Matriculation: (The Oxford Trilogy #1)

by Riley Meyer

  I looked up.

  Mark was standing there, leaning with his back against my door and his hands in his pockets.

  “Hey,” he said, but his eyes were saying something more complicated.

  I held up my keys.

  “I need to get into my room.”

  He nodded slowly and moved out of the way, hands still deep in his pockets, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.

  “Rafe,” he said.

  I left the key in the lock and turned around to face him.

  “Mark?”

  “Please don’t be angry.”

  I sighed, meeting his dark eyes and finding them, as always, pulling me in.

  “I’m not angry. Or not really. But I don’t have the energy to deal with—” I gestured around us, “with whatever this is.”

  “I’m sorry I left.”

  “Yeah, you were out of there pretty bloody quickly.”

  “I—I didn’t want—”

  I finished his sentence:

  “You didn’t want Jason and Tom to see.”

  Mark shrugged an affirmative.

  “Is that so bad?”

  “I don’t want to be someone’s dirty secret.”

  Mark gaze dropped to the ground and he was silent.

  “I’ve got classes tomorrow and I’ve got to sleep,” I said, turning the key.

  The door opened and I walked in, switched on the light, but it felt too confrontational to slam the door shut in his face. Or at least that’s how I explained it to myself.

  I took my keys and wallet out of my trousers and chucked them on my desk. It was stuffy so I went to the window and opened it, letting the cooler air of the outdoors flood in.

  The view of the city was beautiful, the ancient buildings lit from below by spotlights like great statues. I knew Mark was still there, but I didn’t know what to do about it yet, so I kept looking out the window, saying nothing. The air was lifting the cobwebs of booze from my brain. I felt like I could see more clearly, breathe more easily.

  “Rafe.”

  The voice was uncertain, cracking, so charged with so much emotion I almost didn’t recognise it as Mark’s.

  I turned around.

  He stood there, still at the doorway, but the sensor lights in the corridor had timed out so that he was half in shadow and half in the light of my room, like an actor waiting on the wings of a stage.

  His eyes were gleaming.

  We stood there, silent, for a moment and then he took in a shuddering breath and his body seemed to slump, like a puppet when the strings are dropped.

  The next moment I had an arm over his shoulder and was sitting him down on the bed. He was crying—not sobbing, not wailing—but crying all the same, tears sliding down his cheeks which he flicked roughly away, angry at himself.

  I went to the door and shut it.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothi—”

  “What’s wrong?” I said, sternly. He looked up, jaw clenched and eyes red.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I crouched in front of him, with a fleeting thought of how different he looked from when I’d been in much the same position a few days ago. Even with his dick and balls out in the night air, he hadn’t looked as vulnerable as he looked now.

  He repeated his apology.

  “You don’t have anything to be sorry about.”

  “You don’t want to deal with this.”

  I shrugged.

  “I don’t have any other plans. You can tell me whatever you want.”

  He slowly pulled himself together, breathing long steady breathes. I watched his chest rise and fall. I put a hand comfortingly on his leg.

  “You’re nice, Rafe. You know? Kind.”

  He had put one of his hands over mine. I held back a shiver. The contact was like electricity.

  “Anyone would want to help.”

  “No, they wouldn’t,” he said firmly.

  Well, OK then, I thought.

  “Talk to me,” I prompted.

  “I—I don’t know how to.”

  “How to what?”

  He looked at me straight on, less red now.

  “How to talk about it.”

  “Well, what is it for a start?”

  He shook his head, as if that would get rid of this situation, get rid of the need for words.

  “Don’t make me guess.”

  Again, he didn’t answer, but stared down, watching as his fingers stroked my hand.

  My dick stirred, but I tried to stay on focus.

  “Unless you’re writing letters on my palm, that isn’t helping me understand what’s going on.”

  He shook his head, half-smiling.

  “You’re an English student, you like words.”

  “Isn’t some of your course in philosophy?”

  “Well I haven’t started yet, have I?” he replied and we both smiled.

  That smile. Fuck.

  He must have seen the look on my face because he bit his bottom lip and stared at me with those deep-brown eyes, pulling me in.

  I had to resist. He couldn’t just barge into my room with the alibi of crying and expect me to fall into his arms; could he?

  But it was sweet, this laddish inability to communicate. This hulking helplessness was turning me on, whether I wanted it to or not.

  “I’ll tell you but... but can you do something first.”

  “Alright...”

  “It sounds stupid.”

  “Try me.”

  “Can you turn the lights off?”

  “The lights?”

  He nodded.

  Well, alright then, I thought.

  I stood up and flicked off the lights. Then I turned back to stand in front of him, waiting. Like on the punt, he was now only half-visible from the echoing lights of the city and the moon. I saw his hand reached out to touch my leg.

  “Rafe?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you—uh, hold me?” his voice was deep, inviting. I could almost feel the heat pouring off him.

  My answer was to push him back against the mattress. He shuffled over and made room beside him and I climbed in next to him, so that he was on his back and I was lying on my side next to him.

  He took my arm and put it over his chest. I sighed, half in exasperation and half in longing, and nestled my legs around his. He was warm, solid, homely.

  My head was resting on the pillow, looking directly at his face in profile, its outline lit like one of the old college buildings.

  “Tell me,” I whispered, with more conviction than I felt.

  “I think you already know.”

  “Then it won’t shock me.”

  He turned over so that he, too, was on his side, his whole body facing towards me. For the second time that night, our faces were so close they were almost touching.

  “You get me hard,” he said, “you get me hard and you shouldn’t.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  He shrugged. I asked:

  “Because I’m a guy? Is that all it is?”

  He shrugged.

  “What? That not enough for you?”

  "I guess it is."

  His next question was almost a whisper, his breath and the vibrations of his deep voice tickling my neck.

  “Do I get you hard?”

  I didn’t have to think much about the answer to that question.

  My whole body was crying out an answer but my brain was trying desperately to keep it in line. All this talk of getting hard, him getting me hard, me getting him hard—well let’s just say it was doing the trick.

  “Yes.”

  Without saying anything else, his hand moved to the tent in my crotch. His hand ran up the shaft, to the head and back again, as though he were drawing its outline.

  I groaned.

  “Does that feel good?” he asked, his voice a low rumble.

  “Yeah, it does.”

  “You made me feel good the other nig
ht.”

  The tips of his fingers traced the rim of my cock-head.

  My breath shuddered.

  “Like, really, really good,” he added, and then he leant forwards and he let his lips brush gently over mine before drawing back again. “And I had to know. If it was a one-off. Or if it was a thing.”

  I swallowed, watching the curve of his lips in the half-light. His fingers ran down from my head to the base of my cock and then to the top of my thighs, pressing hard against the denim and sending a wave of tingling pleasure through me.

  Was I just going to let this guy come into my room and take over? After leaving me alone on the punt? The audacity!

  Maura was right. This guy was trouble and if I was going to have put up with trouble I was going to get something out of it.

  “Right,” I said, sitting up, pushing him flat against the mattress and climbing on top of his chest so he couldn’t move, “you’ve made it abundantly clear that you’ve just come here to fuck with me.”

  “I haven’t—!”

  I covered his mouth with my hand and leant down close to his face, drilling into his dark eyes.

  “No more talking. You thought you could fuck with me. Well, I’m going to fuck with you harder. Take off your shirt. Now.”

  Underneath me, Mark hesitated and then slowly undid the buttons of his shirt, gradually revealing a solid strip of chest. Finally, he pulled his shirt over his head, revealing the whole span of his broad, solid chest and its topography of hair.

  “Turn around.”

  “Huh?”

  “I want you face down,” I ordered.

  He shot me a nervous look but dutifully turned underneath me, revealing the smooth triangle of his back.

  I ran a finger down his spine and he shivered.

  Then I reached my hand underneath his hips and he bucked against my hands, desperate for the touch. I ignored him and undid the buttons of his jeans and then pulled them down his legs and off his long feet. I did the same with his boxers, pulling them right the way off.

  I stared at his bare arse, thick perfect loaves of muscles with their deep hairy ridge between them.

  My mouth was already watering.

  “Rafe, what’re you—”

  “Shut up,” I growled, “you had your chance to talk and you lost it. Now it’s my turn and you’re going to lie there quietly and do exactly what I tell you to do, OK?”

  A pause.

  "OK?"

  “OK.”

  “I still hear talking,” I warned.

  Mark stayed silent.

  “This is what happens when you fuck with me,” I said, and ran a finger along each of his calves up past the inside of his knee and along the thickening hair of his thighs and up to the perfect line of his buttocks.

  He tensed as I swerved just around his crack. I did this again and again, swooping closer and closer into that dark crevice.

  “Rafe, I don’t know if—”

  “If you had something to say, you should’ve said it when you had the chance.”

  He was silent.

  “You come in here, after ditching me on the river, pretend to have a cry just to touch my cock? As far as I’m concerned you’re fucking asking for it.”

  My fingers started another lap, this time down from his neck along the nobbled highway of his spine.

  “So, now you’re gonna get it,” I said, as my finger reached his coccyx, pretended to slow, and then quickly slipped into the furrow before his arse cheeks could tense and stop me.

  He gasped as my fingers brushed over the soft skin of his hole. I ran circles around his ring with my fingertip.

  “Fuck” he groaned, muffled by the pillow he’d buried his head in.

  I grinned at his obvious pleasure but that didn’t stop the muscles of his arse basically cutting off the blood flow to my fingers.

  I got off his legs and stood up. He turned his head in the pillow to look at me.

  “Get on all fours,” I said.

  He just looked at me. He was breathing hard.

  “Do it.”

  Slowly, he pulled himself up so that he was on his knees, holding himself up by his forearms and his biceps tensed.

  I pushed his head back down into the pillow so that his body formed a triangle, his arse exposed and pointing into the air.

  I was rock hard, but there was no rush. Taking my time, I let my eyes feast on him, the muscles of his flat, hairy chest, the trunks of his thighs, and his huge package hanging, half-hard, between them.

  He looked fucking amazing. And the best thing was: I could do what I wanted to him.

  I let my hands explore his body, slowly, probingly, on the inside of his thighs, along his back, around his nipples, but every time I pulled back before I reached my destination. One of his legs started shaking and I could hear a low, muffled moan. His cock was now straining up, bumping against the hair on his abs, but he kept perfectly still, just as I’d instructed him. Good boy.

  I moved behind him, and, like an artist appraising his next masterpiece, observed the way the hairs on his legs and arse caught the light from the window, almost covering the pink flesh of his opening.

  “Rafe...”

  “Shh.”

  I knelt on the bed behind him and bit into one of his firm, muscled cheeks.

  “Aagh,” was the response I got.

  “You like that?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I lowered my face towards his crack, Mark tensing and taking in a sharp breath.

  Very slowly and very gently, I blew a stream of air at his hole.

  The reaction from Mark was anything but gentle. His whole body shook and I could see him burying his head deeper into the pillow, his gritted teeth flashing.

  “Is that good? Is that ‘really, really good’?” I teased.

  “Fuck you,” Mark’s muffled voice replied, “yes it’s fucking good, Jesus.”

  “Do you want me to lick it?”

  Hesitation, then a nod. But I was feeling vindictive.

  “Tell me. Use your words.”

  “Yes, I want you to.”

  “To what?”

  Another pause and a muffled curse.

  He lifted his head enough to look back at me and his low, guttural voice said:

  “I want you to rim me, Rafe. Eat me out. Lick me.”

  That was enough for me. I sank into him like a starving man and buried my face between his cheeks. The sweaty, musty smell drove me crazy; my eyes felt like were about to roll back into my head.

  Only then did I let my tongue loose, let it circle around his pink opening and finally to push its way in. I strained deeper, parting the muscled halves with my hands to find a way to get deeper, closer.

  I wanted everything at once—to be in him, around him, surrounded by him—that’s how greedy I got seeing him presenting himself to me like this.

  Mark’s legs were shaking, as I wrought groan after muffled groan from him. He started to push himself back against me, inviting me in, and lowering his chest deeper into the mattress to give me free access.

  Slowly his hole gave way and the tip of my tongue twisted inside that tight, hot passage of muscle. His hands were gripping the sheet so hard his knuckles had turned white.

  Mark was swearing like a sailor who’d just been denied his shore leave.

  That’s when I took it up a notch. With my head still deep in his arse and my tongue probing further and further in, I took his balls in one hand and his cock in another—or as much of them as I could hold.

  He shuddered and as I pulled gently at his balls, and used the other hand to swirl spread the precum leaking from the head of his cock all over his shaft. My dick was pushing so hard at my trousers I worried they’d get friction burns. I really needed to cum.

  Abruptly I stopped, dropping his drooling package and pulling back from his arse. Mark lay there, breathing quickly, turning to try to see what I was doing. Hovering above his hole, I blew another stream of air into it, pink, slick
and now on full display.

  He groaned.

  I lapped at him again, getting him thoroughly soaked, and then pulled back and whistled air at him. I knew from experience that the mix of hot and cold, of wet and dry, could make you so sensitive that your whole body tingled, prickling with fire.

  “Please,” Mark said, trying to control his voice, “please—”

  I did it again and again until, finally, his knees buckled and he collapsed onto the mattress, his wet cock visible as it was pushed back under his arse.

  “Turn over,” I ordered, going to the side table and held up a condom.

  “I’m going to fuck you now,” I said.

  He looked at me, his expression suddenly serious, and slowly nodded.

  “Will it feel good?” his voice cracked.

  I smiled.

  “Turn over.”

  Dutifully, he flipped over onto his back, spreading his legs apart. I picked up some lube from my bag and knelt in front of him, wrapping his legs over my shoulders.

  His dick was hard against his muscled stomach.

  I dropped to his crotch and licked his sack, his taint, and back down to his hole.

  When I looked up again, Mark's face was buried in his hands.

  I moved my head to hang above his and gently moved his hands away.

  We looked at each other. The red cheeks and messed up hair we had in common.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey.”

  I leant in and kissed him. It was our first real, proper kiss and it was deep.

  My mind emptied as I gave myself up to the heady mixture of his soft lips and scratchy stubble. I felt Mark’s hand on my back and then in my hair, drawing me closer and closer in. Our tongues met, and we clung to each other, pulling ourselves together as if our lives depended on it. This was not a normal kiss. This wasn’t a fuck-buddy kiss. It was something else entirely.

  Mark was the first to pull back. His dark eyes were full of surprise—shock, turmoil, and longing. I knew mine said the same.

  I touched his face, tracing the line of his eyebrow and then his jaw.

  “Rafe?”

  That deep voice drove me wild.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Will you go slow?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  We kissed again.

  I wondered how curious this guy was.