The perspective inside the Jeep was a bit different.
Matt, arms on the headrest, back arched, butt clinched, stared down into William’s doe eyes, begging for release. The pleasure was excruciatingly exquisite, washing over him in waves. His cock strained, desperate to discharge, but unable to do so because William controlled the tempo.
Matt’s triceps bulged with the effort of restraining his body from bucking. His legs stiffened and his toes curled—all trying to help his dick across the finish line.
William fondled Matt’s balls.
That was all it took to push Matt over the edge. He shot streams of hot, sticky cum into William’s mouth.
Just when Matt thought he was finished, William gave his balls a gentle tug and moved his lips lower on the shaft.
“HOLY SHIT!” Matt gushed. That was the last thing he remembered before a numbing euphoric buzz engulfed him.
Chapter 3: Rinse & Repeat
Wednesday, August 9, 1995
Matt tried to lose himself in the first week of his college routine, which, oddly, was monotonously the same. As in the movieGroundhog Daysame.
Each day began with morning wood. He needed to piss and shower, but that required a trip to the communal bathroom, and he obviously didn’t want to walk in sporting wood.
Jerking off was the obvious solution, but William had ordered him not to do that.
So, he would sit on his bed, willing his dick to deflate, trying not to think about what had happened Saturday evening (the kissing, the blowjob) or what would happen that Friday evening. Whatever connection there was between no shower, no deodorant, and a jockstrap eluded him.
Was that just another test he had to pass? Or did William find the idea of him in a jockstrap—pit hair and pubes au naturel—enticing. That thought alone made his cock stand taller.
Eventually the boner would subside.
He would join his dormmates in the bathroom, which serviced the thirty guys on their floor. He would make small talk while waiting for one of four shower stalls to become available. There was no charged energy, none of the bravado and peacocking found in locker rooms.
These kids, some still pimply, had that home-schooled social awkwardness, that deer-in-the-headlights uncertainty about the Christian etiquette of a same-sex shower room experience. These were the kind of guys who, needing to piss in a public restroom, would bypass the urinal and head to a stall. Before entering the shower, they would wrap a towel around their torsos and then awkwardlywriggle out of their underwear, not even certain whether this should be done with their backsides to or away from their peers.
And since this was the first week of school and they were all still learning each other’s names and vital statistics, each day’s stilted bathroom conversations were reruns. “What’s your name again?” (There was a Seth, a Brian, and two Marks.)
“Where are you from?” (Insert name of city, Oklahoma.)
“What are you majoring in?” (Two pre-meds, one electrical engineering, a few business or accounting, and several future pastors. There was almost always an accompanying story of how God had led that person to his major or how God was going to use that person to further His kingdom.)
Biologically these kids were all roughly Matt’s age. Socially they were light years behind, which Matt attributed to the fact that he was an Air Force brat who had been forced to change schools and learn to navigate their different social structures each time his dad got new orders. Hell, he had probably attended more schools than several of his dormmates combined!
Matt didn’t do the towel-around-the-torso twist. He had no qualms about being naked in front of these guys, which, combined with the fact that he was on the soccer team, elevated his status among them.
Morning wood. Shower. Small talk. Breakfast in the cafeteria, with the same heat-lamp exhausted omelets, re-meeting a different group of kids, and listening to them ask each other about their majors. Inevitably Matt’s thoughts would drift to that coming Friday evening and the mystery of the jock strap. He decided the jockstrap somehow signified that William wanted Matt to fuck him.
Matt’s mind supplied the missing details (the curve of William’s ass, the size of his cock). Cue the erection.
One would think that Matt would learn not to tuck his dick in the downward dog position. Sadly no. So, he’d sit in the cafeteria, watching Mark #3 chew with his mouth open, while beneath the table his poor, bent cock strained to escape the confines of his boxer briefs and his jeans. No getting up to refill his coffee.
Would Friday evening never come?
Two classes after breakfast (English and math). Matt watched with disinterest as his classmates sorted themselves into the usual castes (rich kids, smart kids, pretty kids, kiss-ups). He made conversation, when necessary, but mainly tried to concentrate on not getting a boner while daydreaming about William.
Chapel was next. Daily, mandatory chapel. Acapella singing, the signature distinction of thefCOC. Prayers—plural. Sermon.
Matt’s relationship with God was evolving. Or should he say devolving? He knew he would have to face this issue, just not now during his present obsessionwith William.
Since chapel attendance was mandatory, William had to be there somewhere. Matt would scan the rows of students until he spotted his prey, and having found him, would track his every movement, every elegant flutter of his long fingers.
