Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 07

"If you show that ass off enough in the locker room, someone's gonna spank it," Justin continued playfully.

"Well, it is my birthday," Chris said with twinkling eyes.

"So it is, roomie, so it is. And I'm glad I'm here to help you celebrate."

Chris nodded again. "Me too," he admitted.

After that, it got easier. They ordered some wine (Chris had never seen Justin drink wine), another course came, they chatted about classes (Justin indicated he was studying very hard this quarter, and was a little stressed out about finals, which were still a month away), and about people they both knew from their year together in the dorm.

They were having fun.

As they worked their way through the third course, they started talking about their summer plans.

"I'm going back to the Big Apple," Justin revealed.

"Same firm?"

"Yeah. Different internship, though. This one pays a little more. They're going to work me harder than they did last summer, I bet. What about you?"

"I got an internship at the Council on Global Affairs. So I'll be staying here."

"Wow, that's awesome roomie!" Justin held up his glass, and they toasted again. "I think one of the bro- Sorry."

"It's ok," Chris answered, smiling a little. "I'm over it. Which one?"

"I can't remember. He's our year, if I'm right. Maybe Wright? I can find out. And it may be some other place, the name just sounded familiar."

As long as it's not someone from my pledge class, I don't give a shit, Chris thought.

"So you'll be in New York for the summer . . . where are you going to live when you get back? Still in the house?"

"Nah, I'm over the house. Sucked living in this year," Justin replied. "Newton and Woodard and me, we're all renting a little house together, up north, about eight blocks from campus. It's a fuckin' sweet setup: really cool landlord, three bedrooms, two baths, big living room, even a couple rooms in the basement to hang out. We're gonna make it awesome."

"It'll be SAE West," Chris said, smiling again politely.

"Nah." For the first time that evening, Justin looked unhappy. "I mean, we might have a few of the brothers over now and then, but honestly, the three of us are really sick of it. We just wanna get off on our own, away from all of that shit. Happens a lot to seniors - they like their buds, but get sick of all the bullshit, and so they move out where they can just hang with the dudes they like without having to be on committees and get the damn house ready for parties and all that crap."

Or hide their sexuality all day, every day, from 50 people, Chris thought wryly.

"Well, it sounds awesome. I'm sure you and Tag and Jeff will have a great time."

"Yeah, they're cool. You remember Tag, of course," Justin said with an embarrassed half-smile.

Oh, you have no idea, Chris thought.

"But I don't know if you remember Jeff."

"Sure. Tall, blond hair, green eyes, smart, plays tennis."

"You know all the details, don't you," Justin said with just a twinge of jealousy. "He must have made an impression."

The second drink had made Chris a little bolder, and also, he felt he had little to lose right now.

"I remember him because you told me he was the one who warned you that they were going to cut me last year."

"Fuck. Yeah, he was." Justin frowned, remembering that night. "One year ago tonight, roomie."

"That was quite a night. Yup." Chris sipped his wine.

Justin went for broke.

"The end of it was the best part," he said, and added, "Chrissy."

Chris turned bright red, and coughed as the wine went down the wrong pipe.

Damnit! Don't call me that, he thought. It's not fair.

"I don't think we oughta talk about that night," he managed to sputter out.

"We don't need to," Justin said firmly, and reached across the table. He put his hand on top of Chris' fist.

The touch was electric. Chris stared at the large, strong hand on top of his own; the dark hair along the outside edge of it; the fingers tensing as they gave Chris' hand the tiniest of squeezes. The hand that, two months ago, had smashed into his face.

Chris drew his hand away, slowly, carefully, and put it in his lap. He looked up, and caught the briefest glimpse of Justin's brown eyes. They had looked unbearably sad.

Justin turned his head, and the waiter materialized instantly.

"Can we add a cheese course?" the jock asked.

"Yes of course, monsieur." The waiter inclined his head and walked away. Justin turned back to Chris with a friendly grin.

"Don't worry, roomie, we can have real dessert, too. But they always have interesting stuff. We should try it."

"Sure, I love cheese," Chris answered, grateful for a distraction.

"Cool, me too."

There was a long pause.

"Penny for your thoughts," Justin said softly.

Chris looked up, startled. He blushed and smiled a little slyly.

"I was . . . um . . . actually thinking about . . . spanking."

Justin's ears pricked up, as did his prick.

"Oh really? Your birthday spanking?"

"Yeah," Chris replied, although that was not entirely true. He had thought about that momentarily, but then his mind had wandered back to a very real spanking he had taken the week before. It had been from Mr. Fitzsimmons, who had been none too pleased that Chris had broken his promise not to use his fake ID again. He had drawn special attention to the fact that Chris had been only a week away from legality. The punishment had been swift and sure: pants down immediately, then over the burly security guard's lap for a very hard session with the hairbrush. No breaks, no pauses. Just unrelenting SMACKS on Chris' bare, repentant bottom, until his yells grew deafening, ending in dry sobs. It had taken several minutes, but in the end the young man had been reduced to a heaving, apologetic, very contrite boy. Corner time on his knees had followed, and he had only been released after being made to hold a large, menacing bath brush in his hands, and tell Mr. Fitzsimmons that he understood he would be undergoing an even longer session with that implement if he dared use the ID again. Chris had reported for discipline the day after his meeting with Tag, to get it over with; Mr. Fitzsimmons had been pleased with his honesty and quick confession, but had not skimped on the punishment.

A birthday spanking sounded a lot nicer.

"21 swats is nothing for you, Mr. One Fifty-Eight," Justin said in a low, sexy voice.

Chris looked up again, starting to get turned on despite himself. He was so relieved that now, just maybe, enough time had gone by since that whole fucked-up process that he could joke about it with the one person who truly understood what he had gone through.

"Damn right. I'd take a lot more than that from the right guy."

"I know you would, roomie. And you have. My little sub stud."

Justin sat back as a wooden tray of cheese and two plates arrived at the table. The waiter explained the selections, and left.

A wicked grin crept over Justin's face. He leaned forward.

"Wanna play a little game?"

Chris was tipsy and horny. Despite, or perhaps because of, all the shit they had gone through together, Chris was feeling more confident. He KNEW his old roommate. On a level no one else did. And, up to a point, he still trusted him. Certainly in public.

"Ok," Chris said, his face alight with equally wicked eyes.

"I want you to smell each of the cheeses, and tell me which one is most like my feet."

Chris laughed out loud, a deep, belly laugh. Like his coital yell, it seemed too big to come from his 150-lb. body.

"You're so fuckin' sick."

"Are you back-talking me?" Justin immediately regretted using the same words he had used two months ago when everything had gone so horribly awry, but smiled broadly enough, he hoped, that it would be ok. He saw Chris react to the language, but then gather himself and lean forward to sniff the cheeses.

Atta boy, Justin thought.

Chris took his time and put on a show. All the while, he was remembering Justin's thick, muscled, fleshy, delicious feet. His little wiener started pushing against his fly. Finally, he sat up. He pointed at the Roquefort.

"That one."

"Good boy," Justin purred, his voice low and barely audible. "Now take a bite, and tell me what you're thinking."

Chris complied. He locked eyes with Justin, and carefully cut off a small portion; he opened his mouth slowly and put the cheese in, closing his mouth and rolling it over on his tongue with sensuous but ridiculous jaw movements, never breaking eye contact.

Justin had to laugh.

Chris closed his eyes and chewed slowly, occasionally letting out a whimper that only Justin could hear. The jock was cracking up, and hard as a rock. Chris finally swallowed, and opened one eye.

"I need a cigarette," he said smokily.

Justin guffawed, drawing stares.

"Very funny, boy. Now tell me what's really on your mind."

Chris hesitated. He had already been more intimate, more carefree than he had planned to this evening. And here was a pretty clear line. He didn't know what was in Justin's head, but he could guess. It would be safer to pull back, but his dick was telling him to push forward. His mind said, don't get yourself into a bad situation tonight. And his heart . . .

"I'm thinking of your feet."

"And . . .?"

"And sniffing them."

"And . . .?"

"And licking them and sucking your toes. And stealing your socks and saving them for later."

Justin smiled. "I remember the first time I caught you doing that, Chrissy."

"And I remember when I found a pair of gym socks in my mailbox."

They looked at each other for a long time.

"I lost you more than once this year, roomie."

"I lost you, too."

There was no edge to Chris' voice, but the four words were hard. He had meant, over the summer, then in September, and periodically, it had seemed, for many months.

Justin heard only a reference to the day before Valentine's Day.

"Chrissy, I'm so, so sorry . . ."

Chris grabbed Justin's hand. It was the jock's turn to flinch.

"I know. It's done. You can't change it. You've apologized. I believe you. Let's move on."

And by saying that, Chris for the first time became invested in what might transpire after that evening.

"Thank you," Justin said huskily, and wiped his face with his napkin.

Their waiter, observing the boys' emotional and conversational ebb and flow without seeming to, brought the dessert menu. They read it, and ordered. They lapsed into silence, but this time it was more companionable.

"So where are you living next year, roomie?" Justin asked.

"Same place. It works great for me."

And will I be allowed to visit? Justin wondered silently.

"That's great. I'm glad you found something that worked so well."

"Yeah. Sounds like you have, too."

They were back to small talk. Neither of them felt like that was where they should be in this moment, and yet . . . what could be next?

Dessert, which they both enjoyed. Some more chit-chat about guys on their old hall.

And then the check, of course, which Justin picked up, to Chris' profuse thanks.

Another awkward silence.

Now what? Chris asked himself. He had been so keyed up beforehand just trying to imagine how he'd get through dinner, he hadn't give much thought to what would happen after. He was too tipsy to drive: he knew that much. Mr. Fitzsimmons would not approve of him getting behind the wheel at this point.

"So . . ."

"Hey . . ."

They spoke at the same time. They laughed, and Justin gestured for Chris to continue.

"I really appreciate dinner," he said. "It was great. Do you want to walk around the block? I need to sober up a little before I can drive back home."

"Sure, let's do it. Get you some fresh air."

They left the restaurant; Justin told the valet he'd be back in a little while. They headed right, toward the lake. When they rounded the corner, Justin threw an arm around Chris' shoulders. The boy snuggled in, grateful for the body heat. The night had turned chilly.

They circled the block, saying nothing. They stopped before they got back to the valet.

Justin rolled the dice one more time.

"So what are you thinking, roomie?"

Chris shook his head, conflicted.

"It's only 9:45. Got any plans for later?" Justin asked.

"Nah. Sunday night. Should get to bed before too late, but . . ."

"But . . .?"

Chris refused to take the bait. He had taken enough risks already with Justin. Before he could think of a reply, the shaved-headed frat boy interrupted his thoughts.

"Shit. I forgot to give you your present at dinner."

The jock fumbled in his jacket pocket, and drew an envelope out halfway.

"Fuck, I'm sorry. I got so distracted. This wasn't how I wanted to give this to you."

"That's ok. Wanna grab coffee somewhere? Are you able to leave your car here a little longer?"

"Hang on, Chrissy, I have an idea."

Justin's inadvertent mistake had suddenly facilitated his endgame. He walked over to the valet stand, and handed over his ticket with another twenty.

"Let's take a drive."

"Um . . . are you sure you should . . ."

"Not far. I'll be ok."

Believe me, Justin thought drily, I've driven a lot drunker than this.

The car came round, and they got in. Justin carefully drove the few blocks over to the park by the lake, and pulled over.

"So a year ago," he started. He reached over and put a hand on Chris' knee. "A year ago we took a really fucked-up situation and turned it into a really awesome night."

Chris stared firmly at the water, lapping the beach fifteen yards away.

"And now . . . we're kinda in the same spot, roomie, except this time it's my fault."

"You don't need to -"

Justin shushed him.

"I still got a lot of making up to do, I know. And I meant to give you your present at dinner. And I know we're not going back to your room on Maple Street."

Chris held his breath, divining where this might be going.

"But I don't want to give you this in my car, and I thought maybe we might . . . have gotten along enough tonight to the point where we could maybe . . . talk . . ." Justin underlined the word. ". . . some more. In private, and comfortably."

Chris found his voice, trying to keep it steady despite his warring feelings and growing panic.

"I don't know exactly what you were thinking, and that's really nice of you, but if we're not having coffee somewhere . . . then you must have something else in mind . . . I don't know . . . and if you made a reservation at the . . ." Chris stopped, reorganized his thoughts, then asked the real question: "You didn't book that same suite at the Four Seasons, did you?"

Now it was Justin who held his breath - he had indeed reserved that exact same suite.

"Because I don't think that's a good idea," Chris continued. "I mean, that's the last place I think we want to be tonight, a year later. Not because it wasn't amazing!" Chris hastened to add. "Just because . . . you know . . . two months ago and all that . . ."

Justin turned to the driver's side window and exhaled with a broad grin Chris couldn't see.

You fucking clever sonofabitch, the jock said to himself. You're not as smart as the boy, and you may currently be a delinquent . . . but say what you want, Momma didn't raise no dumbass.

He had booked two suites, at two different hotels . . . just in case.

Justin turned casually back to Chris, and said, "No, no, of course not, roomie." He continued with feigned sheepishness: "I did book a room, but not there. We don't have to use it if you don't want to. It's at the Ritz . . ."

Chris snorted, then started to laugh.

"You fucker."

Justin started to laugh, too.

"You're getting extra swats for your language, young man. Is it ok to go?"

"What'll I do about my jeep?"

"I'll drive you back to it. Don't worry about it. If you get a ticket, I'll pay for it. Part of your birthday present."

"But I . . ."

"I want to spend more time with you. We haven't had enough time all year. It's been all fucked up. And you've got 22 hard swats coming."

Justin pulled back into the street, and down to the Ritz-Carlton. Enough chatter, he thought amiably. I've got my opening, I need to capitalize on it. So far this evening has gone even better than I hoped it would.

They pulled up to the hotel and walked in, Justin continuing to tip liberally. As a result, no comment was made about their obvious lack of luggage. The clerk sent a discreet message to housekeeping to make sure their suite was fully stocked with all possible toiletries, including toothbrushes. And the bottle of champagne that Justin had already ordered.

Their room was close to the top floor, and Chris gasped as they entered. It was long past sunset, but it was a corner suite, with views of downtown and the lake. The moon hadn't risen yet, but Chris knew it would be just past full when it did. At the moment, the water was black, with flickering lights from boats and buoys.

After taking in the view, Chris stopped questioningly by the champagne - but Justin sat on the sofa in the living room, and patted his knee sternly. Chris obediently stood in front of him, and made to lean over the jock's lap, but Justin pushed him back up.

"Pants and underpants down, young man. Birthday spankings are on the bare."

Chris hesitated, then looked straight into Justin's eyes. The last time they had been naked together hadn't gone so well.

Justin understood what Chris was asking without words.

"Just a spanking, young man. You know it's coming."

Chris nodded, unable yet to say anything like "Yes, Sir." That still belonged to a different time. He took off his jacket, laid it on the coffee table, undid his belt, and unbuttoned his pants. He unzipped the fly and shucked them down to his ankles, along with his white bikini briefs.

Justin carefully avoided looking at the boy's penis, and grabbed his wrist, pulling him gently and deftly over his lap, as he had so many times before. Once in position, the jock allowed himself to feast his eyes on the sumptuous ass before him. It had always been nice, but fuck! Now it was noticeably more muscular than it had been even a few months before. A sub ass to be proud of.

Just as he had over a year ago in the fraternity, Justin put his left hand on the nape of Chris' neck, and stroked his thumb against it a few times. That had been the "it's gonna be ok" signal the night he had had to give Chris 158 swats. And they had made it through, then. This was just a birthday spanking, but the need to send a message that everything would be alright was no less acute. He felt Chris relax over his lap.

"Count 'em out, Chrissy."

SMACK!!

Damn, that's hard, Chris thought.

"One!"

No "Sir"? Justin thought. Hmm. Well, one step at a time.

SMACCKK!!

"TWO!" The second one was harder.

SMACKKK!!

"THREE!"

SMAACCCKK!!

And so it went, each one hard and stinging, each one demonstrating that even when only using his hand, Justin was a formidable disciplinarian.

They reached twenty-one, and Justin paused; they both knew the drill.

SMACCCKKKK!!

The hardest one yet.

"And one to grow on."

Justin helped Chris off his lap, and pulled the boy's briefs and slacks back up, ignoring the half boner the boy was sporting. He sat Chris tenderly on his lap, and held him close.

"Happy Birthday, Chrissy," Justin whispered in the boy's ear.

"Thanks . . ." Chris had almost said it . . . the other word. They both felt it.

The jock stroked Chris' head and back for a few minutes, then lifted him up again and sat him down on the couch. He reached in his breast pocket, and drew out the envelope.

"Here you go."