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After fucking me senseless the other night, I pointed out that he shouldn't leave until we knew that everyone in the dorm had gone to bed. If anyone caught him leaving, especially after the sounds that had come from my room in the silence that followed the music being shut off, we'd be fucked. And not in the good way that I'd just been fucked.
And holy shit, what a fuck it had been.
I can now say, unequivocally, that I'm probably gay.
It's never been something I've questioned or considered, and I'm pretty sure I'm attracted to women in general, but I have never had my world rocked like that before.
It hurt, at first. A burning stretch that was both delicious and excruciating, but then once my body relaxed around him, I relished in the fullness and the way his cock was hitting against that crazy pleasure spot inside of me. I think I might have lost consciousness. Wave after wave of nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure rocked through my body, with each thrust of Bryant Nicks' long, thick cock. As I came down from the stars, the pulsing of his cock, shooting his hot cum inside my ass, was heady enough to make me keep orgasming until I was nothing but a trembling mass.
I fell asleep with him wrapped around my back, overthinking what the heavy, satiated feeling in my chest might mean.
He didn't kiss me when he left, and I felt like a fucking pussy for being disappointed by it. He only slipped out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and looked back at me with a terrifying expression, like he regretted every second. It hurt, and that pissed me off. I moped around for the first two days of not hearing from him, acting like a fucking girl that got jilted by a bad date.
After a couple more days, I've finally come to my senses again. This is nothing more than sex, and that's all I ever wanted it to be about. I was just exhausted, still sick. Now I've mostly recovered from my flu and the soreness from the hit I took—all the hits I took—has worn off. I'd be lying if I didn't admit to myself that I wouldn't mind my ass being sore again. There's something about sitting gingerly that sends a little jolt of pleasure through me, like a reminder of how fucking good it felt.
"Perry! Welcome back!"
A few of the guys hold out their hands for high fives and fist bumps as I walk through the locker room. There's no game today, but we're scrimmaging to work out some new plays. I haven't been in to work out or practice all week while I was recovering. I'm technically not supposed to come back until cleared by Coach Nicks, but he's not answering my calls or texts and I'm tired of waiting by the phone like a teenage girl waiting for an invitation to prom.
He sucked my dick and fucked me against my dorm room door—I don't think there's too much he can say or do to me that could prevent me from doing whatever the fuck I want at this point.
Coach Sanders comes in and gives us a five-minute warning to get our asses out on the field to start warm-ups. When we get out there, I don't see Nicks anywhere. Throughout the whole practice, I'm running about a beat behind. No one says anything, because I still don't miss a pass, and my slowness can easily be blamed on my illness and injury. Mostly, I'm just distracted. Where is he?
When Coach Sanders finally calls for us to hit the showers, I decide to just ask.
"He's been out most of the week," he explains. "Has the flu, apparently."
My cheeks heat, and I'm thankful for the helmet covering most of my face.
"You looked good out there, Perry. Does this mean we'll have you back for next week's game?"
"Yes, sir."
He nods approvingly and makes some small talk about gaps in the opposing team's defensive line on the way back to the locker room.
I stay late, deciding to spend some time in the gym before I head out. Even after only being out a week, I feel like a limp noodle, but I suppose that could be from the flu and not just the forced break. I'm feeling much better, but I know it'll take me more than a week to be back to my old self. I mix a packet of the Vitamin C powder that Coach left in my bag into my water and start towards the cafeteria. The soup tastes nothing like what he made for me. It's overly salty and has a distinct canned taste, but I still fill a to-go bowl full of it, and another with crisp veggies from the salad bar.
After knocking three times, I figure he's ignoring me. I try texting, and calling, and video calling. Finally, I make a last-ditch attempt with a text.
JP: Open the door or I'll make sure the neighbors know I'm here.
To prove a point, I beat on the door and yell, "Hey Coach, you in there!?" just loud enough to make sure he knows I'm serious, but not loud enough to wake the neighborhood.
He opens the door and glares at me. His nose is red, and his usually close-cropped hair is disheveled. He was clearly in bed. I should feel bad about that, but I don't.
"What are you doing here, Jack?"
I hold up my offerings. "I heard you were sick. You look like shit, by the way. And this cafeteria soup tastes like shit, but I put some hot sauce in it, which helped a little. And I got you some salad to wash it down." I'm rambling as I push myself past him and into his house, heading towards the kitchen to make him a bowl of crappy soup.
"What are you doing here?" he repeats, and he even sounds tired.
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick? I thought you were just ignoring me." I cringe as the words come out of my mouth. I sound exactly like a needy girlfriend. "You took care of me. I owe you," I say, trying to cover.
He watches me with a bored expression. "I can take care of myself."
"So could I, but that didn't stop you. Just returning the favor."
"Okay, well. Thanks. Bye."
