An Osirian Tale

An Osirian Tale

by

D. V. Zomba

Copyright 2000

Contents

I. In the Beginning 3 II. An Experiment 14 III. Confronting Reality 25 IV. Possibilities 38 V. Intimations of Immortality 53 VI. In the End 69

I. In the Beginning

Darren slowly rose to consciousness, slowly as if from a dark, bad dream, a dream from which he could not shake off the dark miasma of foreboding. With the considerable will that he possessed, he forced his eyes open. Pastel forms swirled unconnected, out-of-focus, before him, some vaguely recognizable others not. Slowly, ever so slowly he willed these objects to come into focus. As they did, Darren also became aware of the low-level sounds that accompanied the washed-out forms. Strange, unrecognizable odors permeated his post-dream state and he suddenly became aware of an itching feeling on the sole of his left foot.

"Mr. Jansen. . . Mr. Jansen, how are you feeling?" issued from one of the focusing, muddled forms. Vaguely he perceived the face of a smiling woman, with white wings on her head. No, it was a hat. . . . a nurse's hat.

"Fine," he mumbled, as he knew not what else to say.

Images flew across the screen of his brain, strange images in unrelated, unconnected sequences. He closed his eyes to focus more on those forms--Mari with her raven-black hair, the Gun Flint Trail, a balcony in Pangkor, members of the college football team. Briefly he mused on that latter image.

"Why that?" he thought.

Darren Jansen had worked hard all his life--all of his eighteen years. His family had been poor--hard-working might be more accurate; there had always been ample food on the table, lovingly prepared by his Mom; his Dad worked hard and was never out of a job; the Jansen house was adequate for the family of five--he had a younger brother, Johnathan, and sister, Marilyn--and the old Ford generally got them to where they wanted to go. But, they didn't have the "extras" that so many of his friends' families possessed. At a young age, that didn't seem to matter in a loving household.

But as Darren was mid-way through high school, his parents had quietly informed him that it would probably be beneficial if he got a part-time job.

"You need to save some money for college," his Dad had told him. He had had a paper route since he was ten, but it provided only enough for his immediate needs--an occasional burger and coke, a movie and Christmas and birthday gifts for his family.

College had been a given. Neither his Mom nor his Dad had been to college, but, from an early age, he, as well as his brother and sister, were expected to attend college.

"Education is important," his Mom stated repeatedly.

So, Darren got a summer job, after his sophomore year, working long hours in a local canning factory at minimal wage and then a part time job once school started again in the fall. Soon after, his Mom also began to work. Apparently that was not an easy decision since it was prefaced by long and sometimes heated discussions between his Mom and Dad. By the end of his senior year he had managed to save, what for Darren seemed like a princely amount.

College had been a given, and that given was La Crosse State College. It was a small state school some forty miles to the south where the in-state tuition was within the means of the Jansens.

"You will have to commute," he had been told. La Crosse State had been only a teachers' college until twenty years previously when it had been "elevated." It provided an adequate education, particularly for those who could not afford the state university or one of the small, exclusive and competitive liberal arts colleges.

Darren Jansen had worked hard all his life and especially in school. He was not at the top, but near the top of his class. He loved the sciences, particularly biology. English and the social sciences were areas which required more of his time, but he 'managed. ' Athletics were 'out,' not because he didn't enjoy them, but his paper route and then his part time job did not allow for the hours that extracurricular athletics required. Nonetheless, he was a competent athlete--he loved swimming in the local river, running through the woods, ice skating and later skiing. He looked forward to the gym classes in high school and the teacher was forever suggesting that Darren try-out for this team or that one. But, he just couldn't.

So, it was a mild surprise to him and his family when he was contacted mid-way through his senior year by Mc Leicester College, one of the small, exclusive and competitive liberal arts colleges nearby. He was offered a tuition scholarship through the Biology Department. Apparently, the Head of the Department had seen Darren's Science Fair project, which dealt with genetics, and was suitably impressed. Later, he found out that Mr. Highbridge, his science teacher, who had recognized his latent potential, had contacted the Dean at Mc Leicester College and had recommended Darren for a scholarship.

The offer of the scholarship was not without its problems. The semester's tuition at Mc Leicester College was five times that of La Crosse State College--a considerable amount for the Jansens. However, Mc Leicester College was over a hundred miles away, and commuting would be impossible. That required that Darren would have to stay in one of the dorms.

"I can pay for my room and board," he said eagerly. The meager savings that Darren had amassed, his 'princely' amount, would all but be wiped out in the first year.

"What about your books and other supplies?" his Mom asked, concerned.

"You need to live, Darren," his Dad added. He fervently wanted this opportunity for his son, but could not fathom where the family could supply the extra expenses. "We can help a little," he added, "but, there will always be extras. . . ."

"I can get a job," Darren countered.

"How can you go to college and work at the same time?" came his Mom's retort, pained distress darkened her normally bright blue eyes.

"Other people have done it," came the insistent retort.

Slowly shaking his head, his father said, "I don't know Darren, it seems like too big a bite."

"Dad, I can do it. Let me try!"

So Darren entered Mc Leicester College in the fall. He was able to get into a work-study program through the Athletics Department. That added a much needed amount to his sparse resources. He immersed himself into his studies with all the vigor of youth, knowing that he had to excel. And, he did. His work-study job required not too much time, fifteen hours a week--picking up the towels left in the men's locker room, manning the entry desk at the college pool, taking tickets at the athletic events and other miscellaneous tasks. The work-study program at Mc Leicester was tailored to the needs of students who needed the extra money, like Darren.

It was late one Thursday afternoon when Darren hurried to the gym. He was later than usual, he had been studying for as mid-semester exam in chemistry and he had lost all track of time. But, that didn't matter as his hours were flexible. Besides, today was 'pick-up-the-towels-after-football-practice-day. ' One of his less favorite jobs. But, he performed this task efficiently. Menial tasks did not bother him, particularly if they led to other ends.

The locker room was rather long with two doors at one end. One doorway led off to the communal showers and the other snaked past the towel counter, trainer's room and coaches' office to an outer hallway. He slipped out of his shoes, set his book bag on the counter separating the towel storage, washer and dryer from the locker room, straightened up a small pile of folded clean towels and glanced into the shower area. It was perhaps twenty by twenty feet of gleaming white tiles on the walls and floor, the shower-heads drooped from the walls, "Like limp cocks," Darren always thought, with their control handles below. It was empty and the floor still glistened from its recent use.

The locker room consisted of rows of lockers running perpendicular to the narrow width of the room and butting up against one wall. The other end of the lockers stopped about five feet from the other long wall creating a long narrow passageway. In between each facing row of lockers was a long wooden bench with steel pipe-legs cemented into the tile floor. Rather a usual arrangement. There were five locker-bench spaces. In the first row Darren picked up a half dozen soggy towels from the floor an bench, returning them to the large canvas hamper where they were supposed to have been deposited.

"The football team are a bunch of messy half-wits," but then thought better of his negation and said to himself, "I'd probably do the same thing." He had cleaned the first four rows and padded to the fifth one. As he turned into its narrow confines, he was met with a sight that stopped him dead in his tracks.

Gene Villarosa was standing there, nude with his hips thrust forward. In front of him was Dick Perkins, kneeling, also nude and sucking Gene's cock! The long wooden bench was all that separated them.

Gene Villarosa was the star running back of the football team and Dick Perkins was the equally renowned receiver. Both of them were 'big-men-on-campus' not only because of their athletic prowess but also for their academic ability and Gene was the Student Senate's Vice-President. Both were good looking and enjoyed a high level of popularity. Both dated equally popular and bight coeds. They were looked up to, envied and emulated by every other lower-classmen--especially the humble freshmen.

In one brief second Darren registered forever in his mental computer that sight. Gene, he recounted in his memory, was superb--six-feet-one-inch, one-hundred-ninety pounds of perfectly formed and solidly maintained muscle. His feet, planted apart, gave rise to the muscular calves and formidable, beautifully formed thighs. His buttocks were, likewise, muscular, round, firm and deeply dimpled as he thrust his hips forward. His waist was narrow, stomach flat and ladder-like with smooth muscles, his chest was deep and shoulders broad. Strangely there was little body hair on Gene's torso or thighs, except, that is for a sprinkling of hair on his lower legs.

"Maybe he shaves himself," flashed through Darren's mind. Gene's blue eyes were closed in erotic reverie, his head with its thick, curly, brown locks was thrown back emphasizing his, 'Adam's apple,' strong Aquiline nose and his mouth which hung open. At the base of his stomach was an ample thatch of dark cock-hairs, below bobbed, in time with the ministering mouth's lunges, hung a pendulous, blue-veined, hairless ball-sack. Darren noted the thickness of Gene's turgid cock, but could not judge its length as it was alternately slipping in and then out of Dick's moist mouth and encircling lips. But, what he glimpsed gave evidence of a solid, veined shaft.

Dick Perkins was a somewhat smaller version of Gene--five-feet-eleven-inches and one-hundred-seventy-five pounds. But, in every other way quite similar to his suck-buddy.

In the brief instant Darren registered all, and involuntarily sucked in his breath more in surprise than shock. Dick opened his eyes and they pivoted to where Darren could be seen. He quickly drew back from Gene's cock--causing a moist, popping sound as the swollen head slipped past his encircling lips. Gene's freed cock leapt upwards and bobbed rigidly, allowing a brief glimpse at its substantial length. A length that was capped by a thicker, mushroom-like cock head, nearly purple and glistening from Dick's saliva. Gene glanced down to see why that luxurious sucking had stopped. Seeing Dick's averted glance, he turned his head to witness Darren standing transfixed, mouth agape at the entrance to the aisle.

"Get lost!" he growled. The tenor of his voice and the predatory glare required immediate compliance.

"Yeah, Okay," was all Darren could say as he quickly exited the area.

Some minutes later, as he was standing behind the counter folding towels, Gene appeared and entered the shower room. He was completely nude, his large, detumescent cock swung languidly from side to side as he walked. Gene purposefully looked Darren straight in the eye with a fiery, defiant gaze. Darren quickly looked down to the towels he was by now refolding.

Shortly, Dick passed the counter, clothed and he too glanced at Darren as he dropped his towel in the hamper. However, his eyes held an unabashed sheepishness, the opposite of Gene's stare. Dick gave an imperceptible nod as he passed. Darren watched Dick disappear around the corner.

"Of all the people. . . ," he thought to himself.

It was not that Darren was homophobic, he just could not bring himself to accept what he had just witnessed, especially from those two. Their public persona reflected the opposite--a kind of straight machismo that was readily accepted and tacitly admired in Middle America. No, he was not morally offended by what he had witnessed.

Even though the Jansens were from the lower end of the socio-economic continuum, his Mom and Dad had engendered in all three of their children a tolerance for all things different. Quite frankly, homosexuality was not a subject to which either his parents had spent any time discussing. Rather, they planted the seeds of racial and ethnic tolerance within their children and would brook no bigotry or prejudice in their behavior. So, it was not unusual that this tolerance of things different might also have been transferred to sexual preference as well. Darren remembered Jess Slatery from high school. Everyone said he was gay. Whether he was or not, Darren didn't know and frankly didn't care. He was quite effeminate, that's a fact. He also possessed a sarcasm that brought gales of laughter from Darren and besides, they liked the same kind of movies and both were 'science freaks. '

Darren busied himself as he heard the shower stop. Gene exited the shower room and walked with a purposeful gait back to the last aisle, vigorously drying his muscled form as he went. Darren couldn't help but admire the magnificent, retreating body with it trunk-like thighs, firm ass and broad shoulders.

A few minutes later, Gene appeared at the counter, deposited his towel, faced Darren and barked, "You didn't see anything! Okay?" The 'okay' was more a command than a question.

"Yeah, sure," was all Darren answered.

Darren saw Gene and Dick in the locker room whenever he had 'towel duty. ' But he made sure that he was never late again.

It was some three weeks after that fateful vision in the locker room and after his usual evening laps in the pool, that he hauled himself, dripping, out of the water. He groaned at his aching muscles.

"What's the matter Darren?" questioned Pete Anderson, the Athletic Department's trainer who had supervisory duty that night.

"Kind of sore. Guess it's 'cause lifted too many book boxes at the library last night."

"What are you doing over there? You work there too?"

"No. They're moving everything to the new building and they need some extra help. Besides they paid twenty bucks for four hours work."

He stood and stripped the water from his arms and torso, wincing slightly and began to towel off.

"Listen," Pete said, "You take a long hot shower and come to the training room and I'll give you a good massage. That should lessen the pain."

"Geeze, thanks, Mr. Anderson, but it's kinda late and I don't want to keep you."

"No problem," was the reply.

Darren stood under the hot shower, as hot as he could stand, for longer than usual. The pelting of the hot water already began to lessen his discomfort. He toweled dry, wrapped the damp fabric about his waist and walked to the trainer's room. The room was not too large, holding Pete's desk, a stainless steel cabinet, a whirlpool and pad-covered stainless massage table behind a folding screen.

"Jump up here," Pete said, motioning to the table. He was removing two bottles from the cabinet.

"This is really nice of you," Darren replied.

"No problem, besides you should get some benefits from all the work you do around the Department. Now lay on your stomach and try to relax."

Darren complied, rolled on to his stomach and cradled his head in his arms. "I've never had a massage before," he admitted.

"No?" asked Pete, "well it's good for what ails you."

Pete's oiled fingers began to knead the muscles in Darren's neck--at first gently and then with more insistence. Then he moved to the shoulders and upper back, each time repeating the easy motion followed by the stronger massaging. Darren was nearly lulled to sleep when the oily hands moved to his lower back, the source of his discomfort. He winced and groaned.

"Is this where it hurts?"

"Yeah. . . Awwh, Right there!" he blurted out as Pete touched a particularly sensitive muscle.

Pete reached for a small clear bottle of liquid and dribbled some onto Darren's lower back. A pungent aroma filled the room.

"What's that?" Darren queried.

"It's something a friend of mine sent me from Thailand, called Kwan Loong Oil. It's a liniment used by boxers he tells me. Quite good, actually."

As the ministering hands began to gently knead the offending area Darren marveled at the combination of heat generated by the oil along with a cooling sensation at the same time. After some minutes the discomfort miraculously subsided under Pete's hands.

"It's phenomenal!" Darren thought.

Pete Anderson lifted his hands and wiped them on a towel.

Darren pushed himself up, "Thanks a lot," he uttered.

Pete gently urged him back down on the table. "Not done yet," he declared. "Can't do a half-assed job."

Darren was somehow relieved. The massaging hands had felt so good, he did not want them to stop. Pete moved to the end of the table, poured more of the neutral oil on his hands and began to massage Darren's calves. For a man who wasn't too tall--five-foot-ten-inches--Pete Anderson had big hands. They grasped the lower calves, just above the ankles and were nearly able to encircle them. Then he pushed his enveloping hands upwards, exerting some pressure, to the knees and then back again. This he repeated a number of times alternating the pressure.

"That feels good," Darren murmured. Then he felt oil being dribbled the length of both his thighs. It tickled slightly.

"Spread your legs a little," to which Darren complied almost hypnotically.

Pete's hands, in consort, moved up first along the outside of his thighs, then the top, and then the inside. First lightly, almost imperceptibly which sent strange sensations coursing through Darren's body particularly when the moved up the sensitive inner thighs. The action was repeated with more and more pressure. Then stopped.

Darren could then feel those large hands grasp his thighs, just above the knee, thumbs on the inside, splayed fingers on the outside. They moved up his thighs nearly to his ass, to where the draped towel fell across his buttocks, and then they were forcefully rotated outwards, the thumbs exerting more pressure than the fingers and back down to the knees. He could feel this latter action spread, slightly, his ass cheeks as the thumbs rotated outwards. It was a strangely pleasant sensation. This maneuver was repeated a number of times. Darren imagined that with each upward movement the hands were ending farther up, the thumbs seemed to be invading deeper and deeper into that dark private place.

His breath quickened. Little spasms coursed through his body.

"I'm just imagining," he said to himself. But still the electric sensations raced through his being. One other disconcerting fact had reached his brain. . . . he was getting hard!

"This can't be!" And then with one of the upward motions of Pete's hands, the thumbs did come briefly in contact with his ass hole! Galvanic shock waves raced through his being. His whole body tensed and thankfully the hands were removed.

"I'm imagining," he said again.

He had never had a massage before and thought to himself, "I'm being stupid. . . . Nothing's wrong. . . . This is normal!" He tried to will his offending cock to soften. That effort was defeated due to the freshly remembered sensations.

Pete Anderson flipped the towel, which had been covering Darren's ass, up over his back. Darren's eyes popped open, he felt oil trickle over his ass cheeks and an amount rolled tantalizingly down into his ass-crack towards his anus and balls. The sensation took precedence and his cock spasmed. Pete's hands grasped those round, firm orbs and began to languidly knead them, fondle them, manipulate them. Darren perceived that now the massaging was somehow very different. . . . less clinical. Those hands and fingers moved over his luxurious cheeks in consort, every once in a while a thumb would venture into the oiled cleft.

Darren's mind spun out of control. . . . No! His emotions were spinning out of control! His cock, imprisoned under his body, was aching from its confinement.

After some minutes, mercifully the massaging--no, the manipulation of his ass--stopped. He felt the towel being pushed upwards towards his shoulder. Thumbs were placed on either side of his spine at mid back and moved downwards, towards his ass. As they proceeded, the pressure increased 'til that dimpled 'V-ed' area just above the beginning of the cleft was reached and the pressure was released. Again the action was repeated. Darren began to breath easier and his cock's spasming lessened.

"That feels good," he moaned. The first words that he had dared to utter for some minutes.

After the sixth or seventh repeat--he could not remember--the two bracketing thumbs were replaced by one. This time down the spine's ridge to the beginning of the cleft where pressure was applied. Again the action was repeated. At the third repeat the thumb did not stop at the point where pressure had been applied before, but ventured an inch or two into the valley between his firm ass cheeks, and then back.

"This is an aberration!"

Again the thumb proceeded down the spine-ridge, passed the dimpled 'V-ed' area and to the point where the thumb began to be obscured by the twin muscled of Darren's firm cheeks. . . . and then back. Again the thumb proceeded down the spine ridge, passed the dimpled 'V-ed' area, deep into the cleft and stopping just short of his quacking, puckered opening.

Darren began to tremble again, his cock jumped back to its previously turgid state. And, again the thumb proceeded down the spine ridge, passed the dimpled 'V-ed' area, deep into the cleft and came to rest on his quacking, sphinctered ass hole. He groaned, deeply, almost animal-like. He could feel a slight amount of pressure being applied as the thumb's broad pad massaged that tight buttoned opening. The tremblings increased, his breath became gasps, and with each rotation of the thumb on his ass hole his cock lurched beneath him. He was out of control!

Quickly, the thumb was removed. "Turn over onto your back Darren," Pete gently commanded.

Darren did as he was bid. In turning over he quickly grabbed the towel to cover his raging erection in as vain attempt to hide that offending member. His whole body was flushed--partly from the erotic sensations, partly from embarrassment.

Pete smiled at Darren's confusion and obvious state of excitement. "Nearly finished, Darren," and then added, "You said that this is the first time you've had a massage?"

All Darren could do was to nod his head as he tried to focus on Pete Anderson's eyes. Pete's hands began to lightly massage his chest.

"Massage is an art," Pete said, no almost crooned. "In massage, the whole body must be involved," he purred.

Those gentle hands were now centered on Darren's dark aureoles--the thumbs rotating around their circumference. Darren closed his eyes as he savored this new strange, wonderful sensation.

"The body is a magnificent work and must be cared for," he purred. Darren was silent. The thumbs and forefingers gently clasped the ridged nipples and lightly rolled them. Darren's turbid cock lurched, tenting the towel over his loins.

"There are only beautiful, wonderful mysteries in the body," continued the seductive voice, "mysteries that should be sampled."

Darren listened to this voice and tried to comprehend what was happening to him. He had long ago passed the point where he could have willfully left, but by now the luxurious sensations that held him could neither be denied nor left unexplored. To say that he was confused would not be entirely accurate. He was truly bewildered, completely beyond any logical understanding or comprehension. He felt that he was being driven by some unseen, unknown, incomprehensible force, and then he felt the towel being lifted away from his body.

He could not open his eyes!

His cock was rigid, completely up standing to a full seven inches. Pete removed the towel. Crowned by a reddish-lavender, plumb-like knob atop a lightly veined shaft. This lascivious, willful element rose over a mat of curly light golden-brown cock-hairs and from an opulent, hair-dusted, pink, puckered ball-sack.

Pete admired this pole and lightly encircled it with an oiled hand. The touch of Pete's hands caused Darren to moan and his body arched, then relaxed down onto the table's surface. Slowly Pete moved his hand up over the throbbing cock-head and rotated his fist slightly. Darren whipped his head, involuntarily to one side. The hand descended to the base of the cock and gently squeezed the hot shaft, while the other hand gently cupped the ball sack, fondling the twin orbs inside. Slowly, the hand began to rhythmically move up and down the pole, rotating slightly as it proceeded up and down its length.

Darren was completely centered on the luxurious sensations being engendered in his surging cock. Without conscious volition, his body twitched, his mouth lolled and alternating gasps and groans issued forth. Pete let loose of those beautiful balls and his middle finger snaked down behind them, into that dark, oiled cleft to that puckered opening.

Darren groaned low and animal like as he felt that delicious finger pressing against his tightly sphinctered opening. The pressure gently continued and the finger slightly rotated. With his heels planted firmly on the table top, he arched his back. The pressure on his ass-hole continued until that round gate surrendered and the finger slid in a short ways.

Darren gasped, deeply exhaled and dropped back onto the table. The fist-fucking hand continued its progress up and down that electrically charged shaft and bulging crest. Only now the inserted, probing finger began so slowly mimic the movement of the other hand, in and out, in and out.

Without warning, without preamble Darren arched high off the table.

"AAARRHH. . . ," issued from deep in his being as copious amounts of lustral fluid arched high in the air from his cock. s slit-opening. Spasm after spasm shot forth and then just as quickly subsided as the arched body fell back to the table. His breathing was rapid, beads of perspiration covered his oiled body. He lay there exhausted, wonderfully relaxed and in a dual state of euphoria and consternation.

Gently, he felt the towel wiping the pools of cum from his chest and abdomen. And just as gently he felt a clean towel being placed over his mid-section, covering his detumescent cock. Only then did he open his eyes.

Pete Anderson was smiling at him as he wiped his hands on a fresh towel.

"Rest a while, Darren, then take a shower. I've got to leave now and I'll lock the door so you can take your time."

All Darren could do was to nod his head, half in acknowledgement, half in thanks. Pete walked around the screen and left.

Later, while sitting in the cafeteria, alone, he considered what had happened. He glanced up to see Bob Reinfeld, his roommate, tray in hand sit down across from him.

"You look exhausted! What's the matter, a hot fuck this afternoon?" Bob blurted out in his naturally exuberant way--loud enough for the occupants of the surrounding tables to hear, most of whom glanced over with a combination of interest and amusement. Gene Villarosa one one of them. He was sitting with Cynthia his 'steady,' soon to be fiancé. Darren glanced inadvertently in Gene's direction was was met with a look of dark, ominous amusement.

A couple of weeks later, late one Thursday, during 'towel duty,' Darren was bent over the dryer pulling out the towels. Suddenly he felt a hand planted firmly on his ass. He shot upright and turned to see Pete Anderson's smiling face.

"Darren," he said, "come into my office a minute."

"I've got to get these towels folded before I leave," Darren said, not knowing what other excuse to give."

"They can wait," he smiled, then with what can only be described as a soft but firm command, "Please, come into my office." Pete turned, walked into his office, not waiting for a reply. Darren followed obediently. Pete Anderson closed the door and motioned Darren behind the screen.

Confusion, mixed with embarrassment and a bit of fear pervaded Darren. He walked behind the screen as an automaton.

"I've been thinking about you," Pete stated as he lightly touched Darren's chest.

"Mr. Anderson, I really have got to go." he stuttered. His knees began to tremble.

Pete Anderson did not answer him, but simply continued to massage his chest, concentrating on Darren's nipples which soon became rigid and clearly visible through the light cotton of his T-shirt.

"Please, Mr. Anderson," he pleaded and tried to brush Pete's hands away from his nipples.

Pete merely lowered his right hand to Darren's crotch and cupped his cock and balls. He could sense that the cock was beginning to swell.

"Pleaseee. . ."

Pete backed Darren up against the table as if cutting off all avenues of retreat, and languidly began to massage Darren's opulent basket. By then his prick was nearly at full erection. Pete hooked his fingers into the band of Darren's sweat pants and with one deft motion pulled them down to his knees. The hard cock sprang forward, proud and throbbing. Pete grasped the pulsating piece of erotic muscle and began to slowly manipulate it.

Darren quickly swirled upwards into the erotic miasma that Pete's hand was causing as well as the memory of that first massage. Any guilt that he might have harbored was quickly drowned in the delicious carnal sensations that he was experiencing. He braced his hands on the edge of the table, leaned heavily against it and surrendered to the swirling sensations. He closed his eyes, partly in the vain thought of halting the sensations, but more accurately so that he could concentrate on them.

He could feel that wonderful hand moving over his super-charged, pulsing cock. Nothing more. Then quickly the hand was removed and just as quickly the sensation was replaced by something more wonderful--if that could be. Darren opened his eyes and glanced down to see the whole length of his cock disappear into Pete's mouth.

"He's sucking my cock!" Darren shouted to himself. The feeling of his swollen cock being buried and alternately removed from the that hot, moist tunnel with its tongue flickering over the throbbing cock-head was literally indescribable. Back and forth Pete's head bobbed, self-impaled on that hot jerking suck-rod. Sucking sounds added to the already erotic overload that Darren was experiencing. He felt two hands cup his ass-cheeks, pulling them forward, and plunging the complete length of his formidable cock deep down that luscious, pleasure-giving throat. Darren groaned, gasped, panted. And he felt his cock being freed from that wonderful place. A popping sound issued forth as Darren again opened his eyes.

"Do you like that?" Pete questioned, his moist lips dripping saliva.

Darren could not answer, but he nodded his head.

"Fuck my mouth," Pete commanded.

Darren's brows furrowed into a questioning look.

"Fuck my mouth, Darren" Pete repeated and again slipped his mouth over his cock. This time, he again grasped Darren's ass and rhythmically forced them forward and backward, in and out of his mouth.

Darren understood and quickly began to flex his hips, fucking Pete's mouth. Pete groaned. Deeper and deeper Darren sank his cock into that exquisite mouth until he was shoving the whole thing down Pete's throat. Unlike before, he did not close his eyes but watched every delicious movement, every luxurious second.

Pete pulled away. "Do you like to fuck my mouth?" he asked.

"Yes," Darren rasped and added silently to himself, "I want to fuck your mouth. . . . I want to FUCK it!"

Pete took that big cock again and Darren began his fucking motion. Without knowing why, but that he had to, Darren grasped Pete's head and forced his cock down the older man's throat--once, twice, three times he plunged his throbbing cock into that juicy hole. Darren became aware of the building sensation in his being. His cock was going to explode. Galvanic, erotic shock waves welled up deep in his core. His eyes snapped shut.

"I'm going to COOMMEE!" he uttered as he thrust deep into Pete's mouth as spasm after spasm of pearly cum shot down Pete's throat. Two, three, four jerking spasms and then Darren pushed Pete's head away. One last pearl of cum oozed from his cock-slit. Gently Pete extended his tongue to catch that salty drop.

"That was good," Pete cooed.

"Yeah, nice," Darren admitted as he slowly opened his eyes and focused on the flushed face inches from his still hard cock. As he focused, Darren thought he saw a movement in his peripheral vision. He glanced to where he saw the movement and focused upon a smiling face.

"Shit. . ."was all Darren could say as he quickly reached down and jerked his sweats up.

"What's the matter?" Pete queried.

"Gene. . . ," Darren gasped, "he saw. . . He saw us." The last phrase was more a whimper than a statement.

Pete stood up, "Gene Villarosa? Don't worry. He won't say anything."

That night, Darren purposefully went to the cafeteria quite late. He wanted, no, he needed to avoid Gene. But who should be sitting at a table near the entrance but Gene along with Cynthia and Dick Perkins.

Darren averted his eyes.

"Hi, Darren, how's it goin'" Gene called out pointedly.

Darren was forced to acknowledge, "Fine," as he walked on.

Their eyes met briefly and Gene shot a quick, dark, knowing half-wink. Darren saw a perplexed look cover Dick's face and realized that Gene had, indeed, not said anything.

Ever since that first time when Darren had caught Gene and Dick, they never talked or greeted each other on campus, merely a half-nod as acknowledgement.

"Why has Gene suddenly become friendly with him?" Dick questioned to himself.

The year progressed, Gene, Dick or Darren never again verbally acknowledged each other, but when ever he saw Gene, the latter would give him a knowing wink.

"What an arrogant ass-hole." Darren thought. Gene Villarosa and Dick Perkins graduated that spring and effectively left Darren's sphere.

Darren did well in his studies. His grades were more than good enough to insure his scholarship. Two or three times in the spring semester Pete had 'serviced' Darren. Darren never sought him out. As a matter of fact he was careful and assiduously tried never to be late in the locker room. In truth he avoided Pete Anderson. But, there were those two or three times when it was unavoidable. After each time, Darren grudgingly admitted that he had received a certain amount of physical gratification. But, it was a sense of propriety, or maybe guilt that caused him to avoid Pete.

The next three years he was able to get his work-study assignment in the Chemistry Department. He avoided the locker-room, and swam in the pool only on Sunday afternoons when there were numerous students and some faculty families splashing around. Whenever he saw Pete on campus, which was infrequent, the latter would flash a half-smile longingly.