KEY TO MY HEART-- Chapter Two by Sean Reid Scott
This story contains homosexual themes and depictions of sex between men. It is intended for Adults Only. Please do not read if you are offended by this subject matter.
NOTES TO THE READER
Please see the "Notes to the Reader" at the beginning of Chapter One if you have a desire to read a bunch of nonsensical, disclaimatory fine print.
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CHAPTER TWO
SO, OKAY... MAYBE I EXAGGERATED a bit about having to go to the hospital after the Black Stallion talked to me in the library. (And I'm using the term "talked to me" very loosely, since I don't think "How's it goin', man?" really qualifies as an actual conversation.) But the important takeaway from that brief encounter is that the muscle god recognized my existence at all!)
What actually did happen after he left was that I somehow pulled my shaking body together, gathered my things, and made a beeline for my dorm room.
Where I jerked off for the rest of the night.
Even though Greg and I are besties, we didn't get a dorm room together this year. We tried that last year (frosh year) and while it was okay, we concluded we make better friends than roommates. Different... how shall I phrase it... hygiene habits. Let's just leave it at that. And no, it wasn't me with the lacking habits.
So by some fluke, I had my own dorm room this year. All to myself. It's a double, but I was all alone. Not complaining, because it frees me up to plaster the room with pictures of muscle men (mostly Black ones) so I can jack off whenever I have a Masturbatory Emergency... which is at least three times a day. And of course, more than just the pictures, I was free to play my muscle-sex pornos on my laptop whenever I wanted. It's the simple things in life, you know? Call me oversexed.
Now, though, as I woke up and got ready for the day, I realized that I'd end up taking all those pictures down. Because of him. Mr. Perfect put all those guys in the pix (most of whom are pro bodybuilders in their own right) to damn shame. The man had ruined me. More accurately, he had ruined all other men for me.
I skipped my first class... because... well, you know. I swear I was wanking more since I'd seen him than I ever had in my entire life. I got my books and laptop together and headed to the library, where I knew Greg would be holding forth at our usual table. Of course, my eyes were not looking for Greg; I only had eyes for him. Alas, he was not to be found.
"Dude, you didn't make it to the Dining Hall for dinner last night, or breakfast," Greg accused. "What gives?"
"It's nothing," I replied nonchalantly. "I was... busy. Yeah, that's it. I was busy."
I could tell he was trying not to smile. He gave me a "look" and said, "That business didn't happen to include...." He leaned back in his chair and did the jerk-off motion above his crotch. "...while thinking about that Black muscle dude, did it?"
I sneered, only to hide my red face. But I wasn't successful in deflecting.
His face contorted while he thought. He was processing everything--everything he knew about me. And then he came to his conclusion. "Ollie, why didn't you tell me?"
"Tell you what?" I asked as I pulled out a chair across from him. He was facing the door of the library; I was facing the rear of the room--a disadvantage perch if I was going to keep an eye on the comings-and-goings of potential muscle hunk spottings.
"That you're gay, man! You could have trusted me with that."
I hemmed and hawed, bobbing my head back and forth. "I dunno.... It's just that..." I really should have come out to him earlier. It of course wouldn't have made any difference to our friendship. We both had gay friends, and like I said earlier, I knew Greg wasn't a homophobe. "I... I dunno. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I know you'd be okay with it and all. It's just kind of embarrassing... my particular attraction, as far as men goes."
He chuckled. "You mean the attraction to huge, jacked, muscle dudes?"
I nodded.
"Dude. Don't worry about it. I'm glad I know now. No more suggestions of hooking up with the girls now."
I gave a pursed smile and folded my arms across my (excuse for a) chest. "Well, how do you know I'm not bi?"
He chuckled. "Because you've never--and I mean never--looked at a woman, of any variety, like you looked at Mr. Universe yesterday.
He laughed; I chuckled.
All of the sudden Greg's face froze. He wasn't looking at me; he was looking past me--behind me... at the library's main entrance. "Don't look now, Ollie, but...." He didn't need to finish the sentence. I could tell by the mixture of amusement (because he'd spotted my obsession man) and awe (because he'd spotted my obsession man) exactly who he was looking at.
I couldn't stop myself. I swung around almost fast enough to give myself whiplash. And... fuck. There he was. He wasn't wearing that wool overcoat today. No, today he had on a bulky, loose-fitting long-sleeved sweatshirt... no overcoat. I estimated that the sweatshirt must have required like, a hundred bolts of fabric to make it hang loose on his body like that. Still, he was so immense that it was obvious the guy was a fucking muscle god. Like yesterday, he was carrying his satchel.
Yet the most mind-blowing thing in the universe was that he was wearing shorts! Like, running shorts. And holy fuck on a stick, the man's lets were startling! I mean... bewildering! They were enormous! How had I missed this yesterday? (Well long pants, and the long coat probably did the trick.) Seriously, the man's wheels were extraordinary! I'd never seen anything like it! Stupefying! Mounds and ridges of undulating quadriceps muscle danced for all to enjoy.
I was instantly hard.
I whimpered, giving a soft--but definitely audible--grunt. The man was even better than I had remembered. That square jawline, those shoulders that probably required a "WIDE LOAD" placard whenever he got on the Interstate... even his arms... they were so enormous and powerful-looking that they pushed the sleeves of his sweatshirt nearly to their ripping point. Wouldn't surprise me if he had to use a shoehorn to get his arms in them.
And he was looking right at me. Fuck. Again. Like yesterday. And, as before, he was walking toward our table! His expression was content, friendly, businesslike, confident--all cool, calm, and collected. Yet there was also a hint... a hint of something else in his expression. Was it... was he... was he smiling? At me? He was smiling, and it looked kinda like he was glad that he'd spotted me!
Well stab me with a dozen ice cream scoops.
He surveyed the long, otherwise empty table that Greg and I were at, and by the time he got to us (and I was able to get the kink out of my neck) he stopped, looked right at me (not Greg, mind you), and asked, "Is it alright if I take this end of the table?"
Dude, you can have the entire thing if you want. Are you sure one is enough? A man of your proportions probably needs at least three, don't you think? And where, exactly, were you thinking of taking it? Can I come? I will certainly cum... that's a given. Oh, can I wipe that end of the table down for you? I'm sure it's not sanitary. Would you mind if I just kicked my friend to the curb--oh, where are my manners: Greg, this is Mr. Stallion; Mr. Stallion, this is Greg--and we could just clear off the whole table and you can throw me on my back and you can `have your way with me' right here and now. I promise not to yell so loud as to alert the librarian.
When I didn't answer (lockjaw, likely) Greg piped up and said, "Sure. No problem."
Make yourself at home, I added, in my mind.
And again, I just stared at him. This time, at the only actually-exposed muscles on him: those wheels! No one on earth had anything close to that kind of upper-leg (and calf, for that matter) development. It was almost inhuman!
He slowly (I'm sure, on purpose) pulled up his sweatshirt, and I swear Handel's Hallelujah Chorus came over the Library's PA system (what library has a PA system?!) while he did it. I whimpered--again. I'm serious. It wouldn't surprise me if he actually heard it. Because I know Greg did. He chuckled at me and tried to occupy himself with his typing.
Me--you couldn't pull my eyes off the muscle god for all the gold in Fort Knox. I watched--and I know he knew I was watching--while he pulled the coat off--in slow motion for sure--revealing that physique... the upper body to end all. Oh My God. There aren't words. Just. Aren't. His muscles had muscles. Today, he had on another black t-shirt--long-sleeved again. But this one had a logo on it, and holy shrink-wrap, Batman! it was so fucking tight-fitting--and I mean it hugged every single mound and bulge of muscle on the guy!--that he could have almost gone shirtless and it would have been the same effect! I'd put money that he had to cut his shirts off every night because of all that muscle--and especially this one.
He was relaxed about it, but the slight smile on his lips while he set his sweatshirt on the back of a chair told me he was amused--once again--by my slack-jawed worship. He unpacked his satchel and sat down.
"OW!" I yipped as, under the table, Greg's shoe made contact with my shin. "What gives, man?!"
He leaned forward, and in a soft, yet extremely intense library voice hissed, "Dude! Take it down a couple notches, man! You're practically drooling!"
Fuck. The expression I tried to give him was an eye-roll, but it included a huge dose of: Is it that obvious?
Greg's return expression was clear: Duh!
I closed my eyes and inhaled a slow, deep breath. Breathe, Ollie. We can get through this. I was referring to myself--in my thoughts--in the third person. Yikes.
"Oh, I'm Keyshawn, by the way."
What? There was only one place that resonant baritone voice could have come from. Holy shit! I looked over to him (he was sitting across from me... down on the other end of Greg's side, so I could look at him easily if I just turned my head a bit (he was at my two o'clock). Greg had to turn totally to his left--his nine o'clock--to see him), and the stud was extending the most gorgeous, long-fingered, muscular-fingered, hand ever... to me.
Fortunately my instincts kicked in, and I took his hand and shook it.
The heat.
Fuck. The heat. His hand was warm. Not too warm, but warm enough that I could tell that at the core of this man's body was a nuclear power plant that the University Campus might want to tap into in order to reduce their electric bill. His grip was firm, but not show-offy-hard.
Gods don't normally need to show off.
He gave a polite smile, and I realized he was waiting for me to give him my name.
"Oh. I'm Ollie. Oliver, actually. Oliver Smith. My friends all call me Ollie, but you can call me Oliver."
The guy burst out laughing; interestingly, no one in the library seemed to mind. The dude could launch into Rigoletto in the middle of a library and get away with it. "Should I be offended?" he smiled. Fuck--the man's smile.
We broke the handshake. He was just staring at me, obviously still amused.
"I'm sorry? What? I...." Shit. What had I said?
"You said your friends call you Ollie... but I should call you Oliver. Is there a set time for the formality before we can be friends?" he chuckled.
"Oh... oh fuck. No," I blubbered. "I didn't mean it. Not... You can call me Ollie. Fuck. I'm so sorry." And... he was actually interested in being friends? I needed to find a Best Man, quick. Maybe Greg was free? Should we decide on colors?
He laughed again, but this one was more controlled.
"Just don't call him late for dinner, as they say," Greg piped up. I was kinda grateful for the break in the tension (my tension), even if he used such a cliché term. "I'm Greg. Greg Cass," Greg said extending his hand. For a split second it looked like Keyshawn was caught off guard--as if he hadn't even been paying attention to the fact that Greg was with me. Weird. The two of them shook hands, and exchanged, Glad to meet yous. Then Keyshawn said, "And as a matter of fact, all my friends just call me Key."
"So I can go with that then?" I blurt. I was actually proud of my quick wit--considering not much else in my brain was working at the moment.
He laughed again, and... I decided his laugh was music itself. Or poetry. Or something equally orgasmic. "Yeah, you can go with Key."
OhPlease, OhPleaseOhPlease. Yes. I will go with you--with KEY. I so wanted to say that; and then add: Your place or mine? But only in my dreams. I mean, the guy was being really, really nice--reaching out to me and everything, but what kind of guy... what kind of GOD would ever want to go anywhere--or strike up a friendship--with ME?
We got into our studies, and despite my continued glances at Key, I was able to type some letters on my laptop. Not actual words, mind you, but letters, nonetheless.
For his part, Greg kept tabs on my gawking and gave me a polite (if overt) nudge every time my saliva dribbled onto my keyboard. He's such a doll. Everyone needs a friend like Greg. We all settled into a quiet study session (well, I made like I was studying) and I became more comfortable with stealing a glance now-and-then, and realizing that Keyshawn wasn't here to kill me.
"Oops, I dropped my pen," Greg said as he reached under the table and tossed it toward me. "Can you bend down and get it?"
I did so, and was met with Greg's nosy head under the table, facing me. "What are you doing?" I asked him. The pen toss was so obvious.
"I'm trying to save your life! If you don't muster up some self control, that dude," he cocked his head in Key's direction, "is gonna take you out back and chop you into tiny pieces, man!"
I rolled my eyes. "First of all, how do you know that's not my intention. And second of all, he's nice! He said I can call him Key! I mean, give me some credit here. I'll be fine. It's just playful looking. Appreciation, you know? Think about it, a guy built like that probably gets ogled day and night!" I hissed.
"Yeah, but you don't know how many dudes are packed into his freezer, Ol!" Greg spat.
From the cramped quarters under the table, I heard Key, up top, saying, "Is everything okay down there? You guys good?"
I popped my head up--well I tried to pop it up, but I aimed wrong and smashed my scull hard against the edge of the table. "FUCK!" I yelled out. Shit, this was not good library behavior. I rubbed my head and tried to get the little circling stars around my head to stop. I looked at Key, who was watching me. "Oh, no. Sorry. Greg just dropped his pen. We were just looking for it."
"Found it!" Greg said, popping up on his side of the table, holding the pen in the air.
I'm sure Greg and I looked like the Two Stooges. Key tamped down a chuckle and got back to his studying.
I gave Greg a pointed look and whispered: "Leave me alone! I'm fine here!" I glanced over at Key just then, and caught him monitoring our convo. He was still amused, but caught off guard that he'd been caught listening. Yeah, he knew exactly what he was doing to me... and he liked it. I could tell.
About fifteen minutes later, Greg started packing his stuff up. He stood and flung his pack over his shoulder. He said softly to me, "I'm gonna go study in my room. Too much excitement here for me."
Tell me about it. I gave him an obligatory expression of objection, but truthfully, I was glad he was leaving. Me... sitting alone at the same table with Mr. Black Stallion? Yes, please. So yeah, I made sure not to protest too much.
"Nice to meet you, Key," Greg said as he left.
"You too," Key raised a hand in a wave. And stop the world now. That bulging biceps muscle, and that incredibly huge triceps... hanging on that arm while he waved... I know my mouth dropped open again.
And how I know is because after Greg left, and I was still staring at His Muscleship, he looked at me and said, "Is everything okay?"
Oh fuck. I was literally frozen in lust. I think I had to use my fingers to push my jaw back into place. "Oh, I'm sorry. No. It's nothing. I mean... Greg just left. That's all. He'll be fine. I'm sure he will. Don't you worry about ol' Gregor. He's been around the world and back--I mean he's been around the block a few times. So I'm sure he can find his way back to his dorm. This is nothing... he's fine." I ducked my head down and started typing again: Lorum Ipsum, Qwerty, and a priest walked into a bar....
Key nodded his head, trying not to crack a smile... which, in retrospect must have cost him a lot of self-control points. I was a hopeless, wet, hot mess.
"I don't think he likes me," Key said a moment later.
Okay... so... that bothers you? I mean, how could anyone's approval impact a god? "Why do you say that?" I asked.
"Dunno. I just get the impression that he doesn't like me... talking to you. Like maybe he's put off by me. I can't really put my finger on it."
Granted, Greg did think my obsession with Key was unhealthy. And yes, he was right, okay? Totally right. "Aw, he's harmless. Don't pay him no miiiiiiind," I sing-songed.
Key laughed--which had been my objective. He got back to whatever it was he'd been doing.
A minute later, Key pushed himself away from the table and rubbed his eyes. He looked over at me, leaned forward again, and asked, "What's your major?"
What? I mean, okay, he'd been really friendly and shit. And I know he was enjoying my fawning all over him... but... now he actually wanted to engage me in conversation? He wanted to know my major? "Medieval History, with a minor in the Mating Habits of the North American Calico Spider; the females eat the male after copulation."
He just stared blankly at me
So I blurted: "Women. They're the worst, you know?"
He looked thoroughly confused.
"So what's yours? Your major." I asked.
"Pre-med."
Of course he was going to be a doctor. Of course he was. Thhaaaat's just ducky. The perfect man... brainy, gorgeous, built-better'n-any-human-who's-ever-trod-this-planet, and rich to boot. Juuust great. "Cool," I replied.
I'm not usually a bad conversationalist, but you'll forgive me if my tongue was a bit tied at that moment. When I didn't move the convo along, he asked, "Where are you from?"
"Portland. Oregon. The one in Oregon. Not Maine. Everyone in New England thinks I mean Portland, Maine, but really I'm from Portland, Oregon. A lot of people around here get that wrong, you know. But really, it's just me. I mean... I was born and bred in Portland--Oregon, so.... And why do they say born and bred? Shouldn't it be bred and born? I mean, chronologically and everything, you'd thi...."
He cut me off with a laugh.
Perhaps I had run off at the mouth. But come on. I was a tad nervous, okay?
"I think it's supposed to be born and raised, dude," he chuckled. And yeah, I know where Portland is, man," he shook his head with a smile. "Just a couple hundred miles south of Seattle."
"Oh, well that would make sense, then... the chronological thing. And yeah. Basically. That's right: Portland being south of Seattle. Wow. Brainy and medical; buff and jacked; and a geography whiz to boot! Who knew?" I said. And yes, I'd managed to sneak in my first (of what I hoped would be many) references to his incomparably mind-numbing physique.
His face beamed while his broad, muscular shoulders bounced as he tried to contain his laugh. It was as if his enormous muscle body was convulsing with humor... at me. But he wasn't laughing at me, per se. As the saying goes, he was laughing with me. And that's true because I was chuckling at myself too now... mostly amused and enthralled with the idea that I could entertain this hunk! God. I found my life's purpose. To make Keyshawn smile and laugh.
"You are amazing," he said, still grinning. And god those white teeth. Someone put me out of my misery. Please. The man had NO FLAW.
I demurred, feigning humility. "Aw shucks," I said coyly. Which, of course, elicited another laugh from the muscle stud.
"I know Portland," he continued. "I have an aunt who lives there." And he said aunt like black people are wont to do: "ahnt." So freaking hot, in my edumacated opinion.
"Nice," was all I could think of saying.
"You doing anything when you're done studying here?" he asked. "You wanna catch some lunch with me?"
Honey, whatever you say.
The invitation startled me. I mean, fuck! I had found my "Key legs" (like sea legs, I guess) here in the library, but suddenly, visions of me falling all over hell, tripping on the sidewalk cracks, sprawling myself across a table and spilling everyone's food everywhere... that scenario filled my brain. Could I actually go somewhere with this man, and be normal? And by the way... WHAT THE FUCK? He was asking me to grab lunch? With HIM?
Apparently, my delay in answering him made him question. "Unless you have something to do... a class or something...."
I would skip the entire rest of my education to spend an hour with this guy--and he wouldn't even have to take his shirt off! The man was Strength Incarnate; he was the epitome of gorgeous, muscular power; control; perfection; male virility; beauty... all wrapped up in that flawless, perfect Black skin.
"Oh. No. I mean, yes. I'm good. I'm free. Actually. Lunch. It's a good thing to eat. Yes. That is, if you're serious."
"Ollie, I'm definitely serious. I really like you. You're hilarious. And well, yeah. Let's do lunch. When are you done studying?"
I was done studying the second I saw Greg's eyebrows raise when he'd spotted the Stallion. "Well, I'm actually ready. I'm done. Here. I'm here. I'm done here, actually."
He shook his head with more of that amusement. Fuck.... He must get this kind of offline behavior from people all day. Why did he find it... endearing... with me? That's exactly what it came across as: endearing. He liked me!
We left the library, and I was basically hovering a few inches above the ground as I walked beside His Hulkiness. The heat. The heat from all those muscles just emanated from him.
I was starstruck. I was drunk with lust. And maybe love for all I know. We walked off campus and slipped into a little cafe. (Well, I slipped in; Key wedged himself in.) The whole encounter is a blur now. Suffice it to say, it was bliss. I stayed away from bringing up the subject of his physique--or even muscle in general--which was probably the only thing I did right.
The time we spent together over lunch was torture and pleasure, all wrapped up in a huge, shiny, Black bow. I had to reign in my emotions many times; I had to totally unplug my brain and do a deep re-boot more than once. While we ate, I slipped away and secretly tried calling Brain Support, but all they could suggest was the unplugging and rebooting thing.
In all seriousness, the conversation went shockingly well. We connected. He liked the same things I did: music, food, movies, TV shows... and he was really intelligent. Brains and Muscles. What a combo. And he laughed at my jokes. In truth, if he weren't built like Atlas Himself, I'd have liked him just for his personality. It was astonishing.
WE ACTUALLY MET AT THE library a few times over the next couple of days, and we grabbed a meal or two again. I caught him outside a couple of times, just sitting on a bench, maybe eating, maybe reading.... I'd sit down beside him and we'd talk shit... pass the breeze. It was un-fucking-real that I was forming a genuine friendship with this ultimate man.
It was like a fairytale dream, and I was Cinderella. (Greg did his part to play a convincing Wicked Step Mother, btw.) The whole thing reeked of a Disney love story--minus the actual love. Maybe a Disney lust story; that's what it was for me, to be honest.
I had never produced as much semen as I did that week. My room stink, stank and stunk of spunk. It was euphoria. My cock was red with overuse.
A few days later, I was in my dorm's lobby, checking my mailbox for anything that might be more important than the junk I usually got. When I opened my box, there was a sole slip of paper. It was from the Registrar's Office.
Odd.
"Dear Mr. Smith, due to a re-assessment of our housing assets, a person has now been assigned to the unoccupied bed in your dorm room. He will be arriving sometime after 3:00 PM on Tuesday, January 23rd, 2024. His information is below."
I let my eyes drop down the page.
Name: Keyshawn Tanner Year: Junior Major: Pre-med Phone: (156) 900-3675
I couldn't read any more, because my eyes were now out of focus, and my hand was trembling so bad that you could hear the paper rattling. I think I might have wet myself. (Later investigation into that possibility ruled that event out, thankfully.)
I looked up at the clock on the wall; it said 2:00. I had one hour to either clean my room and make everything presentable... or... catch the next plane to Abu Dhabi.
I elected to go with the first option.
I have to inject here, I am pretty fastidious in how I live. (Reference the aforementioned hygiene issue with Greg.) So the only thing I had to do to spruce up the place was to open the windows to air it out (the smell of my splooge--from repeated Masturbatory Emergencies--was powerful, my friend). I wondered if the scent might give away who I was fantasizing about when I jacked off. If so, I was in real trouble. Oh, and I also had to shred all the pix I had taken down and stuffed in my drawer--the ones of gorgeous, Black muscle gods. You know... the dudes Keyshawn put to shame? Yeah, them. They were of no use to me anymore. No other man would ever do again. I shred them and flushed `em. I knew I'd never be satisfied with them anyway, and if Key found them, I'd die of embarrassment.
By the time 3:00 rolled around, I was as ready as I was gonna get. I sat on my bed, waiting. The room's layout was thus: When you enter through the door from the hallway, there's a big window at the far end of the small room. One side of the room is a mirror image of the other side, with small beds at the far end, under the window, shoved up against the left and right walls; then there are desks at the foot of each bed; then on one side (the left) there's a closet that we would share, along with drawers and shit. On the right, next to the doorway, is a tiny bathroom. It even has a shower. (No shared baths for me! My parents spared no expense.)
I had taken the bed and desk on the right; I had made sure the left side was pristine and dust free, for Key.
And I waited. With my hands folded in my lap (my boner under said hands notwithstanding), I waited.
Finally, a gentle knock on the door. Damn, even his knock was erotic. I got up and opened the door. Standing there, in a white t-shirt and jeans, was Key. His hourglass physique filled the entire doorway. And he was fucking amazing.
He was wearing a white short-sleeved t-shirt (as opposed to the long-sleeved Ts I'd seen him in), and Mother of Mary, Son of God; Moses on the Nile; Hercules and his 13 labors (or however many there were).... Fuck. I just stared at him, wondering how something could be so perfect. He smiled. He looked comfortable. He ALWAYS looked comfortable. I have no idea how long I stood there, running my eyes up and down him, slack-jawed (as had become my practice concerning him), but it was a long time. And neither of us said anything... until he said, "Hey Ollie."
"Hey. Uh, hi." I couldn't take my eyes off those exposed arms. I think I probably shook my head in disbelief. I so wanted to ask how big they were. I would put money that they were bigger'n 22 inches. Seriously, you only saw guns that big in magazines and on the `net. And then on roid-gutted monstrosities. Keyshawn gave no tell whatsoever about being roided--no gut whatsoever, no other signs either. Although it was hard to understand how he got so fucking ripped and huge without them.
"I'm sorry about all of this, but... well they told me they were finally able to assign me a room and well, I guess yours is the one. I really feel bad about infringing on your space here, but...." For the first time, I saw a bit of... timidity. He handed me a piece of paper--basically identical to the one I'd received in my box downstairs, except telling him where to go and who would be his roomie.
Roomie. We were roomies! Where do I sign on the marriage certificate?!
"Hey, uh, don't worry about it, Key," I said. Fuck. Could it be that I could comfort him somehow? How would that even be possible? "It was getting a little lonely in here anyway," I said, trying desperately to break the ice. I don't think I succeeded. I looked around him in the hallway. "You don't have any bags or stuff?"
"Naw. I didn't want to just arrive on your doorstep with all my shit, and make it look like I was just barging in and all--even though that's exactly what I'm doing," he said with a scuff on the floor. The man--equal to, if not exceeding, all the virility, strength, and manly power in the entire northern hemisphere--scuffed the floor with his sneakers... because he felt... bad? embarrassed? imposing? shy?
"Nonsense," I said. "We're roomies now. Me casa es su casa and all that."
"Thanks." He offered a polite smile. "I have all my stuff at my parent's house; that's where I've been staying. I thought I'd come by and just, you know, be here and see the room, and make sure you weren't freaking out about the loss of your privacy.... Then I'd go back and get my junk and settle in."
Don't hate me for this, but when he used the word junk, I instinctively looked down at his... um... package. Dude, I think you brought all the junk needed. And just so you know, your junk is always--and I do mean always--welcome here.
I know... cheesy.
I stepped back from the door and waved him in. "Well, see the room, then. I'd give you the Grand Tour, but the place is so vast that you'll have to settle for the short version."
He laughed at my attempt at humor. "You really are a nut, Ollie." He closed the door behind him. "I gotta say, when I read the name of my new roommate, my heart skipped a beat or two. I'm gonna love being your roomie, man."
Well, when I read his name on my paper, I nearly creamed my pants. Hardly equal reactions.
And... Skipped a beat or two? The heck?
"Well anyway, here's the room," I said, waving my hand around. "That's a bed. That's also a bed. That's a window. That's a wall... well you get the idea."
He laughed. "Dude. I can tell living with you is never going to be dull."
Fuck me with a paper airplane.
As far as I was concerned, I knew living with him would never be: limp. God, how was I going to survive this?! I looked at him while he took in the meager surroundings, and I felt my gut wrench into some kind of super-torque thing that threatened to deposit my entire intestines right there on the dorm room floor! Why me, Lord. Why hast thou forsaken me? Why hast thou deemed it to torture me with temptation like this?
I seriously was in danger of not being able to graduate now. No way in hell could I live in the same room as GOD HIMSELF and concentrate on ANYTHING even remotely NOT Key.
"So, I take it, I'll have the left side then?" He motioned to the empty bed and desk.
"Dude, what were your SAT scores?!" I joked. "I mean, how did you ever deduce THAT?"
Again with his whole-body laugh, and I suddenly realized I didn't the hell care if I didn't graduate.
A random thought came: Would he be able to hear me jacking off under my covers? Damn. I'd had the whole room to myself all this time, and it was so nice being able to just fantasize, walk around the room with a perpetual hard-on, and just... you know... drip... my pre-cum all over the floor while I thought about him.
Fuck. Had I wiped up the floor? I quickly glanced down and examined the tiles. Thank the Lord. He hath found mercy and had bestowed it upon myself in that there was no (visible anyway) pre-cum on said floor. Saints be Praised.
Still, there was the jacking off thing. No way in hades was I going to live with this guy and not masturbate, like, every half hour. At least. Well, I'd just have to stuff rags in my mouth.
"Dude, are you sure this is going to be okay?" He asked, bringing me (once again) out of my reverie. "I really hate that I'm imposing."
"Key. Stop," I said. I wanted to put a hand on his chest... or arm... or something, to comfort him... to emphasize the point. But. Fuck, no way could I do something so... familiar. "This is gonna be fine. Really. You and I are not the masters of the universe," (Well I wasn't anyway). "We don't make the decisions. I never expected to have a room alone. So it's no disappointment to me at all to have you as my roommate." (If he only knew how much it wasn't a disappointment.)
He smiled down at me. Did I mention that I was really, really small? Like, seriously, just barely five feet tall. I'm not lying. They said there was a growth hormone problem when I went through puberty and shit. The word diminutive was coined just for me. I was a really little guy, and it had always bothered me. No one seemed to take me seriously. I looked like a little boy. And lots of people treated me that way.
And now that I'd met Keyshawn, I realized where all that Ollie-destined growth hormone had gone: He was standing right in front of me. Somehow when Key went through puberty, he probably siphoned off all the testosterone and shit, from every guy on the continent, and hoarded it for himself. And it showed. And my pathetic stature was testament to that scientific fact.) Anyway, I had to crank my neck to look up at him. I figured he was easily six-foot-five... maybe taller. When I looked straight at him, my eyes met the lower, pouting, overhang of his magnificent chest--maybe just a tad lower, at his top rows of abs. I got dizzy looking at his chest.
Anyway, right now he was standing pretty close... so that when I did look up, some of his t-shirt-clad, cantilevered pectoral muscles got in the way of me actually seeing his face. Truth, right there.
"Thanks, Ol," he smiled down like a god would, on his creation. "I appreciate your flexibility."
Oh fuck, lemme show you some' that, Key. You want flexible? You just met the inventor of flexible! The things I can do... the contortions I can force my body into... just you wait. They call me Gumby back where I come from. "I'm serious. It's no problem at all. This'll be good."
"Well, I should probably get back to my parent's house and grab my stuff," he said.
"You need any help?"
"Naw...." He stopped and turned back to me. "Unless you wanna come."
Why did my brain turn everything into a sexual innuendo? Because: Key. "You bet!" I smiled. "I kinda need a break from," (all the jacking off)... "the... routine, you know?"
"Great. My car's down in the parking lot. I don't have much stuff, of course. Small dorm rooms and all. Just a few boxes. So it shouldn't take much time."
Ahhh. And now my MO was set: I was gonna let Key do all the heavy lifting, so I could watch that body (specifically, those rippling, jacked arms) do all the heavy lifting, and fill my spank bank to overflowing (as if it wasn't already). I suddenly felt a sprain in my neck. Oh well: No heavy lifting for me. Funny how that happened.
Oh, and can we stop by the Five and Dime and pick up a tape measure? One of those they use for sewing? I think I might need to measure things. On you. Oh fuck, that'd be awesome. I immediately started conniving and planning how to bring up the subject of his body... and maneuver the convo to the point where it would be just a completely natural thing to ask if I could measure his arms... his shoulders, chest, legs, waist, and well... of course, maybe after we got to know each other better... that... thing. I glanced down between his legs. And... yes... it was a pouch-filler for sure. Lots o' junk right there....
I needed him to carry me down to his car. Please.
[Chapter 3 is next.] -- -- -- --
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