Chapter One #2
It wasn’t even like I was all that horny, but my brain had seized on the idea of jerking off as the quickest, easiest way to distract myself. Cock already half-hard in my jeans as I dug my fingers past the waistband, the heat of my skin strong against my palm.
Tugging the fly open, I scrolled with the other hand.
I didn’t know what it was about this one, particular video that did the trick so effectively for me.
Not like I was particularly into size-difference pairings - the top tall, decently muscled; his bottom slim and shorter, though still amply hung - and the cheesy dialog in the scene was always mute-worthy.
Something, then, about the expression on the fucked guy’s face, and the amateur quality of the footage; the sight of his hard cock flopping as he was reamed so effectively.
He was so obviously into it, enjoying being lost in the moment.
I couldn’t help but envy that sort of single-mindedness: of experiencing something so intense that every other thought fled your brain.
Shoving my jeans down my thighs, I stroked myself in my briefs.
A dark patch already soaking through the light gray cotton, where the swollen head of my dick rubbed.
The friction - of my hand, and of the underwear - almost insufferable; I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to yank myself free and jerk off in earnest.
It’d been more than a month since I’d done anything with another guy, at least in-person.
Had flirted, and sexted; sent and received my share of dirty clips.
But my body felt starved for physical touch, in a way that - even though familiar, and eventually rewarding - my own hand couldn’t quite satisfy.
Enough, maybe, to see me hit the hookup apps again, and consider the risk-reward balance of a quick roadtrip.
A decision for after the holidays, anyway. Tilting my hand as I jacked, I eased my briefs down. Fingers quickly coated with my own slick, the texture of my strokes shifting.
The knock on the door came right as I was tightening my grip.
For a moment I thought I could ignore it. Pretend I was asleep, maybe. Just stay silent, until whoever it was - I figured my mom or my dad, here to see what was keeping me - gave up.
Another knock.
Hissing under my breath, I hit pause on my phone and yanked my jeans back up. Reached down to wipe my hands on yesterday’s t-shirt on the floor, and then took a deep breath. Opened the door.
Flynn was grinning, like there was a joke we were sharing.
“What?” I snapped. Sharper than I meant to, but it was hard not to feel like the universe was just pushing his success into my face, now.
“Please, daddy, my boypussy is too tight.”
I blinked at him. “What the fuck?”
The smile quirked, like he was resisting the urge to laugh. “Pro-tip, Oli.” He leaned in, close enough that a whisper was enough. “When you start watching porn, make sure your phone isn’t still connected to the Bluetooth speaker.”
It felt a whole lot like the bottom of my stomach fell out, while all the blood simultaneously drained from my body.
Or, at least, something along those mortifying lines.
I made to push past him, barely thinking of what my plan was, only that I had to grab the speaker and try - physics be damned - to shove the sound waves right back into it.
As if it was one of those joke cans of peanuts, full of springy snakes.
Flynn caught me by the bicep, stopping me. “It’s okay, dude. I turned it off.”
Part of me wanted to yank my arm from his grip, but there were more pressing issues.
“H-how much...”
“Basically that one line,” he said, not needing me to finish my question. “Which was a pretty unexpected segue from Nat King Cole, I gotta say. But I hit the mute button fast.”
I blinked at him. Some part of my brain - the shellshocked part maybe, though that encompassed a whole lot of it - was trying to remember where Flynn had been sitting in relation to the speaker.
Trying to picture his reaction, as the audio I’d thought was muted but which must’ve instead been simply rerouted to the living room, suddenly began blaring out.
“Did... did they...”
Oh god, it was too awful to even put into words, much less think about.
Again, though, Flynn didn’t seem to need the full sentence. “Thankfully, I guess your parents know as little about current music as mine do. I told them it was some of that ‘new fangled rap,’ and they seemed to buy it.”
I sagged, suddenly thankful for his hold on me. Otherwise it would’ve been a graceless slump against the doorframe.
Flynn eased me back, shutting the door behind him with a nudge from his foot. Deposited me, mostly gently, onto the edge of the bed.
I braced myself for his mockery.
My friends knew I was gay, because I wasn’t entirely delusional: not so uptight, nor paranoid, that I felt like I could survive the mental anguish of being completely closeted.
That didn’t mean my parents needed to hear the truth, however, and that put an end to anybody else in town knowing.
Because I was sure as shit that almost nobody here could keep a secret worth a damn.
“Did you run track?”
I looked up, in surprise. Flynn seemed engrossed by the array of dusty ribbons and silly little tin medals that still dangled from my bookshelf. They’d been there so long, I’d stopped even really seeing them.
“Uh, yeah. For a couple of years, anyway.”
He nodded without turning. “You must’ve been pretty good?”
I shrugged, even though he couldn’t see me. “I was okay.”