Jock Auction (33 page)

“Oh, like you don’t beg for that anyway” I retorted. I could feel the corners of his mouth twist up in response, the gentle pressure of his fingertips on my skin.

My phone buzzed on the counter. I eyed it warily.

You’re still my son. Our son. I love you too. Dad
, it read. I felt my eyes get a little wet, watched as Craig glanced over the words, his arm tight around my waist.

“Told you so,” he said eventually, nuzzling his face against mine.

“Guess I should’ve listened to you, then,” I replied.

He nodded. “They just need time to process it. At least now you know that they’re

willing to work at that.”

How long would that take, though?

“So Jackson,” Craig said, turning in my arms so that his back was to me. “Do you

date other jocks?”

Jackson glanced over from the sink, wiping his hands on a towel. Jake had

apparently won the argument over who was going to load the dishes.

“Sometimes. I don’t really have much of a ‘type’ as such, I guess.”

“Apart from idiots with spandex fetishes,” Jake sniped from across the kitchen. He ducked almost in time to miss the towel his brother aimed at his head.

“Yeah, so preferably not people more interested in spandex than me, though I’m

not opposed to some fun along those lines, y’know?”

Jake put his fingers in his ears, started chanting “la la la” at full volume. I leaned in close to Craig.

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“I should probably talk to Louis first, before I out him to Jake,” I whispered. Craig frowned, nodded.

“Why do you ask, anyway?” Jackson said, busy yanking Jake’s hands free.

“Oh, no reason,” Craig muttered. I knew that wouldn’t be sufficient to dampen

down Jackson’s curiosity; and sure enough, he looked over quizzically. “Guess I was just wondering if I stood a chance is all.”

“Hey!” I blurted out as Jackson winked at my boyfriend in reply.

“Don’t be all uptight about it, dude,” Jackson teased me, “We could always share

him…take one end each and meet up in the middle.”

Craig was blushing now—I was suitably gratified to see—but Jake was looking

more than slightly horrified at the way the conversation was running.

“Seriously, guys, can we keep the gay tag-teaming talk to a minimum, please?” He

winced.

Jackson slapped him on the back. “It’s more like spit roasting, actually.”

“Dude!” Jake shouted.

His brother shrugged. “Look, you’re the one who asked.”

“Um, no, I really didn’t!”

Whoever had started it, the thought had struck a certain filthy chord in my

imagination. Craig spread across the kitchen table, or over the arm of the couch

perhaps, Jackson at one end and me at the other. Would I want to see another guy fuck my boyfriend’s ass, or would I rather see him suck another guy’s dick? Even just the thought of either sent a shiver down me.

It wasn’t that I wanted to share him. Not actually, not literally. And yet the weird power dynamic that had always ebbed and flowed between us—my dominating him,

Craig subverting that, and my seizing back control—meant the idea of him sandwiched between Jackson and me was irresistibly arousing.

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I could picture Craig’s lips taut around my cock, his hair falling over his eyes as Jackson twisted his arms up, behind his lean body. The wrestler’s broad shoulders in stark contrast to Craig’s small form, the slap of his muscled hips as they hit my

boyfriend’s ass as we made eye contact, knowing we were using the same guy, our

dicks inside the same flesh. It was animal and dirty and maybe even disrespectful

somehow, and it was making me hard in my boxers despite the fact that I’d climaxed less than an hour before.

“All right, well, nice as it is to see my pervert brother bonding with my friends, I need to get going,” Jake said, glancing pointedly at Jackson. His twin looked nowhere near abashed and even less contrite at being called out. “Do you guys need a ride?”

I shook my head. “We’re all good. My car is here.”

Jake nodded. “Okay, well, remember you guys are welcome here as long as you

need a place to stay. Though I may have to put you on the chores rota…”

We all laughed at that—I’d seen just how reluctant Jake was to do housework—

and then he was walking out through the door and it was just the three of us in the kitchen.

“He’s right, you know,” Jackson said after we’d heard the front door slam.

“What, we have to go on the rota?” Craig replied.

Jackson rolled his eyes. “No, dummy. That you’re welcome here as long as you

need somewhere you can crash. I mean, I’m sure your folks won’t be crazy about all this stuff forever, Kyle, but just until they get with the program, I mean.”

“Thanks, dude, it means a lot,” I told him. And it did; it meant a lot that people who were—in comparison to my parents at least—pretty much strangers had started

looking out for me, whereas my own mom and dad were acting like, well, assholes.

Bigoted, frustrating assholes.

“I should probably get home and change,” Craig said.

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“Let me guess,” Jackson told him, “you’re the sort of guy who only has black

clothes in his closet.”

“Hey,” Craig fired back, “that’s not true. I have, um, gray too.”

“Dark gray,” I muttered. He shot an evil look in my direction; I shrugged, smiling.

“Just because some of us don’t get off on walking round in stretchy Lycra suits all day,” Craig pointed out to Jackson.

“I bet we could find one to fit.” The wrestler chuckled.

Now there was a thought. Craig in a skin-tight layer, maybe recreating Jackson’s

experience in the shower, the bulge of his cock clear through the wet fabric. If it hadn’t been for the obvious difference in size, I would’ve asked Jackson if we could’ve

borrowed one of his singlets just for that.

“Quick, drive me home before he gets any ideas and pins me,” Craig joked to me,

casting a sideways look at our new friend. Jackson puffed his chest up, tried to appear intimidating. It might’ve worked if I didn’t know him.

I found myself thinking about the message my dad had sent, running the words

through my head again and again, finally finding some shaky resolve.

“You sticking around here?” I asked Jackson as Craig gathered up his stuff from

the previous night.

“Yeah, going to work out a while,” he replied. “Join me if you want, dude.”

I grimaced. “I probably should. Coach told me to take it easy, but I can’t see that lasting when the next big game comes around, and I’ve hardly been to practice. I’ll see how much time I have after dropping Craig off. But…I might try calling my dad first. If that’s okay?”

Craig nodded at me, smiled encouragingly.

Jackson gave me a companionable slug in the shoulder as he walked past. “Okay,

we’ll be in the garage.”

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Upstairs, I perched on the edge of the bed, cradling my phone in my hands. My

father’s cell-phone number was already on the screen, and my finger was itching—yet reluctant—to hit the Call button.

Deep breath, Kyle. Hey, what’s the worst that can happen?

Actually, no; best not to think that question through.

I stabbed at Call only half thinking about it, pressed the phone to my ear. Voice

mail. I hung up and tried again. Voice mail.

Deflated, I pushed the phone back into my pocket. Should I leave a message? And

say what?
Hey, it’s your son. We should patch things up else I’m going to be living in other
people’s spare rooms until I graduate.

Even just thinking that made my eyes prickle, and I rubbed them angrily,

frustrated that I still couldn’t quite control the waterworks. I walked into the bathroom and leaned in close to the mirror to inspect my eyes, not really wanting Jackson and Craig to know I’d been tearing up.

I didn’t mean to go snooping. I mean, it wasn’t even really snooping: I was just in the bathroom, and I glanced around and something caught my eye in the laundry

hamper. Something shiny and almost glistening.

The Lycra was smooth and stretchy in my hands as I held the wrestling singlet up

in front of me, letting it dangle by the narrow shoulder straps from my fingers. It was royal blue with black panels up the sides; clearly not the blue-and-white one Jackson had said would go translucent when it was wet. Just how many did he have?

I knew I should put it back in the hamper, but I couldn’t stop running the silky

fabric through my fingers, listening to it whisper softly.

Did I dare try it on?

I wasn’t as big as Jackson, sure, but it was obviously designed to stretch, and

anyway, it wasn’t like I was going to go take part in a wrestling tournament. I just wanted to see what it felt like wrapped around me and then take it off and never

mention it to the twins.

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Somehow I knew that, even with the misgivings still echoing around in my head, I

was going to do it. It was inevitable. Just one quick try and then back into my regular clothes and downstairs to take Craig home. A minute, nothing more than that, right?

I stepped back into the bedroom, shucked my T-shirt, and let my jeans drop.

Underwear too. I knew some people wore a jockstrap underneath a singlet but probably not boxers.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I eased my right foot through the leg opening and

then my left. Dragged the suit up my thighs, and then pulled the straps up until I could squeeze my arms through the holes.

It felt like I was being hugged across every square inch of my skin, as though I’d immersed myself in some sort of cool, clinging liquid that squeezed me from all

directions. I reached down and adjusted myself, already half-hard, and tugged my balls forward from between my legs.

There was a full-length mirror on the wardrobe door, and I stood in front of it to see the final result. Sure, I wasn’t quite up to the man-mountain look that Jackson had going on in the videos he’d shown me, but I still thought I looked pretty good. My thighs, wide from running up and down a pitch more than a few times a week, pushed against the elastic, while my narrow waist and broad shoulders were encased in a

faintly iridescent funnel of material that left me wanting to run my hands down my chest.

The bulge of my junk, jutting forward at my crotch, was clearly outlined. I traced the length of it with my fingertip as it throbbed and grew up toward my hip. Brushed the palm of my hand between my legs, the smoothness almost crackling with static.

I could completely see why Jackson’s ex had wanted him to wear it. There was

something about the coexistence of being officially covered up, dressed, and yet so entirely on display. I wasn’t sure how Jackson could walk around in public like this without popping a perpetual erection.

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I turned so that I could peer back over my shoulder at my ass, tightly encased in

blue, and bent forward until the bulge of my nuts was visible between my legs.

When I turned back, I was fully hard, my cock jutting out as far as it could stretch the suit. I sank down to my knees, still facing myself in the mirror, and let my hands play along it, occasionally reaching back and running my palm across my cheeks,

fingertips pushing in between to stroke across my hole. My nipples were sharp against the spandex, and I pulled the shoulder straps off, bared my chest, and pinched at them as I played with myself.

I was jerking off, but it felt so very different to any other time I’d done it. Sure, I’d groped my dick through my underwear before now, even done it to the point where I

couldn’t hold back and had tipped over the edge without even pulling it out, but this was another level of sensation.

Leaning back, I pushed my crotch forward, my hardness and the quarter-sized

wet spot at its tip the center of my attention. Somehow I felt more naked than when I was actually undressed. I knew I should stop stroking, that eventually it would be all too easy to shoot—and then all too difficult to explain afterward—but I couldn’t bring myself to take my hand away.

I should’ve known the door would open, should’ve figured that every intimacy in

this house would end up punctuated with getting interrupted. Even so, the sight of Jackson standing in the doorway looking at me with a mixture of surprise and

amusement came as a shock.

I fell on my ass, one hand still wrapped around my cock, the other at my nipple.

Jackson grinned, showing his teeth.

“Dude, is that my suit?”

My face was bright red. I didn’t need to look at myself in the mirror to see that. I tried to cover my crotch with my hand, but it was clear I was doing a pretty poor job of hiding what had been going on.

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“I…I mean…” I stuttered, scratching round my imagination for an excuse that

might stick.

“You’re one sick puppy.” Jackson laughed, shaking his head. “I guess those videos

I showed you really did get you worked up!”

I pushed myself up so that I could sit on the edge of the bed, conscious of the

shape of my still-dripping cock as it pushed out the stretchy fabric. I still hadn’t come up with an explanation that was anything more than “it felt incredible, and I had to jerk off,” which didn’t quite seem sufficient given the circumstances.

“If you wanted to try one, all you needed to do was ask,” Jackson said. “No need

to go digging through my dirty laundry.”

“It was on the top of the pile. I didn’t go digging!” I argued. He shrugged at me.

“Oh, well, that’s okay, then. Some other guy’s singlet is left out, so no harm, no foul in jerking off in it, right? That’s practically an invitation.”

I opened my mouth to speak, closed it again. Words had escaped me once more.