Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. No actual psych majors were harmed in the telling of this story. If you are offended by homosexual situations or homosexuality in general, loosen up. Failing that, stop reading and go do something else. If you are underage or it is illegal for you to be reading this where you're at, grow up and/or move. Also, stop reading.
Feedback and/or criticism cheerfully accepted at altonfree@yahoo.com. Please put "Pressure" in the subject line so it isn't automatically deleted. Enjoy!
Pressure
By Alton Free
"Come in", I said, hearing the knock at the door. I didn't immediately look up from my desk; I was behind on grading practice tests, and I was supposed to meet up with some friends in just under half an hour. So I was a little annoyed by the interruption. I hoped whoever it was could be quickly sent on their way.
"I'm supposed to see someone about tutoring?" a sexy baritone said.
At that, I looked up. Standing in front of the desk was a dream. Seated as I was, and standing, as he was, I was eye-level with his stomach, allowing me to take in his body at a glance...although I could have stared happily for hours. The young man was about 6'1", with incredibly broad shoulders and good, solid pecs that couldn't be disguised by a slightly over-large t-shirt. His baggy khaki slacks likewise failed to completely conceal a nice package below his 32" waist, nor what I could safely assume were a thick, meaty pair of thighs.
"Mark Richardson?" asked the baritone from somewhere above my focused field of vision. That drew my eyes from his chest and up to his face. The view improved. No clothes to hide the beauty of his face, his short, sandy hair, his ever-so-slightly pugish nose (a feature I always find incredibly hot), his uncertain smile, his deep blue eyes.
In those eyes was no sign that he'd realized I'd been checking him out, although in general he seemed somewhat sheepish. This was not unusual: most people who come for tutoring are a little embarrassed. There seemed something different about this kid, however.
Hell. My friends could wait. Call me shallow, but it's been my sad experience that sociology grad students don't meet up with young gods every day. I resolved to give this young man my full attention, and help him however I could.
I stood up, extended my hand, and said, "Yes, Mark Richardson. Can I help you?"
He took my hand in his own, shook it with a strong, careless grip, and said, "My name's Travis Moylan. My sociology prof suggested I see you about getting some help in her class."
Happy that it was on the far side of my small office, I asked him to grab the extra chair and pull it up to the desk. My first sight of him from behind was disappointing; between the overhanging t-shirt and the baggy pants, I couldn't make out much detail. However, my instinct for posteriors was well-honed, and I was sure this kid had a great bubble-butt under all that material.
He drew the chair up and sat down, handing me a folder as he did so. I looked through it with less attention than I should have, since my mind was consumed with thoughts of the stud sitting directly across from me. In the folder was a summary of Travis' class work so far in his soc class. I looked through it for several minutes, willing my mind to stay focused and my dick to stay soft. Finally, I looked up.
Staring into his lovely blue eyes, I asked, "You're in Dr. Abt's class?" He nodded. "What kind of trouble are you having?
He explained that, although he enjoyed the class, and felt as though he was absorbing the material, he'd failed the first two quizzes. Both he and Dr. Abt were sure that the failures weren't due to a lack of effort; Travis was always well prepared for class, and his homework was always done on time and correctly. The problem was, Travis explained, that he didn't "test well".
"Has this always been a problem for you?" I asked him.
"Yeah, but it's gotten worse this year," he responded. Travis was a junior; many college students find their junior year the most difficult. Based on what he'd said, though, I didn't think it was his course load that was the problem.
"Have you ever failed a class due to poor test scores?" I asked.
"I've come close a few times, but always managed to pull it off. This year, though..." He sat quietly for a moment, while I studied his handsome face, and then he said, "I'm having trouble in all my classes. I got through most of the gen ed stuff okay, but this year, all my classes count towards my major. In psychology," he added. "I can't afford to fail any of these classes," he said, dropping his head. When he looked up, I was surprised and moved to find tears in his eyes.
"Let's try something," I said. Reaching into my desk drawer, I pulled out a practice quiz for the sociology class Travis was taking. "Do you have a half-hour or so?" He nodded again. "Take this practice quiz right now. All the material should be familiar to you. I'd like to see first-hand how you perform."
Boy would I, I thought naughtily, but he took the papers, and after I'd handed him a pen, I gave him my seat behind the desk, while I took the one he'd been using and pulled it over to the window. He set to work, while I stared out at the commons.
I was comfortably aware of the heat left by his ass on the chair, and it did nothing to cool down my raging libido. The vulnerability Travis had exhibited only made him sexier. I had to keep reminding myself that he was here for my help; Santa hadn't brought him to me for Christmas. But the thought of unwrapping him was very enticing; try though I might, I could think of little else. Our college common, like most colleges, contained no shortage of hotties of all categories, but all I could see when I looked out the window was the ghostly, barely-there reflection of the stud behind the desk, studiously bent to his work, magnificent shoulders hunched slightly forward, brow wrinkled adorably in concentration.
After an eternity, the clock I'd preset buzzed, announcing the end of the 30 minutes. Travis had actually put down his pen about 5 minutes earlier, and had been going over his answers, seemingly at ease. When the clock buzzed, he jolted slightly, endearingly startled, and then looked over at me. "Time's up?" he ventured. "I think I aced this. The questions weren't on any of the quizzes I took in class, but I know all this stuff." His confidence was surprising, given how forlorn he'd been earlier.
"Let's take a look," I said, crossing to the desk and taking the papers from him. A quick read-through confirmed that Travis had, indeed, aced the quiz. I told him so, and the brilliance of his subsequent smile made my heart skip a beat. In his pleasure at mastering the test, he seemed to have momentarily forgotten that he'd failed two before. Dazzling smile or no, I hadn't. His success confirmed what I'd guessed was the trouble: Travis had "pressure issues". He'd aced my little quiz because it didn't count; his failure would have cost him nothing. In Dr. Abt's classroom, results counted, and he knew it. Travis was a choker.
"Do you play sports?" I asked, already knowing that an athletic body like that was surely being put to good use somewhere. "Wrestling, maybe?" I'd known more than a few wrestlers; Travis' body (what I could see of it) fit the type.
"Lacrosse, actually," he responded, blushing slightly, "but I do wrestle a bit with my roommate. He's on the wrestling team. He's always after me to sign up." I could tell he was slightly confused as to the direction the conversation had taken.
I explained to him my "pressure" theory; I was trying to find out if he had trouble performing on the field in addition to the classroom. However, it appeared Travis had no such trouble outside an academic setting; he was the top scorer on our team, which was considered very good indeed. Likewise, a few carefully insinuated questions revealed that he didn't seem to have any trouble in social or romantic situations. I was only slightly disappointed to infer from his answers that Travis was straight; my gaydar is usually pretty good, and I'd already guessed as much. Still, it was a shame.
More of a shame was having to tell him that I didn't know what I could do for him; a tutor is not a psychiatrist (or even a psychologist), and I suspected that going over the material again and again wasn't going to be of much help when crunch time came, and he had to take a test.
Travis' rudimentary self-diagnosis was much the same as mine; however, he was surprisingly resistant to the idea of therapy. "I think I can lick this thing on my own," he said.
"I doubt you're that flexible, but it's possible you ARE that large," I thought to myself, my cock beginning to win the internal struggle at the mental picture of Travis naked, hunching down to take his own dick in his mouth. Then I realized what he was talking about, motioned him up from the chair, and quickly sat down.
"Well, I don't know how much help I can be, but I'm certainly willing to try," I said. "Why don't we set up a one-hour, three-session-a-week schedule?"
He agreed to this happily, the exuberance at his success with the practice quiz still showing on his face. I hoped that maybe a few more successes in our sessions would have a positive effect on his real class work, but I didn't hope too high. Without the pressure of the real deal, I suspected he'd ace anything I put in front of him, while still having the same trouble in class. Still, the guy was happy to give it a shot, and I, needless to say, was happy to have his presence for at least three hours a week.
After some poking around his school and lacrosse schedule, we managed to find three free hours in the week to meet. He stood up, offered his hand, and thanked me for my help. I elected to remain seated (his brilliant parting smile sending fresh blood to my erection), but shook his hand, and told him I looked forward to seeing him on Wednesday. As he turned to leave, I got another look at his probable bubble-butt, nearly hidden by those baggy clothes. I continued seeing it in my mind's eye long after he'd gone.
"What a waste," I mused to myself. "A guy with a body like that should be showing it off. He should let ME dress him..." My mental train of thought derailed as it was broad-sided by a huge idea.
A monstrous idea.
An EVIL idea.
I shook my head; it wouldn't work, even if he'd go for it. It could get me kicked out of school for even suggesting it. And yet...no. I didn't even know if I was right about the reason for the baggy clothes; maybe he just had terrible fashion sense. And yet... I'd have to do some snooping around before I even suggested the idea to him. Today was Monday; I had two days to do my checking before our next meeting. And still, I couldn't see him going for it. Was there a chance it could work? It was possible. Improbable, but possible. More than improbable...as impossible as still possible could get. I should really try and think of something else. But the thought of Travis agreeing to my idea rudely shoved all other thoughts from my brain. If he agreed to this... I gradually became aware of a slight pain down below. It took me a minute to realize that I was harder than I'd ever been before. That settled things. I awkwardly got up, closed and locked the door, and pulled the blinds on the window.
I was a lot later meeting my friends than I could have imagined.
It wasn't hard to arrange a meeting with his roommate without Travis' knowledge; he was hardly ever there, a fact I could easily believe after going over his schedule with him the day before. Travis' roommate was a short, stocky, good-natured guy named Bill. After explaining that I was tutoring Travis and hoping to get some background info on him, I asked Bill what Trav's study habits were like.
"He usually does that at the library," Bill said. "He's a bear about his work, though. He makes me quiz him all the time, when he's here. Great guy, but he takes school a little too seriously."
Bill, apparently, did not share this vice. He'd greeted me at the door naked except for a less-than-fresh pair of CK white briefs, and immediately apologized for his appearance; he'd just gotten up. It being two in the afternoon, and finding it unlikely that Bill had no morning classes, I suspected he'd blown off one or two, and that he made that a frequent practice. The litter of beer cans near the bed he'd just risen from (the other bed was also unmade, but that side of the room was in a much better state, neatness-wise) lent weight to that theory. Amidst the empty cans on top of the small dorm fridge, though, were a number of wrestling trophies...evidence that Bill took wrestling, at least, very seriously. As we chatted about Travis' habits, I found myself scanning Bill's body: he was probably a middleweight; he was thick, but not fat, and his muscles were evident, if not entirely defined. He also had a nice chunk tucked away in his briefs. If Travis hadn't been the vision that he was, I might have lost track of my reason for being there, but after concluding that I would at least need to get Bill in the shower and wash his sheets before anything could happen, I regained my focus and asked Bill about Travis' social life: did he do a lot of partying, did he have a girlfriend who took up a lot of his time? It turned out that Travis did, in fact, like to party, but never to excess (to Bill's subtly implied disgust), and that he was between girlfriends at the moment. Having covered the academic and social ground that was my supposed reason for being there, I thanked Bill and turned to go.
At the door, I stopped and asked him, "Travis said you keep trying to get him on the wrestling team?"
"Yeah," Bill said, "He'd be great at it. He can usually take me down, and he's only got a little bit more weight on him then I do. I think it's `cause he doesn't want to wear a singlet."
A choir stared in on the Hallelujah Chorus in my head as I replied, "Why wouldn't he want to wear a singlet?"
"Not sure, man," came the answer. "But he's wicked shy about his body. I've been living with him for 3 semesters, and I've never seen him naked. He doesn't even like to take his shirt off to play b-ball or wrestle. He wears a t-shirt down to the showers, even. I don't know what his deal is, but I don't think it's because he's got a little dick." Bill's eyes gleamed at that, and I realized I wasn't the only one who had a burning desire to see Travis naked.
"Thanks again," I said, opening the door.
"No problem, dude," he responded. "You're welcome anytime. Maybe we can talk about something else next time," he said with a slight leer.
I smiled; if I hadn't been consumed with my project, I might have enjoyed taking Bill down to a car wash, running him through it, and doing him right there, but my mind was elsewhere. After asking Bill not to mention to Travis that I'd spoken with him, I closed the door.
"Poor guy," I thought (meaning Bill), "to be gay and have a roommate like that...he must beat off six times a day."
I had partial confirmation of my Theory of the Baggy Clothes: Travis was apparently extremely shy about his body. Still, if Trav knew his roomie was gay, that might explain it, too. I could use some additional evidence. Then, while walking past the basketball court on my way back to my office, I saw Travis playing in a pick-up game. It was a fairly warm day, yet my hunky little tutee was the only guy wearing a t-shirt. Admiring the still-fetching view in front of me, I smiled as I realized that I had my confirmation.
I stayed up far too late that night, thinking about how best to make my pitch the next day. Rationally, I still doubted he'd go for it, but my erection had convinced my brain that it was worth a shot. He was a smart kid; I knew he'd see what I was trying to do: both objectives, for his benefit and mine. Would he see any real merit in my plan? Would he be outraged? I knew I was taking a big risk; my academic career was at stake. If he went to Dr. Abt with this... I tried to talk myself out of it, but when it came right down to it, more than just the definite benefits to me, I really believed my idea could help Travis. It would be undeniably pleasant for me, yes, and difficult, if not impossible for him, but it could work. I honestly thought it would. I only hoped Travis would feel that way, too.
He showed up promptly at three the next day, wearing a different extra-large t-shirt and a baggy pair of jeans. He seemed down, and I asked him what the matter was.
"I failed a psych quiz today," he said miserably. "I've done badly on those before, but that's the first psych quiz I've actually failed. I don't know what happened: I felt really good going into it...I knew the stuff backwards and forwards. But when I put the pen to the paper, my mind just went blank."
He hung his head low, and at that moment, I came this close to throwing out my plan. The guy had enough grief; I didn't want to compound it. And even if he agreed to it -- especially if he agreed to it -- my idea would cause him more. I felt dirty, my confidence in the whole thing shaken; it was an evil plan with only my wants considered. It would not help him, and I suddenly realized that was first and foremost what I wanted to do: help him. He seemed like a really good guy, and I wanted to help him.
That's when he raised his head and said, "Whatever you can do, please do it. I'll do whatever it takes."
And just like that, my confidence was restored. I had to be honest: I'd been kidding myself -- the plan was for MY benefit, not Trav's. However, it was, I thought, still a GOOD plan. It could work. And I wanted it to -- for Travis.
"Sit down," I said, putting my hand on his stony shoulder. I'd gotten a desk-chair from one of the classrooms and placed it in front of my desk. On it was a practice quiz and a pen. Travis slid into the chair, his head still down, while I took a seat at my desk.
"You shouldn't be surprised," I said to him gently. "Just because you aced a quiz in here doesn't mean you're solid for the real thing. We both agree that it's the pressure of the situation that's the problem. If I were to grade you on practice quizzes, you'd graduate magna cum laude. But I'm not your professor, and my quizzes don't mean a thing. However, if we could match the pressure here with the pressure in your real class, or exceed it, and get you to perform..."
Travis looked up. I'd given him the aim of my plan without outlining the execution, but I could see him turning it over in his psych major's mind. I'm sure it appealed to him; I could tell he preferred to tackle a problem head on, including a mental one. The how of it, though...
"How?" he asked, reading my mind.
"I need you to trust me," I said. "What I'm going to suggest could charitably be called unorthodox, but I think it will work. Before you agree or disagree, I want you to think about it hard. It's a big commitment. I think it will work," I said again. "But you have to trust me, and do just what I say."
"I trust you," he said slowly, not without some confusion and a little trepidation.
"Stand up," I said. And slowly, he did.
"Strip"
End Part 1
Next: Travis feels a draft.
Like it so far? Shower me with kudos at altonfree@yahoo.com. Think it sucks? Let me know at the same address.