Mr. One Fifty-Eight Ch. 07

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AUTHOR’S NOTE: While each chapter is a story in its own right, you will probably enjoy this episode much more if you have already read the series Chris Donaldson, as well as Chapters 1-6 of Mr. One Fifty-Eight. The characters’ back stories are revealed there. This is the final chapter in this series, but not of the story overall. The story will continue with a third series, under a different title. All characters depicted in this story are over 18.


Jeff Woodard leaned against the open window, amused. It was a late Sunday afternoon, and the fraternity house was quiet. Hangovers always made for a restful atmosphere. Woodard was enjoying the solitude, and chuckling at the activities of one of his roommates, whom he could see from the third floor.

Justin had just dropped his keys; he was scrambling to pick them up and fumbling with his tie while hurrying toward his car, parked at the far end of a shared campus lot. Jeff particularly noted the outfit – there was no SAE event tonight that would require neckwear. Jeff was quite sure he knew where Justin was headed, and it made him happy.

Woodard had, in fact, been ecstatic to note a sudden change in his roommate’s mood a few days before. The ebullient jock had burst in one afternoon, all smiles, teasing his friends, even appearing at meals again. If the brothers had noticed his long absence, no one said anything; they were all glad to see Justin being Justin. He made you comfortable with his easy, magnetic grin, and his charismatic, mildly self-deprecating sense of humor. The house had become a few degrees happier after Justin’s mood improved.

Jeff was pretty confident he knew what had thrown Justin off his game – separation from his former roommate, Chris Donaldson. And so, logically, only one thing could account for this swift transformation: Chris must have responded to Tag’s (and Jeff’s) plea to get back in touch with Justin. Which can’t have been easy, Jeff thought – when he had persuaded Tag to intervene with Chris in order to save their third roommate from himself, he had no idea that the reason Chris had cut off contact was because Justin had punched him in the face.

Jeff still couldn’t wrap his head around that one. The Justin he had known since they lived on the same hall freshman year was not a violent person. The Justin he knew . . . well, that guy really, really liked the slimmer, smart boy who had pledged the fraternity the year before. It had been, and was still, obvious. The implications of that friendship were lost on Tag, but not on Jeff.

The tall, green-eyed fraternity brother grinned again as he heard squealing tires tear out of the lot – Justin’s Audi, of course. Jeff smiled because he was also aware of another thing Tag had forgotten: Jeff knew what day it was. It was the same date as the beginning of last year’s spring hell week – and therefore also Chris’ birthday.

That fucker better take Chris someplace really nice and get on his knees and apologize, Jeff thought, still smiling.

Now there was a fun image.

He returned to his desk and sat down. Break time was over: back to looking over SAE’s books, which he had surreptitiously downloaded a few weeks before. You never knew where you’d find something interesting . . . or useful.

Justin peeled a corner onto the expressway onramp. He was speeding, even though he wasn’t late. His mind was running even faster than the car, going over the details of the evening, making sure there wasn’t anything he had missed. He felt his breast pocket for the tenth time, making sure he had Chris’ gifts. Yes, they were both there – the generous-but-in-bounds one and the very risky second one, which . . .

Yeah, we might not get to that one, Justin thought ruefully. He reviewed the short text message exchange with Chris from five days ago; he had it memorized. It had started simply:

“Hey,” Chris had written.

That word alone, when it came, had shone like the light of the Second Coming to Justin. He couldn’t count the times he had pulled out his phone to text Chris since their last encounter . . . and had put it away again, unable to figure out the words, emoticons, or anything else to express how awful he felt that he had punched the boy.

In the face. I punched him in the fucking face.

Justin changed lanes erratically, overcome by an emotion he had been wallowing in for most of the last two months: shame. He had run out of Chris’ room in a panic immediately after he had hit him. Just like he had run out of the party when Andy had been roughed up. Yeah, he had been angry in that moment when he assaulted Chris. Very angry. But that was no excuse. He had run as fast as he could in the knee-deep snow that night. When he got back to the house, he had lain in bed, seething, for a day. Finally, he had left to try and work some of the anger out at the gym. At first, he had felt betrayed. He couldn’t conceive of his little, submissive roommate hooking up with another guy, Çankaya Escort much less . . . Justin still struggled with this . . . losing his VIRGINITY to another man. It had been a tremendous slap in the face, a gut punch – in short, all the things he had done to Chris, Chris had done to him by cheating on him. That was his first position.

But Justin could only linger in that self-righteous anger for so long. Because the longer he stayed there . . . well, it got complicated. On the third day, he had started to question if it was a good idea for him to consider himself so wronged – he was acting like a jealous boyfriend. And that, most assuredly, he was not. NOT. And so he had constructed a carefully-built house of cards over the weeks to try and rationalize to himself why he felt the way he felt.

His guilt was undeniable, and he had never bothered to try and defend his violence to himself. Even when his fury had burned hottest at Chris’ actions, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that hitting his former roommate had been unjustifiable and wrong. And that’s where he wound up mentally; his behavior had been unforgivably awful. He needed to apologize. The why and wherefore of his punching Chris were therefore irrelevant, when you thought about it – and that neatly saved him from further introspection for which he was still unprepared. And so . . . he needed to say he was sorry. But how?

It wasn’t pride that had stopped him, ultimately; it was fear. Fear that Chris was so hurt, angry, resentful – or possibly, but God forbid, damaged – that the boy would never speak to him again, had eaten at Justin, consumed him, for almost two months. For the first time in his life, it was he who was afraid of being rejected. And so he had remained silent and miserable, stewing in a toxic brew of self-loathing, depression, and shame. He had cut classes, disappeared from the fraternity except to sleep, and drunk himself into a joyless numbness most nights. Until one word had awakened him, and offered the possibility of redemption.

“Hey,” Chris had written.

Justin had taken a few minutes to decide what to write back; initially he had also typed “hey”, but he felt that wasn’t enough. He had an opening – it might not come again. He needed to plunge in and do it.

“I’m so sorry, Chris,” he had replied. Not “boy”, not “Chrissy” – not, nor ever again, “fag”. Just Chris.

“Ok,” had been the response.

“Are you ok?”


“What can I do?”

“Nothing, it’s all taken care of.”

“No, I mean now.”

“I don’t know.”

“Will you let me see you?”

The pause between that text and Chris’ response had lasted an excruciating 36 hours. Justin had practically never let go of his phone the whole time. When Tag had commented on Justin being unusually glued to it, the jock had nearly repeated his February 13th punch.


Only two letters, but the relief that flooded through Justin’s body when the response finally came had made him sit down on the floor at the gym, hunched over, head in his arms, panting for breath.

“Are you alright, bro?” Tag had asked; they’d been spotting each other.

“Yes. YES!!” Justin had yelled, and the rest of the workout had passed in a fog. So had the next few days. There was more back and forth; when they might meet, and where. Justin had hoped for something immediate, something to allow him instant expiation, but Chris was understandably wary. Chris was also adamant that Justin not come to his third-floor room. That sanctum was now barred to the person who had assaulted him.

Stung, but repentant, Justin had faced a dilemma. He was still self-conscious about appearing in public with Chris, lest someone from the fraternity see them. If it had only been hanging out with a friend and former pledge he had once stuck up for – and would again – that would have been fine. He would have said, “Fuck you” to the whole house in that scenario. But he and Chris were more than that, and Justin knew it. A lot more. He couldn’t face the possibility of anyone at the house guessing what actually went on between the two of them.

But . . . he was going to have to get over it. Or not see the boy. Which wasn’t an option. And so, inspired by the memory of an evening that had been incredibly meaningful to him, and which even Chris’ February revelation couldn’t mar completely, Justin had proposed taking the boy out for his 21st birthday. Which, Justin thought, had Mason Evans not fucked with them both so badly last year, he would be doing anyway.

It had taken a while for Chris to reply. Justin suspected Chris was having second thoughts, but in truth, it was principally because Chris had already made a date with Mark on his birthday. However, old emotions and long-held fantasies are powerful things. Eventually, Chris moved his date with Mark to the Saturday night before his birthday – Mark would still be there when he turned 21 at Keçiören Escort midnight. And Saturday was better for Mark anyway, because of his job. So it had all worked out. Win-win. Chris had felt moderately disgusted with himself for caving so easily. But . . .


Justin was behaving differently, Chris had concluded. The jock’s contrition seemed real, at least via text. It was an anniversary, that couldn’t be denied. And they weren’t going to skulk off to his attic room, now protected by a padlock to which Justin didn’t have the key (Chris having been too embarrassed to ask his landlord for a lock change downstairs). Justin was offering to take him someplace real, someplace public, someplace nice. So Chris had said yes.

Justin zoomed off the expressway and into one of the city’s ritziest neighborhoods. He pulled up to the restaurant, handed his keys and a twenty to the valet, and jogged up the stairs to the entrance, beginning to sweat. It was warm for April. He wasn’t late, but he was nervous as hell.

The maître-d offered him a place at the bar; their table was almost ready. Justin checked his phone; he had ten minutes to wait. He ordered a club soda. He had drunk more than enough in the last two months, and he wanted to be sober the moment he first laid eyes on Chris again.

Justin waited.

And waited.

He checked his phone; 7:33. Their reservation was for 7:30. He began to text, “Everything ok?” and then changed his mind. Don’t hound him, he thought. He’ll come.

He has to come.

What if he doesn’t?

Justin fought the urge to order a fifth of bourbon, neat, delivered intravenously. The bartender refilled his club soda instead.


Where the fuck was Chris? Was he being stood up? Was the kid ok? Justin’s thumbs hovered over his phone; usually so confident, he was afraid of asking the question, because he couldn’t bear to face what the answer might be – a no. Or silence.

7:49. Fuck me.


Justin looked up – and there he was. Chris was dressed in a sharp, deep-purple blazer and black stovepipe slacks, which bulged enticingly at the thighs. His workouts were showing. His tie was light blue, and matched his eyes.

“Sorry I’m late. I had a hard time finding a parking spot.”

After a blank pause, Justin registered the economic difference between the two of them with a pang of guilt. Once he made eye contact, though, there was nothing but a surge of tenderness and gratitude. The boy showing up surely meant an absolution, at least in part. Right?

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Justin said. “Before you say anything else, I have to tell you . . . how sorry I am. I know I already said it, but not in person. Chris,” Justin held the blue eyes with his own brown ones. “I can’t forgive myself for hitting you. There’s no excuse. Please accept my apology. It’s not enough, but . . .” His voice trailed off.

“I’m glad to be here,” Chris answered carefully. “Thanks for apologizing, I appreciate it. It’s . . . it’s nice to see you, too.”

Justin bit his lip. The kid wasn’t making this easy . . . but fuck, why should he? If you were in his shoes, what would you do?

“And happy birthday. Sorry, should have said that first.”

Chris smiled, softening. “Thanks. Twenty-one. Finally, huh?”

Justin stood up and the maître-d appeared instantly and obsequiously at his elbow.

“This way, messieurs.”

Justin started to roll his eyes at Chris, then realized the boy was eating it all up. Feeling first bad, and then bold, he extended a crooked elbow with an ironic, but friendly glance. After a brief hesitation, Chris took the proffered arm; he was self-conscious, but flattered.

Who is this guy? Chris wondered as he took his seat. And where was he two months ago? Or last year? And did I just grab the elbow of the arm that punched me?

This was Chris’ second fancy dinner in two nights, and whatever the particular awkwardnesses of each occasion, he was not at all unhappy that two handsome men were taking him out for his birthday. Last night’s dinner with Mark had been a lot of fun. Mark was a foodie, and they had visited a new Korean restaurant where they had sat on the floor; the tables had a little lowered leg room under them for comfort. The food had been delicious, and they had had to take their shoes off, which made for quite a bit of footsie under the kimchi. Mark had also generously worn a particularly fragrant pair of socks, which he knew would make foot-fetishist and male-odor-connoisseur Chris wild with lust. After dinner, Mark had driven Chris home, and had planted an intense kiss on the boy before saying farewell.

As always, Chris hadn’t known what to do with the physical and emotional information he was receiving.

It seems like yes, then it seems like no. He’s the Dom, but he wants me to make a move. I don’t know. I don’t get it. Maybe this summer we can Etimesgut Escort figure it out, he had thought.

But first . . . there was Justin. Yeah, I’ll let myself think his name now that he’s sitting in front of me, Chris thought. Those liquid brown eyes, and that cute round jock-face . . . I hated them the last time I saw them.

And now? Now I don’t know. I like that he’s trying.

And Justin was definitely trying. After they were seated, Justin turned on the charm-spigot full force – it was like a fire hydrant. This was a totally different thing than rushing SAE, where there had always been a balance to be sought between eagerness and casually fitting in. Justin was very practiced at that sort of social interaction; it came naturally to him. He’d done it his whole life.

But this . . . this was a date. Justin couldn’t deny it, and was too wound up to try. He compartmentalized that particular label to be dealt with later. Right now, his sole focus was on getting his ex-roommate to forgive him, and to like him again. Justin had actually never been on a real date before, he had realized on the drive over. All he ever did was hook up, and while not all the girls he talked about were made up, there had never been any dating, only hanging out at parties or with small groups – always with other people around. He’d sure banged a lot of chicks in high school, and a few freshman year, but a dinner date at a fancy restaurant was a new thing.

“So it’s my treat, birthday boy,” Justin said. “Have anything you want. I’m probably going to have the four-course menu. It’s always great.”

Always? Chris thought. Man. Must be nice to be able to afford a place like this all the time. But as Chris looked around, he felt less envy than admiration. The décor was tasteful, understated and modern, the other diners looked happy and energetic. Chris could live like this, easily. And frankly, with his grades and hard work, he figured he had a shot at it. Plus, Justin was on academic probation, so . . . there was more equity to their situations, perhaps, than met the eye.

“Thanks, Justin, you really didn’t have to do something this fancy. It’s very nice of you.”

Justin’s heart leapt a little at Chris’ shy smile. He opened the cocktail menu, and offered it to Chris.

“It’s finally legal, roomie. Knock yourself out.” He grinned.

Chris found himself thawing . . . very, very gradually.

“Thanks.” There was a signature Manhattan on the menu which looked tempting, but there was also something Mark had told him he really ought to try some time. Their waiter glided over discreetly.

The best part about this place, Justin thought, is that the staff know how not to hover, but are always there EXACTLY at the moment you want them. Like good subs. His large cock stiffened at the thought of the hot sub across the table from him. Easy, Trigger. Not yet. We’re a loooong way from that.

“It’s my friend’s twenty-first birthday,” Justin told the waiter, who nodded courteously. “What’ll it be, Chris?”

“I’ll take a Negroni, please.”

Justin looked impressed. He didn’t know what the hell that was, but it sounded very sophisticated.

“And I’ll have a double Knob Creek, please, on the rocks.” Better to water it down a little.

When their drinks came, Justin toasted Chris.

“Happy Birthday, Chris.”


They drank.

“And I’m so, so sorry about what I did to you. I can’t . . .”

“I know,” Chris replied. “I don’t want to talk about it. I accept your apology.” He raised his glass again, and they clinked.

“To never hitting you again. I promise,” Justin said.

Chris nodded, still uncomfortable, and wanting to move on.

Justin was relieved that they could turn the page . . . but now what?

They talked about the weather. About classes. They ordered.

“You’ve really been working out, young man,” Justin finally said, his confidence growing as the line of liquid in his glass got lower. “You look great.”

Chris flushed a little, genuinely pleased. He was proud of how much he could lift now, and of course, very gratified that the man whose hot, muscular body he had worshipped for much of two years had noticed.

“Thanks. I’m on a good program. I like it.”

“I bet you get a lot of looks at the gym,” Justin said, smiling.

This was risky territory, but Justin was not a cautious guy.

“Yeah, you know me. The girls are all lining up to see me bench,” Chris joked.

They both smiled.

Although Chris had no agenda for the evening, he wanted it to be pleasant; in his mind, talking about other guys being attracted to him was a dumb idea, given that their last encounter had resulted in a fist in his face, delivered because Chris had been fucked by another man.

But Justin was a horny Dom, and in his good moods, there was nothing he liked to talk about more than sex. And he did have an agenda for the evening: he wanted Chris to feel comfortable and sexy. Because he was. The boy was damned hot.

“How many times a week are you going now?” Justin asked as their first course came.


“Excellent. Good work, roomie. You’re such a stud.”

Chris ate a little wistfully. “Sub stud” had been one of his favorite compliments from Justin.

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