Clue Ch 01

Clue 01

A new take on an old classic Parker Bros game

All characters described in this story, whether game "pieces" or players, are over 18. Parts of the story attempt to duplicate the stream-of-consciousness, freedom from the rigors of sentence and punctuation grammatical rules-- popularized by the Irish novelists of the post-war period, like James Joyce. Copyright ©2024, Brunosden. All rights reserved.

In the first person by Cameron Clay --

"Mr. Green, the gardener, fucked the Earl's youngest son in the Conservatory, over the potting bench, bareback."

The laptop suddenly exploded with a fireworks display and loud explosions backing up an anime of a muscular, dark- haired man, clothed only in an open green plaid flannel shirt, fucking a naked young lad's bubble with passion and determination. The man's muscular butt was pounding into the lad, and the young boy was obviously enjoying the "crime."

"Unbelievable, Cam. You've won again. How do you do it? Every fucking time. You're either cheating. You know the algorhythm. Or we need a handicap."

I was accustomed to such comments and threats. I knew they were idle. They were repeated almost every day after my win. But, never acted on. Let me back up a bit and explain.

I'm a transfer-in junior, majoring in computer engineering and computer graphic arts. This is a fairly new school: Gailord College of Science--the first three letters coming from the major purpose of the curriculum: Games with Artificial Intelligence (GAI). It's April. We are near the end of the year.

It was founded three years ago by Rupert Gaylord, CEO of GAI Enterprises--he was a 34 year old tech billionaire. No one had ever seen him at the school. But, he was nevertheless a legend in the on-line gaming community. GAI was the most successful "real life" gaming producer on the planet.

The physical plant of the college looks old, really old, although it's been around only about 35 years. It was Creation Bible College in Fosterville, VA, roughly mid-way between Richmond and Raleigh. It had been founded by a successful televangelist. He had built a massive stone and timber Neo-Gothic structure, now covered in Virginia creeper, roughly the size of four city blocks--in the wilderness, straddling the border of two states. It was a quad, with a large austere chapel facing east and a grander admin building facing west, the square built out with lower buildings and corner towers to fully enclose the large center greenspace. The structure was designed to permit rigid surveillance of all student activities. It was self-contained and entirely residential. Unfortunately Tommy Foley (the golden-tongued televangelist) was a fraud and a child molester, and he and the school went bankrupt four years ago. Tommy went to jail, and the buildings were scooped up by Rupert. The previous student body was required to re-matriculate elsewhere.

The chapel had been unceremoniously "deconsecrated" and converted to a large computer lab--where students worshipped the ever-growing god of technology. The quad consisted of two floors of rooms over ground level. Basement classrooms were spread around the perimeter of the quad. The corner towers held study halls (and, it was said, but never proven, dungeons). A large student union stood (actually it was mostly underground) in the center, reached by underground tunnels.

I've been here a year--this is my second. Virtually all of us are transfers in with industry experience and educational credits. There are currently about 300 of us--about 200 guys and 100 women. Gailord plans to double in size, but it is doing so slowly.

There aren't many faculty members, as so much is handled with electronic teaching--teaching continuously updated by AI. Cross-education by students is the norm. There is no tuition. Instead, each of us is expected to devote time to creating and programming for the owner's further commercial exploitation. Thus, all of us are "work-study" and resident.

Typical of the general population, about 40 of us belong to the LGTBQ+ Society and there are doubtless others--closeted or curious.

Now to the game....

The student union is a haven for computer geeks. It consists of a large food court surrounded by study and game rooms. It imitates the glass pyramids of the Louvre--so almost everything is underground except the food court and the side rooms are lit by the pyramidal skylights. The pastoral green with its two to three story perimeter structures is in sharp contrast to the technical capacity of the rooms down below.

We are engaged in the current game-rage on campus--not yet released to the public, based on the classic Parker Bros "Clue." There are threee versions: one is PG, one, hetero, one, homo. The board itself has touch-activated squares, reached with the throw of an octagonal die. It is linked Bluetooth to a laptop. Clue had been adapted at Gaylord, and again by the gay community (although the PG and hetero versions are about to hit the street). The folding board has the map of a large old estate with multiple rooms, gardens and outbuildings. As in the classic, the players attempt to guess the crime scenario: the perp (in our case, the top, the victim (bottom), the technique used, the place, and the "instrument" used. The player pieces are various colors of lifelike dildos.

Rounds of the game see most of the inhabitants of the estate on the game board coupling in various rooms, using a variety of positions to get off. The gardener, the butler, the chef, the groomsman, the limo driver and the Earl himself. And then there are the bottoms: the mechanic, the landscape helper, the trainer, the security chief, and both of the Earl's 20-something sons. It is a classic porn game with lots of anime exhibitionism and sexual foreplay--until one player solves the "crime." The laptop "listens" to the solution, and, using AI, proclaims a winner (or remains silent, condemning a loser to loss).

Recently, the players have added more interest by adding a strip component (perhaps to open a clue--almost every turn required the "payment" of some item of clothing) and truth or dare foreplay in the sharing of clues. Some mislead; others bluff. On any given night after dinner, several games were being played simultaneously in separate rooms. The entire place had a Silicon Valley atmosphere. IPAs (the local Heady-Cocked Rooster) and snacks were always available--to "keep up our energy."

Players proceeded around the board, picking up private clues (often at the cost of an article of clothing or paying with a stroke, blow, or a French). We had developed another rule to insure equality--everyone started with two shoes or flip-flops, a tee, shorts and a jock. Nothing else was permitted--and so most of us were nude before the game ended.

Winning produced two results: the laptop fireworks display and anime re-enactment, confirming the win. Then the winner got to select one of the other players as his partner for the rest of the night.

I'm Cameron Clay, 22, a tech whiz and artist from South Carolina. I retain remnants of my Charleston accent--a unique blend of sexy southern drawl and Down-East Maine Elizabethan. It is totally unique in the US and, I'm told, very seductive. I was raised in the permissive Deep South where we chased tail until she caught us. Then she frustrated the shit out of us by making out passionately, but refusing to touch or be touched by anything important--that is, naked flesh below the waist. That was my hetero period.

I was also a bad boy prankster, and that, together with my Dad's irrational fear that I might be a little fey, resulted in my attending military school. Little did he imagine that the all-male atmosphere there meant that the guys were up for anything--except maybe anal. That's where I definitely discovered myself. I'm gay. I love the male body--particularly its reproductive equipment and the potential of its orifices. And as is typical, that means I'm in shape, clean, groomed and ready for adventure 24/7. I'm almost 6 foot, a curly towhead (blonde at birth, gradually turning darker, now with sunny out-of-the-bottle highlights), with watery blue bedroom eyes and a deep all-year tan. Slim and six-packed. Decent uncut "showy" genitals. No one has ever complained. A brilliant graphic artist. And, apparently pretty good at game logic.

Two years at SCAD sharpened my graphic skills and broadened my horizons of what I could get away with when seducing cute Southern boys who hadn't yet made up their sexual minds. Being vers didn't hurt. At Gailord, I was always welcome around the game table with the hottest hunks on campus.

I'm really pretty good at this game. So I typically look at the teams as they are forming--based on whom I might like to spend the night with. For the last month, the group has always included a cute ginger from County Cork with sexiest accent (and bubble butt) I've ever encountered. Declan "Dec" Harley. He seems to enjoy losing, despite his intelligence and obvious familiarity with the game. At least to me. He's probably a confirmed bottom-in-training. And I'm not a bad instructor.

He was inexperienced, probably a virgin, when he arrived at Gailord. So I had to compete in his seduction. It took months. He wasn't ready to give up his innocence--or share his sexuality--with his new American classmates. There are lots of aggressive hawks prowling around the Student Union. All predators. I succeeded with flattery and a talented tongue. Yeah, both for seductive talk and other relevant activities. I touched him whenever possible--casual-like. I was always in his space. Then it got a little more intimate. A provocative suck on his nape, the tip of my tongue playing with his ear lobe, lips clamped to his cute little nipples as the tongue twerked.

Ultimately, he allowed me in as a tutor. He was no twink--fortunately, not what I typically want. He was a lean farmer's son with the muscles of hard work. I didn't cum on too dom. I took it slow. Teasing. I've even let him experiment with my ass and my balls a few times and finally he let me in. He's definitely getting the "hang" of my talents. And he's got the most incredibly useful tongue.

I've just won our game of the evening. It's late. So there won't be a replay. All of us were down to jocks or less. When I solved, the laptop came to life. It was raucous in its re-enactment of the crime. The Earl's son, a confirmed bottom, was a pale big-dicked ginger with an exaggerated bubble. And I noticed that Dec, his doppelganger, was chubbed and primed. He knew he was mine again for the night. I guess I was going to be the gardener. I always did like to plant.

In victory, I pointed to Dec, and the other two players groaned unconvincingly. They knew what I wanted--and where we were headed. My room. We slipped on tees and shorts for the underground journey. Just for the short walk.

He was so fucking innocent looking with that "who me?" expression. As though he didn't know what was cuming. Walking in front of me, leading the way, free-balling and swaying his ass seductively from side to side, inside the silky tight shorts as he took long masculine strides. A muscular man-boy with a good sense of seduction. Fuck! What a tease. I was hard (again and instantly). I almost caught up to him in the dark corridor and took him against the wall.

As I said, he was not a twink. Nor dumb boy-pussy. Masculine, athletic--the kind of guy you think you have to turn to get inside. The challenge was terrific. The chase is always great foreplay. Dec had led me on a very exciting chase. Until he let me catch him. That a story for another chapter.

He was actually a very good coder. And with the archetypal gift for language and humor of his storied countrymen. Just my type. A vocal intelligent man-boy with light muscles and a tight chute.

We entered my room, and I slammed him against the wall. My hands slipped below his waistband and massaged his muscled little ass. As I kneaded, his arms went around my neck and our lips met. He opened and my tongue invaded, sweeping inside. He moaned and pushed his hard dick into my gut, stroking it over my cut abs. We were pretty evenly matched. Maybe a little over average--7 or 8? Depends on the arousal. Both uncut. I was thicker but not by much. And he was definitely a grower--and a leaker. But, I knew he was mine--at least for tonight. My starvation was about to be sated. I forced him hard against the wall and his legs rose to encircle my waist.

I back-stepped him to my bed and pushed him onto it while simultaneously removing his gym shorts. They hung briefly on his cock, but he launched his hungry ass from the mattress, and I pulled them off as it snapped back and hit his gut, splashing a drop or two or precum. He was as anxious as I, smiling and clawing at my nipples. I felt the lightning strike down my spine--and my dick popped up in response. I stood back, pushed my shorts down, vee-d his legs, and dove in.

He had the most beautiful cock in the world. Long. Thin. The hood retracted nicely around his arousal, forming a pleasant wrinkly ring around the deep mauve head, seeping pre-cum. His manhood stood hard and long, arising from a soft bush of rusty tended pubes and a sack holding two wrinkly kiwis. Really moist with pre-cum. Inviting lips to suckle. Blue veining showing through the tight covering. The pronounced tube bulging from the underside. A shaft of towering strength rising from a fiery bush of passion. Pure poetry. Pure drama. Perfect.

I inhaled the head and tasted the precum with its enticing aroma of musk as my tongue pushed down the hood. My tongue swirled as Dec squirmed and lofted his ass from the bedding, trying to deepen his penetration into my mouth and throat. Already face-fucking me. Talented, anxious boy.

I used his position to probe his rim with a lubed finger, pushing in deeply as he gasped in pleasure. Then it was a second, both scraping his nut, petting it like a favored pup. A thumb on the taint completed the prostate squeeze as I tasted the milk as it seeped out. So I deep-throated, and he came alive.

Dec rose farther from the bed, rolling back and pushing deep into me. His forearms were batting the bed, eyes closed tight, and lips in a grimace of passion--in unusual (for him) silent foreplay. Normally, he was really vocal.

I decided to let him blast. I'd take my own pleasure in a few. So I kept up the pressure. I squeezed on the taint, stroked the nut; then circled the base and tightened. The consequences were predictable. His whole body shuddered and stiffened as his spunk rose up the shaft and shot deep into my throat. I pulled back after the first shot--I wanted a taste of his honey cum. After a half dozen spurts, he fell silent back to the bed. So I stretched out behind him and pulled him into a tight spoon--my rigid cock in his cleft as a reminder that we weren't done yet.

"Fuck, Cam. You are the best. You suck better than a fuckin carpet sweeper. Sometimes I think I throw the games to lose to you. Give me a coupla and we can go again. I want that dick inside me."

He rolled forward a little and shot his leg forward, positioning to take CJ when I wanted. I looked down to survey his naked flesh stretched out before me. His hairless rounded globes glowed blue-white in the moonlit room, like two mounds of sand separated by a cleft. The closest was tatted with a delicate freen-inked clover. Such a photo should be memorialized in the Louvre. Or maybe Trinity Dublin's room of illuminated masterpieces.

But, I wanted more than visual stimulus. I was still hard and full. I diddled his tits to speed his recovery, anxious to plunder such beauty. It wasn't long--but I never lost my rigid erection, aching with denied relief. His mounds began to move. To elevate like the shifting sand dunes of the Sahara. He pushed them provocatively from the bed. Fuck they were perfect, creamy white with just a few freckles. I reached over a lubed finger to grease the entrance. It was already a delicate pulsing rosebud. It opened for me, and I penetrated his quiver. What a nice word--a quiver to hold and keep my weapon of love. So I added a second digit as he hissed a series of Celtic syllables. I didn't know exactly what they meant, but they sounded sexy--and I knew what he was feeling.

So I withdrew the fingers and slowly began to slide my cock into the welcoming sleeve, stopping to touch and crowd his wrinkled knob of pleasure. We both stilled, relishing the pleasure waves spreading through both of us as my expert cock throbbed against it. His words continued. Slow and drawn out. A mixture of English and Celtic--the murmurings of the erotic poetry that the Irish from Lawrence to Eliot to Joyce have perfected.

"Yes, deeper. I love you inside me love. Fill me with your hot tool, love. Hoe that furrow. Plant my garden. Cum on lover, you can do it. Deeper Yes There Again Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph, that's sooo good. Give me that seed. I need it so badly."

Doing Dec was never just a fuck. It was making love to a man capable of the deepest feelings. He always took me down into his Joycean depths of total sensuous release and liberation--and he had the gift to narrate it!

"Forget the world. Forget time. Just feel the moment. Feel what it means to empty yourself into your lover. Feel me tighten around you, embrace you as you take me. Feel the squeeze. Feel it. Yes, fuck. There. Again harder. Deeper. Stroke. Like that. Now. Again. Oh fucking Jesus that feels so good. CJ, you're so good to me. So good for me. There. Oh fuck!"

At that moment, it hit me. I realized he was whispering to CJ, my cock, not me. He had given it life and personality--and made it his best friend.

Suddenly he rose up from the bed, and rolled back onto me, pushing me to the bed and my dick deeper into his ass. I responded by thrusting my hips up, pushing even deeper while holding his gut tight to me and grabbing his rigid cock. He groaned in appreciation. He had switched from communing with my dick back to me. I pushed through his innermost defense, releasing another splash of lube to ease my thrusts. His head turned and our lips touched as he murmured his surrender yet again. I stroked him harder, then cupped his balls and pressed on the taint. He began to sing the mountain Celtic keen of surrender and climax. I gripped his dick hard and felt his sperm moving up the shaft as my own blasted deep inside. He had taken both of us over the edge.

Blast after blast. His and mine. Hot viscous cream so full of life and potential. When I'm in him, it's never enough. He always drains me and leaves me wanting even more of his sensuous body and delicious ass. All the way to dry spasms. Oh fuck, I think I'm in love. No, I know that I am. I want my cock to live in this ass. And my fist belongs around this stiff cock.

Minutes later, I pushed him back and spread protectively over him. Still hard and inside. He contracted his muscles a few last times, perhaps automatically, drawing out those last drops. Then, there was silence, but it was pregnant with his touch, our aroma and the feel of my spent dick inside his chute. As we both escaped to the paradise of a joint erotic dreamland.

*******

I awakened the next morning, alone in bed. Dec had an early class, but had left his musky smell on my pillow and evidence of our cum on the sheets. I almost succumbed, but knew that I too had a class--and there would be yet another night. Maybe tonight. It was time to justify my presence at Gailord.

Morning classes were labs. Advanced experiments attempting to create ever-more realistic beings--with fluid bodily motions and realistic, responsive and intelligent speech. Fuck, who was I kidding. We weren't creating mime beings. We were creating gods--better, more intelligent and eternal--unlike their human creators. They were super mortals. We had turned the tables. We had been taught in Sunday school that we were the created--but here we were at what had been Creation Bible--creating--and creating more than we ourselves would ever be.