The Kid at the Bar Part 3 By botpuppy@aol.com
I dropped the kid off at his dorm, and headed to the Hutchinson estate adjoining the campus. Old man Hutch was a great guy who loved sports and believed in taking the steps to make sure that his alma mater sent out winning teams on a regular basis. His trust fund was set up to provide the funds it would take to attract the best of the high school athletes with "scholarship" money, and all the extras that would keep them here for the duration of our undergraduate days. The school had a jet, supposedly for use in any emergency, but everyone on campus knew that it would be tied up whenever a team had a game far enough away. The lesson was that if you needed emergency surgery, you had better not need it when we were playing an away game.
I don't know exactly why, but I knew he took a liking to me from the first time we met. I had a good reputation as a gymnast in high school. Funny thing how my life had changed so dramatically since the time in grade school when an alumnus of a snooty prep school in Manhattan decided that I was good material for their gymnastics program. I had an interview with the coach, who showed me around the gym. I used my imagination to figure out what the pommel horses, parallel bars and rings were for. When I impulsively leaped up to grab the bars and managed to do a flip without breaking my neck, coach decided that I had potential.
I got the scholarship along with a new wardrobe, including the maroon blazer and gray slacks that were the school uniform. I breathed an unspoken farewell to the tenements, a crack head mother and a father I never knew, and became a preppie. It was tough at first. My vocabulary consisted of mostly four letter words which, although they made me a favorite of the students, I realized would forever separate me from my new friends and surroundings. I read everything I could find, concentrating on verbal and written englih, and even learned that "mothafuck" was actually two words.
I wasn't surprised to find out that I had natural ability at my new sport. But I'm sure that everyone was surprised at my grades. Funny how clean clothes, a good bed and teachers who cared made such a difference. By graduation time, I was ranked seventh in a class of 105, picked up a dozen awards for various gymnastics awards, and had 17 scholarship offers on my desk.
When Hutch himself drove me out for a campus visit and a tour of the facilities, my mind was made up quickly. The jock dorm was more like a luxury hotel, with 2 man suites. The building was 15 floors because the suites were more spacious than those in the conventional dorms and also to accommodate the dining room, visitor's quarters and all the rest. I was to learn that while most of the students fled the dorms after freshman year to rent the hovels that passed as student apartments nearby, no sensible jock would even consider leaving here.
As my junior year began, Hutch died of a heart attack. He had become like a father to me, the only father I ever really had. His only son inherited everything, including control of the trust fund. If poor old Hutch had made a mistake in his life, his son, Dick, was it. Spoiled, cocky and a first class faggot. I have no grudge with faggots; as a matter of fact I enjoy using a pliant submissive boy. But an arrogant faggot is something else. He loved to suck my cock, and was the first guy to lick my ass hole, which I came to like a lot. But he had come to expect it from me when he wanted it, and that didn't play in my book.
Half of my fun with a guy is getting him to enjoy surrendering himself. They have to learn that their pleasure comes from satisfying me. When I have sex with a new kid, I make sure he has a good time as well, which usually means making him bust a nut. One way, I learned early on, was that massaging a kid's prostate with my finger or my cock would do the trick. Getting him to orgasm wasn't so much a kindness as it was my way of getting him to associate me with his own pleasure.
But Dick just was too demanding. I was going to have to knock him down a few pegs. This was going to be tricky. He did administer the trust fund, and that had paid for the new Lexus I was driving, and all the rest including my closet full of designer clothes. I was sure coach would never agree to revoke my scholarship, but Dick could have him fired and replaced with someone who would. No way I was going back to the tenements and that life, so I knew I had to play my cards just right. I had to thread the needle with this, strong enough to make sure he got the point, but making sure he understood that if he played the game my way that he would get what he needed.
I drove up the oval driveway, parked and rang the bell. Soon, Parsons the butler opened the door, "Good evening, Mister Collins, so nice to see you again." "Hi, Parsons, good seeing you too, but for crissake, lose that fuckin' Mister shit, will ya." Parson was a good guy but always maintained that dignified manner that I suppose butlers are supposed to have. I enjoyed teasing him a little, but made sure that he understood it was in fun. He pursed his lips in disapproval, then allowed a little tight-lipped smile. Then, "Mister Hutchinson is in the den." I followed him, thinking, Mister?
Dick was watching a tape of our last meet. "Jack, great performance, you're sure to make the state finals again this year. Do you want the usual, poring me two fingers of Black Jack. I flopped down on the sofa, and sipped. "Yeah, Dick, and gimme a smoke too will ya", reverting to the old street talk He took a pack from his pocket and offered it to me. "Just one, dude, remember it's in season."
He stood in front of me a moment, sank to his knees, his hand in my crotch, then going to the snap of my jeans. "Hey Dick, my feet hurt, take off my sneakers will ya?" He looked up at me, questioning. I looked down at him, unsmiling and narrowing my eyelids to indicate that I meant it.
He clearly didn't like this, but the time had come to let him know that things were going to be on my terms, not his. He unlaced and pulled them from my feet. "Yeah, Dick, my socks too." He looked down at my feet and it was clear that he was debating how to handle this situation. "I need you to massage my feet, Dick, come on." And he pulled off my socks, one by one, and began rubbing my feet. "Now I want you to kiss my feet, dickie boy, show me u love me.""
Instead he made a move towards my crotch, but I raised my foot and placed it square against his face, sending him tumbling and landing akimbo on the floor. I got up and placed my bare foot in his face. "I said give me a kiss, you fuckin' fairy. Didn't you hear me?"
I gave him a minute to think it over. Then I grabbed my sneaks and turned to leave. "Wait, Jack. Don't leave, please don't leave, I'll do it, I'll do it, I'm so sorry, please stay."
"Next time I ask you to do something, you do it and do it fuckin' fast, faggot, you understand? Keep them socks, dickie, get used to the smell of a man. Now I gotta go. Maybe I'll be back, maybe not."
I didn't wait for Parsons; I got into my car and sat back, breathing hard. My pits were drenched and my back was bathed in sweat. My gamble had worked; the boy was going to behave the way I wanted him to behave.
I lit up his cigarette, breathed in deeply, smiled to myself and put the car in gear.