Chapter 7 Blue
Blue
Today’s practice nearly killed me. I’m doing my best to rally and recover, but if this is the end for me, at least I’ve had a good run. I haven’t quite decided what my tombstone should say, but the frontrunner so far is: Here lies Blue. He died of blue balls.
It’s not the most eloquent thing I’ve ever written, but I’m hanging on by a thread here, and I’m doing my best. Besides, it’s true. We ran all the same drills as usual, but sporting a hard-on while wearing a cup is a special kind of torture—the kind I can thank Liza and her laptop full of porn for.
It’s been a little over twenty-four hours since I found that treasure trove of fantasies and I haven’t recovered yet.
To be clear, it’s not the images on her screen that have me so worked up.
It’s the idea of Liza looking at them. It’s the idea of Liza lying in her bed with her hand between her legs, trying like hell to bring herself to climax.
It’s the idea that Liz can’t quite get there, that what she needs is just out of reach.
I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it—not during practice, not in the locker room, not on the walk home. Not even while I grabbed a quick snack downstairs.
As I step under the hot spray of the shower, I let myself imagine what I’d do if I found Liza in that predicament. It’s all kinds of wrong, but for just a few minutes, I’m going to let myself give in to the images that have been floating around my brain and threatening to drive me crazy.
Would I stand in the doorway, my hand on my cock, and my jaw on the floor as I watch her gasp and moan?
The idea is hot as hell. Liza doesn’t let her guard down for anybody, but especially not for me, so the thought of catching her in such a vulnerable position, in such an intimate act, scrambles my brain in the very best way.
Would I let her see the effect she has on me?
Would I tell her all the filthy ways I want to watch her unravel?
Would I sit in the chair across from her bed, whispering words of encouragement, talking dirty and watching her writhe with pleasure?
Would I crawl in beside her and line our bodies up so I’m cradling her close to me, looking on as she teases herself?
Would I skim my hand against her smooth, soft skin?
Feel the curve of her waist, the fullness of her hips?
Would I let my attention linger on her breasts, touch them, squeeze them, kiss them?
The answer is yes.
In my personal fantasy reel, that’s exactly what’s happening.
We’re tangled up in each other as my hand drifts lazily over her body, because this is my fantasy, and if I’ve got Liza in bed with me, you can bet I’m going to take my time.
I can practically feel her taste on my lips as I let myself kiss and suck and bite every inch of her skin.
I’d start with her shoulders and work my way down, driving her out of her mind with each slow, seductive kiss.
I can imagine our bodies melting together so that when I finally slip my hand between her legs and trace her seam, she’s fucking begging for release.
Beautiful Liza. Competent, capable, kick-ass Liza surrendering to my touch.
It’s so hot I swear my vision blurs as I stroke my shaft and think about all the ways I can make Liza feel good.
Just the thought of watching her let go and give in to pleasure has me teetering on the edge.
Gliding my thumb over the tip of my dick, I picture Liza working herself over, touching and teasing herself until her body finally crests over the edge.
And that's what does it. That’s what sends my own release coursing through my body.
I shout in ecstasy and relief as jets of cum hit the tile wall of the shower.
My orgasm feels endless, relentless, damn near punishing.
I ride it out, my breathing labored as the water runs cold.
I lather up my body, rinsing away all evidence of my trip down forbidden fantasy lane.
A few minutes later, I flop down on my bed, debating between taking a nap or hitting the books.
The semester has just started, but classes are in full swing, so I know I need to power through my post-orgasm exhaustion and take a look at the reading my professor assigned yesterday.
Before I can reach for my laptop, though, I hear a pitiful meow at the edge of the bed.
When I pat my chest, I expect Hazel to curl up for a snuggle session like she always does, but my girl doesn’t budge.
She just perches there, right on the edge of the mattress and meows.
I study her for a second, and maybe I’m losing my mind, but my cat looks tired.
And yes, I know the average house cat sleeps at least twelve hours a day, but my sweet little princess isn’t taking a catnap.
She looks lethargic, and that’s not like her.
Leaning forward, I stroke her fur and scratch under her chin.
She’s happy for the attention, but she’s not rolling over begging for belly rubs like she usually would.
Something’s not right. I don’t know if she ate something she shouldn’t have or what, but I hate to see her suffer. Swiping my phone off its charger on my nightstand, I tap out a text to my stepmom.
Blue: What vet did you take Hazel to?
Brianna: I take Rufus and Winslow to Dr. Spangler. Why?
I shake my head. Bri’s less than ten years older than I am, but she and my dad have been married for about five years now.
They seem happy, at least a lot happier than Dad was when he was married to my mom.
Those two were completely incompatible, and it’s kind of a miracle they stayed in the same room together long enough to conceive me.
Bri might be flighty and materialistic, but that doesn’t bother my dad at all.
He’s happy for the arm candy, and she's happy for the bank account. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship, and since I no longer have to share a roof with them, their marriage is none of my business.
What I do need to know is what vet to call for Hazel.
And since my precious cat originally belonged to my stepmom, I figured she’d know.
Dad gifted Hazel to Bri last Christmas, but Bri’s Great Danes, Rufus and Winslow, thought she was a toy for them to play with.
I put a stop to that right away. I never planned on being a cat dad, but one look at Hazel and I was done for.
She’s the fluffiest, sweetest princess in all the land.
Plus, her fur is actually blue. If that’s not destiny, I don’t know what is.
Since my travel schedule was crazy last semester, and since our building didn’t allow pets, I left Hazel at home with Dad and Bri after winter break.
My father and his wife are two of the most self-involved people I’ve ever met, but all they had to do was care for her until summer break, take her to the vet, and keep her from being smothered by Rufus and Winslow, so it couldn’t have been that hard. Could it?
Blue: Is that where you took Hazel to get spayed last spring?
Brianna: No
Blue: Ok, so where did you take her? I just need the number. She hasn’t been feeling that great, and I want to run her in for a checkup.
Brianna: I never took Hazel to the vet.
Blue: Did Dad?
I can’t picture my dad hauling a cat carrier into the vet’s office, but he’s got a soft spot for Bri, so anything’s possible.
Brianna: Of course not. He hates cats.
Blue: So who took her to the vet to get her shots and get spayed?
Brianna: I guess you did?
Blue: No, I definitely did not. I was away at school. And I remember you telling me you’d make an appointment for her.
Brianna: Oh, that’s right. I did make an appointment for her, but I had to cancel. Don’t you remember that I had surgery, and the recovery was awful.
Blue: Did you reschedule?
Brianna: I haven’t had time, and she’s your cat.
You really should take her to Dr. Spangler.
She’s so good with my boys. I hope she can fit you into the schedule.
It’s not the smartest move for Hazel to be roaming around without her shots.
And you need to get her spayed ASAP. That’s just part of responsible pet ownership.
I mentally pat myself on the back for not hurling my phone through the air and letting it smash against the wall.
I’m too busy this week to deal with the hassle of replacing my phone, and no tantrum I throw is going to make Bri make sense.
The “awful recovery” from surgery that she’s talking about is the fact that she couldn’t smile for a week after getting too much filler in her lips.
And I don’t need her to lecture me on responsibility.
What I need is to get Hazel to a vet because fuuuuuuuuuuck.
Dammit, my cat hasn’t been spayed. I’ve never seen her go into heat, but I don’t even know what the hell that looks like. What I do know is that my sweet, precious girl has been out of sorts lately. And it’s been a little over a month since we caught her with her mangy boy toy, Mr. Tittles.
Son of a motherfucking trucker, I mutter to myself, stroking Hazel’s fur with one hand and scrolling through my phone with the other.
“Everything okay in here?” Sparky asks, standing in the doorway.
The short answer is no. Everything is not okay. And it hasn’t been since I opened Liza’s computer a few days ago, but I can't share that information with my best friend, no matter how trustworthy he is. I made a promise to Liza, and I’m not breaking it.
But I don’t have to keep quiet about everything that’s got my life turned upside down. I scratch Hazel’s chin before looking up at Sparky. “Dude, I think I’m gonna be a grandpa.”