Geoff and Chet Ch. 01

Group Sex

Chapter 01 An Accident and a Good Samaritan

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. BD

The first chapters are told from Geoff Peters’ POV

I was driving my pickup home early in the morning after dropping my younger brother at hockey practice. I had graduated last May pre-med at UT-Austin. It is near the end of summer before I begin med school in Houston. My Dad is an ER doc and has worked all night, leaving me to do the early morning car pool for my brother Matt and his friends. I’ve been working at the ER as a go-fer, although I did some EMT training last year, both jobs secured with Dad’s help. I think I will follow in his footsteps. I was daydreaming and looking forward to a few more hours of sleep before my weekend plans unfolded. It had been a late night celebrating with co-workers at the brew pub. I even got to take home a party favor, a co-worker and a hunky, blonde dude.

I’m 23, 6-5 tall, about 185, dark straight hair (currently a little long so with a bit of a curl), olive-skinned, deeply tanned, with dark blue/black eyes, and in shape. My mother’s Italian genes certainly trumped most of my father’s Irish in me. I was a four year varsity swimmer at UT, naturally endowed with pretty long arms, large hands and long fingers. My strokes were back and breast–so my pecs, delts, bis and tris are very well developed. Back-lit, I tend to look a little threatening, almost feral. But, my body is hairless except neatly trimmed pubes. I played a little basketball in high school, primarily selected because of my height, but UT’s Longhorns are professional-grade so I didn’t even try out. I’ve enjoyed this last summer before med school, but I’ve worked hard. I plan to spend the rest of the day in bed or tanning by the pool before my last weekend of partying. Maybe I’ll get lucky again tonight.

Mom is away on business in Rome and Dad will probably sleep most of the day. After practice, Matt plans to crash and video game play with his friends at one of their houses. So our place will be quiet and cool. I can already feel the soft cool sheets.

It’s about 6:15–hockey practice is based on 24 hr allocations of time at the only, very busy ice rink. You take what you can get. Today we had an early morning start. I’ve dropped off the four guys at the rink. Someone else will pick them up. It’s dark, but there is a light streak along the eastern horizon where the hills flatten out into prairie. We live in the exurbs–Texas ranching hill country with big properties, narrow roads, and few lights. It’s peaceful and pretty deserted. The stars are beginning to fade and the moon has already set. I am alone on the road, and I have the MP plugged with high volume to a mix of heavy metal music to keep me awake. Not my favorite, but it serves the purpose.

I’m approaching a familiar curve in County Road 51, not far from home. As I come over the hill and begin to lean into the curve, I see several small reflectors ahead. Some are stationary, but a few are blinking by the side of the road. I slow, move right and pull up behind the scene, partially blocking the lane, and keeping the headlights on. I flip the blinkers on for extra safety. Ahead I spot a young man, slumped against a small cottonwood tree. A few feet farther on lies a silver bike, missing its front wheel. I get out and approach. The young man is obviously a serious cyclist. This is a high end racing bike. I’ve considered one for myself so I know. He’s dressed in black and yellow striped compression shorts and matching jersey–almost like a bumblebee. His yellow helmet with its long white visor and goggles rests beside him. There is some blood and the boy’s eyes are shut.

“Hey. Can you hear me? Are you hurt? Can I help?” I get my phone out ready to dial 911.

The boy’s eyes open slowly, cobalt blue and very large, easily reflecting the bright headlights. He blinks a few times and turns away from the lights. In a slow deep drawl, he begins, “Thank you for stopping, sir. I’m gonna be ok. Just a bit stunned. My right side is sore. Scrapes and cuts. Pain in my left shoulder, but I don’t think anything is broken. I’m just restin’ for a few until I recover enough to move. My bike didn’t do so well. Y’all are kind to stop.”

He looked hurt and vulnerable. “What happened? How long ago?”

“A few minutes ago. I started my morning training around 5:30, expecting the sun to soon provide me with more light; I’ve been trying to get my ride in before the temperature becomes unbearable. I’m not from here. By this time it is already dawn where I come from near Savannah. I guess I left a little too early this morning since I was alone at home. I was approaching this curve and moving pretty fast as I neared the bottom of the hill, when the rearview mirror on my helmet caught lights behind. I moved right, but the Tuzla Escort driver didn’t see me. Or maybe, he was one of those guys who see cyclists as targets. He passed very close and something on the right side of the van, maybe his right mirror, touched my back. It was an Amazon delivery van, and he didn’t stop. I lost balance, swerved from the pavement, and rolled a bit on the gravel shoulder when I must have hit a rock or stump, and here I am. I went down hard and must have blacked out. I feel like such an idiot. I should never have been riding before dawn on a dark and strange road.”

“Ah’m Chester Morrissey. They call me Chet. Thanks for stoppin’, sir.”

“I’m Geoff–Geoff Peters. And, I’m not a ‘sir’. I’m not much older than you. I just dropped my bro at hockey practice and I was heading home for a bit more sleep. Let’s see what we have here. I work at the ER, but I’m not a doc or a nurse. I did the crash course in EMT last year. May I come near? May I touch you? I don’t want to freak you out. I promise that I’m safe. I am not packing–a gun anyway. This is Texas after all.”

“Sure” Chet replied as he began to make out my silhouette in the bright light. I think my height and size may have initially frightened him. But I was not dressed to threaten– a tight white tee, Hawaiian print knit sleep shorts, and flip flops.

I approached, knelt on the grassy shoulder and examined–with eyes and hands. I held up two fingers. “How many fingers do you see? Do you have any head pain? Did you remove the helmet or did it come off before you fell?”

“Two. Yes. I took the helmet off. Slow down so I can keep up,” he added in a slower southern drawl.” Man, he was so cute. I’m really glad I showered before bed last night.

It was obvious that there would be a little facial bruising and there might be a head injury. Such a pity for such a beautiful face. The right arm and shoulder were bloody and bruised. I asked him to move both arms if he could. “Reach them over your head if you can.” Again abrasions that still showed gravel bits mixed with blood, but the arms were toned and muscled and obviously not sprained or broken. “How about the back injury where the van hit? Is it painful? Can you move the arm in the shoulder socket–don’t push too hard. I can see your thigh is torn up.”

“Are your ribs sore?” “No, but my jersey is torn and there are scrapes down my side. I’m definitely going to bruise.” I began to examine the muscular cyclist’s thighs and calves–again scrapes and bruises. “You seem to know pretty much what happened. And you seem to be all here. Do you want to try to stand? Hold on to me and I’ll stand with you, catching some of your weight.” As he did so, standing almost as tall as me, I stretched my arms around his chest and under his arms in support. Chet was fully illuminated by the headlights. Two things immediately hit me. Chet had a nice slim, but well-cut athletic physique. And the compression shorts left no doubt that Chet had a nice dick. And he was solidly in my arms. This guy would be sore for some time. I only hope there are no internal injuries–or a concussion. But, I already wanted him. Maybe I wouldn’t have to cruise tonight.

My own equipment began to respond, and I was glad that my sleep shorts were large and loose because of course I wore nothing under. No one has ever complained about the size of my junk, but it can be inconvenient when I’m only wearing boxers–or sleep shorts. I certainly didn’t expect to be getting out of the truck cab this morning. It was going to be a pleasure to play doc for this guy. Let’s see how it might play out.

“Where do you live–can I take you there? Or perhaps we should detour to the ER first.”

“No ER. I don’t live here. I’m visiting a friend and her parents. I don’t want to put them to any trouble if I can help it. For the last year, I’ve been pretty much on my own and I don’t have insurance. But that’s another story. I think ahm gonna be ok–although I’m not sure what I can do about repairs to the bike. Ma whole purpose in coming here was to have a few weeks of uber-training in these hills at little cost.” His drawl seemed to be easing a bit; maybe it was the trauma.

I was a bit deflated with the references to “friend” and “her.” Obviously my gaydar was turned off. But I still would do anything I could to help. “Let’s get you in the truck cab and then I’ll load the bike in the back. I don’t need to pick up my bro. We are car pooling with neighbors, so I have the whole morning to help. My house is only a mile or so from here, assuming you’re ok with that. We can clean you up–and if anything else develops, I can always wake Dad–he’s an ER doc. He worked two shifts last night and just went to bed as I left, but, if he’s needed, I can wake him.”

“Thanks Geoff. This is too much. But, I don’t seem to have much choice. I am your captive.”

If only, I thought. I would happily bind Tuzla Escort Bayan him to my bed posts. “Just Texas hospitality.”

“Let me take some photos with my phone before you move anything. I’ll call in a police report when we get home. Maybe they can determine the driver–we’ve got the approximate time and the Amazon distribution center is only a few miles from here.”

I loaded the bike pieces in the truck bed and helped Chet to the passenger seat–fortunately I hadn’t jacked up the car as so many of my rancher friends had, and he was able to climb in easily.

On the way, I wanted to keep him talking to be sure he was not concussed. So I probed a bit. Chet filled in some additional life details. “I’m a Georgia boy. Family has been there for generations. I’m about to be a senior at Rice. I’m a finance major and on the cycling team. I had to sponge this summer when my job evaporated in May. I’m on a Rice student athlete scholarship. I’m hoping to go pro on the cycling circuit next year. With this accident, everything is up in the air. I’m talking too much. I am not usually like this. It must be the accident.”

I listened carefully to his story while splitting attention between the road and the bloodied and scraped, but nevertheless magnificent young man sitting to my right. Chet’s eyes were focused on me. The early morning humidity had plastered my tee to my body, showing my swimmer’s chest. The knit sleep shorts didn’t leave much for the imagination either. So he must have noticed that I was built, packing and that I was chubbing.

Within minutes, we pulled under our ranch gate entrance which sported two wrought iron rampant stallions on top, holding a shield with a large B and V between them, and down a long paved drive to a large one-story stone and timber ranch house with a deep front porch spanning the entire front. Ceiling lights still illuminated the full width of the porch, while lazy fans turned above the dozen or so rockers. In the distance were a barn, paddocks with several horses (not ours; friends were pasturing), and rolling hills beyond. There was a large pool with a matching pool house near the barn. No other house was visible. Chet must have realized immediately that a property like this near Austin meant serious wealth.

“Mom is away on business with her sister in Europe. She runs her family’s foundation. She is trying to put together a food delivery program for Latinx refugees with WFO. So we guys are batching it for a few weeks. Dad is probably sleeping. Let’s get you cleaned up and figure out what to do with you. Do you have to call your friends? Incidentally, here is your phone. I picked it up near the bike. I’ll text you all the photos I took.”

“They are away for the weekend. Rebecca is being honored at a party in Vegas and they felt they needed to be there with her. They’re a bit protective of their only daughter–when you see her, you’ll understand. So I am on my own until late Tuesday. I don’t think I need to bother them–and hopefully by then, things will be normal enough that I can ignore the incident. But, I’m not sure how I’ll explain the bike.”

We pulled up near the front, and I helped him out of the cab, keeping my arms under his armpits–trying not to put too much pressure on his back or chest–as he limped to the front door which, of course, was unlocked. I steered him past the large beamed great room, to our wing on the south side of the house. Here were two large bedrooms, one obviously for each son, separated by an activity room with an enormous flat screen TV, easy chairs with game players, a sofa, a pool table, and a small fridge. Each bedroom had its own large bath with rain shower and wall jets, oversized soaking tub, and picture window facing the paddocks and pool. My room was decorated with faux-rustic looking furniture including a king sized bed, covered in pure white duvets and pillows, trimmed in navy. It was a little rumpled. I had been in it only an hour before. Western landscapes shared wall space with nude drawings and swimming posters, mostly male. I wonder if he noticed.

“Let me get an old quilt for the bed before I put you on it. The white duvets don’t take to blood well.” He watched perhaps with a bit of apprehension as I spread the colorful, threadbare quilt. “And, for the sake of full disclosure, before we get to my expert medical examination and treatment, I guess I need to tell you that I’m gay. My parents and brother are aware as are most of my colleagues and friends. I know this is Texas, but the Austin area is known for its tolerance–and my folks are the epitome of tolerance. I hope that doesn’t bother you. We are about to get pretty up close and personal.”

“Wow. I only met you an hour ago and already I’m your confidante. No problem with your sexual preferences. I’m bi, maybe gay. But I’m very much in the closet. Cycling is a sport that doesn’t smile on non-heteros. It has Escort Tuzla had too much bad publicity. When I told my mom and dad this about a year ago when I stopped dating girls, they were surprised, then really angry. They are bible-quoting fundamentalists, convinced that gay is a choice, a sinful choice, and that the choice leads to eternal damnation. They started planning my enrollment in conversion therapy which their church sponsored. I laughed, but they were serious. And, a few hours later, I was packed up and on a Greyhound bound back to Houston. They told me to forget about them and the family until I repented by sins. So I was on my own. I even lost my car. I got through the year thanks to Rice and hoped to work this summer. Rebecca is a good friend and she offered their quarters. That saved my ass.”

“And, a very nice one it is. So your hostess here is not your girlfriend?”

He smiled at the comment, I think. “No, a good and understanding friend, sometimes a little motherly–and she’s currently in Las Vegas celebrating her engagement to my freshman roommate. Definitely not my girlfriend. Becca knows that I’m gay, and I presume she has mentioned it to her folks as they’re pretty comfortable with me around their daughter this summer.”

“OK. Sit on the ottoman. Don’t worry about the cover.”

I bent over to remove his cycle shoes and long sox. Blood had dripped down his leg from the thigh abrasions and was congealing on his calves and in the sox; more was to the right of his ribcage; and still more on his cheek and forehead. His calves were lightly muscled and tanned.

“We need to get you clean for a full examination. Your compression shirt is torn beyond repair, so I can cut it off. But the shorts may be salvageable. So go ahead and wear them into the shower and we’ll get them off after. The shower is through there. If you feel you need help in walking or standing, I’ll be here. And for the time being, we are both athletes who have seen our share of cocks, balls and asses in the school showers. This is a guys’ house with Mom away, so there is not much call for modesty. There are towels by the shower and my terry robe behind the door will fit you. Is that okay?”

Without receiving no answer (I think maybe he was zoning), I cut the shirt from Chet’s torso, noting the bruised right shoulder, and the black marks, but no gash, on his left shoulder, all probably painful. I also noted the hard square pecs, large dark nipples, the super 8 pack and the belt of Adonis flowing down in a deep vee into the shorts. His trunk was really cut and very slim. I stopped for a moment, picked up my phone and did a dozen or so close-ups of the injuries. One never knows. Then, I helped Chet to the shower and adjusted the controls. I stood back, ready to assist, but not invading any remaining privacy that he might want. After about ten minutes and some gasps of pain from the stall, I heard Chet pull the compression shorts to his ankles by rolling down the fabric. Another few minutes passed. Then Chet reached for the towel. There was dilute blood residue in the shower pan, but not too much. Abrasion wounds always bleed more than the actual injury suggests.

“I am going to need some help drying my back. My shoulders and right arm are stiffening.” So I stepped into the large enclosure and used the towel on his back, noting the scratches and marks. “Chet, let me run my fingers across your shoulder blades and down your spine. Tell me if you feel any deep pain. It doesn’t look bad, but let’s be sure.”

“I’m going to apply some antiseptic cream–front and back and then you can put this extra large tee on, unless we detect more bleeding. Let’s try to avoid bandages since removal could cause more bleeding later.” And thus I began the torture of caressing his shoulders, back, pecs, abs as I lightly rubbed the cream into the wounds. Then, I reached for his ass cheeks and rubbed the cream into those beautiful orbs.

Several times Chet took in a deep breath. Was it pain or pleasure? My own erection stiffened, so I turned away.

“Your thighs and legs are really beat up. We should use antiseptic, there as well. Let me do the back of your legs, then you can do the front.” I wasn’t coming eyes to eye with his dick at this point.

“Here’s the robe. Don’t worry about blood. It can be easily washed. Do you want a pair of shorts?”

“Can I pass?”

“OK, now it’s to bed. Here are a couple of ibuprofen tablets. You should sleep for awhile. If you feel nauseous, call out. I am leaving the waste basket by the bed just in case. I’ll be in the next room. I intend to wake you every hour or so. We need to be cautious of signs of a concussion for at least 24 hours.” Chet dropped the robe and pulled up a sheet to his chest.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

“Don’t worry. It’s my pleasure to help. Try to get some sleep. And then we’ll talk about your bike and what to do with you.” Oh, I knew exactly what I wanted to do with him. Just give him a day or so to recover.

And before I could even reach the shower door to clean up and for my own wash, he was snoring on his belly in the center of my bed.

And I was in lust.

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