The Bet: The Problem with Derek (musc hypno)
by Jaypat
Ok, there I was at my high school graduation, sitting there in my cap and gown, steeling glances at Peter and wondering if I should claim the two hundred bucks he owed me. I mean, I’d won the bet, really I had. Ok, so maybe events had gotten a little out of control and the outcome wasn’t exactly the one we bet on. And there might be a few technicalities he could argue, but when you got right down to it, I’d definitely won, right? I should collect my money, shouldn’t I? And I could tell from Peter’s nervous reaction that he was wondering if I was going to try. You see, we’d had this bet since the beginning of the school year about Derek. He was my other friend. The three of us used to sit together at the same cafeteria table every day for lunch; we had since middle school. We all pretty much looked the same, average height, average build, slightly different hair colors with some variation in facial features. We were pretty much testaments to averageness. Well, at least they were; I was kind of cute.
I was blond and let’s face it, that went a long way right there. I wore my hair kind of long and shaggy so I could toss it, a really great effect when used at the right moment. I had really deep blue eyes, high cheek bones and dimpled cheeks when I smiled. Let’s face it; I was truly adorable.
Peter was probably my best friend. I mean, we’d had a thing once, but we were both into muscle and neither of us was athletically inclined. So we decided we were better off as friends.
Derek, although he leaned the same way as us, was far less… involved. It was almost like he had something better to do than ogle guys. I know, I know, it was a mystery to me, too.
Everyday at lunch Peter and I used to love to watch the jocks come in. We’d perfected the technique of looking and yet not looking like we were looking. ‘Cause, you know, if you got caught, you were pretty much in for a beating. But we were good at it. We never got caught—well, almost never.
There was this one time, John Dixon caught us looking. He came to our table, put both hands on the back of one of the cafeteria chairs, and leaned over it. Our cafeteria had these huge, heavy metal chairs. They were about fifty years old and must have weighed about seventy pounds each. Nobody liked them. They were uncomfortable and impossible to move around, but I think that might have been the point.
“What were you looking at,” he said, a really intense scowl on his face and then his rock hard forearms almost exploded out of his arms as he intensified his grip on the chair back. He turned red from the strain and we watched open mouthed as, slowly the chair back bent a little.
HOLY CRAP!
“Nothing,” we said, simultaneously.
“Good,” he said. He paused long enough to give us one more scowl before he walked away.
Damn, that was whack-off material for a least a week. But Derek was really freaked. “You guys are going to get us killed,” he said, and maybe he was right. But what a way to go.
We had our favorites. There was Brian Dumbrowski, one of the line backers. Holy crap he was huge, and a bit of a showoff. Whenever the weather was warm enough, he’d come in a sleeveless T. Those arms were thick and veined even when relaxed and we were pretty sure he had the biggest guns in school. They had to be at least 18 inches.
Then there was Tom Manerly. He was a soccer player, not nearly as big as Brian but absolute perfectly proportioned. That body looked like a Greek sculpture come to life, a regular work of muscle art. And he had one of those faces that screamed make me a model.
And Frank Pierce, he was just a muscle head. He didn’t belong to any teams or anything; he was a gym rat. Kept his head shaved. He wasn’t as tall or as bulky as Brian, but he was pretty damn big and totally ripped, and he always wore as little as he could get away with. I loved seeing his wide back pop out of his muscle shirts, and I once tried to count his intercostals, but you had to be extra careful with Frank. Definite drool material, but he always looked like he was mad at someone. We were pretty sure he was on roids; kinda scary, but in a hot kinda way.
And there were plenty more to go around, all frustratingly straight. But all the time Peter and I were busy cataloging and classifying the meat, Derek would just sit there at his laptop playing World of Warcraft or some other online game.
“Hey, Derek,” I‘d say, “check out Jim Evans. He’s defiantly been working his pecs. Look at those babies. Any bigger and they’ll start giving muscle milk.”
He’d look up and then say, “Yeah, Brandon, whatever,” and then he go back to his game. We kept trying to get him involved, but it was practically impossible. He was giving gay guys a bad name.
Finally, it was the first week of our senior year. It was early September, still hot, and all the jocks were dressed…comfortably, showing off just about everything they had to show. We had just watched a particularly spectacular procession of prime beef parade down the isle in front of us, and Peter and I were having trouble keeping our tongues in our mouths. Derek as usual was completely uninterested. He actually closed up his laptop, got up and left ten minutes before the bell rang. I couldn’t believe it, and I said as much to Peter.
“Don’t worry about it, Brandon,” he said. “Derek’s just not wired that way.”
“Un uh,” I said, “physiologically impossible. He can’t be gay and not appreciate muscle. It’s an established scientific fact. Maybe he’s straight.”
“No, take it from me, he’s gay.”
“Are you sure?”
“Very sure.”
And the way he said it, I got the feeling there’d been an encounter I hadn’t heard about. “Yeah? So tell me how you’re so sure,” I said batting my eyelashes and tossing my hair.
“Dude, I’m not going to go there. Just take it from me, straight is not the issue. Just not all gay guys go for muscle.”
“Impossible,” I said. “We have no choice. It’s in the gay gene”
“There’s a gay gene?”
“Of course there’s a gay gene. The muscle appreciation factor is somewhere on the forty-second or forty-third chromosome. Look it up.”
“Well, it doesn’t apply to Derek,” said Peter, “It wouldn’t matter if you got Mr. Olympia naked and twirling a hula-hoop. It wouldn’t even faze him.”
“That I refuse to believe,” I said. “The hula-hoop is extremely erotic.” We both laughed, before I said, “It’s probably very simple, an enzyme deficiency or something. I bet all he needs is the right… stimulus.”
“Brandon, Brandon, Brandon, you just won’t give it up, will you,” said Peter. “Derek’s just never going to get it.”
“You wanna bet?” I said.
“How much?” he asked.
“Five bucks,” I said.
“That’s not a bet. See, you don’t really believe you can do it.”
Of course I could do it. All I really needed to do was separate him from that damned laptop for an hour and I knew I could get him hooked. It was all a simple matter of body chemistry. I just had to trigger the right reaction. “Ok, how about two hundred bucks?” I said almost before I thought about it.
“You seriously want to give me two hundred dollars?” smirked Peter.
“I’m not giving you anything,” I said. “You’re going to be handing me two crisp one hundred dollar bills. Just remember, I like them new.”
“Ok,” said Pete. “You’re on. By graduation. Derek has to be into muscle by graduation or you owe me two hundred dollars.”
“Derek will not only be into muscle,” I said shaking his hand, “he will be obsessed by it.”
Pete laughed. “I’m going online tonight to figure out what I’m going to buy with my two hundred dollars.”
“Better look into savings plans while you’re at it,” I said. “If you start putting away a dollar a day, by graduation you should have just about enough to pay me.”
“You are so deluded.”
“We’ll see.”
And that’s how it started.
I’ve often wondered if I’d known at that moment how far things were going to go, would I still have bet him?
That night I went home and dug up all my best muscle mags. I had quite a selection and I was just about to start going through them when my mom called me.
“Brandon!” she yelled. “The shelves are gone again.”
Damn! Those stupid shelves! We had this long, tall set of metal shelves in our garage that was always falling over. My dad got them out of a junk yard when he was still alive and loaded them with all kinds of junk auto parts, alternators, wheels and even an engine block, plus all kinds of other crap. I keep telling my mom we should get rid of them, but somehow she can’t bring herself to do it. So, every once in a while when the shelves fall over we have to pick them up and put everything back up on them—except the engine block. That thing is now permanently on the garage floor since we’d need a freaking forklift to move it. Why couldn’t she have gotten sentimental over an old shirt or a tie?
I rushed down the stairs to the garage. “Ok, mom, let’s hurry up and get this over with. I’m engaged in work of great scientific importance.”
“Oh really?” she said. “I thought you were just up there whacking off to your magazines again.”
My mom did not have the decency, like other parents, to be embarrassed about having a sexually active child. It was really annoying.
“As it happens, no,” I said. But the night was still young.
It took Mom and me together, giving it everything we had, just to get the shelves back on their wobbly feet, then another hour to pick up and put away all that dirty, heavy junk. What a mess. It would take me a least a week to get clean. But first I had more important things to do.
My mags were right were I left them, but I’m afraid I got a little distracted going through them looking for my all time favorite pics. There was this one guy… I called him Butch—there was no name with the picture and Butch seemed to fit him just fine. He had it all going on, mountainous shoulders, an incredibly narrow waist with eight brick like abs, massive pecs, huge thighs, and an insane bulge in his poser. I liked the photo so much I scanned it into my computer and had a little morph-a-licious fun with it. By the time I was done, he looked too good to be human. I even put the improved Butch next to a shrunk down picture of a regular sized guy so Butch looked just gigantic. Needless, to say I had a lot of fun that night.
And that was just one of my photos. I had a lot more. Of course, I had to run back and forth to the bathroom several times during the evening, but by the time I finished I had a collection of pictures that would make anyone go into spontaneous orgasm, a fact to which I could personally attest.
The next morning I shoved my collection into my backpack and headed off to school. Man those pics were so hot I was afraid my backpack would catch fire. I had to be careful all morning. I had to fight the urge to browse through them during the boring lecture in Trig. I didn’t want any embarrassing accidents.
When lunch time finally came, I raced to our table, ripped open my pack and handed the stack of photos to Derek. “Here, bro,” I said, “check these out.”
Derek looked up from his laptop, took the pics from me, and glanced at the first two. “Oh yeah,” he said, handed them back to me, and went back to his laptop. That was it????? He didn’t even get to Butch! Peter started laughing.
“No, dude, you’ve got to check these out,” I said, putting Butch on top and trying to hand the pics back to him, but he made no move to take them.
“Yeah,” he said, “I saw them. Big guys. Cool.” He didn’t even look up that time.
“Cha ching!” said Peter. I glared at him. This wasn’t over yet. I couldn’t believe those pics hadn’t affected Derek at all. It just wasn’t scientifically possible. He had to have a boner, or at least a chubby. I tried to figure out a way to look without being obvious. I mean if a jock caught me checking out his equipment, I’d just get a beating. If Derek caught me, he’d be ragging on me for the rest of the year. But I had a plan.
“Didn’t I hear they were beta testing Halo 4 in the computer lab,” I said.
“Seriously?” gasped Derek shutting his laptop and jumping up.
Crap. Nothing. As far as I could tell, not even a chubby. Then Derek shoved his laptop into his backpack, and ran from the cafeteria.
“What was that about?” asked Peter reaching over and helping himself to my pics.
“The act of a desperate man,” I said.
I heard a gasp. Peter was holding my picture of Butch in his shaking hand. His eyes were bugging out and he was sweating. Yeah, Butch always had that same effect on me. Peter dropped the pics, stood up and then, with an awkward jerky walk, headed straight toward the bathroom. He got about halfway there before he turned around, staggered back, snatched up the Butch photo, and took it with him. One thing about Peter, he had great taste. Which was more than I could say for Derek.
But I wasn’t through yet. Already I had another plan. It was a little more risky, a little more desperate, but I was ready to go for it. I made a bee line for the computer lab, figuring Derek would still be there. And he was, along with Mark Wassenburg, Jim Schneider, and Nick Gibson, all the usual gamer suspects. Three more nerdy guys would be hard to imagine. Mark was the tallest of them at six feet, but he was all skin and bones. Jim was kind of short and pudgy. Nick wasn’t short but he had long passed pudgy and was rapidly approaching fat. There really wasn’t anything here to interest me at all.
Someone had downloaded a beta version of a new game – not Halo 4, although it would have been really cool if it had been – and they were all geeking out over by one of the monitors. They didn’t even see me come in. I was in luck. Derek’s laptop was in his backpack by the door. It was almost too easy to open it up and slip the computer out. I was out the door and down the hall before they ever even suspected I was there. Derek really should be more careful with his laptop; someone might steal it— someone else, I mean.
I grabbed an old padlock out of my locker and headed for the boys locker room. I had to hurry. There were only minutes before the bell would ring and the place would start filling with guys getting ready for gym— actually, on second thought, there was really no hurry. I could be a few minuets late for Greek History.
I found an empty locker, put Derek’s laptop inside, slipped the padlock on and closed it with a click. That should keep it safe until it was time to spring my trap. Then I loitered around and caught a few minutes of the show before heading back up to class.
The rest of the day passed agonizingly slowly, but I knew once the final bell rang I would only have a few minutes to put my plan into action. I would have to rush. I felt like a racehorse waiting at the gate—or at least what I imagine a racehorse waiting at the gate would feel like; I really had no way of knowing. They might not feel anything at all for all I knew. I mean they’re horses for Christ’s sake—but I digress.
The bell rang and I was off like a shot. I made straight for the computer lab. Derek was there almost every day after school, and he’d better be there today or I’d be completely screwed. But I was in luck. The whole gang of them was there. Derek looked a little stressed. Hmm, I wonder why.
“Hey Derek, you got your computer?” I asked.
“No,” he said, looking downcast, “someone stole it.”
“That’s funny,” I said, “’cause I thought I saw this strange kid with it down in the locker room.”
“Really?” his face lit up.
Yes! I had him. “Yeah, he put it in one of the lockers.”
“You think it’s still there?”
“I don’t know. Let’s go see.” Derek and I started for the locker room, and I checked my watch. Yup, the timing was working out perfectly. We arrived just as the football team was starting to get ready for practice. There they were: example after example of the finest beef our school had to offer, and all slowly disrobing. Derek had to respond. He just had to.
“Which locker is it?” he asked.
“Over here,” I said and I led him to the locker. I had chosen one near the center of a particularly narrow row. A few of the football players literally had to squeeze by us to get past. I could feel their hard bulging bodies pushing up against me as they went through, and my little soldier was suddenly awake and straining at my briefs. Man, why hadn’t I done this years ago? I glanced over at Derek He was just staring at the stupid locker.
“Damn! It’s locked,” he said.
I felt like screaming, “Would you forget the fucking computer for just thirty seconds!” But instead I said, “You wait here. I’ll go get the janitor. He’s got some bolt cutters.”
“He won’t just cut the lock for us,” said Derek despondently.
“He will if I tell him it’s mine and I lost the key.” Which would only be half a lie; I still had the key.
Derek brightened at once. “Thanks, Brandon.”
I intended to take a little time to find the janitor, figuring that Derek would get board waiting and start to look around. And when he did, how could he not notice he was in fucking wonderland?
I turned to go only to find Chad Sikowski standing in my way, wearing only his jock strap. He was six feet tall, big and beefy. Nice pecs, broad shoulders and thick arms, but he had a little more fat on him than I usually liked. Any abs he had were completely obscured by it. Peter and I had rated him as strictly B grade material, but right now he was certainly ringing all my chimes.
“What are you two faggots doing here?” he asked, clenching his fists. Suddenly I remembered why I hadn’t done this before.
“Never mind, I can guess,” he said glancing at my crotch. Holy fuck, I was stiff as a log and spotting. My little soldier had betrayed me! Benedict Arnold!
I opened my mouth to respond, but Derek beat me to it.
“Some asshole stole my computer and locked it in here,” he said, banging the locker. He was so mad and so sincere, it was much better than any half baked lie I might have come up with. No way could Chad not believe him.
“You’re fucking lying,” said Chad.
Ok, maybe there was a way.
“No, it’s true,” said Derek, amping out on the sincerity.
Chad kind of looked at him sideways and then sidled on over to the locker. Without warning he slammed his fist into the door. Holy crap, the freaking metal door buckled! What a fucking stud! The locker door had a dent in it just about the size of his fist, and the edge of it was popping out from the frame just enough for Chad to get his fingers in there. Then, triceps bulging, he gave a mighty yank and ripped the door open. Holy fuck! I almost came in my pants. I was gong to have to talk to Peter about giving Chad an upgrade.
“I’ll be damned,” he said, reaching into the locker and lifting out Derek’s computer. “You were telling the truth.”
“Thanks, man,” said Derek, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his beloved machine—and ONLY at the sight of his beloved machine. I was starting to consider brain damage.
Chad gave Derek his computer and my friend waltzed happily from the room. I was thoroughly disgusted. Another great plan had crashed and burned. I could almost feel the two hundred dollars flying away. I went to follow Derek, but Chad put his hand on my shoulder and stopped me. I was thrilled by his touch and frightened at the same time, a remarkably stimulating combination.
“Not you, Blondie” said Chad. “I want to talk to you.”
They always liked to pick on me. Oh well, I guess it was my curse for being the cute one. But, what was this about? I had absolutely no idea—well, I had one idea, but since it involved blood and bruises, I liked to pretend it didn’t exist.
Chad backed me up against the locker and looked down at me. Fuck, this was amazing. He had a completely dominating presence. I was staring right at those full, powerful pecs, and I could feel the heat of his near naked body. In a second I was going to cum. There was just no way around it. Oh well, since I was going to get the shit kicked out of me anyway, I was wondering if I could cop a feel before he started.
Then Chad leaned over and looked left and right, checking to make sure we were alone. Then he whispered, “Is it true…?”
“Is what true,” I asked, suddenly confused. Was he baiting me? We had to have passed the point where that was necessary.
“Is it true,” he said, his voice sinking even lower, “that gay guys give the best blow jobs?”
I was struck dumb. That was the last question I had been expecting. Well, maybe not the last question, but certainly in the bottom ten or fifteen. And I have to say I was amazed at how quickly I recovered my wits. “Well, it’s an established scientific fact,” I said, flipping my hair, flashing my eyes, and turning my cuteness all the way up, “that we have an appreciation and understanding of the penis that girls could never hope to have, not being owners themselves.”
I held my breath and suddenly his lip curled up in this kind of half smirk. “You want to prove that?” he asked.
Ok, now that was the last question I had been expecting. “Sure,” I managed to get out, my brief moment of lucidity now evaporating into shock, confusion, and need I say lust?
“Ok,” he said whispering, “Saturday, three o’clock. Meet me under the bleachers, and you better be damn good.” Then he turned and disappeared into the sea of masculinity that was currently flooding the locker room. I barely made it to the second floor restroom before I exploded. Holy crap! I may still lose the two hundred dollars, but fuck! I think it might be worth it.
But I hadn’t given up yet. That night, when I wasn’t thinking about Chad, I was racking my brain for a way to get through to Derek—which meant, unfortunately, that I spent about five minutes on the problem. So, when I got to school the next day I still had no idea what to do.
The answer to my problem came at me unexpectedly, as answers often do, in programming class. When I walked in I was a little surprised to see four pies sitting on a table at the front of the classroom, a chocolate cream pie, an apple pie, a lemon meringue pie, and a banana cream pie.
“Today’s class,” said Mr. Franklin, as he started his lecture, “is going to be a little unorthodox. But first, we’re going to start with a little pop quiz. Each of you will find a small program on your desk top called Franklin27. Its sole purpose is to take a string of integers and put them in order. But the program has a bug. Your task is to identify the bug and then fix it. When you’re done, email me the annotated, debugged program and then raise your hand. Go.”
I love a pop quiz as much as the next guy, but I have to say I was a little surprised about how easy this one was. And I must not have been the only one. We couldn’t have been at it ten minutes when the first hand went up.
“Excellent, Mr. Lopez,” said Mr. Franklin, “now come up and help yourself to a piece of pie.” That was unusual, but Carlos went up and got himself a piece of Lemon Meringue pie. The next one to finish was Laurie Piper. She got a piece of pie, too— Lemon Meringue. Then Bill Johnson went for the Lemon Meringue. When it was my turn, I bypassed the Banana Cream Pie, my personal favorite, because of a sudden urge for a piece of Lemon Meringue. When the Lemon Meringue ran out, Mr. Franklin just produced another. One by one, everyone in the class went up and got a piece of Lemon Meringue pie.
I was just thinking how wrong that was when Mr. Franklin started up his lecture again. “Can anyone tell me what just happened here with the pies?” he asked.
“An impossibility happened,” I said, raising my hand. “The Lemon Meringue pie should have been the last to go.”
“Would you care to explain that, Brandon,” Mr. Franklin invited.
“Well,” I said, standing up and tossing my hair, “it’s perfectly simple. The gay guys would normally go for the banana cream pie, because given the choice, we go for the banana every time. The straight guys would have gone for the apple, because unlike gay guys, they didn’t learn anything from that whole incident with Eve and the snake. And the girls all should have had the chocolate, because it’s long been an established scientific fact that the chocolate loving gene is endemic to the female of the species, which means the Lemon Meringue should have been left untouched. I’m telling you,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect, “something has occurred that runs contrary to the laws of nature.”
“Could you be anymore blond?” came a voice from the back of the room. That was just a small example of the kind of ignorance and jealousy my brilliance and extreme good looks often inspired.
“Well,” said Mr. Franklin, composing himself—he’d been laughing for some reason, “I can’t say I agree with your logic, but your conclusion is essentially correct.” Then he hit the lights and turned on the projector. There on the screen was a program diagram and he began to take us through it. It was a piece of malware that was designed to flash subliminal messages across your computer screen; in essence you would be programmed by your computer. This one was originally designed to sell cigarettes, but Mr. Franklin had adjusted it to push Lemon Meringue pie. He spent the rest of the period going over it and explaining how it worked. It seemed to fascinate him from a purely academic standpoint. It fascinated me from another standpoint entirely, the standpoint of winning my two hundred bucks.
While Mr. Franklin was engaged in his lecture, I pulled out my flash drive and helped myself to a copy of the malware. It had been rendered safe, in other words, unable to spread itself, so I wasn’t really doing anything too dangerous.
When I got home that evening I loaded it onto my PC and opened it up. Thanks to Mr. Franklin’s lecture, it was pretty easy to find the subliminal message and alter it. But what did I want to say? I had to get this right.
You love muscle, I typed. Muscle is all you can think about. You can never get enough Muscle. That should do it. It was certainly the way I felt most of the time. And it’s an established scientific fact that it’s the way Derek should feel. I was only correcting what was wrong to begin with, right? The program also contained an image of a perfect looking piece of Lemon Meringue pie. I replaced it with my giant Butch morph. Now everything was perfect. All I had to do was load it on to Derek’s computer, and that proved surprisingly simple.
The next day at lunch Derek got up to go to the bathroom. He left his laptop on the table, but not before asking us to watch it. I guess losing it for a few hours had been a bit of a trauma for him. As soon as he was out of sight I slid over, plugged my flash drive into his USB port and installed the program. I stuck it way in the back of one of his utility files where he’d never find it.
“What are you doing?” asked Peter.
“Trying a little experiment,” I said, finishing up, and reclaiming my flash drive.
“What kind of an experiment?” he asked.
“The secret kind, so don’t say anything to Derek.”
“Why shouldn’t I,” he said, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Just go with me on this, ok, Peter? I’ll tell you later. Derek’s coming back.”
I slipped back into my seat just as Derek rounded the corner and sat down. He didn’t say two words to us before he was back on his computer. I couldn’t help but smile.
I spent the rest of lunch just dying to try out the new and improved Derek. I wondered how long I should give it to work. It had taken the program about ten minutes to start selling pie. I wondered how long it would take to sell muscle.
I was just about to interrupt Derek’s computer session to comment on a passing stud when he looked up and asked me, “How much do you weigh?”
I was a little surprised by the question, but I answered it. “About 140,” I said. Then he looked at Peter and asked, “How about you?”
“About the same,” he said.
“Yeah,” said Derek, “me, too.” Then he went back to his computer.
Peter and I exchanged what-the-fuck looks with each other, but then Derek popped up again.
“How tall are you, Brandon?” he asked.
“Five nine,” I said. “What is this?”
“Just asking,” said Derek “What about you, Peter?”
“Five nine and a half,” he said, stressing the half. He got endless joy out of being a half inch taller than me.
“Yeah,” that’s’ what I thought,” he said. Then he was back in his computer. We really didn’t have to ask him how tall he was. We knew he was about the same as us. But what was going on?
About a minute later he asked me if I wanted to arm wrestle.
“What?” I asked, completely taken by surprise. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah,” he said, putting his elbow on the table, and throwing me a challenging stare. “Come on, let’s do it.”
“Ok,” I said, shrugging. I put my elbow on the table and we clasped hands. There was a brief struggle, but I won pretty quickly. You see I had a set of dumbbells in my bedroom that I worked out with pretty regularly—ok, maybe not regularly, but once or twice a week—ok, ok, not really that either; I used them whenever I thought about it and wasn’t feeling too lazy. Are you happy now? But that was more than Derek did. He was pretty skinny and soft looking. All he ever worked was his fingers over his keyboard—occasionally, I’m sure he worked them over something else—but mostly his keyboard.
Derek looked really dejected at his loss, I mean, much more than he should have. He was feeling his upper arm, at least what there was of it. It really wasn’t any wider than any other part of his arm. I was beginning to wonder if I’d hurt him.
“You ok?” I asked.
“Yeah, great,” he said. Then he closed up his laptop, got up and left.
Peter and I looked at each other simultaneously and said, “What was that about?”
The next day at lunch Derek didn’t show up at all. I mean, I knew he was in school that day; I’d seen him. I wondered if I’d offended him in someway. Maybe I should have let him win. Well, I figured whatever it was, he’d get over it and we’d see him again soon. But there was a piece of me, a tiny sneaky, bad-mouthed piece of me, that wondered if maybe my little subliminal trick might just be responsible for his weird behavior. The more I thought about it the more it worried me and after school I went to look for him.
Of course, the obvious place to start was the computer lab. Derek wasn’t there, but the others were.
“You guys seen Derek?” I asked.
Jim Schneider, Nick Gibson, and Mark Wassenburg kind of exchanged looks and said, “Not since lunch.”
Ah ha, so he was here during lunch! “You have any idea where he could be?” I asked.
“Probably looking for somebody else to arm wrestle,” said Jim smirking.
“Yeah, someone he can beat,” said Nick, and the three of them kind of chuckled.
So, he’d done the arm wresting thing here, too… Weird. Well I had his phone number. I could always call him just to make sure he was ok. I walked out into the hall pulled out my phone and dialed him up.
“Hello?” came his voice from the other end.
“Hey Derek, missed you a lunch. Everything ok?”
“Yeah, fine,” he said in a tone that said it was not fine.
“Come on, Derek, something’s bothering you I can tell. I’m incredibly sensitive that way. It’s an established scientific fact.”
“It’ just that…” he trailed off.
“It’s just what?”
“I’m so small and weak.”
“Dude, you are not small and weak. You’re normal, like the rest of us.”
“Then how come everyone beats me at arm wrestling?”
“Derek, if that’s all that’s bothering you, join a gym. Lift a few weights. You’ll be beating us in no time.”
“Yeah, I thought about that. But I don’t know anything about it.”
“Dude, it’s, like, not brain surgery. You’ll figure it out. Go online, or you can always get a book.”
“Yeah. That’s it. That’s exactly what I’ll do.” It was kind of strange but there was a sort of frantic desperation in his voice.
“Good for you. See you Monday,” I said. I hung up with the feeling that I had done a good thing.
If only I’d known.
I mean it was pretty damn obvious at that point what had happened, but it didn’t even occur to me. But maybe it was because I had other things on my mind—ok, only one other thing, a thing called Chad.
The next day was Saturday and I spent the morning, in an absolute dither. I even tried to put my shoes on the wrong feet. I don’t know why this guy was getting me so frazzled—ok, yes I did; it was because he was the sexiest guy I’d ever had a chance to lay my hands on. I probably spent two hours just trying to figure out what to wear, before I realized jeans and a t shirt would do just fine. Chad wasn’t going to care what I was wearing.
I got to the bleachers a half hour early. As soon as I climbed under them and into that half lit gloom, I began to have my doubts. What if Chad didn’t come? Or worse, what if he was coming only to beat the living crap out of me? I didn’t have to worry for long because five minutes later he arrived.
“Good, you’re early,” he said as soon as he saw me.
“Yeah,” I said somewhat surprised to see him twenty-five minutes before the designated time. “You’re early, too.”
“Yup,” he said. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He started unbuttoning his jeans and pulling down the zipper while he was still walking toward me. Damn, he was eager.
“Better take off your shirt, too,” I said. He was wearing his football jersey. It was big on him without the padding and it hid all the good bits.
“Why?” he asked, instantly defensive. Whoa, I’d better tread carefully here. He was a pretty big guy, who could easily snap me in two if he got spooked, and it looked like he was half way there already. Why was that so fucking hot?
“Your shirt’s kind of long. It might get in the way,” I said. Of course that wasn’t the main reason I wanted it off, but for my own safety I was only giving information on a need to know basis.
“Ok, fine,” he said and he pulled it off. Oh, the glories of nature. What God had given that boy should not be covered up, huge meaty pecs, big, broad shoulders, nice thick arms. There was plenty of juicy muscle all over him. True he didn’t have the definition of a competition body builder, but a better diet and a little more aerobic exercise would take care of that. And then he’d be spectacular.
“What are you staring at?” he asked, defensive once again.
“You can’t expect me not to look a little. You’re pretty damn sexy.”
“Yeah, alright, fine,” he said, as though he were acknowledging something inevitable like death or taxes. “Just get on with it.”
He started fumbling to pull his underwear down – boxer briefs—but I put my hand on his to stop him. He flinched. This boy really was on edge. “Let me,” I said.
At first he looked reluctant to let me touch him, but then I guess he must have remembered what we were there for, because he relaxed and gave me full access. I peeled back the waste band and pulled them down. What tumbled out was full and meaty, a fine specimen; it suited him. No sooner did I take it in my hands than it sprang to life, as eager as the rest of him. I looked up past his plentiful pecs toward his face, and saw that he had his head back and his eyes closed. I only had to breathe on his member for it to fully expand to a healthy eight or eight and a half inches, the juicy head almost instantly coated with thick precum. I took him inside me and let his head float around the inside of my cheek. I could feel the heat coming off his shaft; it was practically vibrating with sexual energy, ready any second to spout forth a torrent of hot cum. I could tell he wasn’t going to last long, but I’d try and draw it out for him as long as I could. I slid him out of my mouth and began use my tongue to delicately, gently probe around the swollen head looking for his sensitive spot, and as soon as I touched him he let out a soft moan and his breathing sped up. Then, licking, darting and probing I slowly approached that area just north of the piss slit where I was pretty sure I’d find what I was looking for. The closer I got, the louder he moaned and the faster he drew breath. No sooner did I find his spot then I felt his rock hard cock shudder and I knew he was already cumming. I took him inside my mouth and did my best to help him get the most from his orgasm. And from the volume of his shout I was pretty sure I’d succeeded. I let him finish, swallowing his load, and withdrew.
The whole thing had taken less than a minute, and he was sweating and gasping.
“Damn,” he said. “Damn, that was incredible.”
“Thanks,” I said, “but I don’t think I did much. How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Since you got off. It’s been a while. I know the signs.”
“That’s none of your fucking business.”
Well, wasn’t that nice. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know how I could be so presumptuous. Excuse me, while I wipe your jizz off my lips.”
He looked down at me and for a second I wasn’t sure if he was going to hit me. Then he just shrugged. “My girlfriend is very old fashioned,” he said.
“Oh, I see,” I said, “no sex til the wedding night.”
“I think she’ll do engagement,” he said, “but it’s practically the same thing.”
“Maybe you should get another girlfriend.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I like her too much.”
“How about one on the side?”
“I’d never do that to her.”
“You’re doing it to her now,” I said spreading my arms apart.
“You don’t count,” he said.
“I don’t?”
“You’re not a girl.”
And people called my logic twisted. But since I was having a good time, I didn’t feel like calling him on it. “Can’t you help yourself out?” I asked, making the traditional jerk off gesture.
He kicked a stone and said, “I have three sisters and two brothers. I don’t get a lot of alone time.”
“What about when you’re in the bathroom?”
“Yeah,” he said, “we only have one of those, and did I mention I have three sisters? No sooner do I pull my pants down then one of them is pounding on the door telling me to hurry up. It’s not exactly relaxing.”
He was staring wistfully off into the distance. I don’t know what he was seeing, maybe a tiny bathroom all his own.
“Well, that just isn’t going to work,” I said. “You have to get off more or your balls will explode. It’s an established scientific fact.”
“Seriously?”
“Trust me on this. Well, Chad,” I said, “you look rested. You ready to go for round two?”
“You’d go again?”
“Chad, I’ll go til you run dry if you like. It’s the only humane thing to do.”
“Excellent!” he shouted. But no sooner did I reach for him then I head a high female voice.
“Chad!” it called. “Are you under there?”
“Shit!” shouted Chad. “It’s Liz. I told her to stay in the car!” And suddenly he was scrambling to pull up his pants.
“In the car?” I said. “I hope you cracked a window.”
“Are you free next Saturday?” he asked, his voice muffled as he pulled his shirt over his head. It was like the curtain closing at the end of a show.
I thought about it for a second before I realized that not only was Chad incredibly sexy, I was actually starting to like him. “I think I could find the time.”
“Three o’clock?”
“Ok, but next time, leave your pet at home.”
He stopped and gave me a dark look before he said, “You don’t like girls much do you?”
“They’re ok,” I answered. “I just don’t think every household should have one.”