I'm Right Behind You

Dean's POV

Deep into the night, I sat in front of my computer for four hours without typing a single word. My mind was consumed by the scene from this afternoon.

Every time I'd fantasized about him before—writing him, dissecting him, inserting him into those sexual scenarios—I'd never hesitated.

I'd written about his cockhead pulling out of my ass, dragging pink flesh with it. About his cum dripping down from between my fucked-open legs. About him grinding his thumb into my ass cheek after fucking me, asking "Had enough yet?" with that possessive, cruel expression...

But today was different.

Today I'd seen his face. Bitten his thumb.

I closed my eyes.

My cock throbbed painfully hard. My hand slipped into my pants without conscious thought.

My palm came away slightly damp. I traced the outline downward, gripped my own rigid shaft, imagining the scalding, taut sensation of Curtis's thick cock.

I couldn't suppress a low grunt from my nose.

My roommate shifted in bed. I froze, waiting until he settled back into silence before continuing.

After leaving the Ice Arena today, I'd actually hated Curtis for a moment.

Hated his probing. Hated his touch. Hated the certainty in his voice when he called me a freak.

But I also hated myself for writing this stuff.

When I write these things, my hands shake. My cock hardens until it aches. My hole clenches involuntarily, waiting for a penetration that will never come.

What I hated more, though, was how gentle his movements had been while wrapping the bandage. How steady his hands were.

I'd enjoyed the pressure of his fingers while he dressed my wound. Enjoyed how my whole body burned when he leaned that close.

I struggled to recall every detail from this afternoon.

Curtis had bent his head to wrap the bandage, his practice jersey hanging open to reveal the edge of a blue tattoo.

I'd seen it in footage before, but footage never captures this angle—the angle you only get when you're trapped between a metal locker and his chest.

I'd written in my stories that Curtis's cockhead was rounded, that a vein ran along his shaft all the way to the base.

I'd written it without ever seeing it. But what if I had?

What if his cock stretched my mouth open, hit the back of my throat, and I couldn't swallow, could only make wet gagging sounds while he pressed the back of my head, pushing deeper still?

I sank into the whirlpool of desire. My cockhead swelled harder. I gripped it and stroked twice quickly, my hand moving faster and faster, my mind flooded with the continuation of the fantasy.

Curtis's thumb slid from my lips into my mouth, pressing down on my tongue.

He looked down at my mouth wrapped around his thumb, his blue pupils dilating, deepening until they were bottomless. "Suck."

I closed my lips around his thumb, circled the pad with my tongue tip, then sucked outward.

Curtis let out a low gasp, his breath hitting my ear, hot and wet.

His other hand yanked at my waistband, his palm covering my erection directly.

Curtis gripped me through my underwear, his thumb brushing over the precum leaking from my tip—that single touch made my back arch.

I heard him laugh low in his throat as he increased the pressure. "So wet already. Just from sucking a finger?"

He pulled his finger free, used it—slick with my saliva—to hook the edge of my underwear and drag it down.

He crouched, one hand gripping my base, mouth opening to engulf my cockhead.

His lips were thick and burning hot, his tongue cushioning from below, grinding back and forth against my frenulum.

I clutched helplessly at his short, coarse hair, neck arched back as I moaned.

He swallowed deeper, his throat contracting once—in that instant I nearly lost control and came.

"Curtis—"

Curtis flipped me around, pressed me against the locker door.

His hand dug into my waist while the other spread my ass cheeks. I felt his erection pressing against my entrance, the head scalding and slick.

"Relax," he murmured against the back of my neck. "Don't pull away."

His size pushed in inch by inch. My intestines rippled and tightened around his shape. He withdrew half an inch then thrust back in, his cockhead grinding over my prostate and my whole body jerked upward.

Curtis gripped my waist with the same hand that had crushed countless opponents, pounding into me from behind with steady thrusts.

"Fuck, found it," he panted. "Right there."

He slammed his hips forward again, grinding hard.

"Ah—" I couldn't hold back anymore. My whole body convulsed as I came.

Cum splattered against the metal locker door.

My entire body shook. My hole clenched around his cock in a death grip. Curtis's fingers dug into my waist, and he couldn't hold back either, releasing inside me.

Cum flooded in pulse after pulse, filling me until I felt my lower abdomen swell slightly.

It took me a long time to catch my breath. I pulled tissues from my desk drawer and cleaned up the mess.

Disgusting, Dean. Jerking off at three in the morning to fantasies about a hockey player.

The next day at noon, I stood outside the equipment storage room at the ice rink.

The bandage Curtis had wrapped around my fingers was still there.

Last night I'd covered my hand with plastic wrap in the shower, then rewrapped the bandage afterward. A few water stains darkened the white gauze.

I'm a fucking idiot.

But I couldn't help myself.

This piece of bandage still held the residual warmth of Curtis's fingertips, the airflow from his breath brushing my hand—of course those sensations had long since faded, but I couldn't bring myself to remove it.

Today the Ice Arena was hosting a youth training camp. Kids stumbled across the ice, their protective gear clattering together.

I knew Curtis wasn't here—he'd gone to an away game today, wouldn't be back for three days.

But I was pathetic enough to come look anyway.

A new shift schedule was posted on the storage room door. Curtis's name was listed for Tuesday and Thursday night shifts.

I pulled out my phone and took a picture, then felt like a stalker.

After handling various Ice Arena tasks, I logged into the forum and refreshed the thread.

I saw a new comment from [SWEET] under chapter seventeen: You looked like you were really enjoying yourself.

Enjoying what? Enjoying Curtis pressing me against the storage room wall to bandage my hand? The pressure of his thumb on my chin?

But more importantly—how did he know I was enjoying it?

First possibility: this person had also been at the Ice Arena yesterday and witnessed the whole thing. Second possibility: he was Curtis.

The moment that thought surfaced, cold sweat broke out across my back.

I closed my eyes. His face from yesterday materialized in my mind—mouth curved in that half-smile, tone flat as he delivered his verdict: "Because you're a freak."

Maybe he'd already confirmed it.

I snapped my eyes open and messaged an old user I'd known for six months, ID [Memory].

She was Canadian, in a different time zone, but often online. I sent her a private message: "Can you help me trace an IP address for a user ID?"

Memory quickly replied with a "?"

I was about to type a response when a new message from SWEET popped up at the top of the screen: Don't bother checking. I'm right behind you. Turn around and look.

My blood turned to ice. It was two in the morning. The door was locked, curtains drawn. But I moved like a puppet on strings, turning my neck inch by inch to look behind me.

Nothing but darkness.

My phone vibrated again: Just kidding. But the way you just turned around—cute.

My stomach churned violently. This person not only knew my secret but might be somewhere close by, watching me right now.