Efrain and Cory

Efrain and Cory 18

Author’s Note - Apologies for the South Park reference.  Honey and I finally saw The Book of Mormon and we’ve been quoting it non-stop for nearly a week.  Interestingly enough, Josh Gad was in the original cast.  Amusing to hear Olaf (at least, Olaf’s voice) singing that he’s going to “Man up all over [him]self.”  

So, yeah, put your feelings in a box an’ crush ‘em, magical fuck-frog, he’s got the golden plates, welcome back to spooky Mormon hell dream, hasa diga eebowai, I can’t believe Jesus called me a dick, etc.  The last time I quote-barfed this much was Team America.  It seems I have the sense of humor of a teenage boy.  

Of course, I did have one character slap another character in the face with his own jizz two chapters ago, so you probably knew that already (luckily Honey didn’t make me explain why I’d been giggling for two days straight).

Happy Holidays! ~Dayne (dayne.mora@gmail.com)

Nifty <3’s you - http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html 

Chapter 18 – To Die in Thy Lap

I rolled off Cory and laid next to him on the floor while we both tried to catch our breath.  I had stopped cumming, but the aftershocks still rocked my body, making my abs spasmodically contract and release.  Aftershocks didn’t always happen, but they were certainly more consistent when Cory and I fucked.

With no blankets and no pillows, the hardwood wasn’t exactly comfortable, but we were still too spent to move.  The most we could manage was our usual post-fuck cuddle – me on my back with my hand behind my head and him sprawled across my chest.  I figured we’d make it to the bed eventually, so I was content to snuggle.

“Have you thought about what you want to do about your birthday?” I asked.  I stroked my fingertips up and down his back, eliciting purr-like noises.

“Kinda.”  He bit his lip like he was unsure about something.  “Al’s band is having a show this weekend.”

“And…” I prompted.

“I want you to meet my friends.”

“That’s all?”

He propped himself up on his elbow.  He looked like he didn’t exactly believe me.

“As my boyfriend.”

“So, a date?”

“Yes,” he said, smiling widely.

“Anything else?”  I mean, that was nothing.  So, I meet a few people.  There had to be a catch or something.  Nothing that simple should make him that happy.

“No.”

“You sure?” I said.  “Anything you want.”

“A pony.”

“Something realistic.”

“Could let me top you,” he arched his eyebrow and hit me with a wicked grin.

“Indie probably has enough room in the backyard,” I joked.  “Ponies don’t need much space, right?”

“God,” Cory laughed and swatted my chest.  “Dad jokes for days.”

I pulled him down for a kiss.

“Acho, if you’re serious about it, I wouldn’t mind bottoming for you.”  I definitely preferred to top, but it wasn’t the first time I’d thought about letting him take my ass.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You’re already thinking about it.”  My hand brushed against his cock, which was getting hard against my thigh.

“Is that what’s happening here?” he asked, tickling his fingers over my dick.

“And if it was?”  I wasn’t exactly ready, but if it was what he wanted…

“I’m content to get off on the thought,” he said.  He climbed on top of me and took my cock in one quick thrust.

“Fuck, man.”  I arched up into him.  He leaned down to growl in my ear.

“For now.”

We’d make it to the bed eventually.

~*~*~*~

For the first time ever, I entered Indie’s office the “correct” way – by knocking.

It was insulting.

That asshole was lucky that Mrs. Gail wasn’t there to sneak me in like she did every other time.  Fucking Indie and his stupid fucking dick that was fucking microscopic compared to the dick that comprised his whole fucking dick personality.

Indie Norman was a massive dick with a massive dick.

Dick-within-a-dick.

Dick-fucking-ception.

And an asshole.

Always an asshole.

Don’t bother with a funny reference and just sink him with the ship.

The door opened and he peeked out.

“Good morning, Preston.”

Half man, half dick, half asshole.  Man-bear-dick-asshole.  Why the fuck was he grinning?  Cocksure fucking cock sucker.  He might not have had a dick in his mouth for nearly two years, but still…

I brushed past him and walked into the room.

“Do you always walk around like you own the place?” he asked.

“But, I do,” I said, shooting him a look over my shoulder.

“Do what?”

“Own the place.”

I pretended to not hear his little snort.

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy.

I slipped off my coat and tossed it into a chair.  Indie shut the door behind me.  I heard a faint click – probably locking the door.  Good.  Fewer witnesses.  I cracked my knuckles.

“You’re rather dressed down today,” he said.  I wore a cotton henley, loose-fit jeans, and tennis shoes.  I didn’t bother doing my hair, either.

I was dressed to kill.

Literally.

Not like Rachel Zoe literally.  Like, literally-literally.  Like, this jerk was gonna die literally.  Like, call his momma with your condolences literally.

Indie swept past me on the way to his desk while I stayed at the door.

How the hell does a skinny guy have an ass?  Like, it wasn’t a tasty Cory-level bubble butt, just a modest bump, but still.  Goddamn.  And how does a guy have an ass like that and still dress like, well, an ass?  Another t-shirt from a band nobody cared about over a long-sleeve thermal pushed up to his elbows, with faded jeans and Vans.  A wallet chain trailed from his belt loop to his back pocket.  It jingled against his hip as he walked.  Who the fuck wears a wallet chain?  I bet he had a skateboard that he barely knew how to stay upright on tucked away somewhere.  And a hacky-sack.  A whole army of hacky-sacks.  The top half of his hair was pulled back with an elastic, leaving some pieces to fall across his forehead.

“Since when has your hair been purple?”  He even had some stripes of black going through the purple like he was a fine arts student and not in the department of fucking anthropology.

“A couple days.  It’s still staining everything,” he said.  “So, what is this unfinished business you have with me?”

He still owed my best friend a fucking apology, but when I tried to wring it out of him, he kissed me.

Kissed me hard, rubbed his hands all over me, ground his massive dick into my hip.  All on top of the desk he now leaned against.  Shamefully, I responded like a cheap whore – writhing and moaning under him, wrapping myself around him.

Then later locking myself in the men’s bathroom at the very top floor of the student union where no one went so I could jerk off while thinking about it.

After I killed Indie, I was going to murder Cory for not warning me about that man.  He was supposed to have been without dick for so long that he forgot how to use his own.

So, yeah, I had unfinished business with Indie.  I’d messaged him over Facebook because I didn’t know how else to contact him.  His professor was out of town and his friend/officemate was covering the professor’s morning classes.  He said that would be a good time to meet.  At first, I only wanted to settle the situation with Cory.  However, most of my problems with Indie were now a matter of pride.  I just needed to stop growling long enough to spit it out.

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk.

I cracked my knuckles again.  Man, that felt good.  Indie watched me thoughtfully while I tried to string together coherent sentences.  We stood in silence before he finally broke it.

“I need to try something,” he said and came back to me.  

Indie closed the distance between us until he was a mere hair’s breadth from me.  Before I realized what I was doing, I stepped back from him.  He followed me until my back hit the door.  The full length of his body pressed into mine.  He smelled warm and clean, like fresh laundry and bath soap.  No cologne, and none of that noxious as fuck Axe shit that I had to break Cory of wearing.  Just his own scent that I seriously did not find intoxicating.  Yeah, it did absolutely nothing for me in the slightest.  I was totally not getting turned on by this.  At.  All.

“What are you doing?”  I said, cursing the slight tremor in my voice.  I still had to kill this bitch.

He cupped my face in both hands and lowered his head to mine.  I mentally cursed at my dick to stop plumping up.

“This,” he murmured.  His mouth brushed against mine, and his tongue flicked out to trace my bottom lip.  

I shivered.

“Open your mouth, Preston.”

I started to argue, but he took advantage of the opening.  He kissed me deeply, and the world went sideways.  My knees became weak and the only thing holding me up was his body pressing mine into the door.  I sagged into him and willed myself to not moan into his mouth.  It was bad enough that I was kissing him back, but I was not going to give him the satisfaction of making encouraging noises.  The last thing the man needed was encouragement.

Whimpering wasn’t technically moaning, right?

Just when I thought I was going to die from lack of oxygen, Indie pulled back and brushed an almost chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth.  I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on getting my pulse back to normal.  He let me go and stepped back.  I had to lock my knees to keep from sliding down the door.

“Thought as much,” he said.  My eyes were still shut, but I could still tell he was grinning.  I opened my eyes in time to watch him walk to his chair and sit down.  He set his elbows on the armrests and propped his chin up on his fist.  He made a “come hither” with his other hand.  He was still smirking at me.  I almost told him he could go fuck himself with that fucking “come hither,” but I realized I couldn’t exactly kick his ass from over here.

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig.

Once my legs were more solid, I pushed away from the wall and came to him.  I walked around the desk (only because I couldn’t beat the shit out of him over it) and leaned against the desktop.

“Your unfinished business?”

“Apologize,” I demanded.

“To whom?  For what?” he asked while flipping up the armrests.

“The world.  Your continued existence.”

He laughed.  Motherfucker thought I was joking.  He grabbed my hand and pulled me astride his lap.

“I know ‘you’re cute when you’re mad’ is pretty cliché,” he chuckled, putting his arm around my waist.  “But, damn.  Maybe I’m just used to seeing you mad.”

“Then stop pissing me off.”

“And how can I accomplish this feat?”

“Die.”

“La petite morte?”

“No, just morte.”

“What’s the fun in that?”

“You don’t have enough holes in you,” I said.  “Mind if I stab you a few times?”

“Dude, I already have twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five?”

He pointed to his piercings.  He had three studs on each forward helix.  Thin silver chains threaded through the four piercings on each earlobe instead of traditional earrings.  I counted six holes in his face between his eyebrow, nose and mouth.

“That’s only twenty.”

He pulled his t-shirt up to reveal two piercings over his sternum and a bar through one nipple.  And a nicely developed chest and stomach with a happy trail of light-brown hair that disappeared under the waistband of his boxers.  Meow.  

God, please make him put his shirt down before I embarrassed myself.

“Okay, twenty-three,” I said and he let go of his shirt.  It fell back down, leaving a couple inches of his stomach still exposed over which I was most certainly not drooling.

“I’d have to take off my pants to show you the rest,” he said, his voice low and suggestive.

I fought the rush of blood surging into my dick.

“Cory never said anything about…”

“Cory never got my pants off.”

I could only stare back at him.

“Oh, I bet you’re thinking really hard now,” he said.  His tone was completely mocking.  “Should I drop trou and show you?”

“Unfinished business,” I ground out before he started unzipping.

“Yes, yes,” he said.  “You wanted to apologize to me.”

“What have I done that would necessitate an apology?”

“Assault, unlawful entry, harassment, vandalism,” he said.  “Oh, and now death threats.”

“You deserve all of it.”

“Because I’m looking out for my friend and roommate?”

“Because you’re a dick,” I answered.  “By the way, why am I in your lap?”

“You’re easier to disarm this way.”

“Disarm?”

“Are you about to go rabid again?”

“Rabid?”  I was sputtering.  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“The maddog thing,” he said.  “You growl and foam at the mouth.”

I narrowed my eyes.

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig-douchebag-wanker.

“See?  Right there.  You’re doing it again.”  He sighed and shrugged.  “Guess there’s no helping it.”

“Bitch, I do not foam at the mouth.  I’m going to ki…”

Indie’s lips cut me off.  I growled in my throat, and he laughed.  His mouth worked over mine until my resistance slipped.  He pressed his newly won advantage and his tongue slid into my mouth.  The stainless steel barbell, warmed by his mouth, glided along my tongue.  I gave up trying to fight the little mewling noises that seemed to be the only sounds my throat was capable of producing.  It certainly wasn’t up for mounting a protest against his hands slithering up the back of my shirt and pulling me closer.

My cock pressed against the confines of my jeans.  I was wearing boxers and the least constricting pants I owned, but it all felt too tight.  It didn’t help matters that I could feel his member lengthening and hardening under my thigh.  One of his hands had moved down to knead my ass and I wanted to kick myself for the cooing noises I started making.  I clung desperately to his shoulders and kissed him hard, little desperate mewling sounds gave way to moans, while my hips rolled into him.

Indie’s hand came around to palm my dick through my jeans and I cried out into his mouth.   He pulled back and we stared at each other, panting.  I remembered that Cory had once described his eyes as chocolate brown.  Accurate.  Dark, rich, fucking bitter chocolate brown.  The palm of his hand rubbed over my cockhead and had to bite my lip to keep from crying out again.

He lifted the edge of my shirt and pressed it to my lips.

“Hold on to this, wouldja?”

For once, I did as I was told.  My mother would be so proud.

As soon as my shirt was between my teeth, his hand fell back down to my straining cock.  He unbuttoned my jeans and drew down the zipper.  I knew where this was going – I hoped I knew where this was going.  His fingertips brushed me lightly through the thin fabric of my boxers and I made disgustingly desperate noises.  I willed him to pleasepleaseplease touch me more, but all I got were more feathering strokes.  I almost wailed in frustration.  His lips nipped the side of my neck.

“Preston,” he murmured into my ear.  “I can stop if you need me to.”

I ground my hips into him, earning a moan from him, and his hand disappeared under my waistband.  His fingers wrapped around me with a firm squeeze.  I moaned around a mouthful of cotton henley.  He pulled my dick out of my boxers and started pumping -- slow, steady strokes that I couldn’t help thrusting into.  His other hand wandered all over my back side, rubbing my back, ass, and hips.  He kneaded anything he could get his hands on.

“You going to cum for me?” he asked in a low, husky voice.  

Yes, if it would shut you the fuck up.  I wanted to say it, but my throat still wasn’t working right.   He lowered his head to first one nipple, then the other, working them with his whole mouth.  Teeth, tongue, lips.  He alternated between rapid flicks with the tip, and full-on licks that drug his piercing over my stiff nipples.  My eyes rolled back and my fingers dug into his shoulders.

I thrust my hips into his hand, panting harder as I got closer to cumming.  I concentrated on keeping my shirt between my teeth so I wouldn’t be tempted to get louder.  All that was for not when I felt it, that feeling like where you’re on a roller coaster and you’re about to go down the first drop.  That moment right before the ground starts rushing up at you.

“Oh fuck,” I ground out, the first thing I’d been able to say since he started.  The shirt fell out of my mouth.  “Oh fu…”

Indie’s other hand came up to grab the back of my head as his mouth slammed down over mine, swallowing the rest of whatever I was going to start screaming.  My hips arched up and I came.  He didn’t stop kissing me until he’d milked every last bit from me and I stopped shivering.

He pulled his t-shirt over his head, leaving on the thermal.  Wasn’t like he could wear it now that I’d exploded all over it.  I tried not to quiver when he cleaned me off.

“Well, you’re good and disarmed now,” he laughed and wiped off his hands.  He tossed the shirt under his desk.

“What?”

“Completely and totally disarmed.”

“I’ll show you fucking disarmed.”

I slapped him so hard my palm stung.  I knew his ears had to be ringing, but he just laughed.

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig-douchebag-wanker-twat-dickcheese-baddresser-bitchass-motherfucker-pissant-limpdick-ARGH!

I scrambled off his lap, refastened my jeans, and grabbed my coat.  I stormed out, slamming the door behind me.  Halfway across the campus and his laughter was still ringing in my ears.

I locked myself in the men’s bathroom at the very top floor of the student union where no one went so I could jerk off while thinking about it.

~*~*~*~

“Hey, Preston?  Are you feeling okay?”

I held the inside of my wrist up to his forehead like my mom had done for me countless times when I told her I wasn’t feeling well before declaring I was just fine to go to school.  The other patrons in the coffee shop looked at us a little weird, but I really didn’t give a fuck.  I wasn’t quite sure what I was supposed to be feeling for.  Did he seem warmer than usual?  I put my other wrist up to my own forehead for comparison.  He didn’t feel any warmer than I did.

But, regardless of how he felt, Preston looked nothing like himself.  For starters, he wasn’t even dressed like himself.  He was wearing a plain and very uncute long-sleeved shirt that he’d normally kick my ass for calling anything but a henley.  His jeans were so loose I’d swear his laundry got mixed up with someone else’s.  I’ve only ever seen the guy in slim-fit slacks and skinny jeans.  Worst of all were his shoes.  He only wore sneakers for one of two reasons – cheerleading and cheerleading practice.  Combine that with the fact that his hair was completely unstyled, and you could see why I was concerned.

“Come back to me, little buddy,” I said, ruffling his hair.

Maybe if I distracted him.

“So, Indie’s been acting really weird the past couple days.  He’s actually been smiling.  Fucker never smiles,” I said.  Preston could never resist a chance to talk shit about Indie.  “Efrain said he asked him what was going on and he told Efrain he ‘found a new toy.’  Can you believe that?”

For some reason, Preston started grinding his teeth.  He took the napkin he’d been crushing in his fist and ripped it into little pieces.

“…fuckwad-jizzrag-dickweed-pig-jerk-asshole…” he muttered.  After he’d run through a full list of what I assumed to be every insult he knew interspersed, oddly enough, with names of animals, he made a miserable little sound and put his head on the table.

He’d barely drank any of his coffee.  It sat forgotten and neglected next to his keyring.  For someone as ostentatious as Preston, his keyring was weirdly non-descript – just a ring and a handful of keys.

Except now, there was a little Yorkie hanging out with his assorted keys.  I picked it up.  That was odd.  Why would Preston have a rabid Yorkie keychain?

“What’s this?”

He cracked open his eye and looked where I was pointing before making the same miserable sound again.

“A taste of my own medicine.”

I put down his keyring and patted his head.  Preston was being whiney.  Preston never whined.  He was the mature almost-21 junior.  His little brother and sister looked up to him and practically worshipped him (by Preston’s accounts, at least).  I was starting to get really worried.  As much as I wanted to tell him about Efrain coming to Al’s gig, my good news had to wait.

“Come on, man,” I said.  “Tell me what this is about.”

“Promise you won’t hate me?”

“What could you do to make me hate you?”

Before he could answer, three women – two brunettes and a blonde – slid into the booth with us.  They looked a little familiar.  One of the brunettes, with straight hair that hung down to her shoulders, spoke first.

“Hi, Cory.”

“Hi?”

The blonde, who spoke with a vocal fry creaky enough to make a Kardashian step back and question her value as an individual, greeted me next.

“He was probably too drunk to remember us.”

The other brunette, long curly hair pulled into a pretty ponytail, giggled and laid her head on the table next to Preston.  I think I recognized as one of the cheerleaders, but I got a sneaking suspicion that I should have known her, as well as the other two women, from somewhere else.

“Hello, Preston.”

“Hey, Meggie,” he said, lifting his head.  “Cory, this is Meggie.  Meggie, Cory.”

“Oh, we’ve met before,” she said.

“I don’t…”

“Like I said,” the blonde cut me off.  “He was too drunk.  He wouldn’t remember.”

“What wouldn’t I remember?”

“’Y’all might wanna turn up the TV’” said the first brunette.

“’I get pretty loud,’” giggled Meggie.

Oh fuck.

A room full of people at Indie’s and me drunk off my ass.  I covered my face with both hands and stammered out an apology.  Fortunately, my shame seemed to snap Preston out of his mood.

“Okay, I need to hear this,” he said.

“Oh yeah.  Preston, these are my friends, Laurel and Lacey,” Meggie said, indicating the other brunette, and then the blonde.  Then it clicked.  Laurel was one of Indie’s best friends.  She was also Indie and Efrain’s roommate-in-absentia.

“Charmed,” he said, shaking each woman’s hand.  “Now, what embarrassing thing did Cory do?”

They took turns filling him in on the details.  And then some.  I understood that straight dudes got off on watching women together, but no amount of yaoi reading could help me wrap my head around straight women getting off on gay men.

“You’re making half that up,” I said.

“Nope,” Laurel said.  “Our boyfriends and Indie can verify.”

“Fuck,” I sighed.  “So whose boyfriend did I traumatize?”

“That would be mine,” Lacey drawled.

“Oh!” Preston said.  “You traumatized a straight dude.  How many does this make?”

“Don’t worry,” I said.  “It’ll be awhile before I warp enough to catch up to your kill count.”

“You’ve been working pretty hard on your own roommates.”

“You have been working hard on my roommates.”

“I wasn’t the one that got them hooked on gay cartoon porn.”

The women giggled over their respective drinks.  We chatted a little longer.  Despite my embarrassing start, I liked them.  We exchanged social media connections, and Laurel and I traded cell numbers.

“Well, I think we’ve heard enough,” Laurel said eventually.  She stood up and the other two followed.  “I think my boys will do just fine in their hands.”

They wished us farewell and sailed out.

“Boys?  Plural?” I thought out loud.  “Why plural?  What am I supposed to do with Indie?”

“Cory,” Preston whined.  He put his head back on the table.  “Please don’t be mad.”

“Why would I…”  

Their hands.  Not his hands, their hands.

“Preston,” I said in a sing-song voice.  “You have some explaining to do.”

He sat up.  The look was as despondent and plaintive as I’d ever seen him.

“Remember how you said I had to leave Indie alone?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t,” he said guiltily.

He filled me in on the harassment campaign.

“How were you getting into his office?”

“Mrs. Gail.”

“The cleaning lady?” I said.  “Preston, that could get her fired!”

I met Mrs. Gail over the summer when she was cleaning the student union.  Indie’s building was her usual gig, but the reduced hours and staffing during the summer forced her into working nights cleaning the student council offices, where I sometimes hung out with Preston while he handled GSA business.  She was really nice to us.  When her car broke down, Preston and I helped her get groceries and run errands.   We even repaired some things in her apartment that her landlord kept dragging his ass about.  I missed chatting with her, but was glad she got her normal schedule back.  The nightshift was pretty hard on her.

“When I told her what Indie said about you, she was all about helping me out,” he said.  “She even put in some of her own stuff and gave me ideas for others.”

“Fucking hell, Preston.”

“No really,” he laughed.  “She had these bags of fake snow left over from a church thing last year.  We dumped it all over his desk.”

I tried not to laugh; Indie must have had a bitchfit of epic proportions.

“It was weird though.  You’d think an asshole like him would make the cleaning lady clean up the mess, but she said he just asked to borrow a broom and refused to let her help.”

“That is interesting,” I conceded.  “So, is this why you’d thought I’d be mad?”

Preston’s smile faded and he looked down at his hands.

“I…” he faltered.

“You what?”

“Oh God.”  He whined and put his head back on the table.  He banged his head a couple times.  I ruffled his hair again.  “Why didn’t you warn me that he could kiss like that?”

My hand stilled on his head.

“I thought you were doing anonymous shit.”  Immature as fuck anonymous shit.  And Mrs. Gail?  What the fuck?

“Indie figured out it was me.  He left me this,” he said, pointing to the Yorkie.  “And a note saying ‘I get it, Preston.  You can stop now.’  I was kinda shocked, so I didn’t leave in time and he came in.”

I knew there was more to this, so I waited for him to continue.  He whined again, but pressed on.

I forced myself to not laugh as he led me through the and-one-thing-led-to-another that ended with the two of them rolling around on Indie’s desk making out like horny teenagers.

“Poor Preston,” I said, patting his head.

“I went back again this morning, and…”  I lost the rest of his statement in his mumbling.

“Come again?”

“He…we…”

“What did you do?” I prodded.  Preston sat up abruptly.

“He gave me a hand job, okay?” he wailed just a little too loudly.  The patrons at the nearest tables turn around, but he’d already covered his face with both hands.  “I’m so ashamed.”

“Wow, I’m surprised you know what that word means.”

“I looked it up once,” he said, his normal wit making a brief appearance.  He took a calming breath and put his hands down.

“So,” I said, grinning.  “You played gay chicken with Indie Norman and lost.”

“Gay chicken?”

“Yeah, two guys put the moves on each other, and the one who chickens out loses,” I said.  “Aka – ‘seduce the straight boy.’  It’s technically cheating if you’re into dudes, but they didn’t need to know that.”

“Really?” he asked sarcastically.

“Don’t judge, man,” I said.  “Gay chicken got me some serious play.”

“Fucking closet case.”

“Hey, at least I didn’t let Indie beat me at gay chicken.”

~*~*~*~