Small Kansas College

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A SMALL KANSAS COLLEGE - PART 2

Chapter 1 - Mrs. Ryan (now Maggie)

Soon after Kurt, Mrs. Ryan asked me, one morning if I she could talk with me. I responded: "Anytime, you don't even need to ask, Mrs. Ryan."

Jerome.

Jere, please, my mother wouldn't use it in front of my father, but it is what all my friends call me and I much prefer it.

I know she did and, in that vein of conversation, your mother called me Maggie, not Margaret, and I called her Millie, not Mildred. I would like it if you called me Maggie and Francis (her husband and the grounds keeper) likes Frank better than Francis.

I'd like that better, too, Maggie. (She smiled.)

You wrote me a check before you left for Europe and there was already some in the housekeeping account, in my name at the bank, and which I account for every now and then, mostly when I get around to it. However, since the house was unoccupied while you were gone I took the liberty of having the rugs and carpets cleaned, the outside windows cleaned by a window washing firm and a few other things that were beyond ordinary expenses. I wondered if you would be averse to writing me another check today.

Maggie, this is totally new to me, how much do you want?

Your mother always gave me fifteen hundred dollars at a time which covered food for breakfasts, lunches and the two evening meals a week that I prepare. It also covered my and Franks salaries. When it ran out, I just asked her for more.

May I ask what mother paid you and Frank?

She quoted a sum and I questioned if it was adequate. She responded that the cottage at the back of the property was free, and Charles (my father) always paid for their car whenever they needed to buy one. If she ever required a raise, she wasn't shy, so don't worry. But, right now she felt their salaries were quite generous.

Maggie, I glad you asked to talk with me. I have something I need to talk to you about. I told her about the plans to rent rooms to college students, mainly to have some one around to talk to now and then, and I wanted her to find additional help.

Jere, I have a niece in town that would be delighted to work at least three days a week and that is all that would be necessary.

I presume it will be more like dormitory living than hotel living. If the students would wash their own clothes and towels, and if clean bed linen was supplied once a week for them to make their beds, things should work out. You should think about the need for additional washers, dryers and maybe a larger or additional water heaters, both in the main house and the addition. I will pay my niece out of my household account.

Jere, while we're talking, I want to thank you for spending Millie's last months caring for her and also for getting along with your father. If he had driven you away it would have killed your mother.

Maggie, I'll tell you how I managed. My mother told me that the only way I could totally please father would be to declare I wanted to enter the Priesthood. (Maggie laughed at that.) But she also told me that God required that I honor and respect him and that God required us all to love one another. She told me to consider that the Ten Commandments did not tell us we had to like everyone, just love them and that if I thought about it I would see the difference. Her words became my guide book.

This led to a lot of future conversations between the two of us; I will relate them later.

Chapter 2 - Morgan - A Beautiful Man with a Big Cock.

One evening Little John brought Morgan Townsend over to tell me Morgan had decided to work for him full time during the summer and would like to rent one of the dorm rooms during that period and then stay on for the next school year. (Guess what room I put him in - one with the one-way mirrors, of course.)

Luckily Little John had ran an air-conditioning duct into my closets as part of his modifications and if I closed the door between the bedroom and closet and left the door to the plumbing chase open the chase was not unbearable even during summer heat.

The first time I saw Morgan naked in the bathroom I about jumped through the one-way mirror. He was so damn handsome and with his big cock he was irresistible.

The downside to having him around was that once a week, always on a weekday, a blonde in a red Corvette pulled up in front of the garage, honked her horn, stepped out the driver's door, continuing to honk the horn. She looked to be in her mid thirties. Morgan always got back during the wee hours of the morning. The bitch was making me jealous.

On evening, Morgan came in after work and, I guess, after stopping down town to eat, I heard him come to my room and holler for me. Having just showered and still dressing in the closet, I hollered back at him to give me a minute.

Morgan had evidently just showered, too. He had a robe on and his hair was still wet.

What's up, Morgan? (When are we gays going to retire that line?)

Not much, are you busy, Jere?

With my line of work I am never busy.

Do you happen to have a beer?

I got one out of my mini-fridge that was wood covered and served as an end table by one of the chairs.

Mind if I hang out for a while?

I'm honored; where's your girlfriend, tonight?

You've noticed? I'm flattered you keep track of me.

Who could not notice? Luckily this house is remote except for the college stadium across the street, now vacant for the summer. Her horn blowing would wake the dead when she's picking you up.

You insult me Jere to call that bitch my girlfriend.

I apologize.

She is married. I was getting together with her because her husband is out of town quite often. My attraction to her was she could screw your dick off your torso. I really think she was a nymphomaniac. You could fuck her as many times a night as you could get it up.

So you were getting into her.

She was getting into me would be more accurate. She'd park on a country road and practically tear my pants off getting to my dick, bend over the car seat with the door open and we'd go to it. She could take it 3 or 4 times a night. It didn't matter whether you could shoot or not, if you were hard enough to stick in it, she wanted it.

So, why not this week?

I don't know what happened. She doesn't either, but evidently someone who knows her and her husband saw us together. Her husband blacked her eye and she called me to say our relationship was history.

Why didn't she leave her husband?

Well, from the way she described him he had an even bigger dick that I have.

And how big is bigger?

I don't know about bigger, but I'm around eight, soft or hard. I don't grow when I get hard, I just get hard.

I'm sort of that way, too.

Morgan wasn't playing my "slightly open bathrobe trick". He didn't even try to tie it closed. Guess he was comfortable with exposing himself and being stared at.

So, Morgan, you found and then lost the perfect cunt?

Almost perfect - she always made me wear a rubber. How I hate those fuckin things. Instead of shooting your ball load into a cunt you fill the damn things up and have a cleanup job on your dick. They are just unnatural. Never meant to be in my opinion.

Know what I mean?

Absolutely, I hate the damn things, too. A man's penis and a woman's vagina were made for skin-to-skin contact. Using a rubber destroys the real feel of intercourse. (As if I were an expert on screwing women.)

Exactly. (His cock left contact with his big balls for a moment as it jerked upward, then settled back down.)

I enjoyed you relating your experience with the blonde. I think you are a bit of a nympho-MAN-iac, yourself.

All I know is that I sure as hell need a lot of sex. I sure like to cum. Jere, would you mind if I sponged another beer off you.

I apologize Morgan. As a host I should have noticed and offered you one. Give me a minute. There are more in a fridge in the garage. I'll go get a six- pack.

Is it OK if I go with you?

Sure.

When we stepped into the garage, Morgan said: Hey, how come you have two identical Buick Centuries?

One of my dad's many idiosyncrasies - notice the license plates, one number apart. He didn't want people to realize he had two cars. They're a little old but have very low mileage. In fact the one my mom drove has only about 10,000 miles on it.

While we're downstairs would you show me the house?

He opened a beer and carried the rest of the pack around while I showed him the house.

Never once did he fasten the bathrobe tie around his waist, even when we settled down in the Living Room for a few minutes and continued our conversation. I guess he was just comfortable showing himself, felt it was natural, if anyone wanted to look that was natural, too. Whether it was intentional or not, the dude was more of a master at prick teasing a man than I ever hoped of achieving.

I might as well show you the entire establishment. I took him to the basement room that had the sauna and steam bath. He followed me, his 8-inch cock swinging as he walked down the stairs. (I know, I turned around to look.)

Oh man, can I use these facilities?

Yes, but I better show you the thermostat control.

At looking at the thermostat I realized I had forgotten to turn in down after I had used the steam bath this morning, but I explained how it worked and that you needed to turn up the temp at least a half an hour before you used it.

Can we use it now?

Sure, its up to temp because I forgot to turn it down this morning.

I threw him a towel, he hung up his robe, put the beer pack on the floor, carried one can in with him and entered the steam room; I undressed and grabbed a towel and a beer. He was sitting on the bottom tier at the rear wall, towel draped around his neck - not his waist. (This fucker was going to have me out of my mind if he kept this up.

What the hell was he after - I couldn't believe he wanted anything I had?) I turned and sat just inside the door. Both of us had our feet on the bench, legs up and not exactly together, heads resting on the wall and I was just starting to relax. (I needed to relax - I was so damn near to making a move on Morgan I was ashamed of myself.)

I heard the door open, then close. He came back with another beer.

Jere, are you gay?

Morgan, I have known you a very short while. That's sort of personal. I don't think I want to answer. Sorry.

Oh, Jere. I'm sorry. Don't get angry with me. OK? I like you and want to be your friend.

OK, I want to be friends, too. If I sounded angry, I didn't mean to.

Jere.

What?

I understand your not wanting to answer my question. What if I found out for myself so you wouldn't have to verbalize anything?

I didn't know exactly what he meant by his statement, so I didn't respond.

Jere, come over here; sit on the bench above me. He pulled on my legs indicating he wanted my legs spread, opening my crotch to his view.

With an incredible amount of gentleness, he removed the towel from my waist, got on his knees, leaned forward and vacuumed my cock into his mouth without touching it with his hands. He gently sucked me and fondled my balls with his fingers. He didn't continue for long when he stopped and said:

Holy Cocksuckers United! You've got a really big dick.

Yours' is bigger.

Maybe but you sure have a bigger crown on the end than I do.

And you have bigger balls.

And, you've shaved your balls.

Are you gay, Morgan?

No, I'm bi but I haven't assigned any percentages to one side of the other. I am still exploring the situation. And, by the way, only gays shave their balls - so I know the answer to my question. I'm sure we can both keep this as a nice, fun little secret, something intimate between the two of us to think about once or twice a day.

I've been dying to hold your cock since you came into my room. Can I feel it?

I think that can be arranged, after a while.

Stand up, Jere, and turn around.

He stuck an index finger up my ass and started finger fucking me and kissing my ass cheeks.

Sweet, Jere, nice and tight, nice and slippery. Have you guessed what I want?

You want to fuck me?

You're close - very close.

Please. Morgan, don't play with my mind. Stop teasing me and tell me what you're after. I'll give it to you, anything you want.

I haven't been teasing you and you don't have to give anything to me Jere. I'll make you want it so bad you'll beg for me to take it.

What are you talking about?

I'm talking about my big cock and my big balls, Jere. I'm not teasing you, I'm testing you.

Why?

I'm deciding if you'd make a good pussy boy. I need frequent, tender, loving care.

What if I don't want to be your pussy boy?

Then I'll just have to convince you that you do, Jere. But I know you are trying to fake it; I know you want my 8-inch dick up your love hole. You've been staring at it all evening. You want it. You want it real bad? You have an itch so deep down in your puss that you've never had it scratched by a cock before. You can feel it now. He took my hand and wrapped around his big dick - soft, silken, warm and wet from the steam.

I wrapped my hand around it and played with it. Then, I realized I had also played right into his hand. I had given him the competitive edge in whatever this game was. I never wanted anything more in the world than to be the one who took care of his cock. I could not say no. He won. Well, I guess I won, too. Anyway I now wanted him more than any cock hungry high school cunt had ever wanted the captain of the football team.

What does being your pussy boy mean? He planted a French kiss on my mouth and said:

Being my pussy boy can mean a lot of things. I don't mean I want to own you. I still like girls and I'm sure you might be attracted to more than one man. I just want to know I can have you when I need you and you can have me when you need me. That should be quite often and give us a lot of sex. A lot of sex is a healthy thing for young guys.

I've never heard that one before.

Well, it is. If you're getting a lot you can't turn it off. You begin wanting more and more. It becomes compulsive, you get so you can't live without it.

So, why is it good for you?

Believe it or not, sex is good exercise. Being sexually satisfied also keeps you from getting into trouble - you don't need to chance coming on to someone that will blacken your eye, break your arm, or spread rumors about you.

I laughed and replied: That is mostly bullshit, but there is an element of truth in everything. Do you have to call me "pussy boy"?

Most decidedly, it turns me on just to say the words, even if they are only between the two of us.

He led me back to my room. He was very direct about it. He needed to do it now. Like he did his "bitch" he was in me twice within two hours. He really could scratch deep itches. Those big balls could shoot a load that there are not words to describe. Morgan had told the truth. If he hadn't been eager to do it the following evening, after we showed together in my bathroom, I really would have been on my knees begging for him to give me his cock. I loved it. I really loved it and I loved Morgan, too.

Chapter 3 - My Fuckup.

One night after we had just finished sex, Morgan reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his cigarettes and lighter (guess a lot of the guys on the crew he worked with smoked and he had picked up the habit). While he was on his back and I was resting my head on his arm, with my arm over his chest, I asked him what I thought was an innocent enough question.

Morgan, can I fuck your ass once in a while? I like fucking ass.

He raised himself up a bit, looked at me and said: Wait until I finish this cigarette.

I took his response as affirmative. (Was I ever wrong!)

Jere, the answer is no. I'm not angry with you for asking. I'm angry with myself for not covering that in the beginning. I am not your pussy boy. You are my pussy boy and I am now going to put you through some training so you will know to never ask that question again. Get on the floor and get on your hands and knees.

(I didn't know what he was up to. I wondered what his fucking me doggie fashion would accomplish. He had never taken me in this position before. I soon found out.)

He re-lubed us, entered me slowly and nothing was out of our usual routine until I got so hot I was about to go crazy and, suddenly, he pulled out; he knew me so well he knew within a split second when to pull out and leave me not quite able to climax.

He told me to roll over and he lowered his body onto mine and French kissed me. He then put one hand in back of my head and pulled it up a bit.

He held the brown bottle under one nostril and then the other; he repeated this and I grew dizzy. Maybe he realized I was so he didn't make me get on my hands and knees again but pulled my legs over his shoulders and entered me again. He was not rough, did not penetrate fast or deep - just slowly and gently. Again, he brought me to within seconds of a climax and pulled his cock out, kissed me and told me what a good pussy boy I was.

After what must have been between an hour and an hour and a half, he alternated between giving it to me and then denying me before he let me reach climax; but not before I began begging, with tears in my eyes for him to fuck me, make me cum.

As we recovered together and he smoked another cigarette, he said:

Jere, I hated being so mean to you. Now you tell me: Are you my pussy boy?

Yes, Morgan, I am.

Good, now I have never done before what I just did to you, but I was so aggravated I felt I had to do something. I don't even know what I did to you. Maybe it could be called tease fucking, slow fucking, something like that. I love you Jere.

I love you, too, Morgan. If I asked you to tease fuck me again, would you do it for me?

Remember our first night together, in the steam bath, I told you the more sex you got the more you wanted. I guess you want me a lot now?

Like your bitch in the red Corvette you don't even have to shoot. If you're erect enough to penetrate me, fuck me, Morgan, fuck me. I really need you!

So, now you want to be my "bitch" as well as my "pussy boy"?

Please!

OK, we'll try. I could fuck the bitch without shooting; she really wasn't all that good a fuck, but I didn't realize it at the time. Doing you bareback might be impossible. You're a hot fuck, really hot; there is probably a limit to the number of times I could pleasure you without overheating myself and unloading inside you.

When you fuck me, are you really fucking me to pleasure me as well as yourself?

Sure. That's part of the game, isn't it? If I don't pleasure you, you wont give me any.

(I filed that little piece of information away in the back of my mind. I can't imagine my ever not wanting to "give him any", but who knows?)

What makes me such a hot fuck?

I don't know why you do it, how you do it, or if you know you do it, or if something I do triggers you to do it, but it seems when I'm so far into plowing your puss you seem to use some muscles in your ass that just grab and squeeze my cock. About the second or third time that happens I shoot before I even realize I'm quite ready. It just happens. I just flood your ass with my baby making juice.

More to follow.

The fucking bit was close because I am going to throw a fuck into you when we get back to your room. More importantly, if you will let me in bareback and can take every, last, hot inch I throw into you I am going to consider making you my pussy boy.

He had the biggest cock I had ever taken. He knew how to use it. He could make you practically rise off the bed and bump your head on to the ceiling.

Was that good, Jere.

A lot better than good - it was a hundred times better than good. It was unbelievable.

Want more?

Yes.

Is an hour too long to wait?

Not for your cock, it isn't.