Visiting Harvard

(Part 1 from 1)

My name is Justin, and what I am about to tell you is completely true. I know you don't believe me--and you definitely won't after you read my story--but I'm not lying here.

About me--I'm a rising sophomore at Cornell, an Ivy League school in NY state. I'm very attractive, and people often tell me I should try my hand at being a model. Someday I might follow their advice. I have the physique of a jock. I was on Varsity track in high school, and I go to the gym often in college. I'm about six feet tall, white, brunette hair, blue eyes, and although I'm not hairy, I usually have a little 5 o'clock shadow going on my face. I think it makes me look more like an intellectual.

I have a friend from high school at Harvard, and about a month ago I decided to head up to Boston and pay him a visit. The kid is Indian, super smart, and a typical overachiever, Harvard-style. I have to admit, he is a little lacking in the social skills department, but, hey he's at Harvard, so it's excusable. Anyway, this story has nothing to do with my Indian friend, so I'm going to move on now.

I arrived in Cambridge on a Friday afternoon. I walked into Harvard Yard, whipped out my cell, and gave my friend a ring. He didn't answer. I was kind of annoyed, because I told him I was coming. I sat down by this huge tree and tried calling him again. Again, no answer. I decided to poke around Harvard a bit, since I had nothing better to do. I've never been a big fan of the school. I went to a school that put a bunch of kids in Harvard each year, so I new the type that went there--actually there were two types: 1)Uber-genius, who can't even hold a five minute conversation with a normal person, or 2)Pretentious asses, with sticks so far up their asses they can barely even walk. I don't mind the geniuses--in fact, I'm happy for them, being at a place like Harvard. It's the people with the sticks up their asses that make me want to vomit. Most of them aren't even smart. I can't stand them.

As I was meandering through "the Yard," I spotted a tour group. I always got a kick out of Ivy League tour groups (we have many at Cornell). Almost all of the kids in the tours are of the second type I mentioned above. It's a giant stick-up-your-ass parade. I could hear the tour guide's nasally voice rambling on about how big Harvard's library is (who goes to the library now that we have Google?). I scanned the tour group, seeing the usual, butt-ugly subjects. I've always wondered why "high achievers" always look like they just got off the ugly-train. Just as this thought was going through my head, my eyes suddenly locked on something that looked like it definitely did not belong on that tour.

It was a guy, standing a few yards apart from the rest of the tour. When I saw him, my eyes widened. He was tall, 6' by the looks of it. He looked a bit foreign, maybe from Sweden or Norway. He had blonde hair, and blue eyes, and he was wearing a pair of old-looking blue jeans that clung to his tight little ass. He had an incredible upper body. I could see his pecs clearly through his tight Polo shirt. This can't be a prospective student, I said to myself.

The tour group moved on. As this guy turned to walk away, I made the spur of the moment decision to follow. I had nothing better to do. I sped up so that I was walking right next to this guy.

As soon as I got next to him, he looked at me, and when I caught his eyes, I saw them widen just a bit. Then, as if he couldn't control himself, his eyes dropped, looking at my chest, legs, and then at my package for a millisecond. It was the most un-subtle check-out I've ever recieved. He knew I saw him do it, but he didn't even look ashamed.

"I'm Justin," I said with a smile, extending my hand.
"Michael," he replied.

We chatted as the tour moved forward. Michael was from Exeter, a boarding school in New England, and he was obviously the very definition of the Harvard-wannabes I love to hate. His Dad was a Harvard alum. Michael walked and talked like any of the other asses in the group, and I would've left then and there if he hadn't been so bangin hot. Eventually our conversation died, and I continued tagging the group just so I could watch Michael. Like I said, I had nothing better to do.

The tour guide took us into the dining hall. It was incredible, and it looked like the dining hall in the Harry Potter movies. The dumb parents ooohed and aaaahed it, and the tour guide rattled off some crap. After he was done, he led the tour outside. I made to follow, but just then I felt someone tug on my shoulder. It was Michael.

He didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything. We just stood in that dining hall as the sounds of the tour group faded. The, he spoke.

"You were looking at me, weren't you?" He said. His voice, like the rest of his people, was nasally.
"Yeah," I said smoothly, "But I wasn't the only one looking..."
He smirked, but it was the hottest smirk I've ever seen.

We stood in silence for a few moments. Then I walked to the end of one of the tables. Michael followed.

We were the last tour of the day to come through (thanks to our God-awful, rambling tour guide), so I knew that we had the hall to least until students or staff came for the next meal. I didn't know when that would be.

At the table, Michael moved close to me, and we stood, our chests touching each other, our hands at our sides. At my crotch, I could feel the bulge of something hard through his jeans. We looked into each others eyes for several moments, then, in a single movement, we grabbed each other, and our mouths met furiously in a hot kiss. His tongue slid into my warm mouth, and I returned the favor. I grabbed his ass with my hands and rubbed it longingly, feeling my cock harden almost immediately.

He responded by moving his hand down, and massaging both of our cocks together. I let out a soft moan. Then I grabbed for his shirt, pulling the Polo over his head and exposing his bare chest. I let out a gasp--he was better looking than I was, and his toned pecs were rising and falling with his breathless excitement. He pulled off my shirt, and seemed to have a similar reaction. Before he could think, however, I lunged forward and began to lick his nipples. They were already hard. I sucked them feverishly, leaving them both wet as I moved down, licking his chest, belly button, and finally reaching the top of his jeans.

He took the initiative to undo his jeans, and dropped them to the floor. What remained was pure hotness--tight, white Tommy boxer-briefs, the outline of his stiff member throbbing underneath. I looked up into his eyes, and I knew what he wanted me to do. I sat him on on the table, and buried my face into the fabric, licking, softly biting, and massaging his crotch. He moaned uncontrollably. I removed the boxer-briefs, and as the fabric was pulled away from his cock, the cock sprang up and bounced against his chest. I devoured it in one motion.

At this point his moans were getting so loud that they were starting to echo, and for a fleeting moment i thought someone might hear. We didn't have much time. I began to blow him even more frantically, rubbing my lips up and down his shaft, licking his balls until they glistened with my saliva, and finally deepthroating him with everything I had. He was laying back now, holding my hair with both hands and driving my head onto his cock. Within five minutes, he couldn't take it anymore, and with a loud scream, he came right into my mouth. I almost choked, and as I withdrew, he came again, all over my face and neck. He was breathing hard.

I got up onto the table, laying over him. Our mouths met and I let him taste his own sweet cum. He massaged the hot liquid on my neck into my skin, like some sort of oil-massage. Then, in a sudden moment, he stopped, and removed my hand from his crotch were I was fondling his balls. He pushed me upright, but he remained laying face-up on the edge of the table. He looked at me, and I knew what to do. Removing my jeans and my own Tommy boxer briefs, my cock was now throbbing painfully. I looked at Michael's hot ass, the one I'd been eyeing all day, and I almost came right there.

We didn't have a condom or any lube. I figured it was probably safe with Michael, though, him being such a yuppie. I wiped his cum off my face, and used that to lubricate my hard cock. Needless to say, there was plenty of lube.

I stood right in front of Michael's ass, and he raised his legs, setting them on my shoulders. I played with my cock for a few moments, rubbing it against his ass crack and teasing him by massaging his crack with my hand.

Finally, he'd had enough. "Do it!!" he screamed, the sound reverberating on the beams above. I needed no other affirmation--I plunged my cock into his little ass. It was the tighest ass I've ever felt, and I had to work not to blow right off the bat. I grabbed his legs and pumped my hips, fucking the hell out of that hot Harvard wannabe, driving my throbbing member in and out of his tight hole. He was now screaming at the top of his lungs. I was too.

I leaned my body over him, letting his legs wrap around my waist. I put my hand on his six pack, feeling it tighten each time I thrusted into him. I put my other hand on his pec, grabbing it forefully. He grabbed my face and drove his tongue into my mouth, screaming in between kisses.

Our bodies were by this time coated in a thin film of sweat. I knew that I couldn't hold it any longer. I knew that with the noise that we were making, we would be surely caught at any moment. But I didn't care. All I cared about was my cock, thrusting in and out of Michael's ass; the hot stud may have acted like he had a stick up his ass, but now he really did--my stick, and we both were loving it.

I felt the hot sperm building in my testicles and along my shaft, but I held back, wanting the moment to last just a few milliseconds longer. I held back so hard that it hurt. Then, I couldn't hold it any longer, and I came so forcibly that I pushed Michael forward a few inches on the table, spraying hot cum deep into him, and then my cock slipped out, and I sprayed all over the outside of his ass, all over Harvard's table, and then, as I threw myself over Michael's body, I came one final time on his chest. We locked in a kiss, and the hot, sticky liquid pressed against both of us.

As we laid there, continuing to make out, I could hear footsteps coming in the distance, and the sound of voices. We both jumped up and hurried to get on our clothes. We dashed out of there, leaving a pile of my own cum sitting on the table. We were outside the doors of the hall before anyone saw us.

Outside it was sunny and the birds were chirping and the Uber-nerds and pretentious bastards were walking around Harvard. I saw none of it though, only Michael. We didn't need to say anything, not even goodbye. Just the look in each other's eyes said enough. Having put on our clothes so fast, each of us had small semen-stains showing through our clothes in different spots, but we didn't care. The bastard was smiling at me, and I smiled back. We both waved, and I saw him check me out one last time. As he walked away, I noticed that he looked different--not quite so asshole-ish. Maybe the metaphorical stick was gone...

I didn't have much time to think, because at that very second my cellphone rang, and it was my Indian friend. Sorry, he said, he was in the Library and had his phone on silent, blah blah. Meet up at the Yard? Sure, I said.

The End

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