The party at Jake's house was supposed to be a distraction.
It wasn't working.
I stood in the corner of the crowded living room, nursing a warm beer I'd barely touched, watching my former classmates grind against each other to music that was too loud and too bass-heavy. Girls in tight dresses. Guys in polo shirts trying too hard to look casual. Everyone pretending they were having the time of their lives.
I felt like I was watching it all from behind glass.
It had been less than a day since Tuesday. Six days since Thursday night in the locker room. Six days since Marcus had fucked me over that bench, since Derek had filled my mouth with his cock, and barely more than one since I'd watched my father jerk off in the shower while moaning my name.
Six days of replaying every moment in my head until I couldn't tell what was memory and what was fantasy anymore.
Derek still wouldn't look at me. At Tuesday practice, he'd shown up late, kept his head down, and left the moment the final whistle blew. Marcus had been there, watching me with those dark calculating eyes, but he hadn't approached me. Hadn't touched me. Just watched. Waiting.
Dad had been on edge all week. Snapping at me over small things. Asking too many questions about where I was going, who I was with, what I was doing. Like he could sense something had changed but couldn't figure out what.
I'd jerked off every night thinking about all of them. Marcus's thick cock stretching me open. Derek's precum on my tongue. Dad's massive shaft in his hand, water streaming down his hairy chest, his voice rough and desperate as he came.
I was so fucked up.
"Chance! There you are!"
I turned to see Sarah Chen—no relation to Marcus, thank fuck—pushing through the crowd toward me. She had been in my English class, pretty in a girl-next-door way, with long dark hair and a smile that was probably supposed to be flirtatious.
"Hey," I said, forcing a smile.
"You've been hiding in this corner all night." She leaned in close, her breath smelling like vodka and fruit punch. "Come dance with me."
"I'm not really—"
"Come on." She grabbed my hand, tugging me toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room. "It'll be fun."
I let her pull me along because it was easier than explaining why I didn't want to. We found a spot near the speakers, and she immediately pressed herself against me, her hips moving to the beat. Her hands went to my shoulders, then slid down to my chest.
I tried to respond. Tried to feel something. But all I could think about was how soft she was. How small. How wrong.
I wanted rough hands. Thick fingers. The scratch of facial hair against my skin. The weight of a man's body pressing me down, holding me in place, using me.
"You okay?" Sarah's voice cut through my thoughts. She was looking up at me with concern, her hands still on my chest.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just tired."
"You want to go somewhere quieter?" Her eyes were hopeful, her meaning clear.
"I—" I started, but then I saw him.
Through the crowd, through the press of bodies and the haze of cheap beer and cheaper cologne, I saw Derek Morrison.
He was standing on the back porch, visible through the sliding glass doors. Alone. Swaying slightly. A bottle of Jack Daniels dangling from one hand.
What the fuck was he doing here?
"I need some air," I told Sarah, pulling away from her. "Sorry."
I didn't wait for her response. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed looks and muttered complaints, and made my way to the back door.
The night air was cool against my flushed skin. The porch was mostly empty—a few people smoking in the far corner, a couple making out against the railing. Derek was at the other end, leaning heavily against the house, staring out at the dark backyard.
He looked like shit.
His clothes were rumpled, his beard unkempt. His eyes were bloodshot and unfocused. The bottle in his hand was more than half empty.
I should have turned around. Should have gone back inside and pretended I hadn't seen him.
But I didn't.
I walked over slowly, my heart pounding. "Derek?"
He didn't respond at first. Just kept staring out at nothing. Then, slowly, his head turned toward me. It took a moment for his eyes to focus.
"Chance." My name came out slurred, heavy. "The fuck are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing." I glanced back at the house. "This is a college party. You're—"
"Thirty-five," he finished. "Yeah. I know." He took a long pull from the bottle. "My buddy Jake's little brother. Said I could crash the party. Wife's out of town. Didn't want to be alone."
His wife. Right. The one he was cheating on. The one who had no idea her husband liked getting his cock sucked by men, of fucking them...
"You shouldn't be drinking that much," I said quietly.
Derek laughed, a harsh bitter sound. "You gonna tell me what to do, kid? You gonna lecture me?"
"No, I just—"
"You just what?" He pushed off from the wall, stumbling slightly. "You just care? You just worried about me?" He moved closer, and I could smell the whiskey on his breath, sharp and overwhelming. "Or you just want another taste of this?"
He grabbed his crotch through his jeans, squeezing himself. Even drunk, even angry, I could see the outline of his cock starting to swell.
My mouth went dry. "Derek—"
"Don't." He held up a hand. "Don't say my fucking name like that. Like you know me. Like we're... something."
"We're not anything," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I know that."
"Good." He took another drink. "Because we're not. What happened... that was fucked up. That was Marcus being a manipulative piece of shit. That wasn't... I'm not..."
He trailed off, his jaw clenching. I could see the war happening behind his eyes. Shame and desire. Disgust and need.
"You enjoyed it," I said softly.
His eyes snapped to mine, blazing with sudden fury. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"You enjoyed it," I repeated, my heart racing. "When you fucked me. When I sucked your cock. You enjoyed it."
"Shut up." His voice was dangerous now, low and threatening. "Shut the fuck up."
"You came so hard," I continued, unable to stop myself. "You filled my mouth. You fucked my ass like you'd been thinking about it for weeks. And you loved every second of it."
Derek's hand shot out, grabbing the front of my shirt and slamming me back against the house. His face was inches from mine, his breath hot and whiskey-soaked.
"You don't know shit about me," he snarled. "You don't know what I want. What I need."
"Then tell me," I challenged, my voice shaking but steady. "Tell me I'm wrong."
For a long moment, we just stared at each other. I could feel his hand trembling against my chest. Could see the pulse pounding in his neck. Could see the way his pupils were dilated, his lips parted.
Then, slowly, his grip loosened. His hand fell away. He stepped back, nearly stumbling.
"I can't be here," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I need to go home."
"You're too drunk to drive."
"I'll walk."
"It's like five miles to your place."
"I don't care." He turned away, heading for the porch steps.
I made a decision. Probably a stupid one. Definitely a dangerous one.
"Let me take you," I said.
Derek stopped, his back to me. "What?"
"Let me take you home. I'll drive you. Make sure you get there safe."
He turned around slowly, his expression unreadable. "Why would you do that?"
Because I want to be near you. Because I can't stop thinking about you. Because even though you used me and hurt me and pushed me away, I still want your approval. Your attention. Your touch.
"Because you need help," I said instead. "And I'm offering."
Derek stared at me for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Fine. Whatever. Let's go."
The drive to Derek's house was silent except for the low hum of the radio and Derek's occasional muttered directions. He lived in a modest neighborhood on the east side of town—small ranch houses with neat lawns and basketball hoops in driveways. The kind of place where families lived. Where normal people had normal lives.
His house was dark when we pulled up. A single-story ranch with beige siding and a two-car garage. The lawn needed mowing. There were kids' toys scattered across the front porch—a pink bicycle, a soccer ball, a plastic slide.
Evidence of the life Derek was supposed to be living.
"Thanks for the ride," Derek mumbled, fumbling with his seatbelt. He managed to get it unbuckled but nearly fell when he tried to open the door.
"Let me help you inside," I said, getting out of the car.
"I'm fine."
"You can barely stand."
"I said I'm fine." But he wasn't. He stumbled on the walkway, and I had to grab his arm to keep him from falling.
He didn't pull away this time. Just let me guide him to the front door, let me take his keys when he couldn't get them in the lock, let me open the door and help him inside.
The house was neat but lived-in. Family photos on the walls. Kids' drawings on the refrigerator. A woman's jacket hanging by the door. Evidence of Derek's wife everywhere.
"She left Thursday," Derek said, following my gaze. "Girls' trip with her sister and the kids. Won't be back until Monday."
Four days. He had the house to himself for four days.
I helped him to the couch, and he collapsed onto it with a groan. The bottle of Jack Daniels was still in his hand, and he took another long pull.
"You should stop drinking," I said quietly.
"You should stop telling me what to do." But there was no heat in his voice now. Just exhaustion.
I sat down on the coffee table across from him, our knees almost touching. "Why were you at that party, Derek? Really?"
He was quiet for a long time. Then, finally, he spoke.
"I can't stop thinking about it." His voice was barely above a whisper. "About Thursday. About you. About..." He trailed off, his jaw clenching.
"About what it felt like?" I finished softly.
He nodded, not looking at me. "I told myself it was just the situation. Just Marcus pushing me into it. Just... I don't know. But then I'd be at work, or at home, or in bed with my wife, and all I could think about was your mouth. Your ass. The way you looked at me."
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. "How did I look at you?"
"Like you wanted it." He finally met my eyes. "Like you wanted me. Not just my cock. Me."
"I did," I admitted. "I do."
Derek's breath caught. His hand tightened on the bottle. "You shouldn't. I'm not... I'm not a good person, Chance. I'm not what you think I am."
"I don't think you're anything," I said. "I just know what I feel when I'm near you."
"And what's that?"
I leaned forward, close enough that I could smell the whiskey on his breath, the sweat on his skin, the masculine musk that made my cock start to harden in my jeans.
"Safe," I whispered. "And terrified. And so fucking turned on I can barely breathe."
Derek's eyes darkened. His free hand came up, fingers brushing against my cheek. Rough. Calloused. Perfect.
"You're gonna ruin me," he said softly. "You know that?"
"You're already ruined."
He laughed, a broken sound. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am."
His thumb traced my lower lip, and I opened my mouth automatically, letting him push inside. I sucked gently, my tongue swirling around the digit, and Derek groaned.
"Fuck," he breathed. "You're so fucking pretty. So fucking perfect."
He pulled his thumb out and leaned forward, and for a moment I thought he was going to kiss me. Really kiss me. Not just use my mouth but actually kiss me.
But then his eyes rolled back, and he slumped sideways on the couch.
"Derek?" I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Derek?"
He was out cold. Passed out from the alcohol, his breathing deep and even.
I should have left. Should have called him an Uber or left a note or just walked out and pretended this never happened.
But I didn't.
Instead, I looked at him—really looked at him. At the strong line of his jaw beneath the beard. At the thick muscles of his arms and chest visible beneath his rumpled shirt. At the bulge in his jeans that was still semi-hard despite his unconscious state.
He needed to get to bed. Needed to sleep this off.
I could help with that.
I grabbed his arms and tried to pull him upright, but he was dead weight. Two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and alcohol-induced unconsciousness. There was no way I was getting him to the bedroom like this.
But I could at least make him more comfortable.
I unlaced his boots and pulled them off, setting them neatly by the couch. Then I reached for his belt.
My hands were shaking as I unbuckled it, as I popped the button on his jeans, as I slowly pulled down the zipper. I could see the outline of his cock through his boxer briefs—thick and heavy, resting against his thigh.
I pulled his jeans down his legs, revealing thick thighs covered in light brown hair. His legs were massive, all muscle and power, and I couldn't help but run my hands over them, feeling the coarse hair, the solid strength beneath.
His shirt was next. I unbuttoned it slowly, revealing his chest inch by inch. The light brown hair that covered his pecs. The flat pink nipples. The solid abs with just a hint of softness around his midsection. The thick treasure trail that led down to his boxer briefs.
He was so fucking beautiful.
I pulled the shirt off completely, leaving him in just his underwear. His cock was definitely harder now, tenting the fabric, and I could see a wet spot forming where the head pressed against the cotton.
I shouldn't touch him. Shouldn't take advantage of him like this.
But my hand moved on its own, palming his cock through his underwear. He was so thick, so hot, and even unconscious his cock responded, swelling further under my touch.
I squeezed gently, and Derek made a sound in his sleep—a low groan that went straight to my own cock.
Stop. You need to stop.
I pulled my hand away and grabbed the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over him. Then I stood up, intending to leave, to get out of there before I did something I'd regret.
But Derek's hand shot out, grabbing my wrist.
I froze.
His eyes were still closed. He was still asleep. But his grip was firm, pulling me down toward him.
"Don't go," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and alcohol. "Stay."
"Derek, you're drunk. You need to sleep."
"Stay," he repeated, pulling harder.
I lost my balance and fell onto the couch next to him. Before I could get up, his arm wrapped around me, pulling me against his chest. His other hand came up to my face, tilting it toward him.
And then he was kissing me.
Not rough. Not demanding. Soft. Gentle. His lips moved against mine with a tenderness I hadn't expected, hadn't thought he was capable of. His tongue traced my lower lip, asking for entrance, and I opened for him.
The kiss deepened. His hand slid into my hair, holding me in place, and I melted into him. This wasn't like the locker room. This wasn't being used or taken or forced. This was... something else.
This felt like he actually wanted me.
His other hand roamed over my body—my back, my side, my hip. Not groping. Not demanding. Just touching. Exploring. Like he was trying to memorize the feel of me.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were still closed, but there was a small smile on his lips.
"So pretty," he murmured. "My pretty boy."
Then he shifted, pulling me fully onto the couch with him, arranging us so I was tucked against his chest, his arms wrapped around me. His chin rested on top of my head, and I could feel his breath evening out, could feel him drifting back into sleep.
I should have left. Should have extracted myself and walked out the door.
But his arms felt so good around me. His chest was so warm and solid against my back. His heartbeat was steady and strong beneath my ear.
For the first time in nine days, I felt safe.
I closed my eyes and let myself drift off, wrapped in Derek Morrison's arms, pretending just for a moment that this was real. That he was mine. That when he woke up, he wouldn't push me away.
I woke to sunlight streaming through the windows and the sound of harsh breathing.
For a moment, I was disoriented. This wasn't my room. This wasn't my bed. Where—
Then I remembered.
Derek's house. Derek's couch. Derek's arms around me.
Except they weren't around me anymore.
I opened my eyes to find Derek standing over me, his face pale, his eyes wide with horror. He was still in just his boxer briefs, his cock visibly hard beneath the fabric, but his expression was pure panic.
"What the fuck," he said, his voice shaking. "What the fuck did you do?"
I sat up quickly, my heart racing. "Derek, nothing happened. You passed out, and I just—"
"You stripped me." He looked down at himself, at his near-naked body, then back at me. "You fucking stripped me and—what? Climbed into bed with me?"
"You asked me to stay," I said, my voice small. "You pulled me down. You kissed me."
"Bullshit." His hands were clenched into fists at his sides. "I was drunk. I was passed out. You took advantage of me."
"I didn't—"
"You came into my house," he continued, his voice getting louder. "You got me drunk. You stripped me. You tried to seduce me."
"That's not what happened!" I stood up, my own anger rising. "You were already drunk when I found you. I drove you home because you couldn't drive yourself. I was trying to help you."
"Help me?" Derek laughed, a harsh ugly sound. "You were trying to fuck me. Trying to get me to... to..."
He couldn't finish the sentence. Couldn't admit what he wanted.
"I wasn't trying to do anything," I said quietly. "You kissed me, Derek. You called me your pretty boy. You held me."
"I was drunk," he repeated, but his voice was weaker now. "I didn't know what I was doing."
"Yes, you did." I took a step toward him. "You knew exactly what you were doing. You wanted it. You wanted me."
"Shut up." His voice was dangerous now. "Shut the fuck up."
"You're attracted to me," I continued, unable to stop myself. "You think about me. You want me. And it terrifies you because it means you're not who you think you are."
"I said shut up!" Derek grabbed me, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His face was inches from mine, his breath coming in harsh pants. "You don't know shit about me. You don't know what I want."
"Then show me," I challenged. "Show me what you want."
For a moment, we just stared at each other. I could see the war happening behind his eyes. The shame and the desire. The fear and the need.
Then something in him snapped.
He shoved me backward, and I stumbled, falling onto the couch. Before I could get up, he was on me, his weight pinning me down, his hands tearing at my clothes.
"You want to know what I want?" he snarled, ripping my shirt over my head. "You want to see what you do to me?"
He grabbed my jeans and yanked them down, taking my underwear with them. My cock sprang free, already hard, and Derek stared at it with a mixture of disgust and hunger.
"Look at you," he said, his voice rough. "Already hard. Already ready for it. You're such a fucking slut."
"Derek—"
"Shut up." He grabbed my cock, squeezing hard enough to make me gasp. "You came here to get fucked. So that's what you're gonna get."
He released my cock and stood up, shoving his boxer briefs down. His cock sprang free, fully hard, thick and veiny and angry-looking. He grabbed it, stroking it roughly, his eyes never leaving mine.
"This is what you wanted, right?" he said. "This is what you've been thinking about. My cock inside you. Fucking you. Using you."
"Not like this," I whispered.
"Too bad." He grabbed my legs and flipped me over, shoving my face into the couch cushions. "You don't get to choose how this happens. You came into my house. You stripped me. You tried to seduce me. Now you're gonna take what you asked for."
I felt his cock press against my hole, dry and hard and unforgiving. No lube. No preparation. Just his thick shaft pushing against my entrance, demanding entry.
"Derek, wait—"
"I said shut up." He pushed forward, and I screamed into the cushions as his cock forced its way inside me. The burn was intense, overwhelming, and I tried to pull away, but his hands gripped my hips, holding me in place.
"Too tight," he grunted, pushing deeper. "Fuck, you're so fucking tight."
Tears streamed down my face as he bottomed out inside me, his balls pressing against mine, his cock buried to the hilt in my ass. It hurt. God, it hurt so much.
But beneath the pain, there was something else. A fullness. A sense of being claimed. Owned.
Used.
Derek pulled back and slammed forward, and I cried out again. He set a brutal pace, fucking me hard and fast, his hips slapping against my ass, his cock driving deep with every thrust.
"This is what you wanted," he panted, his fingers digging into my hips. "This is what you asked for. My cock. My cum. Me using you like the slut you are."
His hand came down on my ass, a sharp slap that made me yelp. Then another. And another. Each slap punctuated by a hard thrust, until my ass was burning both inside and out.
"Say it," Derek demanded. "Say you're a slut. Say you wanted this."
"I—" I couldn't get the words out. Couldn't admit it.
His hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back. "Say it, or I'll make this hurt even more."
"I wanted it," I gasped. "I wanted you."
"Wanted me to what?"
"To fuck me. To use me. To—" My voice broke on a sob. "To want me."
Derek's rhythm faltered. For a moment, his grip on my hair loosened. Then he was fucking me even harder, even more desperately, his breath coming in harsh gasps.
"I do want you," he groaned. "Fuck, I want you so much. Can't stop thinking about you. Can't stop wanting you. And I hate it. I hate you for making me feel this way."
His cock was swelling inside me, getting thicker, harder. I could feel him getting close, could feel his balls tightening against mine.
"Gonna cum," he panted. "Gonna fill you up. Gonna mark you as mine."
"Derek, you're not wearing—"
"I don't care." He slammed into me one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. "Take it. Take all of it."
His cock pulsed inside me, and I felt the hot flood of his cum filling my insides. So much of it, coating my walls, marking me, claiming me. He kept thrusting, fucking his cum deeper, until finally he collapsed on top of me, his weight crushing me into the couch.
We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us breathing hard, his cock still buried inside me, his cum leaking out around his shaft.
Then, slowly, he pulled out. I felt his cum gush out of me, running down my thighs, dripping onto the couch.
Derek stood up, his cock still semi-hard, glistening with cum and my ass. He looked down at me with an expression I couldn't read—shame, disgust, satisfaction, all mixed together.
"Get out," he said quietly.
I turned over slowly, wincing at the pain in my ass. "Derek—"
"Get the fuck out of my house." His voice was louder now, harsher. "Get out before I do something worse."
I grabbed my clothes with shaking hands, pulling them on as quickly as I could. My ass was throbbing, cum still leaking out of me, soaking into my underwear.
Derek just stood there, watching me, his arms crossed over his chest. His cock was softening now, but I could still see the evidence of what we'd done—the cum on his shaft, the flush on his chest, the marks on my hips where his fingers had dug in.
"Derek, we need to talk about—"
"There's nothing to talk about." He turned away from me, heading toward the hallway. "This never happened. You were never here. And if you tell anyone—anyone—I'll make sure everyone knows you broke into my house and tried to rape me."
The words hit me like a physical blow. "You know that's not what happened."
"Do I?" He looked back at me, his expression cold. "You came into my house uninvited. You stripped me while I was unconscious. You climbed into bed with me. Sounds like attempted rape to me."
"You asked me to stay. You kissed me."
"I was drunk. I didn't know what I was doing." He shook his head. "Get out, Chance. And don't come back."
I stumbled to the door, my legs shaking, cum running down my thighs. I could feel Derek's eyes on me the whole way, could feel the weight of his shame and anger and self-loathing.
When I reached the door, I turned back one last time. "I'm sorry," I whispered.
Derek didn't respond. Just stood there, naked and beautiful and broken, watching me leave.
I walked out into the bright morning sunlight, got into my car, and drove away.
I didn't cry until I was three blocks away.
Then I pulled over and sobbed, my whole body shaking, Derek's cum still leaking out of me, the taste of his kiss still on my lips.
He'd wanted me. For just a moment, when he was drunk and his defenses were down, he'd wanted me. He'd called me his pretty boy. He'd held me like I mattered.
And then he'd punished me for it.
Punished me for making him feel something he couldn't accept.
I sat there in my car for a long time, crying, hurting, wanting.
Knowing that despite everything—despite the pain, despite the cruelty, despite the way he'd used me and thrown me away—I'd go back to him in a heartbeat if he asked.
Because I was just as fucked up as he was.
Just as broken.
Just as desperate for something I could never have.
I finally started the car and drove home, Derek's cum drying on my thighs, his words echoing in my head.
This never happened.
But it did.
And I knew it wouldn't be the last time.
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