The alarm went off at six-thirty and I was already awake.

I'd been awake since about five, if I was being honest, lying on my back in the gray almost-dark with my cock tenting my boxers and my heart doing something weird and fluttery every time I remembered what day it was. I'd maybe slept three hours total. The rest of the night I'd spent drifting in and out of half-dreams where a red pickup pulled up and nobody got out, or where I showed up and Dell took one look at me and drove away laughing, and one where he did get out, and he had the truck running with the door open, and he just pointed at the ground next to the driver's side and I got down on my knees on the cold gravel in front of everybody.

I woke up from that one with my hips pushing into the mattress.

I slapped the alarm off and lay there for a second, staring at the ceiling, at the water stain shaped like Ohio that I'd memorized in seven weeks of staring at it.

Saturday.

My balls throbbed like they'd heard me think it. Two days. Two full days without cumming, and my body had gone from aching to something closer to feverish. The denial had stopped being a thing I was doing and had turned into a thing that was happening to me. My balls sat heavy and hot between my legs, drawn up too high, sore in a way that radiated up into my groin and down into my thighs, and every single time I shifted my weight they reminded me. They felt swollen. They felt full, like two little overfilled water balloons that might split if you squeezed them.

When I sat up, my cock dragged against the cotton of my boxers and I had to grab the edge of the mattress and breathe through my nose until the sharp sweet pulse of it faded. There was a damp spot on the front of my shorts the size of a quarter. Bigger than yesterday. I'd been leaking in my sleep — actually leaking, my dick drooling onto itself all night like a faucet with a bad washer, and when I pushed the waistband down to look there was a crusted white ring around my slit and a fresh clear bead already welling up in it just from the air hitting me.

Two days. My body had decided that if it wasn't going to get to come, it was going to spend the whole time making precum instead, and it was doing a horrifyingly good job.

I opened my bottom desk drawer, dug past my Magic binders — past the Lorwyn deck I'd sleeved two weeks ago and never played — and pulled out the Walmart bag. The little red bulb sat in its plastic clamshell looking completely innocent, like a turkey baster's little brother. I pried it open with my thumbnails, wincing at how loud the plastic crackled in the silent room, and slid the bulb into the pocket of my hoodie along with the small bottle of Astroglide I'd bought at the campus store and stashed away the week before out of pure optimism.

Then I grabbed my shower caddy and my towel and stepped out into the hall.

Bergstrom Hall was dead on a Saturday morning. The hallway lights hummed. Somebody's door had a whiteboard that said KEGGER @ SIG EP?!?! in green marker with three different people's handwriting arguing underneath it. The only sound was a muffled snore from down the hall and the hiss of the radiator by the stairwell, and behind one door, faint, the wet rhythmic slap of somebody's headboard already going at it at six-forty in the morning, the lucky bastard.

The bathroom was empty. Four shower stalls in one room to the right, four toilet stalls and urinals in a room to the left, a row of sinks under a long mirror in the middle that was flecked with dried toothpaste. It smelled like Axe body spray and bleach. I'd been in here a hundred times, but this morning it felt like walking into a crime scene I was about to commit.

I took the far stall, the handicapped one with the extra room and the grab bar, and locked it. Then I unlocked it and locked it again just to make sure.

First step. I sat down on the toilet and did what Dell said, which took longer than usual because I was so nervous my whole body felt clenched. When I was done, I flushed and stepped back out to the sinks, my boxers still on, my hoodie zipped up to my chin like that would protect me if someone walked in.

I ran the hot tap until it steamed, then mixed in cold until it felt right on the inside of my wrist. Baby bottle warm. I'd never tested a baby bottle in my life but I figured it was close. I squeezed the bulb, held the nozzle under the stream, and let it go, watching it suck the water up with a little gurgle. My hands were shaking enough that I splashed some down the front of my hoodie.

Back in the stall. Lock. Check the lock.

I pulled my boxers down and kicked them off and stood there in nothing but a hoodie and shower sandals, my cock bobbing hard in front of me, ridiculous, slapping wet against my stomach every time I moved. I uncapped the Astroglide, slicked the tip of the nozzle, and then, because it seemed like the right thing to do, slicked a finger and rubbed it over my hole.

"Hhhn," I breathed, and bit my lip.

Even that. Even just my own finger, circling. Two days of waiting and my hole was so sensitive it fluttered against my fingertip like it was trying to pull it in, and my cock jumped and let a long thin string of precum fall all the way to the tile between my feet.

I braced one hand on the grab bar, spread my feet, and reached back with the bulb. The nozzle was thin and smooth and slid in without much trouble, and I let out a long shaky breath through my teeth. Then I squeezed.

Warm water flooded into me, strange and full, a slow spreading pressure deep in my gut. I gasped. It didn't hurt. It was just weird, this heavy liquid warmth inside me, pushing in where nothing had pushed in two days, and my cock reacted to it like it was a real thing happening to me — a hard, useless lurch, another rope of precum sagging off the head.

And then, because I was already full of warm water and already holding the grab bar and already had a finger's worth of lube on my hole, I did something stupid. I put two fingers in.

"Ohhh," I said out loud, to the empty room. "Oh, fuck. Oh no."

Two days of nothing and my hole just swallowed them, opened up around them easy as you like, and the water sloshed when I pushed in to the second knuckle. My knees went soft. My cock was jerking like it had its own pulse and I could feel the pressure already, that tight full ache right at the base, the one that says thirty seconds, buddy, thirty seconds and you can have it.

I had to physically pull my fingers out and stand there with both hands in the air, panting, counting in my head, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, my forehead pressed to the cold steel partition, while my cock bounced and dribbled and begged.

At thirty I sat down on the toilet and let go.

It was gross. I'm not going to pretend it wasn't. But it was also just a thing that had to get done, the way Dell had laid it out, step by step. Like titrating a solution. You keep going until it runs clear.

The second time was easier. The third time, I heard the bathroom door swing open and every muscle in my body locked up.

Shower sandals slapped across the tile. A faucet came on. Somebody hocked and spat into a sink. I sat frozen on the toilet with a belly full of warm water and the bulb clutched in my fist like a grenade, absolutely certain that whoever was out there could somehow see through the stall door and know exactly what I was doing. My face burned so hot I could feel my pulse in my cheeks. My cock was still hard, of course it was still hard, standing up out of my lap at full mast, and it had gone that deep angry red at the head, and the water was pressing inside me, and I was clenching everything to keep from letting go while a stranger was four feet away.

The faucet turned off. The sandals slapped back out. The door creaked shut.

I let out a breath so long and shaky it was almost a whimper, then finally let go of the water.

Fourth time. Fifth time. On the fifth one, the water came out clear, and I sat there staring down between my thighs at the toilet bowl feeling a stupid, ridiculous surge of pride, like I'd just aced a practical.

I did one more anyway, just to be sure. Dell had said don't rush it.

Then I showered, scrubbing everything twice, letting the hot water pour down my back while my cock stood straight up and throbbed against my stomach. I didn't touch it. I washed around it, gritting my teeth, soaping my balls with the side of my hand like they were made of glass, feeling how heavy they were, how they slid against each other under the soap, how tight they were pulled up. I ran a soapy finger over my hole one more time — soft now, almost puffy from the bulb, so sensitive I jerked and banged my elbow on the tile.

"Fuck," I hissed. "Fuck, fuck."

I turned the water to cold for the last thirty seconds just so I could walk back to my room without a boner pointing the way.

By nine-thirty I was dressed and I'd already checked the clock on my laptop roughly two hundred times.

Jeans, my gray Nike hoodie, a plain white t-shirt underneath, boxers, white socks, my beat-up Adidas. I'd stood in front of the closet mirror and changed my shirt three times, which was insane, because Dell had already seen me naked from the back and I was pretty sure he didn't care what shirt I wore. I'd put on deodorant twice. I'd brushed my teeth so hard I was scared my gums might bleed a little.

Half an hour after the last rinse, like he said, so I wouldn't leak on his seat. I'd waited forty-five minutes just to be safe, sitting on the edge of my bed with a towel under me and my knees jittering, and every four or five minutes I'd put my palm flat over the front of my jeans and just hold my cock through the denim and press, and it would jump under my hand like a dog that heard its name.

It was still so hard it hurt. It had ached its way past hard into something else, something with weight, and the head was so swollen that the fly of my jeans pressed on it when I stood, and I'd had to tuck it up under the waistband of my boxers so it wasn't grinding against the zipper, and now it just sat there against my lower belly, hot and trapped and leaking, and I could feel a wet spot forming.

I shouldered my backpack, empty except for a chem textbook like a good luck charm to look as nondescript as possible, and slipped out into the hall. I took the back stairs instead of the front because I couldn't stand the idea of running into someone who might ask where I was going.

Outside, the November air hit me like a slap. It was gray and cold, maybe thirty-five degrees, the sky low and flat like dirty cotton. The trees along the quad were bare and the grass had gone that dead brown color it got right before the first real snow. I zipped my hoodie up to my chin, shoved my hands in the pocket, and waited.

There were people out. Not a lot, but enough. A girl in a pink North Face jogging along the path with her ponytail bouncing. Two guys in hockey jackets carrying Kwik Trip coffees, laughing about something. A groundskeeper in a county orange vest raking leaves into a pile by the bike rack.

Every single one of them looked at me.

Okay. They didn't. Not really. The jogger didn't even glance my way, and the hockey guys walked right past. The groundskeeper nodded at me the way old Wisconsin guys nod at everybody.

But it felt like they did. It felt like I had a sign hanging around my neck in thick black Sharpie. VIRGIN. CLEANED OUT. TWO DAYS FULL. GOING TO GET FUCKED BY A STRANGER. I felt it in the way my ass clenched when I walked, the bulb-softened hole fluttering under my jeans every time my thighs shifted, and I felt it in my cock, which had started to plump up even harder from the walking, the friction of my boxers. I was positive the hockey guys could see it. I was positive the groundskeeper knew, that he'd done this himself in 1974 and could recognize the walk.

The lot in front of the dorm was nearly empty. A couple staff cars, a Ford Taurus with a COEXIST bumper sticker, and a rusty Buick. I picked a spot near the back by the dumpsters, where the brick wall blocked the wind, and stood there with my backpack on one shoulder and my hands jammed in my hoodie pocket.

Nine fifty-two.

My knee started bouncing. Then my whole leg. I pulled out my Razr and flipped it open to check the time, flipped it shut, flipped it open again.

Nine fifty-six.

What if he didn't come? What if this whole thing had been some guy jerking off to the idea of a dumb college virgin and he was sitting at home right now laughing about it? What if he did come and he took one look at me in person and decided I wasn't worth it? What if he was some kind of serial killer and I ended up as a segment on Dateline with my mom crying into a Kleenex saying he was such a smart boy, he was a chemistry major?

What if he came and I couldn't do it? What if I got down on my knees and gagged and cried and he got annoyed and told me to get dressed and drove me back?

What if he came and I came in about nine seconds, before he even got his dick out, just from him touching me?

Ten-oh-one.

I heard it before I saw it. A deep, rattly engine rumble coming from the road behind the lot, the kind of sound my uncle's old Silverado used to make, a muffler that probably should've been replaced three winters ago. Then it turned in.

Red Chevy. Rust eating at the wheel wells. Gun rack in the back window, empty except for a coiled orange extension cord. It rolled slow across the lot, gravel crunching, and pulled up right in front of me.

The window was down despite the cold. And there he was.

He was bigger than his pictures. That was my first thought. Not wider, just more, filling up the whole driver's side of the cab, his knees high, one long arm draped over the top of the steering wheel. He was wearing the same faded tan Carhartt jacket over a red flannel, a stained Polaris ball cap pulled low, and a few more days of stubble than he'd had in the photo.

His eyes went over me from head to toe and back up. Slowly. Like he was checking a used truck for dents.

"Well," he said. His voice was deep and flat and a little rough, heavy northern Wisconsin, every vowel dragged out. "You're a big fuckin' boy, huh?"

"Hi," I said. It came out cracked. I cleared my throat. "Hi. Dell."

"Get in."

I walked around the front of the truck with my legs feeling like they belonged to someone else. The passenger door groaned when I opened it. Inside, the cab smelled like sawdust, motor oil, wintergreen Skoal, and something underneath all of it, warm and musky and male that hit me somewhere low in my stomach. There were fast-food receipts on the floor and a hard hat on the dash. I climbed in, set my backpack between my feet, and shut the door.

He didn't say anything. He just looked at me some more, his jaw working that chew. His eyes went to my crotch, and stopped there, and stayed.

"Jesus Christ," he said. "Look at that. You're tentin' out of your jeans like a fifteen-year-old."

"Sorry—"

"Don't be sorry. Show me."

I blinked at him.

"Your dick, boy. Get it out. Let me look at what's been cryin' for two days."

My face went hot, but my hands were already moving. I unbuttoned my jeans with my thumbs — it took two tries, they were shaking so bad — and dragged the zipper down, and reached into my boxers and pulled my cock out.

The cold air hit it and it jumped so hard it smacked my own wrist. The foreskin was already peeled back off the head, and the head was dark and shiny and slick, and my whole shaft was wet from root to tip with precum, just slick with it, like I'd already been at it.

Dell leaned over the console and looked down at it. Blew out a breath. Then he spat on his fingers and reached over and took hold of me.

I made a sound like I'd been punched.

He didn't stroke. He just held it, squeezed at the base, gave it one long slow pull up to the head and back down, and my foreskin slid and my whole body went with it. Then he let go and put his wet thumb right over my slit and pressed, hard, like he was plugging it.

"Oh god," I said.

"That's two days right there." He pressed harder. My hips lifted off the seat. "Feel that? Full to bustin'. Two days of nut backed up in them balls. You're gonna shoot a gallon before I'm done with you."

"Sir—"

"Don't you fuckin' come in my truck."

"I won't—"

He took his thumb away and my cock bobbed and dripped onto my jeans, a big fat drop that ran down my zipper. He wiped his hand on his own thigh and put the truck in gear.

Then he pulled out of the lot with my cock still hanging out of my jeans.

"Keep it out," he said. "And put your hand at the base. Not movin'. Just hold it. Wanna see it the whole way."

I wrapped my fist around the base of my cock, snug up against my balls, and held, and the whole truck ride the head bobbed and leaked in the cold air and every bump in the road was a small, specific kind of torture.

The apartment was in the bottom half of an old two-story house on the edge of town, past the Walmart and the grain elevator, on a street of sagging front porches and chain-link fences, where half the yards had a boat under a blue tarp and the other half had a dog barking behind a storm door. The house was white once. Now it was the color of old teeth, the paint peeling off the siding in long curls. Dell pulled into the gravel driveway alongside it, threw the truck in park, and killed the engine. The silence after that rattly muffler was so sudden my ears rang.

He looked over at me. At my fist around my cock, at the shine on it, at my knees pressed together.

"Don't tuck it in," he said. "C'mon."

He didn't wait for me. He climbed out, slammed his door, and walked around the side of the house toward a back entrance with a cracked concrete stoop. I scrambled after him with my backpack, my cock flopping out of my jeans, glancing over my shoulder at the neighbor's house, where a curtain in the upstairs window was very definitely not moving. Probably. I was pretty sure.

He dug a ring of keys out of his Carhartt that had to have thirty keys on it and found the right one without looking. The door stuck. He shouldered it open with a grunt and stood aside, holding it, and I realized he wanted me to go in first.

I stepped past him. My shoulder brushed his chest. He smelled like that cab, sawdust and sweat, and up close he was so tall I had to tip my head back a little to look at him, which never happened to me. Never. I was the tall one. I was always the tall one.

The door shut behind us. He turned the deadbolt. Clack.

The apartment was small and mostly empty. A kitchen with yellow linoleum curling up at the edges and an avocado-green fridge humming in the corner. A living room with a stained beige carpet, a busted recliner with duct tape on one arm, and dents in the carpet where a couch used to be. Through an open doorway I could see a bedroom with a bare mattress on a metal frame, a fitted sheet pulled over it that didn't quite reach one corner. The walls were that cheap fake wood paneling from the picture he'd sent me. The bathroom. That bathroom mirror. My stomach flipped.

It smelled like old cigarettes and Pine-Sol, and it was cold, the heat clearly turned down to nothing since his buddy moved out.

"Drop the bag," Dell said.

I let it slide off my shoulder onto the linoleum.

He walked past me into the living room and turned around, leaning back against the wall by the bedroom doorway, arms crossed over his chest. Pushed the Polaris cap up on his forehead with one knuckle. Looked at me. At my cock sticking out of my jeans, still wet, still leaking, still gripped in my fist.

"Let go of it. Hands at your sides."

I let go. My cock swayed and stayed up on its own, bouncing with my heartbeat.

"Time for you to strip."

I stood there. My hands hung at my sides.

"Here?" I said, which was the dumbest possible thing to say.

"You can do it out on the front porch for the neighbors if you want." His mouth twitched. "Yes, here. All of it. Now, boy. And do it slow. I wanna see the show, not a fuckin' fire drill."

My fingers found the zipper of my hoodie. They were shaking so bad it took two tries to get the tab. I pulled it down slow, the way he said, and shrugged it off and didn't know what to do with it, so I just held it for a second before dropping it on the floor by my backpack. Then the t-shirt, gathered up at the hem, and I dragged it up over my stomach and my chest and my head, slow, and the cold air hit my bare chest and my nipples went tight and hard instantly and ached. I heard him breathe out through his nose.

Shoes. I toed them off without untying them. Socks, hopping on one foot like an idiot, nearly losing my balance. He didn't laugh this time. He just watched.

Then my jeans. They were already open. I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pushed them down my thighs and stepped out of them, and stood there in nothing but my boxers, my cock still out over the waistband, sticking up straight, the pink head poking free of my foreskin and the cotton, a wet patch spreading where the shaft came through.

"Those too. Slow."

I hooked my thumbs in the waistband and pulled them down an inch. Then another. Then all the way, bending, letting them fall down my legs to my ankles, and when I stood up straight my cock sprang free and slapped my stomach with a soft wet thap, and a long clear string of precum stretched from the tip to my belly button and broke.

I stood up straight and let him look at me.

It was the most naked I'd ever been. I'd been naked in locker rooms a thousand times, in the dorm shower, at the doctor. This was nothing like that. He was fully dressed, jacket and flannel and boots and cap, leaning against the wall like he was waiting for a bus, and I was standing in front of him with every inch of me out, goosebumps rising along my arms, my cock throbbing and drooling in the cold, the copper bush around it looking almost orange under the bare overhead bulb. I wanted to cover myself. I wanted to cross my arms, cup my hands over my dick. I made myself keep them at my sides.

He let it go on a long time. Long enough that I started to shake.

"Look at you," he said, finally, quiet. "Big ol' corn-fed football boy, standin' in my livin' room with his dick out, shakin' like a leaf. You know what you look like?"

"No, sir."

"You look like a boy who's about to get his cherry popped and knows it." He pushed off the wall. "Turn around. Slow."

I turned. Faced the empty kitchen. Felt his eyes on my back, my shoulders, and then lower, landing right where I knew they would, on the shelf.

"Fuuuuck me," he said, low and slow. "Pictures don't do it fuckin' justice. Bend over."

I bent. I couldn't quite reach my ankles, I'd never been flexible, so I grabbed my calves instead, my forehead dropping toward my knees, the blood rushing into my face. My ass spread open with the stretch and the cold air touched my hole, my freshly-cleaned, bulb-softened hole, and I felt it clench on its own.

Behind me, he laughed. "Lookit that. Winkin' at me already. Little hole's got better manners than you do."

I heard his boots cross the carpet. Heard the creak of his knees as he crouched. Then two rough, calloused thumbs pressed into my cheeks and pulled them wide, and I whimpered, "ohhh," high and embarrassing, my whole body going rigid.

He didn't touch my hole. He just held me open and looked at it. I could feel his breath on it, warm. It went on forever.

"Pink as a fuckin' baby's ass," he muttered. "Smooth. Lil' bit of blond fuzz. Never been touched." He let go and slapped my right cheek, not hard, just enough to make it jiggle, and I jumped. Then he slapped it again, harder, and again, until my cheek was stinging and hot and my hole was fluttering open and shut in the cold. "Look at that. Lil' pink cunt's already tryin' to talk to me."

He stood. Then he crouched again and did something I wasn't ready for.

He put his mouth on it.

"Hnngh—!"

His tongue was flat and wet and hot and it dragged from my taint all the way up over my hole to my tailbone in one long, slow, rough stroke, and my knees buckled so hard I almost went over. He caught my hip with one hand and held me up and did it again. And again. Lapping at me like a dog at a water bowl, his stubble scraping my cheeks, his breath huffing hot against my wet skin, and then he pushed his tongue against my hole and in.

"Oh my god," I said, to the linoleum. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

He ate me. That's the only word for it. He ate my ass like it was a meal he'd been looking forward to all week, grunting into it, spit running down my crack and down the backs of my balls, working his tongue in circles and then stiff and then in and out in little jabs, and every single jab my hole tried to suck him deeper. My cock was hanging down under me and it was dripping so hard there was a puddle on the carpet and a thread from the tip of it, and I could feel the pressure building at the base of it, right at the root, and it was right there.

"Sir, sir, I'm gonna—"

He pulled his mouth off. "You're gonna what?"

"I'm gonna come."

"Then come." He put his mouth back and drove his tongue in and I came.

I came bent over, hanging onto my own calves, with my cock untouched, and it shot out of me so hard it hit the carpet and then my own shin, rope after rope of it, and I heard myself yelling into the floor, "Ahh—ahh—fuck!" and my hole was milking his tongue and he wouldn't stop, he just kept going, lapping it out of me until my knees were knocking and my whole lower body was twitching.

When he finally came up off me I was sobbing.

He wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist. "Two days my ass. You just cost me the bet I had with myself, I figured you'd last four seconds and you lasted five." He straightened up and pulled me back to standing by my hip. "Turn around."

I turned, dizzy, swaying, my cock still jumping with aftershocks, my face wet.

He was standing right in front of me now, close enough that his jacket brushed my chest. He reached up and put his hand on my shoulder, then pushed down.

"Knees."

I went down. The carpet was scratchy and thin and I could feel the hard floor right through it. My face was level with his belt buckle, a dented brass thing shaped like a deer head. His jeans were old and faded, white at the knees, a smear of something gray, maybe drywall mud, across one thigh. And right there, an inch from my nose, a big hard shape was pushing out the denim, running down along his left leg.

He didn't take off his jacket. He didn't undo his belt. He just reached down with one hand, pulled his zipper down, and dug inside with his fingers.

And pulled it out.

I'd looked at that picture for a week. I'd come to it more times than I could count. It had not prepared me for this.

It was right there in front of my face, thick and heavy and already mostly hard, pushing out through the open V of his fly. The rest of him was all clothes, denim and flannel and canvas, and this one part of him was naked and hanging there just for me. A little of his brown bush curled out around the root. The shaft was dark, darker than the rest of him, wrapped in veins, and the cut head was fat and purple-flushed, smooth and shiny, with a big clear drop of precum already beading at the slit. I could smell it. Sweat and musk and something salty, the smell of a man who'd worked hard all week and hadn't bothered with much more than a quick shower.

It twitched. Rose another inch while I stared, filling out, getting thicker.

"Ever sucked one?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Figured. Open up."

I opened my mouth. He took his cock in his fist and tapped the head against my bottom lip, once, twice, leaving it wet. Then against my tongue. The taste hit me, salty and bitter and so strong I felt it in my sinuses, and I moaned before I could stop myself. "Mmmh."

"Yeah. Like the taste of cock, huh. Wrap your lips around the head. Watch your teeth. You scrape me, I'm gonna smack you."

I closed my lips around it. The head was so fat my jaw was already stretched, and it was hot, hotter than I expected, and smooth like warm silk against my tongue. I didn't know what to do. I just sort of held it there in my mouth and sucked, the way you'd suck on a popsicle.

"Use your tongue. Swirl it around under the head. There. Yeah. That spot right there, underneath." He groaned, deep, when I found it, a little ridge where the head met the shaft, and I felt a surge of something hot and proud in my chest. I did it again. He groaned again. "Good. Fuck. Now go down on it. Slow. Lips over your teeth."

I pushed forward. Another inch slid over my tongue, then another, filling my mouth until the head bumped the back of my throat and I gagged, a loud wet ghk, and pulled off coughing, spit hanging from my chin.

He laughed, but it wasn't mean. "Easy. Ain't nobody takes it all the first time. Breathe through your nose. Go back down. Find where it stops and work it up to there."

I went back down. He was patient, I'll give him that, in his own way. He stood there with his hands on his hips and let me figure it out, slow and sloppy. He told me when I was doing something right with a grunt or a "yeah, like that." He told me when I was doing something wrong with a flick on the side of my head with his fingers. "Teeth." "Don't stop moving your tongue." "Use your hand on what you can't fit, jack it while you suck." I wrapped my fist around the base and it was like grabbing a can of pop, my fingers barely meeting around it, and when I stroked up to meet my lips and back down he let out a long rough breath and said, "Ohhh fuck yeah. Quick learner."

I lost track of time. My knees got sore and my jaw ached and spit ran down my chin and dripped onto my chest. My cock was hard and bobbing between my thighs again already, completely untouched, and every time I took him a little deeper it jerked and leaked onto the carpet. I could take maybe half now before the gag hit. I'd learned to go slow, to breathe through my nose, to relax my throat a little when it came. The sounds coming out of me were obscene. Wet slurping, glk glk glk, little moaning hums that I couldn't help and didn't care about anymore.

His hand landed on the back of my head. Not pushing, just resting there, his fingers sliding into my hair. Somehow that was worse. Or better. It felt like he owned the back of my skull.

Then he started to push.

Not much. Just a little steady pressure, and the head slid back to the spot where the gag was and stayed there, and my throat did that bucking thing and my eyes flooded, and he held it, counting under his breath, "one, two, three—" and let up just as I was about to lose it.

"Again," he said.

He did it again. And again. Every time a little longer, a little deeper, until there was a whole inch of me that was just a warm wet sleeve for him and my nose was buried in the hair at his root and I could smell nothing but him, and the gag was still there but it was further back, further down, and I was drooling so much it was running off my chin in a rope.

"Look up at me."

I looked up, mouth stuffed full of his cock, eyes streaming, tears cutting down my cheeks.

He was looking down at me with his jaw tight and his brown eyes gone dark and heavy, his cap pushed back, his cheeks a little flushed above the stubble.

"Look at you," he said quietly. "Big ol' football player on his knees with a mouthful of dick. Born for it."

I moaned around him so hard it vibrated.

"Say it when I pull you off. Say what you are."

He pulled me off by my hair. His cock came out of my mouth with a loud wet pop and slapped up against his stomach, against the flannel, leaving a dark wet spot on the fabric. It was all the way hard now. Eight inches, standing up out of his open fly, shiny with my spit from root to tip. I'd done that. I stared at it, panting, spit swinging off my chin.

"What are you?"

"A cocksucker," I said. My voice was wrecked and I didn't care. "I'm a cocksucker, sir."

"Yeah you are. First dick you ever had in your mouth and you're already droolin' for it." He rubbed the head across my lips, smearing me in my own spit. "Open." He pushed back in. "Now suck it like you're thankin' me for the privilege."

I sucked it like I was thanking him for the privilege.

He walked past me into the bedroom a few minutes later, pulling his cock out of my mouth as he went. I knelt there, swaying, not sure if I was supposed to follow.

"Get in here."

I scrambled up off my knees, my legs stiff, and followed him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the metal frame groaning under him, his boots planted wide on the floor, his cock sticking straight up out of his jeans. He tossed his jacket off as he sat down. Still wearing his cap. He pointed at the floor between his knees.

I knelt again. He leaned back on one elbow.

"Keep suckin'. On the bed, though. Get up here on your knees beside me, face down on my dick, ass up in the air. Point it at me."

It took me a second to figure out what he meant, and another second of fumbling to actually do it. I climbed onto the mattress, the sheet cold under my knees, and turned around so I was kneeling beside his hip facing his crotch, then bent forward and took him back into my mouth. That left my ass up in the air beside his shoulder, pointed back toward the headboard, and I realized as soon as I settled into position exactly what he wanted. My face burned. My ass was right there, spread, right next to his hand.

"Good boy," he said. "Don't stop."

I didn't stop. I bobbed on his cock, slower now, getting used to the new angle. Then I heard the snick of a bottle cap, and something cold and slick dribbled down the crack of my ass and pooled right on my hole, and I gasped around his dick, "hhngh!"

"Easy." A finger, thick and rough, smeared the lube in a slow circle over my pucker. Callused. I could feel every rough ridge of his fingertip, so different from mine. "Keep suckin'."

I kept sucking. He kept circling. Around and around, pressing a little, then easing off, the slick cold lube warming up under his finger, and my hole started fluttering, clenching and unclenching against his fingertip like it was trying to grab him. I couldn't stop it. I didn't want to.

"Hungry little hole you got here," he murmured. "Greedy. Bet you been walkin' around all week with this thing twitchin' at nothin', ain't you. Bet you finger-fucked yourself stupid in that dorm shower and it wasn't worth a damn."

It hadn't been. It hadn't been worth a damn and he knew it and I moaned around his cock, "mmmmh," and pushed my ass back at his hand.

"Answer me."

"Yes, sir," I said, pulling off just enough to talk. "It wasn't worth anything."

"Course it wasn't. 'Cause it ain't your fingers this hole needs, is it."

"No, sir."

"It needs a man's." And he pushed.

One finger, all the way in, in one slow steady push. My whole body went tight. My mouth fell open around his cock and a long low moan dragged out of me, "ohhhhhhh," spit pouring down his shaft.

It wasn't like my own fingers. It was so much thicker, and longer, and it went deeper than I could ever reach, and it was his. A man's finger. Inside me. After all those nights. My eyes stung and I had to squeeze them shut.

"Breathe. Suck."

I sucked. He worked the finger in and out, slow, twisting it, curling it. Then he crooked it forward and pressed against something inside me and lights went off behind my eyes. I jerked, choked on his cock, and a fat drop of precum shot out of my dick and spattered on the sheet.

"Found it," he said, sounding pleased with himself. He did it again. I whined around him like a dog. "Nnnhhhhn."

He did it over and over, one finger, that one spot, until my hips were working back and forth on it and my mouth had gone stupid and sloppy, until he could have put anything in front of it and I'd have sucked it.

Then two fingers. That stretched. That burned a little, a hot sharp sting at the rim, and I tensed up, my hole clamping down hard on him.

"Push out," he said. "Like you're tryin' to shit. Opens you up."

I pushed out, and it did, the burn easing into this deep, full ache. He scissored his fingers, slow, spreading them inside me, and I could feel my hole stretching around them, opening up. He added more lube, a cold drizzle, and pumped his fingers in and out with a wet squelchy sound that I could hear over my own slurping.

I'd stopped sucking properly. I was just sort of holding his cock in my mouth, drooling on it, moaning around it, my hips rocking back into his hand without my permission. He didn't seem to mind. Three fingers now. I didn't even realize he'd added the third until I felt the stretch, my rim pulled tight around his knuckles, and I pulled off his cock gasping.

"Oh god, oh my god, Dell—please, I can't—"

"You can." His fingers kept moving, slow and steady, pumping in to the knuckles and dragging back out, twisting on every stroke. "You're takin' three like a champ. Look at you. Open as a barn door."

"It's so much."

"It's three fingers, boy. My dick's bigger'n this." He curled them again, right on that spot, and my arms gave out. I collapsed face-first onto his thigh, my cheek smashed against the rough denim of his jeans, his spit-slick cock pressed hot and wet against my ear, and I just moaned, a long helpless "ahhhhhhhnnnnn" that I felt rattle all the way down my spine.

He laughed under his breath. "Yeah. That's what I thought."

He kept at it for a while, long enough that I stopped tensing up every time he pushed in. Long enough that the stretch stopped burning and turned into something else, something hungry, my hole loose and slick and fluttering around his knuckles, my hips rocking back on their own to chase his hand every time he pulled out. I was drooling on his jeans. My cock was hanging under me hard as a rock and dripping a steady thread of precum onto the sheet, a little puddle of it soaking through to the mattress. I couldn't remember ever being this hard. I couldn't remember my own name.

Then he pulled his fingers out, all three at once, and I gasped at the sudden emptiness, my hole clenching on nothing, gaping and twitching in the cold air.

"Reach back," he said. "Both hands. Hold yourself open."

I reached back and got a cheek in each hand and pulled them apart, my face mashed into his thigh, my elbows up in the air. It was the most humiliating thing I'd ever done to myself and my cock jumped so hard it slapped the mattress.

"Wider." I pulled wider. "There it is. Look at that. Wide open, pink as hell, twitchin' for it." His fingertip circled my gaping rim. Then he spat on it. A big wet gob, right into the middle, and I felt it slide down inside me. "You know what that is? That's your cunt tellin' on you. Say it. Say what this is."

"My cunt," I said, into his jeans.

"Say it again."

"My cunt, sir."

"Good boy." He patted it, pat pat pat, little wet slaps on my open hole. "Up. Off the bed. Stand at the end of it."

I didn't so much climb off the mattress as fall off it. My legs were shaking. I stumbled to the foot of the bed and stood there, naked, slick with lube and sweat, my cock bobbing in front of me, and watched him stand up.

He still had his shirt on. His cap. His boots. His jeans were still zipped down and his cock was sticking straight out of his fly, shiny with my spit, the head dark and swollen and leaking. He looked exactly like he had standing next to his truck in that first picture. Except for that. Except for eight thick inches of hard dick pointing right at me.

"Bend over. Chest on the mattress. Feet apart. And reach back and hold yourself open again. I wanna watch it while I put it in."

I turned around and bent forward over the end of the bed. The fitted sheet was cold against my chest and my stomach, and my cock got trapped against the edge of the mattress, smushed against the cotton. I spread my feet on the stained carpet, and I reached back and pulled my own cheeks apart like he'd told me, and I held them. My face was turned to the side, cheek flat on the bed, and I could see the fake wood paneling on the wall and a nail hole where a picture used to hang.

His boots thudded on the floor behind me. I heard the bottle snick open again. Heard a wet slick sound, his fist working lube up and down his shaft. Then his hand landed on my lower back, big and rough, pressing me down into the mattress.

"Last chance, college boy," he said, low. "Speak now or I'm popping your other cherry."

I didn't even have to think about it.

"Take it," I whispered. "Please. Please, sir. Fuck me."

"Yeah, I fuckin' will, bitch."

The head pressed against my hole. Hot. So much hotter than his fingers, so much bigger, blunt and fat and slippery with lube. He didn't push yet. He just rubbed it up and down my crack, slow, catching on my rim every time it passed over, and my hole kissed at it each time like it was begging.

He pressed. Just a little. Just enough to make my rim dimple in, and my fingers went white on my own ass cheeks, and my mouth came open against the sheet.

"Breathe out. Slow."

I breathed out. The head pressed harder and slid half an inch and stopped and my whole body went rigid, my toes curling in the carpet.

"Push out."

I pushed out. And I felt it. The exact moment my body gave up and opened for him, my rim stretching wide, wider than three fingers, wider than the cucumber, wider than anything, a hot stinging burn spreading out in a ring, and then the fat head of his cock popped through and lodged inside me.

"AHHH—oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck—"

"Breathe." His hand pressed flat between my shoulder blades, holding me down. He didn't move. He just held still with the head of his dick inside me, letting me feel it. "Breathe, boy. That's the worst of it. Head's in."

I sucked air through my teeth. My whole body was trembling. My eyes were watering, tears leaking out sideways across my nose onto the sheet. It hurt. It didn't hurt the way I thought it would, not sharp, not tearing, but it was huge, a stretch so deep and complete that I couldn't think about anything else. My hole was throbbing around him, clenching and unclenching in little spasms, and every time it clenched I could feel the ridge of his head inside me.

"That's my boy," he said. "Squeezin' the fuck out of me. Feel that? You feel how fuckin' tight you are? Christ." He blew out a long breath. "Shoulda brung a crowbar."

He pushed. Slow. One inch. I whimpered. Another inch, and I could feel every vein, exactly like he'd promised in the chat, ridges dragging along my insides. I felt so full, impossibly full, like he was pushing my guts up into my chest. Another inch. "Uhhhhh—" Another. "Dell, Dell, Dell—"

"I know. Take it like a good boy."

Another inch. My mouth hung open against the sheet. No sound came out at all now. I just lay there, gasping silently, as he pushed and pushed and kept on pushing, deeper than anything had ever been, deeper than I knew I went, and then the scratchy denim of his jeans pressed up against the backs of my thighs and the brass deer-head belt buckle dug cold into my left asscheek and his wiry pubes ground into my crack and I realized he was all the way in.

All of it. All eight inches. Inside me.

He groaned, long and rough and satisfied, "Ohhhh fuuuuck," and leaned his weight down on me, his flannel scraping my back, his chest pressed to my shoulders, his breath hot on my neck. The bill of his cap bumped the back of my head. He smelled like sawdust and sweat and sex.

"There it is," he breathed into my ear. "Balls deep in that fat fuckin' cherry. Well. It ain't a cherry any more, is it. Feel that, boy? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," I sobbed. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"How's it feel?"

"Big. So big. I'm so full—"

"Yeah, you are." He didn't move. He just stayed buried in me, letting me sit on it, letting my body get used to him. I could feel my insides pulsing around his cock, adjusting, the burn at my rim slowly fading to a deep hot throb. I could feel his cock twitching inside me, actually feel it, every little pulse. I'd never known you could feel someone's heartbeat from the inside. My cock was trapped against the edge of the mattress, harder than ever, leaking so much it was soaking the sheet. "Relax. Breathe. Let it sit. Quit fightin' it. It ain't goin' anywhere and neither are you."

I breathed. In, out. In, out. Little by little my body loosened around him, the clenching easing off.

He felt it. Of course he felt it.

"There we go," he murmured. Then he shifted his weight back, put both hands on my hips, and pulled out.

Slow. All the way to the head, the ridge of it dragging against my stretched rim, and the feeling of him sliding out of me was almost worse than him going in, this awful pulling emptiness, my body trying to suck him back. Then he pushed back in, steady, all the way to the root, his hips settling against my ass.

"Ohhhh," I moaned. "Ohhh god."

Out. In. Out. In. Slow and long and deep. The sting was gone now, replaced by something huge and hot and aching and good, so good, every stroke rubbing the fat shaft of his cock along that spot he'd found with his fingers. My mouth fell open and I started making these sounds, little punched-out "uh, uh, uh" noises every time he bottomed out.

He kept it slow for a long time. Long enough that my hands slipped off my own ass and hung down and swung, long enough that I was pushing back at him every time he pulled out like a machine, long enough that he started talking.

"There it is. Look at you, backin' up on it. Like a bitch in heat. You don't even know you're doin' it, do you."

I didn't. I couldn't stop.

"Reach back and play with 'em. Your balls. Go on."

I got a hand under myself and cupped my own balls and they were so tight and hot and heavy in my palm that I whimpered. They were sloshing full. Every one of his thrusts jostled them.

"That's it. Feel how full they are? Two days of it, sittin' in there, and now a man's got his dick in you and it's like your balls know what's comin'." He laughed, low. "Poor little balls. Gonna get emptied whether you like it or not."

And then something changed.

I felt it in his hands first. His grip on my hips tightened, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. His strokes got shorter. Faster. Harder. His hips slapped against my ass with a wet, meaty thwap, then again, thwap, thwap, and the bed frame started to creak and groan, metal squeaking on every thrust.

"Yeah," he grunted. "Yeah, that's it. Fuckin' finally. You know how long I been thinkin' 'bout this pussy?"

Pussy. The word hit me like a slap. My face burned against the sheet. I'm a guy. I don't have a pussy.

"All fuckin' week," he went on, slamming into me, thwap, thwap, thwap. "All week jerkin' to that picture. That fat football ass. That tight little pink pussy. Woke up at four this mornin' with my dick like a fence post just thinkin' about it, jacked off in the shower over it, and it didn't even take the edge off. And now look at it." He pulled almost all the way out and then drove back in so hard the whole bed scraped an inch across the floor. "AHH!" "Look at it eatin' my dick. Fuckin' swallowin' it."

"It's not—" I gasped, "I'm not—"

"Not what?" Thwap. "Not a pussy?" Thwap. "Boy, I got eight inches of thick man dick up in you and you're leakin' like a bitch in heat. That's a pussy. That's a fuckin' pussy and I'm fuckin' it." He grabbed a handful of my right cheek and squeezed, spreading me wider, watching himself go in and out. "Lookit that. Fuckin' pussylips grabbin' at my dick every time I pull out. Suckin' at me. You're a pussyboy, Brady. Big ol' corn-fed pussyboy."

"Ohhhh fuuuck—"

"Say it."

"I—"

He stopped. Buried all the way in me, he just stopped, grinding his hips in a slow circle, his cock stirring my guts, and I whined like a kicked dog, pushing my ass back against him, desperate for him to move again.

"Say it, or I pull out, put you in the truck, and drop your ass back at the dorm. Still hard. Still full. Not even gonna let you jack it in the driveway." He leaned down over me. "So what are you?"

"I'm a pussyboy," I sobbed. My face was on fire. My cock throbbed so hard it hurt. "I'm a pussyboy, please—"

"Good fuckin' bitch."

He started fucking me again. Harder. Thwap thwap thwap thwap, the slaps of his hips loud and wet in the empty room, the bed frame shrieking, my body jolting forward with every thrust so my cock dragged up and down the edge of the mattress. He leaned down over me, his weight pressing me into the bed, his mouth right next to my ear, panting.

"You know what I just did, faggot?"

"Uhhh—uh—"

"Took both your cherries. Your mouth an' your pussy. Same fuckin' day. Inside an hour." He laughed, low and rough, breathless. "Some sweet lil' college boy you were savin' it for, huh? Gonna take you on a date? Buy you a Culver's burger and hold the door for you? Too fuckin' bad. Some redneck from the sticks got it first. Popped that cherry with his jeans still on and his boots on and his hat on."

"Ahhhn—ahh—ahh—"

"Every dick goes in that hole for the rest of your life, you're gonna remember mine was first." Thwap. "Gonna remember this shitty mattress." Thwap. "Gonna remember gettin' fucked like a bitch over the end of it with your own hands holdin' your ass open." Thwap. "Ain't that right, faggot?"

"Yes, sir! Yes! Yes!"

"What are you?"

"A faggot!" It came ripping out of me, loud, way too loud, loud enough that the neighbors could've heard if they were listening, and I didn't even care. "I'm a pussyboy faggot! Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck—"

"Fuck yeah you are."

He fucked me through it. I don't know how long. My brain was gone. I was just a hole, just a body bent over a bed, moaning and drooling and shaking while he pounded into me, his balls slapping against mine, the brass buckle slapping cold against my ass, his jeans rough against my thighs. The sounds coming out of me didn't even sound like me anymore. "Hah—hah—ahhh—unnnh—" High and whiny and completely shameless, a sound I'd never once made in my own room with my own fingers.

Then he pulled out.

All the way. Just gone, and I cried out at the emptiness, my hole gaping and spasming around nothing, cold air rushing in.

"Flip over."

I didn't understand. I just lay there, panting.

He grabbed my hip and my shoulder and rolled me, like I weighed nothing, two hundred pounds of football player flipped onto my back like a pancake. I landed with my ass right at the edge of the mattress, my legs dangling, and before I could even get my bearings he grabbed my ankles and shoved my legs up and back, folding me in half, my knees almost to my shoulders.

And for the first time since he'd pushed into me, I saw his face.

He was standing over me, between my legs, still fully dressed. Flannel. Cap shoved back on his head. Sweat dripping down his temples into the stubble on his jaw, his face flushed red, his mouth hanging open, breathing hard. His eyes were dark and wild and fixed right on me, on my face, like he was memorizing it.

Below his belt, his cock jutted out of his open fly, swollen and dark purple and shiny with lube, twitching in the air.

"Wanna see you," he said, rough, "when I breed you."

He lined up and slammed all the way back in, in one stroke.

"AHHHHHH—!"

My back arched off the mattress. My head thrashed. This angle was different, deeper, the head of his cock driving straight into that spot on every single stroke, and my vision whited out at the edges.

"Look at me." He pinned my ankles up by my head with one big hand. "Look at me, faggot."

I looked at him. I couldn't have looked anywhere else if I'd wanted to.

He fucked me hard and deep, staring right into my eyes, his hips snapping, the bed screeching, thwap thwap thwap thwap. My cock bounced on my stomach with every thrust, slapping against my abs, leaking a long sticky string of precum onto my belly button. My balls were drawn up so tight it hurt. I was so close. I was so close, two days of no coming and his cock grinding into my prostate on every stroke, and I could feel it building in my gut like a pressure cooker.

"Don't you fuckin' touch it," he growled, reading my mind. "You don't cum. This one's mine."

"Dell—"

"You don't. Fuckin'. Cum."

I fisted my hands into the sheet on either side of my head so hard my knuckles cracked. I could feel it right there, right at the edge. I clenched everything. Gritted my teeth. Tears ran down my temples into my hair.

"Good bitch," he panted. "Good pussyboy. Look at that face. Fuckin' look at it. Big tough fuckin' jock, cryin' on my dick." Thwap. "Gonna fill you up." Thwap. "Gonna breed this virgin pussy." Thwap. "Gonna leave my load in it all fuckin' day, and you're gonna keep it in there, and you're gonna walk around with a man's cum in your guts and think about me every time it moves." Thwap thwap thwwap.

"Ahhh—ahh—Dell—"

"Take it. Fuckin' take it, faggot."

His face changed. I watched it happen from a foot away, folded in half under him with my ankles pinned by my ears. His jaw went slack. His eyebrows pulled together like he was in pain. A vein stood out on the side of his neck, right above the collar of his flannel, and his whole body went rigid. He slammed into me one last time, all the way to the root, so hard the bed frame banged into the wall, and he held it there, grinding his pubes against my stretched rim like he was trying to get another inch that didn't exist.

"Hnnnnngh—FUCK—"

I felt it.

I'd read about it. I'd wondered about it lying in bed at night, whether you could actually feel a guy cum inside you or if that was just something people wrote in stories. You could. His cock swelled inside me, thicker, impossibly thicker, and then it pulsed, a hard throbbing kick deep in my guts, and something hot flooded into me. Then again. And again. Every pulse came with a grunt punched out of his chest, "uhh—uhh—uhhh," and every pulse I felt that heat spreading, filling me, deeper than anything had ever gone. His hips twitched forward in little jerks with each shot, like his body was trying to push it farther in.

"Ohhh fuck," he groaned, dragging it out long and low. "Ohhh fuck, boy. Fuckin' milkin' me."

I was. I couldn't help it. My hole was clenching around him in waves, squeezing and squeezing like it was trying to wring every drop out of him, and my cock was jerking against my stomach, a long rope of precum oozing out and pooling in my belly button. It was right there. I was right there, my balls tight up against my body, the pressure so huge I was shaking, and I clamped down on it with everything I had, my teeth grinding, tears streaming down into my ears.

"Don't," he panted, still pulsing inside me. "Don't you fuckin' dare."

"I'm not," I sobbed. "I'm not—"

He stayed buried in me a long time after. His forehead dropped down onto my shin and he just breathed, his back heaving under that flannel shirt, sweat dripping off his nose onto my knee. I lay there under him, folded up and full, and felt his cock twitch a few more times inside me, little aftershocks, each one squeezing out a last weak spurt. I could feel how wet I was in there now. Slick and hot and full. A man had just come inside me. Dell had just come inside me, and it was so much that I could feel it moving when he breathed.

I'd been a virgin at ten o'clock that morning. I looked at the cheap plastic clock on the wall over the dresser. It was 11:14.

Finally he let go of my ankles. My legs fell, heavy and numb, my feet thumping onto the carpet on either side of him. He straightened up, took a long breath, and looked down at me. At my face, red and wet and wrecked. At my chest heaving. At my cock, still standing up rock-hard and purple-headed against my stomach, drooling, untouched.

He grinned. It was the first real grin I'd seen on him, crooked and lazy and pleased with itself.

"Look at that," he said. "Hard as a fuckin' railroad spike and you didn't blow. Good boy."

Then he pulled out.

It was slow, and it was awful. Every inch of him dragging back out through my stretched, swollen rim, my body clenching after him like it didn't want to let go, and when the fat head finally popped free I let out a sound I'd never heard myself make, a high wounded "hnnnnh," and my hole just... stayed open. I could feel it. Gaping. Air cool against it, inside of me, places air had never been. It twitched and fluttered and couldn't close, and then I felt something warm slide out of it and trickle down my crack onto the sheet.

"Ohhh yeah," Dell said, bending down to look. He spread my cheek with his thumb. "Lookit that. Fuckin' wrecked. Gapin' like a goddamn mineshaft. Squeeze."

I didn't know what he meant, so I just clenched, and a thick glob of his cum pushed out of my hole and ran down onto the mattress. He laughed, deep in his chest, and slapped my thigh.

"Nah. Other way. Squeeze it in. Keep it in there. That load's stayin' in you."

I clenched hard and held it, my face burning. It was so strange, my hole sore and puffy and loose, trying to close around a wetness that wasn't mine.

He stepped back. His cock was hanging heavy out of his fly now, half-soft, still thick, shiny with lube and cum, a string of white dangling off the tip. He looked down at it. Then he looked at me, and he jerked his chin.

"C'mere. Clean it."

I rolled off the bed onto my knees on the carpet. My legs felt like rubber, my ass throbbing with every movement, and I had to grab the bed frame to keep from falling over. He stepped up in front of me and I took him in my mouth without being told twice. He tasted different now. Salty and bitter and musky and a little like the Astroglide, and underneath that something that had been inside me. I didn't care. I licked him slowly from his zipper to the tip, lapping up every streak of cum, sucking the head clean the way he'd taught me, and he stood there with one hand on my head and let me, grunting softly every time my tongue slid under the ridge.

"Good," he said. "Good fuckin' pussyboy. That's it. That's what you do after. Every time."

Every time. My cock jumped against my stomach.

"Now the fingers."

I looked up at him.

"Reach back. Get your fingers in that hole and clean it out for me. Get 'em wet and lick 'em. Go on."

I reached back and pushed two fingers into myself and they came out slick and thick and warm, and I brought them to my mouth and sucked them clean while he watched, and it tasted like lube and like him and like inside me, and my eyes rolled back.

"Christ," he said. "You're a natural little cunt, ain't you."

When he was clean he pulled me off by my hair, tucked his cock back into his jeans, adjusted it to the left with a little hitch of his hips, and zipped up. Just like that. Like nothing had happened. His belt buckle was still buckled. He'd never even unfastened it. He pulled off his Polaris cap, wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his wrist, and tugged it back down.

I knelt on the carpet naked, cum in my ass and on my tongue, my cock aching so bad my eyes watered, and looked up at him standing over me fully dressed, flannel and boots and cap. He looked exactly like he had leaning out of the truck window in the lot behind Bergstrom. You'd never know. You'd never know he'd just taken my virginity.

"Get dressed," he said.

I blinked. "I—what?"

"Clothes. Put 'em on." He walked out into the living room. "Not done with you yet, boy. Not even fuckin' close. But we gotta go back to my place for round two."

I got up slowly, wincing, and limped out after him. My clothes were still in a pile on the linoleum by my backpack. I stood there looking down at them.

"What... do you mean? Why can't we stay here?" I asked. My voice was hoarse. From the moaning, I realized. From his cock.

"This ain't my place, this's my rental. Got a new tenant comin' to look at it this afternoon. Nice old lady. Works at the hospital." He jerked his thumb at the bedroom. "Gotta flip that sheet before she sees it, too. You leaked all over the fuckin' thing. And I don't just mean the front." He shook his head, almost fond. "Can't have you moanin' like a bitch in here all weekend with the neighbors listenin'. Old Gary next door's a deacon at St. Mary's."

My face went hot. "Did he—do you think he heard?"

"Boy, the whole street heard you moaning like a bitch. You were hollerin' loud enough to call hogs." He grinned. "Get dressed."

I bent down and picked up my boxers. My ass screamed at me when I bent, and I felt his load shift inside me, and I clenched hard and stood up straight and stepped into them carefully, one leg at a time. The cotton dragged over my cock and I hissed through my teeth. I was still so hard. It tented the front of my boxers obscenely, a dark wet spot already soaking through where the head pressed.

"Leave it," Dell said, watching me. "Just tuck it up. It's gonna be like that for a while."

I tucked it up under the waistband, the head trapped against my lower stomach. Jeans next, pulled up over my sore ass, the denim rough and tight in a way they'd never been before. I could feel the seam pressing right against my hole, and every time I moved, I felt how swollen it was. T-shirt. Hoodie. Socks, which I could barely manage, because sitting down on the busted recliner to put them on sent a hot pulse straight up into my gut and squeezed a little of his cum out into my boxers. I froze.

"Leakin'?" he asked.

"A little," I whispered.

"Good. Keep squeezin'. Wanna see how much of it's still in there when we get home. You lose it all, I'll just have to put another one in you."

He went into the bedroom, and I heard him rip the fitted sheet off the mattress, ball it up, and stuff it into a garbage bag from under the sink. He grabbed a clean one out of a closet and threw it on, didn't bother with the corner that didn't reach. Then he shoved the bag at me.

"Carry that."

I carried it. A garbage bag full of the sheet I'd just lost my virginity on, held against my chest along with my backpack while I stood by the back door waiting for him like a dog waiting for its walk. He looked around the apartment once, flipped off the overhead light, and opened the door.

The cold hit me again. Gray sky, wind cutting down the street between the houses. The neighbor's upstairs curtain was very definitely moving this time. I ducked my head and followed Dell down the cracked stoop, walking stiff and slow and careful, every step making my ass throb, and I knew I was walking funny. I knew it. Anyone who looked out a window would know exactly what had just happened to me.

Dell tossed the garbage bag in the bed of the truck. I climbed into the passenger side, slowly, and when I sat down on that cracked vinyl seat my whole body lit up. My hole was so sore and so full that sitting on it felt like sitting on a bruise. I squirmed and felt his cum slide, warm and wet, and pressed my thighs together and squeezed.

Dell climbed in and slammed his door. The cab still smelled like him, but now it smelled like me too. Like sex. He shoved a fresh pinch of Skoal in his lip, started the truck, and that rattly muffler roared to life. He backed out of the driveway one-handed.

"How far is it?" I asked. "Your place. You said north?"

"Hour. Little more." He glanced over at me, and his eyes went down to the bulge still tenting my jeans, and his mouth twitched. "Long ride for a boy with a full pussy and a hard dick, huh."

"Yes, sir..."

"Gonna get worse." He reached over and put his big hand on my thigh again, right where he had in the lot, and squeezed. Then slid it up until his palm pressed flat over my cock through my jeans. I groaned and dropped my head back against the seat. "Out where I live, ain't nobody around for a mile in any direction. Nobody to hear you. Nobody to give a shit." He squeezed my cock through the denim, hard, and I whimpered, "nnnh." "Gonna be loud as I want. And you're gonna be louder."

He took his hand back and put it on the wheel, and he pulled out onto the road past the grain elevator. I watched my college town slide past the window: the Walmart, the Kwik Trip, the Culver's, the little hobby shop where I bought my Magic cards, the brick back of Bergstrom far off across the quad. My dorm. My friends. Toby, probably just waking up. Grumthak, my half-orc barbarian, waiting for a dungeon that wasn't going to happen.

Then the last stoplight. Then farm fields, brown and stubbled and empty under the low gray sky, a barn, a silo, a sign for Highway 29 North.

Dell turned the radio up, some country station crackling out a Toby Keith song, and pressed his boot down on the gas.

Then, about ten miles out, he reached over and unsnapped the button on my jeans.

"Get 'em down," he said, eyes on the road. "Boxers too. All the way to your knees. And put your hand back on your dick. Base of it. Don't move it."

"Dell, the—the neighbors—"

"Ain't no neighbors out here. Do it."

I got them down, fumbling, my hips lifting off the seat, and the cold air came in around the bottom of the door and found my bare ass and my slick, swollen hole, and I made a small strangled sound and put my fist around the base of my cock. The wet spot from earlier had gone cold and clammy against my thigh. My hole was so open still that I could feel the truck's engine vibration right up inside it.

"Now," he said, and spat out the window, and settled back in his seat like he had all day. "While we drive, you're gonna tell me what you want. Out loud. Everything. And if you stop talkin', I pull over and leave you on the shoulder with your pants around your ankles."

I shifted on the vinyl, felt his cum move, and started to talk.