Date: Sun, 19 Mar 2006 09:24:38 -1000
From: S turner <scotty.13411@hotmail.com>
Subject: Strange Bedfellows, Chapter 7

Disclaimer:  The following story is a mostly-fictional account of the
author's experiences and relationships while a college student.  The
characters are either composites of people he knew, or those about which he
fantasized.  Any resemblance to real people, either living dead, is a pure
coincidence, and is also a bloody shame.  If you are not old enough in your
state to read sexually explicit material, then get the hell out of here.
This story is copyrighted, 2006, and may not be reproduced, reprinted or
reposted without the expressed, written permission of the author.

Feedback is always welcomed, however.  Let me know what you think. Reader's
responses really do make a difference.  Many thanks to you who have taken
the time to touch base with me. You may contact me, if you wish, at
scotty.13411@hotmail.com.  Hope you enjoy.



     Walking out of Camp Randall with the throng of fans, Scott grabbed
Kelly's hand in his own.  She held it firmly for a moment before letting go
and placing her arm instead around his waist.  He pulled her close.

     Kelly looked up. "So what's up for the rest of the weekend?"  He kissed
the top of her head.  She smelled wonderful.

     "Well, I was hoping to spend the rest of the weekend in bed, naked,
with you.  Craig won't be back `til some time tomorrow afternoon.  We could
have sex all night, and start again tomorrow during "Meet the Press" and
keep on going until kickoff of the Packer game.

     She lowered her hand and squeezed his ass.  "You'd stop having sex with
me for a football game?"

     "Only for Brett Favre and the gang, my dear.  Besides, by kickoff there
are usually five or six other guys in the room."

     "Ooohh, will Marty be there?  You know I'm falling in love with him,
don't you?  Especially after seeing him naked.  The guy's got it going, but
I wish we'd brought some binoculars."

     He laughed and rolled his eyes. She grabbed his ass again and he gave
her an "oooohhhh, you little hussy!  He's a lucky guy."  He kissed her again
on the top of the head.

     "I should have told you.  I have a party to go to this afternoon, and
into the evening.  It's going to be very Greek.  Want to join me?"

     He smiled and shrugged, but didn't immediately answer.

     "You don't, do you?"

     "Normally, I'd say `Oh, I don't know,' and we'd discuss it... But..."

     "But you figure Kip's going to be there..."

     "Yup."

     " And you want to go check on Marty, don't you?"

     "Yup.  As I've thought about it, I got worried.  I don't know if he's
ever been arrested."  He chucked.  "He probably has, but I can't say for
sure."

     "And the thought of spending the rest of the day at a
fraternity/sorority thing makes you want to throw up, doesn't it?"

     "Well, a little nauseous, perhaps, but I'll warn you before I actually
hurl."

     "Scott, please don't judge me on the sorority thing."

     "Kelly, you know I don't pigeon-hole people with labels and hold them
accountable with guilt by association, don't you?"

     "I think you mentioned that once."  She rolled her eyes and giggled,
recalling their first confrontation in the hallway after their literature
class.

     They strolled slowly down University Avenue, each one savoring the
other and the happy moods of their fellow fans as they all made their way to
any number of watering holes for post-game celebrations.  Stopping at the
corner of University and Lake, Scott turned her to face him with his hands
on each of her shoulders.  "I've had a wonderful weekend, Kelly.  Thanks for
taking me to the game.  Granted, I got more than I bargained for today, I
think, with Marty and all, but I had a great time."

     "And, thank you for taking me to dinner," she gently grabbed the back
of his neck and lowered his head to whisper into his ear, "and for taking me
to bed."

     "There's more where that came from, you know."  She blushed and nodded
`I hope so.'  He cupped her cheeks in both hands and leaned in to kiss her
gently.  Kelly wrapped her arms around his neck and they lingered in the
kiss until whoops and shouts came their way from across the street.  Kelly
looked right and saw a half dozen of her sorority sisters cheering them on.
"C'mon Kel," one of them shouted, "And bring the beefcake with you!"  Scott
smiled and waved, signaling `I gotta go' by pointing over his shoulder with
his thumb, and was met with a chorus of `booooooo' from across the street.
He kissed her again on the forehead and said, "You go have fun.  I'll talk
to you tomorrow, maybe, but this week to be sure."

     "Hope so," and then she was dodging the slow moving cars on her way
across University Avenue.

     He got back to the room and lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling.  He
mulled over the weekend's events; a weekend that was barely half over, and
as he tried to foretell what the coming week would bring, he felt the need
to try and track down Marty.  He called the general number for the Madison
Police Department.  After being transferred a couple of times, a female
officer came on the line.  She wouldn't give many details, other than to say
that Martin Anderson had made bail and been released about an hour ago.

     It was nearly six, and the game had been over for over two hours.  "Had
to be Brett," Scott reasoned.  "They must be out partying."  He turned on
the TV and listened to the local news while he dozed on his bed.  In the
middle of a light slumber, the sports guy began his segment.  He led with
Ron Dayne's surpassing the NCAA rushing record, and included some snide
remarks about a college student who added some spice to the occasion by
sprinting, naked, the length of the field.  He named Martin Anderson as the
sophomore prankster, and told the audience that Mr. Anderson could not be
reached for comment, though a police spokeswoman said that he faced a number
of charges.

     Scott smiled with his eyes closed and shook his head.  "Marty, Marty,
Marty," he whispered a chuckle.  "You are one goofy fucker..."

     About an hour into his nap, the phone rudely interrupted a pretty good
dream.

     "Hey...you `lone?"  Marty was obviously buzzed.

     "It's just me here."

     "Brett bailed me out and brought me home.  We went out to a party for a
while, but the attention was just too much.  And my fucking phone's ringing
off the hook.  Can I come over?"

     Scott yawned into the phone.  "C'mon down.  You can hide here for the
night."  He propped the door open and lay back down on the bed.  A few deep
breaths and a good, long stretch, and he was coming back to life.

     "Hey," he heard.  "wan' some company?"  Marty had a sheepish smile and
the speech was slightly slurred.  His eyes were narrowed in a tell-tale
signal that a fair amount of dope had already been smoked.

     "Get in here."

     Marty walked across the room and sat on Craig's bed.  Scott sat up and
crossed his legs, leaning back on the wall.

     	"So, how'd you do it?"

     	"I just took off all my clothes and ran like hell."

     	"Not that, Marty.  That was obvious.  You looked great, by the way.
Kelly was very impressed.  I mean the fliers in the programs.  How the hell
did you pull that one off?"

     	"What makes you so sure it was me?" Scott gave him a `give me a
fuckin' break' look, and rolled his eyes.  "Okay.  It was pretty easy and I
had plenty of help.  There's this chick who works the graveyard shift at
university printing.  We been fuckin' around now and again for a few months
now.  She printed and cut them for us."

     	"Who's `us'?"

     	"Well, it was me and Brett, Brandon wanted to help, Jesse and Frank
and three friends of Brett's from the band.  We found where the programs are
stored, and had sort of an assembly line operation for a couple hours late
last night.  It was slick.  Each box has a hundred of the program booklets.
Two guys opened the boxes and turned the upside down, leaving a stack of
programs on the floor. Two more turned each stack on end and loosely held
them, like this."  He held his hands out like they were bookends.  "Two more
slid a slip into each one from the top and they set the stack aside.  Two
more picked up the stack, put them back in the box and folded the covers
back up to close the box."

     	Scott just shook his head and grinned.  "Only you...  So, how many were
there?"

     	"Well, Julie printed forty thousand.  I figure we got about twenty
five into the booklets last night.  We had a half dozen students who were
working the game, handing out the programs, and they slid them into the
programs we didn't hit while they were working.  A bunch of folks in the
band dropped the remainders throughout the student section during the second
half."  Part of the UW marching band tradition was sending small groups of
musicians, eight to twelve at a time, into the stands to play school songs
for the crowd during the last half of the game.

     	Scott smiled and shook his head, running his fingers through his hair.
  "Dude, you're brilliant."

     	Marty puffed up his chest a bit.  "Yeeessss I aaaaammm."

     	"I do believe, Mr. Anderson, that you have all the potential to become
a successful white collar criminal."

     	"Yeah.  A guy's gotta have goals, right?"

     	"So, Brett bailed you out?  What'd that cost you guys?"

     	Marty laughed.  "Actually we made a good chunk of change on the
thing."

     	"Huh?"

     	"I wasn't even in cuffs yet when they started passing the hat for bail
money.  Another guy in the band works at KFC.  He brought about thirty
chicken buckets to the game.  They wrote `BAIL FOR THE STREAKER' in black
marker on them, and started passing them through the student section as soon
as the show was over.  Got about eleven hundred dollars out of the deal, and
bail was only three-fifty.  I'll be making a hefty donation to the `Turner
for WSA' campaign after the fine is paid."  He cackled and smacked his hands
together.

     	"No you won't!"

     	"What?  Are you fucking nuts?"

     	"Marty, none of those folks thought they were giving one cent to any
kind of political cause.  It might cost me a few bucks to get my name out
there, and I might go looking for donations to help, but that money was
given to get your ass out of jail, not to get me into the WSA.  I won't take
it."

     	"Buy some new tires with it, then."

     	"Drop it!  This is goin' nowhere.  Give it to charity.  It's gonna
make the news anyway that the students coughed up the money to cover your
costs, and there'll be questions about how much and where it went.  You need
to start thinking about shit like that.

     	Scott stayed serious.  It seemed like there were small storm clouds
over his eyebrows "But, Marty, you can't do shit like that."

     	"Huh?"

     	"The fliers, I mean.  You can streak any time you want, and I'm all
for seeing you naked, but you gotta talk to me first before you pull any
stunts with the campaign."

     	"Yeah...and you woulda said no."

     	"I might have.  But, man, Marty, that's my name you're throwing
around.  This could come back and bite me in the ass.  I got a right to
control when and how we shoot for exposure on this flier thing.  I don't
need a Halderman or an Ehrlichman fucking around like this is some silly
game.  No dirty tricks...okay?"

     	Marty suddenly got it, and felt guilty.  "Yeah...you're right, bud.  I'm
sorry."

     	"Don't feel bad.  Don't be sorry.  Just don't do it again, huh?  Just
talk to me first, okay?"

     	"Got it, professor."  He just stared between his knees at the floor.
The room was quiet for a long time.

	Marty didn't look up.  He continued to stare at the floor, his forearms
resting on his knees.  Scott noticed his hands had begun to shake.

	"Marty...it's not that big of a deal!  Relax, man!"  He scooted forward on
the bed and planted his feet on the floor leaning down and trying to
establish eye contact with his friend from across the room.  Marty buried
his face in the palms of his hands and he emitted a small sob.

	"Marty?  Hey, bud!  Lighten up man!  No harm, no foul."

	"Aw, shit, man, that's not it...I just really fucked up!  That's what I am,
one big fuck-up, twenty-four-seven."

	Scott leaned forward further, trying to will the poor guy to look up at
him.

	"Nooooh, Marty, you're...

	He looked up suddenly; tears were rolling down his cheeks.  "I'm scared
shitless, that's what I am, Scott.  The fucking media is hassling me.
Shit...I didn't want to wind up like that.  And my old man...fuck!  He's gonna
bust my balls once the news hits Rockford, if it hasn't already.  Like that
fucker's ever needed an excuse to shit on me.  Why do I give him more ammo?"

	Scott slid down and sat on the floor, his legs stretched out straight in
front of him, leaning back on the bed.  He looked Marty directly in the
eyes.  He looked scared, vulnerable.  The happy-go-lucky, come-what-may
Marty Anderson had definitely left the building.  Scott looked softly at his
frightened buddy and patted the floor next to him.  "Come here."

	Marty slowly stepped across the room, turned and started to sit.  As he
lowered himself toward the floor, Scott raised his right arm and wrapped it
over Marty's shoulder.  He pulled him in until Marty's back was resting
against his chest, and whispered into his ear, "Nobody's gonna hurt you.
I'm not going to let them.  It's gonna be okay."  Marty laid his head back
into the crook of Scott's neck and closed his eyes.  "Take a deep breath,"
Scott said softly.  He felt Marty's chest rise and fall underneath his arm.
"Now another."

     Marty did as he was told, and uttered a long sigh as he exhaled.  "You
really know how to piss a guy off, don't you?"

     "Huh?  What'd I do?"

     "Same as always, just the right thing at the right time.  It's like
you're fucking perfect, you have this charmed life goin' for yourself."
Marty looked up in his direction, but couldn't make eye contact from his
position against Scott's chest.  "Do you know how jealous I am of you?  It
pisses me off sometimes.  I don't like feeling jealous."

     Scott chuckled, "Yeah...right!  You, jealous of me.  That'll be the day."

     Marty gently gripped Scott's forearm.  "No, man!  I mean it.  Lookit
you.  You got killer good looks with a fantastic bod.  You're doin' the
nasty with one of the hottest looking babes on campus.  You got a ballsy and
powerful lady in the fucking capitol covering your back, and you're probably
on your way to becoming a hugely popular and influential big man on campus
yourself.  And you're just a lowly fucking college freshman!  And, Craig
told me about the family situation from heaven.  What...did you pay off the
gods or something?  Who wouldn't be jealous of all that?  I should hate you,
you know."

     "Oh, lighten up, man.  You're more than holding your own in the looks
department, you're fucking hot, and any girl and a lot of guys can only
admire your own hot body.  I know I do," he pinched Marty's left nipple,
causing him to squirm under his arms.  "Everybody who knows you immediately
loves you for, among other things, your `go for it...I gotta be me' approach
to life.  You got so much fucking charm you could sell oil to the Arabs and
ice to the Eskimos. Shit.  It took you, what, fifteen seconds to get Kelly
under your spell.  You know, she told me she thought she was falling in love
with you."

     "Really!" He paused for effect and leered.  "So...you think
maybe...you...me...and..."

     Scott cut him off.  "Not on  your life."

     He lightly smacked Marty's chest.  "And, yeah, the family stuff is way
cool, and Maureen's been a big help, but it's not like I've done anything to
make that happen. Shit happens. But you forgot one thing that makes others
jealous of me."

     Marty tilted his head again and looked up.  "Huh?  Whassat?"

     Scott giggled a little bit and sang, "I...Got...You...Babe" and gently kissed
the top of Marty's head.

     Marty rubbed his friends forearm and glanced upward.  "Scott...I don't
wanna... I mean...it's just that..."

     Scott cut him off again.  "Relax, dude.  I'm not in the mood either.
Let's just chill for the night.  Maybe I'll let you take me down to the
basement again after the game tomorrow, and I'll make you howl.  Now, why
don't you stop rubbing me and get up before you give me a hard on.  You make
us a couple a drinks, and I'll find something on TV."

     Marty got up and surveyed the liquor bottles on the top shelf of each
roommate's closet.  "Looks like bourbon is most in stock, this evening.  Got
any mix?"

     "Check the fridge."  Scott was rutting around the small room on his
hands and knees.  "How the fuck do you lose a remote in such a little place?
  AHA!"  He found it under his pillow.  Flipping through the channels, he
settled on TV Land.  They were playing back-to-back episodes of `70s and 80s
era sit-coms.  Mary Tyler Moore was just starting.  "Classic shit, this!"
and he sang again, "...you're going to make it after all"  Scott was satisfied
as he returned to the floor, taking a whiskey and coke from Marty.

     "So, my streaker special advisor..." Marty plopped on the floor across
from Scott, leaning back against the desk.  "You said you were scared.  You
mean it?"

     Marty nodded in earnest, and his eyes got wide. "Shit, man, it's all
this media crap! I didn't see this coming."

     "Christ!  You streak during a national sports event, in front of a live
audience of over seventy thousand, and a national TV audience..."

     "They were on commercial break..."

     "...and you didn't think the media would pay attention?  Get your head
out of your ass, man!  Since Dayne broke the record and probably locked up
the Heisman, I'm betting they're even joking about it on ESPN tonight."

     "Aww, fuck!  So, what do I do?

     "Wait a minute.  I thought you were MY special advisor, you little
fucker," Scott taunted.  "So, who called?"

     "Three papers, including Milwaukee, three radio stations and two TV
stations."

     "Well, you could just ignore them, and chances are good by this time
next week you'll be old news, and forgotten.  Then, they'd just say shit
like, `Mr. Anderson could not be reached for comment,' or `Mr. Anderson has
refused to respond to repeated attempts to contact him for comment.'  That
wouldn't be bad, but it might look like you were in hiding, or something,
like you're ashamed of pulling the stunt."

     "But I'm not...not really, anyway.  I guess I want to say something.  I
just don't know how to go about it."

     "OK, a few rules. First, with the print media say as little as
possible.  You listen carefully to exactly what's being asked and answer
that, and only that, question.  One-sentence answers are good.  One-word
answers are better.  Remember, you can spew out all the words you want, and
you can be insightful, funny, engaging and a fucking genius, all at the same
time.  But...and this is a huge `but'...you don't get to decide what goes on the
page.  You can spend two minutes answering a six-word question, and you can
be brilliant in the process.  In the middle of the answer, you might joke,
`I'd rather screw a goat than vote for Kip Monmouth,'  The next day, you'll
read in print, `I'd...screw a goat...for Kip Monmouth,'  or, `I'd screw Kip
Monmouth.'

     "Actually, if he wasn't such a mother fucker, I might actually do that.
  Maybe I'd fuck him just out of spite...you know, a good old-fashioned grudge
fuck might be just what the guy needs."  They both laughed, each one
imagining Kip on his back with his legs in the air.  It really was a pretty
hot vision.

     Scott continued.  "Second, if it's electronic broadcast media, do not
agree to an interview, unless it's live.  Do not go on tape.  Same principal
applies.  You are in charge of what you say, but not in charge of the
editing.  Only agree to do a TV or radio interview if it's live, and then,
only if you really trust the interviewer.  Third, if you do agree to be
interviewed, you gotta do it this way:  `so, tell me what questions you want
to ask', and then, `call me back in ten minutes.'  If they won't tell you
ahead of time, then don't do the interview.  You might get sandbagged.  If
they do give you the questions, then be nice, say `great...call me back in ten
minutes, I want to think about it; and if you ask me anything else, I'll
hang up or walk away.'  But then, stick to it.  If they stray from the
script, hang up."

     Marty was listening intently and nodding.  His confidence was
returning.

     "Hey, if you want, we can rehearse some likely `Q and A' scenarios
tomorrow before you return any of the phone calls. If you want, I'll sit
with you during any actual `on the record' contacts with the vipers from the
free press."

     "I think I'd like that.  Thanks, man."  He winked at Scott, a sure sign
that his old friend Marty was returning.

     "So, your old man's really gonna go ballistic, huh?"

     Marty's mood shifted again, abruptly.  He just looked at the floor
again and shook his head.  "Oh, Scott...you have no fucking idea." His voice
had become very soft and low.  He looked back up and stared into Scott's
eyes.  "If I were in Rockford, I'd be bruised by now, and maybe even a
little bloody."

     "Nooo, you're shitting me."

     "You don't know the fucker.  My old man is one fucked-up piece of work.
  The original Rockford redneck who hates anybody who doesn't look like him,
act like him, think like him.  He's already pissed that I'm even in college
in the first place, calling it a waste of money `cuz he made it pretty good
without a college degree.  `it's for pussies and fags who can't make it on
their own' he likes to say."

     "What's he do?"

     "Has his own construction company, and he's pretty successful.  Gotta
give him that, he built it by himself and they do a good business.  I'll
probably be stuck back workin' for him again next summer."

     "Why not find something up here?"

     "He'll cut me off in a heartbeat.  I'd applied for scholarships, and
was hoping that tennis would do the trick, but the talent pool here is too
deep."  Marty was quiet for a while, then looked up at the ceiling and shook
his head.  His eyes were welling with tears again.  "Scott, this is a fucker
who even hates his own wife and only child."

     "Marty, that can't be..."

     "No, Scott...he's actually said so.  Said the only reason he married mom
was `cuz he got too drunk one night and knocked her up.  He looks at me and
blames me for his unhappy marriage."

     "That's fucked up!  And he's abused you?"

     "Usually only verbally, but the man can hand out an ass-whipping when
he has the mind to.  He's a big guy.  I get my build from mom's side of the
family, and look a lot more like her than him.  But, even when he isn't
ragging on me or pushing me around, his idea of a complement has always been
`well, it's about fucking time...' any time I ever did anything right.  Which,
by the way, wasn't often, in his eyes.  He didn't even come to see me play
in the state finals round in tennis.  We learned later that the `conference'
he had to attend was a weekend fling with the bimbo who's been working in
his office, and working his dick, for the past three years."

     "He's fucking around on your mom...and she knows it?"

     "He's been nailing this twenty-six year old big-titted slut since he
hired her to work in his office, and basically rubbing mom's nose in it.
I've been urging her to leave him and rip him apart in a divorce.  I love my
mom a lot, but she's not the sharpest blade in the drawer, and her
confidence is practically non-existent.  She's almost there.  By this time
next year, I'm hoping that she owns half of everything the bastard owns,
including the company.  Then, I'm hoping we can sell her half to one of his
competitors."

     "Dude...I had no idea...what a shitty fucking deal.  Marty, I'm so sorry..."

     Marty waved him off and shrugged.  "It is what it is, man.  But it's
also a main reason why I'm such a goofy fuck most of the time.  Had to build
up defenses over the years and learn to hide a lot of the misery, and this
likable, good-humored, somewhat insane son of a bitch you're lookin' at is
the result."

     The guys emptied most of the remaining bourbon as they continued to
watch "Bob Newhart," "Taxi," and "Barney Miller."  Marty had fallen asleep
on the floor, so Scott just propped a pillow under his head and took the
comforter from Craig's bed and laid it over him.  He stripped down to his
boxers, slid under his own sheets and turned off the light.  He said a
silent prayer of thanks before sleep finally came to him, and asked for
blessings for his bud.

     He was dreaming of happy family times.  Thanksgiving dinner was behind
them, and Scott and his cousin, Will, had stole back to his aunt and uncle's
home several blocks away. As was his habit, Will wasted no time going for
Scott's goodies.  He rubbed his cousin's growing cock through the fabric of
his jeans, and then started to unbutton the Levi's.  He was always eager,
but often impatient.  But something was different this time.  Will was
actually going slow.  He took some time to fondle and stroke Scott, playing
with his balls for a while before lightly and slowly licking the head a
little.  Wrapping his lips around just the tip of Scott's hard-on, he rolled
the tongue around some more, darting a little in an out of the piss slit.
Scott moaned and thought, `Jesus, you been practicing boy!'  He felt Will's
tongue slowly run up the length of one side, then down the other before
lapping at his sack.  Scott reached down and ran his fingers through the
hair, and slowly opened his eyes.

     "Mornin' professor."  Marty had a very naughty grin on his face.  "Hope
you don't mind, but I woke up hungry and thought I'd help myself."  He took
Scott's left nut in his mouth and kept gazing up at the sleepy stud laying
on his back above him.

     Scott rubbed the top of Marty's head gently.  "Breakfast of Champions,
I always say.  What's mine is yours...you know that."  Scott took a deep
breath and raised his arms, stretching the sleep out of his joints and
muscles.  As he did so, his thighs hugged the sides of Marty's head,
encouraging him to take both balls into his mouth.  He exhaled a satisfied
sigh.  "Ooohh, Marty, you little fucker.  I love it when you do that."

     "And, if memory serves, I also believe that you don't mind it when I do
this."  Marty's head went down fast, taking the complete length of the cock
into his throat.

     "Oh God!"  Scott's head shot up off his pillow and he watched with
lusty amazement as Marty held his position for several seconds before slowly
rising off him, his dick emerging gradually from between his buddy's lips.
Marty looked up and smiled with a wink, and he slowly slid the head of
Scott's cock back and forth across his wet lips.

     Scott patted the bed beside him.  "Get up here.  You're not the only
hungry one in the room, and I'm a growing boy."

     "Most important meal of the day," Marty observed as he stood up.  He
walked from the foot to the side of the bed.  Scott turned to lie on his
side, and slid back a little.  Marty lay down on his side, bending his right
leg at the knee to give Scott access to his own aching dick, already
dripping a bit of precum.  He went back to work, grabbing Scott's took and
sliding it into his mouth.

     Scott moaned as he wrapped his lips around Marty and moved his head
forward, sending shivers throughout his friend's entire body.  They lay on
the bed, arms and legs entangled, each man's head moving back and forth in a
similar rhythm.  Scott played with Marty's balls while he sucked harder and
harder on his hot tool, and he heard a deep breath.  He wet his middle
finger and slowly rubbed in between Marty's cheeks, finding his hole and
teasing it.  "Oh, fuck!" was all he heard from between his own legs.

     Scott used his weight to roll Marty over onto his back, and propped
himself up on his knees and elbows.  He repositioned his hips so that he was
directly over Marty's face, and slowly lowered his cock toward the open
mouth beneath him.  Grabbing Marty by the base of his member, he held it
straight up and went down as fast as he could.  He gagged and came back up,
a bit surprised.  `I nearly did it,' he thought, and went back to try again,
this time more slowly.  When the head of Marty's tool hit the back of his
mouth, he paused.  He closed his eyes and relaxed his throat muscles, then
slowly proceeded further downward.  In seconds, his nose was lying on
Marty's scrotum and he could feel the pubic hairs tickling his chin.
"Ohhhhmmmm...mmmmmppphhhh," Marty bellowed through the mouthful of meat he was
enjoying.  He released Scott's slippery dick for a second.  "Atta boy...oh,
man...swallow that cock...you fuckin' cocksucker!"  Scott nodded as he slowly
raised his head, pleased that he was able to return Marty's full attention.

     Scott reached behind Marty's thighs and lifted, raising his ass off the
bed.  He sucked and licked the perineum, finding that pressure point that he
knew drove his friend nuts, and buried his face between his legs.  Marty's
head started moving left and right as he moaned.  Scott lifted further and
parted the cheeks in his hands.  Slowly, he licked, nibbled and sucked,
moving deeper between the firm handfuls of flesh.  Finding his target, he
flicked the tip of his tongue around, and then barely in, the tight hole
before him.  Marty hissed.  "Oh...fuck... Scott!" then raised his head and
sucked the balls swinging over his open mouth.  He kneaded Scott's ass,
spreading it open so he could return the favor.  He pushed his face upward,
firmly between the cheeks and licked and sucked like a madman.  Scott was
now practically sitting on Marty's face, still holding him up by the hips
and he went back to work on the hole before him.  His cheeks and chin
already wet with his own saliva and his buddy's sweat, he plunged his tongue
as far as it would go.  Marty uttered a muffled yelp beneath him.  Scott
rocked his hips back and forth as Marty's tongue forced its way in and out
of his hole.

     Fearing he might drop him anytime, he slowly lowered Marty's ass back
to the bed and again grabbed his wet red cock.  He plunged down on it again,
this time taking it into his throat in one quick move.  Marty grabbed
Scott's ass in both hands and forced him into his own throat.  Each man was
bucking his hips into the other's face, each one giving as good as he got.

     Scott quickened the pace, fucking his buddy's face.  Marty knew it was
coming, and he was in the neighborhood himself.  "Gonna cum, man!" Scott
gasped.  "Gonna fucking blow this load, Marty!!"  Marty just moaned a moan
that could only be interpreted as `bring it on!'

     Scott propped up on his elbows and threw his head back.  "Ooooohhhhhh,
Fucking right.  Yeah!  Yeah!  Yeah!"  He kept stroking Marty's slick cock
with his right fist, and went back down on him as he filled his friend's
mouth with his cum.  Marty let out a whimper as Scott lifted his head,
gasping from his own orgasm.  Marty's hips thrust upward, and the cock in
Scott's hand started firing rope after rope of his juice.  The first one hit
Scott on the cheek and chin.  The second painted his chest.  The next four
drizzled across Marty's abdomen.  Without thinking, Scott leaned down and
licked Marty's semen off of his heaving abs.

     He rolled off of Marty and lay on his side, gasping for air.  He gently
stroked Marty's ass.  Marty rose to his knees and turned himself around.  He
pushed Scott to his back, and licked his cheek and his chest.  "Told you it
was an acquired taste."  Scott just laughed and wrapped his arm behind
Marty's head, pulling him close.  Marty looked up.  They shared each other's
tastes in a kiss that went on for about a full minute.

     Scott broke it off.  "Thanks man.  You're unbelievable, you know that?"

     "Yes, I am."  Then he got serious.  "I just wanted to thank you for
last night.  I didn't plan on you returning the favor.  You're getting
pretty good at that, you know?"

     "It's my special advisor.  He's a wealth of expert guidance on
important matters."  He pecked Marty's lips once again, then started to
rise.  "I gotta get moving."  He reached into the fridge, grabbed a bottle
of water and screwed off the top.  He took a long swig and handed the bottle
to Marty.  "I'm gonna put on some coffee and go out for a quick run.  You
can hang here if you want."

     "Naah, not now anyway.  I'm gonna go upstairs and shower.  I think I'll
call back those press people and work my way through that shit.  I'll use
your rules."

     "Want me on hand?"

     "Not at this point, I don't think.  I'm not gonna answer any questions
right now, just get back to them and see what they want."

     Scott had his sweats on, and was digging through the dresser for a pair
of socks.  "You guys want to watch the Packer game down here today?"

     "I'll check with Brett.  He said something about needing to run some
errands to finish his Halloween project."

     "He still has a couple weeks.  How's that going anyway?"

     "Who knows?  It's top fucking secret as far as he's concerned.  But
`the ho' keeps calling with questions from the costume shop, and he spent
most of the evening the other night over at the theater department checking
out their stock of get-ups. Either way, I'm coming down for the game."
Marty was dressed by now, and Scott was tying his shoes.  "Give me a call
when you get back from your run.  I gotta run a couple of errands myself,
but I want to come back down here before Craig gets back this afternoon.
Something I need to show you."

     Scott furrowed his brows.  "Marty...?" he asked, the question dripping
with suspicion and apprehension.

     "Relax."

     "What else have you done?"

     Marty hemmed and hawed a little, and was obviously fighting back a
smile, only adding to Scott's trepidation.  "Well, nothin'...not really,
anyway.  Not yet, at least.  Oh, shit...I'll just show you when you get back."

     Scott had one foot on the desk and was stretching.  "Oh, God," he
grunted.  His nose was nearly touching his outstretched leg.  He looked
sideways. "You're gonna kill me, you know that?"

     "Not on purpose, ya know."  Marty had a hand on the doorknob.

     Scott's foot hit the floor and he put the other heel up on the desk.
"Get out of my room."

     Marty winked.  "Call me when you get in."

     Scott just nodded.

     Scott was going to do a short route this morning.  He intentionally
avoided both Langdon Street and its Greek houses, as well as Mifflin Street,
where Randy lived.  He made a straight shot up West Washington Avenue, did
two laps around Capitol Square, and then took State Street for the return
route.  He stopped to pick up a Sunday paper at the end of State, and then
walked the last couple of blocks back to the dorm.  Even though the coffee
was brewing in the room, he stopped to grab a tall one and a cinnamon roll
at a family owned bakery.  On the stroll back to the dorm, he perused the
headlines.  A public schools initiative of the governor's took the headline,
and the outgoing minority leader was quoted heavily.  Maureen was mentioned
as his likely successor, and she was quoted as well.  She was
characteristically diplomatic and tactful, obviously trying to not sound
like the heir-apparent to Senator Murdock's powerful position.

     The front page was void of any news on the game, but an `inside today's
edition' blurb at the bottom margin promised full coverage of Dayne's and
the Badgers' victory on the front of the sports section.  Scott winced.  He
was certain there'd be mention of Marty's stunt, and he was anxious to get
back and read the whole thing.  `I wonder what the hell he needs to show
me.'  It was a very anxious feeling.

     Back in the room, he turned on the morning `talking heads' political
shows.  Peeling off his sweaty clothes, he listened to Tim Russert grill
some blowhard Pentagon brass ass about defense policy.  "The administration
has directed..." the general droned on.  "The administration is fucked up,"
Scott talked back to the television.  This was part of his Sunday morning
ritual, much to the amusement of his roommate.  By Craig's estimate, Scott
had bested some of the best minds in the national government, and he had
rhetorically taken George Will to the woodshed more than once.  And, Craig
always avowed, Scott did the best impersonation on the planet of John
McGlaughlin, not that there were that many people impersonating the old
dinosaur.  `A helluva lot better than Dana Carvey,' in Craig's judgment.
And his Pat Buchanan parody was dead-on, according to Craig. That was one of
the reasons Scott loved his roommate.  He knew talent when he saw it.

     He stood there naked for a moment and lightly rubbed "little Scotty."
He looked down, his flaccid and sweaty dick in his hand.  "You've had a good
day, so far, my boy.  I take it you're enjoying college life as much as I
do?"  He flexed the right muscles, and little Scotty pulsed his agreement.
"That's what I thought."

     When he got off the elevator, Marty had no intention of heading to the
showers.  Instead, he went to his room and picked up a large manila
envelope.  Brett was snoring, and he quietly dug. First through his own desk
drawers, then Brett's, until he finally found a black marker.  He
double-checked the envelope's contents, slid the pages back inside, and
licked the adhesive seal.  He turned it over and addressed it, then strode
confidently out the door to his room.

     Turning the corner onto Langdon Street, he began intently surveying the
rest of the pedestrians.  He was across the street from Kip's frat house,
and he waited, hoping that this wouldn't take long.  Normally, he didn't
smoke, other than dope, but he'd brought a pack of Marlboro Lights along,
and lit one.  And he waited.  After about ten minutes, he saw a kid of about
twelve or thirteen; a skinny kid, with straight blond hair, biking up the
hill.  Marty stepped onto the boulevard and waved the boy down with the
envelope in his hand.  "Hey, Champ!  C'mere."  The kid hit the brakes and
put both feet on the ground, the bike between his thighs.  He looked at
Marty suspiciously.

     "Want to make a quick ten bucks?  I need somebody to help me surprise
my brother on his birthday."

     The kid's demeanor lightened, and he suddenly looked intrigued.  "So,
whatcha need from me?"

     "Here's the deal.  My brother's a member of that fraternity."  Marty
was pointing at Kip's house.  "I really pissed him off a couple of months
ago, and am trying to make it better.  I have his birthday present in this
envelope, but I know he won't take it if I deliver it myself.  I need
somebody to just walk up onto that porch, ring the bell, hand the envelope
to him, or whichever of his `brothers' answers the door, and that's it.
Piece of cake, and if I'm lucky, it'll repair some major damage that I
caused."  For effect, Marty looked at the ground and tried to portray
embarrassment.

     "Ten bucks?" the kid asked, "just for delivering that to the door?"
The kid could see that it was important to the poor guy.  "Make it twenty."
Marty smiled.  It's what he would have done.

     "So, you like Mr. Jackson better than Mr. Hamilton."  Marty reached for
his wallet.  He had a stack of bills from yesterday's `fundraiser' anyway.

     "Who doesn't?" the skinny blond asked him, thinking he should have said
fifty.

     "Smart kid."

     "Yessir.  Happy to help."  He snatched the twenty from Marty's fingers.

     "But, I'm gonna stand here and make sure the job gets done, got it?"

     The kid stashed the twenty in his hip pocket.  "May I have the
envelope, sir?  I do have a few other things to do today, ya' know."

     Marty handed it over and smiled.  "Atta Boy!  You're doing a good
family a lot of good."

     Ernie, one of Kip's brothers, knocked on the door.  "Kip...Kip...Package
for you just delivered."   A sleepy Kip Monmouth came to the door, bitching
and moaning all the way.  Ernie handed him the envelope.  "This just came
for you.  The kid who delivered it says it's important."

     Kip cleared his morning throat and scratched his balls.  "Whatever."
He took the package from Ernie and slammed the door.  He tossed it on his
desk and flopped back down onto his bed, hugging his pillow and grinding his
morning wood into the mattress while he hoped against hope to return to the
dream that Ernie had just interrupted.


     Scott ambled down the hallway, wrapped in a towel, twirling his key
ring around on the tip of his index finger and tossing a happy `good
morning's to all the other guys on his floor.  A couple of his neighbors had
taped red "TURNER/ INDEPENDENT" fliers to their doors.  A couple of guys
were standing at the sinks, brushing their teeth or shaving, and a pair of
feet and the sound of newspaper pages turning told him that another one was
enjoying a leisurely Sunday morning constitutional.  The shower area was
empty.  He turned on the water and then went to take a leak while the shower
turned hot.

     "Turner," one of the guys at the sink called, looking at Scott from the
reflection in his mirror, "that was a slick move at the game yesterday...the
programs and all...how'd you pull it off?"

     "Wasn't me, Teddy, and I have no idea how they got there, but it was
pretty impressive.  I suppose I should thank whoever did it; they have to be
pretty clever and resourceful."

     "You sure you weren't out late Friday night, stuffing programs down at
the stadium?"

     Scott shook his cock and his head at the same time, and turned around
at the urinal, his towel wrapped around his neck.  "Dude, if it was me, I
sure as hell wouldn't admit it, but it wasn't.  Besides, I have a witness
who will account for my whereabouts from about 6 p.m. on Friday night until
about 9 a.m. on Saturday."  He smiled and winked at Teddy.

     The voice from inside the stall was Stevens, the short overweight guy
whose room was next to Scott and Craig's.  "I can vouch for that, Teddy, you
should have heard them going at it."  He raised his voice to that of a
squealing girl's, "Oh, God! Fuck me, Scotty, fuck me!"

     Scott smiled and looked at the floor, a little embarrassed.  The he
looked toward the stall, "Happy to provide you with some stroke off sound
effects, Stevens.  What can I say?  Fish gotta swim, bird's gotta fly."

     Teddy looked back at Scott.  "Dude!  I saw you leaving yesterday
morning with the chick.  She is a prime babe!  Atta boy!"

     Scott nodded back at Teddy's reflection in the mirror and grinned, then
turned to head in for his shower.  He couldn't help that notice that Teddy's
ass looked mighty fine in his tighty whities.  He showered quickly, and
toweled off.  A couple of other guys came in as he was wrapping the towel
around his waste, and he nodded a friendly `g'mornin' at each of them.  As
he exited, he nearly walked right into Frank, dressed for the cool weather,
backpack over his shoulder.

     "Hey, man, glad I ran into you.  You headin' out for the day?"

     "Not for the whole day, but I got a study group meeting at the library
in about twenty."

     Scott nodded him over to the corner of the hallway, and spoke in a
near-whisper.  "Hey, Marty told me you guys helped with in `operation
football program."

     Frank grinned and nodded.

     "Thanks a lot, man."  He patted Frank's shoulder.

     "Any time, bud.  For a good cause, plus, it was fun.  Hey! I heard
Marty made bail in, like, an hour or so yesterday.  You seen him?  How is
he?"

     "Yeah, he chilled in our room last night...Craig's in Rockford, and the
boy wanted to avoid the calls from the media and whatnot.  He's a little
nervous, but you know Marty, he'll come out of this smelling like a rose.
Hey, is Jesse in, and is he up?"

     "Oh, yeah...we both been `up' for a couple hours."  He grinned and winked
at Scott.

     "You dawg!  I'm gonna drop in and thank him."

     Frank looked suspicious.

     "Don't worry dude.  I'm not gonna try nothin'.  He's not gonna mess
around without you, anyway.  Trust me, I tried once.  Hey, if you're back by
kickoff, c'mon down to watch the game."

     Frank got on the elevator and nodded back. "Will do."

     Scott knocked on the door and Jesse answered.  "Hey.  g`mornin!  How's
it goin' man?  C'mon in."

     "Can't stay, just wanted to drop in and say thanks for you part in the
whole program and flier plot.  I told Marty I'd have said `no' if he'd told
me about it, but I really do appreciate it."

     Jesse smiled.  "No problem.  Yeah, Marty figured you'd pull the plug on
it if you knew.  Said `sometimes it's easier to ask forgiveness than
permission.'  You're not pissed, are you?"

     "Naaah.  Who could be pissed at Marty Anderson?" Scott laughed.

     Jesse nodded his agreement.  "He's out of jail, right?  We heard he
made bail right away."

     "Yup.  Shit, like, half the fucking student section ponied up enough
cash to pay his bail, any fine that comes his way, and then some.  Brett had
the whole thing very well orchestrated, and went up to post the bail right
after the game."

     "Hey, Jesse..." Scott hesitated.  "You asked me some questions about
Marty a while back.  What would be the chances of you and Frank getting
together with him and me for a little `party' some time?"  Scott wiggled his
eyebrows up and down, and smirked

     Jesse's eyes got wide.  "You serious, Scott?  I mean, shit, I know
you're good for it!  You sure Marty would...?

     "I'm sure."  Scott insisted.

     "You and him...?"

     "Now and then...Just some good clean fun between buddies.  He's...ah...let's
just say, broad-minded and enthusiastic about such things."

     Jesse was considering the possibilities.

     "Well, hey, I gotta get going.  Let's do this...  Don't say anything to
Frank just yet.  I have an idea or two about setting up a little play time
amongst us, but want to iron out the details.  But think about it anyway and
we can talk again later."

     "Dude, I'm getting a semi just thinking about it."

     "Then you just keep thinking.  I gotta go.  Thanks again.  Hey, c'mon
down for the game.  Craig should be back some time today, and I think Marty
and Brett are coming down a little later.  Marty makes a kick-ass Bloody
Mary."

     "Well, I got some work to get out of the way first, but I'll check with
Frank when he gets back."

     "Sounds like a plan.  See ya.'"

     Back in the room, he poured a cup of coffee.  He checked the time and
figured it was too early to give Kelly a call if she was out partying on
fraternity row last night.  He called Marty.  After the fifth or sixth ring,
he heard Brett's groggy voice.

     "Mmmmmhhhellllllooooo" he forced out weakly, then "who the hell is
calling early on a Sunday morning?"

     "Early?  It's nearly ten, you fucking lush.  Went out and killed too
many brain cells again, huh?  Fucking lightweight.  Marty there?"

     "mmmmnnnooo, not here.  Don't know where..." his voice trailed off.

     "Okay.  When he gets back, tell him to call, or just to come on down.
You comin' down later for the game?"

     "Maybe.  I'll tell him."  The phone went dead.

     Scott plopped on his bed and started to pull the Sunday paper apart,
separating it into two piles: readable and advertising shit.  Every week,
the advertising shit pile outweighed the readable pile about two-to-one.  On
TV, Sam and Kokie were trying to hold a senator's feet to the fire over a
judicial nominee of the president's.  As usual, Donaldson was making an ass
of himself, and Kokie was dignified and graceful as always.  "Honey," he
said to the TV, "If I were twenty or thirty years older..."  Then, "who are
you kiddin', Turner, you'd do her in a heartbeat.  For an older woman, she's
hot, and an intellectual kinda way."

     He picked up the sports section.  The account of the game focused on
Dayne, and speculated about his prospects for the professional draft.  There
was an inset article about the streaker.  Among other things, it said that
"Police identified the man as 20 year-old Martin Anderson, a sophomore from
Rockford, Illinois.  A department spokeswoman said that Anderson had been
cited for disorderly conduct and lewd and lascivious behavior.  He was
released on $350 bail approximately one hour after the game ended.  Anderson
is due to appear in circuit court next month, and, if found guilty on both
charges, could face up to three years in jail and two thousand dollars in
fines.  Efforts to contact Anderson for comment went unanswered at the time
of this edition's printing."

     Scott frowned.  "Ouch!  The disorderly charge isn't deadly, but lewd
and lascivious could hurt for a long time."

     The state section looked ahead to next month's legislative races,
breaking them down district-by-district, and noting that odds were slightly
better than fifty-fifty that the majority party in the senate would change.
Once again, they predicted that Maureen McCarthy would likely succeed
Murdoch in the party leader's position, though they also posed the prospect
of her assuming the chair of the powerful finance committee, too.

     The phone rang.  "Marty?"

     "Hey!  Had to run out and get some munchies and shit for the game.
Want me to bring them down now?"

     "Sure, and bring whatever the hell it was you said you need to show me.
  You got me scared, you know.  Your remark earlier about needing to show me
something fucked up a perfectly good run this morning.  Oh...and bring the
citation that the police gave you yesterday."

     "Will do...be there in a few.  Hey, that rhymes!"

     "Just get your ass over here."

     "It's always about my ass, isn't it?"

     "Perv."  Scott hung up the phone and shook his head.

     Marty showed up carrying a plastic grocery bag, a bag of ice and the
cooler.

     "Gimme the ticket."  Scott was serious, and it made Marty uncomfortable
as he stocked the fridge and dumped the ice into the cooler.

     "Shit, Marty.  You didn't say anything about the `lewd' charge.  I
assumed `disorderly' would be on the agenda, but this could be bad."

     "How bad?"  He was mixing a couple of Bloody Marys.

     "Look ahead five or ten years.  A prospective employer is doing a
background check.  A lot of folks might look past a disorderly conviction of
a college sophomore.  But they see `lewd and lascivious' on your record, you
might never get the chance to explain.  That could be enough to convince any
human resources guy to dump your application and not give you a second look.
  `Lewd and lascivious' screams `pervert' or `sex offender' to a lot of
folks.

     "Shit."  Marty mumbled and Scott sensed his mood reverting to last
night's misery.  "And there was a voice message from the sperm donor who
calls himself my father.  You were right about the joking on ESPN.  They
actually used my name last night, and the old fucker was screaming into the
phone about how useless I am and that he's gonna cut me off."

     "Okay, relax.  I think I know how to do this.  The ticket doesn't say
`mandatory appearance, so you might not ever have to appear in actual
court."

     "Really, how's that?"

     "I'm not positive, and I'll check this out with Maureen tomorrow, but
here's how I think this plays out:  You enter a plea of `not guilty' in
writing by the date on the ticket.  In your plea, you request a pre-trial
conference.  That's your way of telling the county that you're willing to
make them to take you to trial on this, but you're interested in trying to
reach a deal with the prosecutors office."

     "Like a plea bargain sort of thing."

     "No, like a plea bargain exactly.  They'll schedule a meeting with an
assistant district attorney who can deal.  With a little luck, you'll get a
young male member of the staff who fucked up a few times himself when he was
in college.  You go in and tell him you'll plead guilty to `disorderly' but
that the other one has to go away.  You appeal to his sense of justice and
sympathy.  You beg with him that the long-term impact of that second charge
is way out of proportion to the actual crime.  And, you make it clear you'll
do any number of hours of community service...you'll scrub toilets at the
stadium with a toothbrush, if you have to... and you'll happily pay the
maximum fine for `disorderly.'"

     "That'll work?"

     "I think so."  Scott thought for a minute.  "And, I won't ask her to,
but maybe Maureen knows somebody in the DA's office.  I'll explain the
situation to her, and she might make a call or two without being asked."

     "Really?  She'd do that?  She doesn't even know me."

     "Wouldn't be surprised, but she won't tell me if she does.  But, above
all else, you go into that meeting with your fucking tail between your legs.
  You leave the smug, cocky Marty Anderson outside."

     "Will you go with me?"  It was the scared, vulnerable Marty talking
again.

     "I'll insist on it, so you don't fuck it up."  He lightly tapped him
upside the head.  "Now gimme a smile.  And finish making my drink, will ya?
The ice is melting and the vodka's getting watered down."

     Marty handed Scott a tall Bloody Mary.  He stirred it with a pencil and
took a long sip.  "Excellent!  Now, about that other thing..."

     "Gotcha.  Now, just sit and listen for a minute without interrupting,
will ya'?"

     Scott nodded.

     "Remember Brandon?"

     "How could I forget Brandon.  The guy could suck a tennis ball through
a garden hose."

     "You said you wouldn't interrupt.  Anyway, a week ago I'm telling him
about your bid for WSA, and he's really impressed.  Then, I mention Kip and
the Greeks' plans to mount a unified effort to take over the organization.
I go to the same frat web site you showed us, and Kip's face is on the
screen.  Brandon's like, `Dude!  I've seen that guy around.'  Now, Brandon
cruises some of the mens' rooms on campus known for casual hookups, and he
tells me ol' Kip spends a lot of time around the `tea room' john at the
library."

     "But the guy works at the library, doesn't he?  In the computer lab?"

     "The computer lab is on the first floor.  The bathroom I'm talking
about is up on the fourth.  Brandon says he's sucked several dicks in there
the past couple years."

     "He hooked up with Kip there?"

     "No, it gets better.  Now shut up. So, we talk about it, and make some
plans.  On Friday, I get a call on my cell phone.  It's Brandon, and he says
he met up with Kip at the library, and they're on their way, so I moved into
position."  Marty took a disk out of his back pocket and put it in the
computer drive.  He double clicked a couple of times.  "Now, you know what a
gifted photographer I am, right."

     "Oh, shit!!  Marty! You didn't..."

     Marty giggled and stood up, motioning to the chair for Scott to sit.
"I went downstairs, moved a few piles of boxes around, unscrewed a couple
ceiling lights, and...well, check it out, man..."

     There were a dozen image files in the folder.  Scott clicked on the
first one. The background was clearly the dorm basement Scott had visited
with Marty on a couple of occasions.  The first one showed Kip, his
sweatpants down around his ankles and his shirt pulled up and over his head.
  Brandon's head obscured Kip's crotch and the frat boy was playing with his
nipples as Brandon sucked him off.

     "God damn!"  Scott couldn't contain a laugh.  The next one had Brandon
half-standing, sucking on Kip's right nipple and holding the guy's stiff
cock.  Scott laughed again.  "Lookit that little tiny dick!  What is that,
about four inches?"

     "Four, max, according to Brandon, maybe less."  Marty was laughing now,
too.

     There was a profile shot of Brandon on his knees again, with his own
pants down, stroking his much larger cock while still sucking on Kip.  Kip's
hands were on Brandon's head, and his own was thrown back in what had to be
a very lusty moan.  There was the two of them locked in a heavy kiss, each
one mauling the other's ass with both of his hands.  Then there was Kip
going to work on Brandon.  In one, he was on his knees, holding Brandon's
hard dick at mouth level with one hand, his mouth open, stroking his own
cock with the other.  In the next, he had Brandon about half-way in his
mouth, holding his hips with both hands.  There was Kip giving Brandon's
balls a tongue bath.  There was another kiss, then Brandon back down on Kip,
apparently with one or two fingers buried up his ass.  There was Brandon
bent over the table with Kip's face buried between his ass cheeks.  In this
one, Brandon was looking at the camera and smiling, flashing the "peace"
sign with his right hand.  Scott laughed again.  There was Brandon returning
a good rimming on Kip's hole.

     Scott ended the slide show.  He looked at Marty and shook his head.
Marty had taken a seat on his bed and was beaming with smug pride.  "Now,
don't get pissed..."

     "Okay, on one level, this is funnier than hell.  And we both know that
you're about the only guy who could pull this off."

     Marty bowed his head, feigning humility  "Well, thank you, professor,
but Brandon helped a little bit, too."

     "Give Brandon my complements.  He's very photogenic."

     "So is Kip."  Marty tried to look and sound objective and professional.
  "Actually, he's a very good subject for the camera.   Too bad he has such
a small cock, or he'd have a future in porn.  The pictures don't show it,
but he's a real moaner."

     "But why?  Marty, what was the point of doing this?  What did you plan
to do with these."

     "Well, if was up to me, we'd email these to the website of every
fraternity and sorority on campus.  We'd email these to every member of the
Greek Council, and we'd send them to both campus papers."

     "NO!"

     "Shit.  I knew you'd say that.  There you go, being perfect again."

     "Marty, I'm not gonna go there.  And, you're not gonna go there on my
behalf.  It's dirty.  Actually, it's dirty in a kinda hot sort of way, but
it's gutter politics, and it's not going to happen.  Besides, the guy's only
doing what you and I were doing in this room a couple of hours ago.  It'd
not just be dirty, it'd be fucking hypocritical."

     "But Scott!  The guy's a piece of shit.  If he'd be shamed by this,
then so be it.  Assholes like that deserve any misery that comes their way.
They've earned it.  And if you or I can have a hand in dishing it out, all
the better."

     "NO! NO! NO!  Goddammit, Marty, these won't ever see the light of day,
at least not in connection to my campaign against this piece of shit.
You're right, that's exactly what he is.  I'd like to see him humbled a few
degrees, too.  I want to deliver some of that humility, but it's gotta be
above board.  I want to be able to say I showed him the light by playing by
the rules.  Fighting low with the low only confirms for them that that's the
way to go, and I won't do it.  We're better than he is in that sense, and
we're going to show him that.  Just wait and see.  We'll beat him fair and
square, and that alone will drive him nuts.  Staying on the high road is the
surest way to frustrate the scumbags of the world."

     Marty had resigned himself to this, even before he'd returned to the
room.  "Oh, you're no fucking fun, you know that?"

     "Marty, this disk is not going to leave this room."

     "You don't trust me, do you?"

     "It's not quite that, though you are a reckless little fucker
sometimes, we both know that.  Look at it this way: If I give this back,
it'd have to be with a promise that you'd never do anything with these
images.  You'd make that promise, I know you would, and you'd mean it when
you said it.  Then, somewhere down the line, Kip's gonna do something that
will put that to the test.  You're going to feel compelled to lash out at
him and do some damage.  This way, you don't ever have to face that choice."

     "I understand, but..." Marty was at a loss.  He knew Scott was winning,
but felt hurt by his unwillingness to completely trust him.  Both guys were
feeling extremely uncomfortable.

     Scott clicked the mouse a few times and looked closely at the screen.
"Nothing else on this thing, is there?"

     "Nope.  That disk is reserved for Christopher U. Monmouth alone."

     "Good, then let's just do this."  He dragged the mouse around and
clicked a few more times.  The disk drive started to hum.

     "What are you..."

     "Problem solved.  I just reformatted the disk.  They're gone, Marty.
Thanks for the slide show and the laughs, but it's not an issue anymore.  I
hope he and Brandon had a good time, and that you enjoyed the show while it
was going on, but the pictures are gone, Marty."

     Marty looked at the ceiling and shook his head.

     "And hey..."

     He looked back at Scott.  "I know what you were trying to do.  I know
what the motive was, and I appreciate it.  Thanks, Mr. Special Advisor."

     Kip Monmouth rolled over in bed, stretched and yawned.  He'd dozed in
and out since Ernie's rude interruption, but real sleep had never returned.
He put his feet on the floor and yawned again, and grabbed the back of his
neck with both hands, massaging the muscles hoping to ease the headache
brought on by too much beer.  He shuffled over to the desk and sat down,
planning to check his e-mail.  Seeing the envelope, he grabbed it.  He
turned it face up and read the black, block letters:

     CHRISTOPHER U. MONMOUTH
     IMPORTANT
     PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL

     He tore the top of the envelope, and slid out a bundle of pages.
Flipping through them, he woke up in a hurry, and his face went pale.
"Fucker!  God Damned Mother Fucking Fucker!"

     The cover page was something out of a corny TV crime drama; maybe
"Columbo,"  maybe "Perry Mason," maybe "Murder She Wrote."  It was one of
those notes pasted together with letters and words cut out of magazines.  It
said:

     "Kip,

     I know about the tire-slashing.  Pretty low for someone of your noble
stature.

     Anything else bad happens to Scott Turner, and these will be posted on
porn sites all over the internet.  They will be emailed to every member of
your fraternity, to every other house on campus and to every member of the
Greek Council.  They will be e-mailed to your father's public relations
firm.  They will be e-mailed to both the `Badger Herald' and `The Daily
Cardinal.'

     Call off the dogs and shut the fuck up.

     By the way, you really are a piece of shit, and you have an unusually
small penis for a man your size, but I suspect you already knew that.

     Very, Very, Very Sincerely,

     Ben Dover"



AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Okay, guys, cough it up.

Many thanks to all who responded to my last post, and double-thanks to all
who answered Tyler Peel's appeal for Nifty donations.  But a lot of you are
sitting back, certain that the rest will pick up the slack.  With all due
respect, Tyler and Luke are being too polite. But, then again, what would
you expect from him?  As you all know, he's the nicest guy on the planet.
(By the way, thanks for the plug in your last chapter, Tyler, and please
give The Anderson's my best.  I hope you and Derek manage to work things
out.  And, I hope I'll be forgiven for taking some license and putting a
cinnamon roll in this segment.)  This installment is the first two-thirds of
what began as Chapter 7.  I cut it back because it just got too long, and I
didn't want to dump any of this.  The rest, and then some, will appear as
Chapter 8, but only after Mr. Peel informs us that the sixty who have
donated since his last request has grown to one hundred.  Make it one, five,
ten dollars...whatever.  It can be as anonymous as you'd like, if you'll just
review the directions that Tyler and Luke outlined in Chapter 23 of "The
Road Home."

Let's help the good folks at Nifty upgrade the service and keep it free.
Come on, guys, give a little here.  Nobody's asking for heroism or stunning
sacrifice, just a few bucks for a service that's worth a lot more.  It's a
bargain.  Give!

Always happy to hear from you, but let me know that you gave if you send
your comments, critiques or suggestions.  Please!!