The Game

PART 2: ROOM 331

"Hi! Sorry to bother you, but I need to leave a note for a guy down the hall. Do you mind if I come in and use a pen and a piece of paper? I didn't think to bring anything with me."

There was a moment's hesitation, a moment's doubt. AKA could see it in the kid's eyes. But then Swimmer Boy shrugged his broad, bare, browned shoulders and said, "Okay, I guess."

He slowly turned and walked back into the room, leaving AKA to follow.

His legs are as good as the rest of him, AKA decided as the kid moved away. Just as AKA had imagined, they were long, lean, and muscular. They were also as gloriously tanned as the rest of the kid's body.

"There's a pen and paper here somewhere," the boy said as he reached his desk. The muscles in his handsomely sculpted butt flexed beneath the bright red cotton of his jockeys he bent and shuffled among the surprising large amount of debris scattered across the desktop.

The kid seemed totally nonchalant about having on nothing but a pair of underpants. AKA took it as more proof that he was a swimmer. He was used to marching around in front of total strangers in a tiny little Speedo bathing suit, so it didn't feel odd to parade about in nothing but his Calvins. At least, not if his audience was another guy. Little did he know.

The moment had come. AKA's pulse was pounding as it always did at this point. Because there would be no going back once he began to act. The die would have been cast, the game begun for real.

AKA quietly closed and locked the door behind him. The lock made a dull click, but Swimmer Boy didn't appear to notice.

"Fuck," the kid said. He was having trouble locating a blank piece of paper, it seemed. Personally, he seemed as fresh and clean as if he had just emerged from doing a hundred laps, but his room was an exam-week mess. "So who you leavin' a note for? Almost everybody's gone home by now."

The voice was surprisingly low and mellow. A rich kid's voice. But then mostly rich kid's went to this school.

"Webber Lynch," AKA replied. He drew the knife out of his right pocket as he spoke.

"Webber?" the kid declared in surprise. He glanced back at AKA. AKA froze, but Swimmer Boy apparently didn't see the knife for he casually turned his attention back to the clutter on his desk and said, "Nobody calls Carl Webber ."

AKA remembered. The name card on the dorm door to the right by the stairs had listed a middle name as well. Carlyle. AKA had assumed the Lynch kid used his first name, but apparently not.

The boy stopped what he was doing, straightened his back, and tilted his head. An idea had suddenly come to him.

"Heh, I think you're wasting your time, man," he said. "I'm pretty sure Carl's gone home for Christmas."

AKA moved even as the kid started to turn around. He took three steps forward, clutched the back of the sun-browned neck, and pressed the knife against the slender, vulnerable throat.

To say the kid stiffened would be an understatement. Every muscle in his slim, sleek body appeared to have gone rigid.

"You say anything, do anything, and I'll shove this right through your fucking neck. You understand?"

There was the smallest of nods. Yeah, the kid was scared shitless he might get a nasty nick on that flawless skin of his. It was exactly what AKA had bet on.

"Over to the bed," AKA directed.

The two of them shuffled to the left, jerkily but together, AKA maintaining his grip on the boy's neck, the knife pressed hard--but not too hard--to the jugular.

The kid's breathing picked up, but he was otherwise stone silent, his body a rigid column of nicely obedient flesh and bone.

They quickly reached the bed, which was relatively low to the floor. The boy's shins bumped up against it.

"Face down," AKA ordered, his voice shaking with a combination of fear and excitement. "Lie face down."

Swimmer Boy obeyed, but it wasn't easy. The angle was awkward. He bent forward, tried to lower himself, then practically fell the rest of the way. AKA fell with him. He straddled the flying legs, shifted quickly up onto the thighs, then moved higher still--onto the boy's butt. Even through his pants, AKA could tell that the kid's buns were an exciting combination of cushion and steel, equal amounts of each.

The boy inhaled a deep, raspy breath. He had apparently been forgetting to breathe. A pair of bony shoulder blades stretched to accommodate the large volume of air.

"I don't want to hurt you, but I will if you make me, okay?"

The statement had recently become a part of AKA's routine. The promise not to hurt them if they cooperated made them much more tractable just when you wanted them to be. At the start. AKA had played the game a bit more dangerously in the past--with the scruffy, dark-haired truck driver, for example--but risk for its own sake was not really what turned AKA on. Results were what mattered, not the risky road to achieving them.

"What do you want?"

The kid had finally managed to speak. His voice was now breathy and shallow, a lot less mellow than it had been just a few moments before.

AKA released the kid's neck and fished for the handcuffs in his left coat pocket.

"I gotta have some money for drugs. I'm desperate, okay? But I don't wanna hurt you. I just gotta have some dough to buy some drugs."

AKA liked the idea of giving the kid something distracting to think about. While he was pondering AKA's totally fictional drug problem, his mind racing to think how he could give AKA the money he wanted and then get him the hell out of his room, AKA would have gotten him secured. Once the kid was secured, AKA could pop the little bubble of hope that only a little robbery was underway, a robbery that--scary though it was--would soon be over, right?

Wrong.

AKA dropped the cuffs onto Swimmer Boy's back.

The kid jerked and began to turn his head to glance behind him.

"Don't look at me," AKA commanded. "The less you see, the better, okay?" AKA pressed the kid's head into the mussed navy blue blanket on the poorly made bed. He held it there just long enough for the boy to experience a brief panic about being allowed to breathe, then he let go.

This time there was a second, even deeper and more ragged inhalation.

"Put your hands behind your back where I can see them."

Swimmer Boy immediately complied.

"What you gonna do, man?"

"I told you. Get me some dough. This is just to make sure you don't do anything foolish in the meantime."

AKA snapped the left cuff on, then the right. He then pressed down on each one to make sure they were tight. The kid flinched. Good. They were tight.

Securing the handcuffs was a very important matter. That's how the one kid--a slim, freckled-faced fifteen-year-old AKA had seen get off a school bus in a Denver suburb all by his lonesome little latchkey self--almost got away. AKA hadn't made sure the boy's wrists were safely secured. Five minutes later, the frisky little shit had freed himself and was up and running for his life. AKA had only managed to catch him at the front door. The boy's neighborhood had seemed about as sleepy as one could be and still be called a neighborhood (a major factor in AKA's daring to go after the kid at all), but AKA still felt damned lucky he had caught the boy before he made it outside. Frisky Shit had paid dearly for the escapade, of course. Before smothering him with his own baseball glove, AKA had smashed his tight teen balls with his own Jurassic Park paperweight. The baseball glove was perhaps stretching the point about offing them a piece of their own clothing, but it had been so soft and flexible and had fit so perfectly over the pesky cocksucker's runny nose and mouth that AKA had felt compelled to use it.

Swimmer Boy might now decide to resist, but, what with the cuffs on, it was too late. The kid looked to be almost six feet, but he weighed only about 160, AKA guessed. At 200, AKA had a good 40 additional pounds of pretty solid muscle on him, as well as the even greater advantage the handcuffs now gave.

Of course, there was the danger that Swimmer Boy might soon begin to yell and shout. Which was why AKA now proceeded to remove what he needed from his other pocket. The duct tape and the small sponge. AKA leaned forward, grabbed a fistful of silky blond hair, and pulled the boy's head back.

There was a brief gasp, then mumbled protest as AKA forced the sponge into the open mouth. He quickly pulled a long strip from the roll of tape, being careful to lay it flat when he tore it off, then reinserted the sponge the boy had halfway tongued back out and taped his mouth shut by winding the strip of tape twice around his head.

The feeling that now flooded AKA was unlike any other. The beautiful young hunk now trapped between his thighs was his, his completely, his until the end, the end that AKA and AKA alone would decree. There was no other sensation in the world like it, the feeling that he could now play god, could now control fate, could now call down death on the spoiled little rich-kid who lay oh-so-sweetly cuffed and gagged below him.

AKA was hard as a rock, his breathing deep with excitement, his cock straining at the front of his jeans.

He slipped off the boy and got to his feet.

Despite the order not to look back, the boy turned his head. Their eyes met. There was nothing quite like this moment either. The fear in Swimmer Boy's eyes was like a kind of liquor. AKA drank it in. For a moment, he actually swayed with the intoxication of it.

Then, steadying himself, he began to undress.

First he bent and removed his boots.

Then he took off his coat.

His shirt went next.

He dropped both of them on the floor behind him.

Understanding dawned when AKA began to unbuckle his belt. AKA saw it happen in the boy's eyes.

"I lied," he said. The eyes widened. "I don't do drugs. I don't need your money. It's you I want."

The hands trapped in the cuffs immediately began to pull. The nicely developed triceps immediately began to flex. To no avail. Thrashing to free himself, the boy turned onto his side. His perfectly cut pecs bulged with the effort his arms were making. His spruce abs pulsed with the strain.

AKA removed his jeans and socks, then stood and massaged his cock through his underpants. Not Calvins. Nothing so preppy as Calvins. J. C. Penny's best. Plain white jockeys. Basic.

The boy had now flipped onto his back. His pecs continued to bulge, his abs strain. His face had gone red from the effort.

AKA moved forward, stroking himself.

The kid tried to back away. His heels pushed against the blanket, slipped, tried again, succeeded, sort of. Enough anyway that his head bumped back against the wall on the far side of the bed.

AKA reached down and seized the boy's ankles.

"Relax. Relax or I'll cut your throat and fuck your dead body."

The kid tried to pull away, failed.

"I mean it, Swimmer Boy. It's your choice. You cooperate or I'll kill you and then fuck your fucking dead body."

AKA did mean it. It wasn't his favorite way, but fucking a fresh kill provided its own kind of pleasure. As the long-haired fifteen-year-old neighbor boy back in AKA's hometown had good reason to know. It was just too bad that Neighbor Boy had gone and lost the key to his house on a night his parents were away. It was just too bad that his older sister wasn't yet home from her "hot date" to let him in. It was just too bad that Neighbor Boy thought that AKA's own parents had been given a spare key he could use to get in. AKA's parents did in fact have a key to the boy's house, thanks to the fact that the two families were Such Good Neighbors. AKA, who was home house-sitting while his own parents were off on a two-week vacation, had led the boy back to the kitchen to get the key. Where, of course, there was a handy steak knife available as well. It was just too bad the stupid little cock-tease wouldn't just shut the fuck up and take it. And Neighbor Boy was a cock-tease, having jerked off when he had to know AKA could see him the previous two nights running--both times in his brightly lit bedroom, a bedroom he knew damned well faced directly across from the one AKA always used when he was home for some reason. Fortunately, Neighbor Boy sported one of those thick leather neck thongs so many teens liked to wear. It had served the purpose quite nicely after he managed to knock the knife from AKA's hand. Later, washed and cleaned--the boy being one of the few to shit himself--AKA had fucked the kid's dead body. Twice. At first AKA had missed the squirming and struggling of his earlier kills (Neighbor Boy was his ninth and counting at that point), but there was something about the total surrender of the fifteen-year-old's fresh young corpse that made AKA feel as if he had downed a whole bottle of champagne. It hadn't hurt, of course, that he had fantasized about doing the kid long before those two recent cock-tease jerk-off sessions, but he never imagined that the fates would actually make it possible for him to grab the boy and get away with it. But AKA had. Nothing in AKA's past gave him away, and he later handled the two brief police interviews like a charm. It helped that the body was never found, of course. That way, Neighbor Boy remained a possible runaway, the best of all possible scenarios, and, as it turned out, one that was reinforced by the fact that the kid had a reputation at school as a first-class dope-crazed bad-ass.

So was Swimmer Boy going to try to kick, try to use his legs as weapons? Some had, of course. AKA saw Swimmer Boy try to decide. He waited, his eyes locked on the kid's.

He felt the legs surrender before the boy's eyes had even betrayed the fact. The calves went limp, the feet too. AKA swung the legs slightly, just enough to work the surrender all the way up the boy's body. He didn't stop until he saw Swimmer Boy's shoulders go slack.

"Good. Good. That's good," AKA commended, once again amazed at how quickly such virile young studs tended to give in. People wouldn't believe it. They really wouldn't.

The boy dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling even as AKA pulled him lengthwise onto the bed and let go of the ankles. The tanned feet stuck out over the bottom of the bed, looking both forlorn and useless. Leaning forward, AKA squeezed the lax, lightly haired calves. He reached higher and kneaded the knobby, motionless knees. He reached higher still and stroked the surface of the smooth, muscular thighs.

For the first time the boy tensed. AKA smiled and slowly wedged his hand between the thighs, deliberately grazing the base of the cotton jockeys as he did so. He brushed the base of the jockeys once, twice, three times, doing a bit more each time to make contact with the inviting bulge of balls outlined beneath. The boy was still staring at the ceiling, but there was no question. He was getting hard. Despite himself, despite his own fear, his own consternation, his own astonishment at the betrayal his own body was now in the process of committing.

AKA rose onto the bed and settled himself on the kid's sexy lower legs.

His hands returned to the firm thighs, to the boy's crotch, to the bulging balls beneath the jockeys.

There was no question now. The boy's dick was responding. It began to tunnel its way up through the Calvins. More. Then more still. AKA paused, then used his index finger to trace the shape of it.

The boy tensed again.

"That's okay, buddy," AKA murmured. "It's a guy thing. You can't help it. Just relax. Enjoy it. You've had your cock sucked before, right? There's no crime in that."

Another little bubble of hope, AKA thought to himself. Now the kid will think I'm just a uniquely aggressive cocksucker, so starved to go down on tasty teenage boycock that I'm willing to commit a crime to do it. So I blow him. So I give studly young Swimmer Boy a little unlooked-for head. Then I'll go away. Because that's all I'm here for, right?

Wrong.

AKA reached up and grasped the top of the Calvins. He teasingly fingered the elastic waistband for a moment. Then he pulled. It was a long, slow, determined pull. Determined, because by sheer force of will Swimmer Boy tried his best to keep the Calvins on. But he failed. His cock emerged, flipped up, then tottered to the left, where it lay thick and waiting. It was a good seven inches, and, given the boy's own basic slimness, much fatter than AKA had imagined. There was no question. The kid sported one healthy hunk of sausage.

AKA continued to draw the jockeys down.

The balls came into view. Plump. Tight. Wreathed in dark golden hair.

The kid squeezed his ass, hoping at least to keep his rear covered, but AKA persisted, prevailed. The Calvins slowly slid down the thighs. AKA went with them. He drew them down the legs, then free of the feet. Lifting them to his face, he inhaled. They were acrid with the smell of recent boypiss. The kid had in fact taken a long, forceful leak just before walking over to examine his face in the bathroom mirror. AKA inhaled again, then lay the jockeys on the floor. Carefully. Close by. Ready to be used, just as he had planned, later.

But first.

The boy was once again staring at the ceiling. He had also gone a bit soft. Not much, but enough to suggest that his fear was rising up to drive out all other sensation. AKA couldn't let that happen. Not yet anyway. It only seemed fair that Swimmer Boy should enjoy one last orgasm. There was even something pleasing in the idea that he would be drained dry to begin with, then filled up (his tight young butt anyway), and finally taken out altogether. And with his own jockeys at that.

AKA crawled back onto the bed. This time he didn't straddle the boy. Instead, he spread his legs and moved between them, feasting his eyes as he did so.

"How long did it take you to get like this?" he asked. He drew his index finger down the long, lovely trough of flesh running from the neck to the navel. "I mean, you've obviously got some good genes to begin with, but you've turned yourself into your own fucking masterpiece. But you know that, don't you? I saw it in your eyes when you were studying you face in the bathroom. 'What a handsome hunk I am.' That's what you were thinking, wasn't it?" The boy lifted his head. Just enough to make eye contact. "Yes, that's right. That was me in the stall. Watching you. Planning this."

AKA's hands returned to the boy's thighs. He raked his crotch. He hefted the golden-haired balls.

The cock jerked. Stiffened. Regained its former hardness.

"I bet you could come all night, couldn't you? What are you, 18? That's the peak. You know that, right? 18 is the sexual peak. It's all downhill from here. Your body will never again feel, do the kinds of things it can feel and do now. Did you know that?"

The boy tried to say something, speak.

AKA listened, did not understand, attempted to read the frightened eyes.

The boy struggled to repeat himself. Trying to look, sound convincing. But, because of the gag, it was impossible to understand him.

AKA was fascinated. He returned his hands to the balls, cupped, then lightly squeezed them.

The boy went on. More intensely still. Trying to say . . . what?

Then AKA understood.

"You want me to let you loose so we can both do this? Is that what you're saying?"

The boy's head nodded. Desperate. Hoping. Trying his best to seem convincing.

"Are you gay? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

"Liar," said AKA. "You're a fucking little liar. You're as straight as they come. You love cunt. I know you do."

The boy shook his head. No.

AKA decided to play along. For now.

He pretended to look confused, open to the possibility the kid was telling the truth.

He reached up and took hold of the boy's hefty cock.

"Are you? Are you really? You mean you really like this? Doing this? With me?"

The boy nodded as unconvincingly as before.

"If I let you go, you'll do me too? Is that what you're saying? You'll suck me off too?"

The nod could not disguise the disgust that swept the boy's face. AKA took the occasion to free his own cock. It was not as fat as the boy's but about the same length. It was nowhere near so pretty as Swimmer Boy's either, which was pink and smooth from top to bottom, but it didn't need to be pretty to have the kind of fun it was going to have, as AKA well knew.

"You'll really suck on this if I take the cuffs off? You won't yell or shout or anything?"

The boy nodded for the third time. He gave it all he was worth, AKA allowed the kid that. But he was a lying little son-of-a-bitch from start to finish. Nonetheless, AKA had to hand it to him. He was using his wits. Hoping against hope that AKA would be stupid enough to believe him. Hoping that his own shocking erection would convince AKA that what he was struggling to say was true.

But there was no question what would happen. Once freed, once ungagged, the athletic young freshman would yell and fight for all he was worth. Even with his stereo blasting, the kid at the other end of the hall might hear and come running. That, or Swimmer Boy would break free and escape. It wouldn't be a nice scene, however it went.

AKA pretended to waver, to debate the issue. Then he announced his decision.

"We do it this way first, okay? You really come . . . I mean you really give me all you've got . . . then . . . maybe."

The boy attempted to hide his frustration, but again his eyes gave him away.

AKA lifted the cock and lowered his head. He kept his eyes on the boy's as he did so. They widened, then closed as the defeated blond head dropped back onto the bed.

AKA began to suck. Slowly. Carefully. It was, actually, not something AKA particularly liked to do. Give head. But the kid had made it exciting, different, worth the slight disgust AKA always felt.

The cock got fatter. It hardly seemed possible, but it did. AKA now had a mouthful and then some.

He fingered the balls as his mouth rose and fell further along the length of the boy's fat shaft.

The kid began to thrust. Not much. He was clearly trying not to respond to what was happening to him, but he couldn't help himself. AKA slipped his free hand between the taut young buttocks. The boy tensed, instantly frightened that AKA was going to do more. Perhaps--God forbid!--violate the sacrosanct and surely virginal heterosexual asshole. AKA smiled around the cock, withdrew his hand, and began to knead the fiercely flexed asscheeks instead. There would be plenty of time to focus on the kid's asshole later.

The kid began to thrust again. More violently this time. Trying to get it over with? Maybe.

AKA brought his lips to the top of the pumping shaft and gently bit down. Then it happened. The fiercest thrust. The startling gush.

AKA pulled away just in time.

When he looked up, he saw that a river of milky, gummy cum now ran all the way from Swimmer Boy's unexpectedly large navel up to his firm unblemished chin. Somebody who liked to cut, to slice might see the line of cum as a nice little pattern to work with, AKA thought to himself. He imagined the sharp knife staring at the chin, then coming down the body, digging deeper into the skin as it neared the large, inviting navel where it might just decide to plunge to the back of that long, flexible spine. Fortunately for Swimmer Boy, AKA only wanted to imagine it.

The smell that was now in the air was like no other. Nothing else smelled like fresh cum. Nothing.

AKA leaned down and took a deep breath. He filled his lungs. Nice. Oh, so nice.

Now it was his turn.

He stripped off his underpants and tossed them onto the pile of clothes he had already made.

Swimmer Boy had his eyes closed. His face was still a bright red, but his breathing had calmed somewhat.

AKA wasn't sure why, but he decided that he wanted to watch the kid's face as he fucked him. He usually fucked them on their stomachs, but not this time.

Gripping the boy's ankles, he lifted his legs.

Just as AKA hoped, the sky-blue eyes opened.

AKA moved in, shoving the boy's long, lean legs toward the ceiling as he did so.

The sky-blue eyes widened.

AKA lowered the legs onto his shoulders and then moved in closer still.

Reaching forward, he wiped his hand across the boy's stomach. His palm was instantly covered in sperm. He then took his hand and slowly lubricated his cock.

The sky-blue eyes watched him do it.

Reaching up again, higher onto the boy's chest this time, AKA re-wet his hand, making sure to dampen his fingers especially.

Ever so softly, ever so gently, he then slipped his hand between the boy's up-ended asscheeks and began to massage the new coat of sperm around and into the kid's tight, oh-so-tight rosebud of an asshole. The kid flexed his swim-toned buttcheeks as tight as he could, but AKA nonetheless managed to work his index finger into the hole. The kid arced. He arced again as AKA buried the finger up to the second knuckle. AKA then began to rotate his finger. Tight though the kid tried to make it, Swimmer Boy's rosy little sphincter began to loosen up quite nicely.

The sky-blue eyes filled with horror.

Withdrawing his finger, AKA shifted forward yet once more, braced the boy's legs on either side of his head, and positioned his cock for entry.

Rising up on his knees, using the kid's own legs as supports, he gripped the top of the boy's thighs and proceeded to force his way in. Despite the coating of sperm AKA had applied, there was some initial resistance, that uniquely rubbery friction that almost always had to be overcome, but AKA knew from experience that the ass of a kid who has just shot his wad was a lot less resistant to being fucked than it otherwise would be. Why that should be the case, AKA didn't know. It just was. Thus, one more push and AKA's dick popped the boy's anus and sank to the hilt. It was instantly encompassed by an unbelievably warm, virginal, throbbing, velvet, teenage asswall.

Good God! What a feeling!

AKA only had a moment to enjoy the sensation, however, because Swimmer Boy's wonderfully long, lean, muscular legs suddenly shot straight out, spread apart, and then slammed back into the sides of AKA's skull. AKA once had a teacher who had boxed his ears. That's exactly what this felt like.

"Fuck!" AKA exclaimed.

The legs spread for yet another slam. Instinctively, AKA ducked his head forward. Big mistake! The boy's thighs instantly locked on AKA's neck with a killer tightness. Hardly believing what was happening, AKA gasped, jerked, and lost his balance, his cock pulling from the boy's asshole as he did so.

The kid took immediate advantage of it. Twisting violently to the side, his strong young thighs clenched like steel clamps, he banged AKA's head against the wall.

AKA didn't so much see stars as an awful, hurtful blackness.

It hardly seemed possible, but the thighs contracted further still.

AKA struggled to free himself, but his right hand was trapped. Under what? The kid's left hip? AKA's other, free hand pulled at the boy's right thigh. At least, AKA thought it was the right thigh.

His head was banged against the wall a second time.

There was a new wave of painful, awful blackness.

Crush the kid's nuts! AKA managed to think. Crush the kid's nuts!

He tried to reach, find them, his free hand flailing, flapping along the boy's slippery bare skin.

The hard, unforgiving thigh bones continued to bear down on AKA's neck.

He's gonna kill me! AKA thought.

Despite the pain in his head, despite being unable to breathe, and despite the disorienting dizziness that now rose up to mix with everything else afflicting his body, AKA's fingers found what seemed to be the boy's cock dangling loose, limp, and vulnerable.

AKA immediately tore at it, clawed at it, made a fist and attempted to pound both it and the nearby balls, which had to be there . . . somewhere.

As he strained to find them, determined to pulverize them, AKA's consciousness began to totter, then slip.

Then, as quick as a light going off, it sank like a stone.

For a moment AKA was dreaming. There were vague forms, thoughts, sensations.

Then there was nothing. Nothing at all.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Then there was.

AKA was suddenly conscious again, gasping for air, and fighting the worst dizziness he had ever felt in his life.

He struggled to sit up, see, assess the situation.

How long had he been out? How long had he been unconscious?

Shit!

The dorm room door was wide open, gaping like the entrance to hell.

Marshaling all of his resources, AKA got to his feet, swayed, then righted himself.

Even as he did so, he heard a sound.

Slap. Slap. Slap.

He knew at once what it was. It was Swimmer Boy's bare feet. He was running down the hall.

AKA lurched out the door after him.

The kid was already halfway to Wrestler Boy's room.

Slap. Boom. Slap. Boom.

The beat of Wrestler Boy's music alternated with the slap of the bare and running feet.

AKA took off. He had to reach the kid before he reached the other boy's room!

But how could he? The kid was so far ahead!

Swimmer Boy then made his first mistake. He looked back.

Because he looked back, he lost his balance, spun to the side, and slammed into the thick jamb of a nearby doorway. He hit it hard. Very hard. He didn't fall down, but the collision clearly knocked some of the breath out of him.

AKA dashed forward.

The kid turned, righted himself, and resumed his race. But much more slowly this time. The pain of the collision was also causing him to wobble from side to side as he went.

They reached the door of the Wrestler Boy's room at exactly the same moment.

Just in time, AKA grappled the still handcuffed boy from behind and wrenched him to the floor in one fell swoop.

Success!

Yet even as the thought came, one of Swimmer Boy's flailing feet struck Wrestler Boy's door.

Bam!

Before AKA could react, the same foot struck the door a second time.

Bam!

The music inside Wrestler Boy's room didn't go off, but the volume was suddenly lowered.

"What?" a muffled voice called out.

AKA gripped Swimmer Boy under the armpits and began to haul him back down the hall.

Swimmer Boy now made his second mistake.

In an effort to resist, he continued to kick out with his legs. Far from hindering, the motion helped propel the two of them further along. If the kid had simply gone limp, if he had only made all of his 160 pounds a deadweight, AKA might not have made it as far as the communal bathroom so quickly. But he did.

Just as the door to the other boy's room opened and Wrestler Boy called out, "Who's there? Jeff?"

But by then AKA was on the other side of the swinging bathroom door, pulling Swimmer Boy--Jeff, was it?--in after him.

So they were back where they began, he had time to think.

He pulled the still squirming Swimmer Boy past the sinks and toilets, around the corner, and into the large communal shower room.

He had no sooner stopped than Swimmer Boy somehow managed to get to his feet.

He was now attempting to make as much noise as he could. Despite the gag, he was yelling for all he was worth. And yelling pretty loudly at that.

AKA wrestled with the boy's writhing, resisting body.

They struggled over to the tiled wall.

The boy twisted to face AKA and unsuccessfully tried to knee him in the groin.

He had now made his third mistake.

His back was to the wall.

"This is how it felt!" AKA hissed.

Then he grabbed the kid's face and banged the back of the blond head against the hard amber-colored tiles.

He now didn't care if he killed the little son of a bitch this way. To hell with the jockeys!

He banged the head a second, third, then a fourth time.

It was enough.

Swimmer Boy ceased to cry out. He ceased to struggle. He slid down the wall, all lights out.

"Jeff, are you in here? Is this another one of your jokes, man? It's Christmas, not Halloween, you know."

AKA sank into a crouch.

"Jeff?" the voice repeated, closer this time.

AKA silently moved to the opposite wall, the one nearest to the shower room entrance.

Suddenly Swimmer Boy moaned.

So the little fuck wasn't dead.

"Jeff? Is that you? Are you sick or something?"

AKA blindsided Wrestler Boy just as he stepped around the corner into the shower room. Using all of the extra height and weight he had on the kid--and it was a good deal more than he had in relation to Swimmer Boy--AKA clutched and then slammed the far smaller freshman directly into the wall, much the same way he had done his friend, only face-on and harder. Much harder. The kid's nose crunched. His teeth cracked. Or was it his jaw? AKA wasn't sure. The whole situation felt totally unreal, like something out of a movie, one AKA had seen but never thought he'd be acting in.

Wrestler Boy instantly went as limp as a dishrag, then slid down the wall just as Swimmer Boy had. A trail of blood marked the course of his decent.

AKA stepped back, stunned by the turn of events.

He was breathing as hard as if he had just finished running a quarter mile.

He bent over and thought, Now what?

Making a determined effort to clear his mind, as well as the churning in his stomach, he glanced up at Wrestler Boy.

The kid's neck and head were braced against the wall. The rest of him was splayed out on the floor.

Taking a deep breath, AKA straightened up, walked over to the kid, and pulled the head back. The boy's face was a wreck, especially the wide, sexy, cupid's-bow mouth. He wasn't dead, however. He was breathing as if he had the world's worst case of asthma. Blood bubbled up around his shattered nose and lips.

Shit! thought AKA.

Dropping the boy's head, he stepped back, gripped the body by the ankles, and pulled him away from the wall. The head thunked on the tiles.

Now what indeed?

First thing, AKA decided after a tense pause, was to silence Wrestler Boy. The shower room was as far away from things as one could get on this floor, but the kid was making too much noise even so. It might be the end of exam week, and most freshmen may have left for Christmas vacation, but from his earlier surveillance AKA knew there were still a number of boys in the building. Late as it was, any one of them might decide to drop in on Wrestler Boy. Not finding him in his room, the visitor might decide to check out the bathroom. It wasn't likely he'd come all the way back to the shower room. Unless he heard this shit, that is. Well, AKA couldn't allow that. It was also possible that a security guard might drop by as well, even though the odds were against it. How did AKA know? He knew because he knew one of the school's five--count 'em, five!--security guards. The guy AKA knew--his name was Max--had an apartment in the same complex where AKA lived. It was actually while talking to Max Saturday a week ago that AKA decided to play the game here. He'd never done a dorm scene before, but Max had said the end of the semester was the least busy time when it came to security. Fewer students, fewer problems to deal with. It was as simple as that. Which meant that the guards--especially the lazy two-man night-shift guys, according to Max--tended to sit back, put their feet up, and watch late-night TV. Especially on a weeknight. Which this was.

AKA crouched and tugged the blue boxers down Wrestler Boy's thickly muscled legs.

Once they were free, he flapped them in the air to straighten them out, then bent forward and pulled them over Wrestler Boy's head. He made sure the butt side covered the boy's wheezing, bloody face. Then he grasped and twisted the boxers at the back of the boy's head until they were tight against the skull.

"Nothing personal," AKA murmured.

Closing his eyes, he then gripped the boxers, lifted the kid's head, and slammed it face-down onto the tiles. Again. And then again. And then again.

He didn't stop until he felt the forehead crack. At which point, a massive tremor ran the length of Wrestler Boy's body. AKA could feel it. The tremor was immediately followed by a final, ghastly, wheezing gurgle. Then silence. Blessed, peaceful silence.

Except for the sounds coming from Swimmer Boy, that is.

AKA opened his eyes and looked over at him.

The kid had regained consciousness. He had even managed to sit up. From that position he had obviously seen what AKA had just done. The screams of protest coming from the still gagged mouth were the genuine male article. AKA knew because he had heard a fair number of guys scream by now.

"This wouldn't have happened but for you," AKA said as he stood up.

Swimmer Boy shook his head in violent negation of the charge.

"No, it's true. I could have had him, but then I saw you. He'd still be alive if you'd just relaxed and cooperated."

Swimmer Boy dropped his head and groaned a final protest.

"Up."

AKA went around behind the boy and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

The kid reluctantly struggled to his feet.

AKA was pleased to see that there was some swelling at the back of the boy's skull. It marred the perfection of the head a bit, but AKA didn't care. The kid deserved it. He was just lucky it wasn't worse. What happened to Wrestler Boy could have happened to him. AKA was also pleased to see a fairly serious-looking series of scratches on the boy's cock. So AKA had at least done some damage during their struggle on the bed. Thankfully, there was no blood to speak of. Enough blood already! Especially since AKA saw that a pool of the stuff had formed around Wrestler Boy's head and was even now streaming toward one of the nearby shower-room drains.

AKA gripped the back of Swimmer Boy's neck with one hand and his upper left arm with the other.

"You try anything else, you're as dead as he is. Understood? Now let's go back to your room."