Date: Thu, 04 Jan 2001 22:24:37 -0500 From: David Buffet Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 9 Chapter 9: Research Back in my room, I was overcome by rage. Rage that he would have done that to me. Rage that I would have let him. And rage that the first thing I had to do upon my return to my room was engage in the most violently explosive solo orgasm in which it had ever been my shame to indulge. Then the rage slowly turned over to steely resolve: I was taking this guy down. I didn't care what it would take. I had begun to undergo a paradigm shift. I had been stuck in the primate model, naturally assuming that this family was the most appropriate one on which to base my research. Primates were, among all animals, most like us, and we displayed many of the same interpersonal traits and methods of non-verbal communication as they did. And primate troops, invariably, had an alpha. This was, after all, the genesis of my thesis. But the alpha phenomenon was not restricted to primates, and with Adam, there was something else involved -- some key part missing. Too many things didn't fit the model. For example, there was the smell. Adam clearly exuded pheromones, and that was a primate trait. But more than that, there was a musk about him, noticeable and commanding even from a distance, and this was very unprimatelike. In large part vegetarian, primates have the property that all vegetarian animals have: they don't smell. Vegetarians evolved as prey animals. If they smelled, they would be more conspicuous to predators. It is, in the animal world, an almost universal fact that predators smell more pungently than their prey. That is why house cats bury their feces in the litter box -- so the mice won't smell it. Then there was the chemical think going on with his skin. There was no analogy to that in the primate world. What animals used chemicals? Ants used chemocomunication. Snakes used venom. The Balinese helimonster's saliva was so laden with bacteria, that all it had to do was scratch the skin of its victim. The wound would become infected, and within days, the prey, all the while being quietly stalked by the helimonster, would succumb to the malignancy, allowing the predator a quiet, unhurried feast. But whatever was going on with Adam chemically, it wasn't poisonous. That question would have to remain open until I could get a sample analyzed -- something I resolved to do the next day. In the meantime, I found myself thinking back to my first reaction at seeing him that night. The impression was one of a big cat. Perhaps, I thought, I needed to do more studying up on Felix Leo. But there was work to do that night, and that work would require an informant. First checking through the small glass peephole in the center of my door to make sure that Adam's door was shut, I sauntered, in forced casualness, down to the commons room. The poker game was in session, and there was a hackysac circle in the left corner of the room. Corey sat, this time alone, engrossed in the TV. Brad was in the hacky sac circle, which I joined to a chorus of "heya"s and "sup?"s. Watching the boys play hacky sac was like watching a ballet. No quick move was jerky, and despite the meanderings of the sac, no fly was out of reach. Their legs could twist in ways that would put the most talented contortionist from Cirque de Soleil to shame. Out of sheer habit, they even pointed their toes when they brought their feet up to meet the hack. When I try to point my toes, it looks like a camel's back. When they pointed their toes, it was with geometric precision. They were grace incarnate -- but grace married to flexibility, and having an affair with strength. I missed the sac, and bent over to pick it up. "Nice going, Heywood," said Steve. "why don't you use your hands next time? I hear they're pretty talented." The other boys laughed, some easily and without guile, like Brad, some more uncomfortably, like Eric. "Maybe I should use my tongue," I said, laughing along with them. "That's even *more* talented. Oh, wait -- you guys don't know that yet. Eric came so quick it never actually *touched* my tongue." There was one thing I knew deeply, and to the depths of my marrow: if I can acknowledge it and joke about it, it must not bother me, so it ceases to be a weapon. That's why the gay community reappropriated the word `queer.' I was going to be `just one of the guys'. True one of the gay guys, but one of the guys nonetheless. Eric laughed, but flushed a deep crimson. Matt, strangely, flushed too. "Missed you at dinner, guy," said Brad, bouncing the hack five, six, eight, a thousand times before sending it on. "Had to get some work done. Found something I think you'd enjoy, too." "Cool," Brad said, "what is it?" "Gotta see it. It's in my room. I gotta go back anyway. Just wanted to say `hi' for the evening." "K. I'll be right over." I returned to my room, and desperately looked for something that I thought Brad might find interesting. I settled on a cartoon in one of the gay mags I had brought with me. Two toweled guys talking in a locker room. One is saying, "the perfect woman? 3 feet tall, no teeth, and a flat head so you can rest a beer on her." The other one is replying, "yeah. And don't forget the reeeealy big dick." Settling on it, I placed it down on the coffee table, and fixed myself a drink. Ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. "C'mon in," I called. Brad walked, crossed the room, and flopped down lazily on the couch. "Tired," I asked? "Bone weary," he said, "but not tired. We're working our asses off all day, but there's nothing to entertain us at night.." I smiled. "well, not *nothing*," I purred. He laughed too. "Can I fix you a drink?" "Ha! Johnston would have my balls if he ever knew I had a drink. There can't be liquor here." "There can't be liquor here," I said, gesturing to the camp as a whole. "That doesn't mean there can't be liquor *here*." This time, I gestured to the room. "I'm not in training, Bud. I can do anything I want." I poured him a stiff three fingers of JD, and handed it to him. "Bottoms up," I said, taking my glass, and downing the few tablespoons that were in my glass. He shrugged his shoulders, brought the glass to his lips, and threw back his head. It took his breath away, and he needed almost ten seconds to recover. "That's the balls," he said. "Been, like, half a year since I had a good drink." Okay. Score one. Found Brad's weakness. Brad was sweet and innocent and guileless. He had no ulterior motives, and saw none in others. It was, therefore, child's play to manipulate him. I brought his attention to the cartoon. He laughed hysterically. Straight boys. What can one say? While he was still giggling, I refilled his glass, and wetted the bottom of mine. Once he regained his composure, I handed his back to him. "Cheers." I downed mine in one gulp. "Tables." He downed his. Within twenty minutes, he was draped lazily on the couch, staring at the ceiling, talking about his girlfriend Wendy. His cheeks were rosy, and his eyes a bit unfocused. This was it, I thought. My goal was to get him loose, not drunk. I let him go on about Wendy, and listened attentively from the chair across from the coffee table. "...the thing is," he was saying, "is she's so nice. I mean, really nice. She's just so incredibly..." "Nice?" "Yeh," cried Brad, as if it had just occurred to him, "she's nice. That's it." "How so?" "Like last Christmas, bud. I had to go to a thing for the gym, you know? Be away from her on Christmas. That sucked so bad. But she was all, `it's okay, you have to do it.' So I go. It's this thing at Syracuse. So I'm there in my room on Christmas eve, and who walks in?" "Wendy." "Yeah!" There was actual surprise in Brad's voice, as if he was now trying to figure out who had told me the story before. Screw this kid's straightness, I found myself thinking. If only there were a way to bottle what he had! "Then, this other time, she gets this little vibrating egg, right? And before I come over, she puts it up her cunt. So we're getting down and dirty, and I start fuckin' her, and, like, in the first push, this thing turns on and starts vibrating like a son of a bitch. See what I mean, bud? She's always thinking of me." I didn't have the heart to point out that she might have gotten some pleasure out of the egg herself. It was time, anyway. Time to go to phase two. "Well," I said, "you deserve it. You're pretty nice yourself." "Me? Naw. I'm just okay." "Are you kidding, stud? Women would kill to get a piece of you. You're gorgeous, you're kind, you're smart, you're built like a brick shithouse, and you got a *great* dick. "I do," he asked, in perfect insecure naivete? "Oh, yeh, guy. Perfect." "You know, girls say that all the time, but you can never really believe them, know what I mean?" "Sure do. But you can believe me. I *know* dicks." "I bet you do," Brad giggled. "And I have no reason to lie. It's big, it's pretty, and you know how to use it. Prime meat, as dicks go." "Man, thanks, bud. You're a real pal." His right arm, had been lying over the edge of the couch, and his fingers had been absentmindedly pulling at the threads on the carpet. Without thinking, he brought it back up to the couch, and lay his hand over his crotch. Instinctively, his fingers began ministering to the slab of flesh under the material there. "Too bad Wendy isn't here. I'd love to meet her." "Yeh. She'd like you a lot, bud." "I kind of feel like Johnston is doing for gymnastics what I'm doing for Wendy." "Huh?" His fingers stopped moving, and he looked over at me. "You know," I said, "keeping you in shape. Johnston's keeping you in shape for gymnastics. I'm keeping you in shape for Wendy." "Yeah, I see what you mean. Thanks, guy," he said, with genuine gratitude. "In fact," I said, nodding at the dick which had swelled in his pants, "it looks like you're ready for another work out now." "Guess I am," he said, looking down at it. "You think you could help me out there? I'd love a hand job just about now. "Nope." A look of sheer disappointment crossed his face. "But I'll blow you if you want." "Ya would? Man, you're the best. You're a good friend." Should I feel badly about what I was doing, I wondered as I helped him up from the couch and led him into the dark bedroom? I decided I should not. Facing him and unbuttoning his shirt, I determined that this was going to be, merely, an exchange of favors. I slipped my hands inside his shirt over the velvet skin of his chest, and brought them up to his shoulders, sweeping back over his shoulder blades, and down. His shirt fell to the floor. Brad had no compunction about asking me for favors, and despite his interesting schema about the way the world worked -- he could accept sexual services from anyone, and he only needed to reciprocate with Wendy -- the truth was it was only natural to expect something in return. And that something didn't have to be sexual. I leaned forward, and found his right nipple with my lips, while my hands moved to the buttons on his pants. I broad tongued the aureole once, twice. Brad's hand came to the back of my head more, I think, to allow himself to retain balance while standing than anything else. I clamped onto the nipple with my lips and sucked as hard as I could. With it trapped there, elongated and distended into my mouth, I began flicking it back and forth with my tongue. Meanwhile, the buttons of his pants were undone. I let loose his nipple, now proudly erect, and brought my lips a fraction off his chest. Rather than blowing hot breath on it, I breathed in, sucking the cold room air over it. I broad tongued it again a few times, then moved over to his left. My hands were playing with his abdominal muscles, which they found fascinating. Standing as he was, and fighting for balance as I leaned my mouth into him, they stood out proudly in bas relief. The last time I had seen him like this, he was on his back, and his abdominals were relaxed. This time, they were slabs of granite. But granite is cold and rough. These, covered as they were by his young, unblemished skin, were warm and smooth. The silky hairs of his treasure trail were particularly fun to play with. I tugged at them, and twirled them in my fingers. Sinking to my knees before him, I moved the front flaps of his pants out of the way, and attacked his white cotton briefs with my mouth. His dick, already full, angled up and to his left, its head pushing the material away from his torso. I took it in my teeth and gently bit, adding the patented Barbara-Streisand-lower-jaw-wiggle. Balling my tongue into a mass, I pushed it against the material, and dragged it down the length of his shaft. "Ohh, mannnnn," he groaned, "and I thought the hand job was good." "You ain't seen nothing yet, kid," I smiled, breaking the contact and looking up at him. I indicated he should sit on the bed, and took the break in the action as an opportunity to begin phase 3. "So how's Adam doing," I asked, innocently and a propos of nothing? "You think he'll beat the Russians?" Sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning back on his two hands which he placed on the bed behind him and spreading his knees wildly before him, he said, "he's got a fucking good chance. I've never worked with anyone who's got what he's got." Still on my knees, I took up position between his legs, and began cupping his balls in my hand, tugging them, through the white fabric, down and away from his body. "And what exactly has he got," I asked, bringing my other hand up to press against the base of his thick shaft. "Mmmm," Brad purred, as I applied pressure. "I don't know. He's strong as all shit. You ever seen him doing an iron cross? Doesn't even have to breathe. And he can take pain like no one I've ever seen. Doesn't seem to bother him. Great balance. Totally flexible." I lifted his briefs up and away from his dick and hooked them in the area under his balls where their tightness would act like a cock ring. His beautiful dick exposed, I brought my mouth to it. Brad's dick, though rock hard, still had ample give in its generous flesh. I brought my tongue to the ridge of flesh covering his swollen urethra, and brushed its entire length. At the piss slit, I used my tongue to separate the tiny labia and lather the mucosa at its entrance. I brought my hands back up to his groin. With my left, I ringed his dick with my fingers, and ran my hand down to its base allowing me to adjust its angle. With the other, I returned to his ball sac. His dick temporarily out of my mouth, I asked, "right, but there's something more, isn't there? I mean he's got something that goes beyond sports. What is it, ya think?" The words out, I opened my mouth wide, and, in one slow-motion gesture, deep throated him. He was long, and though his dick's widest point was at its middle, not at the head, his head was still plenty wide. Especially in that position, it wasn't long before it pressed painfully against my larynx. Ever the gay trooper, I swallowed it, allowing it to continue its forward journey a few inches into my esophagus. Fully in, chin buried in the front of his balls which I began rolling with my right hand, my nose drank in the perfume of his pubic bush. Dove, I thought. Like Brad himself, it was 99 and 44/100 percent pure. Where Eric's pubes were rough and scratchy, Brads were satiny and tickled. Filling what little room remaining in my mouth, I rolled my tongue around his shaft. "Fuckhhh, man," he groaned, "so do you." His balls twitched in my hands. I withdrew my mouth. I had to breathe, and I wasn't ready for him to cum yet. I still didn't have what I needed from him. This time, I thought, I'm getting mine first. I brought my left hand back to his now slick, shiny shaft, and began the same circular full contact motion that had gotten him off the first time. But this time, I ringed his balls tightly between my right thumb and forefinger, preventing them from withdrawing into his thorax. "Well, we all got our talents," I said. "But Adam -- I don't know how to put this -- do you ever feel weird around him?" Brad's hands had slipped out sideways, and he was laying back on the bed, eyes closed, facing the ceiling. I continued to keep him aroused. Very aroused. But not so much that he would lose his ability to speak. "Yea, actually. I always feel weird around him." Brad's hips began a pelvic thrust in rhythm with my stroking him. "Like you'd do things that you wouldn't normally do?" "Sure. Like that. Suck me, guy. It was soooo fucking hot." "I will, stud. Trust me. Want you to enjoy this, though. Don't want to get you off too quickly." "Definitely enjoying it, dude." "Good." I hit a point around his cowper glands that I knew would be sensitive. He moaned appreciatively. His guard lowered another peg. I asked, "Like what?" "Well," he said, "like the head. But it's not even that that's so weird." "Really," I asked, bringing my lips back to the crown of his dick, and blowing on his glans, "what's the weird part?" "It's not that I do it. I've given head to a bunch of guys before. It's that he makes me *want* to do it. That's the really weird part." Good boy. Now comes your reward. I swung my body around facing backwards, strattled his chest, and kneeled so that my ankles were in his armpits, I bent over to reacquaint my mouth with his dick. In this position, I'd be able to deep throat him effortlessly. But first, I grabbed his thighs, and pulled them up and out. For people who have never had the opportunity to bed a gymnast, the position I had engineered might take some explanation. There are two kinds of splits one can do, and if you've watched gymnastics, you've seen them both. In a ballet split, you extend your front leg directly in front of you, turn your back leg out -- which is to say, rotate it so that the foot is parallel to the hips -- and extend it behind you. When complete, your hips, facing forward, are on the floor with your legs perpendicular to them, forward and back. In a Russian split, you turn both legs out, and extend them to the sides. By the time a Russian split is complete, your hips are again on the floor, but this time, your legs are splayed to the left and right, parallel to them. If you are interested in seeing how close you can come to a Russian split, sit on the ground stretched out with your legs in front of you. Without bending your knees, swing your legs out left and right as wide as they can go. Most adult men can create a ninety degree angle between their legs. Brad's, as easily as he breathed, made a perfect 180 degree line. Straddling his wide chest with my knees, my butt resting on the furrow between his pecs, I was sitting on my shins and facing his dick. He rested his hands lightly on my calves. I had pulled Brad's legs up onto the bed, and rotated them into a Russian split. Adding just a little more rotation, his belly button disappeared as his hips rotated, and his ass, totally spread open before me, came into view. I held his knees wide and in place -- not being able to reach his ankles -- and brought my lips down to his pucker. There was exquisitely little hair there. Just the wrinkled dime sized wink surrounded by two sculpted, white marble mounds. I stuck out my tongue and poked at it gently. It twitched in response. A couple of laps, and the twitching ended, to be replaced by Brad's moaning. I ringed my lips around the ring of muscles, and began to suck. I started to use my tongue furiously, forcing it past the locked barrier. Rotating my jaw from side to side for leverage, I chewed, licked, sucked, and poked. Slowly, it opened to me, and I dove in. My tongue fully extended and fucked his ass as far as it would reach. One hand rose to join it, its slick fingers tracing the ring, relaxing it, inviting to open itself to me even more. The other hand, wet with spit I dribbled on it, reached between us and found his cock. For the second time with Brad, I set up a contrary motion. This time, while my tongue fucked his hole, reaching as deeply as it could go, my hand slid up to the tip of his dick, pulling his foreskin tightly over the head. Then, as my tongue withdrew, attacking the side walls of his tunnel in its retreat, my hand, gripped as tightly as I could manage, plunged down, inexorably toward the base. Doug's moaning became a constant barrage of incomprehensible monosyllables. After five minutes of this treatment, I deemed him ready, and returned my mouth to his dick. In one intense motion, I deep throated him -- much more easily this time as our positions had changed. My fingers, remaining at his pucker, poked and probed. I bobbed once, twice, then withdrew, and immediately ate it whole again. This time, as I impaled my throat on his dick, I pushed a my forefinger into his ass. And that did it. With a string of expletives, every muscle in his body -- and there were a considerable number of them! -- tensed, including his legs, which shot up into the air, boxing my ears somewhat painfully, and holding my head in place. Fully ensconced, as it was, past my glottis, he shot directly into my esophagus, allowing me only to swallow, but not taste. Five, six, seven spasms. It was only when I tapped on his thighs to remind him of my position that he relaxed his legs allowing me to pull off his dick, and, for the first time in far longer than I had wanted to, gasp for a breath of air. I took his dick in my hand, and gently played with it while it softened. This was, truly, a dick I could grow to love. It had the internal consistency of a water balloon, now -- floppy, and squishy. It hadn't fully deflated, and was in one of my favorite dick-states: spent, relaxed, yet still full and substantial. I got off his chest, and lay down next to him, still fondling. Brad lay on the bed, sweating, panting, eyes closed, lips parted, fully relaxed and fully spent. His cheeks shone with the flush of climax -- a roseate glow washed over the underlying golden canvas. "There you go, Bud," I said, gently fondling his dick, "try *that* on Adam." "Fuck, dude," he said, laughing, "I could never be that good. You gay guys are amazing. You should teach classes for girls. Their boyfriends would pay you a mint." I laughed. An interesting idea. "Does Adam have all the guys blow him," I asked, trying my best to sound casual, as if the question had just occurred to me? "Naw," he said, not taking my question for any deeper purpose, "different with each guy. He fucks Corey. I know that for sure." "Oh? How do you know that?" "Really weirded him out the first time. I was like three years ago. He was only 14. He came to talk to me about it. Wanted to leave the program when it happened. Johnston convinced him to stay." "Johnston knows?" "Johnston knows everything about us. Has to. Otherwise he wouldn't be as effective a coach." "So why did he do it if it wierded him out so much?" Brad opened his eyes for the first time since he had cum, and turned his head to look at me. "I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders, "that's just Adam. He makes you want things you don't want." I stared into the crystal blue purity of his eyes. Brad had helped me all that he could.