by Riley Meyer
Fuck yes, I remember thinking.
Not playing it slow any longer, I let my hands free under his shirt, grabbing at his chest hair and up to his hard nipples, at his hips and the cheeks of his arse, which were just as mouth-wateringly solid as I’d expected.
It took a moment for Mark to realise that I wasn’t going to break, that unlike some of the porcelain girls he’d been with I could take a pummelling, but when he realised, he pushed me roughly into him, grinding his chests and hips against mine.
I think it was him who pushed us into the cubicle behind us, dislodging a drag queen who was smoking against the nearby wall and let off a small litany of complaints that neither of us paid any attention to.
It was there, in the cramped half-dark space of the cubicle that I started whispering sweet nothings to him. And by sweet nothings I mean the filthiest stuff my twenty-one years of imagination had managed to come up with.
I didn't know what I wanted to do first—to bury myself in his neck and take in the smell of him or to go back for more from his lips—I felt like a kid in the candy shop.
Maybe that was why I went for his nipples, one and then the other, nibbling the hard points in their swirls of hair until he let out a groan somewhere between woah and ugh. Between each bite, I told him what I wanted from him: his fat cock slapped on my face, to lick the sweat off his balls. My dick was rock hard in my trousers and it’d found Mark’s own steel bulge like a magnet turning to its north pole. Far out, his dick was straining at his chinos like he was putting up a marquee.
But that didn't stop him from pulling back a moment later, his dark eyes filling with doubt and panic.
“But I’m not gay."
I looked at him straight in the eyes. With our two dicks already grinding against each other in the bathroom of a gay club, it felt like a moot point. Whether he was “gay” or not was the most irrelevant thing in the world. He might as well have asked what the weather forecast was—his dick couldn’t have been any clearer about what it wanted if it’d been a weather vane.
He was pressed up against the cistern as if I’d herded him into the corner, as though with all his stacked muscle he couldn’t flick me out of the way if he wanted to. But I was in charge here: this was new to him. I’d half torn open his shirt and his chest, swirled with hairs, heaved, glistening with the salvia my tongue had left in its wake.
When I gave my reply, it was invested with all the sincerity those few words could carry and the all conviction I could muster:
“Who cares? Now, can I suck your dick?”
His dark eyes drilled into mine and then ran over my body, as if weighing me up. His chest rose and fell.
Then he sucked in his bottom lip and nodded, ever so gently:
“Uh-huh,” he said.
That was all the invitation I needed. I pulled his hips towards me and sank to the ground.
Confronted eye to eye with his bulge, I knew I was in for a challenge. But I was always one for self-improvement.
I bit at the shaft through his chinos, leaving teeth marks of salvia along the thick indent and feeling just how hard it was underneath.
Mark groaned, rolling his head from side to side and running his hands through my hair, gripping it to pull me closer into him.
If he thinks this is good, I thought, as I pulled open his trousers to reveal his black boxers. A tight, expensive, sports number, complete with his cock head just peeking out of the elastic band and nuzzling into the thick black line of his snail-trail.
“Fuck,” I said, my voice so low it was almost a growl.
Slowly, like a groom lifting a bride’s veil at the altar, I lowered the band of his boxers. Mark’s dick swung out to point directly at me. So thick that it couldn’t entirely get away from gravity, it aimed directly at me, its pink head leaking a line of precum. And underneath that, a pair of the lowest hanging balls I’d seen outside the farm.
Spoiled for choice, I started with them first, licking at the bottom of his sack and then up into the toussled darkness behind it.
Mark tensed and made a sound like a groan, one of his hands gripped my hair and another my shoulder, not sure whether to stop me or shove me deeper in.
I slowed down. I licked once and then pulled back to blow cold air on the drying saliva. His right leg shook with the pleasure. Well, if he wanted it...
I put each ball in my mouth, licking and gently sucking, tearing little groans of pleasure and surprise out of him. They tasted of salt, dick and sex.
And then I pushed them aside entirely, burying my face and tongue into the gap between his legs to lick up into his crack, all the while feeling his dick push its metal way through my hair.
“Ah, AHH—what are you doing?”
I didn’t answer, but nibbled on the skin of his taint, making his legs wobble like a house coming down around me. I licked up, pushing hair aside with my tongue like it was a machete and I was an explorer in the jungle—until I finally felt the tight ring of flesh. Then his legs were like a bloody earthquake. He let out a series of juddering breaths like a child recovering from a tantrum.
“Quick, suck me,” he said, “I want you to suck me.”
I pulled back and looked at him.
That angle, his thick meat in the foreground and his wide eyes, reddened cheeks staring down from above, felt like a fucking Kodak moment. I let myself take it in, and then I buried my head in his crotch, taking in the musty scent of him and nibbling at the base of his dick knowing soon enough it would be buried in my throat.
Mark took his cock in his hand and rubbed it against me, slapping it on one cheek and then another, painting the precum over my chin and down my neck. All the while, he was biting his bottom lip, his eyes hooded and focused like he was solving a maths problem, or trying to remember how to spell bureaucracy.
It was bloody adorable and I felt my dick straining for attention. Already my trousers were halfway down my boxers, leaving a white cotton crescent of my arse hanging out as I knelt before Mark.
He ran his cock over my forehead and then pushed its whole length against me. In answer, I darted my tongue over the base of his shaft and his balls.
Now I was the one desperate to suck it. He’d wrested back control. But I wasn’t complaining.
I put his cock in my hand and was surprised at how hot—and how hard—it was. As I rolled his foreskin down, his head immediately shot back in pleasure. I milked out the precum so that it gathered at the end of his dark pink head and opened my mouth to catch the drop.
Just as I felt it hit my tongue, the cubicle door behind us burst open. I turned around, Mark’s cock still firmly in my fist, to see a stubby but substantial security guard standing in the threshold of the cubicle.
“OUT!” he yelled and then took a step back when he saw what was happening in our dim cubicle, “Jesus Christ. Bar’s closing. Put that away, Jesus.”
Mark reacted like a surprised cat. His dick went soft and his pants up quicker than you could say snapped.
I, meanwhile, sighed and stood up reluctantly, pulling up my trousers and taking one last questing look as Mark’s chest as his buttons went up like the iron curtain.
At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever get another eyeful of those perfect, flat nipples. Before I could say his name, he’d dodged past me and out of the bathroom.
We quickly got separated in the crowd as everyone was herded out of the club. Mark'd probably made his escape in the confusion. I knew from experience that being caught had the sobering effect of an icy bucket of water.
I made my slow way out of the club, avoiding the security guard who I saw gesticulating to one of the bar staff—no doubt complaining about frisky patrons in the toilets. I didn’t know what his problem was. If I’d caught a look at what was happening in that cubicle from the outside, that would keep my mind well occupied for at least a week.
Finally, I stepped out into the chill of October Oxford air. I could feel the sweat drying on my chest and back and knew I’d be
cold in a few minutes.
With no sign of Mark anywhere, I fished out my phone and started walking back towards college. I had a series of increasingly incomprehensible messages from an unknown contact on Facebook. I looked in my Other inbox and saw that it was Maura.
The messages made so little sense that for a moment I was worried, until I got to the end and found a photo of her lying on her bed in her room, her makeup half-run off her face but complete with her attempt at a sexy pout on her face. Guess I didn’t have to worry about her.
Pocket *rocket emoji* lost in orbit, read the last message.
So, that made two of us going home alone and disappointed.
I put my phone away and then got it out again when I realised I had forgotten to check the time: it was past 3am.
I walked down Cornmarket, bypassing the homeless people yelling at each other and looking with interest at some of the students who were managing to look and sound incredibly posh even ten drinks down and standing in a massive line for the McDonalds.
There was something about them, a sheen or a glow, something about their clothes, their Queen’s English, their halo of confidence, that marked them out for the upper classes.
I thought back to Mark when he’d say “But I’m not gay”, with the neat, clipped accent that would have made him perfect for a BBC news report and couldn’t help but smile. There was still the slick feeling of pre-cum in my boxers. So close...
I decided to walk the scenic route and made my way down the almost totally pitch black Brasenose Lane towards Radcliffe square. On either side of me rose the imposing ancient walls of the colleges, Exeter on my left, Brasenose itself on my right. How many people had walked drunk down this street at three in the morning, over how many centuries? And how many had done it thinking about a rugby player’s thick cock?
I had no illusions that I was the first. In fact, I was happy to be in what I imagined to be a very rich tapestry of sin and depravity. If I had a drink in my hand, I would have made a toast to the many workmen who’d been hustled into the college rooms of an undergraduate or fellow for a bit of an extra-curricular during their smokos.
As the Radcliffe Camera came into view and all of Radcliffe square, with St Mary’s Church, the Bodleian opposite, and the All Souls Library all lit in front of me, I felt a sudden wave of emotion threatening to overwhelm me.
Here I was, where I never thought I’d be. All of it was deserted, all of it was mine. This wasn’t just fangirling. I literally felt like I had dropped out of the real world—a world filled with dirt under your fingernails, milking sheds, stubbies and polar fleeces—into this fairy-tale land where elegant people moved between these beautiful buildings filled with a higher purpose: learning, knowledge, inquiry. Maybe that was naive, but it was a naivete I wanted to make the most of before I became a cynic.
For those posh students on Cornmarket, this might have seemed like a given from the moment they were born, the inevitable outcome of a life of privilege and connections. But for me, it was a miracle. A long line of people stretching into the past had built up these buildings and these institutions which I, for three years at least, was allowed to be a small, fleeting part of. It felt like someone had intervened in the path of my life and sent it down a completely unexpected direction, like a kid building channels at the beach.
“Hey,” said a low voice.
I looked around, unable to identify the source of the sound which echoed amongst the cobbles and stone.
“I was hoping you’d come back this way.”
Then I saw him—Mark—sat on the stairs that led into the Bodleian courtyard, leaning against the locked gated, his forearms resting on his knees. I saw his teeth glint through the half-light when he smiled. It was perfectly quiet in the square except for my heart booming in my chest.
“I thought you’d run away,” I said, approaching him, the sound of my footsteps and my heartbeat resounding in my ears.
“Not going to lie,” Mark replied, “definitely considered it.”
“Oh yeah? What changed your mind?”
He shrugged, looking at his hands.
“Was thinking about what you said.”
“What did I say?” I was standing in front of him now, hands in my pockets, cheeky grin plastered on my features.
“That it didn’t matter that I wasn’t gay. Which I’m not by the way.”
“It doesn’t. Matter, that is.”
He tilted his head from side to side, as if to say, maybe.
“And I’m not a soft boy, either.”
I laughed: “I sure didn’t feel anything soft.”
“I mean it. I’m not a fucking hipster.”
“OK,” I said, placating. This guy had some issues.
“You won’t—,” his voice was quieter now, “you won’t tell anyone about this will you?”
“About what happened before,” I asked, “or what’s going to happen now?”
He shook his head, disbelieving.
“You’re something, Rafe.”
My dick stirred hearing my name on his lips.
“Cheers”.
“I could tell you wanted this from the moment I saw you,” he said, almost in a whisper, “in the way you looked at me.”
“And I could tell you’d let me have you.”
He frowned and fixed me with a serious look:
“I’m trusting you not to say anything.”
“I won’t say anything.”
He nodded, still staring at me with his dark eyes, thinking.
Then, ever so slowly, he looked down and parted his knees, revealing the tight fabric covering his crotch.
My breath caught in my throat.
Mark's hand moved to his waist and he flicked open the top button and then the next one and then the next. I saw the black shadow of his boxers and a deeper shadow within. Then he pulled the band of these down, letting his cock bounce out in a flash of pale skin against the dark backdrop of his shirt and underwear. He tucked the band deep under his balls, pulling them out so that they were on full display.
Finally, he looked back up at me.
‘Suck it,” he ordered.
*
Even though my head was pounding like a white guy with dreads on a bongo set and even though I’d had about three hours sleep, as I lay there in my bed that morning piecing the night back together, I still felt myself get just a little bit hard when I remembered how Mark had said those words: Suck it.
Everything had dropped away.
I’d knelt in front of him and without any build-up, taken the bulb of his head in my mouth. After being interrupted once, I didn’t want to waste any time.
My tongue swirled underneath his foreskin, hungry for the salty precum, and then moved up to probe the opening, attentive for the next drops. Mark’s head shot back so hard it made the gate behind him rattle.
Fuck fuck fuck went the chorus of his voice.
To anyone listening, it would have been impossible to tell whether he was in pain or ecstasy, but as I took his whole length deep into my mouth and throat, I could feel him pulsing his approval.
It wasn’t long until that pulsing took on a faster and faster rhythm and I could tell he was about to come. I palmed his balls and taint, diving down time and time again over his full length and burying my nose in his pubes.
“I’m gonna—” he said, gripping my head and holding me in place, his cock deep in my throat.
He didn’t have to tell me twice. A low, guttural sound emanated from him and I licked at his cock head as hot strings began to shoot off inside my mouth. I clamped my lips around his shaft, wanting every drop. He was shaking, thrusting forward and back between the steel gate and the steel loop of my lips until finally he was exhausted and he slouched, his arse slipping halfway down a stair, legs wide apart, totally spent.
He let out a long, shaking sigh.
I licked at his head and he gasped, sensitive. I lifted my head to take a good long look at him. His trousers and boxers we
re halfway down his thighs. His still-hard cock lolled to the side and dripped cum. His eyes were shut and his cheeks were red, upturned to the night sky as though invoking some minor deity.
I moved to sit over his hips and pulled his head in for a kiss. Mark let himself be kissed, let his mouth open and receive the dregs of his own cum from my waiting tongue. I felt his wet cock rubbing up against my arse through my jeans. Next time, I thought. Please god, let there be a next time.
“Alright, alright,” Mark said, pushing me off, but playfully.
I stood up and helped him up. He swallowed with a look of disgust on his face.
“How can you swallow that shit?”
“Because I’m still hard.”
“Oh, right. Do you want me to...?”
“Let’s get back to college first. I’m bloody freezing.”
He nodded, looking down as he tucked his junk into his trousers and buttoned up.
Across the square, I heard two girls drunkenly stumbling on the cobbles, talking at the top of their lungs.
“Do you think they saw us?” Mark asked, voice filled with concern.
“Come on, you muppet."
*
By the time we’d gotten home, it had become clear just how much the drink was affecting Mark. It wasn’t that he was drunk per se, though for a moment I was worried I’d taken advantage of someone who was actually really wasted. Instead he’d skipped straight over into the nausea-the-next-morning-stage. His horniness had kept it at bay, but as we walked through the dark, ancient streets towards the college, he looked increasingly seedy and held his thick forearms locked over his stomach as though it might leap, Alien-like, out of him.
If I’d had any hopes of probing his true sexuality and the prospects of repeat performances, these took a backseat.
As soon as the lift doors open onto our floor, he sprinted off to the men’s bathroom. I heard the toilet seat being thrown up and then all the contents of Mark’s stomach. I stood at the doorway to the loo, which was pretty damn heroic of me because the sounds he was making weren’t making me feel all that great either. After about ten minutes he emerged, face washed but still looking green about the gills.