Tales of 1920: the Scientist

There I was, trousers down, holding my breath so as not to make a sound, with little Worboys Major - no longer little, no; now a strapping twenty-something with a boxer's shoulders and an arse that would make Michelangelo bite his chisel in half - kneeling at my hard cock and threatening not to suck it after all. I couldn't bear it.

"If you stop," I whispered, "I can't be held responsible for what I'll do."

"No?" He blew on the wet tip, nipped it with his lips.

"No," I confirmed. I intended to sound stern but in truth, was pulled tight and starting to wheeze.

"So I shouldn't stop?"

"Don't you dare."

"I see."

He gave the shaft a quick hard squeeze, and, spitting into his palm, jacked it, taking the top of it into his mouth. His other hand worked my balls, nudging, stroking, squeezing, a knuckle pressed hard against my arsehole. He sucked more of me into his mouth, wet with spit, blissful. I breathed carefully, deeply, weeping with the effort of staying silent. But he was humming, some old tune from I don't know when, setting up a vibration, moving his head back and forth.

"Ah," I murmured.

"What?"

I shook my head.

"Push," he whispered, swallowing me again. He moved my hand to that back of his head. I grabbed his hair and held him still, swinging into his mouth while his tongue stroked my cock and his left hand squeezed my balls and his right hand, his right hand slid a long hard finger into my arsehole and hit the spot like a strongman chopping the bell of a high-striker at a country fair. I came closer, hauled taut, biting my lip to stay silent until I tasted blood in my mouth. He sucked and choked, humming all the while, from time to time glancing up at me with those level grey eyes. At the end he gripped my hips and pinned me back against the wall as my come spilled onto his tongue. When he let me go, I sat down, naked arse on the polished floor. He sat back against the other wall, licking it off his lips.

"We're even," I said, when I could talk.

"For now."

"Hm."

He leaned over and drew the holdall and one of the beermugs closer.

"Here." He handed them to me. "Wipe up." He raised the other beer to his mouth, drank half of it in a few gulps.

"Thirsty work," I said.

"Rather. Are you clean?"

"Clean?"

"Clean behind?"

"Oh. Yes." I finished wiping my cock and balls and threw the towel back to him. "Are you?"

"I am. I was planning to go out tonight, you know." He patted the holdall. "This is a change of clothes. I was on my way to the baths when we met."

"Ah."

"Do you ever go in the parks and commons?"

"Yes, from time to time."

"I've never seen you there."

"Perhaps we don't go to the same ones."

"What luck that we ran into one another today, then."

"Yes."

He sat there with his knees spread, his waistcoat dark against the glow of his shirt.

"Will you do something for me," I asked, finishing my beer.

"That rather depends."

"Will you bring yourself off while I watch?"

"Oh, certainly. Here? Can you see? I'd heard you liked this."

"Had you?"

"Guest, you may not have known this at the time, but your circles and mine did overlap at college. I have heard all manner of things. Of course I was too concerned with my degree to find out whether they were true, but here I am now, with some time to spare. Did you know Griffith, at Keble?"

"If you're referring to the Griffith nicknamed Oak, then yes."

"Yes. So did I. He enjoyed this too. He had all manner of smaller men through his rooms, for this. He was too nervous about injuring them to do anything further."

"He had no such concerns with me."

"Did he not?"

"None."

"Do tell."

He eased his prick out of his flies and there it was again: not very long, but thick, winking. He was half-hard already.

"How can I tell if your neighbours will hear?"

"Just keep your voice down and if you hear a crying baby, stop." He plucked at his cap, flicked at his balls. I spoke in a whisper, rapt, watching him.

"Well, I had heard that the Oak was, ah, talented. Fitz knew him well, better than I did, but when I came back for my second year we travelled in the same train and by the time we arrived at Oxford I felt we'd made friends. And of course I'd had a look, as much as one can see through trousers, and established that his reputation was deserved. Very surprising, for he wasn't an unusually big man otherwise. One night a few weeks later I was out with the others and there he was, drinking on his own. He was a little to windward. I, well, saw my chance. Offered to walk him home to make sure he wasn't robbed, or anything."

He was hard now, glistening, his breath beginning to shift. His hand moved in slow rhythm, up and down, softly.

"His rooms, I didn't know where they were exactly, so we got lost once or twice until we found them. I felt him up, then, in dark cloisters, and he laughed and felt me, so I knew we were for it. We found his staircase at last, and got his door open. He fell onto the bed while I looked for a candle, and when I got it lit, he had his clothes off and his drawers down and there it was."

His hand moved faster now, harder, his breath a hissing through his nose. He smiled at me and got onto his knees, settling back with his bum against his heels. His cock jutted up now, dark, beginning to look, as hard cocks do, as though it was alive on its own account.

"So I said, dear God, Griff, what am I supposed to do with that? He suggested I undress, and brought a bottle of oil out from a cupboard. When he moved it stood out before him like the prow of a ship, very dark against his skin. I undressed and when I was naked he laid me on my back on his bed and sucked me, working his fingers into me, first one, then two, three, opening me slowly. He had a glass object and he used that, as well, all very slowly. With oil. I had been taken a few times in the week before so I was not as stiff as I had been, but even so. When he decided I was ready, he lay on his back on the bed and I climbed onto him and let myself onto his cock, oh, so slowly."

"Was it good?" His chest rose and fell swiftly now, his fist an urgent blur at his groin.

"Yes."

"Did it hurt?"

"Yes."

"Was it the biggest you'd had?"

"Yes."

"Who else had you fucked then?"

"At that time there was a rugger Blue, I don't recall his name, who topped me two or three times a week. And I'd had another chap, a town man, on the Meadow the night before. He'd had a donkey prick, I'd thought, until I had the Oak."

"Go on."

"When I had as much of him in me as I could take, we fucked for it a bit, but the bed creaked too much, so I got off him and he had me over his table instead, and when that kept moving, the wall."

"Was it good?"

"It was. I came and he just went on and on until I came again. He came and then fucked me again with his come still dripping from me."

Worboys came then, his jism in a long hot stream onto the floor between us, his hand flogging at his cock until it was all out, pearly drops on the planks and the carpet and the thighs of his trousers. He sat back, flushed.

"Was that what you were after?" he asked.

"Yes."

He tucked himself back into his trousers, buttoned up.

"What would you like to do now? Or have you tired of me?"

"No," I said. "No."

He stood up, steadying himself against the wall, and helped me to my feet.

"Let's go get some dinner, and think about it."