Heroes and Villains
by Golden West
Everyone in the neighborhood knew who Evan Mallory was.
You couldn’t miss him—hair that was mink brown and always looked like it had been styled by the wind itself, ice blue eyes that made teachers soften in the middle of a lecture, and a lean, toned frame that made him the unofficial star of every sport he touched. He was the kind of kid who didn’t try to be popular; he simply existed, and popularity arranged itself around him.
And that was exactly why Mason and Trevor hated him.
Not openly. Not in a way anyone would notice. But in the quiet corners of their minds, resentment simmered. They were the boys who blended into the background—hoodies, scuffed sneakers, the kind of faces people forgot the moment they looked away. Evan was everything they weren’t, and everything they secretly wished they could be.
So when they spotted him walking home alone one night, backpack slung casually over one shoulder, the jealousy that had been fermenting for years finally boiled over.
They hadn’t planned to go as far as they did.
They told themselves it was just a mugging. A quick scare, a stolen wallet, maybe a bruised ego for the golden boy. But jealousy is a dangerous accelerant. One shove became two. One punch became several. And before they fully understood what they were doing, Evan lay motionless on the pavement, his perfect hair matted, his breath shallow.
Trevor’s voice cracked first.
“Mason… he’s not waking up.”
The cold rush of panic hit them both at once. The reality of what they’d done—what they might have done—sliced through the haze of adrenaline.
They couldn’t leave him there. They couldn’t let him die. And they definitely couldn’t let anyone know the truth.
So they carried him—awkwardly, desperately—through back alleys and side streets until they reached Mason’s house. The garage was cluttered, dusty, and smelled faintly of motor oil, but it was hidden. Safe. Secret.
They laid Evan on an old couch and worked with the frantic tenderness of boys who suddenly realized they were in way over their heads. Ice packs. Water. A first‑aid kit Mason’s mom kept in a drawer. They whispered apologies he couldn’t hear.
Mason almost tenderly stroked Evan’s mink brown hair. The unconscious boy breathed in and out deeply. Meanwhile, Trevor, the younger thug, was busy pulling off the knocked-out young preppy's sneakers. The odor hit him and the young ruffian instantly felt his penis stiffen. He wondered how he could be turned on by the smell of some boy’s feet at a time like this?
But he didn’t wonder long.
The sweaty fragrance of Evan’s socked feet made his head spin with lust. Soon Trevor was ravenously sniffing those humid socks.
Mason, without giving his actions much thought, proceeded to raise the unconscious preppy's lower body up to allow Trevor to pull off Evan's trousers. The younger thug dragged them off and tossed them away. As he felt the strength beneath his fingers, Trevor almost felt proud that he was able to join his friend in having his way with this inert handsome youth. Lovingly, he caressed each sweat-dampened sock-clad foot, rubbing the unconscious eighteen-year-old’s arches with his thumbs, and squeezing each toe.
Meanwhile Mason continued to undress Evan's top half. Delicate as a flower wrapped in silk, Mason tugged open one button of the lad’s shirt at the throat, then another, then another, until they were all undone. Only then did he lift aside the cotton fabric. The reward for his patience and care made him gasp, dizzy, for the body was as beautiful as the face, pale, straight, slim, yet strong and toned. The pink nipples on the broad chest were like rosebuds, pointed and sweet. The unconscious boy's tummy rose and fell with slow, calm, sleeping breath and the navel was an adorable innie.
Below the navel there was only a shadow of mink brown fuzz, and sight of the it caused the thug to gasp again, a tight, indrawn little whimper. After removing Evan’s briefs, Mason lowered his head, blowing warm air across this navel. The slender penis lay indolent, innocent. The tender stiffness of his own penis at that moment, made the thug disappointed that Evan's prick lay limp. If it was lovely now, how much more beautiful would it be erect? He stripped the young preppy down so that Evan was naked except for his sweaty white socks. Then, throwing the unconscious boy's limp legs over his shoulder, Mason leaned close to the preppy's cock and parted his lips.
The prick tasted clean on his tongue, a little salty just at the delicate slit. Salty but, in the heat of his desire, sweeter than sugar. He closed his mouth around the crown, leaving the bulk of it with tongue and spittle. The soft shaft fit his pursed lips without strain, a morsel meant to be devoured, but he restrained the urge to bite down with his teeth and instead sucked the whole length in until it filled his mouth, and his nose brushed the soft flesh below Evan's belly. Now he felt the mink-colored stubble that could hardly be seen, prickling deliciously at the tip of his nose. His left hand reached between the preppy's thighs to caress, to tickle the slumbering balls in their tight envelope of skin.
The mass of flesh in his mouth awakened even though its owner remained unconscious. Resilient and aggressive, the globular head pushed at the root of Mason's tongue, probing for his throat, and the shaft was filling out, becoming hot and solid, so that it no longer fit. As it lengthened, the thug's head was pushed back, until only the crown lay easy on his tongue and his jaw was distended to contain the girth of the shaft. Within that girth veins pulsed and throbbed -- he felt the strength of moving blood against the sensitive flesh of his lips.
He let it loose and sat back, gazing, entranced: the handsome young preppy's beautiful, hard cock, rearing up unsupported even though the young preppy was still passed out cold. He sucked the unconscious Evan's cock down to its roots dozens of times. He placed his hands under the motionless eighteen-year-old's butt and pushed upward . . . manually forcing the passed out young preppy to gyrate to his every suck.
Suddenly, Evan erupted into Mason's mouth and let loose wad of cum, the likes of which the thug had not experienced from a conscious boy, let alone one who was still knocked out. Pulse after pulse of warm jizz burst forth onto his eager palate. Meanwhile Trevor took hold of each of Evan's ankles and held them while he stripped the socks from the young preppy's feet. The boy's big feet were pink and sweaty with slightly wrinkled soles and well-shaped toes that curled under towards the balls of his feet. From their damp surface rose more of that odor which was unrefined and sharp with sweat and the essence of flesh used to being confined within shoes. The fragrance was so tempting that the younger thug couldn't resist it. So, while Mason. . .with the handsome preppy's flaccid legs still thrown limply over his shoulders . . . sucked at the unconscious Evan's cock, Trevor went to work sucking on the senseless young preppy’s toes. He licked them top and bottom and in the crevices between them and sucked each one until they were all clean and shiny with spittle.
The flavor was delicious and when Trevor finished with Evan's toes, he licked the young preppy's soles and heels and the surface of his feet. The unconscious boy moaned and wriggled as Mason sucked his inexplicably erect penis while Trevor's tongue tickled the soles of his reflexively contracting feet. The younger thug even bit Evan's toes to hear the handsome eighteen-year-old moan through his layers of unconsciousness.
But at some point during their fun, Trevor bit the preppy’s big right toe so hard that Evan stirred and began to regain consciousness!
“:Owww …” He moaned drowsily as his eyes fluttered open—those ridiculous, glacier‑blue eyes—and he blinked up at the two boys hovering over him like guilty gargoyles.
“Where… where am I?”
Mason swallowed hard. “We found you. Some guys jumped you. We scared them off and brought you here.”
The lie came out smoother than expected. He counted on the fact that the young preppy couldn’t have been able to identify them when they mounted their attack on him in the dark. Evan, dazed and grateful, believed every word. Luckily, they had semi-re-dressed the mink haired youth by this time—he’d regained consciousness in his briefs.
He thanked them. Profusely. Sincerely. He called them heroes.
Heroes.
The word hit them like a punch to the gut.
But he kept saying it. And he kept smiling at them—warmly, trustingly. And somehow, impossibly, the three of them became friends. Real friends. Evan invited them places. Sat with them at lunch. Asked them about their lives. Treated them like they mattered.
And Mason and Trevor tried—really tried—to be the people he thought they were.
But late at night, when the house was quiet and the garage was dark, the truth always crept back in. They remembered the sound of their fists. The look of Evan crumpling. The moment they thought they’d killed him.
Evan never knew.
And the two boys who had once hated him now carried a secret heavier than any punishment the world could have given them.
A secret that bound them to him forever.