Undergraduate Experiments: Sober

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?"

"No," Richie lies smoothly, seeing as he's been enjoying Laura since the summer after first year, and I hear there's been at least a couple others. "I was just taking Gareth's word for it."

Glad Gareth's constantly-flapping gossipy tongue gets some things in my favour. Anyway, I've been aching to get my mouth on this great big cock again, and here it is, bang in front of my face.

Mm-mm, it's good! I'm careful, getting my teeth over his head. The thickness of his shaft strains my jaw. He tastes so good. Manly, I suppose. Gareth's pretty similar, just that hint of different soap under the meat flavour, same subtle aroma of piss and jizz.

I'm doing well at distracting him. I swear he hardly skimmed the last two pages, and I don't mean the references section. He tries to start reading the second paper while I practice deep-throating. It's not like I care about making a good impression on him, so it won't matter if I cough, like I always have when I've tried before.

It's easier than I thought, given this decent angle, to push his dick past my tonsils.

This must be the filthiest thing I've ever done in my life, nigh on choking myself with a man's thick penis.

That's some challenge, actually, given it's only been downhill since I lost my virginity at the same time as a couple mates from sixth-form, with the cheapest whore we could find in West Belfast, the three of us taking turns in a seedy hotel clearly desperate to be blown up by the Provos so they could claim on the insurance. I went last, stiff as steel from watching both lads with this scrawny bottle-blonde junkie. It wasn't her who made me hard, that night, though many a girl has since. Get drunk, make a blunt offer with a great big smile; blue eyes and Irish accent; women love it. Well, some do. Others, like Laura, are too fucking sensible.

I'm panting, aroused, only no air's coming in. I can't think. I start to panic, pushing at the sofa with my hands.

Then there's a gentle hand stroking my head. Anyone would think I'm a nervous dog. "There, there. OK? It's OK. Breathe through your nose. Nose! In through your nose, out through your nose! In... There we go, pet. Breathe in... You're doing so well."

I manage to calm down, swallowing around his meat that's stuffing my throat full, for once not resenting him being a patronising git.

He's chucked away the paper he was pretending to read.

I don't know if I can keep going, what with this feeling of being choked, but having my hair stroked is kinda nice. I try to focus on that. I move my head up and down a bit to encourage him to thrust away.

Dying with a dick in my mouth would be rather appropriate.

Instead, the fella pushes my chin away, extracting a few inches of himself from my jaw, so it's just that fat head of his straining my face muscles, now. I whine over the loss. Turns out, you can't howl much when you've got your mouth that full.

I guess he liked that desperate, needy noise, because next thing I know my mouth is flooded with his jizz, fucking loads of it, all thick and gooey and sweet-sour. I even swallow, because I'm a good boy sometimes, but it still streams down my chin on both sides.

I'm careful letting him go, slurping as I do. Then I sit back so I can wipe off my face, using my arm. He leans back too. He seems relaxed, but not suddenly exhausted or anything.

He doesn't move to adjust his clothes, even, just nods. "Cheers."

"Cheers? Is that all you've got to say?"

He shrugs. "You want marks out of ten? Huh? Maybe an eight or nine; could have teased me longer."

"You utter bastard."

"Good attempt, though," he back-pedals, in what he clearly thinks is supposed to be a compliment.

"Uh-huh. You think you could do better?" I glance down at my cock, painfully aware again that I'm bare-arse naked and he isn't. He just has to pull his trousers back up to be fully dressed.

"No, I know I couldn't. I'm not very interested in practising." You have to give the tosser some credit for his honesty. He goes on, "I thought you wanted to get fucked?"

"I could handle both, so I could."

"I have my limitations," he says, all cheerful at admitting them. "But I don't break promises." He stretches, then stands, pulling his trousers up over his arse again but not bothering to do them up. "Fancy another cuppa?"

"I fancy something stronger than that."

"I know you do, but tea's all you're getting."

I'm itching from this daft blanket round me, so I toss it away and scratch. Then hug myself again, all shivery.

"Are you actually cold, or just having withdrawal symptoms?"

I don't bother answering, just flick two vicious fingers up at him. One thing with Richie, he's rude and tactless, but he takes it from others; he's not a hypocrite.

He pulls off his dark-red hoodie and chucks it at me. I put it on. He's lanky enough that it covers my arse. I sit on his leather sofa and hunch my knees up inside the fuzzy fabric. That butt plug presses nicely inside me; I don't mention it.

He passes me a mug. We drink tea in silence for five minutes or so before he speaks. "Better?"

"Better than the maroon looked on you, you fucking ginger."

His hair's not that bright red, more red-blond, so not really a colour clash, but any chance to insult the smug git.

"Irish pisshead," he replies lightly. "We know where we stand, then. Drink up, if you want us to adjourn to the other room and let me figure out how to satisfy you."

"'Adjourn!' Swallowed a dictionary, did ye now? Pretentious sod."

He blinks. It's hard to tell on that impassive face, but I think I might've actually upset the guy. Quite an achievement, that. I feel even more of a cunt.

Then his eyes do that minuscule crinkling smile thing he does. He's thought of a comeback. "No. You're the expert at swallowing."

I'll give him that, and nod. "Come on, then." I stand up, bottom of the hoodie brushing my cock and balls. I step carefully up the two steps and down into his bedroom. I'd never have chosen these rooms -- these stairs are fucking annoying me already. There must be a joist or girder of some sort running under the wee doorway. The bedroom would have been an attic, maybe some servant's room, originally, but with the door to the big room, maybe for a valet? Who knows?

"On the bed, you." He pulls out a box of latex gloves. Nicked from his lab, of course. One hundred gloves, powdered, size XL.

"Don't want to actually touch me?"

He rolls his eyes. "Are you telling me you've shat yourself empty, done an enema, and your arse is as clean as fresh-fallen snow? No? Exactly. I don't want a fascinating microbiology project under my fingernails, ta. And you don't want to get scratched inside, neither. Yeah, on your back. But get rid of that top -- I'm not fucking anyone in sports-fetish-wear."

"It's your top."

"I know. It's warm and well comfy, but I'm not pretending it's sexy."

"You'll have to keep me warm, then. Go on. Take your own clothes off."

"You're not getting off on the whole naked man, clothed man dichotomy, then?" Another of those 'casual' questions of his.

I'm guessing dichotomy means difference, the pompous wanker. He's saying it offhand, which seems to be his humour. Along with treating me like a bug in a Petri dish.

"Not really." I could, if he were really into me, but we both know he isn't. I'm just a curiosity with a snug wee hole.

"Fair enough." He sits down by my feet and begins to unlace a boot. "I'm guessing you wouldn't enjoy kneeling at my feet and getting these off for me, neither?"

I oblige, just to surprise the fucker.

He seems surprisingly pleased, in his silent way. I'm starting to think he's a right kinky bastard. As if experimenting with fucking a man he's not really into wasn't twisted enough. I'm not judging -- I'm going along with it, aren't I?

Both boots put to the side, his socks off, I figure I might as well continue, removing his dark green turtle-neck, which is a good colour on him, not that I'm saying anything out loud. An old black T-shirt is underneath. He clearly feels the damp cold as much as I do. Good. He can shiver with me until we warm ourselves up.

Richie tilts his head to tell me to get back on the bed. He removes his combats. Both of us naked, now.

His tall pale body really is gorgeous. I don't think he really knows that. I'm sure not telling him.

He lies down next to me, only further down the bed, but it's close enough to make me feel warm.

He shuffles down further, head on my chest.

"Do you want me to turn over? Hide the cock and help you pretend I'm a woman?"

He seems almost offended. "I do know perfectly well who you are, Adrian. I want to see your face."

There's a first. I stay on my back, legs akimbo.

He gloves up his right hand, adds a few pumps of lubricant to it -- that squelching noise is pure filth in itself -- hurls that butt plug at the basin where it clanks, and rubs the goo round my arse.

I take his finger easily, and grin up at him. And another. It's beautiful. He's not a bad bastard, really.

"You're liking that. What about like this?" He bends his fingers.