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MY GYM PARTNER'S FACULTY'S SOME FRUITS AND FREAKS

by Eightane

for Levyanime

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His watch had the tiniest crack. Cyrus Q. Hornbill had long since stopped noticing; it was second nature now to tell the time through that hair-shaped streak. He could do it for himself, or he could do it for the four-inch-tall amphibian who leaned, from an adjoining chair, over his wrist to read it. He hadn't the will to swat away the annoyance; that adorably-short man in glasses happened to pay his salary. Hornbill just sighed, and his rhino voice said the obvious in his meekish way. "It's a quarter to seven."

Maybe the frog had been so bold out of dim wits... Not being dimwitted, but the faculties were dim this early in the morning. In summer. And his faculty - the ring of teachers, underlings, all in swayback chairs like they were kindergarten brats - had bags under their bloodshot eyes, showing a weak grasp on staying conscious. Principal Pixiefrog leaned back up, away from Hornbill's grey arm; he adjusted his glasses, and they just came out looking crooked-er. "In five minutes he'll be coming through that door, people." Words so sleepy, they sounded drunk. "He's never late. Some of you remember." He reached up and adjusted the specs again; he smiled as they lay straight. He did less of that when they slipped down after a full three seconds and met the floor lens-down. He didn't hear a shatter, like they'd broken; he wished he had, so he wouldn't now be shuffling down the seatbottom's edge to descend the chair-leg. He even spoke the facts. "It's too early for firepoles and fetch quests." True to that assertion, his suit-and-tie were all that saved his green hide from going raw, twirling down the silver metal.

"Heh. Fetch quests." Maurice had chuckled this; the mandrill knew about today's entertainment, and what that term often applied to. Not that that made it funny; the mandrill's tired brain, 'clouded' a bit from the last of his midweek baggie, caused that. Maurice turned to Hornbill, while Pixiefrog's seat - and now his mumbling, bumbling self trying to pick up wire frames he couldn't see - separated the school's guidance guy from his homeroom-teacher crony. Somehow that rhino already faced him, like he'd also wanted to break the ice. Mandrill came off as pretty stable. "I'm ready. I don't always agree with the man, but I respect his mojo. He wants only to contribute."

Hornbill complained; he was professional at that. "To my heart attack you mean? Any second, once he gets going." But the man of the hour they spoke of hadn't started his time there, nor his fussing... For now, the circle could blink themselves awake. 6:50 or so, and it was sticky outside their lounge, heavy dew on the windows and their bars. The monkey-proof iron held up well to the weather; if a gale couldn't knock them loose, Jake might be unable too. Ms. Warthog sat as daintily as a slob could, reached in her purse and procured some eyedrops. She applied them, and the mandrill, rhino, whale, yeti, ferret... Even the frog who just now got his sight back, all six gazed like a pack of dogs where someone opened a can of food. They didn't want her... The drops were passed around the room like a spliff. Maurice caught himself, almost holding the tiny bottle just like one on his turn.

Eyes cleared up for most, but one person had reservations; the only one who hadn't seen this last year. Their newest associate, here in his janitor-gear, overalls, tank top underneath, the white-furred beast looked calm but quizzical. "We're fine, right? In the proper seats, and we don't have to stand?"

Miss Warthog cut this query to the quick. "He's ex-military, Skips. We'll get rung out but we can't be court-martialed." Pixiefrog shushed her, hard. She kind of ignored this. "I've been screamed at before. I used to have a personal trainer. He got my glutes as tight as..." She spanked herself, getting a cringe or three for her trouble, but to finish out the sentence was too much. She blanked. "... As, well..."

"A stuffed Christmas ham?" Came the melodious voice of a detached whale. Mr. Blowhole held his paperback book close to a hairless snout, his lipline groomed immaculate. The pages of Pride and Precedence he licked, to more easily stay them in his flipper-hands.

"Ahhhh, just keep trying to hem up your qualifications." She groused, cool but flatline, to the man in charge of spelling. "Those who can't do, teach, right?"

His brow and lips were stiff as the August breeze. "Read my lips: G-o-r-o-o-t-f-o-r-s-h-r-o-o-m-s." He flipped a page, again with his lengthy tongue. "Take along Maurice, he may be valuable for that."

Ms. Warthog had no return; rather, fuming in peace, as Maurice leaned into Hornbill to ask something. Skips checked his hair, atop his head and elsewise; always on-guard for what the day called for, since his day job taught him so much more there than this moonlighting gig would tend to. He wasn't a teacher; they had their own heaping fuel to teach alertness. Not enough, however, for the three-foot-tall sixty-pounds of sinew that just blew in their door, as hard as he opened it from the hall. Their conductor had arrived; all aboard the seminar train.

"MORNING, maggots!! " He sniped at them; none said a thing back, and when Skips raised his arm to greet, the whale forced it back down so quick it was a wonder no harm resulted. He, in his jackboots, his button-up Oxford shirt in olive-green, his High-plains-hat, basic stride of an army man. The jeans might've been so tight they could all tell he had about 23 cents in his pocket, but the man had... Good cause. Miss Warthog had her own ideas of where to look, and she didn't do so solo. He didn't catch on, never had before. His message stole his focus, and their time. "See, right away y' might note a change. Last year we started, you were beacons. Light for the kiddies, the li'l midgets you corral and mould. Then I saw how you do when just eight hours of sitting there and listening's your workload." He sure could reduce the agenda to sound... Standable.

His crow's-feet, the maze of lines at his temples, squeezed tighter, starker as memories seeped in and his weary hands shook. This place wasn't new to him, and the same for certain young groups... Or pairs. Incidentally, Skips had been told this morning, cautioned about when the superintendent heated up. Mr. Hornbill - whose hand creeped over to his back, comforting in the lightest, palsiest way - revealed this to be one such time. Skips sat back and locked his muscles firm, in case a volcano of rage was on the program. The gumball-machine he knew personally wasn't here, but this aging wolverine, strictness and duty just boiling from his crew-cut-garnished giant head, could season them with guilt, clear enough. Wolverine had piss 'n' vinegar in his sneer; white, perfect teeth threatened every teacher; they stayed still, but fur went up on-end across many necks. Then he turned to the janitor. He hiked up his pants before anything; first by the sides, then, to adjust it, by the front. Loins city. It sort of dribbled when he spoke, under its own weight. "Haven't seen you before, tadpole. You got a spittoon, cleaning man?"

Skips - naturally not thinking of that for a business meeting - shook his head. Then, with his head clearing in the rising sun, blurted "Sir, no sir!" When his eyes cocked sideward, unassuming, Wolverine smirked. The pending reprimand would be less deadly.

"Then you'll make one. And I mean you either go in that closet out there, and build me a bucket outta rags and spackle or whute'er-you-own, or you get down on those ashy knees and I spit into your mouth while they watch." The teachers blushed; only one cringe was even done in silence, from the rhino and the 'butterflies' in his tummy. Warthog was fine; worse than fine, crossing her legs and thinking of her old trainer. Their mogul, the principal of Diane Fossey High School and a board member beyond, wasn't done with Skips. His finger whooshed by the yeti's face just from pointing so hard, like it could rip through air. "Working here, your name is MacGuyver. You will improvise. These kids demand talent, their folks demand more. God knows why they wanna bring all these snotty spawn into being, but we come at this ready. Even bright boys who clean the midgets' puke instead o' reading them the acts."

Skips held back his sudden urge to maim. Wolverine had 'clawed' the air enough; he stepped back, and stood just how the rest had known him to for a loooong stint. Legs spread wide in a power-stance, one fist in the other open hand, rolling the knuckles like his palm would sand it down. This, his element, got him going. The sun's glare climbed over a tree, and had three of seven in the room squinting, so timely for the bright bass of a born, surly leader. "That's the whole factor. You talk of success, then you back it up." Maurice coughed; he covered it, so the stench would stymie. Miss Warthog drifted to sleep, and he so elegantly kicked out her chair. He was a gentleman; she went back, not even nicked. He let loose with more sermons. "When I come out here, I get a hold of two things first: your test scores, and your hate mail. I'll tell you right now, custodian..." His reductory term for the white ball of yeti beef didn't strike hard, but what did was him lifting one boot, propping half on the lip of Skips' chair and half on the yeti's knee. Cleats didn't dig in, but they weren't so comfy. "... You get some." Skips huffed once; for some dubious reason he felt warmer. The boot of Wolverine's dropped to the ground, and he traced a circle, passing every teacher. Miss Warthog eased up, bones creaking, but leapt down to pick up her seat and retake it. Poncharello's naive self clapped, until Wolverine stopped dead, looked halfway to him... And cranked back into pace, with edict. "Mr. Blowhole 'doesn't manage his herd', by one mom's account. Rhinobritches over here, he has 'deadline issues', fuck-if-I-know what that means. Maurice comes in 'smelling of chia seeds and skunk'. I can do this ALL day, but for the chucklefucks here, I'm a smarter Smith." And like his recent phrase, fuck-if-they-knew what 'Smith' came from.

Pixiefrog interrupted, back snug on his chair with a limburger-cheese-smile. He knew the in's and out's of this, having called for it. "And you cherry-pick these from those parents with the largest families, the most kids in our system. They're trusting, they have a lot to lose. And we have funding to guard."

Wolverine swung over to the slimy leader; his nose wrinkled, unimpressed. "You're not above the curve, Poncharello. Don't expect a repeat of before, you're at an all-time low in the board's eyes. You sent for me but they signed off on it."

The frog's eyes went so wide they eclipsed his glasses from behind. One tiny hand hit a tiny chin. "Then we're in... Oh geezus-jones..."

"The cup of shame." Wolverine had set the worst fears into motion. Pixiefrog went even clammier than normal; Mr. Blowhole's book hit the floor, crimping pages. Hornbill held two fingers to his wrist; he wasn't having a stroke, somehow. Skips just made like a statue and waited for the backstory. Wolverine fixed his hat brim's tilt - as if it could look more comical - and stuck his calloused hands out, miming what looked like a dice cup. "Your school's name, put on a scrap of paper, in the chairman's mug. Make it into that short list, and it means next year the state money you get buys a bag of Funyuns, or ONE seed for the football turf. And don't ask about the football program, mine's on the chopping block 'cause of..." He almost blew into a yell. What he felt subsided though, and he saved face, rubbing deep the vein bulging above his left cheek. "... Two-legged stuggles. My campus is the challenge you dream of after pizza at 2 AM. MY students waltz in with drugs. Knives. Picket signs. Liberal literature..." He saw the looks he just now received; he sniffed, clearing his nose, refusing to apologize. His tone went sour-er. "And baddest by far, carpets growin' on their zones. Hormonal hellions. Three gallons of solvent a day I burn through, and that's just the twosome."

Skips had to ask. "-Twosome? Beg ya' pardon, but I'm... Kinda lost here."

Miss Warthog locked eyes with him; the tension could be cut with a steak knife. "Sometimes that's a good thing."

Wolverine, with moves fast as lightning, picked one boot up and clopped it on the carpet so hard that bare tile could ring no louder. Nor could Skips' ears... He shook it off, seeing every experienced attendee with mitts over their hearing space, where they'd known to. Wolverine played 'favourites', and here he had his, traipsing over to the jittery janitor, feeling the fresh-meat-alarm within. "Skips, right? Well true to your name, we'll hop right over the shitkickin' here. Today, my new way's gettin' a free trial-run."

Pixiefrog looked up to Hornbill, then back. To Maurice, and then back. Over to the whale, then he grabbed his own neck and rolled the cracks out of its strained joints. Painfully. And then back to Wolverine. "This... Wasn't on your breakdown-sheet for today."

"Spiffy detective work, shorty, we call that 'need-to-know basis'. And I call it the 'why' for this." He paced again... Explaining no-damn-thing, going by Hornbill, his blue jeans scraped the slacks on the rhino's legs, across their pleat, into his shin. Scratchy, but the rhino poured sweat, emptying his mind so his pants fly wouldn't rat him out, coming awake... Wolverine, the light-furred grizzly-in-a-different-carnivore's-body, adjusted his front-bump again, and so made this the hardest goal. For more than one of the attendees, all he missed was a cigar in his lips, some Patton-ish badassery to complement his flow. "I will not have you just stinking up your chairs all day. You check records, you find trends, you go out into this temple of learning and I watch you get ahead."

Pixiefrog, coughing up distress from his breakfast of a double-mocha and some old-fashioned morning scotch, led the response again. "You want us doing what we would any teacher-workday, and you supervise?"

The teeth were out and strong on that confident instructor. "Simple, huh? Only I don't call it supervising. I won't lift a finger or a throat's note... Today's run-of-the-mill, you'll do the common shit and you'll lead me to the holes in your half-assing." He looked down, to the far-right. Skips being five feet away didn't mean jack: this aggressor still hocked, worked it up from the very back of his tongue, brought his lips close and shunted a wad right to the yeti's shoes. Foam ran down the rubber base; Skips' inner feel would defy description. Wolverine had taunted him, and glared at the wriggling Hornbill; the rhino's hands rest in his lap, concealing it, so innocent. Skips reached down to wipe, and Hornbill lost a pint of water per minute, with militant male at his anterior. The day's driver, a force for change, looked up and down the redhead in a big-'n'-tall suit. "Pencils down, kids, and asses up and goin'. As far as you know I'm invisible 'til 5 PM. Make this 'spectre' proud."

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Forty yards downwind, a room that had been quiet now lost that to an opening window. It slid like silk, for an athlete... A leaner male ducked in first, while the gorilla's fists barely had to work to wedge it up. A spidermonkey's feet tingled, bare on the clay squares, themed grounds of this defunct pottery class. Never the most utilized of tangents in a public K-12, anyway... On a non-summer day they could still've sneaked in here without hubbub or incident, or detection, even when Will's shorts and Jerr's blue hat were the extent of all clothing on them. Jerr stretched; not that it was too early for the rascal, or that he'd been at all unmoved. Will heard why, climbing his thick legs in behind the chimp-bro. He rolled, coming up stylish, stealthier than your average QB, while Jerr talked like they entered a theme park. "Frickin' swear... Breathing in here, man. It's like air made of pictures."

"Snapshots in the grey matter?" Will smacked the monkey's shoulder, and Jerr's cap teetered just thanks to the might. His orange tail swished, stirred well from the gutsy move.

"They're a slideshow. That's a hell-yeah."

Will nodded upward, but didn't make a point out of wasting time. Arms crossed into himself, two trunks of girth over pecs that were all-that. Some cerebral computations told him the position of some ignorant teachers. "They have the East Wing, he's holed them up there for sure." His mind crunched numbers. "The hall's like an S, angles at one-ten degrees... That gives us three rooms to draw near, more than that and they hear our footsteps."

Jerr swayed aback, acting, clowning out a correction. "Your footsteps. Fuckin' size-fifteen Reeboks lightin' up these stompin' grounds..." He had to know the size to say it; thus, why his tongue wet down his lips. He licked, with Will's arm around him. Pulled in for a squeeze, by the strength of ten ox in one silverback's forearm; Jerr laughed, sighed and half-groaned with the bicep's usage. The last one there for pleasure; the middle one, nostalgia. But the first - the cackle of a streetwise howler - was a forecast. A man's bare arm on his naked chest - unclothed like everything but Will's burgeoning jock-hood and his spindly cum-fan's ruddish hair - would be by far the most spotless act for today's slate.

Will's cutoffs were a slave to his chiseled shape, pressed out in the form of muscle and dick. He, and the mouthy pal he dapped, could almost smell the treasure at hand... Shaped like eggs, giving off musk for now and always... And soon, what's richer, for all involved. Jerr looked up to his taller friend-and-fucker, so zealous it was magical. "You think he'll be helpin', when it's on?"

Will stared narrow to the monkey, like he playfully judged him asking at all. "I'll answer that with a question: How much can a man help before he's a dead-set partner?"

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A mandrill's feet were the first out the threshold of the teacher's lounge. The sandals were like himself this morning, cold, crusty, perhaps dogged by a malaise that only sunup with a whipmaster could make. In perfect rhythm were the bootsteps of Wolverine, in-line to make Maurice the first under close watch. He didn't break under this for the same reason as why the rest did sweat; the sergeant would break off from this, all would have their turn at bat. That is, batting away their own hypertension. Warthog grumbled, Hornbill thought up something to do in his homeroom that looked like work. Pixiefrog dismounted his chair, pulled out a tissue and dabbed his eyes. "Just like old times."

Skips shuffled a bit, his ankle by the principal's ear. "I'm gonna level with ya, I'm immortal and I don't understand a lick of this."

"Don't worry, he shouldn't crack on you much. Our last custodian left us in a good position, it's a shame how he was chased off. Weak of heart, though, one bucket of Pine-Sol dropped from the roof and he disowned those kids." Pixiefrog tucked the tissue back. "At least he didn't have to see an infirmary."

The amphibian started off for his office and his always-priority: sitting sealed off from all problems. Before he could, Skips pointed out how specific that last sentence. "Who's in the infirmary?"

"I said don't get your briefs in a bundle. He's fine now, he called us all to our instructions today without complications, right? I trust them when they say he's in remission, it's their jobs at the state-level."

Skips' hand hit his nose, flat. It slid down over many seconds, where he came to terms with a military nutbag having say. Mr. Blowhole pushed past him, exiting the doorway; he was knocked back, almost a yeti on his ass. No impact, however, on if he would ask what put Wolverine in the loony bin, bin-lite, whatever the case. He would've had to want to first.

Pixiefrog didn't really know how nothing more was needed. He yapped to calm their greenest associate. "He can't shadow all of us. I mean, at once. I mean, I don't know how he will, or..." He shut his eyes a moment, shedding consternation. "Just get your mop, and thank sasquatch-god or human god or so-and-so-whatever that you don't have to catalogue. I hope my next job is loading file cabinets on a catapult to test how they crash and fly apart."

That was that. Elsewhere, outside, Mr. Blowhole hummed an aria; he had a classroom closest to an atrium, the secretary's station, wherein that she-swine walked four paces ahead of him, slowly. He'd talk without catching up. "Had you sorted out your federal social forms yet?"

She shook her head about as fleet as she walked; her chins didn't even wobble that much. "No, I did my state social and prepatory I-8's. You were gonna knock out our federal sheets."

"I believe you're mistaken," he semi-musically retorted. "We signed off on the state and county ADF inteneraries, but the federal is traditionally your best skill-"

"Tradition's for church people, Blowhole. Thanks for saying I'm good at it though." Her tones were smooth as a sandpaper waxing. "You'd know it front-to-back if you sat down."

"But how can I, when mine is to guide the children's charisma?" He felt highly of his drama-class curriculum; a fin even went up, showmanly. "It consumes time, to bring them out of their shells and into performing."

Miss Warthog didn't look on him, so he didn't see her cheeky smirk for the poor phrasing. He did see her caboose bouncing, like two bags of the lumpiest cement; he looked at the patch of dark mold on the ceiling, finding that less unsettling. He spoke quieter. "If we get flunked by our fair sergeant for forgetting some signatures here and there, I'll eat my stovepipe-hat in the closet at home."

She looked at her nails; a chip on one helped her remember the rodeo last night, drunk enough on Corona Limes and on that bull's saddle. "You might as well munch that, you know you'll never pull it out again. Love having public jobs."

He hummed an affirmation for that. It was long ago they flew away, his time and radiance, on wings of civil service. Maurice is who he didn't envy... What kind of waivers or agreements must that simian retain if he plays psychiatrist to those mostly graduated from paste-eating. Around a separate corner, a monkey had those sure enough; Wolverine picked his teeth with a bone; familiar shape, not big enough for a chicken's, closer to a frog's leg. He breathed with gusto; oxygen was sweeter away from the High School. Across town, his daily digs and the tan-bricked house-of-cause for his mental 'probation'.

He'd stay on the straight and narrow, and stable, if they did...

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... Being there, in the emptiest quadrant, z'not a great start. Jerr licked his finger, then swiped the wall. He figured it would come off gummy; the guess was on, and he laughed, yanking it back with its thin sliming. "Bet if I asked that toad, he'd say it's spotless here."

Will walked ahead, snickering. "He'd say he retains good help, too." He saw the light-bar above the splitoff where advanced, 'spiffy' courses went left and the hall to gym went right. He jumped, tapped it at its center. Six years past and it still spat sparks like splashback at a pisser. Pretty close to the meat of that analogy lay in the head of an orange spidermonkey... Loads of memories. Memories of loads. He smelled Murray's-brand pomade... Always in the air when Hornbill had been around, his hair dripped with it. Around Jerr, more things of his had dripped. This trip was mutual; neither primate had to convince the other. Jerr saw the seam down his comrade's shorts, perfectly inside that crack and its healthy walls. He knew a rhino with that waist size, less muscled, more soft from years of seasoning. More hairs too, coarse orange springs so like the dense mat at the same height's other side. What was in that zipper... How many zippers there were, on a day where leaders ruled the roost, and only those mature and of the be-trouser'd half...

... He put those fingers up like he would fan his shirt, before remembering the lack of that. Cooling down might take getting wet; he jumped, and landed on Will's back like a friendly tick. "Ain't gotta tell you man, I'll be so full I'll roll outta here. Some of 'em I never quit needin'..." His pitch had some breathiness, growing. "... Some ain't seen me on my knees in too long. A hot minute."

"It'll be just a hot minute, and you'll go off." Will knew just what to mention: morsels with a mission. "If you think of ones you've had down your tongue, they've pictured it scooping theirs. Running down the bald monk. To the donation bags." He snickered again, all his corny words still so directly responsible for throbs of a warm bar up on his spine, hardness pressing his lumbars. Jerr wanted what he visualized; it had 'balls-deep' wrote all over it, and not his own in Will or the machismo close-by. More relevant there, he swallowed saliva, knowing it flowed thicker now. His tail swished; he had a broad chest on his mind, thick with hair fields. He thought of the colour, vermillion on grey, tough skin, leaned back in a chair, in the homeroom the man ran... Jerr's tail kinked. He couldn't help tasting it, enslaved by the past...

... Will broke his monkey bud's spell, cracking his knuckles. Having other plans downpat. No rear access treated him better, no porthole around had more 'give' than the ones he'd hunt... Save for the monkey on his back, never far when these glory days were going.

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Maurice had the whipcracker at his shoulder. Their booted guest, they sadly couldn't give the boot from here. Maurice remembered earlier that year, when he was dared by Coach Gills to run the cross-country track, on his hands; there was less sweat down his face then than now. He had twenty pages in his hands, shuffling them, checking them. One had what he looked for, and none of those were it. He breathed double-time. Wolverine strove to encourage, the best way he knew how. "Are you kiddin' me? The statement's got one copy and you lost it!!?" Considerable volume-hike as it went on; and the vein in Wolverine's neck bumped out further. His teeth could've ground coffee.

Maurice fumbled with his flowery shirt; shame would have to be the father of invention. "Well you see, I had Miss Hamhock make copies for her school, and she swore to the moon and back I'd have it by Friday. She's an Aquarius, I'm cool with trusting her. You have to make that first reach-out-"

He went still. He'd slipped into counselor-mode, to a man who ate iron and prob'ly shat out dumbbells. Wolverine turned away, cocked his brim down, breathed through his nose. No sign would be worse than this. The predator tapped one foot, thinking out loud. "Sent papers. Your papers. Miles away. Because of trust."

Maurice's smile emerged like a bubble in a water cooler, and about as oddly disgusting. "It IS a strong bond."

Wolverine's gut seemed to shrink; he held in air, dispersing fantasies of murder. "And what else is, pot breath? MY HEEL up your HERSHEY'S!!"

A Scrunci hit the floor: Maurice's tie for his ponytail, blown right off. His eyes jiggled like fried eggs. "I just... Tried to be generous... It's the right thing, f-friend..."

"Locate the page, then, with your 'right thing'. Point to it with your right thing." Control over his tone came hurriedly back; getting to tease or debase usually did that. He stomped a scuff on the floor, fresh and permanent. From that came fresh ringing in the hippie's ears. The sergeant's brim was uncocked, and his resistance came unglued. "This is how you help out? Loans and the sainthood act? " He positively leaned forward, over Maurice. The counselor bent back over the desk, sitting-pretty. Wolverine kneed him, twice, thrice, on the strongest swears that followed. "I've seen that act, shitass, I corral big kids. Got me a season pass to that fucked approach. I could write out Post-Its with the sob stories, string 'em all together and make pants with 'em!! " His, the green-and-browns he wore now, abutted Maurice... Lambasting, spitting in the face of peace and in that crusty advisor's face. Legs crashed, thighs touched. Something higher clapped man-to-man, one time; The sergeant's lip twitched, he retreated. Next thing they knew he was three paces away, smoothing his trouser legs, pushing out his chest. Machismo done expressly to distract them. The mandrill sat his cheeks on the desk, not moving nor speaking; Wolverine chose to put this leg of his job to an end, now fidgeting. "I... Should check up on others. You've already been marked off, Woodstock, we're done here." Maurice ground his choppers now... The nickname's disliked. Wolverine stuck out his chin, walked around the desk for the door. Hanging on the wall was a clipboard; it was snagged away by the blowhard for his purposes. Not empty, however, pages had been fixed to it. No problem for the superintendent; a quick li'l yank-out and ripping up these pages did fine. They weren't what he wanted, after all, how could they be important.

Thirty seconds more, and a mandrill saw how many curses he could fit in two muttered sayings. Hunched down, fixing the mess, having things be like they always were. Year after year, he forgot over the string of months how their auditor could be, and then in five minutes, presto, the stomachache revived. He did feel the man's anger, when backed over the desk... A few tingles when the fly hit his. Things left undone, for all the reasons he ran hot right now. If Pixiefrog manned-up, things could be better. If he gave the muscled, short yell-bucket the what-for, or if something... Like, took precedence, and the heat off their mistakes or oversights...

He had the shreds of paper together, eyes going downwards, humbled. He balled them up, and scored a three-pointer into the trashcan by the far corner. No celebrations done. "Love having principle." He nodded to himself about it... Then, how he described it occurred to him, and damned if it didn't have him chuckle. He knew some guys who'd 'had Principal'. Not the sergeant, in his four-foot-arms-and-legs-bulging-stature. He shook the images out, of their appearance. Knowing might make his job harder, if he was sorting other cabinets, preparing for any 'second coming' of that hardass. If his mind got on that ape in a jersey, or his wingman... Two with more youth, and courage... Maurice stirred below his smock. Paperwork, any work, got harder when he did. He just barely felt the change; the growth, and rise, when the lights went dim. It scared him out of his brain's slideshow; an appendage stopped going erect. He thought of minutes ago, being talked to like a fool, it dipped lower, cooler. Then another monkey's face appeared in his head... A silverback's, also. What he had - what they all had - started up again, stiffer.

Without knowing, he'd went to hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting into anyone's baggage was easier for the gentle grey teacher than to deal with his own. This was homeroom, where he should feel most at home, no pun intended. Yet the arms pulling, throwing open the drawers were as turbulent as ever. The lights had flickered for no clear cause; having electrical issues today could be disaster. If he slowed down he'd shake, and if he shook he'd think he was blacking out, no matter if he stayed conscious. Hornbill found one item of need, his license, and the neuroses softened. Then, in moving it to the desk, an edge ripped. Gladly no one heard his squeal... He hoped a tear was more obscene to see than the wax apple he slammed-the-fuck-right-down to hide his blunder.

A rhino's fingers interlocked their thickness, his hair frizzed by his own humidity. He told himself it was nothing. That the sergeant liked to find fault in Pixiefrog, not as much in him. There isn't honour in 'finding out' a lowly teacher. He was always picked last anyway, it had been thus for all but his very first year there, the right time for chops to get busted. He forced in thoughts of Wolverine smiling; friendly looks he never saw, but that have to exist. An approachable officer. He leaned over the deskfront, rotating the apple. He could be sure it faced the exact proper way... And now, he was sure he had less room at his zipper.

It didn't shock him for long; he knew what tripped it. Didn't like the truth, but hate it? Not completely. The frog knew. Some teachers in addition, but select ones. Hornbill didn't always come through, audit-wise, but he hid this like ninja. Eleven years, now the twelvth, and he might just keep from ever letting on to that stacked sir. Maurice was among the 'knows' group, having stuff in common. Hornbill's air escaped in a groan of dread... No room at the inn, the Inseam Hotel. Inside his clean slacks, it had grown all the way. His briefs had to stretch as something fat, moist and rock-hard decided to camp out, by pitching its tent. He had to go on organizing, getting ready. He couldn't NOT worry about the sergeant, how he'd get screamed at, insulted, humiliated. He'd have to hear this, he had to submit to that. He made sounds of fear, hot shades of anguish. Knowing his racing pulse too well, since it pushed on his bloomers. He didn't want to remember his dick. It made him remember, though. Thumping in its woven jail, screaming in its own way after thoughts of a male reached it.

He had to finish... But... He had time... Probably... He could, well... A quick one wouldn't hurt.

The lights had no more hiccups; he could see his mound of meat in detail, even in shadows of his own broad chest, not all fat but having warm, shallow brawn. He felt the tingles come on; something habitual, where he gazed on it picturing it was someone else... Another package, one as wrist-thick as his own. Sure it was pleasure just to know how healthy he was sized... It would be more, now that his thumb and index finger went for the tab to get that zipper parted. Eight inches, precisely on the mark, awaited this... Grey as his half-down eyelids, or the grooves on his neck where age was subtle. More things raced through his mind than his own bulging basket, or even the cool air kissing his tip at its unveiling. Petty grooves also traced down his head, more pronounced the more he thought of machismo and aroused it. Thickest in the middle, where sometimes even formidable men stopped. Not a narrow tool, this hammer he packed into BVDs after each morning's shower. He gasped like it was magic, the mushroom sticking out further, harder. Looking so needy, full of juice and so stimulated. Just raking his hand's hairy back on the flare - that wide corona steeped in sweat and foreskin - wiggled his toes for him, on his bootsoles. They couldn't quit this when he raked it again, slower... Closer, with more of the orange follicles, a lot like the curls in peter-musk that peeked out from the pantshole. His dick waved; muscles inside were moved so easy by his own love of his tool. And others. Where the thoughts strayed, over denim jeans... Boxers... Fatigues... Someone in here had those today, wearing them so tight it could be that hidden dong that jutted and kept them tight-on...

... He fell back in his chair, slow, like a tree pushed gently off its cut stump. Flaps opened out like a blossom either side of his cock... Shaped like a fire hydrant, toteing about the same massive flood. One or two stray veins at the base, cut off from a tree of vessels just low enough to be pubeswept. A big 'n' tall coward's wood, full-on hard like his arm bones, the one that lay on a leg or the one that held his hand on it, and opened that hand, and around it, closed. He drew a brief rush of breath within a normal inhale... Now was not the time to spite his own desires, the sergeant and the body he wanted. Eight-point-two-five inches pulsed in his knuckles. A hood tight but sensitive sent him waves of pleasure, just from being that hard, and what he knew. He would stroke that beer bottle of a cock until it gave up white cascades, or quicker bullets. He couldn't say, starting the first tug as his lower lip went under teeth. It'd been so long since he thought of an army man stripping.

"Hhhh... Damn... His shoe... Marked the guy..."

Inside his slacks were tingles, light and comfy. Superficial in the right way, not in how they spread or flooded adrenaline into the rhino. Beads formed on his collar, and at his moobs and their mid-valley they just danked up the manfur. It was getting too unseasonable... Warmer all over him, and like in his mind, articles would have to come off. He left his dong to stand, a flagpole, while he reached for his top shirt button... Visuals came of the sergeant, tough like in-person but a li'l chill with the smug, grabbing his tee's tail. Bringing it up past abs. A brick wall of pecs. These things Hornbill knew were there, being shapes beneath Wolverine's top. Maybe there were scars, though... On the stomach, right next to a round, hard nipple... Hornbill bit his lip. The sweat was for real now. A clear view down his polo top, half the buttons unclasped, showed drips and trails soon as the shirt couldn't absorb them. 'C-crap, what am I doing', he thought, even weak at the voice in his head, 'If he walks in and I'm shirtless... I...'

His dick's response was to jump heartily. Its 'vote' was to keep unbuttoning. Go on revealing skin. By the time his moobs were naked - and the paunch, furry like Wolverine all over, likely thickest right at his belt buckle - He could barely stand not to tug his length, from head and hood down the bare-tree-looking vein webs, branching on his shaft, feeding its throb and largeness. He couldn't stick it out to take it off; the buttons were attended, but sleeves staying over his shoulders were responsible for bringing only front, and body hair on male flesh, to light.

His lip came out of teethold, with the high, subby lilt, a moan so hot and a tad bit sad since all he had were thoughts. Wolverine was a brute. Beefed up, so conditioned, he had to be hairy too. Below those arms might be a dual forest, twin stands of man-grown scent bush. Hornbill's dick took the hand that first cranked it, and then the other. Two-fisting the pipe while Wolverine hiked an arm up in his fantasies. The rhino's tongue guided out, or fell out, to think of that beefsteak turning chin, and nose, toward the arm he lifted. Digging in his snout. Smelling his own damn musk. Acrid as his manners, the stench of... Just what someone else turned him onto... A lean dude, who flashed through his noggin between 'clips' of that bastard undressing. Before long, the lanky friend, reversed-cap-and-all, was like a mascot for him. Would've loved to know the game in his grey matter, the Sergeant shoving his hands into that steel clasp for his belt. Manhandling it, fast and efficient. The sounds of the clink, as it fell away and the button was next. Hornbill wiped his thumb over his fren, every apex of the higher fist. 'Pretend'-sergeant's camo pants would sag if that buckle dropped. Possibly they'd do more, before the other safeties were undone, and just fall, exposing tube steak... God it couldn't be less than a beast, and two baseballs...

This couldn't last. Making nice with himself, serving the lust, in here. What if the frog walked in... Heaven forbid the warthog too. Through his lazy eyes, peering to the wall, kind of through it, there were options. Destinations. He could think of Wolverine spitting on him, or on their sticks for lube, in a better sanctuary.

He hurried to rebutton the shirt... Plenty of time to think which stall he'd pick while he jammed that rifle back in his drawers, and zipped up a little at a time, too engorged to fit it swifter. Up on his feet, groping himself, trying to adjust the hill but so weak to resist rubbing it at the same time. A few steps to the exit, a peek out both ways down the hall, confirming solitude. Good fortune for him that the men's room was in sight from there... A man that tall and heavy never sprinted like he did, classroom to restroom. Inside was the automatic light that he cursed; masturbating at a pisser could've stood to have a guarantee he wouldn't be a show for anyone who walked in. It could've been a doored stall, on the john, but in here an excuse was simple to come by. 'It's the morning', he might defend, and so thought. 'My mind wandered' may also work, he conceptualized while he strolled to the far wall, the four-strong line of basins for a man's piss. He wouldn't fill it with that, the second one in line, what he picked in record time. Mental video of a man in uniform already found him again. While he unbuttoned, and didn't have to unzip, having that seen to by his dick's falling out in a draping chub right over it, he thought of Wolverine. Standing. Too. Close. Blasting hot yellow from that chiseler. Having beads collect on a rhino's arm fuzz, splashback from a stream with pressure, misting his sweat on and under the mancarpet...

... His head flung to the left, it swung so hard. The outside hall's A/C had went louder. Light changed at the same place. Someone entered... In this case, in sandals, bright colours. Well-acquainted to him, the eyes with red, not white. Maurice almost froze. Startled, but fine. His left hand wasn't in a pocket, or hanging lax. Gutsy, or gutsier than Hornbill, he'd entered this private room: thicker foreskin on a six-point-seven-five'r, like a turtleneck for that hippie's slit and cap, held forward. The mandrill's near-stop recovered, the foot he had airborne came down. No words required for how their 'stuff in common' got relevant. He set it off with an observation, cool as mint. "Well then... Cousin, he got to more than me, eh?"

Hornbill's ears wiggled; the reflex for when passion met calming. He had no more problem with the man coming close - picking the first urinal -than Maurice did in jerking his a few good times. Exposed to a colleague who'd been here before, this room and scenario. Hornbill breathed like it took five lungfuls to get oxygen. "I mean... Not the first time he has... But..." He choked; and if he'd gone on, would have done so again.

Maurice was the dreamer... This fine school's sayer of sooths. Good to a fault, but not the gentle giant like this rhino. One thing he'd been taught by this buffoon was his worst trigger. Hornbill fell to pieces by it... A kindly, firm teasing. 'Kindly' was wrote all over the mandrill's background, and now his face, smirking while he stared at a pudgy rhino's instrument, the wood already back to petrified. Maurice had humour in the speech, the tawdriness he started to fling. "I bet you had that bulging when he passed you. Man, it throbs like my head after a bad tab of sunshine."

Hornbill, in his warming state and watching Maurice indulge himself, giggled. He then cleared his throat, wanting to save face and machismo... His endowment bumped like a speaker through its veins. His lower lip wicked down his drool; Maurice had his furry primate hand below it, propping up the fren while at the same time rubbing that sensitive G-spot. Fingers moved up the flap in perfect time with Maurice's hum, his compulsory moan. Hornbill didn't go off, to his credit, but grabbed himself two-handed again, now for an onlooker. The head shined like an apple, huge and red as he yanked up and down, rough in loving his cock, spying the mandrill's version. Seeing how his compared, getting even harder. Fire-hydrant eight'er had a piss buddy, bottle-shaped mandrill meat. Thinnest at the end, so different from his. Hornbill's tongue rolled inside his mouth, pressed by that strong button.

And the boldness continued. Mandrill's finger had a mind of its own, getting up under his hood, even batting it down to juggle it, pulled by the foreskin so it popped right back up. Pink-skinned dick hard as the chrome in the hand dryers by now. Mandrill poured out his motivated mocking. "Yeah, bummer man, he has to be such a demi-God in that getup. Today's gonna be hell for you if he has one-on-one time. He'll be thinking you listen while all you're thinkin' is how he'd taste." He faced the urinal flippantly, with a generous lean toward Hornbill. Rhino did the same; it was simply too hot not to stand like they could wizz at any time like the men they were. The traits of the stronger gender had got the ginger, meek rhinocerous in a scalding lust in the first place.

Maurice tugged his erection three-fingered, pointing it where the slit itself pooched out with the swell. Hornbill yanked his so far the balls hung higher, two bags that called the shots over the man whose hot sperm filled them. He knew Maurice would needle him 'til those red-furred grey bags emptied their ammo. The simian did just that. "I wonder when he tosses off. Maybe that's his wake-up routine before a breakfast of nails and raw eggs. But I think..." He stopped a moment, just to slip his hand firm around his johnson, stroking harder, more like Hornbill. "... That he could on the way home. When he gets done wringing us out and he's on that groove while he cruises back to a nice-lookin' house." Maurice got particular with suggestions, bringing out some doozies. "I'm sure his pad's just fly. Makes more money than us, or you. He's on top of everything." Maurice pulled his hand down to his peen's base, taking skin tight enough to show every capillary. Blue roadways on his turgid maleness, and he pushed it like before, now without the grabbed foreskin. It waved, up to the stomach and as low as a cock that hard could. Maurice looked mellow as fuck, hashing it out with steady eyes. "If he and you screwed, you know who'd be takin' whose tallywhacker." Hornbill ran both palms up his sweaty member; moaning through his teeth, too close to giving it up IN the urinal. Maurice jerked his the hardest yet, almost like a quintessential zoo monkey, his mid-forties peace-fan body. "And how deep... And hard."

The rhino's cock went back into only right hand, the furthest from Maurice. Hornbill craved his friend to see it, while his neck lolled to the back, swept up. Maurice pointed his in a basin also. He would blow jizz, ropes would go flying onto the rubber mat, while Hornbill saw the bullets, the hot gun, every inch of it. Getting off to each other and the sergeant who would've kicked their ass but wasn't there. In their heads, he was just as surly, smug, but gay as fuck. Into men the same as their cocks were, edging in this alcove where they'd so often took a leak. Hornbill spoke like a beggar. "Please Maurice... What'd he do if... I took off my shirt... Stripped in front of him..."

"-He'd beat you up one side and down the other... When he's done dippin' his brush in your jar." The mandrill's ponytail shook like tentacles; stroking so hard, getting weak in the knees a bit like Hornbill. "He'd show you a boss. It's got one eye and explodes in your... Ass, and you fall to its power... Fuck he'd own you..."

"Ohgod I wanna fall to him-" The rhino said half-nerdily, wracked with passion. "He'd have me so raawww Maurice, he'd... Use my lowly... Hole, he'd-" It was coming; he lay his left hand on the urinal's top, bracing for it. Maurice watched him yanking, pleasuring that fat cock over the line. The grey neck rolled even worse to the back, and his bitch-throat groaned hot impulse like if the sergeant's dick was down it. "He'd destroy me, shit!! O-OHHH!! " The blush in Hornbill's cheeks seemed to glow; his first rope of creamy white hit the basin hard as a flyswatter.

"Yehhh, your ass'd be scarred, YEHHH, SHOOT it big guy!! " Maurice jerked his hairy inches even faster, fingers curling and uncurling with the money shot, Hornbill's perfect sight-fuel. Unpremeditated, he would join the rhino in cumming; his ponytail jigged behind him, his smock wafted up when his cranking fist hit it and lifted. "He'd rip your hole, or mine! Ahhh shit, ahhhfuuuuck!! " He blabbed his own fantasies' agreement, eyes gradually going shut, the pressure working up that tapered tan pipe. His teeth locked and a rope fired out the throbbing tip, while Hornbill shot more and more, rocking his wide waist into the pisser, big ass rolling like a man fucked from behind.

And it covered the urinal, where Hornbill's pointer aimed at. His ears wiggled, belt buckle clinked. Balls so big on him they danced in the sack even pulled in to give up the chowder. Maurice moaned while the rhino squealed his bliss; the mandrill couldn't stop his relief either, or the finer thoughts to spring from it. "He'd be fillin' us... With that!!! Ohhhh! OHHH!! Like honey! Hot as a joint! OHH-hhh!! " Maurice flung a sink's worth of sperm; dollops raced down the porcelain in his and rhino's basin. Hornbill was destroyed; every thought and move was in climax, every pulse of his dick from devotion to wishing for a hardass goin' gay. Bringing man to man, tool to tool. Eight inches of rhino dick erupted his load, and he thought of Wolverine's being right against his. Sliding. Like Maurice had with him, the days they weren't short on time. Today was urgent release, this cashed into the spank bank while their leering eyes peeked mutually. 'How big is the Sergeant,' rhino's blush-ridden head managed to codify. 'Fuck, how big would he feel... Heavy... Rrrgh..." He put a growl on the groan's end; release always got him pumped, plus his mind held only men. Like Maurice, like three days a week in here or the broom closet, separate or all over one another.

The mandrill sighed, his chin tipping to and fro. On this motion his orgasms wound down, today's with visions of a naked army guy's dick making his blow steam like rhino's. The hand he used to paw gummed up with slick puddles in his primate hair, busting from a fuzz-bottom seven-ish manhood. They collected themselves when the peak wore thinner. Flexing arms and chests with the pulsating, still cumming, losing shots not dribbles, through their smooth slitholes, a grey whopper and a brown bushwhacker. Their eyes could keep from total shuttering, and they watched.

Neither man's wanton stare left the other's cock, firing jizz. Pouring it. Shaking it off the head with quickstrokes. Loving its heat, loving physically what burped it over their hands and finger joints.

Hornbill rest his head, his combover, on the square-tile wall. "Geeez I can't... Ohhhh, so spent here..." He made it sound like a complaint with inflection, but Maurice was wise to his teensy smirk. The forty-something rhino couldn't hate this, squeezing his less-rigid chub, milking it dry. Well... Not hate on the whole, but if the Sergeant WAS like his mind and maleness craved the curt fuck to be... Either case, three drips of cum rained from his thick glans as he shook them off; they were his last. His sweaty sighs and a shivery dorkalicious moan were the monogram of afterglow. Ribbons of ejaculate trickled off his head, the veins on his dong pink for being used and relaxed. He ran his fat thumb all up a fat dick's underside, and his stare all over that mandrill dick next to him.

Both men shook as goosebumps rose. Damp from exertion, grip still around themselves. As Maurice would say, 'Riding the good'. Vibes they so severely enjoyed, every pulse, every late fire of dick muscle, from sharing this.

Maurice would rub the end, like buffing the striketip of a giant ammo shell. His ammo lay in the pisscatcher, on the red mat, or slithered down its holes, or shot high by the hardest thrusts and catching up. He massaged his rocket, glad-chuckling; his globes felt lighter, and if they were, boy Hornbill could tell as hard as he looked at them. The mandrill commented. "Shot it all... Thinkin' of the same cigar, eh Cy'? " He spoke part of the rhino's first name, Cyrus, with endearment. He came close to lifting his arm and elbowing the rhino, needling him about it. But if he had, it'd be too much like that gorilla... The one who took his secrets, interests, and exploited. So richly, he'd been opened up, turned out. The men wanted only that, both of them, but hadn't found the stomach to act, to take a break from swapping school info, reports or memos from Pixiefrog or the board, and to explore their whims, needs, until...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

... Will had thoughts of his own, just like his crony. But neither one's brain was in the halls, at least, not in a corporeal sense. Wolverine had to sadly find this out for himself, when he marched solo out to inspect this common causeway and had the stink of a memory find his nose. It was pungeant, like it had been every time he picked it up; an army man's sniffer honed in on things, but this was foul beyond words. He didn't grimace, he scowled. Will wasn't here. Jerr wasn't.

They _ weren't _...

His teeth appeared in a gleam, hell's own sneer; with a right hook he slashed the painted stone of the wall, fresh fifteen-inch claw marks. His boots weren't made for stomping, but did so fine and rueful, halting at corners alone. He knew the gym-sock, skunkplant and dudeyogurt aroma. The lowlifes had a choice and didn't choose to steer clear of here. His hat he cocked low, over his shades again; this audit had just become a goddamn patrol mission. If only a reconaissance mission too, so it might mean there was somone with a gun on the other end to come for these pervs' scalps. No option like that in the here-and-now... Filthy slime, they'd learn who they tangled with. He walked cautious out from a corner, so short already it didn't take much to be low-profile. Down the hall, sniffing, scanning everything with beady eyes. His left arm twitched, his fighting arm; and then his eye too. He'd find the creeps, this soldier hot-to-trot on their asses and getting madder by the second. No further trace of them yet.

Meanwhile, behind the corner he passed, a grate was broke free from the A/C vent it capped. Two dark, huge hands lowered and turned it diagonal. It vanished up in the ducts, and what should drop out and hang by his monster-palms but a football player. Will stayed suspended, Jerr reverse-climbed and scuttled down him. Liberally. The monkey talked shit in a whisper, hands tight on Will's shoulder, then pec, then ass cheek. "Yeah, run ugly! Before y' find us round up another stick to shove up y' pencil-sharpener!!" He smiled, the ingratiating manslut, his head pretty close to Will's crack when he jumped off and made a hushed foot-landing.

Will dropped himself, notably with grace for a 300-pound wall of beef, the bulk he carried like the in-charge fuck he was. He adjusted his jean shorts, whispering back at Jerr and bumping the buddy's chest with bulge. "Goofus, what'll he do if we blab we're here? Call backup from the gun gods." He smiled off his term for the Sergeant's friends in combat. Ex-friends maybe, being severed from that line of work.

Jerr smiled even wider. "Damn dude, the phrase got a ring." He thought of gun-shaped things and his tail moved; in its midpoint, bending a tad. It unwound though, when he thought a pig-shaped shadow moved at the ahead corner. No door was overly near, and the outline of Miss Warthog looked to be oncoming, maybe to break the line of sight and spot them any second. Then the shadow - snout, eyelashes, nose hair and all - groused bitterly and stormed back from whence she came. The whole time Will had stopped; not froze, since it wouldn't do a damn bit of good had things not luckily just turned. He found Jerr had a hiding spot after all; behind his jean shorts. Closer than close. The monkey peered around, and up, to his tall best bro. "Y'knew he'd be here. You're just fuckin' with me."

Will explained why that was correct, never grinning drier above his black stubble. "See Jerr, this is what dreams are made of. I get to bring us when the pipe-you-can't-get is roaming free, so you have to start thinking about him. Your wood won't quit." He was snaky, sly as a serpent, and a football-tossing hand slapped the bare bum of that monkey, squeezing like the buns were owned. No one else sounded like his chimp chum when hot, a sweet blend of casual, subby and macho, weakest in the last.

The monkey who lived to serve, to bottom, leaned into Will and fondled his gut muscle, then with another two tail kinks, the gorilla's junk. He clowned slower with a package in two hands. "What it is, man... Shit, laugh all yerr ass wants, I'll have these flappin' lips over top of him..." Jerr would even poke fun at himself, if for the point of dedication to other men. But this presence of Wolverine was extra, not the objective; theirs was a little bit of business.

On this, Will got them focused. "You know old black-and-white's never been on the wrong side of anyone, he's not in the hotseat. I say he's likely on that slick rump in the same room as he'd be on non-visits."

"Heh... Best shot at a good meat 'n' greet, yeh? " Jerr lilted only on the last word; Will's dick was chubbed, a tool so close to Hornbill's size, but cut, a handsome scar on the fifth of eight inches when stiff-plumped. Now, half full, its line hit the fourth inch of six-point five, and a veinless hide on the perfect-shape missile. Jerr struggled not to fall on his bony knees and put his lean body into the arch of Will's legs. He knew Will was thinking of a whale, and a gentle elegance in that teacher... And his pliability. Jerr broke off from his ape bud and led the way, quiet as a spindly mouse. Will jogged behind him, somehow equally as quiet when the weight was about five times more, and beefier. Muscle etched like masonry around his paunch, its subtle bump on his belly not loose as they came up to the offending - pig chick turnaround - corner.

The monkey dude's cap stayed behind the hall's sharp left; his eyes went ahead, but found no trace of a bloused swine. And the door they needed was a straight shot, nothing to obstruct but dirty tiles, some travel tubes for aquatic kids, the smell of lime and some kinda car freshener leaf shapes thrown on top of the lockers to hide the aging stink. Disgusting shit, but to a point they had fondness for it... Memories are strange in what they pick to like. Either way, the men now tiptoeing and sprinting for the target were disgusting, so, sense made. They came up on the knob, and Jerr's hands made a closed oval on the smoked glass, edgeblockers to binocularize his eyes. Through the middle he saw... Nothing. No moving shadows. Not a thing one could question or assume was living.

Jerr's body stayed forward, hunched, while his head swung up and back, chill and with a thumbs-up to Will. The monkey cranked that knob right, pushed in swift but controlled, and had them both hopped past the doorsill by the time it could come back toward them. It shut like regular; the latch couldn't be silenced, as per its design. Jerr winced a bit, cutting eyes at it for the briefest moment; annoyed, but maybe warmer now; an element of danger, the thrill of being caught. He wanted to throw himself on Will, on his thick toadstool, just to make public mansex what he'd be doing. A little wet-mouthed, more thirsty when the thoughts continued, he walked up behind Will who'd now jetted towards the far wall. Cabinets, on the right of two paneled windows. Classified material Mr. Blowhole kept, and the ape had a grin like three bastards as he sped over to snoop. Two young guys in the room at present made up fifty percent of those who knew what the whale kept in there: reports, standards, guidebooks, glossaries. And hidden folders of pure porn. Specific theme around images.

Jerr walked all up on him, to the right as he had the second-to-top drawer of a steel cabinet open, and four seconds of digging got him a yellow manila labeled 'YP-72' in red marker. He knew the numbering system, and Jerr looked deeper after him once he pulled the folder and got out of the way.

The system was abbreved. Young Penis, datestamped the year of '72. Vintage twinks. Deer guys, pouty-lipped. Newts and tree-frog skinny bois, some in briefs and boxers, most in as much nothing as him. Oodles with the adult '70s tropes: body grease, hair all over, the funny other touches like wood walls or orange-green wallpaper. He stepped back, with the air stirred by Jerr's fiesty tail cool on his snail-trail and fat chub. It got fatter; cheetah boys were pictured, leaned up against savannah rocks. More pictures at the back... All of one species. His thoughts were vivid. 'Oh damn, humans... Fuck yeah, better keep this from Jerr's bitch arse, he'll cum buckets...' The gorilla knew his monkey bro, the proclivities; how Jerr saw human hunks, and I mean saw them. More drunk frat boys picked up a monkey in this town than misguided tourists do in the Congo.

The manful chimp was faring just fine; other themes existed in the hidden gems of this cabinet. A folder with selected jewels; Jerr yanked it out, opened it, and when hairy studs of '90s Playgirl with black or blonde or brown pits and the same musked tones on the bush were inside, he yanked something else. Friends of his would call it a slow day; it took a whole six seconds after seeing dick for him to stroke his bare peen. Foreskin wrapped his four inches, hard faster than any man in history, responsive to a fault. Any dude could get his dudehood wanting, social as fuck for others' instruments of male fun. He flipped a page, and a Greek-looking yak stood posing. As much muscle, big as fuck on the curly-headed daddy bovine, as the sweaty-lookin' cobra by the guy's legs. Jerr's whine was masculine, though from eighty pounds of primate uke bent hopelessly for cock. His throbbed so hard in his hand, its short self could hoist a flag on it. A tiny flag maybe, but he played and loved on it all the same, his tail swishing, curving, even spinning when the right image hit him. Thoughts hit him even harder. 'Fuuuck, stallions... Big ol' guys nude as hell...' He rolled his hood over the wiener's tip. '... Hangin', or strokin' it, FUCK! Suckin' those... Gahhd I wanna-'

What should interrupt his mental monguering but the door pushing right open behind them. A man like Blowhole could be gentle, or at later parts of the day just droll... For now, too early and him too stressed, his posh ways were ornery. He gazed nowhere in the room, didn't yet see the two primates who were now sincerely froze at the opposite side. First he had to slam the latch, thinking hard of what the list he'd printed out described. Then he had to mumble, curmudgeonly no matter that he laughed; it showed how to handle annoying beurecrats. The warthog's emails had a sense of humour, he'd give her that. Then he had to blink, and pretend his 'cultured' self wasn't hung over a tad from the cultured sherry he partook of with a book of Tolstoy's the last eve. THEN he would look up, spot the guests he now sported... And the list just slid right out his hand, gliding to the floor in switchbacks like paper is wont to do.

He had no words. Will didn't either, initially. In a few breaths the ape's staged innocence came. "How long's it been, swimmer? We two've been reminiscing. And I do mean how long, in the slacks you belted on."

The whale grunted, maybe not more than annoyed, gripping and adjusting the iron buckle Will ogled, at the whale's groin. He didn't make it tighter, Jerr conspicuously noticed, not exactly ignoring Blowhole's groin any more than the 'rilla quarterback. The whale castigated them tersely, a 'harrumph'-sort of style in his lofty decrying. "Exactly as you last saw it. You know how anatomy works, and I'll just be securing my desk now, no pow-wow to be had here, thank you." He didn't have to 'push past' the primates, but weaving through some desks and chairs by the pair of ex-students showed this symbolically. His whale skin swooped the rows in a light sashay; neck and arms were a little chapped, and his left flipper pulled a square-shape packet out his polo's pocket. A wet-nap, which he ripped into and used as a sponge bath.

Jerr spoke to an unreactive whale. "We ain't a perk-up, seafood? Aw man..." The chimp sounded real in his letdown. "It's the sergeant. That jug o' testosterone's hard on ya."

Blowhole took his seat - that of a drama class head - with a gentle drop into its pine bottom. Most of his life donned pageantry; that included being sick of these fools. "Indeed, not at all in the way you'd foster. I have ten letters of state to peruse; that's only those I must write promissaries on. What I know is tardy."

"Promissaries? Edge-of-y'-seat shit, right?" Jerr faked interest; his feet were already on the move, slow and dead-calm toward the whale who opened non-file drawers and rustled through the overdue tasks.

Blowhole looked up; he shot the monkey an evil eye, but the approach kept on. He vilified the teen. "Do not feign an inquiry, Jared. Or Will, though you may be cerebral. And you might stick those folders back where they'd lain." He knew so much about his organized lot, it was clear to him which folders they'd copped. He did have nice ideas, and smirked so microscopically with his forced frown. "I notice your good taste, but there's nothing for you here. Today's off-limits for the brat pack." That hadn't been pronounced like 'brats', nervewracking kids, but like the clipped version of 'bratwurst'. In his past he did know them like the mandrill, and the rhino. Didn't make it easier to do what's joblike.

Will's shoulders drooped; his arms hung cartoonishly, two large limbs goofing around like his monkey partner might do. "Awwww. My heart, Blowhole, it's been splintered." He made light of the whale's bravado, though his personability was highbrow at points. His left mitt clutched at his ribcage, total drama. "It's one thing to hoard your goodies in the cabinetry. But oh, the disdain." He wiped his sloping forehead with the back of one palm. "Ejected like orphans in a period piece. Or a few swallows of relief..." His green eyes seemed brighter; he scratched his thigh, a paltry distance from the hang Blowhole really, really meant to ignore. The whale did fail, looking up more than once. Will wouldn't miss that for anything. "... Strike that. More than a few."

Whale put down the first of ten sheets; nothing yet done on it, and he gave flack to the gorilla while he and the room felt stuffy. "In a very small while, a man I don't like and you shan't either will be present, hashing it out with me. Men who work have men to answer to." He saw Jerr shift a little; he chose to amend the sentence freshly spoken. "Or women. I won't make it sound like your utopia when it's none of that." He gazed down on the page, a header for some official gobbledigook. He picked up a quill - pens were beneath him - and dipped it in his old-style ink jar. "Dismissed, you jesters."

Will, endowed with balls like the NBA's, walked up on the desk and its oceanic plebe. All ten fingers made fine anchors as he leaned over... Blowhole, straining to produce here, to read and not be read by a dominant jerk-of-an-ape, could make out plainly the curve of the sports-buff's pecs. Prominence, dark buds on their stiff centers, some definite colour on Will's lewd extremities. The fink even clenched down; his chest took up all the whale's view, and in a flash that sheet of paper was old news. Will made appeals, with attention on him. "Aren't you always educational. Four years older now than the last day I sat in to learn, and now you teach me to play catch-up." Mister Blowhole wanted to swipe the air, a gesture to say they're done; he had to sit and watch this mammal, tough, big-framed, big-boned in that figurative way. Will swung like a moose, and swayed like a boss, shooting vocal appeals with suave emphasis. "You could make him happy. Go home tonight with a pat on the back, and full nuts. Appreciated and unsatisfied." He leaned up, and beat his own chest. "That's a man's way, correct?"

Teasing Blowhole was an art. And a gorilla's expressing that, his body language - a body so bare and beefy, gung-ho and hung-to-whoa-level - put salty droplets on the whale's skin. Mr. Blowhole sat down the single page he'd had, daintily. Clammy, and getting worse at willpower. "You won't comprehend... It's more pressing than your thoughts..." He reached up, adjusting glasses that in no way needed this. What was pressing now, most of all, stood instead of laid. The whale scanned that first page... Even though it lay on the desktop, and the eldest manhood in the room went so erect the belted slacks couldn't hide throbs. Fabric moved with his heartbeat.

Will did the dirtiest he could: eyes on the whale, while he made like he was scratching his core but did more like rubbing it. Up, and down, and to his massive protein-tap... Hand going out with it, tugging a beercan-pecker, getting it stiff as the whale's. Rushing currents of adrenalized blood ran inside its flesh, so firm it could dent brick if the nineteen-year-old had knocked its black mass on some. "Fine. If you can tell me you don't need this. If you've never dreamed about it, day and night, I'll leave." His strokes were laddered; slow near the bottom, giving so much time for the whale to see that size. A li'l crazed near the tip, a glans sensitive as fuck. For the burst of pleasure, he 'ook'-ed, as if the whale already sucked it down, made a plan out of serving it.

Things were certain. Compulsory. The whale ran moist now, all over. Will mugged, so smug, swole in all five limbs. Arms bulged with veins, his pisshole stared at Blowhole's neck-level. In shape and wanting this older man's gob. The whale's nose took in air; the gorilla's scent was crippling, the finest way. Sweat, pot-breath from the half-ripped alpha ape and an earlier spliff-burn... A li'l Gold Bond powder for protecting his globes, dry on the outside and a pound each in weight... Jerr stood by, his right arm on his friend's firm backside, exploring like they both knew Blowhole yearned to. The whale tittered, his pageantry on-pause. "Wolverine's here... How did you even... Show up surrep-titiously..." He didn't mean to split up the last word; hesitation happened when Will leaned back, and the bag under his horsedick swung a while. Mass made its motion, and made the whale's drool leak down his lip collagen.

The gorilla laughed, secure in everything. "It's talent. C'mon, your smooth bitch ass knows better." Shaped like a god, endowed like hell, his dark dick imposed more than craves. The whale didn't act voluntarily, but his fins, on his belt buckle, unfastened it. Two primates knew he liked it the same way Will would have him do; bottomless, his upper-half left to the mind's eye, but about to have hisself out like theirs.

"You couldn't stay banished... Had to stop in and see my printouts..." He thought of the porn he owned and they'd just seen. Thought of them getting off on it, like him. His belt fell on both sides. No one could unbutton pants much faster. "... And me... You don't care about danger..."

Will slapped his free hand on the desk; such a brash move that so fit him. "... Just like you."

"... Degenerates... Horny devils..." He had started feeling less like having final say. Before Will, sitting low while the athlete grinned and masturbated, so shameless. That turf leader's hand curled over his dick, pushed it down on the table. Laid it flat and long, squeezed a drop out to bead on the wood top; clear and manmade, common knowledge for a whale also male, and so aroused he was made to feel like an object. "You want to court this hole?" He reached back; pointed to his own tight circle, and powerless not to fondle it. The pants slipped down; he was compelled to show them.

Jerr hollered a "MMmnphyehh", seeing seven wet inches fly right up when the trousers dropped. A two-tone tool, blacker than Will's on top and sides, creamy-white on the underside, suggesting to the monkey a thick slimy joy... Like the white skin was an eternal trail of spunk, but really just suggested that. Will cocked his head - back toward his manipulating self - for thoughts of Blowhole's bare ass. His feet put their huge soles to bringing him around the desk; Blowhole didn't stand yet. He knew better, he'd be told what to do for the giant male.

"Turn. Rotate, big old thespian." Will barely emphasized the last word, just audibly. He didn't tell Blowhole to rise; the whale sighed a little in his hummed moan, kicking the chair legs once so they might squeal less, sliding on the floor. He had a quickening heart... That jackass of an ape wanted the chair loud. If they were caught, he'd engineer a new plan. More men, more bunk to be milked and fly out. Unless it was the pig-

-Will put these worries to rest; Blowhole faced away from them, two cheeks with cellulite cushion pancaked on the seat. Calm outwardly, aching inside for those two nympho's. The whale stepped his shined Buster Browns out of the slacks. Shoed but pantsless now, and Jerr's tail kinked, having it as bad for dick as him. Will's first deed was simply to walk up. Blowhole's skin ran wet with perspiration, having some tall shade behind. Will's chest blocked out light from his shoulders; the gorilla's scalp put darkness on Blowhole's neck. He stood four inches away from the whale's spine: same distance as Jerr had in length, pulled with prejudice by the monkey's hand, a twink-build bro pleasuring himself to watch Will do the same behind the teacher. Jerr's short clubber rolled in and out its foreskin, light as a peach, hard as coconut. Will's ran through his own hand with cockstabs, the same humongous radius all down its snipped presence; so far it went thanks to size and the ape's control talents. Blowhole scooted back, posture straight in his seat, usually for poise but now for wishing he could see them, travel eyes on his younger, selfish agonists. Graciously his fin put itself under his vest, rubbing his nipple bud; he threw some creamy-smooth whalesongs when he pinched it, right as Will touched the small of his neck with something blunt, wide and pointing for the sky.

Mr. Blowhole breathed hot and felt a chill; bliss shot down his spine, since the gorilla pressed the end of his member right on its high reach. Jerr's tongue lolled as he stroked furiously; Blowhole ran his fin up his own, with red hue on his cheeks. The teacher's length curved down at the tip; his pointer finger scraped dickhole when tended, and boy did he use its two-colour tight-cut self around these grown boys... Tight indeed, not even a scar marked where his fingers passed it, pressing in, rolling the skin like he preferred. Will spoke through one corner of his savvy mouth. "Even if they bust in right the fuck now, it's a wash. You're mine, drama faggot." Will even worked a li'l sports-type tease in his ribbing; he wouldn't need to be asked to, another man's gay bend was itself a turnon for the monster-owner. Will's rocket put up to the whale's neck-valley, glided up and down the quivering ditch. Blowhole thought only of what it was, and how big; his seven-long tool was less but harder, one crooked vein bringing out a bump his fin rolled past like a snake. Thickest at the center-right, curving slight to the left, the whale's dick wanted Will's against it. He loved being fucked, this was all too true; Will could make mincemeat of his rectum and the whale would squeal praise for every cruel, searing shove... But nothing compared to dong friction. Or pipe fights.

He knew Will loved that too. He knew the ass-goblin 'rilla knew HIM like a book, a Shakespearean fop with a dandy's butthole. Will sensed - from the whale's noises and their 'tone' today - just what would break this senior sub for the fiftieth time.

Blowhole wasn't *told* to get up, but instead the muscular ape grabbed two slippery shoulders. Both hands held to them, not slipping off from sweat or Teflon-ish touch on the whale's person; Will was just too goddamned strong. Made for this, manhandling the breathy instructor. Twice his age and a tenth his strength, in his own hands, and he spun the whale half-around. The moment had arrived: a snout on his forehead, pecs like mountains, naked against his clothed, flat chest. Abs with a shield of fat between their hard plates and Blowhole's high shirttail, touching the lowest skin. Will leaned back because it never changed; go figure, how the older mammal wanted this. Nothing got his target leaking pre, running it up Will's cock by some crooking knees, like just having the sight of Will's stubble, his huge green eyes, set thin and evil about the fun they delved into.

Will ran it hard, one thrust of his largeness over Blowhole's same part. The 'roof' of teacher's dickhead on its upper side took a sand-down by the longer, straighter peen; the whale almost choked on how turned-on he went by this. Will talked shit to a broiling-hot older man. "You have those archives to think of us." Jerr stood with Will, the ape's left foot to the chimp's right; his dick was pure bliss in his own hand, watching two more frot and give heaven for each other. Will's half-open mouth was happy to a fault, slinging phrases to melt the whale. "Name a pic in there with action, we've done that. Two guys, or three, on a bed, the walls, under tables. Bent you and Jerr over every-fuckin'-thing." He just seemed to get more forward... Before long, it'd be demanding instead.

Blowhole felt cold all over; goosebumps hit when Will spoke at him, when the ape was this nude and horny, AKA always. "What will... You d-do with me, cretins?..." He'd been tested when Will ran a hard frot up his length again. Then another. He hummed the song of a bitch, for the better male that rubbed on him. And the ape retreated, stored momentum... And pushed his eight-inch hammer down so hard on Blowhole's, they clapped.

Will cooed, low and hyper-butch in that mouth's open corner. The older whale nearly fainted; vibrations went straight up his dick from another one. Will slid his fat meat up the teacher's and then hit them together more... The mean fucker was mixing frottage and fencing. Will's long, healthy beef sword smacked, then loved, then smacked the whale's again, and by God he had things to say. "I'll own you. Fill with dick, MY spear, and thoughts of it. Close your eyes and see it burned in." He shoved with more than just manhood now; his whole body bullied whale's, pressing it, arms around the whale in the biggest bear hug just so all that naked ape muscle warmed the teacher. Jerr leaned in, dropping eaves on their dick-sex. His ears heard the *schlick* and *bap*, and his tongue grew three sizes, desperate for taste. Will didn't forget his 'other half', and sold that craver to the whale. "He'll help. What I don't do, he's drawn to." Blowhole ogled the manly fuck of an ape, all those contours on a ball player's body, and then he watched the monkey while Will added a thought. "Look at him wedge that cap! He's tweaking for it!"

Will was turned on most by now, having his way with Blowhole but seeing and feeling Jerr. The monkey's hat did push on the haunches, right above the pubes; once his face got leverage, the mouth took root. Will growled bliss and saw the bill of Jerr's cap in its best place, pointed up. When he knocked his peen on Blowhole's his lanky bud was there to coddle both in the quilt of wet tongue. One taste of Will's salty hog, and the whale's, and Jerr cried louder than either had. Airy, just male enough to call out that he was, serving two dicks through the challenge of hips moving. Jerr so loved the change in shape between them; so easy to know who's who, in or on his maw where they'd be blessed with stimuli. Will swerved, rubbing and slapping whale dick with his on all sides. Jerr was briefly squeezed out, despite his frantic pushes, by Will's massive hand. He was fine with the wide holdoff for maybe one second... Will did so with a reason, having balled up foam inside his mouth. He spat straight down on their dicks; it hit Blowhole's, not his. Bubbles, the flavour of Will's mouth, went from whale's 'droopy' tip to the scar of a gorilla pipe. The whale's wail was still on-key, an interlude for slicked-down cocks. Will smashed his on the whale's when they didn't casually, closely slide, head-to-base either way.

Blowhole had the license for one more question... The last of his freedom from thoughtless lust, about to lose all words to this jacked ape and his limber suck-toy partner. "What... In those pics... You want most with me..." His parlence here suffered; gone was the articulate worker, here to stay was the freshly-bare manwhore, undressed and impressionable. Anything Will said was his command; he dipped, and Will did too, when Jerr's mouth returned to them, jonesing.

Will could talk his ass off, experienced with how to order and belittle through Jerr's effects. He answered Blowhole, whipped the whale's rod with his, snickering when it upswung next to Jerr's lip-loving. "On the desk. One leg up. Head back, in my arm, you has-been." Blowhole whined; Will snubbed his age, his career, his size, together... And turned him the fuck on. He submitted like Jerr did for them both; he tried not to look down to that monkey, licking, smooching, suckling their shaft's side. Watching that would make him blow, and waste all that spunk. Will pulled him now, about to move the male as rigid as him.

It was a gale of motion: The whale pushed down on the desk, lovelessly, palms anchoring on its front edge. Will took-spot behind, and laid one hand on the teacher's leg fat. Jerr cheered from the side, drooling, gung-ho, trying so hard to wait. Will jockeyed the whale's knee up to the desktop; the crack of that ass parted picture-perfect. It had done much of this. Heat just wafted off it, right to Will's cock, not a hair away from contact on the older man's star. Biceps like a Mack truck wrapped the whale's midriff, given the reach-around. No fleeing now, if he'd had the want to, and why ever. Will's pre was poised to treat his cave with salty goods right from the forward slit.

Jerr's body showed above the desk's far end; he turned away and simply fell over the polished rectangle, back-first. Blowhole groaned like hell; the monkey's skinny core slinked up to him. The world's best maw closed on his package. Ardor from Jerr, eighty pounds of pure hunger, while Will did his vicious worst: slipping in inch one, two, four, to the eighth, in less time than Blowhole could jump out of his skin. Or his socks and shoes, still on, while the rest lay naked as the toned taller ape who stuck him.

Red, within seconds, in that pink hole. Will's chin was already on the whale's ear, his dick curls moist on the teacher's rear door. Blowhole's dick already jumped, full and hid in Jerr's suction down to its bristly blonde hairs. One set of whale toes made the floor clammy, the other hung off the edge of a desk meant for proper work. This action, unordained, erotic, would get him fired. Never mind the daydreams of some joining him, one co-worker walking in might end his career. The threat, just for this, two younger men exploring and using him, more gay than him if that be possible... Will's spearing his rough anus only sweetened that rush. And it WAS rough; his hide may be slick as Gak, but the aqua-native's cavities were ribbed for male pleasure. Will's teeth clashed they loved it so deep, raking him with hot dog. Push after hard push, he bragged like stud-ass fucks were going outta style. "Can't rout this you fop-ass fuck. I'm the director. You..." His teeth closed over the whale's ear slits; shallow buds of half an oval, in the bite-path of one who knew how the whale took to this. He commanded through the clench's marble-mouth. "... Pivot. Throw it this way, pole patron."

Whale complied. Gorilla forced it in three times that speed; the sweaty teacher worked and still got put to shame, or rather used by his own meeker ways. Will nibbled his ear, a noisy snack, since Blowhole went off like a warbly siren. The ape jock debased, his eyes fiery with testosterone. "Call me producer too. Guess what's headed IN that trapdoor, fruit!" His length whipped Blowhole's guts; veinless, smooth skin of a young stud's todger, charcoal-black and leaking. The teacher's glasses danced; even more his sack, all-black and tight around the spheres, the globes inside shifting and alive with rushing currents. He felt every time the loads stirred, and Will was the ladle, throwing patent truths. "You need it! That crane boy in your archives, he won't itch as deep as your queer ass!" Blowhole so loved the names, getting called such reducing handles. His lip folded in and out his own teeth; Will quit using his own, and just licked the man he pounded with wet shaft. Tasting a lesser lad, a receptacle.

Jerr let none of this handicap his work... Soft lips pulled the man's member, rolling up each side, gratifying nerve after nerve. He spoke so loud with a mouthful the whale got his message from tone and contact. 'Get scratched, dude!' he'd throated, and was no ventriloquist; melty hums spelled it out. Blowhole had the picture in his mind, the one Will mentioned; a bird twink taking a dragon on a mountaintop veranda. The opinion had also been right; the old man in the room took it hard as that model. Harder. Will scraped his inner lands and the desk scooted, an inch each time. Spidermonkey tongue snaked down the white-and-black, no change between the borders of both pipe hues. Loved steady, dick eaten over and over, and over.

The capped chimp lip-tugged it like hell just to fall on it sideways; back still wriggling on cold wood, throat taking sips of pre from the hot kind. His electric-blue eyes put on Blowhole's snout and mouth above him; he worshipped this man, this male and the chance to serve like the teacher served Will. A sandwich... Hell, a Manwich, gave him chills down his gooch, his tender butthole, so caught in loving it. His blue gaze closed, and in focus he felt and knew only Blowhole's ample meat like a part of him. Had he ways to speak, they'd all hear the promise of swallowing. Jerr pledged his diet: jizz and dank blunts, and more jizz, by the life he led. Blowhole swayed above the desk, either pushed by Will's war on his hole or Jerr's surrender of an upper one.

"Swish, peacock!" Will belittled and blew up that ass; Blowhole screamed his hum now. It only helped an ape bastard when it showed how the drama man couldn't handle it. At times he thought no man could, strong as he went at it. He called out more analogies. "Guys in the Roman pic, those two horses. Remind you of THIS weapon? " The cudgule he ground into the whale's hole put stars in the older man's shut eyes... Windows sealed with strain and lust. The horse soldiers had been in costume, just like sentries of olde. Brush-top helmets over their nudeness. Muscle on their tall, dreamy frames matched half of what Will brought in, if put together. And combined with flashes of other times - years' worth of presenting it for athlete and monkey-next-door, the two gayer than gay - he already neared spewing it. Seven minutes of Will's beast blending his cave-tissue, pressing on prostate, and Jerr wouldn't be waiting for his protein.

Will pressed on him nose-to-calves. "Moan! Fuck YEAH you bitch, I'm back to blast your shit!! " He thought of Blowhole's 'action' pics, dudes taking it, none as avid as his bone-relievers. Never pent-up, since Jerr existed, but never had to be. Pre flowed down his nuts; no square millimeter dry, no pity in his rough-housing with mangash.

"OHHOO-OO-OOOOOO!! " Too much to stand up, if Will's arms hadn't held him. They wouldn't for long, or not in the same fashion; they released him, but the left one came back, around his chin. Blowhole moaned right through the headlock; Will tackled him right over the desk, pumping in that ass, and all it did to Jerr was lay a weight over him he could take. A man's weight, and his unit, still snug inside and oozing the chimp a drink.

The desk took the most abuse; Blowhole's mind wrapped around the contents of his cabinets: two redneck bulls pissing and holding one another, aiming mutually. A flamingo in leather gear. Bulls felching a daddy-rhino, cum all in their pencil-'staches. He could think of nothing undone with this pair; no stone unturned, and at times explored like wrestlers, many legs and arms wound and spooled. Four proud legs stood strong on the desk; Blowhole heaved out his breaths like a spirit leaving him. Will would make something exit him alright; all of them, and Jerr's little stiffy closed in on a 'closer' first, the wads about to spill up the whale's chest blubber. His toes scraped air like talons; the high pitch of a slut's music gave their whale a run for his money.

Will rammed that rear like a cross stepfather. Buns rippled they had to move so quick around him; his 8'er felt best nowhere other than its head-flare, a flame on Blowhole's gland with scrapes repeated. Sweat dripped on the whale's back from Will's chest. Drool glossed his neck, before the gorilla dove in to bite, and give more grunts full of stigma. "YOU get shot in, you lesser FUCK!!" The last word worked in context but had its roots in the rise, the gathering. Will's peak threatened, flushed his sinew with pressure, and came on. "FUCK!! FUUUCK, fill up with MAN you CREAM CLOSET, AGGGHH!!!"

It could've shot him right off Will's dick like a shuttle. He hung on, by Will's headlock-arm, and floods gave him seizure, squalling as it ran up his colon. Jerr matched his timing; gobs arrived from a small jumpy pistol, stuck to whale's mancleavage. Thicker ones owned him, Will's seed drilled and smashed into place by its gun and ruthless user, like Will fucked the man out of him and still left it there, just to be worthy of taking it. Only men could sate them, the primates, and both differently. The whale's wire frames clacked the desktop, and by bouncing, soon the floor beside Will's foot. Fallen off in the broiling peak, the floundering of sex so hot it was godly. Will licked his cheek as butch fuckers might, screaming heat and air on the teacher. Jerr curled like a shrimp despite lying under them; cum was now flowing in his mouth, shot by whale, caused by gorilla.

Blowhole's downward spigot drew on the chimp's tongue, goo from a distinctive pen. Porn swirled in their heads with the fever, sweet relief and callbacks to other such scores. Men, dicks, sperm, swinging jewels. Jerr and Will rolled with discharge, and thoughts of friends here. Blowhole dumped his loads and either took or felt theirs, and he'd be the first of more. Jerr's mouth hummed more impulses, a share of swagger though his sub-tongue drank the jizz hot. "MMMmm!! MMMnn, MMM!!" was what his partners heard, but intent had been the phrase, "Let it ON!! Get it G', COCK ME!!"

This room was warmest on the property. Steam made up of mansweat, heaving breath. Blowhole knew he'd be skewered long after empty in his sack; Will just rode that way, selfish, big 'n' tough enough to have that right. He had no destiny of telling them where other teachers lay; Will and Jerr were journeymen. Half the fun in finding a rhino, or mandrill, would be buildup. A whale of a poised teacher bent from Will's spooge, gave his to Jerr's sustenance and bliss whines.

Good that he'd still need to browse the federal forms he seeked; seated jobs helped a man who wouldn't walk easy a while.

Will's nose flared. Their orgasm, pheremones, two subs with him, now the frenzy hit. Their next man would get it worse... Correction, better, if that man be six-feet-plenty like Hornbill or short as three inches high.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next to the square light fixture on the ceiling of Pixiefrog's office, a silverfish walked its tiny feet over plaster cracks; the dust of an aged finish poured down in the principal's mug. He took a sip, about as much bean-water as could've fit physically in each bag under his eyes. It helped about as much as expected; he nodded jelly-necked, standing next to the mug and just before a pile of I-9's. FUCK Maurice and Hornbill and the rest, they made him the 'Little Red Hen' in this audit situation. Who will help him stamp the letters? Who will help him cover the blunders, exactly a year's worth of passing the buck? 'Not I, said the little bleeding-heart', Pixiefrog thought, in a glum slight on his Mandrill counselor. Passages and sections of the documents blurred and ran together; he took off his glasses, cleaning them; he smacked, noting an icky taste, like wet paint. His chin nodded again; this time he would stop it by bracing. Steady, getting his arm on the mug's top like a shelf... Or starting to, having his elbow slip, and into the scalding brew up to his rotator cuff.

The scream itself was lethargic.

He yanked up the arm, quickly shown how green looks when it's overrun with red. Shaking it only hurt the sting, adding stale school air to agonized nerves. He'd began blowing on it, treating the sleeve-o'-welt like old NES carts, when the door crashed open and he nearly jumped into the caffeine cauldron. A pane of glass became shards on the floor behind Wolverine; he ran at Pixiefrog, convincing the toad he'd just fucked up that bad already. Frog's hands went over his own glasses, expecting to be checked to the ground and made into a handball for his VIP. Instead Wolverine made a pretty good show of diving over the desk, sliding hip-first. His 'Duke-boy' stunt landed him behind Pixiefrog, behind the furniture that now worked as his barrier.

He looked up over the brushed brim, antsy. Pixiefrog saw the actual fear; he talked down into the 'dugout' where their auditor crouched. "If it's the creaking noises out there, relax. Blowhole shifts in his seat all day, I'd send him to detention if I knew how to run his actors' corral in there."

"They're here-" Wolverine waited not one iota, and just barely revealed his trouble. "-Motherfuck I'm gonna need a miracle! " He only pried his eyes away from the swinging, broken door to show Pixiefrog a white fright; it HAD to be some fresh grey hairs on his snout, dread-induced. He looked up from the principal's boot soles. "You deaf!? Get down here, hell's arrived! All twenty toes' worth!"

Pixiefrog looked on him about how you'd assume. One eyebrow was somewhere in the stratosphere. "Is there a name for what you're on right now?"

Wolverine's hands wrapped quick as a bullet on some tiny green shoulders; they were shook heartily, his fangs up in Pixiefrog's face. "BOMB SHELTER, WARTY, IS there one?"

"N-n-n-no," He sputtered, a ragdoll in the thirty-times-stronger grip. He went pallid like that wreck of an official because of same. "This p-place w-www-was built in '93, th-the Red Sca-a-are was history-"

"IRRELEVANT SOLDIER!! " He ducked and covered, hearing rustles from outside. He didn't watch to see Miss Warthog just stroll by, tiptoeing through some scattered glass, looking with her chill disdain right at the principal. He sighed, held his hand down to Wolverine to help him up... And just got shook harder for the effort. "DON'T ACKNOWLEDGE ME, they'll COME WISE-"

"They'll come nowhere, they're absent." Pixiefrog hadn't the foggiest of what jumped up Wolverine's hide. The ex-sergeant had but a lick of sense already, but this settled it; recovery hadn't 'took'. A disappointed frog knelt his suited chest and knit pants down to the mammal's ear. "Should I call the doctor, or will I let you make that first step?"

The frog would've gone on with that, sure that he saw a relapse; and in fact he did, but one with merit. Wolverine's thumbs pressed either side of his face, his whole head, too gentle for a man of balls. "William. Jared." Only the names.

Pixiefrog hiccuped; men who fell into congestive heart failure also made that sort of sound. Pages flew off the desk onto the floor when the frog sprinted, 'launching' them with shoes until the last flew back and his cleats could fly him forward. The door - meaningless with a new gash where the glass square met its end - slammed into its housing. The frog could then be found under Wolverine's neck, a raw image of cowering.

He spoke without making a move, regretful. "I... Shoulda kept up with the files... I'd be fucked anyway-"

Wolverine brought his fist down on the frog's scalp, with hisses at he whose bell he rung. "That word's dead right now, that's an order! " Yes, technically a command, in spirit. Wolverine threw open desk drawers, but nothing there could double as cover, or weapons... He had no plan. If they came, they'd... Hopefully not be literal about that.

A paper bag would be nice to find, since Pixiefrog hyperventilated. "Today... It had to be... I'm sorry, mother..." Wolverine heard pure apprehension; the reptile emptied his wee li'l heart. "I wore my Sunday shoes... Ate my casserole... I'll miss you..."

Wolverine slapped the goosebumps even harder into him. "Tadpole, get it together!" He ironically scolded, shaky. His body may soon fall on the squishy principal's, but his head went clear. "They were at 06-degrees, the east wing. My sniffer never errs." Pixiefrog looked up, bravely ignoring the ball-sweat of the knelt Sergeant's near his nose-height. Long-dormant skills of Wolverine's had now their moment. He looked out toward the corridors, his version of a Vietcong jungle. "They'll want supplies. Call your teachers, have them lock the treat boxes. We'll empty the vending machines, where's the key?"

"... Uhhh, with a man in a Pepsi shirt?" The principal 'put on' respect, trusting a dime-store Rambo with their issue. Wolverine leapt up in the most 'fuck-that' manner capable; the vending-box in this office he just grabbed and started shaking. Chip bags and Red Bulls jostled; his frog subordinate tugged his pants leg, just to make him quit. "You won't do jack that way, trust me. If the sports-riot treatment worked, I'd have every bag of Funyuns they stock in there free of charge." He tried to make light of their position. "... And they'd have built a battered-tech shelter."

Wolverine went on shaking it, over and over; he halted, his head dropped forward. He spun a quarter-way, and leaned on the glass front like a king. It looked way closer to cool than ANYthing felt. "... Just, tell me, why do they... Why are they. You had 'em first." He looked brittle, like soon he'd crumble to the floor in a pile.

Pixiefrog puffed an answer, air through his teeth. "Because ancient Rome lives again, in two wet hearts."

Wolverine looked at him like he was the crazy ass. He cleared his throat, wishing not to be mistaken. "I mean, tell me one thing on that pair that goes around dry."

The auditor-in-camo had a zinger formed fast for that. "-Their shame." It was a weak slam, about like his facade of calmness. Fast as he could come away from the vending machine, he crouched and sneaked to the door; looking outside, both ways, he found no one at the moment. His breathing went regular... He had duties for the principal. "... There's time. Put that phone in your slimy paws and call them. Everyone here should be on Fruit Watch."

Pixiefrog obeyed, but gazed back while jogging for the desk and its classroom-dialing call system. "You don't have to be mean, they're innocent today..."

Seeing the simultaneous-army vet, mental patient and school board lackey channel from all three into a death glare, Pixiefrog just sweat buckets in silence, picking up the receiver. Holding it in both arms, he said prayers and dialed Mandrill's extension with his lips.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

No answer, in the counselor's room. Nobody in the counselor's room. Vacant like the principal's hope stash, the more it ringed on, uninterrupted.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pixiefrog seethed, sadder than angry, having Wolverine shout above him about control and consistency. He dialed Blowhole while the auditor twitched, his eyelid and the same side's arm. The whale never let him down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Getting no answer again, no words in the swimmer's soothing voice; what a letdown. He had more time to give this option, so sure while Wolverine's spittle rained on his glasses rims that justice would be served. Wolverine called him every fool, lunkhead or pussy synonym, while it rang and rang. Until it got picked up.

Their ears were so on the earpiece they were half-inside it. The first word, a "Hello", sounded much like Blowhole's hummed tones. Something just slightly off, while Pixiefrog warned the hell out of his drama supe.

"Blowhole, pick up your feet, I'm surprised at you." Acting, for Wolverine's benefit. "We have jokers in the deck. No drill, it's happening today. Now." He almost sacked-up and told Wolverine to stop sweating down on him... But then thought better of it.

Blowhole answered a moment late... Like he supressed something. "Really. They're quite a card, eh?"

Wolverine and the frog rolled eyes in separate directions. The principal truly got down on his whale now. "I'll counsel you later for that joke alone. Now batten down, I said there's foxes in the henhouse!" He wasn't so much acting now, irritation got to him.

The brogue of Blowhole's, what he thought he'd been hearing, changed. "You didn't say how foxy. What's to be scared of?"

The charade evaporated. Pixiefrog put down the phone; face straight ahead, wanting more than life to think it wasn't a gorilla. Futile wisps of faith, dying like bitches. Blowhole might be there... Incapacitated. Drenched in something.

"What the hell's your malfunction!?" Cankerous, Wolverine could fry bacon on his ribcage. "Tell him flat-out, the dick apes are here!"

Pixiefrog looked nowhere new, just verbalizing his PTSD, blank as all-getout. "I'd be telling one of them. Go ahead and shake my hand, we have our first casualty."

Wolverine's grey hairs got instant new siblings.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The yeti had his frown muscles at work, and his arms, wringing out the brand-new mop at a rust-coated slop sink. He used nothing without a rinsedown first, even $40-tools fresh off the shelf at a retailer. It didn't respond well; he bulged from wrist to shoulder, compacting the 'head', all the grey strings. They held water like an obese fish with gout.

"C'mon ya piece o' dung," He appealed to the graces of an inanimate object. Four minutes later it at last felt right, and he reached for the Lysol wash-fluid. Teaching staff might get hemhorroids in their easy chairs moving sheets of paper around out there, but in this janitor's closet he put down some indelible elbow grease. Starting with the tile in here, he whipped the red handle to and fro; the difference came the fuck out. Only 80% of brown spots stayed, that whole kit and caboodle stains, legacy of the school's previous steward. Cold air blew straight down from a ceiling grate to his thin cow lick; he spoke with an edge, but more out of sarcasm. "Most of my check for this junker, eh? I'll make ya work." He made the necessary turns and lifts and pours to fill a bucket half-cleaner-the-rest-H2O. This place was an exercise in waiting, some practice for zen in the art of patience; the bucket went heavier with sink water, bubbling yellow floor soap.

Not much entered his mind from his other job; a bluejay, a raccoon, had their time and place. Great to know those trifling dimwits weren't a part of this... He even orated that, about to make his exit from the pantry and bathe the halls in chemical perfumes... Or just fumes. "Those two frost my fur, but good absence." Not riddance, but as he turned the knob and rushed air into the room from outside, it applied the same.

Surprise. The only arms in their area code big like his stood outside, akimbo. They and a friend leaned asses to the wall; the more compact bum the more active one. Jerr's pointer finger swooped, putting 'frat' ways into how he figured. "Two... Well that ain't a number to spite, man. How many nuts on you?"

Jerr licked chops, and an unmoved Skips set down the bucket; at least the flashers here weren't homeless crank fiends, or diddlers with beat-up coats and worse skin. Mopping was to start here anyway, he'd work with these 'guests' on the sidelines. His white abs curled - almost crunched - while the mop slopped its first few square feet. "You look just like ya did in the slideshow." He had a cool concentration, finding this pricy thing at least easy to manoever.

Jerr's eyes jigged a bit, puzzled while twinkling. Will, though, knew what Skips had just 'called out'. "They still use that pic set at orientation? I'm a foot taller by now." He reached down, scratching himself. "... Multi-places." No itch on any dong took that long to scratch; he moved his rough hand up the basket of flesh, indulging this, stroking far more than he scraped. It surged already with erect heat; Skips was all he'd heard before. Blowhole left little out, not dishonest at any point in description. Will didn't move in on the gentle, long-lived giant, however.

The monkey had that license. Gangly, his twink body walked with Skips, up the wall when he slopped liquid down the edge. "Lemme help. Splash me on some solvent man, I'll ski down the place!" He laughed, tottered and pinched his nip; the last you can chalk up to watching yeti beef work. "Slip-'n'-Slide Shineup!" He guffawed, his prick now in his other hand. No qualms at all about closing it on him, moving it, self-love for this stranger.

Skips didn't take ALL commotion with disinterest. Jerr skipped a breath or two when Skips gazed down right to his package, not friendly nor fierce. "Kids these days... Teens, I shouldn't call ya what sounds innocent." Maybe a little sickening showed up on Skips' mouth, curled and curving... Maybe, though, it was more along what the football-'rilla ached for. Ten minutes after Blowhole started cleaning his asshole, and the desk, the chair legs, the wall about nine feet from where they'd camped in that drama room... Already, pulsating. This mythic man, as large as he was wise, galvanized the need. Ape cream simmered.

Both under-20's rubbed and handled their own, thinking of this hottie's hidden gems, a skin flute and softballs in overalls. Jerr looked right-the-fuck at crotch the whole time talking. "Legal shit here, three-sixty." He looked down his naked body, lean and open to a fault. He spun, and Skips faced down a chimp's booty. The goddamn twink had visible hole... So used it just lay open for the next taker, but thin on a small-frame dude, never loose. This got a giggle: scratchy sound, what he didn't think he'd react like. Jerr was back-forward now, shoulders on the wall. The little bitch just swatted his own buns, giving a come-on. Skips suddenly mopped slower. The monkey tingled, in that hole alone, where guys belonged. He called out the number-1 goal. "Get acquainted man..." He flexed it. Donut for dudes, the glory by that antsy orange tail...

"I... Can't believe this." Skips had grew quieter, but amused now. Jerr had no shame but some regret since it looked fast like he'd be left alone. Skips pushed the mop and nary looked up again, asserting vague shock. "I rolled my eyes through their whole chapter about you. Figured it's a high-concept joke, even if Bossman has what you'd call a bottomless pit for laughs."

Skips had insulted Pixiefrog, his employer's way with(out) comedy. Jerr tingled still, and now more; he heard 'pit' and the hairy bend by that name was what he dwelled on. Mental pictures of this yeti were created: lifting a bicep, inviting Jerr in. The tongue could bury so deep in a forest; one that could be any colour for all the monkey knew. Licking in strands grown in male musk, a funk greenhouse. Real Skips wrinkled his nose; Jerr had whined, gay as a non-femme ever could. He didn't hear why; inside the blue cap, slideshows of Jerr eating that pit, munching sweaty forest, were silent to an ape bro' and a wanted man.

Will thought of something lower, and what faced away while Skips put a careful watch on them. Diligent now, he cleaned the tile and moved away bit-by-bit with fortitude. He'd keep them with incidental chat until a teacher might happen up... Strength in numbers. But for these, well, enemies - nude down to the toes and ogling him, pretty laid-back and maybe flattering - his questions wouldn't all be forced. They streamed from him, and more than once he glanced up, knowing what he'd see. "You - snrrk - can't be everything they listed. Even half the stuff, ya'd be in Alcatraz by now. They'd reopen it for you."

Will picked his teeth idly; to end, he stuck the finger deep, pulling it out through a suckle. A smack, and then dulcet words that filled their hall. "Go on, then. I mean we didn't draw up the course they dropped on you, fill us in."

Skips snooted; he was asked to describe what he'd been warned of. His brawn tensed. This headed somewhere obvious. But, he worked and they let him... They stood bare, brave and swaggering, two sides of the same nympho coin, some rare bastards. If he was spellbound it had background. "Mostly the cliff notes were what you like to try. Or get." He noted how Jerr laughed, a slutty guy's pride. This even warmed him a smidge, he and his new smile. "Your plots and positions. They -" He snrrk'ed again, recalling some dumbassery. "-They had 'visual aid' slides. You were a broom, monkey boy. And big guy, you were a cardboard cutout of some baseball player with a grey sheet thrown over. The ferret played victim." He bent down; the laughter possessed him, shoulders janky from belly laughs. Horace Ferret had been photographed in overblown expressions; Skips struggled to explain through laughs. "Bunch o' freeze-frames where it looked like he's raped by two-dollar props."

Jerr showed his nippers, joining in the snickers. Will's jaw lay at the open angle of bad awe... He scoffed and his neck craned, thick and steady. "They didn't get the sport right for me?"

Skips peered at the QB with cheesy ease... Fears within were smoothing out. "They can't get a birthday right. I had one the week right after hire, how hard is it for teachers to count to 207?"

Jerr's jaw dropped. "... Shit, you're a deity, straight-up..."

Will hunched down, laughing now. "You've done it. It's fated."

Skips looked mystified, and a li'l sweatier now. Jerr made it less a question, mouth wet and sweltering. "... That age... You gotta know what it is... SICK experience..."

... It all came together for Skips. He stood up, and on guard. Going taller this way, for Jerr was more torment. He came off the wall, full-frontal for the yeti who saw that monkey bone. Jerr breathed deep, jerked hard, looked harder. "Bro... Your poundage... S'needin' a once-over! " His tail bent wild, his core too. Craving a man older and bigger... Strong, but cool in his own kicks... Craving him and his pleasure. Jerr took steps forward; Skips stepped back.

"Whoa, not happening." Skips tried to be chill, nearly putting hands up. "I work here, you're banned here and it's 'no' besides. You're dead-wrong, trash."

His head went hot. Punch muscles were itching. He prayed for the chimp's sake that threats deprived their 'fuel'. Stepping back, he heard shoes of mandrill's, then the voice of that colleague. "Harshing your mind and workday, are they?"

He relievedly answered. "I didn't think it was real. They're disciplined alright." More sarcasm there, overlying fright. He turned, slow for being such a bulky tank, to the comfort of a cohort. "Help me hold 'em o-"

Okay, so Maurice wasn't the last employee he'd expect to see pantsless, but... Now, here, it was flooring. To the floor his mop handle fell; he dropped posture, and Maurice's bottle-cock swole in his hand. Two other men led that act. Skips, surrounded, didn't know to sweat, yell, gasp or grow downstairs. Jerr still encroached; the monkey smelled to high hell of salt and sperm. He'd have to work to be that scented; swallowing, shot on, takin' spunk on every furry crease and contour.

Will shuffled up himself, the only close match of muscle for the yeti. Firm, pooched out by flexing for Skips' view. He wanted what Jerr didn't, to command. Order, and own. "Easy big guy, we're just mingling." His hand said otherwise, or at least flagrant thoughts, petting his butch self's pole. "You might say we're dignitaries here."

Skips reduced none of his alarm, but balled fists, growing more unsure of all with Maurice nearby. He crouched for guard and sniped at the be-ponytailed... The hippie, and least likely. "... Geez, if I knew about this I'd never guess you're in on it."

He knew how to fight, but they'd stopped approaching, all three; no one here came to tussle, and truthfully in Skips' mind that included him. He had Jerr closest to his 12-o'-clock; that one looked the most important to watch. Maurice had words with him, strikingly. "It's rite of passage, Skips... Consider it hazing. We've always thought it should be a pleasure." He saw Will's eyes go to him while he airbounced his rod, veins big and dark as they coursed... He and Jerr opposed positions, and Skips watched the li'l ball of chimp fire, so he had the privelege of an ass vista. Skips' arms weren't the only double-drums of stored mass, sheer strength. Suffice it to say he envied the overalls, the blue knit pressed into them and their ripe white peach fuzz.

"Consider me if you have to," Will pontificated. "I come back to old stomping grounds, and I find they have a new pawn. A cerebral type," he caught Skips' new stare, and knew he could take another step without consequence. Six inches less now betwixt them. The ape went on plying. "From how you tucked the diaphragm, ducking there. Natural reaction's to bump it out with that big chest, you have to know and think to override." Skips gave him listening attention, mouth-breathing. "Yeah, being sacked years back put that in me. If you don't follow the Upstate championships." He chest-pounded, so the stroking hand left him. Three seconds alone, pulsating, enormous. "Three years running."

So everything of this gorilla was a brag... Skips observed that, along with Jerr and gliding motion in that monkey's hand. 'He must be a limber sicko.' Skips scrutinized. After that, the necessary follow-up. 'Wait, why'd I notice...'

"And the best part, Pixiefrog knows," Maurice jabbered. This much was true. "It's ordained." ... This sure as hell wasn't. Maurice artfully dodged the fact that, yes, their principal had intel on their visits back to old heads. He didn't have time to chase them, but fuck knows he tried, and... Consider how well it seems to work.

Maurice pumped his hips, ran it through his slimed fist. Jerr already caught scent from his nutbag, gamy, some trace of incense and... Bongwater? He heaved one breath, tremendously. His tail whipped and made itself corners. Drips hung off his tongue, spritz that sprouted from filthy mind. He clowned at the yeti, just a gambit to clear the air. "Welcomin' commitee, drink your wizz for fi'ty!" He knocked himself in the head, theatrical, but fondling his own chest, kindly gyrating a tad around the flatness. "What a joke, man. The verse and that it's not free." He fiddled with pink bare buds... Heat wafted from his undercarriage, dick and hole and modest balls so immodestly massaged. Loved on, like he loved Will's anatomy. And teachers'. And knowing how Skips must be under the OshKosh.

Skips 'stood out of' his crouch somewhat, unfettered. "This is FIVE kinds of felonies, boys, if the cops even get to ya!" He wanted to sound fuming, but 'amused' was the impression they got. Honest, also... He snickered, not the kind of man to flick a finger but mentalizing it. "I'm flattered, okay, I admit it. But you don't know me like th-"

Will didn't exactly dive in and kiss him... He sprung, sure, and was in his face by the time Skips realized his error of not watching the tallest, powerhouse primate. Will hovered in his face, two whole breaths, freezing the yeti. Looks ran up and down his long-lived wisdom lines. Physical perfection lorded its lust on him. Lips locked, or clamped, over his.

Nobody kissed in two hundred years like this ball handler. Will knew his way around pigskin and Skips' assets, just now. Leftie on the black-furred ape manipulated Skips, got him squirming... Got the kiss prolonged, and not wrenched away from. Will's tongue flayed Skips; the goddamn stud stuck and dominated yeti's maw. Their lips, parting, let air slowly between. Will bass-cooed. "You taste like autumn. Cool 'n' spiced."

Skips... Tingled up on this equally-big bastard. "Ya... Taste like sweat..."

Will nudged with the T-zone. "Rank, huh? I confess, it's ego. Practice at dawn still makes the sweat bead, gotta lick my own pits every now and then." He stood grander than Jerr but still could be a jester, his own kind. "When they're this handsome, clean 'em well, right peer?"

... The way Will used 'peer'... The way he jostled saying it, poking hairline and loins on the janitor, the second of those in the denim-clad navel... He knew why he sweat, and the guys threw off their own musked furnaces. Swelling pants, the tightest denim, had its minutes - seconds - numbered.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Pixiefrog would kick the sergeant, if room existed to in this false-bottom 'drawer'. Where the desk had once had the classic open back, legroom, it now looked solid from outside. Within the hastily-nailed particle board, they lay balled-up like shields. Wolverine's swiss army knife's pliers had transformed six disposable razors into crumpled barbed wire, encircling them. A trip line rigged up at the door would spray tacks.

The principal spoke more like Miss Warthog than ever before. "Will we get up to do espionage, or whatever you call it when you find where your enemy's set up?"

A distracted-looking Wolverine heard every word, fiddling with a 20-year old walkie talkie. "Negative. We'll continue to patch communications. I have a caravan parked outside with armour-"

"You brought a caravan to a school review?" Pixiefrog went pretty darn still.

Wolverine gave no fucks, but did amend himself. "Well, not a staffed one, and just the head vehicle, 'course it's reinforced, tungsten-gallium alloy, thermal imaging, RPG-loaded, BFG-ready..." He'd went to mumbling the latter part, broodingly to himself. Pixiefrog blinked right when his ear twitched.

A signal came on the CB receiver... Static, and just like its time of manufacture, the buzz was a pitchy throwback. Pixiefrog winced, his defense pose looking like he cuddled his knees. "Will we give ourselves a drink break, then? My Guyanan java's still over my head."

"I'M over your head, princess!" Wolverine snarled, and then what sounded like a voice came through the static. He opened his startled eyes, and the frog saw them past the jowly eyebrows. Turns out it was a flase alarm, and Wolverine hacked more hostility into the air. "We. Can't. Backpedal. Now if you won't help, fine, you just flunk today. If you undermine me, by-friggin'-bones I'll melt your face off that taffy-skeleton!!"

He saw the frog hold up calming hands. Peace, he saw. 'Peace,' he repeated unto himself, as the therapist had taught him to. First, in his mind right now... Then the principal wondered why this maniac was making a one-word mantra, while festooning an antenna extension. They might go thirsty - and nowhere - a while, but they'd GET a way to talk, and advise... Whomever lay outside, or anywhere nearby to lend aid.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Skips felt the wet on his 'innie': all of it Will's gooey strings, as clear as what would now happen, by queer machismo. Before Will set his arm high and pulled the yeti by his neck into a glue-tight bear-hug with huffs and grunted plans, moisture touched his rear, the woven blue over top of his crack. Jerr's tongue pined for mansweat, and inside that crease - buffering advances on a melon-size prostate - was the 2nd-place winner for taste. First, and foremost grounds for the chimp's need, pushed up to Will at the ape's two swingers. Even with the tubesteak hard as steel they didn't draw up, the dark globes meant to be tapped like a keg. Too heavy, or maybe just with genes so perfect they'd look legendary always... Skips noticed, eyes drawn to the prize. Impressed, so distracted, he heard Maurice as a warm, familiar background noise.

And that mandrill had his way with words, cranking, goading it on, SO pleased by one beefcake's exploring another. "Defenseless, my man... You'll be that all day, around this hercules..." Hippie's hands rolled the skin up his fren', watching Jerr lick ass and claw gentle at the overalls, wishing one swipe would shred 'em off. Maurice even said what the capped twink-bro' thought. "... You deserve to be bare... Ohhh-fuck, you're a prime swingin' frank, friend..." Some of his terms were an older man's, some of them much more like Jerr's. The time he'd had close to them, this close, enabled that.

Skips would have this honour now. Muscles bulged; Will squeezed him like a fuckable beanbag, they bulged harder. Veins ran all through the bulk, down to the elbow... Jerr, mouth wet as his dickhole, knew there had to be veins that big on the equipment. As sexy as a leap can be, that's how it came to pass that Jerr's body mass clung to the janitor's back; he reached for the suspenders, their clasps, and went unhooking them. Denim straps fell, a deep spine-pit spilled out. Deeper pecs, too, and their tips pressed up on Will's, pink ovals on black ones, pure beef on more of the same. Will's mitts were all over a man who breathed and thought heavy. No male, in two centuries, put him under this spell... He brought arms up, and now the ape's lats, abs, ass meat, were fondled like his own. Equal studs, equivalent gropes. Nothing even half-handsome escaped their grabby hands.

Maurice put chin up next to Jerr; the young monkey nosed Skips at the neck, bowed forward from behind just so chests would be near face-level. His fingers, feet and loins all pushed on them or ran up and down and worshipped these butch fucks. He heard four pecs crash and crush together, tough and hell-bent for hard sex, kicking foreplay's ass. The counselor talked at Will, and at Jerr's squirmy tongue. "That's the ticket, y' giant fuckers. Love's all you need, put the pipes to use-"

Jerr interrupted him, or rather urged him to stop by rolling lips all up the yeti's lower jaw. Stubble, just like Will, and this beast didn't balk. Will pressed more and more into Skips; around this bind they bulged further. Will's hand met thick, sumptuous white ass... His dick wouldn't falter for days. Jerr knew, and wound his body over Skips, soon upside-down and leaning into the smell zone of two studs' crotches. Blood rushed to two heads on him... Maurice pushed out a groan from his weakened lungs, and with legs no stronger, fell to Will's side. Jerr might have centered on the newcomer - poked his nose, and lips, into the party's loins - but Maurice looked to the footballer like he's hallowed ground.

Ponytail even quivered while the butchest ape throbbed. Maurice spoke cool, but rubbed Will's young buns, dazed and besotted. "Gonna show our jolly snow giant the ropes?"

"Why even ask." Will had ways to say the simplest replies in rich, level spurts. Every word strong as him. Eyes were on the counselor, who might've jizzed his pants had there been any. Will didn't ooze confidence, he poured it. "How's a guy that big gonna cross me and not expect to get a fuckin' climax for it. Earth-shaker."

"Ooohhh, y'... You always had foresight." Maurice's stoned-red stare became a doe's, trading what thoughts a counselor might, with twists from bare arousal. "Always knew you'd go far... You grew far, man that's a groovy package... How the hell deep can our buddy take it..." The man in question, mop-pusher, laboured to breathe easy. Will's dick was hard as a war missile, like his. That torpedo, king of grassy fields and hairy ass, had a 'buddy' tapping it alright. Skips put a long branch to his; the smiling, breathless yeti had ten inches, tipped in a sock of uncut skin, and had a hand cupped on its right flank, pushing to the left.

Will loved to knock and smack, but they all learned Skips' preference: letting dicks meet, close and giving off heat. Jerr already strained, trying to push his head through the space from Skips' waist to Will's. But when the yeti sighed, reached out to take Will's and coddle, nothing held his up anymore. Still rigid, it fell under its own weight, swinging. His foreskin zoomed its tip right by the monkey's tongue. Maurice, on the studs' other side, sympathized with a capped bro' chimp who slung his naked bod on Will's arm, a shawl made of hot, erect, groaning male.

Jerr had crawled close; he now dry-humped Will's pit, almost penetrating. Puny chimp dick pulsed as damp hairs curried it. The yearning words filled an empty room next door they came on so healthy-loud. "Fuuuuck Will, show 'im love, M'-dude said it! French 'im, use 'im!~" The lilt there, ending in an upward coo, Jerr could never fight it. Mind of a show-stealer, body of a sub, with needs. Four monkey inches got harder, combing Will's pit faster. "Got a monkey here, now organ-grind!"

He, and Maurice, dropped identical F-bombs. One owed the other a Pepsi but Will owed Skips even better: hot, hard welcoming. He rubbed cocks with the massive janitor; Skips put his teeth together, seething with arousal. It couldn't be suffered; out of words, defenses down, he leaned into the quarterback. Their lips, tongues, gums, did to each other what Jerr almost did to Skips' heavy monster.

Maurice watched like never before. A pair of stallions, keen on one another. Playing. Appreciating. Bumping hands as they both stroked, and both handled more than his own. By the time Jerr got a gap between them, and crawled into place, lipping two manhoods, whining, they'd explored. Maurice, hair and smock shaking while he tugged his inches, stated only the truth. "Shhhit you both know each other's cock now, fuuuck!" This always sold him, the hands-on education. No wonder he went into this career; the perks were overkill.

Heaven belonged to Jerr; heels in the air, held up by thick, pressing chests. Tasting funk, perspiration, smegma; macho cocks he starved to adopt. He knew they throbbed even deeper, and why. Their kiss ended loud; his were earsplitting compared to that, up and down the sweaty lengths. He could make sucking the side feel impossibly good... But Will, though grunting and so fine with his BFF, had ideas. And some on how to obtain the rest. He nudged Skips, finding no recoil, getting tough with the horny part-timer. "Now you get pushed back in the closet, there's cord in there I'm sure. Get it, god-beast." Authoritative, steady as the tide.

Skips' legs moved him backwards; Will walked him, with Jerr held hard in the middle. Being pushed, led on by Will, Jerr was almost bathed in cream early. It held in, however. They reached the closet; Skips didn't even look inside, he fetched it off a wall nail. Remembered where it was, and knew in his racing heart he'd remember this already, forever. Mandrill could've hopped next to them, facing Jerr. Sticking his inside the clump of hips, balls, batter-guns. Testing Jerr not to rise off the giant cocks; the test failed, and his was licked, kissed, bobbed a few deep times on. Skips held the rope to Will in coils... How the ape snatched it was even manful. Jerr's drool flooded the closet floor, all of it running down some dual perfect sausage to get there.

In Will's hands, rope became ammo. "Double square knot, my version. Easy on the wrists... Hands out, Bigfeet." In the description he'd now gave an order, and the new guy winced with horned thoughts, crowded by swingin' cocks as forward and fun as they were Y-bearing like him. Handily the palms came up, faced to the sky. Will wrapped around them, tight and controlled, same as his chiseled ass. Maurice stood behind this, forced out by space constraints but not bellyaching for it. No one's cheeks outdid the varsity star's, dimpled, besting those carved of Italian marble. Will's hands had secured the breathy janitor, so his were free to find and feel out that greenhorn's jewels. Skips jumped a bit, while nicer sounds rolled from his throat. His rolled into Jerr's gullet, no gag reflex to stop it, nothing to keep Skips' eyes from lolling once when the suction and its bliss were inflicted.

"Fuckin' peachy, brother. And I mean two peaches I'm rolling around." Will pressed lightly, motivated balls around his callouses, just the right rough plane to spill down and ride back up, each of those spunk wells. The ape sneered, not failing his hold on himself but wanting to. He turned a brow cloyingly up. "You haven't said much. The quiet type, or is it mine to blame?" Will's type, and the goddamn confidence, sure spoke to Skips. Jerr whined and winnied, voice up and down, so done-in by just knowing what he did for the dude. Skips leaned back; Will had took him by arm-around-lats, edged in, and their noses hit.

Will waited to French him again; just being a pushy bastard, no personal space given, none wanted. In fact Skips would already be his; the kiss, when it started, had so much 'ungh' from Skips that had been only warming before. He wanted Will like the twink bro, and counselor, in one. His tongue 'fought' Will's, while prime agility loved on his testes. The arm-thick meat stuffed down Jerr's throat, more from his own hungry dives. His head he threw on it, and down, while a gorilla's hot dog plumped on his neck, sizzled in its man lust. Jerr pulsed to where it hurt down there, serving a monster, feeling a second. Maurice choked his cock, jacking it like a nympho on a lonely coke binge. Never enough. Of these young players - friend to all dongs - never close to too much. "Wh-whip it, Will... Establish yourself-" He segued to an endless whine; his dick felt too good to stand, nothing unique among them. His thoughts had been advice, in a career man's spirit.

The 'rilla took him for his meaning; ape recognized ape. "You're the guidepost." He dragged hand away from Skips' nuts, slow and delicious, to take his own unit. Will's cock had his hand on its base, picking it up. Extending that snake. Its length, handsome heart of a true stud, flopped high... came down to lash Skips, the low-third of his outside Jerr's sanctuary. Dark, heavy dick hit everything the monkey didn't pull in. Oral service and a vigorous strike mixed sensations... Skips, in a fit, almost woke half the owls in town with sex yowls. All the suddden, a screamer... Never before. He stared down, then to Will. The ego, the sheer Indy-Jones look of it, he...

... He was picked up, still in a moan as the wind hit him. It was the rush, Will slamming him on the wall. Legs up, knees bending. Wrists burnt a bit, quickly, in rope's sweet effects. The act pried Jerr off his manhood, the chimp knowing this would come, so when lips were yanked free they held just where pleasure'd fill him. Too many of Will's pro-strats he'd saw, and helped. Skips sweat down all of his core, unpeeled from denim, like a swole banana, flaunting one that swung as Will held him high. The fucking ape kept him propped stable, hundreds of pounds, just nudging in. Skips knew that was a dick he felt under his crack, now flashing the floor under them. Will's tree-branch stuck in the yeti, damp, strong as it grazed crease.

Jerr had fell off on the pickup, but fell right onto Mandrill, readily. Low and licking the teacher's hairs first, the older man's bush. Loving hair like a man grows before he stooped and laid into that bottle-shape, sliding on it like he had Skips'. Different taste, same tones. Weaker musk, stronger sweat. Every male was their own, though all had this. He dipped, sucked, twisted, drooled, clenched, dove harder. Maurice went into flat-out filibuster, unable to stifle. "Ohyour... spit carries... Pre... Mine's down you... Will's leaking I know, Skips... Hard on your ass, right?... He... He's done nothin' yet..."

Will borrowed plenty from the love of a lesser man. "RRGHHYEHH!! Climbin' in, fresh fuck!!" He pivoted; Skips had the ape's dick scrape back toward his taint. Bound hands removed his choice, submitted him to kind abuse. His gooch Will had neared, and stopped before there, the entryway. That beast cock, that fulcrum with an athlete's juice inside, bust in the tight, age-old yeti. Searing ache, tightness, heaven flooded his nerves.

"NNNGHHHUH-HUHHHH!!"

The way he scrunched, muscle flexing all down him, called out the pleasure in his titan self. Ropes mocked his wrists' want to move. A drunk smile busied his lips, Will's charm and tool intoxicating. Ballsy ape, balls swinging, while Skips knocked the wall; thrust one had come to pass. The rest could only grow, like Will's ook's, his teeth-gleam, Jerr's love for the counselor's tube. Mandrill wasn't done adding the antipode of insult to injury: honeyed words of wet-dick crave, his crammed down Jared's eating hole. "Mmmnghh y'could... Man you could suck the white off rice..." He didn't have to advise; he dealt with a living, breathing gift to schlongs. Jerr bent from way down his spindly haunches, leveraging. Every move precise, every dig of his tongue across pre-leaking organ. Copious threads linked its well to a famished chimp, its throbbing faucet to the cause and cure.

Jerr just looked on him, stars in the spidermonkey's lazy sight, all mood and effort on the lavish job of his, workin' it out. He spoke gibberish; a mouthful of dick fostered this. "Shhck th' prhhtnn ahff schtckks-" is something Maurice took a while to translate... He did, though, to a separate, higher groan than his being blown attained... Jerr heard him quiver, when piecing out that the capped bastard'd said he'd suck the protein off steaks.

Protein. It's what Will would caulk Skips with, lay a bed of cream in those walls for his pipe, for better seconds. Skips felt it in the shove, howling deep, a randy sub with more give-in than the park employees ever saw; he knew well the technique of a man doing groundwork for long streaks. Will clenched, so well-served by the yeti's doing that first. Running it by the gland, tilling the bulge, SO damn good. His neck contorted, head swung crazed with need. Fingertips paled, all like suction cups on the wall. Action this fine, this deep - the trespassing ape, high-grade stud - should never stop. Never change.

So went his opinion, but one apart from Mandrill's, when a fin came down on his shoulder, draping there. He looked barely behind; what should he find but a breathy whale, naked, wet, in a spray-pattern from the loins. A foot of two-tone skin in each compass way, with a sheen. Licked clean. Mr. Blowhole helped order the chimp, when Maurice couldn't. "Downtown, little one. You shouldn't know where your nose fluff ends and his male muff begins." Cool, a little heady, always highbrow... The whale teacher got Jerr pumping his neck on it, while another fin fondled the fifth dick to be social here. Or, 'fondle' may be too vague a word... Seeing Jerr serve and bow to a man's junk, and mere feet away Will's ass hard as concrete, anchoring him to ruin the big ol' clean-freak's, Blowhole punished his dick, loving it so hard. His flat fin curled and pummeled it, groaning with Mandrill, giving Jerr scent additives for his gay-ass snout. He tasted primate junk, breathed in from a cetacean's. A tail couldn't swish more, happier, than his. Lips and tongue swam over the counselor's dick, swept the round pair under the drool-bath.

Good thing Blowhole's arm went up on the mandrill: it stopped the hippie falling back, losing balance for how sweet Jerr worked him. A light stagger didn't faze the monkey; Blowhole commented. "Holy Mary... Still the gifted bitch, to the collarbone..."

Jerr reached up, added his hand to the whale's, doubling the fists on it. Slut-monkey loved compliments, loved the source, the trigger-happy gun hooked to it. He knew Blowhole had to shoot, and Maurice was about to. Not one of those seven inches weren't scorching, enlarged, coursing testo and adrenaline. Maurice seesawed in his mouth, chest poofed, as was Will's wide table of a front zone. Fierce 'rilla teeth gnashed at air, his nose blowing steam, screwing moans out of big, thick beef. His preferred type lay high, pinned by wall and horsecock, a ragdoll with those giant muscles helpless. Will could fuck the strength and whines out of Hercules; this furry beast made a hot stand-in. Air smelled like exactly what dissolved in it, sweat, chest and pit hair, and what flowed out five tips.

Skips found it in him to talk, or simper as the 'macho' in him drained out by and through an athlete's weapon. "Y-yuhh guysss... Don'tquit... Fuck, I... Need..."

He broke down into grunts and sore gasps. Half-tied up, half free to dangle and flail In his peripheral, Maurice clenched teeth, head back, using the teen monkey, on the lip of the edge of peak. Jerr had only to slide his hungry chops once to the root, and milk the cream out and bliss right into his old teacher. Of course he could tell and did so. The pacifist mandrill sure gave it hard to Jerr, where and how mean streaks belonged. Blowhole bent down, turned the fuck on, gravitating to the mouth a quarter-foot from his dick, damp flushed meat.

"Hey, hardass!" Will gave this to Skips, sort of calling him down of all things. Skips watched the new owner of his hole, listening while it hurt like hell and he loved it more for that. Will let the scorn fly, so deep in poor Skips he rummaged through ribs with black ape cock. "You watch the show when I say, IF I wind up doin' that. Squeeze!!"

Skips heard, obeyed, and groaned rich surrender. Will's monster felt twice as huge, tight as the stick in a sucker. Jerr took care of that word's other sense; Maurice halfway-balled up with the little swaggery fuck leeching every drop, trading so much more pleasure for the cum it bought him. Skips throbbed in cock and colon; he wouldn't walk straight 'til God-knows-when-and-who'd-care. Will's shape ground him, wrecked the bara man's butthole. Blowhole touched the line, straightening posture, tall when he went to skeet by hand. He happened to lock eyes with the yeti; slamming the wall, by Will's power only, he had a risen thought. "Might have told you... They make it the best job here... To this day..."

Skips curled up himself, challenged to stand this gorilla, no mercy in his heart and even less in his tool. He watched his top, the footballer's first few inches in and out his ass, but Blowhole heeded his sentence. "I-... Wish Hornbill, that rhino was... NNGHhh-h!!" He hadn't disobeyed, but Will would treat him otherwise; too much fun to rob this big boy's passage. Fat eight clobbered his pink, slugged his guts, bringing pre' to the shindig in cupfuls.

Blowhole would follow his friend to glory, Mandrill tingling in the glow, Jerr still on his pole and not heading away. Didn't know where to look - so much to ogle - but for Skips he had an answer. "Here? Oh, you wait... I believe the Sergeant had him next for despair."

Jerr, leaning up, paired a quick rebuttal with an addict's tongue, on whale's endowment. "Shit that's right, the grump wit' a zipper bump... Needs a wake-up call..." Blowhole huffed, poised to go off at the first sweep down his shaft. He'd never talk taking this...

.... So Maurice did. Red-tint eyes were slack, holding up like his knees.. Relief by Jerr and in that gobbler's stomach. "You know he's... Born immune, if you get me." His pause was finally catching breath, struggling not to blurt how Jerr was an angel of oral, or just as good a demon. "... If he sees you, you're goners. I don't know... What you're hatchin', there. Buddies." He used that ending word at its most affectioned.

Something in four of them knew the fifth, Will, would monologue. He shifted, but more under Skips now, handling the weight like it was nothing. Control of dick and voice outdid anything. "That we have think-tanks upstairs... Some ingenuity... Time..."

Ape and monkey spent so much time on the same wavelength they gave twins a run for their money. Jerr lapped at the older male swimmer, cranking its turkey-neck, getting Will's lead. "-Wanna try the Goldberg battle?"

"Heheh, nah to that... Ngh, NGH yeah..." Skips took it like a princess on wedding night; Will fucked that big ol' equal hard, elbow-deep. His smile overdeveloped. "-But close to my choice. Trap offensive."

Jerr heard with fast agreement. Tongue slaps brought Blowhole past the edge. He bore down, bucked into the firing of a second round. Two loads out today, Mandrill watching, pawing his spent mass.

Skips looked ready to sign up as slave to Will... The ape owned a man that big, that easy. What they'd do from now, he'd help. No scattershot results.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The antenna rigging went well... Ten minutes of Wolverine working, and a fountain pen had gave its life for the cause, its spring and inner chamber taped to the CB's 'nub'. It made a difference alright: louder static. And on the topic of loud, Wolverine's rage put his boot to the tile and it goddamn splintered on impact. Pixiefrog jumped; in the desk's inner corner, he cowered, and glowered at the off-kilter auditor. "Call me crazy but this isn't how I thought the day'd advance."

"Then you're sloppy and aloof!" Wolverine yelled the warts off his back... Militance, a snit and a score to settle, all a rank stew in the Sergeant. Kneeling, he somehow kicked forward, to hop at the desk's back and check the door. It saved him a whopping half-second over standing a tad. The pride was real, as he ducked back down. "They'll tear this place down if we let 'em."

Pixiefrog stared at a sliver of tile, his leg's length. "If you haven't started."

"Don't start with ME, Nancy boy!" The mammal slung back. His names were on par with any '50s handbook of comic bullies. Pixiefrog, relatingly, stood. Brushed himself off, and picked up a chunk of tile shrapnel; he now had a walking stick.

He hiked right out towards window light. Wolverine did a double-take, something the suited toad passed right by. "If you need me I'll be visiting the rest of mine. One or two might be 'diverted', but... Give me credit." Pixiefrog was growing staunch; even stood high and smug, a full millimeter above norm. "They're committed fools. Thank me for the first part. The second, well, it's foundation for this work, right?" He slammed the student body, like only a starched-collar dweeb could.

And then a hundred-times-heavier man in Army green grabbed his wee little hand. A friendly shake didn't ensue, but a shoulder-yanking pull did. Pixiefrog had stars in his eyes, after backslapping a deskleg, as in slapping it with his spine.

Static whooped on the CB... Like a voice, pitchy and wordless. Wolverine didn't bother 'coming back', but twisted the pen-chamber. The achieved improvement, total silence. No static. Which, yes, a nice loss but at the cost of that twanging hint at someone's hearing. Wolverine's lip hung out, a cliff made of adamant assclown. "This... I think we need bigger guns." He stumbled orally; Pixiefrog had shambled up, zombified by no caffeine and a shooting leg pain.

Wolverine heard about that latter one. "ECGHHH, my God what did you think when-"

"Great, you're not paralyzed." Wolverine bolted up, this time less dodgy. His eyes stayed on the doorway. "What's Ferret's extension? I'll dial him, wherever you put his ass."

"He-... Won't help you." Pixiefrog recuped from the bone-shattering being-a-handball-for-a-moment. "Not after last month, and the car fire."

"He's a wimp, then. That Jaeger punch was weak as I can make it, and he wanted me to drive. Shoulda bit that lightweight on the buttocks, that'll put hair on his- "

"Wolverine..." The frog's boxers got in a bundle. Literally. He spoke and pulled fabric out his buttocks. "He's not going on a blind tear with a trashcan-lid helmet and a shield of glued memos!" Wolverine looked down, and the principal said more. It was warm in the office with an auditor broiling over him. "... You can't deputize my staff..." He tugged at his collar, and let a little steam.

The ex-officer preffered to have his wash all down Pixiefrog, in the form of shrieks. "I CAN DO ALL IT TAKES!!" He saw the toad's point as insoluble; and as a challenge, though, when one might be of service to him. He leaned back, facing outside, too regal to be stank-eyeing an exitway. "-And I think I've turned over a new leaf, just now. You're half-right, we won't stop 'em from a foxhole. Granddad didn't fend off the Japs from a pussy ditch, either, he broke right through those fuckin'-"

"Sir, this is a government.... Place!" He forgot 'campus', 'building', pretty much all words that applied. Blame the Sergeant's imminent bigotry.

And the Sergeant had a turnaround, apologizing. "I know, and I'm enough man to admit mistakes. I will replace that tile." Very much heart in this, regretting the wrong shit.

Pixiefrog just adjusted his coat, amazed by any take-back from the beefy oaf. "If you'll say what you plan, because they're here and they're queer and they advance, I fear." He smirked; the rhyming was cornball, so right for him.

Wolverine went toothy; he reached in his pocket, brought an E-cig to his hand and lit up cherry-flavour vapes. "You missed it then, 'cuz you heard. Better storm headlong at this. Only time they ever beat my wiles is when I'm careless."

"I, uh..." Pixiefrog decided in a jiffy to save his job and stop talking. Wolverine had darted to the corner anyway, leaving the wooden 'fort'. Deftly he manoevered - ballet danced - the splintered glass, his own doing and not sworn yet to fix. His bootstomps hushed the frog's muttering; he put his veiny hand to the threshold, curled the fingers, inspected the outer vacancy. No sight or sound in this hall, this side. He blew out fruity steam; flashed back a sneer, 'brave' like it appeared in a dictionary, in time for the frog to see while climbing slow up the desk's lip with his newly crooked spine. Pixiefrog grunted and minced his words, A.K.A. he chopped them up with tired breaks. "I can still... Call Horace... I didn't mean that ... About the... Car..."

"I know, cousin." Wolverine gleamed - his shades mostly - lost in new intent. "Forget him, I can cut this taffy-shit down with my two hands." Pixiefrog looked scared as ever; this was a goddamn cowboy fantasy, what Wolverine had before, part of why he wound up where he did. The Principal wished to bring up that past disgrace, but... Honestly, he wasn't volunteered, and maybe...

... He had a vibrant, A-list smile himself, minted in a second. "I have the phone and the CB. You have the hall, and you have the floor, Sergeant." He wiped his nose, smoothly, thinking that looked cooler. "Call back in here with updates, between my head and your feet we'll nab them."

Wolverine took this bait as naive as the frog hoped. "No need. They'll be the late-great apes by lunchtime." His hat he cocked, rakishly. His ego cleared him right out of the room, marching. A little too assured, too high: fucking goosestepping.

Pixiefrog had arms crossed and a giggle on hold 'til right about now. Standing, he waited.

Wolverine was twenty steps out of door-space... Nothing there but weak lights and cold walls, a beguiling calm. The feet sweat, the nose went wild, checking harder than his eyes. At hall's end, a sharp 90-degree left... Sergeant filled with pride, it was like old days, cadets in summer. That had fresh air, the dirt on his treads, but versus that he still paced equally. On his guard, tracking any goof or their emergence... He swallowed, but the outlooks weren't grim. Not a thing out of place, simple scuff marks and dust alone. He picked up speed. Things might be less-dreadful than the first impression.

"GHRK-"

The hat flew right off. It landed with a partner, red and fist-shaped, a boxing glove. Empty. Not used to punch or hold him back... Thrown to make his head bare.

His peepers went red as three Mandrills'. Fangs reached an angle most scream-fits dream of; kicking both the glove and hat helped zilch. Pranked, a hopping-mad manimal ran like spitting hell. The next corner was just left behind; if poise was a living thing, he'd have stabbed it, picturing it as them instead.

He did slow when his leg tripped a line. He didn't fall forward; the strung-low dental floss was so kind as to be connected to plywood, and pullies. Flying out from white bricks, flat board gave his ribs the mother of high-fives. Or middle-fives... Either/or, same as how many bones that efficient thing fractured.

He walked... Eh, staggered on. Pixiefrog had it easier to hear the crunch than Wolverine to hear him laugh. He chugged on, trying to limp like Clooney might. "Shitheads... You never took my best... I'll kill ya- slower-..." Some dry coughs now, but the pain eased by a bit each step. He approached lockers in a row to his left; on a rightful watch of them, the doors or topsides, if anything should leap at him. It sort of did; a *clack* hit the floor by his right foot, a toy plane. It broke apart, scattering... 'Wait, not wings or pieces.' thought his fragile mind. He assessed that it was cargo he'd seen fly out; the Matchbox seat had... A trojan.

A fifth of him wished to laugh, to the square wrap over roundness... His other four pie-pieces wanted something to strangle. He crushed it under shoe... The light above him was out, a hole within it stuck out to his glare. Still holding fast to Hollywood thoughts, he shook his fist, invented a zinger. "I don't bend, I break, and that's a... Verb!" He spat on the floor, shoulders jacked for the feel of it; the goddang snowman would handle that. Nothing peered down from the hole; he looked ahead for a ladder, a missing panel of ceiling, anything they'd have climbed. He ran in rage, and his chest took this golden opportunity to beat him up from inside. Five steps into a sprint, he jerked from the waist up like his old platoon's briefing vids about ergotism.

Five steps in was also where the lockers almost ended; the last three, however, had a written surprise. He couldn't miss the white script, below vent slats, over the handles. He read it in two seconds; some thick gloop said 'Wanna bite a worm? -J.' What was this, a dense scrawl, not even the same consistency from start to finish...

'... Oh my FUCK you guys!! ' he fused two curses; one could be for each, the monkeys who expressed this. His fist hit the 'J' like a rivet gun... Going psycho, his reaction just bought him jizz-covered knuckles. Shook his fist, held his ribs, shambled down the next turn... This would NOT be a zombie flick, where he played the peril. A gruff roar took him through the center aisle. "RRGHAAAHH, EAT SHIT AND CROAK, I'LL *COUGH*...' He paused the slam, and his legs. Ten yards frontward was the men's room door.

'HHHHhhh...' The sound of his murder-boner. He expected full-well a find, a close encounter for his tingly choke muscles. A 'clack' from behind arose; he swung around loose as Depp, maybe a tenth as charming. No man had ever screamed so loud to see raining dick pumps. Plastic parts bounced, and 'getting' the implied, he detoured to pick one up, wind up a pitch and fling it. The far wall felt it; a direct hit on a fire alarm. Unfortunate noise bitched at him. He snapped; threw insults he couldn't even congile. "I'LL STAB IT UP YOUR- NO YOU POUFS FUCKIN' WANT... I... RRRAHHH!!!" He ran ahead, then back, then, around and... Knew no-damn-where to look. Eyes would go everywhere. Armpits and crack were stained. He felt his own sweat and resented it.

They'd get nothing more to love. He, craving rampage, had a dialogue with their hid tails. "You. Maggots. BREATHE your last, HERE!!" He'd run up a locker, and flung it open. Desperation stood his body hair on its ends. He tore off for a locker three doors down, flung that one wide. Nothing. Not so much as a stale sock or cobwebbed textbook. If he made a movie now, it'd be a snuff film. But some doors down again, one locker was the odd one out, abrasions on its front. Paint around the vent was chipped, as he craned thick-ass neck. Objects don't shit themselves but his wicked smile might make it.

He groped the pull-handle like a baby bird's neck. Behind it, meeting his eyes, a note. He snatched it twice; the first time he ripped the edge, it was stuck on the back panel. Not glue, but, sticky... He read the monkey's daft scrawls. 'Too obvious? We'll come together about it. First find the whale's room, you gotta feel him out anyways. Chop-chop, you won't want us gettin' cold feet.'

Poor note gave its un-crushedness for the cause. Out of his hand dropped the crumpled ball... Fetted wrinkles relaxed as he stomped off; if it loosened, his gait's thunder had helped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Far behind, his next-down stood at the office phone, its same height. Pixiefrog's fingers went through the digits, five in all, one for each wormy tapper. He wore looks of attentiveness, foresight... Some elective thoughts. It was dialing. His chin smushed on the mouthpiece.

"Horace? It's me."

On this end, he went annoyed in a hurry.

"Me, the man who signs your checks... Right. You can quit polishing your balls, come down at your earliest. Bring my Cognac flask. I feel like watching disaster unfold."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The office door now had a friend; Wolverine shattered the fuck out of Blowhole's class door the damn same. Glass got a lucky hit this time, gashing his boot. Steel shined under the slice. His intact toes wiggled... They should, with what was in here for him.

Pictures. Sheets on the desks, wedged between they and chairs. Stuck in the windows, where shadows hit the floor shaped like mushrooms. Here a dong, there a dong, everywhere a-

"PESTILEHHHHNCE!!!" He barely enunciated. Cheeks held more froth than air, and then a page fell from a window frame. This one didn't have a jumbo whipper, but lettering so large it was just sad. Just... Familiar...

... Mandrill's. 'You swallowed the scene yet, buddy? I got a tip for something handy, at the old potter's. Secure the place, we'll be there.'

The sergeant's heat rose, but pins and needles had his gut sink. The weirdos had recruits.

He wished for his own, and the guns they carried. Gladly he pivoted around, leaving this room and its 'wallpaper' anatomy. He slammed the door and there was nothing left to break.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Blowhole leaned on the corner, by a huge pot. Hornbill leaned on him. The whale indulged thoughts of how many times their fair Sergeant would be redirected. Hornbill cut eyes down, indulging their nudeness.

Jerr was feet-on-the-desk, dickhead glistening above it. He agreed with Hornbill's wants, and the pre' that made his shine. "Places, 'kids', heheh, turn to yerr partner... Ohyeah guys... Time'a get down-nnhh..." While they all waited, his li'l body practiced demanding. He watched the older men fraternize... Massage shoulders, and chests, and lower... He's not cut out for this, and the day's 14th load blasted his chin 'n' clavicles. No problem of course, Wolverine would keep on guessing for more minutes, he'd refill in about one.

They admired so heavily, the heads of homeroom and acting. Hornbill coveted the whale's skin, his ball texture. Blowhole loved a rhino's height 'n' enjoyed the hairy pipe, a mane orange and bright against his flippers' black. Will spoke from his point of view, up by the headman's desk and by his monkey, hand on hip in such arresting way. "How's the show for the Honoured, too?"

His dark green leer cut right to Skips. Into it indeed, petting his throb while the talent watched him back and stroked each other. Tall, jaw slack, and hunched down comically... Few men ever jacked theirs this hard from sitting squeezed in a small chair. Folded into it like a trike-riding bear, he talked heavier than one. "... Gonna blow it... Ohhh, gonna paint those fuckers... If that... Says it..."

"You said it, burly-" Maurice topped this off with some air-thrusts, easy to do hanging from a sprinkler head, one-handed. Over Skips he'd suspended himself; the arms had strength, and this riot-of-a-pose could only be the doing of two juniors. They didn't arrange shit, it arranged itself around them; Maurice would aim true when the moment happened, roll it down Skips' back and the wings of beef either side of it. Skips knew what they didn't: when HE hit the payoff, it didn't matter that the whale and bristly rhino were twelve feet ahead with their groping. They'd get showers.

Will's tongue crossed his lipline, so open to the teachers' charms it more resembled Jerr's. He made a rare rocking stoop, like he'd gladly run oral for what they pawed and palmed. Truth is he wanted what's behind, making prostate holler in sweet purpose. He leaned over to Jerr, like usual speaking from his mouth's left side. "Wait until he crashes this jubilee... I don't care how he's taken it..."

"Fuuuck, it's sure as havin' to piss, standin', shhhit'cheh!!" Jerr was right on his wavelength, and peppered in a fact for good measure. He might lose it any second, eyes wild, tongue active. "Hate the wait, man, he'll play the organ, I'm tellin' your hard ass-"

Suddenly, thunder outside. No storms except the bootsteps in the hall, and their closing in.

Maurice tried to chuckle, but jerking and swinging, gusts like a broke harmonica left him. "Sounds like he's early... Good wishing my dude-"

The 'rilla in the room lived assertive; Will's fist lifted and his sausage-fingers put outward in the series he counted. "3... 2... 1."

BLAM, the third door that day to die for Wolverine. He was beet-red and ready for anything.

... But this.

He tracked the school counselor, swinging one-handed; the spritz that hippie's faphand put on Skips' high spine, a speckled lube from a man's tap. Yeti's shoulders went high and held hard, leaning into it, bouncing the kiddie desk with his dick strokes, juggling it in-air. It cracked down the side, maybe soon to fall apart in splinters if a man that big abused it longer. Will had slipped below Jerr's desk seat; picked it up by one leg and his bro in it. Jerr put out a startled laugh that went mellow, thanks most to his red eyes. He'd shared the mandrill's stash; the room smelled of skunk, and tweren't-no-striper on the premises. Wolverine coughed on haze, and gagged, when Jerr pulled pud with two fingers and chose to 'trick it'... He launched up, one foot on the chair held by one foot, by his strongass fuckbud. Acrobatics but with no 'tah-dahhh' hand pose you'd assume; the hand off of Jerr's dicklet rubbed his rear estate, running whole-hog into plush crack. He felt around so deep, fuckin' molested himself right on the underside bulge.

He welcomed Sarge with quivers, not falling but plunged into bliss. Eyes lolled within his nimble show. "Maaaan, welcome early! Y' don't fuck around w' time, go-oood goin', have a circus on me!" His tongue dropped out, like it fainted, so lax. Monkey-bitch dick swelled every time his grasp moved up its stubbiness. "An' what I m-mm-meant is, run a train-"

That thought had to wait. Wolverine blitzed the gorilla, straight-out rushing the quarterback. Being half Will's height, the hand that then met his face and spread on it kept him rightly stationary. Running in place, swinging fists at air. Will's knees were safe, and the Sergeant's hat tumbled.

Hornbill alone maybe looked to have some fright. He stopped to stare down their violent guest, but it wasn't mutual. The whale put a fin right up his chest hair, curried its carpet, what testosterone blessed. Jerr lilted, the rhino turned up his mouth, and a grin with heat brought him back to handling the whale man's bare skin and fat cum gun. Sweat put a whole new smoothness on the side of two cheeks, and Blowhole leaned into his gropes while deeper they went. Now it wouldn't even faze him when Wolverine screamed, going hoarse while Will just held off the livid dwarf. Hornbill rarely laughed like this, broadly... Will didn't move a muscle, still routing the auditor, ex-officer, senior prude. An ape with beef and dick for days flaunted both, buck naked with his shadow on the butch little man while he belittled. "You'd get somewhere if you ducked and came headfirst." He snickered much like Jerr for the phrasing.

Sarge, for two seconds, went still. Eyes opened wide, but shrank to slits. Neither could show outside his shades, but they loosened as he heeded Will's tip. Like a bomb blast his T-zone ran all on a gorilla gut. If the paunch hadn't curbed this, the abs - a washboard over fat-pocket, what could stop a cannonball - had their time to shine. Will jiggled, and the man who hated him went back like a rubber bullet. Jerr stood safe in his chair, now on a handstand, licking lips with more regard for what Hornbill did than Wolverine. A whale groaned, sugary with a grey hand brung to his nuts, some orange strands tickling while it pulled southbound. Hornbill always loved stretching his own balls; now it looked like Blowhole discovered this, at his gay hands. Hands that loved like Jerr's mind and their janitor's.

Skips worked boards loose from the minidesk, nails reversed by nothing but his wet glans' sucker punches. Will looked down on an aging man's snout, Sergeant's cheek scar and crow's feet, hotter than lightning; he would blow up that older male's ass, give it what Jerr's butthole knew and split wide for. Presently, though, he said what related to before. "-There, now you're two feet closer. And had it out with my trunk too, not just anyone bumps there... Ask Margaret Mead High up their shitty creek." He stood even more like his normal way, thick and jolly. His head tipped back; truly he looked down on the scream-huffing foe. "Good thing there's zip to fear with you."

Wolverine filled his lungs to dead-full. The reply would need it. "YOUMUTH'RFUCKINBLACKHEART-FRUITSTAND-SUCKMYSHIT-I'LLBURYYOU-"

Maurice let go of the metal soakerhead; his knees bent him to a perfect-10 landing, but a wince happened coming up from it. He rubbed his leg, but the toll of years was slight, negotiable. Pain went away, and he looked up; unbelievable. The door had flown open but that... Thing stayed balanced. Wolverine knew nothing of it. Their ponytailed friend watched Skips, a massive tool ruining woodwork but getting some, feeding throbs in its beast veins... But his tie-dyed shirt moved toward the exit. He wasn't leaving, just like Wolverine wasn't backing down.

"FUCKEDMEOVER, I'LLROASTYOUFAGS!!" Wolverine shunned word spacing, talking a typhoon of syllables. Forty-something Maurice was still a primate, and at the broken door, he crouched, marshalled and jumped, and caught the top edge. The thing on it shook next to his fingers.

"SCREWMYDAY!!? FUCKMYWORK!!?" Wolverine's blush didn't give a damn how tan his skin, it glowed anyway. He laid into Will with punches; the giant ape outmoved him, nothing hit anywhere but on a hard hip.

Skips joined in, edging, so hot he had to think of Wolverine unclothed... It led his mouth astray. "Nuttn's personal, stud, jus'... Head my way... Take it o-..." He contracted words, and his dick contracted, muscles firing off. "-ffFFF-... Come curl up... Mine..." Soon to shoot, to empty his reserves through a pipeline big as Jerr's arm.

Wolverine took umbrage, and took off for Skips. Maurice acted fast, reaching up for the thing. He had one second, or Sarge's fingers would buckle a yeti's neck. It was in Mandrill's hands, the thing. He dropped down, feet stable, a second time he'd stuck right. Out of that touchdown, straight to flinging the thing forward, the bucket. He held on as it sailed away, and what lay inside carried on, to Wolverine. Doused him. A light, yellow, speeding bath.

At first it was merely the mouth that opened, disbelieving. That he'd been soaked at all, sure, but then the smell hit. His hair, his temples, 'stache line, all sides it trickled down. His jaw caught plenty, and all along, the taste.

Six men in the light of this smoky room, half of them undressed, five with wood out. The last man - hat grounded, sun shades hung by one ear - put his eyebrows high, and higher still. He knew this was... He was stiff head-to-toe, muscle shaped in its lines that fatigues now hugged, wet as a sea. He KNEW this was...

... What Jerr, whom Will lowered down, explained. Couldn't half-exclaim properly for all the self-love, under spell of his dick and all the others. "Taste the salt-beer!... Big guy looks goooood in it, yehhh!!... Go on, guess y'... Wet ripped fucker, wh-who stood over, aimed right in..."

The chimp loved that they'd aimed alright, all of them to the pail, five perps. Maurice loved how the clothes wrapped - or giftwrapped - Wolverine, no beef had gone from the army dude and none was left to imagination. Will and whale both loved the meek turn, the look on that face, witless. Vulnerable.

Hornbill loved the dirtiest gems. The stench, seeing Wolverine swallow some... Minutes prior, havin' his own dick out with two teachers and a young pair, filling the pail.

Jerr, and shame, never came close to a link. With broad steps, swagger and a slut's drool, he trespassed on a statued Sergeant. Jackboots stood in a growing puddle; Spidermonkey did his speciality, mixed yearn with hustle. "I'm open. Punch me." He could stand right at the man's face now, fearing nothing. Wolverine shivered, not cold; Jerr knew the way of a man compromised. His chest and every svelte inch of twink body clowned a bit, and pressed on Wolverine. Clothes soaked with manpiss tamped him, squeegee'd some down the chimp's frontal-everything. "Ssssock me cold man... Or ya... Too hot to manhandle..." His eyes drifted, happy orbs raptured by thoughts, mind undressing the bigot. Wolverine saw the chance to knock sense into a sucker, but saw the monkey all up on him. Swoop-'n'-dive with his body, his neck, nosing Wolverine. Friendly as fuck. Like bad blood had expired, and what all the men around them were now saying rang true.

"Been soaked before, huh man?" Maurice spouted, his dick in a moving, wet hand, even ahead of Jerr on that one. Deep in his mind he built a joke about 'super-soakers' when his eyes caught Will, half-up with his hugeness bending on its own th-thumping weight.

"As I assumed..." Blowhole lent arousal to each syllable. Suspecting, now knowing, his cock jumped in Hornbill's hands, loved on by the hairy, towering sub. Brushing it on so many tilts of the hip, pressing by a rhino and his king-size tube steak with ginger wool.

Hornbill had assumptions too, no matter his 'role' and how the Sergeant's pack-outline had his hole quiver. "We always know more than scum would, sir... Our job, and in our heads when you walk by... Never saw my stare..."

Blowhole had a point where Wolverine and Skips shared looking at him; he made this his bitch and made out with Hornbill. Tongues of two men rolled and wrestled each other, screwing into swirl, mixing spit where many cocks had been and worked those sluts. The hands of both were on just dicks now, only tugging, sliding, feeling out every inch there. Nothing but man, and man's bliss. Jerr had all the fuel he needed, yanking his small one, not a damn care about how little his hand could move on it. Pimp and pompous as a teen who's pure uke should never be, and yet... Who else pulled it off.

Skips battered the desk, and a board fell away; his dick now peeked through, above each side, a head where the fingers came and glided up, then down. He may not've had tenure there, but what he said spoke for three teachers, sure and profound. "I wonder... Did the ape bastards... Break you guys, or... Who taught who..."

Jerr, his best bud, and Hornbill had a half-chuckle in with tough breaths; they knew the answer, and that none would tell. Up to Skips - and Wolverine - to guess. Fantasize. Yeti did plenty of that, sweat all down his pores, power in his massive dong, so close to shooting it was pain to be that hard. He'd stuff Wolverine, that low-to-the-ground stud, fill him to the brim with meat, creme up his legs and hairy taint. Wolverine himself... Respiring now, surging his air intake's passion... His lips parted, teeth were shown out, locked together. Jerr didn't worry, but if this became what sense said it might, shit was about to blow up. All might be lost, including teeth and some pints of blood. Wolverine's arms could beat the pulp out that showboating fruit, just so thick 'n' sturdy.

Wolverine lunged alright... Onto Jerr, driving them to fall, the chimp going back and down. A fist didn't meet him, but lips did; Wolverine's coffee breath, his pockmarked kisser, lay into the primate. What felt like a ton of wet, piss-musked daddy just rode Jerr's nudeness, smushed him on the tile with a hard-rockin' assault. Dryhumping, beatin' Jerr on the taint with a wet bulge. Simply that big, and no camo dressing held off just what he brought here that was waking up, hot enough to steam his fly and the humped fatigues making it.

Will almost lost it. Unfathomably, but he kept it in, hearing Blowhole purr, Hornbill whine wishing to be Jerr right then. Maurice had drops in the fur, backsplash from emptying the wizzbucket; he had himself near Will, and a pull within him took his face right to Will's chest. Too long since and the perfect time for a pec dive. Licking, motorboating the beef on a county star. Takin' his moustache fur to town up a chest cove so deep it's like a second, sweaty ass on the gorilla. Will held him in, even helped with a scalpback-shove into the valley or two. Or three, while he watched the 'slave' come out that counselor and put the right shit into voice, into Wolverine's warm ears.

"Listen there. He moans like a bitch, moves like a dude, best of both worlds. Wanna teach him to be a fuckwad, wanna dig out that impulse?" Mandrill held his ballbag, as much in one palm as could fit. One spilled over and the football player played Sergeant like a fiddle, fueling the grind, the roving tongue that was bossed right into Jerr's gob. "Got milk? He's gonna!" Who's to say if Wolverine paid attention, smothering Jerr's mouth muscle with his own, tasting spit, cum, wizz, pre, more. They cracked his hot-button, nuked it to pieces. He looked less and less like trouble... His drenched ass dimpled, shoving into Jerr's area, greedy to close space with this pimp-type peen-fiend hooligan.

Maurice skimmed and stamped Will's chest muscles, the latter when Will would pull him back just to frontspike him on or near that chest rift. Hornbill flavoured everyone's tugs with high moans, or the throbs where they wanted to. Wolverine's dick had stolen him, and just hearing Hornbill shiver with bliss from his, feeling Jerr covet his body right back with sweaty hug and wood thumping on him... Hearing Will's slow grunts of 'yeah'... His dick put out a clear base for his pants to scrub Jerr's. Spidermonkey climbed this fucker down, a few inches that made all the difference: he looked up to the horny hulk-mammal and he could have the bastard's hella-right dong mark his with clear coat. It pushed through the fly, pressure won that battle. On that note, Jerr's tail kinked, his hole spasmed on impulse. His dick was telling him through touch, how fucking right that army man's.

Bun-length basting rod might tear through his camo pissrags any moment. Will had his lips in prime 'O' like always when rubbin his head, his fren-scar, down the floorward side of bigness. Skips made precious-little noise pushing back his chair; lifting himself, half-dazed in what his dong commanded him. Pumping strong, stiff ecstacy, more and more when he crept in on Will. The whale and rhino looked too perfect together, no need to butt into that... No telling what the Sergeant, barely-broke, would do if reached around. Will invited him anyway. A flick of the head back, a click of some pearl-white teeth, he might as well have summoned the beast from a magic lamp.

Something was gettin' rubbed. Will started to wait for Skips, who headed for a slow meeting of their mouths, their tips. Then the gorilla proved for the billionth time how he did things, taking the yeti's shoulder cuff for a pull, a sped steal. Skips' legend of a cock hit another's glans and the lift was automatic, curving up, grinding meat against meat. Maurice had retreated, seeing major beef on the way, and under Will's side and arm the mouth that often counseled had a beat on this athlete's pit. Sweat that broiled in a footballer's alpha-fuzz, black strands like mattress coils... Maurice sampled, cleaned them all like it was sauce off cooked ribs. Salt, water, testo, all that Will's pores gave, the mandrill's pointed cock jumped and made him lunge for.

Jerr couldn't take it. Volcanoes of shaky bitch-moans and bro-lingo, and his hands went frantic for the Sergeant's button. Then his fly, wrestling it down, SO not able to stay off it with his leaking peen. Wolverine's bone felt Jerr's wiener before it felt the air, a cool rush in pockets where the four inches of hotdog didn't heat him.

Skips hooted, whooped from his diaphragm, flogging Will's dick with his and getting likewise back. He never knew about swordplay, not one thought about it; Will fixed this. Hard to say who clapped their dick on the other's hardest; both men went for the gold there. Will's long, dark meat swung on Skips; a bell was 'rung' by another bell. Sneers from the ape were cool but in yeti's face, thrusting a nose and sharp green eyes like his dick thrusted and parried Skips'. Will's ego was full-well an athlete's... Ruling the roost, looking down on even a man who's taller. Skips had goosebumps, tingles on his hole and throat. He'd chose the one who might take and own him. Will's eyes promised the moon, Skips' moon, that his fat, lucky toadstool would part that myth-level crack and its pink.

Blowhole saw the swordfight; his two-tone tool leaked like a siev, constant now. "You let him whip yours... It's over... You'll be ridden-ohhhhhh-h-" A wealth of groans got going; he'd gave Hornbill ideas, and in a flash Will wasn't the only one giving a guy's dick lashings with his. Whale's eyeline flinched; a dick like the rhino's made his sore, taking all that weight in motion, spanked down by a thick fren.

Maurice bellowed love, muffled by underarm. "Ghhnna lose loads, yhhhh! Ghh-get it shot, big ol' bhddy!" He stood half-sideways, munching pit, neck stretched to guide his lips on the ridge of muscle from the top's high-held arm.

Hornbill gulped air into a gut thick like his sea-bred partner. "The little monkey fuck... Frotting with his enemy, gracious..." Nothing hid his jealousy, or his fluid coming up top, in danger of blow. A springhead of clear rolled out specks of white... He came goddamn close to losing it. He had Blowhole's cock like a metronome; hit it with his and it flew down, but bein' rigid had it pop right back up, for more copycat-abuse. Blowhole reached up, twisting his chest buds, tweaking his then Hornbill's. Their willowed wails hit harmony.

Jerr had his own perils, just the ones Hornbill envied. He'd been knocked back; Wolverine went upside his temple with a slap, only one, when he'd opened the fly. Sergeant meant to unzip himself. He wallowed in manscent, Jerr's mild musk from his arm tufts, small patches like his mop under hat, rust-brown fire. Moreso he wrestled in the haze of pee sublimating, steamed off his core, the scarry landscape of hair, flesh, even a bullet mark near his hip, close to the mushroom dragging on Jerr's. He roared like sex was fury... Fuckin' bit Jerr's scalp, kneed him in the thigh, winning howls from the chimp that loved this rough shit. He'd blanketed twink cock with a huge, turned-out cream squirter, on its rigored way to that purpose. Every punch or knee was another time the man's will exposed; what having balls low and heavy made him do. Pure good for naked, hungry Jerr.

Maurice moaned as Will folded his arm, put the squeeze on a mandrill and rushed stink in deep to a wanting nose. Jerr moaned with laughter, socked in his left pec by a crazed officer whose brawn he spared none of. In a wet shirt were long scars on his chest, 'bedspring' hair coils coarse as Will's pit jungle strafing out from both nipples and the sweat-well of an innie. Lines at his mouth, the edge of both eyes, his inner elbows. Maturity met young hype... Wolverine owned Jerr's frank, sliding his enormity, his daddy pecker on Jerr's dong, being a scour pad. In his mind he reduced the monkey; this grinding and random blows on the chummy uke, all for himself. Years of buildup, of taking crap; how best to transpose it. Just fuckin' masturbating with Jerr, like the little shit's a toy and a punching bag. Chimp-ass chuckled, sore in his ribs where the Sergeant fisthammered next. He lay under a man lost in his needs: fighting, screwing, fogging the room with male scents. Marinated in what they pissed out longingly together, but not for long. Wolverine shot upright, legs twisted into Jerr's, holding him. The jerk daddy ripped off his top, every button breaking. Jerr's eyes twinkled with his mouth going siren, whines for the sight.

Scars, hair trails, blemishes, tan spots, skin itself tawny with healthy glow. The front looked truly like a man's of that caliber, work and sun and the decades whittling it. Bad as Rambo, seasoned as Rocky. Zero body fat and maybe less places where the chest rug of a barbarian missed covering. Jerr's tailhole squirmed in heaven; Sergeant edged up and 'tipped' it, only once putting lips of a slithole on age-eighteen boipussy, a fast peck. He sat strong and silent while Jerr's hands went rampant, reaching, fondling. They raked gorgeous shag, felt up the abs closer than a plaster mould. Spokelike fingers traced the curves and divets of mass, some of its hair grey, broadening the zone of yes.

And Jerr talked; not much ever cordoned off his thoughts, and this butch scrub on his knees got him blabbing from a cumstained heart. "Shit, I give, maan! Uncle! Just... Big winner like you, c'mon, the tiip..." He looked to it, and had to extend words. "I just fucked with you those years man, we're going to U' remember? Just be thinkin' of you while I crank, f-fuuck that's the size of my neck dude, got a drip on already... It's a day thing, it's the frog's call if we crash his site-mmmnnmm!!"

Well the Sergeant was brash, if old-fashioned... More deep Frenching in the monkey's gobbler, his kind of reproach. But Jerr got plenty, feeling that love muscle cruise its ship up his tugboat. He wanted it deep. Felt dry and parched inside without the warm punch of an injector, power and love between dudes, his kind of paradise. Sucking down a cream feast or sitting on a fountain.

Blowhole and Hornbill rubbed and gratified mutual cocks, Hornbill's hand lowest on both together, the drama head's above it. Hairs had detached the rhino's chesthedge and stuck to supple, swimmer's skin. Will had it best, in his oh-so-humble opinion: Skips had at one point rolled his foreskin, gargantuan, on the ape's bellend. Will's ballhandling hand crept right down and secured it, even tugged it back and forth over his rocket cone. So much clear was traded back and forth you could say they did wet-kiss, even if a mandrill made a third wheel. Turf smells lingered in the morass of that manpit. Will vicegripped him some at a time, letting him air then reminding who's boss.

Things might have gone unchecked this very way, and in at least Jerr's mind, predictably. Pretty right, all around. If the shards didn't move, the glass next to where the entry was before-destroyed. But was it a goddamn miracle that he didn't cut his feet, the ferret responsible? To Skips, paying half-studious attention, go figure that he saw. The guy was tall, skinny... A marsupial maybe? Or... A mustelid. Yep, pinewood-colour fur, this was Horace ferret, assistant gym coach. Assisting Pixiefrog now, since the toad was on his shoulder like a conscience, heroically held amast a tall bottle of ripple of some sort... No, a brandy. Skips concluded being hundreds of years old was bad for the eyes.

Jerr looked and had to rub his eyes, albeit one-handed. The principal hadn't a lick of clothes on him. A smooth enough, if squat, build showed out, a pear-shape gut over a dong that can only be described as natural for his height. He got more than the dumbfound's from Will; the brazen ape gave a one-man standing ovation.

Hell, the frog even spake first, while Hornbill and Blowhole spanked. The others knew to stop and hear. "Thhank you, thank you, c-can I get an amen? I mean... To that, that you... I mean yyy-you, clap for yourself..." He menaced like a drunk jerk playing a dumb jerk playing a movie mugger, so, scamply. Horace was likewise down to skivvies. Maybe not nude, but... White briefs on a slender body, it gave Jerr's slenderness a run for its money. Will took notice. Hell, his wingman took notice.

Skips was blushing, his poor dick on an edge that just locked down, half-smooching and swallowing Will's dick even still. Heartbeats moved it slight. It called the shots, and if unrelieved it might soon do that literal same.

Will never failed to have input. "What'd I tell you. Five years ago, you were filled in, now it's come down to it." He put on emphasis, and in his monster hand took Skips' cockhood smoothly off his helmet. It saved the yeti from going off. Pixiefrog reached under his fupa, felt around, found himself and had a tug or two, lazy, full of half his body weight in vintage '87 cognac. Gorilla smelled the 'head' of this on him, his far; he gave thumbs-up, recognizing class. Odd time to show it.

Pixiefrog pulled on Horace to lower him. The ferret first leaned left, then diagonal, then sort of back-and-up-but-twised. It was clear the bottle went through more than one man. Finally the cute helper lowered Pixiefrog, but a bit fast since he tumbled and bowled forward down the furry wrist. He came to stop, unfurled himself, then unsplayed, sat up and regretted it, all while Jerr busted a gut guffawing. Will calmed him by nabbing his wrist and making it hit Wolverine's, just enough to sting a tad. Like he felt forgotten.

He was clean-out of their space by the time the Sergeant looked down, saw the man he just romanced... And remembered every moment, lusting. He held back nothing now. Jerr was slapped once, snickering and grinning while he taunted Wolverine for real by wiggling himself. A worm of a pecker fluttered, the army daddy saw this under his shades... And he reached, and started to close a hand around, his and Jerr's, the same space only his dick had seen for him.

Will ook-ed, like victory on the field had happened. Horace went red, embarrased, hoping and throwing alms to spirits that he wouldn't show in those BVD's. Pixiefrog, drunker than the shy male, grabbed himself to ease the dizziness. For him, a good excuse. "Lishhen, have a live it up. It's on me. I'm out this year anyway, pulling up s-shtakes. Can't find a second Lenoir. Whah's-li'l fun then, like in, y'know... Prishhon!!"

The way he yelled out the closer to that, a tickled Jerr yukked it up all the way to his moan storm... Wolverine showed Jerr how he identified with that though, smacking all the fire out of self through his loins, his beer-flute pecker like Skips' but if possible, thicker. The teachers, the young twosome didn't share their outlook, but shared looks, wantonly on each other's leg split, whether on the equipment or behind, up a warm chute. Will went hard for the second, customarily. And when Horace turned, facing outside the room, his peach was on deep-dish display. Will's dick almost felt that rump on its end, the seeking so strong.

Ferret had followed a drunk frog, who bolted out, among the shrapnel, dancing around 'til he could bring in the thing he hadn't. "Yeah, forgot here, this thing. You can't leave implements on the floor..." He tottered, bringing in a long plastic handle. A mop handle, with the head detached. He tried to throw it, it went nowhere, just lay on the floor. The frog tried his sloshy brain's best to 'act' out so it would be ignored. "I mean y'can't leave mops and brushes and the bleach out, y' can't just have it streewwwwwnabout where like the..." He stopped, well back into the room, peering up at Will. And Skips. And the silent, brightassed mandrill. Frog sweat got him clammy. "You guys are... Big..."

Now Will had a turn to laugh at ruckus-level. "We do what we like, due to. Or call it a perk." He looked out and down, not that far from his feet. "Mop handle, eh? Horace, gimme a hand." He had the ferret blink; the next moment was an eye-opener, and mouth-, when he sleuthed out the intent. He wanted to step back, toward the hall again... A tiny step was all he attained.

"Horace, buddy... Can't lean down, I just lifted some-odd hours ago. Help me grip it?" He knew all of what to say, for the briefs on Horace to pitch a tent. He went red in the cheeks; silent, even when he saw the men around, and ached to whip it out, maybe even tug some with them, or... Will's 'favours', he remembered all too crisp and brazen... Fun, though... Hard to sit after...

Maurice was over the moon. He saw two tawdry gents, both of which he scanned with loin-fueled precision, Still clouded in his nostrils with Will's arm musk. He enabled, teased the ferret. "C'mon ya heap o' cute, there's no strangers here. Get in on some workdays teacher-style."

Will brought up the rear of this, wishing Horace's were on him. "Don't be malcontent. We have..." He tried following up with sordid notes, his go-to thesis for most men.

... A more-soused-now Pixiefrog stuttered right over him. "... WHADDA WE NOT got. You have space for a race? I mean, except human-" Jerr made the tut-tut noise of regret for that. The frog talked on, sloshed. "Got some fine aged beverage in the fire cabinet of m-*hic*my abode with windows here, aaand... Maurice, you gotta have some medicinal... Arbour day..."

Will cackled. Maybe from having what the frog indeed suspected, to the tune of one-third a loose flavoured blunt. More about just the headmaster, and in essence, where they stood. Not a dull moment lived around he or the chimp, or many of these men. Horace hadn't moved. Willl had sneaked a hand around Skips, stroked him a bit, got him groaning toward the ferret... Self-projected, even he was in on this. The weasel-type male hid his bulging cotton front away from them, to hall space. He tingled not there, but the opposite. His ass had paid respects before, to ape impulse. It had its warm, waking crush. He did pin his ears, sink his backbone just a tad, as he stepped into the room. In reverse, not so ready to show off the goods but caught in commitment to Will.

"Bear with me, chump. Haven't seen your wind-sock body in a few blue moons, it's worth pause... All over you, paws... Mine and the yeti's, how 'bout that? " He waxed sweeter and sweeter.

Horace waxed breathier and lower to the ground, his neck drawing as the crow flies to a port-of-call by Will's legs. He stroked himself and Skips, guiding them on the safe side of slipping. Maurice looked at Jerr; fuck, how did he bend so far to suck Wolverine's dick above him, barely miss his own, both while the Sergeant just... Forced him on? The grey-in-spritzes man had a monkey on his back-5 AND front 5, the full ten inches of reach. He didn't have to ram the chimp's lips over him by way of shoving with a greasy-looking palm; he did it for the thrill. "SUUUCK maggot!!" He aired out frustrations; at last he had revenge, and the tragic day's robbing of sense and inhibitions was upon him.

Horace gave the hell up and in. He swung around a basket in BVD's he quickly pulled off, Pixiefrog cranked under his fat pad again, Maurice stole some quick time into Will's pit by wedging his nose. Arms went on stroking the ape cock and Skips' slammer alike. Skips wanted like the blazes to cum, but the ape controlled that. Horace fell to his knees and brushed the technicolour halves of Mandrill's rear - a middle-aged generous pasture - on his way to seeking the two men's manhoods. Dicknotized.

Will lifted his dick and batted Horace, bopped his black nose. It tremored, sniffed, grew wide.

Hornbill had Blowhole bent back. In his left arm like the end of a tango, but from instead the throes of an oncoming, unstoppable force. Hornbill thrusted his dick over the whale's where the two of them had seams, and veins. He wouldn't last long. The switch-rhino, upswept, spun him like a dance alright. A 180, putting his spine and soft fin toward the ginger pachyderm. Blowhole's tailhole lay in drilling range-

-Same with Will's catch, but with him more focused on the ferret, talented in feeling out a glare. Horace looked at his cock, crashing and rolling down his face while it flicked Skips' tip on passes, like he hated that it was outside of him. Like he cursed the hours it wasn't buried in his hole, plunged deep as a tree's tap root. He felt it was time. He gave Skips fast, shallow jerks near the white beast's glans; it kept the cock's 'nearness' on a plateua, where Will could reach for Horace, pull his adorable face in close, pick up his adorable cheeks... The bottom ones...

Hornbill sank into a slick sphincter, when a ferret's polecat-moan sounded off that he was being dropped slow and straight on Will's tool. "Look at him... Ohh... Fuckin' that... Mmmnncoach, gonna... Still look at the mop handle, oh shit-" He knew what would happen before anyone else.

Will sank down on his knees, still having Horace ease down, eyes wincing and jaw frozen in yelps and purrs, and picked up the mop handle. It was handed to Skips, whose yearn-weak arm took it. Will had orders for him. "Smear your pre on the end. You'll wanna break in that cave. Slow and up your god-beast chute..." He salivated. On his feet again, Horace squirmed, having took the last inch. Will's dick hair padded tawny wisps on his milky cheek skin. In all the way now, and the taker peered through slits in his eyelids for Will's green gaze to reach him.

Jerr yipped over Wolverine's cock. He breathed like an expert, though shishkabobbed on meat, serving it like a slut of high stock. His wails diffused on monster dick; He bobbed, lipped, wrapped his tongue inside around the berth of a true titan. His dick was grazed by his own chin, body bent that far. He straightened out some when they fell sideways, the sergeant engineering this to grab Horace's ass, on Will's pipe, and take a firm bite.

The ferret yipped, buttocks red. Will took it in stride, seeing nothing but sub still out of Horace. He and Wolverine, for their first time, traded real debate. "Chew toy, eh?H-ungh-unh-... He's ri-ding stock!!" Will had his opinion, gutteral every other syllable, those where his meat missile blew paths through that perky ass. One side glowed a pink, Wolverine saw through sweaty squint and cackled.

Jerr put tremors up the Sergeant's magnificence, humming while he worked it, throttled his throat like an albino stepchild. Wolverine charged back at Will in vocal terms. "He won't be a good ride... If you don't BREAK him in!..." Jerr had found a way to reach up, around the scentmarked man, undetected; he reached the rear flanks, but didn't go for some tight collagen like Will might. He just traced one cheek... Just wanted that bastard's hairy ass in his clutches. Wolverine's way of letting him was to punish, by shoving in harder.

Will cheered him, rhythmic, since dribbling a ferret like a basketball. On spheres alright, low but drawing in high as they ever might. Horace twisted, leaned, cried in pleasure like torment, screwed up the ass by real fortitude. Butch gorilla cock, and its owner who made bickering with an army man a bass-drove delight. "His eyes call me papa, how's-that-Sarge?" He didn't snap for the Sergeant but for Horace, making "that" the word where shroom drilled in so hard it knocked his bladder. He wished he could shower Will's chest, but the sensation was fake. It relented, Will's slut-owning dick did the bare opposite. He caught now the yeti's hand placement, placing the mop's slick tip on his lower backend crease. Only fuckin' the limber ferret would cause Will to miss his rubbin' pre off his cock to lend the wooden handle...

... But Hornbill had seen, and stealing into the whale's hole went from steady 'tests' to an all-out barrage. Eight inches of man wrecked Blowhole's ass, his face contorting, trying to be all that clinched down. The rhino just didn't know his own size's strength.

Will managed his, and the Sergeant did admirably, slinging more meat than a butcher and looking twice as scary. Jerr even loved this - a machismo lived in it, like all the kinds represented here. His dick welled with pre, throbs were high and hot; if he came handsfree it was from knowing. The whole scene's sights and smells and sound porn, hoarding his senses.

Blowhole rolled moans with the feel of a classic aria. Skips had his own dick's leaked help on the blunt end of a mop going up on his hole, pushing. He had the look of drowsy bliss, until the handle breached that O-ring, moving in; a brief widening of eyes, but no gasp, and soon a smiling gaze like he'd never done. Peace in the surrogate dick going slow, gentle, by his own thick hand into the receiving door.

Will encouraged; the tiny frog had started jerking harder, and this hyped up at the ape's words. "Split 'em. Work it, fuck it! Big guy, get'chur gland ranch all ready..." Use of more slang always meant he was closer than he'd admit... Not that he'd lose it, expert as a mug for these kinds of be-donged playthings.

Pixiefrog watched the janitor he hired weeks ago put wood up his beefy ass, and close eyes to take in waves of being sub', the raw pleasure of lost control or being assailed. Three men around him knew this; Horace showed cute li'l gumlines, hooping and whining, tail going wild as Wolverine's bush parted by Jerr's lip-bashing. Or more like the Sergeant's bashing his head onto and over the prize, and he aided and abetted. The military jackass could've smoked from his shoetops; no female, or male, had ever gave it like this chimp. He'd blow the ceiling off if Jerr's suck muscles kept this heavenly a pace and technique.

"Oooooooohh..." Skips' emphatically tried his hand at this, and approved it, mouth wet while his ass went tenderized, wider, accustomed. Hornbill looked hard at this, almost drooling... But it was the toad who won ears, off by the feet of a large ape, in and out of Horace's moving shade.

He spoke in simmering wish and booze breath. "Will, when he gets off... Or you both get-hahah..." He couldn't end the joke, but finished hot. "... W-wanna ride that... Just once I swear, I... I swear, just wanna know how it feels... Bullriding..."

Pixiefrog - the same man who presided, help raise their ragtag asses to strong, adult, still bad-acting men - wanted around the athlete's cumshooter. To wrap his full, pudgy weight over Will's pipe, hide its dark flesh in his cleavage and paunch and limbs.

Will felt golden; smirked like someone told a joke, but gave old four-eyes a good nod. The principal sighed, wanting now for the drunk ferret he brought along to blow ropes and get it done with. He... By far more intoxicated than Horace, he had nerves near his equipment tingling, like a musky wand taller than him was already on him like a pulsing, lickable chair.

Jerr pulled off the Sergeant, and stringed spit showed up; Wolverine wanted him higher, turned around. He turned the monkey clockwise; Jerr knew what's up, and when he was shoved back on the mass throat-first, where should his taint be but on the man's eating hole. Wolverine licked first... Nibbled second. Sharp teeth made the lightest pricks, and Jerr's prick was lightest in weight, jumping for joy. Horace had moans going higher alright... His ribs showed a bit when back arched, and the pleasure grew, grew, where he knew it was going. His dick felt it... Took on a peak's bliss, a bomb was going off and his cum was... Rushing, he was...

... Shooting the first round, his poor tail and legs in wobbled throes. He yawed with squeals, taken to falsetto by the pounding, heartbeat and cum muscles, falling on Will's cock, pulled up by monster arms, shoved down by the same strength onto the same XL'ness. Will fake-out gnashed at the timid ferret, just to get him half-startled, make him clench on that pipe. His line-of-fire flooded Will's shoulder; a crack shot, facing away. This and the next two bathed the man responsible, never stopping what he did to the mangash on that poor older hob. That was the clinical term, by the by; Will silently knew, and thanked, the men around him. School was more than fun, than... This, but you wouldn't know it now. He threw up a head tilt, to himself, and drilled on in the wailing, shooting male.

Blowhole was jealous; he always wanted to be first, an inherent need. Hornbill watched him lean even lower, stooped within all-fours, having flagpole run up his canal. Pre expressed every time he drew away, lips in 'O', whining like a sub though being anything but. He slowed it down just two breaths' length, then rocked it back deep and fast; it had been to see if the whale coped. He'd gladly give him first 'dibs' in the sea man's peculiar way, the giving soul. Will kept a snicker to himself, and Horace tried to topple him, throwing back on his pecs to ride this out. Too steady to fall, too big to fail, Will put more into Horace than a year of dildos.

And Skips' served him well. Blowhole tore away the envy, back to pure lust and compulsion when Skips rubbed the flap of his fren, slowing his stroke-hand so his fucking-hand jammed the handle in, seeming more than fine. More and more into the ache, pushing farther, moving it, rolling the angles. Wolverine also laid eyes on his slow 'spin' back there. He growled, and Jerr knew when air from it blew on his hole; The Sergeant had him helpless, tonguing his slut hole. The county's career-bottom took the meanest, hardest lickin', so literally. Drool came out his scorching-hot pink like it had salivated, hungry for it.

Jerr's swimming mind - alive with need for this ex-officer, infested by it - saw motion in grey, black and white. He'd half-processed Hornbill pulling out, wanting to yank-'n'-go like a bastard but rethinking it on Blowhole's last moan. Leaning down, he helped the older whale up. He wore his age well as Wolverine, better maybe; only the rhino, and Jerr, knew the monkey might be getting sixty years' worth of experience in one hand. Hornbill was who knew it now, and brought the jerking, irritated whale to the primate party. Blowhole's frustratedness didn't go for long; sure as hell didn't outlast getting this close to Wolverine unzipped. He uttered moan fragments, high as when the rhino had filled him.

That hairy fuck had a one-arm hug on him, reaching out. Hand on his cock, but nonactive, still. It only held... A quarter-second later, Jerr's grabby paws did the rest. For him and blowhole, slow. Wet. Hornbill's ears drooped, eyes went rolling back. Reminded of what even that chimp's palm could do for a man.

Horace shivered, shooting tiny ropes now and cold by the coverage on his matted core. It had to be his twentieth, it felt like, but, not like anybody counted. Will sensed the last of his climax, milked it for all its worth but was direct to take that 'otter' weasel by the hips and hoist him up... And in his case, quick and mean. Horace squealed more, agnoized for a moment but firing one last spasm of shooting. Dry and strong, too strong not to be heaven. Will's brawn put him down on the floor, where he simply sat, reeling. Didn't care that the ape's cream didn't inject him, he knew he'd see it, plus what plan will had at his forefront.

He stood over it... Gorilla legs far apart, hands clapped together and holding in a focused rub. It looked up at him, a near-obese amphibian, his only garment some smudged glasses. Tugging, taking care of himself, seeing better options. Will had come for him; reached down, scooped him up, and didn't lay him where you might expect. Not firsthand.

He placed that principal, a gourd of hormone-spiced booze, on his shining pecs. The gleam was sweat from fucking Horace, and now held the toad's pale skin, nude in the paler roomlight. He first gasped; a bit of excited fear, not much, first-time-with-this jitters. Never been laid on a beefcake's chestmuscle before, and certainly not so precarious... Will's face had been visible, but now it sank lower and lower... He was falling, tumbling backward... He had too much drink to scream, but it ended nicely. Will's hand-brake was there to catch him. By his neck, right where its scar traced a smooth, ruffly pillow for him. His back held its curve well on a long, engorged pulser, built-in heat from this potent chair. All the way down, where he felt the strangest thing... His rear, the dimpled flaps on a seat made of cock's base, felt empty. 'They should open', he thought, and kept nothing more than this to himself. The rest spilled by stream-of-consciousness, slurring where he may. "It'sslike a tree that heats you... 'Nnn contracts... Damn boy-"

Will put down a hand on his balls, rubbing and pressing them in spurts when he wanted to shake the frog around a bit, give him a quake. Pixiefrog cursed his name, while sitting and ever-so-softly grinding on that elite eight rod. He had cantankerous returns for the reptile, alright. "You love it like your home roomman does, or like the floodways in that whale's... Ass, juked to take it... Empty my cream-" He hiccuped; Pixiefrog, the old heavy of all men, had broke him to a three-second stupor; by forgetting most of it halfway through Will's self-marketing that bone. To the gorilla's credit he had spoke a difference into Pixiefrog; now the frog laid one lip over that mantree, had his eyes grow two sizes, and a slow, budding taste got closer and wetter; more tongue, then a moan, and the old scorned loner finally knew the feel. The musked treat to make a sucker of. To get absorbed, lost, truly where he should be if anywhere.

Will gave back to him by jerking it, rocking the frog's wraparound naked hug of a sausage so tremendous to him it was like Second Life. He'd say none of that while he slid along it, mouth most, right above the head. Big enough jawline, despite himself, to circle it. Tease and take the head, learning more with every swipe how it felt, how he desired it, how to nurse and draw in the hefty mouthful...

... Jerr had a whore's heart and moans, so close while he had Wolverine shove it down his throat, trying to gag him, never getting that. Not getting the impossible to happen. Blowhole stepped over his rough, wheeling leans in his trying to, and just eased the monkey's reach, so one arm wouldn't be so far. Hornbill's chivalry rubbed off, or it was cultured breeding's fault; either way the monkey had two hard, hot bananas, strumming them like thick music instruments. The sliding moisture was a tune to his ears' taste, his dick's, getting closer. Putting moans in the stratosphere, higher and higher, loving three men's cocks, fuckin' pleasing them full-on and complete. Hornbill rose up on his toes, sweat glistening. Blowhole forced his eyes open, not closed but in such need to cum, looking down. Watching Wolverine screw. Get head on that thing, they'd all wanted to see...

No man stood far away from peak. Horace whimpered, still glowing hard from his, in that stubby dick a rich pain.

Will saw teachers fucking his bro... Had their boss on his cock, slathering mouthlube on that monster... He talked on, jacked off by the frog's bucking legs. Unbelieving this little guy could do it. Pixiefrog rode that bull, the pulsing, bloodroad-sap tree he hugged, felt a strong heart's rhythm in the tool that made Will's lip curl. Bliss while he talked. "Can't keep off us. Mansex needs a spirit guide, ask your furry rhino stud. Ask Maurice, who-"...

They looked around, no sign of the senior primate among them. At some point he'd dropped from the ambience of the room, sight and sound.

He spoke, and his teeth clenched before. "-Disappeared..." He carried the gnash through this, suspended his breath. It was coming. The old freak had his brew wanting exit, to make its way down a hung highway and to that frog's inner liquor chamber. The frog forced down on it, gagging like Jerr didn't; this just turned the athlete on. Jerr's audio howled like his racial cousins, speeding to finish. Hornbill wished while he groaned and thrusted, missed the mandrill while he closed in on payoff, the sweetest loss, relief for how his dick craved to shoot. Like Jerr's craved to be around other ones, every minute, forever.

Will's chest blew up in size, a wave of air intaken. He would have his eyes go shut, tighter, while his thoughts and Pixiefrog's chubbo limbs and grace put him over first.

And then the jizz rained down. Not Will's immediately though... There was a volley before his rocket spewed a fat first load out its suckled tip.

Maurice had found a place, and he'd stayed there. Two ceiling tiles were moved above, overhead of Will; the brace between had Mandrill's legs wrapped around. Will laughed through his own shot, though so much more was bliss, a roar in a dick-swelling heaven sent to every firm corner of him. "He's-STILL GOOT-IIIITTT!!" No quietude could persist with this pleasure.

He told right; the mandrill had gall and muscle for a man that aged, as Jerr might say 'ripened'. Hot, slick cream hosed on Will from the crazed, high horndog mandrill; the smell was fine as the year of its 'vintage', who scrambled over nothing but his own feet and the push of airborne orgasm, making it rain and Will got much better than money down that sweaty, toned, cumming bod. He'd popped the first ropes; Pixiefrog's eyes had swole near the same as his mouth, taking in cheekfuls. Even for a flexible fuck, the school's master had to gulp like mad between mawfloods, no quicker could he swallow than Will's rammer shot another deluge of pure man for his diet.

His tiny legs bowed, zigzagged, knocked; Jerr's just swooped, feeling it. Feeling it all, the two cocks he had a gentle grab on, tugging, the one he'd never had hope for now getting swole, behemoth bull dick spurting an early rope before the sergeant's power shot. He rattled walls when he came, studs shook for that stud's hoarse yowl. Louder than anything the school'd seen, than any monkey. His teeth bit air, imagining that monkey's sweet ass instead. Leaving his mark, in reality sowing quarts of seed in the chimp's high acres. Ending thirst for that batch of earned dessert. Sweeter than any cake to Jerr, not even swallowing, relaxed and letting it down and in. Pro as fuck, having Hornbill almost throb him off.

The rhino always did inflate on-fire, and now did more of that painting Jerr's face. Hornbill's goatee steamed, his ears went bent as Jerr's tail. Sperm hit as much of the fresh, fiending face as it did on Wolverine's haunch and ab meat. Too much of his literal meat buried a monkey, kept pumping juice in him. He couldn't stop pushing, bending, working it in. Fucking a manbitch. Hate-fucking. Loving it like hell. Blowhole sang his sweet interlude to his movie-star climax; the whale leaned back, giving it up and giving that aria his all.

Low tenor, strong. Thick white shot from a mixed-shade rod, showing less black on every volley. Hearty catapults, like the army man filling the loudmouth among them. They 'fucked it out', Hornbill had it go while he moaned and took the rush. Rubbed like a good switch sub. Mandrill's cum spritzed him, bits of it from this far; Will's pecs were far luckier. A river of it down the cleavage, fanning to a delta from the ab curves and a jerking with the 'OOK's and bashing of Pixiefrog's uvula. The toad whined, as measly as his normal tones, needier and meeker. Just a sex toy for a tall ape like Will. Filled like a Trojan's reservoir tip, but having to eat it. Loving more and more the task, the texture. Far-and-away much more than any of his he'd sampled.

Will had the frog blown up to thrice his normal, daily bloat. He couldn't take any more. Will knew, before the poor principal could go screaming off his dick in a cum-fueled rocket, to splat the wall... This was not a cartoon. He put a quarterback's hand size on Pixiefrog's ass, cupping the cheeks and dimples, pulling him steady off before calamity could strike. Skips had been over there the whole time, next to and with him... Close enough to reach out and touch... Down there, to help... Skips still tested his own hole, shoving the handle he'd sacrificed for this deep and wild as a madman. Turned onto base desires, lips apart and turned out as if to wail and warble higher than Blowhole.

Will's dick was free. Pixiefrog was dropped to the ground, burping a moment later, too long. The footballer ape cranked his, still roaring and spurting... But cruelty and his stealth had their day now. He crept under the buff-as-fuck yeti, grabbed the pole and helped it out of Skips, swiftly. Smooth control is what kept the janitor for pain, and this he instantly knew... Seeing Will's arm wrap him, then the other one, slammed onto his front at the chest's low angle, and... In his fresh-cleared hole, the feel of something hotter, moist and live in his receiver. Will shoved right in his gateway, treated pressure and his opening like they weren't even there. Skips yiped like a swatted Great Dane - too deep to be otherwise - and Will's loads came into him as fast as thick, long cock had.

Maurice huffed, wiped his brow, sighed... The first to make the moment was the first to spend it. Tired, beaming eyes watched his friends, the teachers, the young guns, others, empty their balls, milk that splendour and head for the same glow he got into. Maybe not as red-eyed and blazed on top of it as he, but...

... He just watched the show, its tail end. Jerr swerved from the neck down, made or happy to move, so full of cream, percolating while joyous hands worked Hornbill's huge one and the whale's remarkable hues. Hornbill opened eyes when the spurts of jizz eased halfway and he at last could; he chose to look at Blowhole. The whale gazed back, and smiled more, knowing. Both men profited from Wolverine though, down between them, rolling more sweat into Jerr's mouth now than cum. Trails had made it all the way from his jowls and facial stubble down the salty scarred bulk. Pubes filtered it the last little way to Jerr's lips. He could cum just from that, and he fucking did. Not the hardest shots, or biggest dong, but caught up in it the second it started.

With spidermonkey screech-moans, on and stopped by an angry bastard's double-digit inches, his loads left the short pistol. He leaned, made wrinkles in his thin stomach from how far he'd tilt, staying on his three hard treats cocks but less now since they wound down and his tiny veins just swelled and ramped up. Red flush lit up his face, he squinted then scrunched. It had his head bob, lolling, which did the sergeant no disfavours. Half an encore BJ while the chimp laid into his own peak, so much bliss in that wee, concentrated package. He loved the cum in his gut, the rhino's seed on his one cheek or the drama dude's on the other. Loved his own loads comin' out, naturally, but also just to know his nuts game them up and out. Spellbound, male-bound, and Will made noise like hell found four feet away, putting a heavy third of his ball-brew in Skips, taking his ass V-card, wrecking its shit like Holyfield... In prison.

Skips couldn't take this man inside him... Unfair, the ape was so big down there, hurt so... Good... His first had to be so rough, Will really fucked like an alpha... He was close already, the mop was nice... This gorilla, mean and shanking his man-pucker with peen... He was close, he was last, he screamed the primate's name as eight inches dug in his back end and that rigid dick made his go off. Jizz sprayed up his asshole made his spray the floor, the wall, the fire panel... Twenty feet away, red and sopping now in liquid peak.

"OHHGGHHHHHH!!!" His roar shook teeth inside the other men's heads. Streaks off cum were so abrupt, stretched for yards, flooding every desk, chairtop, scuff-marked floor tile in the line of fire. Jerr's eyes saw, and became dinner plates, so enlarged and ogling. He hadn't seen a peak this comely, even with his 'grade' of experience; thousands of man-on-man vids, just as many rendevous, still didn't hold a candle to this. Skips fired those hips frontward, milking it for everything, grinding his teeth it hurt so good back there. Will used him like a bitch, he sounded off like the biggest slut, quite literally. Jerr's tongue slipped off the Wolverine; his words scrambled a bit since that ol' vindictive fuck slammed cock on his T-zone and a soft snout.

"YehhhHHhhSHOOT DAWG, y-ghkh-GOT that peak, H-gh-HELL YEAH!! SPEAR HIM WILL, -kfhh-school's OUT for that swimmin' brood, FUUUCK!!" He plunged himself back on Wolverine; nothing could've stopped that.

Will had what it took to keep it going... Seed stores in the ape exhausted, but he banged it home, showed Skips how a man's ass should feel taking his new friend. And they would be, not a doubt remained. The yeti had two jobs, this one would rank high now. Higher than monkey or mandrill, head in the clouds, Jerr's throat working head. Every man breathed with whispers of good, the greatest thoughts. Unanimous tired joy.

Wolverine had fresh outlook. Pixiefrog rolled a bit, pretty ball-shaped after what he'd been stuffed with. Will's hips shoved a white-furred crack, and Skips yearned just to fall back and let himself be took. He wouldn't crush Will like that, even if the big bastard could hold him up. He hadn't words for this, the warm burn in his hole, a beaten crack, a pucker banged into twitching lust. The frog - shortest, drunkest, densest of the troupe, gave his take on it all. "I think-*hiccup*-we won't clean thissh soon."

Rather meaningless, true, but Wolverine had better things to orate. Anger and crave swarmed his tone. "Too right, midget... Damn you fruits for gettin' me... I can't believe-"

He had more to give the monkey, but the monkey threw some slutty glances. To the Sergeant's eyes, his chest, cock, swingers... He looked starving, the cutest way that could be. Tongue danced out his mouth. "Gonna mark on the curve at this school now, huh? Give the warty one a better time?"

Pixiefrog's lips just sort of came to part; the little dude was working his boss. Constructively.

Jerr went on, hands still cranking, one on one teacher and the other... You already know. "Gonna miss me too? Gone from your watch, makin' waves in higher education?" A pair of lazy eyes looked up to Maurice, hand about to slip from the ceiling. "And about 'high', you got more herb for the grey matter, guyness?" Asking if the mandrill had more stash to puff on... The counselor's last finger quit its hold, and he dropped. Knees were a bit older, so he rolled rather than 'crouch it off'. Coming up, he had the smooth rise of a man half his age, like the capped slut he nodded to. A spliff would be rolled and passed, shared with all this time; who needs audits or papers, tests or that bullshit on a day like this. Charles Darwin Middle saw its best sunup-to-sundown; the big ball o' gas sank down the treetops with their musked pipes just adding to the mess.

Skips had plenty to keep secret from park employees. He imagined Benson's smiling face, never hearing a thing.

Tax dollars are occasionally well-spent.

-Th'end.-