Douglas in residence

Exhilarated beyond any point in my life, then so appalled by what I discovered, my flight home from Europe took place in a state of gloom.

The opportunity to teach in a newly-funded, idealistically-founded school at a good salary for a year had emboldened me to seek an unpaid year’s leave of absence from my assistant professorship. Our new Dean, who disliked me almost from the moment he saw how readily I mixed with students, the high level of approval for my courses and private lessons in each term from students and colleagues, quickly granted the request and had suitable papers drawn up for us both to sign. His smile, which most of learned was counterfeit, should have been a clue to his confidence that my absence would allow him no opposition to his small-minded plans.

Near campus, my small house stood readily rentable. I needed to rent it to cover each month’s mortgage payments and to have it occupied. Someone reliable appeared in the form of a nineteen-year-old undergraduate, clear-faced Douglas W., whom I knew enough to trust. He had been among students from the campus dorm I had had at my dinner table under casual, slightly celebratory circumstances, so had that level of acquaintance with the place. He moved in his things the day before I left, sleeping that night in my small guest room.

We ate breakfast in the friendliest fashion, said our goodbyes, and off I went for the year. Almost from the greeting I received at Geneva’s airport, feelings of unease crept in. The man who drove me began to speak about “certain changes” in management and direction. The “Institute” was being reconceived. The buildings promised for offices and classrooms were never committed by the local government of the small Alpine town, so other arrangements were being made. The American students I had recruited were almost the only enrollees. The number of Europeans hardly counted. Virtually none of the equipment I had specified as necessary for my teaching had been ordered. No, the library of reference materials had not materialized. In fact, the single donor, an Italian of immense wealth (believe it, from garbage removal in Rome), had reneged on what I had been told was his pledge. Far less, it seemed, was made available as he lost confidence in the Institute’s founder – a man who had lied, among other things, about the availability of facilities. The whole thing a folly.

In short, I personally faced disaster. Guilt weighed on me for unwittingly having distributed beautifully prepared brochures, intellectually inspiring syllabi, and having transmitted thousands of dollars in prepaid tuition to the Institute’s bank account. The more I learned the more horrified I became. Within four days and their dreadful revelations, my only thought was to escape. And I did. Without telling anyone.

First, I stopped at friends’ in London where their sympathies assured me that, if I sped back home, I might stop such funds as were yet to be transferred and return them appropriately with letters of explanation to spare students as much as possible. Thus, my unpleasant, hasty flight back across the Atlantic.

An ancillary worry was about Douglas. There had been no time to notify him of my return nor to think of how to handle that situation. A taxi deposited me and my luggage at a time when my renter was in class. Immediately, I telephoned the Dean who was totally uninterested in my return or its predicaments.

“Your position is filled.” After listening to my pleas for help, there came, “You have no recourse. I cannot help you. The job’s yours again in twelve months.”

That I fretted for the next hours comes nowhere close to describing my uncertainty. When Douglas appeared bug-eyed at my presence in the living room, I had to explain, to ask for understanding, for accommodation. He reacted sweetly. We could share the house. Would that be acceptable to me? Perhaps with his paying half the rent of our handshake agreement?

I had to agree. I knew my salary from Switzerland would cease. There was in reserve a certain amount in my checking account and some small savings in another. I might make it.

 From his groceries, Douglas fed us that evening. Time approached to go to bed. I offered to take the single bed in the guest room so that he could remain in my room’s double bed. He politely offered the contrary – which made me feel worse. I was at such an obvious, perhaps piteous loss, he eventually said, “I don’t mind sharing the double if you don’t mind. I never liked sleeping in a single bed.” I didn’t but…. 

Uneasy was that night. He wore flannel pyjamas, I my briefs. Each clung to his side. And the next couple, but home cooked meals with my broader range of groceries than his did free up conversation. I heard a good deal of what was going on at the University, especially of Douglas’ disappointment in two classes that would normally have been on my teaching schedule.

“That’s why I registered for them. Friends said how good you were, how much they learned from you….”

Regret tinged his voice.

After discussing matters further, I ventured, “No one will know. I’ll tutor you in both so you, in turn, can lead the class.”

At bedtime, Douglas beat me to the side near the lamp and was reading a paperback he’d come across in the backroom closet, one I’d missed. “Lust Farm” was not what he thought it might be. I spotted it; he saw me looking at it in his hands. There was a moment of silence before he blushed, guilt on his face.

“Doug, that may not be for you.”

“Bob told me that…you knew about stuff like this. He’s kind of queer, isn’t he?”

“I’ve talked with Bob about some things but that’s just between us. May I ask you, why he said anything to you?”

“I’m ashamed to.”

“Nonsense,” I said, lifting back the bedspread, light blanket, and sheet and taking my place. Our heads were side by side on our pillows. His eyes were flickering back and forth at the ceiling. I turned to look at him. “Doug, lift up your head.” My arm slipped beneath his neck. “Come over here.”

He rolled my way but remained very still.

“You want to know, don’t you?”

Doug nodded against my shoulder. His breath was quickening.

“Want me to touch you?”

“It’s okay.”

Rather than where he thought I would reach, my fingertips stroked his exposed cheek. With a tiny sound, he brought his other arm across me. My forefinger and thumb found his earlobe and traced the whorls above. A distinct shiver rewarded me.

“Doug, roll back a little. I want to feel you here,” I whispered as I found his cock, limp under his pajama pants. How frightened could he be? Gentle manipulations accomplished nothing. His drawstring gave way to my hand and his warm flesh remained soft. Balls being touched brought no response. Perhaps lips and tongue might rev him a bit? He let me press him to his back and pull off those pants. I bent down, took the cock in my mouth, used my tongue, sucked. The droopy few inches were not roused. How strange was that?

Feet to the floor, I moved to the end of the bed and knelt directly over his pelvis and retook what lay there flaccid by mouth. That time, determined to produce the usual response – say, like Bob’s had been the first time – I ran my hands along his lower side and up, under his top, to his chest to glance over its nipples. Instant rigor, not of the cock, but of Doug’s whole body – and a great hiss of air.

“Oh! Oh!” he gasped. “Oh!” He pushed at my hands. That meant I was getting somewhere so, deliberately but without force, cock in my mouth, I began pinching the little things. His cock and his nipples hardened to such pants and puffs as I have never heard. Neighbors might have been alarmed at his near yell. He jetted and jetted the thickest, most bitter ejaculate of my experience. My mouth rejected the acrid stuff all over his crotch.

He lay there helpless, inhaling almost frantically. A towel fetched from the bathroom, I cleaned him and my soiled mouth. Went back to rinse. Gargled some mouthwash. Drew him a paper cup of cool water and made him sip it.

Only when he had calmed did I stretch out again. A thought came. Using my best classroom voice, I ordered him to lie on top of me which, obediently, he did. And relaxed. We were chest to chest, ears against ears at first. To breathe, he turned his face from my pillow. I lightly patted his butt.

“Tell me, Doug.”

For the longest while, he seemed to be thinking. I stared at the ceiling, only making slow rubs of butt and back.

“I can’t come.”

“You just did, Doug.” With an encouraging squeeze, I waited.

“I mean, sometimes, if I play with my chest long enough and, you know, jerk with my other hand. It takes forever.” Breaks in his speech suggested he might cry. I held him tight again.

“What’s wrong with me?”

My speculation was, “Could be you’re wired differently than other guys. Lie still. I want to try something.”

He was content to allow one hand’s path down to his waist and to the other’s, which reached the mounds beyond, further progress interrupted by my realization of Doug’s body being smooth, uncommonly so. Like some Asians. I remembered feeling only a few hairs nesting in the center of his chest and that his pubes were not dense. Plus, it dawned on me that he must be aware of my own erection onto which his floppy genitals were pressed.

It came as no surprise that my fingers found his small crevice to be hairless and sweaty, its anus taut to the point of hardly being there. I had to ask, “Doug, when you go to the bathroom back here, is that difficult?”

“Sometime I push hard. My poop’s always been small, not like some I’ve seen in the dorm’s stalls – you know, unflushed.”

“Is this unpleasant?” I asked as my middle finger petted the tiny buttonhole.

“Feels kind of funny.”

“Doug, don’t get off but see whether you can reach in that drawer over there for the Vaseline jar. I want to show you something.”

He could. He did. He handed it to me. “What are you going to do?” The question was wary.

A dab on my finger, transferred to his anus, facilitated smooth rotations at a snail’s pace clockwise and counter-so. “Now, humor me. I have an idea you may like. Raise yourself off my chest. Give us a little space there.” My left hand, which had been holding one butt cheek, dipped its thumb into the Vaseline there and journeyed to Doug’s nearest nipple, now exposed. It slid seductively about the aureole before tapping its center. A mild battery charge might have had equal effect. Doug clasped his buttocks, trapping my fingers there, while throwing back his head for a deep intake of air – and held himself in position, rapt.

Assistance of a sort, I hoped.

Movement against my erection by his cock. If most of him was transfixed by the dual stimulation, his cock was alive and growing. Persistence paid off. He could hardly believe his unwilled thrusts. I saw it on his tense face, its eyes not daring to open. Pure sensation had its claim on him. Pressure on the low muscle by my greased finger wedged its tip only halfway to its first knuckle yet that sufficed to send him careening into orgasm again.

The mess between us bothered me not at all. Doug rolled to his back while dribbling as the passion subsided. I brought another damp cloth to mop up the smelly evidence of what had happened. My tender ministrations did something to him. Doug started to cry.

“Shhh…it’s over now. You’re all right.” I kissed his cheek. Tasted the slight salt of a tear. “Get under the covers and switch off the lamp. Time for sleep. I’ll be beside you like before” Finally as I took my side, “See you at breakfast.”

                                                                                *

Four weeks were devoted to entering and opening Douglas. Passive totally, non-participatory, he willingly accepted a knuckle, two, my longest finger, a wax taper from my dining room table and its painstaking pistonings the fewest few inches, then four, five, and six, to feel, even to appreciate it being left securely in place, stationary, while on his back – as long as I attended to his expectant nipples.

Our nights passed thus. The progression toward what I wanted from him, capitulation to and enjoyment of my nigh-seven inches while he came, was as constant as our days. No mention over mostly pleasant breakfasts of any previous night nor reference to what might lie ahead following suppers kept him – my guess was – free of guilt. After all, he never once displayed any interest in my sexual release. If anything about what we did preyed on his mind, there was no show of it. He remained passive and continued to be receptive.

The dogged weeks went by. Now and again, my mouth took his cock and balls for caresses as I faced between his legs and tickled his ever-ready nips. So liberated had the curious fellow’s glands become that his emissions were not half bad. Oral sex was never granted until he housed that wax taper. Oddly, initial push-through always met gasket-tight sphincter – until I slicked his bottom with Wesson Oil.

Whoo!

Right in, and well-gripped, that candle-stem delivered Doug’s rectum exercises of lewd excitement. I left it placed one night for so long that, when extracted, it had been softened into the twist inside. Such body heat! Subsequent room temperature set the curve.

My housemate’s time had come.

Monday night beginning our fifth week. Wesson Oil on hands. Naked Doug on knees, bent over, chest to the bed, arms clutched to his sides. One and two dripping fingers in and out. Candle curve the same. My inches straining to explore. The truth of initial insertion. An exclamation – music to my ears. Astonishment of some unknown kind as two kinds of flesh met.

By Friday and well after an event at the University, Douglas’s nipples were on high alert as I tweaked them until he knew what it was to be bottomed-into. I fucked him and fucked him and prodded the on-buttons of his heaving chest and kept fucking until he came into my bedspread.

For the term’s remainder, we ritualized those wordless exchanges of bodies and needs. They turned clockwork perfect. Whether on his knees, his back, flat out on his stomach; whether my hands held his hips or shoulders; whether teeth bit his nipples or fingers pinched – mine preferably, his if need be – Douglas got fucked.

Final exams loomed, my bed-mate bright-faced and confident. His semester’s work steadily had improved from Cs and Bs to Bs and As – attributable, he once managed to say, to my guidance and “special tutoring.” Quite an admission for one so taciturn personally.

While gone for hours at a time to prove himself to various professors and their assistants, Doug turned up in my consciousness a lot. His preference to be face-down over face-forward during what passed between us – except nights before exams, when I wanted him to build up steam – struck me as evidence he wished to avoid even the appearance of emotion. Lips-to-lips kisses where shunned. Those from behind to the back of his neck, its hairless nape, his ticklish ears, his downy cheeks seemed to register with him as permissible, even desirable as long as his chest received the attention it had to have. Must say, I was smitten.

The trimester ended just before Christmas holidays. We set up a small spruce in my living room and decorated it with two strings of lights, some tinsel, and the few ornaments I had. A couple of days before all the students went home, I invited a dozen or so for punch and cookies. During the simple festivity, tall Bob F. sidled up to me in the kitchen.

Because we had been intimate several times the year before, he took the liberty to ask in a hushed, breathy voice, “You gotta tell me what you’ve b-been doing with Doug.”

I glanced over my shoulder as I stirred together more ginger ale and orange sherbet. “Oh?”

“Don’t look at me that way. I know y-you’ve been up to something – m-maybe a lot – with him. I can tell.”

“Oh?” Bob’s slight stammer never failed to catch my sympathy. He was a big boy with a big heart and – well, more on another occasion. There is more to tell. I mean, he had more (cock); we had more (sex).

“He’s been smiling way m-m-more than he used to ’n’ getting g-good grades. He’s comin’ out of his shell. Why, he’s even chatting up L-Lucy, that dippy virgin.”

“Here, dear, take this in and refill the punch bowl. I promise to tell – later.”

“I’m dyin’ to know. Tell me ’n’ I’ll tell you something you don’t know.”

“Get in there. I’ll bring more Pecan Sandies.”

Alleged virgin Lucy A. was off in a corner with Doug, the others sitting or milling about happily. Blond Peter D., later a distinguished dental surgeon, was showing off the wall and woodwork he had helped me paint back in the Summer. Cute tush on that one, but likely a risk not to be taken.

Julie S., something of a writing talent, had in tow two English majors, Bill J. and George O., both tempting, I felt. Fine figures. Both savvy. Nicely mannered and smart, that trio of friends had finessed last year’s Humanities course.

Not a soul paid more than glancing regard for my scrawny tree. It received a passing chuckle or two.

 Lora L., who had brought a date I didn’t know, Victor-somebody, was pointing to my framed prints of Japanese woodcuts and telling what she could remember of Hiroshige. Thin-frame Vic, pretended interest but was stealing quick side views of other boys.

Pat V., Orson C., and freckled Pollyanna McB. were wandering through the guest room which Doug and I had arranged to seem proper for a student and, as I glimpsed, through the bathroom between there and my bedroom in the front of the house. They popped back just as refreshments were replenished. Orson was showing his endowment more than usual. Spirits ran high.

We sang a few carols as mobs do before the girls helped with the clean-up and everyone donned jackets, coats, mufflers, and gloves, said good-byes with best wishes, and left. Doug, holding Lucy’s hand, was among those at the door.

“I’m going to walk Lucy back to the dorm. See you after a while.” What was asserting itself?

Bob, an eyebrow lifted, said, “I’ll stay ’n’ keep you c-company ’til Doug g-gets back.”

Until the coast was clear, we regarded each other with smirks.

Bob sidled close. “Let’s go in there,” he inclined his head toward my room. “Doug’ll be gone at least an hour. We can m-make out. Want to?”

“Not sure that’s a good idea,” I pretended doubt while thinking what a different partner he had been in our earlier liaisons – hot blooded and passionate. “But we can talk, if you like. I want to hear about who’s been tricking with you.”

On the bed, he said, “C-Cooper, is Doug any good? You know what I mean. C’mon, you owe me.”

“I do?”

“You don’t remember? I introduced you to Doug last year. Got him to come for one of your dinners. He attracted the hell out of me – his soft brown hair, his – what? – understated way of moving, his deferential reaction to you. I wanted to get in his pants. Instead, you got into mine. Or don’t you remember that?

He took my nearest hand to his hill-like bulge. Cursory touches revealed Bob’s whopper coming to life. I drew his hand to my own burgeoning equipment. Our eyes met, then our lips.

I backed off. “I do remember. One thing though, before I may have to jump your bones.”

Fingers already were at his zipper.

“What’s that?” he beamed.

“How many people have you told about our tricking last Spring?”

With hesitation, he replied, “Just t-two – Lon and David – and they’re okay. Lon, remember, is the slender guy with all those blond curls you said reminded you of some statue-or-other. And, David – the way y-you ogle his butt….”

“David? Oh yes.” I dropped my voice, “Are they trustworthy?”

He studied me for the merest of seconds. “Honey, Lon’s not about to tell anybody anything because he’s got the hots for you, and that prim David – scared to come out because he’s Catholic – would probably c-cave to your s-subtleties.”

That encouraged me. “Take your pants off and lie back.”

Bob’s lower garments flew – shoes and socks, pants, underwear – as I sought my Vaseline. Retaining my shirt in like fashion, and with full-staff cock greased, I sank between his upraised legs and started to talk. Bob, as always, was a wild ride. Wilder than our last time due, I think, to my running account of deflowering Douglas.

Time got away from us. We were having a fun-fuck. The squeak of my front screen door meant only one thing. Full panic mode did not prevent my hearing Doug drop his keys and utter a mild curse. We gained a few precious seconds before there were sounds rattling at the front door.

Bob grabbed his things and bolted for the bathroom. My articles were kicked summarily under the bed along with the Vaseline jar while I threw on my robe and smoothed the covers. At just the right moment, my breath forced to seem normal, I walked to open the door with a cheery, if rather louder than usual, “There you are. Cold?”

He looked about. “Yes. Where’s Bob? Is he still here?”

“In the bathroom. I think he had too much of the punch and cookies. He’s been in there a while.”

Suspicion tinged Doug’s, “And you just happen to have on your robe?”

Trapped, I lied again. “I was getting ready for bed while all that puking was going on. What else could I do?”

About then, Bob emerged fully clad, a hand towel to his mouth. “I gotta go. C-c-cleaned up as much as I c-could in there but I opened the window and closed both doors. Let it air out for a w-while.” With no more words, he went to the closet for his winter wear, managed a thank-you and left before Doug, yet bundled up, could say a word to him.

“The punch and cookies tasted okay. I don’t think they made him sick.”

“Must be some bug he caught,” I was offhand.

Doug hung his things. I moved close to wipe off some lipstick. He hung his head. Suddenly, he turned my way, “I made out with Lucy.”

“How’d it make you feel?”

“Dumb. She’s way better at it than….”

I shushed him with a finger. “Now, now. Go take a hot shower. You’re frustrated. I’ll help you get past it.”

I raised the thermostat’s setting a few degrees.

Twenty minutes later, pink glow to his wonderful skin and clean all over, Doug accepted his position beneath the covers I held out for him and put his head, damp and smelling of my floral shampoo, to my shoulder. “What’s wrong with me?” – a question he had asked before.

“Nothing we can’t fix together.”

Over the next hour, we did.

A pillow, doubled under his stomach, raised his desired part to a height that his balls and otherwise unresponsive cock could be pulled to hang down – where I could penetrate him to the max and my own balls would swing into his continuously. I say continuously because I cycled to and fro in him for riveting, long-drawn spells between coaxing his nipples to hardness in short bursts. Just enough to cause reflexive pushes back before he settled into the mysterious world of his bottom’s role as a paradise for me. That is, until the effect wore on him and further tweaking was in order to send his tail spinning around my fleshy root for another sustained period.

Needed to keep him busy – on edge. Plans were entering my mind.

Moans spoke for him. Doug was approaching the limits of endurance. Nonetheless, his nipples took severe pinches. Delight for the masochist their possessor perhaps was. The head of my cock bore with determination into his prostate and battered it. My drawn-up balls banged his perineum, Doug’s uncomfortable, downward-pointed erection spurted furiously. He seemed to collapse – as if he’d become part of our sweat-soaked oneness with the bed – heaving for air.

My anatomy remained firm in its now-soft, clinging home. A solid presence. That I hadn’t come inspired a thought. This might be a further teachable moment, if you pardon the use of an educational term.

“Doug, you can breathe easier on your back. Let’s roll together so you’re on top.”

“Hunngh?” he gasped.

I tugged him atop. “Now sit up and turn yourself around without coming off. You can do it. Use your hands and feet – like that. Keep going. All the way ’round. I’ll lie you back. Let me help with your legs. Uh-huh. Hang them on my arms. Amazing, isn’t it? I’m centering you for a very special lesson.”

Bleary-eyed, possibly insensible, he complied. Made not a move. Lay there supine, taking breaths. Skewered. Think cock-as-fulcrum.

As tenderly as possible, although raging to ram him until I blasted deep, I used a hand to wipe his brow. Calmly blew some air to his flickering eyes, which closed. Felt his lips with a slightly greasy finger. “There, Douglas – you rest. Just listen. Nod if you hear me.”

He did.

“If our being joined starts to bother you, your eyes can signal it. You can count on me to stimulate your chest – because this is going to need time. I want you with me all the way.”

Lips parted fractionally for me to hear his close-to-inaudible, “Okay.” Slight breath around my fingertip thrilled. No objection to my being lodged as I was in his innermost.

“Yes, you’ve no experience in what girls want. You’re afraid, Doug. You’ve been afraid these three months. Not of me. No, not of me. Of yourself. You’ve almost never reached for me, never reacted except to what I initiate, avoided the intimacy of sharing a kiss, haven’t embraced me with a show of emotion.”

He frowned. “I’m not queer.”

“Nobody thinks you are. I certainly don’t. Forget that.” I delivered a reminder of where I was.

“You haven’t let me show you emotion, only sex at its most raw.” In an ear, I whispered, “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve loved opening you for sex. Your body is a great place to fuck – like I want to do now some more.” In my lowest voice, “I haven’t come yet.”

His dark brown, amber-shot eyes, under a knit brow, opened.

I plied both nipples enough that he wriggled against me and closed my view of those windows shading Doug’s personal world. What I said next cracked his shell a bit. It was a tactic about taking charge, about having the confidence to do so. “Think of how Lucy would have responded if you’d stood before her, your hands on her shoulders, and looked straight into her eyes, and said as you pulled her close, ‘Your lips are so beautiful, I must do this,’ then canted your head slightly to kiss her, merely pursing your lips to hers and moving them side to side.”

He opened his eyes, stared into mine rather pleadingly, and took away my breath by half-saying, half-asking, “Show…me?”

An extraordinary moment, one in which I could feel his chest appropriately, stroke some inches down below, and caress his lips with mine. Without interrupting the magic, I took all three sets of motions further, screwing into him with cock and tongue. The desire to rush forward had to be quelled. What if I were to disgust him? What if he were to rebel?

I withdrew my tongue to his lips which had a quiver to them. “Kiss my tongue – just its tip.”

His primitive effort caused a clench to my cock. There was no lessening of his stiffness which was wetting my stomach. Another good sign. This was a right tack.

“That’s how you warm a girl, Doug. But don’t go beyond that the first time.  Keep it simple and brief. You smile, perhaps rub the tip of your nose against hers. You say, ‘It’s been great. Let me know about next time.’ Then say good-night and leave.”

“Can I really do that?”

“You can.”

“I shouldn’t ask when I could see her again?”

“No, Doug. There’s a cryptic message in there. You’ll make it incumbent on her to seek you. By nothing more than your kiss and your few words, you will indicate that you might consider a request to get together again. Implicit is that you’ll lead her into something more.”

His consideration showed up as blushing cheeks. “I want to.”

“How much?”

“A lot.”

“Then you have a much to learn.” He accepted a nudge in the right place.

“While I fuck you, close your eyes and practice with me. Forget what’s going on below your neck. Concentrate on how expressive silent mouths can be. Imitate me. I’ll show you the stages of kissing. After each, imagine I’m Lucy and return that kiss exactly. My lips are going to be stand-ins for Lucy’s until you’ve shown them that you know what to do.”

A tricky feat, yet he tried it, this nineteen-year-old who wasn’t queer. And oh my god how I fucked him. Intensely, more so than ever. So firmly, it rocked him like a rag doll. A pause allowed his head to rest as my mouth took his. I played over his teeth with my tongue, ran it over his gums, piled into him, waited, and at last knew what Doug’s tongue, smaller than my own, was like when used volitionally.

“Not bad. Do that again. Show me, Doug.” He did, several times, the last as I commenced to screw into him for good. That made him blink.

The further my tongue sought to invade Doug’s oral areas, the more persuasion he required. He backed his tongue against the roof of his mouth as if to block my way. What choice had I but to slide against the roof of his mouth and force his tongue flat? Total access was mine, secured by tit action and drives into his now bucking bottom.

Out went the notion of developing oscular skills by steps. Passion – all of mine and some of his – took over. When my tongue tickled his uvula, Doug gagged, spasming his throat and, by reflex, lower tract and forcing him to fuck with friction my hair-covered stomach. Saliva inundated our mouths. His sperm gushed onto me. Mine flooded, then overflowed his rectal chamber. Obscene noises and odoriferous juices brought us to conclusion which mingled pain with dizzying joy.

Some minutes were necessary to cool. Although Doug was growing restless and the hour was late, I insisted that we sponge ourselves off, strip the bed, and remake it before retiring. Naked, we did. My furnace’s efficiency had generated a temperature so pleasant that we slept together without any articles of clothing. Another first.

Breakfast the morning after happened surprisingly early. There was Doug’s last-minute packing to complete before heading upstate to his family for the holidays, so I did the honors. He arrived in my robe! Without so much as a glance my way, he sniffed the coffee, managed a nod of approval, did not take a sip, watched me place a plate of eggs and sausage before him, lifted a fork, put it down, and said distinctly, “You made my head spin with your rush to climax. You taunted me really mean-like – and all that kissing stuff!”

I sat with my plate. His face was hard to read. The eggs were good. I picked up a sausage and sucked the link before biting its tip. No reaction. Whether what I should have said is what I said remains moot.

“The thought of your nakedness under my robe turns me on.”

He ate a bit and drank rather more of the hot coffee than was his habit. Something was about to come forth.

“I’m going to tell you good news and bad news.”

While I waited, he forked in more of the breakfast and downed the rest of his cup.

“I’m wearing your robe because I’m going to let you pretend you own me one last time before I leave.” His free hand indicated I was not to interrupt. “I’m going to ask Lucy over lunch to get an apartment with me for next term. I won’t be back here. You’ll have to cover your own mortgage payments.”

“And why is that?”

He finished eating, then held out his cup for a refill – I thought, presumptuously.

I did his will. Poured and sat back.

“I like this too much. I want to be straight. Lucy – well, I need my chance with her.”

Nonplussed, I asked, “And if she won’t, what then?”

“I’ll go back to the dorm.”

“Let’s do the dishes.”

As we took our places for me to begin washing and he drying, he reached into a pocket of my robe and withdrew his personally-contoured wax candle which he handed over.

“I put Vaseline on it and on me. Merry Christmas, Cooper.”

Was ever there a finer farewell gift than those words for a man such as I and where they took us in the next hour?

When I waved Doug and his boxes and bags off, it was with a song in my heart and a lump in my throat.

My other stories on this happy site:

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Cosmo_Lulu_22150.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Ting_and_The_Jefe_22134.html

https://www.gaydemon.com/stories/Gerald_Jr_the_Judge_22151.html

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