Sequel to
Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk
Category: Gay Male
Tags: Geek Pride, gay sex, friends with benefits, bisexual man, college, cmnm, gay anal, gay blow job, cocksucker, huge cock
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Come the summer, Richie took a few hours off revision, to tease my body mercilessly as a treat before Finals Week. Those long fingers of his aren't just good at manipulating cells -- you could say he's got an affinity for biological tissue in general. Laura, Gareth and the gang threatened to chain me up, to ensure I got to all my exams on time.
Don't know what they were worried about. I'm an alkie, not stupid. I survived those four days on chain-smoking, caffeine and knock-off energy drinks, then I knocked back a shoulder of vodka the minute the last one was over.
For once, I'm actually one of the most sober students around. I watch them all collapse on the grass, hysterical from the sudden end of stress, all tipsy as lords, my usual status as the drunkest one totally inverted. And I've got a degree, even if I don't know what class yet.
It's a new perspective on life: me, someone whose life is sorted. Richie's practically passed out on top of Laura and Sanj, Will and Lindsey are kissing lazily before they fall asleep, Gareth's found some cute second-year to grope, while I look down upon them, my mind clear yet relaxed.
Maybe I
could
cope, not blotting out my thoughts whenever I'm not studying? I got through that one clean time of him fucking me, after all.
Not that that was easy.
It was the first of December, I remember: we'd had college Christmas dinner the night before. I'd not overdone it at the meal because I still had lectures the next day and wanted to finish my project write-up. Which meant that on Friday afternoon I was wrestling with the formatting, my brain as dry as it gets, when I remembered Richie's offer.
So I texted him.
I wasn't really expecting anything more back than a 'Yeah, right, in your dreams, mate!'
Five minutes later, he answered.
'I did say. If you're not wasted, come by and we can experiment.'
Hoo, boy. I'd had one quick shot of vodka, celebrating the end of the references, but somehow I managed to focus during the last spell-check without any more. No drink, just thinking of Richie -- mainly of his giant cock, and how taking it again might affect his giant ego.
I remember my thought process: 'Oh well, the alternative is just getting smashed alone, and I'll be doing that anyway for three weeks, while practically everyone else is away for Christmas.' My sister was sixteen, and swore at me she could fight her own battles, didn't need me any more, so there wasn't any point in going home.
I saved a backup onto five extra floppies, put them in my coat pocket, and braved the drizzle and gales. As so often, Cambridge was freezing from the Arctic wind blowing straight from Siberia, nothing on the flat Fens to block it.
The details of the night all come back to me...
Less than a ten minute walk to Richie's. I take the main stairs, sensibly flat and wide, up to his corridor, where there's a few third years and the offices of some college Fellows, plus a small kitchenette. Rich isn't much into cooking. His living room door is at the far end. His sheet of paper for leaving notes on isn't very full -- I guess when most people get mobile phones, the tradition may die out? Some flyers for events are stuck to the door. It's ajar.
I knock.
"Come in!"
The door is a double, the oak then an inner green-baize door. Excellent for soundproofing, which was part of my degree project. I'm hoping to go into Materials Engineering, while Laura sticks to the Chemistry side. It's strange, not having her by my side in every lecture, though I still have Will and Linz with me; she has Gareth and others. This set of rooms must have belonged to a Fellow until recently, hence the doors, space, and solid furniture. Can't go wrong with a classic Chesterfield sofa in pea-green. Richie's sitting at a huge desk against the long wall, facing me. The roof comes down low at each end, so while the room is huge in terms of floor space, the standing room in the centre is half that.
The twat barely looks up. "Make yourself a cuppa. And me, would you? I just need to finish this one question."
Five minutes later, after I've finished both my tea and my cigarette, he complains, "Will you stop twitching, man?"
"You were the one who insisted on me being sober." I could say, 'call yourself a fucking host?' but he'd only retort that he doesn't.
"It's not my fault you're a fucking alkie. You might as well start practising some new coping mechanisms now as any other day." Harsh bastard.
"Aye, right, I thought I was doing that, coming over to be distracted with sex. What's up -- your cock not enough for it? Chickening out?"
Rude, sure, but he started it. You don't go around calling people alcoholics. Especially when it's true.
"I'm not chicken. I said it was something I wanted to try. Just, I need another ten, fifteen minutes... OK, right, you want distraction? Get your kit off. No, all of it! And put it all neat on that chair -- I don't want to be finding your dirty socks next term!" The bastard looks me up and down.
I'm not chicken neither -- except when I am -- so now I'm standing naked in the middle of his lounge, while he's still fully clothed in multiple layers.
"Huh." He looks disdainful. "Someone else can teach you good posture. You, your job is just to think about sex for the next fifteen minutes. Doesn't have to be about with me, I'm not going to ask. I just want you kneeling down there," -- he points to a spot between desk and window -- "and staying fucking
quiet."
I say nothing, but look up at him in total horror.
"What? What's the problem? Your first role in this experiment is to sit there and shut it. Or fuck off. After that it's easy -- you just lie back and get fucked."
I'm speechless again. He tries to help, going, "Or be fucked in any position you prefer, I'm not fussy." He snorts. "Clearly."
Fucker. That kinda hurts. He doesn't get it, because how could he? Being naked, the whole inappropriateness of the situation threatens to overwhelm me. I rock on my feet, trying to decide whether I need to just grab my clothes and run. I do. I'm about to escape, when he stands up and plants his heavy reassuring hand on my shoulder. I'm a small guy, so it feels huge, all calm and in control.
"One mo." He wanders into his bedroom. I don't follow, worry if I should, but he returns. "Stay there."
He doesn't even look at me. "Your choices are whether you want a plug up your arse, in which case take your pick." He drops three, with condoms and lube, onto the sofa. "Or don't, but either way, sit down and let me get this work done. Quarter hour, max, I promise."
He rubs both hands over my shoulders, a momentary massage, then sits back at his desk, pretending to ignore me. I don't bother to pretend I don't know what the plugs are, nor to take the piss out of him for owning them -- everyone copes with life in their own way. I take the middle-sized plug and slide it fairly easily up my bum, as a distraction. Then I kneel, just like he asked.
Kneeling up is wobbly, but he said down, so I rest my arse on my calves, feeling the plug digging in. It's nice. I try not to think about the bastard watching me out of the corner of his eye, but while I lower my eyes and try to daydream of someone, anyone, else, it's him fucking me last time which comes to mind.
Being used. Being useful. Not fucking everything up, just being embarrassingly drunk. This time, I don't even have that excuse. I mean, what the fuck am I doing, naked in this rather cold room, while some tosser can't even be arsed to fuck me?
I lower my head and shoulders so I can't see him, and try to think of happy times. They're all a blur. Soon I'm hunching with my forearms on my thighs to keep warm, slight input of sensation from my arse, but all I can think about is curling up to hide, hide from him, my life, everyone. But then I'd be failing at kneeling, so I rock back and up again.
I've no idea how long I've been here for. It feels like forever. The breeze gets to my chest, that feeling of cold and just mental wrongness, so I wince. The feeling of wrong, my existence being all wrong, grows. I'm trying to soothe those bad notions, rocking, wanting them to go away, rocking, probably a wee whimper from the fear.
Shit. I'm even failing at getting fucked.
A shadow passes over. My hair is grabbed, which he uses to pull my face upwards. I know I'm flinching.
"Shit, mate! Oi, chill out, OK! Hello? Chill! Hey, relax, ducky. This whole visit is supposed to be fun for you, right?"
I blink, owlishly.
"Come on. Right. What to do, to keep a naked man happy for a little while?"
It's a rhetorical question, but I tell him, "Offer up your body. And a blanket."
He flutters his eyelids, startled. "Cold. Of course. Sorry." He passes me a large, lurid, crocheted blanket from the sofa. "Get that round you." He continues to stare down at me. "You really can't cope with your own thoughts, can you?"
It's an observation, not a judgement. He's not a fucking medic nor Helping Professions type, neither, so I don't try to argue. He's clearly happily treating me as an experimental object. I'm sort of relieved to remember he's the one guy who managed to keep all his fruit flies alive during his practicals.
"Look, I need to finish notes on these review papers before we do anything..." He doesn't want me to leave, which is good, I suppose. A relief. He takes a deep breath. "You know, I've seen films where some guy has someone hiding under the desk, he's getting his cock sucked. D'you want to give that a go?"
I shrug. It's not like I've got better plans. It's funny to think of serious scientist Richie ever watching porn, though.
Turns out, his desk is too low for me to get my head between his legs, even when he hups up and shoves his combats all the way down past his knees. It really doesn't work. Nuzzling his inner thigh would be nice, but I can hardly get my head past his knee.
He pushes himself away from the desk. "Scrap that. Sod it, I'll just read these two papers, then call it a day."
He waddles to the sofa, his eight-hole Docs still on, trousers still round his ankles, but still nonchalant as anything. The tosser sits back with a couple reprint articles. He looks over them at me, just like a fantasy librarian over spectacles, and provokes me. "Go on, then. Prove you're the best cock-sucker in Materials Science."
"Had a lot from us, have you?"
