PROFESSOR KENYON - 3
Copyright 2007 by Carl Mason
All rights reserved. Other than downloading one copy for strictly personal enjoyment, no part of this story may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for reviews, without the written permission of the author. However based on real events and places, "Streets of New York" is strictly fictional. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. As in real life, however, the sexual themes unfold gradually. Comments on the story are appreciated and may be addressed to the author at carl_mason@comcast.net
If you would like to read additional stories by this author, please turn to the "Authors/Prolific Authors" link at the beginning of the Nifty Archive.
This story contains descriptions of sexual contact between males, both adults and teenagers. As such, it is homoerotic fiction designed for the personal enjoyment of legal, hopefully mature, adults. If you are not of legal age to read such material, if those in power and/or those whom you trust treat it as illegal, or if it would create unresolvable moral dilemmas in your life, please leave. Finally, remember that maturity generally demands safe sex.
CHAPTER 3
(Revisiting Chapter 2)
It was the New Year. On the third, the Winter Quarter would begin. Both men felt good about themselves, about those around them, and about the challenges that they face.
(Continuing Our Story - "Money Makes the World Go Round . . .")
Brad wasn't a week into the new term when he began feeling the pinch of having so little money. Sure, his bills were paid, and the Professor always gave him a few extra bucks beyond paying for his meals through work around the house. Trouble was, you couldn't always expect your teammates to take care of the coffee and snack. Further, there was always something that he had to buy such as a notebook, or a report cover, or a new cartridge for his printer. The best suggestion that he got from his new teammates was to get over to the Art Department and sign up to pose for University "drawing" classes. He'd never get rich that way, but Department liked using athletes as models. He'd always have the change for a beer or a notebook cover!
Later that day, Brad wandered into the Art Department and quickly saw a notice in the hallway about models being needed. Following the instructions, he knocked on the office door of a Mr. Cal Rugg. Rugg may have been young and only an instructor, but there was no doubt in his voice when he saw Brad. Yes, there was always a need for fashion models - and for other clothed or partially clothed models, but the highest fees were paid for work in the nude. Were he interested, he'd be glad to take a look and give him his opinion. If accepted, he'd be earning money within the week. Only hesitating for a second or two, Brad said, "Yeah. Let's check it out." Taking him to a locker room, Cal gave him a temporary locker and a robe, and asked him to knock on the interior door to the next room when he was ready. Knocking, he was immediately invited into a room set up for individual and small group work. The youngster's preparation in the exercise room at home and in sports stood him in good stead. He had no trouble removing the robe on Cal's request or in assuming a series of natural poses. The instructor took several informal digital shots and then invited Brad to sit at a table with him and examine them.
"See anything that could be improved?" Cal asked in a business-like tone of voice. "Well, right now my body shows a lot of stubble. It'll be coming off shortly for gymnastics." "Ok," Cal replied. "Anything else?" "Dunno," Brad said doubtfully. "Maybe my calves could stand some work, but otherwise I think I'm in pretty good shape, at least for gymnastics." "Well, I DO know, Colby," Rugg said emphatically, "I agree with you on the stubble, but I think you probably have one of the best bodies I've ever seen on an eighteen year-old. I'd like you to pose for some of my large classes at first, but I think I can promise you about as much well paid individual work as your schedule can stand before the term is out...drawing, painting, photography...you name it." Looking at a sheet on which he had Brad's personal information and class schedule, he asked, "Would you be interested in working with me on Thursday at 11:00 am? If you can make it a half hour earlier, I'll pay you for 'prep time'." Highly complimented by the words of praise, Brad swallowed and said, "Thanks, Mr. Rugg, that's great. See you on Thursday!"
It was probably 10:35 when Brad knocked on Mr. Rugg's door. Inasmuch as only class on Thursday morning was over at ten, he decided he might as well get a reputation going for cooperativeness. Obviously pleased to see him, Rugg told him that he had a robe placed in his permanent locker and handed him a combination lock. When he was ready, he could knock on the second interior door in the locker room. On knocking, he was immediately let into a workroom. Removing the robe, he climbed on top of a gurney where Rugg said he would rub a small amount of oil into his hide. "Just enough to help your skin glow, Brad. Not enough to look greasy," he added. The instructor had to have had some training in massage - his rubdown was that good! Brad felt muscle after muscle relaxing. Having had his subject turn over, Rugg finally said, "Ok, Brad, you're about to find out why most models come to feel like sides of beef! It's all part of the game. Just relax." With that, he began applying oil to Brad's body, including his genitals. The youth tried to remain relaxed, but when the instructor's fingers brushed his heavy balls, he pretty well lost it. Rugg's seemingly incidental attention to his prong only added to his misery, especially when he fully exposed the glans and lightly rubbed the frenulum with his thumb. Seconds before he would have exploded, the instructor suddenly stopped and helped him off the gurney to a standing position in front of a large full length mirror. "Tell me what you see," he breathed. "Damn!" Brad exclaimed. "My body looks alive, fresh...fantastic, but you wouldn't want me to pose with this tree trunk, would you?" "Not normally in the large introductory classes, i.e., "Drawing I & II", but don't worry if it happens. We men only have so much control. If you do get hard, no one will think anything about it." Seconds later, Brad donned his robe and accompanied the instructor into a large posing room that he had not previously seen. The easels of nearly twenty students were arranged in a horseshoe around a raised platform in the middle of the room. Rugg helped him to open his robe wide, fling the top back over his shoulders, and sit as comfortably as possible on a tall padded stool on the platform. His erection had subsided, although his heavy genitals were still visibly swollen. In a very short time, the session was over - and his financial condition had improved.
Brad returned in the early afternoon on Monday, though he was not as pleased with what happened. Yes, he had led a strongly controlled life in his father's house. Consequently, despite his fleeting, impersonal sexual encounters, he was quite naive sexually for an eighteen-year-old. Nevertheless, try as he might to retain an open mind, it seemed to him that the oiling was directed far more to turning him on than to highlighting his muscles. When lying on his back, for instance, Rugg had him hold his legs apart and back. In that position, he again thoroughly worked his genitals, adding a massage of the perineum that just about brought him off. He didn't say anything, however, until the instructor started to sensually rub his anus with oil and even press his finger lightly into the muscle. Then he choked out, "Sir, please don't." Rugg immediately played the "superior knowledge" and "money" cards. "Brad, I know what's necessary and what's proper in these situations. It's simply unacceptable for a freshman to try to tell me how to work, especially when he's on the edge of having one of the best paid jobs on campus. For instance, I've got two majors who would like to photograph you tonight over at my studio. Fifty dollars..." The youngster was so upset that he couldn't say a word. He posed for the Monday class, but he never returned.
The Professor had noticed that the boy was rather subdued that evening and for a few days thereafter, but...you know adolescents. He was far less philosophical about a week later, however, when Nancy Smathers, one of his senior faculty, stopped by his office. She reported hearing that Rugg had made a couple of suggestive comments about Brad and noted that he lived at the Professor's house. "You know, John, I so enjoyed the boy at the New Year's Eve party. I just don't think he's that kind of person - and I know you aren't. Rugg, on the other hand, has a terrible reputation for malicious, usually homosexual, gossip." When it came to gossip, especially gay gossip, no one had to point out that the college campus was a pressure cooker!
Professor Kenyon talked with Brad that evening. There was not a word of criticism, but he did share his insights on the type of person exemplified by Rugg. "Get away from them the second you smell anything bad," he counseled. "Don't take a drink; don't accept a penny. There's neither room nor time for courtesy. Just get out of there! If they push themselves on you, go directly to the Dean of Men or the Police if you can, or fight back with everything you've got if you must. I think you know you can also come to me, right?" "Right...dad," the youngster said, a tremor in his voice. "I've never known anyone like you, Professor. May I call you 'dad'?" Seeing the tears that were beginning to run down his face, John grabbed a heavy shoulder and swung the lad into his arms.
The Professor called Cal Rugg into his office. Without the usual academic courtesies, he reminded him that he was untenured and that he was dealing with a long-time Department chair. If one more comment of the type reported to him were to get back to him, he bluntly told the white-faced instructor that he shouldn't count on a career in education...at any level, kindergarten through graduate, or at any school. When Rugg seemed about to say something, he simply told him to get out of his office. However quiet his voice, Rugg knew that he was facing a human being with whom he didn't want to tangle.
(Northeastern Winter)
Wow! Snow and sleet with some ice thrown in for variety! Just getting from the house over to campus and back again became an adventure. The Grounds people had their hands full trying to keep the main campus plowed and buildings open. As Brad observed philosophically to the Professor one night at supper, however, there was a certain constancy to winter weather, and pluses and minuses were pretty well distributed. He did receive a long letter from Cousin Lenny. Yes, they had to postpone a much anticipated sightseeing trip to New York City, but Cornell decided to go ahead with its athletic trip a little later in the month. True, they were bringing their basketball and gymnastics teams on the same weekend - which wasn't very promising for ticket sales. In any case, they'd be here and the dates wouldn't have to be made up come spring. Then, too, Cousin Andy's coach had given him permission to stay at the house, which delighted everybody and provided one more reason for their being heavily involved that weekend.
To be sure, whenever events are flowing relatively smoothly, one does best to expect some rough spots. Brad's January proved to be no exception to the rule. The trouble actually came from an unexpected direction. His gymnastics team had really taken the hunky freshman to heart. Had his athletic skills been only average, he would probably still have been accepted as something of a mascot. As it was, however, he commonly contributed points on the rings that the school hadn't enjoyed for some years. Hence, he was generally treated with a mixture of affection and respect. His teammates were determined to let him know, in all ways possible, how much they valued his being on the team!
In that spirit, Paul Kinney, a junior vaulter and pommel horse specialist, sidled up to him one day in the shower. The invitation he carried was normally unavailable to any lower classman (i.e., freshman or sophomore). In fact, it was normally unavailable to ANY student who wasn't a particularly high status junior or senior. (Part of the story, of course, was that it carried a gilt-edged invitation to the beds of some of the most beautiful women on campus!) On the urging of the team's social elite, the Alpha Alpha Alpha Sorority had extended an invitation to Brad to attend their "Winter in Courmayeur" [a famous winter resort in the Italian Alps] formal.
To ignore Brad's extremely mixed sentiments would be to do the young man a tremendous disservice. After all, while scarcely proficient, he had had enough sex to know what (and who!) turned him on. At the same time, he really enjoyed the gymnastics team and highly valued their liking and respect. Further, he was only eighteen! He still labored under the delusion that he might become "normal" in terms of his sexual tastes - if he only wanted to badly enough and worked at it hard enough. All things told, it would probably have been a "perfect" (rather than a "human") being who would have refused the AAA invitation.
On the night of the prom, Brad was really something to behold! Barry Lassiter, the team's outstanding senior vaulter and scion of the Macmillan Clothing fortune, had arranged for Brad to be fitted for the finest tux available to those who knew the difference - and could pay for it. Standing in the foyer of his home, bathing in the admiring (if worried) glances of his mentor, he literally glowed! When Kinney arrived in his Ferrari, he almost floated out of the house and down the steps.
His arrival at the AAA House was no less portentous. The young ladies almost forgot their manners and mobbed him. For instance, Leslie McNair, the Vice-President, kissed Paul passionately in thanks, whispering that their new team member was so cute...so intelligent...and, oh, what a body! She reminded Paul to be at her side as the evening progressed. Kinney, absolutely dry-mouthed, himself a relative newbie in the rarified atmosphere of the Alphas, almost collapsed as he contemplated the evening thus opened to him.
Brad quickly passed the preliminary tests. He danced well, if not spectacularly. Relaxing in the approval of his peers, he managed to contribute to intelligent conversations and even to engage in a little light flirting. To put it succinctly, he was cute, built, and smart. The time came for his first "midterm" examination. Grinding his teeth a bit, but determined as all hell, exchanging bashful smiles with others whom they met on AAA House's museum-quality spiral staircase, he accompanied Kristin Petersen upstairs. Entering her bedroom - not his color scheme but lovely nonetheless - he said all the right things as she put on the CD that was the latest rage. Holding her soft, rounded body in his powerful arms, he nuzzled her neck as they danced and whispered that she was so hot that he couldn't believe it! (The team had been very helpful in offering suggestions for this part of the evening!)
Kristin looked up at him with a little smile and suggested that she would be much more comfortable if they could dance a little less encumbered by clothing. Reaching up, she untied the bow tie that had taken the Professor a good twenty minutes to manage and undid his top button. Her lips fixed in the same inscrutable smile, she helped him with his coat. "Hola, toreo! Hoy, hoy!" she called, waving the coat like a matador's cape. Obliging her, he lowered his horns and charged...right onto the bed. Her fingers flashing, she unbuttoned his shirt and tossed it aside. His socks and shoes and his trousers quickly followed.
Panting slightly from her labors, she bent down and kissed his flaring lats and the muscled valley in which his spine lay. "Now, my handsome young bull, my Taurus, you must do your part," she crooned. Within minutes, they were dancing together, she in nothing save her panties, he only in his briefs. Reaching up, she ran her tongue along his jaw line, into the hollow at the base of his neck, and onto a nipple that had stiffened into a rock-hard nub. Brad looked down in some amazement. He was hard and his briefs were almost transparent with liquid that was seeping from his cock. Rubbing her breasts over his torso as she lowered her body, she gripped the edge of his briefs with her teeth and pulled. Once lowered, she knelt before him, lathing the proud shaft that pulsed before her, pushing the foreskin back over his large helmet-shaped glans with her lips and taking it briefly into her mouth. "Oh, Brad," she sighed. "You are everything your friends said you were. You are simply magnificent!" (Brad's thick chest expanded another quarter of an inch.) "Do you want to make me feel good?" "Oh, yes," Brad breathed. "Just tell me what will give you the most pleasure." "Use your tongue and lips, Brad... right here." With that she drew Brad's hand down to her vagina and helped them both to lie down on her bed.
The young lad realized immediately that he had passed the outer limits of his experience. Oh, that wasn't completely true. One john had asked him to rim him - and it wasn't nearly as bad as he had thought it would be. Ok, the tastes weren't exactly those you would choose for Sunday dinner, but his tongue work had the john going wild and... Well, it just wasn't that bad. Still thoroughly aroused and confident of his blooming jock masculinity, he began to position himself on the bed. (Kristin's fingers were everywhere - all over his broad shoulders and upper torso, his muscular arms, even down onto his tight lower stomach and his swollen genitals.) Steeling himself, he tentatively thrust his tongue into her. Wow, she was every bit as wet as he was. His tongue reached for her clit - and then it struck him. Oh God, that tastes bad...and it smells worse! Kind of a cross between rotting fish and vomit... Instinctively, he reared back and tried to wipe his mouth off on his forearm. Holy shit!
As aroused as he had been, Kristin was shocked. Nevertheless, she wasn't assigned the young ones without reason. "Come on, Braddy, lie back down and I'll rub your back." When that didn't work, she said, "Sometimes sexual smells can be a bit much, but if people care, it can be worked out. Let's take a nice warm shower and relax. Maybe we can try again." Nothing worked. Between Brad's legs there was a thick six- inch noodle, gelatinous and limp...very limp. His confidence was shot all to hell. Why had he ever gotten into this situation? He knew he had preferred males since he had been eleven or twelve! "Kristin, it's just not going to work. I don't know what happened, but I've got to go. I'm so very, very sorry." The young lady said quietly and with commendable compassion, "Apology accepted, Brad. Don't let it get to you. One experience in the sack, one test score, one argument with your boyfriend...it doesn't tell you much...at least enough to get upset about. If you wish, you can go down a fire escape at the end of this hall and avoid the crowds." The thoroughly distressed boy nodded his head in thanks and, averting his eyes, dressed and left as quickly as possible.
To Be Continued