All I could hear was the thud of my body against the mat, the slap of vinyl on my skin, and my coach’s voice before I momentarily blacked out.
And then…
“PIN!”
I opened my eyes, watching as my teammate rose, his face marred with a pitying look.
Fuck.
My first day of practice, and I was already off my game.
I’d transferred to Caulfield Prep for my senior year—private school, a step above the local magnet, you know the story.
All of it was made possible by a scholarship. A wrestling scholarship.
“This is your meal ticket,” my mother had said to me when the acceptance had arrived, her encouragement the very reason I had pursued transferring in the first place.
I’d nodded, the letter sweaty in my palms. I knew it was an opportunity, but it came with strings. My entire tuition depended on competing in a sport I’d grown to despise. If I didn’t play, I couldn’t stay, at least not for free.
I had no choice but to step up and put out.
Which might have been okay, had everything not changed since I started on the mats three years earlier.
What changed, exactly?
First, my body.
Whereas I was once skinny—what you’d call a twink—I was now a solid 180 lbs at 5’9. That transformation alone was insane.
But secondly, and more importantly, the feelings in my body had changed.
Wrestling, which had once felt fraternal, fun even, had evolved into something different. New urges were bubbling up inside me, desires for my teammates that were…unfamiliar. Uncomfortable.
Horny.
Which might have been fine if I were playing soccer, basketball, or even baseball. But I was a wrestler. Every day I suited up in a skin-tight singlet—no underwear, no way to conceal what was inevitable for an 18-year-old guy with raging hormones and a new appreciation for his male teammates.
A constant fucking boner.
Before practice, I would say a prayer that I wouldn’t get hard, willing myself somehow to keep it together.
But it was no easy task.
All of the guys on the team were ripped. Jacked. They had to be. It was kind of the point.
And while some of them inspired little more than passing recognition in me, others, well… they inspired feelings in me I could barely keep contained.
I considered my options. I could make up some excuse and wear a cup. You know, sensitive balls or something like that. But I’d be the only one doing it, and that would likely draw more attention.
I didn’t need that shit. I already stood out enough being the new guy.
I could quit and go back to public school, throw away my entire future.
But that wasn’t an option.
No, I’d just have to grin and bear it, think about dead puppies and saggy old women until I could make it through the season in one piece.
There was just one hitch.
“Tracey! Come here.”
Coach beckoned me over, pulling me in for a huddle after my not-so-impressive performance.
“I’m matching everyone up for training…”
It was typical practice—break us into twosomes to run drills, largely by weight class, often in mat time outside of usual hours.
“I’m pairing you with Jud Hawkins.”
I stared back at him. Jud was one of the other seniors on the team, and in a class of his own. He probably had 15 to 20 pounds on me, at least, and it showed.
“I know Jud’s bigger than you are,” the Coach started, “but I can’t have him training solo, and you’re the strongest guy we’ve got to go up against him.”
My head spun, still dazed from being trounced in the last round.
“He’s good, but he needs refining, smoothing out his raw edges. He’s all grunt and no technique, you know what I’m saying?”
I nodded as if I did, glancing over at Jud, who was doing a series of crunches on the floor. His body was nuts, as was his energy, the intensity with which his chest rose and fell almost mesmerizing.
The guy didn’t take a fucking break.
Meanwhile, I’d stopped caring about wrestling about five minutes after I’d started. And I was supposed to refine him?
That wasn’t the worst of it.
He was precisely the kind of dude that inspired all of my worst impulses…or, er, desires.
6’1, 210 lbs, a tight buzz cut, and an accent from the wrong side of town that rendered him the definition of a bruiser.
I was trapped. I didn’t have a choice.
“Whatever you say,” I replied. “If anything, it will make me better, I guess?”
“That’s the spirit.” Coach patted me on the back and walked away, leaving me to eye Jud from afar.
Brian Krieter sidled up in his place, a smirk across his lips.
“You matched with Jud?”
I nodded.
“Good fucking luck.”
I played dumb. “Why do you say that?”
“Guy’s a wildcard. Practically broke his partner last year.”
Gee, thanks, buddy. This was not helping my anxiety.
“He did a post-grad year…twice. The dude’s 20.” I could hardly believe what I was hearing. I knew it was bad, but this was worse. “They would have kicked him out were he not such an insane wrestler. They were happy to have him repeat if it meant another great season.”
What the fuck?
His face softened. “But you’ll be fine. You’re the best of the best, right? It’s why we recruited you.”
I nodded—sure, of course—but a knot had buried its way into the pit of my stomach.
“Tracey, c’mere!” Coach’s voice. “I wanna introduce you.”
I made my way over, Jud at his side, trying to put forth my best game face.
“Jud, Quinn—you guys will be partnering up this season. We’ve discussed the weight differential, so just a reminder—Jud, you cut him some slack.”
“But—” Jud started to interrupt.
“No buts. We need fair matches, and while everyone likes a challenge, it’s not fair for you to exploit an objective advantage. Got it?”
Jud nodded back, hesitant. “Aight.”
“All right, now make nice. I’m gonna set up the next drill.”
I lingered, Jud’s eyes searing into me.
He spoke first.
“I picked our slot,” Jud said. “Last stretch. In case we wanna run longer.”
I glanced down at his chest. He was solid muscle, the veins rippling across the topography of his skin. The singlet was strapped tight along his pecs, his nipples hard through the microfiber.
“Why would we run longer?” I asked.
“‘Cause I don’t phone in my training like some of these fools. I’m all in.” He shifted closer, his face mere inches from mine. His breath was hot, but somehow sweet. “Aren’t you?”
I could feel that familiar tightening between my legs.
I gazed back at him, unblinking. “Sure.”
He pressed a knuckle to my chest. “Good.”
And with that, just before I grew a full-on boner, I walked away, trying to shake it all off.
As I assumed the position for push-ups on the far side of the mat, I glanced back towards Jud. He hadn’t moved. He was still watching me.
The pit in my stomach grew.
8:30 tonight. Him and me.
This wasn’t a practice.
This was war.
—
Caulfield was different from other high schools. Unlike most campuses where people left at 3 pm, ours brimmed with students well into the evening. But 8:30 was a late start time even by Caulfield’s standards, and I found the athletic center totally abandoned.
Except, that is, for me and Jud, who I found in the middle of the open gym, already dressed in his singlet, energy as manic as it had been five hours earlier.
“Hey,” I said, eyeing him as I set down my stuff.
The fabric of his singlet clung to every muscle in his body, his bulge so clearly on display.
He was big.
It was big.
“You’re late,” he spat back at me.
I glanced at the wall clock. 8:31.
“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
His eyes seared into mine. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
I stared back. “Dude, chill. I’m here now.”
I slipped off my sweatpants and sweatshirt, my own singlet underneath.
When I’d first started, being this exposed had felt…uncomfortable. I was barely developed, a kid. A twink.
But now I filled it out, my body justifying its shape. The way it hugged the ridges of my ass, the sinews of my thighs, the tear drops of my pecs. And the fabric—slick, wet—it felt electric along my skin.
I might have blamed myself for getting aroused while wearing it, except that the whole fucking thing seemed designed to get me hard.
If I were honest, and I mean really, really honest, everything about wrestling—the singlets, the writhing around on the floor, the body obsession—was gay as fuck.
But that was irrelevant, at least right now.
Strapped in, I approached Jud.
“How you wanna start?” I asked. “Maybe a few simple drills?”
He shook his head, a smirk breaking across his lips. “Now, where’s the fun in that?”
He looked wild, his aggression already boiling over.
I didn’t like where this was going. I was gonna have to use every fibre of my being not to get hard.
“C’mon, Tracey. Let’s do a little free sparring. Really see what you got.”
I couldn’t back out now. I wasn’t a pussy, and something told me if I refused, I’d lose his respect altogether.
And so we began.
From the jump, it was clear he wasn’t going to show me any of the consideration given our weight difference, the very thing Coach had asked for.
Within two seconds, he lunged for me, every ounce of his body weight put to work. We struggled, each gasping for purchase, for awhile giving as good as I was getting, until he got me in a standing headlock—our shoulders pressed together, one of his arms wrapped around my neck. I strained to keep him at bay, until finally he reached for my tricep with his free hand, using his full force to turn me around, his chest to my back, our bodies grinding together.
I grunted as he pulled me closer, his entire form pressed against me—warm, sweaty.
The effect went straight to my cock, just beginning to awaken.
Fuck.
I pulled away, gasping.
“Let me know when you start trying,” he barked, eyes flashing.
He fucking loved this shit. It was the only thing he had going for himself, feeding him in a way that it never would for me.
I glared back. I hated this fucker—for being a dick, for loving wrestling so much, for goading me.
And, maybe, just maybe, for being so undeniably fucking hot.
I glanced down at my dick, thankfully not betraying me—yet.
Without warning, I lunged in for round two, momentarily catching him off guard as our bodies fell backwards onto the mat, legs and arms flailing.
I had the upper hand, trying to pin him down with the distinct advantage of being on top.
As I reached around his neck, doing my best to lock his shoulder blades against the mat—a classic pin—he used his full momentum to roll me over, entirely reversing our positions.
Fuck.
Straddled, I strained underneath his weight, his thigh pressed between my legs, its face hard and tight along my cock.
Double fuck.
It reacted immediately, swelling, the microfiber sliding along it effortlessly as he ground into me, doing his best to wrest complete control.
A torrent of emotion ran through me. Anger…aggression….they were mixing with desire, the very thing that I’d been horribly afraid of, now coming to bear.
I struggled, manhood grinding against him, refusing with all my might to let him win. And then, he shifted, angling himself to press his body fully atop mine.
Was it? No, it couldn’t be…
Momentarily distracted, I glanced down. If I wasn’t mistaken, something was awakening for him too, the faintest stiffness of his cock pressing firm against me.
But before I could be certain, he forced both my shoulders onto the mat.
“PIN!”
I lay gasping for air as he rose, walking away from me in a victory lap, letting out a long roar.
I lay dazed, overwhelmed, my mind racing.
What the fuck was happening? Did I just feel that…for real?
I stood up, willing my hard-on to go down as I, too, did a lap on the other side of the mat, my anger having given way to full-blown rage.
I rolled back my shoulders, psyching myself up. I wasn’t gonna let this fucker push me around.
And so I turned, assuming the sparring position.
But when I came to face him, Jud’s eyes weren’t waiting to receive mine. No, they were focused downward, my gaze following them to the bulge between my legs, to my crotch.
I’d done nothing to will my erection away.
No, I was fully hard, my cock as fully inflamed as the rest of my body, on full view through the thin layer of fabric.
My face flushed red, a wash of shame running through me.
But before I could further react, I glanced up his own cock.
I blinked once, twice.
I hadn’t imagined it.
His, too, had shifted, turned upwards, the line of a hard-on clear through the nylon, his balls tight underneath.
My eyes returned to meet his, his expression devilish.
A wave of acknowledgment passed between us.
But I barely had time to think before he plowed forward, lunging for my leg—a post-low single—grabbing my heel and tipping me by the knee, my body falling backwards.
I flailed, trying to regain any control, but it was no use. He jumped on top of me, body once again fully pinned-- hands on my biceps, knees clamping my thighs against the mat, his cock pressed directly against mine.
There was a fury in his eyes, but also something else, something less distinguishable.
Desire.
“PIN,” I said, surrendering—pretending to want it over, pretending our hard-ons weren’t riding together.
Anything to avoid acknowledging how much I was enjoying this.
But he didn’t move.
“PIN!” I repeated.
I struggled further, straining to remove myself from under him.
He shook his head. “I think you like this,” he started. “Don’t you.”
It wasn't a question; it was a statement.
He pressed harder against me, his full force almost painful, the raw aggression balanced by the warm, tingling sensation of our cocks pressed together.
“Fuck, no,” I replied, refusing to lay my desire bare, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
“Liar.”
He spat out the words, my eyes narrowing as a spray hit my face, wet and sloppy against my cheeks, my mouth.
He grinned, any opportunity to roil me bringing him the greatest of pleasure.
And then he did the thing I never saw coming.
He removed his left hand, quickly replacing it with his elbow to keep me locked down, his free hand reaching for my chin. Clasping either side, he clawed my mouth apart, willing me to open.
What the fuck.
I lay there, lips gaping, my jaw straining under his grip, his cock rubbing just so against mine, our erections pressed even tighter together.
He pursed his lips, cheeks pulled tight and hollow.
And then, in slow motion, he opened, a long, slow thread of spit leaving his mouth and trailing down before him, running straight into my parted lips.
I flailed, trying and failing to resist, but failing, the full slick running down my tongue, his eyes turning feral, even more devilish, his glee unmistakable.
“Good boy,” he muttered, nodding.
A car crash of feeling ran through me.
The strain of my muscles beneath him.
My fury at the transgression.
The pulses of pre-cum that ran out of my cock as his rode against mine.
And then the slow realization that what he had done wasn’t a violation. It was somehow…welcome.
I lay there, pretending to be angry, but secretly loving it, my mouth hanging open.
He pursed his lips again, gathering up another load, and then opening, this time refusing me the luxury of a slow ream, instead fully spitting it into my gaping mouth.
I gagged, swallowing, a second offering from him, my cock affirming what the rest of me could not.
'“Yeahhhhh,” he said, quietly. “Good fuckin boy.”
He replaced his hand on my bicep, my jaw finally wrested free.
“Fucker,” I grunted.
Something in me didn’t want to give in. Something in me still feigned refusal.
“I think you liked it,” he said, eyes flashing, nodding down defiantly at my cock raging below. “I know you did.”
My eyes narrowed.
I glanced down, the faintest darkening visible at each of our cock heads as they pressed together.
I glanced back up at him. “Seems like you did too.”
His grin widened. “Maybe I did.”
And then, without warning, he flipped his body forward, knees now pinning me at the arms, my legs free beneath.
I tried to kick him, to wriggle out with this newfound freedom, but my muscles were too tight, hamstrings too inflexible to reach all the way to his back. And he was dead weight, his body a wall of muscle.
I glanced up, his dick hovering directly in front of my face.
“This what you want?”
I stared at it. It was even bigger up close—thick, perfectly proportional, pulsing out from under the strain of the fabric.
It was. What I wanted.
But I couldn’t give in so easily, not yet at least.
I was growing to like this game of cat and mouse—my refusal and his forced entry.
So I turned away, feigning disgust.
“Fuck no,” I replied. “I’m not a faggot.”
Eyes raging, he grabbed the crown of my head, holding it in place, any efforts to resist stifled. And then he pressed himself fully against me, my lips meeting his full length.
He breathed in. His cock was warm, sweaty, even through the microfiber, a full pool of pre-cum staining at the tip.
But above all was the scent. I’d long found gratifying the very smells you weren’t supposed to like. A day-old pair of shorts. My pits after a long day without showering. Even the smell of my ass when I’d graze my hole, the light funk of the day remaining, the faintest traces of shit and piss all along my undercarriage.
I loved it all.
And Jud’s cock smelled ripe, musky, just the way I liked it—a mix of grime and sweat and man.
Fuck.
“C’mon, boy,” Jud said, tapping on my cheek. “Open up.”
I protested, clamped closed, still stubbornly refusing to admit what he already knew.
He tapped my cheek, practically slapping me.
“C’mon,” he repeated. “OPEN. UP.”
I resisted, unwilling to let him win.
And then he pulled back, face coming close to mine, his voice lower, a growl.
“This stays between us, pretty boy,” he said.
I blinked at him.
Really? Did he mean that?
And then the final words that I needed to hear.
“Nobody has to know.”
I didn’t know whether I could trust him—I probably couldn’t—but I didn’t care. I was looking for permission, for someone to obey.
And with those words, something within me unlocked.
I wanted in.
He thrust himself forward, my mouth opening, my tongue extending to meet him, its full width pressing against his waiting dick. I licked along every inch, the thin fabric affording me the taste of everything I’d been smelling.
Fuck, it was good. I wanted to suck on the singlet as much as I wanted to suck on his cock. I wanted to drown in this scent, in this taste, to consume all of it.
And then I heard it, the faintest sound from above.
A moan.
My mouth turned up into a smile. There it was, the first sign of his fallibility.
In all his power, I realized, I had something over him too.
Maybe, just maybe, he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
He began doing some of the work for me, forcing my tongue up and down his shaft. It certainly was big, sizable, certainly larger than what I was packing.
“Fuckkkk, boy,” he muttered, shaking his head.
My dick tightened between my legs at his encouragement, straining against the fabric, painfully untouched.
I liked being called boy, I realized.
I liked being his sub.
I nodded, the seal having been broken, angling my head so my lips created the perfect cradle for him to fuck along, my tongue grazing with each thrust.
I’d stopped my flailing from the waist down, the harder I got, the more my cock pressed against the slick fabric, pre-cum leaking out into a further stain at my stomach.
I worked him harder, practically slobbering on it, trying to soak the fabric.
And then, in slow motion, Jud lifted his arms, raising them above his head.
And flexing for me.
I paused momentarily, overcome by the view.
His biceps were contracted to perfect orbs, yet another part of him I wanted to worship, to suck on.
But what he revealed beneath truly left me breathless.
His pits.
Whereas so many guys were trimmed, practically hairless, Jud wasn’t. No, his were matted with dark hair—thick, wavy, unapologetic.
A full bush.
My dick grew by another inch. I could practically smell them from here.
He wasn’t just flexing.
He was showing off for me.
“You like these?” he asked, that devilish grin, staring down at me from above.
Nobody had ever looked hotter, the singlet strapped tight across his torso.
I nodded, finally giving up the ghost of denial.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
I was silent, bashful.
“Fucking tell me,” he repeated, knees harder against my arms, my own biceps aching at the strain.
And then, enraged, he pulled his dick away, flipping to pin my legs again before lowering himself, extending an arm, and pressing a pit directly into my face.
Fuck.
I was instantly submerged, suffocated, his free hand holding me directly in place.
“That’s it,” he barked. “Smell it.”
My head was small, his pit cavernous, my whole face covered.
Jud clearly didn’t use deodorant, a full day’s ripeness awaiting me there.
It was just as I had hoped—intoxicating, potent, the greatest gift imaginable.
“Suck it,” he said, another order.
So I obeyed, starting to lick along his insides. There was so much hair, it was hard to make contact with skin. But it hardly mattered. Instead, I took the full bush in my mouth, wetting it, cleaning it, even biting on it.
No move was too aggressive in this new reality.
Jud bucked at the sensation, surprised by my fervor.
A wall was crashing down. I had given myself over to him in 20 short minutes, reduced to a full, whimpering sub.
“Good fuckin’ boy,” he said, using his free hand to pat my cheek, to pull me closer. “There he is,” he said quietly. “The guy I knew was there all along.”
My body having surrendered, he lowered a leg between mine, my hard-on pressed tight against his thigh. It was at once a move of aggression and generosity, affording my cock the sweet relief of friction.
I ground into him, bucking back and forth as I sucked, my face pressing deeper in his pit.
“Fuckkkkkkk,” Jud moaned, something clicking.
I had regressed, turned feral, my body reduced to mere sensation. The smell, the taste of his pit, the pressure of his almost 200lbs against me, my cock riding along his quad.
I was unburdened by anything—shame, judgment, my dislike of Jud.
No, now I was a slave to one thing and one thing alone.
His body.
Whatever he wanted, however he wanted to be worshipped, I was ready.
Nothing would make me harder. Or happier.
And he was loving this, too.
“C’mon, boy,” he said. “Take the other side.”
I obeyed, shifting, the other equally as ripe, his scent so intoxicating I was practically drunk. And so I remained, sucking and smelling and burrowed into him as if I could somehow live in there, that I could disappear within him.
He adjusted his thigh, freeing my cock as he lowered his hand, finding the spot where the foreskin met the piss slit through my singlet and beginning to flick it with his thumb and forefinger.
My body shook instantly.
What the fuck was he doing?
It was unlike anything I’d felt before, a balance between torture and pleasure, the acute sensation of having to piss, on the verge of busting, every nerve ending focused on that one ridge.
I moaned.
“You like that?”
I whimpered into him, a yes.
He continued, faster, harder, tapping at that one spot, it alone willing me closer to an orgasm.
I nodded into his pit, gasping, his musk my only air, his fingers refusing to let up.
“That’s right…” he said. “…you just take what you need…”
I worked harder, sucking, straining, like a fucking animal, unleashing myself upon him.
“…my little pussy boy…”
The effect of those words shot through me like electricity.
The shame was an aphrodisiac.
He pressed his entire body against mine, gripping me ever closer as my thighs tightened around his, cock riding along his muscled physique as I humped my way towards a finish.
How could I be so close to coming without a full hand or a mouth to help me?
I didn’t know, but Jud’s pit and his massive frame were enough.
And so, muffled in the pillow of his pit, I rode harder, faster, until finally I came, body thrumming as shot after shot pulsed out the head of my dick and filled my singlet, the fabric growing slicker with every ooze, body only half-stilled by Jud’s monumental size, the perfect weighted blanket.
For a moment, I lost consciousness, temporarily having launched into orbit.
And then I returned, in the afterglow, drunk on his scent until my body finally came to stillness, settled.
Jud lifted his arm to release me, the room coming back into view, and his face hovering above mine—a mixture of pride and that same mischief.
What the fuck had just happened?
He glanced down at my crotch. “Look at that fuckin’ mess you made.”
The swagger of his accent caused my dick to pulse once again, one last ooze of cum out the top.
And then the afterglow evaporated, replaced by a familiar sensation.
Shame.
I wasn’t sure if he was complimenting me or ridiculing me.
“I—” I stammered.
“Needed that, didn’t you?”
We were back in reality—his knowingness grating on me, my dislike for him flooding back without the distraction of sucking on his dick or his pits.
I had needed that. And once again, I resented him for it.
I glanced at his dick, still hard in his singlet. As much as I hated him, hated his arrogance, one thing was sure—I still wanted that cock.
I wanted to more of it—to see it, to feel it. Skin to skin.
“Are you gonna—”
I paused, not sure how to finish the sentence.
“—tell everyone that you’re a faggot?”
His words landed like a thud, harsher than even I’d expected.
'‘Yeah.”
“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “I think I’ll keep that to myself.”
The anger boiled back up inside me.
“You really need his dick, don’t you?” he said, following my gaze, the one that kept flicking back to his crotch.
“Fuck you,” I replied, starting to sit up.
But before I could, he jumped back atop me, cock once again just inches from my face.
He lumbered above me, that same intense expression.
“You’ve been wanting this dick from the moment you saw me, haven’t you?”
I strained below, refusing to agree.
He pressed himself firmer. “Haven’t you?”
I stared up at him, his body all peaks and valleys, every shape visible through the singlet, his dick still straining hard below.
He could read me like a book, my desire legible to him and nobody else.
He knew.
And then just as quickly, he pulled away, rising from the mat.
“Don’t you worry,” he said, walking away. “You’ll get it.”
I drew in a long breath, watching as he reached into his duffel bag, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie.
I rose, unsteady on my feet. I was lightheaded; the whole experience had gone to my head.
“Tomorrow night, Tracey,” he said, climbing into each pant leg and throwing the sweatshirt over his head. “You and me, we go again. For real.”
I stared back at him, wordless.
For real?
What did that mean?
He collected his bag, turning towards the doorway.
“And then we’ll see what you’re really made of.”
And with that, he left, abandoning me to the silence of the empty gym.
I exhaled, my body relaxing for the first time all day.
For now, I could breathe.
I turned, shaking my head as I walked over to my duffel, catching sight of myself in the mirror for the first time. I was a sight—my hair disheveled, my face beet red, the entire front of my singlet stained with come.
I was a fucking mess.
If anyone saw this… I thought to myself.
And then I realized it. Beneath the stain was my cock, still hard, pulsing within.
It hadn’t even begun to go down.
No, I was even hornier than I’d been before.
Shaking my head, I made my way down to the locker rooms, also empty. Stripping down, I took my singlet and folded it into a ball in my locker, scheming how I was going to get it into the wash without my mother noticing the gigantic stain across its front.
I climbed into the showers, letting the water run hot, steam rising from the tile floor.
As I sudsed up, I did my best to clean off the jizz along my abdomen, tacky and caught within my pubes. And then my hand traced down to my cock, the only part of me that wasn’t totally exhausted.
I took it in my hand, starting to jerk it, thinking about one thing and one thing only.
Jud.
He was right. I did want him. Badly.
I’d never experienced this before—my desire and resentment for him so conjoined, one fueling the other. It was so intense that it was almost unbearable.
I hated the way he knew, the way he could read my desire, the way I was so fucking obvious to him.
But it only made me want him more.
I wanted that dick in my mouth, not just through the fabric but skin to skin, to taste the way that it tasted.
I wanted to worship more of that body, not just his pits, but every inch of him—his pecs, his feet, his ass—no part off limits.
I didn’t even need him to touch me. He barely had today.
No, worshipping him was enough.
I jerked harder, imagining myself on my knees, him as my altar.
His good fuckin’ boy.
And then, without warning, I busted again, my load meeting the spray of the shower, sizable despite having come less than 20 minutes before.
I shook my head, finally sated, shifting back under the shower head, one final rinse before going back to my locker.
As I reached for a fresh pair of sweats, I could feel anxiety in the pit of my stomach. And then something else, something unfamiliar.
Excitement.
For the first time since I’d arrived at this school, I had something to look forward to.
Tomorrow. I was ready.
To be Jud’s bitch.
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