Creamed #3
He told himself it was the temperature—just the heat playing tricks on his head, scrambling his wires, making his body react to things it shouldn't react to.
He was straight. He'd always been straight. This was nothing.
JJ pulled his phone from the pocket of his discarded shorts and checked the time. His face fell.
"Three hours," he said flatly. "Three hours until sunset. This is dumb."
Ollie let his head fall back against the steel cabinet and stared at the ceiling.
Three hours. In a steel box. In their underwear. With whatever the hell was happening to him getting louder by the minute.
For a while, a thick silence settled between them. Neither of them spoke. They just sat on the floor in their underwear, thumbing at their phones out of habit more than purpose—hoping that the distraction would help.
JJ broke first. "Still no fucking service. We're too far out."
"Same," Ollie muttered, tossing his phone onto his pile of clothes.
He glanced at the last remaining fridge—the small one near the floor, still half-stocked with cream pies and tarts. "You realize we were close to selling out? One more fridge and we would've hit the bonus—and we could have be done for the day."
"So?" JJ asked.
"So that's an extra hundred bucks each, JJ. That's real money," Ollie said.
“And now it’s not happening, so stop complaining. That’s not going to change a damn thing except make us hotter and angrier,” JJ grumbled.
Something hot and bitter flared behind Ollie's ribs. "I'm not complaining. When I'm complaining, you'll know."
JJ looked up from his phone with a slow, amused grin—the kind that always preceded something Ollie wanted to punch off his face. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, tough guy? The little swimmer is gonna shove me around?"
Ollie's fists balled at his sides. JJ saw it and his grin only widened.
"Relax. You're just pissed because you're spending the summer doing actual work for once.
All you swimmers back at Ridgemont were the spoiled kids.
The rich kids." He shrugged, as if stating something everybody already knew.
"Your parents paid for private coaches and heated pools. Must be rough out here in the real world, huh?” JJ continued.
"You're kidding me, right?" Ollie's voice came out sharper than he intended.
"Hockey in Georgia? How much did all that gear cost your parents?
And the chilled little arena forty minutes from town, the travel teams, the tournaments—what was it you said my sport needs?
A creek?" He leaned forward. "Don't come at me about who's more privileged. "
JJ's sneer faltered—barely, but enough for Ollie to clock it. A rare, small victory, and Ollie held onto it.
But JJ wasn't the type to stay on the back foot for long.
"You know what your problem is?" JJ said, his tone shifting into something lazier, more dangerous.
"Every time I crack a joke about serving cream pies to the sorority girls on the lake, you get all tight-assed about it.
And I think I finally figured out why." He tilted his head.
"You've never actually cum in a girl before, have you?
Shit—you've probably never even gotten laid. "
"You wish I was a virgin, bro. It'd make you feel better, I guess. Your ego is just that fragile,” Ollie countered.
"I've given so many creampies," JJ continued, steamrolling past the insult with the confidence of someone who enjoyed hearing himself talk. "Fuck, the money I've spent on morning-after pills alone has got to be in the thousands."
"Yeah. Keep dreaming,” Ollie said.
"I'm serious, bro. I've got six siblings. My dad had eight. My grandfather had ten." JJ spread his hands as if presenting indisputable evidence. "I'm not leaving it to chance. Too virile. Obviously."
Ollie rolled his eyes, but they drifted downward on the way back—down past JJ's hairy chest and his sprawled-out legs, down to that gap in the leg hole of his worn boxers. The same gap. The same view.
Only now, the heavy curve of JJ's ballsack looked even more obscene, resting full and low against his inner thigh, and the word virile lodged itself somewhere in Ollie's brain and refused to leave.
He stared a beat too long. Then he looked away, his jaw tight.
The frustration boiling inside him wasn't what he thought it was. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't even rivalry. It was something worse—something that lived underneath both of those things and used them as camouflage.
He was attracted to JJ.
He was attracted to this loud, arrogant, thick-bodied hockey player who smelled like sunscreen and sweat and never shut up about his dick, and that was the source of every clenched fist and spiked pulse since they'd started working together. Not anger. Want.
Lust.
The realization hit him like a wall, and he shoved it down before it could take shape.
JJ, oblivious—or pretending to be—kept going. "Hey, don't feel bad about the creampie thing, bro. Some guys are late-bloomers. Nothing wrong with that."
Ollie stood.
“I’m warning you. I am seriously tired of the cream-pie jokes. They got old on the first day. No, scratch that—the first hour of the first day,” he snapped.
JJ rose to meet him, unfolding to his full height with a slow ease that reminded Ollie exactly how much bigger he was. Five inches taller. Thirty pounds heavier. And grinning like he knew it.
“Maybe you’ve never given a girl a creampie because you don’t want to give one,” JJ said, his voice dropping low, almost intimate. “Maybe you wanna get one.”
He paused, letting the words hang. “That’s fine, bro. I’ll give you a creampie. Nice and deep in your ass, just how you like it.”
That was it.
Something snapped inside Ollie.
He shoved JJ hard—both palms slamming into that broad, hairy chest—and JJ crashed back into the row of fridges with enough force to rattle every shelf inside.
“Fuck you,” Ollie snarled.
JJ’s eyes flashed. Then he shoved him right back.
Ollie hit the counter hard, barely felt it, and lunged again.
Then they were on each other, all slick skin and sharp breaths, grabbing at shoulders, arms, anything they could hold. Their bodies collided in the narrow heat of the truck, rough and clumsy and furious.
It happened the way it always does between guys who’ve been circling each other too long—one second they were shouting, and the next, movement was easier than thinking.
They slammed into the low fridge together and the door flew open.
Cream pies spilled out in a sudden, sickening rush—tin trays clanging against the steel floor, plastic lids popping loose, white filling splattering in thick streaks across the ground.
Neither of them stopped.
They hit the floor in the middle of it, slipping hard in the mess. Custard smeared under Ollie’s knee. JJ’s elbow crushed through a pie with a wet, ugly squelch. The sweet smell of sugar and cream filled the truck as they rolled through it, grunting, shoving, bare skin sliding against bare skin.
White cream streaked across their chests, stomachs, and thighs as they fought for leverage on the slick floor, their bodies grinding together in a way that had stopped looking like fighting at all.
It didn’t take long before the friction did exactly what Ollie had been terrified it would do—JJ’s hard, heavy body pinning him down, the sticky slide of cream between them, the heat of JJ’s skin dragging over his own.
Ollie’s dick went from half-aware to rock-hard in seconds, straining against his cream-soaked boxer-briefs with an urgency that left no room for denial.
And then he felt it.
Through the thin, soaked fabric of JJ’s boxers, the unmistakable mass of JJ’s cock pressed against Ollie’s hip—hot, hard, and pulsing.
JJ was hard, too.
They broke apart, both panting, slick and covered in white filling from chest to ankles.
JJ sat back against the base of the counter, breathing hard, and let out a laugh that sounded almost nervous.
"Fuck you, bro. Look what you did." He gestured at the carnage around them—the overturned pies, the cream-coated floor, the sticky mess clinging to their skin and underwear. But even he didn't seem to believe his own deflection.
"Fuck you," Ollie shot back, still catching his breath.
JJ's eyes dropped.
Slowly, deliberately, his gaze traveled down Ollie's cream-slicked torso to the soaked boxer-briefs clinging to his hips—and to the hard, obvious tent straining against the wet, translucent fabric.
A grin spread across JJ's face. "You liked that, huh? Rolling around in cream with a guy in his boxers?" He chuckled, low and knowing. "I knew it."
Ollie's face burned.
He moved to cover himself, but his eyes betrayed him—dropping to JJ's lap, where the wet, cream-soaked boxers clung to his body like a second skin, and the outline underneath was no longer a suggestion. It was a declaration.
The tent in JJ's boxers was massive—thick and long and jutting against the ruined fabric with a brazenness that made Ollie's throat tighten.
He opened his mouth to fire back—to accuse JJ of being just as hard, just as guilty—but the words stalled somewhere between his brain and his tongue, jammed by the sheer distraction of what he was looking at.
JJ noticed. Of course he noticed. He pushed himself up and leaned back against the edge of the counter, hips angled forward, making no effort to hide what was happening inside his boxers.
If anything, he was showing it off.
The soaked fabric clung to him, putting every hard inch on display as he watched Ollie with a grin Ollie couldn’t quite read—smug, flirtatious, dangerous. Maybe all three.
Then, without a word, JJ turned away from Ollie, hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his ruined boxers, and began peeling them down.
The fabric dragged over his hips, and Ollie caught a flash of the deep crack of JJ's muscular ass as the boxers slid lower—tan skin, the shadow of a cleft, the beginning of something Ollie had no business staring at but couldn't have looked away from if the truck had caught fire right then and there.