Undergraduate Experiments: Sober

"Nice. Pleasant."

"Right. Let's get testing." I swear, he divides my arse into sections like a clock, and starts probing each one in turn. It's all fine, nothing outstanding, but keeps me grounded in the present. He's nuzzling his cheek along my side while he does it, which again is kinda warm and fuzzy.

"Pass us that pillow, let's stick it under your arse. Mm, that's nice."

My cock's flopped upwards, showing off my tight balls and the dark suede-soft skin beneath, he means. I don't expect what he does next, which is fondling all round under my cock with his face. Not licking, just rubbing his cheek and lips all over. Sort of like a dog or wolf accepting me into his pack, like.

I feel I should do something with my hands, so I lay one on his head, reach for my cock with the other, but he bats that away. "No. We're seeing if I can get you off."

I shrug. Whatever.

He replaces his fingers in my arsehole, so I'll forgive him a lot, especially as it's three of them, crooking round, and pulsing in and out with a sweet knuckle rubbing in a most glorious place.

"Good for you?"

"Cracker. Take as long as you want."

I'm panting, wheezing moans. I'm loving it.

He withdraws his hand.

The fucker blows over my stretched sensitive hole, to make me jump.

Before I can settle still again, he pushes his rubber-coated cock into me, just his head into my first inch or two.

Then he tries to push more.

I squeak. I don't think I can take it.

I'm not fucking superhuman, just because his dick is. I squirm away.

"You've had it before. It'll be fine. Just relax, we'll both take it slow. Pass us the lube again. OK?"

"OK." I manage to open up for his ridge. It's a strain, more than it was in my throat.

He doesn't move. My opinion goes from relief to annoyance in a flash. If I was on all-fours, I could rock onto him, all slow and nice, but on my back I'm more at his mercy.

Which I reckon he's getting off from.

I use all my stomach muscle to lift my arse up around his cock, but I can't hardly move. I'm like an insect pinned to a board. Only way less upset about it, I imagine.

I just need more. "Move, will you?"

"Could do. Tell me, can you remember us fucking before?"

"I wasn't fucking unconscious."

"I know, but, like, don't they all blend into one? I mean, have you ever said no to anyone who figured your hole's as good as any?" Snide bastard, implying I'd let anyone have at me when I'm pissed. I mean, he's right...

"I have, actually. Don't make me say it to you, too." It's not a lie; there was at least one. I think.

That small smug smile flickers. He rocks, sliding a few mil further into me.

It hurts. Not in a couple less-stretchy spots like it usually does, but all round, burning. My face screws up, in pain.

He slides out, I breathe out, he throws more lube on the job, and he pushes back in again to where he was before it hurt. It's smoother, this time.

I sigh, happily. He forces himself a little further, then a tad more, I find it too much, he pulls out, smears lube all over again, pushes back in, I love it, he gets a fraction of an inch further, we repeat, so slowly...

We go round half a dozen times. It's powerful sexy stuff.

I'm not watching the time, so I'm surprised when I catch sight of his alarm clock. It's gone seven already. He's been at my arse over an hour.

The distraction must be just enough. He slides in another inch, and it's fine.

More than fine. There's nothing like the exquisite feeling of having your hole totally full of a man's cock.

However much I like women, which I really really do, there's just no substitute for this. Hot thick flesh, in my slutty queer arse. Bollocks tapping against my bum. I breathe out, enjoying it, and let my eyes fall closed.

Richie speaks. "Better? A bit more?"

"Hell, yes. Slide it all in, as deep as you can go."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Seriously. Do it."

At last, thank Christ, the bastard does.

I groan. It's so good.

Yet I need something more. Movement, that's what. I try to adjust the angle of how his pole is erected inside me, lifting up my knees and holding them towards my chest.

He figures what I'm aiming for. Rich takes over holding my legs, bending them further up, wider, closer, constantly testing, the bloody scientist scanning my face all the while to see how I'm responding.

Very well, it turns out. He puts me in some very fine positions which I never want to move from. He sets my legs back in the comfiest of those, smiles close-lipped at me, and he starts to move properly.

Tiny experimental thrusts, watching my face intently, while I let my jaw hang slack, all gormless, just letting it happen. He slides his cock in more, deeper, in and out, and around in tiny circles. It's getting right over where I need it, so powerful, so good.

We're ramping up my pleasure, but, having got me to a fun plateau, now he wants to play.

He holds my balls in his hands, squeezes, twists slightly. That's nice, up to a point. Not too much, though. Then he thwaps me just behind my balls. Now that's... intense, and it hurts, which he well knows, but because it's so intimate, I somehow also enjoy it. Hot. Kinky.

I'm going to come soon. I think and hope and pray that he starts moving more, letting me enjoy all that amazing length.

He doesn't. So I do, trying to pull myself back then impale myself deep again.

The tosser smiles. "Wanting something?" He drops my junk and concentrates on fucking me, slow but sure.

"More! Harder!" I moan.

"You cannot be serious." He ramps up a little bit. I guess he's scared to try more.

"I fucking am!" I growl at the tosser. "You've got in there, now enjoy it! Do your fucking worst. I can take it!"

"Uh-huh."

He doesn't believe me, not until he's slowly increased his movements to the point that he is, finally, fucking me hard just like he'd fuck a woman. And I'm groaning with the joy of it, just like a woman would.

He grabs one of my legs under each arm, and rams me with all his might. I want to show how much I'm loving it, so I don't hold back and let all the voiceless screams out. Like when we went to Alton Towers, it's a roller-coaster and high-pitched shrieks just have to be done, which couldn't really be controlled even if I were trying.

I'm not trying to control myself -- he's controlling me. He's loving every minute of it, a rare wide grin across his face as he fucks me hard, just because he can. Plus he can tell I'm loving it, leaking and so close.

His face contorts. His climax forces him even deeper inside me. I just catch my breath, feeling all of the great size of his huge invading cock that I've gladly surrendered to.

I'm so amazingly full of cock. As well-filled as a man could be. I've taken everything he could give me.

And then he fucking slaps me across the balls.

Painful, sure, but powerful erotic because it's so dirty. Mostly because that's so twisted and freakish, and a shock, I cry a bit. So there's snot and tears over my face, while at the same time he's made me climax. I'm coming like a fire hose.

My jet of spunk gets him right in the face, and hell yeah, Richie fucking Pardoe wearing my cum all across his cheeks, that's the hottest thing I've seen in my life! It makes me manage another weaker spurt, across his chest.

He seems pretty unfazed by his facial, especially for a mainly-straight guy. I suppose he's used to fluids and all, being a biologist. He doesn't even wipe it off, just tucks loose hair behind his ears as he slowly eases his dick out of my body. He ties the rubber in a knot and chucks it in the direction of a bin, not checking where it lands, and starts to clean himself up, watching my face as he does.

A moment later he licks my jizz off his forearm, then tosses me the roll of paper towels. "Hm. Not bad. What do you think?"

"My taste?"

"No, the sex." He rolls his eyes. "How was it for you?"

"Marks out of ten?"

"No. Was it better than doing it drunk?"

"Can't remember." I want to say, give me a drink and I'll compare, but I'm not stupid, there's a limit to how many times a day I can take it like that.

Admittedly, I probably haven't hit it yet.

I light a cigarette. It's good.

"Oi, you. Making my room reek of fags."

"You prefer the reek of gay sex, do you?"

I expect some embarrassment, possibly violence, from being reminded he's been lured over to the queer side. But the fucker's unperturbed, says only, "Sweat, spunk and tears. What's not to like?"

I'd hoped he'd not noticed the tears.

He continues, "Besides, it's better than your smoke. He smiles nastily. "Your smoking and you not being able to stay sober for five minutes: that's why I get to fuck Laura and you don't. If you weren't such a fuck-up, you'd have had her by now. Ah, well, your loss, my gain." He laughs, almost a giggle. "I bet she'd happily gain both of us, if you weren't such a fucking fuckwit."

It's not like Laura hasn't explained that to me before, in words of decreasingly few syllables, but it stings when he says it. "That hurts, you cunt."

I'm not sure if he's playing deliberately dumb when he replies, "But you liked being hurt. Not up your arse, but the other places."

What's he getting at? "What of it?"

"More things you get off from; more fun. Duh."

"Suppose."

"It's obvious."

"Is it, now?"

"See, I was wondering, right, if you'd get hard from a spanking. You're a naughty boy, aren't you? Isn't that what you're trying to blot out, all the time? Thinking you're worthless? Do you think you deserve to lie across my lap and be given a sore bum?" He shrugs. "Just a question."

He's tracing my bum cheeks as he speaks, as if he knows what he's talking about. I really don't want to admit that it makes sense, let alone sounds hot, but my traitorous cock perks up at the idea. He strokes it up and down, grinning all the while.

"What I deserve," I tell him sternly, "is a good drink."

"Bollocks you do. No-one ever deserves booze. That's just one of the lies you tell yourself."

"Fuck off." I light a second fag, just to piss him off.

He ignores both. "I could get you a drink. I've got some rum -- that do you?"

"Fetch it."

He does. Back on the bed, he shows me the shoulder of Bacardi, near full. He pulls it away when I reach for it.

"Nuh-uh. I spank you first, then once I'm satisfied, then I'll give you the bottle to have at."

I give him a hard stare. "How do you know you'll ever be satisfied? How do I know?" But it's plain I'm not running away as I confirm, "We're just talking your bare hand, right? No belt or shoes or other shit?" Nothing like my da. This situation is totally different, though -- Rich is stone-cold sober, controlled, and for him it's not even really about inflicting pain, it's just his oddly-wired sex drive. I'm making no comment on the mess of my own mental wiring.

"My hand, your smooth cute little arse. Hands do get sore, you know. Anyway, just to remind you -- you can tell me to stop any time. Informed ongoing consent of experimental subjects, eh? I've read the Beaumont Report."

"Aye, right." Whatever that is. But when he sits on the bed, legs out straight as he leans against the wall, I notice how he's eyeing me up, wanting my bum again, only differently. I can't resist being wanted, so I stub out my fag and lay myself across his lap.

It's nothing like my da in a rage. Richie's calm as anything, for starters. I'm lying down, and the man's stroking me like a cat, kneading my arse like it's a right treasure. I mean, it is and all, but I'm not sure I've had anyone really properly appreciate it before. Not without some booze to open their minds.

I'm rubbing my crotch against his, my cock against his, between his legs. He was hard again before we even started! He starts to pat my arse, like you do a dog, then like you do to get a pony moving. Then slapping proper hard, like to a recalcitrant horse.

He's hung like a horse and all, and it's pushing into me. The whacks on my arse aren't so bad -- I'm used to a bit of physical abuse, it doesn't really matter -- so all I really notice is how it makes my strained empty hole feel as I wriggle about, and how I'm getting warm and tender across my arse.

He claws my bum with his long fingernails. Man, that's intense! Sensitive. Direct line to my cock. He intersperses that with more slaps, then he's punching my arse with his fist, so I feel his knuckles bruising me, my flesh pushing against my aroused hole.

It's surprising to me, but it feels grand. Mostly because I'm squirming and writhing across his lap, him holding me in place with his left arm, so my cock and his are rubbing against each other, hard and furious.

Suddenly my groin is soaked. He's gone and come again from it, the pervy fucker.

He manages to lick a finger and run it just round the edge of my hole where I'm sensitive. What with that, and with feeling his jizz all over my dick, I manage my own second wee climax. Probably his duvet's now all soggy from us both, but I don't care.

It's not as earth-shattering as when he fucked me, so within a couple minutes I manage to sit myself up and knock back half the rum before he can complain. "Ah, that's better." Takes the edge off. I re-light my fag. Not wasting it.

He makes a token waft away of the smoke, but I can tell he's not actually unhappy with me. I suppose there's not many guys who would let him do such experiments. Gareth's way too soft and romantic, for example -- he'd have run a mile. Actually, so would Richie, from him.

We get dressed, and we're back to normal. Vague mates, who take the piss out of each other and bicker, in a constant game of intellectual one-upmanship.

I'm not feeling the need to run away from all humanity quite yet, which is unusual. "Wanna go out? I can buy you something."

He agrees. "Play pool?"

"OK."

His college bar has some god-awful band playing, so we wander to a pub behind the college that has a pool table.

Of course, being a Friday evening, it's under the control of some sharks playing 'winner stays on', so I resign myself to us both playing separate games and losing.

Turns out, Rich is a decent player. Not like a shark, but he loses with only one red remaining. He nods respect to the winner, and hands his cue to me. He sips his third beer, hardly mildly tipsy.

I'm not bad myself. Half a pint of his rum means I'm perfectly relaxed for a steady hand, now -- I'm still on my second rum'n'coke.

It's just as well the townie guy pots a ball before I clean up the table, or we'd probably have been beaten up there and then. As it is, I call Rich back to play, stopping him neatening up all the wee piles of silver coins. He gives me a good game, I go for a few trick shots to even it up, but when it gets to the black I sink it sensibly -- not letting him beat me! He shakes my hand and slides his next two coins into the table, reaching for the triangle to frame up.

My spidey senses tingle. The locals won't like being kept from the table, I predict. Especially by a pair of students. Particularly when one has a long girly ponytail and earrings and the other's an Irish shrimp with floppy poncy hair. They'll probably assume we're gay, too, which is unreasonable. I mean, yeah, we've fucked, but it's not like we're poofs. Well, he's not. I'm not admitting anything to a gang of jaunty townies which would severely risk our continued health.

Rich stands up, indicates I should break. Only I do have a tiny bit of self-preservation, so I call out, "Hey, big lad! Were you wanting another game right this minute? I was thinking I'd just have the one more with my mate, then we'll leave yous to it, get out of your hair."

The guy I beat accepts the logic of this. He agrees, though he isn't happy at the lack of respect. His mate clocks that, and decides to ingratiate himself with Mr Top Dog, spitting at me, "Eh, winner stays on, eh: you take on the next player, not some random ginger cunt."

Ouch. I try to dial it down, whilst ramping up my accent which effectively scares the shit out of so many people by itself. "Ach, he's a mate, he is. I'll cream him, then we'll be on our way, just luck it was, me winning against your fella, a talented man, so he is..."

It might have worked, if Richie hadn't gone and piped up with "Cunt, yourself!", adding,"He's not gonna thrash me, anyhow."

Ah, shit. The sidekick has turned and lamped him one. Meanwhile, I have to duck, to avoid my guy's reacting fist. I sober up instantly.

Richie's coping better than I'd expect, grabbing the guy in a reflex action and kneeing him in the solar plexus, but my guy is trying to join in. I clock Richie's face, blood streaming from his nose, and know I need to get him out. I bet the fuckwit doesn't know when to stop. When you're outnumbered -- and there, their mates have put their drinks down -- that's time to get the hell out.

I use the hand with my cigarette to push my guy into the table, silver coins flying everywhere, yell, "You fucker, what did you do that for?" and grab Richie by his handy pigtail. His antagonist and two back-ups are trying to reach him, so my "We're leaving," is growled in his ear while I swing him behind two bystanders, grab hold of his arm, and run with him back into the crowded front room.

Some vigorous sidling through the crowd, and we reach the front door, where there's security staff because it's that sort of place on a weekend.

"Hey! What happened?"

"He fell over. I'm taking him home. I think he needs to go home," I tell the guy in that patronising voice which people have used so regularly about me. "Could you see us to a taxi?"

Just in case the pool sharks have come out a back door.

Before the guy can even finish his radio request, a local cab pulls up. I shove Richie in the back. He's feeling it now, groaning.

"Where to, mate?" the driver asks.

"Where d'you think? Addenbrooke's." Rich needs the hospital. I give him tissue to shove up his nose, and stop him poking his face. That cheek doesn't look right. I hope he doesn't have a fracture.

The A&E staff seem happy to see us -- the waiting room proves we've got in before the late-night crowds, we aren't pissed -- not enough to register, anyhow -- and aren't their obnoxious frequent-flyer customers. I've only been here twice before, with similar injuries to Rich.

I beam at the receptionist, concentrate on sounding more sober than I am, which is ironic given I'm the one doing the coping. "Do you have an ice pack? "

"We don't normally..."

I lean on her counter and smile at her, channelling all my Irish charm while enunciating my consonants perfectly. "It would be really appreciated. My friend is in a lot of pain."

"The ice packs cost us, you know."

I pull out a credit card. "I'm happy to leave security. Or... I could buy you a drink...?"

"We'll need it back," she tells me, clearly slightly regretting her boyfriend's existence. I do, too.

I pass the cold pack to Rich, who's quietly moaning and swaying back and forth, like I was before he fucked me. He's not a fan of noisy chaos. In fact, he seems to be suffering more from the waiting room than from his face.

We're in luck, seen within fifteen minutes.

"And open your mouth wide. Jaw to the side, for me?" Richie's wincing but manages. "Good. We'll get X-rays done, but touch wood, it's a minor zygomatic fracture which won't need surgery. Now, don't blow your nose, no matter what. Keep your mouth open if you sneeze."

X-ray confirms the reasonably good news. Richie's given bandaging, mostly to remind him to be careful, a sheet of instructions for the next ten days, including sitting up to sleep -- "thank fuck I'm not going home until after," he says -- and a bottle of good painkillers. Doc invites us to grass someone up for the injury; I insist Rich fell, but admit it was onto the pool table at the Greyhound.