Chapter 1
One
Secret
Ryan
I have a secret. I like dick. No, I love dick. Like, really, really love it. Give me all the cock.
I huff out a breath on a laugh, fingers tightening in the fabric beneath my palms. It’s insane how admitting it—even just in my own head—still makes my pulse spike.
I’m a grown ass man. An NFL quarterback.
Franchise face. Sunday Football’s golden boy.
I should feel confident in my own skin. But this feels like a dirty confession whispered in the dark.
The first time I discovered my prostate senior year of high school, I fucking levitated. One second, I was curious, experimenting while jacking off. The next, I was staring at my ceiling wondering if that’s what spiritual gurus mean when they talk about astral projection.
More like ass-tral ejaculation.
Abusing my P-spot became a nightly occurrence after that mind-melting first experience. Pretty soon, my fingers—and several questionable objects—well, they weren’t enough.
A faint sound snaps me back to the present.
Shit. What was that?
My breath stills as I listen hard, every muscle locked tight. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the air conditioner and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I need to relax. The anticipation is killing me.
Anyway, I had finally worked up the courage to find a dude willing to fuck me. It wasn’t difficult. Well… mostly.
I was an eighteen-year-old high school football quarterback phenom. Built right. Cannon for an arm. The pride of a football town in the South. I wasn’t short on offers—from girls. But being the talk of the town made it nearly impossible to explore undetected.
So, I did what any young, horny, closeted idiot with access to a car and enough nerve would do.
I jumped in my Mustang one weekend and drove to Florida by myself.
I got myself prepped at the hotel—thank you, Reddit—and used my fake ID to get into a gay bar.
I can still feel the bass vibrating through my chest. The glare of neon lights. The scent of sweat and cologne.
I spotted him almost immediately. Muscly. Olive-toned. Confident. I practically threw myself at him. His name was Giancarlo. Puerto Rican. In town on vacation. Was down to fuck.
That’s all I needed to know.
I didn’t tell him I was new to any of it, but I think he sensed it. He was patient. Careful. Asked me if I was okay more times than I can count.
I wasn’t there for careful.
Once I told him to stop holding back, Giancarlo rocked my world for two nights straight.
I left Florida different. Not confused. Not curious.
Certain.
My life changed in that hotel room.
And maybe it’s about to change again in the hotel room I find myself in now.
Because yes—I, Ryan “Butters” Buterbaugh—NFL superstar QB, endorsement darling, America’s wholesome sports crush—love dick.
And I am currently on all fours in a hotel wearing nothing but a red jock strap and a sexy ski mask over my head to keep my identity anonymous.
The mask only has a zipper over my mouth, so bros can use my throat.
No eye holes. I have pretty eyes, people would know.
No one can know what I’m doing.
No one even knows I crave cock, let alone this little proclivity. I’ve kept it all locked down tight. I haven’t even told my closest friend, Anthony.
But damn it, today’s my birthday, and I’m finally going to do something I’ve always wanted to do.
I’m going to get fucked by more than one guy at a time.
I haven’t gotten laid in ages because I couldn’t risk it with my career. I thought I might have a chance recently, but I’m tired of waiting on—well, that doesn’t matter.
What matters is not only has it been forever since I’ve been railed by a big, thick cock, but I’ve never had more than one at once.
I want to feel overwhelmed. Surrounded by hot, big-dicked dudes. I want to surrender completely.
I want to be used. For hours.
That’s why the only other thing adorning my body, other than the jock and the mask, is a butt plug with a cute little pink jewel at the end. Aside from ensuring I’m nice and stretched out—so we can get down to all the fucking—it makes my hole look pretty.
There’s a light tapping of knuckles on the door I propped open with the latch.
My dick hardens instantly.
The first of the guys I’ve been messaging on the DICK’D app has arrived. I confirmed with six dudes, just to be safe. I’ve heard about flakes. I wasn’t taking any chances.
I’m facing away from the door on purpose. I want them to get the full view. My—amazing, if I do say so myself—ass on display.
I waggle it a little. Gotta make those cheeks bounce.
The door creaks open.
Silence stretches.
Then—
“Ryan Michael Buterbaugh!”
My body goes rigid.
That voice, my brain screams.
I gasp and scramble off the bed without thinking, completely blind under this stupid hood.
Pain explodes through my foot.
“Son of a—” I yelp as I stub my toe on something solid. A chair, maybe. I lurch sideways and slam my knee into what has to be a table. I’m hopping on one leg, disoriented and panicking.
Just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, I first feel the pop, then hear the unmistakable thud as my pretty pink plug flies out of my ass and hits the floor.
Mortified, I fling my hands out, only to crash into long, flowing fabric.
Curtains.
They wrap around me, swallowing my arms and shoulders. I flail, trying to free myself, knocking something over—probably a lamp. There’s a clatter, then a crash.
I slide to the floor in a heap of curtain and humiliation.
Another knock.
The door opens again.
Footsteps.
Then the same deep voice that just said my full government name speaks low and dangerous to whoever just walked in.
“Leave.”
The stranger mutters something under his breath.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Heavy. Charged.
I’m still on my knees. Half tangled. Fully embarrassed.
The mask is pulled off my head.
And that is how I found myself on my knees in a hotel room facing the dick I wanted in the first place.
But we’ll come back to that.