Two, and most importantly, he’s lying about how it’s onlyme who’s into him. He clearly looks forward to the nights we meet, considering his colorful threatening texts the days leading up to it. It’s his type of foreplay, so to speak.
He also loves it when I shove him against the locker and make him take it, even if he’s still visibly uncomfortable with any form of aftercare.
He’ll moan and groan and say the filthiest words when I’m spanking him or giving him head, but then he’ll squirm and try to wiggle out of my hold when I attempt to massage his bruised skin or caress him gently.
Not to mention that he’s still a bit apprehensive about me fingering his ass. I’ve been doing it religiously so that he’ll get used to it, whispering things like, “You need to fit my fingers so you can take my cock,” or “Your tight hole is made for me, isn’t it?” or “Relax for me, baby, let me loosen you up.”
While he seems to enjoy it now, I’m not sure if I can take it to the next level. I’ve been dying to fuck him raw and hard and come so deep inside him, no other cock will ever go near him. It takes everything in me not to claim his tight, little hole, especially when he clenches around my fingers.
But I’ve had to force myself to slow down.
He’s truly like an injured animal sometimes, balking at the merest hint of change.
The other day, after he came down my throat and watched me swallow his cum with hooded eyes, he looked away, hesitating before he said, “You might want to stop sucking my dick if you believe I’ll return the favor.”
“You think I’m sucking your cock so you’ll return the favor?”
“I don’t know. Isn’t that what’s expected? I’m not the gay one. Anyway, I’ll never get on my knees or put your cock in my mouth.”
“Why not?”
“I’m telling you it’s not going to happen, and that’s that.”
Then he stormed out, confirming a little theory I had.
Preston is fine with me doing all the work, but he clearly feels out of his element when I ask him to do anything.
Even grabbing our cocks that time in the alley seemed to make him uneasy.
Probably because he’s been straight his whole life, and the prospect of touching me drives the entire sexuality change home.
Or maybe he simply doesn’t like touching me.
At any rate, I had to put some distance between us because he’s getting too comfortable with his push-and-pull games. But I also realize Preston isn’t the type who sits back and does nothing.
He’ll probably wait until after tomorrow’s game.
As for what he’ll do, I’m not sure. Maybe wreak havoc in my arena again.
With a sigh, I finish practice, tidy up, and then hit the showers.
As I’m leaving the building, I pause in the parking lot when the smell of fuel hits me. I lift my head, my eyes widening as the flames mount to the sky slowly but surely.
My bike is on fire.
And right in front of it, on the concrete, there’s a sentence written in what looks like blood.
I destroy what I can’t have.
Our housein Stantonville isn’t much, but it’s two stories high with a small garden where Mom plants the colorful flowers she loves so much.
We moved a lot during my childhood, from one rental to another until Mom could afford a mortgage on this place when I was around six.
She spent all her days off doing DIY renovations, and I helped her over the years to make it ours.
After high school, I had the chance to live in the dorms at Stanton River College, but I couldn’t leave Mom alone. Not yet. She works most night shifts anyway, so it’s not like I can’t bring friends over. I just choose not to. I don’t trust those fuckers from the team not to ruin the perfect order Mom and I have in our place.
For most of my life, this little house has been my safety. The place I go back to when I need to tune out the outside noise or the internal emptiness.
