This story involves the fantastical sexual experiences of Adam Rickitt, the 20 y/o new star of the long-running British soap-opera "Coronation Street". If you have not seen this TV show, and want to know what Adam Rickitt looks like, go to:
(my thanks go to Ian for this), where you will see some pictures of Adam.
Or to the site "All About Adam".
If you want to know what Damien looks like, get some A-levels, and go to Oxford.
This story is entirely a work of fiction, implies nothing about the real Adam Rickitt, and has no connection with the writers of Coronation Street or its broadcasting company. "Wyckham College" is also a fiction, and any resemblance between it and any college of the University of Oxford is entirely coincidental.
You may reproduce this story at will unaltered.
If you like it let me know. Adam, if you're reading this, cheers mate!
If you have any suggestions for stars whom Damien should meet, either at Wyckham College, or on his hols, or other adventures for Adam, let me know, and I'll see what I can do.
This story is dedicated to Ian, on the occasion of his 18th birthday (21.x.98). Sorry it's late, kid!
Damien was no exception. Usually.
But today, Damien was still in bed at 11am. It had been a pretty wild night. Out on the town after the Soccer Club Dinner, the lads had gone wild. They drank more beer that night than they had blood in their young bodies. They horsed about like schoolboys set free for the weekend. They pulled a few birds. Damien, if fact, pulled two. He's had to decide which one he most wanted to fuck, and tell the other one to piss off. But she wasn't having it: she said she was prepared to share him.
It was a while before the three of them got back to Damien's room. As he fucked one of the girls straight and hard on his college bed, the other watched mesmerized by his performance, teasing herself with the fingers of her left hand. When Damien creamed his load into her friend, after bringing her screaming to her second orgasm, he rolled off her, and started finger-fucking where he knew he had to go next. With the skill of his hand, and the sexiest of looks in his beautiful eyes, he had the other girl whimpering and whining and begging to be fucked. He wasn't going to give her that pleasure. He tongued her all the way to orgasm standing up, and let her juices run down her legs.
He sent the girls back to Summer College in a taxi together, their cunt's so sore they could hardly walk.
When Damien awoke, it was nearly 11am, the sun was streaming through the thin fabric of his college curtains, and he had the stiffest morning hard-on he'd ever known. He swept aside the sheets and looked down at his proud cock. Eight inches of stiff student meat slapped hard against his tight belly, through the fly of his white cotton boxer shorts. He lay back, closed his eyes, spat on his right hand, and started to pleasure himself - real nice and slow. Yeah, that felt good! So good! He jerked his tool slowly and easily with his right hand, as with his left he massaged the contours of his chest and tight young belly, loving the warm smoothness of his body as he wanked.
He lay and writhed on his college bed, in his boxer shorts and white socks, looking for all the world like a young stud from a jerk-off porn movie. At the age of twenty, his fit young body was toned to perfection. Football and rowing had hardened his young muscles; to define his pecs and tighten his abs, to round out his calves and strengthen his thighs. The smoothness of his chest made his muscles lustre with the thin coating of sweat he was working up in his wanking. The fine blond hairs of his legs showed off his firm soccerboy calves and thighs to perfection, the muscles clenching and relaxing as he jerked his cock and squirmed on his bed. His white shorts and white socks a perfect contrast with the light tan of his healthy young body.
Damien eased his hard torso upright, his cock still firmly in his hand, and made like to do some morning sit-ups. But instead, he reached his hands down over his legs, caressing the firm muscles and feeling the fine hair soft under his palms. He felt himself up, and gazed at the sexiness of his own body. His own beauty never failed to turn Damien on.
With one movement he pulled off the ribbed white cotton sock from his right foot, and laid his back down again on the bed. With two expert hands he pulled the thick white cotton of the sock over his rigid penis. He sucked the two fingers of his right hand like a baby, as with his left, he began again the slow and sexy wanking of his cock, the muscles in his left arm flexing and relaxing as he pleasured himself. Nice and slow. Yeah. Nice and...
For five minutes, for ten, for fifteen, there was nothing else in the world apart from Damien and his hard warm eight inches of cock. Precum oozed from the head as he pulled his foreskin back and forth. The salty liquid glistened on his meat, and lubricated the expert movements of his hand.
His hand quickened its pace. His breath began to come short. His back arched. He writhed with his head back into the pillows of his bed.
He moaned deep in his chest, closed his beautiful eyes, and grit his teeth with the pleasure that was coursing through his hard young body. He screwed up his handsome face in a grimace of pain and pleasure.
"Agh! Aaghghghg! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaghghgghg!"
With one final jerk of his left hand, the boy's body convulsed and bucked like an animal electrocuted. His cock erupted in orgasm, as his whole body thrilled and seared with the pleasure he'd brought upon himself.
Damien let out a long low sigh, as spurt after spurt of his hot white cum shot into the thick cotton of his sock.
The sock became heavy, wet and warm, as the lad's semen soaked it through.
Damien's body relaxed. He lay back on his bed, gagging for breath. He tossed the soaking cum-drenched sock on to the floor beside his bed, his body spent, his young lust abated, and drifted off back into a few minutes' sweet, sweet dozey sleep.........
...........before his alarm resounded through his room.
He raised his body from the bed, paced over to the other side of the room, turned off his alarm clock, and opened the curtains. Another hot summer day poured in through the window.
"Fuck! Not another fucking beautiful day!"
"Damien, c'mon, mate, give me it back! C'mon! Please!"
Damien merely smiled his big wide boy-next-door smile and sauntered across the lawn toward the porters' lodge. The young fresher followed him pursued by the eyes of the whole second year, who, with no exams to prepare for, lived on the lawn that term. They watched as the young man in his late teens, trotted up like a young puppy to Damien, pleading with him to return his toy. The fresher was wearing nothing but a pair of khaki shorts and a loose white t-shirt, his young frame showing all agile as he ran to catch up with Damien, trotting bare-foot across the lawn.
"Can I have it back, Damien. Sorry to spring the catch on you, mate."
"Your in first year, aren't you?" asked Damien, screwing up his eyes against the sunlight and squinting into the young man's face.
"Yeah, I'm a medic".
"Where're you from, mate?"
"Where the fuck's 'Stockport'?" sneered the Londoner.
"What's your name, mate?"
But Damien was not embarrassed: he was thinking - and grinning like a Cheshire Cat.
"So you want your frisbee back, Kevin? Eh?" Grin from ear to ear.
The young fresher looked into Damien's piercing blue eyes and knew he was in for a teasing.
"Yeah. Just give it to me, willya, mate?"
"Not unless you say please."
The teenager squirmed, twisting his bare heal into the soft grass of First Quad lawn, in embarrassment.
"Please, Damien, can I just have my frisbee back?"
Damien let his hands slide over the front of his red Umbro shorts, guarding the frisbee where it nestled in over his crotch.
"You gotta beg for it, fresher. On your knees."
The first year medic looked around to see all the eyes of the college on him, smiling at the performance Damien was giving them. They all knew Damien. And they all liked him. All the girls were after him, and no one wondered why. At 6 feet tall, with dirty-fair tousled schoolboy hair, amazing azure blue eyes, the body of a soccer-player, the good looks of a Calvin Klein model, and the cheeky boyishness of the North London lad that he was, no-one could pass him in the quad and not look twice. Even some of the guys. Even some of the college staff. Even some of the fellows.
The undergrad blokes thought he was a real lad, and the college clown, and loved him for it. He was also on the college second soccer team and did a bit of rowing, so the lads knew him well and it was fair to say he was one of the most popular lads in Wyckham College. Now in his second year of PPE, with no exams to cramp his style, Damien was strutting his stuff all over college, and was even beginning to be known as a bit of a lad and japster around the University. Of a summer evening in the King's Arms, you could see his handsome grinning face surrounded by hoards of admiring lads and lasses.
"You gotta beg for it, fresher. On your knees." Damien looked at the young fresher with a smug smile on his face. The teenager knew all eyes were on him. He dropped to his knees on the grass in front of Damien.
"Now, what was it you wanted?", said Damien with false naïveté, rubbing his two hands over the stiffness of the frisbee half way down the front of his shorts.
"Please, Damien, can I have my frisbee back?"
"Not until you kiss my feet, Kevin."
The younger lad gulped, and his heart fell in his chest. But something stirred in his groin. He knew he had to go through with this. Damien spread his legs, and stood "at ease" in front of the eighteen-year-old lad. Damien's football shorts came almost to his knees. His legs, from the knees and calves the first-year could see, were in perfect footballer form. Muscle in all the right places, and a fine dusting of hair slightly bleached by the Trinity term sunshine. He wore bright blue soccer socks, pushed half way his shins, the fine blond hairs of his sexy young legs show to perfection by the colour of his socks. He wore his well-love beaten up tennis shoes - white canvas and scuffed white rubber..
"I said - not until you've kissed my feet - fresher."
The boy awoke from his dazed stare at Damien's legs. He knew he had to do it. Even with everyone watching. He bent down, placing his hands on the grass on either side of Damien's feet. He lowered his head to the ground, his blond locks falling in front of his puppy-dog eyes. With the most tender of movements, he extended his young neck, and kissed the toe of Damien's left tennis shoe.
"That's a good boy. Now, that's not so hard, is it?" Damien was loving his control over this handsome young lad kneeling before him. quot;Now the other foot."
The youngster kissed the toe of Damien's right shoe and made a slight moaning noise deep in his chest. He was getting excited by this. He didn't want to, but he couldn't help himself.
He'd noticed Damien as soon as he arrived as a fresher back in Michaelmas term. He found out from asking some girls he knew in the second year that his name was Damien, that he was a real lad, did PPE, played soccer and rowed for the college, and was on every undergraduate woman's Christmas wish-list. Damien had been the subject of the lad's most private thoughts. He'd wanked himself stupid over Damien - four or five times a day - until he was perpetually weak and aching in the balls. He'd even stayed on at Wyckham into the ninth and tenth week of Michaelmas term, pretending to be catching up with work, because he knew Damien was staying on, at the college's expence, to welcome the candidates who came up for interview in December. He'd had the opportunity then to spend his time in the cafés and bars where he knew Damien would be, and got to know his habits a little. But they'd never spoken: until today.
He did as the fit young second-year told him. He kissed Damien's right shoe. And felt a stirring in his crotch.
"Agh, Damien. That's enough! Please!" he muttered under his breath.
"What was that? You said 'please'? Say it again, boy. And kiss my socks!"
The young medic was lost to shame and some stronger, more worrying, emotions. He started licking the fine blond hairs of Damien's legs, licking the scrunched blue cotton of his football socks. "Please, Damien! Please!"
Damien, leant his head back, tossing his tousled hair, and rubbing his hands over the frisbee stuffed down his shorts. If it hadn't been for the firm plastic in the way, anyone would have thought he was playing with himself right there in First Quad. Damien loved the feel of this young lad's warm mouth on his calves and ankles, the boy's tongue wetting the hairs on his legs and the cotton of his socks.
"Well, done, fresher-boy: you earned your frisbee back. Stand up, now." Damien knew when to stop. The feeling of this young boy's tongue on his legs was getting him going, and he wanted to remain in complete control.
The blond lad stood up. Damien noticed his khaki shorts, their fit and the way they were tenting just now. He grinned at him his wide-boy smile, pulled out the frisbee from down his shorts, and held it out to the boy. The first-year went to take it, but Damien suddenly pulled it back out of his reach.
"You gotta suck my cock, before you get this back, young'un." But as he said this he burst out laughing, and, to his relief, the first-year realised Damien was joking this time. Damien tousled the younger lad's blond hair, and sent him off across the lawn with no more to do.
Suddenly; applause. Damien looked round and saw all the assembled students on the lawn applauding his performance.
"Bravo, Damsie! Thata way to treat the first-years!" yelled some of his contemporaries. "You treat 'em mean, and keep 'em keen, Damien!"
With all the cockiness of an East-end wide-boy, Damien gave a mock bow to his audience, turned, adjusted himself in his shorts, and went to the lodge. As he went, he noticed his blond fresher boy heading into staircase IX. He smiled once more to himself; he'd have to pay a call to staircase IX.
In his pigeon-hole he waded through the usual stuff. At Wyckham the undergraduates had to share pigeon-holes with the other students of the same surname initial. Damien was lucky, there were only three other students in the K pigeon-hole. He found what was obviously a statement from Barclays, a bill from the Union, a scented lavender-coloured envelope from his girlfriend in Whitby College, and a letter obviously delivered by hand. He opened it, and, without the use of his eyes, by the memory in his feet alone, made his way from the lodge back into First Quad while reading what was on the page.
The letter read:
"Dear Damien, [his name was hand-written, everything else was word-processed]
As a member of Wyckham College Drama Society, you are invited to a Reception with Adam Rickitt, the guest-star of this term's Garden Shakespeare production of Twelfth Night. 7pm until 9pm. Warden's Garden."
"Fucking' 'ell," thought Damien, "More bloody rancid Pimms in the Warden's Garden." There were always too many parties of that kind in Trinity term. But what the hell, a free drink was a free drink, and he wouldn't have to stay very long.
As he folded the invitation and placed in the breast pocket of his shirt, his mind went back to his first involvement with the college drama soc. He'd been approached in the bar one night by the, slightly drunk, head of Drama Soc, who'd asked him if he would play the part of Mr Sloane, in Orton's Entertaining Mr Sloane. The guy assured him that of all the characters, his had the fewest lines to say; he just had to strut about half-naked, looking cool and sexy and delivering the odd one-liner. That was what Damien did naturally anyway. So he'd said yes, the production had gone ahead. Damien was the star of the show, and the darling of all the drama hacks. He loved the attention. Fuckin' 'ell! That was a great term.
Adam Rickitt had recently shot to fame in the long-running soap-opera Coronation Street. A terrible down-at-heal tired soap about life in a terraced working-class street in Manchester, it was finding it hard to attract the audiences who'd rather be watching Neighbours and Home & Away. The producer had had a thought - a thought the director and the team of writers deplored. Why not cast some sexy young actor as on of the characters who's been away from the Street for a long time, and needs to come back on the scene. This was bound to get the teenage girl audience, and maybe some older women too, depending on the actor they cast. Despite the protestations of the director, casting went ahead. What they wanted was a good-looking blond guy in his late teens or early twenties, with a laddish look-at-me attitude, a well-kept body, and not to high a hiring fee.
After lots of auditions - it seemed every likely lad in Manchester wanted to be in this soap - they found one. Adam Rickitt. Just turned twenty years old. Blond. Looks to die for - like a younger version of David Beckham. A body to kill for - like a blond version of Marky Mark. And a Northern lad to boot. He was as stunner. He could also act. And he certainly did the trick.
Within a month, the ratings had nearly doubled, Coronation Street was no longer a by-word for "sad Northern crap", and Rickitt's pictures were starting to appear in all the right magazines. Just Seventeen for the teens, and Women's Weekly and TV Times for the older audience. In the teen magazines Adam had been posing without his shirt, and the pictures were almost porn. He flexed his muscles. He showed his pecs. He rippled his hard, honed abs for those photographers like a pro. Adam was a pin-up boy, a young blond stud who'd made it, not through the machinery of the TV industry, but by his pure raw sex appeal.
And he was sitting in Wyckham College bar between his co-actor, and his director. They'd asked a lot of TV stars to do the bit part in Twelfth Night. Having a star made sure all the productions were sold out, and wasn't too expensive to do. Sarah was already cast as Viola. She was blonde and fine-featured. So they'd asked blond guys. They started right at the top. Jesse Spencer, Shane Amman, Andrew Bibby, from the really popular Aussie soaps, then one of the McGann brothers, then Jason Connery, and then some of the cast of Grange Hill. When they'd drawn a blank, one of the Northern girls in college, chatting to Shane down the bar one night, mentioned that, being a fan, from back in Bolton, of Coronation Street, she's seen this really sexy young guy in the show, and wondered could they get him. At that time, he hadn't hit the magazines and the big time. Shane wrote to Rickitt, care of the TV studio, and Rickitt's agent, who was pushing every exposure opportunity, said, "Do it."
It was a small role. Sebastian was the twin brother of Viola.......but you know all that. But Adam had the looks that matched almost perfectly with Sarah's, and in costume - Edwardian dress for garden shows, of course - the look was perfect. Shane was fuck pleased with himself. Adam had still kept to his word, even though, by now, he was seriously hot property and was the stuff of erotic fantasy for half the nation.
Adam was really into it all. He'd read about the life these Oxford undergraduates lead, and when he'd arrived in Wyckham, they'd laid it on thick for him. Reception in the Warden's Lodgings (slightly embarrassing that none of the fellows had heard of him, and Shane had to keep explaining), punting (chauffeur-punted) on the Cherwell, a "night out" with the First Fifteen doing the lads-trash-pubs thing in a big way (because Adam was a bit of a rugby player), and now a do in the Warden's Garden with all the thesps. He was loving it. Boy, there was nothing like that in Macclesfield Comprehensive when he was a nipper......