Edge Jump (Obsidian)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Music fills the room as I stare at myself on the television screen.

The strings of the orchestra swell, accompanying them is my foot tapping along to the tempo.

On screen, I kick my foot and fly into a camel spin before a wobbly transition into a butterfly spin.

Embarrassment floods my body and I chew the inside of my hot cheek.

Nothing I can do about those shaky legs now.

Except that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Witness my own incompetence so I have the drive to do better. Tear myself to bits from the vantage of progress.

The music track settles, and I can see the exhaustion on my past self’s face. No wonder I lost points in presentation. Pushing myself to the limit needs to look effortless.

The video stops before I can strike my final pose. Maude steps out from behind me and blocks the TV with her back. “Thoughts?”

My leg is still bouncing, keeping time on a track that is no longer playing. “I look like shit.”

“Unhelpful,” she scolds. “Be specific. What looks like shit?”

I huff, aware of how immature I sound. It doesn’t help that I have my hoodie up, covering the bleach dye job I got last month.

In the video, I’m still a natural brunette.

Boring. Maude disagrees. She’s told me for years I have the same hair color as a chipmunk, the cutest vermin out there. Still vermin, but whatever.

“I’m winded halfway through the program,” I reply, slumping in my seat. “I get the height on my jumps, but everything else is shaky.”

She grabs the TV remote and rewinds a ways back before pressing play. “And… there.” She pauses, pointing at me post Y-spiral. “That’s when you tap out.”

I fidget with my zipper. “My hips hurt just looking at this.”

She surprises me with assurance. “Flexibility is always harder for men.” Now here comes the bitter medicine. “You should add yoga to your training.”

“But it’s so boooooring.”

“Explain to me how a thousand year old practice is boring, ma puce?”

I roll my head back, responding to the ceiling. “All you do is lay around and stretch. Which–”

Maude’s voice and mine overlap. “Is exactly what is needed.”

“I miss the rowing machine already,” I grumble.

“You said it yourself, petite puce.” She presses play, turning down the bombastic orchestra track that I still adore despite listening and performing to it for hundreds of hours.

“Your jumps are good. You have the strength. You need to connect more with your body, pull and stretch till you’re comfortable. ”

Maude’s French accent is long gone after almost three decades in the States. I’ve still tried to pick up a bit of French in the three years we’ve been working together. Not that I’ve gotten any closer to holding conversations with her in her native tongue.

“Why do you call me little flea instead of… anything else.”

“Because fleas bite.”

I sit up. “I don’t bite!”

The office door opens, a pair of antlers entering first. Maude’s husband, Garth, glares at me, but his grin gives him away. Not that he ever looks intimidating with his doe eyes. “Whoa, all fired up when we close in fifteen?”

I grab my duffle bag and skates. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

As I go to leave, Maude reiterates, “Yoga! See if there are any free classes on campus.” Which means there are absolutely free classes on campus. Like any good coach, Maude does her research. “And that won’t substitute your dance studio time.”

I call over my shoulder, “At least you’re giving me something to look forward to.”

The Newburg Ice Arena parking lot is empty except for my hatchback and Maude’s mini van.

The stars aren’t quite as bright out here as they are back on campus.

Central Lehigh College is deep in Pennsyltuckey territory.

The town highlights are the university itself and a big-box store on the edge of town.

It’s a little more interesting now that I have a legal ID and can get into bars.

It’s a short half-hour drive back to campus but I turn my audiobook on anyway. Maybe the only perk of being an English major is you can have your assignments read to you.

At a particularly juicy line I mutter to myself, “Dantés, you petty bitch.”

Back on campus I make a slow crawl back to my dorm, keeping my foot ready on the brake. Sure enough, a drunk girl in a bodycon dress steps into the street ten feet from my car. A gaggle of slightly less drunk girls all reaching to snatch her back onto the sidewalk.

Typical Sunday night during the fall semester. Everyone is still reconnecting after the summer; freshmen are getting their first taste of freedom, and I get to watch it all unfold from the safety of my car. It’s like a theme park attraction I can’t stop riding.

I park my car without any further incidents. Instead of going right to my room I do a load of laundry; the basement laundry room is dead on a Sunday night. I pause to jot down some notes on my phone in preparation for the inevitable essay I’ll have to write.

While I adjust my rankings of Dantés unhinged escapades, my phone buzzes with a text.

You back on campus?

Terrence has been my roommate since freshman year.

Random assignment, but it worked out. We initially bonded over my having a car to drive him and the hockey team to parties on other campuses.

Since we were already spending time together, we actually got to know each other.

We talked about our majors, our sports, even Terrence’s freshman girlfriend.

Yes, dear. Home safe and sound.

We need the Rod. Get to Pi Ro house now.

By the end of freshman year, Terrence had changed majors, the hockey team ended the season 4-30, his girlfriend had broken his heart, and I adopted a defenseman best friend. We’ve both seen each other cry too much to not be best friends.

*Phi Rho

And I’m beat. Going to enjoy an empty room.

??

I’ve already decided I’m staying in for the night.

A collage of hockey and band posters greet me back at the room.

We’re not fans of blank wall space. I settle into bed but find myself scrolling through poundr. I roll my eyes hard enough my whole head does a single loop as I come across a familiar profile.

The same guy has made three different accounts in the past two years.

It might go unnoticed in a big city but out here the dating pool is pretty shallow.

Right on cue, Terrence stumbles into our dorm room. Honey-blond locks curl on the edges of his baseball cap. His face is flush from overzealous kegstands. Or maybe a few too many brewskis.

“The bald guy is back on poundr,” I whine.

Terrence, bless him, squints his eyes and gets close and personal with my phone screen. “Is that baby oil on his head?”

I snort, pulling the phone back before he sees something he shouldn’t. I swipe left, delighted when a profile with the always enticing “new to your area” pops up on my screen.

“Seriously…” Terrence grumbles against my torso, halfway crawled into my twin bed. “How he get his head so shiny?”

“What happened to partying at Phi Rho?”

Terrence burps in my face. It really hurts having your best friend be a straight man.

I shove his face with my palm. “Chemical warfare in my dorm room!”

Past my hand, he explains, “Party wasn’t fun without the Rod.” I should be flattered, but I’m annoyed I didn’t get the room to myself for longer. He meanders over to his side of the room, where he flops down onto his bed, face first, not bothering to take his sneakers off.

I pick up my phone, laying against the oversized dingbat plushie someone threw onto the ice at my last championship match.

Terrence is already snoring loudly into his mattress while I read the new guy’s information.

“Good boy looking for a mean daddy.” There are no photos on his profile, but his age is listed as 35. Bottom. Less than a mile away.

Over thirty and on campus? He doesn’t mention an age preference, only that he’s looking for a daddy dom. There’s an obvious red flag here, but the moment I swipe right, I am completely colorblind.

We match instantly. I hop into messages.

TwinkleTop: Are you really a good boy?

3dge-m3: Try to be.

I pull up my sweatshirt enough to show off the waistband of my briefs and my happy trail. Snapping a quick photo, I send it his way.

3dge-m3: Little preview of what I’ll get to see when I’m on my knees?

TwinkleTop: Depends. Do you like what you see?

3dge-m3: Of course.

I’ve got public photos that are saucier than the pic I sent—all faceless.

Really, it’s just the one photo. I’m shirtless with a dozen hands touching my bare chest, greedy for me.

As sexy as it looks, I know the magician’s secret.

Terrence and some guys from the hockey team agreed to help me model the shot because that’s what bros do.

TwinkleTop: Then you should have no problems being a good boy for me.

3dge-m3: Should I call you Daddy or do you prefer something else?

TwinkleTop: Aren’t you a gentleman? Daddy is good. I like calling my littles sluts, but I don’t think you’ve earned that title yet.

I get a photo of a hairy ass, thick in every way imaginable. A long, thin, white tail is raised just enough not to block the view.

The door to my dorm slams open. Three more bulky, beer-buzzed hockey players pile into my dorm room. In a panic I nearly spike my phone into the foam padding our college passes off as a mattress.

“You didn’t lock up?” I shout across the room at Terrence, who lifts his head in a daze.

“Sorry, Rod.” Leroy is at the back of the hockey player train, sticking out with his bright red skin. His horns poke out of a black beanie, and a sharp tail flicks behind him. “We wanted to make sure Terrence got back alright.”

“Well, he did.” I’m very proud of myself for keeping my voice to a minimum level of squeak. Now if I could stop being half-hard. Thankfully, the two other hockey bros are more interested in Terrence, one guy rubbing his back while the other plays soft bongos on his ass.

Leroy’s voice drops down to his Team Captain voice. “Alright that’s enough.”

I’m not the focus of his ire but goosebumps rise across my arms and legs.

The two guys avoid Leroy as they sulk out of my dorm room. Unfortunately, Leroy doesn’t follow. He takes over where his teammates left off and ruffles Terrence’s hair. “Make sure you drink electrolytes. We’re meeting the new coach tomorrow. Rod—”

“Nope!” I cut him off before I can be intimidated. “I’m not babysitting him. There’s gatorade in the mini fridge. He can figure it out when he’s sobered up.”

Terrence lifts his head, wiggling his arms forward so he can rest his chin on his forearms. “You think the new guy will be chill?”

Fuck. Why is he now cognizant? I need Leroy to get out and Terrance to pass out so I can ask hairy and submissive what all that tail can do.

Leroy shakes his head. “Even if he’s a good guy he’ll be a real hardass to start. But hey, that means we won’t have to break in the freshmen.”

“Bro, what’s the deal with that new center?”

Leroy snorts. “Guy got recruited hard and he knows it. Shits gone to his head before the seasons even started”

Terrance gets a bit too excited. “A couple checks right into the glass and I’ll bet he’ll–”

“Am I going to have to report you two for hazing?” To Leroy’s credit, he looks at me apologetically, but I’m not about to let him off the hook. “There are still two drunk dingbats you’ve got to go corral.”

Terrance drones a low ‘oooooh’ like we’re back in high school and Leroy got called to the office. Leroy shrugs him off, shooting us both that great-for-promo smile as he leaves the room.

As he shuts the door, he gives us a quick, “G’dnight.”

I type my reply to 3dge-m3 a bit too fast

TwinkleTop: w rh that tahl do

I stare at my screen, hoping 3dge-m3 is too horny to care.

3dge-m3: Anything you want, Daddy.

3dge-m3: You are asking about my tail right?

I smile to myself, checking on Terrence before slipping a hand under my PJ pants. He’s rolled over, his back facing me. I take my time typing out the message, giving myself slow, deep strokes.

TwinkleTop: Maybe. There’s a lot I want to do to your body. Play with your ass while I tease your tight hole.

Once I’m half hard, I snap a pic and send it.

TwinkleTop: Watch your tail bounce while you ride my dick.

3dge-m3: You want me on top?

TwinkleTop: I like boys who work for it.

Terrence snores. It sounds like someone pulling the starter cord on a chainsaw, letting me know that Terrence is alive despite his inebriation and absolutely killing my boner.

3dge-m3 replies in kind, massive cock with a pastel pink tip, the color shifting to a darker, slightly purple hue farther down the shaft. His thumb is dwarfed by his length. The pink head of his cock resembles a tulip bulb.

TwinkleTop: You want me to complement your cock?

3dge-m3: Yes, Daddy.

TwinkleTop: Such a brat. You haven’t said anything nice about mine.

3dge-m3: It’s perfect. The perfect size with a nice little curve.

3dge-m3: I bet your cheeks are the same color as the head of your cock.

The hot blood from my groin burns in my cheeks.

I glance away from the messages to check the time, cursing under my breath when I see it’s past midnight.

I have classes in eight hours and practice right after.

If I go to this guy’s place now–because there is no way I’m bringing him back to the dorms with my roommate sawing logs, I’ll get four hours of sleep at best.

TwinkleTop: You like my size? It’s a lot smaller than yours…

3dge-m3: Size isn’t everything

TwinkleTop: You would know.

TwinkleTop: would you rather I suck your cock or step on it?

3dge-m3: Stepped on and shamed.

TwinkleTop: Figured. You’ve got a greedy hole and an oversized dick.

I’ll have to be patient. Maybe I can make a game of it, flip it around so 3dge-m3 is the desperate one, when I’m about ready to jump out the window and show up to this guy’s apartment unannounced.

TwinkleTop: When I see you, I want you to worship me. Think about all the nice things you’ll whisper to Daddy’s cock. Okay?

3dge-m3: Yes, Daddy.

I lay my phone onto my bedside table before rolling over and burying my face in my pillow.

I’m not sure messaging guys late at night is any better than doomscrolling.

Either way, I’m worked up and left struggling to fall asleep.

Tomorrow night I can get all this energy out.

Nothing beats the Monday blues like railing a monster bottom.