A gay sex stories: Geoff and Chet Ch. 12 Chapter 12 Relocation to Houston
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction, part of a multi-chapter, two part novella. Copyright, 2023. All characters portrayed in sexual situations are over 18. The chapters in Part I are told almost entirely from Geoff’s POV and cover the period until the move to Houston and the commencement of the new school year. BD
During the night, both of us had shifted restlessly. And when I awoke, Chet was spooning me. He had wrapped one arm possessively around my waist. I had been pulled into his muscular chest and my ass had settled into his thick thighs—which meant of course that his stiff morning pole was lodged firmly and insistently at my entrance. Not such a bad wake up. I shifted a bit and he dreamily dropped his hands to my cock and fisted it, leveraging himself between my cheeks.
And so, we didn’t get off to a quick start to Houston. His eyelids rose sleepily and I reached behind me with lube on both my ass and his cock and he pushed in. He was really hard and found my sensitive nut immediately. He poked it a few times, then slid the corona over it rubbing it and me to the edge. God, in just a few days, he had become expert at turning me into his sex slave. It didn’t take long. His snake slithered in and out, repeatedly hitting my p-spot. We stroked in leisurely pleasure for a few minutes, as he nibbled on my ear lobes and pinched my erect nipples, finally building to a slow intense climax.
We both ejaculated—him into my ass, me into his fist—it was becoming commonplace for us to cum simultaneously. “Time to rise and shine, lover.” He pulled me tight, kissed my neck just under my earlobe and began to roll away. We got up without further comment, cleaned up quickly, dressed in jeans and tees and headed in for breakfast—I am sure, smelling like new sex. We had quick breakfasts. Farewells were said—again with smiles all around. And we were on the road by 9 or so. About 4 hours to Houston. Of course, it was a hot and humid day. The aromas of our earlier sex soon filled the cab—we should have taken the time to shower, both of us obviously re-horning. This trip was going to seem longer than normal. We had at least four hours of aromatic foreplay before round two would be possible at the condo in Houston.
To distract us, Chet asked, “Tell me again where the condo is exactly.”
“Museum Towers is on University, a few blocks from Rice Stadium and about the same distance to the Museum of Modern Art. The med school is located on the campus of Hospital Complex across the park—so everything is within a few blocks. I should be able to walk to school. You may remember the two tall green glass and white limestone towers on the north side; probably 15 years old by now. Each tower is a separate condo with about 30 units, sharing a gym, pool and some common areas. Mom bought the condo before it was even built and had it finished to her taste at that time. Now she thinks it is dated and wants one in the post-modern towers being built near Galleria. She could have remodeled—but the classy part of Houston is moving toward Galleria. She and Dad had just bought the ranch and she felt she might need some “urban” in her life. Certainly, she subscribes to all the theories of shopping therapy and gets to Houston frequently to shop. It’s one of her favorite hobbies. Her Foundation has an office there. Galleria, anchored by NM and Saks, is only a few miles away and all of them provide multiple opportunities to overpay for anything. The condo’s still practically new and unused.”
“I get the picture. Have you ever lived there?”
“No. Just a few visits from time to time. But I was there two weeks ago with Mom to handle some preliminary med school registrations and buy books. We also delivered most of my clothes, and she supervised the packing of hers for storage and ultimate delivery to her new place. The condo may be a bit more over the top in décor than I would have chosen, but it’s well located and free.”
“It does seem to be in a convenient place for a doctor or professor if your Mom decides to sell. But, they seemed to suggest earlier that it’s yours. The Rice athletic complex is next to the field, and Wheeler, the jock dorm, is just beyond that. So it’s pretty close for me as well.”
“I could certainly live in worse places. Yeah, their reference to my condo yesterday was a surprise. How about you? Are you in the same room as last year?”
“Yes, although they did use it for others for summer school. Theoretically, they should be delivering my rolling wardrobe to the room on Monday. That has most of my stuff which I stored for the summer. I completed senior registration last spring, so I don’t have any administrative requirements—although I may change a class if my cycling schedule requires. Classes don’t start for another week, but most athletes report early for training. Some of the teams have been there for two weeks already. We start official training Monday.”
“So tell me about how the cycling works at Rice.”
“Cycling is different almost everywhere. There is very little standardization. Like most schools, Rice only participates in two forms of racing: stadium racing and team cycling or road racing. And they do that through a cycling club which is only partially supported by the university. I really don’t know why it’s a club rather than a full University sponsored sport—maybe a wealthy alum insisted it be this way. It obviously is somewhat of an accident of history.”
“Stadium racing is as it implies—successive heats of a limited number of riders in a stadium—ideally with at least a mile oval, but sometimes less, elimination rounds, until one rider emerges as the fastest. It really isn’t a team sport so much as an individual event, but individual scores are added in various ways to declare a team victory. It’s not my favorite; round and round a short track, sometimes indoors. And the distances are short, favoring sprinters. We do that in the winter-spring semester—part of a short eight week season. It’s not my favorite.”
“Rice also participates in a southeastern conference which sponsors single day road races of about 100 miles, sometimes with staggered starts, with 2 to 4 teams competing in each race. Ten meets in the fall, at least in our league. Each team must compete in at least eight races each season, but most participate in more. If you do less than eight, you are not in league champion competition; if you do more than eight, you can drop your longest times. This is the pattern for our conference. But, team cycling is a fairly new sport in the US and conferences set their rules which are in constant flux. Similar rules, but a different format, make up the Olympic version. Road racing involves various grades, road conditions and turns. That’s my thing.”
“Internationally the UCI sponsors world cycling competitions: typically one day races of about 200 miles. Currently there are about 20 international teams that compete. These are the professionals. The king of world cycling is a multi-day race. There are several. The Tour de France, for example is about 2000 miles, or about 200 miles per day for 21 days spread over 23 days.. Recently, the organizers have been starting the race near another world capital and finishing in France. There are others of longer or shorter length. Nothing like that in the States, although the US does field a teams in the UCI and for the Tour de France.. There are other forms: part of a triathlon, off road, motor cross, arena, etc.”
“There are about 20 teams in our conference—it changes from year to year. Each race has two winners: the fastest single racer and the team with the best average time. But, even the single racer prize is a team event really. Let me explain. Riding at the front of the pack uses much more energy than being in the pack, maybe 25% more at the fastest speeds. So teams choose their best rider and “slot” him (or her) to preserve energy, taking turns leading. Some strategic blocking is also involved although the rules are pretty strict about fouling—touching another cycle or cyclist. Near the end of the race, the wedge opens and the best rider emerges from the pack and sprints to a finish. Even the best racer depends on his teammates and their willingness to work with him. This is what makes it a team sport. You could compare it to any team sport where members set up a kicker, or a passer, or even a runner—who ultimately scores the points. But the wedge requires speed that is only slightly less than the lead.”
“Annual champs are chosen from the individual race statistics.”
“A team can make or break you. Times within the team are very close and the fastest rider is challenged all the time to maintain a torrid speed—but not so much that he loses his support.”
“In our conference, each team has eight riders. The team can have up to four alternates. Then there are the mechanics and logistical supporters. And around all of that you have the groupies. Last year, we had about 75 to 100 at each race. They get 12-15 million at the Tour de France, not counting couch viewers. Last year our team placed second in the conference and my average time was less than .9 second from the best—averaging just over 25 mph. Most of the races are outside of Houston. In fact, traffic in Houston is such that our team is at a disadvantage—we rarely get home course advantage and have to travel to Memorial Park for team practice. So we travel to practice as a team, and almost every Saturday, and often have to stay over, bunking together to save money. We don’t get the financial support that some teams do.”
“I think I have a better sense now. In many ways it’s different from swimming where only a small part of swimming could be considered team—the relays. Even there the team is really just four individual performances. I am beginning to understand how important your rep with your team members is to you. And, perhaps I am seeing the basis for the homophobia. They don’t want anyone upsetting the macho camaraderie on the trips. It could also explain the tolerance, maybe even promotion, of the groupie system.”
We drove a few more miles through fairly boring prairie, not really near Houston yet, but we were out of the hill country. It was getting warmer and more humid and we could see the haze in the south.
“Can I think out loud a bit about you and the condo?” Without waiting for an answer, I continued, “Would moving to the condo raise homosexual questions for you? I don’t think so. I guess some of your teammates have roommates and some may even live off campus with roommates. In fact, if we spend a lot to time together and we’re not roommates or related, that could result in some questions.”
“We know the condo is just as convenient to class and the athletic facilities as the jock dorm. And it’s probably more conducive to scholarship.”
“So it must come down to money. Maybe Rice will allow you to use some of the allocation for off campus housing. If they refuse, perhaps we can convince them to drop the “work” requirement of your work-study—which I am guessing is suspended during the cycling season anyway. The condo doesn’t cost me anything. You could continue with the jock cafeteria, or could share food costs with me.”
“I understand everything you’re saying Geoff. And I have to say that I agree. But, let me suggest a few other considerations that you conveniently omitted.”
“We’ve been together for exactly seven days now. We barely know each other. Our sex is better than I could ever have expected. We’re ready to jump each other any day all day. I can see you’re hard even now. I could be ready to chuck it all and live in this Garden of Eden forever—but life is going to hit us right between the eyes—in just a few hours”
“We don’t know if we are even compatible as roommates, let alone full mates. I’m a pretty independent guy—used to setting my own pace, doing my own thing, eating when I want, working out in the middle of the night if the gym calls. I have a tough year coming up and I know I’m going to be tired, sometimes angry, and often a bitch to live with. And you probably have an academic year that is even tougher. I’m told that first year med claims 60 hours per week of your time—plus studying. I’ve never seen you angry—or lose your temper—or curse anything or anyone. You can’t be that perfect. And then there’s the control issue—if I’m dependent on you for housing, how could I really expect to be independent? Are you really my Angel? What do you think your folks would say? What happens if it doesn’t work? Where do I go—assuming I’ve burned my bridges? You have the condo and a reliable support network. I don’t.”
“I can tell you now. I do get angry. And I have a tendency to depression. I know I’m not easy to live with then. But you have made me so happy. I have been in the state of euphoria—as well as the state of erection—since we met. You are really good for me, Chet. When we’re together, my endorphins flow as well as my testosterone. I really like you as a friend. And I’m in total lust with your body. And by the way, I think living with my bitch wouldn’t be such a hardship. Wait until you see the size of the condo. It will make quite an acceptable love nest.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I thought we had agreed. I live in the jock dorm—which means I am in my room most nights, and alone. There is no way I could risk having you there. Most doors are open all the time—and when they are closed, it’s usually because a young lady is visiting. We get together discretely at the condo when possible—maybe I could store my bikes at your garage. I always need to do something like that anyway. We can work out together a few times a week. Weekends without meets can be together. And we wait and see how this develops.”
There was silence for miles.
“Chet, I’ll take you on any terms. You call the shots. But at least wait until we get to the condo. We can have this discussion Sunday night.”
“Don’t count on me changing my mind.”
“By the way, how well do you know the cycle team? Do most of them take rooms in the jock dorm?”
“I of course know all of them, but we don’t hang too much together except when riding or training—about a dozen hours per week. I’m pretty sure all of them are hetero. I don’t think any of them will be in the dorm this year. Allocations are made by Rice, based on requests by coaches. There are a limited number of rooms and cycling just doesn’t rank in the bigger athletic picture. I was lucky because I think I am the only athlete-scholar on the team. Except for a few times a week, most of our training is done individually. We all post our training and times on the club website every day which is monitored by the coaching staff. It’s all on the honor system since none of us live or train together most of the time.”
“So that means you don’t really know most of the guys in the dorm?”
“Very few, except by first name and perhaps sport. And in fact with practice, training and classes, we see each other mostly at meals. And teams tend to eat together. I usually see my team members only at dinner since we all have different majors and schedules. Otherwise, I’m solo.”
“Interesting.”
Nearing the outskirts of “greater” Houston, we stopped for a quick fast food lunch just off the Outer Loop. Then drove to the southwest side of center city where Rice, the Museums and the Med Center were all located.
We drove by the jock dorm which was, as expected, still closed. Signs on the doors reminded callers that opening was Monday at 8 a.m. No access before then. I guess they were putting the other early arrival athletes elsewhere. So, we went to the condo. I drove into the garage, using the remote to raise the metal gate and then immediately again to open the doors to a two car air-conditioned garage. “This will be perfect for bike storage—and just over there is an access door to the street. The building has a few runners, mostly younger docs, and the park is across the street.”
“How much of this can we move up to the condo?”
“Let’s just take a little for now.” Each of us grabbed our duffels and headed for the elevator. Access, of course, was protected by a card key. I handed one to Chet.
“Be careful. The garage, elevators and halls are all under remote monitored closed-circuit video—so no PDA’s. There is a full time security concierge on duty.” The elevator opened directly into the condo which was dark. I walked in, flipped on a hall light and then used a wall-remote to raise many of the window shades—opening the apartment (one of two on each floor) to a stunning 14th floor view of the park with the Science Museum in the distance. Everything was white or chrome—marble floors, leather sofas and chairs, dining and end tables in chrome and glass. Large canvasses of abstract art in mostly blues and greens graced some walls. And there were many strategically placed floor to ceiling mirrors. It was dazzlingly bright. We needed sunglasses.
“I think you mentioned something about exhibitionism. Welcome home, my exhibitionist. Enjoy!”
The bedrooms were split, one on each side. We walked to the owners’ suite to find a massive king, draped all in silk. “The silk is a bit much. In fact, the whole place looks like a set for a Hollywood romcom or a porn set.” Beyond were walk in closets and an enormous bath with a shower which duplicated my own at home. (Mom had liked it and replicated twice for both Matt and me at the ranch.) The walls were mostly covered in floor to ceiling mirrors like the living room. Modern crystal chandeliers hung in the coffered ceilings. I realized how mind-boggling this display must be. We walked to the other side where the guest bedroom, nearly as large, was similarly decorated sans the mirrors. It had an alcove set up as an office and a large en suite bath. The view was nice, but not as impressive.
“I’m not sure I could be comfortable here. It really is over the top.”
“If you join me, I promise we can make changes.”
He walked around a bit, touching various things—although except for a bit of modern sculpture, the condo was really very minimalist and masculine. Central Market had stocked the fridge and pantry—so we really could estivate for a few days.
“Enough gawking. It’s been nearly a day since we showered and I for one feel a bit ripe. We headed back to the owners’. Let me peel those clothes off you. This will be a no clothing zone for the next two days.”
We weren’t wearing much and were nude in seconds. I reached over, rolled up the embroidered silk cover and carried it to the closet. Then I headed to the shower. He was turning slowly in the center of the room, staring at us in the mirrors that surrounded the room. I realized that it must feel like a large communal bathhouse with naked guys all around. This was the stuff of orgy fantasies. I wonder if there is a market for 360 orgy cinema?
“I can’t believe this. I didn’t realize we were going to have an audience.” It really was overwhelming—two good looking, erect, endowed, naked guys reflected nearly a dozen times around the room. Chet was obviously trying out various poses, emulating the models in the muscle magazines. There were dicks everywhere all in semi- erection. I guess he was pleased.
“They are going to love watching us, I can pretty much guaranty. We’ll be inspirational.”
“I think we can enjoy the show as well.” I added as I grabbed his dick to pull him into the shower. We did our favorite—wash each other, with lots of bubbles, lots of rubbing and stroking, lots of squeezing, and lots of embracing.
The afternoon was an orgy—can you call two person sex with a dozen onlookers an orgy? I took him and he took me as we watched each other in the various mirrors. There was even a large mirror over the bed. It was an extra turn-on as you lubed, normally a pretty mundane prequel. And to watch as you penetrated or were penetrated—from various angles. I particularly liked it when he climbed on top of me, I spread his thighs so his penis bounced on my abs and reached back to lube his entrance which raised his cock into the air—all reflected in the mirror above us. It was like making love while watching another beautiful couple do so at the same time. Chet was right; we were starring in porn video. We tried a few different lubes and a few new positions, checking ourselves like models in the various poses. We even took selfies and a video—absolutely for private use only. This was five star porn quality stuff.
One particular position stands out. Chet had never even heard of the spider—which is perhaps a favorite of a back-stroker like me: I stretched him out on his back and spread-eagled his arms and extended his legs, placing the bottoms of his feet on the mattress for hip leverage. I then perched over him, using my long strong arms and legs to prop myself above him as he thrust with powerful thighs up into my ass, causing my dick to wave in the breeze—all seen live and in color in the overhead mirror. Arms and legs stuck out in all directions. And my dick stood straight and tall. It reminded me of that final scene on the barricades in Les Mis—except it was my dick, not the Tricouleur waving away. Each thrust hit the prostate from a new angle. Each plummet stretched my sheath as it had never been stretched before. Echoes of Star Trek! We definitely needed music.
Finally, my arms gave out and I collapsed into his squirming, sweaty embrace which gave new meaning to the words “deep penetration.” He absolutely impaled me to his root. He grabbed my hips and held me hard to his manhood as he used his hips to scrape my love spot with his long hard dick as he continued to launch his hips from the bed. My darkness contrasted with his lighter tan on the brilliant white sheets creating a chiascuro to rival the best erotic painters. My cyclist continued to pump with enough strength to actually push his and my weight up off the mattress while my weight caused him to go deep with each downstroke. This was powerful stuff. I called out, “I’m really cumming.” He grabbed my cock, held it aloft, and shot hard into me, pushing me up like a volcano. I erupted, shooting high into the air above us and sprinkling us liberally with cum—his or mine? Was he shooting through me? Or just permeating my insides with his essence? And this all meant that although I was on top, he was in control—complete control. I was still trying to dispel any dependence notions that he harbored. We’ll try this one again, soon.
My God, it’s good to be a horny young 20 something. I rolled off and he covered me with his warm, moist body. His head dropped down to my neck; he growled, and nipped me below the ear, leaving his mark.
A few minutes later we were ready to go again.
We got up as the sun set. Our refractory time was lengthening beyond an hour. We were both whipped. I got some wine, fruit and cheese, and we reclined on the leather sofa—he in my long arms, as we looked out into the Houston skyline with lights twinkling in the humid night. I could sure imagine many nights like this after long days of classes, labs and studying. Not as good as the ranch, but with Chet in my arms, a much better total experience. It’s a paradox that he brings me down from anxiety and up from my depression. I really need this guy. It’s gone beyond desire to need.
“Are you hungry? I’m sure we can find something in the fridge.” “Not really, but I think we have worked out today to justify almost anything.”
We made deli sandwiches, went for an evening walk in the park, and retired very early, exhausted after a long day of exertion. I think this is what a honeymoon can be at its best, but we sort of jumped the cart before the horse.
We woke Sunday with him spooning me and still semi-erect in my hole. “What the fuck?” Then, I remembered that we had awakened during the night and I had persuaded him to perform his Savannah slide. I had climaxed and fell back to sleep. He apparently had not and thus his long semi-soft snake was still buried in my burrow. When I started to move, he quickly engorged. The sleeping giant was awakening. He pulled me to him, stroked only a few times, and made a seed deposit in the Garden of Eden. The rest of the day was largely a repeat of Saturday—after Chet did a morning ride and we tried out the gym and the pool.
Late in the day, we showered and headed for our last night in the king. Somehow, the walk almost felt like one to the gallows. But dammit, this was going to be good.
We writhed into each others arms. I took him doggy style after long foreplay. I slipped in deeply, brought him to orgasm with long slow strokes and then fell on his body—stretching out to envelop and trap him. My favorite. Then, after a little while, he spooned me, pushed me on my side, spread my legs with his powerful thighs, and slipped in, southern style, with finesse and an ease which caused me to shiver. His favorite.
We showered again, made a quick dinner and then sat down to tackle the inevitable issues of our different schedules. It was impossible. He had the training and meet schedule, but not his final class schedule. My own would not be available until Tuesday. “Let’s try to find a few late afternoons for workouts. I know you’ve got ten weekends booked before the end of the year, but that leaves about six or seven for us. Would you consider coming home with me for Thanksgiving? Keep clothes in the spare bedroom—that is officially your room when you need quiet time for study–for workouts and the occasional overnight. Store your bikes in the garage. So other “chance encounters” might occur. We can regroup after next weekend when I have my schedule.” We were both going to be working essentially full time jobs. Life was intruding. I was going back to being a bachelor again and just starting on what would be my medical life. He wasn’t moving in, but dammit, I was going to do my best to anchor him here.
Then, I tried to convince myself that he would move in soon—so I didn’t try to insist on more. It must be on his terms. I think he was beginning to think that dorm life wasn’t a necessity to team esprit—particularly since none of his teammates would be there. I was changing, I think. Perhaps a little less possessive. He in turn was becoming more aggressive as he came to terms with my wealth and the lifestyle it had brought us. And hopefully he will soon conclude that he is my partner. He’s got to see that we both take and receive, the foundation of any relationship. Let’s see how this works. We still don’t know how the Amazon deal will work. So many unanswered questions. But I was determined to have him in my life—and I was beginning to think in terms of forever.
The next part of our lives was about to begin. The weekend had placed us on a high. But, I looked at him in our bed with a melancholy outlook, anticipating storms on the horizon—or maybe worse: nothing. Just falling apart without deliberate intention because we were preoccupied with our lives. There would be challenges, but I wasn’t going to allow us to drift into something less that a completely fulfilling union—despite his obstinate independence.