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These two stories, Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk and Undergraduate Experiments: Sober are designed to be read together. Richie and Adrian are established geeky characters of mine, but here they’re just geeking about sex.
I’ve had feedback on other stories about Adrian that people enjoy the ‘sweet, loving, hot sex’. The sex in these stories is not sweet nor loving. Hot? I hope so.
Many thanks to yowser for beta-reading.
Category: Gay Male
Tags: Geek Pride, first gay sex, drunk sex, friends with benefits, bisexual man, college, gay anal, cock, big cock, bicurious man
Undergraduate Experiments: Drunk
I was round at a friend’s college room, comforting her latest broken heart. I don’t know what Laura sees in women, least not the ones she’s gone out with. Obviously women in general are glorious. Like her. I told her so, while I was offering to cheer her up totally to the best of my ability, if you know what I mean.
She laughed as she sniffled. “Adrian, no. You’re drunk. Pissed as a fucking newt.”
I told her, that really wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t like I’d regret her in the morning or anything. Nor like being half-cut wasn’t my normal state of affairs. If I couldn’t get it up, that’s what a man has a tongue for, right?
I could see the temptation flash across her face, but for whatever reason, she insisted on just going to bed, alone. I’d helped Laura nurse her sorrows — some bird called Ali had decided to get serious with some other woman, apparently — but if Laura didn’t want cheering up with any sexual favours from the most charming student on her Materials Science degree course, leastways the best charmer from t’other side of the Irish Sea, then there’s no helping some girls.
So I simply tucked her in and polished off her Bacardi, until she fell asleep. She’d had at least half what I did, so it’s not like I’d had much more than half a litre. Barely a pint. Even at 40% a.b.v., that’s not enough to knock me out.
Once she was snoring, I crept downstairs, as quietly as you can when seeing double. I left the staircase, and tried to get my bearings in her college’s courtyard. One of the courtyards. Too many courtyards… Square, so all the walls look the same, especially in the dark and the drizzling rain. I aimed myself at the middle of the opposite wall, hoping it would be the exit. It wasn’t, but I spied an alleyway in the corner of the court and tottered my way to that. I avoided the rose bushes, only hitting one windowsill as I lurched along a cobbled path.
Then I slipped on a cobblestone that jumped out at me, and fell over.
I tried to stand up again, but the gravity wasn’t working right. So I compromised, just working on sitting. I was in a covered tunnel, leading to the next court. Large wheelie-bin next to me to lean on, recycling bins opposite. One doorway with cement stairs going down, one with wider wooden stairs going up.
I had myself a wee rest there. No reason for me to be moving, after all. Until some person emerged from the basement.
“You OK, there?” The figure pauses, recognising me. “Oh, it’s you, you fucking pisshead.”
“Hey, there’s no need to be insulting! Just because a man likes a drink.” Sitting on the wet ground, I don’t sound convincing.
“Yes, there is. You’re a fucking alcoholic, Adrian, and we all know it.”
“Eh…” I mean, the voice is right, but it’s not like a problem, you know? I try to focus to see who it is. Looks kinda like a woman, only very tall. No idea.
“For fuck’s sake.” My hand is grabbed and I’m hauled to my feet, where I stumble, because, again, those wet cobbles make anyone wobble all over. The swearing bod sticks an arm round my waist until I’m reliably standing. I wrap my arm round his. Hers? His, I think.
“Cheers, love,” I tell them.
It’s definitely a guy who snorts at me in contempt. A deep voice as he picks up a laundry basket, followed by curses as I lurch against the wall. He drops the laundry, and drags me out into the next court, which is larger with immaculate lawns and presumably a dozen wee ‘Keep off the grass’ signs which I can’t focus on right now. And it’s dark. “Stand there.”
I don’t know what his problem is, but I stand still. Walking might still be a wee bit optimistic, anyhow. He returns, with the laundry basket, glares at me, then disappears into a staircase.
No idea if he’s coming back.
That perfect grass looks comfy. It’s your feet they don’t want on the grass, after all, so there’s no reason not to collapse and appreciate the perfect green chequered pattern from collegiate lawn-mowing, close-up. It takes three hundred years to achieve that level of lush, flat, verdant grassy perfection, you know.
A moment later the guy is back. “Fucking hell, Adrian!”
He knows me, knows my name. I spy a pigtail as he hauls me to upright again, off that springy, friendly, albeit damp lawn. And there, a wooden ear gauge. Ah. It’s Laura’s mate, that opinionated arsehole genius who lived with her in first yalova escort year. I suspect he’s fucked her, too. Lucky git. He’s OK, Richie is, just doesn’t take any shit from anyone.
“Evening, Richie. About ye? All right?”
“Me? Fine. You? Not so much.”
That’s sarcasm. That’s just rude. “I’m grand, you fucking cunt. Just having a wee rest, on my wee way home.”
“Uh-huh. You think you could cross the main roads, safely, in your condition?”
I shrug, fall against him a bit because he’s kinda hot and I’m not concentrating. “Never been run over yet.”
“The luck of the Irish,” the bastard mutters. “Can’t leave you here all night. Come on.”
He pushes me into his staircase, up a treacherous stone step with two huge holes worn by the feet of a few centuries of students, then I trip over the steep wooden stairs in front of me. They twist round, and get no less steep, so I go up on hands and knees, Richie huffing behind me. We reach a landing, where I pull myself up onto a wee bay window seat overlooking the front court. His laundry basket is sitting on the ancient oak next to me.
“Don’t even think of puking on my clean clothes,” he growls. “One more flight. You can make it.”
I get the impression he’d prefer to hurl me down the stairs, so I keep climbing. There’s two doors at the top, the landing about three feet square. He reaches around me, unlocks the door, which is hobbit-sized. I fall in through the doorway, and down two steps the bastard didn’t warn me about.
“They left the gravity switched on again? It’s terrible, how that happens. No, I’m not leaving you in my bedroom; keep going to the lounge. There’s more of them sneaky steps, don’t say I didn’t warn you this time.”
The doorway is six feet in front of me, two steps up, and — I notice these ones — two down on the other side. There’s an armchair just beyond that, so I collapse into it in relief. I could sleep here.
I’m guessing the noises are Richie putting his laundry away, the anal-retentive twat, shoving drawers closed, so it’s a couple minutes before he appears, shoving a large plastic glass of water at my face. No sense of personal space, Rich hasn’t got.
I take the water before he tips it over me — he just might, he’s that sort of cunt.
“Drink it, then.”
Like I wouldn’t. I knock it back. You need water with booze. Pint for pint, that’s my mantra, though I hear some people think that means pints of beer, not spirits. “Ta.”
“Right. I was going to make toast. You want some?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Marmalade, Marmite, or just butter?”
I concentrate on the question. “A scrape of Marmite, if you would.” I’m not a fan of sweet stuff.
He nods. Then I see him pulling out a toaster on a tray, which he places on a table next to the kettle.
“Ha! I knew it! Toaster in a cupboard!” I’m killing myself, laughing. He doesn’t get it.
“The housekeeper doesn’t allow heating appliances. Except kettles, under duress, on trays. Shut it, you. It’s not that fucking funny.”
“Is! Uptight wanker keeps his toaster in the cupboard!” I manage to calm myself. I suppose it’s funnier if you’re from Northern Ireland. I have a college mate, from across the divide, who hotly denied ever doing any such thing, though he let on his gran tidies hers away each night. I knew it wasn’t an urban myth.
Rich shakes his head, jabs a middle finger up at me, and plonks two slices of sliced white on a flowery plate. He’s generous with the butter, applies Marmite sensibly. “Here you go. Line your stomach.”
“Tcheers.” It’s a difficult word to say, around my uncooperative tongue. “How’s yourself, then? Laundry on a Friday night? What a hobby! You’ve not got a thriving social life, nor a shag, eh?”
I steel myself for getting beaten up, as happens so much when I let my mouth run off. But Richie’s a sound bloke beneath his bluster, so he’ll probably just swear at me.
“Same to you, ducky, same to you.” He lounges back on his Chesterfield sofa with his own toast, then makes us both a cuppa.
“You not got any more of the good stuff?”
“For you? No. I’m not wasting it.”
I shrug, knock back the last few drops of Laura’s rum from the bottle in my coat pocket, and drop it on the carpet. Don’t want a big 750ml bottle breaking. Ah, well. Tea and toast isn’t a bad snack.
Richie breaks the silence. “Watched a show, earlier. My mate Sanj was in it. Had a swift half, after. Then came back. I’ve got a draft dissertation to finish, for Monday.”
He doesn’t mention any sex. “What’s the dissertation on?”
“Write-up of my summer project. If I get that off my back, then I can focus on this term’s project, get that written up early next term, and then just focus on preparing for Finals. Similar for you, isn’t it?”
“Not so much. Aye, I worked all summer, but not officill-ul-al,” I stutter over the word, “as part of my degree. It fed into my one project, sure, but I’m old-school; ninety percent of my degree rides on my Finals. yalova escort bayan Fun four days, that’ll be.”
“Mm. At least our subjects should be lots of diagrams and shit, not pages and pages of essays. They say it’s why girls don’t do so well in History — don’t have that hand strength to keep up…”
Richie’s gesture makes clear what skilled hand action he thinks we’re better at.
I laugh. Laura said the cunt had a sense of humour, but I’ve never really seen it before.
He smiles, a small one with his eyes. His mouth is hardly moving, but I prefer eye smiles: you can trust them. “How are you doing now?”
Still not quite drunk enough, I reckon, but I’m not telling the bastard that. “Ta, for the food an’ all. Eh, Laura’s tucked up in bed, finished howling her wee heart out.”
“Laura? Who’s hurt her?”
“Some lass called Ali — I don’t know her.”
“Shit. The fucking cow…”
“You know the girl?”
“Mm. Worked with them both, summer before last. Let’s just say that when we finished work on this kids’ summer camp, her and Ali acquired quite an… understanding. Did she mention anyone called Andy?”
I try to pull the memories out. “He’s just friends with Ali too, think she said? She’s got someone special, now…”
“Kin’ell. Just what Laura doesn’t need during third year.”
“Eh, I don’t think Laura’s heart breaks that easy,” I tell him.
“You reckon? I don’t think it’s properly been prised open, before.”
“Hm. You might be right, at that. Ah well, she wouldn’t take my offers to cheer her up. You can give it a try, in the morning.”
The eejit just stares at me. “What are you implying?”
“Are you saying you’ve not fucked Laura? Good, because I didn’t think you were a liar.”
The guy calms himself, sips more tea. “Yeah, I’m a jammy bastard. Very lucky. She’s great.”
“So I hear.”
“Your loss, if you can’t ease up on the booze and fags long enough.”
“Fuck off.” We both know it’s true; she would, if I did. Reminds me. I pull a ciggie out of the other pocket, and light up. Normally I’d ask permission to smoke in someone’s room, but what’s Richie going to do? Chuck me out in that rain, me all helpless and unable to walk?
Richie doesn’t bother to react, which is one reason I don’t mind the guy. I inhale, happily.
He waits until I’m nearly done, then asks, “When did you last get fucked, then?”
As it happens, there was a girl I pulled in Cindie’s nightclub a few weeks back, but that’s not what he means, is it? “What are you accusing me of?”
“You heard,” he retorts.
I take a long drag of my fag-end. “Gareth’s a quare fucking gobshite.” The man announced to the world that he’d shagged me. He didn’t mention how often, at least.
Richie agrees. “You got that right. That man, he’s a gossip-monger extraordinaire! Knows everything, and tells everyone!”
“You’re fucking telling me! So, what’s he been saying about me now, apart from me being the best wee fuck in Cambridge?”
“Is ‘most willing’ the same as ‘best’?”
“I’m not getting into philosophy.”
“Good. Pretentious wankers, all the Philosophy students. Worse than the SPS crew. But, rumours about you? Where would I even start?”
Richie sighs with mock exasperation. Fucking wind-up merchant. “You swiped the leftover vodka from his last party, you nicked a bottle of Tia Maria off Lindsey, you chundered in Will’s room…”
“That’s a lie, I never! I’ve never puked in Will’s rooms for sure — he’s always got there first, the lightweight! Never stole anything off Linz, either; I’d look at Laura for that one. Or Gareth himself! He’s sneaky enough, the tosser. His vodka, aye, I’ll cop to that one. What can I say? I was drunk!”
Besides, serve him right. Gareth was only just able to get it up, that night. Worst fuck I’d had from him since we were in first year. Normally, he’s much better, though I avoid him and his emotions, nowadays.
“Mm. You got anything worth drinking?”
“More tea.” Richie glares at me.
“No point in that. Doesn’t stop the brain rumbling. Besides, it’s worse than beer for making you need a piss! Where’s your bogs?”
Richie points to the main door into his lounge. “Down the corridor, down three flights — the toilets and baths are both in the basement.”
I stand up, and trip over my own foot.
“Oh, you fucking useless pisshead fucker. Right.” Richie comes over, scoops me up. “Forget it. This way.” He half-pushes me back into his bedroom, up and down the stupid fucking steps, bending over so he doesn’t hit his head. Bloody 17th-century buildings. He shoves me towards a small dormer window overlooking the main court, about three feet from the floor, ceiling sloping to that height on either side.
I’m forced to my knees to avoid hitting my head. “What the…?”
Richie sucks his upper palate. “Use your remaining brain cell, why don’t you?” He undoes the latch and flings the small lattice window open. “Piss that way. It’ll run down the roof into the gutter. Unless you’re escort yalova really impressive.”
“This is what you do at night, is it?”
He shrugs. “Seeing as it’s not so cold, yet. I’ll get a bottle, for when it gets parky.” He pauses. “An empty whisky one, maybe. Then I’ll let you drink it.”
He’s lucky I’m beyond mid-flow and not able to turn round to piss in his face.
“Fuck off.” I finish, turn round and dizzily collapse on the floor.
“Put your dick away, wanker. Unless you’re trying to seduce me.”
I glance down. Oh, yeah. I sort my flies out. Then I comprehend his words. “Why? Do you want me to?”
He shrugs. There’s no denial. Now that’s interesting.
“Hey, Richie boy? You’ve got some ‘splaining to do, now. You entice a poor drunk fella into your bedroom, and for what reason? Hm? You like the men too, aye?”
He doesn’t respond.
“There’s no shame in it, y’know. Or are you just curious, never been with a boy?” I manage to think. “Or both, of course.”
He says nothing, still standing in the middle of the room where the ceiling is tall enough. The lad’s slim and elegant. Some say he looks like a girl, but he doesn’t, just because he’s got long hair and cheekbones and a bunch of ear piercings. Sometimes he ties the hair back with a scrunchie, not to look girly, just to provoke the people who would give him shit for looking girly. I respect that.
“Rich?” He sits on his bed, clearly thinking. He’s not telling me to fuck off, nor just ushering me to his sofa in the other room. Which means he’s at least a bit interested. I aim to reassure him. “I’m not Gareth; I don’t tell everyone about who I fuck.”
“Or who I let fuck me,” I add.
His eyes widen. That caught his interest. Right, well. This evening might improve no end… “You ever fucked a guy?”
He finds his voice. “Mm-mm?”
Uh-huh, that’s a no. “Been fucked?”
“No, and not planning on it.”
One of those. “Aye, and never sucked a man’s cock neither, nor planning on it?”
He’s startled. “Oh, I’ve done that! Why? Has Laura never said?”
“She did not.” Laura goes up in both our estimations, for being a rare student able to actually keep her gob shut.
I’m gonna have to do the talking. “Well, now. If you’re my host, wanting my sweet, sweet arse, you’d best practise getting me hard again.”
He sighs, rips his hoodie off, then goes to the basin in the corner. He fetches a flannel and soap.
“Oi, that’s cold, you bastard! What’s wrong with my cock?”
“Sorry. Just I’m not into piss, at all. I’ll make it up to you.”
He settles me on the bed — a typical student single — and kneels down before me.
I can’t keep my mouth shut. The drink’s got my tongue. “‘Kin’ell, Richie the arrogant bastard is on his knees, lowering himself to lay his fingers and lips on my cock.”
“Oh, fuck you.” He shuts up as he stuffs my dick into his mouth.
He’s not that great, maybe because he’s not really into it, but hell, it’s something moving over my rapidly-hard cock that’s not my own hand. He seems to be moving right, doing all the right stuff. OK, maybe I am a bit more drunk than is ideal for this.
Nah, not possible.
He takes a breather, pulls a pube from his teeth. “Laura’s right. You really do taste too much of fag-ash. And you’re wasted. Moving on, then. You like being fucked, right?”
“Aye. By any man who’s not a careless cunt. Lube me up good, stretch me open, get in there.” A woman would do too, but most girls run a mile from such things. Only one I know who’d even consider a strap-on would be Laura, but Laura’s only ever given me a peck on the cheek — never got anywhere near my cock or bum, sadly. I add, “Rimming optional.”
“Huh. In that case, you’re wearing way too many clothes, and it’s time for you to wake my cock up.”
The bastard’s mouth grins now, not just his eyes smiling. I start to attack my shirt, but he takes over when I fumble the buttons. He laughs at my vest underneath, everyone always does, but vests keep me warm. I’m small and thin, I need them. Until Rich chucks it to the floor, then pulls me to stand before him so he can work to get my jeans down.
Once they’re over my arse, he dumps me back on the bed and lands himself on top of me.
“How pissed are you, really?”
“I’ll still not respect you in the morning,” I tell him. He chuckles. “Unless it turns out you’re good at fucking a boy’s cute wee arse. Have you?”
His face is back to deadpan, as usual. “No. I’ve fucked a couple girls that way, though. The second wanted me to do it repeatedly. Begged, even.”
“Did she, aye?” I wonder if ‘she’ was Laura. Doesn’t matter, I’ll be fantasising about that later, either way.
“Mm. How different can it be?”
“You can tell me, after.”
I’m starting to like the guy. Sex, no strings, no emotion, no bullshit. And he’s lying on top of me, rubbing himself against me. I almost doze off.
“Oi.” He flicks the bar that’s in my left nipple, the area under it still inflamed. Getting a piercing at a festival: bad idea. I think it’s finally healing, after the antibiotics. “You want it? If you think you’re sober enough to take it, get your kecks down and get on your hands and knees.”
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