The usual disclaimers apply. This is copyright material.

A bit less action in this episode. Thanks for the feedback. The tale will be taking a slightly different direction in installment six. More fiction, less fact. You'll notice some hints in this submission.

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Again, it's 1956. Cambridge. A cold November night. And your narrator still has a lot to learn.

CUMMING OF AGE AT HARVARD. PART FIVE.

As my poor blitzed brain and body began to recover focus, my first awareness was that David still scowled at Goliath over the dresser, that I had a serious thirst, and that Sam's head lay on my sticky chest. Then I must have dozed off, awakening to find Sam beside me, towelling off the juices we'd shot onto each other and the bed.

He dabbed at my crotch cheerfully. "Aren't boys messy?" And tossed the towel onto the floor. "What can I get you, Jannot?"

I didn't have to think. "Water. Just some water. Was I asleep?"

"Were you ever, cheri. After all your labors." Sam pushed my forehead back onto the pillow with his finger and padded into the next room, a bounce in his step and a swing to his cock. He called back. "Or would you rather have a glass of milk? Growing boy and all that?"

All my labors? I glanced down, and sure enough--John Thomas had a tired but happy glow. "Sure. Whatever you've got." I managed a faint leer as I joined him at the fridge where he poured out a couple of glasses of milk.

"OK, cheri. Drink up. And merci, Jannot." He kneaded and slapped my bare ass. "For your first time, you were fantastic."

Me? "You mean that? It was OK for you?"

His hand circled and squeezed my ass again. "You mean you couldn't tell? You sent me out of my mind. And you seemed to be having a pretty good time, too, mon cher. No?"

"No. I mean yes. I mean, really mean yes." I drained the glass and Sam refilled it. "Is it always that good?"

"Uh-uh. Tonight was special. For both of us. Sometimes it's even better. Maybe we'll have to find out." Sam touched my neck and gave me a long look.

I felt a tremble someplace deep inside. "Yes? I think so. Tonight?"

"Du calme, Jannot. Maybe we've had enough for the first lesson. It's getting late. Lesson two--get under the shower. Right now. Avec moi." And he guided me into a surprisingly large bathroom with a tiled shower cubicle in one corner.

"Hop in. I'm right behind you. Grab the shampoo off that shelf and soap me up." He hit the spigot and masses of steaming water cascaded down from a flat, old-fashioned shower head. "Nice, nice, nice. Hand over the shampoo and I'll do you."

So there we stood, chest to chest, belly to belly once more, scrubbing away at our hair as if we'd been sharing a shower for years. I felt lighthearted and lightheaded, and Sam grinned and stuck out his tongue. "Rinse." And we did. And while we stood under the water, soapsuds running down our bodies, we both started laughing, grabbing each other into a tight, slippery embrace.

"Here. Let me lather you up." We stepped out of the stream while Sam soaped my chest, flicking those tender nipples with enough force to make me wince and send a message down to John Thomas, now getting interested again. "Turn around." More lathering on my back, and then Sam grew attentive to my ass crack and ticklish hole. Was that an exploratory finger? My cock thought it might be, and began coming to attention.

"Around again." So I was facing the man while he worked on my pubes, moving the soap slowly about my groin, teasing and tempting, fingering my balls. He chuckled at my eager erection, gave me a squeeze, and then--ouch--flicked my cockhead with his forefinger, hard. Hmm. Quick dick wilt. "We'll have time for games later, cheri. Now do me." He turned to the wall.

I ran the soap down his muscular back and, on an impulse, slipped my lathered hand between his ass cheeks. He sighed, spread his hairy legs, and bent over slightly. Was this an invitation? My middle finger found his pucker and, rubbing gently, felt it pulse and begin to open. I slipped a finger inside, marveling at the tightness and heat and softness of his hole.

Sam sighed again, deeply, and turned me around to him, his lips at my ear. "Cheri. We'll get there. But wait a bit." I was as hard against him as he was against me. "You horny kid." We put a hand on each other's ball sac, squeezing gently as if to seal a bargain.

We rinsed off, and Sam handed me a towel. Not just a towel, though, but a heavy bath sheet, scented of lavender, from a stack on the countertop. As we toweled dry, I looked around the room, luxurious in contrast to the rest of the apartment, with jars of bath oils, vials and bottles of exotically labeled cologne--Creed, Penhaligon, Guerlain, an array of soaps, a Persian carpet, more fragrant Turkish towels. A tightly packed vase of miniature blood-red roses sat next to the sink near a pair of silver-backed hairbrushes and a cut-throat razor with a pearl handle. A paisley silk Charvet dressing gown hung near the mirrored door. This was the private chamber of a sensualist, belying the spartan simplicity of the other rooms. I began to wonder. What other secrets did Sam keep?

Finished drying, we dropped the towels and found ourselves standing together, arms around each other's waists, close before the full length mirror. I looked a lot spunkier than a few hours before when I'd done that mirror inspection back at the dorm--roses in the cheeks, a smile in the eye, touseled hair, and an newfound air of confidence? My lips seemed fuller, and my energized tits glowed pink. Maybe it was just the contrast with my slim body, but my thickening cock with its perky tab of foreskin hung between my legs with new size and weight. I liked what I saw.

Even more, I liked the other guy in the mirror. Now--my first good head-to-toe inspection of Sam. We matched up in height, but he had twenty pounds of muscle on me, mainly in his solid thighs and well-shaped chest. After sex, he had even more the Monty Clift look, sensuous lips, half-closed eyes, a lazy smile. Enough dark chest hair to almost hide his enlarged nipples, red from our vigorous tit play. Then I looked harder at his left tit and encircling it, under his chest hair, noticed what looked like a blue tattoo. I'd always thought tattoos were for sailors and lowlifes. Sam? Another secret?

A dusky treasure trail moved down to his thick bush where Sam's fat, thick-veined cock still glowed from his orgasm, its bulbous cockhead swollen and purple. Though not long, it radiated a virile animal power. I glanced back at my own dick. Nice. Great potential. Longer and thinner than Sam's. But compared to his imposing, feral organ, just a dick.

I knew that Sam was watching me closely as I inspected the hidden places of his body. And I couldn't help my own body's response to my inspection. My breathing picked up speed, my cock began to rise in slow, rhythmic jerks. Something about his body, something bestial and erotic, captured me. The lights seemed to dim, and I felt hot all over.

Below, well below that heavy dick, his shaved ball sac dangled dark, almost monstrous, from his crotch. A fine network of veins covered the surface, and a black line bisected the grapefruit-sized pouch. Again I thought of an animal, a goat, a ram radiating sexual energy. His scrotum pushed forward against well-developed haunches, thickly covered with dark-brown hair, and still more dense hair covered his muscular calves. He seemed, almost, to be encased in tight breeches made of coarse, matted hair from which his startling genitalia projected.

I was bewildered as well as excited. His animalistic lower body was completely at odds with the staid college professor who enjoyed Palestrina and Gide. I couldn't prevent myself from passing my hand over his bulging sac, trailing my fingers through the thick hair on his thighs. Those erotic Greek vases hidden away at the Fogg popped into my mind, along with a vivid image of Sam as satyr.

Sam had read that mind. Taking my wandering hand in his and gazing into my eyes in the mirror, he said, "No hooves down there, mon Jannot. Only feet. But look at us." He hugged me to him. "We are Le Beau et Le Bete, no?" And still at my side, he reached around and caressed my smooth chest, squeezed my nipple, flicked his tongue in my ear. I'm the beauty and he's the beast? Isn't that just a fairy tale? Or a French movie? I couldn't repress a shiver when the realization hit with the force of every faggot-hating locker room sneer I'd ever heard. Sam's a fairy. The Beast. And The Beauty? Me? Am I a fairy, too?

Waves of confused feeling surged through my mind and body: guilt, neediness, bewilderment, fear, and, inexplicably, desire. I felt a weight deep in my loins, and my throat went dry. Sam turned me to him with both hands clasping my shoulders. He must have seen the question in my eyes. "Now you must get dressed, Jannot. And then we must have a little talk."

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