by Daryl Banner
The professor began to talk and if a million dollars were laid down I still couldn’t tell you what the hell today’s lesson covered. Twice, only twice, I looked up from my hands and brought my eyes to his desk—to Andrew’s desk. He sat facing forward, a striped blue and white shirt hugging his body. I couldn’t even quiver with excitement at the sight of him; I was much too scared, too anxious, too worried of things that had happened, of things that hadn’t happened. Look back at me, I begged, but he didn’t so much as flinch. Only twice I looked.
At ten minutes left, the professor released us to discussing the project with our partners. For the third time, I looked up, but only Andrew’s backside greeted me.
I took a deep, deep, deep breath. It was a jagged breath, but it gave me the strength to rise to my feet. I clumsily put one foot in front of the other, brought myself to the side of Andrew’s desk.
Then, he turned to look at me. His grey-blue eyes seemed lazy, almost tired. “Hey,” he said.
I lowered myself into the seat next to him and said nothing for a while, trembling. He lifted his eyebrows expectantly.
“You look sick,” he said.
I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again to speak. “Are we okay? You and I?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “Why wouldn’t we be?”
I felt my breath become more even. I felt my chest relax. My fingertips were tingly and icy cold, all the blood having retreated from my limbs, apparently. “I just, uh …” How the fuck would I put it into words? “After I … I lost the game, I …”
“This your way of saying you want to do another one?” His voice was almost gentle.
No, I didn’t want any games. I just want to know what your cock feels like inside me. In my mouth. In my body. I want to give you a reason to lose all your cool, to drop the stoicism and the hardness and adopt, instead, another hardness below your waist. I want to give you reason to moan like a bitch and cry out so loud all my hallmates hear and wonder whose buck is getting banged. I want to get you and your beefcake body naked again without the permission of another fucking game.
“Yes,” I said instead.
[ 6 ]
The second time my roommate went out of town for the weekend, Andrew took the chance and declared my dorm as our study hall. Also, our paper was kinda fucking due the following Monday and we’d written precisely zero percent of it.
“I’m not a good writer,” he complained, seated in the chair at my roommate’s desk.
The laptop was growing hot on my thighs where I typed, seated cross-legged on the bed. “You don’t have to be. I’m typing it out, you just need to help me think.”
“I’m not a good thinker.”
“I have a thesis figured out. Kinda. I have our notes here. I know what we’re going to say, just … I need a little more input from you, Andrew.”
“I’m the inspiration.” He folded his arms, spinning around in my roommate’s swivel chair. I got the pleasure of watching his body in three hundred and sixty degrees as it rotated. He wore a plain white t-shirt with a pair of torn jeans today. “Without me, the paper would be boring. Hey.” He stopped spinning, facing me. “Let’s play.”
“Let’s write.” I typed out the intro paragraph, worked a thesis into it somehow. Of course, my mind kept warring with me. One side hollered at me to pay mind to the deliciously big boy sitting in the chair. The other side panicked for the soon-approaching deadline. Then there’s the issue of how my cock kept throbbing gallingly at me every five seconds. It was like I could still feel Andrew’s cock pressed against my cheek. He looks really good in that shirt, I reasoned, then realized he’d look good in any shirt he wore. What a stupid thing to think.
I bit my lip, frustrated beyond all hell, then finally met Andrew’s hungry eyes with my own. “Before we play again, I want to make a new rule.”
“Fine. New rule is—”
“New rule is,” I took over, not allowing the ever-bossy Andrew to take charge as he always does, “no consequence of any game is you leaving the dorm and not coming back all weekend. That’s just stupid, and if you’re not going to help me with this paper, then we both fail. Got it?”
He stood up from the chair at once and rushed to the bed. I only had time to let out a gasp before my laptop was flung to the side and Andrew Knudson sat on me. His hands pinned mine above my head to the wall and he was straddling my lap, his power-thighs trapping me. His face, stern and iron-cold, stayed a mere two inches from mine. I could feel his every breath on my face.
“The rule,” he said in a voice so low it crept up my spine and tickled the little hairs in my ear, “is that you gotta stay absolutely fucking still.”
“Okay.”
“And no talking.”
I nodded.
My hands were still pinned to the wall behind me. He kept them there with just one of his hands. He’s so strong. The other hand traced down my arm, slowly, like a drop of water or a tiny bug. I flinched a bit when he approached my underarm.
“Stay still,” he said, and his voice carried a lilt of warning. “That’s the only rule. Stay still or you lose.”
“But it—!”
“And no talking. Wasn’t I clear?” His face inches from mine, I felt myself breathing hard and heavy. My cock was so hard, I felt like I was leaking bad. I clenched shut my lips, clamped, tight, clenching and clenching.
His hand began to move again.
When he got to my underarm, it was almost unbearable. I shivered and shivered, trying with all my nerves not to squirm and laugh. Is this the point of the game? I wondered. Is this a tickling game? The slower his hand moved across my armpit, the harder I got. The sensations were driving me wild. I felt a pox of goose bumps all over my body. He had my hands pinned high above me, but he even had my legs pinned too, held firmly beneath the weight of his own body. I was all his to do with as he pleased … and it seemed he pleased to do a lot.
“Doing good,” he said, as if it helped ease the torment of sensations wriggling through my growing-ever-the-more-sensitive body.
“How long’s this last??”
“Until you fuck up,” he answered. “Shut up.”
His hand continued down to my chest. I almost squeaked when his wicked fingers reached my right nipple. Oh my god. He lingered there quite deliberately; he must’ve noticed something in my face, whether it was a flinch or a squirm of an eyebrow. He began to tease my nipple, slowly, gently. Then he pinched it. I shut my eyes and bit my lip. Fuck being tickled, I thought. This feels good.
But then his evil hand slid to my side, and before I knew it he’d entered the next most-sensitive area imaginable: my ribs. I took in a deep and futile breath as his hand played devilishly down my side. It wasn’t so bad until his fingers started to move, like five individual ticklers, each with a mind worse than the next. He knows what he’s doing, I knew. He’s an expert. He was so gentle, so, so gentle. Not to mention, I also still had the problem of a certain throbbing something between my legs that couldn’t be tamed.
“You won my pants,” he announced. I opened my eyes, lifted my brow. Is it safe to talk? “Keep it up longer and you get my shirt.”
No fucking way. The longer I last, the more naked he’ll get? I felt a smile break across my face.
Andrew, notably not smiling, leaned in as his hand began to move again. “Yeah, sounds nice and all. But the game ends when your silence does.”
With that, I felt his fingers go lower. Lower. Lower. Before I realized what he was doing, his mischievous grin had returned and my mouth flung open in a silent gasp. He tugged once, and the button to my pants flew off. He tugged again and a zipper slid down. My eyes grew double.
“Moaning counts,” he muttered. And then his hand gripped my swollen cock. My jaw dropped further to emit a yelp of surprise, a gasp, a groan, something, but nothing emerged but silence and nothing and nothing. His fingers, now the five little masters of my cock, began stroking.
This was no tickle torment anymor
e. Shit just got serious.
He neither moved nor spoke for a while. My legs were trapped and useless beneath his body, and my hands were still pinned to the wall. I had nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, nowhere to look but right into his delicious, horrible face. His own lips parted. He was excited; this was his thing. I could see the hunger in his eyes, the yearning, the longing … but perhaps it was more the hunger for winning that I was seeing, not something else.
His jerking of my cock quickened. “Don’t even think about moaning,” he threatened. I felt my toes curling; at least he couldn’t see them. I’d let all my excitement out through the expressive wringing and wriggling and curling and uncurling of my toes, but never in my body. I have to win, I realized. I have to get his shirt off again. Ever since that cruel Friday, I’d hungered so bad to see him shirtless. I wanted his body and I would pay almost any price.
I was getting close. He’s an expert jerker of the male member. My breathing was quick, but even that had to be quieted in order to win. I couldn’t make a sound, not even the rasping of breath. It was a silence nearly impossible to maintain.
But all the restraint of physical expression only made me that much more aware of my sense of touch. The way he worked my cock, if only I had the freedom of voice, I’d be squealing and yelping and moaning and clawing at him.
I felt my cock pulsing, pulsing, reaching the point of no return. My eyes began to rock back.
“Oh god,” I blurted out.
And just as he let go, my cock erupted. Don’t stop, I wanted to scream, agonized, frustrated, but it was too late, and with my eyes clamped shut, I felt wave after wave of cum thrusting out of me. I cried out, moaned, and my wrists fought against his powerful hand, squirming, my legs and thighs wrestling under the weight of his body.
My eyes shot open and I kept yanking on my hands, desperate to continue jerking myself. “Why’d you fucking stop??” I exclaimed, out of breath, my cock dribbling now, bobbing up and down, as desperate as the jagged breath I’m trying to catch.
“You made a sound,” he said simply. “You lost.”
I inhaled three times, filling my lungs, trying so feebly to calm myself. Then finally I shouted, “Is that what this is about?? You won’t—” I took a breath, let it out, “—do anything sexual with another dude unless the rules of some game—” I took a breath, let it out, “—allow you to?”
He didn’t address my question. He only glanced down at his chest, then frowned. “You got jizz on my shirt.”
“Maybe that’s what our paper should’ve been about,” I breathed, feeling my pulse in my throat. “Denial. Got a whole chapter on that, I’m pretty sure. Maybe its own textbook, even.”
“No one’s denying anything,” he said finally, meeting my eyes. “I like games. It’s what gets me off. And also, I’m a man of my word.”
Finally he let go, slid off the bed, and began to unbuckle his pants. I brought down my arms to nurse two sore, tingling wrists and watched as Andrew threw aside his belt like a bothersome thing and popped his own pants open. With a thrust, he dropped them to his ankles and stood proud. Today, he wore a loose pair of blue and green plaid boxers. They did not hide his own cock well.
“So you’ve made a mess of me all over my bed,” I point out. “Is this my reward? Getting to see your legs?”
He shrugged. “I’ll pull them back up if you’re not interested.” Even as he said it, he bent down to retrieve his fallen pants.
“No,” I blurted out. He stopped, lifting a brow at me. “Don’t you dare. The sight of your legs is my … my prize and … I want it.”
“More than finishing a psychology paper?”
“We’ll get to that later. Right now, I want to enjoy what a bunch of unnecessary tickling and a nipple-pinching and half an interrupted cum just earned me.”
“Either this or the paper.” He crossed his arms, looking like some muscle beast, waiting.
“Huh?” I pulled myself to the edge of the bed, minding the cum that was turning cold on my still-exposed and softening cock. “How’s that a fair choice? We have to do the paper. It’s due Monday. We’ve had four weeks now.”
“Paper or me.”
“That’s bullshit.” I couldn’t believe he was making me choose. It just wasn’t reasonable at all. Like picking whether to eat or breathe for a day and only being able to choose one.
“What’s your answer?”
“Don’t you care about your own grade? If we don’t do the paper—”
“Either we work on the paper,” he spoke, obnoxiously slow, as if I was the dumb kid in the back of the class with the drool hanging from my slack mouth, “or I keep my pants off. One or the other. You can’t have both.”
“What is this?” I asked, challenging him. “Another fucking game?”
“Make your choice, boy.”
Boy.
Boy …
This was the first time he ever called me boy. With that one word, he put me in my place, from then on. That one word branded me, collared me. I didn’t quite realize it then, but from that point until now, I would be his boy … his toy … his glad and willing game-thing.
And what kind of boy, exactly, did that make me? What kind of boy did that make him?
“Fuck the paper,” I breathed.
[ 7 ]
Two trying weeks later, I would discover that Andrew and I had made a C- on our paper. More accurately, I had made a C- on our paper, as I was its only author. It was the first C- I’d ever made in my entire life. High school showered me in A’s and B’s. Every other class, I saw A’s and B’s, and when I saw that C- on the paper, I felt a stab of joy.
Yes, a stab of joy. That C- was my freedom. That C- was my permission to let the fuck go, to relax, to slay the demon of perfection that had so haunted my adolescence. “C fucking minus,” I said, reading the grade aloud. Some guy next to me gave me a sympathetic frown, leaned in and said, “Sorry, dude. Better luck next time.” His face turned queer when the smile of pride washed over my face, beaming positively at the C- and the world that’d been opened before me and everything that stupid, shitty grade meant.
But with the ending of the psychology project, Andrew and I no longer had a reason to meet. Not that the paper was ever fully our focus. But I could not let us drift apart, not after what had been so suddenly and hotly birthed between our warring, playful minds.
“Hey, Andy,” I called out, chasing after him through the doors when class had ended.
Without turning around, I heard him grunt, “Don’t call me that.”
I had caught up to him, walking beside him on the road between the psych hall and the architecture building. “Where you off to?”
“Algebra.”
“Want to grab lunch after?”
“No.”
I was reaching here. Totally fucking desperate. That psych paper couldn’t be the only thing that brought us together. There had to be something more. “So what’re you doing after Algebra, then?”
“Going home.”
“Do you live on campus?”
“No.”
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe.”
“Why don’t you want to grab some lunch before you leave, then?”
“I’ll get it on my own.”
I stood in front of him, exasperated. I couldn’t let this dream slip away from me so easily. “What the fuck, Andrew?”
He walked around me, not daunted in the least by my sad attempt at trying to stop him. He just kept going, sauntering down the path without paying me a cent of mind. He was near the door to the algebra building. I had to act fast.
“How about a deal then?” I shouted at his back as he reached the door. “If your Algebra class is totally lame as fuck, then I win, and you gotta come to my dorm afterwards for lunch.”
To that, he turned his head, gave me a big grin, then flicked me off as he disappeared into the math building. I took that to mean the deal was accepted.
An hour later, he kno
cked on my dorm room door. “Lame as fuck,” he agreed when I answered.
And so it began. For weeks, we expertly snuck around my roommate’s schedule—which blissfully consisted of a lot of trips back home, weekends spent with the girlfriend or the parents, and days where he just wanted to stay out all night in town—and Andrew and I played and played and played. Whenever he arrived at my door, I knew it was time for our next dorm game.
One time, he had me tied up with an elastic band he used to work out and do stretches, then proceeded to ask me questions about himself, like his birthday, or his favorite TV show, or even the color of the socks he was wearing. “What color underwear do I got on?” he asked once, and the agony of knowing that the answer was hidden right in front of me beneath the sexy fold of denim at his crotch was unbearable. “You’re hard,” he observed. Tied up, there was little I could do to hide it. Every right answer earned me a piece of his clothing coming off. Every wrong answer earned me a piece of his clothing going back on. If I could get him naked in ten questions or less, I’d get his cock in my mouth. “This is killing me,” I complained, so horny and frustrated, but he only licked his lips, half-dressed, and asked the next question.
I didn’t get to suck his cock. Somehow I knew he’d planned it from the start, as it was upon the eleventh question that I finally earned his naked body, but no cock play.
A normal person would’ve given up on him by now. I’d decided that I was, without a doubt, far from normal.
Later in the year, he thought it’d be an amazing idea to belittle me with his strength by engaging in some more … physical games. One such game involved us holding a weight in either hand, requiring us to keep them elevated at shoulder height. To win, I, with my puny muscles, had to hold up a weight longer than him, the demigod. I knew he was at an unfair advantage and I didn’t care. Something about the experience of suffering near him, sweating, struggling, feeling my muscles cramping and aching while he stood there, perfectly at ease, cocky, a triumphant smirk on his face the whole time, made me so hard that I could’ve cum right there.