Hello All,
Here is the fourth part of my story.
As always, please send me any comments you may have. I love to hear from guys who have read my stuff. My e-mail address is eckhardt@injersey.com.
Please note that this story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental. It is intended for adults who are not offended by descriptions of male/male sexuality. Do not read it if you are under legal age in your area or if you are offended by such material.
You are free to copy this story for your own use, but please do not modify it in any way or republish it in any forum. Thank you.
Dorm Shower Lover By Greg Eckhardt
Chapter 4
The dilemma that beset me was cruel in its simplicity: I wanted Jeff in a way that I could not have him. We might continue our occasional trysts, but it would never be more than that. With no apparent solution to this impasse, I just gave up.
I didn't have any energy left to deal with the emotional extremes that Jeff had, perhaps unwittingly, subjected me to. I had to let go. There was nothing else to do but plod on with my life, empty though it might be. In time, a profound apathy overcame me. For the remainder of the semester, I wandered around in a kind of sheltering numbness.
It was as if a benevolent wizard had learned of my plight and compassionately ensorcelled my soul into oblivion. Through his powerful yet gentle magic, my spirit was granted asylum in a faerie realm, where no further harm could reach me. Moreover, he was thoughtful enough to leave behind a simulacrum to carry on my quotidian existence.
As perhaps an ancillary aspect of the enchantment, I still managed to do well in all my classes, despite my spiritual absence. Even though I slipped a little on final exams, my mid-terms had been good enough that I ended up with very respectable grades overall. It didn't really matter to me, though. I was beyond caring about such mundane matters.
Because I maintained a perfect facade of normalcy, my friends didn't suspect that anything was wrong. We went out to movies and parties and what-have-you, as always. Even Karen, my best friend in the world, was unaware of the hollowness in my soul. I might have smiled and laughed, but they were expressions devoid of any true feeling. My wit had always been dry and sardonic; perhaps no one saw the bitterness and anguish that now tinged it around the edges.
Mercifully, I didn't run into Jeff at all during this time. He might have transferred to another school or moved back home or taken a rocket ship to Mars, for all I knew. If I had been capable of rational thought, I might have wondered at the conspicuous totality of his absence, but I was too consumed by my own despondency. It would have been intolerably painful to see him anyway. Even a glimpse in the hallway would have shattered my fragile detachment.
Summer break arrived and I retreated home gratefully. As I had done the previous year, I took a job as a cashier at a clothing store in the local shopping mall. It was mindless work, but it filled my days and put money into the bank for the school year.
One day while I was working, some old friends came into the shop. They were also home from their respective colleges for the summer. Cindy and Doug and Mark and I had formed our own little clique back in high school. We were all into sci-fi and computers and Dungeons & Dragons, so it had been natural for us to hang out together.
Since we were all in town for the duration, we made plans to hook up for a session of our favorite role-playing game. In fact, we ended up getting together every Saturday night to play D&D, exactly as we had done when we were in high school. It was great fun. I looked forward to our meetings every week. They brought me out of my funk, giving me something to take my mind off of the tragedy that had been my love life, or more accurately my lack thereof, back at college.
By the end of the summer, I actually began to feel if not happy then at least content. Ironically, pretending to venture off to the imaginary land of a fantasy role-playing game had brought me back from self-exile in a very real emotional void. The last lingering vestiges of my depression fell away. I hadn't forgotten my heartache, and I doubted that I would ever truly get over Jeff, but I was able to put the whole situation in proper perspective.
As a positive step, I decided to find myself a real boyfriend. There was a gay student group at the college, called the Rutgers University Lesbian and Gay Alliance (RULGA), so I had an idea where to start. Since I was still chary of being public with my homosexuality, I had until then been reluctant to get involved; but I had done a little research and discovered that RULGA held meetings every Tuesday night. I resolved to go to the next one, and at the very least, meet some people who shared my inclinations.
With the fall term about to get underway, I was feeling optimistic about the coming year.
The semester started without much fanfare. As a junior now, I'd been through all the rigmarole before. There were no startling innovations this time around. I was even housed in the same dormitory, albeit in a different room. I settled in without incident.
My roommate for the year was a bland fellow named John Roberts. He was so plain-looking that I couldn't describe him if you threatened to subject me to four uninterrupted hours of Iron Maiden "music" (which one of our neighbors often did). A double-major in history and political science, John had an annoying habit of rambling on about current events. While I respected his efforts to be informed about national and world news, I didn't need a blow-by-blow analysis every time the president relieved himself. John was also a huge football fan, and initially attempted to draw me into his pastime. He quickly learned, however, that I find football, and all sports, less exciting than watching old men play chess. Before long, he got the message that I shared none of his interests, and he left me alone.
On the academic front, things looked promising. Technically, I still had my own double-major in English and journalism, but I had decided to drop journalism down to a minor and concentrate on English. My classes seemed interesting, and the professors were, for the most part, engaging and friendly.
I picked up with my friends right where we had left off last semester. Karen and I were both taking the same sociology elective, so we planned weekly study sessions together. We also hung out for fun whenever we had the chance, joined by her boyfriend Joe sometimes and by whoever else from our circle happened to be around.
I went to the first Tuesday night RULGA meeting of the school year, dragging Karen along with me for moral support. (I had come out to her at the end of freshman year, and she had been very sympathetic and encouraging.) Although I had been apprehensive, the meeting itself was anticlimactic. There were about 30 people in attendance, most of them indistinguishable from the vast majority of college students. One guy looked rather punk, with tri-color hair, funky clothes, and an excess of body piercings; but he could have been gay, straight, bisexual, or Transylvanian.
To my disappointment, it was actually kind of boring. The meeting was primarily a forum for political discussion, which I wasn't yet ready to become involved in. As the co-presidents (one male, one female) took turns droning on about campus policies towards "lesbigay" students and faculty, I studied the faces around the room. There were a few cute guys, but no one that I was irresistibly attracted to. I couldn't help comparing them all to Jeff.
One thing I did learn was that RULGA sponsored Sunday afternoon socials exclusively for gay men. That piqued my interest. Leaving Karen to spend some quality time with Joe, I went to the next one by myself.
It was awkward at first. I recognized a few faces from the Tuesday meeting, but I didn't really know anyone among the 15 or 20 guys there. I lingered in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous as I surveyed the crowd. The organizer, a nebbishy fellow named Steve, wasn't about to allow wallflowers, however. After all, the point of the social was to meet people. He led us through some silly party games to break the ice, and pretty soon, we were all chatting amongst ourselves.
I fell in with three guys who all knew one another from outside RULGA. We made small talk, and I got to know them. They couldn't have been more different: Brian was a cute, but volubly effeminate brunet in his junior year with a major in economics; Alan was a rather stoic, burly red-head in his sophomore year in a pre-med program; and Chris was a surprisingly intellectual, willowy blond in his third year at the Mason Gross arts school. They appeared to have little in common besides being gay, but they enjoyed one another's company.
I was pleased when they readily adopted me into their little group. Although I wasn't the least bit attracted to any of them, I liked having gay friends. It was liberating to talk about my feelings with other guys who could truly understand. Of course, I didn't mention anything to them about Jeff right away, but I felt that after I got to know them better I might be able to open up about that whole troublesome episode. Aside from providing welcome emotional support, the unlikely trio was also just plain fun to be around.
They invited me along with them the following Saturday night to the Den, a local gay bar that I didn't previously know existed. We went and had a great time, talking and dancing and checking out guys. We went the next weekend as well, and it soon became a regular routine.
A few weeks later, Brian, Alan and Chris planned a weekend escapade in New York City. They hoped to leave relatively early in the morning on Saturday and spend most of the day shopping in Greenwich Village. In the evening, they were going to hit several major clubs. To avoid rushing home in the middle of the night, they were even going to stay overnight at a gay bed-and-breakfast in Chelsea.
They asked me to come with them, but I honestly couldn't afford it. Although I really wanted to go, I had to be practical. My funds were limited since I didn't work during the semester. Even though my parents supplemented it with a monthly stipend, the money that I saved up during the summer didn't seem to go very far. Reluctantly, I begged off.
Unfortunately, their departure left me all but abandoned on that particular Saturday night. Karen had taken Joe home for dinner with her folks, and the rest of my friends were otherwise occupied as well. My roommate had holed himself up to work on an overdue research project, and there was no way that I was going to remain imprisoned in that tiny cell with him. My options for the evening thus winnowed down to practically nil, I decided to strike out to the Den on my own.
Almost immediately upon arriving at the bar, I regretted that decision. It was intimidating to be there by myself. I sorely missed having the reassuring nest of my friends around me.
For most of the night, I hung out in the "quiet room." (I don't know why they called it that; it was right next to the disco, and there was no escaping the muffled reverberation of the dance music.) Nursing an expensive bottle of water, I hid myself in the corner on one side of the U-shaped bar. Occasionally I peered out the window beside me, which gave a panoramic view of the disco, but I couldn't discern much more than indistinct silhouettes in the strobe-punctuated dimness.
A few times, I went out and circled by the dance floor, but I didn't loiter for very long. Even if I had been feeling more gregarious, I couldn't stay there. I just didn't care for the music. Some nights the DJ played classic disco, which I enjoyed, but tonight he was spinning this techno/house noise that did nothing for me. I kept returning to that same secluded spot in the quiet lounge.
The place was crowded, but I didn't know anyone. Although there were many good-looking men, I was far too shy to simply walk up to one of them and initiate a conversation. Timidly, I huddled in the secure refuge of my niche. The bartender must have noticed my discomfiture because he came over at odd moments to make small talk. I appreciated that, but I still felt out of place.
Eventually, I resolved to head home. This wasn't getting me anywhere. By now it was almost one o'clock, so I could safely go back to the dorm and go to sleep. Even if John were still awake, he would in all likelihood be too deeply engrossed in his work to pester me.
I was just about to get up, when a voice said at my side, "Hi. How're you doin'?"
That alone was enough to startle me, but when I looked over to see who had spoken I became positively amazed. Blinking rapidly, I managed to mumble, "Hello. Fine, thanks."
Beside me stood the most beautiful guy in the bar, possibly the state, maybe even the country. He was absolutely breathtaking: Buzz-cut sandy hair topped off a model's chiseled features with bright green eyes, an aquiline nose and full, sensuous lips. Slightly shorter than my own six feet, he had a well-toned build that was pleasingly displayed by his black T-shirt and tight bluejeans. I guessed that he was older than I, but not by much.
"My name's Mitch," purred the vision in a mellow baritone, smiling to display an advertisement for cosmetic dentistry. "What's yours?"
"I'm...I'm Craig," I stuttered. Why was this lesser deity conversing with me?
"Hello, Craig," he went on smoothly. "Nice to meet you." He offered his hand.
"Nice to me you too, Mitch," I babbled back, seizing the appendage and pumping it with excessive vigor. His skin was soft and supple, but his grip was masculine and firm.
"So what's a cute boy like you doing here in the corner all by himself?" he asked, with a disarming chuckle. His eyes traveled over me approvingly.
Somehow I assembled complete sentences, even if they were a tad disjointed. "Oh, all my friends are off doing their own thing tonight, and I didn't want to stay in with my roommate around. I've only been here a few times, so I don't really know anyone."
"How about some company then?" he said, taking the stool beside me. A tendril of vaguely woody cologne wafted to my nostrils, but I couldn't identify the fragrance.
"Sure."
"What are you drinking?" he asked, pointing to my nearly empty bottle of water. In my fidgeting, I had peeled off the label and shredded it onto the bar.
"Oh, just water."
He turned away long enough to signal the bartender, then restored his full attention to me. "You're a Rutgers student." It was a statement, not a question.
"Yeah, Rutgers College," I agreed dumbly.
The bartender cruised by to deposit fresh drinks for us: Poland Spring for me and Bud Light for the Adonis. Snatching up the money that Mitch had laid on the counter, he swirled off and returned with the change almost instantly, like a dancer executing a well-rehearsed choreography.
"Me too," said Mitch. "But I go to the graduate school of business. What's your major?"
"English."
"Cool! It was mine too, when I was an undergrad." He grinned expansively as if he had just discovered that we were long-lost brothers.
Mitch and I chatted in that vein for some time. He did most of the talking, telling me about himself and asking the occasional question about me. Since I was still terribly anxious, my responses were often brief to the point of curtness, but he didn't seem to notice. Merrily chattering away, he carried on enough for both of us.
Before long, I felt like I knew the entire life story of Mitchell Patrick Saunders. Among other tidbits, I learned that he had grown up in south Jersey and had a younger brother who was still in high school. His father was an investment banker and his mother, a real estate broker. Besides being a graduate student in business, Mitch was an avid skier and a theater buff. He also played the guitar and wrote poetry. If I'd been taking notes, I was sure that I could have penned his biography.
We didn't appear to have much in common, but he had a lively personality and he sure was pretty to look at. If it meant having him around, I supposed that I could learn to ski and sit through the occasional stage production. It never hurts to broaden one's horizons.
As Mitch continued his rambling narrative, I sipped frequently at my water for lack of something to occupy my hands. Soon the bottle was empty. Without missing a beat, he ordered me another, as well as a second beer for himself. When I finished that one, he did it again. It bothered me that he was spending all this money on drinks for me when I was unable to return the favor, but I couldn't bring myself to speak up.
Before we knew it, the bartender was announcing last call. Mitch offered to get me one more bottle of water, but I politely declined. As it was, my bladder felt like the floodgates of Hoover Dam after an exceptionally rainy spring.
A few minutes later, the lights came up. I excused myself to the restroom, thinking that Mitch would take that as his cue to depart. Instead, he waited for me in the entryway. I was thankful that he didn't follow me in: I'm terribly pee-shy.
When I emerged a few minutes later, Mitch walked with me out into the parking lot. "Where're you parked?" he asked.
"Over there," I said, gesturing towards the opposite side of the building. When I had arrived, the relatively small lot that was directly adjacent to the bar had been full, so I had been forced to park in the neighboring shopping center.
"Do you want a lift?"
"Okay, thanks."
"No problem. C'mon then." he said, motioning for me to follow him with a wave of his hand.
It was a mild late-September night, but I felt chilled. Hugging my bare arms to myself, I shivered. I wished that I had brought a jacket.
We crossed the parking lot. Indicating a blue, late-model Honda Accord, Mitch said, "This is me."
He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me. I slid into the seat, as he went around to the other side. He was quiet as he climbed in and started the ignition. There was a minor traffic jam as all of the patrons exited the bar at once, so we sat for a few minutes.
I wanted to say something, but I was at a loss for words. Mitch seemed subdued as well. He must have finally talked himself out. For me the silence was unsettling, but he appeared contentedly relaxed, oblivious to my internal disquiet.
After the crowd of cars and people had dissipated somewhat, Mitch pulled out and scooted us quickly over to the other lot. At this hour, the place was deserted. I directed him to my beige Toyota Tercel, and he drew up alongside it.
"So," he said, turning off the engine.
"So," I replied, with loquacious ingenuity. My face felt like it was frozen in an insipid smirk.
"I'm really glad I met you tonight." He smiled charmingly.
"Me too."
We looked at one another expectantly. Then Mitch leaned towards me. Shedding my earlier diffidence, I met him halfway. The combined scent of the cologne and his personal odor washed over me. Our mouths touched. I literally felt a jolt of electricity as the contact released a static charge. We both flinched simultaneously then pressed home.
His lips were warm and soft. My mouth played against his with escalating fervor. We began to chew at one another in mutual hunger, our heads bobbing and weaving in counterpoint.
I savored the experience. It had been far too long since the last time that I'd made out with a guy. I had all but forgotten how wonderfully sensual kissing can be. In many ways, it has always seemed more intimate to me than intercourse. Renewing that knowledge was enjoyable, to say the least.
Mitch wasted no time in nudging his tongue into my mouth. Inspired by his enthusiasm, I promptly retaliated. His mouth tasted of beer, which I found curiously arousing. Our tongues chased each other back and forth, for several long minutes.
An image of Jeff flashed across the back of my mind. It felt as if I were betraying him somehow. In the urgency of the moment, I struggled to push that aside. There was no reason to feel any allegiance to him. Our relationship had been stillborn. I owed him nothing. Nonetheless, I could not completely stifle the nagging impression that I was committing an act of gross infidelity.
Mitch began to kiss across my cheek and down my neck, and all thought of Jeff hurtled into the abyss. He sucked at my throat, no doubt intending to leave a prominent calling card. I ran my fingers through the fuzz on his scalp, urging him on unnecessarily. Once it had left its mark, his mouth returned to swiftly to mine.
His hand brushed across my chest. Finding a nipple, he toyed with it through the fabric of my shirt. I would have moaned if my mouth had not been covered. As it was, I squirmed excitedly.
A moment later, we parted to catch our breath. "I really wish I could bring you back to my place, but my roommate's around," said Mitch with a comical frown. Something in his tone didn't quite ring true, but I couldn't say precisely why. I quickly shrugged off the thought as baseless paranoia.
"Me too, but I've got the same problem," I sniggered feebly.
Mitch moved towards me again. We kissed, even more passionately this time. He returned his hand to my chest, kneading the flesh beneath my shirt. I reached over and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him closer. Clutching each other's bodies clumsily across the center console, we pulled at one another's clothes.
His fingers roamed over my shirt until they found the buttons. Opening the top three, he stretched his hand inside and ran it over my skin. The flat of his palm glided back and forth over my chest. I trembled. To be touched like that, simply touched, was unaccustomed bliss.
I tried to do the same in return, but Mitch was wearing a pullover. Not to be deterred, I tugged it free of his jeans and slid my hand up and underneath it. His chest and stomach were firm and toned, without being grotesquely muscular. His skin was smooth, almost completely hairless. There was only the faintest trail of downy hairs descending from his navel. I traced it playfully.
Mitch continued to explore my body. Undoing the remaining buttons, he pushed my shirt open and stroked his hand all over my exposed torso. I shivered, but not from the cold this time. In fact, it now seemed almost balmy in the enclosed space of the automobile.
His fingertips came upon my tit again and began to fondle it. They teased it lightly until the nub protruded like a miniature erection. Withdrawing from his mouth for a second, I sighed in pleasure. Sensing my delight, he continued his delicious attentions.
I pushed my own hand upward on Mitch's chest. When my fingers strayed over a nipple, they stopped to caress it. Now it was his turn to moan. I continued to delicately pinch and twist the sensitive tip, driving him wild. It must have been too much.
Impatiently, Mitch dropped his hand to my lap. Our activities so far had naturally provoked the appropriate response. He began to massage the insistent bulge that he found there. Lowering my own hand, I confirmed that he paralleled my tumescent condition.
"Ooh," he growled, with lecherous leer. "You've got a monster in there. Maybe we should let it out."
Doing just that, Mitch unhooked the catch of my jeans and slid down the zipper. Movement was awkward in the restrictive confines of the car, but he was determined. Parting the open flaps, he grasped the outline of my thick seven inches through the soft cotton of my briefs.
"Man, you've got a big, fat cock," he remarked, evidently pleased.
Before I could attempt to reciprocate, he sat back and unfastened his own jeans. Raising himself up off the seat, he went so far as to slide them down to his knees. Bowing to the inevitable, he pushed his underpants down with them. In the interest of time, I mirrored his actions. We grinned at one another devilishly, each of us immediately reaching out to grab the other.
Like my own, Mitch's cock was circumcised and about seven inches in length, but his differed in that it was more slender in the shaft. His oversized balls dangled loosely below in a thatch of blond hair. His sculpted thighs appeared to be as smooth as his chest, but perhaps it was only an illusion of the murky lighting. They could have been dusted by a nearly invisible down, similar to that on my own legs.
I wrapped my hand around his waiting member, measuring its girth. It was feverishly hot to the touch. I could feel his pulse beat as I squeezed the fleshy pillar.
"Oh, yeah, jerk that meat," he moaned, when I began to slide my fist languidly up and down.
In turn, Mitch took possession of my cock. His arm overtopping mine, he closed his fist snugly about the shaft. His hand was exquisitely soft, like a glove of warm velvet. He caressed my pole lovingly, knowing instinctively where to concentrate his efforts for maximum stimulation. Helpless under his expert technique, I gasped in delighted torment.
"You like that, don't you?" he whispered seductively.
For a long while, we continued to masturbate one another with conscientious devotion. The nocturnal stillness was interrupted only by our guttural noises of pleasure. I could have gone on like that all night, but Mitch wanted more. As I continued to stroke his cock, he pushed on to other realms.
His hand roved down to my balls, first cupping them, then toying with them idly. Since they are somewhat tender, I usually don't like having my nuts handled, but his touch was so gentle that it was actually pleasant. One fingertip found its way to the sensitive area just below my scrotum. Pausing there briefly, it twirled over the small patch of skin, awakening neglected nerve endings.
Mitch looked up at me, his emerald eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness. "How does that feel?" he asked. Unable to speak, I could only moan melodically.
Pressing onward, he poked his middle finger into the cleft between my ass cheeks. I spread my legs wider to accommodate his probing. He withdraw his hand for an instant to moisten his finger with saliva, then swiftly returned to the scene. Greased with spit, the digit slithered smoothly into the crevice of my ass. It came near my bunghole and spiraled in on the puckered sphincter.
By now my own manipulations of his rampantly rigid rod had coaxed forth a bead of pre-cum from the piss-slit. Taking advantage of the natural lubricant, I ran my thumb through it and spread the slick substance all over his cock-head, with special attention to the sensitive underside and corona.
"Oh, yeah," he groaned appreciatively. "That feels great."
Mitch's fingertip arrived finally at my posterior portal. It had lost much of its coating of saliva, but he didn't stop to rewet it. Instead, he forced the dry digit into the equally arid opening. I grunted in discomfort at the blunt incursion. It took a moment for the anal muscle to loosen enough so that his finger could slide in as far as the first joint. He rotated the burrowing knuckle, relaxing the sphincter even further. Soon, the ingression grew more agreeable, and I hummed with delectation.
"You like that, huh?" he asked redundantly.
While I still basked in that sensation, Mitch bent over the center console and began to orally service my forgotten member. He lapped at it greedily, like a kitten drawing in warm milk. His tongue swirled and darted to all the right places.
"Oh, yeah," I breathed, writhing uncontrollably from the double assault of being finger- fucked and fellated at the same time.
Egged on by my reaction, he endeavored to swallow my shaft to the root, but he couldn't quite angle his body to achieve that goal. He satisfied himself by continuing to suckle at the head. Given his manifest skill with the task at hand, I certainly wasn't disappointed.
My arm was crushed beneath his overarching torso, but I wasn't about to complain. I continued to jack him off, though now with a significantly limited range of motion. My hand flailed of its own volition, as I steadily lost feeling in the constricted limb.
A few minutes later, Mitch backed off. With a grimace of pain, he vigorously rubbed his cramped chest. I flexed my tingling arm in sympathy.
I missed his marvelous ministrations, but this favor I just had to return. Attempting to lean over his lap, I bumped into the storage compartment in the center console. Shifting forward, I felt the gear selector strive to insert itself between my ribs. It was no wonder he hadn't been able to endure this position for very long. Maneuvering fractionally rearward, I settled into the shallow concavity between the two projections. It was far from comfortable, but I set to work eagerly.
My tongue shot out over his cock-head, laving it generously. His pre-cum had given it a faintly sweet flavor, which I slurped up ravenously. From the depths of his crotch came a clean but earthy aroma that only served to incite my already gluttonous appetite. I went down on him further, but my body could only contort so far.
"Yeah, that's it, baby," he murmured hoarsely.
Stretching my lingual muscle to its fullest extent, I was able to reach about three-quarters of the way down his shaft. Yielding to the circumstances, I restricted my devotions to the sensitive areas of his cock-head. My drool spilled down his dick in rivulets. I swathed the rough surface of my tongue with delicate agility over the wrinkled frenum and around the mushroom cap. He didn't seem to mind the limitation on my movements.
"Oh, yeah. Suck my big man-cock," he cooed encouragingly.
Without warning, I felt a terrible spasm in my side. Sitting up sharply, I massaged the protesting sinew animatedly, trying to ease the acute pain. Mitch smiled in commiseration.
By unspoken agreement, we resumed our initial activity, clasping one another's cocks and jerking them off in tandem. For both of us, the recent oral attentions had left behind a residue of lubricating saliva. Our fists pumped furiously, creating a duet of moist sucking sounds. This orchestration was accompanied by our primitive vocalizations of mounting pleasure.
With his exquisite touch, Mitch kept me balanced on the verge for a small eternity. He stroked me with sufficient speed and intensity to maintain my precarious perch, but not so much as to topple me into climax. My cock throbbed in his hand, begging for release. Tortured by inchoate ecstasy, I whimpered on its behalf, but he would not yet allow any release.
In retribution, I pounded his dick brutally. My fist corkscrewed wildly as it rode up and down the slippery shaft. Desperately, I sought to propel him ahead of me, knowing that he would only let me go on the advent of his own orgasm.
"Oh, yeah! That's it! Make me cum!" Mitch cried out seconds later, as his body convulsed.
My fist flew even faster. I felt his cock swell just before it discharged the first salvo. The molten seed erupted into the air then fell back to splatter over my hand and across his lap. Successive salvos repeated the pattern with decreasing energy, until at last he collapsed in on himself.
At the precise instant of his ejaculation, Mitch had let loose with a barrage of rapid-fire strokes on my own needy member. That was all it took. With one final sob, I hurled my own load up into the semi-darkness. I seemed to float rapturously above the car seat as some portion of my life force ejected itself from my body. Distantly, I felt the hot semen splash across my bare chest and onto the edge of my shirt.
It was some time before I descended from the heights. Scarcely aware of my own actions, I withdrew my hand and reclined exhaustedly back into the seat. My heart thrummed and my lungs pulled in oxygen, gradually restoring equilibrium. Sinking into a sticky pool of its own emissions, my cock slowly shriveled down to its flaccid state.
Abruptly self-conscious now that the moment had passed, I quickly pulled my clothes back on. Less hurriedly, Mitch followed suit. As I tucked in my shirt, my hand brushed through a spot of jism. Repulsed by the gooey sensation, I wiped it off on my pant leg.
"Wow, that was hot," Mitch said, flashing a broad grin.
"Yeah, it was," I murmured, feeling shy again.
"So, do you want to get together again sometime?" he asked.
"Sure, that'd be great." He wanted to see me again!
"Cool," he said happily. "Let me have your phone number."
Mitch retrieved a slip of paper and a pen from the glove compartment, and I recited the number to him. It didn't occur to me to ask for his, and he didn't volunteer it.
"I'll give you a call mid-week and maybe we can get together for dinner or something. How's that?"
"That works for me." Call me anytime; I'll be waiting by the phone.
"Good."
After a languorous parting kiss, I reluctantly slipped out and climbed into my own car. Thoughtfully, Mitch waited until I started the engine and put it into gear. He waved to me before driving off. I followed him out of the lot and up to the next traffic light, where he turned left as I proceeded straight.
Bubbling with excitement, I was positively euphoric. Only once before had I been smitten with someone who felt a mutual attraction. On a rational level, I knew that the feeling was not much more than overactive hormones, but that didn't prevent me from reveling in the unbridled elation. Two thoughts raced around my head as I drove home: I couldn't wait to see Mitch again, and I really hoped that the congealing semen wouldn't stain my shirt.
In the background, my conscience whispered accusingly, But what about Jeff? To which I replied, Jeff who?