Chapter 3 – Chapter 3

In the manly world of the little death

There is one Lord; one slave

On victor; one vanquished

One over; one under

One sword; one sheath

The raging battle ends

In an embrace of the little death

A demand for surrender; a cry for mercy

A flash of victor's sword; a surrender of vanquished's sheath

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan

One Lord; one slave

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan

One victor; one vanquished

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan

One over; one under

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan

The embrace of the little death

Thrust of sword; and moan

Thrust, thrust, thrust; and groan

The flood of victory

The sigh of the little death

Stud had thought long and hard about the grades problem, probably the hardest of the two problems facing him. Being third string, he was here on a half scholarship. That wasn't enough for him to be able to stay—not nearly enough. He needed a full scholarship and some spending money. A first-string football player got a full scholarship. He'd never had trouble finding spending money.

The grades were harder. Slick was a whiz in math and the sciences, so he'd keep Stud above a C with that. The tests would be a bear, but Slick would do the homework. That would keep Stud above the level. Slick couldn't help with English. And then there were two electives.

"You're taking poetry for your English credit?" Slick had asked, incredulously. "From Professor Moyer? That fairy? And archeology and filmmaking for your electives? You should be taking balling and beer drinking for your electives."

"I got a plan," Stud had said.

A week later, after his first one-on-one session with the dried up old maid Megan Rogers, the archeology instructor, an interesting still shot could be taken of Stud moving out into the hall outside of her office, zipping his pants up and buckling his belt, while Ms. Rogers was splayed in the chair behind her desk, hem of her skirt up around her waist, her tits flopping out of her blouse, and a silly, sloppy grin on her face. If what he was muttering could be discerned, he'd have been heard saying something about digging to China and handling artifacts well enough to last a semester.

Todd Baxter, the film professor, a rather flashy platinum-blond former bit player in the movies, with an attitude and a technique of scaring his students sick from the get go, had issued video cameras in the first class and told the students to come back with an initial film for him to critique at the next class. He took the class down to the faculty garage and showed them the fancy van the university had provided him for taking, processing, and editing film in the field.

The evening before the second class, as Baxter was leaving the university and had walked down to his baby-blue Mustang in the faculty garage, he found Stud, wearing only his gym shorts, his massively muscled arms crossed on his massively muscled chest, and showing his washboard abs to the best effect. He was holding a the video camera in his hand.

"Can't make your class tomorrow, Prof. Sorry, mandatory team meeting. But I rushed doing my film assignment, so that wouldn't be late."

"OK, give it to me. I'll—"

"I thought I did real good, Professor Baxter. I'd really like you to see it now and give me some pointers."

Baxter was in no hurry to deprive his eyes of the beefcake Stud was showing him.

"Uh, sure. We could go up to the studio."

"We could see it in the van, couldn't we? I'm sorta in a hurry. You showed us that everything needed is in the back of the van. And it's got a generator. You said the second class would be introducing the class to how the stuff works in the van. I could get a briefing in that and cover not being able to get to the class. I'd hate to start off the course behind the other students. I know the coaches would be grateful to you."

This helped. Baxter had been sniffing around Coach Tolivar for months. He was aching to be cocked by that hunky Marine.

"Oh, god. Is that? Is that?"

"Yes, Slick, our quarterback. He's a honey, isn't he? Am I doing him well?"

"Oh, god, yes," Baxter murmured, panting so hard he could hardly get the words out. They were only a few moments into the film taken from the bookcase of Stud and Slick having sex in Stud's bed and Baxter was already kneeling in the back of the van, facing the monitor running the video, and Stud was behind him, embracing him, unbuttoning his shirt, and unbuckling his belt. Baxter wasn't stopping him.

Half way through the first running of the film, Stud was crouched over the film professor, who was on all fours and still mesmerized by the film while Stud was fucking him like a dog.

Baxter made Stud run the film three times and demonstrate every position used on Slick in the film on him in the back of the van.

In the third class, Baxter announced that Stud would be his teaching assistant that semester, and the two made the van rock in every out-of-the way parking area within twenty miles of the university. Stud received an A in Introduction to Filming.

He also, surprisingly, got an A in English (and, of course, in Introduction to Archeology).

Elijah Moyer, a distinguished-looking Van Dyke graybeard in his early fifties, was not a man to be impressed or influenced easily. Tall and thin and elegantly dressed and speaking in what he at least presumed was the highest class English accent, he strutted across the stage, asking probing questions of students pulled out of the nervous classroom, in a rapid-fire manner and usually answering the questions while the student was mumbling and sweating and then making pointed, witty, and cut-off-at-the-knees remarks on the insufficiency and idiocy of the student's response.

Stud sat in the first row of desks—or rather slouched—dressed in gym shorts, an athletic T, and flip-flops. He exhibited a disinterested, glassy stare, as he watched a spider walk across the ceiling.

"Mr. Austin. Mr. Austin. Are you with us?"

"Me? You're talkin' to me? I go by the name Stud."

Professor Moyer's lip curled. There was always an athlete like this in his class. He always had to cow them from the very beginning to get them under control.

"We are adults in this class, Mr. Austin. We give each other the respect of addressing each other formally. Perhaps while I have your attention—if only for a moment of limited attention span—you could tell the class who your favorite poets are."

Stud turned his face to the professor and smiled a knowing, sensual smile. He had taken a front-row seat, so only the professor could see him.

"Well, Elijah—I can call you Elijah, can't I? I like William Shakespeare, of course. But I also like Richard Barnfield, Digby Mackworth Dolbein, Lord Alfred Douglas—and Noel Coward, of course."

Professor Moyer blanched and his jaw went rigid. All of these poets were known to write homoerotic works.

"I especially like Richard Barnfield," Stud said with a playful smile. He saw that he had Moyer's full attention now. He let a hand go to cupping his basket. "I like his "The Affectionate Shepherd." Doesn't it start?:

Scarce had the morning starre hid from the light

Heavens crimson canopie with stars bespangled,

But I began to rue th' unhappy sight

Of that faire boy that had my hart intangled;

Cursing the time, the place, the sense, the sin;

I came, I saw, I viewd, I slipped in.

"That will be enough, Mr. Austin. Now, Ms.—"

"What I can't quite understand, Elijah," Stud interjected, "is just what he means by 'slipped in.' But reading on in the poem—"

"We can pursue this later in private—in my office," Moyer overrode him. "We have much to cover in today's class. Shall we move on now?"

Stud was leaning against Moyer's car in the faculty garage, arms crossed over his chest.

At Moyer's home, in his four-poster bed, Stud made Moyer beg for the cock before he pushed the professor on his back at the foot of the bed, grasped his ankles and cruelly split his legs, and then gave him eight thick inches of what he begged for.

Moyer was spent and exhausted already, when Stud pulled him up off the bed and rotated him, and dumped him on his belly on a nearby red velvet chaise lounge. The professor's head and arms hung over the head of the chaise as Stud mounted his trim buttocks and placed the bulb of his cock at the professor's throbbing hole. He grabbed a handful of head hair and pulled the professor's head up to where their faces were close together.

"I wrote a poem just for you professor. I hope you will give me extra credit."

"Please," Moyer murmured. He was shuddering.

"Please what, Elijah?"

"I want you . . . it . . . again."

"Let's do it to my poem, Elijah. The poem you're going to give me extra credit for. Let's begin. I call it 'Sword and Sheath.'"

"In the manly world of the little death"

"That's how it begins, Elijah. You know what 'little death' means, don't you?"

"It's a literary allusion to an ejaculation. Please, Mr. . . . please, Stud, I need it."

"Didn't know I would know that literary device, did you? That should be worth more extra credit." He was rubbing the underside of his cock across Moyer's hole. The professor was moaning and quietly begging for the fuck.

"There is one Lord; one slave

On victor; one vanquished

One over; one under

One sword; one sheath"

"You know what that means, don'tcha, Elijah?"

"You. You are the lord. You are in command," Moyer sobbed.

"Bingo. Which bring us to my next lines."

"The raging battle ends

In an embrace of the little death"

Stud wrapped his arms around the professor and held him close. Moyer was panting and whining.

"A demand for surrender; a cry for mercy"

"Oh, god. Please. Please."

"Please what, Elijah? The words are good. No word is too crude for what you want from me. Say them."

"Fuck me, screw me, cock me! Ahhhhhh. Oh, Christ almighty!"

Stud thrust his cock hard up inside Moyer as he cried out:

"A flash of victor's sword; a surrender of vanquished's sheath

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Moyer gasped as Stud pulled his cock back and then moaned and groaned as Stud thrust up inside him again.

"One Lord; one slave

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Stud matched the words, and, in turn, so did Moyer.

"One victor; one vanquished

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan"

Again

"One over; one under

Thrust and moan; thrust and groan

The embrace of the little death

Thrust of sword; and moan

Thrust, thrust, thrust; and groan"

Stud screamed as he shot off deep up the professor's channel:

"The flood of victory"

They both lay there, spent and reveling in the fuck. When Stud could speak, he closed his poem in a whisper.

"The sigh of the little death"

Stud pulled himself up off the professor's shuddering body, picked the professor up like he was a sack of potatoes, and dumped him on the carpet beside the chaise lounge. Then Stud sat down on the side of the chaise and spread his legs. He rocked back on the weight of his arms, his fists dug into the surface of the chaise next to his sides.

"That should be worth an A this week. If you want it again next week, another A. If that's a deal, clean my cock. Now."

With a moan, Professor Moyer rose up onto all fours and scuttled over to between Stud's thighs, and took the football player's cock in his mouth.

Stud received the news that he had been moved to the first-string tight end position on the university football team straight from Coach Tolivar.

There were in the athletic facility's football program training room after hours.

Bobby, the team manager, lay, moaning, in a heap on a wrestling mat, having earlier been enjoyed, together, by both the coach and Stud.

But now, Stud was leaning over a massage table, belly on table, with the coach standing behind him, feeding his cock deep inside Stud's channel, and pistoning him hard. He moved his mouth to Stud's ear and told him of the elevation to the first string. Stud smiled. It had all fallen into place. He even had managed spending money by threatening not to visit his professors for special education again unless they wrote monthly checks to him.