusting his pelvis upward as though that would dislodge the new inorganic invader. "Not there, no, don't! Don't!"

I backhanded the face, the blow loud enough to resound off the stones on the side of the manse. "Can it, asshole! The more you wriggle the worse it's going to be."

Slowly... slowly... millimeter after millimeter slipped into the urethra, a little inner reinforcement to keep the rawhide wrapped shaft steady. Erect "W-w-what're you going to do to mmmmeee?" Doug wanted to know. "W-w-what're you g-going to do?"

"Something a best man we once met did to a bridegroom the night before the big bachelor party." A cryptic statement if you didn't know your recent Studbuster history, but it amused me to see the resultant look of confusion screwing up the handsome face, wiped almost immediately away when the eyes saw Harker take a small needle-pointed appliance out of a leather carrying case, flipping the switch on and letting it buzz. Lowering it toward the head of Doug Mayo's forcibly expanded prick.

"You can't tattoo me," he gulped. "Not my dick!"

"Why not?" Harker wanted to know. "If we can go ahead and put a couple of indelible designs on your pecs why would we want to ignore your pretty dick?" These would naturally be designs the ladies would find very amusing.

"NNNNQOOHHHGGGGGHHHHH.. ."The wail became a gurgle, ceasing altogether as the eyes glassed over, rolling up under the lids. The body went slack at the first piercing touch of the needle. Buzzzz... the wide, rawhide wrapped whang kept sufficiently erect within the confines of its twisties. The work progressed, Harker an artist when it came to line and color. The rest of us stood there slowly stroking ourselves, the sight better than any fuck film for sale or rent, none of which would be in this kind of three dimension. Think of it, man, as good-looking a masculine young stud as you could ever want to defeat, tanned and perfectly proportioned, lying there out cold, helpless, the ripe rich trapezoids of his pectoral slabs available for the fondling, his thick rigid mast being held up to the needle and the dye. We could have been in some primitive tribal lodge somewhere, watching a rite of passage, drums throbbing.

There was a kind of muffled prehistoric music being made, the little whimpering groans coming out of Doug's unconscious larynx, stressing his subjugation. Wow! Holy fucking wow! My jizz went shooting through the air even before Harker got through with the words forever altering the look of the pretty prickhead, landing in puddling heaps on the jaw, the neck, the tit. For asses only, encased in a scroll. The ladies would love it and, I presumed, the slogan across the plates of the massively muscled chest would be the old familiar "Tim sucks dick, girls," with the name appropriately adjusted?

"Soon as I do the shaft," Harker grunted, working industriously, "we'll talk about it" The shaft was going to read, Property of Cellblock 12. Lovely. If the for asses only didn't do it for all those eager women the property would. And the chest? "Something original with me, maybe: why repeat someone else's success?"

It became the one-way circle and arrow, the arrow actually an upsweeping hardon in the throes of orgasm, the spray spelling out Armpit Lickers of America, the lettering san serif. Finally, the not-so-little sunflowers that Hinsie made of the athlete's quarter-sized tits, and the miniature barbells which he inserted through the nub of the left...



It wasn't a gay bar we took him to, legend not withstanding. Too easy. No challenge. Oh, sure, sure, we dressed him while in his daze, and yes, we did walk him into a bar-that part of it is more or less true. The part that wasn't true was the kind of bar it was. I mean, for a big cunt-lover like Doug Mayo a gay bar was utterly out of the question. This was a stud who could only be at home at a redneck watering hole, one of those tough working man's saloons complete to swinging doors and sawdust floor, the patrons fresh from the night shift at the GM plant and the lumber yard. You know the kind, big swaggering blue collar dudes who think the only thing a fag is good for is bashing, the kind who don't like it when a man is too good-looking, especially if he can't hold his liquor. And who the fuck did this pretty boy think he was, staggering in already drunk, bumping into people and slapping the flat of is hand on the polish of the counter, needing a refill fast? "Watch your mouth, fuckface," the voice of the consensus, the muscular young pro grabbed by the shirt and thrown at the wall.

The shirt gaped, and the guys got themselves one hell of a look at the tattoos on Doug's pecs; they saw the little barbell that pierced his petaled left tit They got pissed, real pissed that this queer sonofabitch would have the temerity to set foot in their heterosexual hideaway, jock muscles or no. "What the hell do you think you're doing, faggot, coming in here like this, looking to get your ass reamed?"

"I wouldn't put it past the little queer," someone called out in a working stiff baritone slightly greased with bourbon; if I didn't know better I'd have said it was my old pal Ryan, but could that have been possible? I mean, all we did was to give Doug a little forward push at the door, staggering him through to the bar all by himself. We wouldn't have stayed there for the fun, would we? We wouldn't have pretended to be just another number of the guys, dropping some distinctly unstraight ideas - would we?

Stud busters? Our motto is: Let nature take its course!

"Flop the sonofabitch down on the pool table," someone else was yelling in yet another familiar voice. (Would that have been Doug's brother?) Whopping, because that is exactly what the greasy straights were doing, flopping the humpy tennis pro down on his back on top of the felt, shredding the shirt from his chest, yanking at the stinking shorts splotched with drying crud and filth.

Now they got themselves one hell of a look at that brassy circle with the cockheaded arrow on the end, and that swaggering Armpit Lickers on the other side. "This fucking faggot must want it bad," one of the bristling factory workers grunted, ready to bring a thick forest of sweat-slicked armpit hair down onto Doug's grimacing face, the massive arms and shoulders outside the trap of his grimy underwear, standard issue for an assembly line stud.

"You think that says something, take a look at what he's got on the head of his fucking dick," this from an equally loathsome stud as smelly and grease-smeared in his own hole-y Jockey "A" - one that had long since seen better days. He had Doug by the shaft, yanking up on the wagging meat hard enough to make him shriek. "'For asses only' - what kind of degenerate puts shit like that on his god damned dork?"

"A degenerate who wants a little of that backdoor action himself," his buddy was certain, climbing up onto the table and kicking the thighs wide, lumpy pecker hard and glinting as it stuck up out of his button fly.

"Eeeaaaassssssseeeee," Doug howled as the spongy head of the slimy invader screwed through his opening, disappearing through the portal with a pop, an audible pop, followed immediately by a "mmmrrrggghhhkkk," which took care of the pretty mouth, all right, all the way in to the uvula and, judging from the choking sounds ensuing, beyond. Harker passed me an open bottle of Lone Star and I swigged, grinning as I watched the Stud busted athlete buffeted and bucked. Time to go, good buddies. We were as avenged as avenged could be and it was time to go.

"Yeah," Zach said outside by the pick-up, "you really gave us exactly what we deserved," the incredibly handsome plumber promising to make sure that once Doug recovered there wouldn't be any further tit for tat "I'll be on his back; he won't be on yours."

Mario whacked his shoulder, the friendly whack of a guy who had the sudden need to share. Perhaps Zach might not want to be a stranger down at the old precinct house, he suggested, speaking for us all. "You never know when the Studbusters could use themselves a good roto- rooter man."

Which is how Zach Mayo came to be such a big cockclubbing help when we went out on behalf of Jerry Rausch, last year's Junior Mr. New York, who had been hypnotized by several of his rivals banding illegally together to steal the title, hypnotized into performing a number of grossly obscene acts on the stage in front of the judges - but that's another story, isn't it?


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