Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction which features sexual activity between college aged boys. If consumption of this media is illegal due to age or location, or you do not wish to read such a story, please do not proceed. This story contains content related to bullying and small penis humiliation (SPH). Some language found in this story may offend some audiences. Reader discretion advised.
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CHAPTER THREE
Saturday at last. I know, it's only the end of the second week, but damn, I really wish I could just go back, back to my own bed in my own room where I could actually get some decent rest. I've woken up for the past seven days to the luxurious feeling of this janky bed frame's slats digging through the oversized kitchen sponge they pass off as a mattress. Look, there's no fat on these bones, or muscle for that matter. This is just wood, digging into skin and bones. Speaking of wood, after rubbing the grogginess and nocturnal schmutz from my eyes, I can see the slightest hint of a bump poking up from under my blanket.
I think about last night; more importantly, I think about Scott. I think about his muscular figure, and I start replaying the moment in my head of him dropping those boxers to his ankles. Two beautiful mounds of peach-fuzz-covered bliss, exposed for the world to see. A real man's cock, dangling between his legs. Not like this pathetic boy peepee twitching in my briefs. Reminiscing Scott in all his unclothed glory is definitely not helping my morning wood... wood is generous. It's almost 11:30, and this wood is nothing more than a measly twig and some unripened berries.
The echoing chants of Tiny Tim repeat rhythmically in my head, and my minuscule member starts to calm down. I take a deep breath, searching for the strength and discipline to finally start my day. But my nostrils betray me, and I cough from the still lingering smell of Ryan's late-night jerk. The aroma of testosterone, sweat, and cum brings me soaring back to the high school locker room. Though the sweet-but-stale aroma of mostly empty energy drink cans acts as a stand-in for the stinging smell of Chop body spray. I should really light a candle in here, the room is getting quite pungent.
After finally dragging myself out of bed, I go searching for the lighter that Ryan keeps not-so-well-hidden with his other smoking paraphernalia in his sock drawer. I never understood the appeal. Why would I willingly make myself into a babbling idiot? I do that enough on my own, thank you. Upon sliding the top drawer of his dresser open, I am instantaneously pushed aback by a skunky fragrance. Great, now the room's going to smell like drugs, too. In my clumsy stumble backward, I step down into the uncomfortably most boxers that were so graciously discarded to the floor last night. My whole body shudders in disgust and shock from the now cold cum that just squelched between my toes. After a few uncoordinated attempts of striking the lime green bic, I manage to light the fresh linen candle. But that intoxicating aroma overtakes me while I bend down to pick up the sticky landmine I fell trap to.
I'm completely entranced by the dancing smells of Ryan's boxers. I fail to deny the urge to bring the still-wet shorts to my face. The smell wasn't enjoyable, but it also wasn't not enjoyable. This was one of those oxymoronic good-bad smells. I think back to my cousin's convincing argument that everyone likes the smell of their own farts. I thought the whole concept to be outlandish and a little gross, but smelling these sweaty boxers actually helped his case. The tip of my nose is now moistened from clutching this cum soaked boxers so close to my face. My puny pecker once again stands at its underwhelming salute, and I started to rock my hips back and forth. The bright white cotton of my briefs tickles the head of my desperate cock as my thrusting intensifies. Tingling pleasure grows from my feet, up my scrawny legs, and right into my crotch.
There's that word again, cock. My useless twig isn't a cock. No. Now those manly six inches of flaccid perfection that dangled between Scott's legs, that is a cock. My laughable little boy penis can't hold back much longer. The riveting smells, the comical comparison of Scott's cock and my pee pee, and the obsessive grinding against my tighty whities is downright exhilarating.
WHAM!
The door to my dorm violently swings open. "Come on, bro, it is only the second week. You be'er not be smokin weed on MY FLOOR!" a deep voice through an unfamiliar accent barks out.
A swimmer-built young man with impossibly smooth, dark skin barges in unannounced. Ché, my floor's resident advisor, locks eyes with me the millisecond after they shoot open in shock.
"Maaan, you freshmea' are gonna kill my sex life tis year. I gotta beau'iful broad chillin in my bed and your dumbass se's off a smoke detector wit a candle?!" Ché continues shouting, "Pu'it out, and smoke in te staircase like e'eryone else!"
Ché slams the door behind me and I thank whatever gods people believe in that he didn't comment on what he just barged in on. I'm unsure how I could explain the sight of a borderline prepubescent boy sniffing his roommate's boxers while he airhumps his briefs. But the surprising interruption didn't stop me. Actually, the sudden swing of the door surprised me so much that I think I inhaled some of Ryan's cum. My morning breath was now overpowered by the salty taste of cum soaked cotton. My boyhood is ready to blow any second, but I let my impulses get the best of me and pull the sticky underwear into my mouth. I pull the rest of Ryan's boxers over my head to continue to suck the sweet boy nectar from them and bask in their intoxicating smells. With both hands now free, I start to tug upward on the back of my briefs. My knees buckle slightly as the taught cotton crushes my under-ripened berries and rubs across my virgin hole. With my right hand, I start to rub my palm in small circles against the small, quaking head trapped behind tightening cotton. I only last a few seconds before I feel my pathetic boy penis pulse against the tighty whities. My heart races, and I feel the front of my briefs fill with a small pool of my own juices. Just then, the door swings open again. I really should lock that door.
"Oh, and freshie. If you gotta do the sniff test, its prolly time to wash `em, chief. The machines a--"
Ché's eyes lock with mine again, only for a moment, then they dart down to the large wet spot surrounding the little tent at my crotch. Ché drops a sandwich baggie of quarters to the ground, now trying to stifle a snort with a hand covering a wide smile. "Broo. Tha's gotta suck. Hope you just a late bloomer and not stuck wittit"
I had a teacher in high school tell me that there was always a bright side to every dark day. I guess I could at least be thankful that Ché couldn't see my face glowing red from embarrassment and sexual exertion. But he did just walk in on me, giving myself a full-blown wedgie with my roommate's underwear stretched over my face and shoved into my mouth.
Shit! What time is it? I was so preoccupied with Ryan's boxers I nearly forgot about the mixer at the frat house. It's rush week; if I want to get a bid, I better actually show up on time. They're a weird concept, frats. They throw a week of organized fun, "networking" events, and wild parties to get you excited about joining, but then they get all secretive by anonymously giving people "bids" if you're allowed in. Fuck, right. I have to be across campus in onLY EIGHT MINUTES!? In an unsuppressed panic, I throw Ryan's boxers back on the floor and clumsily pull on yesterday's sweats. With my arm still half pulled through its sleeve, I fumble to cram my foot into a still-tied sneaker and lock the door with trembling hands.
WHAM! (again?)
Like the absolute klutz that I am, I somehow run full force into somebody. C'mon, Tim, pull yourself together. "I am so sorry. I-- Ghee?" I stutter out, "Yeah, Ghee. Or was it Gus? Or did you have another quirky pseudonym you wanted to give me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. I am and have always been Ovaltine Jenkins." the familiar red-haired boy insists, rubbing his elbow in justified pain.
"Bullshit," I argue while the boyishly-charming dimple creeps out from his grinning face.
"Doughnut Holshtien?" He says, shrugging and smiling even wider now.
"Nope." I shake my head, stand myself back up and extend a hand downwards to help this mystery man up.
"Lavendar Gooms"
"Not buying it. But judging by the fact you just left that door," I gesture toward the leaf-shaped nametags on the door. "You're either Kieran or Jo-Sung."
"You don't know I live there. That proves nothing," his smile fades away, and he slaps my hand out of the way. "and leaf-shaped name tags on the doors, a little pre-school, don't ya think?"
"Whatever you say, Joe-Sung"
"A: It's HO - Sung. A downright angel of a roommate. All the kid does is read and sleep. A dream come true. 2: Jo-Sung or Joe-Sung, is no more likely my name than Lavender Gooms is. And tizenhárom--"
"Not a number"
"Yeah huh. It's 13 in Hungarian. Keep up. And tzi- tiez- tzeen- Fuck. You threw me off. THIRDLY- I guess you're late to something, and that's why I've fallen prey to your gruesome hit and run."
"RIGHT! The mixer! Sorry again!" I shout back, rushing towards the staircase.
"Hurry! You'll never make it," Kieran shouts, catching up to run along my side. His fiery curls bounce with every strike, each time revealing a glimpse of his deep green eyes.
"Wait. Are you rushing Gamma Sigma Delta too?" I inquire between my heavy breaths.
"FUCK. NO. I have three rules for frats. Uno-"
"Nonono. Skip the screwy numbers and get to the point."
"You're no fun. One: Frats are for drinking, not for joining." He holds up two fingers and rolls his eyes, "Two- ugh, so expected. Two: Frats are for people who can't make friends on their own. And three," he says, gritting his teeth, as if almost in pain from listing things like an average person, "all frat boys are at least a little bit gay."
I slide to a stop right as we are about to open the emergency exit (with a broken alarm) at the bottom of the stairs. "Wait, hold on. If you're not going to the mixer, then why are you running?" I ask.
"It's Saturday. There may be free beer. Shitty, warm beer out of plastic cups of questionable cleanliness, but free beer is free beer. Oh, and you might strip again, so there's that."
"Why'd you give me a fake name?" I try desperately to change the topic from last night's incident.
"No. You got your question, now it's my turn. So which is it, Tiny Tim?"
"You can't just say `no' to my question and ask a different one."
"Sure I can. I just did. Now-- which is it? Can you not make friends on your own, or are you a little bit gay?"
"I'm not answering that."
"Then I'm not justifying your false accusations of fake names with a response either." He firmly replies, starting a brisk jog again towards the bus stop.
We continue our jog silently and keep a safe 4-foot gap between us and the bus stop. We may have only been here for a week, but I at least have picked up on the trick of standing just the proper distance to be safe from the bus stop's spider infestation but still close enough that the driver will stop for us. We're blessed with the unlikely gift of a mostly empty bus on a weekend. For some reason, and I'm sure there's a weird story behind the reasoning, Kieran sits four rows away from me on the bus.
"Why are you sitting so far away?" I give in and finally break the silence with another question.
"Oh, so we're back on questions now? Or is it still only your questions we're answering? -- Fine. This one's a freebee, I guess. Dude, you reak like cum."
"I do no--" Wait. He's right. I creamed my briefs and rushed out the door moments later, not even thinking twice about it. The jog through the early September chill only worsened the cold, wet spot in my pants. I hope Kieran just thinks my cheeks are now glowing from the cold and not the fact that I'm mortified by his last comment. The embarrassment seems to slow down time, or have I just been sitting in silent misery for an uncomfortably long time? I should probably say something back to him. Why does this-- this-- conversation thing have to be so complicated? I already trip over my words just as much as my own feet, but Kieran definitely doesn't make it any easier.
"So it's both, right? He says, laughing and moving to sit closer. Still a one-chair gap between us, but he does move closer.
"What?"
"Both a little gay, and can't make friends? Well, you're stuck with me. You're like one-a those shitty reality TV shows. You just wanna hate them, but you can't stop watching them, cringing half the time."
"Wait," I stifle a giggle, "You watch reality TV shows? Like the Bachelor and all that garbage?"
"No. Shut up!" Kieran says, turning away and scooting to another seat further.
"Yesss, you dooo. So the mysterious Kierian, aka Joe-Sung, aka Ghee, aka Gus, who lives across the hall, looooves cheesy romantic reality shows?"
"You don't know me. That probably isn't even my room."
"You said I'm stuck with you. YOU called us friends."
"Well, I did see you butt-fucking-naked last night, and you almost stole my favorite hoodie. So I guess if we're not friends, I'd hate to know what you thought we were," He jokes.
My cheeks light up red again as the memory of last night all rushes back to me. "So what if I was?"
"Butt-fucking-naked? I dunno man, these bus seats don't look too clean,"
"No. What If I was-- a little bit gay."
"Process of illumination, dude. You can make friends-- ME. It's clear your tiny figure can't hold alcohol for shit. So you're not joining the frat to drink. That leaves 3: a little bit gay."
"That's not how that works."
"You can't do this. That doesn't work like that. Say numbers in order." Kieran says in a mockingly higher-pitched voice. "That's what you sound like. Tim, broaden your horizons, dude. Loosen up a little. One, of course, you're gay; you're rushing Gamma Sig. They're the gayest of the frats. And B, obviously, I don't give a fuck. I didn't give a fuck that you came in your pants sniffing your roommate's shorts. I didn't give a fuck that you decided to wear those same sticky pants even after our RA walked in on you to tell you where the laundry room was."
"Wait, how did you know I--"
"NO WAY! Is that actually what happened? Which part did I guess? The sniffing your roommate's shorts part, or the fact that you're walking around with cum filled underwear? Tim. Tim. Tim.Tim.TIM!TIM!" He repeats my name, over and over, like a toddler trying to get their mother's attention.
"Both! Now would you please keep your voice down?" I'm like a scarlet lighthouse now, glowing with humiliation.
"Tim, this is why we're friends. Your unaltered honestly makes up for you telling me what I can and can't do. So respectfully, no." A grin wipes across his face again.
My little dick starts swelling again in its damp state of anticipation. "Kieran, no, what are you doing? Sit down."
"See, there you go again. You seem bright, Tim. You should have seen this coming." He hops up to stand on a bus seat and begins to shout, "Hey my friend Tim here SNI--"
I can't handle any more embarrassment. I jump to my feet and throw my hand to cover Kieran's mouth. I manage to cut off his rein of humiliation before causing too much of a scene. Looking up at him as he stands on the bus seat, I now have a better view of his eyes than before. Everything else fades away as I gaze into deep forest green circles that vary with subtle details of bronze and gold. I stand there with my arm still stretched above my head to cover his mouth.
"Are you two love birds getting off?" The bus driver yells back to us, pulling me back into reality.
Before I can react, I feel a warm, wet tongue tickle at my fingers. "Eww. Did you just lick me?"
"My tongue's been in worse places." I am somehow still surprised that the first thing from Kieran's now-freed mouth is a cheeky quip. "Wait, are you righty or lefty?"
"Why?" I ask
"Because you didn't have time to change your underwear this morning. I doubt you washed your hands after, ya know... Gross, my mouth tastes salty."
He was right. He licked my right palm, the one still sticky from my eventful morning. Oh jeez, now I'm thinking of Kieran licking my cum, and I start reminiscing about the salty-sweet flavor of Ryan's discarded boxers. Great, we're now stepping off the bus, and my three-inch boyhood is poking straight forward.
There's a bright side to everything, Tim. Maybe Karma is real and now I've gotten all the embarrassment out of the way before the mixer.
Then again... Who am I kidding?
Sorry for the delay on this chapter. I was a little under the weather.
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