Jock Auction (34 page)

“Still,” Jackson said with a sly grin, “you’re lucky you didn’t put it on and find your dick in a wet spot already there. You ain’t the only one who likes the feel of it.”

I pictured him overcome with an urge of his own, one hand roughly stroking his

erection, the other shoved down the back of the suit, finger digging between his cheeks.

My balls twitched a little tighter at the thought of it.

“I need someone to spot me, and I’m probably lifting more than Craig weighs

soaking wet. You think you can manage that?” he asked. I nodded, not trusting my

voice. I went to reach for my clothes. “Forget it; you’re already dressed to work out.”

Jackson led me down the stairs, out through the kitchen, and into the two-car

garage. A weight bench held pride of place in one the bays, bar already laden with plates. I wasn’t sure exactly how much was stacked up on there, but I could see with a glance that it was a lot.

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A glance was all I could afford it too; the bulk of my attention was focused on

Craig, who stood over by the wall with his arms folded and a very surprised

expression. I gave him a somewhat pleading glance that I hoped would be interpreted as “Look, there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation to all this, and I’ll tell you it as soon as I can.”

Jackson didn’t give me any time to stutter out the backstory, anyway. “Just stand

there and catch it if I screw up,” the wrestler instructed. “Coach gets pissed at me if he finds out I’ve been doing the heavy reps without someone around, and I guess I’d

rather not choke myself if I drop ‘em.”

I stepped into place where he gestured at the head of the bench and watched as

Jackson sat down and then lay back. Looking down, past the still-dangling shoulder straps of the suit, I could see his face staring up at me, the bulge of my cock between us.

He smirked, wickedly.

“Seems someone is doing some weight lifting of their own, my friend.”

Shrugging awkwardly, I fought the urge to rearrange myself, knowing it would

only draw more attention to my hardness. Glanced over desperately at Craig, who had a strange mix of fascination and lust across his face, along with what I thought was probably the urge to laugh out loud.

Jackson reached up, fingers wrapping carefully around the knurled grips of the

shiny metal bar. He huffed in a breath, then out again, and then another as he pushed up and lifted the weights off their hooks. The muscles in his arms swelled obscenely, shiny in the harsh light of the unshaded fluorescent tube above us.

He pushed up, the bar rising toward me, his upper body clearly straining. Held it

there and then carefully lowered his arms again, settling into a steady, measured

rhythm. It didn’t really look like he needed my help, but I was content to watch the way his torso rippled against the thin cotton of his shirt.

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“Okay…” he grunted, lifting the weights higher again and letting the bar sway

back until it kissed the metal stand with a muffled ting. I slipped my hands under it, helped guide it into place.

Jackson lay there, face and upper chest flushed, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

I watched him in silence until his eyes opened and he gazed straight up at me, forcing me to look away embarrassed.

“Ready?” he asked, not waiting for a reply as he took the weight off the bar again and eased his way through another ten or fifteen reps. I glanced over at Craig, whose eyes were flicking between me and my condition in the skintight suit and the cadenced swell of the wrestler’s arms.

“Shit, buddy, can you…” Jackson muttered. I shook my head to wake myself out

of my reverie, glanced down to see that this time, rather than return the bar to its hooks, it was still down low and almost resting against his chest. Hurriedly I bent at the knees slightly and hooked my hands underneath the bar, feeling Jackson allow me to take its heft.

Fuck, it was heavy: certainly much more than I could bench press myself. I knew

I’d need to use my legs, that my arms alone might struggle, crouching a little as I tried to position myself so that I was pushing up and not pulling.

“Dude…” Jackson said, softly. I glanced down, realized that in my maneuvering

I’d ended up resting my crotch practically across his face. My balls, tightly wrapped in the glossy blue fabric, resting across his eyebrows.

“Oh fuck, I’m sorry…” I started to apologize, but he gave the bar a slight shake.

“First things first, dude,” he reminded me. I tensed, took a breath, and then stood up straight, setting the hefty weights away safely. Jackson stared up, a slight smile curling the corners of his mouth.

“You just rubbed your nuts on my face, Kyle.” Across the room, Craig let out a

bark of laughter but otherwise was silent, that same expression of hunger in his gaze at us in the middle of the room. Looking down, still yet to take my hands off the bar, I 246
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realized my cock was as hard as it had been all day. Jackson’s gaze moved along its length, eyebrow raised.

“I’m going to give you boys some space,” he said eventually, flashing a trademark

grin at Craig and then winking at me. I winced inwardly at being so obviously caught out as a horndog again.

He stood up and shot me a look over his shoulder, smirking at my heaving chest

and the blush I knew had spread across my cheeks and my upper torso. I knew Craig’s eyes were raking over me, the attention making my flushing skin prickle. Jackson

peeled off his T-shirt—facing away from me still—and then stretched his arms up,

linking his hands above his head and tilting left and right to pull out the kinks in his back.

Eventually, he walked around me, patting me on the shoulder as he went.

“You’re a lucky guy, Craig,” he said out loud, not stopping but walking through

the door and out into the kitchen. “Thanks for spotting me, Kyle.”

For a moment it was just the cool air of the garage and the silence of Craig

watching me, and then he stepped over to the bench where Jackson had just been lying, swung one leg over it, straddling its padded top and facing me.

I didn’t move as he reached up, carefully snagged his fingertips in one of the limp straps of the singlet, and pulled on it gently. The fabric gradually eased its way down my stomach, both of us still apart from the slow drag of his hand. I waited for Craig to say something, stared up at him as the silence dragged out. His eyes were glazed,

lustful.

Biting my lip, I watched as the tip of my cock was unwrapped, glistening stickily. I could smell my own musk, knew Craig would be able to smell it too. His hand paused.

“You look so hard…like just the slightest touch would be enough to make you

shoot,” he said, voice low and husky. He pulled on the suit again, only this time to the side, not down, rasping its slickness against my precum-wet head. The gasp caught in my throat, made my abs tense.

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Craig let the fabric stretch back into place, then crooked his fingertip another time and dragged the suit across my hardness again. My knees twitched; a bead of juice

oozed out of me, smeared across my pelvis. I shot Craig another look, confusion

battling horniness as I wondered why he wasn’t doing more, how he could resist the temptation to lean forward and let his lips press against me.

Craig stared intently at my cock where it broke free of the fabric, jeans bulging

with his arousal. Glancing up, he made eye contact, gaze flaring with eagerness.

He wanted to see this happen. Wanted to watch me lose control. I felt my chest go

tight.

Then it was the sensation of the Lycra against me, the constant teasing rub as

Craig pulled the singlet by the strap, each time grazing my exposed glans and sending shivers down my trapped shaft. Arousal built in me like a pressure cooker; the urge to take hold of myself and jerk off almost overwhelming, and yet I stood so very still, unable to take that final step and lose myself in front of him.

Still, I could feel the mounting explosion as it worked its way through me, knew it was only a matter of time before I couldn’t hold back anymore, before my body

betrayed me. Glancing at Craig’s face, I saw him smile in knowing delight.

And then he let go.

I realized my hips had started twisting, scribing tiny little figure-eight circles in the air, letting the movement rub the delicate underside of my cock against the

perpetual cling of the suit.

He sat back, ran one hand around the thick outline of his dick in his jeans, and

then reached out and very deliberately ran his fingernail along the underside of my shaft. I gasped as I erupted, my hands still gripping the bar with knuckles white, splattering across the vinyl bench. Craig’s wide eyes looked like glossy bullet holes in his pale face.

Groaning, I let my head hang, felt the last few shudders of the orgasm take me.

The smell of it strong against the backdrop of sweat, engine oil, and rubber tires.

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I stood there for the minutes it took for my panting to subside, listening to my

boyfriend as his own breathing eased back to normal too.

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Chapter Fourteen

We spent the drive to Craig’s house in companionable silence, his fingers laced in mine as I steered through the mostly empty streets. I’d gone from garage, to bathroom, to bedroom, and then to my car in a sort of waking daze. Not exactly feeling confused, or horny, or much of anything, just displaced, perhaps. There was something about

simply being with Craig—sharing a time and a place together—that I found reassuring somehow. Like he was a calming influence, making me think that everything would be okay.

Even if, when I spent more than a fleeting moment actually dwelling on the

situation, some of those things really didn’t seem like they’d be addressed and dealt with any time soon.

When we pulled up outside his house, we’d hardly said more than a couple of

words to each other. It’d not felt awkward, though, nor uncomfortable, just peaceful, and for a few minutes my brain hadn’t spent the whole time dwelling on my parents

and what I was going to do about them.

“Maybe just go see your dad,” Craig said, half out the door. I considered parking

the car and following him inside, but it felt like I needed some space to think on my own a while. I nodded.

“Might work, yeah,” I told him, mentally juggling his potential reactions. Would it be easier one-on-one, without Craig or my mom there? Our relationship had seemed to simplify over the past couple of years to well-rehearsed questions—”How are you?”;

“I’m good, you?”; “Fine, thanks”—and the same old jokes we’d laughed about

authentically when I was just hitting my teens and affectedly in more recent times. Each 250
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of us aware that the distance between us was growing greater and greater with each passing year.

And now there was all this stuff with Craig, and for the first time I’d found myself wondering whether that growing distance was in fact insurmountable. A rift that would only get worse.

I looked up to see the expression of worry across Craig’s face. Tried to fix a smile across my own, even as I knew he’d see right through it.

“Don’t worry about me,” I told him, doing my best to sound sincere and

believable. “It’ll all be okay in the end.”

Craig looked at me, silent, for a beat or two, then nodded. “I know it will. It’s

whether you believe it that I’m not so sure about.” He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “I should go. Call me later, okay?”

I gave him my broadest, most convincing grin, held my hand to the side of my

head in the universal “call me” gesture. I could hear him laughing as he slammed the door.

Somehow, even though we’d spent most of the journey in silence, it proved much

harder to blank out the feelings on the ride to my house. Being on my own in the car left my thoughts to ricochet around me. I knew I should do like Craig suggested and try to talk to my dad, but at the same time I was more than a little apprehensive about what sort of reception I’d get.

I sat outside my parents’ house, gripping the wheel, not daring to even look at the front door for fear that I might get spooked and drive away. The clock on the dashboard told me I’d been there for five minutes already; the cooling tick of the engine had already begun to fade.

After driving around the cookie-cutter neighborhood more or less aimlessly,

allowing the traffic to take me, I’d found myself at the end of my parents’ street.

Autopilot.

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Would they be pleased to see me? Thinking back over my dad’s text message that

morning, it seemed like he wouldn’t be displeased, which only left welcoming and

some degree of apathy. Somehow, apathy would almost be better than outright

rejection.

Then, of course, there was my mom. My dad’s attitude had seemed one of

confused reticence; hers had been more like raw horror and disgust. I could only guess that she blamed Craig for “turning” me or “perverting her son.” Presumably she

wouldn’t be happy until I was “cured” and settled down with a nice girl.

The thought of saying good-bye to Craig turned my stomach.

I started drumming an off-beat rhythm on the wheel, skittish with anxious energy.

I couldn’t remember feeling like this before, this same combination of fear and loss and dread. Maybe a little when I’d thought Craig was in trouble, when I’d gone running through the halls to find him, but even then that hadn’t had the same sort of ominous weight to it.

That sense that my roots were rotting away.

The itchy graze of tears at the corners of my eyes was what got me moving in the

end, the thought that I didn’t want to be found by a neighbor or a friend of the family while I sat sobbing in the car.