Date: Fri, 20 Nov 1998 22:08:29 -0500
From: Greg Eckhardt <eckhardt@injersey.com>
Subject: Dorm Shower Lover - Part 4

Hello All,

Here is the fourth part of my story.

As always, please send me any comments you may have.  I love to hear from
guys who have read my stuff.  My e-mail address is eckhardt@injersey.com.

Please note that this story is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to
actual persons or events is coincidental.  It is intended for adults who
are not offended by descriptions of male/male sexuality.  Do not read it if
you are under legal age in your area or if you are offended by such
material.

You are free to copy this story for your own use, but please do not modify
it in any way or republish it in any forum.  Thank you.

    *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

Dorm Shower Lover
By Greg Eckhardt

Chapter 4

The dilemma that beset me was cruel in its simplicity: I wanted Jeff in a
way that I could not have him.  We might continue our occasional trysts,
but it would never be more than that.  With no apparent solution to this
impasse, I just gave up.

I didn't have any energy left to deal with the emotional extremes that Jeff
had, perhaps unwittingly, subjected me to.  I had to let go.  There was
nothing else to do but plod on with my life, empty though it might be.  In
time, a profound apathy overcame me.  For the remainder of the semester, I
wandered around in a kind of sheltering numbness.

It was as if a benevolent wizard had learned of my plight and
compassionately ensorcelled my soul into oblivion.  Through his powerful
yet gentle magic, my spirit was granted asylum in a faerie realm, where no
further harm could reach me.  Moreover, he was thoughtful enough to leave
behind a simulacrum to carry on my quotidian existence.

As perhaps an ancillary aspect of the enchantment, I still managed to do
well in all my classes, despite my spiritual absence.  Even though I
slipped a little on final exams, my mid-terms had been good enough that I
ended up with very respectable grades overall.  It didn't really matter to
me, though.  I was beyond caring about such mundane matters.

Because I maintained a perfect facade of normalcy, my friends didn't
suspect that anything was wrong.  We went out to movies and parties and
what-have-you, as always.  Even Karen, my best friend in the world, was
unaware of the hollowness in my soul.  I might have smiled and laughed, but
they were expressions devoid of any true feeling.  My wit had always been
dry and sardonic; perhaps no one saw the bitterness and anguish that now
tinged it around the edges.

Mercifully, I didn't run into Jeff at all during this time.  He might have
transferred to another school or moved back home or taken a rocket ship to
Mars, for all I knew.  If I had been capable of rational thought, I might
have wondered at the conspicuous totality of his absence, but I was too
consumed by my own despondency.  It would have been intolerably painful to
see him anyway.  Even a glimpse in the hallway would have shattered my
fragile detachment.

Summer break arrived and I retreated home gratefully.  As I had done the
previous year, I took a job as a cashier at a clothing store in the local
shopping mall.  It was mindless work, but it filled my days and put money
into the bank for the school year.

One day while I was working, some old friends came into the shop.  They
were also home from their respective colleges for the summer.  Cindy and
Doug and Mark and I had formed our own little clique back in high school.
We were all into sci-fi and computers and Dungeons & Dragons, so it had
been natural for us to hang out together.

Since we were all in town for the duration, we made plans to hook up for a
session of our favorite role-playing game.  In fact, we ended up getting
together every Saturday night to play D&D, exactly as we had done when we
were in high school.  It was great fun.  I looked forward to our meetings
every week.  They brought me out of my funk, giving me something to take my
mind off of the tragedy that had been my love life, or more accurately my
lack thereof, back at college.

By the end of the summer, I actually began to feel if not happy then at
least content.  Ironically, pretending to venture off to the imaginary land
of a fantasy role-playing game had brought me back from self-exile in a
very real emotional void.  The last lingering vestiges of my depression
fell away.  I hadn't forgotten my heartache, and I doubted that I would
ever truly get over Jeff, but I was able to put the whole situation in
proper perspective.

As a positive step, I decided to find myself a real boyfriend.  There was a
gay student group at the college, called the Rutgers University Lesbian and
Gay Alliance (RULGA), so I had an idea where to start.  Since I was still
chary of being public with my homosexuality, I had until then been
reluctant to get involved; but I had done a little research and discovered
that RULGA held meetings every Tuesday night.  I resolved to go to the next
one, and at the very least, meet some people who shared my inclinations.

With the fall term about to get underway, I was feeling optimistic about
the coming year.

				   * * *

The semester started without much fanfare.  As a junior now, I'd been
through all the rigmarole before. There were no startling innovations this
time around.  I was even housed in the same dormitory, albeit in a
different room.  I settled in without incident.

My roommate for the year was a bland fellow named John Roberts.  He was so
plain-looking that I couldn't describe him if you threatened to subject me
to four uninterrupted hours of Iron Maiden "music" (which one of our
neighbors often did).  A double-major in history and political science,
John had an annoying habit of rambling on about current events.  While I
respected his efforts to be informed about national and world news, I
didn't need a blow-by-blow analysis every time the president relieved
himself.  John was also a huge football fan, and initially attempted to
draw me into his pastime.  He quickly learned, however, that I find
football, and all sports, less exciting than watching old men play chess.
Before long, he got the message that I shared none of his interests, and he
left me alone.

On the academic front, things looked promising.  Technically, I still had
my own double-major in English and journalism, but I had decided to drop
journalism down to a minor and concentrate on English.  My classes seemed
interesting, and the professors were, for the most part, engaging and
friendly.

I picked up with my friends right where we had left off last semester.
Karen and I were both taking the same sociology elective, so we planned
weekly study sessions together.  We also hung out for fun whenever we had
the chance, joined by her boyfriend Joe sometimes and by whoever else from
our circle happened to be around.

I went to the first Tuesday night RULGA meeting of the school year,
dragging Karen along with me for moral support.  (I had come out to her at
the end of freshman year, and she had been very sympathetic and
encouraging.)  Although I had been apprehensive, the meeting itself was
anticlimactic.  There were about 30 people in attendance, most of them
indistinguishable from the vast majority of college students.  One guy
looked rather punk, with tri-color hair, funky clothes, and an excess of
body piercings; but he could have been gay, straight, bisexual, or
Transylvanian.

To my disappointment, it was actually kind of boring.  The meeting was
primarily a forum for political discussion, which I wasn't yet ready to
become involved in.  As the co-presidents (one male, one female) took turns
droning on about campus policies towards "lesbigay" students and faculty, I
studied the faces around the room.  There were a few cute guys, but no one
that I was irresistibly attracted to.  I couldn't help comparing them all
to Jeff.

One thing I did learn was that RULGA sponsored Sunday afternoon socials
exclusively for gay men.  That piqued my interest.  Leaving Karen to spend
some quality time with Joe, I went to the next one by myself.

It was awkward at first.  I recognized a few faces from the Tuesday
meeting, but I didn't really know anyone among the 15 or 20 guys there.  I
lingered in a corner, trying to be inconspicuous as I surveyed the crowd.
The organizer, a nebbishy fellow named Steve, wasn't about to allow
wallflowers, however.  After all, the point of the social was to meet
people.  He led us through some silly party games to break the ice, and
pretty soon, we were all chatting amongst ourselves.

I fell in with three guys who all knew one another from outside RULGA.  We
made small talk, and I got to know them.  They couldn't have been more
different: Brian was a cute, but volubly effeminate brunet in his junior
year with a major in economics; Alan was a rather stoic, burly red-head in
his sophomore year in a pre-med program; and Chris was a surprisingly
intellectual, willowy blond in his third year at the Mason Gross arts
school.  They appeared to have little in common besides being gay, but they
enjoyed one another's company.

I was pleased when they readily adopted me into their little group.
Although I wasn't the least bit attracted to any of them, I liked having
gay friends.  It was liberating to talk about my feelings with other guys
who could truly understand.  Of course, I didn't mention anything to them
about Jeff right away, but I felt that after I got to know them better I
might be able to open up about that whole troublesome episode.  Aside from
providing welcome emotional support, the unlikely trio was also just plain
fun to be around.

They invited me along with them the following Saturday night to the Den, a
local gay bar that I didn't previously know existed.  We went and had a
great time, talking and dancing and checking out guys.  We went the next
weekend as well, and it soon became a regular routine.

A few weeks later, Brian, Alan and Chris planned a weekend escapade in New
York City.  They hoped to leave relatively early in the morning on Saturday
and spend most of the day shopping in Greenwich Village.  In the evening,
they were going to hit several major clubs.  To avoid rushing home in the
middle of the night, they were even going to stay overnight at a gay
bed-and-breakfast in Chelsea.

They asked me to come with them, but I honestly couldn't afford it.
Although I really wanted to go, I had to be practical.  My funds were
limited since I didn't work during the semester.  Even though my parents
supplemented it with a monthly stipend, the money that I saved up during
the summer didn't seem to go very far.  Reluctantly, I begged off.

Unfortunately, their departure left me all but abandoned on that particular
Saturday night.  Karen had taken Joe home for dinner with her folks, and
the rest of my friends were otherwise occupied as well.  My roommate had
holed himself up to work on an overdue research project, and there was no
way that I was going to remain imprisoned in that tiny cell with him.  My
options for the evening thus winnowed down to practically nil, I decided to
strike out to the Den on my own.

Almost immediately upon arriving at the bar, I regretted that decision.  It
was intimidating to be there by myself.  I sorely missed having the
reassuring nest of my friends around me.

For most of the night, I hung out in the "quiet room."  (I don't know why
they called it that; it was right next to the disco, and there was no
escaping the muffled reverberation of the dance music.)  Nursing an
expensive bottle of water, I hid myself in the corner on one side of the
U-shaped bar.  Occasionally I peered out the window beside me, which gave a
panoramic view of the disco, but I couldn't discern much more than
indistinct silhouettes in the strobe-punctuated dimness.

A few times, I went out and circled by the dance floor, but I didn't loiter
for very long.  Even if I had been feeling more gregarious, I couldn't stay
there.  I just didn't care for the music.  Some nights the DJ played
classic disco, which I enjoyed, but tonight he was spinning this
techno/house noise that did nothing for me.  I kept returning to that same
secluded spot in the quiet lounge.

The place was crowded, but I didn't know anyone.  Although there were many
good-looking men, I was far too shy to simply walk up to one of them and
initiate a conversation.  Timidly, I huddled in the secure refuge of my
niche.  The bartender must have noticed my discomfiture because he came
over at odd moments to make small talk.  I appreciated that, but I still
felt out of place.

Eventually, I resolved to head home.  This wasn't getting me anywhere.  By
now it was almost one o'clock, so I could safely go back to the dorm and go
to sleep.  Even if John were still awake, he would in all likelihood be too
deeply engrossed in his work to pester me.

I was just about to get up, when a voice said at my side, "Hi.  How're you
doin'?"

That alone was enough to startle me, but when I looked over to see who had
spoken I became positively amazed.  Blinking rapidly, I managed to mumble,
"Hello.  Fine, thanks."

Beside me stood the most beautiful guy in the bar, possibly the state,
maybe even the country.  He was absolutely breathtaking: Buzz-cut sandy
hair topped off a model's chiseled features with bright green eyes, an
aquiline nose and full, sensuous lips.  Slightly shorter than my own six
feet, he had a well-toned build that was pleasingly displayed by his black
T-shirt and tight bluejeans.  I guessed that he was older than I, but not
by much.

"My name's Mitch," purred the vision in a mellow baritone, smiling to
display an advertisement for cosmetic dentistry.  "What's yours?"

"I'm...I'm Craig," I stuttered.  Why was this lesser deity conversing with
me?

"Hello, Craig," he went on smoothly.  "Nice to meet you."  He offered his
hand.

"Nice to me you too, Mitch," I babbled back, seizing the appendage and
pumping it with excessive vigor.  His skin was soft and supple, but his
grip was masculine and firm.

"So what's a cute boy like you doing here in the corner all by himself?" he
asked, with a disarming chuckle.  His eyes traveled over me approvingly.

Somehow I assembled complete sentences, even if they were a tad disjointed.
"Oh, all my friends are off doing their own thing tonight, and I didn't
want to stay in with my roommate around.  I've only been here a few times,
so I don't really know anyone."

"How about some company then?" he said, taking the stool beside me.  A
tendril of vaguely woody cologne wafted to my nostrils, but I couldn't
identify the fragrance.

"Sure."

"What are you drinking?" he asked, pointing to my nearly empty bottle of
water.  In my fidgeting, I had peeled off the label and shredded it onto
the bar.

"Oh, just water."

He turned away long enough to signal the bartender, then restored his full
attention to me.  "You're a Rutgers student."  It was a statement, not a
question.

"Yeah, Rutgers College," I agreed dumbly.

The bartender cruised by to deposit fresh drinks for us: Poland Spring for
me and Bud Light for the Adonis.  Snatching up the money that Mitch had
laid on the counter, he swirled off and returned with the change almost
instantly, like a dancer executing a well-rehearsed choreography.

"Me too," said Mitch.  "But I go to the graduate school of business.
What's your major?"

"English."

"Cool!  It was mine too, when I was an undergrad."  He grinned expansively
as if he had just discovered that we were long-lost brothers.

Mitch and I chatted in that vein for some time.  He did most of the
talking, telling me about himself and asking the occasional question about
me.  Since I was still terribly anxious, my responses were often brief to
the point of curtness, but he didn't seem to notice.  Merrily chattering
away, he carried on enough for both of us.

Before long, I felt like I knew the entire life story of Mitchell Patrick
Saunders.  Among other tidbits, I learned that he had grown up in south
Jersey and had a younger brother who was still in high school.  His father
was an investment banker and his mother, a real estate broker.  Besides
being a graduate student in business, Mitch was an avid skier and a theater
buff.  He also played the guitar and wrote poetry.  If I'd been taking
notes, I was sure that I could have penned his biography.

We didn't appear to have much in common, but he had a lively personality
and he sure was pretty to look at.  If it meant having him around, I
supposed that I could learn to ski and sit through the occasional stage
production.  It never hurts to broaden one's horizons.

As Mitch continued his rambling narrative, I sipped frequently at my water
for lack of something to occupy my hands.  Soon the bottle was empty.
Without missing a beat, he ordered me another, as well as a second beer for
himself.  When I finished that one, he did it again.  It bothered me that
he was spending all this money on drinks for me when I was unable to return
the favor, but I couldn't bring myself to speak up.

Before we knew it, the bartender was announcing last call.  Mitch offered
to get me one more bottle of water, but I politely declined.  As it was, my
bladder felt like the floodgates of Hoover Dam after an exceptionally rainy
spring.

A few minutes later, the lights came up.  I excused myself to the restroom,
thinking that Mitch would take that as his cue to depart.  Instead, he
waited for me in the entryway.  I was thankful that he didn't follow me in:
I'm terribly pee-shy.

When I emerged a few minutes later, Mitch walked with me out into the
parking lot.  "Where're you parked?" he asked.

"Over there," I said, gesturing towards the opposite side of the building.
When I had arrived, the relatively small lot that was directly adjacent to
the bar had been full, so I had been forced to park in the neighboring
shopping center.

"Do you want a lift?"

"Okay, thanks."

"No problem.  C'mon then." he said, motioning for me to follow him with a
wave of his hand.

It was a mild late-September night, but I felt chilled.  Hugging my bare
arms to myself, I shivered.  I wished that I had brought a jacket.

We crossed the parking lot.  Indicating a blue, late-model Honda Accord,
Mitch said, "This is me."

He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for me.  I slid into the
seat, as he went around to the other side.  He was quiet as he climbed in
and started the ignition.  There was a minor traffic jam as all of the
patrons exited the bar at once, so we sat for a few minutes.

I wanted to say something, but I was at a loss for words.  Mitch seemed
subdued as well.  He must have finally talked himself out.  For me the
silence was unsettling, but he appeared contentedly relaxed, oblivious to
my internal disquiet.

After the crowd of cars and people had dissipated somewhat, Mitch pulled
out and scooted us quickly over to the other lot.  At this hour, the place
was deserted.  I directed him to my beige Toyota Tercel, and he drew up
alongside it.

"So," he said, turning off the engine.

"So," I replied, with loquacious ingenuity.  My face felt like it was
frozen in an insipid smirk.

"I'm really glad I met you tonight."  He smiled charmingly.

"Me too."

We looked at one another expectantly.  Then Mitch leaned towards me.
Shedding my earlier diffidence, I met him halfway.  The combined scent of
the cologne and his personal odor washed over me.  Our mouths touched.  I
literally felt a jolt of electricity as the contact released a static
charge.  We both flinched simultaneously then pressed home.

His lips were warm and soft.  My mouth played against his with escalating
fervor.  We began to chew at one another in mutual hunger, our heads
bobbing and weaving in counterpoint.

I savored the experience.  It had been far too long since the last time
that I'd made out with a guy.  I had all but forgotten how wonderfully
sensual kissing can be.  In many ways, it has always seemed more intimate
to me than intercourse.  Renewing that knowledge was enjoyable, to say the
least.

Mitch wasted no time in nudging his tongue into my mouth.  Inspired by his
enthusiasm, I promptly retaliated.  His mouth tasted of beer, which I found
curiously arousing.  Our tongues chased each other back and forth, for
several long minutes.

An image of Jeff flashed across the back of my mind.  It felt as if I were
betraying him somehow.  In the urgency of the moment, I struggled to push
that aside.  There was no reason to feel any allegiance to him.  Our
relationship had been stillborn.  I owed him nothing.  Nonetheless, I could
not completely stifle the nagging impression that I was committing an act
of gross infidelity.

Mitch began to kiss across my cheek and down my neck, and all thought of
Jeff hurtled into the abyss.  He sucked at my throat, no doubt intending to
leave a prominent calling card.  I ran my fingers through the fuzz on his
scalp, urging him on unnecessarily.  Once it had left its mark, his mouth
returned to swiftly to mine.

His hand brushed across my chest.  Finding a nipple, he toyed with it
through the fabric of my shirt.  I would have moaned if my mouth had not
been covered.  As it was, I squirmed excitedly.

A moment later, we parted to catch our breath.  "I really wish I could
bring you back to my place, but my roommate's around," said Mitch with a
comical frown.  Something in his tone didn't quite ring true, but I
couldn't say precisely why.  I quickly shrugged off the thought as baseless
paranoia.

"Me too, but I've got the same problem," I sniggered feebly.

Mitch moved towards me again.  We kissed, even more passionately this time.
He returned his hand to my chest, kneading the flesh beneath my shirt.  I
reached over and grabbed his shoulder, pulling him closer. Clutching each
other's bodies clumsily across the center console, we pulled at one
another's clothes.

His fingers roamed over my shirt until they found the buttons.  Opening the
top three, he stretched his hand inside and ran it over my skin.  The flat
of his palm glided back and forth over my chest.  I trembled.  To be
touched like that, simply touched, was unaccustomed bliss.

I tried to do the same in return, but Mitch was wearing a pullover.  Not to
be deterred, I tugged it free of his jeans and slid my hand up and
underneath it.  His chest and stomach were firm and toned, without being
grotesquely muscular.  His skin was smooth, almost completely hairless.
There was only the faintest trail of downy hairs descending from his navel.
I traced it playfully.

Mitch continued to explore my body.  Undoing the remaining buttons, he
pushed my shirt open and stroked his hand all over my exposed torso.  I
shivered, but not from the cold this time.  In fact, it now seemed almost
balmy in the enclosed space of the automobile.

His fingertips came upon my tit again and began to fondle it.  They teased
it lightly until the nub protruded like a miniature erection.  Withdrawing
from his mouth for a second, I sighed in pleasure.  Sensing my delight, he
continued his delicious attentions.

I pushed my own hand upward on Mitch's chest.  When my fingers strayed over
a nipple, they stopped to caress it.  Now it was his turn to moan.  I
continued to delicately pinch and twist the sensitive tip, driving him
wild.  It must have been too much.

Impatiently, Mitch dropped his hand to my lap. Our activities so far had
naturally provoked the appropriate response.  He began to massage the
insistent bulge that he found there.  Lowering my own hand, I confirmed
that he paralleled my tumescent condition.

"Ooh," he growled, with lecherous leer.  "You've got a monster in there.
Maybe we should let it out."

Doing just that, Mitch unhooked the catch of my jeans and slid down the
zipper.  Movement was awkward in the restrictive confines of the car, but
he was determined.  Parting the open flaps, he grasped the outline of my
thick seven inches through the soft cotton of my briefs.

"Man, you've got a big, fat cock," he remarked, evidently pleased.

Before I could attempt to reciprocate, he sat back and unfastened his own
jeans.  Raising himself up off the seat, he went so far as to slide them
down to his knees.  Bowing to the inevitable, he pushed his underpants down
with them.  In the interest of time, I mirrored his actions.  We grinned at
one another devilishly, each of us immediately reaching out to grab the
other.

Like my own, Mitch's cock was circumcised and about seven inches in length,
but his differed in that it was more slender in the shaft.  His oversized
balls dangled loosely below in a thatch of blond hair.  His sculpted thighs
appeared to be as smooth as his chest, but perhaps it was only an illusion
of the murky lighting.  They could have been dusted by a nearly invisible
down, similar to that on my own legs.

I wrapped my hand around his waiting member, measuring its girth.  It was
feverishly hot to the touch.  I could feel his pulse beat as I squeezed the
fleshy pillar.

"Oh, yeah, jerk that meat," he moaned, when I began to slide my fist
languidly up and down.

In turn, Mitch took possession of my cock.  His arm overtopping mine, he
closed his fist snugly about the shaft.  His hand was exquisitely soft,
like a glove of warm velvet.  He caressed my pole lovingly, knowing
instinctively where to concentrate his efforts for maximum stimulation.
Helpless under his expert technique, I gasped in delighted torment.

"You like that, don't you?" he whispered seductively.

For a long while, we continued to masturbate one another with conscientious
devotion.  The nocturnal stillness was interrupted only by our guttural
noises of pleasure.  I could have gone on like that all night, but Mitch
wanted more.  As I continued to stroke his cock, he pushed on to other
realms.

His hand roved down to my balls, first cupping them, then toying with them
idly.  Since they are somewhat tender, I usually don't like having my nuts
handled, but his touch was so gentle that it was actually pleasant.  One
fingertip found its way to the sensitive area just below my scrotum.
Pausing there briefly, it twirled over the small patch of skin, awakening
neglected nerve endings.

Mitch looked up at me, his emerald eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness.
"How does that feel?" he asked.  Unable to speak, I could only moan
melodically.

Pressing onward, he poked his middle finger into the cleft between my ass
cheeks.  I spread my legs wider to accommodate his probing.  He withdraw
his hand for an instant to moisten his finger with saliva, then swiftly
returned to the scene.  Greased with spit, the digit slithered smoothly
into the crevice of my ass.  It came near my bunghole and spiraled in on
the puckered sphincter.

By now my own manipulations of his rampantly rigid rod had coaxed forth a
bead of pre-cum from the piss-slit.  Taking advantage of the natural
lubricant, I ran my thumb through it and spread the slick substance all
over his cock-head, with special attention to the sensitive underside and
corona.

"Oh, yeah," he groaned appreciatively.  "That feels great."

Mitch's fingertip arrived finally at my posterior portal.  It had lost much
of its coating of saliva, but he didn't stop to rewet it.  Instead, he
forced the dry digit into the equally arid opening.  I grunted in
discomfort at the blunt incursion.  It took a moment for the anal muscle to
loosen enough so that his finger could slide in as far as the first joint.
He rotated the burrowing knuckle, relaxing the sphincter even further.
Soon, the ingression grew more agreeable, and I hummed with delectation.

"You like that, huh?" he asked redundantly.

While I still basked in that sensation, Mitch bent over the center console
and began to orally service my forgotten member.  He lapped at it greedily,
like a kitten drawing in warm milk.  His tongue swirled and darted to all
the right places.

"Oh, yeah," I breathed, writhing uncontrollably from the double assault of
being finger- fucked and fellated at the same time.

Egged on by my reaction, he endeavored to swallow my shaft to the root, but
he couldn't quite angle his body to achieve that goal.  He satisfied
himself by continuing to suckle at the head.  Given his manifest skill with
the task at hand, I certainly wasn't disappointed.

My arm was crushed beneath his overarching torso, but I wasn't about to
complain.  I continued to jack him off, though now with a significantly
limited range of motion.  My hand flailed of its own volition, as I
steadily lost feeling in the constricted limb.

A few minutes later, Mitch backed off.  With a grimace of pain, he
vigorously rubbed his cramped chest.  I flexed my tingling arm in sympathy.

I missed his marvelous ministrations, but this favor I just had to return.
Attempting to lean over his lap, I bumped into the storage compartment in
the center console.  Shifting forward, I felt the gear selector strive to
insert itself between my ribs.  It was no wonder he hadn't been able to
endure this position for very long.  Maneuvering fractionally rearward, I
settled into the shallow concavity between the two projections.  It was far
from comfortable, but I set to work eagerly.

My tongue shot out over his cock-head, laving it generously.  His pre-cum
had given it a faintly sweet flavor, which I slurped up ravenously.  From
the depths of his crotch came a clean but earthy aroma that only served to
incite my already gluttonous appetite.  I went down on him further, but my
body could only contort so far.

"Yeah, that's it, baby," he murmured hoarsely.

Stretching my lingual muscle to its fullest extent, I was able to reach
about three-quarters of the way down his shaft.  Yielding to the
circumstances, I restricted my devotions to the sensitive areas of his
cock-head.  My drool spilled down his dick in rivulets.  I swathed the
rough surface of my tongue with delicate agility over the wrinkled frenum
and around the mushroom cap.  He didn't seem to mind the limitation on my
movements.

"Oh, yeah.  Suck my big man-cock," he cooed encouragingly.

Without warning, I felt a terrible spasm in my side.  Sitting up sharply, I
massaged the protesting sinew animatedly, trying to ease the acute pain.
Mitch smiled in commiseration.

By unspoken agreement, we resumed our initial activity, clasping one
another's cocks and jerking them off in tandem.  For both of us, the recent
oral attentions had left behind a residue of lubricating saliva.  Our fists
pumped furiously, creating a duet of moist sucking sounds.  This
orchestration was accompanied by our primitive vocalizations of mounting
pleasure.

With his exquisite touch, Mitch kept me balanced on the verge for a small
eternity.  He stroked me with sufficient speed and intensity to maintain my
precarious perch, but not so much as to topple me into climax.  My cock
throbbed in his hand, begging for release.  Tortured by inchoate ecstasy, I
whimpered on its behalf, but he would not yet allow any release.

In retribution, I pounded his dick brutally.  My fist corkscrewed wildly as
it rode up and down the slippery shaft.  Desperately, I sought to propel
him ahead of me, knowing that he would only let me go on the advent of his
own orgasm.

"Oh, yeah!  That's it!  Make me cum!" Mitch cried out seconds later, as his
body convulsed.

My fist flew even faster.  I felt his cock swell just before it discharged
the first salvo.  The molten seed erupted into the air then fell back to
splatter over my hand and across his lap.  Successive salvos repeated the
pattern with decreasing energy, until at last he collapsed in on himself.

At the precise instant of his ejaculation, Mitch had let loose with a
barrage of rapid-fire strokes on my own needy member.  That was all it
took.  With one final sob, I hurled my own load up into the semi-darkness.
I seemed to float rapturously above the car seat as some portion of my life
force ejected itself from my body.  Distantly, I felt the hot semen splash
across my bare chest and onto the edge of my shirt.

It was some time before I descended from the heights.  Scarcely aware of my
own actions, I withdrew my hand and reclined exhaustedly back into the
seat.  My heart thrummed and my lungs pulled in oxygen, gradually restoring
equilibrium.  Sinking into a sticky pool of its own emissions, my cock
slowly shriveled down to its flaccid state.

Abruptly self-conscious now that the moment had passed, I quickly pulled my
clothes back on.  Less hurriedly, Mitch followed suit.  As I tucked in my
shirt, my hand brushed through a spot of jism.  Repulsed by the gooey
sensation, I wiped it off on my pant leg.

"Wow, that was hot," Mitch said, flashing a broad grin.

"Yeah, it was," I murmured, feeling shy again.

"So, do you want to get together again sometime?" he asked.

"Sure, that'd be great."  He wanted to see me again!

"Cool," he said happily.  "Let me have your phone number."

Mitch retrieved a slip of paper and a pen from the glove compartment, and I
recited the number to him.  It didn't occur to me to ask for his, and he
didn't volunteer it.

"I'll give you a call mid-week and maybe we can get together for dinner or
something.  How's that?"

"That works for me."  Call me anytime; I'll be waiting by the phone.

"Good."

After a languorous parting kiss, I reluctantly slipped out and climbed into
my own car.  Thoughtfully, Mitch waited until I started the engine and put
it into gear.  He waved to me before driving off.  I followed him out of
the lot and up to the next traffic light, where he turned left as I
proceeded straight.

Bubbling with excitement, I was positively euphoric.  Only once before had
I been smitten with someone who felt a mutual attraction.  On a rational
level, I knew that the feeling was not much more than overactive hormones,
but that didn't prevent me from reveling in the unbridled elation.  Two
thoughts raced around my head as I drove home: I couldn't wait to see Mitch
again, and I really hoped that the congealing semen wouldn't stain my
shirt.

In the background, my conscience whispered accusingly, But what about Jeff?
To which I replied, Jeff who?