Disclaimer: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to real life events or people are purely coincidental. This story is about love and lust and loss, the three most entertaining things in the world! When deemed necessary, there will be sex. If you are offended by sex, why are you on this website? Get out now. If you are underage and reading this... Well, there's worse stuff you could be doing illegally; you should still hit escape though!!! Rebellious delinquents...
Chapter 3 RYAN
Christmas really is the best time of the year. Whether or not you believe in Jesus, there are very few people in the world who hate Christmas. What's there to hate? There's no school, there's presents, there's all that good family spirit, there's good food, and there's Christmas trees!! I love Christmas, if you haven't picked up on that, and it's only a week away! I've searched my house up and down, and basically flipped the place inside out in an attempt to try to find my presents; to my greatest chagrin, I haven't found the slightest trace of bows or wrapping paper.
I was relaxed in the family room, curled up in a warm, snowman-patterned blanket with a warm cup of hot chocolate in my hands. I know, I should be a model for Pottery Barn's Christmas catalog or something. However cliched I looked, I was enjoying myself while watching the Grinch with my family. Well, most of my family; my dad was out exercising. Irony anyone?! My whole family watches THE GRINCH, but my dad's a no show. I guess it's about time I explain my ever-so-intresting familial situation.
Let's start with my mom; she's my favorite, and I'm pretty sure that I'm hers. So, 'Mrs. Tarcy' is a pretty independent woman. She's a partner at one of the most successful ad agencies in Ohio. She worked her ass off to get to where she is. She expects a lot out of my sister and I, but since we're both such good kids, she's very laid back around us. When she's not locked in her office-- pulling an all-nighter-- she's sitting on the couch with a cigarette in one hand, watching Real Housewives of WhereverTheHell. If they ever had a Housewives of Ohio, my mom would be on it; she would be the really normal, rational housewife. I complain to her all the time about the show, but it's starting to grow on me... I like the Beverly Hills Housewives the best.
Then there's my sister. Her name is is Stephanie. Stephanie Tarcy. She's five years, my junior, but I swear she's more mature than me, She's a woman in a little girl's body. She has a more extensive vocabulary than any of my English professors, and she just acts like... a lady, I guess. She's very well put together; she laughs at all of the right things, tells you to knock it off when you're misbehaving, and is the biggest social butterfly in the world. If my mom let her have a Facebook, she would probably have more friends than me.
Finally there's my dad. He and I... It's complicated to say the least. I probably sound whiny and pathetic saying that he doesn't pay me that much attention, but I might as well have grown up without a father. He's hardly ever around, and when he is around he never stops drinking. He's been in jail four-- or is it five-- times for driving under the influence. Now that I'm older and my mom trusts me with more delicate information, I've learned all about his so-called 'tragic fall from grace.'
When he and my mom got married, he was a huge real-estate tycoon. He was making big bucks, even more than my mom makes now. He was sort of born into his money, though. My grandpa got him set up with most of his starting property. Anyways, the year my mom got pregnant, he lost almost all of his investments. He wasn't fraudulent or anything! The real-estate market has always been a risky business, and a couple of piss poor property ventures left him with next to nothing.
So he started drinking, and he's been drinking like a fish in the ocean ever since. My mom pities him. She loved him; I'm positive of that, but now all of her love has withered away to sadness and sympathy. She could never divorce him; he's frail in a way. Sure, he's big, brutal and aggressive, but mentally... if she divorced him, he would crack. He could hardly bear losing his money, if he lost the woman he loved, he wouldn't make it. So, I never really had a father; am I not the most hackneyed excuse of a gay teenager ever??
That's why I love Christmas, though! All the scum that's been rising to the surface of the boiling pot, just simmers away. No one cares if you're an alcoholic! No one cares that Aunt Nelly gave birth to all her kids out of wedlock! No one cares that Aunt Lucy was a stripper back in her prime! Everyone leaves that at the doorstep when they come over for Christmas dinner. Plus, I love the Christmas specials. The Grinch, Charlie Brown, Roudolf-- I love the spirit of the holidays, even if most of it is manufactured B.S.
I got up from my snug spot by the fire when the Grinch's heart started to grow three sizes too big.
"Alright, I'm off!" I said to my mom and Steph.
"Have fun, Ryan" my mom said sweetly, the Grinch had made her cry, and her mascara was a little runny. She's such a sap. I gave her a hug.
"I'll be home before midnight."
I dashed to my car, humming the Grinch's theme song. Today, while first and foremost the night of the Grinch, was also the last hockey game St. Joseph's played before Christmas.
I normally wouldn't be going. I also normally would not have washed my hair, brushed my teeth, or put a dab of cologne on before going to a school sporting event of all things. To go even further, I normally would not be dressed up in a pair of tight, blue, Lucky jeans; a vintage, navy blue, J. Crew, dress shirt; a black, zip-up sweater; and a pair of black, Cole Haan shoes. Let me remind you, I was going to a sweaty hockey stadium with bleachers and crowds of people. I couldn't dress for comfort, though. I had to look a little bit smarter than the average St. Joseph's Jaguars hockey fan. Can you guess the reason why I have to look so unambiguously sexy tonight? Can you? Can you guess? Can you guess the reason?
I'm going to see Derrick Chase tonight, and I'm smiling from ear to ear about it right now. He called me last night. I looked at my phone, and it was an unknown number. When I answered it and heard his voice, I swear I went from 5 to 9 in less than a second, if you know what I mean (which I'm sure you do). I think I stuttered the whole conversation, but I memorized everything he said to a pin.
"Hey buddy, what's up?"
Stutter. Stutter.
Forced laughter. "Sounds good, well listen you're going to the hockey game tomorrow? Right?"
Something stupid. Something unintelligible.
"I'll look for you when I'm on the ice." Laughter "Anyways, if you're going, can I hook up with you after? I figure we can swap our clothes back?"
Dick as rigid as iron. Sexual allusions were killing me.
"So, can you meet me outside the locker room after the game?"
Fuuuuuck yes. You can meet me wherever the fuck you want. How 'bout my bedroom?
I wish I could say that.
Actually I think I was more like: Stutter. Stutter. Cock stiff as steel. Pre-cum oozing. Stutter. Something unintelligent.
"Alright. So I'll see you tomorrow after the game. Maybe we can find something to do after we swap clothes."
Sexual innuendos make my rod shudder. Stutter. Shudder. Stutter. Shudder.
"I'll see you tomorrow night then. Can't wait."
After he hung up, I pulled down my sweats, and jerked my throbbing dick from my boxers. It didn't take more than a couple of minutes before I shot rope upon rope of gummy, gooey, white boy-juice all over my chest and stomach. I had ran eight miles earlier that day, and my abs were hard, smooth and clearly defined; now they were lathered with milky, warm jizz. I rubbed my thick load around on my sweaty body, and tweaked my nipples with cum covered fingers. I couldn't wait to see Derrick. I could. Not. Wait.
So, with our conversation playing on repeat in my mind, I finally arrived at the hockey game. St. Joseph's was up against Our Lady of Good Counsel, the other all-boys Catholic school in our district. The turnout for the game was kinda weak, despite the big rivalry game. Most people had gone someplace warmer for the holidays; my best friend James had gone to Cancun with his family. I was one of the few who stayed on lovely Ohio.
The student section wasn't as big as I thought it would be. I sat with Clara George, James's girlfriend. She and I went to grade school together, and were pretty tight even before she and James hooked up. Back in eighth grade, we were picked for seven minutes of heaven together. When we got in the closet together (Ha. Ha. No gay pun intended), she said I was hot and kissed me. I never did tell James about that... Oh well, it was eighth grade.
At the end of the second period-- or second quarter as I had said before Clara corrected me-- we were down 4-2. Derrick had scored all of our goals, and he was really the only good player on our team. I wasn't an expert at how to play hockey, but when one of the skaters can't even keep himself balanced on the ice... c'mon now. Derrick was captivating though. He was all sweaty and athletic looking. After he scored his first goal, I swore he looked up in the stands and stared directly at me. My brain was too busy doing summersaults to confirm if it was really me he was staring at.
I wanted him so bad. I had been a closet gay for half of my high school career. Most of the dudes in my year had banged chicks, why can't I get any (or receive any)? Maybe it was because I shot too high. I wanted Derrick, but that was impossible. He was so... athletic, so straight, so ughh. He was so practically untouchable for a person like me. I wanted him because I couldn't have him. Am I in some subaverage Nicholas Sparks novel? Fuuck.
When the third period-- or quarter, whatever the fuck-- began, the crowd had increased a little bit. The student section was bigger, anyways, and we were going crazy. There was no actual cheer, just lots of foot-stomping and screaming. Clara was bouncing up and down, and I was right there with her. When Derrick scored the third goal, the stands erupted. Only one more goal to tie. Sports games were fun to go to. I really should go to them more often.
There were three minutes left in the game when Derrick scored again. The student section and the parents had combined to form one massive group of spazzes. Clara was grabbing my arm and shouting; I was yelling at the top of my lungs. Maybe Derrick would hear me. Derrick had the puck again; he's gonna score again, I know it!
WHAM!!!
He was checked hard, and lost the puck. I could see his lower lip bleeding, and he wasn't skating as fast. Timeout.
"Holy shit," I said to Clara, "that was rough."
"That was a pretty hard check. I'm surprised Derrick's not injured."
"Are you kidding?" a senior behind us asked, "That wasn't shit. Derrick Chase could take a bullet to the stomach and score four more goals in two minutes."
The bullet wouldn't even break the skin; his abs were hard as steel-- as hard as my dick when I think about them. Oh look, the game's started again. The puck moved very fast. I could hardly keep up with it. I didn't even realize until the screaming that Derrick had scored, and won the game. What I did realize was that Derrick was looking dead at me, his face was a little bloody, but he was smiling. Right. At. Me. My stomach had a heartbeat.
When the game was over, the entire stands rushed to get out. I heard there was a victory party at Gabe Hurley's house, but I wasn't gonna go. I was going to talk to Derrick, drive home, and go to bed. Fun night, right? I had to move against the crowd to make it to the locker room. In big, blue letters, painted over a black door, were the words "St. Joseph Jaguars." Guess this is it.
There was no one but me standing in the locker room hallway. I stood around awkwardly for a few minutes, took a couple sips of water from the drinking fountain to make it look like I was doing something, and finally, I gave up and sat down against the hard, brick wall. Maybe he forgot. He did just win the game. He probably got caught up in the excitement. He's probably already at Gabe Hurley's house with a girl under each of his hard, strong arms. Fuck it. He forgot. I should go.
Just as I stood up to leave, though, the black door opened, and there he was. My heart quickened. He really was amazing. Like something out of a movie. He couldn't be real. His straight, black hair was sweaty, wet, shiny and messy. I wanted to grab his head and run my hands through his black mop. It was so dirty, but so sexy looking! Does that even make sense? He still had on his black and blue jersey; he was number 10. His muscles were huge and really well toned; the hockey game had made every inch if him hard as a rock. Well, almost every inch. There were probably nine or ten inches that were soft at the moment.
His skin was white, but not in a "I'm a pale, skinny track-boy" white kind of way. He was white like the snow outside. He was white like silk, but hard as steel. His skin was so smooth, he looked like a new-born baby. He didn't have huge pores like Molly Worthington, the girl I went to the Christmas Dance with. Then there were his eyes. They were green like emeralds; they were sparkling with sexiness as he stared at me. His lower lip still had a small cut on it, but his mouth was perfect still. His lips were hard and strong and sweet and watery and kissable. Most of all they were kissable.
"Hey you!" he said happily, "Sorry I took so long, coach wanted to talk to me a little bit. I have your stuff here." He gestured to the sports bag over his left shoulder.
"Hey," I gave him an awkward grin, "I left your stuff-- your clothes in the car-- my car, I mean."
"That's cool, I'll come with you." he was smiling. His teeth were so white and straight.
I don't really remember what happened the night he picked me up. It was so surreal and I was so drunk. We slept in the same bed, I remember that. I also remember the way is strong, hard, slightly but not overly hairy leg rested against mine the whole night.
Both of our shirts were off; that I remember because when I woke up, the blanket only covered the lower half of his body, revealing his burly pecks and his rocky abs. He didn't have any hair on his chest, but he had a small, light trail of black hair on his stomach, leading down to his crotch. His warm, hard, big crotch. He was still sleeping when I woke up, but I was too hungover to get up. I just sorta laid there and watched his chest rise and fall with each heavy breath. His left hand rested against my right hip, and his thumb brushed against my skin whenever I inhaled. When he finally did get up, I pretended to be asleep.
I'm happy I did. I could feel him looking at me, and almost gasped when he slid two fingers over my bare, skinny runner's arm. Was that an accident? He drove me to James's house after he had showered and given me clothes of his to wear. It took all my willpower not to jack off into his boxers. They smelled like him. I would hold them up to my nose at night as I jerked off. He smelled like a guy. A brawny, studly boy. He smelled like sex.
"This is me," I said when we arrived at my blue, Ford Focus.
"Nice ride!" he said laughing, "I like the color."
"Yeah, my mom got it for me for my birthday."
Conversation was so hard. Why couldn't I just say something normal. Derrick set down his duffle bag and pulled out my sport coat, dress pants, tie, dress shirt, and boxers.
"My mom washed all of it." He had this grin on his face that wouldn't go away.
"Tell her thank you, she really didn't have to. My-- I mean yours-- your stuff is in the trunk."
I popped the trunk open and pulled out the bag of his clothes.
"I had to wash them myself, but I think I did okay. They smell good anyways."
"Thanks, Ryan."
When he said my name I wanted to swoon.
"Listen can I ask a favor? My friend and I drove here together, so now I don't have a ride home. Could you give me a lift?"
"Are you kidding? Yeah-- I mean hop in. It's the least I could do!" He had after all saved me from becoming a big ice cube, and any extra time I could spend with him was okay with me!
"Sick, thanks a lot. Do you remember where I live?"
"I think so... Right off of sixteen mile, right?"
He laughed, "Stalker much?"
What do I say? What do I say? Why did I remember where he lived? Why was I so weird?? Say something clever! Be sarcastic! You're better than this.
"Don't flatter yourself, it's Mrs. Chase I'm stalking, not you." I smiled. I grinned. I smirked. I twisted my mouth in an upwards fashion.
He looked at me quirkily, "My moms actually-- dead. So..."
I'm an idiot. I'm a fucking idiot. I should throw myself down a well. Of all the things to say? I'm retarded.
"Oh my God. I'm-- I'm so sorry. I didn't-- wow, I'm an asshole. I'm really sorry. I didn't know."
"Naw, it's okay. People have made worse mom-jokes than that. I kinda ask for it. I don't tell a lot of people that she's... Gone."
It was cold outside, and the wind was whipping through his sweaty hair. He didn't look sad. Or mad. Or upset. He still had a bit of a grin.
"Well, let's go. It's getting cold," I said. The faster I got him home, the faster I could get out of this whole embarrassing situation.
The car ride was quiet. I turned on the radio to fill the awkward silence. That's what music was invented for: to fill uncomfortable silences. He had his phone out, checking Facebook. I should say something. I shouldn't just sit here. Say something!
"Are you uhh... Going to Gabe's party? I heard Gabe was having a victory party." Nice one. Very smooth.
"Wha-? Oh, no. I'm not. I'm too tired. I don't know if you saw, but I basically was the team out there tonight."
"Totally, I mean, you were the best. That last goal you scored-- wow. It was so good. You were so good." I sounded like a girl. Seriously?
He laughed, "You really think so? Thanks. I scored that last goal for you." He winked at me. My heart thawed into a puddle.
"I saw you get checked really hard, though. Are you okay? It looked really bad from the stands."
"Yeah, it hurt like hell. I have a bruise on my back, and I'm sore all over. It wouldn't have happened if the rest of the team was doing their job. I didn't even see the guy coming when he checked me."
"Damn. I could never play hockey. I'd get snapped in half."
"You run, don't you?" He knew I ran? Last week I didn't think he knew my name.
"Yeah I do. I don't have any bruises or anything to show for it, though."
He chuckled, "I don't think you'd look good with bruises. Are you good at track? You have a great body for it. You're tight and fit just like a runner should be."
I didn't know what to say, "Uhuh."
"I could never run. I'm to big."
"Are you joking? You're so fast when you play football! And you run in baseball too."
"Yeah, but that's only for a shirt distance. Anything more than a mile and I'm wasted."
"You should stick to football. If I could play football I would, but I can't. So I run instead."
"You make a-- hold up. It's this street, right here."
I turned the car down the street
"It's this one, on your left."
Well, it looked like my time with Derrick was over. It was pretty good, minus the mom joke. When I put the car in park, he hopped out, but before closing the door, he looked at me inquisitively.
"Aren't you coming in?" he asked.
"What? I mean-- you want me to? Are you sure?"
He grinned. "C'mon, runner boy."
I turned off the ignition and got out of the car. All of the lights were off in the house.
"Isn't anyone home?" I asked, making my way to the front door.
"Naw, my dad's on a business trip. He comes back Wednesday. It's just you and me tonight."
"Oh," blood rushed from my fast pumping heart to my stiffening dick.
I had kinda forgotten what Derrick's house looked like inside. It was pretty big, and clearly professionally decorated. It looked like something out of a furniture catalog. The floors leading down the hallway to Derrick's room were wood.
"I'm gonna take a shower. I probably stunk up your car. Just make yourself at home. There's pop in the fridge. Turn on whatever you want on TV."
He took off his jersey and tossed it to the floor. God, his body was heaven. He stripped down to his jock strap and walked off into the bathroom. He glanced at me before closing the door.
I put my hands down my pants and adjusted my now throbbing rod. This was not what I expected when I left for the hockey game. I have now been into Derrick's house not once, but twice. Boy, times change fast. I decided that instead of awkwardly standing in the middle of Derrick's room, I should probably go watch TV. I should look normal. Relaxed. NOT horny. Can I do that? Probably not, but it can't hurt to try. I grabbed a can of Coke out of the fridge and turned on the Derrick's flatscreen. Real Housewives was on, but even I wasn't dumb enough to put that on. Sportscenter? That's cool right? I think it's boring, but Derrick probably loves it. Alright, Sportscenter it is.
I sat on the couch for a good fifteen minutes before Derrick came in. I had to adjust the way I was sitting. He had a white towel wrapped around his waist, his black hair was shiny and wet, and steam was curling off of him in waves.
"Hey, bud," he had a bit of a smirk on his face, "can I ask you another favor."
I swallowed and nodded.
"Normally the physical trainer at school would massage me, but I left early so I wouldn't keep you waiting around. I'm really sore, and that hit I took really wore me out. It'd be sick if you could, like, come in my room and rub me down?"
My eyes wanted to roll up into my skull. All my blood was rushing to my head (you know what head I'm talking about, right?).
"Umm... I mean... I've never-- I've never given a-- I've never even had one-- a massage. I've never given a massage, I mean." Even when I wasn't drunk, I couldn't formulate my thoughts. My eyes were fixed on his chest, his abs, the outline of his thick cock that I could spot through the towel.
"It's not that hard! Please, Ryan? Look at this bruise!" he turned around, and there on the left side of his back was a long, thick black and blue bruise, "I just need the pain rubbed out of my body."
"I guess-- yes. Yeah, i mean. How hard-- how tough-- how difficult can it be?"
He smiled his bright, white smile, "I have oil in my room already."
"Oh, now? You want-- now, you mean?"
"Well, when did you think I meant, runner boy?" he chuckled, "C'mon."
I followed Derrick down to his room. He had a nice butt too. Perfectly round, I stared at it as I walked behind him.
"So uhh... Where do we do this? The floor? The bed?"
"Can we do it on the floor? I don't wanna get my bed all oily and sweaty."
Oh you sweat when you get massaged. Good to know. Good to know. Fuuck, I'm so hard.
Derrick's room had soft, cream colored carpets, and before I could say anything, he was lying on his stomach.
"The baby oil is on my desk. Oh, and could you get me a pillow?
His room was very big and very clean. He had a queen sized bed, that was extremely comfortable I might add, and a tall shelf laden with all kinds of books. His desk was underneath a window. All his school stuff was piled up in the corner, and on top of them was a bottle of oil. Here goes nothin'.
"So... Umm... What do I--"
"Just pour some oil on my back and do what comes naturally. Be careful of the bruise though. Just kinda' rub it a little bit."
I let the baby oil trickle out of the bottle and onto Derrick Chase's smooth, muscled back. I never thought it was possible, but a back can look sexy, people. A back sure can be sexy. He had no gross back zits, no weird masses of hair, he was sleek, and tough. The bruise stretched along his side. It was blue and purple; it looked like it really hurt. The oil cascaded down his spine and over shoulder blades. Some of it creeped down the center of his back towards his tight, bubble butt, which was currently still covered by the white towel. I held my hands over his back for half a minute. Just do it! Touch him! Rub him!
When I finally lowered my hands, the feel of his flesh underneath them sent electricity through my arms. He was so warm, so firm, so absolutely alien to me. At that point, I wouldn't have cared who it was beneath my fingertips; I had never come into this kind of contact with another guy in my life! The fact that it was Derrick made the experience so much better.
I started off just kneading each one of his bulging muscles individually; they felt like putty in my hands. I began at his buff shoulders and worked down to his lower back. When I got to the base of his spine I heard something. A moan? Not loud. Just a sharp exhale of breath. It was weird. It made me feel in control. I wasn't the awkward, teenage nerd anymore; I had the stud of the school under my thumb.
"You like that?" I asked after rubbing at the base of his back again. I heard Derrick swallow hard.
"Yeah," he said thickly.
I laid my palms flat against his back and leaned into him, letting my hands move up, up, up to his shoulders. My mouth was next to Derrick's ear.
"Am I doing okay?" I whispered. His eyes were closed, and his lips were moist; he kept licking them.
"Your doing so good, dude. It's great."
I gently rubbed his bruise. I let the tips of my fingers run up and down it repeatedly. Then I went back to kneading. It took about twenty minutes for the oil to dry up. I was disappointed when it did; Derrick stood up, and readjusted his towel. It hadn't slipped off unfortunately.
"Thanks. Wow. That was... You're really good. Are you sure you've never--?" Derrick clearing his throat. He would look down at the floor, and then grin up at me; then he'd go back to the floor. He kept running his hands through his hair, too.
I smiled. I could feel my eyes sparkling at him.
"I just lost my massage virginity, I guess."
He looked up, and stared at me intrepidly. I could tell he was thinking something.
"Have you? I thought you said you've never given OR received a massage. You're only halfway there hot-stuff."
I was confused, but I laughed anyways.
"What are you saying?"
"Get out of that tight, little sweater and get your shirt off, is what I'm saying?" he smirked, "It's your turn!"
"I haven't even gone for a run today! I'm not that sore," I protested, but I was already out of my sweater. Derrick just smiled and watched me take off my shirt.
I unbuttoned each button slowly and individually. I looked at the ground while I did it, but I could feel him staring at me. I ran my hand through my hair. Fuck, it was only an hour ago that I was worried about whether he forgot about our plans to meet up. I was such a child back then. It really is amazing what just a few days, hours, minutes, moments can do to your life. It only takes a couple of seconds, and things change forever.
When I slid out of my shirt, I proceeded to lie, obediently on the soft carpet.
"Wait. You can't get a massage with pants on!" Derrick said pointedly. He was grinning as I sheepishly stepped out of my blue jeans. My cock had gone down to halfway, so my bulge was impressive, but not embarrassing. I saw Derrick glance at my crotch.
"You really don't have to--"
"Get on the floor, already!"
I was back on my stomach. I let my head rest into Derrick's pillow. It smelled like him. The pillow did. I could smell his hair in the fabric. His thick, black hair. I inhaled sharply when I felt the oil start to run over my back. It was warm. Derrick, unlike me, didn't hesitate in starting. No sooner was my back lathered in oil did his hands begin to knead at my neck and shoulders. I moaned. I couldn't help it! And it wasn't like Derrick's moan. Mine was louder and more weaker sounding. Now I was the one completely powerless. Derrick was resting on my legs, and I could hear him chuckle. His hands traveled down my tight, thin back; they were so big!-- his hands I mean. They were slick from the oil, but I could still feel the masculinity in them. They were rough and hard; they knew what they were doing. When Derrick laid his palms flat, his hands covered my whole back. I felt submissive, and I liked it.
Derrick was rougher than I was. He pushed more forcefully, and would grab at me every once in awhile to readjust the way I was laying. I felt his hands brush against the waistband of my boxers when he was rubbing my lower back. Every time he touched them, my boxers would slip just a little bit farther down. Was he doing it on purpose? I felt him get off me. We were done. I couldn't stand up! I was at full mast down there! That was when I felt my boxers completely pulled off in one strong tug.
"What the fuck," I screeched like a girl.
"I gotta' get your legs, runner boy." he said. I could feel him smirk.
I felt the oil run over my left leg first. He started at my calf and worked up toward my ass. I don't really know how to describe my ass. I don't spend a lot of time looking at it. I hope it looked good. I knew it was pretty hairless. I hope that was attractive. It seemed to take longer for Derrick to start this time.
"You ready, champ?" he asked playfully.
"Go for it," I smiled into his pillow.
When he grazed my calf with his fingertips, I started moaning. My legs were sore from all that running, and, wow, did a massage feel amazing. Derrick kneaded roughly at my tight, aching legs. He started with the right, then the left, then he moved to my upper legs, which were probably pale as milk. He laid his palms flat and slid up and down my hamstring. I was moaning really loudly now.
"Does that feel good, Ryan?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
"Mhmmm." That was all I could thickly say in between moans.
When he started to knead at my ass, I stopped moaning. It was so awkward. I don't know. Should he be doing this? This is so--.
"Relax," Derrick said gently, "it's okay."
I let my breathing slow down, and I was back to moaning. He would pull at my ass, and expose my hole. Then he would compress my cheeks together, and rub at them hard. Next, I felt both hands wrapped around my ankles. He rubbed at my Achilles. Then he was sliding up my calf, up my hamstring, in between my legs-- I felt a finger brush my hole. He slid over my gluts, then he was at my back. He kept sliding over my whole body until his hands were at my shoulders, his body was laying on top of mine, and his mouth was brushing against my ear. I was breathing deeply.
"Turn over." was all he said.
I had the biggest boner, and no boxers or pants.
"I... Umm... Maybe we should just be-- just be done."
He whispered in my ear, "I know what goin' on down there Ryan. Do you think I don't have one?"
I swallowed hard. My mouth was watery, but my throat was dry. I didn't know what I was expected to do. Should I say something? Should I get my clothes on? Should I leave? No! I know what I want. I'm not embarrassed. I WANT you Derrick Chase, and with that thought in mind I flipped over.
I could see Derrick perfectly now. He was lying on top of me still, his shirt was off, and the only thing separating my throbbing crotch from his was a towel. His face was so sexy; his green eyes stared deeply into mine. Our lips were inches apart. I could've kissed him. He pinched my ear with his right hand.
"Close your eyes," he whispered
I obeyed, and felt him lift himself off of me. Then I felt the oil. He used a lot this time. Probably the rest of the bottle. I was lathered up from head to toe. He laid his palms flat against my abdomen, and began to squeeze and rub.
His hands were so slippery and my body so glossy. He moved up and down my torso quickly. It felt like he had a hand everywhere on my body. The friction between my smooth skin and his rough hands was unbearable; I couldn't stomach my long, loud moans of pleasure. Then he went to my legs.
He started at my knees and worked up towards my thighs. He was rubbing my inner thigh and the electricity was insane. Wave after wave of fuzzy feeling hit my brain. I couldn't process it. That's when it happened.
Derrick Chase, the quarterback of the football team, star baseball and hockey player, the stud of studs, the hottest kid in school, the embodiment of sex, the epitome of teenage beauty, grabbed my dick. He didn't brush it. He didn't rub it. He grabbed it, and began to slowly stroke it.
I gasped. It wasn't a moan. It was a gasp. I inhaled so much air; I thought my lungs were going to explode. My eyes flickered inside my head. I wanted to open them, but the rapture that shook at my body wouldn't let me. It took me less than a minute to cum. I moaned and cried out in ecstasy when my creamy sperm erupted out of my thick boy-meat, and mixed with the sweat and oil on my stomach. Derrick didn't stop. He was tugging on my dick with his right hand, and massaging my abdomen with his left, boy-cream covered hand. The temperature in the room had risen considerably, and I reeked of cum, lotion, and sweat. I felt Derrick tear off his towel and lie on top of me. I could feel his dick press up against mine. I could feel his nose millimeters from mine. I could taste his lips. They were only inches away...
RING RING RING!!!
RING RING RING!!!
Derrick jumped off of me at the sound of the noise. I could do nothing but lie there; waves of euphoria sent me spinning into fits of bliss.
RING RING RING!!!
The phone cut through the silence. It was, after all, silent without me moaning.
"It's your mom." Derrick said. His voice cracked. I looked up, and he already had a shirt and boxers on. He handed the phone down to me.
"Hello?"
"Ryan, where the hell are you? It's twelve-thirty. You said you'd be home at midnight." My mom's voice cracked like a whip.
Fuuuck.
"I'm at a friend's, mom."
"You had me worried to death. I don't want excuses, you better be home by one. Get your ass in the car now."
Click.
I looked up at Derrick. I was still naked. My body was thick with oil, and my dick was soft again. Derrick looked down at me with his green eyes. He looked sad. Confused. He didn't say anything.
"I-- I have to go."
Derrick nodded and walked out of the room. I heard the bathroom door close and lock. I gathered my stuff and got dressed. My clothes stuck to me uncomfortably, and my jeans felt itchy and rough. I looked at myself in Derrick's mirror. My hair was covered in sweat. There was a bit of dried cum on my cheek. I wiped it off with an oily finger. I looked presentable. Presentable enough so that I wouldn't have to explain too much to my mom.
I grabbed my keys off Derrick's desk, and walked out to leave. Before I left, though, I knocked on the bathroom door.
Silence.
"I-- I'm sorry," I said to the door.
Silence.
By the time I got home, I couldn't remember what it was, exactly, that I was sorry for.
TBC
Hi. Writing this was fun, but it was really tough too. I hope it's not too detailed. I didn't want it to be so wordy that it killed the mood. I think it's good, though. I also hope it's not corny and cliched. I know the situation may be a little hackneyed, but I tried to put my own spin on it. I also have come to the conclusion that I need an editor. Proofreading is a bitch, and I always miss stuff. So, if you want to be my editor, just shoot me and email with your name, age, and, I don't know, something about yourself. I'll choose before the next chapter comes out (probably some time next week). So, editor applications, comments, questions, reviews, concerns, autobiographies, biographies of Ron Paul and his underground friendship with Malcolm X, all that goes to pessimistsandoptimists@gmail.com. I'm gonna go proofread this thing for the tenth time. Someone save me :)
Also! I noticed when I went on Nifty last night... The name of my story is A Pessimist's Guide to Optimism, NOT A Pessimists Guide to Optimism. I know there should be an apostrophe. I am literate. I have passed the fourth grade. I don't know why Nifty is making me look retarded, but it is so... Just wanted to let you guys know I don't have Downs Syndrome.