Chapter 3
Three
Smells Like Teen Spirit
Ryan
“Shit, bro, you need to teach my girl your deep throat skills.”
I groan around Terrell’s cock. I'd respond, but like he said, my throat is currently stuffed with my best friend, the high school basketball team captain's huge dick.
T is seated on the edge of my bed, and I'm on my knees between his muscular dark-skinned thighs. His hand rests heavy on the back of my head, not pushing, just there. Present. Owning my throat in that casual way he owns the court.
I close my eyes and try to focus on the weight of him, the taste, the way he fills my mouth so completely I can barely breathe. It's perfect. It's exactly what I need.
When I got back from my little exploration trip to Florida—where I had my guts rearranged and my sexuality sorted out—I've been cock-starved.
Ravenous. I wasn't sure how I'd survive avoiding hookups with guys for the last half of my senior year.
Every practice, every game, every class was torture.
I'd see a guy with broad shoulders or thick thighs and my mouth would water, my palms would sweat, and I'd have to duck into a bathroom to jerk off just to make it through the day.
That is, until I was gaming with T after school one day. I looked over after my guy had just died and saw he was bricked as fuck in his basketball shorts.
It was a mouthwatering sight. The tent was so big I couldn't stop staring. My brain went fuzzy. All I could think about was what was underneath that fabric, how it would feel against my tongue, how it would taste if he came in my mouth.
When I looked up and saw T looking at me, I knew I'd been busted. My stomach dropped. I saw my whole life as I knew it flash before my eyes. The scholarship offers. The NFL dreams. My father's political career. All of it, up in smoke because I couldn't keep my eyes off my best friend's dick.
I prepared to get my ass kicked. I braced for the fist, for the slurs, for the whole school to find out by Monday morning.
Instead, T simply said, “Don't just stare at it. Help a bro out.” Then he stood and dropped his shorts, and his huge dick bounced in front of my face, heavy and dark and already leaking at the tip.
I leapt at the opportunity. Didn't even hesitate. I wrapped my lips around him and gave him the best head I knew how to give at that point—which, admittedly, wasn't much, but I was eager. I was desperate. I wanted to learn every inch of him.
Since that day, I've been blowing my best friend a couple times a week when our practice schedules don't get in the way.
Sometimes it's quick and dirty, a rushed ten minutes before his mom gets home from work if we’re at his house.
Sometimes it's slow and lazy, like tonight, with nowhere to be and hours to kill.
T grabs my hair and yanks back until I'm looking up at him, just the head of his dick still in my mouth. His eyes are dark, blown wide with pleasure, and his chest heaves with every breath.
“Look at those pretty green eyes,” he says, his voice rough. I moan around the head of his cock, the vibration making him shudder.
“Fuck,” T breathes. “Best head I've ever had.”
I pop off, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and look up at him. “You like that, T?”
He doesn't answer with words. He just stands, grabs the back of my head, and shoves his cock to the back of my throat again.
I gag around him, eyes watering, and reach up to grab two handfuls of his ass.
His cheeks are firm under my palms, and I love feeling them flex as he tries to push impossibly further.
“Hang on tight, bro,” T grunts, his hips starting to move in shallow thrusts. “Gonna nut down that throat.”
I splutter around his dick, drool spilling down my chin, and just wait for my reward. I can feel him swelling, getting harder, his rhythm getting erratic. He's close. So close.
But before T blows his load, the door to my bedroom suddenly swings open.
“Ryan—”
The voice cuts short, and I hear T shout, “Oh fuck!” as he quickly pulls his dick out of my mouth and scrambles for his shorts.
I whip my head around, heart hammering, and see both my parents standing there. My father's face is emblazoned red, a vein popping out on his forehead. My mother is literally clutching her necklace, her mouth hanging open in horror.
I panic. “Dad. It's not—”
“Not what?” my father interrupts, his voice dangerously low. “My son isn't a cocksucker? Because that's not what it fucking looked like from here.”
My mother just stands there, wide-eyed, not saying a thing.
“Get off your fucking knees, Ryan,” my father barks.
I scramble to my feet, my legs shaky, my face burning with shame. I can't look at them. I can't look at T. I can't look anywhere.
Then I hear, “Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck,” as T paces back and forth in the room, hands planted firmly on his shaved head as he tries to breathe through his panic.
I put my hand on his bicep, trying to comfort him, and say, “Hey. T, it's gonna be—”
T yanks his arm away from me and says, “Get your fucking hands off me, pervert. I can't believe I let you talk me into—”
“Cut the shit, son,” my father cuts in. “I'm disgusted by what I just walked in on, but my eyes function just fine. You were both willing participants.”
T just stares at my father, Senator Buterbaugh, for a moment, then shouts, “Fuck!” and starts pacing again.
“Calm down,” my father says, arrogantly. “No one, and I mean no one, is going to find out about this.”
T stops pacing again, and he and I both stare at my father.
“Wait,” T says. “Really?”
My father lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You think I want people knowing that their Senator's son—North Carolina's best high school quarterback in two decades—has been on his knees for the school's basketball captain?”
I hang my head, my stomach churning.
“You're going to leave now, Terrell,” my father continues, “and not a word of this will get out.”
T moves to leave, but my father stops him, grabbing his arm as he tries to pass.
“But you're never stepping foot in this house again,” he says, low and dangerously.
“And if I catch you two anywhere near each other, you're not going to like what happens. You have no idea the power and resources my position wields. I will ruin you, understood?”
He releases T's arm, and T nods and walks out without giving me a second glance.
When the front door slams shut, my mother finally breaks her silence. She starts crying hysterically, screaming at me, “How could you?!” and “You could have destroyed us!” At some point in her screaming, she takes her high heel off and starts hitting me with it.
I shield my face and head with my arms, the blows stinging through the fabric of my shirt.
In the middle of my mother’s breakdown, my older sister, Cricket, runs into the room, having heard the commotion. “Mom, what are you doing?!” she yells, and pulls our mother back, then takes the shoes from her.
My father leers at me, hate rolling off him in waves. “See what you've done?”
I don't respond. What can I say?
“What's going on?” Cricket demands. “Ryan, are you okay?”
My father scoffs. “He's fine. Hopefully he didn't break a nail. Take your mother to the kitchen.”
Cricket nods but gives me a look, silently asking if I want her to stay. I give her a timid smile and nod for her to go.
When the bedroom door closes, my dad leans down and roughly taps my cheek. “Your mother and I have worked very hard for our standing in this community.”
I look in my lap and nod.
He continues, “If I ever catch you, or even hear about you, doing that vile shit ever again, I will destroy your life before you can destroy ours.”
Then my father turns and leaves.