Disclaimer: The story below may contain erotic situations between consenting male adults. I urge you to stop if you find this offensive. Ditto for those breaking any laws by reading it.
Side note: The story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of my imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental. No part of the story may be used or reproduced without my permission.
This is my first try in writing a story in Nifty. Forgive me if it is not perfect. Useful inputs and comments are appreciated. My email is sleeper029@hotpop.com. Thanks. Hope you like it.
The Writer Part 1
I might have not been to the library's third floor but I'm no dumb jock. I know jocks that are dumber than me and I haven't failed any class - period. Besides, as I pass sections of bookcases on this floor, I notice they contain mostly literature fluff. Me no English major. Comprende? Perhaps, you wonder what I'm doing here. Well, don't bother. You know why. I'm horny too.
I live the closet life. The doors are guarded down and locked. I can't afford to have the hunky wrestling team to take a peek. No, I'm not on the team but some of my friends are. I'd love to get pinned but sadly, that's not the goal of the sport. Anyway, contact in wrestling (no matter how loving the position) is not enough to deliver an orgasm (for me anyway). Putting the reliable but lonesome spanking of the monkey aside, can you blame me if I poke my nose in search for some physical, er, poking? As long as I'm careful, I can have a fleeting yet satisfying one afternoon stand, or sitting if I get tired.
I "met" the guy online. Don't know what he looks like. He said he'd be looking spiffy in a suit due to a presentation earlier this morning. He said he's "discrete" - I figure he's a Math major. Since my clique and I can't add without our handy calculators, the buffer zone between him and us should be a-okay. I told him I'd meet him after Macroeconomics class. But paranoid me, I thought I'd look better in a green shirt so I went back to dorm and changed my yellow shirt.
As I walk towards the northern wing now, I am hoping Mr. Discrete didn't quit on me or else I might have to study here to punish myself. On the bright side, I haven't seen a single student since I emerged from the elevator. Great! We have the entire wing to ourselves. Oh bless this slacker university.
I awkwardly tiptoed when I approached the last bookcase, where I decided to temporarily hide and investigate. I peeked over the musty books and saw him for the first time. He looked amused writing in his notebook. Out of the blue, he glanced up as if he had felt my presence. He didn't see me but his anxious eyes scanned through the bookcase for movement. Then he turned a page and continued writing.
Even with a suit on, he looked like a boy. I don't know if it was the nerves but now his face was in serious grim, as though he's trying to wipe away his youthful looks. I quietly begged him to smile again. He can be unbelievably cute. I want to place my hand upon his smooth cheek and feel the thick black hair between my fingers. His lips are tempting me when he pouts. I want to suck them. His skin has a perfect tan. I imagine his body, if I'm to strip him off that suit, to be smooth and slender. He's not what I expected but I surprisingly felt aroused. He is different and a new ...
My hand slipped and toppled a couple of the books. He looked up and instantly spotted me. So much for the smooth entrance I've prepared. I'd look better in yellow have I known I'd stumble.
He tilted his head and gasped, "Is that you, Scott?"
"Uh - yes," I rearranged the books with a clumsy smile.
"Take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute," he mumbled.
"I didn't catch your name." I said as I sat across from him.
He shifted his eyes to the left, "Anthony."
"You're pretty cute, Anthony," I distracted him with a wink. He blinked twice, disconcerted as if my eye twitched. He avoided my stare and resumed scribbling.
"Let me just finish this, okay?"
"Sure," I beamed. My smile frozen. Jaw muscles rigid. Did he even get a good look at me? I think he likes me but why is he still writing? Should I ask what he is writing?
"What are you writing? An essay?"
"Not exactly," he answered quickly.
I was curious now as to what he is actually writing because he was doing it so fast. I wanted to ask again, but I didn't want to bother him with too much questions. Furthermore, I, sort of, wanted to gawk at him guiding the pen to boogie across the page. But then he slowed down when my mind began to draw blank.
"Shit!" His tongue slipped. The outburst snapped me back to reality. Obviously, he has lost his train of thought.
"What's the matter?"
Anthony bit his pencil while he stared at me sadly. He has wonderful, piercing brown eyes.
"You're distracting me. I think we should get it over with," Anthony uttered faintly, like I was some kind of chore. I ought to feel a little hurt but my rising dick was nodding. He got up from his chair and removed his jacket. He looked around, even at the huge transparent windows, trying to detect company.
"I'm nervous," he confessed, "I hope nobody hears us all the way here."
He's shorter than I thought. I was about the same height when I was fourteen. But his presence overwhelmed me as he sidled his way between the table and my chair.
He looked deep into my eyes, curious as to what I was thinking. But I got nothing. I wanted to gape. I kept thinking - This is it. This is it. But I was stone cold. Why couldn't I just reach out and make him lean on me?
He smiled at me, but a clueless one. Was it a reflection of my smile? He finally rested his hands on my tensed shoulders and leaned in towards my face. Anthony was frustratingly slow. He can't kiss me directly. His adorable face has to draw near from the side while his eyes concentrated on my lips. Why can't he look at my eyes?
Then I felt the soft landing. It widened my eyes. A surge of hormones kicked in. I reached for his head so he couldn't escape my nasty lips and tongue. I didn't feel him pull out but it seemed like I was doing most of the work. When I released, I was surprised I was standing and he was seated on the table.
"You had Tic-tac?" Anthony exhaled.
"Yeah, the white ones," I told him, "They keep me awake in Macro."
"How refreshing," Anthony softly chuckled, "I suck on Skittles myself."
"Let me help you lie on the table," I said. He silently nodded as I guided his back and set the notebook aside. I got a glimpse of his neat handwriting and then - bog!
I carelessly drop him and the table smacked his head.
"Aw. Careful," He caressed the bump but I wasn't paying attention to him. My eyes were locked on the notebook. Its first lines on its fresh page:
Even with a suit on, he looked like a boy. I don't know if
it was the nerves but now his face was in serious grim, as
though ...
My very own words stunned me. They were right there on the page, written out in Anthony's scribble. I quickly scanned the final written lines:
I, sort of, wanted to gawk at him guiding the pen to boogie
across the page. But then he slowed down when my mind began
to draw blank.
"What is this?" I shrieked, "Are you telepathetic or something?"
"No - I mean - uh - yes. No, I'm not!" Anthony snatched the notebook from my grip and crawled backwards on the table.
"Why did you write that?"
"Y-you're in my story. You're the main character. I'm the writer."
"What?" The words are not clicking.
"You're in my story. You're the main character. I'm the writer."
He appeared certain of his answer and it frightened me. I calmed down and waited for the light bulb to turn on. I waited and I waited as I watched Anthony inch his way to the end of the table. If you fucking figured out by now, please fucking tell ...
"Tell me what I'm thinking right now." I'm thinking that I'm not real, if I am just a character.
"You're thinking that you're not real if you're just a character."
"Tell me it's not true."
He shook his head.
"Wait, what kind of story?" I asked.
"Erotic," Anthony bit his lip.
"Well, you must like me then," I lit up, "You created me."
"I didn't create you. You came with the story. I just write your thoughts and what's happening to you."
I nodded but one question persisted, "But you do like me, right?"
"I-I do," he stammered, "B-but why can't we just make out? We're in an erotic story. There must be a sex scene."
"Oh," the thought paralyzed me, "I was up for it, but you just had to blow my mind. Sure, I wanted you to blow my mind but this isn't the blowing I had in mind... I don't know."
"Oh fuck it!" He jumped out on the other side of the table, seized his jacket, and ran. I went after him in a maze of bookcases but I lost him somewhere in the mythology section. It should have been easy to catch him, but my thoughts weighed me down. Call it existential crisis or whatever. There goes my sexual drive and the guy I could have driven.
But I hate him. Damn it, I was up against the writer, who knows everything about me. My strengths. My weaknesses. My thoughts. He is like a god. I'm just a character. He can do whatever with me and I'm completely powerless. I don't care what I am anymore. I didn't even attempt to see where I was heading.
I bumped into this gorgeous guy on my way to the elevator. He was wearing a sleeveless black shirt. We exchanged glances briefly and then I let him walk away when the elevator doors kissed. Then it dawned on me. It's not fantasy anymore to wonder if a guy was gay. It could be the truth. If I am the main character of an erotic story, then he must be gay too, right? But I'm terrified of this very new outlook. I have come to know this campus to be mostly populated by straight students. I still believe it.
From the lowered elevator, I stepped into the first floor and eyed every person. Do they know they were characters in a story? Is it possible I could get it on with them? My heart throbbed rapidly in response. The stern-looking lady behind the desk was a turn-off. Ew! I saw an old professor pass by. Double Ew! A group of guys are joking in the corner. Some are definitely worth a try. A guy with glasses was using the photocopy machine. The guy can dress. I actually pictured him naked. Not bad. A beautiful redhead with big boobs came in as I came out of the library. She's a hottie but girls are so high school. Maybe I'll dabble in bisexuality after college.
When I arrived at the parking lot, there was a freshman kid standing in front of my car. I'd bother describing him but he's pissing me off.
"Hey. Get out of the way!"
He wasn't listening to me. He was looking up. His jaw suddenly dropped. I followed his gaze and dropped my jaw as well. On the third floor, Anthony was pinned against the transparent window. Behind him was the gorgeous guy with sleeveless black shirt. There was no doubt about it. Black Shirt was fucking Anthony's brains out. Anthony's open shirt exposed a mouth- watering smooth body and the cutest defined abs I've seen. It was hot but the view was frustratingly limited to Anthony's upper body. I'm fucking jealous of that Black Shirt. I should be the one getting some.
There's the sex scene, (ladies and) gentlemen. I am indeed in an erotic story. What campus library in America could display something like that behind their windows? This must be a dream. No - a nightmare. I refuse to watch. It's not a sex scene if I didn't see any cum and I won't let that happen unless it's my cum on Anthony's body and vice versa. I won't let this be the end, literally "the end." It ain't over until the fat lady --- no, screw that old saying. It ain't over until I cum ... for the second time... no, third... no, fourth ...
I turned away and started my car. I floored the pedal and ran over the gawking freshman. It's not like I killed him. He's a character after all. He's not real.
Can you read my mind, Anthony? I want you badly. Rip out this story to pieces and remove your ass from Black Shirt's dick. You're wasting the tightness. You like black shirts? I bought a silky one from Banana Republic just last week. Maybe I didn't pay too much for the shirt after all. You want a real erotic story? Come and get it. Or better yet, get it and cum.