Freshman college roommate is luck of the draw. Everybody hopes for someone cool and dreads all the things that can go wrong—obnoxious, smelly, prone to midnight lectures about developing countries, and so on. If you're gay, like me, you hope not only for cool but for hot as well—after all, why not have a cute roommate?
Of course there are lots of why nots, especially if he's straight or too hot to keep your hands off or both. I was easily distracted by guys in high school, and I wasn't particular about focusing on any one attribute. Jim Lowe, the quarterback, had these really delicious broad shoulders that looked so awesome in loose gray gym shirts; he got me instantly hard whenever he walked by. So did Seb Scarducci's perfect ass, so nicely displayed in the thin red sweats he always wore. Todd Chamberlain's pecs were big and natural, as if he hadn't had to work to get 'em; I always had to dress quickly after phys. ed. because of him. And Mark Antonitus's basket was so big in his faded jeans, I always wondered if he was packing two thick Italian sausages in his taut, stretchy Calvins. I came more times thinking about that basket, time after time, night after night (and morning after morning), than I could possibly count.
So having sworn to myself that all the luscious guys in college (and even today, on moving in day, I'd seen at least three guys that had gotten and kept me hard since my arrival, even through hauling heavy boxes up from my car and unpacking stuff into my closet) would not prevent me from getting As in all my courses, I awaited the arrival of my roommate with some trepidation. There was a good chance he would be some kind of distraction, either by being a moron (this was, after all, a state school) or by possessing some pleasant or more-than-pleasant physical attribute for me to fixate on instead of my studies.
The guys I'd seen in my dorm had really gotten me rock hard. It was warm, and several guys were moving stuff in wearing just shorts, tee shirts and sneakers; a couple had pulled off the tee shirts. I was finished putting stuff away, and there was nothing to do. Naturally my thoughts drifted south. I closed my door, telling myself most sincerely that I wasn't going to do this nearly as much now that I was at school. Just this once, I told myself firmly, and that's it for today. Maybe for the week. I honestly believed I was going to be able to stick to that plan.
I fell into my new bed, listening to the springs squeak, and propped my shoulder blades up against the wall at the head of the bed. My jeans were straining against my eager cock. I sighed and popped open the top button.
Of course, that was the moment John showed up.
I heard keys jingling and the lock rattling. Cursing silent I sat up—not without discomfort as my completely engorged cock was pushing against my groin as I raised myself up. I quickly adjusted my loose tee-shirt to try to hide the unhappy power tool humming in my lap.
Door Number One opened, to reveal the fellow freshman the housing office had inflicted on me. As the door swung open, he stood framed in the doorway, backlit by the hallway light. His silhouette as he stood on the threshold told me that he was very tall and very nicely proportioned (not only broad shoulders and a narrow waist, but lats as well), cornfed, with a thatch of blond hair.
It was a second before I noticed the third leg. When I did, I came on the spot, hard and painfully, the cum spraying violently against the fold of my waist. I gasped for air and put a hand down on the bed to steady myself.
He was standing evenly on three (over-sized, sneaker-clad) feet, all in a line; his long and nicely developed torso seemed mounted on these three long legs, and since he still had a narrow waist (it looked like 30 or 32 inches even though he had to be at least six and a half feet tall), the effect was of a normal, reasonably hunky guy wearing a normal pair of jeans that just happened to have a third leg, and he just happened to have something to fill it with.
For a wild moment I wondered if that was a real third leg or, alternatively, the thing I had heard guys call their “third leg.” If it was, since it filled that pants leg, it had to be impossibly huge, and it was presumably soft (or it wouldn't be touching the ground). The thought of a cock the size of a leg made my cock try to come again, only my balls were empty from the last explosion and my cock was left to dry-cum, wracking my balls agonizingly for the last spare drops they had left.
He extinguished this notion by stepping slowly into the room, middle leg first. I stared at it, awed. It was just like the other two, long and well-formed, and it seemed unfair to single it out. He walked forward a few paces, and I could tell the three legs worked naturally as a team. Seldom before had I truly paid attention to the flow of leg muscles as a man walked, but I saw it now, and I was impressed. I was becoming more and more aroused, impossibly, as hormones took over my bloodstream. Blood pounded in my ears and thought became a thing of the past.
My eyes traveled up this unbelievable body, toward the waist, and my conjecture about a phallic third leg was fully laid to rest by what I saw there. His jeans had evidently been expertly sewn together from two pairs of regular jeans. As such he had two flies, at each juncture of limb. I noticed, not without my heart skipping a beat, that each of these flies contained a bulging basket large enough to be provocative if not obscene. My mouth was hanging open; the hard breathing of the last few seconds, I now noticed, had left it completely dry. I swallowed, deliberately--“gulped” may be more accurate—and licked my lips of necessity.
My eyes kept sliding up his body, somewhat reluctantly, for I was hungry for more visual input containing those legs. In almost cursory detail I noticed the taut muscles of his sculpted torso, the long lithe arms and broad shoulders; and then, finally, my eyes hit on the face, and stopped, arrested.
His face was cute—blond cornfed farmboy cute—but that wasn't what stopped me. His dark blue eyes were filled with anxiety and fear.
Later John told me that he had never left home before. His widowed mom, not ashamed of him so much as passionately protective, had kept him sheltered and out of sight on their farm in the country. He'd grown up happy, well cared for, but desolately lonely—especially after he'd discovered physical needs which he was able to share only with himself. He'd channeled his energies and frustration into labor—thus the work-sculpted body I'd been impressed by—but as his teen years passed he knew he had to be with other people, that he had to be with other men. He'd applied to college secretly, taken the college boards secretly, accepted a scholarship secretly, and left secretly, in the bright midmorning while his mom was out back. A day's drive in his dead father's pickup truck (after having only ever driven from barn down to the back forty and back) had brought him here. He had only the clothes he was wearing and a hundred and forty bucks in his wallet.
All that way his fear had grown. He'd known growing up that he was different without it meaning much to him; his world was the farm. But in his heart he'd hoped along the way to see someone like him, and as the miles passed, full of two-legged men, he had realized that he might be not just different but “different,”--weird, abnormal, like the malformed cow he'd had to put down when he was 11. He'd kept going out of momentum, or out of sheer cussedness, but he was starting to think he'd made a terrible, terrible mistake leaving the farm and his mother's protection. He'd been in the car all that time, eating fast food drive through, eventually afraid to get out even to take a piss. By the time he got to school he was drowning in fear, exhausted, and stunned by how cosmically alone he was and how far he was from anything he knew.
He stayed in the truck, unable to move, paralyzed by dread, fighting with himself. He knew, deep down, that he couldn't go back home and hide for the rest of his life; so he told himself, very reasonably, that it was either get out, and join the world, or rot in his truck. He had to tell himself this a few times, but eventually it got him out of the truck—that, and a very practical need to pee. He'd opened the truck door, gotten out, and slowly walked in the gathering dusk across the deserted parking lot, into the dorm, up the stairs, to his dorm room—my dorm room. Our dorm room.
And here he was. I was the first stranger who had ever seen him, really seen him. He was in my hands, and he was petrified, and as vulnerable as a newborn.
I didn't know all of this at the time. He told me his long story in the ensuing days, over Cokes I'd gotten from the vending machine downstairs, in a quiet voice, close to my ear. Yet somehow I knew some of it, or sensed some of it.
My own mind was blank, suffused as it was with rapture. My heart was pounding, and my cock—my entire body—was impossibly erect with lust, desire, and feeling beyond that, transcending that, feelings for which I had no name, aching, gnawing sensations deep in my soul that scared me and electrified me. Without thinking I stood and moved toward him, revealing as I did so the wet stain on my jeans, big enough to be a spilled Coke; I'm not sure if he noticed, but I saw hope rise in his eyes. He watched me, intently.
I closed the gap between us. In a simple motion I wrapped my arms around him, pressing myself against him.
He was quivering with suppressed emotions. A half a heartbeat passed, and then suddenly he gathered me up in his strong arms, lifting me off the floor in his excitement. I raised my head and without knowledge of how it started we were kissing. His lips were strong and sweet, and he tasted damn good, strong and masculine, like fresh coffee on a cold morning. I squeezed my legs against his, and they were jostling mine, flexing and rubbing against mine and each other, and I felt his hard cocks swelling against my hip and as we kissed and hugged and rubbed suddenly I started to cum again, a fresh new load, hot as frying oil, and he moaned as we kissed and without warning he exploded too, coming violently, explosively, like he'd never done it before, holding me tighter than I'd ever been held, like I would never be let go; and that was ecstasy to me.