by Riley Meyer
“Have you ever put—?”
He shook his head and then laughed. To my lovesick ears it felt like the most pleasant sound in the world.
“I stuck a toothbrush up there once.”
“A toothbrush?” I asked, disbelieving.
“The handle end, obviously.”
“Obviously. And?”
“And it felt good. Weird, but good.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll go slow.”
“Rafe?” Mark said and I looked up from the condom that I had been rolling over my cock.
“Yeah?”
“Kiss me while you do it.”
Fuck! I had to kiss him right then, his request was so sweet. His lips and tongue welcomed me back.
I put some lube on his hole and I felt him gasp. When I slipped a finger inside him, he threw his head back and groaned.
“Is that OK?”
He nodded, but was holding his breath. I knew this feeling well and knew that it would pass. My finger slowly made its way deeper into him.
“Relax,” I said, because it felt like his arse might lop off my finger like a guillotine. He breathed in.
I made the most of the opportunity and pushed deeper in. Mark bit his bottom lip.
Working slowly, I lubed him up again and added a finger. His fists were balled in the sheet and his eyes were tightly shut, but he was taking it like a man. I guess rugby players were used to a bit of punishment. We’d soon see exactly how much.
I pulled my fingers out of him, causing him to gasp, and got off the bed, turning around to pull off my shirt and jeans.
“Let me see,” Mark said from the bed.
I turned towards him.
My t-shirt came off and then my trousers. I left my necklace on. Mark watched me in attentive silence. I met his eyes with mine as I pulled down my boxers, my dick bouncing out to point straight at him.
He whistled as if to say: that’s going in me?
I put on the condom, doused my dick with lube and positioned it at his pink entrance.
Mark's eyes fluttered open and he looked at me.
"Is this actually happening?"
I nodded, leaning down to kiss him again. And then I pushed in the head.
Mark let out a sound I can’t describe, a primal mixture of pain, shock that turned into a purr of pleasure. He grabbed my head in his two big hands and pulled me closer towards him so that our lips were plastered against each other. And in this position, I slowly drove my cock deeper into him until his hot walls surrounded me.
I don’t know which part felt more incredible—his tongue in my mouth, his hands in my hair, or my cock burying itself into him—but the combination was almost unbearable.
I pushed his legs up around my shoulders to improve the angle and the resistance slipped away. I slid into him, slowly, but deeply, in one long breath. He swore and held me in place with his huge hands.
“It feels—”
“Just wait,” I said, “don’t worry, I won’t move.”
He looked up at me, our faces inches apart. His mouth was open, ajar, his lips wet from where I’d kissed them. I felt it happening to me—that feeling again—the one I’d had once before when I was having really, really good sex. The falling in love feeling. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t rational. But it was happening.
“Mark?” I asked.
Something in my voice must have found a way to convey what my words couldn’t because his eyes widened.
“Yeah?”
“It’s just—"
“Just what?” he was whispering.
“I dunno,” I tried to explain it without doing something crazy like saying I loved him, because that’s how out of my mind I felt in that moment, “It’s all too good, I can’t describe it.”
My hips began to rock and forth and Mark took in a sharp breath, but didn’t stop me.
Slowly—lovingly—I fucked him.
His dick was hardening again under my chest. I pushed into him harder and his head rolled back.
“Fuck, you’re so deep. I can feel you.”
“Is it good?”
“It's fucking amazing.”
His legs tightened around my arse, the corded muscles of his thighs pulling me in. He reached up to kiss me.
“Tell me what you’re feeling."
“I’m feeling—” I hesitated “like we know each other. Like I know you. That I want you, all of you.”
“I want you too, Rafe.”
He pulled me into him with his legs and kissed me again, hard on the lips.
Jesus, he was so strong he was using my whole body to fuck him. His legs drew me into him and let me out again, and all I had to do was breathe and watch as my whole length disappeared inside him again and again.
“This isn’t anything like with a girl,” he said suddenly.
I laughed—for some reason—at his accent. It was a simple observation but the British twang made it sound so child-like, so curious about this situation he found himself in. As if to say: what do you know? this is a bit different.
No kidding, I thought, how many other people have you used as a human dildo?
He laughed too, but he could barely spare the air, he was breathing so hard.
I grabbed his dick in my hand and started to pump. He groaned and pulled me into him again, harder now. Aligning the movement of my hips with his legs we combined our strength, each thrust pushing so deep inside of him that my balls slapped against his taint. He bucked and threw his head back. In my hands, his dick pulsed. Huston, we have contact.
It happened very quickly. He sat up on his elbows to kiss me and for a few stretching moments we were all sweat and spit, my focus split between the cock I’d buried deep inside him, the cock in my hand, and our tongues locked together.
Then his eyes were shut and straining. He formed words which died on his lips.
“I’m—I'm gonna—" he stammered.
And a second later a hot string of cum shot from his dick onto my chin, another landed on his cheek and a third in his fringe.
He groaned, arching his back and then letting his body drop against the mattress.
I leant down and licked the cum off his cheek. And then I lost track of time. My body shook as I thrust deep into him, his legs crushing me into him, my mouth open in a groan and release after throbbing release. His hole, tightening and untightening around my cock, was driving me wild.
“Fuck,” he said, “I can feel you cumming.”
There were so many throbs that I hoped the condom wouldn’t burst.
Finally, they abated and I collapsed on top of him, feeling the sticky hairs of his cum-soaked chest between us.
His strong arms wrapped around me and held me tight against him. He kissed the sweat on my forehead, pushed back the hair that had matted against my skin.
I still hadn’t pulled out but it didn’t matter, we stayed that way for a minute, two, three. Finally, I raised my head to look at him.
“Sleep here.”
It wasn't a question; it was a command.
“You sure?”
I pulled out of him and he gasped.
“Give a guy some warning.”
“Sorry,” I grinned, throwing away the condom and then turning back to him. There was a cloud of worry forming on his face.
“I can’t believe that just happened.”
“Believe it,” I said.
“I just got fucked. And by a guy.”
“Tends to be how it happens,” I said, dropping back on to the mattress next to him.
He shook his head, not in the mood for jokes. I sensed a crisis and I decided to try get ahead of it.
“Don’t think about it right now. Tomorrow. Look, it’s late.”
He nodded, uncertainly.
I pulled the duvet over us both and wrapped an arm around him.
“Kiss me,” I said.
And we did—for a long, long time.
When finally he pulled back, he didn’t look so worried anymore.
“I definitely like that,” he whispered.
“Now let’s sleep. Or I’m not going to wake up in the morning.”
“OK,” he said, turning onto his side automatically to let me big spoon. This guy was adorable.
“And Rafe?” he asked.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
“What for?”
“For not kicking me out because I ditched you.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Huh?”
“Sleep.”
And I gently kissed his shoulder, his arm, his neck, his cheek, until his breathing slowed and he fell asleep.
I wasn’t far behind him.
10
I woke up to my alarm, an empty bed and a thick head.
The first thing I did was look around, as though Mark might have been hiding in a corner or half-way out the window with my laptop under his arm. But there was no one. He was gone and so were his clothes. I didn’t know what that meant but it didn’t bode well. The night had been amazing—for both of us—hadn’t it?
I checked my phone but there were only messages from Maura. I thought about how Mark had looked after we’d collapsed in a sweaty, sticky mess, and the expression of growing doubt on his features. Had those doubts gotten the better of him?
I didn’t have time to dwell because my first class was in twenty minutes. I dragged myself to the shower and washed away the dried cum on my chest, arms, and cock. Jesus, I was a mess.
On the way back to my room, I did a drive-by of Mark’s room, but decided not to knock. It wasn’t even 9 in the morning and I figure if he’d decided he needed some space I should probably let him have it. Deep down, I hoped it wasn’t too much space. OK, it wasn’t that deep down. I really, really hoped he didn’t need too much space. God, I needed to get a grip.
Ready in record time, I swung by the collection of grand ceilings and portraits of dead men that was the dining hall and picked up a sausage and a banana, making for one entirely phallic breakfast. Then I grabbed my laptop and a pen (did I need anything else?) and found my first class.
To my surprise, it wasn’t a classroom at all, but someone’s office. A man who looked about ninety greeted me when I knocked and I waited nervously for the other students to arrive. In the end, only one other student did—a girl so mousey I thought there might have been some interspecies breeding going on there. It turned out, though, that Mouse knew a hell of a lot about medieval literature and I knew a grand total of zilch. The old man showed his dark side by insisting on asking me questions just to remind me how stupid I really was. At about question four, I’d had enough.
“Look, I’m really sorry but I just don’t know anything about this.”
I thought this was the mature thing to say but the guy look like I’d just sucker punched him. Mouse looked at me like I was radioactive.
“Did you do the summer reading?”
“What summer reading?”
“I’ll take that as a no. You were emailed a list of texts that you were expected to read over the summer.”
I vaguely remembered an email about summer reading, but because I’d received it in the middle of New Zealand winter I’d stupidly put it in the don’t-worry-about-this-now pile.
“Oh,” I said.
“Yes, ‘oh’,” said the old man (I was really going off him by this point), “it looks as though you’ll have a busy few nights.”
I thought about the kind of “busy” nights I’d been having recently. Perhaps reading some books would actually keep me out of trouble. Things had been happening at a mile a minute for too long.
The class ended with me none the wiser but about sixty percent humbler and with a printed copy of the “summer” reading list.
The tutor had highlighted everything I needed to read for next week which, after a cursory glance, seemed to be just about everything that had ever been written from year dot until 1500. Most of it didn’t even look like it was in English.
Why did I have to read all this shit? I wanted to be a modernist. In my personal statement I’d talked about Mina Loy, not Margery Kempe.
On the way out I said to the Mouse girl:
“Where’s the rest of our class?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, where is everyone? Shouldn’t there be more of us.”
“This is how Oxford works," she sounded as if she were talking to a small child. "Tutorials are always one-on-one or one-on-two.”
“Get fucked,” I said in surprise.
Mouse looked like I’d just taken away her cheese.
“Sorry, that wasn’t directed towards you,” I explained, “the swearing is cultural.”
“I see.”
“But, seriously, you’re saying all our lessons are like that?”
She nodded and then added (vindictively, I thought):
“I’m afraid so. There’s nowhere to hide.”
As Mouse walked away across the quad I stood there dumb-struck and re-evaluating my life choices. The only reason I hadn’t been quaking with fear for the last few weeks is that I was planning on fading into the background and letting other students field the questions. But I could hardly do that when there were only two of us—or even one of us!—in a bloody class. Clearly I was going to get a world-leading education whether I wanted it or not.
I ran into a porter wearing one of their silly round hats and asked where the library was. He gave me another you-don’t-belong-here look but pointed to one of the passages from the quad. I thanked him and headed in that direction, suddenly conscious that my bag, though well-stocked in condoms, boasted not a single book.
*
An hour later I left the library laden with volumes. Though the prospect of reading all the tomes weighing me down was not exactly a pleasant one, walking around the quiet, dusty rows of the huge, beautiful library had at least balanced out my bad mood and appeared to have lifted my headache as well.
I didn’t have any other classes that day and I’d already missed a lecture I’d been planning to go to, so I decided to go straight back to my room to start my reading.
Of course this was also an excuse to do another check in with Mark’s door which remained unsurprisingly shut and my bravery remained, also unsurprisingly, too low to actually knock. But the pit in my stomach was growing with each missed opportunity.
Back in my room, I dropped the load of books on the floor, grabbed the top one and set myself up in bed to read. I even got a pencil out of my bag in case I needed to underline something: truly, I was ready to learn. But then, with the sun streaming through my window and turning the room into a greenhouse, and with my thoughts constantly being pulled towards my phone and the lack of messages from Mark, I found myself reading the same paragraph again and again.
Eventually I threw the book aside and lay down in bed, picking up my phone. There was another "meme" from my Mum that had a picture of a chandelier and read “Hard work beats hard luck”. The precise meaning of this eluded me (or at least the chandelier did), so I ignored the message and flicked open Mark’s Facebook page. I'd been visiting it so much it may as well have been my homepage.
He’d added a few friends since I’d last looked, other people from college, including Jason and Tom, both of whom had profile pictures of themselves mid-rowing race and sporting full lycra. I sighed. I hadn’t expected quite so many jocks at Oxford. But I’ve got to admit I appreciated how little lyrcra left to the imagination in the way of bumps and bulges.
I imagined Mark in full regalia, pulling off the hugging fabric shoulder by shoulder and then slowly rolling it down his broad, hairy chest.
OK: rowing could stay.
I opened a Messenger window with Mark and stared at the letters of the keyboard, hoping that if I looked hard enough the perfect thing to say might come to me in a flash of inspiration. Maybe I should just say hello to remind him that I existed. Remember me, the first guy you let hit your prostate? Or did even saying hello seem t
oo desperate?
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a note being shoved under my door. I shot out of bed and grabbed it as soon as it’d stopped moving, assuming it was from Mark. Unfolding it, I immediately recognised the handwriting and my heart dropped.
“Hi. Thanks a lot for keeping me and half the floor awake all night with your very loud sex. Next time you might want to consider that some people on this floor have anxiety and getting a good sleep is vital to having an okay mental health day. I have already taken this up with the college. Best wishes, A Neighbour x.”
I opened the door and almost ran out into the corridor, trying to catch the idiot whose mental health I was ruining just by getting laid. But there was no one there. I crumpled the note in my fist and yelled down the corridor at nobody in particular:
“Fuck you. Maybe you should try getting laid instead of writing pass-agg notes.”
There was no response to my outburst so, feeling my cheeks redden, I returned to my room and slammed the door. I kicked the pile of books on my floor and sank back onto my bed.
My phone was still face-up on the mattress, the message screen with Mark like a beacon. I thought for a moment that he’d sent me something but no, it remained totally blank. I checked the time. It’d been less than twelve hours since I’d last seen Mark. I needed to chill. At least until we got to thirteen hours.
I texted Maura: You’ll never guess what happened to me last night.
Then, when she didn’t immediately message back, I got back into bed and pulled an edition of The Book of Margery Kempe onto the mattress next to me. I flicked through a few of the passages which were yellowed and smelled like a second-hand book shop.
As I read, I slowly inched lower and lower down the mattress. The urge to sleep was overwhelming. How many hours had I gotten since I got off the plane at Heathrow? Ten? Fourteen? Two hot sessions in a two-day period but not a single proper sleep.
Deciding that good learning required a good rest (but still pissed at my neighbour’s note that had effectively said the same thing), I fell asleep.
11
My first week at Oxford was almost over and had gone more quickly than I could have imagined. It felt like I barely left the library, let alone the college grounds. All my classes were on-site and the thought of going to an optional lecture at the faculty buildings had taken a back seat—and I mean the back seat of a very, very long bus. It was as much as I could do to skim read fifty percent of the books I was meant to have read before each class. I did not believe that there were physically enough hours in the day to do all this reading. Either it was Oxford’s idea of a joke or the students here could read with one eye on each page.
