Date: Sun, 21 Jan 2001 12:01:16 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 16

Chapter 16: Thesis and Antitheses
	I sat in the stands in the bleachers watching the team work out.  My green
notebook was in my lap, but I was not writing.  Instead, I was lost in
thought as my eyes surveyed the boys.  Adam.  What the hell to do about
Adam?  If Sharon was right, and I had every reason to think she would be -
she was *very* good at what she did - then I couldn't leave the camp.  That
was why my suitcase, still open and partially packed, lay on a corner of the
floor of my bedroom instead of full and in my car.  Studying Adam would mean
not only a sure pass on the dis, but, evidently, a great deal of money.  Who
knows?  A Nobel Prize in chemistry or medicine?  It was not like me to be so
grandiose, but I had never heard Sharon that excited before.  But how could
I study him if he had such power over me?  He was beginning to infect me.
That dream!
	My advisor's voice rang distantly in my head.  The scientific method, it
said.  Question your assumptions.  What if you are wrong?  Think it through.
	What if I was wrong?  If I were wrong, then Adam was right - he was a
knight in shining armor, using his extraordinary powers for the good of
people rather than for his own perverse jollies.  If I were wrong, then Adam
really *could* divine what people needed, and supply it for them.  If that
were the case, then, Corey really did need to get raped in order to teach
him how to treat others gently.  If that were the case, Brad, for some
reason, was getting something - learning something - by giving Adam blow
jobs.  And Matt.  What was Matt getting from Adam turning him down?  That
was mystifying, and lent credence to the idea that I was *not* wrong, *not*
misreading.  And then, of course, there was his total misreading of me.
	But wait, said the voice, think it through.  What if you are wrong?  If I
were wrong about myself and Adam was right?  Then I was due for some grand
revelation about what I wanted out of life.  But what would that be - or,
rather, what would Adam think that would be?  The first time we had an
encounter he made me beg to blow him, then refused me.  The second time, he
made me cum merely by finger-fucking my mouth, and slapping me.  In both
cases, I was humiliated, used, and abused.  Is *that* what Adam thought I
wanted?  To be treated like chattel?  To be made to serve?  To be property?
A toy?  His property?  His toy?
	I watched him work the pommel horse.  His hands slapped its leather surface
as he moved, swinging in perfectly pointed arcs, from one end of it to the
other.  I could hear the smacks of his hands on the leather from where I
sat, and, despite myself, my dick began to respond.  No.  That could not
possibly be it.  I mean, I enjoyed the occasional role-play as much as the
next guy, but to suggest that that was what I needed?  I was going to have a
nice boyfriend and a nice white house in the suburbs with a picket fence
that wrapped all the way around and tied in back.  It was all settled.
Sharon had offered why he had made me beg, why he had made me cum.  It was
nothing more than chemistry - a chemistry I had, theretofore, neither been
able to fight nor protect myself against.  But it was nothing more than
that.  It was not what I wanted, it was, as Brad had said, what he was
*making* me think I wanted.  It was his hormones in my bloodstream.  Nothing
more.
But the dream.  He had said, and Sharon had confirmed, that he could not
work at a distance.  How then, to explain the dream?  And the fact that I
was uncomfortably hard as I sat there, watching him at 100 yards match his
muscles against the inflexible challenge of the pommel horse?
	No, Adam could not be right.  I was not some mindless SM bottom looking to
play with whips and chains.  I was in a doctoral program in psychology, for
Christ sake!  No.  And if he were wrong about me, it would stand to reason
he was wrong about Matt, about Brad, about everything.
	Yes, he certainly had skills - there was the obvious chemical one, of
course, and his tremendous skill in the gym.  But there was more.  He was
very good at the mind-fuck, which, of course, made sense as he had had so
much practice at it.  He was very good at using people for his own ends,
because he could.  I wondered what would happen if I had had the same powers
as he.  Would it affect me in the same way?  Power corrupts, and absolute
power corrupts absolutely.  I remembered the Mule from the Azimov series I
had read as a child: the mutant who could turn people's minds.  He, too, had
said he was bored, and the fact that he fell in love - that he *didn't* turn
the mind of his love interest - became his undoing.  But Adam couldn't turn
his power on and off.  I assumed so, at least.  The process must have been
autonomic.  So he affected everyone around him - male, female, old and young
- and all the time.  Christ, I thought, but he must be lonely.
	No wonder he was so off the mark.  No wonder he was so deluded.  He was
lonely.  He was desperately, and terribly lonely.
	Feeling more settled, I opened my notebook and returned to transcribing
behaviors.  Hamstring stretch, abdominal stroke, pose 6, abdominal stroke,
verbal exchange…  The rat was back in the lab.
	After dinner, I went to the commons room.  I needed to be social, and, more
importantly, public for a while.  I had to sort out how I could defend
myself should he approach again, and didn't want to be alone in my room
before I could do that.
	Corey was on his seat watching the tube, of course.  I looked at him again,
more closely, looking for clues as to what was within.  But he was engrossed
in _Home Improvement_, and offered no more information beyond the occasional
chuckle.  The never-ending poker game continued.  From the size of the
piles, it looked like Doug was, as ever, losing.  Steven was reading.  As I
had brought my book along with me, I sat down next to him, and found my
place in it.
	After a while, Matt bounced into the room.  He came over and sat down next
to me.
	"Hey," he said.
	"That's Heywood," called Brad, from the poker table.
	"Fuck off and die," I shot back, good-naturedly.
	"Well, one outta two, dude," he said, and winked.
	"So long time no see," Matt said, grinning.
	He was joking, of course, but Christ!  He was right!  Was it only yesterday
that we had fucked?  So much had happened since then.  It seemed like eons
ago.
	"Miss me?"  I asked?
	"I did, amigo," he said.  "I did, a lot.  Dreamt about you, in fact."  He
was not whispering, but he had lowered his voice, to make the conversation
more private.
	"Really?" I said.  "I dreamt last night too."
	"That's so cool.  Simpatico, huh, amigo?"
	I didn't have the heart, at that point, to point out the error in his
logic.
	"Must be," I said, and smiled at him.
	He really was beautiful.    Those eyelashes should be against the law.  He
was wearing a baggy sweatshirt and shorts.  Even through the loose-fitting,
thick material, the round fullness of his form was evident.  The hem of the
shirt sneaked up as he moved his arms, revealing his diminutive bellybutton
and a thin horizontal swatch of smooth sun-browned skin.
	The room had suddenly gone silent, and Matt's turn to the door caused me to
look in that direction as well. Adam stood in the jamb, thumbs hooked in his
front belt buckles, looking over who was in the room.  His gaze fell in our
direction, and his lips pursed slightly.
Looking directly at me, he said, "Matt.  You're up."
Without responding, Matt arose, and headed toward the door.  Adam
disappeared down the hall, and Matt turned to me.
"Later," he said, before turning the corner himself.  His look was neither
of joy nor fear.  It was more like resignation.
	Seconds later, Dan turned the corner, coming into the commons room.  He
walked directly up to me, holding a chess set.
	"Let's play," he said, and moved over to the table in the corner.
	I was somewhat surprised.  Dan had hardly said two words to me the entire
week I had been there.  He always seemed too busy watching Adam, emulating
Adam, studying Adam.  I laughed internally.  Well, we had that last part in
common, at least.
	And now, out of nowhere, a chess game.  What the hell, I thought.  I did
enjoy a good game of chess - though I doubted he would be much competition -
and it was a good opportunity to get to know another of the boys.
Particularly good as it was one so close to the source of my research.
Besides, I thought.  I had some information to share with him.  Important
information.
	"Sure," I said, walking over to the table where he was already setting up
the pieces.  I sat, and chose one of the pawns he presented to me, hidden in
his hands.  It was black.
	"So what brings this on?" I asked.
	"Adam said that he thought we'd like each other.  So I figured we could
play a game.  Meet."
	"Adam, huh?"
	"Um hum," he said, moving his knight out as an opening move.  "So you're a
psych major?"
	"Yeh," I said, figuring the cat was out of the bag anyway.  "Getting a
doctorate."
	"I took a bunch of psych classes.  Liked them a lot," he said.  "Toyed with
becoming a major."
	"You didn't?"
	"Nope.  Changed my mind."
	"How come?"
	"The classes got boring, and too many majors were too fucked up.  It was
like they were taking the classes in unsuccessful attempts to do
self-analysis."
	"Yeah, true," I said, "I know a lot of people like that.  Go into
psychology to figure themselves out.  They're usually weaned out by the
graduate level, though.  So what did you switch to?"
	"Philosophy."
	"You're a philosophy major?"
	"Yeah, why?"
	"Nothing.  Just surprised a little."
	"Oh?  Why?"  He stopped and looked up at me, scrutinizing my face.
	"No reason," I said.  "Nothing at all."  Returning his attention to the
game, he took one of my pawns with his bishop.
	Dan was truly stunning - a fact that I had noticed the first night, and was
starkly reminded of sitting opposite him.  While he was dark-haired, he had
fair skin - an interesting mix of northern and southern European.  His eyes
were light blue - an almost steely gray, in fact - and larger than normal.
His irises were ringed with bands of blue much darker than the field of
color they surrounded to create a striking and compelling effect.  He exuded
strength, grace, and control.  His musculature was extraordinarily
pronounced - even for the boys - and unlike the rest of the team, he was
tall.  He was, in fact, the only of the guys who was taller than I was.  And
his slight southern accent was markedly erotic.
	"So you enjoying the summer?" I asked, trying to change the subject.
	"Oh, yes.  Very much so.  The opportunity to work with Johnston was one of
the reasons I transferred to the school in the first place.  My routines are
really coming along.  It was this or the Olympic Training Camp - but I
thought this would be better.  Smaller, more team-oriented."
	"How much of a team effort is gymnastics, really?  I mean, I always thought
it was much more of an individual kind of thing."
	"More than swimming," he said, "less than soccer.  It depends.  When we go
to the NCAA Championships, the team is everything.  You're really competing
for your school.  But when you go to the Nationals try-outs, it's every man
for himself.  Still, you definitely want your teammates to make the cut with
you.  It's so much better working with guys you know and like."
	"And you like these guys here?"
	"Sure.  A lot.  Don't you?"  Again, he looked up at me, aiming those blue
rings of ice into my mind.
	Eyes are so important.  They tell us so much about a person, and we base a
disproportionate amount of our opinions of people on them.  Eyes are one of
the first things that fix babies' gazes.  Eyes tell us when people are
lying.  Studies have been published determining that in some respects, our
species has a universal concept of beauty that is inexorably bound up with
the symmetry of the face.  All peoples, it seems, rank some aspects of
beauty in the same way, from the Yanomamo to the Innuit.  All find
symmetric, unwavering eyes appealing.  I averted my gaze back to the game.
I was finding his stare somewhat unsettling in its perfect intensity.
	"Yes," I finally, said, "most of them are really nice.  The ones I've
gotten to know, anyway.  I've only been here a week."
	He attacked with a knight, I parried with a pawn.  He was a better player
than I had expected.
	"So what are you going to do after gymnastics?" I asked.  "I mean, what
does one do with a degree in philosophy?"
	"You sound like my father," he said, smiling.
	"Fuck, mine too!  I could just as easily have chosen soc when I was a
sophomore.  My dad kept saying, 'what are you going to do with it?'  I kept
saying, 'not every undergraduate degree has to lead directly to a job, you
know.'"
	"Well, not every undergraduate degree has to lead directly to a job, you
know."
	"Well played," I laughed.
	"I'm trying to take things as they come.  I have an old-style view of
college.  It's a time to discover what you like, and practice it, not a time
necessarily to prepare you for the world beyond."
	"I couldn't agree more," I said.  "So you discovering what you like?"
	"Oh, I have a pretty good idea," he said, taking my knight with his bishop.
  Fuck that bishop, I thought!  Where did it come from?  How is it he's four
points ahead already?  Time to call out the reserves.  My queen came
forward.
	"So Adam thought we'd like each other, huh?" I asked.
	"That's what he said."
	"Why?"
	"Didn't ask.  He's usually a pretty good judge of character, though, so if
he says he thinks we'd like each other, we'll probably like each other."
	"You think he's a good judge of character?"
	"Absolutely.  Why, you don't?" He asked.
	I hedged.  "I've only known him for a week.  You've known him much longer."
	"True," he said, "still.  He's pretty up front.  What you see is what you
get."
	"You like living with him?"
	"Absolutely.  He's a bud.  He's helped me a lot."
	"Really?" I asked.  "How?  You guys have sex too?"
	Dan laughed deeply and heartily.
	"Me and Adam?  Sex?" he said.  "Hardly."
	I was confused.  I had meant the question somewhat sarcastically - as a
pointed jab.  Dan hadn't taken it that way.  None of the boys, save Matt it
seems, caught my sarcasm as it related to Adam's sexual proclivities.  Why
would that be?
"Oh, you don't do guys?"
	"Naw, that's not it.  I have no problem with doing guys.  Guys, girls,
whatever floats my boat.  Just Adam and me aren't…compatible."
"What does that mean?" I asked, now truly confused.  Dan looked up from the
game again.  The muscles of his lower jaw flexed, causing a temporary furrow
from his temple down to his mandibular joint.
"It means that Adam's not what I'm looking for," he said, training his eyes
on me again.
"Oh?  What are you looking for?"
"Something quite different," he said, taking my queen without even looking
at the board.
"You're good!" I exclaimed.
"Yes," he said calmly, evenly, authoritatively, "I am."  He was still
looking directly through the windows of my eyes, and I got the distinct
impression that we weren't talking about chess.
The conversation continued through the game.  Dan was erudite, interesting,
and a wickedly good chess player.  He was also somewhat annoyingly cocky, a
state that I found myself forgiving once he actually beat me at the game.
Arrogance is the lording of perceived superiority.  If you're *actually*
good at something, it's not really arrogance - just an accurate self-image.
We sat around after my king was trapped by three of his pawns, and talked
about everything from Spinoza to Spanish magic realism.  I found myself at
ease with him, liking him, being wonderfully and unexpectedly captivated by
him, being impressed by him.  This was the first time I had ever seen him
without Adam present.  Maybe that was all it took.
"Listen" I said, my thoughts returning to Adam, "I have something I have to
tell you."
"And what would that be?" he asked.
"I think you should move out from Adam's room."
	Dan laughed.  "And why would that be?"
"I think he's dangerous."
"Please," Dan said, "Adam wouldn't hurt a fly.  Besides, I got, like, three
inches on him."
The ideas shocked me - both the suggestion that Adam wouldn't hurt a fly,
and that Dan had considered what would happen if there were a fight between
them.  More surprisingly, he had determined that he would win.  Could anyone
actually beat Adam at anything?  I wondered.
"No," I said, "not a fight.  I think being around him is dangerous."
"Why?"  Dan was smiling, somewhat condescendingly.  "You sound like Corey
used to.  Did he fuck you, too?  Is that it?"
"No," I said quickly, emphatically, then, more calmly, "no.  He hasn't
fucked me.  I can't really say why.  I'm not able to explain.  It's just
that…well, do you know why I'm here?"
"Sure.  Adam asked for you."
"Do you know why?"
"Prolly something to do with his talents.  I never asked."
"Yes.  And I've begun to understand some things - things I can't talk about
yet.  All I can say is I don't think it's healthy to share a room with him -
to be around him so much - in that much physical proximity."
"You sound jealous, Mark," he said.  He was taking what I was saying
lightly, and making fun of me.  I didn't know how to continue.  I couldn't
tell him what Sharon had told me.  She had made that perfectly clear - a
great deal was at stake.
"I'm not jealous," I said, trying to sound as calm and reasonable as I
could, despite the deeply insulting implication.  "I'm just saying that
there could be some…physical side-effects of being around him so much."
"I wouldn't care if Adam caused leprosy, Mark," he said, leveling his gaze
into my eyes to reinforce his seriousness.  It had its effect.  His eyes had
some powerful effect on me, I had begun to notice.  "He's my bud.  He's my
best friend at this point.  He's helped me a lot.  If being around him meant
that I couldn't compete, I wouldn't compete.  You understand what I'm
saying?"
"Yes," I replied.  His voice was so solemn, his face so set, so intense, so
compelling, I almost found myself adding, "sir."
Matt tripped back into the room, looking relieved if not somewhat haggard.
He caught my eye, smiled broadly, and came over to me.
"Hey, amigo," he said.
"Hey," I said.  "Matt, you know Dan?  Dan, Matt."
"How do you do?" Matt said, extending his hand to Dan, playing along with
the joke.
"Chahmed, I'm su-ah," replied Dan in his thickest southern accent.
For a moment, I expected Dan to take Matt's hand and kiss it chivalrously,
but then dismissed the idea.  That might have been funny if Matt weren't
gay, or a teammate.
Matt turned to me, and said, in a voice I'm sure he felt sounded innocent,
"you mind if we talk?  You got some time?"
"Sure.  You don't mind?" I asked, turning to Dan.
"Not in the least."
"I had a really good time.  Wonderful conversation, good game - though I'll
beat you the next time."
"I doubt it," he said, grinning asymmetrically, "I don't lose often."
Rising and following Matt out the door, I was again left wondering if we had
been talking about chess.
As soon as we got into my room, Matt turned and draped his arms over my
shoulders, leaning into my body.
"So what did Adam have to say," I asked.
"Same old same old," came the reply.  "We talked about my floor routine."
	"Did he mention me?"
	"You?  No.  Why would he?"
	"Nothing," I said, "no reason.  He's just got me a little freaked.  Let's
talk about something else."
	"Okay," Matt said, coming forehead to forehead with me, trusting my answer.
  "I had a really fun time yesterday,"
	"Me too, pup," I said.
	"Wanna do it again?" he asked coyly.
	I brought my arms around his waist and rested my hands on the shelf of his
ass.  "So that's what you wanted to talk about?" I asked, feigning surprise.
	"Did you really like it yesterday?" he asked.
	"Yeah, pup," I said, kissing him lightly on the lips.  "It was fun."
	"I'm glad," he said, "cause I really did too."
	His lips met mine again, and opened.  The sweetness was still there.  He
was all honey and fluff.  His tongue yielded to mine, as I explored the
inside of his mouth, tasting his flesh, his teeth, his breath.  His hands,
encircling my arms, came down to my ass.  He pulled me forward, grinding our
groins together.   His dick was hard and proud, prominent despite the shorts
that covered it.
We kissed more deeply, and he ground me closer.  One of his hands slid down
to my thigh, which he pulled up so that my knee rested on his hip.  I
thought I would lose balance, but how could I?  I was in the arms of a boy
for whom keeping balance was as natural as breathing was to me.  The spread
of my legs rotated my hips, and pushed my dick higher than his.  His root
pressed into my ball sac, and I became aware of the sheer strength in this
kid's arms.  If he pulled me any closer, I'd be behind him.  The hand that
had raised my knee now found the flesh of my thigh, and, following it up
under the hem of my shorts, began to knead and stroke the flesh of my
ass-cheek.  I broke the kiss, and, turning his face with my chin, attacked
his ear, laving it, chewing lightly on the lobe, fluttering behind it with
my tongue, sucking in the air millimeters above it to cool the skin where I
had made it wet.  He shivered - the correct response - and renewed his
manual attack on my ass.  I licked his sideburns, or rather, what in five
years would be his sideburns.  My tongue continued down his jaw-line in
upward strokes, licking against the fine grain of his beard.
"I really want to fuck you," he said, pulling away.
"That could probably be arranged."
"Good.  I jerked off twice last night thinking about you."
He let go of my leg, and led me by the hand into the bedroom.  Coming to the
bed, he turned and faced me again.  I took the hem of his sweatshirt and
raised it slowly over his head.  He raised his arms, allowing me to strip
him.  I brought my hands to the satin skin of his chest, riding my fingers
over the muscles there like ten miniature roller-coasters.
Bringing my lips to his left nipple, I whispered, "I'm a lucky, lucky man,"
before clamping on to the sensitive, brown circle of bumpy flesh.  I dabbed
at it with my tongue, beginning my attack by tasting it.  It was soap and
sugar and gold leaf.  His hands began a rhythmic stroking of the muscles on
either side of my spine, reaching down to the small of my back before,
fingers spread and each applying pressure, he pulled his hands back toward
my shoulders, pulling me into him while massaging me.  I pointed my tongue,
and began a circular sweep around his aureole, trying to attain the
roughness of a cat.  Blood began to fill his nipple, making it harden as my
tongue brushed past it.  Finally ready to hit my target, I took the nub
between my teeth, and gently chewed on it, applying a shiver to my jaw
muscles.  It made him jump, but he did not release his grip on me.  With my
teeth, I pulled his nipple away from his chest, bringing the skin along with
it.  He could take no more - his hands came to the sides of my head, and he
pulled my face up to his.  Again, my tongue was in his mouth as he created a
vacuum around it, sucking it in, increasing the contact with his lips and
cheeks.  The undulations of his tongue pulled mine in farther, let it slide
back, then pulled it in again.  He was fucking his own mouth with my tongue,
and it felt sublime.
He broke the kiss again, and all but tore my shirt off of me.  This time,
his hug was skewed - one arm on my torso under mine, the other over my
shoulder.  I thought this was prelude to another kiss, but was wrong.  It
was a wrestling move.  Gripping me firmly, he twisted my upper body, and we
fell onto the bed.  We jockeyed for position, rolling, grinding, first me on
top, then him.  Our legs intertwined, our skin sliding in fiery contact.
Buttons were somehow undone, and zippers lowered.  Our shorts left us as if
they themselves were eager to be free.  He was on top of me, now, and his
second knee found a space to join his first between legs, forcing them
apart.  He raised himself to a kneel, and looked down on me.
"I like you a lot," he said.
"Good thing," I laughed.  "It's so much nicer to know the guy who's about to
fuck you blind actually likes you."
"Do you like me?"
"I think you're incredibly beautiful, and you're sweeter than sugar," I
said.
"I think you're beautiful too," he said, bringing his hands down to lightly
stroke my chest.  "And smart, and nice, and wonderful, and kind, and…"
"Oh, shut up and fuck me, already!"
	He laughed.  He was wearing tighty-whities, and I grabbed his balls through
the tight, smooth material.  He filled the pouch so wonderfully.  His dick
pushed out the cloth above my hand, outlining itself starkly in white.  He
took my briefs and lowered them down off my waist, which I hiked up for him.
  He then pulled them upward, while, my hips back on the bed, I raised my
legs into a V before him.  Off went the underwear.  He stood, using my heels
as support, and piking, lowered his own briefs.  He straightened again,
standing before me, resting my legs vertically against his, my feet at his
hips.
	"Can you support me?" he asked?
	"I don't make that much money," I said, and he laughed.
	"You're a goof," he said, and began to lean forward, pivoting on my heels.
"Keep your knees locked."
	He made sure the connections between heel and hip were secure, then brought
his legs up off the bed, swinging to a layed-out horizontal position,
flying, as it were, on my outstretched legs.  I was supporting his full
weight.  While small, he was quite dense.  Between my legs, his dick hung
down fifteen degrees from his torso, its fullness and tensile strength
fighting against the gravity.  He put his arms out, testing his balance,
then slowly spread his legs so that his body, resting on the two points of
my heels, took on the shape of an X.  His stomach tensed both to help
maintain his balance, and the coplaniarity of his body.  His abdominals
tightened, elongated, and stood out in bas-relief all at once.
	"Now competing in the Queer-Sexual-Olympics, Matt VanLuyken, of the United
States," I called, imitating an amplified, announcer's voice.  This made him
laugh, which made him lose balance, which made my knees fold.  He came
tumbling down on top of me in a heap.
	"You all right?" I asked.  He was still laughing.
	"Better than I can ever remember," he said, and we kissed again.
	I broke the kiss and reached over to the night table while keeping as much
contact with his body as was possible.  Retrieving the lube, I threw it on
the bed.  Getting the picture, Matt returned to a kneeling position, and, in
one quick move, hoisted my leg up over his body to his other side so that he
was centered between my thighs.
	"Whoa, there, partner," I warned as he threw my ankle about, "not all of us
are so flexible."
	"That's okay," he said, "I'm enough for the two of us.  Gonna show you a
little trick."  He reached for the lube, and squirted some on his hand.  He
wet first my hole, entering it a little, and working the slickness into my
skin.  Then he added a liberal amount to his own dick, making it shiny.  He
was kneeling back on his heels, and rather than lean forward to aim his dick
at my hole, he picked me up by the hips, pulled me down toward him, sliding
me along the bed, and aimed my hole at his dick.  Slowly and with great
attention to my expression, he lowered me down onto himself.  His head
stretched my hole, and popped through with little resistance.  Doug had
stretched me out the day before, and I was still loose from his gentle,
consuming onslaught.  Matt's biceps flexed as he suspended my hips over his
dick, slowly lowering me down, filling my chute with the wonderful feel of
him.  I was now fully impaled, resting on his thighs, enjoying his girth as
it touched my favorite places.
	"That's your trick?" I asked.
	"Naw," he said, "that's not the trick.  This is."  In one move, he bent
impossibly forward in two, arching his back out in a way that human beings
aren't supposed to be able to bend.  With one hand, he raised my dick off my
abdomen, and, in one swift motion, deep throated me.
	"Whoa!"  I cried, aghast at the sensation, "that *is* some trick!"  Lot's
of guys had been able to give me a blow job of a sort while they fucked me
in this position.  No one, in my experience, had been able to fully deep
throat me.  My heels dug into the bed, and I began to raise and lower my
hips, raising myself off of his dick and into his mouth, then falling, full
force, from his mouth back onto his dick.  Never had so much sensation come
from just one guy - usually that kind of attention required a three way.
With his hands, he reached up and began playing with my nipples, increasing
to three the number of erogenous zones he was manipulating.  I threw my head
back into the pillow and shut my eyes, letting the sensations wash over me.
I assayed to see how far I could lift off his hips without him withdrawing
fully from me, which increased the pleasure for both of us as I plunged back
down again.  He began rising to my thrusts, coming up off his heels as I
fell, shortening the time it took to skewer me, but doubling the force of
the impact, and thus gaining those precious few extra millimeters of depth.
The lube began to heat from the friction, and I could feel the ring of my
muscles pull at the skin of his cock.  Up and down, up and down, he met me
blow for blow.  And throughout, he blew.  Only someone as skilled as a
gymnast could coordinate all the movements he was pulling off at once: the
up and down thrusts of his hips in opposition to mine, the tongue and lips
working my dick as it rose into and fell from his throat, the coarse skin of
his fingers playing my nipples like an instrument.  I tried my hardest to
open my eyes to watch the action that was playing out on me - the look of
his shoulders as they hunched forward over my waist, the glimpses I got
during the down thrusts of the concavity of his abdominals, my dick as it
disappeared into his mouth, only to reappear, glistening, steely, ready to
erupt -- but I could not.  Each time I tried, my eyes would glaze over, and
my lids flutter shut as the electric feel of his mouth and dick traded
primacy in their service of me.
	I don't know how long it lasted.  Not long, I think.  Doug's gracious hand
job, and the quick and furious fuck I had thrown into Matt were my only
releases of the week, other than self-inflicted ones.  All too soon I was
warning him that I was going to cum.
	Matt took this news by redoubling his efforts, pushing his dick even harder
into my ass, sucking with a renewed vigor, pulling on my nipples until they
were sore almost, but not quite to the point of distraction.  And I met his
abandon with an enthusiasm of my own, grinding myself down onto him, trying
to get him to touch that secret place that seemed to be always just out of
reach.  Our pace grew faster, faster, and faster still.  My hamstrings
strained at the work of gyrating my hips upon him.  And then I felt it
begin, almost from my toes.  It was after a down thrust, with his dick
firmly embedded in my ass that the first wave of the orgasm hit me.  It
doubled me up into a crunch, bringing my chest to the top of his head where
I could hold it down on my dick, keeping the movable part of his tongue away
from my sensitive cock head, lodged, as it was, deep in his gullet.  My
sphincter spasmed as the first overwhelming burst of pleasure coursed
through me.  That was what Matt needed, and with one final push of his
already fully rooted dick, I felt him release into me, the jizm expanding
his urethra in pulses as it flowed into my thirsty chute.  Again and again.
Soon, our spasms were coordinated, like the menstrual cycles of close women.
  I shivered, causing him to shiver, causing me, again, to shiver.  It was a
cycle that lasted forever, until, completely spent, I collapsed back onto
the bed in sublime relaxation.
	It was only then that I came to wonder when was the last time that he had
breathed.  He had clamped down on my own cock when I had started to cum, and
had stayed there, taking my seed completely down his throat as I was taking
his completely up my ass.  He had made no move to extract himself from
either place, as greedy for my cum as I was for his.  I pulled him off me,
and held his face.  Ah, the lungs of an athlete.  Almost as much of a
miracle as his flexibility.  We looked into each other's eyes, still
panting, still taken with the intensity of the orgasms.  But before I could
say anything, he began laughing hysterically.
	"What the hell is so funny?"
	"I'm sorry," he said, tears beginning to form in his eyes, "I always do
this. I can't help it."
	"It's not the most consoling thing, you know, after sex, for your partner
to crack up."
	After a while, his laughter subsided to giggles.
	"I'm really sorry," he said.  "I know.  It's awful.  It's just that…"
	"What?"
	"Well, it's so stupid, don't you think?"
	I eased his softening dick out of my ass, and pulled him forward, lowering
him onto me.  Carelessly and easily stroking the smooth, damp skin on his
back as he lay his weight on me, I asked, "what is?"
	"The whole thing.  Sex.  I mean, who *designed* it?  It's such a stupid
thing to do."
	I pulled his face up again, so that I could look into his eyes.  They were
innocence incarnate.  I kissed his lips tenderly.
	"Perhaps," I said, "but whoever did, did a pretty good job."