Date: Tue, 29 Jul 2003 19:55:41 -0400
From: phantomscribe78@yahoo.com
Subject: Wulf / Subterranean Soiree / (College)

'Wulf,' Subterranean Soiree {The Phantom Scribe} (exhib, reluc, coll) [1!x]

A note from the author:

My name is Wulf.  I'm 24 years old, and some people -- enough people -- think
I'm a pretty hot guy.  They're right.  I get a lot of play and I wouldn't
have it any other way.  A guy I was dating told me about the nifty archive
and suggested I write stories about my experiences to submit.  He felt that
my life was a living porn movie.  When I couldn't write them he volunteered
to write them for me,  and the Testosterone series was born.  Then we broke
up.

I'm not the best writer, and lucky for the fans of Testosterone,  Jerry, the
author of this story has offered to take over the writing.  But this series
of stories won't be taken directly from my life, instead they'll be based on
it with some creative license taken by the writer.  If you want to know what
the differences are between what's written and what's real, just ask
<barefootmuscle@hotmail.com> and I'll tell you.

Now... on with the porn.

---------

After the writer has his say, that is.

This story does _not_ pick up from where Testosterone left off out of
respect for that series' author.  Should Rory decide he wants to conclude
the series, Wulf figured Rory should be the one to do it, and I agreed.
Instead, this series will be a "based on a true story"-style accounting of
Wulf's various sexual experiences with as much of a plot as I can cobble
together from the randomness of it all.  I've spent enough time talking with
him to assure myself that I can trust the stories he tells me, so the sex
will be real, but the accounting of them will not be.  Obviously I'll need
to take some creative license with transcribing what he did since I wasn't
there and he didn't have a tape recorder running.

Wulf is the true author of this series, since he's out there doing the
things we'd all like to be doing and giving me reason to put pen to paper.
I'm only transcribing his experiences into a palatable "literary" form.
Author implies creator, writer implies chronicler.

I can be contacted at: <phantomscribe78@yahoo.com>, and since I am a trained
professional writer (doing porn for kicks, shhhhhhh :-) any feedback, good
or bad, is greatly appreciated.

And now, as he said, on with the porn.

=========

Wulf was not the kind of person easily overlooked.  Broad shouldered and
thick, standing at what I figured to be about 6'3" or so, he couldn't be
considered one of the classic "greek gods" so readily cliched into the ideal
of male beauty in the world today.  Wulf was nothing like that.  He looked
more like a professional wrestler or a nice sized middle-of-the-country
corn-fed football player.  But the skin-tight wifebeater hugging his chest
through the open front of his hoodie revealed he wasn't that at all.  Wulf
was well muscled and big, but there didn't appear to be an ounce of fat on
him -- his broad shoulders tapered into a wasp-like waist which led to
equally tight jeans that revealed ... the train arrived and I gathered by
bookbag and coat and rushed aboard.

It was late, near midnight, and I'd just left the library. There were very
few people on the subway, so I took a seat right next to the door.  My
"Restoration Drama" professor had assigned a play for us to read for class
tomorrow and I'd just finished perusing material he had put on reserve to
"facilitate the discussion."  I was only halfway through the play itself and
needed to be done with it by morning in order to hold my own in the class
discussion at noon, so I picked up the script.

The train lurched forward and the lights flickered.  I reached over to grab
a bar to steady myself and scanned the car.  A true New Yorker knows you
immediately scan the subway car you're in looking for two types: the psychos
and the eye candy.  I didn't have to look for the eye candy -- he was sitting
directly across from me in seats thankfully turned in the direction the
train was moving and not facing me.   I knew where he was, so I did a quick
searched for the inevitable psychos and then scanned every square inch of
his body as quickly as I could.

His head lolled across the back of the seat, and his eyes were closed.  He
didn't appear to be paying any attention to me or anything in particular,
but because the car we were in was almost empty, I figured the fact that he
chose to sit directly across from me wasn't a coincidence.  Had he seen me
checking him out earlier?  I'd have to be a bit more discreet.  I returned
my attention to the play, but found myself reading the same sentence over
and over again, utterly distracted.  After about five minutes of this, Wulf
yawned loudly and made an obvious show of stretching out across his seat,
legs spread wide, boots planted firmly on the floor.  He folded his muscular
arms behind his head, stretching his sleeveless hoodie wide open to reveal a
forest of hair in his pits.  A minute or so later, he crossed his arms in
front of him and flexed his forearms, the twirl of muscle becoming obvious
as he adjusted his hands.

I'd already felt a stirring when I first saw him; what I was looking at now
got me half hard.  What had only been shadows of impressions playing across
his masculine physique when I saw him coming down the stairs was laying in
front of me in bas-relief now.  Even through the wifebeater, I could count
each of the eight abs poking out of the flat valley that rested in the
shadow of his mountainous pecs at the peaks of each sat solid, eraser-sized
tits responding to the noticeable chill on the train.  He shifted a little
and his legs started moving, drawing my attention to the large, slightly
dirty gold Timberland boots I would later discover were worn on size
fourteen feet.  His jeans were baggy around his boots, but they were drawn
tight over his enormous calves, and filled to bursting over his pelvis where
an obscenely large bulge gave me the clear impression that he was
freeballing.  He rubbed a hand across his abs, fingers dancing over the
ridges and dips,  and scratched his stomach briefly before he slipped a hand
into his jeans, adjusted the largest and thickest of the three obvious lumps
there, and drew it back over the abs, dragging the wifebeater with it.  A
sparse, but definite happy trail began at his belly button and was gradually
absorbed by an apparently ample bush, some of which was now poking out the
top of his jeans.

Unconsciously, I began flapping my legs very slowly.

"Enjoying the show?"

Fuck.  I should have known better than to sit her ogling him.  I quickly
looked back into my book.

"You heard me," Wulf said, and shoved a hand back into his pants without
looking at me.  There was a tattoo of some sort on his wrist.

"Excuse me," I said.

"I asked if you were enjoying the show."

"If you're wondering whether I'm enjoying 'The Rivals'," I said, referring
to the play I was being forced to read, "I haven't ever actually seen it
before, so I don't know whether I'd enjoy the director's interpretation of
the script or not."

He repositioned himself, moving to the seat opposite me, again spread
himself over it, claiming it as his own,  and looked me square in the eyes,
unwavering.  "Answer my question," he said.

I paused, and felt a lump in my throat.  He had those ice blue eyes that
pick up the color of anything he's wearing, and his face was ... stunning.
Clean shaven, there was no evidence of stubble anywhere.  He had slightly
subdued, rosy cheek bones and slight dimples in the corners of his mouth, a
healthy nose that seemed to be the perfect size for his rounded face, and a
strong jaw line.  All of it was framed by an unruly mop of short blond hair
glistening with something, sweat or water, I couldn't tell.  He smelled
faintly of baby powder.

Wulf flexed his wrist and the snap of the jeans burst open, taking half the
zipper with it.  It was clear now that he was fondling himself; the larger
of the three bulges, clearly thickening, had begun to creep down his leg.
He withdrew his hand enough that only the fingers remained in his jeans, and
growing out of a dense forest of pubes, I could see the thick shaft running
into his pant leg.

"You know what show I'm talking about."

I think my book fell on the floor some time ago.  The train slowed and an
oblivious couple who had apparently been getting it on unnoticed in the
front of the car got off.  The man had his hand halfway down the back of the
woman's skirt, and she was giggling fairly loudly.

"Come sit next to me," he said.

As if in a trance, I crossed the train and sat next to him, my eyes fixed on
that ever-elongating bulge.

"You want to blow me?"

"Uhhh ...." I stammered, not quite sure what to say.

He pushed his zipper a little lower revealing more of the shaft.

"Look," he said, "I know you're a fag.  I can always tell.  Don't bother
fighting me,  just admit what you want and come get it.

By now, I was oozing.  Those boots, that hairy shaft, and that deep,
masculine,  commanding voice, were driving me to do something I had only
dreamed about.  He reached over with his free hand and started fondling my
crotch as the train began to slow.

I jumped up, quickly gathered my things, and held them low enough so the
obvious wouldn't be obvious as I hurried off the train.  Once I was off and
the doors closed, I turned and looked back.  Wulf hadn't broken stride; he
was going even deeper into his jeans now, and showed no signs of stopping.
I kicked myself mentally as I trudged up the stairs out of the subway
station.  Something like that will never happen to me again, and I'll
probably be beating off to it for the rest of my life.

Or so I thought.