DYLAN'S JUNIOR YEAR AT COLLEGE
Chapter 23
by Donny Mumford
After the unfortunate ball-gag bull-shit Ryan and I put on our backpacks and head off to class. It's hard to tell how much the meds influenced Ryan's mean-spirited behavior this morning. I'll give him a little slack since it was me who brought up the topic of sex toys, but even so he knew how unpleasant it would be having that over-sized ball-gag in my mouth and he did it anyway. I mean, for chrissakes, he told me he could only get it in Jeff's mouth if he had the kid in handcuffs. The sick fuck. Ryan, not Jeff. Hell, and it was a shock discovering Ryan's on medication in the first place; that's information I'd expect he'd have shared with me a long time ago.
We stop at the Quad where Ryan waits outside as I get us both a take-out coffee. The Quads too hectic for Ryan, so he sends his flunky for the coffees. We sip our coffee and smoke while silently walking toward the lecture hall. When we're halfway there, I casually ask, "Um, what's with those meds, Ryan? I mean, I never knew you took pills." He goes, "I've been on and off them since high school. No big deal, lots of guys take something." I guess that depends on what you mean by lots of guys, especially considering the vast majority of guys aren't on meds of any kind. Walking for another minute or so, then I go, "So, it's something you don't want to talk about, huh?"
He glances at me, takes a deep breath, then says, "There's nothing to talk about." Well that doesn't leave me much wiggle room for further conversation on the meds topic. Nodding my head, like that made sense, we walk some more, then I'm like, "Your family doctor prescribe the meds, or...?" He stops, and without seeming to be annoyed, patiently explains, "No, Dylan, the meds were prescribed by a psychiatrist. I started seeing, Dr. Largo, bi-weekly at prep school, and I've been seeing him semi-annually since then." I'm like, "Oh yeah? Um, that's cool," and Ryan says, "And that's the end of this
conversation. It's personal and, normally I wouldn't have mentioned the med at all, but it slipped out, so...." Holy shit! Since prep school! Hmmm, I guess I shouldn't be surprised he's on something considering all his mood swings over the years; mood swings week to week, or even day to day
at times. Gee, I feel bad for the poor guy. Then, in my head, I repeat the
spelling of the drug I memorized from the three in his toiletry kit: 'Librium'. I'm Googling that baby. We finish our coffees silently standing outside the lecture hall. Ryan seems perfectly comfortable with the silence, and he actually looks pretty good, sexy even and when he sees me glancing at him he gives me a little smile. Well, I'm not comfortable standing here like this, so I resort to the obvious remedy for uncomfortableness: I take out my iPhone. That's always a good fallback move. I bring up Safari, then go to Google and type in 'Librium' and pow! In .04 seconds there's 65000 responses on my screen; or something like that. Hmmm, I probably won't get to all of them before class. Let's see, something called Chlordiazepoxide is in Librium. Obviously it's impossible to pronounce that drug. Why don't they choose one name and stick to it? Let's see, the drug supposedly treats anxiety and acute alcohol withdrawal. Alcohol withdrawal? That's never been Ryan's problem. What else: This drug acts on the brain to slow down the central nervous system producing a calming effect. That's all it does? Big deal! The other two drugs will probably tell more of the story. Maybe Librium is being used to keep him calm from the effect of the other two drugs in order for them to be beneficial. Jesus, does that sentence even make any sense? Let me look up convoluted; just kidding. How could I have known Ryan since early in our freshman year, and then lived with him two months, and never once saw him pop a pill? And it's very odd that Ryan's not the slightest bit curious what I'm doing on my cellphone standing here with my back to him. That's not like Ryan-the-busybody. He steps on his cigarette butt, saying, "C'mon, Dylan, time for class." Putting my cellphone in my pocket I follow him up the steps and down the corridor to our lecture hall, then we take the same seats we always sit in. This feels weird. Glancing over at him, Ryan smiles and pats my shoulder, asking, "How ya doing, baby?" I shrug and give him half a grin. It's like I don't even know him anymore.
I'm glancing at the students sitting in lower seats and spot the guy a few rows down on the end seat. He's the guy during our first class of the semester I thought might be 'Hoodie Boy', aka Daryl, aka Pony. It wasn't him then, and it's still not him after six weeks of classes. From the back though he looks like Pony with the long hair and wide shoulders, but he couldn't be more different looking from the front. Daryl's cute and this other guy is the opposite. Get a fucking haircut, dude! He looks like a cranky middle aged lady with a face lift that went terribly wrong.
It's hard concentrating on what the Professor's lecturing on today because I'm so intrigued by this unexpected meds development. Looking at Ryan from the corners of my eyes I again think he looks sexy, although weirdly I'm not sensing the normal sexy vibrations coming off him. Is that because he's on the meds, or because I'm perceiving him differently knowing he's on medication? Fascinating watching him taking copious notes in that neat calligraphy-like handwriting of his. He does it quickly like it's coming out of a machine. Huh, and he writes with a Montblanc Medium Ballpoint Pen with black ink. His penmanship is like art. Huh, I wonder how much that fucking pen cost? Hmmm, and how the hell am I going to get another look at the other two pill bottles? I mean, look at them long enough to copy down the two impossible to pronounce medications. Librium isn't all that interesting, although it's more interesting than Adderall. That's what I first thought of when he said he's taking meds. I see Adderall all over the campus during finals week. It's supposed to help you concentrate. I wouldn't know since I've never taken it, or any other drug except Advil and sometimes Tylenol. Ryan's meds situation is both interesting and disconcerting at the same time. He glances over to see me daydreaming and shakes his head slowly, showing disapproval. Fuck this class though. We have midterms next week so I suppose I'll need to do some cramming. My other three courses are with Rob, so I'm totally on top of them.
After class Ryan surprises me again by not saying anything about me daydreaming in class and not taking notes. Usually that's part of his bossy act.
Not this morning though. He doesn't have much of anything to say, although he doesn't appear agitated about anything. He finally mumbles, "Beautiful fall day, huh?" I'm like, "Fall? It feels more like winter. When's the first day of winter anyway?" He goes, "Like six weeks from now; the middle of December sometime." Trying to keep the conversation going, I ask, "Well, what are your plans for Thanksgiving break?" He purses his lips, then shrugs, "I'll be going home obviously. After all it is a family holiday, and I'll get
together with Jeff... that's about it except a turkey dinner." I mutter, "Uh huh," and Ryan looks over, saying, "Jeff sent me the sweetest email on Tuesday. Ha ha, it's easier being mushy in emails than in person. Don't you think?" I mutter, "Yeah, I guess. What'd he say?" Lightly punches my shoulder, he says, "Personal shit, babe; that what he said. Stuff I always wished you'd say to me." Oh fuck, I'm not going there, so I do a couple of fake coughs, muttering, "Fucking cigarettes."
As we walk toward his dorm I'm wondering if this affectionate email from Jeff is for real, or a figment of Ryan's imagination. I mean, Jeff being mushy doesn't ring true to my ear at all, not that it's any of my business. I knew Jeff for only two months but, if there's one thing I'm sure about him,
it's that he's much more the suck-up, brown-nose type than a writer of mushy love letters. If the email included something like, 'I miss that huge cock of yours going up my ass,' Ryan may have interpreted that as mushy.
That's because in his head he'd prefer that it were lover's mushy sentiments rather than crude sex talk. He's been known to perceive things as he wants them to be rather than how they actually are.
In Ryan's dorm room we drop our backpacks on his desk chair, as he's saying, "You can get undressed now. Dylan." Huh, I wasn't sure if we were going to do our normal after class buddy-sex or not. The way he said, 'You can get
undressed now, Dylan,' reminds me of the doctor's nurse telling me that when I got my physical for junior year. I ask Ryan, "Do you have a hospital Johnny I can wear? You know that goofy hospital gown with my ass sticking out the back." Frowning, he asks, "What...?" I go, "Never mind, it's a joke," as I pull off my sweatshirt. I'm kinda interested to see how he's going to pull off hot sub/dom sex in his lethargic frame of mind. Dulled by drugs? Probably. I've got my t-shirt off and I'm dropping my pants, asking, "Aren't you getting undressed?" He says, "I want your underwear and socks off too." I take them off and stand in front of him naked, asking again, "Why aren't you getting undressed?" He mumbles, "No reason to." No reason to? What the fuck? He clarifies, saying, "I'm willing to help you try on sex toys, but I'm not feeling an actual sex act with you this morning." I chuckle, saying, "Riiiight," and he goes, "No, seriously. I'm not up for it this morning, but you need to see how these things work so you don't hurt your sophomore boy by using the toys incorrectly." What a nut case! Picking up my underwear to get dressed again, I say, "What the fuck is wrong with you? I've had these toys in me, on me, and around me half a dozen times. I know how they work." He's over at the closet taking a sports satchel off the shelf, saying, "Yeah, but just to be safe," and he takes out a male chastity device, adding, "Take those underpants off!" A touch of bossiness at last, but I don't take my underpants off, Instead I give him a dead-eye stare and he says, "Look, we'll try this one on you first. There are no locks on these devices. You can take it off anytime you want, but you need to try it on." I say, "This is stupidly unnecessary, Ryan." He takes a deep breath, asking, "Do you want to borrow these toys or not?" Thinking about Daryl asking me for sex toys, like I'm the sex guru, I shrug, pulling off my underpants again, mumbling, "Go ahead Doctor Frankenstein, put it on me."
The truth is I've had some fun with sex toys in the past. Nothing like that ridiculous oversized ball-gag earlier this morning though. A regular size ball-gag has given me a submissive sense a few times in the past, getting my balls buzzing and all that sexy shit. I can't describe the sensation even to myself. It's just sexually hot to me. Heh heh, maybe I should be taking some of Ryan's meds myself. He says, "Spread your legs," and he kneels down in front of me picking up my flaccid penis, "You keep yourself clean-shaven down here. I'm going to insist Jeff does it over the Thanksgiving holidays. It's a cool sexy look." Now he starts threading my cock through a stiff, ridged tube made of a nylon-like material. Jesus! I can already feel my cock tightening up. Ryan says, "This shaft is sorta new. I ordered it from a company in Sweden. The shaft goes snugly around your dick and is supposed to keep it feeling good. Jeff claims it does, and his cock is on the small size like yours, so it should work for you too." Small size? When only the head of my cock is peeking out the end of the shaft or tube, whatever it's called, Ryan holds up a hollow plastic tube with Velcro straps dangling off it, adding, "And this plastic tube is the chastity part of the device. It prevents you from being a bad boy while your master is away." Rolling my eyes, I mumble, "We do sub/dom sex, Ryan, not that master/slave crap." He goes, "Yeah, I know, but you asked for the toys. It wasn't me who mention sex toys, and this is what I've got." Shrugging, I'm kinda interested to see how this thing works. He's fitting the plastic tube over my cock that's snugly inside the nylon material, then straps it on me with Velcro strips around my waist, above my buttocks. Two shorter straps hang off the plastic tube that he fastens around the top of my scrotum, then tightens the straps making me go up on my toes, yelling, "That's too tight!" Ryan ignores that as he stands up, saying, "Walk around a little; let's see how it works." I grumpily take a few steps and sensations soar off my cock as it
moves slightly in the tight ridged tube. Ryan takes hold of my arm and walks me around the room as we both watch my cock grow into a hard boner.
My shoulders do their little shudder as my throbbingly hard boner grows.
At its longest my cock's head reaches only to an inch below the hollow plastic tube's opening. Ryan points at that, mumbling, "Normal sized hard penises should be at the top of the plastic tube." I go, "Bull shit! The average sized cock isn't seven inches long." Ignoring that, he goes, "C'mon, Dylan," and he walks me around the room again with me taking little steps grunting and, "Ummm, oooh." Ryan smiles, "Feels good, doesn't it? See the dried substance inside the tube and around the top? The grayish stain? That's Jeff's dried cum and precum spray. You know, just before his big ejaculations. He's had two dozen orgasms in this device. And before you say anything; it was his idea to wear it... he nagged me to put it on him. See, there's no need for a locking mechanism because no one wants to take it off. Of course it does come with a lock when intended for it's real usage; as a male chastity belt obviously."
I'm sucking air in through my teeth afraid two more trips around the room and I'll be climaxing with cum spray hitting inside the tube where it'll join Jeff's spunk. Ryan lifts a butt plug from the satchel, saying, "This attaches around to the Velcro strips at the bottom of the plastic tube," and he pushes behind my head, mumbling, "Bend over. It'll go in easier." Jesus, this feels so good I bend forward slightly as Ryan, without hesitating, twists the butt plug up my anus, and keeps twisting until I'm leaning way over to accommodate the big plug. My hands on my knees now, I'm grunting and trying to protest but it feels so damn good I can't get the words out.
Twist, twist, twist with me going, "Aaah, aaah, oooh" until he mutters, "There, it's in good and snug," and he attaches the straps to the bottom of the plastic tube, adding, "And that's the entire packager. It's simple, but effective, don'cha think? Walk around some more." I take a few steps as my prostate gland erupts with delicious pleasure sensations and I go, "Oooh, aaah, ooh yeah. I see what you mean." He goes, "It's even better, a more pronounced effect when you're on your hands and knees." He takes holds of my arm at the wrist and bicep pulling down, saying, "Drop down to your knees, I've got you." I'm feeling a submissive curtain dropping over me as I go slowly to my knees. It feels so good! He manages some authority in his voice now, saying. "Get down on your hands and knees like I told you, boy." I drop all the way down and the straps stretch tightly around my buttocks as the butt plug moves on my prostate; my head goes back to savor the sensations of the fat butt plug against my prostate and the ridges of the sheaf shifting a half inch on my hard boner. I go, "Ahhhrg," with precum plopping from the gaping pee slit at the head of my swollen cock's head. The fluid rolls down the inside of the tube where it'll eventually dry on top of Jeff's dried cum.
Swaying on my hands and knees creates tiny movement from both the butt plug and the rippled nylon tube, "Mmmm, oooh, fuuuuck." Ryan's standing next to
me buckling a dog collar around my neck, mumbling, "This should complete the picture for your sophomore boy," and he pulls the collar tight. I grunt, "Too tight," and Ryan hooks up a leash ignoring my complaint, then tugs on the leash, saying, "Lets go, boy." I don't have much choice, so I start walking on my hands and knees as Ryan snickers, saying, "We'll go for a nice walk in the park."
So many sensations are bursting out all over me I pay him no mind. Once around the room and I'm doing quiet moans of arousal with hints of imminent climax growing from the constant stimulation off my prostate and cock. The tight leather strips around my nuts is gonna slow up my climax though, which is the whole idea of why he tied the strips so tightly. Another time around the room and all that's registering in my brain are the pleasure sensations exploding from my prostate and my super sensitized hard-as-a-rock cock.
I stop to climax, going, "Arrrr, ooh." but only watery clear precum drools out. Ryan snickers some more pulling on my least leash. Halfway around the room and this time my orgasm comes on in a rush! I stop again as Ryan tries
pulling on the leash. Lifting up on my knees, and with a gasping, "Aaaaaah," cum rushes up from my cock in a long thin stream. It shoots out the end of the plastic tube in a big arc with spray hitting the inside of the tube and drooling down to join previous cum drools. Then another shot fires from my super-hard cock, "Oooh," as a third stream of cum steaks out, then short little spurts with me shaking and feeling dizzy from the over-stimulation. But, oh fuck, that was a weirdly hot orgasm. Taking deep breaths, I drop down on all fours again.
While I shake a little bit, Ryan's undoing the dog collar, saying something that doesn't register in my head. Then, as he takes out the butt plug, I go, "Aaah, mmmm." Only when he's unstrapping the plastic tube do his words begin to make their way through to my brain about the same time I also realize I'm really pissed off! Ryan's asking, "Do you think your sophomore will get off as fast as you did with this get-up?" Letting out a long breath, I'm like, "I'm not using this shit on him." He goes, What?" and I go, "Why do always need to be you such an asshole? Pulling this shit on me! All you needed to do was tell me ahead of time what you were planning here. I feel like a victim." He goes, "Why the fuck would I tell you ahead of time, and spoil the surprise? You liked it!" I need to think about that a second; and, as I stand up, free from all the sex toys, I go, "No, I didn't! Not even after having that hot climax, I still didn't like it because I'm sick and tired of you manipulating me for your own amusement."
He's putting the stuff back in the sports satchel, not backing off at all, sounding more amused than ever, saying, "You're so full of shit, Dylan.
You like me being in-charge of you and the more dominantly in-charge I am of you, the more you get off on it, so just stop your whining. You sound like some girlie pussy." Stunningly, just like that, I realize this dominant act of Ryan's is old and tired. It's been getting old and tired for some time now and it just crystallized plain as day in my head. Pulling on my underpants, I mutter, "I used to like it, but I'm liking it less and less by the minute. And that's the truth; a truth you just helped me realize. There's always a point in which I say, it's gone too far." He's got the satchel back on the shelf. He turns around asking, "And it's you who decides when I've gone too far, huh?" I go, "Who else, but me?" Waving his hand at me, like he's bored with everything, he mumbles, "Whatever. With these meds I sometimes can't get a boner, so I figured I'd used the sex toys to get you off. So sue me for trying to do you a favor." He can't get a boner? Jesus! Dressed now and putting my sneakers on, I ask in a calmer manner, "What the fuck is wrong with you, Ryan?" He shrugs, "Nothing's wrong with me.
What's wrong with you?" I'm still feeling some sizzling around my groin from that hot climax, but I'm keeping that to myself, as I mumble, "I don't know, but it's like we've been going in different directions. That doesn't necessarily mean we can't regroup and meet in the middle sometime in the future."
He mutters, "Like you'd do that." I go, "Whether you know it or not, I care about you, Ryan." He's still muttering, "Yeah, I've heard that before; not that it means much." Getting ready to leave, shaking my head, I say, "I don't know what medication you're on, but I hope it has the desired effect you're expecting, or hoping for." He does another shrug, saying, "More likely
it'll have the desired effect my parents are hoping for. It's basically just to quiet down my, um, desires, sort of. I need to be on the meds for two months before I go home, and they promised to get an apartment near the university for me, like I told you before. That's my bargain with sweet daddy and mommy." Jesus! His parents are a nasty trip. I don't know whether to feel sorry for Ryan or be happy he's back on his mystery medication, assuming it'll have good results for him. I don't give two shits about his parents.
I want to leave, but feel I should offer my help, or support, or something. I say, "Do you want to talk about it, Ryan?" He goes, "Talk about what?"
I go, "Whatever is happening with you. The meds, your decision to transfer, the reason you put the sex toys on me today... whatever." He sits at his desk tapping his foot fast, saying, "It was you who asked for the sex toys,"
and I'm like, "I know, but I didn't ask to try them on. You insisted on that or you wouldn't let me borrow them. It's the kind of shit you've been pulling on me for years. You won't transfer if you can give me that stupid haircut. Shit like that." He says, "I already explained why I put the sex toys on you. Do you want to borrow them or not?" I mumble, "Nah, they're too advanced for Daryl." He goes, "Whatever you say, but just so you know, you'll always be number one in my heart, Dylan. Currently though I need to clear my head and I can't do that if I'm around you. Like you said, we'll meet again someday, but for now I need to lie the fuck down and take a nap." I'm like, "Really?" and he nods, "Yeah, really. I'm very tired, and I'm sorry about trying the sex toys on you. I thought you'd like them; you sure used to like whatever dominant thing I did. So, I was wrong this morning...
wrong again. It's nothing new for me. Being wrong, I mean."
I'd like to say, 'Toot toot, hop on the pity train,' but he's obviously hurting and I still feel bad for him. Like Chubby told me though; the best thing I can do for Ryan at this point is leave him alone. I walk over and pat his shoulder, then lean down and kiss his cheek lightly, "Be well, Ryan."
He reaches up for a tight hug, then lets me go, saying, "Thank you, Dylan."
He's looking down so I walk to the door, look back but he's not looking up, so I open the door and leave. I'm feeling lousy but I don't know what else there is I can do for him. What a fucking downer that was though. Super bummer! Later, during lunch with Chubby; just him and me today, I detail a general picture of Ryan's and my current relationship, without sexual details obviously although they're implied. Chubby, of course, would never say, 'I told you so'. Instead he tells me again that I can't cure everyone's ills, but he knows I'm always trying. We have a few beers at Rolf's bar after lunch.
Then three guys we know join us and the five of us play liars poker for an hour while drinking draft beer with lots of laughs, mocking each other's bets and losses. I feel better about things when we leave. Walking out of Rolf's bar Chubby gets a call on his cellphone. He talks for five seconds, then asks me if I want to join him and John Beverly in a game of two hand touch on the football field. He says there's gonna be like seven guys a side.
I beg off saying I need to get ready for our trip home, so he drops me off at the apartment.
Pony and I don't always do our run on Fridays, so I text Rob and talk him into leaving his XBOX game at Frankie's dorm. There's some kind of XBOX competition going on there and it sounded like a lot of students yelling in the background. Ya know, I just never got into games, XBOX or otherwise.
I've played them, but certainly not to the extent most guys are into them. Rob would have had to leave the game pretty soon anyway since he, Chubby, and I are going home this weekend, although for different reasons. This weekend Rob will be working with his dad at the site of their big project in Westborough, Massachusetts. Even though that town is only twenty miles from our hometown of Framingham, Rob's staying there with his dad Saturday night because something's going on with the project at seven o'clock Sunday morning.
He told me what it was, but I wasn't paying much attention. All I know for sure is I won't see him tonight or Saturday night.
As for Chub and me, the moms have planned a family weekend including their fiancés. Next weekend, on the other hand, will be an entirely different story. Rob and I will again be going home on Friday, but I'll be going to his home to stay with Rob and work at Dickers & Son, Inc. on Saturday and Sunday. He has work for me to do for which I'll get paid twenty dollars an hour, off the books, meaning there won't be deductions for federal or state taxes. The nerve-racking aspect of next weekend for me is the part about me spending the weekend at the Dickers house. Rob's insisting on it. For a few months now, since the beginning of last summer actually, he's been reinforcing with his parents his plans for our marriage, and he wants all of us to get used to the idea. I take it that means his parents getting used to the idea of me being their son-in-law, and me get used to them being my in-laws. He's being very proactive about this, even intending to tell his parents we'll be sleeping together at his house. I'm not at all sure his parents are fully on-board with all of Rob's plans, although what do they think we're doing at our college apartment if not sleeping together? After saying that, I'm aware there's a difference between what we do in our apartment and what we do in their house, so yes, I'm nervous about their reaction to that.
Hell, I was uncomfortable having dinner with his family last summer, never mind sleeping with Rob in their house. How awkward will it be Saturday morning greeting his parents at breakfast with Rob's cum soaking through the back of my pants? Anyway, that's something for me to worry about later, not this weekend. This weekend I'm going home with Chubby in the Jeep, although I'm not sure when he'll be ready to go. Chubby is not a slave to timetables.
I'm in the bedroom when Rob comes home calling my name. I come out smiling, feeling a twinge in my nuts from just hearing his voice. He meets me in the short hallway and puts his arms around my waist, saying, "Hey, babe, you're looking extra cute today," and he musses my hair a little, adding, "I've gotta leave in a half hour to get home in time for the Friday meeting, but we have some time before I go, so...." I get my arms around him too, and we sway a little like we're dancing, as he goes, "I won't see your cute face again until Sunday afternoon." I go, "Well, Mister Head of Household, what should we do about that?" He grins and we kiss a very nice kiss, then he sort of looks down at his zipper. Subtle, huh? I slide down his body and unzip his skinny jeans as he unbuttons them. My fingers go inside the slit of his boxer shorts and pull our his limp four-inch fat, fire-hydrant-like penis and suck the fat head into my mouth. As I'm licking it with my warm wet tongue, my lips get busy sucking on the fat shaft. In ten seconds my cock tightens up as his scent swarms into my head. I hug both arms around his ass and take more shaft into my mouth, then a little more as random pubic hairs tickle my nose. Hmmmm, his cock feels so good on my tongue, especially when it's still partially soft like this. Licking all around the head, then using my tongue I'm pushing the foreskin back, then swirling my tongue around the head again. Robby grunts and moves his feet a little as his fingers run though my hair and his penis tightens up as sexy sensations bombard the pleasure area in his brain.
Pushing my head forward until the tip of my nose goes inside the slit of his boxer shorts and gets surrounded by pubic hairs. His cock is hard now with the head just past the reflex area at the back of my throat. My cock is very hard now too, slanted sideways in my jockey shorts. I fumble my jeans open and pull my jockey shorts down under my nuts to allow my roaring hard boner some breathing room. It's tempting to stroke it, but I'm way too experienced to do that. Instead I'm pulling my head back a little so the hard head of Rob's boner pushes at my throat, then I suck on it and begin licking up and down the shaft. His foreskin has pulled away from the head as I purposely scrape my teeth on the underside of the hard fat shaft, making me smile. Rob's goes, "Aaaah," and puts both hands on my head, muttering, "Ooh, ow..." as he moves his feet further apart. He takes a gasping breath as a drool of precum slides out of his boned-up cock and rolls onto my tongue.
Robby's hips hump a little sliding his cock back and forth on my tongue an inch or so. A moan from Rob, "Oooh, mmm, damnnn," and he pulls his stiff boner out of my mouth. It's sloppy, wet with spit all shiny and swollen, now sticking defiantly straight out of his boxer short with another big bubble of precum just about ready to drool from his piss slit.
Sitting back on my ankles I look up and see too bright red spots on his face, one on each of Robby's cheeks as he gasps out, "Oooh, shiiit, that was gooood," then twirls his finger indicating I should turn around. I'm on my knees anyway, so I turn and get on all fours, then pull my jeans and underpants down just below my buttocks, with my ass pushed up. Rob gets a leg on either side of my ass and guides the hard head of his cock to my anus. He applies a little pressure spreading the lips. Rob grabs my hips, then humps the head in past my sphincter muscle and gasps, "Aaah!" It was only a few hours ago that Ryan screwed that fat butt plug up my ass so Rob's fat cock head doesn't hurt as much as it would have otherwise. I mutter a quiet, "Ow." Robby leans over me and gets his forearms under my belly touching the head of my leaking boner that's tight up against my body. The side of his right cheek is against the side of my head, nice and snug! Rob considerately pushes the rest of his boner up my ass slowly spreading the walls of my rectum as I hold my breath. His heavy breathing tells me he's very aroused and I feel his cock grow fatter and a tad longer inside me. Without pulling his boner back, Rob humps against my butt cheeks tightly, grunting, "Ummpth, ooh, mmm."
His arms tighten around my belly and my eyes close as the hurt fades and nerve endings blossom into streaks of sexual pleasure, both in my ass and all around the base of my cock. The pleasure sensations begin spreading out, making me moan and shake almost imperceptibly. A quiet, "Ooooh, mmmm, Rob, mmm," from me as he holds me tightly with both arms now, and starts moving his hips fucking my ass with his magical fat cock and right off we hear, "SLAPSLAPSLAPSLAP," as sensations roar with serious sexual pleasure inside my body and especially all around my groin. I rock back and forth on my hands and knees listening to Robby grunt and moan, joining the subtle sounds of our bodies smacking together, "Slapslapslap."
He's fucking me really hard, and really fast, and really good. Oh the awesomeness during these few minutes of ecstasy. It's perfection being Rob's bottom for sex. We're perfect together, perfectly matched with his really hard cock plowing back and forth inside my ass while I know he's getting huge pleasure right along with the sexual pleasure he's creating in me. There's nothing else nearly as wonderful as Rob fucking me. That side-show at Ryan's caused an orgasm, but there's no comparing that joke with the sex Rob and I have together. There's a Grand Canyon of differences between that and this.
I'm in a dreamy pleasure state of mind with the constant, "Slap,slap,slap," sounds in my ears as my boner tightens even more until it's sticking straight down. My orgasm is building and peaking as Rob grunts, "I'm gonna cum,
babe." He's tight against my buttocks humping against me, and then I feel the stream of his creamy cum pouring inside me setting me off, "Eeeee! Aaaah!" My back arches as my orgasm shoots straight down to splatter on the floor a short distance from the head of my hard cock. It's a big splatter as soaring sensations tantalize all around my rectum and groin at the same time. My whole body shudders as another streak of cum shoots out, then a third. A star burst of incredible pleasure before a quick reversal until sensations fade out and I feel spent and limp.
Rob's still slowly humping his cock back and forth inside me, quietly moaning at the after effects of his orgasm. A last sizzle of pleasure zips around me; I'm not even sure where it came from. Now there's nothing but the memory, heavy breathing, and thumping hearts beating fast. Then, "Ooooh, fuck. Ummm, yeah, babe," as Rob lifts up and takes a step back pulling his cock out of my ass. Another deep breath from me as I drop my head to my arms on the floor and feel Rob's semen drool down the back of my leg. Turning my head to grin at him, he grins back and a, "SLAP!" on my ass. He steps back some more, saying, "I want to get you a tattoo, Dylan. On your butt cheeks I mean." I push myself up, then stand looking back to see the shiny liquid running down the back of my leg, as I ask, "What will the tattoo say?" He goes, "Private property of Rob Dickers." I grab some tissues and wipe at my ass, mumbling, "Okay by me, boss." Robby takes the tissues from my hand and wipes up his jism for me, then he hugs me from behind before saying, "That was really nice, and he slides his cock back up my ass, murmuring, "And so is this." He thrusts his cock back and forth in my opened-up slippery asshole until I feel his cock growing hard inside me. We fuck for ten or twelve minutes making low, "Mmm, oooh," sounds until he goes, "Ahh, aah," and shoots a second little load inside me." Back up he's grunting, "Aah, that felt good."
I'd shot that load off at Ryan's, so while the follow-up fuck felt really good, I never got close to another orgasm. It makes me feel good that Rob did though. He's chuckling, then muttering, "Yep, I'm going to fuck us into an early grave, Dylan." I'm back to wiping his cum off my ass and legs when he hugs me, asking, "Will you help me pack." I nod and he takes the handful of tissues from me and wipes his dick, mumbling, "Jesus, I should shower before the meeting except there's no time." he laughed, "I'll have a sticky
dick through the meeting thinking about us fucking." I pull up my pants, saying, "I'll miss you, Robby," and we hug and kiss, then he ruffles his fingers through my hair, looking me in the eyes, saying, "Do me a favor, Dylan." I nod, "Of course," and he says, "Just for me, please, um, make this the last sex either of us has until Sunday afternoon when we're together again." He so serious and his eyes are so beautiful. I murmur, "I promise the next sex I have will be with you," and realize we're getting closer and closer to that always being the case. Well not yet though, we're just getting into junior year. That'll be how it is during our Senior year, and then forever after. I can do it for Rob.
We're in a sweet mood getting some clothes together that he wants to take with him. I help by ironing a dress shirt he wants to wear at the meeting.
He puts other things he'll need in a satchel. We exchange gooey smiles every couple of minutes. I don't care how sappy it is because it makes us feel good. When he's packed for the weekend, and dressed with a tie for the meeting, he looks so handsome. We have a sloppy lover's kiss. The kind of kiss you have when someone is going off to war and you're not sure you'll ever see each other again, then he says, "Walk down with me." I carry his satchel as we walk down to the parking lot together. At the pickup truck I put his satchel on the passenger seat and Rob hugs me again, kissing the side of my face, whispering, 'Until Sunday," and I hug him back, murmuring, "You've got my word, Rob." He goes, "I know, babe." Another kiss on the lips and he gets in and fires up the engine. Rolling the window down, "Next weekend you'll be coming with me." I nod, "I'm looking forward to it, Rob." He grins, mumbling, "Liar," and I go, "I'm looking forward to being with you anyway." He says, "My parents are good people, you'll see." We wave and I watch him pull away, then the pickup truck turns right at the end of the building, and out of sight.
Walking back up the steps I feel a surge of love for him that makes me stop on the steps and take a deep breath. He's everything I've ever fantasized he'd become when we first fell in love. He's become the only person I want to live my life with and I'm going to make a project out of making his parents love me and realize I'm the best person on earth for their son.
Continuing up the steps I'm thinking how I've never paid his parents much mind before this summer. I mean they've been there in the background for the past three and a half years, but just peripheral figures hovering around occasionally. Going into the apartment I try to form my opinion of Mr. and Mrs.
Dickers. I guess I think Rob's dad is too joyless, but nice, and she's too-too much at times, but nice. It's just that she's over the top about almost everything, which makes me think there must be insincerity in there someplace. Everything can't be equally marvelously exquisite and exciting. That's her though, and the way they both sort of disowned Dodger when he joined the Army really makes me think less of them. Dodger joined the Army instead of fulfilling their vision of what he should do and be, and I have a big problem with them for that.
Plopping onto the couch I'm rethinking things. His parents don't need to love me. Why do I think they need to love me? Rob needs to love me and if they don't like it, too fucking bad for them. Okay, I need to find someplace in the middle of I'm going to make them love me and too fucking bad for them if they don't. Compromise, that's my goal. I wonder what their goal is? I know this much though: during Rob's calls home to his parents he's mentioned Frankie, the girl, and he tells me, naively, that his parents seem very excited about his friendship with Frankie. I wanted to tell Rob they're excited because Frankie's a girl, who he likes hooking up with... and she's not me. I might be a tad paranoid about why they seem so interested in Frankie and Rob, but only a tiny bit paranoid.
Well the next order of business is Chub and me driving home, but I don't hear from him until almost four o'clock, and of course he wants a last minute haircut before we head home. Chubby's not on a timetable the way Rob usually is. I grin because Chubby's like no other, and I'm happy to give him anything he want; a last minute haircut included. When Chubby pops in the apartment all smiles and positive vibes, we hug and he tells me about him and John Beverly almost talking two townie girls into seeing their dorm room.
That would probably be dramatic for the girls considering that John Beverly is no better than Chubby at keeping a neat room. Their room looks like they intentionally threw everything they own around haphazardly and then kicked everything a few times just for the hell of it.
Chubby's using three Stop & Shop plastic bag as his luggage this weekend.
I have the few things I'm taking home with me in a little pile and, hiding a grin looking at Chub's Stop & Shop bag, I tuck my stuff in a satchel and zip it up. One of the things I'm bring home with me is the RiteAid barber set that I'll leave at home now that I have the professional barber tools for college haircutting, and Chubby's first. He tells me he wants a haircut he doesn't need to comb. I give him a longish version of a buzz cut on the sides and back of his head, leaving the hairs on top long enough to lie flat, and he'll only need to push his short tapered bangs over to the side.
There's no part in this hair style to deal with. I'd kinda like this exact haircut myself, but that's for another day. Golden's giving haircuts one of the Saturdays coming up, either this one or next Saturday and I'll deal with Rob about the haircut then.
I drive Chub and me home in the Jeep. We talk mostly about this year at college and the new guys and girls we've met so far. No negative topics like Ryan, or even about Dodger wanting to reenlist. We're relaxed and happy to be together and heading home to see our moms. We're looking forward to knowing our future step-fathers a little better too, although we already agree that Rider and Bud are good guys. It's funny but they're almost as close to Chub's and my age as they are to our moms' age. Mom is engaged to Tom; his nickname is his last name, 'Rider'. For some reason his friends, even his twin brother, call him Rider, while mom mostly calls him Tom. Chub's mom is
engaged to the twin brother, Timothy, whose nickname is Bud. We've gotten to know Rider and Bud fairly well over the past two years and we feel okay about having them as step-dads. Mostly we're happy our moms fell in love with really good guys. There are no noticeable negatives with these two guys as far as we can tell. Plus, they're sort of rich, well off anyway owning their own business. It's all good.
We get home around five-fifteen and, of course, the moms are working. This year, at Bud's and Rider's urging, the moms have been taking off work the first Saturday each month, and this is the first Saturday in November, which is why we're home this weekend. It'll be a family weekend together.
Obviously there's very little chance of me having any side sex even if I hadn't promised Rob I wouldn't. I'll be with the Chubby tonight and the family all day and night tomorrow. We're going to spend Saturday in Boston seeing things that tourist usually see. It's an odd fact that people who live near historical sights rarely visit them, while others come from all over the country and other parts of the world to see them. Tris and mom are in charge of planning our Saturday sightseeing, and we're determined to enjoy whatever they have planned for us, even if it's a bit painful.
Chubby and I stop at my condo for a cold drink, and there on the kitchen counter is a printout of tomorrow's itinerary. Swallowing some cold Coke, I pick it up and read it with Chub reading over my shoulder, his hand resting on the back of my neck. It reads like this: 9 am breakfast at the Gourmet Buffet on Canal Street, Framingham. Chubby goes, "I've been there and they put out a really good brunch. The muffins and sweet rolls from their bakery are awesome. Then there's things liked Virginia baked ham sliced thin, eggs five different ways, hash brown potatoes and all kinds of stuff.
Twenty-nine other breakfast favorites and then lunch stuff. Of course there are items like grits and sliced salmon you'll wanna stay clear of. It's not cheap at $29 a person, plus extra for juice and coffee or tea. Not worth the price actually, not unless you're a really big eater." I go, "And look at this, nine o'clock breakfast time. Ha ha, fat chance the moms will get up at seven-thirty. They need an hour and a half, at least, to do their shower, shampoo, make-up and what not." Chub nods, "And then trying on ten different outfits deciding what to wear. If we get to the Gourmet Buffet by eleven, I'd be shocked." I go. "Think positively, but be flexible."
Anyway, the itinerary claims we'll be driving down route 93 South to Boston in an eight passenger limo the twins are renting for the day; they're kinda rich so we're not worried about how much that costs. First stop in Boston will be the 2 and a 1/2 mile Freedom Trail with a tour guide dressed in Revolutionary garb. Chub says, "Gard, in case you don't know, means clothes in modern day English." Glancing at him, I go, "No shit." The trail is a red brick path from the Boston Common to Bunker Hill with a pit stop at the Bell-In-Hand Tavern; America's oldest bar. Onward to Paul revere's House and The Old North Church where the 'one if by land and two if by sea' lookout for the British happened. One or two lanterns I guess they mean. Faneuil Hall Marketplace is next where we'll eat lunch. It dates back to 1742 and is mostly a hundred-station food court nowadays. The tour continues to Fenway Park, but our itinerary calls for us to skip that since we've all been there any number of times. After lunch a tour of Harvard and MIT, just to say we were there. The last stop is Cheers, a bar in an old time TV show, although not this actual bar. An obvious tourist rip-off that we'll skip. If we stick to the itinerary, the last stop before a late dinner is the Isabella Sewart Gardner Museum. It's a fine-arts museum that began at a 1892 Paris auction where the lady with three names bought some art and used it to start her museum in Boston. Lastly an 8:30 dinner reservation at The Capital Grille, supposedly a five-star restaurant. Chubby goes, "Jesus, I need a nap after just reading this itinerary, never mind walking two and a half miles and doing all that other stuff."
First order of business is a shower for both of us, then we get ready for dinner at the restaurant where the moms waitress. After dinner Chub and I are going to bar hop around Framingham in bars we've passed most of our lives but never were old enough to go in. We have a self-imposed strict limit of one beer per joint because that itinerary for tomorrow would be torture with a hangover. We're eating dinner at six o'clock, before the normal Friday night restaurant rush. The moms have a twenty-minute break around that time and they normally eat a salad with us when we're served out entrees.
Chubby goes up to his condo and I jump in my shower. A half hour later we meet outside, both of us looking like spiffy and clean-cut like preppy college students. Without planning to do this we both have on blue button-down dress shirts, dark blue V-neck sweaters, tan khakis, and loafers. As a nod to the chilly weather we're both wearing a Polo hooded middle weight jacket. Appraising each other's garb, we both shake our heads, smirking at one another. I go, "What? Are we twins now, dressing alike?" Chub goes, "I thought you'd wear the white button-down dress shirt with the maroon V-neck sweater." When Chubby comes with me on a clothes shopping trip he waits until I pick out things to buy, then he buys the exact same things. He claims he can never make up his mind. It's the same thing at restaurants. When I order, he'll tell the waiter, "That's exactly what I was going to order. I'll have the same as my brother." It started years ago and has become a running joke with us. The other thing we overdo is use the word 'brother'. Any chance either of us gets we refer to each other as my brother rather than say the other's name. That's because we're so happy about being brothers, and we didn't know we were brothers until after our freshman year at college.
We get in the Jeep with me in the driver's seat, as Chubby mutters, "We've got the preppy-on-steroids look going for us tonight, so we'll probably get bullied in the Framingham bars after dinner." I go, "Wait! We forgot our pocket protectors." At the restaurant we get greeted, not only from the moms, but other long-time waitresses who have seen us grow up right before their eyes. The greetings we receive is one normally reserved for war heroes returning after receiving the Medal of Honor from the President of the United States. It's always awkward, and gets worse with the compliments about how good looking we are, but the women are the nicest people you'd ever want to know. Some of the waitresses have worked with Mom and Tris for twenty years. We love our moms, both of them, even though we think they wear too much make-up and their hairdos from weekly trips to the hair salon are maybe a little too big. That being said, of all the people I've met in my life, young and old alike, I've never met two more sincerely sweet and generous people as our mothers. It's enough to make me tear-up thinking how hard these two have worked from the time they were seventeen. Worked at this same job, on their feet nine or ten hours a day without ever complaining about anything as far as I've ever heard. The hugs and kisses and general hubbub of making a fuss over Chub and me gets the mostly elderly early diners turning in their seats at the tables to watch with smiles on their faces. Some of them say 'Hi' to us as we go buy their table on the way to our table in the rear. If I ever really need a morale boost, I'll come here for dinner.
We have cocktails, Chub and me, not the working moms. With our cocktails, for starters, we have shrimp cocktail, then an entree of Prime Rib of Beef, tonight with twice-baked Idaho potatoes and green bean almandine, a salad, and rolls. For dessert, Irish coffee and a slice of their flourless chocolate cake. Awesome dinner with the rib roast carved off a huge medium rare roast, bone in, and served with a creamy horseradish sauce. Everything is fresh and crispy when it's supposed to be, and hot when it's supposed to be hot. We don't get out of there until after eight o'clock when the place is packed. We all settle on a wave goodbye because the moms are busy working.
Of the five bars we have a beer in after dinner, two turn out to be boring places, quiet with a number of solitary drinkers; shot glasses and beers in front of them. Gloomy places where men and women come to get drunk while probably thinking unhappy thoughts. The other three bars are more upbeat with fun atmospheres, and where the beers cost more. No one bullies us because of our preppies-on-steroids appearances. Of course, every place cards us, but no one disputes the info on our licenses. We do look young though, so some of the bartenders, men bartenders more than the women bartenders, frown as they study our licenses before begrudgingly asking, 'What'll it be boys?" While drinking our beers Chub and I talk about our innumerable experiences together. Reminiscing is fun when done with someone you love and depend on like no other person you've ever known, or ever hope to know. We talk about some of our private thoughts too, and discuss life after college while pledging life-long loyalty to one another using words that could make a grown man cry. That's how I feel anyway.
We're sensibly back at our condos before eleven, only slightly intoxicated. A hug and quick kiss goodnight and we split up feeling really good about ourselves and looking forward to tomorrow. Next morning, we don't get started at nine o'clock, but the moms surprise us four guys by being ready at ten minutes after ten, looking bright and cheery and upbeat. The day follows the mom's itinerary pretty closely. There's a lot to get in but we never feel rushed. Having a limo driver is the absolute best way to do anything.
They drop us off at the door and park any fucking place they feel like. Our driver is a handsome young guy with a smirk on his face for Chub and me, like we're lucky rich kids. We are lucky, although not rich. His name is Ron and he's dressed in a black suit with a white shirt and black tie. No hat.
He's a inch taller than me and slender. He has the look of a tough guy who grew up in Dorchester; a tough kid from the streets who cleans-up really well. Short haircut and clean shaven. I enjoy looking at him and after lunch I come out and have a cigarette with him. He has a pronounced South Boston accent talking quietly, but with a confidence and a knowing expression on his youthful face. He's one hot dude! He's also no more gay than Rider or Bud. I'd love to share a hot kiss with Ron. That's all, one kiss.
Unfortunately, I fall one kiss short of that, as I knew I would.
The most noteworthy thing about the art in the Isabella Sewart Gardner museum for me is Rembrandt's self portrait at age 23. He looks strangely vulnerable, innocent and sort of cute with an oversized nose and fine bushy long hair. He has an immature mustache as his only facial hair. Rembrandt's self portrait looks like someone I'd like to know. Well, I'd like to know any genius, but him especially because I like his looks. Rembrandt, Ron the chauffeur, and me drinking beers all afternoon in some dive would be an awesome thing! We eat dinner at nine o'clock in The Capital Grille. It's a five-star restaurant and, from our experience tonight, I wouldn't take any of their stars away. Great dinner with cocktails before, wine with dinner, and then after dinner drinks. Chubby and both moms fall asleep on the ride back to Framingham while I discuss the extinction of the dinosaurs with Tom and Tim. They pretend interest as I tell them how the big meteorite was just the final straw' The dinosaurs were dying out 20 million years before the meteorite hit 60 million years ago. I probably read too many articles in the science section of Yahoo. As I give my long dissertation on dinosaurs, every once in a while I'd look at the driver's rearview mirror and Ron's eyes would meet mine. That night in bed I fantasized about me and Ron naked in the back seat of his limousine.
Earlier, during dinner, an interesting development happened. During our before-dinner cocktails, Tom and Tim asked Chub and I, in a very serious manner, if we'd be opposed to then sleeping over tonight. To be a smart-ass, Chubby asked, "Are you referring to a sleep-over with my bro and me?" Chub looked serious when he asked that, but the twins know us pretty well by now so they knew Chub was only breaking balls. They played it straight though, saying, "We hadn't thought of that, no. For one thing Dylan's bed is too small for two grown people to sleep in, and your room, Jeffrey, is too overloaded with, um, various things. Frankly I'd be afraid of breaking an ankle getting to the bed." I go, "Huh, then you're probably thinking about sleeping on the sofa." Tim goes, "Not exactly the sofa, no." Chub goes, "Surely you don't mean with our moms." Rider says, "Yes, that's it exactly." Chub and I look at each other, with him muttering, "Whaddaya think, Dylan?" Looking at the guys, I go, "Um, are you two picking up the check for dinner?" They look at each other trying not to grin. Then Bud says, "If we do can we sleep over." Chub says, as if our moms aren't there, "Have you mentioned this to our moms yet?" They both nod their heads, saying, "Uh huh," and Chub goes, "Then, yes, we're fine with you sleeping over." Our moms exchange glances and we say no more about the topic. It's settled, they're having sex together! Oh no! Sunday morning Chubby and Tim comes down to my place, both looking a little hungover. When Tom comes out of mom's room we chuckle about a few things from yesterday, and then Chub and I mention we're going to prepare brunch.
The twins have been over for brunch before and offer to do the food shopping with us, but I say, "No, no, no! Chub and I will even things out, money-wise. You guys picked up the tab for yesterday, so Chub and I will cover the entire cost of brunch. That should make us even." The guys nod at each other like that's a great deal. We slap hands with them and chuckle. It's not until around one o'clock Sunday that Chubby and I put the brunch on. The conversation is all about yesterday's long day in Boston with many thanks to the twins from the moms, Chub, and me. With hugs and kisses we leave the two couples in our condo around three o'clock for the ride back to college.
It was an excellent bonding weekend for our family. Actually Chubby and I had a tough time keeping up with the old folks on Saturday.
The ride back is mostly a quiet one with both of us, I imagine, thinking about this weekend and feeling really good about it. Not one squabble or disagreement the entire time we were together. It was a very nice time, and fun too. Halfway home the skies open and rain starts coming down in buckets.
Chubby drives me to my apartment building and pulls a rain slicker out of the debris in the back seat. "Here, Dylan, this slicker is yours. I sort of borrowed it a couple of weeks back." I nod, "Thanks, Chub, but won't you need it walking from the parking lot to your dorm?" He shakes his head, "Nah, there's a golf umbrella back there in that mess. That's yours too. I borrowed it from your golf bag in the storage unit six weeks ago," I go, "Oh, okay." We do a hug and I get into the slicker, then get out in the pouring rain carrying my satchel and immediately step in a six-inch puddle of water. With a wave to Chubby, my mind turns to Rob and I get an excited feeling low in my belly near my balls. What a wonderful thing it is to return from a loving, fun weekend with family to someone who is as important to me as anyone in my life. A smile breaks out on my face, anxious to see Rob to hug him and jump in the sack with him. I don't care about the rain. I'm thinking about another thrill for me; being with Rob. Sometimes life rocks!
to be continued... Donny Mumford thinkat20@yahoo.com
donnymumford@outlook.com
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Hoping some readers may be interested, there are books of mine published and available on Amazon.com. Anyone who has Kindle can download them for next to nothing. The books are usually around ten dollars. They are about a 19 year old gay boy (Oliver) who has a far different life than Dylan's. And there is a new book, 'Mike, his Bike and Me'. Please at least check them out by typing my name on Amazon.com. Information about the story in the books can be found in some detail there. Thank you.
Donny Mumford
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