The Greatest Lie
Chapter 4
Those Happy College Nights
WARNING! This story meant solely for adult audiences! It contains scenes of graphic sex and forcible rape described in first person narration by its transgendered, teenage protagonist. If you are not an adult, or if you find this type of material offensive, please stop reading, hit the back key or dispose of this file. You have been warned of the content. If you proceed neither the author nor the site host will be held responsible! This story is purely fictional. All resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.
The Greatest Lie
Chapter 4
Those Happy College Nights
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t hate being around people. Actually, I hate being alone; it brings out the weird self-critic inside me. But god, do I hate crowds. Fall registration brought mobs to the campus. The half-empty dormitory that I had shared with a few Asian engineering students was now thronged with muscular, masculine and boisterous freshman: ruddy farm boys, small town bourgeoisie, suburban kids and a sprinkling of hip hop urbanites. Almost all were Minnesotans, and as a Californian I was ignored as if I was from a different species. Trapped, as I was, an impostor in this all-male world, I took comfort in solitude.
My summer school admission had secured me one of the few single rooms in the dorm. I stayed there behind closed doors during those first weeks amidst the rowdy rituals of male bonding that went on around the clock. I had been on estrogen nearly eight months; I had a well defined bust, soft slender arms, a slim waist and a rounded bottom.
My hairdresser on Hennepin took out my cornrows, cut my shoulder-length hair into a white blond, new wave mullet. I wore punk clothes and affected an indifferent swagger; I could pull off the role of an effete west coast intellectual, above the rituals of male camaraderie.
I was not only isolated, but vulnerable. Meals were served buffet style in enormous, noisy halls, and I stood out from my tall, beefy classmates. Bathrooms were shared and crowded, and I was terrified that a classmate would catch sight of my nubile breasts as I entered or left a shower. I was not sure whether I would stir lust or revulsion from these unsophisticated but horny freshman, but either had terrifying and potentially dangerous consequences. I lived like a fugitive, brushing my teeth and showering at 4 in the morning when my dorm mates were all passed out from alcoholic bingeing.
Jon was still freaking out about my self-administration of hormones, and admittedly, my intake had exceeded clinical parameters that I had researched. So after class on the first day of school, I found myself in the office of Dr. Peter Prince, an endocrinologist. His nurse summoned me from his drab waiting room to a tiny curtain draped alcove, and she handed me a paper gown. She motioned to a hanger hooked to the wall, saying, "You can hang your clothes there."
My heart started racing. Other than Jake and Jon, no one had seen my emerging femininity in anything near its current state of development. My breasts were firm, perfect cones capped with broad aereoles and tipped with nipples that hardened and rose in the chill of the examination room. My muscles had softened into the delicate curves of a maturing young woman, and my skin was clear and my hair, though short, was soft, lustrous and thick. My penis shrunk to an even tinier than usual inch-and-a-half as I shivered miserably under the rough paper shroud.
Dr. Prince strode in abruptly, sweeping the curtain aside without looking up from his clipboard. He was an angular, bearded and intense young doctor. "Hmm, Alex Rios, and you were referred from--ah, the Gay, Lesbian and Transgendered Center. What seems to be the problem?"
I had decided on a direct approach. "Um, the problem is, I was born a girl stuck in a boy’s body, but I’ve changed that, and now I have a girl’s body, but I’m stuck in a boy’s dorm." This admission got Dr. Prince’s attention. "What do you mean?" I hunched my slender shoulders forward and let the gown slip to the floor. As I looked up at Dr. Prince, I caught him in the second half of a double take, and he looked pleased.
"Ahem, ah, who prescribed the hormones?" he asked, recovering his professional composure.
"A doctor in Tijuana," I lied. "I’m from California," I added, as if that would explain everything.
"What are you on?" I told him, editing out my most extreme excesses. He scribbled on his pad.
"We’ll need bloods and urine. Can I see your prescription?"
"I just ran out," I lied. I was running low. The stash that should have lasted a two years was almost gone after six months.
"Stand up." He massaged my breasts, which felt lovely, and asked "Any family history of breast cancer?"
"I don’t think so."
He took my hand in his and guided me in my first breast exam. "You’re looking for any lumps or masses."
"Do I have any?"
"None at all, but you need to do this every month to make sure you stay healthy."
I thought silently, "You could do this every day."
He gently grasped my scrotum and squeezed it. I prayed silently that I wouldn’t get hard.
"How about a family history of prostate cancer?" I had no idea, so he told me to lie down on my side. He slipped on a rubber glove and before I knew it he entered my ass with his thumb. I groaned, but he smiled and said "Cough."
Now my cock was hard, and I blushed and covered up. But he was scribbling notes on his clipboard, and without looking up said "You’re a little bit enlarged, estrogen can do that, having paradoxical effects on male organs. We are going to have to keep an eye on that. See me in my office when you are through with your labs," he called as he breezed through the curtain.
A nurse poked her head in and said "You can get dressed now Alex."
I peed in a cup, gave a shocking amount of blood, and they swiped my student health card through the machine. I walked hesitantly to Dr. Prince’s office, disguised, once again, as a boy.
"Alex, I notice that you are not ‘out’".
"Yeah, well, unfortunately, the University took me in as a boy. I didn’t want to surprise them."
"Well, you certainly surprised me. I see a fair number of transsexuals in my practice, but I don’t think I have ever seen anyone as feminized as you at your age, and with so little medical history. Who is your psychologist?"
"Dr. Feinberg, of Beverly Hills," I extemporized.
"And didn’t Dr. Feinberg refer you to anyone here? Do you have a letter from Dr. Feinberg?" he asked, incredulously.
I silently cursed myself for being so ill prepared. I decided to resort to feminine helplessness. "I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I was afraid to tell anyone," I sobbed, tears streaming down my face. "I just couldn’t stand being a boy and turning into a man. I’m a girl, and I have to become a woman. If I can’t, I’ll just kill myself."
"Wait a minute," he said soothingly. "Nobody said you can’t. You just have to go about it the right way. Now I can’t write estrogen prescriptions for you without a letter of referral from a psychiatrist or a psychologist. It sounds like you skipped over that step somehow. Is that right?"
I nodded silently, my closed eyes stung with tears.
"I am going to send you to Dr. Erika Wright," he said, scribbling a name on the back of a prescription pad and thrusting it at me. "I think you will find her someone you can talk to. Call me back in a week for your labs. And back off on that estrogen."
"I’m sorry I lost control", I said, wiping my eyes. "I really want you to be my doctor."
"And I want to be your doctor, but I want you to learn to play by the rules, and to tell the truth to your doctors."
"I’m sorry, but it’s so hard to tell the truth about this. You get used to lying."
"But not to me," he replied. I nodded, and then involuntarily hugged him. He gave my hand a little squeeze as he reminded me "Don’t forget to call Dr. Wright. And maybe she can help you with your housing problem!"
O God, I thought, just what I need, another doctor. I dreaded speaking to a shrink. She would probably think I was nuts! I never had thought I was crazy; I was just stuck in a crazy situation. A shrink might think otherwise. Or maybe she might decide that I should remain a male, or even get me committed.
I was too stressed out to go back to the dorm, and Dr. Prince’s prodding and poking had left me aroused. I hadn’t been fucked since Jon’s return, and I was horny and lonely and scared, so I decided to stop by Jon’s apartment. I climbed the familiar steps, put my leftover key in the lock and pushed open his door, my mind racing ahead to the erotic conclusion of this journey.
The apartment was dark, but I could tell it was occupied. I groped through the dim interior, and pushed open his bedroom door. I was instantly overcome with regret and horror, for there lay Jon entangled in a mound of disheveled sheets, wrapped in the arms and legs of another guy, and obviously savoring the afterglow of sexual encounter.
"I’m sorry" I stammered as I retreated in bewilderment.
Jon bounded up and after me, calling out "Wait Allie, let me explain." But I understood, and this needed no explanation. I was just another gay lover, a variation on the guy in his bed. He caught up with me at the front door. "Allie, he’s just a friend."
"Yeah, and so am I", I sobbed, and broke free from his grasp and ran down the stairs into the darkening, cold afternoon.
I took a long route back to the dorm. I was nauseated by the thought of Jon enjoying sex with another man. True, I was still physically partly a male, but he had related to me only as an active, dominant male, and I to him as passive, submissive female. Keeping sexual activity within these categories reassured me and kept me sane and balanced, but obviously they made him feel confined or bored. He wanted it both ways, I only wanted him one way.
As I thought of him being possessed in the same ways he had possessed me, I felt revulsion. No wonder he was the master of so many positions, I thought; he had probably experienced them from the bottom.
As I entered my room and threw myself on my bed, I felt sick. God, maybe I do need to see a shrink. Then it occurred to me; despite my little "problem", I was really a heterosexual. The problem with Jon was that he was bi, or maybe even homosexual. We had too much in common to be lovers. Now, I had no one.
Except Jake, I thought, remembering my wild weekend affair in Denver. I recalled the letter that I had received from him last week and had callously left unopened. I rushed for it in a panic, thinking perhaps I had already missed a chance to see him. I tore it open, and read: Jake Jones Edwards AFB Box 47872 Rosamund, California
Dear Allie:
Thank you for writing and telling where you are. It was good to hear from you.
I’ll never forget the time we had last summer. You are a beautiful and wonderful person and I am sure you will grow up to be even more beautiful. But I have had time to think and I am not the right man for you. I want to have kids of my own and a normal life. I am getting married next week to my high school girlfriend, and then she is going to move onto the base. I re-upped for three more years in the Air Force.
I am sure you will be fine, because even though you are different, you know what you want. Thank you for helping me figure out what I want too.
Sincerely
Jake
I felt as if the walls of my tiny room had collapsed on me, burying me in a mound of grief. I lay sobbing on my bed as the world receded into nothingness, and I was left alone in a center of isolation and pain. I would never be accepted. I was a freak; I only attracted perverts, curiosity seekers and wayward homos. Was the solution to have a sex change operation, and fade into the world of ordinary women?
I grabbed my cock and balls and squeezed them with all my strength, that they might disappear. Gathering unconsciousness forced me to relax my grasp, and the black orbs of pain faded from my vision. As I regained control over my breathing and pulse, I remembered that I wasn’t even close to a sex change under the Benjamin protocols. Every step I had taken, I had taken alone, without any medical sanction. For the present, I was stuck in this inbetween life, alone, amidst the mad mob of my classmates. Skipping dinner, I took a double dose of Premarin, a couple of Valium and tried to jerk off. Failing, I finally drifted into a troubled sleep.
The next morning I had an appointment with Professor Roger Finch, the faculty advisor for my Behaviors of Transgendered Sex Workers project. "Hmmph" he grunted, "sounds like an ambitious project for a freshman. Ever done any field work?"
"Not exactly, but I have some relevant experience. I think it’s a fascinating project, and one that hasn’t been done in the U.S."
"True enough, though others have tried. Problem with transsexuals is they always have a secret agenda. Most of the studies have been done in a clinical setting, and there the subjects tend to tell their therapists what they want to hear, to get ’the Operation’".
"That’s why I think new work needs to be done in the U.S., like Kulick’s work on the Brazilian Travesti."
Finch looked surprised. "You’ve read Kulick?"
"Of course," I said, "when I was in Sao Paolo last year I did some careful observation of travesti myself. "A fascinating group, but seemingly distinguishable from the North American phenomenon."
Professor Finch was visibly astounded. My days in the library were paying off.
"Perhaps," I hypothesized, "the North and South American transsexual phenomenon have been differentiated by an adherence to the Benjamin protocols here, as contrasted with the anarchic dissemination of hormones and silicone injections in the south."
"A fascinating hypothesis, and relevant, too, since anecdotal evidence suggests that we are seeing a breakdown of the Benjamin protocols as the paradigm here in the U.S. How is it that you have such in depth knowledge of transsexualism?"
"I have always been fascinated by the development of gender, and transsexualism best exemplifies the bifurcation of genetic sex and gender. I think it is the perfect departure point for studying the development of gender," said I, paraphrasing one of Professor Finch’s recent journal articles.
"Exactly my point of view. But the methodology is just impossible. How can one get these people to tell anything but lies of convenience?"
You can’t, I thought to myself. "I think I can. Let me put together my proposal."
"When can you be prepared?"
"Later today," I said.
"Really, that’s amazing. Very well, meet me here at six. I’m leading a seminar; if it runs late, just let yourself in."
I stopped at a pay phone and called Jon, telling him I needed to use his apartment to prepare for a meeting with Finch. I hauled my secret backpack of girl clothes, makeup and accessories there, and commandeered his bathroom, locked the door, and commenced my boudoir. I indulged myself in the shower until the hot water was gone, then wiped the steamy mirror clear. I tweezed and shaped my eyebrows, applied mascara, eyeliner and shadow, foundation, color and lip gloss. I blew my punk hair into a sexy, spiky bob.
I moisturized and perfumed with my favorite Sephora fragrances, then squeezed into some ultra-tight low riders and a snug, cropped tube top that squeezed my little breasts into jiggling compressed cones and bared my flat midriff. I tottered on my favorite platform sandals. I looked like a very high-end street urchin, and I felt great as I admired myself in the mirror. Jon was stunned by the vision and embraced me from behind, nuzzling his cock against my behind and fondling my breasts.
I stared him down in the mirror. "In your dreams, Jon. Just like you, I’m gonna get me a new boyfriend."
"Allie, he wasn’t a new boyfriend."
"Oh great, going back to your old boyfriend after your summer romance. Look, I wouldn’t have minded if it was a girl, but I can’t handle this."
"I told you I was bi-sexual."
"I thought that meant you liked girls, not other men."
"That’s just the point, Allie, to me you are a girl."
"That’s flattering, but that’s not what you meant at the time." He knew I was right, and shifted his approach.
"Allie, I get so much out of being with you. In you, I find a part of me that I cannot find in myself. You bring me closer to my soul."
"O Christ," I said. "That’s great. For my whole life, every time I’m with a girl, I dream of being her, and now that I finally am becoming one, I find a guy who wishes he was me."
"That’s not what I said, it’s not what I meant."
"Jon, it’s hard enough to be me, without you wanting to be me too."
"I don’t want to be you, but you help me get in touch with a side of me I never really knew, and I want to know better."
"Jon, I really like you as a friend, and I’d love to help you understand yourself better, but I can’t have a lover who is taking mental notes for his own passive role while making love to me. Just like you, I need someone who helps me find myself. And I think I am straight, and I want to find someone hetero, and you’re not. So we just don’t fit."
Jon looked downcast. "I don’t want to lose you."
"So don’t. I don’t want to lose you either." And I didn’t. I had important plans for Jon.
"Listen, I’ve been thinking about my project, and I want to integrate it with an outreach program by the Alliance. You know, Minneapolis has a law forbidding discrimination based on gender identity."
"Yeah, so."
"Well, what do you think the cops are doing to the T-girls down on Hennepin every night."
"You mean other than busting them for prostitution and drugs? C’mon, I feel bad about your friend Daylene, but you’re picking a losing battle."
"Maybe so, maybe not, but it’s a battle worth fighting. Besides, it gives me an ‘in’ to the community to enable me to collect the data for Finch."
"You mean you want to get their survey data by offering legal and social services."
"Yeah, but I’m not talking condom giveaways or needle exchanges. I’m talking about processing anti-discrimination complaints. Get enough of them, and who knows, the cops may clean up their act."
"And you’ll get your data, and your ‘A’".
"So what’s wrong with doing well by doing good."
"Allie, you’re a genius," he said, taking a seat at his computer workstation. For the next two hours, we talked, and he typed my ideas into a neat summary for the Alliance Board and Finch, including budget and a list of resources needed for the project.
At the top of the list was a studio apartment with phone near Hennepin. I would need a safe place near their turf to conduct interviews. Safety, that is, for them and for me.
There was a board meeting of the Alliance in a week. Jon promised to put it on the agenda and push for it if I delivered Finch’s blessing. "No problem," I said, as a walked off to Finch’s office, appearing, at the moment, to be the best looking girl on campus.
I let myself in and waited. Finch arrived a few minutes later. He was startled. "What is the meaning of this, young lady?"
"I’m here for our meeting."
"I had no such meeting scheduled with you."
"But I had one scheduled with you."
"You must leave now, I have another appointment scheduled."
"But Professor Finch, it’s me, it’s Alex." Finch stumbled back, dumbfounded. "Alex Rios?" he said weakly.
"Yes, but you can call me Allie or Alexandra."
"Please sit down," he said, closing the door and taking a seat opposite me.
He sat down unsteadily. "Alex, er, Allie, you gave me such a fright. Some of my research and writing is controversial with the feminists and the born-again communities, and I don’t like surprise visits."
"Sorry, I thought this would be a pleasant surprise," I said, affecting hurt feelings.
"Oh, but now it is," he said brightening. "Allie, I see your interest in transsexualism is both academic and personal. I must compliment you. Your impressive academic knowledge is matched by your appearance. You’re quite lovely."
"I think that if I approach the interviews as another T, the girls will be more open."
"But your looks won’t necessarily open the minds of your interview subjects. Some of them might be quite envious."
I explained the plan that I had created and handed him the draft that Jon had typed. Finch skimmed it, and said "That’s really quite ingenious. I am OK with the ethics as long as there is no quid pro quo. Are you sure that the Alliance will participate?"
"I have a good friend on its board, and he’s confident that they will participate, if I get your support."
"You have my support. Look, let’s try this as independent study, say, for four units this semester. I’ve got some leftover grant money to support it with for now. If it goes well, we’ll write a grant proposal this semester for funding next. If we have some results by then, it should be a breeze."
I showed him my budget. A furnished studio apartment near Hennepin would be the costliest item. Other than that I needed a phone, a tape machine, transcribing services, printing for a few fliers. With luck, the first three months would be less than $2,500.
"But we need to expand the survey. I am not only interested in our subjects’ sexual behaviors, but in their history. We need to work on question on their background. May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course," I beamed, attentive to the master.
"As our model, we will take your own development."
"I’m not a good model. I’m not a sex worker." (Well, I had been, and would be, but remember, I’m the world’s greatest liar!) "I can’t, it’s too hard to talk about it."
"But that is why we must talk about it, to discover the questions that peel away the defenses most effectively. Otherwise, our project will either be insignificant, or a failure."
"OK, I said, but could we go somewhere a little more comfortable."
"My apartment is only a short drive." I readily agreed.
As we drove, he told me about himself. "Just as you must set the stage with your subjects by telling a little bit about yourself." He was an army brat from nowhere. He had excelled in all of the dozen elementary and secondary schools he had attended, and entered Harvard on scholarship. He was drafted for the end of the Viet Nam War and fled to Canada, forever alienating his father. He obtained his doctorate at McGill and taught at Simon Fraser for many years. He married a Canadian, had fraternal twin boys, who were about my age. One had been effeminate since early childhood, and was now openly gay, the other was straight. He had had some gay sex in college but had turned away from it. He had divorced last year in the midst of a fling with a grad student and had returned to the U.S. as a Canadian national on a visa, leaving grad student and wife behind. In short, he was the perfect mentor for me.
I won’t bore you with my account of my life story. Suffice it to say that a little of it was true. Naturally, I left out most of what I have told you. It took hours, proceeding jerkily, like a backward interview. We paused to examine what question would lead to the episode that I had just recounted. At the end of my story, Professor Finch had a pad full of questions. It was nearly midnight. "That was dreadful," I complained. "I’m completely stressed."
"I’m sure you’ll do much better with your interview subjects than I did with you. You’re so pleasant to talk to."
"Thank you, but if you want me to say another word, you’ll have to get me a drink."
"Allie, you’re underage, I wouldn’t want to contribute to the delinquency of a minor."
"Oh, c’mon, as you now know, I’m already a little bit delinquent. And as for age limits, tell that to all the crazy drunks at my dorm." Finch returned with an open bottle of wine and two glasses. After he had poured and we had toasted to the success of our project, I asked, peering into his eyes with an upward gaze "Tell me, Professor Finch, is your interest in transsexuals purely academic or is it partly personal?"
"Up until now, purely academic."
"And now?" I asked breathlessly, closing my eyes parting my lips for an expected kiss.
"Getting personal", he whispered hoarsely, and answered with his lips. I melted in his arms.
He kissed me gently and shyly, hesitating to give me his tongue. His caresses were soft and tentative, and his hands stayed above my waist, even as mine explored his crotch.
I longed for a rougher touch, a twist of my nipples or a rough squeeze of my butt, or to be thrown back on the couch and be squashed under a ton of hard male muscles. God, I thought, this is going to take forever! I was bored, but that made me feel guilty. Was I a trashy slut that wanted to be used roughly by my lovers. Why couldn’t I enjoy this civilized wooing? Was I so accustomed to being ridden hard, that I needed to be dominated and abused? The answer came from within me. I needed it.
I interrupted his genteel embrace. "Let’s get more comfortable", I said, grabbing my purse and leading him to the bedroom. He began taking off his clothes as I went into the bathroom. "Why don’t you put on some music," I called, as I freshened up. I peeked out, saw him lying naked on his bed, and emerged to do a sexy strip tease. When I had flung my panties away, I pirouetted to him and thrust my lips over his hardening member.
After my sexual summer session on Hennepin I had been chaste for a couple of weeks. It felt great to have a cock in my mouth, although Finch’s was nothing special. It was smaller than average and despite my expert attention it stubbornly remained slightly rubbery. My head bobbed up and down furiously, and my breathing grew labored. He wasn’t really helping. His pelvic thrusts were weak and un-rhythmic. I switched to tongue flicks and flutters, licking, and then back to full deep throat sucking, and though I did my best, his dick got softer and smaller, until it was even smaller than when I had begun. I finally stopped, asking "Are you OK with me?"
"Oh, Allie, I’m sorry. You were wonderful, and it felt so good. I’ve been having this problem for the last couple of years." Oh well, I thought in frustration, so much for getting fucked tonight! Now I’ll have to lie here with this limp dick and be sympathetic.
"Just rest for a while. We don’t need to hurry."
"You know, Allie, don’t ever change. You’re perfect."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean don’t rush into any surgery. Your body is really lovely, like the body of a beautiful pubescent girl."
"Well, not exactly," I reminded him. "Sometimes I feel like a freak, like I’ll never really fit into life."
"You are doing really well."
"But I get treated like a sissy when I live as a boy, and I can’t live as a girl. A transsexual really can’t live as a girl, unless she gets a sex change."
"Is that what you want?"
"I don’t really know yet. I’ve only been on hormones for about eight months. I love the way I look and feel. And I’m happiest when I can dress and act as a girl."
"How about your parents?"
"They have been traveling a lot the last few months, don’t know how far I have taken things." He looked stricken. I could see he was worried about his own child.
"We really shouldn’t be doing this. You’re my student, and young enough to by my own kid."
"Just remember, I seduced you. Even the best teachers can learn from their students."
"Especially a student like you." He seemed relaxed enough for me to renew my efforts.
"I really want to make you cum", I said.
"You’re so nice, but it’s probably no use." Hell, I thought, if I can get my own estrogen-shrunken self off, surely I can get this poor old guy to cum. "I know how," I said, grabbing some lube from my purse. I applied it liberally to his dick and gave him a gentle but rapid hand job. He never got completely hard, but after a couple hundred strokes his pelvis began undulating and as the pace picked up he began to groan with pleasure. "That’s it, let it go," I encouraged.
Suddenly he blurted "I’m gonna cum" and thick stringy white globs flew out of his dick and splattered down onto my hands and his stomach.
I beamed up at him. "I knew you could. You’re fine."
"But I didn’t do anything for you," he said guiltily.
"That’s OK. I enjoyed that." It’s true, I had. I would have enjoyed a good ass-fucking even more, but what the hell.
We relaxed in the afterglow for a few minutes. It was nearly two when I told Finch that I needed to leave. He offered a ride, but it was a warm night, and only few blocks. It was too late to pick up my boy clothes at Jon’s, but I had an early morning math class and so I needed to get dressed as a college boy. I figured all of my drunken classmates would be crashed. I could sneak in en femme, unnoticed.
I walked back to my dorm trying to stay in the shadows. I ran up the fire stairs. My room was four doors down from the fire door. I peeked out, and thought that the coast was clear. I tiptoed to my door, and quickly shut it behind me. As I did, I heard another door slam farther down the hall.
Shit, I thought, had someone seen me? I stood silent for a minute, listening to the faint buzz that the fluorescent bulbs made in the hall. Continued quiet outside reassured me.
I quickly stripped out of my girl’s clothes, put on some boy’s pajamas, went to the bathroom to shower and brush my teeth. The hot water and steam relaxed me and melted away the frustration and stress of teasing and pleasing Finch.
As I closed my eyes to rinse my hair, I felt a cool blast invade my steamy paradise, and my reverie was broken by cackling male voices. "I toldja heeza trannie queen."
"Holy fuck, lookat those titties."
"Waddyano, we got us a pussyboy living right on our floor."
I covered my breasts and cockette, like a bare Botticelli, as they pulled me from the shower. They wrapped me in my towel, pinning my arms to my sides, and carried me back to my room, giggling maniacally as I wriggled helplessly.
They were Rick and Randy, a couple of the less obnoxious and better looking of the hunks on the floor. Rick was a hunky farm boy from near Fargo, and Randy was a suburban skateboard thrasher. They were large, hard muscled hockey players, and my pitiful muscles were no match for either of them, even in their present state of drunkenness.
They dumped me on my bed as I hissed "Get out of here. Leave me alone!"
That only pissed them off and Randy grabbed my chin and got in my face. "Shut the fuck up or we’ll invite the whole floor in here to fuck you. You’re better off with just the two of us, right."
I nodded silently. "I’ve always wanted to try a trannie," Randy said.
"Now, you pretty yourself up for us. We’ll be back in fifteen minutes." I thought momentarily about making a dash for it, but it probably would have only invited even more savage treatment, or even a gang bang by the whole floor. No, my best strategy was to become their love toy, and enlist them in my secret life by offering continual sexual favors. Plus, they were actually two of the sexier guys on campus.
My short hair dried acceptably, so I concentrated on makeup. By the time the door opened, I looked pretty hot. When they returned, I decided to take the diplomatic offensive. "You know, guys, that if you had told me you were interested in me, you wouldn’t have had to carry me off over your shoulder like a couple of cavemen. Not that I really minded," I said, batting my sensually made up eyes. "I’m actually in the mood for a couple of guys like you." I rose and threw my arms around Randy and opened my lips. He lips met mine, his tongue plunged into my mouth and I was overwhelmed by his beery breath and grabbing, groping hands.
Rick complained, "Hey, what about me."
I broke off my embrace and said, "Oh, sorry," and faced him. His equally drunken lips soon smothered me with kisses. He fondled me from the front as Randy groped me from behind and kissed my neck. After a few minutes, they turned me and I again gave Randy my breasts and my mouth, while Rick groped and humped my behind.
"Oh my god, I’m getting so hot. I want both of you. Pull my bed back from the wall, OK?" They did so, as I went to my bag and got out two condoms and my lubricant.
Their dicks were both upright and stiff. I slipped condoms on them, and slathered lubricant on my hole and over Randy’s sheathed 8" inch dick, which was slightly narrower than Rick’s 9" tool. I looked up at him pleadingly and whispered "Start slowly, OK?"
He drunkenly ignored me, and I braced myself. I lay sideways across the bed, threw my legs up and my head back. Rick and Randy needed no further guidance. Rick slapped my face and lips gently with his dick as I snapped at it with my eager lips. His muscled torso filled my field of vision as his massive cock filled my mouth. He began pumping my mouth and throat vigorously, making my titties shake with each plunge and withdrawal. I wrapped my slender arms around his massive thighs and enjoyed the contractions of his muscles as they worked hard to fuck my face.
Randy had grabbed my ankles and put them on his chiseled shoulders. He swiveled my ass up by pressing down on the back of my thighs. I hadn’t been fucked for weeks, and my ass felt tight and virginal. Randy poked his cock into my coiled ring, unleashing a mix of pain and ecstasy. He impulsively lunged forward to suck my breasts, and his full length entered me in one surge. Fiery pain consumed me from within, as I desperately stifled a cry of agony that was trapped in my vocal cords by Rick’s penis. Rick gnawed at my breast, his dick jammed all the way in me, for an excruciating interlude. For a few seconds I drifted toward unconsciousness as the sensations became unbearably intense, but as I neared the abyss, the pain inside me began to lessen.
At that moment, he broke my reverie as he yanked his cock back. The abrupt withdrawal felt like he was ripping me apart. His next plunge was an even deeper wound, and again he pulled out savagely, only to plunge with even greater force. I struggled to contain both these plunging cocks, one tearing through my insides, the other pummeling my face and throat. As I gradually mastered the forces that were attacking me, the searing pain in my ravaged hole and the bruising assault on my mouth and throat turned to ever more intense pleasure. My insides were warmed by the friction of their fast moving dicks, and responded with effusions from my inner mucousa that self-lubricated me, allowing them to increase the velocity and force of the face- and ass-fucking.
Their rhythms gradually coordinated with one another, and we became a single symbiotic organism, evolved to convert pain and submission into ecstasy. I felt totally helpless, dominated, stuffed by their relentless male vigor and aggression. I felt as I imagined helpless victimized girls must have felt through the rapine ages of the anarchic past, as I replayed the fantasies that had for so long dominated my horny, insomniac nights. My consciousness drifted between fantasy and the unreal reality of this merciless double fucking. When I opened my eyes, I saw two massive, shadowy torsos heaving above me.
When I closed my eyes, I was Marie Antoinette, being gang-raped by her captors one last time before her beheading.
The pounding in my ass became more extreme as approaching orgasm put Randy onto deranged autopilot. I heard him grunt "Ahrg, ahrg ahhha, uugha" and his dick’s movements became random and jagged, for he had cum.
I regretted that the rubber had kept me from savoring the splatter of his jism inside me: oh, well, safety first. He kept going at a slower pace and finally pulled out, saying "Rick, you gotta try this, man. She’s tighter and wetter than any other pussy I’ve tried."
I was pleased with the compliment, and with Randy’s use of the female pronoun. Rick pulled his dick out of my mouth, and when I first tried to speak, my exhausted throat was mute. Finally, I whispered hoarsely "Please take me from behind."
"Works for me" Rick said, and I kneeled on the floor and rested my upper body on the warm, rumpled sheets.
Able to speak at last, I asked Randy "Could you hand me that bottle?" and he gave me my lubricant. I reached behind and rubbed it on Rick’s cock, which was already pawing at my used, puckered ass. "It feels better if you start slowly."
"Better for me if I ram it in," Rick replied, and he promptly did just that. My body shuddered from the blow, and I stifled my cry by burying my head in the mattress. Randy had gotten me ready, but not for the intense screwing that Rick now administered. The bulbous head of his thicker, longer cock felt like a jackhammer against my tender internal organs. I felt like I was suffocating, but death did not rescue me from the sweet torture his cock inflicted on me.
He plunged on relentlessly, like multiple stabs into my body. Neither perpetrator nor victim could endure such a fucking long. He was too hot from my blow job, and his wild thrusting portended a fast orgasm. My ass felt like it had been penetrated by the whole hockey team rather than only two of its "members". His thrashing cock became even more frenzied, and he groaned "uhmph umpgh ahrgh" as he flailed to an intense orgasm.
He pulled out too quickly, giving me one more spasm of pain. Rick staggered away from me, shook the slumbering form of Randy, who had collapsed on the floor, and said "Wake up, dude, I’m done. Let’s crash." He slapped my tender ass "See’ya later, bitch! Keep your slutty mouth shut about this, and then maybe so will we."
They left me with my tortured thoughts, contemplating my future in the clutches of these two virile studs.
I crawled onto my bed and put my head under the covers. Rick’s parting words reverberated into a haunting mantra of fear! Shit, I had been exposed. Unlike when it had happened in high school, here I had four more years to survive. And I was stuck living as a boy! Now these two brutes owned me, since they could expose my secret identity. I felt completely humiliated and vulnerable. Rick and Randy could fuck me whenever, and however they wanted, and I was powerless to protest. While I kind of liked the idea of being their sex slave, I was desperately afraid of being exposed to the whole dorm. One of the farm boys morons would probably strangle me.
My throat was sore and swollen from the relentless jabbing of Rick’s oversized cock. My rectum burned, and my gut churned from the overwhelming fucking I had taken. I looked at the clock. It was 2:45 a.m. The whole ordeal had lasted only a half hour, but it had felt like a day. Shit, I had to be up for class in less than four hours, and I was in no mood for sleeping. Anxiety and physical pain overcame the fatigue that the hard sex had brought on.
I sought escape, as I often had, in studying. I worked until 4:30, the peaceful rhythms of math solutions gradually steadying me. A Virginia Wolff short story, "To the Lighthouse" helped me put my troubles aside. The editor’s note said she had committed suicide shortly after that poignant story was written. There would be no such easy exit for me.
The dorm was now silent; I took a solitary shower. The rush of steam cleared my mind. Then my strategy for survival occurred to me. Rick and Randy were just as trapped in our relationship as I, since if they exposed me as a transsexual, they would expose themselves as trannie lovers, little better than faggots in their jock world. The more time they spent with me, the more closely associated they became with me, the greater their investment in preserving my secret. Randy and Rick, I decided, could fuck me whenever they wanted. The more, the better, I decided. I set my alarm for 6:45 and got a couple of hours of desperately needed, and dreamless, sleep.
After my long evening and night as Alexandra, dressing as Alex was disconcerting. I felt kind of faggy dressed as a boy, even though my dark clothes, Doc Martens and heavy framed glasses successfully captured a hip proto-grunge look. As I strode off through the gloomy morning, I heard the cackling of familiar but unfriendly voices behind me. "Hey, Rios, whassa matta, ya walkin’ a little bow-legged?"
I whirled around and faced Rick and Randy. "Look, you two, you can use me as you want in bed, but I won’t let you humiliate me in public. I won’t be your cocksucker at night unless you respect me during the day."
They blanched visibly at my candid and very public acknowledgment of their nocturnal visit, and looked around to see if anyone had heard. "Hey, chill out, Alex. Don’t tell the world."
"I might as well, if you are, and if you are going to treat me like shit."
"OK, we’ll be cool and you be cool. Where ya going?"
"Math 101, with Bloomberg."
"Us too, we’ll walk with ya."
They even sat next to me in class, a massive convention of confused freshman. I was stuck in this math for dummies because Uni High would only let you take two AP courses and I had no time for math. I had covered the whole curriculum for Math 101 in my SAT prep course. Natch, I had nailed the subject, and of course I got 800’s on both parts of the SAT. But I know you’re not surprised, because you already know that I’m brilliant.
So when the class let out a collective groan as Bloomberg announced a pop quiz, I only feigned disgust.
"Wadda fuckin’ asshole," Rick groaned. "I haven’t even opened the book."
"I haven’t fuckin’ bought it," Randy rejoined.
"What a slave driver," I agreed.
I finished the quiz using about two of the allotted ten minutes, and turned my test paper over. I looked over and noticed Rick holding his head in his hands, his paper blank.
Randy was doodling idly as he stared into the distance. I batted my eyes at each of them, and having gained their attention, flipped my paper back over. I leaned back as if to study my perfect answers again, and gave them a clear view of my neatly printed test paper. They stared back and started writing on their own papers.
On blank space, I wrote a quick note, which I quickly erased after they had read it. "Get one wrong. Randy #7, Rick #10." With their sharp hockey-trained peripheral vision, they quickly got the answers, finishing their furtive plagiarism just as the TA’s collected the papers.
We all had a break before our next class. English 101 for them, an upper class Chaucer seminar for me.
"I’m hung over. I needa coffee," said Rick.
"Yeah, let’s go to Starbucks. See ya later. Hey, thanks for the props on the quiz."
"You know, after what I’ve done for you, you could invite me. I didn’t get much sleep last night, thanks to you know who!"
"OK, c’mon along." They bought me a latte and proceeded to blather about their hockey stuff, largely ignoring me. I listened with interest, and quickly mastered the rules and language of hockey. They were defensemen on the same line, and I really wanted to see them play. The thought of them administering a crushing body check to an opponent against the boards turned me on.
Finally, we returned to the subject of "that asshole Bloomberg."
"So whydja want us to get one wrong."
"Don’t you realize how unusual it would be if three students seated next to each other all got a perfect score?"
"Yeah, I guess so, but how do you know you got a perfect score?"
I nodded and laughed, "I always know. Besides, it would be even more obvious if we all got the same problem wrong!"
"Whoa, you’re one smart bitch."
I shushed them laughingly and smiled. "Thanks for the latte, see you later."
"In your room, on your bed!" Rick cracked.
"How about the Research Library, eighth floor, any time between ten and closing. You can join my study group."
"Oh c’mon, it’s only the first week of classes."
"I know, but it’s almost the end of the first week."
I was in no frame of mind to see Dr. Erika Wright, but there she was, penciled into my calendar right after Chaucer. I mentally rehearsed the usual lines. Girl trapped inside a boy’s body, interested in girls’ toys and clothes for as long as I can remember. Never interested in girls romantically. I had read all of Benjamin plus Money and Greene, I knew it well enough to spin it into a convincing lie.
Dr. Wright was a tall and quite pretty. She offered me a seat, and then said nothing for a few minutes as she studied me. Finally, she said "I’ve read your chart from Dr. Prince, and there’s not much there. No referring doctor, no history. Tell me why you think you’re transsexual."
I began my spiel, and she nodded attentively. After I got to the part about playing with dolls, Dr. Wright interrupted me. "Just one thing, it says here on your chart you are an only child. So tell me, why were there any girl’s toys or clothes around your house?"
I improvised female cousins and the girls next door, but she had opened a crack in the façade. "I pulled your college application and it says that you wrote an award winning essay on Napoleon’s military career. That’s not a very feminine topic. Anything in the essay on Empress Josephine?" she inquired mockingly.
"Well, I was covering up."
"Do you mean then or now?"
"Why would I want to persuade you that I am a transsexual, if I’m not?"
"We see it all the time. Alex, I can see you’re extremely intelligent, and I can tell you are expert in the clinical aspects of transsexualism. But if you’re as smart as I think you are, you must realize that it is futile to keep trying to bullshit me."
I allowed tears to well up in my eyes. "Dr. Wright, I’ve been lying about this for so long. It’s so hard to distinguish between truth and lies. Every day, I have to deal in lies. Every minute."
"Not here, not if you want me to help you."
"Are you going to help me?"
"I’m going to try. Have you told your parents?"
I hadn’t seen them or talked with them about my "issues" since just before I had left for summer school, five months ago. They had sent me a plane ticket to meet them for Thanksgiving in New York: Dad was teaching in Lucerne, and my mother was writing another book. "They knew about experimenting with hormones, but I think I told them I was going to give them up. Then I couldn’t. I haven’t told them that I want to live as a girl, and I can’t tell them over the phone."
"They’re medical professionals, they would be supportive."
"Not necessarily. My dad is a hotshot AIDS researcher, and he’s not happy about the sexual part."
"How about you and the sexual part?"
"It’s not about sex, it’s about me.
"Let me tell you what I’m a little worried about. You didn’t have any demonstrable transsexual behavior until your own adolescent sexual awakening. I am wondering how much of your desire is trans, and how much sexual."
"OK, I get it. Do you think there is only one etiology for transsexuals?"
"Who knows? As a mass phenomenon, it’s too recent to tell."
"I’m going to prove that there’s not. I am doing an independent study with Professor Finch."
"How do you know what you’re going to prove?"
"Well, I don’t, but here’s my hypothesis. Benjamin, Money and Greene saw a handful of the earliest transsexual patients. They were studying subjects that were coming out as transsexuals at the very beginning of the gay rights movement. Stonewall was just another drag bar in the Village, and they did their work before the APA changed its diagnostic criteria on homosexuality. Back then, being gay was considered a kind of insanity, and they were naturally concerned that gays would use transsexualism to cover up their homosexuality.
"Now, society makes it easier to be gay, but it still makes it miserable to be transsexual. So the earliest pioneers inferred from a tiny sample a paradigm that’s still being applied thirty years later to a completely different world. I give them credit for being humane enough to treat transsexualism as something more than schizophrenia, but they had almost no clinical data or context, and their paradigms and treatment criteria are obsolete.
"In the meantime, you not only have a much larger population of transgendered people in the U.S., you have populations of travesti in Brazil, France, Italy, and Mexico and katoey in Thailand, Japan, and Hawaii that have just exploded. I was in Brazil last spring, and you have to see it to believe it. There are thousands of travesti, surviving on the edges of society, and though they are treated horribly, there are just thousands of them. Look at the underground papers in New York, or LA, or even here. Half the personals are she-males.
"I’m sorry I fed you that bullshit, but you shrinks are still stuck on Benjamin, and it’s antiquated dogma. I don’t believe it applies to me or anyone else today, and I’m going to prove it."
She had listened to all that without saying anything. "Look, that’s very impressive," she began. "You are incredibly knowledgeable about the subject, and I commend your dedication toward improving the science. I am really impressed with the design of your project with Finch, and someday I may even agree with your hypothesis about the multiple etiologies of transsexualism, but that still will not have answered my question. You haven’t addressed my little clinical problem here. What makes you transsexual? What’s your etiology?"
I was momentarily silenced. My research, my hypothesis, my reading, had not prepared me for that question.
I started talking again slowly. "OK. It began late for me. I was a late bloomer sexually. So at the point when boys were starting to sprout pubic hair and act like a bunch of horny monkeys, I was not part of it. When I started thinking about girls, I started identifying with them, instead of hitting on them. I used to fantasize about being a girl, and then about experiencing sex as a girl. I knew about transsexuals and how they used female hormones; my dad’s a doctor so he always had tons of samples around the house and his office. I know my way around a medical research library, and I got what I need from my dad and got started. I realize now it was a mistake to go it alone, but I was afraid to talk to anyone about it. All the doctors know my dad, and I was afraid they would tell him."
"So this phase of your life is tied into your sexual awakening."
"Transsexualism was my sexual awakening. I never have been any other kind of sex at all."
"You’ve never been with a girl?"
I described my painful and disastrous relationship with Marta. "I never wanted to dominate her as a lover. To me it was a heavy flirtation between two girls. I never wanted to make love to her as a male, and I’m sure she did not want me a male lover."
"Look, you are a very cute kid, and I am sure you make a very pretty girl. But these changes become irreversible over time, and eventually it’ll be too late to change your mind"
"Do you want to see?"
She looked at me appraisingly. "I’ll just use my imagination."
I blushed, and said, "I mean dressed as a girl, not undressed." We both giggled. I felt the ice break just a little.
I handed her a glamour shot that I had made one mad afternoon with Daylene. She said "I would like you to come dressed to our next session."
"You know, that’s not that easy. It’s not that easy to go back and forth between boy and girl clothes on a college campus with a bunch of nosy, horny, and potentially violently intolerant guys around all the time."
"You can change here."
"I could do that right now."
"OK, I have another appointment now, I’ll meet you afterwards and we’ll get lunch."
I had brought a black Gap turtleneck, a pair of Bebe jeans, Adidas: the sorority girl uniform of the year. My make up was subtle and innocent, like a Midwestern ingenue. I was ready before Dr. Wright returned and was taking notes from my Chaucer when she came back.
"Wow, the perfect freshman pledge. Which sorority?" she joked.
"Tau Sigma", I improvised.
She laughed, adding "Let’s go to lunch, girl. I’ll buy. What do you want?"
We got salads at the Faculty Club. I waved to Finch from across the room, and he brightened visibly. Dr. Wright noted my mentor’s acceptance of my female role. "I guess you’re ‘out’ to Finch."
"Of course, no lies to teacher. He’s comfortable with me as a girl, and I’m comfortable with him knowing me as one."
"I must say, I’m more comfortable with you as a girl."
"You know it’s just about feeling safe and comfortable in my own skin. When I dress as a boy, I’m neither comfortable nor safe. When I dress as a girl, I feel both. It’s the transitions that are killing me."
"You do seem completely comfortable now, and quite beautiful as well. But you still haven’t really convinced me that it’s not about being a desirable sex object rather than about becoming a woman."
"I’m not sure those are completely inconsistent. I like to be pretty, and obviously so do you. But I haven’t exactly gone out of my way to get guys." (OK, well I had a couple of times, but let’s not tell all to Dr. Wright.) "Trying to be a part time girl in a world of males has been a big problem for me." I told her about my prom night debacle.
"So your first sex experience was to be raped?"
I nodded, and added, "It won’t be the last. Last night, I tried to sneak into my dorm in girl's clothes and got caught."
"You were raped last night?"
Well, even though it wasn’t exactly rape, it was close, so I told her "Two guys caught me sneaking into the dorm late, and dressed. It’s just impossible living in this half-and-half world. I can’t live as a boy, I need to turn into a girl, and doing that while living in a men’s dorm is insane. I’ll get myself killed."
"Did you report what happened last night to campus police?"
"Are you kidding? Cops don’t give a shit about transsexuals. I’m going to manipulate those two into a ring of silence. They can’t afford to be linked to me as a transsexual any more than I can afford to be exposed as one."
Dr. Wright and I walked back to her office. "Look, I’m on your side. I am going to tell Dr. Prince that he should treat you as a transsexual patient. And I’ll recommend that the University re-register you as a female, and change your housing to a gender neutral environment. But it’s going to take some time, and I can’t do either until you tell your parents."
I promised I would tell them. I gave her a hug as she left for her next appointment. "Dr. Wright, I was so apprehensive about meeting you. You’re great, and I really feel like both you and I know me better. I feel really comfortable talking to you about everything."
"More than anything you said, and that alone was very impressive, I was impressed by how much more naturally you acted when you changed into girl’s clothes. You’re still the same person, but your posture, facial expression and demeanor were transformed, and I would have to say it was for the better. It was more convincing than your best argument, and that’s saying a lot."
"Thank you so much. That’s just how I feel. And thank you for challenging me when I misled you. It’s a hard habit to break, but I promise I’ll try. I want to tell the truth to you, but I know it will be hard. I was so worried about meeting with you, and now I’m so glad that you’re my doctor."
"Well, Allie, I should tell you, that I have a special advantage with transsexual patients. "I’m one myself."
"Wow, I had no idea. You’re perfect."
"Thank you. So are you." We hugged again.
As her firm breasts brushed my much smaller titties, a familiar feeling overwhelmed me. I wanted to inhabit her body, just as I had wanted with Marta. I left her feeling happy but bewildered.
I got another Starbucks and went to the library. Alone with my books in the empty stacks, I felt safe in my sorority girl’s attire. I felt liberated and creative, and the words flowed from my pen as I analogized Chaucer to Joyce’s short stories collected in "the Dead". I looked up from my tautly reasoned conclusion and noticed that it was 11:45, fifteen minutes to closing.
I panicked, where the hell were Rick and Randy. I felt betrayed and vulnerable. I wouldn’t have stuck myself here across campus from my room without their escort. I heard footsteps and to my relief, saw Rick’s buzzed head bob past me. "S-s-s-t".
He doubled back, and then did a double take. "Is that you?"
I nodded. "Shit, I walked past you three times, although I would have hit on you if you hadn’t been so buried in your books. You look great."
"Thanks, you look wasted."
"Party hearty, my motto."
"Sound’s good to me. Let’s go." We found Rick who was staggering around, drunkenly lost, in a distant part of the stacks, and we all walked to our dorm hand in hand. We agreed that for Rick and Randy to sneak a tasty looking sorority chick into their room would be no problem.
As we neared the dorm I pulled them together. "I really want both of you, but let’s try it one on one tonight. You decide on turns, I can’t play favorites." I really preferred Rick, but it was close. They suggested flipping a coin, and I said "That’s disgusting. I don’t want to be wagered on a coin flip. OK, how far is the moon from earth. Closest guess is first." Rick guessed a thousand miles, and Randy guessed a million. "Oh my god, you should both lose, but Rick’s closer." Rick and I walked to their double room, and Randy staggered to my single.
OK, now I know that sodomy has a bad name, with its part in the spread of AIDS and all, but when it’s all you got, you try to perfect it to an art. Let’s be honest, for the bottom, and I am always the bottom, it always hurts at the beginning, but it’s fantastic at the climax. The difference between a bad experience and a great fuck is the degree of pain that precedes the pleasure.
But that’s only the sensual level. Beyond that there are exquisite yin/yangs of pain and pleasure, of subjugation and freedom, of vulnerability and invincibility, and of domination and submission, and sodomy exemplifies these unities and dichotomies perfectly. As the submissive bends and opens herself to her dominant, so does the dominant become beholden to the submissive. My task was to teach these truths to the half drunk, horny jocks that I found myself in bed with, using my own body as the blackboard. What made it especially challenging was that just last night, my two friends had half killed me in bed.
"Rick," I said as I slathered his stiff, condomed cock in lubricant, "When you penetrate me tonight, tell me how each millimeter feels. Talk to me, and tell me how it feels."
"OK, but I have to have you now."
"I want you now, but I want you to open me slowly." As I massaged him with lubricant, I got my first chance to take a good look at his equipment. "Good god", I gasped, "Your cock is so big, and has such a big fat head, it’s like a giant mushroom. It’s like, not natural." My ass tingled at the prospect of the great head popping through my ring and lodging in my ass canal. "Be careful with me, please."
He nodded and then rolled me into position, face down, ass up. I looked back up at him apprehensively and silently mouthed "Please go slowly." He pressed against my ring as I guided him inside me. As he penetrated me I emitted a cry, and twirled my head in an involuntary spasm. The fiery pain doubled and redoubled as I struggled to press down my diaphragm against the invading fire-breathing dragon inside me. I glanced back, and saw that Rick was oblivious to my plight, his soul completely overwhelmed by his lust.
"Tell me how it feels," I whispered hoarsely.
He opened his eyes and responded "Like my cock’s wrapped in velvet."
"Oh, that sounds lovely", I sighed, "But you’re really hurting me."
"Sorry, I’ll slow down," and he steadied himself, and gave my aching back and belly a respite.
"M-m-m, that’s better," I said, visualizing my ass as a tunnel of rich red velvet; a rolled up red carpet enveloping my VIP.
I began thrusting my slender hips and small rounded bottom against his rock-hard cock and sinewy thighs, and he responded with a bonecrushing intensity. But now I was warm and wet inside, and though his strokes probed me from my perineum to my peritoneum, now every neuron in my body was stoked with serotonin and primed for pleasure. I felt a storm gather inside me, and sensed the approach of another storm from behind me.
They collided in a perfect moment of bliss, as I reached a tiny but fierce orgasm just he came in a thunderclap and a torrent, contained, to my regret, in a bulging condom that was one drop short of bursting inside me. The storm subsided as our breaths slowed to normal and the echoes of our mutual explosions gradually faded. As he pulled out, he whispered hoarsely "That was fantastic."
I could only nod in agreement, my heaving chest rendered me temporarily speechless. He pulled on his sweatpants, kissed me on the ear and whispered goodnight. The moment the door closed, I was roused by the realization that in just a few seconds the door would open and Randy would take his turn with me. "Oh my god, I thought, my poor hole!" I dragged myself up, straightened the sheets, brushed my hair and began fixing my make up.
I had just finished my gloss when Randy opened the door a crack and asked politely "May I come in now?"
"Sure, just a sec," I said as I finished primping.
He sidled up behind me and began fondling my breasts.
"That feels nice," I said. I whirled round to face him, and looked up into his eyes, lips quivering. His bone strained against his boxers, the tip slipping through the flap at mouth level. Oh well, I thought, as I took it between my lips, my arms hugging his iron buttocks as I gazed admiringly upward past his buffed abs to his handsome face.
"That’s it, baby," he said.
Now as you know I do love to take it up the ass, but there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and after a night and a half of unaccustomed action, mine was beyond sore.
Daylene’s sound advice had made me a confirmed condom user, but some of my dad’s scholarly journals had down-played the risk of AIDS transmission from oral sex, at least if there are no open sores on the genitalia and mouth. Randy’s tasty meat, freshly seasoned with pre-cum, made me thirsty for a full mouth and throat-full of his jism, and overcame my waning health concerns.
I slid my lips over his dick head a dozen times, and he forgot about anything else but entering my hot mouth and penetrating my throat. He pulled my head toward his groin, and I answered by cupping his rock-hard glutes and ramming his dick even farther down my throat. Soon I was dizzy from lack of breath and exertion, but as I began to swoon, I felt the mad rush of his pre-orgasmic frenzy, and then a hot bath of semen rushed down my esophagus. His cock yanked back clear of my lips and sprayed my face, neck and breasts with a stringy shower of cum, and I took the last droplets on my tongue as I squeezed his balls dry. "Yum," I said, smiling up at his handsome, satisfied face.
"Yum," he replied, slapping my tired cheek softly with his softening member.
I handed him a tissue and wiped his plentiful cream from my face and chest. "That was fantastic," he said.
I replied "Thank you, you’re wonderful too." I glanced at the clock. 1:30 a.m. "Oh my god, time for bed. Would you wake up Rick now, and bring me my robe and slippers?"
"At your service." Randy staggered back half carrying a slumbering Rick, whom he dumped unceremoniously in his rumpled bed. He slipped my slippers on my feet and helped me into my robe. "Meet us at Starbucks after math class tomorrow?"
"Order me a double shot non-fat two equal latte," I responded, knowing he would never get it right.
Then, to my shock, he embraced me and gave my still cummy mouth a most romantic kiss. "Sweet dreams," he said.
"You too," I replied.
The dorm was quiet, but it was not my bed time yet. I took a Valium and a boiling hot shower, flossed twice, brushed thrice, rubber-tipped, and gargled for 90 seconds with amber Listerine. I am a nut for hygiene, especially dental care.
Wrapped in my long thick robe, I went to my room and lay down in my bed. Aromas of Rick and our recent hot fuck surrounded me. It reminded me of what I had become: the love slave, and intellectual and spiritual guardian, of two big, strong, dumb jocks: hockey players, the craziest, most violent and most anglo of all jocks. Oh well, I thought, I always loved women’s Olympic skating.
On Friday mornings, Math 101 met in small groups. The TA’s returned Bloomberg’s pop quiz, to the groans and complaints of the class. Everyone had flunked, except me: I had gotten a perfect mark. The TA kept the class overtime for a grinding review session, drafting me as his involuntary tutor.
I was late to Starbucks, but my latte was still warm, and Rick and Randy were exultant. "Our whole fuckin’ classes flunked except us. We got 9 out of 10. Yur a fuckin’ genius. We’re sittin’ next to you for the rest of college."
"Wait a minute, it’s not going to work out like that. They’ll never let you copy the final, and besides, Math 101 is the only first year class I have. And if I let you cheat off me through Math 101, what happens in the next class?" They were stricken with fear.
"Look, studying’s not so bad. At least if you’re studying with me"
"Studying what?" asked Rick.
"What I tell you, from 9 till 11. After that, you’re in charge." I knew the prospect of a sexual reward would keep them from drinking and partying until midnight.
"It’s a deal for me," said Rick."
"Where do we meet?" asked Randy.
"See you at the research library at 9. Bring your math books." As I knocked back the creamy remains of my latte, and headed off to Chaucer, I complimented myself. God, I thought, I am a genius; I am perfect!
Next: Law and Order
