C.M. Walker

From this distance, his eyes look black. Though he’s not what you’d call built, taut olive skin covers his deliciously defined pecs and the faint ridges of his abs. The top line of the seven is perfectly centered between his dark nipples. Boxer briefs contain the bulge between his legs and snugly wrap around to his backside. The dark hair covering his legs matches the mop on the top of his head.

Seven is one of fifteen lucky freshmen who received their Alpha Phi Kappa pins yesterday. Earlier tonight, three brothers waxed the freshmen’s chests and wrote the numbers onto the smooth surface with a bold marker. Nothing starts the brother-bonding process like having your chest hairs ripped out with hot wax.

My gaze travels back up to his face. He stares at me. No way he missed my inspection of his entire body. Shit. I quickly look to Eight, who’s shorter and a little rounder. Better. No inappropriate reactions there.

As Chuck, this year’s Pledge Master, talks about the tradition of pledging and the ritual of becoming a brother, my attention wanders back to Seven. He continues to watch me, perhaps expecting another eye-fuck. Sorry to disappoint you, Seven. And yet, I can’t seem to avert my gaze. Are his eyes really black or just very dark brown?

“Fifteen of our brothers have so graciously volunteered to personally guarantee that your pledging semester gets off to the right start.” Chuck shakes the bowl of paper in his hands. “They’ll each draw a number and then supervise your completion of a task of their choosing. Failure to complete the task will result in consequences. And trust me, you don’t want the consequences.”

Chuck offers the bowl to Paulie first. He pulls out a slip of paper, unfolds it, and reads, “Two.”

Two nods. You can almost see his mind working a mile a minute, wondering if Paulie is exactly the type of person people mean when they say, “It’s the quiet ones you gotta look out for.”

Mikey draws next. “Twelve, you’re my bitch.” He rubs his hands together. “This is gonna be fun.”

Chuck steps over to me. “Your turn, T.K.”

Please be Eight. Or Nine. Anyone but Seven.

I fish around in the bowl, as if the paper marked Seven will feel different from the rest. I tear my eyes off Seven just long enough to read the one I’ve chosen. My mouth grows so dry that my announcement comes out hoarse. I clear my throat and wet my lips. “Seven,” I repeat, this time loud enough to drown out the throbbing of my heartbeat in my ears.

Chuck moves on to Boomer.

Seven shows no reaction. He’s either a damn fine poker player or too cocky for his own good. No. Better not think anything about cocks right this minute. I take Seven’s stoic nature as a personal challenge. If he can stand there unaffected by what’s happening, then I sure as hell can. Well, I’ll have to fake it because just the thought of getting him alone in my room makes my dick stand at attention.