Doing College

"That's the last of the equipment inventoried, Bobby. You know why I stayed back with you this evening to help you do this, don't you?"

"Yes, coach," Bobby, the manager of the university football team, said. He was trembling a bit and licking his lips.

"OK, then. Hit the showers."

"Yes, Coach."

"Come here first."

"Yes, Coach."

Ed Tolivar, the football team's offensive coach sat back on his desk top, pushed Bobby down on his knees between his spread thighs, grabbed the hair on the back of the small guy's head with one hand, pulled his own dick out of his gym shorts, and beat the young man with it lightly around his face, while Bobby chased the shaft with his open mouth. With a laugh, Tolivar gave Bobby his cock for several minutes of suck.

Then he lifted Bobby back up onto his feet, turned him, slapped him on the buttocks, and said, "I've got the drill schedules to map out. Then I'll meet you in the training room. Lock the doors on your way back."

"Yes, Coach."

Bobby padded into the locker room, close to hyperventilating on what Coach Tolivar was about to give him. Bobby knew he was going to get fucked when the coach told him they were doing an equipment inventory this evening and that the coach was going to stay to see that he did it right. The inventory wasn't due and it certainly didn't need Coach Tolivar. The coach was fucking him more often now. That was OK with Bobby. He wanted to keep his manager position and all of the perks that came with it. Beyond that, he considered the coach's cocking as one of the perks.

So, he came knowing he'd be fucked. He just didn't know how totally he was going to be fucked.

As, stripped, he reached the shower room, a hand came out from the side of the entrance, grabbed his wrist and pulled him into the showers and under a shower head, which the freshman third-string tailback, who Bobby only knew as Stud, turned on full blast.

"Suck me," Stud demanded, pushing Bobby down on his knees and grabbing his head and holding it in place under the heavy stream of water. Bobby resumed on Stud what he'd just been doing with Coach Tolivar. He didn't mind this too much either. Stud was the hunkiest player on the squad, built like a bodybuilder and good-looking as a movie star and with the cock and balls of a horse. Bobby had been wanting to be taken by him since practice for the season had started.

"Gonna fuck you good."

"Shit, yes, but coach is waiting. He'll know."

"I want him to know. All the time I'm fuckin' you, I want you to remember to tell Coach that I'm a team player, a versatile player. I'll do for him what you're gonna do for me. Grab your ankles. And grab 'em good, 'cause I'm gonna lift you off the tiles."

Bobby did as directed and whimpered and panted, as Stud leaned him forward, held him by the hips, and started the long journey of his cock up Bobby's channel. Fully saddled, Stud moved one hand to Bobby's belly, grabbed Bobby's chin with the other, and pulled Bobby's body up to where it was plastered on Stud's torso.

"Now, lock your fists behind my neck and your ankles behind my thighs, 'cause we're goin' downtown."

Bobby complied and was fucked fast and furiously until he shot his load onto the wet shower room floor and was sagging like a rag doll on Stud's pistoning cock.

Stud let him fall in a heap on the floor and left the shower room. Bobby was still whimpering and burbling his complete capitulation when Coach Tolivar, naked, and looking like the trim, powerful Marine he once had been, came looking for Bobby. The coach came down on his knees beside Bobby, asked him what had happened, and listened to Bobby tell him exactly what Stud had told him to tell coach.

Coach Tolivar gently picked the small figure of his team manager up from the floor, carried him carefully down the corridor and into the training room, tenderly laid him on his back on a massage table, jerked his legs wide, and fucked the stuffing out of him.

* * * *

Stud looked up at the bookcase facing the foot of his bed and frowned. Dragging off his bed for the third time in the last fifteen minutes, he rearranged the books on one shelf again and then went back to his bed. Giving a sexy smile toward the bookcase, he laid back and threw one arm over the back of his headboard, puffing his chest muscles out. He slowly moved his other hand down his naked body to his horse-hung dick, which he took in his hand and slowly worked himself up to Clydesdale proportions.

His roommate, the team's freshman first-string quarterback who everyone knew as Slick, entered the room, straight from the showers, just a towel around his waist. As his eyes went to Stud, Slick dropped his towel. He stood there for half a minute, his mouth agape; his tall, lithe; well-cut Nordic blond body trembling. Then he sank down on his rump beside Stud's thigh, whispered. "Oh, God, Stud," and reached for Stud's cock.

Stud brushed his hand away and grabbed for, and managed to grasp, both of Slick's wrists with his fists. Slick was strong, but he was no match for Stud. He had every reason to know that he wasn't.

"Don't tease me, Stud," he whined.

"You can't have it until you promise you'll talk to Coach—that you'll tell him that you want me on first string with you. We came here as a pair; he'll believe that you need me as your primary receiver."

"You know how hard that will be, Stud. You got here because I said I wouldn't come without you—but you've seen the guys ahead of you at the position. And you're not going to be able to make the grades anyway. But don't hold off on me, man. Cock me. You know I gotta have it."

"You let me worry about the grades, Slick. You have to do your part. You want any more cockin', you're gonna talk to Coach. All you gotta do is tell him that you need me."

"I need ya, Stud. You know how bad I need ya."

"On the playing field. You gotta tell him you need me on the field."

"I don't know, Stud."

"Come on, ya big lug. Assume the position."

Stud sat up on the bed and turned, allowing a trembling Slick to come up on the bed on his knees and to move up toward the brass headboard. He grasped the rails, as Stud went down on his back and slid between Slick's spread thighs. He lifted his mouth to Slick's cock and his hands grasped Slick's butt cheeks and pulled them apart. While he sucked and Slick set his pelvis into a roll and gasped his pleasure, Stud's fingers went to opening up Slick's channel. After few minutes, Stud slid out from underneath Slick's butt and knelt behind him. He pulled Slick's dick back between his buns and alternated between sucking that and his balls and tonguing his hole, while Slick groaned and began a litany of "Fuck me, Stud, fuck me, fuck me now, please."

Stud rose up on his knees and covered Slick's torso closely with his. The underside of his horse-hung dick was rubbing across Slick's crack, worrying his hole.

"Now, now. Shit. Now!"

"You gonna talk to Coach about me?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes!"

"And who's the quarterback in this room? Between you and me, who does the stuffing?"

"You do, Stud," Slick whimpered.

"And who does the receiving?"

"Me. I'm your receiver. All of it, Stud. Give me all of it. Please. Stuff me."

"OK," Stud said, with a laugh. "But ya gotta fuck yourself if you want it."

Stud pushed Slick aside and flopped down on his back on the bed, his feet facing the bookcase at the foot of the bed.

"Ride it. No, facing away from me."

He held Slick's waist with his hands as Slick slowly skewered himself on Stud's cock, facing the bookcase, and began riding Stud's cock under his own power. After a few minutes, Stud rose up behind him, embraced his chest with one arm and worked Slick's cock with the other to a lurching, spouting ejaculation.

"Chest on the footboard, up on your knees," Stud commanded. Slick did as commanded, grabbing the legs at the foot of the bed with his fists, as Stud thrust inside him from behind and began fucking him hard and deep. He grabbed a head of hair and arched Slick back so that the bookcase got the full effect of the expression on Slick's face as he got gloriously fucked by the lover he had brought to the university with him.

* * * *

In the manly world of the little death
There is one Lord; one slave
On victor; one vanquished
One over; one under
One sword; one sheath
The raging battle ends
In an embrace of the little death
A demand for surrender; a cry for mercy
A flash of victor's sword; a surrender of vanquished's sheath
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan
One Lord; one slave
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan
One victor; one vanquished
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan
One over; one under
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan
The embrace of the little death
Thrust of sword; and moan
Thrust, thrust, thrust; and groan
The flood of victory
The sigh of the little death

Stud had thought long and hard about the grades problem, probably the hardest of the two problems facing him. Being third string, he was here on a half scholarship. That wasn't enough for him to be able to stay—not nearly enough. He needed a full scholarship and some spending money. A first-string football player got a full scholarship. He'd never had trouble finding spending money.

The grades were harder. Slick was a whiz in math and the sciences, so he'd keep Stud above a C with that. The tests would be a bear, but Slick would do the homework. That would keep Stud above the level. Slick couldn't help with English. And then there were two electives.

"You're taking poetry for your English credit?" Slick had asked, incredulously. "From Professor Moyer? That fairy? And archeology and filmmaking for your electives? You should be taking balling and beer drinking for your electives."

"I got a plan," Stud had said.

A week later, after his first one-on-one session with the dried up old maid Megan Rogers, the archeology instructor, an interesting still shot could be taken of Stud moving out into the hall outside of her office, zipping his pants up and buckling his belt, while Ms. Rogers was splayed in the chair behind her desk, hem of her skirt up around her waist, her tits flopping out of her blouse, and a silly, sloppy grin on her face. If what he was muttering could be discerned, he'd have been heard saying something about digging to China and handling artifacts well enough to last a semester.

Todd Baxter, the film professor, a rather flashy platinum-blond former bit player in the movies, with an attitude and a technique of scaring his students sick from the get go, had issued video cameras in the first class and told the students to come back with an initial film for him to critique at the next class. He took the class down to the faculty garage and showed them the fancy van the university had provided him for taking, processing, and editing film in the field.

The evening before the second class, as Baxter was leaving the university and had walked down to his baby-blue Mustang in the faculty garage, he found Stud, wearing only his gym shorts, his massively muscled arms crossed on his massively muscled chest, and showing his washboard abs to the best effect. He was holding a the video camera in his hand.

"Can't make your class tomorrow, Prof. Sorry, mandatory team meeting. But I rushed doing my film assignment, so that wouldn't be late."

"OK, give it to me. I'll—"

"I thought I did real good, Professor Baxter. I'd really like you to see it now and give me some pointers."

Baxter was in no hurry to deprive his eyes of the beefcake Stud was showing him.

"Uh, sure. We could go up to the studio."

"We could see it in the van, couldn't we? I'm sorta in a hurry. You showed us that everything needed is in the back of the van. And it's got a generator. You said the second class would be introducing the class to how the stuff works in the van. I could get a briefing in that and cover not being able to get to the class. I'd hate to start off the course behind the other students. I know the coaches would be grateful to you."

This helped. Baxter had been sniffing around Coach Tolivar for months. He was aching to be cocked by that hunky Marine.

"Oh, god. Is that? Is that?"

"Yes, Slick, our quarterback. He's a honey, isn't he? Am I doing him well?"

"Oh, god, yes," Baxter murmured, panting so hard he could hardly get the words out. They were only a few moments into the film taken from the bookcase of Stud and Slick having sex in Stud's bed and Baxter was already kneeling in the back of the van, facing the monitor running the video, and Stud was behind him, embracing him, unbuttoning his shirt, and unbuckling his belt. Baxter wasn't stopping him.

Half way through the first running of the film, Stud was crouched over the film professor, who was on all fours and still mesmerized by the film while Stud was fucking him like a dog.

Baxter made Stud run the film three times and demonstrate every position used on Slick in the film on him in the back of the van.

In the third class, Baxter announced that Stud would be his teaching assistant that semester, and the two made the van rock in every out-of-the way parking area within twenty miles of the university. Stud received an A in Introduction to Filming.

He also, surprisingly, got an A in English (and, of course, in Introduction to Archeology).

Elijah Moyer, a distinguished-looking Van Dyke graybeard in his early fifties, was not a man to be impressed or influenced easily. Tall and thin and elegantly dressed and speaking in what he at least presumed was the highest class English accent, he strutted across the stage, asking probing questions of students pulled out of the nervous classroom, in a rapid-fire manner and usually answering the questions while the student was mumbling and sweating and then making pointed, witty, and cut-off-at-the-knees remarks on the insufficiency and idiocy of the student's response.

Stud sat in the first row of desks—or rather slouched—dressed in gym shorts, an athletic T, and flip-flops. He exhibited a disinterested, glassy stare, as he watched a spider walk across the ceiling.

"Mr. Austin. Mr. Austin. Are you with us?"

"Me? You're talkin' to me? I go by the name Stud."

Professor Moyer's lip curled. There was always an athlete like this in his class. He always had to cow them from the very beginning to get them under control.

"We are adults in this class, Mr. Austin. We give each other the respect of addressing each other formally. Perhaps while I have your attention—if only for a moment of limited attention span—you could tell the class who your favorite poets are."

Stud turned his face to the professor and smiled a knowing, sensual smile. He had taken a front-row seat, so only the professor could see him.

"Well, Elijah—I can call you Elijah, can't I? I like William Shakespeare, of course. But I also like Richard Barnfield, Digby Mackworth Dolbein, Lord Alfred Douglas—and Noel Coward, of course."

Professor Moyer blanched and his jaw went rigid. All of these poets were known to write homoerotic works.

"I especially like Richard Barnfield," Stud said with a playful smile. He saw that he had Moyer's full attention now. He let a hand go to cupping his basket. "I like his "The Affectionate Shepherd." Doesn't it start?:

Scarce had the morning starre hid from the light
Heavens crimson canopie with stars bespangled,
But I began to rue th' unhappy sight
Of that faire boy that had my hart intangled;
Cursing the time, the place, the sense, the sin;
I came, I saw, I viewd, I slipped in.

"That will be enough, Mr. Austin. Now, Ms.—"

"What I can't quite understand, Elijah," Stud interjected, "is just what he means by 'slipped in.' But reading on in the poem—"

"We can pursue this later in private—in my office," Moyer overrode him. "We have much to cover in today's class. Shall we move on now?"

Stud was leaning against Moyer's car in the faculty garage, arms crossed over his chest.

At Moyer's home, in his four-poster bed, Stud made Moyer beg for the cock before he pushed the professor on his back at the foot of the bed, grasped his ankles and cruelly split his legs, and then gave him eight thick inches of what he begged for.

Moyer was spent and exhausted already, when Stud pulled him up off the bed and rotated him, and dumped him on his belly on a nearby red velvet chaise lounge. The professor's head and arms hung over the head of the chaise as Stud mounted his trim buttocks and placed the bulb of his cock at the professor's throbbing hole. He grabbed a handful of head hair and pulled the professor's head up to where their faces were close together.

"I wrote a poem just for you professor. I hope you will give me extra credit."

"Please," Moyer murmured. He was shuddering.

"Please what, Elijah?"

"I want you . . . it . . . again."

"Let's do it to my poem, Elijah. The poem you're going to give me extra credit for. Let's begin. I call it 'Sword and Sheath.'"

"In the manly world of the little death"

"That's how it begins, Elijah. You know what 'little death' means, don't you?"

"It's a literary allusion to an ejaculation. Please, Mr. . . . please, Stud, I need it."

"Didn't know I would know that literary device, did you? That should be worth more extra credit." He was rubbing the underside of his cock across Moyer's hole. The professor was moaning and quietly begging for the fuck.

"There is one Lord; one slave
On victor; one vanquished
One over; one under
One sword; one sheath"

"You know what that means, don'tcha, Elijah?"

"You. You are the lord. You are in command," Moyer sobbed.

"Bingo. Which bring us to my next lines."

"The raging battle ends
In an embrace of the little death"

Stud wrapped his arms around the professor and held him close. Moyer was panting and whining.

"A demand for surrender; a cry for mercy"

"Oh, god. Please. Please."

"Please what, Elijah? The words are good. No word is too crude for what you want from me. Say them."

"Fuck me, screw me, cock me! Ahhhhhh. Oh, Christ almighty!"

Stud thrust his cock hard up inside Moyer as he cried out:

"A flash of victor's sword; a surrender of vanquished's sheath
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Moyer gasped as Stud pulled his cock back and then moaned and groaned as Stud thrust up inside him again.

"One Lord; one slave
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Stud matched the words, and, in turn, so did Moyer.

"One victor; one vanquished
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Again

"One over; one under
Thrust and moan; thrust and groan
The embrace of the little death
Thrust of sword; and moan
Thrust, thrust, thrust; and groan"

Stud screamed as he shot off deep up the professor's channel:

"The flood of victory"

They both lay there, spent and reveling in the fuck. When Stud could speak, he closed his poem in a whisper.

"The sigh of the little death"

Stud pulled himself up off the professor's shuddering body, picked the professor up like he was a sack of potatoes, and dumped him on the carpet beside the chaise lounge. Then Stud sat down on the side of the chaise and spread his legs. He rocked back on the weight of his arms, his fists dug into the surface of the chaise next to his sides.

"That should be worth an A this week. If you want it again next week, another A. If that's a deal, clean my cock. Now."

With a moan, Professor Moyer rose up onto all fours and scuttled over to between Stud's thighs, and took the football player's cock in his mouth.

* * * *

Stud received the news that he had been moved to the first-string tight end position on the university football team straight from Coach Tolivar.

There were in the athletic facility's football program training room after hours.