A gay story: Once a Nerd Ch. 02 Editor’s Note: For how long this is, smut is really only at the end; just a head’s up, in case you’re looking for a flash-in-the-pan sex story. All characters are 18+, and also, I only just realized after uploading the last chapter: this was in no way, shape, or form a homage to Supernatural, sorry about the similar names.
By the middle of the second week, I’m fed up.
I decide not to go to his house again, as I think that would only serve to piss him off. He might think I’ve come just for more sex, which–I probably would end up trying to fuck him after all is said and done.
After English with Mr. Powell, there’s one more period before school lets out. For me, it’s a math course. For Mr. Powell, it’s a planning period. He doesn’t have any other classes after mine. At the shrill screech of the bell, I leave his class without making a fuss, and he’ll breathe easy because he believes I’ll be occupied in my next class. Except, I don’t go to my next class. I camp out in the bathroom nearest his room and wait for the commotion in the halls to die down. If my guess is correct, he’ll have remained in his classroom to wrap up the day’s work. He’ll also have left his door open, because I’m the only one he’s worried about barging into his room.
I’m right on both accounts. When I leave the restroom, the halls are devoid of life. Twenty paces down the hall, his door is wide open. I approach quietly, peering around the corner of the jamb to ascertain whether he’s behind his desk or not. He is, looking nonethewiser. Finally, my time has come. I slip through the doorway, close it, lock it, and draw the little curtain to cover the narrow window. Sam startles at the sound of his door closing, subsequently locking, then scowls fiercely at the sight of me.
Ouch.
I drop my bag on the floor and approach his desk with intent. “You’re really breaking my heart, Mr. Powell. Were you planning to avoid me like this ’til I graduate?”
“That’s exactly what I was going to do.” He snaps, lifting from his chair. He goes to brush past me, towards the door. I grab him by the bicep, a little harder than I meant to, but he’s leaving me next to no choice but to physically hold him here.
“Then don’t act so surprised when I have to resort to shit like this.” I snap back.
He glares up at me, but makes no move to shake my grip. Probably because he knows, as well as I do, that he can’t–and it’d be embarrassing to try and fail. “Let go, Dean.”
“You gonna talk to me?”
“I don’t have to do that!” He exclaims, growing agitated. “What the hell do you want from me? Aren’t you satisfied? You can’t…keep doing this! If I’d kept the same routine, I know you’d be up my ass even worse. It doesn’t look good for either of us, don’t you get that?”
Like a splash of oil flashing in a hot skillet, anger pops in my chest and the back of my throat. I wrench him towards me, getting up in his face. I must look as pissed as I feel, because he flinches back, afraid. “Satisfied? Nah, not even a little. What, was I not good enough? You didn’t like it? That didn’t seem to be the case, you couldn’t stop crying and cumming all over my–”
“That’s not the point!” He hisses through his teeth. “If you have such an insatiable appetite, find someone your own age to take it out on, Dean. I can’t…parade around the school like your little girlfriend!”
He’s right, I know that. He’s being perfectly logical and reasonable. I know my frequent, obvious attention could cause problems for him. I know we can’t suck face in the halls and openly flirt in class, like an average highschool couple. I know I’m being unreasonable. I’m the problem. But, frankly, I don’t give a shit about any of that. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?
“I’m young, yeah, and I like to fuck as much as the next guy, but this is your fault. I meant every word that night–this ‘insatiable appetite’ is all your fuckin’ fault, Teach. My dick wilts like a neglected house-plant when you’re not around, I can’t fuck someone else even if I want to. I get what you’re saying. I know…I know I need to cool it, and I swear to God, I will. I’ll stop breathing down your neck during the day, but don’t fuckin’ ignore me!”
He scrubs me down with incredulous eyes. “So, what, you…want me to be your fuck buddy?”
It puts a bad taste in my mouth as soon as he says it, but I’m situationally-aware enough to know it’s the best I’m going to get right now. “…yeah?”
“What if I say ‘no’?”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I would…do my best to respect that. But, it was good, wasn’t it?” I ask, struggling not to sound as desperate as I feel. I know it was good. We milked each other fuckin’ dry, cumming nothing more than hopes and dreams bu the end of it. He was shaking, sobbing, begging, completely out of his mind with it. It’d be a bold-face lie if he tries to say otherwise, and we both know it.
“You really don’t wanna do it again?” I egg him on, leaning into his space. He glances up at me, then cuts his eyes away. He’s burning with that pretty, scarlet flush that has my cock trying to swell. I swear, he’s got me trained–I’m his personal Pavlov’s Dog, and he doesn’t even know it. Finally, he heaves a quiet sigh.
“Of course it was good, that’s not even…a lie I’d be able to pull off. But, it’s unethical. Even though you’re the one pushing this, I’d be the bigger problem for letting you have your way. It’s like letting a toddler have ice cream for dinner every night just because they want it–it’s bad for them, even if they don’t know it. I’m the adult, I’m your teacher. I want what’s best for you. This…you’ve just got a crush, you’re caught up in the heat of the moment, that’s all it is.”
The analogy sets my teeth to a grind. I get it, but he’s essentially comparing me to a stupid kid who doesn’t know my left from right. I take a moment to try and gather up the right words. “Listen…” I start slowly. “I’m…not a toddler, Mr. Powell. I understand where you’re coming from, that sense of responsibility to…do the right thing. But, as far as I’m concerned, no one’s getting hurt here, as long as it stays between us. You’re not taking advantage of me. If anything, it’s the other way around. I know I’m still your student, but even that won’t be the case in a few months. It’s just really great, consensual sex.”
My stomach clenches with excitement at his expression. In real time, I’m watching the scale tip on his face. Lust versus moral obligation. Just a little more, I’ve gotta push him just a bit. I drop my hand from his arm, instead sliding my palms beneath the hem of his sweater–cradling his bare waist. I swipe my thumbs across his stomach in a soothing pattern. I crane my neck, lowering my face towards his, and drag the tips of my teeth across the fine line of his jaw.
“Just…let me get it out of my system, please. No one’s gonna find out, and I’ll be out of your hair by Summer.”
Lies, lies, lies. I’m fuckin’ hooked like a fish. There’s nothing to get out of my system, because he’s rewritten my code. He doesn’t have to know that though. If he believes I mean for this to be temporary, he’ll be more willing to go for it. He’s wound tight between my hands, and his breathing is quick and short. For how close we’re standing, I can feel his erection pressing against my upper thigh.
“I…I’ll think about it.” He hedges, but we both already know, he’s on board. “But, we’ve got to set some ground rules.”
I’m grinning so hard, my cheeks burn. “Whatever the fuck you want.”
The Ground Rules:
1. No physical contact of any kind on school grounds or in public.
2. No loitering in Mr. Powell’s class at any time, unless something of academic value is actually happening.
3. No more drink/snack deliveries.
4. No sleeping over.
5. No visible marks.
6. No cellular communication of any kind.
It’s not ideal, but I’m in no position to argue. I was especially bummed about the ‘no sleeping over’ and not being able to at least text him. He’s taking the whole ‘fuck buddy’ thing at face value. When I asked him how often I can come over and which days, he just said he’ll let me know somehow. With this new system, I’m effectively in limbo, waiting around for the green light. It’s not all bad though, as he at least acknowledges me during the day now. Sometimes, he even smiles at me, and that shit puts butterflies in my stomach like I’m thirteen with my first crush.
In the interim, I do my best to uphold the duties of your standard jock. I attend daily practices, hit the gym like it owes me money, meal prep a week’s worth of the world’s most basic chicken, rice, and broccoli, and hang out with my boneheaded buddies. However, as soon as that greenlight comes through, I drop everything. He lets me know with a little scrap of paper on the edge of his desk, which will just have dates and times. Saturdays are usually always on the table, but he’s allowed me to come over on Tuesdays and Thursdays as well. For the first three weeks, it goes even better than I could’ve hoped or imagined.
Two to three times a week, I’m having the hottest, filthiest sex possible, and Sam seems to be warming up to me. In between fucking like rabbits, he’s slowly becoming more and more receptive to engaging with me. We talk, laugh, bathe together, and eat together. He’s smiling at me more, too. Like, a real smile, the ‘I’m genuinely happy to see you’ kind of smile. I’m absolutely reading into it.
However, lo and behold, it’s the consequences of my own actions. On those nights I’m greenlit to come over, everything else gets the bare fuckin’ minimum–namely, practice and my friends. This comes to bite me in the ass spectacularly during Monday’s practice. We’re doing some standard lifts in the school’s dingy, humble weightroom before hitting the turf for some drills. There’s not much in here besides a handful of dumbbells, some lifting platforms, creaky racks, and ripped-up benches. For a team of thirty dudes, we’ve got to rotate our sets, so there’s a lot of standing around, jaw-jacking.
It’s my turn on the bench, and I’m in the middle of a moderate press [250lbs for 3×6, I know you’re wondering] with Jacob perched behind me, halfheartedly spotting my lift. Less than five paces away, loitering around one of two racks, is a group of five. Scott Tenebaum, a mountain of a linebacker. Harvey Middleton, a half-decent wide receiver. Gerard Figgus, a pizza-faced running back. Joey Thompson, a hell of a good center. Lastly, Micah Nole, another running back. Scott’s powering through some heavy squats, but his buddies are running their mouths about every teenage boy’s favorite subject: pussy.
It’s going in one ear and out the other for the most part, though I do catch the names of some female students and teachers getting passed around between bouts of laughter. It’s the standard dialogue you’d hear in any locker-room:
“Chrissy has the juiciest rack, dude, I’d give up a kidney to titty-fuck that shit.”
“Yo, I heard from that greasy cashier at the Handy-Mart that Mrs. Hilton gives head for fifty bucks a pop!”
“Sheila said if we win our game this weekend, she’ll give up her ass.”
“You’re so fuckin’ stupid, Joey, Sheila sells you that shit every time we have a game!”
Fortunately, when Mr. Powell’s name crops up, I’m re-racking my bar. I might’ve dropped it on my face otherwise.
“Bro,” Scott starts conspiratorially. “You know who’s having some absolutely wild sex?”
There’s a simple-minded chorus of ‘who, bro?’ from the group of four. Scott throws his hands out like he’s sharing the secret for immortality. “Mr. Powell, dude!”
I stiffen up as if Jacob had dumped a barrel of icy water on my head, but force myself to relax a second later. If they knew he was hooking up with me, they wouldn’t be gossiping about it three feet away. Still, as I swap places with Jacob on the bench, my ears are turned out.
“Dude, no fuckin’ way!” Gerard guffaws.
“I swear to God. It was, uh, like…last week, Wednesday? Someone dumped coffee on his shirt or something in the teacher’s lounge, and he was changing out of it when I walked by. He was doin’ it fast, too, like he didn’t want anyone to see, but the little window, y’know? I only saw for a second, but the guy is marked up, like–bites, bruises, all that shit! His girlfriend must be possessed, bro!”
“Girlfriend?” Harvey scoffs. “Have you seen the guy? He’s a faggot, for fuckin’ sure, dude. He’s probably gettin’ bent over by some dude.”
Joey makes a contemplative noise. “I mean, he is a small guy. He’s got one of those pretty faces, too. Now that you mention it, I can’t really imagine him fuckin’ a chick.”
Scott looks enlightened. “Holy shit! Goddamn, you’re probably right. He’s like…fuckin’ feminine, huh?”
“Yeah, man. Great ass, too, for a dude. Shit, are we even sure he’s actually a dude? What if he’s packin’ a pussy?” Harvey barks a laugh.
Micah snorts. “What, you volunteerin’ to check?”
They continue on for a minute more, before inevitably growing bored of the topic. My jaw aches from where it’s stayed clench throughout their little spiel. Jacob’s lucky he was able to complete his sets without an issue, because if he’d struggled at all to get it up, I wouldn’t have noticed. My eyes were fixed on the bar as he pushed it up, but my mental focus was entirely on keeping still and blank-faced. I remind myself, over and over, that I can’t play white knight for my English teacher.
I can’t beat the daylights out of my teammates for some raunchy, offhanded comments–it’s the kind of talk that’s totally commonplace. Even if I tried to say something, it’s obvious how that’d turn out. I’d be accused of being the aforementioned dude fucking him, and they’d be correct. Such accusations would harm Sam much more than they’d harm me, but I wouldn’t get off easy either. They might not say anything to my face, but the rumors would spread like fire–not only through the school, but the town.
I find a way to get mine, however.
For drills, the team is split into two for a mock game of fifteen on fifteen. Myself and Joey are named Quarterbacks, and I avoid selecting the other four for my team. How can I tackle the shit out of them if they’re on my own team? Of course, Joey is happy to select his friends for his own team, in lieu of my passing them over. With a single-minded purpose, I make plays that put me in their path. If Scott, Harvey, Joey, Gerard, or Micah put hands on the ball, I’m on them within seconds of contact. Am I aiming to break a rib or two? I’m not-not trying to, for sure
Jacob has the ball, hauling ass towards the end zone, and Scott is steps away from slamming into him. Unfortunately for him, I’m a few less steps from slamming into Scott. Right before he can snatch up the back of Jacob’s jersey, I throw myself full-force into Scott’s back. Scott Tenebaum is a big guy, and should he ever undergo a proper bulk, he’d be heftier than me. As it stands now, I’ve still got both height and weight on him. We crash to the ground hard, and I hear the wind get knocked out of him. I deliberately dig my elbow into his ribs, and he hacks a pained cough.
I quickly climb up, not bothering with the courtesy of offering him a hand.
“What the fuck, Dean?!” He barks, heaving into a sitting position.
I shrug, grinning viciously through the grates of my helmet. “Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy, Tenebaum! Get the fuck up, feel free to get me back, if you even can, fuckin’ half-rate bitch.” I mock him, scoffing. Jacob’s giving me a curious look, eyebrow raised, at the excessive shit-talk.
“Saunders!”
I turn, and Coach Celner is gesturing for me to get my ass over to the sideline.
“Tch.” Ripping my helmet over my head, I jog over to where he waits. His arms are folded over his chest, resting atop a bulging belly earned from too many six-packs of Budweiser after dinner. He looks pissed.
“What the fuck is goin’ on out there, Saunders? What’s with all the unnecessary tackles? You tryin’ to concuss your fuckin’ teammates before the game? How many goddamn times do I have to tell you, you’re a quarterback! You’re not a linebacker, Dean! Stop putting yourself in a position to get hurt!”
I throw my hands out as if I’ve done nothing wrong, completely defensive. “You kiddin’ me, Coach?! They’re a bunch of soft, pussy-ass bitches if they can’t handle a few tackles! They need to toughen up!”
Celner gapes at me. “Toughen–? Boy, you ain’t gonna have any teammates to play with on Friday if you put ’em in casts! One more unnecessary tackle like that out of you, and your ass is benched. Understand?”
“Yes’sir.”
Worth it.
Before I shove my head back into the damp cocoon of my helmet, I catch the vague shape of Mr. Powell crossing the near-empty faculty lot. He’s too far away to discern any details, but I watch him until he makes it to the driver’s door of his car. I won’t get to see him tonight, and that thought only serves to worsen my mood.
Practice wraps up after another hour, and Celner’s got me doing a penalty run. Harvey went and bitched about some shoulder pain, little bitch that he is. The squad of five shoot dirty looks into my back like arrows, while the rest of the team stays out of the war path. My behavior earned a few eyebrows and curious murmurs, but I’m not one to be easily fucked with, plain and simple. Once we’re done for the day, I’m the last one to hit the showers. As I’m lathering up, most everyone else is toweling off and stepping into fresh clothes. I’m still too pissed to pay ’em any mind. I’m completely alone in the locker-room by the time I’m climbing into my own clothes, and I expect my car to be the last one in the student lot.
To my surprise, Jacob’s rag is idling next to mine. I huff a little laugh and jog over to where he’s parked. He’s leaned up against the hood of his ’17 Camry, and he grins wide at the sight of me. We’ve been buds since elementary school, and that connection has fortunately never wavered. We grew up together in the same churches, summer camps, and sport’s teams. Our houses and parents are practically interchangeable for how often we sleep over. I’d say we know each other inside and out [no homo, actually], but there are some things I keep to myself. I’m sure it’s the same for him. He’s a pretty reserved guy, but mild mannered and friendly to most.
“Hey! I didn’t know you were waitin’, man. I wouldn’t have dragged my ass, sorry.”
“Nah, no worries. Wanna grab a bite? I already texted my folks.”
“Fuck yeah, let me text my Dad.”
Jacob heads to the pizzeria for a large pepperoni, while I mosey down to the gas station for a six-pack. I’m tight with the attendant who works the graveyard on Mondays, so he does little more than roll his eyes and accept my cash [plus a little extra] when I drop the cardboard pack of Michelob on the counter. We meet at our preferred spot, an empty lot by a yawning canal where boaters come to drop their dinghies in the water. We take our feast in the open back of my truck, and it’s as easy-going as it always is for a short while.
I don’t realize the silence has become an uncomfortable one until I feel Jacob’s eyes digging into the side of my face. I look over, dropping the can from my mouth.
“What’s up, dude?”
Jacob stares for a second longer. He opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away, then looks back at me. Clearly, it’s something heavy.
“So, uh, I’m just gonna…come out and ask.”
Once he gets the question out, I feel like a certified retard, because it’s the last thing I expected to hear. Jacob’s an incredibly perceptive guy, so I should’ve expected it.
“Dean, are you fucking Mr. Powell?”
I choke on my next swig of beer.
He thumps my back sympathetically as I clear my airway with a few, rough coughs. I drag my wrist across my mouth, then turn back to gape at him, properly scandalized. I’m a damn good liar, so I go for that route first:
“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? Why are you asking me that?”
He gives me a dry look. “Come on, Dean.”
He’s not buying it. I wipe the stupid, surprised look off my face and size him up. I hate to say it, but the only thing running through my mind is whether or not I’m going to have to beat the shit out of my best buddy to keep him quiet. Jacob’s no scrub, and while he’s not as big or as strong as I am, he can damn well hold his own in a brawl. He’s crafty, too.
Jacob’s eyes blow open as he picks up on my train of thought. He throws his palms up in front of his chest in the universal ‘easy there, fella’ gesture. “Woah, woah, relax. I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ then, since it looks like you were thinkin’ about silencing a witness.”
I can’t help but laugh at the image he’s created, and his shoulders visibly sink with relaxation. “Damn, dude,” He huffs. “Were you really about to beat my ass?”
“Hey, I still might.” I shrug. “I promised him no one would find out, and last I checked, your name isn’t ‘no one’–how the fuck did you know? Have you said anything to anyone?”
“No, no, swear to God. It’s just, well…you’re not as subtle as you think you are, dude, at least not to me. No one else has picked up on it, I don’t think, but we were shitting in diapers together. I thought something might’ve been up when you were up his ass a few weeks ago, bringin’ him shit and hanging out in his room, but I wasn’t sure. You also, uh…stare, a lot. Eye-fuck, actually. That game against the Hawks, too. You kept lookin’ at the stands, and I couldn’t quite tell where you were looking, but I saw him there. Mr. Powell usually never comes to the games.”
I swipe my hands through my hair, smoothing it over my scalp to give them something to do. I’m kicking my own ass as I listen to him, because I really, really should’ve been more subtle.
“Today, well. You were hiding it pretty good, but when those douchebags were talkin’ about him in the weightroom, you looked fuckin’ pissed, dude. Even I thought those tackles were excessive. If he’s all marked up like Scott said, I mean–one plus one equals two, y’know?”
“Alright, alright, fuck. I get it, Sherlock Holmes, thank you.”
Dean laughs, throwing his head back to polish off his beer. Then, he asks: “So, uh…what’s up with that? Did he…?”
“No.” I say firmly and immediately. “I practically forced him into it, if I’m honest. I showed up unannounced at his house after the Hawks game, and uh…I don’t know, peer-pressured him? He tried avoiding me after that, but I got him to agree to a fuck buddy situation.”
Jacob stares at me, seeming at a loss for words. “Bro, why…? Don’t get me wrong, Mr. Powell is…attractive.” He says carefully, avoiding any lewd descriptions to skirt my temper. “He’s definitely your type, but…I’ve never known you to chase anyone so hard before. Of course he wouldn’t be down for it, he’s your teacher. Why are you trying so hard? There are plenty of nerdy twinks in the sea, if that’s what you want.”
I scowl, and while I’m not necessarily annoyed with Jacob, it’s irritating to hear him describe it that way. When I reply, I try not to take it out on him. “It’s…hard to explain. I won’t go into detail because it’s no one’s fucking business, but it’s literally the best sex I’ve ever had. It’s like…a spiritual experience, every time. Other than that, I just…I like him. I fuckin’ like him, a lot. That’s enough for me.” I shrug.
Jacob eyes me thoughtfully. “Well, far be it from me to judge. But, listen, man. The only reason I’m bringing this up at all is because people are starting to talk.”
I snap around to look at him fast enough to make myself dizzy. “Talk about what?” I snap, worried out of my mind that I’ve somehow put Sam at risk.
“The fact that you’re curving girls left and right. Before this whole thing you’ve got going on with him, you were a bit of a slut, y’know? Different pussy every week, that sort of shit. Not only are you avoiding the entire female population at school, you’re just not acting like yourself. You don’t look, you don’t make comments, you don’t flirt, nothin’–and you’ve been ‘busy’ every weekend too.”
“Oh.” I breathe a quiet, relieved breath. “Dude, I don’t give a shit about that. Let ’em talk. I’ll just say I’ve got an out-of-town girlfriend or something.”
“I mean, don’t you think a lie like that is gonna get sniffed out at some point? You like him, I get it, but…it’s risky, dude. It’s risky for both of you, but mainly him–he could lose his job.”
“I fucking know that, shit.” I snap. “It’s only three months until Summer, I think I can get away with a fake girlfriend until then. I’m not gonna let him lose his job, I promised no one would find out. I love you, man, but I will actually beat the fuck out of you if you spread this around.” I make hard, serious eye-contact with him, and Jacob flinches back. “Got it?”
He holds my stare for a second more, before his face relaxes into an exasperated smile. “Christ, you’re such an asshole, Dean. Yeah, I got it, I won’t tell a fuckin’ soul. The rest is on you, try and be a little more discreet. If you keep undressing him with your eyes, the rumors are gonna start themselves.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I mutter into the mouth of a freshly cracked beer. Jacob’s right, but fuck, it’s like Sam walks around with a magnet in his ass.
Suddenly, Jacob laughs. “Man, poor Sammy. I bet back when he was in school, he was the little dork that got stuffed in lockers by bastards like you. Now, over a decade later, he’s still getting pushed around by the quarterback.”
—
The next day, Jacob’s comment is still sitting with me: “…he’s still getting pushed around by the quarterback.”
It makes me anxious to think that’s how Sam might be taking it, but it also makes me horny as fuck. The idea of bullying him: shoving his face in a toilet while I pound into him from behind, stuffing him in a locker and only letting him out once he cries uncle and agrees to let me facefuck him against the cold metal, making him teach class with my cum dripping out of his softened hole. Christ, maybe I am an asshole, because Monday night saw me beating off furiously to such corny fantasies.
Unfortunately, with our ‘no physical contact on school grounds’ rule, it’s moot. I start to wonder what it’ll take for him to let me do it, and then I mentally throttle myself. He gave me the inch, I shouldn’t try and take the mile. Throughout the entirety of his class, I keep my head down and my thoughts as wholesome as possible. I studiously do the work he’s assigned, as well as catch up on some assignments from other classes. Like Jacob said, I can’t keep eye-fucking him and brazenly adjusting my dick in my pants during English–it’d be like a neon advertisement to the rest of the student body.
Blessedly, towards the end of the period, he discreetly leaves a folded note at the corner of his desk. He doesn’t look at me as he does it and goes right back to grading our latest round of papers. My heart is a hummingbird in my breast, and despite my efforts, I’m rock hard by the time the bell rings. I take my sweet, sweet time packing my books up, and I swipe the note off of his desk as I pass by. I don’t look back at him either, as badly as I want to. I glance at the contents of the note on the brisk walk to my next class. It simply says:
4/3, 6pm
4/5, X
4/7, X
I can’t help but scowl as I crumple it up and stuff it in my pocket. Tonight’s greenlit, but Thursday and Saturday aren’t. This is the first week since the beginning of our arrangement that he’s shot me down for a Saturday. I’m sure he’ll tell me why if I ask, but in the meantime, my mind races with the possibilities. Does he have a date? Is he hooking up with someone else? Is he just getting sick of me?
“Hah, fuck.” I grumble, because Sam has me wrapped around his dainty fuckin’ finger and doesn’t even know it. Upon arriving at my last class, I do my best to smooth the irritation from my face. I paste on an amicable smile, weaving through the desks towards the back corner. Some of my teammates are in this class with me, but they’re more acquaintances than close friends: Tommy Salinger, Harry Robins, and Kyle Teegan. Kyle shoots me a casual, two-finger wave as I drop into my seat.
“What’s up, Dean?”
“Hey, man, how you guys doin’?” I greet casually, sloshing around in my pack for the notebook I’ll halfheartedly scribble some equations in.
“Ready to blow my damn brains out.” Tommy groans. “So glad we don’t have practice, I need a deep-tissue massage or some shit.”
“Yo, there’s that parlor in Mason, I heard they give happy endings if you’re good lookin’–you’re shit out of luck on that one, Tom.” Harry jokes.
Tommy flips him off good-naturedly. “Shut the fuck up, Harry, I bet no one’s touched your limp dick since Mrs. Robins last changed your diaper.”
They go on like this and I’m content to let their banter wash over me as white-noise, but I’m once again drawn into unwanted conversation by the desk in front of me: Kayla Kinny, a girl who’s as much of a stereotype as I am. She’s the Captain of the cheer squad and looks every bit the part. Long, silken ribbons of pitch hair that roll down to the middle of her back, bombshell body, and a classically pretty face pasted with slightly overdone make-up. It might be overdone, but she makes it work. She’s good at blending and shit. We previously had a situationship, as I wouldn’t really call it dating. We mostly fucked and got drunk after games, primarily at parties.
Kayle has turned halfway in her seat, smiling at me with rows of blinding, white teeth. “Hey, Dean!” She chirps.
She’s wearing a low-cut shirt that’s definitely violating the dress code [not that I can judge], and she’s got a deliberate arch in her back to make that perky rack push out. I drop my eyes from her face to do a bold once-over of her chest. I’ve fucked those tits before. I ended up painting her pretty face with a huge load, without warning, and she called me ‘the world’s biggest douchebag’–she got cum in her eye and had to stick her face under the faucet in her bathroom. Neither the memory, nor the sight of those tits now, puts so much as a twitch in my pants.
God, I’m ruined.
“Hey, Kayla.” I return her greeting, struggling not to sound bland.
She twirls a lock of hair around her acrylic-tipped finger. “So, I wanted to ask you, um…are you seeing anyone right now?”
Initially, I’m irritated by the question, but then it occurs to me that Kayla’s the perfect mouthpiece to spread the good word: Dean Saunders is off the market. I make a show of looking sheepish, like I’ve been caught red-handed. From my periphery, I can see my buddies leaning in to listen. “Actually, yeah. I’ve been seeing this girl from a few towns over. We linked up after a game.”
Kayla rears back, surprised. “R-Really? How long has that been going on?”
“Uh, almost a month now?”
Her mouth drops. It is strange, as I’ve never been one to ‘date’ or interact with the same girl for more than two weeks. Even when I would be ‘dating’ someone, I’d still be an incorrigible flirt. Jacob had me pegged, for sure. I really was a slut.
“Holy shit, Dean, wow!” She says it like she’s unsure how to react. There’s disappointment, annoyance, but also plain ol’ shock. “So it’s, like…really serious then? Who is she, a cheerleader? What does she look like? Do you have any pictures?”
“Mm, I’d say it’s serious, yeah. Since we go to different schools, I’m tryin’ to be on my best behavior, I don’t want anything bad getting back to her, y’know?”
Harry whistles. “Wow, never thought I’d see the day Dean Saunders went steady. This chick must have the tightest pussy this side of the Mississippi.”
Kayla cuts him a dirty glare.
Class begins shortly after, and I manage to avoid skirting around anymore details of my ‘long distance, steady’ girlfriend that doesn’t exist. The seed I’ve planted sprouts roots in the school immediately, spreading out to every corner by the week’s end. It’s a perfectly believable lie, for the most part, so it’s bought and sold with ease. The biggest issue is my unwillingness to name names or share any details about this alleged girlfriend. Before long, rumors pile up on top of the original story: she’s ugly, fat, or simply doesn’t exist. I have erectile dysfunction, AIDS, or I injured my dick on the field, that sort of thing.
They’re harmless, as I’m not one to fold under pressure or be bothered by the gossipy nature of the masses. As long as Sam isn’t implicated in any of them, my peers can think whatever they like. But, back to the Tuesday at hand. I beeline home as soon as school lets out and head upstairs to shower as soon as I breeze through the door. I pride myself on being well groomed, taking great pains to keep myself fresh and shaven in a few key areas: namely my groin, face, and pits. I brush my teeth, gel my hair, and spritz some cologne across my throat and wrists. I dress casually, but it’s an ensemble that flatters my physique.
For all intents and purposes, it looks like I’m headed out for a date, and that’s exactly what I let my old man believe when he gets in close to six. I mean, it’s not totally untrue. My dad doesn’t rule over me with an iron fist by any means. As long as I attend practices, win games, and don’t flunk any classes, he couldn’t give a shit what I get up to. Coming home reeking of weed, alcohol, or sex, he’ll just clap me on the shoulder and say: “Long night, son?”
We’re not extremely close, but that works just fine for me. I’ve always appreciated the freedom, but now it’s even more invaluable. Of course, he might not be so lackadaisical if he knew I was traipsing off to see my male English teacher. My mom? Your guess is as good as mine, brother. Dad doesn’t talk about her, and I don’t care enough to ask at this point.
When I clunk down the stairs, I find him seated at our flimsy dinette, shucking out of his muddy work boots. Despite what I’m sure was a long, tedious day for him, he hits me with a big grin. “Hey, buddy. Headed out?”
“Sure looks that way, doesn’t it?” I quip back.
“Goin’ to meet your little girlfriend, huh? You know you can bring her around here if you want, Dean. I don’t bite.”
“Yeah, I know, I know. She’s just real shy, and we’re takin’ things slow, y’know?”
He lifts his brows dubiously. “Slow, eh?”
“Shit, you know what I mean!” I laugh, heading for the adjoining kitchen door.
“Just make sure you’re wrappin’ it up, bud! I’m not ready for grandkids.” He groans.
I snort to myself. As many times as I’ve filled him up, Sam would be six weeks along by now if he could get pregnant. That’s a weirdly hot thought, for reasons I won’t be analyzing. “Don’t worry, I’m on top of it.”
“Yeah, that’s the problem!” He chortles after me, as if he’d told the funniest joke of the year.
The drive is roughly fifteen minutes between our homes, with the additional five minute walk from the abandoned garage to his front door. My chest is tight and pounding with excitement the entire way, as if I’m a longtime virgin who’s finally been promised some sloppy toppy. It’s a little more than that though. I’m just…genuinely looking forward to spending time with him, especially considering this will be the only chance I get for the week.
Since this has become a regular occurrence, he’s been leaving his front door unlocked for me. The porch light, however, stays off. Coming up the steps, I can see a golden hue bleeding through the curtains of his living room. He’s probably on the couch, reading under the lamp. Imagining it floods my stomach with a strange, bubbly warmth. I walk in without knocking and call out: “Yo, Sammy!”
Silence. I frown, closing and locking the door behind me. Padding through the foyer, I swing my eyes around in search of him. The kitchen lights had been left on as well, and true to my guess, he’s in his preferred spot on the couch. Instead of reading, he’d fallen asleep. His copy of ‘War of the Worlds’ had landed haphazardly on the carpet. On the end table by his head, there’s a decanter of whiskey and a glass a quarter full of the amber drink. My brows climb with surprise. “Drinkin’, huh?”
He’s wearing another big T-shirt, one that’s practically swallowing him up, and his bare legs are tangled up in a threadbare blanket. His glasses are askew on him where his cheek is pressed into the throw pillow, and his curls make a handsome mess across his brow. I crouch down beside the couch and drink him in, less than six inches between my face and his. Instead of the toothpaste I’m familiar with, his breath smells faintly of alcohol as it rolls slowly and deeply between the slight crack in his lips. Careful not to wake him, I pluck the glasses from his face and leave them to rest on the table. I brush the hair from his face, swiping my thumb across the tiny divot of his temple, because I can’t fucking help myself.
He’s so beautiful, it physically hurts. I can hardly breathe with it. Like a stray bullet through some drywall, it hits me hard, fast, and lethal: this is a whole lot more than good sex, at least for me. I really, really, really fuckin’ like this guy. I’m hesitant to call it love, because I’ve never experienced that before, but it’s gotta be in the ballpark. Even with hormones rampaging through me like a surging river, I find I’d rather let him get this rest. That’s love, isn’t it? Selfless shit like that?
However, curiosity, curiosity. Surely he wouldn’t mind my taking just a few liberties with him while he sleeps, nothing crazy. Moving down the couch, I cautiously lift his legs from the cushions and slide myself beneath them. I rest his long, slender legs across my lap, running my hands up and down the length of them, massaging circles into his calves and thighs. He groans softly at the attention, but otherwise doesn’t stir. I slide the blanket over his waist, down his thighs, and push his shirt up over his hip–all to reveal another pair of tiny shorts. Without pulling his shorts down, I slip my hand between his legs, into that warmest of places.
“Fuck, Sam, goddamnit…” I hiss, as I probe between his supple globes. He’d prepped himself, more than thoroughly. I can slip two, three, fingers into him with damn near no resistance. “Christ, you did such a good job, baby…”
I press against his insides, rubbing the pads of my fingers into his walls. He feels so goddamn good: silky, tight, fluttering flesh that grips my fingers like it’s aching for something to cling to, something to milk. He shifts slightly on the couch, pressing back into my hand, and a string of breathy, mindless noises escape him. Even in sleep, he’s seeking stimulation. I can feel my grip on the reins slipping, and I quickly withdraw from him before I can take it any further while he’s unconscious and unaware. Replacing the blanket back over him, I rest my hands on his upper thighs and drop my head into the cushions with a resigned sigh.
“You’ve got me…completely fucked up.” I tell the ceiling solemnly, gritting my teeth against the ache in my unattended cock.
It’s barely 6:30, and technically, I can be out as late as I want without consequence. My old man won’t give a shit, as long as I shoot him a text. If Sam would okay it, I’d sleep here with him. I’m guessing he probably hasn’t had dinner yet, so it might score me some points to whip something up while he sleeps. After a few more minutes of lounging beneath the warmth and weight of his legs, I get up to do just that. I readjust him on the couch, stretching the blanket out to cover him completely, before moving into his kitchen. Previously, if we didn’t order out, Sam’s always been the one to make something for us, so I haven’t had a chance to showcase my culinary chops.
Being the motherless young man I am, it was do or die growing up. Dad has always worked long hours at physical jobs, leaving him exhausted and unmotivated upon his return home. If I wanted something more than pizza, ramen, Chef Boyardi, or shitty teriyaki from the Chinese joint down the road, I had to step up. This became especially important as I got into athletics. I float through his kitchen, opening cabinets and peering into the fridge for an appropriate combination of ingredients to make something half-decent. He has a thawed package of grass-fed beef in the fridge, some fresh veggies in the bottom drawer, a carton of angel hair pasta, and a large can of crushed tomatoes–spaghetti it is.
I set some ‘sad boy’ music [as Jacob calls it] to play on my phone at a low volume, Mac Demarco and the like, and curiosity drives me back over to the end table in the living room. I return to the kitchen with the decanter in hand and fish a clean tumbler out from the cabinet. Pouring myself three fingers of the stuff, that first sip has fire licking down my throat and settling behind my breastbone. I’d like to think I’ve got a good tolerance, but within a minute or two of that first pull, I’m feeling pink in the face. Goddamn, no wonder he’s sleeping like the dead over there. Laughing to myself, I wash my mitts and get dinner underway.
Homemade meatballs [courtesy of Sam’s seasoning cabinet and the Panko I was stoked to find] get rolled out between my palms, and those aforementioned veggies [a yellow onion, a package of portabella mushrooms days away from spoiling, and a green bell pepper] fall prey to my fine-tuned knife skills. I sear up the meatballs in some oil before removing them, still underdone, from the pan. In that same pan, I get the sauce going–sauté the diced veggies to tenderness, add in the crushed tomatoes, and season her up. The meatballs get added back into the sauce and finished off that way.
All the while, the pasta is boiling in a different pot until al denté, and I’m slowly polishing off that first glass. Christ alive, this shit is strong. I couldn’t tell you anything about it beyond that–far be it from me to know the difference between scotch and bourbon, but it’s kicking my ass either way. I could’ve bent Sam in half and fucked him full, and if he’d had more than three glasses of whatever the fuck this is, he might not have even woken up for it. One is more than enough, I decide by the end of it.
Once everything is finished cooking, I plate it up and set to restoring Sam’s kitchen to rights. I don’t want to attach any extra burden to a gesture like this, so I replace everything as I’d found it and rinse off all the pots, pans, and cutlery I’d used before arranging them neatly in his dishwasher [aside from the knife]. Checking the time, it’s now close to eight. I return to where Sam’s barely moved on the couch and debate how I should go about waking him up.
Needless to say, my inhibitions are rattled loose with the liquor, because this time around, there are no second thoughts when I strip him of both the blanket and his shorts. Splitting his legs around my shoulders, I drop my head between his legs. His soft cock lays innocuously across his lower belly, and my mouth actually fuckin’ waters over it. I brush some butterfly kisses up and down its warm, clean length and do some perimeter work: kissing, sucking, and biting at the joints where leg meets groin, the bottoms of his thighs, and his hairless, velvety balls. His breathing gets a little faster, but beyond that, nothing.
His cock, however, that’s starting to wake up. I take the whole thing easily while it’s still mostly soft, sucking and swallowing around it until it stiffens up and puts some tension in the back of my throat. Without coming off of it, I drop my hand beneath his balls, feeling out for that pliant opening. Just like before, he takes three fingers smoothly. Whatever he’d done to stretch himself out, it worked wonders. I set a hard, shallow pace, thrusting into him knuckle-deep, all the while sliding my mouth up and down his pretty, pink cock. Finally, there are signs of life.
“Nngh–!”
Sam shifts beneath me, and it’s the confused, stilted movements of someone coming out of sleep to sensations they don’t yet understand. His thighs tighten around my ears, and his back bows off the couch. The dual stimulation is forcibly dragging him out of that deep, drunken slumber. His sleepy moans are growing louder, clearer. To really wake him up, I curl my fingers inside of him, massaging his prostate. His cock twitches in my mouth, and the taste of pre-cum is heavier on my tongue. He yelps, and I startle at the feeling of his fingers scraping through my hair. Glancing up, Sam is blinking dazed, lusty greens back at me. He’s red in the face, biting hard into his bottom lip.
“Dean…” He whimpers.
God-fucking-damnit.
I come off his cock and lean forward on my knees, bracing myself against the armrest above his head with my free hand. “G’morning, Sammy–” I breathe, before kissing him stupid. I fuck my tongue into his mouth at the same rate and rhythm as I fuck my fingers into his greedy hole, and each time I drag against his prostate, I drag the point of my tongue across the roof of his mouth. It tastes like whisky, sleep, and cum. He’s shaking madly beneath me, struggling to be an active participant in the kiss. His hands have a widespread grip at the sides of my throat, and his frantic whisper is pressed to my jaw: “Dean–nngh! I’m…I’m gonna cum, please–!”
His ear is a major erogenous zone, so I bite, suck, and tongue the shit out of it while encouraging him to let it all out. “Go ahead, baby, I wanna feel your ass squeeze my fingers til’ they’re numb, cum just like this, you can do it–”
He screams through his teeth and pinches his eyes shut, tears darkening his thick lashes. He cums unbelievably hard on my hand, and as I’d prophesied, his ass clamps down on my fingers with all the natural force of a Boa constrictor suffocating a meal. If that was my cock, no doubt I’d have busted from the pressure of it.
“Good, good job, baby, you did so fuckin’ good…” I praise him through the aftermath–sweetly, softly. He sobs from the chest as his body begins to melt back into the couch, his breathing evening out. I relieve him of the discomfort of being bent in half, sliding his legs off of my shoulders, and pull my fingers from where they’d been plugging him up. He does little more than exist in boneless, post-coital bliss for another moment, and I’m content to let him do it. My cock might be screaming behind my fly, but this was about him. It’s not always about receiving, fellas.
“Sorry,” He rasps. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“Nah, don’t sweat it. That shit you were drinkin’ would’ve put a horse on its ass.”
He huffs, chagrined. “No kidding, my tolerance isn’t what it used to be. What time is it?”
“Little past eight?”
He looks at me strangely. “What time did you…get here?”
“Little after six.”
“Why didn’t you wake me before now?”
“You were sleepin’ too good, didn’t want to.”
He regards me with an expression I’ve never seen before on his face, before the indications of recent cooking carry over from the kitchen–the aroma of spiced, ground beef and hearty tomato sauce. He turns to look over the back of the couch. “Did you cook?”
“Mmhm.” I puff my chest out. “I figured you hadn’t eaten yet.”
His eyelids fall like shutters, his face and throat brightening with a flush. He’s well and properly flustered, and I did that. “Thank you. Ah, I guess I should change.” He says, cringing at the mess he’d made on his stomach and shirt.
“Oh! No, wait, I brought something for you to wear.”
“Christ, you didn’t.” He’s aghast, surely imagining a set of slutty lingerie or a played-out maid’s costume.
“Yeah, hang on, you’re gonna love it.” I tug his shirt over his head and scrub away the excess of fluids from his stomach, chest, and groin. He mumbles something about being a ‘grown man’ which goes ignored.
I leave him on the couch just long enough to return to the foyer, where I’d left the article atop his entryway table. Coming back around the couch, I unfold it for him to see what I’d brought. He balks, before flatly refusing:
“Fuck no, absolutely not. You’ve lost your mind if you think I’m wearing that–”
“Come on! It’s going to look so good on you, please!”
What is it, you ask? Totally harmless, innocent–it’s just my jersey. “Look, I could’ve brought my jockstrap too, but I decided to spare you that humiliation. We both know it wouldn’t fit you.”
He sputters. “Your jersey won’t fit me either!”
“I know, that’s what makes it so hot. Come on, Sam, please?”
It takes a few minutes of back and forth, refusal and begging, but he eventually caves.
“Jesus Christ…” He grumbles, poking his head and arms through the large holes. I shove my knuckles in my mouth to keep from swearing, because it’s…so much hotter in reality. It’s hanging off of him in all the right places, the hem resting just below his upper thighs. To have him wearing my number, my colors–the jersey I’ve sweated in, bled in, won countless games in. To have Sam wearing it, and nothing else, makes me feel like a sex-starved beast. It takes everything in me not to twist him around and shove his face in the cushions. I want that fabric to bear the stains of our coupling, to make it even more meaningful when I put it on for a game.
“Goddamnit, that’s…the best thing I’ve ever seen. Please, never, ever take it off.”
He looks away, blistering with embarrassment and arousal. He pauses, then brings the collar to his nose. His mouth drops around a startled, strangely pleased sound. “Did you…you didn’t wash this?”
“Nah.” I grin. “I wanted you to wear it like that.”
He scowls at me, and I know he’d rather die than admit what a turn-on it is. Then, he’s brushing past me to round the couch.
“Are we eating or not?”