College Subterranean Soiree for Wulf

Wulf was not the kind of person easily overlooked. Broad shouldered and thick, standing at what I figured to be about 6'3" or so, he couldn't be considered one of the classic "greek gods" so readily cliched into the ideal of male beauty in the world today. Wulf was nothing like that. He looked more like a professional wrestler or a nice sized middle-of-the-country corn-fed football player. But the skin-tight wifebeater hugging his chest through the open front of his hoodie revealed he wasn't that at all. Wulf was well muscled and big, but there didn't appear to be an ounce of fat on him -- his broad shoulders tapered into a wasp-like waist which led to equally tight jeans that revealed ... the train arrived and I gathered by book-bag and coat and rushed aboard.

It was late, near midnight, and I'd just left the library. There were very few people on the subway, so I took a seat right next to the door. My "Restoration Drama" professor had assigned a play for us to read for class tomorrow and I'd just finished perusing material he had put on reserve to "facilitate the discussion." I was only halfway through the play itself and needed to be done with it by morning in order to hold my own in the class discussion at noon, so I picked up the script.

The train lurched forward and the lights flickered. I reached over to grab a bar to steady myself and scanned the car. A true New Yorker knows you immediately scan the subway car you're in looking for two types: the psychos and the eye candy. I didn't have to look for the eye candy -- he was sitting directly across from me in seats thankfully turned in the direction the train was moving and not facing me. I knew where he was, so I did a quick searched for the inevitable psychos and then scanned every square inch of his body as quickly as I could.

His head lolled across the back of the seat, and his eyes were closed. He didn't appear to be paying any attention to me or anything in particular, but because the car we were in was almost empty, I figured the fact that he chose to sit directly across from me wasn't a coincidence. Had he seen me checking him out earlier? I'd have to be a bit more discreet. I returned my attention to the play, but found myself reading the same sentence over and over again, utterly distracted. After about five minutes of this, Wulf yawned loudly and made an obvious show of stretching out across his seat, legs spread wide, boots planted firmly on the floor. He folded his muscular arms behind his head, stretching his sleeveless hoodie wide open to reveal a forest of hair in his pits. A minute or so later, he crossed his arms in front of him and flexed his forearms, the twirl of muscle becoming obvious as he adjusted his hands.

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I'd already felt a stirring when I first saw him; what I was looking at now got me half hard. What had only been shadows of impressions playing across his masculine physique when I saw him coming down the stairs was laying in front of me in bas-relief now. Even through the wifebeater, I could count each of the eight abs poking out of the flat valley that rested in the shadow of his mountainous pecs at the peaks of each sat solid, eraser-sized tits responding to the noticeable chill on the train. He shifted a little and his legs started moving, drawing my attention to the large, slightly dirty gold Timberland boots I would later discover were worn on size fourteen feet. His jeans were baggy around his boots, but they were drawn tight over his enormous calves, and filled to bursting over his pelvis where an obscenely large bulge gave me the clear impression that he was free-balling. He rubbed a hand across his abs, fingers dancing over the ridges and dips, and scratched his stomach briefly before he slipped a hand into his jeans, adjusted the largest and thickest of the three obvious lumps there, and drew it back over the abs, dragging the wifebeater with it. A sparse, but definite happy trail began at his belly button and was gradually absorbed by an apparently ample bush, some of which was now poking out the top of his jeans.

Unconsciously, I began flapping my legs very slowly.

"Enjoying the show?"

Fuck. I should have known better than to sit her ogling him. I quickly looked back into my book.

"You heard me," Wulf said, and shoved a hand back into his pants without looking at me. There was a tattoo of some sort on his wrist.

"Excuse me," I said.

"I asked if you were enjoying the show."

"If you're wondering whether I'm enjoying 'The Rivals'," I said, referring to the play I was being forced to read, "I haven't ever actually seen it before, so I don't know whether I'd enjoy the director's interpretation of the script or not."

He re-positioned himself, moving to the seat opposite me, again spread himself over it, claiming it as his own, and looked me square in the eyes, unwavering. "Answer my question," he said.

I paused, and felt a lump in my throat. He had those ice blue eyes that pick up the color of anything he's wearing, and his face was ... stunning. Clean shaven, there was no evidence of stubble anywhere. He had slightly subdued, rosy cheek bones and slight dimples in the corners of his mouth, a healthy nose that seemed to be the perfect size for his rounded face, and a strong jaw line. All of it was framed by an unruly mop of short blond hair glistening with something, sweat or water, I couldn't tell. He smelled faintly of baby powder.

Wulf flexed his wrist and the snap of the jeans burst open, taking half the zipper with it. It was clear now that he was fondling himself; the larger of the three bulges, clearly thickening, had begun to creep down his leg. He withdrew his hand enough that only the fingers remained in his jeans, and growing out of a dense forest of pubes, I could see the thick shaft running into his pant leg.

"You know what show I'm talking about."

I think my book fell on the floor some time ago. The train slowed and an oblivious couple who had apparently been getting it on unnoticed in the front of the car got off. The man had his hand halfway down the back of the woman's skirt, and she was giggling fairly loudly.

"Come sit next to me," he said.

As if in a trance, I crossed the train and sat next to him, my eyes fixed on that ever-elongating bulge.

"You want to blow me?"

"Uhhh ...." I stammered, not quite sure what to say.

He pushed his zipper a little lower revealing more of the shaft.

"Look," he said, "I know you're a fag. I can always tell. Don't bother fighting me, just admit what you want and come get it.

By now, I was oozing. Those boots, that hairy shaft, and that deep, masculine, commanding voice, were driving me to do something I had only dreamed about. He reached over with his free hand and started fondling my crotch as the train began to slow.

I jumped up, quickly gathered my things, and held them low enough so the obvious wouldn't be obvious as I hurried off the train. Once I was off and the doors closed, I turned and looked back. Wulf hadn't broken stride; he was going even deeper into his jeans now, and showed no signs of stopping. I kicked myself mentally as I trudged up the stairs out of the subway station. Something like that will never happen to me again, and I'll probably be beating off to it for the rest of my life.

Or so I thought.

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