The Swimmer

"It's getting easier for you isn't it?"

I had spent another night at Peter's, and he was busy on this Sunday morning preparing the coffee maker: inserting the filter, scooping in the dark chocolate-colored fine grounds, pouring in water from the carafe, then putting the latter, black plastic top lowered, on the hot plate below the spout from which dark chocolate-colored liquid would soon flow. I had never drunk coffee before meeting Peter, and sleeping in his bed with him, just as I'd never had anal sex before meeting him, by accident.

Now I craved coffee, rich, dark, expresso-like, though in a mug, and now I'd had anal sex, I'd bottomed, three times. Check that, four.

"Yes," I replied, in the minimalist way of a college sophomore, a barely 19-year-old, when speaking with someone his senior. Old enough, that is, to be my father, who was a mystery to me. Someone I'd barely ever known.

"You've really opened up nicely," Peter went on, taking two mugs down from an overhead cabinet. The mugs had colorful, embossed surfaces. One, a bear chasing a honey bee. Swatting at it. "Even Darren said so."

Darren was Peter's friend, and yesterday Darren had introduced me to him. Peter had already fucked me and now it was Darren's turn. Sloppy seconds, Peter had joked. Darren could have worn a condom but he claimed going second didn't bother him and he barebacked me the same as Peter always did.

Darren's cock was a little thicker than Peter's and it filled me, filled me full, and his stamina was better as well. And when he finally came, after what seemed an eternity on my elbows and knees, he expressed his pleasure in a series of shouts. Shouts so loud in fact I worried the people in the adjacent condo would hear him, and think that someone was being murdered. Or that two men were having intercourse.

And when he pulled out some of the commingled cum oozed out of me. And clung there beneath my anus before liquefying somewhat and slowly running down my crack to my balls, from where it began to drip. Peter, in the doorway watching this (I assume), said, "I'll get a towel." And moments later he gently wiped the escaped semen and lube from my crack and balls with the cooling warmth of the wet towel.

"OK. You're clean." As for the grey drip spots on the fitted sheet beneath me, there was nothing he could do about them. Aside from, after Darren left, after yet another vodka martini, pulling it, all of it--sheets and pillow cases--off the bed, with my help, and tossing them in the wash.

We didn't remake the bed immediately. The cum had already soaked through to the mattress and Peter wanted to let it dry out first. I had never had a martini before, either. Like sex and coffee, the drink was growing on me. Making me, at times, feel dizzy.

"What did you think of him?" Peter now asked, as coffee gurgled and sighed and steamed in its liquid descent.

I shrugged a bare shoulder. I was wearing the second panty I'd brought. The second of the three I'd stolen from a female dormmate's chest of drawers when I consented to water her plants while she was away for a week in the improbably middle of the term. She was pretty and I liked her but I barely knew her. It was an act of hopeful friendship, or more.

I'd gotten the urge, the urge to dress up in girls' underwear, after that first time Peter penetrated me. Entered me deeply, all the way in. It was as if a button had been pushed, a bell rung, and I immediately, in the moment and beyond, felt effeminate, and wanted to dress as such. Most of the panties in the drawer were cotton; practical. But the ones I'd lifted were for special occasions, or dates with someone other than me--soft, silky, lacey. The incredible thing was the girl and I took the same size: six.

"Darren?" I asked, having been lost in thought.

"Yeah."

"You mean in bed?"

"In general."

Another shrug. "He's OK. Nice guy. I guess."

"He liked you," Peter advised. "Says he'd like to come back. Maybe become a regular Saturday thing."

I wasn't sure if Darren had told Peter this or if Peter was just speculating. Wishful thinking.

"Whatever you say," I told him.

"Well it's not just up to me..."

Yes it was. Had I invited a second guy over yesterday? Had I asked him to fuck me? No. The whole thing had taken place with me as a bystander (until we got in bed, that is). A robot. An automaton. A sex toy like the ones I'd discovered in Peter's bedside drawer.

A naive 19-year-old in a girl's stolen panty. Until time came to take it off.

I rephrased it: "I'll do whatever you say."

"Well then I'll invite a bunch of guys over," Peter said, stone-faced.

But then the stone crumbled as a big grin spread across his handsome, forty-something face. One with a grey-flecked close-cropped growth of beard. A growth that pricked and stung the tender flesh around your mouth when the two of you kissed. Made out.

Before Peter pointed at the floor, usually in the kitchen where you stood now, in a gesture you'd learned meant to drop abruptly to your knees and make him hard, or harder, with that same mouth.

"No, I think more than two is a crowd," Peter once more advised, in a variation on the old saying. Actually, including me, there were three of us when Darren was around.

"But you're OK with bottoming for him as well?"

"Yes," I nodded. Adding, "If that's what you want."

"What do you want?"

"What you want," eliciting from Peter less grin than smile this time.

The coffee maker sighed a final time, the carafe full of dark, dense liquid. I'd already voided this morning, emptying myself of yesterday's sperm and waste. Afterwards I showered, by myself, dried my slender body off and then pulled on my spare panty. My longish, darkened hair was still wet, though quickly drying, at the fringes.

Darren... Peter I mean, filled first the bear mug then the other and, in the former, now knowing my tastes, scooped in sugar, lots of it, and then added milk from a cardboard container. 2% fat. He handed it to me, the bear mug that is.

"You should be doing this," he said, before sipping.

"I will."

"You see how I do it."

"Yes."

"It's kind of the bottom's role," he explained. "I mean if you're living with someone. Kind of like making the bed after sex. Clean sheets, throw the other ones in the wash."

"Yessir," I agreed, conferring on him a kind of status. The (much) older man, a professor, a top, a surrogate dad. I thought he would appreciate the touch. The "sir" part.

The man who ran ads in the sex personals showing off his erect cock. It hadn't been by chance at all that we'd met. It had been by design. The age range? 25 to 50. And I'd come in, emailing my nude pic, at, at the time, merely 18.

"Mother of God. I'm in love!" he emailed back. I had exceeded his wildest expectations. He hosted me, and fucked me, tears filling my eyes, the following Saturday. And I spent the night.

"Tell you the truth...," he'd said, in the aftermath, having deposited his load of semen, "I hate virgins."

Then that blossoming grin: "But now you're not a virgin any more. It'll get easier, believe me."

"I really think you should consider moving in here with me." It was the second time he'd broached the subject, the previous time also in his kitchen. "You've told me how much you hate the dorm..."

I did. The girls were standoffish and the guys were drunk, high and intolerable. I was weak; I thought I might be gay. Bi at any rate. I had to hide my desires. My needs. One day my dumbass dormmate asked me why I shaved my balls. And my pubic hair. All my hair actually, aside from the top of my head. I told him I was a swimmer.

"A swimmer?"

"Not here. Not now. I was on my highschool team, though," I lied.

"You're not built like a swimmer."

"How's a swimmer built?"

"Muscular. You're skinny... a wimp."

"I swam relay," I insisted, brushing off the insult. "Second team."

A dubious smirk. "Yeah, right."

I hated the dorm. Hated the kids in it. It was like the nightmare of junior high all over again. It was as if no one had ever grown up.

"You could clean for me to earn your keep," Peter went on. "I'll get rid of the maid. She'll probably be deported anyway...

"Clean and cook for me, I'll show you how. Teach you. Meet me at the door when I get home [from work, from teaching] with a cold martini... You've seen me make 'em. Then suck my cock while I sip it," he smiled.

Was he kidding? I wondered. He was smiling. Probably not.

"Bottom for me whenever I want it. Takes me three days, these days, to build up a good load. Three or four. It's not like I'm your age...

"I'll pay for your college," he added. Though the offer sounded somewhat unconvincing to me.

My father, I believe, paid for my college. From a distance.

My mother, she was a housewife now. She'd always worked, sometimes two jobs, but then got sick and went on disability. Medicaid. Rumor was the government was about to cut it all off. Then what?

My absent father sent her money--but that was to pay for his son's college. Perhaps, I thought, I should drop out and enroll in the local community college. I could pay for it myself, once I got a part-time job. Then my mom could keep the cash her ex-husband grudgingly (I assumed) sent.

"I'll pay for your college," my new dad advised. "There's the spare bedroom. We wouldn't have to sleep together every night." He laughed. "I learned after two failed marriages that one sleeps best when one sleeps alone. Nothing against you."

One.

"You should think about it," the professor added. "It's a good deal. For both of us."

"What about your friends?"

"I'll have friends over from time to time." He sipped his coffee, what was left of it.

"And I'll..."

"You'll help me entertain them."

"Like yesterday."

"Maybe. Sort of. But mostly it'll be me and you. Alone."

"And I'll be your... new maid?"

Peter drained his mug. He came forward. Reached out and grabbed my balls and the base of my cock in one hand. My cock was hard in the girl's silky panty. It slanted off to the side. It was all too obvious.

"Too bad you don't get like this when you're being fucked," Peter said. "We could both get off." Then:

"Not my maid. More like my... wife. My young, very young, trophy wife.

"More coffee?" he asked, pulling his hand back from the creamy front.