Chapter 4
“You good, Jay?” Coach asks as he jogs past. “You’re running a little stiff.”
“I’m good, Coach,” I wheeze. “Just trying to get the blood flowing.”
The blood is certainly flowing. In all the wrong places.
It’s a perfect day for practice. Sunny, a cool breeze, the turf still damp from last night’s rain.
Normally, I’d be flying across the field, feeling the burn in my legs, the adrenaline surging through my veins.
Today, though, I can’t focus on any of it.
All my attention is directed to the presence lodged in my ass.
The plug is an active participant in my stride during warm-up laps.
I feel it with every step. A deep pressure that makes my body feel like it doesn’t fully belong to me anymore.
My ass cheeks clench around the base, trying to adjust, and that only makes it worse. Or better. I don’t even know anymore.
I have to keep my face completely blank. Can’t let anyone see me react when the toy presses against that spot inside me that I didn’t even know existed, and that apparently feels incredible when something touches it.
Because here’s the thing. The horrifying part I can never, ever tell anyone.
It feels good.
Not just tolerable. Not just “I can get through this.” Actually, genuinely, disturbingly good.
It feels so good that every so often, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from moaning.
And my dick, that treasonous bastard, is still showing a concerning amount of interest. The compression pants are doing a decent job of hiding it, but every now and then, I have to adjust myself discreetly.
I’ve spent the last twenty minutes thinking about highly unsexy things. Defensive schemes. The smell of old shoulder pads. That homecoming loss sophomore year. The chalky protein powder I choke down every morning—anything to keep my body from getting the wrong idea.
So far, it’s not working. It’s like my body has developed a mind of its own, and it’s a pervert. It’s decided that having a piece of silicone jammed up its ass is the best thing that’s ever happened to it.
And that scares me more than anything.
Stone jogs beside me now, that smug, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.
“Holding up okay?”
“Never better,” I grit out. I try to pick up the pace, put some distance between us, but the sudden burst of speed jostles the plug hard enough to make my knee buckle. Stone catches my arm, steadying me.
“Easy, tiger. We don’t want any injuries.”
He’s enjoying this. The power. The control. He knows he’s got me in a position where I can’t do anything about it.
And something about that gets to me. The way he’s holding my arm.
That smug look on his face. The dominance in his eyes.
The knowledge that he can do whatever the fuck he wants with me.
My brain does something weird, and for half a second, I think: If he pushes me against the ground right now and tells me to submit, I might.
The thought is so out of left field it shocks me back to my senses. I pull my arm away with more force than necessary.
“I’m fine,” I snap.
He gives me a strange look, then slips right back into that cocky smile. “You’re a little on edge, Jay. Maybe you should, you know, loosen up a bit.” He winks, then takes off at a sprint, and I watch him pull ahead, trying to process what just happened.
Where the hell did that thought come from?
Stone’s been my roommate for three years.
My teammate. My friend. I’ve never looked at him as anything other than the annoying jackass who steals my protein bars and leaves his dirty socks everywhere.
Never. So why did that image flash through my head?
The thought of his weight on me, pinning me down…
I shake my head, trying to clear it. Must be the plug fucking with my brain. This is what I get for not backing down. This is my brain, rewired by silicone and lube. I take a deep breath and focus on my legs, my feet hitting the ground, the rhythmic slap of cleats on turf.
Just make it through practice. One more hour, and you can get this thing out.
By the end of the warm-up, my muscles are burning, and sweat is pouring down my back. The plug is still firmly in place.
“You’re looking a little red in the face, man,” Diego, our wide receiver, says as we line up for a tackling drill.
“Working hard,” I grunt. “You should try it.”
Coach blows his whistle. “Alright, listen up! This is live tackling. Make pairs and don’t go easy on each other. I want to see some aggression, people!”
I turn to find Diego, or Tyler, or literally anyone else, but Stone’s already there.
“Partners?” he asks with mock innocence.
Coach’s whistle shrieks again before I can protest. The drill is a simple one. Ball carrier runs ten yards to the end zone. Tackler has to bring him down before he gets there.
“I’ll let you start,” Stone says, tossing me the football. “Let’s see if you can still run straight.”
I catch it, my grip sweaty on the leather. I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve been tackling and getting tackled by this guy for years. I know his moves, his tells. But everything’s different today. The plug. That weird thought I had. The way he keeps looking at me…
“Ready when you are,” Stone says, settling into a defensive stance.
“Go!” I yell and take off. The world narrows to the fifty yards of green turf between me and the end zone. My feet pound against the ground, my breath comes in ragged bursts.
The plug digs in with every stride. That spot inside me lights up with sparks. The friction is maddening. It’s good. So fucking good. And it’s taking every ounce of my concentration not to trip over my own feet.
I can hear Stone closing in behind me. Heavy, thunderous footfalls. He’s bigger than me. Heavier. If he gets a clean shot, I’m going down. Hard. And the thought of him hitting me with that much force right now…
The end zone is ten yards away. Five. Three. I can make it. I can—
He slams into me from behind, and we hit the turf with a solid thud.
Stone’s on top of me, a dead weight, his breath hot against my ear. “That all you got, Jay?” he grunts, trying to wrench the ball from my grip.
I thrash beneath him, but he’s got me pinned.
His chest is a solid wall against my back, one arm wrapped around my waist, the other trying to pry the football from my fingers.
The impact drove the plug deep inside me, an electric shock that shot straight to my dick.
Now, with him pressed against me, it’s like he’s intentionally grinding it into that spot, his crotch snug against my ass.
I can feel him, even through all the padding.
A sound escapes me—something between a whimper and a moan that I’ve never made before. I clamp my mouth shut, mortified.
“Making some funny noises down there,” Stone whispers, his voice a low rumble against my back. “You good?”
I buck my hips, trying to throw him off, but it only makes the plug press deeper, and a fresh wave of pleasure washes over me, so intense it makes my head spin. My cock throbs against the unforgiving turf.
“Alright, break it up!” Coach yells. “Nice hit, Stone! Jay, you’re dragging today!”
The whistle blows, and Stone finally rolls off me. He stands up, offering me a hand. I ignore it and push myself up, my legs feeling like jelly. I can’t look at him. I can’t let him see my face. He’ll know. He’ll know how much I enjoyed that. He’ll know everything.
The rest of practice is a blur. I’m going through the motions, my body a vessel for this secret, shameful pleasure. Every hit, every jostle, every sudden stop is a new kind of torment. A delicious, terrifying torment.
I avoid Stone like the plague, but he’s always there. A looming presence on the sidelines. A flash in my peripheral vision. A knowing smile that I feel more than see. He’s in my head now. Under my skin. Inside me, in more ways than one.
“Alright, that’s a wrap!” Coach shouts, finally blowing the whistle for the last time. “Good work today, boys! Hit the showers!”
I’ve never been so grateful to hear those words. I’m already halfway to the locker room before the team’s even started moving. I’m a mess. Exhausted, sweat-soaked, and so painfully aroused I can barely walk straight.
“Hey, hold up!” Stone calls, jogging to catch up with me. He claps a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I flinch. “We’ve still got the post-practice inspection to do.”
“I’m not doing that here,” I hiss, glancing around to make sure no one’s listening. “Let’s do it back in our room.”
“You don’t mind keeping that thing in a little longer? Thought you’d be in a hurry to get it out.”
“Made it this far. What’s another ten minutes?”
He gives me a curious look. “Alright. Back in the room it is.”