Geek Lust: Erotic Stories about Hot Nerds (10 page)

“Time to pay up, dude.”

“With this?” replied Brad, jerking the massive cock above his face. “Fucker’s going to impale me.”

Gene rolled off and flipped around, face to face yet again.

“A bet’s a bet,” he said. “Is the jock ready to get fucked by the nerd?”

Brad closed the gap and kissed the waiting lips.

“Ready, willing, and hopefully able, dude,” he whispered in reply. Then he slid backwards, rummaged beneath the bed, and returned with a rubber and small bottle of lube in hand. “Be gentle, Goliath.”

“No problem, David,” Gene said, tearing into the packet before sliding the rubber on. He hopped up on his knees and stared down into those pools of blue again, butterflies flitting about inside his tummy.
Where have you been these last few years?
he thought as he lubed up his prick and the tight, little hole waiting for him down below.

Nerd, one; virginity, zero.
In the blink of an eye he was in, a million volts of adrenaline traveling down his back as the hole in question gripped his dick. Brad sucked in his breath, eyes in a tight squint. Instinctively, Gene paused, waiting for the apparent pain to subside.

“Okay,” exhaled Brad, opening his sapphire peepers, a grin appearing on his face. “A bet’s a bet.”

Gene nodded, cock steely stiff as he eased it in further, further still, every nerve ending in his body shooting off Fourth of July fireworks as he worked his pole inside, slowly, gently, millimeter by millimeter, until his balls were brushing up against Brad’s upturned rump.

“You feel good,” he panted, leaning down to kiss those perfect lips.

“Ditto,” groaned back Brad, arching his back as the cock got worked out and in, out and in, sweat pouring down Gene’s face and on to his own, all while he jacked away, working the come up from his heavy balls.

Then the geek let the jock have it with both barrels, his giant cock piston fucking the perfect little ass below, pounding, pounding, pounding away, both of them groaning and moaning in sync, tongues entwined. Gene’s head flung back.

“Fuuuck,” he exhaled, ass clenching as he spewed, filling up the rubber with ounce after steaming hot ounce of come. Brad, a split second later, also came, dick spewing a Vesuvius-like load. Spunk flew up before splattering on Gene’s flat belly, wad after wad of it, white on top of pale white.

“Fuuuck,” Brad echoed. His body jerked, twisting and writhing on the carpet as he stroked out every last drop. He stared up, panting, fighting to catch his breath.

“Now
that
was some biology lesson.”

“Which you definitely passed,” replied Gene, gently retracting his cock from Brad’s ass. “With flying colors.”

Brad giggled.

“Flying come is more like it, dude.” He winked up at Gene, his fingers gliding through said come. “But will I be so lucky on my finals?”

Gene nodded and bent down for a tender kiss, so perfect as to take his very breath away.

“You don’t need luck when you have a nerd like me for a teacher, dude.”

“If you teach half as good as you fuck,” replied Brad, “then that scholarship is as good as mine to keep.”

Gene nodded, the smile mega-watt bright.

“And if I teach
as
good as I fuck, then maybe someday the student will become the teacher.” He stared at the come as it slid down his flat belly, which, he hoped, would someday have cans of its own. “Or maybe he already has, dude. Maybe he already has.”

by Beckah Rose

It wasn’t his glasses: large, square and perched on his bulbous nose. Or his sweater: V-necked, olive green, and entirely too fitted. It was his form: rounded, yes, but firm and large enough to make me feel small, and his eyes, large and inquisitive and intelligent, a glowing chocolate brown. We were at the annual Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America holiday party. I was there mostly for the food. I’d eaten a good five helpings of spring rolls, pausing only to lick the sweet and tangy sauce from my fingertips. When I shook his hand, I thought of my dried saliva pressing into his palm. His skin was warm and soft and I wanted to feel more of it.

He was a genius, he said, a quantifiable genius, having graduated from Harvard before taking a job where he spent most of the day drawing
Batman
. In the weeks that followed our meeting, and our initial e-mails, I found his Twitter account, and—after ensuring I was signed out of my own profile, so he couldn’t possibly track my musings—read every last tweet. Some were about
Star Trek
; some were images of women in comics (scantily but not scandalously clad); some enumerated the hassles of living in the West Village; all were clever, succinct, evocative. I was smitten.

While waiting for him to ask to see me, I devoured a copy of
Survival of the Prettiest: The Science of Beauty
which was painfully lightweight, low on citations, and devoid of helpful tips. After three weeks of sitting on my hands (sometimes literally), he asked me out. Finally. I measured my waist-to-hip ratio while trying on outfits. As predicted, a pencil skirt with small waist made me closest to the 0.6 to 0.7 evolutionary ideal. Lunch, he said. near his job. I could do that.

So we sat under a Christmas tree at Craft Bar, known for its artisan ales and fancy New American. It was decked out for the holiday season. My shirt sported a satin bow. I looked, I hoped, just like a present. I ordered an amber ale and wished he’d unwrap me someday or, even better, unlace me. What he didn’t know was that I wore sheer black thigh highs that kept shifting to the side, hoping he’d get a small, seemingly accidental flash of the black lace that held them to my skin.

I hoped he wouldn’t notice I’d never, for example, seen
Star Wars
. I was reasonably good at science, but terrible at math—he paid the check thankfully, because calculating twenty percent was, in my case, one-hundred percent disastrous. I’d rely on chemistry.

We’d spoken of sous-vides, that technology that keeps food at just the right amount of doneness for long periods after shrink wrapping it and sinking it into a vat of carefully heated water. For me, at that moment, I was more than done. Wrap
me
in plastic and dip me in a warm bath, I wanted to say. Then eat me slowly.

Instead, I thanked him for lunch.

Still thinking of baths and melting, I told him I had a wonderful recipe for fondue, but that my stove was broken. (It wasn’t.) He graciously offered his—after the holiday season, of course.

His apartment was filled with comic books, history books, model airplanes, caffeinated soap, plush microbes, and framed pictures of Mario—the original version, with the square cubes, invincibility stars, hungry Venus flytraps rising from pipes, and flowers that rose up and shone.

He poured me a glass of wine after running it through a speed aerator. I flitted about his kitchen, bending over so he might see my crimson lace bra, and reaching up high so my skirt would edge up. Surely women flash their dates accidentally and have no idea such a thing has happened all the time.

He told me about how he’d become the regional trivia champ when a speck of cheese flew up–I’d been stirring too vigorously, it seemed–and landed in my cleavage. We paused. I licked my forefinger, feeling his gaze warm my skin, and picked it up. I raised my eyes to his for a flickering second, his eyes on me, before putting my finger deep into my mouth and sucking, flicking my tongue over the fingertip as he watched.

“Don’t burn yourself,” he said.

I smirked.

“Why?” I asked, my tone playful. “Should I wait for you?”

It was a long shot, but I’d always found joking in this manner made it easier to bring this up. These shouldn’t be long discussions, sit-ins on couches where one negotiates, over heart palpitations, what one is willing and not willing to do, kinkwise. No. It was supposed to be fun.

“I have silver sulfadiazine cream,” he said. “One percent. It’s technically illegal for me to share that with you. It’s prescription, but if it’s medically necessary…”

“
Primum non nocere
,” I said. My pronunciation wasn’t perfect, but it did the trick: he disappeared a moment into the bathroom that, I’d later discover, had Superman bottled body wash. He came back with a small, white tub, and I noticed, a large khaki bulge in his pleated-front pants.

“I wouldn’t want you to be in pain…unnecessarily,” he said, unscrewing the lid.

“Certainly not,” I said.

He dipped his forefinger—thick, and though hairy, also very strong-looking—into the tub, and carefully applied the cream to the place where the cheese had landed, his finger pressing against my uplifted breasts.

“I need you at eye level,” he said, and picked me up by the sides of my hips, lifting me so I was sitting on his counter. I let my legs spread a little so my pencil skirt edged up. I wondered how much he could see. He squinted and brought his eyes very close to my cleavage.

“It appears the burn is minimal,” he said. “But we may have to do a closer inspection. To be sure.”

“Do you have a place good for…examination?” I asked, eyeing a microscope in the living room. No, that wasn’t good enough. I worried that under such close inspection, even Bohr would grow bored with the pink, hardening nucleus of my breasts. They strained against my push-up bra, defying gravity.

“I might,” he said, kissing my lower lip, then biting down. His lips were full, and our glasses clinked as our heads tilted back upright. I imagined that, in middle school, we’d be the kids making out in the band room, wondering about alternate uses for the thicker among the drumsticks. He reached between my legs, paused just before my thong, and I jumped. “We may need to restrain you,” he said. “To prevent injury.”

“Mmm.”

“But first,” he said, “research.”

“Research?”

Oh dear. Was he going to fall into his computer again? It was so unattractive when men did that. Understandable, of course; they like shiny objects and I, devoid of LCD screens, do not glow.

With his look of concentration, he appeared just like Leonard on
The Big Bang Theory
.

I wouldn’t have minded a big bang of my own.

Taking my hand, he pulled me off the counter. This was good. But then he grabbed his coat. It was not a lab coat. It was not a flasher’s trenchcoat. It was, instead, North Face and his own face pointed north as well.

The January cold was bracing. I imagined his khaki bulge was long gone, or at least considerably diminished. What could I do? Short of slipping, falling, and landing on his cock—blaming, of course, the icy sidewalks—I could think of nothing.

My breast was still somewhat cheddar-smeared; the very least he could do was lick it off. But in this cold it might stick, and where would that have us? Surely braces locked together in a middle school hallway was better than imitating a frozen flagpole in the West Village. We’d have to walk together, a frozen four-legged monster, to the nearest cocoa and pour it on his tongue. I imagined myself popping the marshmallow in my mouth—surely handmade and square, in this neighborhood. And, if he didn’t apologize profusely, slapping him in the face with my mittened hand. It’d be like being hit with a plush kitten. A kitten in mittens.

His gloved hand found my waist and steered me into an enormous cube of a building. With a wave of his hand, the guard buzzed us through.

“But I thought you went to—?”

“My family donated a wing,” he said. Of course they did.

“My delinquent brother…well, NYU was the only place he could get in.” I’d let that go.

“It’s…enormous,” I said, delighting in my breath melting into the warm air instead of like outside, freezing and hovering. I glanced at him to see if he got the double meaning.

He grinned wickedly.

It
was
enormous; I worried one could get lost in it and in a much more inconvenient way than one could get lost in a book.

He tugged me into an elevator. I giggled. But, as soon as the doors closed he said,

“This is a library.” He pinned me against the wall suddenly, very serious but for a shine of amusement in his eye. “One must behave properly.”

I bit my lip to hold in a giggle, nodded.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes….what?”

“Yes, Marian, librarian?” I tittered. He spun me a quarter turn, pushed me over his arm until I was bent and prone.

“Try again,” he growled in my ear.

The elevator continued its slow journey up.

“Yes, sir….eee Bob!”

Smack
. His hand hit my ass with surprising speed and the sound filled the small room of the elevator, echoing.

“Oh…yes….sir.”

“Very good.”

He righted me. The doors opened. A student, a small girl in a large sweater, got on. We continued upwards.

“This way,” he said, tugging me out of the elevator when we reached our floor. “Must keep up. We have deadlines to meet.” I hurried after him in my heels.

He rounded a corner, then another. We leaned against a frighteningly high railing, looking down at the dizzying pattern of black and white tile we’d walked over earlier.

Behind me, I felt him reaching under my coat and my skirt, fingering the tops of my thigh highs, interweaving fingertip and lace. I could see everyone, it seemed. But to everyone else, I was simply a girl taking in the view. The few people on this floor were working quietly. He was behind me, blocking the view of my skirt edging up. The pads of his fingers worked softly over my thighs. His fingers went up, almost to the curve where my ass began, then dropped down. They went between my thighs, slowly, deliciously up, then down again.

“That’s just unfair,” I hissed.

“This. Is. A. Library,” he said through clenched teeth. “Need I remind you—”

I mimed zipping my lips, throwing the key away over the railing. It would fall, and fall, and fall before finally making a tiny
clink
as it landed.

He righted my skirt, tugged my wrist.

“Come along.”

I didn’t have much choice. I couldn’t have broken from his grip if I’d tried. And I did try, but it only made his fingers encircle my wrist further, grip tighter.

We found ourselves in a corner of the stacks, where he stopped suddenly.

Medical books. Of course.

“You could study my anatomy any time you want,” I offered, but he was engrossed; there was something particular he was looking for.

When he came to
Essential Medical Physiology, Third Edition,
he flipped open the book and buried in its pages, found a small leather bookmark. When he picked it up it unfolded into twice its length, and from the way he fingered it I could tell it was his.

“Come here often?” I asked, but my question went unanswered.

“You’re. Speaking. Too.
Loudly
,” he hissed inside a whisper. “Do you have no respect for the institution?”

“Uhhh…plenty of respect.”

“Plenty of respect…sir.”

Sir Grouch-a-lot,
I thought.

He started smoothing the bookmark over my behind.

“Get that book,” he said, pointing to a heavy volume on the top shelf. It was very, very high. Even with the use of one of those library stands—the three-lobed stools from the seventies; thank goodness one was nearby—it’d be tricky.

I bent over, keeping my back flat, like I’d learned in yoga, hoping it’d make my posterior more attractive as I stooped for the stool, brought it beneath the book, and set it down. This would be precarious in flats, let alone heels.

Maybe he’d change his mind. I snuck my hand to the front of his khakis, and—

Smack
. The bookmark stung delightfully.

“No,” he said.

“Sir,” I said. In the quick grasp I’d had, he felt very, very thick.

Holding onto the bookcase, which thankfully was screwed into the wall, I put one foot up, then another. I was already on very, very slim red heels and it seemed I’d have to be on tiptoe. I willed my body to stretch further, extending my right hand up—

Then I felt his hand rising up my leg. When I looked down, I saw a young man reading quietly two aisles away. I couldn’t see his face—he was buried deep in his work, a shelf up and around his desk, blocking my (and, hopefully, his) view. But he was there. We would have to be quiet indeed.

The hand on my thigh grew tighter, gripping. It would provide some support. I leaned into it, angling further up—

“Get the book,” he said. And it did seem
possible
—

A hand cupped my ass, and squeezed.

“I…I can’t,” I said. Then quickly: “I can’t, sir.”

“You can, and you will,” he said. “Need I provide some extra motivation?”

Knowing the studying boy was so close—

“No! No,” I whispered when he snaked the bookmark around my thighs, using it like a bit of floss, pressing into the wet cleft between my legs. “I don’t need more motivation, sir.”

“Good.”

I looked up. I could do this. It was within reach. It was—

His hand left my thigh. I was balancing on my left leg, in heels, on tiptoe, on a wobbly stand, with nothing—

Oh God.
Just when I’d worried he’d disappeared, his hand pushed—with one quick, forceful motion—up my skirt, bypassing my lace thong into the deepest part of me. I was on an axis; he was steady. I moved my hips in slow circles around his fingers, letting them press against every wall and fold. He didn’t move at all; the strength of his arm kept everything just so. I tried to reach further toward the book, and still he didn’t move, though he slipped out of me about an inch. Another failed attempt:
just
out of my reach. My calves were getting tired. I couldn’t balance like this for much longer. Surely he wouldn’t keep me up here until—