Wallflower (Rear Entrance Video, #2)

by Heidi Belleau

  Yeah, Rob was a man, all right. No doubt about it. He pumped harder, picked up the pace chasing his orgasm. Dylan was jerking himself off now, punching Rob in the gut with every flick of his wrist. Rob didn’t mind. The strikes were like a metronome dictating his pace, letting him match the rhythm Dylan most needed in that moment. And Dylan’s ass was tightening around him, milking him—muscles that contracted starting at the base of his dick and rippled upward, all the way up his shaft until they squeezed his head, God. Rob’s eyes rolled back in his head and he let out a hoarse cry, absurdly hoping in that moment that Austin had taken his suggestion of headphones to heart.

  Fuck it, who cared. Let them all hear. Rob was a man. Rob was a man. Rob was a man.

  They came together, kissing and moaning into each other’s mouths, wet, broken sounds that matched the desperate slapping of Rob’s dick in Dylan’s tight, lubed hole, slowing now.

  Rob shivered all over, body giving out, and when he collapsed it was a soft landing, his small, bony body perfectly fitting against Dylan’s bigger, fleshier one. So small, so delicate, especially when Dylan swept his long bangs back out of his eyes and kissed his sweaty forehead, then rubbed their noses together.

  “Eskimo kiss,” Rob said with a mindless giggle, then felt sorry for it.

  “Kunik,” Dylan corrected, no offense in his tone. “But that’s not one.” He pressed their faces close, nudging his nose below Rob’s cheekbone and inhaling deep enough that he drew Rob’s skin to his using just his breath. “That is. Because I think I’m starting to love you.”

  You confusing, contradictory idiot.

  I think I’m starting to love you, too.

  They lounged in bed for a while longer, engaged in some utterly shameless snuggling and enjoying each other’s warmth, but then Dylan’s stomach rumbled, and they were forced to consider the possibility of leaving their cocoon-of-ignoring-the-world. After a quick joint shower ending in traded handjobs, they dressed and headed downstairs to the kitchen, Dylan with his backpack in tow.

  Christian and Max were already at the table, drinking coffee.

  Upon spotting Rob and Dylan hand in hand, Max gave a disinterested nod. Christian’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline, but he quickly smothered the expression.

  “Mornin’,” Dylan greeted, completely unfazed by any of the potential awkwardness in the situation.

  “Morning,” Christian replied, then checked his watch. “Well, afternoon, technically.”

  Max raised his mug to them. “Hey, Nugget. Dude screwing Nugget.”

  “Name’s Dylan,” Dylan said, still unperturbed. In fact, that may or may not have been a twitch of a smile at one corner of his mouth that Rob saw just then.

  “Max. And this is Christian. We’re Rob’s roommates.”

  Dylan took a seat at the table like he belonged there and promptly unzipped his backpack, pulling out a stack of papers and a battered old netbook. “Hi. I’m his boyfriend.”

  Wow. Mister Let’s-Not-Get-Too-Committed had apparently turned over a new leaf, because he was going all-out, what with dropping the “L” word this morning, and now introducing them as a couple? What was next, sitting next to Rob in class every day, forming their own two-man clique?

  Before this point, Rob had been willing to believe the “starting to love you” speech had just been Dylan’s orgasm talking, or maybe Dylan was more free with the word than other men, like maybe he said it to everyone he had good sex with. Or maybe he’d meant “love” the way you love cheesecake, or your computer’s new graphics card, or that sexy-as-hell actor they’d cast to play opposite Katherine Heigl in her latest forgettable rom-com.

  But now Rob wasn’t so sure. Especially since he’d already established that Dylan was the kind of person who had to vocalize just about every thought that crossed his mind.

  Was it really so hard to believe someone could love him? Or was it just because it was so damn soon?

  Or was it the fact that Dylan didn’t even know him at all?

  Rob sighed, the lightness of his morning vanishing as new guilt and worries settled on his shoulders. “Coffee, Dylan? Tea? Something to eat? I have sugary kids’ cereal, or I can make us some eggs and toast if you want.”

  “Is the sugary kids’ cereal multicolored?” Dylan asked, still smiling at him with that dopey expression. Yeah, he was definitely sincere with the love thing.

  “No, but it has marshmallows?” Rob couldn’t help smiling back. He put the kettle on.

  “Good enough. Okay. Gimme a bowl and don’t skimp on the marshmallows. And a coffee, please. Black.” He opened his laptop just as Rob returned to the cupboards, searching out the box of cereal. “Usually it’s me making breakfast the next morning,” Dylan told Max and Christian, obviously pleased with the change.

  Rob poured two bowls of cereal and sloshed in milk. Unlike Max, he didn’t have to sniff it before he did. “Well, you brought me dinner last night. Next time you can take me out for bacon and eggs.”

  “I’ll do you one better. I’ll make you Belgian waffles.”

  “You gonna bring a Belgian waffle maker along with you on a booty call?” Max asked. “Okay, Nugget, you can keep him.”

  “Good to know I have your permission,” Rob said with a snort as he turned, setting both bowls of cereal on the table. Spoons next, and Dylan’s coffee, and then the kettle was whistling, so he made himself a tea. “Not that I needed it in the first place.”

  “Hell, yes, you fuckin’ need my permission,” Max retorted. “You think I’m gonna just let any loser off the street bone my favorite little guy and break his heart?”

  Christian sputtered, Rob bristled, but it was Dylan who was quickest with a comeback: “From where I’m sitting, you’re not much bigger than he is, little guy.”

  Christian burst out in one of his rare laughs, or did until Max punched him in the shoulder for it, at least.

  “This guy knows what I’m talking about,” Dylan said, gesturing to Christian by poking his lips out.

  Rob smiled to himself as he sat down with his tea, scraping his rickety chair across the floor until his and Dylan’s thighs were touching under the table. He hunched over Dylan’s computer and saw it was open to their project PowerPoint, where Dylan had dutifully started typing up Rob’s notes. Seeing that Rob was looking, Dylan tabbed through the presentation to the slide on My Marilyn. “Noticed your notes were a little sketchy on this piece,” he said with a mischievous smirk.

  “Huh,” Rob replied, taking a thoughtful sip of his hot tea. Felt great on his slightly battered throat. “Something must have distracted me.”

  “It was my sexual magnetism,” Dylan clarified with a sage nod.

  Max slapped his palms on the table. “Well, that’s breakfast over. How about we find something to distract us for a few hours, babe?” He waggled his eyebrows at Christian meaningfully. Was he . . . was he trying to one-up Dylan?

  “Nice meeting you, Dylan,” Christian said, absolutely unflustered by any of it. But then, he’d had plenty of time to get used to Max’s antics by now. One breakfast with Dylan couldn’t be much more shocking to him than living with Max already was.

  “You too, Christian. And Max.” Dylan gave a friendly wave, and once they’d gone, knocked shoulders with Rob. “So those are your roommates, eh? What’re the odds of having three gay-or-at-least-bi guys in one house, do you think?”

  “Who knows. Just too bad I couldn’t have used those odds to win the lottery instead.”

  “You did win the lottery. The gay roommate lottery.”

  Rob turned his attention to his cereal. “I don’t consider it a win unless I’m getting laid out of it.”

  “You tellin’ me neither of those guys even tried to poke you?” Dylan stirred his own spoon in his bowl until he’d gathered an acceptable marshmallow-to-cereal ratio.

  “Nope. To be honest, I’m surprised they even believe I had sex with you. Before this morning, I’d kinda half convinced myself they thought I reproduced asexual
ly.”

  “What we did this morning was absolutely not about reproduction, Puny. That was pure for-pleasure, animal sex.” Dylan’s hand snaked around Rob’s back, dipping down into the ass of his jeans. “So it’s their loss for not seeing what an insatiable little slut you are.”

  “Oh, quit it with the sweet talk, you’re making me blush.” Rob scoffed, then forced himself to return his attention back to their school work. “So is this stack of paper the stuff I missed?”

  “Yeah. Notes, mostly, and then printouts of the first two group presentations. You missed a very stimulating analysis of woven tapestries.”

  “Wow, now I’m really sad you decided to give me a BJ in the rain.”

  Dylan flashed a toothy smile, brilliant but over quick. “Oh, and also, we got a handout for our final project. Doctor Chastity reserved the gallery space for a one-night show. We have to do self-portraits.”

  “Self-portraits, seriously?” Rob groaned. “Is this tenth-grade art? We going to have to do construction paper silhouette cutouts next?”

  “Don’t give her any ideas. So the assignment is to do a self-portrait that’s not in our preferred medium, and then a write-up of three techniques or basic elements of art we chose to use. So if you make use of negative space, you have to explain how you did it and why you chose that.”

  “On a self-portrait. Ugh. And I can’t even do a sculptural piece?”

  “Yep. And I can’t do comic art. Which is really too bad because I had a really great idea to do a riff on one of those forties-style jingoistic Captain America or Superman covers but with me as the villain.”

  Rob couldn’t help grinning at that. It sounded pretty cool, actually. Totally Dylan’s style. “How do you do a racist caricature of an Inuit?”

  “Okay, okay, get this, right?” Dylan made an expansive gesture, setting the scene. “The Eskimo! The man with a heart of ice walks among you! I’d be wearing a very menacing parka.”

  “You should totally do it anyway,” Rob said with a snorting giggle, stuck on the idea of a menacing parka. “It sounds amazing. So what are you going to do instead?”

  “I’ll probably just do some bullshit abstract piece of crap, make up a slick story to go with it. Or maybe I’ll do the old polar-bear-in-a-snowstorm blank canvas thing, except I’m the bear, and then I’ll play it totally serious like ‘this is an image that’s very sacred to my ancestors.’ What about you? Any ideas yet?”

  “No fucking clue.”

  Whether he’d planned to or not, Rob was living a double life. At work, he was Bobby, cute and flirtatious, the darling of his customers. All it had taken to balance his two halves was to trade away the video store shifts that Dylan came in for like clockwork, and since that trade involved taking Max’s Friday night shift, it had been a painless process. Voilà: he was free to keep his boyfriend, and still be Bobby some of the time, too.

  And the rest of the time he was a slightly improved version of Rob, a Rob who had someone to sit with in class, a Rob who spent more time with his real-life roommates and sister than with his Kingdom of Elves guild. A Rob with an actual boyfriend, someone who spent time with him not out of obligation, but out of affection. Someone to fuck and joke around with and cuddle and bicker with.

  Having a safety valve to let off those Bobby-urges seemed to help make his day-to-day life as Rob more palatable. Easier to navigate. Or maybe that was just the confidence he got out of being in a relationship with Dylan. They’d even made plans to go out to Celebrities with Bernice and her girlfriends. He’d had to pay Dylan to go along with that one with an extended rimming session, but since Rob didn’t mind rimming and Dylan wanted to meet his sister—even if it meant going to Celebrities with a bunch of shrieking straight girls—neither of them was feeling the least bit cheated by their bargain.

  Yes, being with Dylan hadn’t “fixed” Rob’s urge to be Bobby, but he’d successfully drawn a line between Bobby and Rob, neatly keeping the two halves of himself separate . . . except when they weren’t.

  Like right now. Dylan in Rob’s bed, lying back, Rob straddling him, riding his huge dick like a very enthusiastic cowgirl. And for all his intentions to keep Bobby out of his relationship, there she was. Because yeah, Dylan might be fucking his ass, but Rob couldn’t help picturing Dylan fucking his sloppy, wet pussy instead. Pounding it, filling every last inch of space, and God, yeah, looking up and watching with admiration as Bobby’s tits bounced, as Bobby’s pretty nipples tightened into perfect little peaks. He couldn’t help it. He reached down to where Dylan’s hands cupped his waist and guided them upward, up to cup his tits, hold them and weigh them as they jiggled and bobbed.

  “Yes,” Bobby moaned, losing himself to the wonderful fantasy, and Dylan’s thumbs flicked his nipples, and Dylan’s hands squeezed and kneaded his little tits.

  “Gonna come for me, baby?” Dylan asked, circling Bobby’s nipples with the pads of his thumbs as he pushed Bobby’s tits together, creating a sexy little line of cleavage.

  Pussy clenching that big, invading dick, tossing his head back with a wild, high cry, Bobby did.

  “So beautiful,” Dylan murmured into his hair when it was over, cradling Rob to his chest, just holding him as he trembled with shivers that he couldn’t attribute solely to either pleasure or shame. “My beautiful baby, my beautiful baby.”

  That was when Rob knew he was lost.

  No denying it anymore. Something had to give.

  Friday night. Celebrities night. Rob had agreed to meet Dylan after work at a little sushi restaurant he liked. They could have dinner together and make a game plan before meeting up with Bernice and her friends at the bar.

  Rob had packed his good jeans and a nice, black, button-down shirt to wear, but for now he was in his Bobby-wear, trying not to look at the clock too conspicuously as Charlie VIP droned on about how much more sexual freedom there was in Mexico.

  Please don’t mention the merits of bestiality. Please don’t mention the merits of bestiality.

  Luckily it never got to that point, although there was no denying that was the angle Charlie had been driving at the entire “conversation.” Charlie was more on the clueless and socially stunted end of the creeper scale versus the aggressive one, which meant that after a few nonanswers, he eventually gave up on this particular horrible quest and wandered off on another one: combing the store in search of this week’s depravity.

  Thank God.

  Once Charlie had gone again, leaving the store empty and Bobby with only a slightly grimy feeling all over his body as a result of their extended interactions, Bobby was able to resume watching the clock again in earnest. Just before nine. If it was slow in the hour leading up to closing, he could easily be out of here by ten after eleven and at the restaurant ten minutes after that. So a little more than two and a half hours until he got to see Dylan.

  Or zero minutes zero seconds, even.

  Because that was Dylan strolling right through the front door right now.

  And looking straight at Bobby.

  Well, Bobby had recently resolved that this whole double life thing he’d been doing wasn’t tenable, hadn’t he? Of course, he hadn’t planned on coming out quite like this. It wasn’t fair to either of them. He was about to open his mouth and say exactly that, but Dylan beat him to it. “Oh! Sorry, uh, I thought Rob was supposed to be working tonight.”

  You have got to be fucking kidding me.

  But there was no smile, no gotcha moment, nothing. Dylan was seriously standing there, looking right fucking at him, and not recognizing who he was. And sure, that kind of thing had been far-fetched but possible when they’d first known each other, but they’d spent every single day together for weeks now. Far-fetched should be outright impossible by now, but there Dylan was, staring at him without even the tiniest glint of recognition in his eyes.

  Well, fuck. What now?

  The smart thing, of course, would be to say, “Dylan, it’s me,” in his Rob voice, force Dylan to see the two hal
ves of himself coalesce into one.

  But apparently Bobby wasn’t feeling up to being smart just now, because when he spoke, it was with Bobby’s voice, even more carefully feminine than usual. “Oh, um, yeah. You’re his boyfriend, right? He wanted to go home early and get ready for tonight. He said that if you came in, to tell you he’s still planning on meeting you at the restaurant.”

  Dylan’s face fell, and he scrubbed the toe of his grody, old sneaker across the floor. “Oh. Okay.”

  Wow, for a cross-dresser, Bobby was kind of terrible at lying. Well, duh. Because being Bobby isn’t a fucking lie for you, remember? No more a lie than being Rob is. “Sorry?” he tried.

  “Don’t be. It’s fine.”

  The thing about Dylan was, he was a terrible fucking liar too. It wasn’t fine. It wasn’t fine at all.

  Just tell him it’s you. Just tell him. Tell him it’s you and you love him and you’re sorry but this is who you really are.

  But he couldn’t.

  He just . . . couldn’t. What if Dylan was grossed out? Insulted him? What if Dylan dumped him? What if . . . what if Dylan hurt him?

  No. Dylan wouldn’t hurt him. Not physically, anyway. He was a good guy, Bobby knew.

  But being good didn’t preclude him from any of those other reactions, and Bobby wasn’t ready to let this go. Wasn’t ready to face the consequences, whatever they were.

  And it didn’t really matter now anyway, because Dylan was already walking right out the door without another word.

  Hands trembling, lip wobbling, Bobby reached up with careful dignity to take off his glasses. Folded the arms closed and set them down on the counter just so. Didn’t get a chance to cry like he’d planned to, because the bell over the door jingled again.

  Dylan?

  Nope, that ship had sailed. It was Adam Hollister Cap, who gave him a grin. “Like you without the glasses, babycakes.”