For It Was I Who Chose To Start [1b/?]
anonymous
September 18 2011, 08:27:14 UTC
At sixteen, Alfred was in the eleventh grade attending a small town high school and was every inch the good all-American boy stereotype, like he just stepped out of some fifties magazine. Blond haired, blue eyed, the star of every sports team, the teenage heart throb, yet avoiding the dumb jock stereotype by being highly competitive in math and taking Running Start physics classes with Kiku at the local university. Kiku attributed his sudden craving for Physical Education Teacher due to the fact that Alfred, despite being handsome and popular, had gone almost a year without a date.
Dating the popular girls never ended up well, they were put off by his nerdy hobbies. On the other hand, dating a fellow geek also went poorly. The last quiet but sweet girl who was just as much into video games as he was got bullied so badly for daring to date "above her social standing" that she had to transfer schools. That was the last time Alfred had dated, obsessed with the idea that it was one hundred percent his fault for that outcome. Kiku thought of him as one of the weirder breeds of narcissist: as obsessed with his flaws as he was with his triumphs.
Since then it was strictly exploration of his bisexuality with other bicurious too closeted to ever admit it guys. He'd made-out with Kiku too, once, but Alfred deemed it 'too weird' after about a minute and a half (they had known each other since preschool, and were more like brothers sometimes then friends) and Kiku figured that as impressive as Alfred's oral techniques were, he was firmly on the heterosexual side of the fence if he was even in the sexuality-based yard and not enjoying the air-conditioned comforts of the asexuality hut that had endless Mario Kart to focus on.
Which was just fine, because Alfred already had enough sexuality for ten people. Kiku blamed it on his highly religious upbringing interacting poorly with his rebellious nature.
On the note of Alfred's highly detailed masturbation fantasies, he was having difficulty figuring out how to make those more than that. He found himself humming the Billy Ocean song Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car while changing in the locker room purely for the chorus (he didn't know the rest of it). But even when he set himself up for it - showing up early (Ooh, sir, we don't have much time we could get caught any minute now), staying late and dressing slowly (Goodness, bruised knuckles make it hard to button this shirt of mine, looks like it's just the two of us now), performing at top of the class - no matter how hard he tried and how hard he pushed, it seemed like being better than everyone else actually just annoyed Mr. Braginski.
He even managed to break the track record that had remained untouched since the sixties. The student that had placed the last record went on to win the silver for USA in the Olympics, and Alfred still beat it by a decent margin. The rest of the team was cheering but Mr. Braginski just looked ready to pop a vein with how angry he was and told Alfred to hit the showers. What the hell was he not doing right? How the hell was he not a desirable (if underage) piece of ass?
Alfred still went home right after school, threw his bedroom door shut, locked it, and beat off harder than he ever had before.
It was his most basic fantasy that was quickly becoming his favorite. There was no lead up, no elaborate story for how they got there (if nothing else, all of the original plans had long since been shot down). Just Ivan Braginski, built like a fucking brick house, pressing Alfred against the lockers in the gym changing room so hard that he was going to have a bruise on his stomach from one of the locks but he didn't fucking care because he could feel Braginski's hardness through their shorts, rubbing up against his ass. God, he'd tease him at first, let him feel the length, build up the anticipation while murmuring in Alfred's ear. A quiet, low sound meant only for Alfred, close enough that his tongue and lips brushed up against the shell of skin and cartilage - audio sex and Alfred was already hard as a rock from anticipation alone. It didn't matter what Mr. Braginski was saying, sometimes it was in Russian, but it was usually dirty.
Dating the popular girls never ended up well, they were put off by his nerdy hobbies. On the other hand, dating a fellow geek also went poorly. The last quiet but sweet girl who was just as much into video games as he was got bullied so badly for daring to date "above her social standing" that she had to transfer schools. That was the last time Alfred had dated, obsessed with the idea that it was one hundred percent his fault for that outcome. Kiku thought of him as one of the weirder breeds of narcissist: as obsessed with his flaws as he was with his triumphs.
Since then it was strictly exploration of his bisexuality with other bicurious too closeted to ever admit it guys. He'd made-out with Kiku too, once, but Alfred deemed it 'too weird' after about a minute and a half (they had known each other since preschool, and were more like brothers sometimes then friends) and Kiku figured that as impressive as Alfred's oral techniques were, he was firmly on the heterosexual side of the fence if he was even in the sexuality-based yard and not enjoying the air-conditioned comforts of the asexuality hut that had endless Mario Kart to focus on.
Which was just fine, because Alfred already had enough sexuality for ten people. Kiku blamed it on his highly religious upbringing interacting poorly with his rebellious nature.
On the note of Alfred's highly detailed masturbation fantasies, he was having difficulty figuring out how to make those more than that. He found himself humming the Billy Ocean song Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car while changing in the locker room purely for the chorus (he didn't know the rest of it). But even when he set himself up for it - showing up early (Ooh, sir, we don't have much time we could get caught any minute now), staying late and dressing slowly (Goodness, bruised knuckles make it hard to button this shirt of mine, looks like it's just the two of us now), performing at top of the class - no matter how hard he tried and how hard he pushed, it seemed like being better than everyone else actually just annoyed Mr. Braginski.
He even managed to break the track record that had remained untouched since the sixties. The student that had placed the last record went on to win the silver for USA in the Olympics, and Alfred still beat it by a decent margin. The rest of the team was cheering but Mr. Braginski just looked ready to pop a vein with how angry he was and told Alfred to hit the showers. What the hell was he not doing right? How the hell was he not a desirable (if underage) piece of ass?
Alfred still went home right after school, threw his bedroom door shut, locked it, and beat off harder than he ever had before.
It was his most basic fantasy that was quickly becoming his favorite. There was no lead up, no elaborate story for how they got there (if nothing else, all of the original plans had long since been shot down). Just Ivan Braginski, built like a fucking brick house, pressing Alfred against the lockers in the gym changing room so hard that he was going to have a bruise on his stomach from one of the locks but he didn't fucking care because he could feel Braginski's hardness through their shorts, rubbing up against his ass. God, he'd tease him at first, let him feel the length, build up the anticipation while murmuring in Alfred's ear. A quiet, low sound meant only for Alfred, close enough that his tongue and lips brushed up against the shell of skin and cartilage - audio sex and Alfred was already hard as a rock from anticipation alone. It didn't matter what Mr. Braginski was saying, sometimes it was in Russian, but it was usually dirty.
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