Cupid's Sophomore Year, Semester 01


I've seen my share of cockage in my time--I'm only 19, but I've been working at it--and I've rarely seen one this beautiful. And yet here are two of them, identically beautiful. They are rooted in expertly groomed pubes, and they arch out slightly, even now, when they are at rest. They are flawless, perfectly proportioned in the way that a battleship is--long, broad, and purpose-built. They taper slightly from base to flared head (they are cut, alas--I always like to find new friends with 'skin like I have) and they even have identical veins snaking along the top, down the entire length. As long as those cocks are, their balls drop even further, and on each the right one droops slightly more than the left.

I suddenly realize that I've been staring. My eyes flick up to their faces--each one is wearing a sly grin. They're enjoying this.

"Nope, still don't see it. You seem completely identical, in every--" my eyes dart crotch-ward and then back up again, "--detail."

"Yep," the one one the left says. "Apparently the egg that formed us split very late in the growth process. We are more identical than most."

"But," the one on the right continues, "Our parents found one way to tell us apart." He turns to his mirror image. "Shall we?" The other nods. He turns back to me. "What we're going to show you we don't tell anyone about. But since we're going to be living intimately--" I shiver, "--together, we think you should know."

As one, they jump up and plant those beautiful asses on the counter. Their cocks bob merrily before them, their balls come to rest on the lucky, lucky polished concrete. It's like a buffet spread out before me, and I could eat and eat.

"We have a birthmark each," the one on the left says, as they each spread their legs wider apart. I can hardly breathe. "Mine is here," he says, pointing to a small spot on his left inner thigh--my left, that is, his right.

"And mine is here," says the other, pointing to similar mark on--his--left inner thigh.

I try to get my breathing under control. I pretend to be unable to see the marks from this distance--I squint, and look from one to the other. I step closer, as one who has difficulty seeing would. Ah, now I can see everything better. Yum.

I look where the one on the left is pointing, and I see it--a small spot, about the size of a pea, that is slightly darker than the rest of his skin. It's right in the place where his right leg meets his hip, and would be completely hidden if his legs were not spread open. I try to take in the complete view without letting drool collect in the corner of my mouth. I turn to the other, the one on the right, and see his corresponding mark, where his right leg meets his groin.

"Wow," I say, "You guys really are a matched set."

"Yeah, but it kind of bugged us to have the birthmark thing be different, so we fixed that," says the one on the left.

"What do you mean you fixed it?"

"Look," say the one on the right. He points to the other side of his glorious cock, at a birthmark that is identical to the one that his brother has.

"And I've got his," says the one on the left, pointing out a replica of his brother's mark.

"Whoa, that's...seriously weird. You guys got tattoos of each other's birthmarks?"

"Yep. Now we really are identical," says the one on the left.

"Well, there is a way you can tell the difference," says the one on the right. "The tattoo guy did a great job matching the color and shape and everything, but the real birthmark is raised a bit. You can tell by feeling them which one is real."

"Here, try it," the one on the right says. He grabs my hand and presses it to his real birthmark, and then grabs the other hand and puts it on the fake one, in his brother's crotch. I now have my hands nestled up against their genitals, running my fingers over their skin. Through the electric fog in my head--I get a little loopy when confronted with handfuls of cock--I can feel the difference.

"Wow," I say, because I don't know exactly what one is supposed to say in this situation. I pull my hands back reluctantly, hoping that there will be occasion for them to return for a more wide-ranging survey of the manscape.

Once I am no longer in physical contact with them, my head clears a bit, and a thought occurs to me.

"So, guys, why go through all the trouble--and the pain of having a needle that close to...well...there--when the only people who would ever see those marks would probably have no way to compare them. Unless, you know, the same person ever saw both of know, that up close and...oh..."

They are looking at me with the identical sly grins. Apparently some lucky soul has had a chance to compare the feel of their most intimate regions. But if Porter is gay, and Dexter is straight, then that would mean that there is a certain amount of flexibility in their tastes.

I like flexibility.

I hear a noise behind me--it's Seth, opening the door. What he sees is me standing in front of the two naked twins, who are still perched on the counter, grinning. The door slams shut again.

"Well," I say to my identical roomies, "I think we have some 'splaining to do."

They giggle, and how can I not join in? Their cocks dance so fetchingly when they laugh.

The twins retreat to their bedroom and I to mine to find Seth hurriedly dressing--he has apparently discovered someplace he needs to be right away.

"Seth?" I venture. I'm not sure what to say about what he saw in the bathroom.

"Um, yeah, I gotta go," he says, stuffing his laptop in to his backpack.

"Where are you going this early?" I ask as he brushes past me.

"Library," he says, and then I hear the front door quickly open and close.

I'm not sure what this means--was he freaked out by the naked twins, or is something else bugging him? Looks like our Seth is an enigma wrapped in a riddle clothed in nerdiness. But there will be time to get him figured out--right now I gotta get going so that I can be ready to help out the incoming freshmen with their orientation. I love that word--so many possibilities.

# 3 #

Come on, that's right, get in my line. That's it. Oh, yes, bring your cute friend with you. Excellent.

The best part about working freshman orientation is--well, duh--the freshmen. I've managed to wangle the dream spot, for me at least: the registration table in front of Hurley Hall, the jock dorm. All I need to do now is sit back and wait for the muscle boys to come to me.

Take this pair in front of me right now, for example. They look like they've just arrived together and aren't sure they're in the right place. The one on the left is tall and lanky and tan--which says basketball--and apparently blissfully unaware of the effect that his barely-there t-shirt, with its deeply cut armholes and ragged neck, is having on people around him. But every time he moves, one of his nipples peeks out, and I just about wet myself. Damn, he's gorgeous.

His friend is a bit shorter, and a bit more muscled, and holy shit his legs are amazing. Him I peg for wrestling. I picture him in a singlet--ah, it's a good look.

Finally they approach. The table, conveniently, is just below crotch-height. That lets me appear to glance casually at the campus map taped to the surface while pointing out directions--while I'm really studying the mysterious forms that lurk and bob within those sleek nylon shorts. Or khakis. Or hemp--I'm not picky.

"Can I help you?" I ask, looking up into the vaguely confused face of the tall tan one.

"Yeah, we need, uh--" He turns to his buddy. "What's the number again?"

"237N," mutters his friend out the side of his mouth. He clearly thinks it's uncool to have to deal with bureaucracy.

"Yeah, room 237N," Basketball says.

"You're in the right place," I assure him, reaching to point at the map. The bulge in his shorts is about an inch from my hand. I point to the building on the map, and look up at him. "We're right here, and the north wing of the building runs along here." I circle the area with my finger, wondering if I can accidentally brush against, too risky.

I shuffle through the file box looking for 237N. Ah, here it is.

"You two together?" I ask as I hand over their paperwork, trying to keep the insinuation in my voice at the just-barely-noticeable level.

"Yeah," Basketball says, while Wrestler looks at him with a critical eyebrow.

"In 237N," clarifies Wrestler. Ah. He heard the hint. Interesting.

"OK, so 237N is about here," I point to the map of the building. "Go in here, up to the second floor, and along this corridor. Your room will be on the right side of the hall, which means you'll have a view of--" I point to the map just to the side of building, "--the recycling depot. Awesome."

If he's disappointed with the prospect of that view from his room, he doesn't show it--of course the best view in his room is going to be his muscly friend stretching as he wakes in the morning, his hair tousled, his sheets sliding down, down, down...

"OK, thanks!" Basketball says, jauntily, and the two of them walk off together. I watch them as they stride away, their heavy duffles smacking them on the ass with every step--oh, to be slung over the back of one of them.

"Excuse me?" a deep, strong voice sidles up to my ear. Aw, crap, someone else is at my table--I hope the expression on my face is one of concern for our treasured new students, not one of unbridled lust at the thought of coming between those two friends. Like a sandwich.

I shake off the dirty visions that have filled my head and turn to the party in front of me, my best customer-service face firmly in place. I look, I am awed.

Good things come in twos today. After Basketball and Wrestling, I could not reasonably hope to find as tasty a morsel in the next batch--who is that lucky?--but here is the magic of freshman orientation. Demographically, this parade of flesh is guaranteed to be all 18 years old, all athletic, and all mine.

But at the moment I'm not looking at a pair of 18-year olds--there's just one. But he brought his dad, who must have fathered him at a tender young age--I'm not into older guys, but this one can't be much past mid-thirties, and he looks no more than late twenties. He is, like his son, well-built and fit as fuck. Some very tasty genes have been passed down.

"Yes, sir, how can I help you?" Please please please be looking for directions to the nearest blowjob, Mr. Goodgenes, because I would be happy to direct you to my mouth.

"Well, hey there," he says, smiling broadly at my no doubt transparently admiring gaze. "We need to find 230N. Where should we go?"

I grab the paperwork, hand it over, and point out the room to them.

"Anything else I can do for you?" I ask. Please say blowjob. Please!

"That should do it. Hey, what sport do you play?"

"Oh, me? I don't play a sport. I'm more of an athletic supporter," I reply, with my best customer service smile.

Mr. Goodgenes raises an eyebrow at me, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward just ever so slightly. Hmmmm.

"Well, thanks," he says with a nod, and then father and son walk off toward the door. This gives me the chance to appreciate their resemblance from the rear. How can dad's ass be even perkier than his son's? And am I really checking out an old guy's ass?

Luckily, there are several other lust-objects in my queue, and my mind is pulled back to the work at hand. I spend the next half-hour directing lost jocks to all four floors, North and South wing. Out of the corner of my eye I see Abby, who's been assigned to watch over the inside of the building, come running up, out of breath.

"Hey Josh," she pants, "I need you to go in and help out with something."

"Sure," I respond. This could be my big moment--maybe there's a hostage situation, or an orgy. I think I'd be pretty good in both kinds of crisis. "What's up?"

She comes around to my side of the table and leans in close.

"You know, they're painting on the second floor."

"Why are they doing that today?"

"Because they didn't get it done last week when they were supposed to. But now one of the painters dropped a bucket of paint on some people who were moving in."

"Anyone hurt?" I ask, because that's what a superhero would ask before charging to the rescue.

"No, but they're a complete mess. I sent them to the showers on 2North, but can you go up and see if they're okay and help them get clothes and stuff from their rooms?"

Athletes in distress? In the shower? Can I help? Yes, yes, and oh hell yes!

"I'm on it," I say, because I've always wanted to say that.

I speed off into the building, jostling my way through halls sometimes thick with jocks. I wave my badge importantly, to explain why I'm having to push through, and to excuse my occasionally pressing up against some hard package of muscle or other as I rush to the scene. Best job ever.

As I enter the 2North corridor, I see where it happened. The custodial crew has put out the barf cones (these will soon see heavy use, if past years are any indication--when freshmen can't hold their liquor, it usually ends up on the dorm floor) so that people are having to file past the puddle of beige. There are splatters on the wall, and a few beige shoe prints around the edge. I head for the shower, located midway along the wing, and when I push through the door I can hear water running.

This facility is much like the one I had freshman year--it's a large, open room, with shower heads on the outer walls as well as a steel column in the center with heads pointing out in all directions. Privacy-wise, it's a total loss; the view, though, more than makes up for it.

On either side of the steel column, soap running dreamily down their bodies, are Mr. Goodgenes and his boy. They are currently scrubbing industrial-strength beige paint out of their hair, eyes shut tight against the chemicals, so they have no idea I've entered the room. I decide not to tell them, just yet. I sit on the bench just outside the tiled area, next to two piles of beige-spattered clothing.

Watching this duo scrub down is profoundly weird--is that why I keep having to adjust my growing boner? Now, the son is beautiful in his own right. He's muscular without being bulgy, and he is classically proportioned. Dad, though, is somehow even hotter. He shares his son's lean musculature (well, of course--he gave it to him) but what is simply pleasing to look at on an 18-year-old is somehow miraculous on a man twice that age. He must work like hell to keep that bod rockin' so hard. I watch, amazed, as their motions mirror one another, instinctively--I mean, surely they aren't in the habit of showering together, right?

But the area where the resemblance is greatest is yet to come. Their privates (now made public because I'm here) are virtually identical. Okay, not identical to the degree of my new roommates, but very similar. They aren't particularly massive, but in shape, coloring, and general boinginess they are lovely. Their balls are the same size, though sonny-boy's hang lower. It's funny to think that the set on the left created the set on the right.

They are rinsing their hair now, so I should announce my presence.

"Hey, guys, sorry about the paint thing," I say, loudly enough to be heard over the splash of all of that water now caressing them in its cascade to the floor drain. "Should I get some clothes for you from your suitcase?" I remember that junior was rolling a duffel behind him. Luckily, it looks like Dad would wear the same size.

"That would be great," says Mr. Goodgenes, smiling fetchingly. Good god he's chipper for a guy who's just been painted, and who is now standing drenched and naked in front of a stranger.

"Yeah, thanks," says the son, flashing a smile as bright. "My room is 230N."

"Oh, I remember! I'll be right back," I assure them as I hustle off.

I hurry down the corridor to the room, and swipe my card in the lock. For this week only my card will open any dorm room on campus. It's a terrifying power, and not one that even I would be willing to abuse--not so much for ethical reasons, but because every swipe is recorded by the computer. It would be hard to explain why my card went and opened every door along the corridor one evening while I gathered data on how many of the residents sleep naked...

They had only had a chance to drop off the duffel and some smaller items before being painted beige, so there's not much here. I set the duffel flat on the ground and zip it open. It contains the expected assortment of jeans, t-shirts, and socks, and I grab out two sets of each without really looking at them. I dig down further in search of underwear. I am not disappointed. There are a half-dozen pairs of tighty-whities; in my field research, I have found that approximately 40% of freshman males will sport these for everyday use. These are of better quality than I'm used to running my hand across (and I have run my hand across a fair number), but I go deeper--no one comes to college with just six pairs of briefs. Under them I find several pairs of boxers in unimaginative plaid, and two with cartoon dogs on them. Hmm, better. Under those, though, are what I've been searching for--a small collection of Dolce & Gabbana boxer briefs in fetching colors. Date-night unders. I take a basic black, and one in a bright blue--I've had a fondness for blue since I ripped a pair this color off a hockey player last year, in the course of a disagreement which we were later able to resolve to the satisfaction of both parties. Good times.

After I get all of that out of the duffel, I see a pocket at the bottom that has a velcro flap closing it off. I know I shouldn't--but I do it anyway. I open the flap and reach in. What's in there are a couple of slick magazines--no, wait, they're porn mags. Junior brought old-school beat-off material! I like him more already. There are three here--the first two are standard-issue breeder shots (since I have, on occasion, assailed the virtue of my straight buddies, I am familiar with hetero porn--the way a fisherman is familiar with worms) but the third is far more interesting. It is full of threesomes, and not the traditional kind. The trios are made up of one woman (not my thing, but still, they're not horrible to look at) and two guys (who definitely are my thing, and these are fine specimens). A quick look through the mag shows that the guys don't actually touch each other, but let's just say that at several points they find their cocks pressed together in ways that I, for one, would consider less than completely heterosexual. It's like gateway porn.

You go, Daddy's Boy.

I carefully replace the stroke mags and zip up the duffel, and then grab up the clothes and motor back to the shower room. The water is still running--yay!

As I enter the shower area, I suddenly realize that I don't have towels for them.

"You know, I just realized that we haven't brought the linens box in from the car," Mr. Goodgenes says as I set down the clothes. Great minds, you know.

"Well, we do have dryers mounted on the wall over here--you can use those to dry off," I offer, knowing it sounds lame. But these two just keep on smiling. They shut off their respective showers, and walk over to the dryers. These are mounted at eye level, and two of them roar to life when the Goodgenes duo hit the big chrome buttons on the front.

Can this day get any better? I get to watch these guys rub themselves dry for like five full minutes as they turn, run their hands over their firm, tan bodies, and occasionally slap the start button again when the dryers wind down. Finally they stop glistening, and come over for their clothes. As they approach, their cocks slap back and forth from one powerful quadricep to the other. Slap slap slap. Oh, the humanity.

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