Helping Skeeter

Helping Skeeter

By Ben Coolen

bencoolen@protonmail.com

Readers, please keep in mind that this story is 100% fictional. In real life no man is better than the other, and nobody is entitled to treat other people cruelly.

This story contains sexual acts (domination, submission, humiliation, oral sex, masturbation) between young males. If you don't like it, or it is illegal in your country, state or community, please stop reading it immediately.

Please keep in mind that Nifty needs our donations to keep this great free service running.

Thanks to Naughty Bard for proofreading the text.

NOTE from the Author:

This story is a spin-off of one of my previous stories, Rooming with Dylan. To get acquainted with the main character, I recommend that you read at least the last chapter of that story -- or, even better, read the entire story:

https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/rooming-with-dylan/

Twenty-four-year-old Ambrose H. Welles was certain that this would be his last semester residing at the old male students residence hall. He had just started working as a Teaching Assistant, meaning that he worked as a part-time assistant to one the professors, meeting with students, helping with their admission and generally giving them a hand to sort out some of their minor problems, education wise. In a few months, given that his boss would be happy with his work, he might even be allowed to hold evening classes to help struggling students to pass their looming tests.

But he had to survive yet another year among the mostly clueless, often ill-mannered and sometimes straight up rude young men in the male block of that huge, decaying building. It was a little annoying to put up with them.

Recently, while standing in the lobby and waiting for the elevator, a handsome blond jock had given him a condescending look and said something to his friends, and they all had snickered looking straight at him with shameless smirks on their faces. The boys, who were probably freshmen, had clearly seen that he had noticed their scoff but they obviously did not care. They had just kept on sneering and snickering at him. Their insolence had made him boil with anger, but at the same time being mocked by those good-looking, cocky jocks in their backwards turned ball caps turned him on. It was like a flashback from his years at high school when he struggled with the same mixed feelings while being picked on by stronger and more confident boys.

And now he was standing in that same lobby again with dozens of other people, waiting for the same cranky elevator so he could get back to his miserable tiny cubicle on the 11th floor. As usual, it seemed to take an eternity.

There were three elevators in the 12 story building, but usually at least one of them was out of order. This time, though, things were even worse: only one of the elevators was working. Ambrose sighed and took his place at the end of the line. He took out a book from his briefcase and started to read.

Suddenly he smelled something coming from behind him. The odor was strong and raw. It took Ambrose a couple of seconds to identify it. Eeeeww... sweat. Someone with very bad personal hygiene was standing really close to him.

Ambrose turned around. The same blonde jock who had made fun of him the other day was standing right behind him, chewing gum. He was wearing only black shorts and white running shoes. A white t-shirt was hanging over his shoulder. Instead of the ball cap he had been wearing the previous time, he had tied his blond locks with a black bandanna for his run.

The guy grimaced at him.

"This fucking sucks, man."

Ambrose looked into the young man's piercing blue eyes. For a second he forgot himself and let his gaze take in the strikingly handsome young man's sweat-soaked, tanned body. He had a little football helmet tattooed on his left shoulder, but otherwise his skin was flawless. His flat stomach and tight sixpack showed the results of hard practice. When Ambrose's gaze reached the white waistband of the jock's underwear he realized that he had been staring at the boy for much longer than would be considered proper. He looked up and saw the guy looking at him with an amused smile.

Despite his contempt for the intruder, Ambrose blushed.

"Yes. It sure does."

The young man extended his hand.

"They call me Skeeter," he said.

It was obvious that he didn't remember Ambrose from their previous encounter; he probably hadn't given him a second thought. Jocks like him made fun of other people all the time, enjoying the embarrassment of their victims.

Ambrose shook the sweaty hand offered to him. He could feel the power in the young man's muscled arm when he squeezed Ambrose's bony hand.

"A. H. Welles. I'm a TA."

"A. H.?"

The boy leaned closer to read the name tag pinned on Ambrose's chest and let out an involuntary snicker.

"Ambrose, hehehe!" he chuckled.

Ambrose felt anger building inside his head. He hated his first name. Why had his parents decided to give a baby boy an old man's name? It was like a curse. In middle school that name had been a magnet for bullies, at first because it was considered girly, and from junior high on because it was doomed as a `fag's name'. And every time the bullies taunted and humiliated him they always made fun of his name, repeating it over and over again, stretching it as much as possible.

Ammmbrrrooooose' they would scream when he walked in the hallway, causing general laughter and making him the center of everybody's attention and scoff. And pretty soon someone found out what the H in his initials stood for. Horace' became a new, even worse power tool for humiliating him in front of the whole school.

`Whassup Whore-Ass?' he was greeted several times a day at school; in the schoolyard, in the hallway, at the cafeteria. For his entire life people had thought his name was hilarious. Just like that cocky but annoyingly handsome jock standing in line behind him.

The queue inched forward, and finally Ambrose was first in line. The doors of the elevator screeched open, and he stepped in, followed by Skeeter, while ten other people pushed themselves in.

The last guy to enter the elevator was carrying a huge suitcase, making the space even more cramped. Ambrose found himself squeezed in a corner between Skeeter and the wall. Standing at a mere 5"6 height he was staring right into the tall jock's tanned neck and shoulders, and when the intruder leaned back to make room for other people, the hunk's sweaty hair brushed Ambrose's forehead, and the TA's nose was barely an inch away from his neck. Every time he took a breath, his senses were overwhelmed by the odor of the testosterone-oozing young stud.

A thick gold chain shone against the young man's smooth skin, and diamond studs in his earlobes sparkled. A small football was tattooed between his shoulder blades. He was an epitome of young manhood, radiating power, confidence and sex appeal -- all those qualities Ambrose himself lacked. The smell and heat of the youngster's body made him feel dizzy, and to his horror he realized that his cock was hard.

A big, clumsy student squeezed forward as the elevator reached his floor and accidentally brushed the shirt off Skeeter's shoulder, dropping it to the floor. Skeeter turned his head and looked Ambrose in the eye accusingly, raising his eyebrows a little. Then he looked at the shirt at his feet. Without thinking, Ambrose bent his knees and crouched down in the cramped space. His cheek brushed slightly against the leg of Skeeter's shorts when he picked up the shirt. He inched himself up again and offered the sweat-soaked shirt to its owner.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Skeeter took the shirt but didn't say anything.

Floor after floor people stepped out of the elevator, but Skeeter didn't move, keeping Ambrose pinned in the corner. Finally they reached the eighth floor and the doors opened. Skeeter winked at Ambrose and said:

"Take care, Ambrose the TA."

That cocky remark made Ambrose's blood boil, but he couldn't help admiring the way the young athlete's body moved when he stepped out of the elevator. Suddenly he rushed out of the elevator too, just when the doors were closing. He jogged after Skeeter and reached him just as he was unlocking the door to his room.

"Hey, wait a second... Skeeter."

Usually he addressed students as Mr. or Ms. So-and-So to emphasize his authority, but he didn't know this kid's last name. And that name, Skeeter, it was so damn cool! It was not his given name of course, but Ambrose was positive that even that would be something cool and cocky as well, something like Cody or Hunter or Carson. Definitely not Ambrose or Horace.

Skeeter turned around and smiled, just like he had known that Ambrose would follow him.

"Yeah?"

Ambrose realized he hand't thought what to say.

"Well, I... I just wanted to let you know that I am a Teaching Assistant," he said.

"Wow... good for you. But you kinda told me that earlier, Ambrose, remember? And you're carrying a TA name tag. But nice of you to remind me about that, in case I already forgot."

His cheeky remark came with a smirk, but it didn't sound hostile. It was definitely something you would expect from a guy like him, and it made Ambrose blush.

"Hehe, yeah, I guess... I guess I did, didn't I?" he stuttered nervously.

"But, you know... I just wanted to say that if I can help you with something, anything, really..."

He couldn't finish his sentence. That sounded so pathetic, like he was begging to get the attention of that young man. But Skeeter kept smiling at him and raised his eyebrows slightly.

"Anything?"

"Well yes, I mean, anything that involves... education, that is..."

Skeeter nodded, with a fake serious expression on his face.

"I'll keep that in mind. In case I need help with... something. Involving education, of course. Well, see you later, Ambrose."

Ambrose was waiting for the elevator when Skeeter's voice called him.

"Ambrose, wait!"

Ambrose turned around and saw him leaning on his door frame.

Skeeter cocked his head.

"Come here!"

That was more like an order than a request, but Ambrose walked over to him.

"Look man, you said I could turn to you if I needed help with anything, right?"

"Yes, as long as it's educational," Ambrose repeated, trying to maintain his professional integrity.

"Good. Well, there is something you could do for me, Ambrose. It's educational," Skeeter said.

He looked and sounded serious, but Ambrose could see he was still making fun of him.

"Okay... What's that?"

"The thing is, I haven't been able to figure out how to use the washing machines in the basement. I've got a whole load of stuff to wash and I'm running out of clean clothes. If you could help me out with that, you'd make me happy as fuck."

What? That was ridiculous! It was far from the duties of a Teaching Assistant and using those machines was definitely not difficult. The instructions were framed on the wall of the laundry room, a few simple steps explained with a nice, large typeface and clear images. Skeeter didn't seem dumb at all, so how could he not understand them? And asking a TA to do something so menial... it was an insult, plain and simple.

On the other hand, instructing Skeeter to use the machines would give Ambrose a possibility to spend some time with him. And the idea of holding his sweaty gym shirts and underwear in his hands... and maybe even one of his jockstraps... the thought brought drops of sweat on his forehead.

"Well, I know how to use the machines. I guess I could show you." he said timidly.

A bright grin appeared on Skeeter's face.

"Fucking great! See you on Sunday then, like eleven o'clock. Yeah, and bring some detergent too, I ain't got any."

"Detergent? Oh, well okay."

And sure enough, on Sunday morning Ambrose was standing behind Skeeter's door, holding a bottle of detergent. He knocked on the door several times before he heard some movement inside. Skeeter opened the door, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, with messy hair and gunk in his eyes. He had clearly just woken up.

He looked at Ambrose with a puzzled expression.

"What the fuck do you want?"

"I... I came for the laundry, remember? I was supposed to teach you how to use the washing machines downstairs..."

"Shit, yeah... you're right... I fucking forgot. Must've gotten back here like three hours ago... was partying with the guys."

"Uhm... okay... wanna do this other time?" he asked uncertainly.

"Nah... it's ok..." the boy yawned.

"I'll just wash my face and brush my teeth. Come on in, you'll find all my shit in the closet. There are plastic bags, just stuff everything in there," Skeeter instructed nonchalantly, letting Ambrose in.

Skeeter went to the bathroom and closed the door behind him. His room was quite a sight for Ambrose's neat and organized mind. Soda cans, chip bags, burger wrappings and all kinds of trash was scattered on the table and shelves. Shirts, underwear, jeans, shorts, hoodies and sneakers were lying here and there. The room clearly needed a thorough cleaning.

The bottom of the small closet was overflowing with dirty laundry. Ambrose stuffed all the foul-smelling clothes into the bags he found there. Then he walked around the room, picking up individual socks, shirts and boxers.

He had always been dreaming about how those sweaty jock clothes smelled real close, even considered of taking a whiff of some jock's underwear in the locker room while he was showering, but he never dared to do that. Neither did he dare to do it now; but holding Skeeter's intimate apparel in his fingers felt thrilling, and he even gathered enough courage to rub the crotch of a pair of blue Hollister trunks between his fingers before dropping them to the bag.

At the laundry room Skeeter listened carefully while Ambrose went through the steps of using the machine.

"Hand me your student card, please." the TA said.

"Ain't got it with me."

"Well, maybe you should go and... oh, never mind." Ambrose continued.

"First, you slide your student card through this reader," he said, using his own card.

"U-huh."

"You will be charged two dollars and twenty-five cents for this. Well, this time it's on my bill, but you can pay me back me later."

Skeeter didn't react to that.

"Then you add detergent in the drawer..."

"U-huh."

"...put all your stuff into the drum and close the hatch..."

Ambrose expected Skeeter to start loading his dirty clothes into the drum, but he just kept chewing his gum, leaning on the machine. After a brief hesitation Ambrose picked up a pile of Skeeter's wash and loaded it into the machine, then another pile and a third one. The younger boy watched him without commenting.

"Okay, we can close the hatch now."

Skeeter picked up the plastic bags, turned them upside down and shook them. Two scruffy athletic socks and a pair of white boxer trunks dropped to the floor. He smiled at Ambrose and nodded at the bundle on the floor.

"You missed those fuckers," he said.

Ambrose picked up the dirty boxers and socks and tossed them into the drum.

"Like I said, then you close the hatch."

"U-huh."

"...And push the red Start button."

"Thanks man, you sure know your way around here," Skeeter said with an admiring tone, but it was clear he was mocking him again.

"I'm sure I could do it on my own now, if needed."

Could? If needed? That sounded odd. But being complimented by a guy like Skeeter felt good.

"Don't mention it. Now, it takes about half an hour. So, if you..."

But Skeeter wasn't listening.

"I gotta run now, haven't updated my Instagram for days. Ladies are getting impatient, hehehe. Just bring my shit when it's ready, okay?"

That left Ambrose speechless for a minute.

"What? But I was just supposed to teach you..."

But Skeeter had already disappeared to the hallway.

When the washing cycle was done, Ambrose took Skeeter's clothes out and moved them to the dryer. He hadn't brought a book, so he flipped his phone absentmindedly while the machine squeaked and buzzed. Why did other students spend so much time with their phones, he wondered. Snapchat, Facebook, Instagram... what nonsense was that? He met his few friends usually at the library, and that didn't happen all that frequently.

When the dryer finally stopped, Ambrose took out Skeeter's clothes and folded them neatly. He didn't have anything to carry them with, so he just piled them up and navigated his way upstairs with his eyes barely visible over the load he was carrying.

He knocked on the door and Skeeter came to let him in, holding his phone between his cheek and shoulder. He was freshly showered and wearing only a pair of white Calvin Klein boxers. The cotton was almost transparent in front of Ambrose's hungry eyes; only his crotch was decently covered.

He glanced at Ambrose, pointed at the closet with his finger, sat down in the only armchair in the room and continued his chat.

"Yeah, of course we can beat them, we'll kick their asses so bad that they won't be able to fuck each other in the locker room for a week, hehehehe! Yeah... yeah... exactly... and by the way, did you see their new assistant coach? He totally looks like a faggot, hehehe! Hehehehehe! Yeah, I just can tell, man!"

Skeeter continued his seemingly endless jock talk while Ambrose arranged his clean clothes neatly into the closet. Every now and then he turned his head a little so that he could look at the babbling jock who was sprawled in the chair with his legs lewdly spread, the left one hanging over the armrest. Ambrose regularly jacked off to Calvin Klein ads, and to him Skeeter looked just like one of the models.

"Sandrews? You mean Pete Sandrews? Yeah, of course I remember him from high school, great guy. Say hello to Pete from me. I fucked his girlfriend while he was in Europe, but don't tell him that, hahaha! But I bet Pete enjoyed all the little tricks I taught Sally while he was away, hehehee!"

Ambrose was done with Skeeter's wardrobe, and he looked at him for goodbyes. The younger boy cocked his head a little and gave him the thumbs up, all the while talking and laughing.

The TA slipped out and closed the door behind him.

The following night he sat alone in his room and browsed his porn collection on his laptop. He tried to get aroused by the images of naked young men with huge cocks, but his mind was restless. His thoughts kept going back to Skeeter. All those images on his screen were fake. Skeeter, on the other hand, was real.

Ambrose threw himself on the bed and started to masturbate to his recollection of young Skeeter. He thought about his ripped body, handsome face and masculine odor. And that condescending smile on his face when he nodded at Ambrose, silently ordering him to pick up his dirty boxers and socks off the floor...

Ambrose, who was usually constantly washing his hands to get rid of all the dangerous bacteria he got from shaking hands and using the same door handles as all the sloppy students he was living with, hadn't washed his hands since they had been holding Skeeter's dirty clothes. He brought his fingers to his nose and took a deep breath. Maybe his mind was playing tricks on him, but he thought he recognized the musky odor of that arrogant brat's sweaty underwear.

Ambrose shot a load of warm cum into a wad of tissues he had ready at hand. He had become obsessed with that jock and he knew that wasn't right. He should have hated him, but simply couldn't. He wanted to find out more about him, after all he didn't even know his real name!

The following morning Ambrose headed straight to his little desk in the administrative building. As a TA he had access to the student database, and it was not unusual for him to take a look at some freshman's file.

Ambrose started browsing the list of male freshmen, but it was hopeless. How could he identify one guy from a list of 477? He couldn't go through all of them because that would have left a suspicious trace in the logs.

He thought about the problem. The guy was called Skeeter. So, maybe his first name started with an S too? It was a long shot of course but it was worth a try. That limited the possibilities to 36 students.

He scrolled down the list. Sachiv, Samir, Samuel, Scott, Sean, Sebastian, Sergio, Seth, Shane, Shawn, Sheng, Shu-Yaan, Silas, Simon...

Something made him stop. He scrolled back up.

Scott? That clanged a bit like Skeeter. He clicked on the name of the student, and Skeeter's arrogant smile stared back at him from the screen.

Scott Carson Harris, 18. Excelled in sports, naturally, but his academic achievements were not bad either and he had excellent credentials from his former principal and football coach. His parents were significant donors to the school foundation too. `Does that sound like a path to success or what?' Ambrose thought bitterly, painfully aware of his own modest background in his pompous and narrow-minded but not very successful family.

He wrote down Skeeter's phone number and email address. He was just about to close the file when he noticed something else.

Skeeter's student card granted him access to Student Gym D. So, that was where he nursed and developed his divine body, pumping iron and sweating... and soaping himself from head to toe... with streams of water running down on his abs and legs... his scrotum covered with foam...

Ambrose closed Skeeter's file and opened his own. His position as a TA granted him access to the staff gym, which he had never visited. He glanced around and quickly changed the credentials. Now he had access to Student Gym D.

Ambrose stalked Skeeter to figure out his weekly schedule. He had football practice on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. On Tuesdays and Thursdays he went to the gym after school, usually around 6 o'clock. Saturday nights were for partying, but even then he went for an early evening run. On Sundays he slept late but hit the gym around 4 PM.

Ambrose decided that his first ever visit to the gym would be on Tuesday. He would go there a bit before Skeeter was supposed to arrive to make his presence look more like a coincidence. He would linger there as long as necessary to see the object of his lust.

At 5:45 on Tuesday he swiped his student card at the entrance to the gym and entered the strange and intimidating world of jocks and fitness maniacs. The spacious hall was filled will all kinds of exercise equipment, most of which Ambrose didn't have a clue how to use. Most students were still busy with their classes, so the gym was almost deserted.

Then he saw a bench press. He knew how it was supposed to be used, because a similar weight bench was the scene of one his favorite porn vids. In that particular video a personal trainer who was supposed to be assisting a young guy who pumped the weights -- why would he need help for that? -- ended up sucking the enormous cock of the pumped-up stud.

Well, that wasn't gonna happen now, but he was sure he would be able to pretend to be exercising on that bench. There was even a relatively light looking barbell on a stand at the end of the bench. He kept watch by the window, so he would be ready when Skeeter arrived.

He felt a bit ashamed of himself, stalking a much younger guy like that. But he was hopelessly addicted to the hunk. Ambrose needed to see him, hear him, smell him. And the way he showed his superiority by mocking Ambrose and telling him what to do caused a warm stir in the TA's crotch.

When he saw Skeeter enter the gym, Ambrose lay himself on the bench. He waited until he appeared out of the locker room before starting with the performance. Then he took a deep breath, grabbed a tight hold of the iron bar, and gathering all his strength he lifted the barbell up from the hooks of the stand. He assumed that he was supposed to lift it up with straight arms, and that was what he intended to do. Unfortunately the barbell turned out to be considerably heavier than it looked. He managed to lift the bar for the length of his arms, but then things started to go bad.

He was able to hold the bar up, but then gravity started to get the best of him. All the power seemed to be draining out of his muscles, and he realized that if he let the bar come all the way down, he wouldn't be able to lift it up again. He tried to guide it back to the hooks of the stand, but his arms were shaking and he failed. Slowly but inevitably the weight was coming down, threatening to crush his throat.

"Unghhhhd!" He tried to cry for help, but it sounded more like gurgle.

Never would Ambrose H. Welles have guessed that his life would come to an end on a weight bench at a student gym!

Suddenly a pair of tanned, strong arms appeared out of nowhere, grabbed the bar and took a firm hold on it.

Ambrose opened his eyes and looked right into Skeeter's smiling face.

"How's it going, buddy? You're not dying down there or anything, are you?"

"Ynnghh..."

Skeeter put his right foot on the bench next to Ambrose's head for support and leaned down. He held the barbell so that the pressure on Ambrose's exhausted arms eased a little but he didn't pull it up. He said casually:

"Dude, I really appreciate that you did my laundry the other day. But you see, it's been a week now, and I have tons of fucking dirty gear again. You said I could ask for your help if I needed something... so how about you coming over next Sunday to take care of my stuff again? You did a fucking great job last time."

"Uhnghh... uhnnh... okay... but..." Ambrose groaned, struggling with the weight.

Skeeter leaned closer and moved his foot a bit so that his gym shoe was brushing against Ambrose's cheek.

"Great. But then, you know, there's this other thing I was gonna ask you to do. You saw my room, right? It's a fucking mess... so I was thinking, while you're at it you could give it a nice scrub when you're done with my wash. I bet you're really good at that kinda housework shit and I fucking suck at it, hehe. What do you say? I would really appreciate it."

Ambrose grimaced. He had seen the apartment and it was a terrible mess. He did not like the idea at all, but he was in no position to argue. His arms would give in any second now.

"Nghhhuhh... yes... now... could you... please..."

"What?"

"The... the... we- weight."

"Oh? Fuck, I totally forgot about that," Skeeter said, lifted the weight bar effortlessly up and placed it on the rack.

"Gotta be careful with that one, buddy. Always have someone spot for you when you're lifting. I can spot for you now if you want."

"No... no, thanks but I'm done with that. I think I'll try something else," Ambrose panted.

"Maybe you should try the dumbbells. Start with the little ones," Skeeter said with a chuckle. Then he noticed something on the floor.

"Looks like you dropped you student card," he said and crouched down to pick it up.

He looked at the card and laughed. Then he handed it to Ambrose and winked.

"Better not lose it... Horace."

Ambrose could hear him chuckling as he walked towards a strange set of cables and weights.

"Horace... Whorace..."

Then he laughed aloud and turned around, pointing at Ambrose with his finger.

"Dude, I just came up with something hilarious. Your name sounds just like Whore-Ass! Hahahahaha, see you on Sunday, Whore-Ass!"

Ambrose had a new routine for his Sundays now. Previously he had spent most of his Sundays at the library, working on his projects and writing reports for his professor.

Now he knocked on Skeeter's door at noon with a bucket, a mop, a set of wipes and various cleaning fluids. Skeeter naturally didn't have any of his own so Ambrose had to bring his. Most of the time Skeeter was still asleep, and Ambrose would have to wake him up. Not being a morning person, the jock-boy instructed him to start from the bathroom so he could catch some more sleep.

Sometimes the boy had brought a girl from some party, and Ambrose had to wait outside until she was ready to leave. Once they even ended up having a morning fuck, and it took almost an hour before Ambrose was able to start his duties.

Other coeds passed him by, giving him puzzled looks as they recognized him as the pompous TA, sitting on the stairs with a bucket and a mop.

But his duties weren't limited to Saturdays. Skeeter expected him to run errands for him, varying from correcting his essays to bringing him a burger from the campus joint because it was raining and Skeeter didn't want to get wet.

And then things started to get unpleasant. The professor Ambrose was working for wanted to see him. He told the TA without beating around the bush that he was not happy with his performance. All the projects he was working on were poorly conducted and the reports gave the impression of having been written in a hurry. He also stressed that a TA was supposed to set an example for undergraduates and if he didn't improve his performance, the professor would have to consider terminating his employment.

Ambrose was thunderstruck. His promising academic career was going down the drain. And why? Because he had agreed to become a houseboy for a freshman! Now he had to stand up and grow a pair.

Next Saturday Ambrose stood in front of Skeeter's door again, very nervously gathering the courage to tell him that he was quitting his duties as a houseboy. Skeeter opened the door, took a look at his face and immediately realized what Ambrose was going to tell him. He guided him inside and closed the door.

"You're looking kinda sour today, Ambrose. Why is that?"

Ambrose hadn't caught much sleep the previous night, he had been going through in his mind over and over again how he would explain himself to the commanding youngster. But he had great difficulties to get those words out now, when Skeeter was standing there, wearing only those white Calvin boxers that Ambrosed loved so much.

"Look, Skeeter, I can't do this anymore. I don't want to be treated like your servant."

Skeeter didn't blink.

"Why?"

"Why? I'm serious, man. Can't you just treat me like one of your friends?"

"Hmmm... No, sorry. You're not one my friends, Ambrose. But I like you, that's why I'm letting you help me out."

"Letting me help you out? Why would I wanna help you out if I'm not your friend?"

Skeeter knew the answer to that question. And he knew that deep down Ambrose did too. All he had to do was open his eyes and make him admit it.

Skeeter knew he was stronger than most young men, both mentally and physically, and he enjoyed feeling superior. In high school everybody noticed when he entered the cafeteria with his posse at lunch time. The nerds and all the other wimps stepped aside when he took his place in line, letting the star athlete and most popular boy of the school go first. He pretended to be casual about it, acting like he hadn't even noticed their servility towards him, but other guys, and especially girls, certainly noticed it.

Skeeter gave Ambrose a hard look and stepped closer. Ambrose, unsure of his intentions, backed down until his back met the wall. Skeeter placed his hands on the wall on both sides of Ambrose's head. Then he leaned in, so that Amrose felt his peppermint breath on his face. Skeeter looked him in the eye and saw exactly what he expected.

Now, young Skeeter wasn't an evil guy. He had never beaten up or bullied another kid for fun. But he had used his strength and confidence often enough to develop a reputation. Anybody who looked at him knew immediately that he could take care of himself. Weaker guys knew instinctively to be careful with him, to show him no signs of disrespect, and that worked to his advantage.

He had used that simple move countless times in the school yard, leaning in towards another kid, with his strong arms blocking the boy's escape route. When he looked in his victim's eyes, he always saw the same. Uncertainty. Fear. Submission.

And in Ambrose's case he saw something else too. Something he had seen in the eyes of some other boys before.

He saw lust.

Skeeter leaned even closer. Ambrose smelled his cologne and felt the golden chain brush his shoulder when he whispered:

"You are helping me out because you want to, Ambrose."

"What? No..." Ambrose stuttered.

But Skeeter cut him off.

"Yes, Ambrose."

Confusing thoughts crisscrossed in Ambrose's mind.

`Why am I letting him do this to me? He's six years younger than me! I'm the goddamn TA! I need to get the hell out of here!'

But he didn't move. Skeeter's intense blue eyes were fixed on him and the boy spoke with a soft, calm voice.

"There was this kid back home. Stevens was his name. He's a faggot. Just like you, Ambrose."

The man stiffened. Skeeter had seen through his pathetic cover right from the start. And he had called Ambrose, the Teaching Assistant, a faggot. But still he didn't move.

Skeeter paused for a minute to let his words sink in.

"Now, Stevens was really nice to me. He did all my chores, and whenever I needed something, I just sent him to get it for me. My room was always so fucking clean and my parents were so fucking happy with me that they bought me these fucking diamond studs on my eighteenth fucking birthday," he said, touching the sparkling jewel in his left earlobe.

"Do you know why Stevens was so fucking nice to me, Ambrose?"

Ambrose shook his head.

"Because he wanted to. Helping me out made him feel good. Just the way it makes you feel good, Ambrose."

Ambrose tried to protest.

"But I'm spending most of my free time helping you in a way or another. That's unfair."

"Oh, I know all about your efforts, Ambrose. And I appreciate them. But unfair? Come on, don't be selfish, man."

"What? So, I am selfish now because I don't want to do all your chores? Now that's so outra..."

But Skeeter cut him off again, this time brutally.

"Shut up, Whore-Ass! Listen to me!"

The sharp command made Ambrose's words die in his mouth.

"There are certain things that a guy like me needs. You don't really know what i'm talking about, and that's okay `cause you're a homo. But you need to understand how this works, and I'm gonna explain it to you."

Skeeter paused for a moment before starting his lecture. He gave Ambrose a stern look.

"You see Ambrose, I'm an alpha male, a born leader. You, on the other hand, are not."

"Now, that means that I got the balls to do whatever the fuck I want. You don't. I fuck hot women; you jack off alone in your room, dreaming of me."

Ambrose lowered his gaze to the floor to avoid looking into Skeeter's blue eyes, but he was having none of that.

"Look at me when I talk to you," he snapped.

Ambrose forced himself to look into those merciless eyes.

"You jack off dreaming of me, don't you?"

The question was so painful that Ambrose wished he could run away. But Skeeter's arms and his powerful aura kept him prisoner in an invisible cage.

"Yes." Ambrose whined.

"I knew that, of course. Fags like you stare at me all the time. I'm one of those alpha jocks you secretly drooled after in the locker room when you were in high school. Remember the locker room and the jocks, Ambrose?"

Ambrose blushed. He remembered all too well those tormenting scenes in the locker room after the mandatory PE classes that he hated so much. He loathed those self-centered, arrogant and rude jocks. And he loved to steal hasted glances at their sweaty athletic bodies. He never dared to go to the showers while the jocks were there because he was afraid that he would sport a boner just from looking at them.

The memories were so painful and embarrassing that he hoped that Skeeter would drop the subject.

But he had no intention to do that.

"Remember?"

Tears welled up in Ambrose's eyes.

"Yes. I remember," he sobbed.

"Yeah, I bet you do. You stole glances at their bodies and dicks but you didn't dare to really stare at them because you knew they'd probably beat the shit out of you. But you were dreaming about getting your hands on their bodies, weren't you?"

"Yes," Ambrose said with a sniff.

"Did you dream of sucking off some of them, Ambrose? Jacking off in your bed at night and dreaming of giving head to one of those boys? Huh?"

"Please, Skeeter," he pleaded to keep even a tiny shred of his self-respect.

"Answer me, gay boy! No need to hold anything back from Uncle Skeeter. Did you dream of giving head to some of those jocks, you fucking little perv?"

"Yes."

Yes, countless timed he had jacked off in his bedroom, dreaming about those jocks who made fun of him and treated him like shit.

One of his tormentors, a particularly brazen and arrogant but very handsome kid, Jase, once stopped right in front of Ambrose while he was sitting on the bench and waiting for the other guys to finish showering so he could go in after them. Jase stepped really close to him and pulled down his own shorts, exposing his hairy crotch, and pushed it towards Ambrose's face. Ambrose tried to pull his head back, but Jase grabbed his hair and pulled his head closer until his nose was just a couple inches from the jock's cock.

"Come on Whore-Ass, I need some head real bad. Everybody knows you're a faggot, so just go for it. No need to be shy," Jase teased, and the other boys laughed and howled and encouraged Ambrose to `open up'.

Ambrose wanted to close his eyes, but the sight of Jase's teen genitals right in front of his nose was something he longed to look at, and the insolent stench was so strong that he remembered it clearly when he jacked off in his bedroom that very same night.

And he remembered what that cock looked like, dangling from Jase's pubes like a five-inch garden hose. They were only sixteen at the time, but Ambrose knew that Jase already fucked girls; he had heard him brag about it many times in the locker room.

How he wanted to hate Jase and the other jocks! But secretly he longed for them desperately and dreamed of them almost every night.

A tear moistened Ambrose's cheek when Skeeter's voice brought him back from his memories.

"Have you ever fucked a woman, Ambrose?"

"No."

"Have you tried?"

Skeeter's question brought back more painful memories.

"Well... yes."

"And how did that work out?"

"Not... not very well."

"You couldn't get it hard, could ya?"

"No..."

"So you just jacked off afterwards, thinking of those guys in the locker room instead, right?"

"Yes."

"Now, listen carefully. I'm a man, Ambrose. I'm strong and confident. Women love to be fucked by a man like me. And I'm a fucking handsome sonofabitch. You know that, Ambrose, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. So, a man has his needs. My dick is in constant need for attention. That's why I'm always on the hunt for pussy. It's in my blood. And I've got my football practice and my gym and my buddies and my fucking studies. I ain't got time for some stupid chores. And this is where you come in, Ambrose."

"Oh?"

"Yes. You don't chase women, you don't have to court them and buy them flowers and shit. You don't play football or go to the gym. You learn shit at school easily. You don't have any buddies. You got time, because you're a fucking wanker. You can help me out. You can use your time and effort for me, even if it means having less time for yourself."

"But why? What's in it for me?"

"For you? Ambrose, your life will have a purpose!"

"What... what's that?"

Skeeter knew he was close to slamming a touchdown now. He took hold of Ambrose's shoulders and shook him a little, like a coach encouraging an athlete.

"The purpose of your life is to make my life easier. That's huge! You should be proud of yourself!"

Skeeter's overpowering presence, the heat of his body, the smell of his already thin-worn deodorant and his hands squeezing Ambrose's bony shoulders... that all made him feel dizzy. He tried to think, but his brain had no fuel left.

"Proud?"

Skeeter saw the puzzlement on Ambrose's face. He went on with his pep talk.

"Yes, proud! When you see me happy and successful and looking like a million bucks, you know you have helped to make that possible by doing my chores for me! And when I tell you I fucked a hot girl in that bed, you know it was you, you Ambrose, who helped me score by making sure that my sheets are fresh and my room is fucking spotless. That's something for you to be proud of, Ambrose, can't you see?"

"Well yes... yes, that makes sense..."

"That's so good to hear, Ambrose. And you know what? That guy, Stevens, I told you about, he even got a reward for helping me."

"A reward?"

"Yes, Ambrose. A reward. Wanna know what his reward was?"

"Yes."

Skeeter leaned really close, so that his lips were almost touching Ambrose's ear.

"I let him suck my dick."

Ambrose winced. Was Skeeter implying that he could get... to suck it too?

"Yes, Ambrose. I let him suck me off. He sucked my fuck stick like crazy and I dumped my load in his throat. And Stevens was so grateful that he cried when I left town for college."

He gave Ambrose an encouraging little smirk.

"Do you want a reward too, Ambrose?"

Ambrose's mouth was dry and drops of sweat had appeared on his forehead. Skeeter seemed to be reading his thoughts.

He nodded and Skeeter smirked even wider, knowing he had won.

"Good. Work hard and you might get rewarded."

"You want me to do it now? Suck your..." He couldn't finish the sentence.

Skeeter laughed and waved his finger.

"Aa-aa, Ambrose. You see, sucking my jock cock is a huge honor for a little gay boy like you. Little gay boys must work hard to earn that privilege. Stevens worked hard for me for six months before I let him slurp on my dick," he lied.

"So, you wanna work hard to earn that big reward, Whore-Ass?"

Ambrose nodded.

"Yes."

"Good. You'll keep my room clean and wash my shit without me having to tell you to. Change my bed sheets and towels every Sunday. I like my shirts and boxers pressed. And if I need something else, you'll do it. Got it?"

"Got it."

"Good. I'm gonna take a shower now. You can watch if you want."

"What? You mean, watch you..."

"Yeah, you can watch me shower."

"I can?"

"Yeah, I don't mind. You're my house boy now."

Ambrose almost fainted when Skeeter suddenly pulled his boxers down and kicked them off. He stood in front of Ambrose completely naked, just like it was the most natural thing to do. And for a team athlete it probably was too. But they both knew that the sight of him made the gay nerd's hormones boil and his heart pump, and his dick harden.

Skeeter pointed at his boxers on the floor.

"You can take those with you. Enjoy. But bring them back to me clean and ironed. And no touching of that hard little pecker in your pants, I don't wanna see any of that. Understood?"

"Yes."

"Good. Bring me a clean towel, boy."

With that Skeeter walked to the bathroom, with Ambrose's gaze fixed to his firm, hairless buttocks.

Was he really going to let Ambrose watch him shower? Or was he making fun of him again? He had to find out.

Ambrose followed Skeeter to the bathroom and replaced his towel with a fresh one. The object of his lust was already standing under the shower, feeling the gushing water with his hand, waiting for it to become warm enough. Ambrose stared at his backside mesmerized, starting from the neck that was covered with thick blond locks, down to his broad shoulders, and to the canyon that run between his back muscles, then to his tight, hairless apple-like buttocks and strong legs that were covered with downy black hair from thighs to calves.

And then he stepped into the stream, without pulling the curtain shut, and let the waterfall play on his flawless skin, and small rivers sparkled down in the canyon, forming a rapid where his buttocks were separated by the crack.

And then he turned around with his hands on his face and his head thrown back, enjoying the refreshing water. Ambrose drank in his bulging biceps, the mounds of his abs and flat underbelly where a black trail ran of hair down to a garden of black pubes and... and...

A beautiful, flaccid cock rested on Skeeter's plump sack, pointing lazily downwards like a sleeping predator. I wasn't giant, but it sure was much bigger than Ambrose's own weenie that barely grew to four inches when completely hard. Skeeter hadn't trimmed his pubic hair for a good while, which in Ambrose's opinion suited well with his commanding masculine personality.

Ambrose imagined what that cock would look like when fully hard, when Skeeter was ready to mount one of his one-night stands... or when he ordered Ambrose to go down on his knees and start sucking it.

Skeeter took the shower gel bottle and spread the green liquid generously on his hair and on his body. The foam made his skin shine, highlighting the bundles of hard muscle that covered his lean torso. When he raised his arms to wash his pits Ambrose noted that he had bushes of black hair in them.

Ambrose longed to watch Skeeter soap his bubble butt and clean the crack in between. But he couldn't hold it anymore. He had refrained from touching himself, as Skeeter has ordered, but his legs were twisting from excitement and lust, and suddenly a gush of semen burst out of his hard dick, wetting his pants.

His legs gave in from all the pressure of the day, and he fell down on his ass on the floor. Skeeter saw that and leaned closer to see what was happening. He burst out laughing and pointed Ambrose with his finger.

"Aaahahahaha, you look like a real Whore-Ass now, Ammmbrooose! Get up and go clean my room, boy!"

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