Aloysius Li Washington, Ch. 01

Aloysius Lionel "Li" Washington Ch 01

Celtics Rookie MVP hooks Boston fan

Author's Notes: This is an imaginary work of fiction. Currently three chapters have been written and edited. References to specific schools, firms, and athletic teams are coincidental to the story. The fictional law firm described in this story is the same at which Mark Eagleheart, a protagonist in "Steven and the Noble Savage", works. ("Steven" is another story previously published on Literotica. Mark is not a major character in this chapter.) As is typical in my stories, character development and description precede sexual activity--so it's a slow burn. All characters engaged in sexual activities are over 18, as should be any reader where local law so requires. © 2023, all rights reserved. Brunosden

Lionel was sitting uncomfortably in a conference room in Washington D.C. He was one of a dozen "summer associates" at RansomWalker (sometimes known by opposing counsel as the Ransomers--perhaps with a few additional pejorative adjectives). It was the first day of a twelve week "apprenticeship"--really a twelve week recruiting marathon for top performers from the top law schools in the US--a summer of wining and dining, memo writing (really test taking) and mutual "does he/she fit?" trials. Everyone in the room had intellectual power--and had used it to succeed at university and at law school. The summer was an audition for their next phase.

Lionel had done well at Harvard. He was in the top 5% (Harvard had stopped ranking decades before, but it kept certain traditions from which this status could be inferred.) And this group attracted recruiting sharks from the top firms of the world. The summer would be a quasi-bribe--a lark of shows, dinners, athletic events; and it would be well-paid: about $3000 per week. The summer salary seemed impressive, but Lionel was going to graduate with about $150,000 in student debt. If given a permanent job offer, his salary would be high--but he would be expected to devote 24/7 to the firm--in an attempt to "bill" at least 2800 hours per year, far more than the average 40 hour summer week.

Lionel was a prize because of his intellectual achievement, but also because he was black, had humble origins, and had played professional basketball for three years after graduating from UNC, before an injury/illness moved him to the sidelines. He had been a top pick by the NBA, and in his first year, had proven himself the b-ball star that he had been groomed for all of his life--from the concrete courts of NE Washington, to the scholarship to the Gonzaga Prep, to UNC, always a top basketball contender. Thus, he was a celebrity as well as an achiever.

He was very tall, 6-11, with athletically-defined muscles (but not a body-builder), very talented, and handsome. For his size--if not for his intellect--he would be a commanding figure in any courtroom. But, he had the intellect to match--graduating magna UNC and expecting something similar at HLS. And he had achieved a bit of fame already.

During his brief period as a rookie b-ball player, he (or his agent) had been approached by dozens of potential distributors of athletic equipment, skin and hair treatments, underwear/sports apparel, and even one automobile manufacturer (which had backed off when they realized he really didn't fit into their new mini-electro-vehicle). He was photogenic. He was young, clean and handsome. He was a star: NCAA MVP, All-State, March Madness MVP (twice), first round NBA pick (the Celtics) and NBA rookie of the year. So he was in print and media all the time.

Then, the health bomb had hit. He fell during a game after a foul at the beginning of his third season. He was out of the game. Later, he was examined for a routine game injury, using advanced imagery. A tumor was detected, on the bone of his right shoulder which had broken in the fall. It was later diagnosed as a rare metastatic bone cancer. His days as a player might be over--and remarkably sooner than anyone had anticipated. That was his dunking arm! He was in for at least a year of chemo and therapy. Then, maybe, just maybe, he could regain his remarkable shooting abilities and aggressive style.

Lionel didn't wallow. He quickly regrouped.

He took the LSATs, applied to law school, and was accepted. He went all-in for the therapy and worked out religiously. At the end he had lost a little weight and probably was just as muscular as before--but perhaps a bit more cut because he had skimmed off the fat. He continued to work out and practice, but spent the next two years trying to be "just a law student" despite his professional sports stint: a student without special privileges, with his nose to the grind. He studied hard, did well, and here he was at the cusp of his second career.

He had licked the disease, at least temporarily, but no team would touch him because there could be a relapse at any time, and he was uninsurable. So it looked like he was going to be a lawyer--and he would be a very good one, he thought. Even if, God forbid, the disease returned--and even if he lost his arm, he could still lawyer.

He had been somewhat of a celebrity at Harvard--a professional basketball player of towering height in law school! With a commanding physical presence and baritone voice. But everyone assumed he was average (or worse) intellectually. He had proven them wrong. He was one of those rare great athletes with academic credentials--and a killer instinct. He wanted to be a litigator. And of course at this stage of his life, he imagined himself as a "black" knight in shining armor vindicating the wrongs being perpetrated on the lower classes, his people. Harvard fed his ego and his ambitions--and he was soon on his way to stardom again, albeit in a very different life.

The summer associate moderator droned on and on--mostly about the advantages of a RandomWalker position and the wonderful summer that was planned. The room was small and cramped. It was filled with all the "summers", their associate "buddies" and partner "mentors." Lionel grew uneasy--he was always uncomfortable in these chairs designed for "average" bodies and asses. His suit was tight--off the rack suits were rarely designed for very tall, muscular men; his pants, even tighter. He began to feel his cock hardening and lengthening in discomfort. Shit. This couldn't be. He needed to fit in. He didn't want special attention--particularly not lurid glances at his crotch. He knew from experience that if would be impossible to hide an erection--which would reach well down his thigh and tent his pants. He couldn't right then, without calling attention, reposition it under his belt. His chair, pushed up to the table, was flanked by others immediately to his left and right.

His eyes roamed the room, trying to distract himself from the discomfort. There was only one other person of color at the table--a Latina, with a haughty "Spanish donna" look. She looked away when she noticed him staring at her. Lionel thought it strange that the summer group was so "white"--for RansomWalker had a sterling reputation for diversity, employing many women, African-Americans, Latinx-es, and even a Native American. Lionel had already met the Native American who was almost as tall as he. Mark was a third year associate in the intellectual property group. They had already set a date to meet and have lunch. He noted that several of the other "summers" were eyeing him--with more than curiosity about his size and skin color. He imagined that they were scoping his dick--and his discomfort in the tight suit pants he was wearing. Perhaps they were imagining even more.

Lionel was gay, although very much in the closet and with almost no gay experience. He had been involved in athletics all of his life, and a black gay athlete just didn't cut it. So he concentrated on internet porn, occasional gay porn stories, and his trusty hand. (The cancer had even made him ambidextrous.)

For his last three years at UNC, he had dated one woman. They were best friends and always together. She was beautiful, tall, dressed well, and equaled his intellectual quotient. She knew he was bi (probably gay), but was okay with that. Occasionally, they would have sex, but it was not the center of their life together. They were friends and confidantes. She loved being on his arm.

Unfortunately, they had drifted apart after the he moved to Boston to play in the pros. She had met another. She knew there was no future with Lionel, and although she wanted to support him (and maybe enjoy some of the perks of NBA-stardom), she realized that she had to have a life as well. They split after he moved to Boston. And he became celibate--well almost. His left arm muscles steadily bulged larger with many times a day exercise, a very different kind of therapy.

Technically, Lionel was a gay virgin. He had visited several glory holes at remote adult book store/video parlors where he enjoyed anonymous sex--all well outside RTP and Boston. His size had guaranteed that: when his dick appeared, rumors word spread quickly. He got off, usually several times a night, but he never had met or even seen his partners. He had gone to bed with many groupies (all female), but had been convinced by them he was a "typical premature jock ejaculator" and "too big" for normal sex with a normal woman. He was just big, young, a semen factory, and ready to blow--at any time and in any hole. But, he didn't do online. He didn't cruise--his face and body were too well known. And no man had touched his ass--at least not in bed.

The disease had briefly detoured him, and perhaps released him from the bonds of prejudice (he had been applauded, pitied, mourned, and now, he assumed, mostly forgotten). It hadn't changed who he was--but it had used up almost all his signing bonus. He was now going into debt. And that would limit his flexibility for the future--thus, his presence at Ransom, a big corporate firm.

But the therapy and regular exercise had restored his shine. He was a terrific specimen of manhood: tall, with closely clipped black hair, a deep complexion--a cross between midnight purple and black. His face was sculpted from rock. His lips were large; his eyes deep brown. He moved with a grace that would befit a dancer--or a prize fighter. His hands were enormous. He was muscular, but lithe. His body was almost hairless. And then there was his baby-making equipment. He was huge. His shaft was easily 7, flaccid, and of course, being a grower, significantly longer erect; his shaved (thanks to the underwear ad shots) balls were of lemon size. He filled his Calvins (actually UnderArmors) with impressive fullness. He was a giant, at least physically, among ordinary students. He couldn't hide it. That was what he was.

After the introductory remarks ended, he was mobbed--by summer associates and even a few members of the firm. He knew he was still chubbed--and it was impossible not to notice the bulge down the inside of his right thigh. But he had to stand. Carefully he did, stepping forward with his left leg to provide a little more room and into the conference table for camouflage. Unfortunately, his crotch was still on display well-above the table top. He was presentable, but just barely. Most were interested in his professional athletic career. They hoped some of his stardom would rub off. But, it was clear to Lionel that at least a few were interested in him--or at least his body. They made little secret of their stares below his belt. He noted who they were and walked to the assigned office to begin his first summer assignment. He didn't think any of them was a potential partner, and none seemed to ping his gaydar. He guessed they might be gauging him as a competitor in the summer dating arena.

He was given a two-person office with a window! No cubicles in wall-less, window-less rooms for RansomWalker associates. The routine was set: he would have a half-dozen assignments, lasting about two weeks each, from six different partners in different practice areas. Each partner controlling his time for that brief period would also be responsible for his entertainment (lunches, a dinner or two, an athletic event, perhaps a show at the Kennedy Center or Wolf Trap).

Lionel met his office-mate, another second year student, from Duke. Lionel wondered whether the firm had deliberately "teamed" a UNC star with a Duke rival. But, Pete O'Malley turned out to be affable and an extrovert. He was from a suburb of Boston and, of course, a Celtics fan. Pete was really pleased to be paired with Lionel--almost as excited as he was to have a genuine Lakota, a fellow UPenn alumnus, as his associate "buddy". He would have stories for a long time.

Pete had played soccer at UPenn before Duke Law. He was in shape, but "only" about six foot. He was Irish, with copper red hair, freckles, and a wry wit. They bonded immediately. And Pete moved easily into the "second chair" leaving the window desk to Lionel. Over the next weeks, they talked about backgrounds, compared living situations for the summer, and often commented on each other's work. They even began to schedule work-outs together. Pete often spoke of his girl back in Boston and so Lionel assumed he was straight. Pete assumed Lionel, a well-known athlete, was as well.

Li (as he quickly was renamed by the other associates) wasn't fazed by Pete's sexual preferences. In fact he was relieved. He had already decided that he wasn't going to play in the office sandbox. Washington was a big city with a large and active gay population. There were clubs, parks and gyms all over the city where gays hung and met. But, he also realized that his size and notoriety would make it impossible for him to find anonymous opportunities to hook. Being a celebrity and gay meant that staying in the closet was going to be very difficult--if he started cruising. He really couldn't go clubbing. For him anonymity would be impossible. He was going to need a confidential wing man to bring guys to him in private. The problem of course was finding such an intermediary--and guys he could rely on to keep it on the down low.

**********

Li shared an apartment with another Harvard guy--working at another firm--but the guy had a fiancé in the Middleburg, in the Virginia exurbs. It was already half way through the summer and his roommate had been dining out several nights a week and was away every weekend. So Li had the space (at least three nights a week) and the desire. Now he only needed the opportunity, and a partner.

That chance occurred in late July. Pete's "Irish twin" (two children born almost exactly nine months apart to the same mother--a joke on Roman Catholic fecundity and abhorrence of birth control) was coming to Washington for a weekend of sightseeing. Unfortunately, Pete's place was small. In fact Pete's bed was a pull-out futon in a small efficiency unit. He needed a crib for Evan, or he would be on the floor. Li knew his roommate would leave Friday morning and not return until Monday night after work. So he offered the space to Pete--and coincidentally, the apartments were both downtown and just a block apart. In fact, the gym they used was mid-way between the two. Pete gratefully accepted--knowing his brother would be pleased to be bunking with "THE Li Washington."

Pete arranged to have Evan meet Li after his arrival at the office, late Friday afternoon. The three guys would go to dinner and maybe a club or two. And Evan would crash with Li. When Evan heard, he was over the moon. He was an avid Celtics fan, a year older than Pete and virtually his twin. He would be bunking with an icon. The hell with sightseeing. He was hoping to abandon his brother as soon as possible in order to spend time with one of his idols.

Late the following week, Evan arrived. It was obvious that he was indeed Pete's brother, if not his twin. He was blond, but strawberry blond and buzz-cut. He shared Pete's emerald eyes, his smile and his wit. And he shared Pete's physique--although Evan's had been sculpted with hours in the gym and four years in the US Marine Corps. He had nice slab pecs, a concave, cut gut, and decent-sized guns--all clearly outlined under the tight tee. He was all-Marine.

Evan had taken the metro from National to the office where his brother was waiting. Introductions were made. Hands were shook--and when they touched, both Li and Evan felt the shock. Both looked up in surprise as eyes widened. Evan was dressed in a tee, tight jeans, and Nikes. He filled them all nicely. When he casually sat on the edge of Pete's desk as they talked, his crossed arms popped his bis and tris; and his stretched-out, crossed legs showcased his large basket quite nicely. And when he bent down to pick up his duffle, his bubble nearly split the back. Li was drooling inside. This guy was another alpha and looked delicious, and the gaydar was quietly pinging. Pete hadn't said anything about his brother being gay.

Evan had recently mustered out and was now in tech marketing. (He had majored in communications at Northeastern.) His looks, Irish brogue, and friendly demeanor gained him entry to the top executive suites in the country. His sidekick, a computer nerd, did the presentation. And the sale for one of the Route 128 tech bandits was made. They were a good team, with nothing in common but the job. The nerd didn't even follow basketball.

Later, Evan went home with Li, all promising to meet for drinks in an hour at one of the lawyers' watering holes nearby. Li was already wondering whether Pete had figured him out and was playing wingman. He was wondering whether Evan was bi or gay. A guy in his shape and his age (26) not yet attached?

Li showed Evan to the second bedroom--and explained that the apartment had only one shared bath with no tub, but a large walk in shower. Evan could go first if he wished. Li pulled towels from the closet and deposited them on the "guest" bed. Then he left to lose his suit. Li went into his room and immediately began to hang the dark suit, carefully smoothing the summer humidity wrinkles. He had only two. They needed to last the summer. Then he removed and deposited the belt, tie and links. He balled the brilliant white shirt and dropped it into the basket. Then he padded into the kitchen, clad only in his Celtics "Irish" green boxer briefs, to grab a beer.

Meanwhile, Evan stripped, threw a towel over his shoulder, picked up his dop, and headed for the shower. As he left the bedroom, he ran into Li--who was offering a cold beer. Evan was naked and Li was nearly so. Eyes immediately dropped. Evan was big and cut. Li was much bigger and uncut. The tight briefs hid nothing. And as Li handed over the beer, he once again felt the electricity between them. Mutual pings of gaydar reverberated around the narrow hall. Li now was certain that Evan was gay--and that Evan was definitely going to be interested in more than a single bed for a few nights.

Evan needed a few minutes to regroup. Pete hadn't warned him that Li was bi or gay. He knew he was already chubbing. So he turned to the bath, dropped the towel on the floor, placed the beer on the vanity, and stepped into the shower, which he deliberately turned to cold. Minutes later, he exited, and wrapped in his damp towel, picked up his beer and headed into the living space.

Meanwhile, Li had been wondering whether he could come on to Evan, given that Evan's bro was his office-mate. He had no idea how much the brothers shared or what Pete suspected. He couldn't risk exposure. He decided subtlety was required. He would make it clear what he wanted (without words) and let Evan take the next step. Then, they could discuss secrecy. Otherwise, he would let it go and suffer through the weekend.

Li stood. "My turn. Make yourself comfortable." Without returning to his room, he bent, pulled off the briefs, and headed for the bath, flashing Evan with his enormous cock and his ass. He had extended the invitation--the act was more than locker room bravado. Let's see if Evan took the bait. Evan followed every step, every movement of every muscle as Li languidly strolled to the bath--extending as much as he could, the display of his body to the potential prey. Never had a hook been baited with a larger piece of meat!