Burning bright (What’s up your ass?) there’s a shining star!

Yep. I totally screwed up. I pushed her too far. This is the last time she’ll talk to me. Maybe I can get back in after she dumps me and drink half the bar…

That was my internal dialogue as Bobbi and I made our way down the stairs from the third floor of the building the club was housed in. I always found it amusing that the three most popular clubs in the Oakland neighborhood were stacked on top of each other, and that they required drunks to navigate multiple sets of stairs. Stupid idiot. Why the hell would you subject anyone to your friends. Especially Rissa. She’d scare off a rabid wolverine— and that was when we hit the street and she wrapped herself around me like an Ace bandage.

Ok, so maybe I didn’t fuck up.

“Sorry I dragged you out early. I was having a great time. I felt so free… feel so free being Bobbi. Like this is the real me.”

I just smiled and hoped that the flop sweat that I’d broken out in wasn’t too obvious. And then she grabbed my crotch. “But I also felt something else. I want to get somewhere I can look at it… if that’s alright?”

Brain has officially disconnected from the conversation.

“My place or yours?”

“Well, I’m staying on campus for summer semester and I have a single until late August…”

Fun fact: The University of Pittsburgh, despite maintaining and entire uniformed security **** to police campus, contracts with the Pinkerton Detective Agency for dorm security. Secondary Fun Fact: They don’t give a shit about students bringing in guests as long as you have an ID that says you live there.

Bobbi was on the 15th floor of Tower C. The Litchfield Towers are three high rise dormitories at the center of Pitt campus, shaped like giant AA batteries. The double rooms are shaped like wedges of a pie, triangular, with communal showers in the center of the floor, so as to maximize space on the floor for the 20-odd rooms per floor. Tower C was made up of singles laid out in a similar manner, but packing in 26 per floor with a shared shower/bath for every two rooms, resulting in bedrooms that were only slightly larger than the average prison cell. They’re coed by floor. Bobbi was currently occupying a single by himself on a men’s floor, but attendance during the summer session was sparse, so we weren’t too worried about having any company.

There was no moment of awkwardness in the elevator ride. Yes, there was tension, but the good kind, sort of like the atmosphere before a snowfall. She stood close to me, her head on my shoulder in the elevator. No rush. No hurry. One of my arms was around her waist, the other was holding her hand. Such soft hands. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t amped up on anticipation, but I was keeping my cool. She’d chosen to bring me here. I was gonna let her set the pace.

Her room was a cramped affair, but she’d made it her own. You can walk into 100 identical dorm rooms on a college campus and no two will be alike, even if it is only during a three month summer stay. A small desk with a Gateway slab bearing the ubiquitous “Intel Inside” branding and an 18 inch CRT were the main features of the room outside of the full sized bed (Singles had fulls. Doubles, in the Towers at least, had twitch bunks). The walls were lined with posters that would have clued in anyone with half a brain as to the occupant’s orientation (but then again, gaydar wasn’t exactly all that common in that day and age; this was the heyday of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, and everybody actually thought George Michael was straight until 1998). Other than that the only real features of note were a bookshelf lined with visibly well loved mass market paperbacks( about half of which I could have recited the contents of verbatim, as they sat on my own shelves either at Chaos Central or at my parents’ home in West Mifflin), and a mini fridge.

“Well, you’ve had the grand tour. Want a pop that costs less than a dollar? All I have is Dew.”

Oh how inflation has changed us. Soda (or ‘pop’ as southwestern Pennsylvania refers to it) was at the time selling for 85 cents for a 16 oz (not 20 oz) bottle. I was paying a buck and a quarter for it at the bar which I thought was highway robbery. That’s beside the point though. Now that we were here, Bobbi was getting nervous. She was trying to make small talk, the flush rising in her cheeks and suffusing the pale skin of her chest above the neckline of her dress. Time for action.

I tightened my grip on the hand I still held, and pulled her into my arms. Our lips were only inches apart, and I stared into those blue eyes that were wide with fear/excitement/lust. “If you want to just talk, we can do that. But I can think of more interesting things to do with our mouths.”

She trembled in my arms for a moment before making the decision and closing the gap between us.

This was only our second kiss. If you’ve ever had a long term partner you know how awkward the early kisses can be, learning what works and what doesn’t, what they like and don’t like, how long of a kiss is too long… there was none of that here. This was more like the steamy makeouts of a couple that’s been together for a few months, still new enough that every kiss is powerful and passionate, but familiar enough that the fumbling fear of too much tongue or too much drool isn’t on your mind at all. It felt good. It felt right.

We made out for a few minutes, gravitating toward the bed. Tumbling down into it wasn’t the most graceful affair I’ve ever engaged in, but we both laughed about it, and I held her in my arms, having traded the hot and heavy for sweet kisses as I caressed her back, feeling the curve of her spine through the thin material of her dress, but careful not to let my hands drift below her waist. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I wanted desperately to grip those wondrous gluteal globes, but I didn’t want to go too fast for her. She had to travel south first.

I suppose it was my boner pressing against her leg that initiated it, but her hands did eventually make that trip. “I said I wanted to see it. Can I?”

I kissed the tip of her nose to buy myself a moment to decide how to play this. Cruel or kind? Shy or bombastic. I decided to see how much she really wanted it. “See what?”

“Your… your thing.”

“What thing?” Her hand started fumbling with my zipper as I kissed her neck. “Ask for it by name.”

“Can I please see your cock… Sir?”

Well, shit. I wasn’t expecting that last part, but damned if I was gonna complain. I unzipped. Now if you’ve been paying any attention to my stories you know that I tend to swing dominant in a hard way, so hearing Bobbi call me “sir” had all the juices flowing, and I was flying the flag at full mast when I pulled my favorite piece of anatomy out of my boxers.

Bobbi just stared at it. I’ve used phrases like “a bird staring at a snake” or “tharn” or “deer in headlights” before so I’d only be repeating myself if I used them here. What I’m saying is that it was pretty obvious that she was fascinated. “You can touch it if you want.”

She wanted. It was slow… tentative. Again, I’m not going to describe my dick except to say that I’m slightly above average length and well above average girth, but that was enough that those small hands of hers weren’t able to completely encircle it. “It’s… bigger than I thought it would be.” Those words are what almost every man wants to hear. She explored it with her hands, warm and a little sweaty, and I just lay there enjoying the sensation for a few minutes as she grew more confident, starting to stroke up and down its length.

“Care to show me yours?” My voice was rough, a little hoarse.

She blushed, shaken from the lust haze that had descended on her. “It’s not as nice as yours. Are you sure you don’t just want me to…”

I answered by kissing her and reaching between her legs.

Bobbi was small. Much smaller than me. My hand couldn’t quite cover the entirety of it but it was a neat thing. Her balls were tiny, and it was obvious from the bumps on the skin that she’d shaved for me (or maybe she just did that anyway?), and her circumcised dick was thin and at this point fully erect. It came into view when she skinned out of the thong she’d been wearing under her dress. We just lay there and touched each other for a few minutes before mutually deciding that all those clothes were in the way.

I unbuttoned my shirt as I watched her slip her dress over her head, her braless chest coming into view for the first time. I’d seen guys who were in the process of transitioning start to develop breasts through using Provera, and though Bobbi wasn’t on HRT (yet… that wouldn’t happen for another three years) I was pleasantly surprised to see a pair of cute puffy nipples on small but defined breasts (found out later that this was due to a fairly high dose Tagamet prescription to treat GERD… it’s called gynecomastia, popularized in Fight Club as “bitch tits”. Yes, Bob had bitch tits.). Smooth all over while I was the hairy beast I’ve always been. We spent long minutes just running our hands over each others bodies and gently exploring while kissing and licking whatever parts came into reach. I finally got my hands on that ass and it was every bit as awesome as I imagined, although I think I shocked her when I buried my face between those glorious globes and started rimming her.

“Oh my god! Why does that feel so good?”

I laughed into her little pucker (which I was again pleasantly surprised to find slightly distended… someone liked ass play, it seemed), which sent ripples of pleasure through her body, especially when I reached between her legs and started stroking her.

I didn’t bring her all the way off, her little pecker standing at attention and leaking precum, but she was right at the edge when I drew back and took my hand away. She immediately turned and stared at me, her eyes dilated with lust, and she dropped down grabbing my own love muscle and looking up at me.

“Do you want me to…” she trailed off, looking down at my dick and then back up into my eyes, biting her lower lip.

“Yes. But tell me what you want.”

She started lowering her head, mouth opening as wide as she could, but I brought my hand up to cup her chin so she was looking up at me again. “I mean it. Tell me what you want.”

She stared up at me for a long moment, looking both terrified and excited, before she started speaking. “I want to suck your dick. I want you to call me a slut and a cocksucking faggot. I want you to **** me and **** me down on it and treat me like a piece of meat. I desperately want you to stretch out my ass and fuck me, but I’m afraid it won’t fit, and that I’ll be too tight for you to enjoy it.” She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. “And afterward I want you to cuddle me and tell me I’m a good girl.”

I let her kneel there for a long beat as I played those words over in my head. “Then ask for it.”

She looked back up into my eyes and I could see tears there. “Please Sir… can I suck your cock?”

I stroked her cheek with my thumb and decided to stop torturing the poor thing. “What are you waiting for, slut? An invitation?”