The Delay: Sorry but … The day after Japan's earthquake and subsequent tsunami, I had a total system crash. (The two were not related incidents … I don't think! … it just gives me a time-frame I'm using to see how much time all this is taking.) Even so, I lost all my programs and most of my data. The crash occurred the day before my regularly scheduled backup, so naturally, the only things I had backed up were what I had already written and posted. Because I'm not living in the USA, I had a major problem retrieving the writing programs I bought there, (I'm currently reduced to using pirated copies that don't have dictionary or thesaurus capabilities) and, especially, my HTML validator. Only last week I found another program I can use to validate HTML coding and have begun recreating and editing D.A.M. again. The system crash was followed by all my credit cards expiring in the same three month period and I have been burdened with getting them reactivated ( using a family members' land–line from the USA) who then mailed them to me. (Lots more of my time spent, although I can't say it was wasted time. ) Thanks to those couple of readers who emailed me to ask about its progress. CHAPTER IX Saturday Alumni Night Saturday began with the sponsors and their pledges showering and shaving together. Then they served their pledges breakfast—this time the way they ordered it. After that came interminable hours of studying together, lunch and more studying. So much togetherness, in fact, that 'familiarity breeds contempt' was mentioned several times during the day, too. Late in the afternoon, the frat brothers, sponsors and pledges worked side-by-side moving the furniture in the Great Room off to the sides and setting up a gross of folding chairs in front of the big-screen TV. They ended up being twelve rows across with a center aisle and twelve rows deep. To the right of the TV and at an angle facing the audience, we set up chairs for Whitney, Kent, Scott and me. I said to Scott, "We've got about eighty or ninety alumni planning on showing up tonight. About half of those will be spending the night, so at least half the frat brothers will be bunking together." "How come there's so many?" "They get the final vote on who gets accepted." "You're kidding! You mean some of the guys might get kicked out after all they went through?" "It's the alumni who funds the frat. Without their contributions, we don't exist." "But what about our fundraisers?" Scott asked. "They only cover about ten to fifteen per cent of our expenses." "Damn," Scott said in a worried tone. "You don't have a problem, I'm pretty sure you'll be accepted." "No, not me. Diego and Dale…they're not the most eloquent. They can't sell themselves like you can … or me, even." "Don't worry needlessly. Their actions will speak for them—loud and clear. But for now, I need to be getting dressed for the induction ceremony." "What am I expected to wear?" "A smile?" I asked as if there was no real reason to ask. Scott introduced himself to each alumnus as he came to the door, asked him his name, and marked it off the guest list before escorting him to his seat in the Great Room. The front row was reserved for the pledges. The row immediately behind them was reserved for their sponsors. Seats in the third row from the front were reserved for the fathers of the sponsors and pledges. The regular frat brothers sat in the back of the room saving the ones closer to the front for the alumni. By eight PM almost all the seats were filled. "To begin tonight's induction," Whitney said in a commanding voice to quiet the small talk and then, waving an upturned palm toward the big screen TV, he continued , "we'd like to present a montage of some of this year's pledges' highlights. Marshall has edited out the slow moving, boring and otherwise droll footage leaving us with about an hour of wholesome entertainment." In unison, the pledges groaned, which by now, was allowable. The alumni chuckled at the response they heard just about every year. To the delight of the pledges, the video only showed snatches of what had happened. Although the overview was erotic, to a point, it often went so fast the pledges didn't even recognize themselves. It included to the delight of the alumni, however, several of the newest challenges. But, what I didn't know was that Marshall had recruited several frat brothers to snap ocassional phone photos of the pledges whenever he wasn't available for filming. That meant he was able to incorporate still photos into the video montage so he could present, as much as was possible, to the alumni of what the pledges were required to endure this year. Someone got a couple of photos of Scott dancing on the table with the necktie and the wine bottle during the Limp Monkey Contest. That was when Luke ended up setting the standard for full mouth pentraton of cocks when he worshiped Martin's Statue of Dedication which thankfully someone also captured on cell phone camera. There were a couple of the You're a Dick statues along with the Great White Hunter statue. Also, with thanks to many of the spectators who submitted their cell phone or camera snapshots to Marshall, there were photos of the skins basketball game on Saturday. The brothers also provided a couple of photos of the other fraternities begging for beer and for showers. Luckily, whoever took the photo of the piss funnel captured in the photo the guy peeing but not the guy who was having to drink the recycled beer. A couple other photos included ones showing the Revolution Roulette party where Scott sucked each of the pledges and a few from when everyone dumped a load of cum in Scott's underpants. Much of the Before and After contest where the pledges had to identify the thirteen frat brothers soft and hard was edited down to about two minutes but showed in full detail, Jason eating the snow cone onto which he had just cum. Clips of the ATM challenge were fun to watch, including Martin's beefy buttock crawling through the window of my car. The jackoffs in the classrooms were included but edited down to just the money shots … unless there was a special feature such as erotic, like licking cum off their hands, or humorous, like handling the condom like it was nuclear waste. Frat brother Mark's father, who owns Up Yours, graciously provided Marshall with security camera footage of Scott's and Diego's actions at the adult book store along with a few other pledges' antics that night that none of us had seen before. The evening of the Shadow Show was graphic, to say the least. With some skillful editing and splicing by Marshall, we enjoyed both the shadow screen view from the night before but also the view the hidden tripod camera caught. To my surprise, some of what I thought was fake, was real. I can only guess the pledges thought they had to do the real thing to make it look real. Other suck and fuck antics that I thought looked or, at the time, sounded so real, the outdoor camera proved to be faked. At the end of the big screen video show, where a six-inch cock looked, in close-up, to be two feet long, Whitney stood and turned to the audience. "Frank, would you stand and face the back of the room, please?" Frank stood facing the crowd of D.A.M. brothers and alumni. "All in favor of accepting Frank say Aye." A loud cry of 'Aye' resounded throughout the room. "All opposed say 'Nay,'" There were none. And so the vote continued through Dale, Jamie, Jason, and all the rest until it got to Scott. "Gentlemen. Our Mascot has asked that we continue his trials throughout the rest of the semester, at which time he would be granted special privileges. These were outlined in a letter sent to all the alumni last week. All in favor of accepting Scott as a frat brother and allowing him to continue with his special mascot status say Aye." There was what sounded to me to be the longest period of silence in history. I had put my reputation on the line as an organizer and as a gay man when I considered Scott's proposal. If they didn't accept him, they might just as easily vote me out as well. I saw Scott visibly quivering from tension while I was positively trembling from anticipation. Although it felt like an hour, I'm sure it was only seconds, but still, there was ringing in my ears. The room itself sounded like it took a simultaneous deep breath before we heard a collective "Aye." I jumped up, as did Scott. As he turned toward me we hugged and he kissed me. Tears flowed like rivers from our eyes as we shivered and shook, jumped up and down, clung to each other and acted like silly girls being voted prom queen. Eventually Whitney regained control of the situation. "Gentlemen. Please. Thank you," Whitney said to all those applauding and hugging. Looking around the room, I discovered Scott and I weren't the only ones glad they made it. There were several sponsors as happy as I was, who were hugging their pledges. Whitney continued. "This is the first year in twenty-two years that all the pledges made it to the end. Part of the reason is because in past years, hazing was brutal with pledges being laid out in the hallways while the frat brothers, wearing combat boots, ran across their bare stomachs." Scattered low murmuring throughout the room indicated some of the alumni in the room were involved in one way or the other in that activity. "In past years, deep–heating liniment was used to inflict needless pain to pledges dicks, balls and assholes." More murmurs. "Our intent was not to force anyone to outright quit pledging, but to request that they step outside their comfort zones and embrace an alternative concept to liberal education." Soft chuckles at Whitney's euphemism rippled through the crowd. Turning to the pledges he said, "We offered you, at every opportunity, the option to decide whether you would continue or not." Surveying the sponsors and their fathers he said, "The sponsors maintained the utmost dignity when meting out the challenges. Never once did they coerce, threaten or harangue a pledge. You fathers can be proud of your sons." There was a mild round of applause. "Can I have all the pledges stand and face the alumni, please? Speaking for the entire frat, and its alumni, I can say we are fortunate to have all of you as frat brothers. Welcome!" When another round of applause ended and all the backslapping by fathers and sons was done, Whitney said, "Now, I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Avery Winestone. He is the current president of the Delta Alpha Mu Alumni Foundation and, if I'm not mistaken, he has a few words to say. But be sure to get a firm grip on to your wallets!" Whitney chuckled. Mr. Winestone was probably six-feet-four, with a hint of white at the temples. From the condition of his facial features it appeared to be premature. He could easily pass for thirty-five, but I knew he was the CEO of a major international consortium. His tan looked genuine, not Fake–A–Bake. I'd like to see his tan line, I thought, and more! Manicured nails set off a pair of ruggedly masculine hands with long fingers. I thought, I bet his toes are equally well–manicured. His well-tailored suit coat was buttoned, accentuating the slenderness of his waist. Its hem was just above mid thigh revealing the fact that he either wore boxers or nothing at all because the ridge of his cockhead was prominently visible. Ten soft and obviously circumcised, I thought just before Scott elbowed me imperceptibly. I looked at him and he gave me a facial expression that said, Did you get a look at what that guy's got hanging? At least that's the way I read it before I smiled. "Gentlemen I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome our new contributors, I mean frat brothers." Quiet considerate laughter rippled through the audience laced with a touch of nervous laughter from our newest brothers. "The Frat Alumni know how expensive it is to attend college nowadays, so we're not expecting any contributions from students." A collective sigh of relief came from the front and the rear of the room. "At least not monetary," he said with a raised eyebrow. "However, we would like to take this opportunity to do a little fundraising. Like in past years, it will cost the most for those who want the most." From the laughter coming from the alumni there was an inside joke there somewhere. "Do you have a list of charities?" "Scott, has it," I said. "If you would, could I get you to add new names to the list?" "My pleasure," Scott said, as he picked up the clipboard that was leaning against the front leg of his folding chair that held the list of charities he'd recorded the night of the ATM challenge. Mr. Winestone said, "Most of you have all been through this before, but for the new guys I'll elaborate. If a frat brother wants a donation to his favorite charity, he needs to accept a bid from an Alumnus. No frat brother is required to accept a bid. But if you do, you will be thanking the alumnus in a very personal way—if you get my meaning. If you don't understand, absolutely do not accept the donation." "If you have any questions, or reservations talk to Kent, Randy or me before accepting a bid," Whitney said in a warning tone of voice. Scott walked over to Mr. Winestone with the pledges' list of charities. He took a long moment to appreciate Scott's naked 'attributes' while Scott continue to hold the clipboard above the waist so he could make notes. The names of the pledges were deliberately kept anonymous to keep the donation bidding legal. That is to say, the alumni couldn't make a bid just because the pledge was handsome, family or popular. Mr. Winestone began reading from the list. "One of our newest frat brothers is interested in soliciting contributions for Save the Whales," Mr. Winestone said. "Please raise your hand if you would like to donate to that charity. Scott will point to you and you can give him your name to add to the list." A tall man with white hair styled in a crew cut raised his hand and Scott said, "Mr. Morton, I believe?" "Yes," he said in an astonished tone and I imagine somewhat flattered that Scott remembered his name. I know I would have been. "Mr. Merriweather?" Scott said confidently but, to leave wiggle room in case he was wrong, it was said in the form of a question. "Correct." "Mr. Alanson?" "You're absolutely right, young man." That was the last hand that was raised, and Mr. Winestone read the name of the second charity. The interested alumni raised their hands and Scott called each by name and recorded their names next to the charity. After all the charities had been named and their benefactors recorded, Mr. Winestone said, "Please take this time to mingle and get to know the new brothers and renew previous acquaintences. It will take a moment or two for us to set up the bidding table. We'll let you know when we're ready." I said, "How do you do that, Scott?" "What, this?" he asked flipping through the pages. "No. I mean how do you remember everyone's name. My god, you just met them and it's like you've known them for years." "I don't know. It's just something I'm able to do." "God, what a gift! You've really impressed the alumni." Scott, always ahead of the game, had the pledge's charities already printed out on tent-style table placards. He put them on one of those long slender display tables along with twelve clipboards. After about ten minutes on the computer, he had sheets of paper with the Alumnus' name and the name of the charity printed across the top and a huge faint dollar mark filling the rest of the page like a watermark. "May I have your attention please," Whitney called. After the conversations quieted, he continued, "All the Alumnus has to do is find the pledge sheet with your name on it in front of the identifying placard, write in your dollar figure, fold the sheet and hand it to the pledge. Accepting the bid from the Alumnus at this point does not constitute acceptance of the bid, however. As a new frat brother, if you want to accept a bid, you can talk to the Alumnus of choice over cocktails, later. If as a frat brother you want to help a new frat brother get a donation for his charity of choice, you can offer your assistance." "Once a bid has been accepted," Kent said, "you have one more opportunity to decline. That will be done in private out on the balcony. There are no hidden cameras or microphones out there so feel free to say anything you want. Hell Week is over, so there will be no retaliation or retribution." "If I may," I said. "I'll give you a possible scenario. Scott accepts a bid from Mr. Winestone and they go outside to discuss it. Scott decides he is not willing to do what Mr. Winestone wants in return. The bid is declined. If, however, Scott thinks he knows someone who might be willing to help, he can come in and ask Diego, or me, or you if you're willing to talk to Mr. Winestone. If any one of you accepts Mr. Winestone's offer, Scott's charity gets the donation. Are there any questions?" "I think it's important to remember at this point," Mr. Winestone said, "that we are all frat brothers and nothing that is discussed with regards to the bidding process is ever revealed to any other individual—except other D.A.M. brothers, perhaps. "And even then, only if there is a need for them to know about it," I said. Turning to Scott, I said, "Would you tell the caterers we're ready?" As he dutifully left, I watched his naked ass swivel and bounce. I don't know what plans he's got for his future but nothing's going to stand in his way. He's the only one naked and he acts like it's as natural as breathing. While the caterers began bringing in the food, the Alums looked for their bidding sheets. I heard snippets of conversations from our newest brothers like, 'Now I know why they wanted us to get to know each other better,' and 'This is all so cloak and dagger, do you think the old farts are gonna want us to do something kinky with them?' Someone's response to that particular remark was, 'I can't imagine anything you would consider to be kinky.' The alumni found their personal pledge sheets—the one with their name and the charity they were willing to sponsor—and wrote their offers on them. Once they were folded, and handed to the new brothr, the twelve new frat brothers had a chance to look them over. In the meantime, not wanting to appear like gold-diggers, the newest frat brothers milled around in uncomfortable silence or whispered conversations. Some looked blatantly at the dollar figure, folded it and slipped it casually in his pocket. Others clutched them protectively, fearing, for whatever reason, to look at them. The liquor cabinet—always kept under lock and key—was open to all, following the induction ceremony. This was the private collection. This was the liquor only the rich could afford—much of it imported. This was not the stuff frat brothers drank and replaced with colored water (or worse yet, pissƞ. I had heard there was a bottle of Scotch in there that cost eight hundred dollars. No one knew which brand it was so none of us ever drank scotch without an alumnus inviting us to join him in a glass of his private stock. Again, the students and pledges—I've got to stop calling them pledges— refrained from embarrassing the frat by getting drunk on a Saturday night. The typical Saturday night dinner of heat-and-eat fare had been replaced, at great expense, with an exquisite hot and cold buffet worthy of the well-to-do alumni. As one after another caterer brought out the food, the students, hungry for a taste of the finer life, restrained themselves admirably. They waited patiently for the first alumnus to indulge in the offered delicacies. From the ravenous look in their eyes, I expected the frat brothers to descend on the food tables like piranha on a bleeding water buffalo but they didn't. I was so nervous last year at my own induction that I hadn't paid attention to how my fellow pledges acted. I suppose it's a credit to my parents' strict tutelage in proper manners that I didn't embarrass myself last year. Latr, while the caterers cleared the tables, Scott served the brotherhood after dinner drinks … coffee and their personal choice of liquor. One by one, I watched the pledges as they sought out their potential benefactor and drew them out onto the back porch. Some pledges had two or three offers and I'm sure they wanted to weigh the other options before making a decision. Of course, they could accept all the offers if they were so inclined. In the relative quiet of an unseasonably warm fall evening, they discussed what was expected in return. I can't read lips but I can usually read facial expressions and body language rather well. Once, I saw one pledge say, 'I'll get back with you.' I couldn't read what he said after that but it was said with a flattering smile. Only one showed shock and even that wasn't one of horror. The request might have been as simplistic as having to paint the Alumni's house or as bizarre as the pledge castrating himself in public … but apparently it was something the pledge was willing to do for his charity because they both smiled as they shook hands. Mentally keeping score, I realized Scott had not approached his benefactors—he had four—and he had not eaten, either. I scanned the room and discovered Scott wasn't around. I made my way to the kitchen door and peeked through the square window the size of a floor tile. Nothing. I went outside and looked over the balustrade into our pitiful garden. Again, nothing. Returning to the great room, I asked Whitney, "Have you seen Scott?" "He said he had something to do in the kitchen. Said he'd only be a minute." "Well, it's been more than a minute. I'm gonna go find him." "Jealous, are we?" Whitney asked, cupping his crotch. Whitney must be getting a little drunk. He's letting his dick do his talking for him, I thought. "It's not that. I just want to make sure he gets a chance to accept or reject his offers." "Take time to tell each one of us that and you'll eventually believe it yourself," Whitney said derisively. This is not like Whitney at all. What the hell's going on tonight? I made my way toward the kitchen, stopping to speak to a couple of influential alumni along the way. Jamie and Luke individually cornered me for a moment, as I got closer to the kitchen door, to ask my opinion of offers they had received. They were understandably cautious about whether there were any implied actions expected of them that they might have missed. I assured them the benefactors had to be explicit and honest in their offers. Then Diego stopped me just as I was about to enter the kitchen. He asked me to expalain the terms stipulated in his offer. After reading it I said, "Baiscally, he is willing to pay up to 25,000.00 dollars to each brother who accepts his offer but with a 100,000.00 dollar ceiling. If three brothers accept his offer he will donate 75,000,00 to the charity, with 25,000.00 being donated in each of their names. If five brothers accept, it will be 20,000.00 dollars donated in five peoples names for a total of 100,000.00. "Oh, I understand it now that you've explained it that way," Diego said. Then I darted through the kitchen door and past the long stainless steel table used for prepping salads. I turned left, toward the cook stoves and oven area that was hidden from view when I had peered through the widow in the door, earlier. The gay kitchen staffer from last weekend was on his knees in front of Scott, gobbling down his cock like a starving man. Last week, I hadn't known if he was gay or not. Last week I had thought of him as my kitchen staff. Last week, although I knew better, I had thought of Scott as mine. Now I wasn't sure of anything. I slowly backed away, hoping neither of them had seen me. Returning to the Dining Room, I said, "I'm not feeling well. I think I'll go up to bed." "It's early," Whitney slurred. "Stick around. You never know what'll come up." Again, he cupped his crotch, squeezing it so hard I could see he had a hard-on. Then he got this expression on his face like he wanted to say something more but forgot what it was he wanted to say. I said, "As for tonight, well, I think I've seen enough." "Your loss," Whitney said. Not when everyone has been drinking, I thought. On my way upstairs, I thought, momentarily, that I had a way to stop what was going on in the kitchen. I half-turned to go back down before I realized neither the kitchen staffer nor Scott had been drinking, so playing the 'no sex when drinking or drunk clause' wasn't an option. I undressed and fell into bed, downhearted. I heard Whitney announcing in a voice a little too loud, even for the Great Room … like people who are drunk think everyone else is deaf … "In the morning, we will have a special treat for the twelve newest members of D.A.M. One I'm sure you all will enjoy, kind of our way of saying thanks for being such great pledges last week." I smiled just thinking about it. Then, just as I closed my eyes, I heard Scott calling down from the upstairs landing. "I'll be down in a minute." I waited for him to open the door, but he didn't. I perked up my ears but I couldn't hear anything. I debated with myself as to whether he saw me in the kitchen or not. I worried that he might think I was spying on him. I worried that maybe I was and I shouldn't have been. I questioned my motives for even looking for him. I questioned whether I had the right to be jealous. Eventually I fell asleep unconvinced of anything—except maybe of my un–reciprocated devotion for Scott. My last thought was, How will Scott react to me tomorrow? CHAPTER X Sunday Panic was my first emotion of the day. I was naked on top of both sheets with no blanket over me and with my hard-on staring me in the face. Scott wasn't in the room and his sleeping bag wasn't on the floor. I looked at the clock and saw it was still too early to go down for breakfast. I wondered if he went home with the kitchen staffer after everything was cleaned up. I realized immediately that I was already referring to the guy as the kitchen staffer instead of my kitchen staffer. As I fell off to sleep again, I thought, Maybe I should suggest to the council that Scott be given a room of his own. Since Scott was no longer required to wake me up, I expected to wake up by my own will. I was surprised when I felt someone kiss me gently on my lips. "Wake up sleepy head. You can't have a hangover. You went to bed way too early for that." My head was, nevertheless, in a fog because I was awoken from a dream. The voice was familiar but distant. The hands rubbing soft circles on my chest and abdomen were callused and unfamiliar. My eyes could see bright light through their translucent lids causing me to want to keep them closed. "I'm sleeping in this morning," I said, hoping my misery from the previous night wasn't apparent in my voice. "Good," my frat brother said with a hint of devilishness in his tone. I felt the big sandpaper paw of a hand rub my thigh in a motion that normally would be considered soothing. The only reason I hadn't opened my eyes to see who was touching me was because I thought I was still in a dream. I didn't want to do anything to break the spell. "Can I stay here with you for a while?" "Sure," I said, noncommittally to my dream lover. As my balls were cupped and bounced—as if being weighed for their contents—I felt warm breath on my lips again. I opened my mouth only slightly, like in my dream and I felt a wet tongue enter my mouth. My eyes flew open as my senses finally registered that this was not a dream. All I could see was closed eyelids fringed with long blonde-tipped brown eyelashes. Brown skin—suntanned or natural, I couldn't tell. Diego? No, he doesn't have callused hands. Who? He has minty breath! But obviously he doesn't mind me having morning breath. But with those hands, I doubt if he's the squeamish type. Damn, now I wish I'd looked earlier. The hand found its feather-like way along the length of my cock from my balls to my crown. My cum tube felt like it was twice the size it normally is. My cock head was taut with anticipation and in my minds eye, I saw it was shiny from the tightness. Cool wetness trailed down the length of my cock from the pre-cum gurgling out of it as the mysterious hand began its downward pass along my dick. A wet tongue drummed a cadence on the inside of my teeth as my lover continued to kiss me. Blindly, I wrapped my arms around my aggressive suitor's upper back. Muscular. Definitely not Scott! I traced inquisitive palms down the back over a thick waist to a big beefy butt. Again, all muscle. The waist wasn't fat at all; it was just in proportion to the rest of the body … the thick muscular waist of a day laborer. The ass, too, was high and round—and apparently, hairless. Delving into his crack I felt a moist valley of inviting flesh. His butt cheeks flexed. I must have struck a nerve. "You wish," my phantom lover said, breaking his soul kiss for the first time. I forced my head back against the pillow in an attempt to see who he was. Not that I really cared. He was a forceful but gentle lover. Someone I could appreciate under the right circumstances. All I saw was salt and pepper hair at the temples of a man with dark brown hair. His face was pressed into that space between my shoulder and my ear. Even with that additional information, I couldn't think of anyone I knew who fit that description. While I was considering all this, it occurred to me, as if I hadn't thought about it before, that the man was naked. He entered my room with the intent of having sex with me! He was not a curremt frat brother, that was for sure. None of them had graying temples. He has to be an alumnus, I thought. But who? God I wish Scott were here. He somehow knew everyone's name. Thinking about Scott caused a momentary feeling of guilt to rush through me. Just as quickly, it was gone. Good! "Hear you like to take it up the ass," my lover mumbled into the flesh of my neck. "I never agree to that until I know what I'm dealing with," I said. "And the way you're wedged against me, half on, half off, I can't tell what you've got swingin' down there." "Well, it ain't swinging, I can tell you that," he said as he moved his hips enough for me to feel his meaty tube pressing insistently against my upper thigh. Touch, I knew, was not a precise art in the least. I knew that blindly feeling a cock in someone's pants could cause it to feel bigger than it is. So, when I felt his cock against my thigh, I delayed agreeing until I actually saw it. I said, "Usually I know the name of the guy fucking me. Any chance of that?" The body keeping me pinned to my bed jumped up as if struck by lightning. "Didn't Whitney tell you?" he said as a Hispanic looking man bounded out of my bed. "Oh, my god! He told me yesterday he would set all this up. He said you wouldn't object." "Well, I haven't objected … yet," I said admiring his handsome face and perfectly proportioned body. If it were only the scar on his forehead, he would have looked sinister . But when it was added to the one on his chin, he became a rakish–looking fellow. One could tell he never went looking for a fight but he never backed down from one either. Not one to fall for bulky looking guys, I had to admit, his super size held a certain appeal. As I watched, his cock begin to quickly go soft—probably from the sudden realization I wasn't expecting him, so I said, "This is … isn't … shouldn't …" "I'll be leaving … I'm sorry," he said as he stood facing me. "Not until I take care of this," I said, gripping his cock and squeezing it back to its former hardness. "And when we're done, you can tell Whitney he owes me one." "Whitney doesn't … isn't … you know …" "Not that I know of. But there are other ways he can pay me back. Not that this isn't reward enough," I said, leaning in to suck his cock. My mind was distracted, trying to stuff his overly plump sausage into my mouth as he said, "Raul." "Humm?" I asked, not bothering to release my prize. "My name's Raul." "Umm!" I said. "I'm Whitney's godfather. I'm the one who …" I stood up and said, "Enough small talk. If there's anything you don't want to do, you better tell me now. Otherwise, we're gonna do it all." I bent his cock down and aimed it between my thighs as I moved in to press my belly against his. His cock felt natural there as I squeezed my thighs against its plump fullness. Raul's cock jerked upward forcing itself into my ass crack a little deeper. I swiveled my hips to nestle it even further in. My own cock pressed urgently against Raul's pubic patch. "So, does this mean I can fuck that ass of yours?" Raul asked. "Under one condition." "What's that?" Raul asked warily. "That you do it more than once." "Are you serious? Can't you see I'm an old man? I can't …" "Twice or not at all," I said sternly. "You drive a hard bargain," Raul said with a smirk. "And hopefully, you'll drive a hard dick. Have we got a deal?" With an upward thrust of his hips, Raul said, "Deal." "What's your preference, missionary or doggy style?" "Is missionary okay?" Raul asked sounding more like a high school freshman than a grown man. "I like to kiss and cuddle and … that's okay, isn't it?" "Absolutely," I said, pulling away long enough to quickly grab the nearest tie, open the door and hang it on the outside doorknob before closing it again. I pushed the slide bolt into place just in case my roommate didn't take the hint. As we climbed into bed, Raul said, "I know he rules. Where's the condoms?" With one hand, I pointed to the drawer next to the bed. With the other, I began to gently stroke his love muscle to full hardness again.. "Damn! This puppy sure is big around. It's been a while since I've had one this big. You're gonna have to take it slow at first." "At my age, I always have to take it slow. The hip joints creak and crack otherwise." "You're not that old, " I chided. "No, I'm not, but you'd be surprised how may sympathy fucks I can get using that line." "You'll get no sympathy from me," I said, raising my legs to give him access to my anxious butthole. "In this frat house, the only place you'll fine sympathy is in the dictionary between the words 'shit' and 'syphillis'." Then my anal star winked as the condom's chilly lubricant touched it. "Relax, or this is gonna really hurt." "I'm trying," I said sincerely. In my hand, his cock had felt as hard as stone but as it slid into my ass, it felt like a dildo made of mozzarella cheese. There was no pain at all. There was an uncomfortable fullness for a moment but that dissipated as soon as he began his backward and forward strokes. "God, that feels good." I swooned. "It's been a long time since I've had a man who really knows what he's doing." After he said, "We'll talk later," Raul kissed me. And he fucked me in a painfully slow in and out motion. Over and over he'd drag it out and slide it in at a snail's pace. Again and again, he'd slowly plug and unplug my hole until my body vibrated all the way down to the core with a need to cum. I'd never had anyone stroke my prostate the way he did, keeping my passion just on the verge of orgasm. When he began using those callused thumbs on my sensitive nipples, my asshole started to spasm. It was like he was pushing all my buttons at just the right time because I started to spurt. With each squirt, my ass clenched his cock tightly and within moments, I felt his cock jerk with its own eruption. We were cumming, me on my chest and belly and him up my sex-tortured hole. He used his finger to scoop up my jizz and feed it to me. As I slurped it off, it felt like sucking silk off of sandpaper. Each finger load caused me to desire more—not because it was my own cum but because it was served off his hard–working callused finger. "I don't know what it is about you, Raul, but I could fall in love with you," I said as I felt his cock slip out of my ass. "Got someplace for this?" he asked as he dangled the cum–filled condom in the air. "In my hope chest?" A knock at the door startled me before I heard Whitney whisper … like a normal tone of voice might induce even more unbearable pain to his hangover … "Sorry Randy," and after a short pause and with a smile I could hear in his tone, he added … "and Uncle Raul, time to reward the newest frat brothers." Raul whispered to me, in case some new frat bother might be out in the hall passing our door, "Same reward as last year?" "Yep." Smiling he hefted my still rampant cock and said, "I just might throw MY name in the hat this year." "But you're stictly a 'top,' remember?" I said as I stuffed my cock into a tangerine orange jockstrap and donned a pair of tight-fitting white shorts hoping to look as much like a slut as I could. "That just might be the cock that changes my mind," Raul said with a whimsical smile while staring at my crotch. I pulled a black skin-tight athletic shirt over my head and said, "I'm ready." After Raul was dressed in his business suit, apparently the one he had worn in this morning and discarded before climbing into bed with me, he said, "I belive that's MY tie outside on the doorknob." "Oops, sorry." "Best use I've made of that tie in years!" As we descended the stairs we could see the breakfast caterers were being as efficient as possible, what with the alumni and frat brothers sporatically mading their way to the dining room. As expected, the new frat brothers sat next to their sponsors with a newly developed since of commraderie. The brothers who had fathers there, sat next to them which made catching up on the latest gossip from home easier. It was like there wasn't a line any more between 'Them and Us' … the alumni and the current house of brothers … we were truly one botherhood. Breakfast consisted of every kind of egg imaginable, fried, poached, soft and hard boiled and one chef was even preparing Eggs Benedict … Hollendaise sauce and all. There was ham, bacon, both pork and beef sausages along with chipped beef on toast … my personal favorite. Also hash browns, home fries … the really delicious greasy ones … and several kinds of breakfast breads. One would think they were staying at a five star hotel instead of a frat house in some relativly small middle-class town. We frat brothers love it when the alum stay overnight, for more reasons than just the great food and liquor. It gives some of the brothers a reason to bunk together and I like to belive, secretely engage in man-on-man sex they would not otherwise have the opportunity to engage in. But maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part. Once the breakfast caterers had cleaned up and cleared out of the house and before the lunch caterers arrived, Whitney announced, "If everyone will retire to the Great Room, we can get the reward program started." Several of the frat brothers who knew what was coming up went upstairs or left the house to pursue whatever was more important to them. They knew what was planned only involved the twelve newest members and a few of the alumni … although all of the alumni who spent the night stayed overnight specifically to enjoy the pre-planned Sunday morning proceedings. Scott brought in the tureen we had used all week as a piss pot but now it was empty and he set it in the center of the round pedestal table … the one on which he had performed his seductive dance to help the boys achieve their 'first erection in public' challenge. Several alumni dropped one of their business cards into the tureen and sat down again. To my surprise, Mr. Winestone dropped his card in, too. I glanced at Scott to judge his reaction and his expression was one of puzzlement. For me, I thought, I wonder if Mr. Winestone knows what is planned and is 'pretending' to be an active participant or if he's just playing the odds hoping he won't be the one chosen. "Thank you gentlemen," Whitney intoned. "You're willingness to be an active part of this reward program proves to our newest brothers that this fraternity is dedicated to helping each other even when things get tough. It also reinforces our commitment to them that we have not and will not ask them to do something we're not willing to do ourselves." There was mild applause from the alumni as a means of showing their support to what Whitney had said. "Scott, will you draw out one card and announce today's … winner?" Raucous laughter ensued from the alumni when Whitney used the word 'winner'. Scott closed his eyes, reached in, stirred the 'pot' a little and withdrew a card. Opening his eyes, he said, "Mr. Henry Dravenport. With mock indignity, Mr. Dravenport whined, "How is it that my name has gotten picked three out of the last five years that we've played this game? If I didn't know better, I'd swear that tureen is rigged somehow." From another alumnus I heard with laughter in his voice, "Maybe you should stop dropping in a handful of your business cards each time we play." "Yeah, it's like stacking the deck in your favor," another laughed. "Quit your whining," another admonished, "You love it and you know it." With a childish grin, Mr. Dravenport asked, "Does it show that much?" "Speaking of which," Whitney said with an upturned palm at Mr. Dravenport, indicating for him to step up to the pedestal table, "show our Triumphant Twelve what they have won." With very little ceremony, Mr. Dravenport walked up, faced the table and dropped both his trousers and his underpants at the same time. Leaning over the table, he grabbed one asscheek in each hand and spread them apart. To be continued. 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