Sam Bailey Track and Field Stadium
By Wednesday of the second week of the semester, it felt like I’d scraped a layer of skin off and started over. Classes weren’t easy, but they weren’t impossible either. I got to lecture early, kept my notes mostly legible, and even managed to answer a question in econ without my voice cracking. No one clapped, but the professor nodded, and it was the first time in Tuscaloosa I didn’t feel like I was drowning.
The DKE calendar kept me busy enough. Pledge meetings, house dinners, mixers that blurred into one another, like when dad parked rows of white trucks on our Hoover lot for fleet delivery. It was exhausting, but it was structured. And after what had happened with bham196, with the mirror, with the singlet, I needed structure.
Caroline was her usual whirlwind: planning, posting to the Gram, pulling me along to whatever brunch or function she decided mattered. But by Thursday night, for once, the calendar was empty. No mixers, no Caroline. Just me, my room, and the singlet folded flat in the bottom drawer under a stack of polos.
I lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, phone buzzing on the desk. I could scroll aimlessly, kill time, pretend I was normal. Or, I could take control of the thing that had been haunting me since I tore open that bubble mailer.
I stood, opened the drawer, and pulled it out. The crimson fabric caught the lamplight like it had on the first day. My chest tightened, but this time it wasn’t elation. It was something deeper.
The bathroom mirror was streaked, the kind of neglect every guy’s bathroom shared, but it reflected what I needed it to. I pulled the singlet on, adjusted the straps, and held my phone up at an angle: waist to shoulder, no face, just the swoosh, the cut, the way it clung to me. The flash caught in the mirror, highlighting the quarter zip and the deep crimson.
Snap.
I stared at the photo for a long second. It didn’t look like me. It looked like someone I wanted to be. Someone people idolized.
I opened Grindr. My thumb hovered, heart racing, then I swapped out the old Nike Pro pic for the new one. No caption, no context. Just the image. Then I set the phone down, chest pounding, and turned off the bathroom light.
Friday morning, the flood started before I was even out of bed.
“Damn.”
“Who’s the Bama bro in the singlet?”
“U on the team?”
“Sit on my face.”
The usual noise. A stream of thirsty messages from blank profiles and torso pics. I scrolled through them, my pulse quick but steady. Then one message from rtide8889 froze me.
Where did you get that? That’s Team Issue from like 2023.
The message just sat there on the screen like a hot potato.
I stared at it until my phone dimmed. Then I locked it, flipped it face-down on the desk, and walked away like it was a bomb I wasn’t trained to defuse.
What was I supposed to say? eBay, lol? Don’t worry, I’m just a fraud who ordered your laundry off some sketchy seller off Route 75? No answer sounded right, and silence was safer.
Still, my brain didn’t drop it.
Between my morning class, I kept checking the app. rtide8889 hadn’t blocked me. He hadn’t double-messaged. But his profile shifted in the stack. By the time I walked back to Mal M. Moore after lunch, he’d gone from “1 mile away” to “ 0.2 miles”
It was as if he were orbiting me, getting closer every time I opened the app.
I tapped into his profile again. Nothing but another faceless picture: a torso shot, lean, smooth, chest shaved, collarbones sharp in the overhead light, just muscle and absence.
I should’ve been relieved. No face, no name, plausible deniability if it ever got out. But instead, I felt a coil tighten in my gut. If he recognized the singlet was from another year, he had to be connected to the track team somehow. He wasn’t some random guy in Tuscaloosa. He was here, living the life of the gods.
By Friday afternoon, before the DKE pledge dinner, I gave up pretending I wasn’t obsessed. I pulled up the Alabama Track & Field roster on my laptop, scrolling through headshots of guys in crimson warm-ups, all variations of tight smiles and sunlit headshots against a gray backdrop.
Sprinters, throwers, jumpers. None of them fit the skintone or build from the torso pic. Too broad, too bulky, too much mass. I narrowed in on distance runners, the cross-country squad. Leaner, narrower shoulders, the kind of build that matched the photo.
My eyes snagged on a couple of names. A sophomore named Jordan and a junior named Cody. Both were listed under six feet, with the lean, narrow-shouldered builds of distance runners. In my mind, I superimposed the faceless torso from Grindr over their headshots. The wiry frame matched. It could be either of them.
I told myself I was going crazy, just killing time before putting on a blazer and grinning for DKE alumni again. But I couldn’t stop. My eyes kept scanning the roster photos, memorizing faces, names, details, as if I studied hard enough, the anonymous profile would click into place, the way it always does on some crime show.
The pledge dinner was everything I expected it to be: too-long speeches from alumni who hadn’t been relevant since the Bush II administration, lukewarm steak, and endless bourbon talk. I smiled when I had to, shook hands when it was required, and even laughed once or twice at the right cues.
But my mind wasn’t in that dining room. It was back in Riverside, back with the roster page minimized in my browser, back with the one-line Grindr chat that felt like it was burning a hole in my phone.
When it finally ended, we were dismissed with a chorus of DKE cheers that I was already starting to get tired of. I slipped out fast, blazer draped over my shoulder. The night was thick and sticky, the kind of air that clung to your skin, but all I cared about was getting upstairs to my room.
The singlet was still tucked under my polos in the drawer. I didn’t take it out. Just knowing it was there was enough to push me toward the desk, phone in hand.
I opened Grindr. His profile was still there. rtide8889. No new messages, no pressure. Just waiting.
I sat with my thumbs hovering for too long. My heart rate spiked like I was about to send something devastating to Caroline, like I was about to break some unspoken rule that had been carved into me since birth.
Finally, I typed. Got it online.
I almost hit send, but it looked pathetic. Defensive. Wrong. I deleted it.
Typed again.
Yeah, it’s Bama team issue. Why?
That felt better. Not an explanation. Not a confession. Just a challenge.
My finger pressed send before I could think twice. The bubble slid up on the screen, my words locked in.
I threw the phone face down on the desk, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the ceiling.
Minutes dragged. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
Then the buzz rattled against the wood.
I flipped it over.
rtide8889: Because I’ve seen it before, some of the Seniors still wear it to practice. You don’t look like one of them, though.
My chest went hot, a distinct mix of fear and excitement.
It was real. He was real. Someone on that roster.
And he knew I wasn’t.
The next reply came fast.
rtide8889: Brave or stupid, not sure which. Did you get it just to play dress-up, or do you actually wear it on the field?
My stomach flipped. My thumb hovered, then I typed, deleted, and retyped.
Wore it. Once.
Three dots flickered.
rtide8889: Once? That’s nothing. Let’s see it on you for real. Or better yet, see if you fit into mine.
Sweat pooled at my back, and I felt something rise in my pants. This was an offer I knew I couldn’t refuse, but it meant we’d be taking this anonymous conversation to face-to-face, and I didn’t want a repeat of bham196
You mean in person?
A pause.
rtide8889: Yeah. Otherwise, why are you on here?
When?
rtide8889: How about now?
The three dots pulsed. A final, silent ultimatum. My heart wasn’t just hammering; it was trying to beat its way out of my chest. Tonight. He wanted to meet tonight.
My thumbs felt numb and clumsy on the screen. Tonight?
The reply was instantaneous.
rtide8889: Yeah. Or we forget it. See if you’re really serious. No leaving me on read like earlier.
The call-out was a splash of cold water. He’d noticed my silence, my panic. This was it. The point of no return. I looked around my dorm room, at the DKE blazer thrown over the chair, the textbook spines lined up neatly. A life I was supposed to be living.
Then I moved.
I yanked open the bottom drawer, shoved the polos aside, and pulled out the singlet. The crimson fabric was cool in my hands. I didn’t pause to look in the mirror this time. I stepped into it, pulling the straps up over my shoulders in one frantic motion. The familiar, tight embrace settled over my skin, a secret uniform.
Over it, I pulled on a pair of khaki shorts, then to cover the top, a crimson windbreaker, yanking the zipper up to my neck. The jacket was thin, but it hid the straps, hid the crimson. To anyone passing me on the quad, I’d just be a frat boy on his way to the strip while the party was still on.
I typed back, my breath shallow.
Booster lot by Bryant-Denny. 20 minutes
I didn’t wait for a reply. I grabbed my keys, the Denali fob solid and reassuring in my palm, and slipped out of my room. The hallway was empty, the dorm quiet. My sneakers were silent on the tile stairs.
The night air was still thick and warm, but it felt different now. Charged. Every shadow felt like it had eyes. I kept my head down, hands shoved in my pockets, walking fast. The singlet clung to me underneath it all, a secret that felt louder with every step. I could feel the slight ridge of the collar on my chest.
The walk to the booster lot was a blur of brick buildings and sprawling oak trees. The massive stadium loomed ahead, its lights off, a sleeping giant. My usual parking space felt exposed under the yellow glow of a lone streetlamp. I stopped a good fifty feet from the Denali, leaning against the rough bark of an oak tree at the edge of the lot. I could see the SUV, my escape route if I needed one. But I wasn’t getting into it. Not yet.
I pulled out my phone. No new messages. The clock showed 19 minutes had passed.
A figure emerged from the path that led from the direction of Bryant Hall. He was alone, moving with an athlete’s easy gait, a black backpack slung over one shoulder. The promise of what was inside made my stomach flutter. A crimson Nike duffle would have been too obvious, too loud. This was discreet. His blonde hair was parted neatly in the middle, falling just above his eyebrows, and even in the dim light, I could see the faint, red traces of acne across his temples and cheeks. He was shorter than I’d imagined from his torso pic, maybe 5'8", with a slim, compact frame that looked both wiry and strong.
I knew who it was now: Jordan Pearson.
Jordan stopped about ten feet away. We stood there for a moment, two silhouettes in the vast, empty lot, the stadium our only witness.
He pushed his hood back, his eyes, a light, assessing blue, scanning me from head to toe. He looked from my face down to my hidden chest and back up, like there was something to my face that he couldn’t quite place.
“So you’re the guy pretending to be an athlete,” Jordan said, his voice low and even. No greeting. No small talk. He adjusted the strap of the backpack, a gesture that seemed to say it’s in here. He took a step closer. “Let’s see it.”
The demand hung in the air. My mouth went dry. This was the moment. I fumbled for the zipper on my jacket, my fingers suddenly useless. I managed to pull it down a few inches.
Jordan closed the distance between us in two quick strides. “Here,” he said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. He reached out, not waiting, and took the zipper pull from my nervous fingers. He tugged it down in one smooth, swift motion, the sound harsh in the quiet night.
The jacket fell open. The crimson singlet was exposed, stark against my pale skin.
Jordan’s eyes dropped, raking over the fabric, over the way it clung to my torso. His smirk widened into something more appreciative, more dangerous.
“Yeah,” he breathed out, his gaze lingering. “It looks better in person. Now, you probably looked up who I am. So to even that playing field, you'd better show me your ACT Card before you get a chance to put what I have in the bag on.
The request felt even more invasive than his hands on my zipper. My ACT Card. My identity, my face, my official status as a student. It was the digital key to my entire life on campus, and he wanted me to hand it over.
He knew exactly what he was asking for. This wasn’t just about seeing my face; it was about claiming leverage.
My throat tightened. I could refuse. I could turn around, get in the Denali, and drive away. This would be over.
But I’d also be alone, back in my room with a drawer full of fantasies that had curdled into shame. He was holding the backpack, offering a chance to make one of those fantasies real.
Slowly, I pulled my phone from my pocket. The screen lit up my face in the dark. My thumb found the ACT Card in my digital wallet, and I tapped it open. The digital card appeared: my slightly awkward freshman photo, my name in bold type: Wyatt Briggs, and the University of Alabama seal. I held the screen out to him.
Jordan took the phone, his fingers brushing against mine. He studied the screen, his eyes flicking from the photo to my face and back, confirming the match. His expression was indecipherable.
“Wyatt Briggs, $1500 Bama Cash. Rich parents, huh?” he said, more to himself than to me. He handed the phone back. “Alright, Wyatt Briggs. Now we’re even.”
He hitched the backpack higher on his shoulder. “C’mon. Not here.”
Jordan turned and started walking, not toward the stadium tunnels, but across the street toward the North ten Hoor Parking Deck. I followed, my heart thumping, putting a few feet of distance between us. We must have looked like two strangers who just happened to be walking the same way.
He led me into the concrete cavern of the garage. The air was cooler, smelling of oil and dust. Our footsteps echoed too loudly. He didn’t stop on the first level or the second, but took the ramps up, higher and higher, until we reached the top floor. It was nearly empty, just a few scattered cars, the city and campus lights spreading out below us.
In the corner, a concrete staircase led back down.
“Here,” Jordan said, his voice bouncing off the bare walls. He unzipped his backpack and pulled out a crumpled ball of crimson fabric. He tossed it to me. “Change into this one. In there.” He nodded to the shadowy staircase
I caught the singlet against my chest. The material was soft, worn-in. It carried the sharp, clean scent of sportswear detergent mixed with something else, something musky and uniquely him. This was his.
I opened the door and peered over the railing. The landing was dim; a low brick wall opened to the empty street below. It felt like a stage. I could hear Jordan leaning against the wall outside, waiting.
My fingers struggled with the zipper on my jacket, then I pulled it and my own singlet off. The cool, stagnant air hit my bare skin. I unfolded his singlet. The fabric felt different, thinner, more pliable, molded by his body. I stepped into it, working the straps up my arms. It settled onto my shoulders, the fit snugger than my own, the armholes cutting higher. It felt… authentic.
I put my jacket back on, took a deep breath, the faint scent of his sweat filling my lungs, and walked back to the parking deck.
Jordan pushed off the wall. He walked toward me, his eyes doing another slow, thorough scan. This time, his appraisal was different. More intense.
“Turn around,” he said, his voice quiet in the echoing space.
I obeyed, turning my back to him, facing the concrete wall. I felt incredibly vulnerable, standing there in nothing but his singlet and my thin windbreaker
I felt his fingertips brush against the small of my back, right where the singlet met the waistband of my underwear. I flinched at the touch.
“It fits,” he muttered, his voice close to my ear now. “Better than I thought. You look a bit like me in Freshman year.”
He stepped back, taking my shorts and my own singlet and stuffing them into his backpack. The move felt possessive, like he was claiming collateral. “Okay. Now we can go.”
“Where?” I asked, turning to face him, my voice a curious whisper.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face for the first time. It transformed him, making him look younger, less severe.
“The track stadium. There are washrooms under the bleachers; they never bother locking them.” He hitched the bag back onto his shoulder. “Unless you’re not serious.”
He started walking back toward the ramp. He didn’t look back to see if I was following.
I stood there for a second, frozen by the staircase, wearing a track star’s singlet with only a jacket over it on the top floor of a parking garage. Then I followed him back down into the ramps toward the track stadium.
The walk back down through the ramps felt endless, my sneakers slapping the concrete, each echo bouncing back at me like it was broadcasting what I was wearing underneath. Jordan didn’t utter a word. I trusted him now. He carried himself like someone who already knew how this night would end.
We slipped out onto the street. The Strip wasn’t far, and the noise carried: music from bars, shouts from frat houses, the kind of chaos that swallowed a campus whole on a Friday night. Couples crossed the sidewalks in sundresses and polos. Groups of drunk guys roared with laughter. And me? I was threading through it all in a crimson singlet half hidden under a jacket, like my body was buzzing with a secret I hoped none of them would notice.
At first they didn’t, but then:
“Yo, Bama track stars!” someone jeered as we passed a pack of guys outside Sigma Nu. I stiffened, my stomach flipping. One of them whistled, another laughed, and I wanted to vanish.
Jordan didn’t break stride. “Ignore it,” he muttered, eyes forward.
But the heat crawled up my neck. My jacket felt flimsy and thin, as if the straps were glowing neon through the fabric. I leaned toward him, my voice cracking low. “Can we…like…can we swap? Your hoodie for this.”
He stopped dead on the sidewalk, looking at me with something between amusement and calculation. Then he peeled the black hoodie off in one easy motion, his T-shirt clinging tight to his chest. “You sure you can handle the smell?” he asked, smirking, but he held it out anyway.
I unzipped the jacket with fumbling fingers, feeling every eye on me, though no one was looking. The night air kissed the crimson on my chest before I yanked the hoodie over my head. The fabric was warm, soft, and it smelled faintly of sweat and something sharper. SEC athlete scent. I pulled the hood low, tugging it down until my face was half-hidden in shadow.
“Better?” he asked, slipping into my windbreaker without even glancing down.
“Yeah,” I muttered.
We kept moving, weaving past couples, down quieter streets, until the crowds thinned and the campus lights gave way to dark stretches of trees and empty church lots. The stadium loomed behind us now. Ahead, the track behind Mal M. Moore, cut off by the faint glow of the railway line. Out here, the noise faded. The air smelled different: gravel, creosote, cut grass.
Jordan’s stride didn’t slow as we slipped along the side of the stadium, under the bleachers. Past a couple of unmarked doors, we finally reached one that was marked Men’s.
Jordan didn’t even hesitate. He stepped up, pressed his palm against the metal plate, and pushed. The heavy door gave way with a hollow groan.
Like he’d known all along it would.
He held it open just long enough to tilt his head toward me, eyes gleaming in the dim. “After you.”
The door creaked shut behind us, sealing out the city noise. The washroom was lit by a row of buzzing fluorescents, half of them dead, so the room was sliced between harsh white light and shadow. The smell hit me first: industrial cleaner failing to cover sweat, mildew, and something rawer baked into the tile.
Jordan dropped his backpack on the counter beneath the long mirror. He didn’t ask my permission. He just unzipped it and pulled out my singlet, the one I’d been hiding like contraband under polos all week.
He held it up by the straps, eyes cutting toward me with a glimmer that was equal parts dare and curiosity. Then, without breaking eye contact, he took off my windbreaker and his t-shirt before untying his Bama sweat pants and letting them fall to the floor to stand there just in his AE boxer briefs.
His body wasn’t bulky, no football mass, no weight-room inflation, but it was sharp and lean, every line of him shaped by miles on the pavement. He stepped into the singlet and tugged it over his torso, adjusting the straps until they hugged his shoulders the way they hugged mine, like it was something he did every day.
I didn’t utter a sound. I couldn’t.
My lips and tongue were paralyzed. My chest locked, but my hands moved anyhow. Almost without permission, they lifted, hovered, then settled lightly against him. The fabric was warm already, stretched tight over his skin. My fingertips traced the curve of his pecs through the crimson, the sharp line of his ribs, the dip of his waist.
Jordan didn’t flinch. He stood there, letting me map him, his eyes fixed on my face in the mirror behind us.
“You like seeing them on me,” he said, low and even. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
The mirror threw it back at me: Jordan in the bought singlet, me in the one he wore at meets. In that reflection, it almost looked like we’d swapped lives.
Jordan tugged at the hoodie. His eyes locked on me, hungry but steady.
“Take that off. Don’t cover what you came here for.”
I obeyed, pulling the hoodie off again and throwing it onto the counter with his bag. The bathroom light was harsh, buzzing overhead, but it didn’t matter. All I felt was the material hugging my chest, my thighs, my stomach, the way it molded me into someone I barely recognized.
Jordan leaned back against the counter, casual but coiled, his frame stretching my purchased singlet tight across his torso. The fabric didn’t sit on him the way his own had on me; it bunched a little at the seams, imperfect, but that only made the sight sharper, stranger.
I stepped closer. My fingers hovered just above the lines of his body, tracing without touching, mapping the seams over his abs, his ribs, the shallow dip of his hip bones. Then I gave in, letting my fingertips press against the stretched crimson, following the edge of the swoosh with slow, reverent strokes.
He didn’t stop me. He tilted his head slightly, watching me outline him like I was memorizing the design.
I leaned in, close enough that my breath fogged the synthetic material, and dragged my tongue along the fabric stretched across his chest. The taste was faint, some of me, but underneath, I imagined the hours of sweat, the heat of bodies, the grind of practice. My mouth worked its way down his chest and stomach, each flick of my tongue making the singlet cling tighter to him.
Jordan’s hand landed on the back of my neck, firm. “That’s it,” he sighed, voice dropping lower. “Get used to it. Mine on you. Yours on me.”
The words rattled inside me, intoxicating.
His grip on my neck tightened, not rough, but insistent, and he guided my head lower. I didn't resist. My knees hit the cold tile floor, the impact a dull shock. I was looking up at him now, at the crimson fabric stretched taut over his hips and thighs.
He kept one hand on my head, a steady pressure, while the other worked at the leg of the singlet. His fingers hooked into the elastic hem at his thigh. With a practiced, efficient motion, he rolled the slick fabric up his thigh, bunching the leg opening high on his hip, exposing the pale skin of his upper thigh and the dark inseam of his boxer briefs beneath. Then he did the same with the underwear, pushing the briefs aside.
He was already hard. He freed himself from the confines of the spandex and cotton, his length springing free over the bunched-up crimson fabric. The contrast was stark, almost obscene: the pristine team issue and his bare, urgent need.
He looked down at me, his eyes dark and commanding in the flickering fluorescent light.
“Suck,” he ordered, his voice a low rasp that brooked no argument. The hand on my head applied the slightest pressure, a silent reinforcement of the command.
There was no hesitation left in me. My mouth fell open, and I leaned forward, closing my lips around him. The taste was skin, salt, and the faint, clean scent of his shower gel. A guttural groan escaped his throat, and his hips gave a slight, involuntary thrust.
My world shrank to the feeling of him in my mouth, the smell of the singlet so close to my face, and the cold, unyielding tile beneath my knees. This was nothing like the rushed, awkward encounter with Bham196. This was deliberate. This was worship. And for the first time in my life, kneeling there in Jordan's singlet, I felt like I wasn't playing a part. I was the part.
I moved my head back and forth the best I could, a clumsy, unpracticed rhythm. It was my first time, every sensation new and overwhelming, the weight, the texture, the faint, musky taste. I was sure my inexperience was obvious, a dead giveaway. But Jordan didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t care. His breathing was already ragged, his focus turned inward.
Somehow, I took all of him. All cut 6.5 inches, until I felt the head of his dick nudge the back of my throat, triggering a gag reflex I had to fight to suppress. My eyes watered, but I didn’t pull away. The discomfort was part of it, a proof of submission I was strangely eager to give.
I could feel him getting close. His thighs tensed. His breathing hitched, turning into sharp, shallow gasps. The hand on the back of my head tightened its grip, not forcing, but guiding, holding me steady.
Then, just as a deep groan started to build in his chest, he pulled out. Suddenly, the cool air hit my wet lips.
I looked up, confused, my vision blurry with tears. Jordan’s eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched. He wrapped his own hand around the base of his shaft, gave himself two or three rough, quick strokes, and with a final, choked gasp, he came.
Hot streaks landed on my cheek, my chin, the collar of the meet-worn singlet I was wearing. His singlet. The fabric darkened instantly with the impact.
For a second, the only sound was his panting and the hum of the lights. He opened his eyes, looking down at me kneeling on the floor, marked and breathless. He just stayed silent. Jordan reached for a wad of paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, wiped himself clean, and then tossed the crumpled ball to me.
Jordan moved behind me after I got up and gave my face a quick wipe. I felt his hands, surprisingly gentle now, as they took the zipper on the meet-worn singlet and pulled it down. I helped him, hooking the straps between my thumbs and rolling the top of the garment down my body.
His eyes locked on mine, that same assessing look, but the smirk was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. He held my gaze as his right hand slid down my stomach, over the slick fabric of the singlet still stretched taut across my hips. His fingers hooked into the bottom of the zipper hole, and he tugged it down just enough to push my underwear aside and release my six-inch dick.
His hand was soft, but the touch was electric, jolting through my already overstimulated system. I gasped, my back leaning over the hard edge of the counter.
"Look at me, Wyatt," he said, his voice low but firm, cutting through the hum of the lights.
I forced my eyes open. He was watching me, studying every flicker of reaction on my face as his hand began to move. It wasn't like the frantic, selfish rush with bham196. Jordan was controlling and calculated. His grip was sure, his rhythm steady, almost practiced. He was an athlete, after all; he understood pacing, the build of tension, the precise moment to apply pressure.
A low groan escaped my lips, and I bit down on it, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh inside my cheek. The taste of copper bloomed in my mouth. My hands, useless at my sides, clenched into fists. The synthetic fabric of the singlet dug into my thighs. Every sense was heightened: the smell of his sweat and my own, the chill of the hard counter seeping through the material, the sound of our ragged breathing echoing off the tile walls.
He saw me starting to lose control, my hips beginning to buck involuntarily against his hand. He slowed his pace, drawing it out, a cruel and exquisite kind of torture. His other hand came up and gripped my jaw, not hard, but firmly, forcing me to maintain eye contact.
"Not yet," he whispered, his thumb stroking my cheekbone.
It was too much. The command, the touch, the entire surreal reality of the situation: a DKE legacy getting a handjob from an SEC athlete in the Bama track stadium bathroom while wearing his singlet, it all coalesced into a wave of sensation that broke over me. I came with a choked cry, my body shuddering, my vision blurring as I stared into his calm, blue eyes.
In that moment, the only sound was my panting and the drip of a leaky faucet. He released me, stepping back to grab more brown paper towels from the dispenser. He wiped his hand clean with a few efficient motions, then crumpled the paper and tossed it into the trash.
Jordan looked at me, still leaning against the sink, a wreck in half a singlet. That slow, transformative smile returned to his lips.
“Take it off,” he said. “You can have yours back, so long as you never tell anyone about this.”
A cold clarity washed over me. The thrill was already fading, leaving behind the stark reality of the leverage he now held. My name. My face. My secret. He owned a piece of all of it.
All I could do was nod.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
