by Daryl Banner
He squinted at me, riled. Oh, what those eyes can do. Then, without being further prompted, he stood up like a good sport, unbuckled his pants, and unceremoniously threw them to his ankles. He wore sleek, black boxer-briefs that hugged his thick, muscular thighs, which were gently dusted with hair that matched the nearly-transparent blonde of his head. Plopping back down on the bed gracelessly, he kicked off the jeans along with his shoes, both of them tumbling loudly to the floor with the clinking of his heavy belt that I would someday become quite intimate with. He wore no socks. Shoes, belt, and pants? Hmm. Three for one, I thought, feeling greedy and thankful.
The boner in my pants was quite thankful too.
“What were you thinking about, then?” he asked—or rather, demanded to know.
“I was thinking about how good it’d feel to win,” I told him, because it was true. “Now I know and I can move on happily with my life.”
“Alright,” he said, skeptical.
“What? You think I lied?”
“Yeah, I think you lied.”
Perfect. My turn: “You’re thinking right now about whether or not I lied.”
Now it was his turn to feel cheated. “That’s fucked up,” he said.
“Psychology is manipulation. I take your reaction to mean I’m right.”
He snorted at me. I took that for confirmation.
I felt so proud. I’d never before felt this confident in front of Andrew. And despite the look of frustration on his face, I couldn’t help but notice that he seemed to be … enjoying this. Something inside me had woken up, something that connected with Andrew’s little dorm game. Where only a week ago Andrew had been some strange exotic and unattainable muscle boy, now we were at once speaking the same language, diving one at a time into each other’s heads. What was he about to find?
“You’re thinking about the paper again,” he blurted out, thinking he’d caught me, but I shake my head, inspiring another huff of frustration from him. “What the fuck’re you thinking, then?”
“How much you’re enjoying this game,” I said. “I was also wondering, maybe, what your p-p-pecs look like.”
His eyes were sharp and cold as needles. That death-cold stare never broke from mine when, quite deliberately and slow, he rose from the bed and took hold of the bottom of his shirt. So slowly, so excruciatingly slow and careful and slow, he lifted the shirt, inch by inch by inch. He had my full attention. I had never wanted to see something so badly in my life. I counted his abs as the tight baby blue polo lifted, inch by inch by inch. Oh my god, I breathed. Four. Six. Eight. He has eight of them. Past the rolling hills of Andrew’s abdomen, he reached the mountains of pectoral muscle, the left and the right. I was holding my breath. Inch by inch by inch. Then his nipples peeked out, greeting my eyes, the left and the right. Another inch, and the curve of his two powerful mounds of chest muscle snuck out. The muscles in his whole torso played and flinched and flexed as he maneuvered the tight shirt over his thick shoulders, peeling upward, inch by inch, up and up as he lifted his big arms to slip the shirt off over his head. He struggled and worked, all the while giving me a show of his abs dancing, his pecs dancing, wriggling as the shirt made its way off his arms one at a time. Then, almost gently, he flung the shirt to the bed behind him, his eyes still on me as though they’d never broken away, not even when the shirt was covering them. The devil grinned in his eyes, not quite his mouth, not quite, and when he licked his lips, that’s when I caught my breath.
“Your turn,” said Andrew, standing there in just a pair of sleek black boxer-briefs, his voice deep and full and taunting.
“Can I just be wrong and take all my clothes off?” I half-joked, trying to make light of the fact that I was completely dressed and he was … almost completely not.
“Rules,” said Andrew, his voice booming. “You don’t change the rules in the middle. You play fair, from start to end. What kind of man do you think I am?” Every word he’d say, his abdomen flexed and retracted, taking in air, then pressing it out with the words. I was so distracted by the work of art standing in front of me, I could hardly focus on what the fuck he was saying.
“I think you’re an almost naked man.”
“You think I’m someone who gives up?” he went on stubbornly, ignoring what I thought was a rather witty jab. “You think I’m some kid who bends when it’s tough? The world’s gonna throw shit at you, and it’s gonna keep throwing shit at you. You’ll be at your worst, your best friend just died, and it’ll keep throwing shit. You think the world changes its rules to help you?”
“You’re thinking about the world and its rules,” I announced.
“The fuck right I am,” he said. It didn’t occur to him that I meant that as my guess, that despite his sudden bout of philosophy and life lessons, I was, in fact, still playing the game. “The world is fucked up when we come into it, it’s fucked up when we go. Nothing changes that.”
He looked so beautiful standing there, almost yelling at me, his muscles flexing and unflexing with all his speech and passion and fervor.
“You get me?”
I looked up to meet his eyes. I saw the zeal in them. He was having fun a moment ago, but now he was made furious at the mere suggestion of me breaking the game, forfeiting, or otherwise tampering with his apparently-set-into-stone-like-law rules that he’d made. He takes this shit seriously, I realized, attempting to sober myself. He takes this shit really, really seriously. This is not just a game.
“I get you,” I said, though it came out in more of a meek, dry choke. Was I ever going to kiss his lips? Can he make my fantasies realized, and suddenly express that all this gaming and playing around and teasing and taunting is, in fact, just his version of foreplay, and that we were about to crash faces as soon as he could get my clothes off?
“So you stick to the fucking rules,” he said.
“Got it.”
“No dicking around. No second tries or mistakes. If you don’t respect the rules, you respect nothing. If you don’t learn discipline, you don’t learn anything.”
“Got it.” Discipline. Discipline. Do you want to discipline me, Andrew?
“Now make your guess,” he ordered me.
I smiled. “I already had. And I got it right.” When his eyebrows pulled together, quizzical, I watched it slowly dawn on him. I remember thinking: He has such a beautiful face, he has to be a model or at the very least part-god. “Your turn.”
His jaw locked, set and gnawing on his own teeth. He knew he only had one more wrong answer before he was completely naked. I knew he only had one more wrong answer before he was completely naked. I was certain that, no matter what he said, I’d tell him he was wrong. I’d tell him just so I could have him banish away that final scrap of fabric on his sexy body. I’d lie to him just to watch him remove his last piece of dignity. Dignity never looked so sexy. Heaven’s never been so close to me, within reach, within touch … Just one wrong answer away.
He said, “You’re thinking I only have one wrong answer left before losing.” His eyes burned with the fury of a million games he’d played in the past, a million more he’ll play in the future. His chest, puffed with confidence. He’s a man who always wins, a man who gets his way, a champion, a competitor.
With every article of clothing that Andrew lost, my confidence grew twofold. I found myself licking my lips. You’re thinking I only have one wrong answer left before losing, he’d said.
Right, I thought. “Wrong,” I breathed instead.
He showed no reaction; his eyes simply continued to burn me whole. Then, after too long a time, he asked, “Then what is it you’re thinking?”
“How big your cock is, and whether or not it can fit in my mouth.”
He took a step toward me. He took another step, his heavy bare feet slapping the dorm room floor. Another. Then he stood right in front of me. My legs apart, he stood between them, invading my space, his face baring down on me and the crotch of his tight boxer-briefs right there, envel
oping my blurry, quivery field of vision.
Then his fingers found the waistband, slipping underneath. I broke from his eyes to stare ahead at the show of his clever fingers. The waistband dropped half an inch, the fabric bunching up, the sound of the fabric alone enticing me, lifting all the hairs on the back of my neck. The sound of the fabric as it slipped another half inch, revealing two cut hips, slowly unveiling the “V” of muscle that led to his cock. The boxer-briefs held back little from the imagination; I was already plenty aware how big he was.
Until even this moment, Andrew had never indicated one way or another his sexual interests. He’d never ogled a woman or a guy in my presence. Not once did he make mention of a girlfriend, of a boyfriend, of a chick he found hot or a dude he’d want to slam. His sexual appetite was a complete and agonizing mystery to me. Until this moment when his crotch was literally two-and-a-half inches from my face, I’d never even had the gall to give it an honest wonder. It’s so strange, how a person can just be sexuality … how a person could make you forget heterosexuality, homosexuality, anything that limits or defines or categorizes … that Andrew was, somehow, inexplicably, unexplainably just … there for the meal.
Yes, the fabric was still slipping off. I saw the hint of hair peeking out. He manscapes, I thought, and it amused me, almost inspiring a smile. He cares, I realized it meant. He’s a groomer. The base of his cock was next to reveal itself, the underwear coming slowly, slowly, slowly off. He makes a game out of everything, knowing how bad I want it. I had half a mind to make a grab at his boxers, to yank them off and claim my prize, but something held me back.
I didn’t really earn this, I realized, a tinge of guilt working its way into my somersaulting cocktail of excitement and horniness happening downstairs. I won the sight of his cock with a lie. I cheated. I broke the rule … arguably, the only rule of the game.
When he pulled the rest of his boxers down, sliding them slowly over the hills of his upper thighs, his cock slapped me in the face, and I didn’t care anymore how I’d earned the win, from deceit or otherwise. His cock remained there, pointing out, pressing itself against my cheek like a friend who’s come at me for a hug.
The boxers laid at his ankles, and when I peered up, I found Andrew still staring down at me mightily, like some giant beast. Even his pecs seemed to stare at me, his nipples punctuating the peak of either mountain of muscle. To my immediate right, his cock still graced my cheek.
Was he expecting something? No more words came from him. I wondered if this meant the game was over, now that he’d lost all his clothes. His cock against my face, it neither flexed nor flinched nor pulsed; it merely waited there, strong, powerful and keen.
I took this for an invitation. What the fuck else was it meant to be? I parted my lips, began to turn my cheek.
“No,” he barked from the top of the mountain.
I stopped, lips still parted, his cock literally a centimeter from entering them. My eyes stared up at him like some puppy from the floor. No? I could feel myself wanting to whimper like a puppy too. No? But his cock was right there. His cock was waiting, wasn’t it? Wasn’t he?
“If you want to suck me off,” he said finally, “then you gotta get the next question right.”
The disbelief poured out of my eyes. My lips were still parted, I was still frozen in place with his cock—my prize—resting gently in the air before my mouth, and I choked: “A-An-Another game?”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t we played enough?”
“A simple game. One question. You get it right, you get my cock. You get it wrong, I leave and you don’t see me until class Monday.”
WHAT?? I pulled away right then, staring up at him exasperatedly, my jaw hanging. What the fuck was he getting out of this? “Dude,” I argued, feeling incensed, “it’s your cock that’s getting the blowjob. It’s a reward for us both, isn’t it? Why do we have to make another fucking game out of it? I don’t understand.”
“You playing, or am I going?”
He was having none of my protests, nor my questions, nor my appeal to simple logic. Didn’t he want me to suck him off? Or does every sexual action between us have to be motivated with the winning or losing of a game?
Well, I started the day not knowing what Andrew’s naked body looked like. Now I knew, so whether a blowjob happened or not, I’m not leaving the day empty-handed. Nothing here to lose, really, only something to gain.
In my mouth.
So I finally asked: “What’s the question?”
He reached down suddenly, wrapped his cock with his mighty hand, pressed it against the side of my face and asked: “How many inches is it?”
Are you kidding me? His cock was right there, pressed against my face, and there was no way I could possibly see it, no way I could possibly guess. The only moment I’d had of judging its entirety was a split-second after the boxer-briefs went down before the man-monster slapped me in the cheek. So fucking cruel, I thought, to have the answer pressed into my cheek where I can’t see it. It could’ve been nine inches. Could’ve been eight. Hell, having only seen it within centimeters of my face, it might’ve been four inches and simply looked enormous so close-up. How the fuck could I know for sure? Was it hard, or is he more of a grower than a shower?
He must be thinking of the answer right now. Andrew must be thinking of it, and this is almost like just another round of our previous game. What number are you thinking of? How many inches is little Andrew? Difference is, the stakes in this particular question were considerably higher.
“Seven,” I answered.
Andrew didn’t move for a moment. His firm fist still obnoxiously pressing his cock into my cheek, I heard him murmur: “You sure?”
He wants you to be right, I told myself. He wants a blowjob—Who wouldn’t? He’s trying to help you.
“Eight,” I said, changing my mind.
The cock still pressed to my face, torturing me, driving me crazy, Andrew murmured once again: “You sure?”
Those two cruel fucking words. Those two evil, horrible motherfucking words.
“Eight and a half,” I choked. “Nine.”
Then Andrew pulled away. I felt a stab of excitement until suddenly I realized he was pulling up his underwear. I didn’t even think to look at his cock until it was already put away. Then he began slipping a foot each into his pants.
“Andrew,” I said.
He pulled the pants up, yanked them over his thighs, did the buckle loudly. The whole time he dressed, his eyes never left my face. He took up the polo shirt from the bed, slipped it over his head, working his way into the arms. There went his pecs I was so craving, there went his abs, there went his sexy bellybutton.
“Andrew?”
He reached down and pulled on his shoes, slowly doing the laces, taking his time.
“You’re not seriously leaving?” I blurted, all the fun dropping from me in an instant. “Andrew?”
That’s when the wicked grin spread across his face. Pulling the backpack over his shoulder, he didn’t say another word and, unhurriedly, he went to the door.
“Andrew, seriously?”
The door shut softly behind him. I stumbled to my feet, pulled open the door and stared after him as he walked down the hall.
“What the fuck!” I called out.
He disappeared into the stairwell, the heavy door shutting behind him. I was left alone, standing at my dorm room with my cock throbbing in my pants.
I’d won the game, yet left a loser.
[ 5 ]
Had I done something wrong? Had I said something? I hardly said anything. Half of me wanted to run after him, but I can’t imagine myself acting so desperate. Was the whole thing a ploy to fuck with my head? Maybe he’d been listening more than I thought he had during all our research on manipulative psychology. Maybe this whole diabolical cock-torture was his plan from the start. Talk about applying what you learn. Fuck.
The rest of Friday night I spent sulking in front
of the TV, watching a rerun of some bullshit something. I didn’t even eat dinner so my stomach sang sweet grumbly songs of misery all night to match the drumming of my heart. Saturday went much the same. I kept my cellphone close, as if he’d call or text or something. We had each other’s numbers. I ate in the dorm cafeteria for lunch and dinner that day, thinking there was some small, stupid chance he’d still be around and I’d catch him. I didn’t even know where he lived, whether in another dorm on campus, or off-campus in some fraternity-riddled subdivision or maybe he even had his own apartment. For all I knew, these dumb little efforts at trying to run into him on a weekend would prove fruitless.
Saturday night I jerked off. I don’t even remember the porn I watched. Sunday was no different, though it was filled with remarkably less hope. How the fuck am I going to face him Monday? That was the question I couldn’t stop asking myself. I’ve seen him naked, I kept thinking, over and over. I’ve seen Andrew Knudson naked and his cock, his cock, his cock was pressed against my face.
My cheek was more intimate with Andrew’s cock than my mouth was, and that made no sense to me whatsoever.
Monday hit me like a storm and I worried in the morning I’d not have the balls to go to class. When I finally coaxed myself into some clothes and heaved my heavy textbook-filled backpack over a shoulder, I trekked across campus to the psychology building. Every step threatened to buckle my knees. Pushing open the door to the psychology building made me lose my breath. When I reached the door to the classroom, I had to stop and shut my eyes. My face was on fire, I could feel it. I don’t think I can do this, I realized, trembling and wanting to cry.
Then I pushed into the room and, without paying mind to anything or anyone else in the class, I blindly stumbled to my seat. There I remained, breathing slowly and horribly, counting imaginary minutes until the class would be over.
