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This is the first chapter of a new series. I haven’t written anything in over a year and a half, so it’s nice to actually get back to being creative.
Something I plan to do when writing this series is listen to music as I start working on each chapter. Given that I’m a lifelong musician, I figure that the right song can give me the right way to go with the story – as it definitely did with this chapter.
So, at the beginning of each chapter, I’m going to put my “recommended music” for the chapter. If you listen to it as you’re reading, I think it might help put you in the right mindset for the story.
Anyway, hope you all enjoy, and it’s good to be back!
Tales of a Mountain High Chapter 1: The Big Fish
Recommended music for this story: “Tribute”, by Tenacious D
My name is Jack Bauer. No, not that Jack Bauer. No, not any relation to that Jack Bauer. In fact, Kiefer Sutherland can blow me.
You know inOffice Space, when Michael Bolton always has to deal with the fact that he has the same name as that no-talent assclown? Well, that’s about what my life turned into when FOX put that godforsaken24on the air back just after the turn of the century.
I was pissed. There I was, a junior in high school, and suddenly I was thrust into the spotlight by a crappy action show. Some people suggested I go by my middle name. Too bad my parents were both crazy military buffs who had decided to name me for historic generals – Jackson Tecumseh Bauer.
Jesus, if General Sherman had it bad for having that middle name, he had no idea what it was like for me. Class of 2003, and my name was JACKSON TECUMSEH?
My parents fucking sucked in January of 1985.
But I digress. Much as that name may have sucked while I was at St. Bonaventure High School in downtown Vallé Salado, it all changed in the fall of 2003.
It was a bit of a shock when I went off to college. I had been born and grew up in Vallé Salado, which is the fifth biggest city in these Untied States of America.
By the way, yes, I said Untied. Fucking “George Walter Shrub” as our President. I mean, you’ve gotta be bad as a President when a fictional Kazakh journalist makes fun of your ass. It’s like he’s the next coming of Ulysses S. Grant, except Grant was a war hero while, Bush shirked his duty.
Oh, and I have ADD, in case you couldn’t tell. Lovely thing, Attention Deficit Disorder. When you combine it with a photographic memory, you remember every damn thing you see, the only downfall being that you can’t focus on any of those things!
Anyway. Like I was saying, off to college. Leaving Vallé Salado and going up to Ponderosa for school was a bit of a culture shock. I had originally planned to go out to Orange County and attend Chapman University, but lo and behold, it turns out I would’ve left Chapman plus a bachelor’s degree and minus an arm and a leg. So, I headed off to Mountain High University.
Mountain High University is in south Ponderosa, which is to north Ponderosa as Beverly Hills is to West Hollywood. In other words, it’s separated by all of about half a mile. Ponderosa is a tiny college town – 50,000 people during the school year, 50,000 during the summer, except that during the school year, 15,000 of those people are students, and during the summer, 15,000 of those people are retirees and tourists.
Now here’s the funny thing about Ponderosa – if you’re on or around the MHU campus, you’re in what a former state governor once called a “cesspool of liberalism”.
Strangely, that governor was impeached a month after that.
Anyway, the MHU campus is massively liberal. It’s all about smoking pot and having “Bush is Not My President” bumper stickers on your car. Okay, maybe it’s not ALL about smoking pot, but that tends to be a big part of the culture.
You get more than three blocks off the MHU campus, though, and it’s like Red City. Gun racks, red necks, and country songs make up most of north and east Ponderosa. Somehow, though, everybody gets along.
Okay. Getting back to topic, I moved up to Ponderosa. My crap managed to fill both my mom’s station wagon and my dad’s sedan. Actually, check that – my crap filled my mom’s station wagon, my dorm fridge and my sisters filled my dad’s sedan. But whatever.
On move-in day, I was assigned to Walter P. Bullhorn Hall. Apparently, Dr. Bullhorn had been one of the movers and shakers in getting MHU turned from a state teachers’ college into a full-fledged university back in the ’60s. Whatever. I managed to mostly tune out the orientation geek who was telling all us uninterested freshmen about the history of Bullhorn Hall.
While I was tuning out Captain Dorkwad, I did manage to notice that there was a surplus, no, a veritable bounty of beautiful women on the campus of Mountain High University. A respectable number were among the twenty-five people currently sitting here in the hall conference room. There were more walking by outside. What the hell was this madness? Was this some sort of cruel trick, Kartal escort or had I landed on the campus of the best university EVER?
Later that night, at a hall wing meeting, the R.A. told us that MHU had a five-to-one women-to-men ratio. That explained a LOT.
Anyway, I do believe I was trying to make a point about going to MHU. Ah, yes. The difference having the name Jack Bauer made.
Having spent four years in the St. Bonaventure marching band, I had immediately signed up for the MHU marching band. There was only one small difficulty.
I marched, of all things, electric guitar. That’s right – I’m a fucking amazing guitar player, if I should say so myself. No false modesty here; I can do things on the guitar that would amaze Jimi Hendrix. And so, the band director at St. Bone had put a wireless transmitter on my guitar and designed rock marching shows around my ability. 2000, ’01, and ’02, we had had the highest score at the state competition and damn were we proud.
But then I got to MHU, and they were doing a fucking Broadway showtunes show. Well, not much room for a marching electric guitar there. Fortunately, they needed a keyboard player in the pit. So, I resigned myself to doing something so pedestrian.
We had band rehearsal on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons, and Friday of the first week, I had brought my guitar down to the L. Johnson Runon Stratodome for rehearsal.
Okay, before I go any further, a word of explanation. L. Johnson Runon (pronounced run-on, like the improper sentence form) had been president of the university back in the ’60s and ’70s. In 1978, the university had decided that it was time to build a proper athletic facility for the football and basketball teams. So, since it snows a shitload in Ponderosa during the winter, they decided to build a domed stadium. Well, in 1978 when they built it, it was the largest free-suspension dome in the world, so they gave it the lofty name of the Stratodome.
Anyway. I brought my guitar to rehearsal, and during a break, I plugged into the amp for my keyboard and started just messing around. Before long, I had attracted a crowd. I didn’t realize it until I looked up and there were twenty people standing in front of me.
I was a little embarrassed by that, so I took a brief bow, and then put the guitar away. After rehearsal, while I was packing up the keyboard for transport back to the Fine Arts College, I heard a very female voice behind me say, “You’re really good, you know that?”
I turned around. Now, like I said, the MHU campus has a lot of hot women. This girl was definitely up there toward the top. She couldn’t have stood more than 5’2″, 5’3″. She was blonde, had bright blue eyes, and, well, to put it bluntly, an enormous rack.
Now, I always feel bad when I say something about that. I think that intentionally objectifying women is very much not cool, and guys who do need to have a bit of testosterone removed from their system. However, sometimes…
You just can’t help it. This was one of those cases. Fortunately, despite the fact that I was sitting there taking in her absolute hotness, I was able to make my mouth work as well. “Thanks,” I replied. “I’ve been playing guitar since I was four years old… my parents were going through a musical history phase… and so they got me playing guitar.”
Then, I realized why she stood out in my mind. “Wait, you’re that tuba player, aren’t you?”
“Yep,” she said with a smile. “I play an instrument that’s almost as big as I am, and I’m damn good at it. My name’s Trina Zapata.”
“Jack Bauer,” I replied, extending my hand.
“Wow,” she said, “like Kiefer Suth-“
“Yes,” I interrupted, “like Kiefer fucking Sutherland.”
She stopped for a moment. “Sorry,” I said quickly. “It’s just that I’ve been hearing that for the last two years, and I’m a little tired of it.”
“No, that’s okay,” she replied with a smile. “But with a name like Jack Bauer and the ability to play the guitar that well, I bet you fuck pretty well too.”
Now, let me just say that it’s practically impossible to make me speechless. But Trina did. I had absolutely no reply, no comeback – nothing. I just stood there, with my mouth hanging open.
“Well, I’ll see you on Monday!” she said cheerfully. “Bye!”
I did see her on Monday, and every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon for the next few weeks, and sometimes on Saturday – you know, football games and all that. However, we didn’t really talk other than to say, “Hi” – pit percussion and tubas just don’t interact that much.
The last Saturday of October, that all kind of changed.
Saturday, October 25th, 2003. I had to get to the Stratodome at an ungodly hour, well before dawn – it was MHU Band Day. I remembered MHU Band Day well – St. Bone had gone every year I was in high school. We got an excellent my freshman year, superiors my sophomore and junior years, and a superior with distinction my senior year. I had also gotten one of the MHU drum majors alone Kurtköy Escort in her dorm room for an hour after Band Day was over. Don’t ask me how I did it, because if I knew, I’d be using the same moves on every attractive girl I came across. To this day, though, the St. Bonaventure band director still thinks that I was off visiting my Aunt Clara that night.
Aunt Clara lives in Boston.
Anyway. I showed up with a massive cup of coffee in my hand, and one of the gradasses (graduate assistants, for those who aren’t in the know) sent me up to the concourse to set up one of the check-in tables.
So I get up there, and one of the tuba players – we all called him “Bear” because his parents were Hungarian and his name was practically impossible to pronounce… although, he did also look like a bear – was already there. We started setting up the table, and got to talking about, of all things, Airsoft guns.
Airsoft guns are these little plastic guns that fire little plastic pellets. They hurt like hell when you get hit by one, but they’re completely harmless if you take the right precautions. The thing is, they look incredibly realistic.
So, Bear was telling me about this Uzi Airsoft he has and how it can shoot out 100 pellets a minute. I don’t have anything like that, but I do have an Israeli Defense Industries Desert Eagle .50 caliber Airsoft. I was telling him about it, and one of the features I mentioned was, “It has an eight inch barrel, which increases accuracy like you would not believe.”
That’s when I heard a voice behind me say, “You have an eight inch barrel, huh?”
I turned around, and who should be standing there but Trina, with a smile on her face that reminded me of a cat who had swallowed a canary. “I think we should find out,” she said, and with no warning, proceeded to grab my crotch.
In my defense, it had been a very, very busy semester for me. I didn’t have a girlfriend at the time, and I honest to God hadn’t really had the chance to look. So, while the fact that Mr. Happy immediately sprang to attention was mortifyingly embarrassing, it also really wasn’t too surprising.
Now, obviously, Trina noticed. But her smile simply got bigger. Her eyebrows went up a tad. “Perhaps we should take care of that later,” she whispered, squeezed gently, and walked off.
Bear just stared at me. “You lucky bastard,” he laughed.
So, I was assigned to be the escort for the St. Bonaventure High band that afternoon – which made sense, as it was my alma mater. They were on the field at 4:40 PM, which meant I had to meet them in the upper parking lot at 4:20 PM.
At 3:30 PM, I was sitting at the check-in table, when Trina and Bear came walking up to me. “Hey Jack,” Trina said. “I need you to come with me real quick. Bear’s gonna take your place for a few minutes.”
I should’ve suspected something was up. But given that I’m Captain ADD, and given that I was tired as hell, even if I’d thought about it, I still would’ve gotten 2+2=watermelon right at that moment.
I dutifully followed the tiny tuba section leader (yeah, even though she was a freshman, just like me, she had become a section leader, while I was pathetically wallowing in pit percussion). When we reached the hallway to the athletic offices, she turned left.
We stopped in front of Coach Sweetzer’s door – and Trina reached under her uniform and pulled out a key. Now why in God’s name would she have had a key to the head football coach’s office? Again, though, it didn’t even cross my mind.
She opened the door, pulled me across the threshold, and then shut it and locked it behind her. Then, without warning, she pressed her body against me and kissed me like a hungry man goes for water.
Was I surprised? Yes. Was I complaining? Hell no. I kissed her back with an equal hunger, and then Mr. Eight Inch started coming to attention. Since I was pressed so tightly against her, she immediately felt my erection pressing against her leg.
“Very nice,” she murmured. “I think we should take care of that, don’t you?”
If I’d been able to form coherent words at that moment, I probably would’ve said, “Do pigs like to muck in shit?” or something equally sarcastic. Instead, I just kind of moaned, “Uh-huh…”
She reached behind me and unzipped my uniform jacket. Pulling it off me, she slipped the straps of my uniform pants off my arms, and slid the body-length pants down to my knees, leaving my lower half clad only in basketball shorts and boxers. She slid the basketball shorts down, and then unbuttoned the button on the fly of my boxers, allowing my now fully erect cock to spring out.
I had never seen my cock in a state quite like this before. It was angry, menacing, and red, with a vein standing out on top. The head was slick from the pre-cum that had already leaked out in the brief sixty seconds since Trina first pressed herself against me.
“My God,” she said. “That is an absolutely beautiful cock.”
And then, she said no more, for she had her Maltepe Escort lips wrapped around said beautiful cock. Oh sweet Jesus, I was in heaven. Her head bobbed up and down on my cock, her little blonde ponytail bouncing off the back of her neck with each thrust.
Now, when you haven’t gotten any in a while, your endurance tends to be limited. And so, less than a minute and a half into the most amazing blowjob of my life, I felt the impending eruption. “Oh shit,” I gasped. I tried to warn her, but when I attempted to say, “Trina, I’m about to cum, perhaps you should hide yourself, because this is gonna be like a nuclear eruption,” all that came out was “Gahhhh…”
My cock pulsed in a way I’d never felt before, and six months worth of built up sexual frustration came boiling to the surface and blasted out of the head of my cock in a gooey white stream – or at least, that’s what I assume, since I couldn’t actually see it.
When the first spurt hit the back of Trina’s mouth, she jerked in surprise, her eyes shooting up at me with an almost accusing glare. Nonetheless, she kept her lips sealed around my cock until I stopped firing sperm bullets, swallowing every drop.
After she finished, she released my still-hard cock from her lips, looked around, and went behind Coach Sweetzer’s desk. Grabbing a sealed bottle of water, she opened it, and took a drink. Then she looked at me.
“Normally,” she said, a stern edge in her voice, “I hate having guys cum in my mouth. The face, the hair, the tits – I don’t care. But the mouth – not so much.”
Oh shit. “I… I…”
Then her face softened. “But in your case, you so obviously needed that orgasm, and you so obviously couldn’t control yourself, that I’m gonna give you a pass this time.”
She laughed at the look of relief on my face. “It happens from time to time,” she said. “When was the last time you came that involved somebody other than Rosy Palm and her five friends?”
Wow. Talk about a metaphor I hadn’t heard since junior high. Nonetheless… “Uh, just after Easter.”
“Holy shit,” she said. “You’ve gotta get laid more often.”
And it was true. But what could I do? I’d like to get laid every single night, but the fact of the matter is, I’m a busy son of a…
She interrupted my reverie. “Looks like your Eight Inch isn’t done yet.”
I looked down, and sure enough, I still had a rock cock.
Trina went behind Coach Sweetzer’s desk again and rolled his office chair out onto the floor. “Hey,” I said, my fatigue and ADD catching up to me again, “he’s got the same chair as me, and he takes the arms off, just like me… I guess he must be tall… you know, it’s hard for tall people to sit in office chairs with arms on them, simply because we’ve got bigger frames, and you kind of have to squeeze yourself into them…”
With a gleam of amusement in her eye, Trina interrupted. “Shut up, Jack. And sit down.”
Who was I to say no to a section leader. “Yes, ma’am.”
I sat down in Coach Sweetzer’s chair, my uniform pants, basketball shorts, and boxers still around my ankles, my cock sticking up in front of my band t-shirt, the relative paleness of it providing an odd contrast to the black fabric of the shirt.
Trina stood in front of me – and started to strip. I never knew a strip tease out of a band uniform could be sensual, but good God…
Now, first of all, you have to understand, tuba players in the MHU band didn’t wear the uniform jackets. Instead, they wore football jerseys that had “03” on them, with “Mountain High” on the front and their name on the back.
What’s that? You don’t care? Okay, back to the striptease.
First, she peeled off the jersey. Under it, she was wearing the uniform pants, but had no MHU band t-shirt on under the straps – just a black Victoria’s Secret bra.
And yes, I know what a Victoria’s Secret bra looks like. I worked at the Pima Fashion Square mall my senior year of high school, so I’ve seen a few.
Good Christ. So she now had a pair of dark blue uniform pants on, with a black Victoria’s Secret bra peeking out from underneath. She slowly slid off one shoulder strap, and then the other, and at an agonizingly slow pace, the pants collapsed into a pile around her ankles, exposing a matching black thong.
At this point, I think that if my cock had been a dog, it would’ve been jumping around the room and howling at the ceiling. However, it stayed put except for the occasional twitch, while I just stared at Trina, with my lower jaw hanging four feet lower than the rest of my head.
Looking at me, she put an angelic smile on her face, and then stepped out of the uniform pants. She now stood in front of me, clad in the bra, thong, and black socks and marching shoes.
Now, as I think about it, that particular image based on my description seems a little silly-looking, but at the time, no model, no pornstar, no goddess of the silver screen had ever looked hotter than Trina did, standing in Coach Sweetzer’s office.
Keeping the smile on her face, she stepped over to me, and straddled me, her thong-clad pussy just inches above my fit-to-burst raging hard cock. She reached up to the front closure on her bra, and with a simple flick, it popped open, exposing her absolutely magnificent breasts.
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