Date: Fri, 12 Jan 2001 09:26:00 -0500
From: David Buffet <tightserve@hotmail.com>
Subject: Alpha Male - Chapter 13

Chapter 13:  Interlude
	Back in my room and having showered, I sat on my
couch in a bathrobe not reading the book in front of me, despite eyes
scanning and rescanning the same paragraph.  What was going on?  The rat lab
was so much simpler, I found myself thinking.  You put it in the box, you
taught it to pull the string which turned on the light so it could push the
bar and eat the reward.  All you had to do was find the appropriate times to
flick the light on and off and present the food and you could train the rat
to do anything you wanted.  Operant conditioning.  And the rat didn't try to
put *you* in a box and make you pull strings and push levers while you were
training it.  Undergraduate life: simple times.
	Adam's fucking Corey
clearly was a life-changing event for the kid, and, to hear Brad speak of
it, it was a change for the better.  Adam's *not* fucking Matt was, in a
sense, a life-changing event for Matt as well, though to hear Matt speak of
it, it was *not* for the better.  And what about Brad?  How did Adam's
treatment of Brad play into this?  And the others?  There must be a common
thread in there somewhere.  How could I discover what it was if every time I
got near the guy I went weak-kneed and empty-headed?
	And 'stay out of
Matt's pants'?  What the hell was that?!  Clearly Adam had seen Matt on his
way over when he said it.  Was he just jerking me?  Perhaps that was it --
perhaps I was looking for a true Alpha Male, and all I had really found was
an asshole.  I found that shallow response to be highly gratifying.
	Come
to think of it, why was it so emotionally satisfying to think of him as an
asshole?  Why should that give me pleasure?  Perhaps because every time I
was around him I found myself doing things I didn't want to do, and that
made me angry.  Yes, Adam really pissed me off.  I looked within myself and
was surprised at the depth of my rage.  I really hated the guy.  That's
strange, I thought.  Hate is such a strong emotion.
	The germination of an
idea made me retreat from that thought.  If I hated him, he surely hated me
as well.  But why would he hate me?  I had come to the camp as an aide for
Johnston, for all they knew.  I was a nobody.  But only a few days into the
summer, Brad came to me for sexual release.  Brad -- one of Adam's regular
fuck-buddies.  Then Eric -- for all I knew another of Adam's pals -- then
Matt.  Was that it?  Adam had been the center of their sexual world while in
the gym.  Now I was slowly taking that role.  Was Adam jealous?
	Now *that*
was a satisfying thought.  It must be right.  Of course he would say he,
"didn't know there was a war," when I had asked to call a truce.  People are
so rarely in touch with themselves when they're jealous, especially those
without the tools of self-analysis.  Adam was jealous of me.  And why not?
I was stealing his sexual thunder.  I was dethroning him -- at least, from
his perspective.  I was threatening the very foundation of the self-image he
must have been building up all these years:  that of being the Alpha, even
if he was not able to be explicit in his understanding of it.  The
resolution of the question brought me some internal peace and a bit of
happiness as well.
	With it, I was able to reflect on the subsequent event
of the day:  fucking Matt.  That had been fun.  The boy was so giving, so
open, so eager, so completely responsive.  I had had a full panoply of
foreplay in mind, but he had short-circuited it, engineering the fuck out
from under me.
	Engineering.  Adam was an engineer?  I just didn't see
differential equations in him.  Was I not looking at him correctly?  No,
that question was settled.
	I had collapsed onto Matt after we came -- I,
twitching violently deep in his bowels, he, having found release from the
friction of my abdomen on his dick.  We kissed, ferociously at first, but
decrescendoing as the blood coursing through our veins slowed.  By the end,
still in him though soft, he bearing my weight without complaint, I was
gently licking the sweat from his neck and chin.
	He began to
giggle.
	"What's funny?"
	"Nothing.  I always laugh after sex."
	Matt was a
pure spirit.
	"That was pretty fun," I said.
	"It sure was, amigo."  He
nipped my ear.
	"I didn't mean to fuck into you like that -- all at once.
You surprised me.  I didn't hurt you, did I?"
	"Are you kidding,"  Matt
laughed?  "It was great!"  Then, more seriously, "did you think it was
great?  I mean, you liked it, didn't you?"
	"Yeah, puppy.  It was
great."
	Matt *was* a puppy, I had thought, for the second time that day.
Bright-eyed and trusting and bouncy and playful and cute and ready to give
unquestioned fealty to anyone who scratched him behind the ear.
	"Listen," I
said, somewhat unsettled by that last thought, "I'm going back to the room
to clean up.  You want to come?"
	"Naw," he said, "if it's all the same to
you, I'll go back to the lake and take a swim instead."
	Where did he get
his energy?
	We kissed goodbye, and went our separate ways.
	Feeling, for
the first time, that things were working out pretty well for the summer, I
began reading my book in earnest, only to be interrupted by a knock at the
door.
	"C'mon in," I called.
	The door swung open.  Brad stood in the
threshold, still in his bathing suit, still damp from the
lake.
	"Heywooooood," he crooned, a mischievous grin on his face.
	"Yeah,
alright," I laughed.  "Get your butt in here."
	Shutting the door behind
him, he strutted directly toward me across the floor of the room, stepped up
onto and over the coffee table, then up onto the couch on which I sat,
standing over me with a foot at each hip.  My eyes took him in from his
sandaled feet up.  His calves were planes intersecting at interesting
angles, the flat surfaces of them jutting out from behind his shins.  My
hands found them, and I enjoyed the feel of the coarse thin hair that
covered them.  Normally yellow, it had bleached translucent in the sun, and
made his legs shine with light.  My gaze continued up to the thighs I had
met on the trainer's table in the gym:  massive quadriceps in front,
hamstrings which when flexed, might even have been larger than my head. The
Spandex Speedo suit he wore was a rich cobalt blue, a color which suited him
perfectly.  Its shiny material stretched over the cheeks of his ass just
enough to make the soul yearn in anticipation of what lay below.  In front,
it was filled with his package.
	I am no cook, but I will tell you that
here is a recipe for a hard on:  a dorsal view of a really full ball sac
stuffed into a glossy, tight suit on a boy who could pull off wearing a
glossy, tight suit.  As his legs were spread enough to straddle me as I sat
below him on the couch, I was able to peek between them, where the material
of the suit, pulled as it was forward by his dick and balls, separated from
his thighs.  Tufts of blond hair emerged from where his tan line marked the
change from milky white to golden honey.
	Above the suit, the trail, the
abdominal muscles -- broad, horizontal, as distinct from each other as the
treads on a tire.  His proud chest capped by his diminutive nipples, his
face guileless, happy, looking down at me looking up at him, his damp hair
spiking in every direction.  I raised one of my hands, and tickled his balls
through the material.
	"You are just so stunningly beautiful," I said,
"there should be a law against you."
	Brad smiled even more broadly, raised
his fists to near his ears, and flexed his entire upper body in a pose
straight boys practice countless times in a mirror.  But oh, so very rarely,
to such effect.  Having had the opportunity to play, to use his body in a
way that wasn't work, like the other boys, Brad was in a good mood.
	I
continued to lightly stroke his balls through the material.  In a very
uncharacteristic move, though, Brad took the initiative.  While he had, both
times I had serviced him, been quite content to let me minister to his needs
by passively enjoying, this time, he was active.  He peeled the suit down
under his balls, and gave his dick a few strokes, speeding his erection.
Half kneeling -- and you can imagine what *that* did to his hamstrings --
and supporting himself with on hand on the wall behind my head, he lowered
his dick to my mouth.
	"Heywooood,"  he sang,  "open up, Heywooooood."
	I
did.  He pushed his dick into my mouth, and I greedily sucked on it, as a
baby who had just learned to nurse.  It tasted of fresh water, it smelled of
19-year-old.  Not needing my hands, I was content to leave them on his
calves.  Much as I like the look of a smooth torso, there's something about
the feel of hair on legs that is so erotic.  I peered upward, at him.  His
face was purposeful and determined.  As his dick grew in my mouth, he began
a rocking motion, lowering his hips by kneeling a little more, rotating them
in, raising up a little by extending his knees, then rotating out.  The
sensation was altogether pleasurable for me, even if it wasn't particularly
meant to be.  I was satisfied, having had my moment with Matt, and without
the need for imminent release, giving a blow job can be a mighty fun task.
To keep his balance, he had put both hands against the wall.  From my
perspective, it was as if he was doing vertical push-ups into my mouth.  His
armpits were cavernous like Adam's, though blond and far lest tufted.
	Now
Adam would not be smiling the way Brad was.  If Adam were fucking my face
this way, it would be with fury, not joy.  If Adam...wait -- why was I
thinking about Adam?
	I returned to the very happy present.  Brad's dick,
now fully distended, was poking at my larynx on his in-strokes.  I timed my
breathing to match his rhythm, and tried opening my throat for him as he
went deep.  So long as he kept in time, I was able to accommodate.  I became
fixated with looking at his stomach as he pumped my mouth.  During the
withdrawals, his stomach relaxed, returning to a state of mere beauty.
During the deposits, when his muscles tensed, it was godlike.
	After one
particular withdrawal, there was a knock at the door.  Rather than pull out
entirely, though, as I expected he would, Brad, not missing a beat, plunged
right back in.  Not without, of course, first calling out that whoever was
at the door should feel free to come on in..
	It was Doug, who greeted the
scene before him as casually as Brad had invited him in.  I, it seems, was
the only uncomfortable person in the room, stuffed, as I was, with a
mouthful of dick.  I marveled at Brad's expectation that it wouldn't matter
to me that he had invited someone into the room while I was giving him a
blow job.
	"Bad time," Doug asked?  "I can come back later."
	"No prob,
dude," Brad responded, still in his rocking rhythm, "why don't you join us?
Heywood wouldn't mind, would ya, buddy?"
	Of course, he didn't take his cock
out of my mouth, but kept right on, half-masting me, then full dicking.  The
question it seems, was rhetoric.  This surely pissed me off.  I'd have to
remember to be angry, later, I thought.  When I had more time, and the
ability to speak.
	Of all the boys, Doug looked least like a gymnast.  This
isn't to say he was not in shape -- he was -- just a different shape.  Where
the rest of the boys had sculpted definition to their bodies, Doug was
covered in a sixteenth-inch layer of padding as if he still had his baby
fat.  This softened out his features somewhat which, added to the fact that
he was the widest and biggest boned of the team, gave him the appearance of
a football player.  Somehow, I was reminded of the old cartoon of the dopey
Warner Brothers sheepdog.  'Which way did he go, George?  Which way did he
go?'
	He wore jams and had a towel wrapped around his neck.  Apparently,
he had had the same idea Brad had:  top off a fun day of swimming with a
quickie.  Given the paucity of entertainment options, I wondered, briefly,
just how many knocks on the door there were going to be that
afternoon.
	Doug shrugged and came into the room.  Brad showed no signs of
letting up, and feeling a little out of control, I brought my hands to his
hips and pushed him out.  Brad was not offended.  He took it as an
opportunity to stand down off the couch to offer room for Doug to get in.
His hand went to his dick and began stroking it lightly to keep it
hard.
	Doug meanwhile, had come into the room, but showed no signs of an
idea of how to continue.  Brains, I recalled, were not his long suit.  I was
about to make a suggestion, but Brad took the lead.
	"C'mon over, dude.
You want to fuck him?  I'm having too good a time getting the head to give
that up."
	Hello?  I'm in the room, you know.
	"Sure," Doug said,
considering the idea.  Then, deciding he liked it, added, "yeah.  I'll fuck
him!"
	"Why don't we go into the bedroom, where it'll be more comfortable,"
I offered, beginning to get up.
	"No need, bud," Brad said, pulling the
coffee table away from the front of the couch.  "We'll be fine right
here."
	Sure.  *They'll* be comfortable...
	Doug lowered his jams, revealing
a truly magnificent dick.  Large and blockish like the rest of him, it hung
down, straight, even and rectangular.  Almost as long soft as it was hard,
it was crowned by an arrow-shaped, big, rubbery, circumcised head.  While
not as big as Adam's, it came close, in substance if not import.
	Brad
pulled me off the couch by the shoulder, stepped up on it again, turned, and
sat with his back to the wall, on the backrest. He spread his knees, and
pointed the still-slick dick he had been stroking at me.  I turned toward
him and, legs planted on the floor before the couch, bent at the waist to
bring my mouth down to his crotch.
Rather than wait for me to take him, he
brought his hands behind my head, and pulled me forward onto him.  My, but
he was pushy today.   Doug walked up behind me, and began dick-slapping my
ass to get himself hard.
	"Wait," I said, forcibly pulling myself off Brad.
"Lube."
	Brad considered this for a moment.  "Yeah, okay," he said, as if I
had been asking his permission.  "Why don't you go get it, bud," he said to
Doug?
	Doug, caught on the idea for a moment, finally saw the light.  "Oh,"
he said, "you mean for me."  Okay.  So the boy didn't *have* to be smart,
and he *wasn't*.  All was right with the universe.
	"It's in the night table
to the right of the bed," I offered.  Doug went off into the bedroom to
retrieve it.
	In the meantime, Brad would have no time wasted.  As soon as
Doug understood what he was doing, Brad cupped his hand behind my head again
and fed me his dick.
	"Yeh, dude, that's the way.  Use your
tongue."
	Without Doug behind me, I had no reason to stand.  Kneeling on the
couch in front of Brad, I circled the base of his dick with my hand as I
played tricks on it with my lips and tongue.  Brad resumed his rhythm, this
time moving my head backward and forward on him, rather than taking the
energy to do it himself.  From the bedroom, I heard sounds of rummaging.
	I
quite liked the shape of Brad's dick.  So many dicks have flared heads.
Doug, it seemed, was one of them.  Brad's dick, on the other hand, was
tapered, reaching its largest girth in the middle.  This made sucking it a
pleasure.  Furthermore, it was also surprisingly and enticingly pale.  On
the average man, the flesh of the dick stands out in its relative darkness.
Brad, though, was so fair, his skin, where untanned, was so pale, that his
dick was a pinkish alabaster, set off by its garden of almost pigment-free
hair.
	The rummaging continued in the other room.  The KY was the only thing
in the drawer.  I pulled, once again, off Brad's dick, and called out to the
bedroom, "the other right, Doug.  It's in the nightstand on the other
right."  The sound of a drawer shutting, some footsteps, a drawer opening,
then, from the other room, "okay.  Got it."
	I looked up at Brad, who
giggled, shrugged, and pulled me back onto his dick.  Doug reappeared from
the back of the room, and took up his position behind me.  With Brad's dick
still firmly implanted in my mouth, I put my feet back on the floor, raising
my ass to waist level in front of Doug.
	Again, he started dick slapping my
ass, each beat proving that his cock was getting harder.  What started
feeling like being struck by a strand of fresh bread dough began to feel
like being hit by a rubber baton.  By the time it felt like a broom handle,
Doug deemed he was ready, and began lubing himself up.
	I became a bit
nervous.  A man who was not the brightest bulb in the marquee was about to
attack my ass with a very respectable weapon.  But Doug proved, to my
surprise, that in this area, at least, he knew the proper way to insert tab
A into slot B.  He aimed the substantial head of his dick at my ass and,
rather than slamming home, applied slight, but growing pressure.  I was able
to relax into him, but was still grateful when, the lips of my sphincter
finally stretching open and popping around the ridge of his head, he waited
before continuing.  Placing a hand on each of my hips, he slowly edged into
me, allowing me to adjust to the fullness of him.
	It had been a while
since I had been fucked, and I was reminded of the glorious sensation of
saturation it caused -- of completeness.  Doug passed my prostate causing an
involuntary shiver to rise from my depths.  He pressed on, coming to rest in
a special place I had almost forgotten existed.  I felt his thighs pressing
against my hips, his pubic hair tickling the crack between my cheeks.  Fully
inserted, again he paused while my chute accommodated to his girth.  I found
myself squeezing him with my pucker in spontaneous rhythms of internal
origin.  He waited for the spasms to pass before he continued.
	Satisfied
that I was relaxed and ready for him, he began his work.  Pulling out until
the ridge of his head was just within my assring, he reversed and in one
smooth, liquid motion returned to full in.  Again and again, the ridge of
his dickhead, acting like a ribbing, pushed and pulled the flesh of my
insides, running over, with each thrust, the knob of my prostate.  Brad, in
front, began to match his rhythm, pulling my head off him as Doug withdrew
behind, forcing himself fully into me as Doug pressed in.  It was a most
pleasant sandwich, being both the filling and the filled.
	When their motion
became coordinated and easy to maintain, Brad spoke.
	"Nice, huh,
dude?"
	"Fuckin' hot," replied Doug.
	"Hey," said Brad, a thought occurring
to him, "you think I can put a move *after* the Gaylord I do near the end of
my high bar?  I'm thinking if I can get just a little more amplitude in the
recovery, I can add to the combination, even if it's just something like a
giant with a half twist."
	If I could have slapped him, I would have.  But
my hands were busy on either side of his hips, holding onto the top of the
couch's backrest to give me leverage against the forward movement behind me.

	"I'll spot you tomorrow if you want to try it," Doug replied with a
grunt as he drove home.
	"Thanks, dude.  I'll run it by Johnston."
	I pulled
off Brad's dick, and looked up at him.
	"Do you mind,"  I asked?  "How
about a little attention to the apparatus at hand."
	Brad smiled down at me.

	"No prob, dude.  Really enjoying it.  You just keep going, guy."
	Brad
pointed his dick back at my mouth, and with a flex of his considerable
bicep, caused me to deep throat him.  A flex of his hip ground his pubes
into my lips, his dick as far down my gullet as he could get it. I played
with him with my tongue, setting up an undulating motion from front to back.
   Shortly before I thought I would pass out from lack of air, he released
his grip and returned to matching Doug's rhythm behind me.
	Meanwhile,
Doug's dick was doing magic in my nether-regions.  The warmth of the
friction caused by his motion, the size of him in me as he moved, the
constant pressure on my prostate from his size had brought me to full mast.
He pulled himself in and out using my hips as a fulcrum.
	Wanting another
position, Doug bent over me, bringing his stomach and chest down to my back,
and began using hip thrusts rather than a rocking motion to piston me.  His
hands now free, he did something entirely unexpected with them.  His left
slid around my chest to find my nipple, which he began tweaking.  His right
came around my waste and wrapped around my dick.
	Doug began jacking me
off.
	"Yeah, dudes," moaned Brad, "that looks so fucking hot.  Plug him,
buddy.  Plug him deep."
	And deep was, indeed, the way Doug was plugging me.
  The new position had allowed him to find new, more intense, more intimate
places within me, and my body responded with renewed fervor and
appreciation.  I pressed back into him, trying to increase, even further,
his penetration.  His hand, calloused and rough, jerked my dick in matching
strokes, in for in.  Grateful for the pleasure Doug was giving me, I flutter
tongued Brad as I contracted my sphincter as tight as it would go.
	That
must have done it.  Brad's testicles withdrew and he began the soft guttural
moaning I had come to associate with his cumming.  Behind me, Doug
frantically increased the pace of his hand, while his thrusting became more
urgent and purposeful.  His hand, in one of its strokes, hit a spot that
brought me over the edge.
	My first orgasmic spasm caused a predictable
chain reaction.  Clamping down on Doug brought him to the same state I had
reached.  He buried himself in me, milking the base of my dick as he
unloaded his seed in creamy waves into my bowels.  Seeing us cum pushed Brad
beyond return, and, bringing his hips up off the couch in a violent thrust,
he lodged his cockhead in my throat and exploded.  Their two dicks throbbed
and pulsed almost in unison as the boys filled my respective ends with
surges of their opalescent goo.  As they did, Doug milked my dick, as the
thick strands of my own jizz shot forcibly onto...son of a bitch...the
rug.
	There was the panting, the last delicious twitches of spent pleasure,
the sighs of satisfaction.  Brad released me at the same time that Doug,
with an ignominious plop, withdrew.  I stretched, feeling just how long I'd
been bent at the hip, turned, and collapsed onto the couch next to
Brad.
	"Cool," said Brad.  "I gotta clean up.  Fuck that was hot."
	Doug
turned to me, and smiled contentedly, dopily.
	"Thanks a lot," he said.  "I
really needed that."
	"Thank *you*, stud," I replied.  "You got a great
dick, and you really know what to do with it."  He turned a little red in
the cheek.  "And thanks for getting me off.  That was really...kind."
	Doug
shrugged, dismissing the gratitude.  "Only fair," he said, reaching for his
shorts.
	Alone again, I melted into the padding of the couch, truly spent.
What a day it had been.  Adam, Matt, and then Brad and Doug.  Doug!  Of all
things, of all people, to get me off like that!  I was shocked, though
grateful, by his generosity.  If you had asked me the day before which of
the boys would have been most likely to reciprocate during a quickie, the
answer would surely not have been Doug.  The camp was throwing me for a
loop.  I had so misjudged so many people all within the space of a week.
How could that happen?  It was my chosen profession to understand people.  I
had studied for years.  And yet, here in the mountains, all my experiences,
my expectations, my cognitive schemata were being turned upside down.  Jocks
could be smart.  Brad.  Dumb jocks could be generous.  Doug.  Beautiful boys
could be attentive, and gay boys could do the straight-male-bonding thing.
Matt.  What was it that Sondheim said in _Into the Woods_?  Giants can be
nice, witches can be good.  I drifted off to sleep with his tune wafting in
my head.  How could I have been so wrong about so much?  At least, went my
last conscious thought, I had figured out Adam.  He was jealous.  Of that I
was certain.