Lord of the Boys
by Foster I. Pines
fosteripines@gmail.com
*Feedback is much appreciated, along with your thoughts on where this story should go.
*I have published a book, "A Boy's Own Island", available on Amazon if you are interested.
*Please consider donating to the Nifty archive.
Part 1
Liam couldn't move. Well, he could move, but he knew it was a bad idea. His body ached; his stomach churned; his head felt as if it was trapped in a vise with a screaming steam train bearing down on him. Desperate to try something, anything, to relieve his agony, he rolled gently onto his right side, hoping for some comfort from the soft mattress. He regretted this immediately. His insides became a swirling sea, his body raged against the shift in gravity and equilibrium. More nausea, more headache. Fuck this, he thought.
Early September humidity slipped through an open window and overwhelmed the dorm room's weak air conditioning. Liam felt the rising heat of the late morning air. He kicked at the tangle of bedsheets around him until his legs and his ass were bare. Naked, he realized. That could only mean one thing.
He half-opened his eyes and looked across the room to the twin bed opposite his, empty and pristine, red and blue throw pillows in perfect order. Shit, he thought. He braced himself for pain and forced himself to his feet. His head throbbed and his body staggered, but Liam steadied himself against his bedframe and wrapped a sheet around his waist.
"Hey! Hey!"
Liam tapped at the shoulder of the crumpled body outside his dorm room door.
"Huh?" said Sam, slowly waking.
"Sorry, man. Jesus." One hand holding the loose sheets around his waist, Liam reached down with his free hand to help lift Sam to his feet. "C'mon in."
Liam eased Sam onto his bed.
"Lay down. Get some rest."
"Nah, nah. I'm OK." Sam waved him off and sat upright on the edge of his bed.
Liam began to speak, but then looked closely at Sam's face and stopped. Sam's voice filled the awkward silence.
"Well, I hope you three had a nice time," he said playfully.
Liam's eyes grew wide. "You three?!"
Sam laughed as Liam sat down on his own bed, facing him.
"Yup," Sam confirmed.
"Jesus."
"Yup."
Liam paused. "I don't remember a fucking thing."
"I'm shocked," Sam teased.
"Really. I don't. Not a thing."
"Well, you did seem pretty trashed."
"I was."
"Too much Jungle Juice, huh?"
Liam's stomach ached at the thought. "Fuck. Don't even say that."
Sam's soft laughter filled the room.
Liam couldn't look Sam directly in the face. "Were they cute at least?"
"I think so. I didn't see much of them. Just the backside of one as he closed our door in my face."
"Sorry." Liam looked down to his feet.
"It's fine."
Liam struggled to find the right words, any words, to say. "I mean...you know...what the fuck, man...we should have had you join the...join the fun...you know...with us..."
Their eyes met for a moment. Less than a second. The tension of the past three weeks, the first three weeks of freshmen year, their first three weeks as roommates, were almost laid bare. Sam looked at Liam: golden-haired, blue-eyed, tan and muscled. He looked every bit the Greek god, draped as he was in his diaphanous bedsheets. How many times had Sam looked up from his desk to greet Liam, returned from another practice session at the pool with muscles swollen and hair wet, and wished Liam would lift him from his desk and throw him onto his bed? How many times had he traced the outline of Liam's thick cock in sweatpants, briefs, or speedos and silently begged to pull them loose? How many times had Sam praised his good fortune while yet realizing the torment he faced?
For all this, Liam was ill-equipped. Yes, there were crushes and admirers in high school, but they could not watch him sleep. He dealt with Sam's unsubtle stares and clumsy attentions the only way he knew how: very awkwardly.
"This is painful," Sam finally said, shattering the rising tension.
They both laughed.
Liam stole another look Sam: a blushing smile beneath dark hair and hazel eyes, skinny and shy. And, he found the word he wanted, very sweet.
"I really am sorry," Liam said softly.
"Don't worry. Really."
"I won't do it again. I promise."
"Do you manage to keep promises when you're blacked out?"
The words stung more than Liam expected, but he respected the edge in Sam's voice. He knew it took courage for him to speak like this.
"I'll try."
"OK."
"I don't wanna be some asshole bro."
Sam stared at him. "You're not."
"Good."
"You're a good guy. I know that."
Liam look up from the floor. "OK. Good."
Sam nodded.
"Listen," Liam began, "now is probably a good time to tell you something."
Sam's heart thumped. "What?"
Liam stared at Sam. "Someone wrote `Bitch' on your forehead while you were sleeping."
Sam quickly slapped a hand to his forehead, rubbed it briefly, and then held out his inky fingertips for inspection.
"Mother. Fuckers."
They both laughed.
Sam stood in front of the chipped, pre-war sink wedged into a corner of their dorm room and stared at his forehead in the dirty mirror. It was definitely permanent marker, he lamented.
"You gotta do it harder than that!" Liam said. "Here."
Liam grabbed the washcloth from Sam's hand. He had traded his impromptu bedsheet toga for a pair of black briefs. He stepped beside Sam to inspect the dense smudge of black ink on Sam's forehead. As he did his thick pecs slid against Sam's shoulder, and his bulge grazed Sam's jeans. Liam hardly noticed.
Sam, however, was electrified by each fleeting touch. Liam pressed the warm washcloth to Sam's forehead and began to scrub. Sam's whole body teetered side to side with Liam's powerful motions and he watched as Liam's bicep rhythmically flexed and relaxed, inches in front of his face.
"Hold still," Liam chided.
Liam's free hand grasped the back of Sam's neck and steadied him in place. A tingling wave shuddered down Sam's back; his whole body threatened to go limp.
"Hey!" Sam protested as Liam redoubled his efforts.
Liam laughed as he worked. His back arched with the effort and his bare abs pressed into Sam's side.
"I think we're making progress."
"Ouch!"
"There!" Liam was triumphant as he threw the washcloth down in the sink. They both looked into the mirror. Where there had been a cloud of black ink there was a cloud of dark grey ink, now set against the pink, rubbed-raw skin of Sam's forehead.
"Nice work," Sam said. He carefully touched at his tender forehead.
Liam couldn't help but smile. "I think this could be a good look for you. Chimney-sweep chic. Something like that."
"Fuck off."
Through the mirror Sam furtively examined the curves of Liam's ass as he walked over to his bed. He prepared to resume scrubbing when a flash of red caught his attention.
"What's that?" Sam asked, turning towards Liam's bed.
"What's what?"
"That." Sam pointed to the windowsill above the head of Liam's bed.
Liam retrieved a balled-up cluster of red fabric. He unraveled it to reveal a water polo cap and a pair of speedos.
"I thought you were on the swim team. Not water polo."
Liam, through his confusion, still managed to shoot a playful sneer in Sam's direction. "I am."
"You sure?"
"Shut up."
"Must have been one of your friends from last night."
Liam turned over the cap and speedo in his hands.
"You guys do some role play stuff?" Sam teased.
"What the fuck?" Liam muttered to himself.
"Sounds kinda hot, actually."
"You fucker." Liam paused a moment. "What this fuck is this all about, do you think?"
Sam grabbed the cap from his hands. "Shouldn't be that hard to figure out."
"Why?"
Sam held up the cap to show the number "10" on it's side.
"Oh!" Liam exclaimed as Sam opened his laptop and began swiftly typing.
Liam put a firm hand on Sam's shoulder and leaned down to see the screen. Sam was acutely aware of Liam's warm breaths along the side of his face.
"OK...here's the roster...ten is, ten is...Christian Waller...who is...six-foot-three (yes please!) and...let's see...from Newport Beach (SoCal fucker) and...a SENIOR (my MY!)."
Liam lifted himself upright and fingered the smooth fabric of the speedo in his hands. He looked out the window where the day's first hungover students were venturing out onto the sun-dappled quad. Christian Waller. Newport Beach. Water polo. A threesome. Jungle Juice. His memory was blank.
"OK, OK. Here's his Instagram and FUCK-me-are-you-SERIOUS!"
Liam broke from his trance. "What?" He looked down to Sam's screen. Christian Waller was a big boy, Liam thought. A brilliant white smile, California tan, muscles head-to-toe, and a nice bulge filling his speedo. He should have remembered that, he thought.
"The `10' clearly stands for ten inches," Sam interjected.
"You think?"
"Jesus. One-man wrecking crew for sure!"
Liam smiled and then elbowed Sam. "I've never seen you so horny," he teased.
"Well...I mean...look at him. Are you surprised he's got my attention?"
"No. I guess I'm jealous." The words were out before Liam could reconsider them, and suddenly they were quiet again and the space between them felt impossibly small and Liam realized he was only wearing briefs.
"Uh...well...I should," Liam began. They were both in full blush. "I should give this...give these back to him. He's a...I think I know where is locker is so I can...at the gym..."
"Good idea," Sam said, pretending to read an email. "You can leave it there. Yup...yup."
"I'm just gonna," Liam started to turn toward his dresser, "you know...uh...clothes."
"Yup."
"OK."
Liam dressed in silence. Both their thumping hearts steadied. After several moments Sam permitted himself a small glance in Liam's direction and caught sight of his muscular arms outstretched and slipping into a t-shirt.
"What's that?" Sam said.
"Huh?"
"Your wrist."
Liam looked to his left wrist: nothing. Then to his right. There, on the inside of his wrist, he saw them, three black numbers in a tight row: "333".
Sam approached and, without a word, touched Liam's wrist and turned it over with his hands. The room fell still and quiet. Faraway voices from out on the quad came through the open window. They listened to the wind in the trees. Sam felt Liam's wrist in his hands and Liam felt Sam's fingers tracing the numbers on him.
"Hmm," Sam finally said.
"What?" Liam asked softly.
Sam's lips curled into a sly smile. "Looks like permanent marker."
"Fucker."
by Foster I. Pines
fosteripines@gmail.com
*Feedback is much appreciated, along with your thoughts on where this story should go.
*I have published a book, "A Boy's Own Island", available on Amazon if you are interested.
*Please consider donating to the Nifty archive.