Braden's Vine by longhairboy

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Braden was a painfully ordinary 18-year-old. His size-34 acid-wash jeans clung to a waist that was neither thin nor husky; his oversized tees—always advertising the latest grunge band or the university to which he’d just matriculated—covered a torso that was neither muscled nor lost to flab; his face was smooth but had only a bit of youth’s bloom. There was a little sheen there, sheen that would be gone in five years’ time, but the truth was that Braden was only handsome in the passable way most 18-year-olds are.

The year, however, was 1990, and at the peak of the rattail era Braden had one thing that drew stares of envy and admiration everywhere he went. The tail was a striking thing to behold.

From the nape of his neck it spouted, a spectacular copper-brown weed that wound its way past his shoulder blades, down the center of his back, beyond the ridge of his lightly defined torso, and just over the lip of his belt to rest exactly at the seat of his pants. It was only a thin circle of hair, but an unruly and wild one, and it alone among all the rattails at his school had been allowed to grow three feet long.

Now that’s a rattail, he thought, remembering the pale imitators that some of his classmates had worn with pride to their shoulders or the middle of their backs.

Amateurs, he’d scorned them in his head. Maybe theirs are weeds. Mine’s the Vine.

He didn’t like the whole weed metaphor, anyway; weeds had a tendency to get pruned.

Not vines, though. Vines just get longer, and longer, and LONGER, and bear fruit.

No one else called it “the Vine,” of course, but they had their own way of acknowledging its supremacy. Whenever someone didn’t know his name he was inevitably referred to as “the dude with the rattail,” and even though half the guys at his high school had rattails no one ever questioned who was being spoken about. On the rare occasion it happened the only clarification needed was, “No, the dude with the rattail.”

There had been one other vine, in 7th grade, but that boy had gotten way too cocky. When a girl had challenged his waist-length rattail, he’d pulled it out and taunted that she should cut it if she thought she could.

SNIP.

The former rattail boy spouted more water works than Niagara Falls that day, holding his severed vine, and Braden never forgot it. He carried a comb around with him in his pocket everywhere he went, but when he snuck off during class to comb his tail he made sure he was locked in a bathroom stall. And whenever that thing got braided, which was often, he tucked it into his shirt. Around when it started to poke out through the bottom was when the boners became painful, and also around when he started using the tail to relieve them. The feel of his own Vine against his own rod made him explode; and then twenty minutes later the blood was pumping again and he was counting the minutes to when he could get into the shower.

He was surprised he managed to survive graduation day without blowing a load that would have soaked through his gown. He’d fantasized about it for years, since the summer before 7th grade when he’d started growing the tail. The year was 1984, and people noticed when he returned to school—clad in parachute pants and oversized headphones—with the three inch baby tail kissing his collar.

“Hey, look, Braden has a little tail of his own,” some boy said. That had been the other Vine, who tossed his waist-length accomplishment behind him as he sneered the insult. He’d gotten the chop the next week.

But Braden had burned at that, and his first instinct was to think, Wait ‘till we graduate high school. I’ll have the longest rattail of anyone.

He hadn’t meant to, but the metric of what his progress would be by high school graduation had become what he measured—figuratively and literally—his hair by. Few rattail boys held on as long as he did, as their tails were delicate threads in a sharp world. There were car doors, dress codes, punishments. One by one they fell or stayed put. Only Braden’s kept going.

The night before graduation his member was swollen to the point of bursting, but he wouldn’t bring the Vine around to calm the rod. No. He’d dreamt of this day for the last six years, and nothing was going to stop him from enjoying it to its fullest, even if that meant that his cock would be at its fullest. Before going to bed he carefully braided the long, long tail. He almost came right then, but his pride trumped his need to release his juice, and after about ten minutes the waist-length rattail was locked into a thin braid that he kept in all night.

He didn’t usually do that; he was prone to nightmares of boys from school sneaking through the window and giving the Vine a quick snip, but he wanted the results that only a night of his hair in a braid could bring. The next morning he got them. He unwound the braid, strand by fragile strand, and the three pieces of brown slithered to his belt loops in caressing waves. Then it was off to the bathroom, where he carefully—very carefully—applied a cream to make the tail shine. Getting just the right balance, so that his rattail gleamed without looking damp, was almost as hard as Braden was. But he got it. He got it. And as he stepped before the full-length glass in his bedroom, he couldn’t believe his accomplishment. Six years had really paid off, and this moment was going to be all he’d wanted it to be.

He could barely walk across the stage as he reveled in the light breeze that set his well-oiled Vine to fluttering like a streamer of lust through the air. When he’d received his diploma (the blue thread around which seemed insignificant given the thread he had twirling behind him) and gone across to the other side, his friend John greeted him with a raised hand that closed around his Vine.

“Man, I can’t believe you kept this thing all through middle school and high school,” John joked. “It’s so long now.”

Anything but a gown would have exposed the massive boner that shot through Braden like a spear at those words and that touch. He could feel the soft flesh of his shaft and tip rub against the smooth fabric of the grown as he thrust his waist towards John and smirked.

“It didn’t get that way by mistake,” he bragged. He moved to twirl it and realized only then that his friend had been holding the Vine for a fraction of a second too long. John released the rattail and brought down his hand, which passed across Braden’s gown and glanced his pulsating head by the narrowest of margins. John’s face showed no reaction. Had he felt it?

“Well, it’s definitely what you’re known for, dude,” John said. “You gonna cut it before college?”

Braden’s heart raced before he told himself it was just an innocent question. He fingered the Vine again and drew it out and down his chest.

“No way, man,” he guffawed. “Just gonna let it get longer.”

John laughed.

“You’ve always been the rattail guy.”

Braden would later reflect that on the moment of his release, five agonizing hours later, he was very lucky to have been in a place where everyone was drunk. He’d barely made it through the door to the bathroom at the girl’s house party when his raging boner exploded, spewing thick cum across the wall of the shower. His pants, thankfully, had been down and had no incriminating stain. His Vine, though, was caught. It had to have fallen over his shoulder as he ripped his zipper open, because it extended halfway across the room to the tile, where it was plastered in semen to the ceramic surface. He saw that and immediately blew his load again, an involuntary spasm of ecstasy that led to a full thirty minutes of combing and cleaning his Vine in the sink.

No one noticed the boner splatter until the next day, and he escaped blame. Good thing, too.

But that was months ago. Now it was the middle of 1990, the middle of his freshman year of college, and he’d spent the whole semester staining the Phi Kappa Psi fraternity house in various places and ways, all while being careful not to leave any incriminating three-foot-long strands. That was tough, since his tail and his yardstick were getting so well acquainted these days, but he knew to be vigilant. The older brothers were furious and promised to haze the responsible party until he didn’t know his own name. So Braden was careful. But he didn’t take into account the house not being empty so close to Thanksgiving Break.

An early-winter snow was beginning to fall when his pants hit the floor and the heat of his boner radiated through the dimly lit bathroom. He stared into the mirror and laughed as his tail fell down his naked torso.

“They think they’re gonna discipline me,” he bragged to his own reflection. “But no one disciplines the VINE.”

His dick when from pink to bright red and pulsed as he thought of his defiance. His Vine drifted without prompting to crown his crown, and that seemed as good a sign as any. He’d almost achieved release when the door opened.

“The f***!?”

Clark recoiled just as Braden squealed and fell to the floor.

“What the hell…?”

Clark looked from Braden’s inflated member to the Vine coiled around it and started to laugh.

“Holy s**t,” he chortled. “Holy s**t, it’s you.”

“N—no,” Braden stammered. “It—”

Clark tossed his fashionable brown shag and grinned a dangerous grin.

“Don’t even try to deny it,” he interrupted. “I’ve actually wondered the whole semester. Your pants always have that little lift. I thought it was just a crease or something, but it’s your dick. And this rattail. You’re always rubbing that thing—well, both of them.”

Braden’s face was turning a deep pink but his mast remained fully erect.

“I—I—I—”

“Dude, you’re a freshman,” Clark’s voice dripped contempt. “What made you think you could go around jizzing on our house?”

“Man, I—”

“And now it makes sense why you’re always playing with that tail. So much sense. You’ve been using that thing to get off.”

“Man, I—”

Clark raised his hand.

“I should wait for the brothers to get back from break, but they’d want the house saved before they’d want you hazed. This is over.”

“Yeah, I won’t—I swear I won’t do it again.”

Clark laughed.

“I know you won’t. You’ve been using that overgrown weed to whack all semester, and probably way longer than that, but we’re taking care of it right now. That tail is coming OFF.”

Braden’s blood was ice. He couldn’t mean—he couldn’t…

“No, man.”

“Relax, Braden. You’ll walk out of here a new man. Clean cut.”

Clean cut!? He’d cultivated his surging Vine since 7th grade, all while avoiding the scissor snips that would make him look like some random dork from the Young Republicans. He couldn’t be clean cut. He had the Vine!

“No, dude, please, please not that!”

“Man,” Clark said, standing pointedly in the door. “How long have you been growing that thing?”

“Six and a half years,” Braden rattled off without hesitation.

Clark reached casually into the medicine cabinet and pulled out a miniature pair of scissors.

“Well, relax,” Clark smiled. “This’ll take like two seconds.”

Two seconds to de-Vine him!? No way. All the years, all the braiding, all the combing and washing; all the boners! The Vine!

“And unwrap that thing from your cock,” Clark spat his disgust. “I don’t want it connected to your dick when I chop that tail off. It’d be like touching your dick or something.”

The sound of the blades opening and closing was what broke Braden’s trance of terror and sent him barreling in hysterical panic past Clark and through the doorway.

“NO F***ING WAY!” he shouted as he exploded across the threshold. Braden, however, in all his lust and pride, had cultivated his Vine a little too well, producing a three-foot target that Clark’s hand found and yanked without much trouble.

Braden howled as Clark reeled him back through the door; the older boy pulled the tail closer in, inch by inch, until he held Braden’s famous Vine at the base of the rattail boy’s neck.

“Nooooo!” Braden struggled.

The Vine trembled in Clark’s grasp, and he found himself growing hard against his will. Enough was enough. Time to give this kid a quick haircut.

“You want your tail around your dick?” Clark struggled to catch his breath as he fought to hold Braden. “Fine.”

Clark seized Braden’s agonizingly hard cock and Braden was so shocked he stopped resisting. He stared at Clark in wide-eyed shock as Clark’s other hand dragged the rattail down Braden’s body and wound the long twine around the base of Braden’s mushroom, which glowed bright purple. Clark’s pants were loose from the altercation, and he didn’t try to hide the erection that popped through his own boxers.

He turned Braden around and entered him like a beast plunging into a hot marsh.

Braden gasped at his own reflection. Two minutes ago he’d been the cocky rattail boy with his Vine streaming down to do the bidding of his huge meat stick. Now he was open mouthed and red, bent over his sink to be the toy of the muscled frat boy while his Vine, the source of his boastful swagger, was tied like a brown string to his quivering boner.

“Rattails are going out anyway,” Clark whispered as he penetrated Braden with powerful thrusts. He seized the vine and yanked it taut. “You can lead the charge.”

It was so fast Braden didn’t have time to scream.

The scissors came up open in Clark’s left hand and there was a clean snapping sound at the nape of Braden’s neck. Clark let the Vine’s root dangle in his fingers for a moment, and then he dropped it and watched it float to the floor, hanging now from Braden’s hugely erect dick.

“MY RATTAIL!!!”

Braden had said those two words a lot in the previous six and a half years, but never like he said them now.

“MY RATTAIL!!!”

It took only one snip.

The mirror exploded with white as Braden rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and felt a quarter inch of soft hair—his massive Vine had been turned into a dandelion nub. He desperately turned and surveyed his profile, looking for the long stream of hair that had woken his dick every morning for six years. No hair. Just a clean nape.

“MY RATTAIL! YOU CUT OFF MY THREE-FOOT-LONG RATTAIL!”

He sobbed.

“I started growing that thing when I was twelve! My RATTAIL!”

“And when did you start spraying juice on other people’s stuff?” Clark returned with a stony look. He grabbed the cut Vine and pulled it over to wipe the cum from his dick. Braden felt the yank from where the Vine was still tied around his own penis and came from shock.

“I like you,” Clark smirked as he rubbed the back of Braden’s now spotless neck. “I’ll visit. And keep that tail of yours around for cum cleanup. I mean, not often you find a three-foot rattail, right? And now it’s useful for something.”

Plain-looking Braden started sobbing again. No, it was not often you found a three-foot rattail.

here

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