Gene gulped, lemon-sized Adam’s apple bobbing up and down from within his slender throat. Still, the volley was tossed, might as well lob it back, he figured. In for a penny, in for a pound. Or ninety-seven pounds, as it were. The proverbial weakling. Live and in person. Step right on up, folks.
He tentatively grabbed his sweatshirt and lifted it up and over his head.
“You, uh, you used to look like… this?” He pointed at his flat chest, flat belly, hairless except for the love trail that disappeared teasingly inside his baggy jeans.
Brad’s eyes widened, obviously shocked that his tutor was now sitting across from him shirtless.
“Yeah, dude,” he croaked out. “Just, uh, just like that.” Then he reached across, that white-hot spark repeating as he brushed his hand across the smooth chest. “Only, I had a little more grass on the lawn.”
Gene giggled and also ran his hand across his barely-there pecs.
“Grass doesn’t grow on concrete, dude.”
Brad paused, his hand in midair, then cracked up, laughing so hard that tears welled in his eyes, laughing so hard that he shifted in the bed, until their knees were banging, their faces mere inches apart.
“Good one,” he coughed out.
It was perhaps Gene’s first joke, and he was glad it had been so well received.
“Though you’d need a lawnmower for my legs,” he said, not realizing what he was implying. Or, maybe, only subconsciously realizing. Okay, maybe semi-consciously.
Brad stopped laughing, the pause returning. He hiked up the cuff of his sweats, revealing calves like small boulders. “Hairier than this?” he asked, the lob returned, the ball still very much obviously still in play.
Gene jumped off the bed and kicked off his sneakers, then glanced up at his host, who stared back—eager, it seemed, for the show. His belt got unhooked, the jeans slid down and off, twig thin legs revealed, covered in a black wiry down, the polar opposite of the torso up north.
“Sasquatch revealed. News at eleven.”
Again Brad cracked up, falling backwards on the bed, hand over belly. It was then Gene noticed the tenting inside his sweats, something stiff and promising swaying from within. Brad looked at him.
“I think I could work with that,” he said, his voice a mix of rasp and gravel, the serve returned.
Except Gene scored the point, dropping his boxers to the carpet.
“Could you work with this, too?” He stood there naked, save for sweat socks pulled up over his shins, cock arching up and out, a fifth limb on a sapling of a tree.
“Dude,” said Brad, hopping off the bed. “For a nerd, you’re awfully sexy.” He wrapped his arms around Gene and pulled him in good and tight, lips brushing, tongues collided, dicks ground together.
“Sexy nerd, huh?” he said, sliding his hands inside the sweats, fingers tracing the crack down the center. “That like jumbo shrimp?”
Brad grabbed Gene’s throbbing cock. “Jumbo is right, dude. You got enough blood elsewhere now?”
Gene shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe I should lie down before I pass out.”
Seconds later, they were both prone, both naked, the wrestler pinning his partner, hands holding down hands, thighs straddling waist, mouths colliding. Gene fought for control, but more for show, seeing as his measly muscles were more for decoration than anything else. He guessed Brad believed he was at least was trying.
“You pin me on my back for ten seconds, dude, and you get to fuck me.”
Gene’s eyes stopped mid-blink. “And if I don’t?”
Brad released his hold on Gene’s hands as he reached between those hairy thighs, fingers stroking the equally hairy, crinkled hole.
“Take a guess,” he replied, hocking up a loogie, spit at the ready above Gene’s face.
This time the tutor fought harder before he managed to flip the pupil off of him, the wrestler on the bed. The geek now on his feet, legs wide, hands out, cock, well cocked.
“Bring it on, dude,” he said with a grin and a look of fierce determination on his face, glasses pushed up and over the bridge of his bumpy nose.
Brad rubbed his hands together and jumped off the bed, cock swaying as he took an identical stance across from Gene. Both men circled one another. It was then that Brad’s sty of a room worked against him, because he tripped over a stack of rumpled clothes, lost his balance, and fell over onto his back.
Gene, seeing this as his only chance, leapt, his knees landing on either side of Brad’s head, hands holding down his legs. Brad, caught by surprise with several pairs of socks beneath his back, prevented him from getting proper leverage, fought, but wasn’t fast enough. Plus, Gene skipped all the odd numbers as he counted.
“Ten!” the geek shouted, his dick swaying above the wrestler’s mouth.
Brad sucked away, downing Gene’s rod in one swoop before Gene popped the prick out of his mouth and replied,
“More like six and a half rather than ten, dude. Seven on a good day.”
Gene laughed, held the seven in question in his grip, slapping the leaking head against his lips.
“Looks like a mighty good day right about now,” Brad said, taking the cock down to the hilt, until a happy gagging tear tricked across his smooth cheek.
“Time to pay up, dude.”
“With this?” replied Brad, jerking the massive cock above his face. “Fucker’s going to impale me.”
Gene rolled off and flipped around, face to face yet again.
“A bet’s a bet,” he said. “Is the jock ready to get fucked by the nerd?”
Brad closed the gap and kissed the waiting lips.
“Ready, willing, and hopefully able, dude,” he whispered in reply. Then he slid backwards, rummaged beneath the bed, and returned with a rubber and small bottle of lube in hand. “Be gentle, Goliath.”
“No problem, David,” Gene said, tearing into the packet before sliding the rubber on. He hopped up on his knees and stared down into those pools of blue again, butterflies flitting about inside his tummy. Where have you been these last few years? he thought as he lubed up his prick and the tight, little hole waiting for him down below.
Nerd, one; virginity, zero. In the blink of an eye he was in, a million volts of adrenaline traveling down his back as the hole in question gripped his dick. Brad sucked in his breath, eyes in a tight squint. Instinctively, Gene paused, waiting for the apparent pain to subside.
“Okay,” exhaled Brad, opening his sapphire peepers, a grin appearing on his face. “A bet’s a bet.”
Gene nodded, cock steely stiff as he eased it in further, further still, every nerve ending in his body shooting off Fourth of July fireworks as he worked his pole inside, slowly, gently, millimeter by millimeter, until his balls were brushing up against Brad’s upturned rump.
“You feel good,” he panted, leaning down to kiss those perfect lips.
“Ditto,” groaned back Brad, arching his back as the cock got worked out and in, out and in, sweat pouring down Gene’s face and on to his own, all while he jacked away, working the come up from his heavy balls.
Then the geek let the jock have it with both barrels, his giant cock piston fucking the perfect little ass below, pounding, pounding, pounding away, both of them groaning and moaning in sync, tongues entwined. Gene’s head flung back.
“Fuuuck,” he exhaled, ass clenching as he spewed, filling up the rubber with ounce after steaming hot ounce of come. Brad, a split second later, also came, dick spewing a Vesuvius-like load. Spunk flew up before splattering on Gene’s flat belly, wad after wad of it, white on top of pale white.
“Fuuuck,” Brad echoed. His body jerked, twisting and writhing on the carpet as he stroked out every last drop. He stared up, panting, fighting to catch his breath.
“Now that was some biology lesson.”
“Which you definitely passed,” replied Gene, gently retracting his cock from Brad’s ass. “With flying colors.”
Brad giggled.
“Flying come is more like it, dude.” He winked up at Gene, his fingers gliding through said come. “But will I be so lucky on my finals?”
Gene nodded and bent down for a tender kiss, so perfect as to take his very breath away.
“You don’t need luck when you have a nerd like me for a teacher, dude.”
“If you teach half as good as you fuck,” replied Brad, “then that scholarship is as good as mine to keep.”
Gene nodded, the smile mega-watt bright.
“And if I teach as good as I fuck, then maybe someday the student will become the teacher.” He stared at the come as it slid down his flat belly, which, he hoped, would someday have cans of its own. “Or maybe he already has, dude. Maybe he already has.”
Baby Got Back Matter
by Beckah Rose
It wasn’t his glasses: large, square and perched on his bulbous nose. Or his sweater: V-necked, olive green, and entirely too fitted. It was his form: rounded, yes, but firm and large enough to make me feel small, and his eyes, large and inquisitive and intelligent, a glowing chocolate brown. We were at the annual Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America holiday party. I was there mostly for the food. I’d eaten a good five helpings of spring rolls, pausing only to lick the sweet and tangy sauce from my fingertips. When I shook his hand, I thought of my dried saliva pressing into his palm. His skin was warm and soft and I wanted to feel more of it.
He was a genius, he said, a quantifiable genius, having graduated from Harvard before taking a job where he spent most of the day drawing Batman. In the weeks that followed our meeting, and our initial e-mails, I found his Twitter account, and—after ensuring I was signed out of my own profile, so he couldn’t possibly track my musings—read every last tweet. Some were about Star Trek; some were images of women in comics (scantily but not scandalously clad); some enumerated the hassles of living in the West Village; all were clever, succinct, evocative. I was smitten.
While waiting for him to ask to see me, I devoured a copy of Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty which was painfully lightweight, low on citations, and devoid of helpful tips. After three weeks of sitting on my hands (sometimes literally), he asked me out. Finally. I measured my waist-to-hip ratio while trying on outfits. As predicted, a pencil skirt with small waist made me closest to the 0.6 to 0.7 evolutionary ideal. Lunch, he said. near his job. I could do that.
So we sat under a Christmas tree at Craft Bar, known for its artisan ales and fancy New American. It was decked out for the holiday season. My shirt sported a satin bow. I looked, I hoped, just like a present. I ordered an amber ale and wished he’d unwrap me someday or, even better, unlace me. What he didn’t know was that I wore sheer black thigh highs that kept shifting to the side, hoping he’d get a small, seemingly accidental flash of the black lace that held them to my skin.
I hoped he wouldn’t notice I’d never, for example, seen Star Wars. I was reasonably good at science, but terrible at math—he paid the check thankfully, because calculating twenty percent was, in my case, one-hundred percent disastrous. I’d rely on chemistry.
We’d spoken of sous-vides, that technology that keeps food at just the right amount of doneness for long periods after shrink wrapping it and sinking it into a vat of carefully heated water. For me, at that moment, I was more than done. Wrap me in plastic and dip me in a warm bath, I wanted to say. Then eat me slowly.
Instead, I thanked him for lunch.
Still thinking of baths and melting, I told him I had a wonderful recipe for fondue, but that my stove was broken. (It wasn’t.) He graciously offered his—after the holiday season, of course.
His apartment was filled with comic books, history books, model airplanes, caffeinated soap, plush microbes, and framed pictures of Mario—the original version, with the square cubes, invincibility stars, hungry Venus flytraps rising from pipes, and flowers that rose up and shone.
He poured me a glass of wine after running it through a speed aerator. I flitted about his kitchen, bending over so he might see my crimson lace bra, and reaching up high so my skirt would edge up. Surely women flash their dates accidentally and have no idea such a thing has happened all the time.
He told me about how he’d become the regional trivia champ when a speck of cheese flew up–I’d been stirring too vigorously, it seemed–and landed in my cleavage. We paused. I licked my forefinger, feeling his gaze warm my skin, and picked it up. I raised my eyes to his for a flickering second, his eyes on me, before putting my finger deep into my mouth and sucking, flicking my tongue over the fingertip as he watched.
“Don’t burn yourself,” he said.
I smirked.
“Why?” I asked, my tone playful. “Should I wait for you?”
It was a long shot, but I’d always found joking in this manner made it easier to bring this up. These shouldn’t be long discussions, sit-ins on couches where one negotiates, over heart palpitations, what one is willing and not willing to do, kinkwise. No. It was supposed to be fun.
“I have silver sulfadiazine cream,” he said. “One percent. It’s technically illegal for me to share that with you. It’s prescription, but if it’s medically necessary…”
“Primum non nocere,” I said. My pronunciation wasn’t perfect, but it did the trick: he disappeared a moment into the bathroom that, I’d later discover, had Superman bottled body wash. He came back with a small, white tub, and I noticed, a large khaki bulge in his pleated-front pants.
“I wouldn’t want you to be in pain…unnecessarily,” he said, unscrewing the lid.
“Certainly not,” I said.
He dipped his forefinger—thick, and though hairy, also very strong-looking—into the tub, and carefully applied the cream to the place where the cheese had landed, his finger pressing against my uplifted breasts.
“I need you at eye level,” he said, and picked me up by the sides of my hips, lifting me so I was sitting on his counter. I let my legs spread a little so my pencil skirt edged up. I wondered how much he could see. He squinted and brought his eyes very close to my cleavage.
“It appears the burn is minimal,” he said. “But we may have to do a closer inspection. To be sure.”
“Do you have a place good for…examination?” I asked, eyeing a microscope in the living room. No, that wasn’t good enough. I worried that under such close inspection, even Bohr would grow bored with the pink, hardening nucleus of my breasts. They strained against my push-up bra, defying gravity.
“I might,” he said, kissing my lower lip, then biting down. His lips were full, and our glasses clinked as our heads tilted back upright. I imagined that, in middle school, we’d be the kids making out in the band room, wondering about alternate uses for the thicker among the drumsticks. He reached between my legs, paused just before my thong, and I jumped. “We may need to restrain you,” he said. “To prevent injury.”
“Mmm.”
“But first,” he said, “research.”
“Research?”
Oh dear. Was he going to fall into his computer again? It was so unattractive when men did that. Understandable, of course; they like shiny objects and I, devoid of LCD screens, do not glow.
With his look of concentration, he appeared just like Leonard on The Big Bang Theory.
I wouldn’t have minded a big bang of my own.
Taking my hand, he pulled me off the counter. This was good. But then he grabbed his coat. It was not a lab coat. It was not a flasher’s trenchcoat. It was, instead, North Face and his own face pointed north as well.
The January cold was bracing. I imagined his khaki bulge was long gone, or at least considerably diminished. What could I do? Short of slipping, falling, and landing on his cock—blaming, of course, the icy sidewalks—I could think of nothing.
My breast was still somewhat cheddar-smeared; the very least he could do was lick it off. But in this cold it might stick, and where would that have us? Surely braces locked together in a middle school hallway was better than
imitating a frozen flagpole in the West Village. We’d have to walk together, a frozen four-legged monster, to the nearest cocoa and pour it on his tongue. I imagined myself popping the marshmallow in my mouth—surely handmade and square, in this neighborhood. And, if he didn’t apologize profusely, slapping him in the face with my mittened hand. It’d be like being hit with a plush kitten. A kitten in mittens.
His gloved hand found my waist and steered me into an enormous cube of a building. With a wave of his hand, the guard buzzed us through.
“But I thought you went to—?”
“My family donated a wing,” he said. Of course they did.
“My delinquent brother…well, NYU was the only place he could get in.” I’d let that go.
“It’s…enormous,” I said, delighting in my breath melting into the warm air instead of like outside, freezing and hovering. I glanced at him to see if he got the double meaning.
He grinned wickedly.
It was enormous; I worried one could get lost in it and in a much more inconvenient way than one could get lost in a book.
He tugged me into an elevator. I giggled. But, as soon as the doors closed he said,
“This is a library.” He pinned me against the wall suddenly, very serious but for a shine of amusement in his eye. “One must behave properly.”
I bit my lip to hold in a giggle, nodded.
“What was that?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes….what?”
“Yes, Marian, librarian?” I tittered. He spun me a quarter turn, pushed me over his arm until I was bent and prone.
“Try again,” he growled in my ear.
The elevator continued its slow journey up.
“Yes, sir….eee Bob!”
Smack. His hand hit my ass with surprising speed and the sound filled the small room of the elevator, echoing.
“Oh…yes….sir.”
“Very good.”
Geek Lust: Erotic Stories about Hot Nerds Page 11
