Chapter 20 #2
“That’s rank,” I say, placing the cup on the coffee table and trying to magic more saliva into my mouth by sucking my tongue. “It’s anaesthetised my mouth. My tongue literally feels numb.”
Eggo throws his head back and laughs, not even the slightest bit offended. “Next time, I’ll come on my belly.”
“No. Don’t do that. Coming in my mouth was fucking hot, actually. I think if I, like . . . take you further into my mouth when you bust, it’ll be at the back of my throat so I can just swallow it straight away.” I nod to myself. “I think that would be easier. Less swishing.” Less disgusting.
“I’ll try that on you now, shall I?” he says. “Learn from your mistakes?”
We swap places. He doesn’t tuck himself into his jocks, and when he stands, he’s flush with my body.
“Let me taste myself on you,” he says, grabbing my waist with one hand and sliding his tongue into my mouth, and even though the bitterness lingers, it’s such a sexy move. “Oh, yeah. That’s nasty,” he says when he pulls away. He laughs again.
I take my jeans off and sit where Eggo was sitting only moments ago. The seat is still warm, and it smells of him, like a Finn blanket has enveloped the whole thing.
He works the front of my jocks down and unabashedly stares at me. “Bewty,” he says, perhaps to himself, perhaps to me. “Remember to tell me what feels good, yeah?”
“I’ll try,” I say, already welcoming failure like an old friend.
And then his hands are on my thighs, caressing bare skin, and my cock is in his mouth, and it just feels right. He sucks gently, moves slowly, and I place my hands over my face to hide my expressions from him.
He squeezes my thigh three times in quick succession. The movement feels weird and unexpected, but whatever, I don’t question him. He does it again, looks up and makes eye contact as if he’s expecting something. When I still don’t answer, he pulls off me.
“This . . .” He triple-squeezes my leg once more. “Means, do you like this? You have to tell me, remember?”
I realise that even though it may not come across that way, Eggo’s nervous, or at the very least, slightly anxious. It’s a first for us both, and he’s a professional athlete, used to high performance.
I swallow the awkwardness building in my throat. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s good. Maybe you could . . . go a little slower?”
He smiles and raises a brow. He doesn’t say anything, but in his expression I hear, “See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” and then he’s back on me, moving his mouth up and down, even more gently this time.
“Ohhh,” I whine, and purse my lips tight because the “Ohhh” echoes around inside my brain. “Yeah, that feels . . . good. That feels really good.”
Eggo rewards my vocalisation by massaging the flesh on my inner thigh with his thumb. Whenever I’m quiet for a while too long, he squeezes my leg three times. It’s now become shorthand.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “How’s this?”
“Yes, that’s good. Keep doing that.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “How’s this?”
“Faster. Fuck, faster, please.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “How’s this?”
“Oh my god, exactly like that.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. “How’s this?”
“I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.”
His fingers dig into my thigh as I break, but I can’t muster the words to tell him to hold still, so I brace my palm against his forehead and physically restrain him as I empty my load into his mouth.
He doesn’t swallow my cum straight away. Instead, he actually swishes it round his mouth as though he’s a fucking wine connoisseur at a vineyard. I have never been more horrified in my entire life.
“You’re right, that does not taste good. Tastes like . . . chard,” he says after swallowing.
“What the fuck is chard?” I tuck my sated dick back inside my jocks.
“It’s a village in Somerset. About an hour from here.” Eggo laughs. “But it’s also a vegetable? . . . Leaf type thing? I dunno. It tastes like . . . okay, imagine if spinach was a gym rat or a podcaster.”
Now I’m laughing. “What?”
“If you ever try it, you’ll know that makes total sense. What time is it?”
I lean forward and press the OK button on the remote control, bringing the time and date up on the TV screen. Eggo’s already pulling his trousers back on.
“Just gone ten. Are you going?”
He pauses and looks at me. “I probably should.” He’s silent again, and I realise there are so many unsaid words happening between us both right now.
But Eggo’s not wrong, he should leave. We should earmark this relationship for sexual matters only.
He has a girlfriend, and I have a potential girlfriend, and we shouldn’t mess up either situation by doing mundane shit that might lead to pesky feelings.
We can watch TV or “grab food” or snuggle with our designated romantic partners.
What we have should be a nut-and-go type of deal.
Nut and go and never risk developing any more complicated emotions.
Is this what he isn’t telling me? Are we on the same page? Or is it something else?
“Have you ever been exploring in the Cents’ stadium grounds before?” I ask.
Eggo cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t question my random topic change. “Not really, I guess.”
“I have. I like to arrive early for things, but sometimes I end up with hours to spare, so I often go for a wander. If you walk down the main part of the stadium hall, all the way to the far wall, past the away stands and turn right, there’s a dark little corridor.
The auto-light sensors don’t work in there any more. ”
“Okaay?” he says.
“There’s an old kiosk, which has a bunch of cardboard standees all stacked up on top of it. I mean, there’s even a standee of Owen Bosley, that’s how old it is.”
“What’s the point of this vocal detour?” he asks.
“Okay, that word choice was fire. So . . . behind the kiosk, there’s another little corridor, which has two tiny rooms. One is a stockroom, but it’s jammed right up with actual crap.
The other is a sluice room. I don’t think this area has been used in years.
Maybe even since before Covid. The whole sluice waste disposal chute thingy is completely blocked over now. ”
He narrows his gaze at me but still says nothing.
“Meet me in the sluice room thirty minutes before we have to be at the locker room on Sunday.”
The megawatt grin that spreads over Eggo’s face could power an entire city. “The sluice room, you say?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be sluice, but the S and the U have peeled off over time. So I guess now it says L and ICE.”
He pulls on his T-shirt, then his sweatshirt, and I get dressed myself. “Meet you in the lice room before the home game. You know, if we win, we’ll have to make it a tradition.”
“We could make it a tradition even if we don’t win,” I say.
He smiles, raises his eyebrows, and rubs his thumb along his lips. “Any other random Pi titbits floating about in there?”
“Uh . . . yeah, actually. What’s your favourite dinosaur?”
He doesn’t look at me weird, doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even hesitate with his response. “No contest. Pachycephalosaurus, pard.”
I’m the one who jolts in reaction. “Really?” It’s such a bonkers, left-of-field answer, and yet the most Eggo thing I could ever imagine.
“Why? What’s yours?” he asks.
I’m still reeling from his surprising pick. “Iguanodon probably.”
He raises a brow at me.
“What? It looks like it’s the friendliest dinosaur.” I’m laughing and unable to defend my choice any further. Though seven-year-old Aiden would be happy I stuck up for us and told the truth, and didn’t say something so try-hard as T. rex. “Why did you go for pachycephalosaurus?”
“Fat skulls, headbutt fights, cool as fuck, mate. Best dino out there. All the other dinos can’t hold a candle to my egg-headed smashy bad boys. The closest dino you’ll get to a rugby forward. Imagine a pachycephalosaurus scrum.”
“I actually love that,” I say. “I love that so much. I’m kinda jealous I never thought of it.”