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Subject: {ASSM} NEW Playing the Game III: The Competitive Edge, Ch. 10
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What's this? TWO longer chapters in a row? Ah, yes, the story accelerates
just a little...
Enjoy!
RCM
Rev. Cotton Mather
Senior Pastor,
Church of the Erotic Redemption
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www
http://www.storiesonline.net
www.ruthiesclub.com
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at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/RCMStories/join
**If I had to do it all over,
I'd do it all over you**
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<1st attachment, "CE10.txt" begin>
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Welcome to the Church of The Reverend Cotton Mather. This
story is the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or
downloaded for the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for
anyone to download or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as
long as there is no intent to charge money or barter for the
privilege of acquiring this material.
(copyright 2003, Rev. Cotton Mather)
E-Mail all comments to RevCottonMather at hotmail dot com
Don't be shy! I enjoy hearing from you.
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THE COMPETITIVE EDGE:
PLAYING THE GAME, BOOK III
by Reverend Cotton Mather
- 10 -
BLACK AND GOLD
Saturday: work, work, work.
We started out with practice again, and we were again scrimmaged
Alpha against Omega. Pick made a few more changes in the lineups of
the two practice squads, including moving Spencer Goldman over to
Omega, but he opted to leave me playing the right midfield position
for Alpha.
I hope he doesn't think he can make a striker out of me, I kept on
thinking. I just didn't have an offensive mindset.
What I gained by playing up like this, though, was a better
perspective of what was going on almost everywhere on the field.
When you're playing defense, it can sometimes be kind of hard to see
what's happening with your offensive sets, particularly in the far
corner. Playing across the centerline made it easier to see
patterns, especially tricks and habits headed toward our goal. I
thought I knew the games of my teammates pretty well, but I
discovered I could study them better when I was playing up. It was
easier to spot who was weak with their off foot, who had a tendency
to turn a particular way when receiving a through ball, who tended to
trap a ball instead of playing the roll. I learned to anticipate
which way another player would turn on a fake, and I could tell much
more readily who had the strongest and most accurate long feeds.
Conversely, on my side of the field, I could scope out the
tendencies and strengths of my mates, and feed the ball to their
strong side more often. I also got a lot more touches on the ball
than I did playing back, since I tended to be involved in the
movement of the ball both directions. It all was a real eye-opener.
On one of his first possessions, Martin forgot himself and started
in on stunting. My grandfather, an avid hunter who trained his own
dogs to move on his audible commands, had taught me how to belt out
an ear-shattering whistle, and I used it. Frenchy looked over at me,
and all I did was point at him. He scowled at me, but he got the
message, passing the ball off and resuming his defensive duties
within his territory.
My center midfielder, a scoring position if ever there was one, was
Max Ehrlinger, a sophomore who came in often off the bench to give us
a boost with some fresh legs. He had been on Omega Team with me, but
was part of Pick's switch when he moved Spencer to Omega. Max was a
very good player, able to anticipate crossing and through passes very
well. He also passed well, but he suffered from indecision when he
had the ball, and that was enough to keep him out of the starting
lineup. He was a great role player, though, and I found that if I
led him by a few steps, his tendency to hold the ball until somebody
came over and took it away from him eased. Once he was in motion, he
tended to stay that way, and he could do some interesting things with
the ball.
A couple of times, I even called for him to switch with me so I
could roam through the middle, especially as we were falling back on
defense. I either wanted to see what was going on over on the other
side of the field, or I wanted to follow the path of the ball through
the middle. Max was amenable to switching coverages, and once I
ventured into the middle of the field, I was able to watch even more
of the play. I always made sure I switched back with him as soon as
I saw what I was interested in observing. I was hoping his game
would benefit, too.
After about an hour of scrimmage, I had a very good picture of our
team in my head. I categorized my teammates according to position
and relative ability, kept tabs on the soft parts of their games, and
formulated plans on how I might be able to exploit their strong
suits. I also made a mental note to question Spencer, Jesse, Bryan,
and Rick about my game. I wanted them to tell me about my weaknesses
as a player, so I could do something about them.
I loved defense, but I was learning to appreciate playing in the
middle of the field. I discovered that I enjoyed the freedom of
patrolling up, and I quickly realized that midfielders really were
the first line of defense.
*****
After showering, a bunch of us walked over from the fieldhouse to
the stadium for the football game. Jesse, Bryan and I had planned on
going together, and most of the rest of the starters came along with
us. Spencer Goldman jogged up to walk with me.
"Yo, Porter. You switching positions?" he asked. "Gonna finally
work for a living instead of being a lazy defender?"
"Work for a living?" I exclaimed. "It seems to me it's the
midfielders who are the lazy ones. 'Oh, it's a through ball. Oh,
well, I'll just let Porter or Rickman clean up the mess.' You guys
in the middle have it way too easy."
Spencer laughed out loud. "Nice dream, pal. It's more like, 'Oh,
it's a through ball. I'd better hustle back so our weak-legged
defenders won't strain something trying to get the ball back all the
way up to the middle.' Hey, you've been playing up for awhile in
scrimmage. You can't deny the truth."
Jesse, on my other side, just chuckled. "You both got it wrong," he
said. "Up front, we're thinking, 'Why don't they just move the ball
up so we can attack? Can't they do anything with that damn pill?'
Forwards are the workhorses of the team, boys."
"Forwards?" sputtered Spencer.
"Sure," continued Jesse with a smile. "If you guys weren't
freshmen, you'd probably realize it." He turned to his roommate,
walking on his other side. "Ain't that right, Bryan?"
"Truth," said Bryan.
Spencer laughed. "The only work forwards do is hustle to hog the
glory after a win. But guess who gives you all those assists?"
Jesse looked at him in mock solemnity. "Ummm... the keepers, for
shutting out our opponents," he said.
Well, there was really no arguing with that.
*****
I was able to watch most of the first half of the football game with
my friends. About five minutes before the half ended I hotfooted it
over to the gift shop. I punched in and got ready to be overrun with
students, parents, and visitors looking for souvenirs. For the next
half hour it was a mad scramble to keep up with the demand for Gator
gear.
The crowds disappeared almost as fast as they appeared, once the
second half started. My coworkers and I spent the next hour getting
the stock back into shape, refolding sweatshirts, hanging the
windbreakers back up on their hangers, restocking the banners and
bumper stickers and UF decals, refacing the shelves full of coffee
mugs, shot glasses, address books, and sleeves of UF logo golf balls.
We just finished with these tasks when it started all over again.
Crowds streamed in after the end of the game, and decimated our poor
little space, wiping us out of several styles of t-shirts, key
chains, and logo pens. It amazed me what they could put the
University's mascot onto, and it amazed me what people would actually
pay good money for. Ninety percent of it was crap, in my opinion,
but there was a customer for every product in the store. P.T. Barnum
was right.
By the time my shift was over, I was wiped out, and I still had a
session in the weight room to face. I trudged back to my dorm room
to change, and found Westy there, huddled up with Jason, from across
the hall.
"Hey, what's up, guys?" I asked.
"Party tonight, dude," exclaimed Jason. He, too, had pledged Sig
Tau. He and Westy were in the same pledge class. "You should come
along."
"What, it's not a frat party?" I asked.
"Well, not a sanctioned party," said Westy. "A bunch of brothers
live in this old house in the Student Ghetto behind Chaucer's.
They're throwing the party, and it's kind of an open invitation."
"Naw, I don't think so," I said. "I'm supposed to meet a guy over
in the weight room."
"We're not going until late, Sean," said Jason. "We'll talk about
it when you get back."
I grabbed my gym bag and headed out to meet Dan. I didn't give
Westy and Jason's invitation a second thought. Westy in particular
was not ever going to be my first choice for somebody to party with.
I met up with Dan in the weight room, and we started on our first
circuit. Spencer and Luke were also there, spotting for each other,
and the four of us worked out together for the next hour.
We were in the locker room, packing up our bags after showering,
when Spencer turned to me.
"Hey, Sean, you want to go get something to eat later tonight?"
"Sure," I said. It was that or homework, and I had used flimsier
excuses than going out with a pal.
Spencer turned to the others. "Luke? Dan? You guys want to grab a
bite later?"
"Can't, man," said Dan. "Got a date tonight."
"Hey, yeah, I'll come along," said Luke. "I've got nothing planned."
"Okay," said Spencer. "I'll get something set up."
We all walked out of the gym together, and Luke and Dan headed off
to the right. Spencer and I went straight, walking toward one of the
side entrances to our dorm.
"Where you want to go tonight?" I asked Spencer.
"Copper Monkey? Wings and burgers?"
"Sure," I replied.
"Come on up to my room whenever you want," he said. "I'll give you
a chance to win some of your money back at gin." I thought I
detected just the hint of a smirk as he loped up the stairs after
leaving me at the third floor landing.
Westy was gone, and Jason's door was closed, so I figured his
roommate, Craig, was probably gone too. No doubt studying at the
library, I thought. The kid was going to burn himself out with
studying.
I flopped down on the couch, snapped open a can of Coke, stuck "Eat
A Peach" (I was really getting into this Southern lifestyle, it
seemed) into the cassette player, and grabbed pen and paper to write
to Luscious. I wanted to let her know what was going on with the
team. I thought she would get a kick out of hearing about my
experiences playing midfield instead of defense.
I was feeling frustrated and guilty after being at school without
Kayla for several weeks. I was tired of jacking off while I stared
at her picture. It was only a temporary release, and did nothing to
ease the ache of not having her near me. It also forced me to adjust
my own internal version of what I considered myself to be. After
all, here I was, a healthy teenaged athlete at a major university,
independent and fancy-free. What did I need with female
companionship?
Who was I kidding?
Certainly not myself anymore. Any illusions I may have brought with
me that I was immune to the strain of maintaining a long-distance
relationship had been burned out of me early on in my college career.
Hanging out with the guys was a lot of fun, but I knew I was not
alone in needing more sometimes. Even the limited involvement I was
enjoying with Reggie was reminding me in an almost painful way of
what I was missing without Kayla around.
Was I having fun at college? Sure. But was I happy?
I was a long way away from happy, even if I was reluctant to admit
it to myself. I just hoped I was keeping my true feelings from
seeping into my letters home. It would drive Kayla crazy if she knew
how miserable I really was here, with nothing to do about it.
Buck up, Porter, and stop feeling sorry for yourself, I thought
harshly. Freakin' crybaby. I found an envelope and addressed it,
shoved my letter into it and sealed it. I found a stamp and licked
it, and I trudged downstairs to the lobby mailbox to send it off.
There was a late pickup on Saturdays, so with luck Kay would receive
it by Tuesday or Wednesday. By then, I hoped to have another letter
to her started.
I went back up to my room and opened up my history book to study for
another hour before I headed up to Spencer's for my weekly lesson in
humility, courtesy of Goldman's gin expertise.
*****
Spencer and I walked up 13th Street and met up with Luke before we
got to University Ave. The three of us cut across and jaywalked
across University to the Copper Monkey.
It was already crowded, much of the crowd still there from after the
game. It was rowdy and loud, but we managed to find three chairs,
and we squeezed in at a big table with a bunch of other people.
There were four pitchers of beer on the table, each about half full.
Luke pushed his way up to the bar and ordered three Cokes and a
couple of orders of wings. He brought the Cokes back to the table,
and we each guzzled the sodas down and refilled our glasses with beer
from the pitchers. Free beer, college bar. What could be better? I
almost forgot about missing my girl.
A couple of hours later, we were well buzzed. We had consumed
hamburgers, wings, popcorn, and fries, and our table companions kept
the beer flowing. Luke, Spencer and I each contributed some money to
the table in exchange, and our newfound friends around us were only
too happy to help us out.
I got up and sidestepped my way through the crowd toward the johns,
needing to tap a kidney. The floor was getting sticky with spilled
beer and soda, and I slipped and nearly fell on my ass as I reached
the door. A big, meaty hand reached out and grabbed my upper arm in
a steel grip, keeping me upright.
"Steady there, little fella," rumbled a big, deep voice.
"Thanks," I said once I got my feet back underneath me. I glanced
at the big, round, black face of probably the biggest person I had
ever met, bigger even than Tiny Harrison, my friend from home.
"Funny how this damn tile can be sticky and slippery all at once,
ain't it?" he said.
"Physics," I replied. "You just can't trust physics to be sane when
you're under the influence."
The big man laughed, and I turned back to the door to the restroom.
When I came out, the big guy was still there, leaning up against the
wall with his friends.
"Sean Porter," I said.
He looked at me a little quizzically. "Nope," he said. "Not me."
"No, I'm Sean Porter," I said. "Thanks for the hand before."
"Oh, I thought you was accusing me of being Sean Porter," he said,
laughing. He held out his hand. "Lamarr Elliott, pleased ta
meetcha."
I shook his hand, and he held on, looking at me as if he was trying
to place me.
"I know that name," he said, not letting go. "Just a minute, and
I'll have it." Lamarr turned to one of his companions, a smaller,
very muscular guy with wide shoulders and slim hips. "Hey, Dantrell,
does the name Sean Porter sound familiar to you?"
Dantrell and Lamarr. Suddenly I knew who these guys were. Lamarr
Elliott was a starting offensive lineman on the UF football team, and
Dantrell Sinclair was one of a tandem of halfbacks the team used very
effectively in their running attack.
Dantrell looked me over. I still couldn't move, because of Lamarr's
grip. Dantrell's eyes showed nothing, neither friendliness nor
animosity, and his expression was completely neutral. I didn't
matter at all to him, from the look on his face.
"Soccer dude. All-American from up North, freshman. I hear he got
a game," said Dantrell. I would discover later that evening that
Dantrell was just a quiet, reserved person, and his expressionless
face was simply a defense mechanism, acquired when he was a sought-
after high school All-American running back from Mississippi.
"Thass right!" shouted Lamarr. "Goddammit, I knew that name was
familiar! Good to meet ya, Sean Porter." He gave my arm a vigorous
pump, nearly shaking me out of my shoes. "This here is Dantrell
Sinclair, Sean Porter." Dantrell lifted his chin in greeting, and I
nodded. Lamarr finally let go of my hand.
"How come you know about the soccer team?" I asked.
"Ah, hell, it ain't the soccer team we know about," said Lamarr.
"But we find out about all the good athletes coming in. We're like
our own fraternity, you know? A lot of us like to meet the good
ones, though this time of year is a little busy for us. I usually
try to make the rounds after winter break, introduce myself to folks."
"I'm kind of surprised," I admitted. "I would have thought football
players would just kind of hang out with other players from the team,
and basketball players would hang out together, that kind of thing."
"Oh, that's somewhat true," said Lamarr. "Don't mean we ain't
friendly with other guys, though."
"Good to know," I said.
"Buy you a beer?" asked Lamarr.
"Well... sure," I said. Dantrell slipped over a little, making room
for me in their group. It turned out Lamarr and Dantrell were there
with a bunch of other teammates and their friends. Spencer and Luke
came over to see what was going on, and introductions were made all
around. Once again I lost track of which face went with which name,
except for Dantrell and Lamarr, but it really didn't matter.
Everybody was there just to have a good time.
The music was loud, the crowd was louder, and the beer kept on
flowing. Sometime during the festivities, Spencer and Luke came over
to tell me they were going to split.
"Where are you guys going?" I asked.
"I'm tired of the noise," complained Luke. "I just think I'm going
to head back to the dorm."
"I'm going to meet my roomie over at Reitz," added Spencer.
"They're showing 'Bananas' late tonight."
"Bananas? What's to show about bananas?" I asked. Something wasn't
making sense here, and I was afraid it might be me.
Spencer, proving me right, laughed. "Not the fruit, you idiot. The
Woody Allen movie from a dozen years ago. You've never seen it?
It's hilarious."
"I'll take your word for it, dude. I'll see you tomorrow, then." I
waved as he turned to go.
A little later, Lamarr came lumbering across the floor to me. "Hey,
Sean Porter, Dantrell and me and a few others are going over into the
Ghetto to a friend's place. You want to come along?"
"A course," I slurred. Was I picking up a bit of a Southern accent?
I shook my head at my own foolishness. I followed them out the door,
and we headed off down the street in a pack. Just me and my football
pals, led by a six foot six inch, 340-pound behemoth, I blearily
thought to myself as I let myself be carried in Lamont's wake.
We got to the apartment, and it was already crowded, with the heavy
bass of street rap booming out of speakers in the main room. It was
about a 50-50 mix of black and white kids, mostly football players
and their girlfriends, with a few team groupies thrown into the mix.
The dress ranged from typical college gear to colorful and strange
tribal adornment, with substantial amounts of bare skin showing in
tiny skirts, shorts, and sheer or very skimpy tops, all, no doubt,
due to the Florida climate. Lamont introduced me to another dizzying
number of his friends, and I shook a lot of hands, and endured some
trash talk about how skinny soccer players seemed to be. I found
myself drinking a surprising amount of cheap red wine, courtesy of
Lamarr, Dantrell, and their friends.
LaShonda Merriweather and Amari Al-Sharif, the girls who gave up
their apartment for the party, seemed to be near me most of the time
when I looked around. Of course, one or the other seemed to be
everywhere, acting as hostesses and protecting their furniture the
best they could. Amari was a thin, exotic looking girl in a
colorful, patterned black and gold caftan, with a matching headband.
She wore rose-colored glasses in an octagon shape, perched on the end
of her thin nose so she could look over them.
LaShonda was a substantial girl, a senior majoring in political
science. She was nearly six feet tall herself, with big shoulders,
big breasts, big frizzy hair, big hips, and big smile. Lamarr
introduced her to me when we first arrived.
"Sean Porter, meet the best damn cook east of the Mississippi," he
said, giving LaShonda a big slap on her ass.
LaShonda jumped as if she had been hit with a paddle, and gave
Lamarr a slug on his slab of an arm that would have knocked me down.
It hardly fazed Lamarr.
"Don't you go slappin' at my butt, Lamarr Elliott," she warned him.
She winked at me to let me know she was having fun with the big man.
"Don't you know it's attached to the rest of me?"
"I surely do," answered Lamarr with a big grin. "And I like what
it's attached to, just fine."
"Oh, you," said LaShonda affectionately. "Don't you go givin' this
new friend of your'n the wrong idea, now."
"Ah, hell, Sean Porter. You got the wrong idea here?" asked Lamarr
as he put his arm around LaShonda's substantial shoulder.
"No, buddy, I don't think so," I replied. "I think I've got the
right idea."
I wandered around the apartment, drawn to groups where I knew
somebody. Dantrell introduced me to his buddies out on the porch at
one point, and he was much more animated and friendly, now that he
was in his own element. I also squeezed in at times to corners where
LaShonda or Amari were stopping, letting myself drift with the eddies
and swirls of the conversational drifts. Amari, in particular, had a
sharp tongue and a sharper wit, and she was completely unafraid to
say anything to anybody. She obviously was well respected, even so,
and even the recipients of her barbs could only laugh when she hit
her target. I found myself tending to drift toward wherever she was
holding court. The entertainment value was too great to pass up, and
she always welcomed me with a smile.
Much later on, I met up with Lamarr in the hallway leading to the
bathroom. He took up most of the space in the hallway, coming out as
I was going in.
"Hey, Lamarr, what's up with you and LaShonda?" I asked.
He grinned. "She's a lot of woman, ain't she?"
I nodded.
"She's my best girl," he said. "We're probably gonna get married
when we're done here. I stay healthy, I'll probably get tooken in
the first or early second round of the NFL draft. LaShonda, she's
got good grades, a great work ethic, she'll go to grad school
wherever I end up playing next year. Gonna be a lawyer,
International Law. Eventually wants to be ambassador to Kenya or
Tanzania. Helluva girl."
"So how come she wasn't at the Monkey with you?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Aw, she and Amari and their girlfriends, they
like to do these parties," he said. "She spends most of the
afternoon gettin' everything ready, and she sho' 'nuff don't want me
stumblin' around, gettin' in her way. So she shoo me off to spend
some time with my boys while she and her friends get the place
fortified for the party. I show up too early, she get nervous, so me
and Dantrell and the others hang out over there until things get
goin' here. Once the place gets hoppin', she starts to relax, and
it's okay for me to show my face."
He laughed, whether at LaShonda's indosyncrasies or at his own
behavior on her behalf I didn't know. Lamarr probably didn't know,
either, nor did he seem to care.
"She's a very self-possessed woman," I said.
Lamarr got a real kick out of that. "She can be possessed
sometimes, Sean Porter," he said. "But, yes, she is self-possessed.
LaShonda Merriweather ain't no shrinking violet."
I could only agree. Lamarr pounded me on the back in good
fellowship, nearly knocking me over in my inebriated state, and
squeezed by me to wade back into the party.
I stopped in the john and relieved myself. I was feeling pretty
woozy, and very tired.
"Got to get home," I said to my bleary-eyed reflection in the
bathroom mirror. "Got a game tomorrow."
I opened the door and stepped out into the dim hallway, and almost
immediately bumped into somebody.
"Oops, sorry," I mumbled.
I grabbed for an arm to steady myself, and felt a silky material
beneath my palms as a feminine voice said, "You feeling okay, Sean?"
I looked up into the girl's face, but shadows blocked her from my
recognition. "I'm not sure," I said. I sounded drunk, even to my
ears. Must be true, then, I thought.
She chuckled. "Come with me, little boy," she said, not unkindly,
and she led me down the hall to a closed door. She opened the door
and guided me over to a waterbed in the middle of the small room.
"Maybe you should lie down here for a minute," she said.
"Okay," I agreed, and I pretty much fell onto the bed, dragging her
with me. She landed on top of me, and my arms quite naturally went
around her. She started to lift up off me, until she felt me holding
her. She let me pull her back down, and she pressed her lips to
mine. I kissed her, a little sloppily due to my condition, but she
didn't seem to mind at all. In fact, she opened her mouth and let
her tongue slip between my teeth to explore.
My unknown benefactor tasted like cinnamon, and her breath was hot
on my cheek as we kissed. She sucked in, pulling my tongue into her
mouth, and I thought I heard her growl as our temperatures rose
higher. We moved into each other's arms a little more, and our
movement set up a rocking motion in the mattress that, had I not been
otherwise involved, would have really done a number on my equilibrium.
As it was, I was having difficulty controlling the heat we were
generating. I was sweating, and I could feel her skin through her
shift warming my palms as I pressed them to her back. I could feel
her sharp nipples boring into my skin through two layers of clothes,
and I dragged my hands up her back, feeling for a bra strap that
wasn't there.
As my hands were exploring the expanse of her back, her own hand was
doing some exploring of its own, working its way up my leg, inside my
thigh. I was still wearing shorts, and she tried to get her hand up
the leg, but they were too tight. She brushed lightly against my
hard cock, standing proud and erect in my shorts, and fumbled at the
snap and zipper. I was tempted to help her, but she managed to open
them before I could formulate the proper command from my addled brain
to my reluctant hand, and she reached inside my shorts, inside my
underwear, and grasped my stalk. She instinctively pumped it,
gripping me fiercely, nearly painfully.
My own hands couldn't figure out her clothing, so they gave up, and
I submitted myself to her ministrations. She obliged by breaking our
kiss and leaning over me, her head sliding down my body toward the
prize she held in her fist. She pushed my shorts and my briefs down
until they were around my knees, and she cupped my balls as I felt
her tongue glide up the underside of my throbbing cock.
I groaned, knowing I was not going to last long at all. Hers were
the first hands to touch my cock and balls, other than my own, in
what seemed a very long time, and I could do nothing but surrender to
the sensations that were flooding through me, pinning me to the
mattress. The motion of the water contributed to a desire in me not
to move very much. As it was, it was soothing, but I knew if I tried
to contribute, a very disquieting motion in the bed would be set up,
and I didn't think my stomach would accept that much movement. And
so, I lay there and let my blood sizzle and crackle as it raced
through my veins, heated by the presence of the moist and warm tongue
and lips of my unknown friend.
I felt her lips at the crown as she held my cock upright with her
left hand. Her right hand continued to play with my scrotum. As she
pressed my cock against her closed lips, forcing the head into her
mouth, I also felt one of her fingers tickling and exploring around
my asshole. As she took more of my cock into her mouth, I could feel
her tongue laving back and forth across the hot skin, moistening and
teasing. She continued to take more of me, never pausing at all,
until I felt her nose bump against my crotch, and the head of my cock
was nestled at the back of her throat. She paused there, letting the
actions of her throat as it accommodated my girth play against my
sensitive tissues, and then she backed off slowly, sucking on me
hard, until just the head was still encased in her hot mouth.
At that moment, her hand returned to the base of my cock, and she
began jacking me. At the same time, her head bobbed up and down on
me, as she worked hard to get me off. Her finger against my backside
became a little more insistent, now poking at my puckered opening,
and, suddenly I was tossed over the edge. My hips bucked up, and I
drove my cock deeper into her mouth. I thought I heard her squeak,
and then the switches and pumps activated, and I filled her with the
first huge spurt of my seed.
She swallowed instinctively what she could to keep up with me, and
my body continued down its path by flexing and pumping another burst,
followed by a third. A weaker fourth spurt followed, and each
successive pumping action diminished until I was completely drained,
and I collapsed back onto the waterbed, exhausted.
I felt her swallow the last of my semen, and as my cock began to
shrink she used her tongue and lips to clean me off, still caressing
my balls gently. I put my hand down to touch her head, meaning to
thank her, whoever she was, but I must have dozed off before I could
form the words. When next I gathered myself together enough to
realize where I was, the girl was gone, and I was alone on the cool
bed.
I stumbled to my feet and yanked my underwear and my shorts back up,
feeling panicked and dazed. I needed to get away from there. I ran
my hands through my hair, feeling thickheaded and confused, and I
found the door.
The party was still going on, but the crowd was substantially
diminished. The only person I saw that I knew was Dantrell, sitting
out on the porch with a couple of buddies, and he waved as I came out
the door.
"Takin' off, Porter?" he asked as I paused at the top of the steps.
"Yeah," I mumbled. "Got a game in the afternoon. Got to get some
rest."
"Okay, man. You know your way back from here?"
I looked around the neighborhood. Brighter lights told me
University Street was to my left. "Yeah, the walk will do me good,"
I said.
Dantrell just nodded. I trudged down the stairs and followed the
sidewalk toward campus. I was still pretty well dusted, but not so
far gone I couldn't feel pretty disgusted with myself over what had
occurred. How could I have let that happen? It felt so good at the
time, but by the time I got to my dorm I felt like a complete
degenerate. I was no better than Westy.
The flights of stairs up to the third floor seemed unending. I was
stumbling with exhaustion by the time I got to my room. I shoved my
hand into my pocket, searching for my keys. Along with my key, I
pulled out of my pocket a silken, gold and black headband.
(Continued in Chapter 11)
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