Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3)

by Heidi Belleau

  What’s wrong with spray deodorant?

  “Austin. Answer me.” He never raised his voice. Just tugged Austin’s head back so he could look into his eyes. Theoretically, anyway, because as soon as he’d done it, Austin squeezed them shut to block them out.

  “Fine! Yes, damn it! Are you happy now? Yes, I’m wearing fucking spray can deodorant!” Austin’s face burned with shame. Even though as of two seconds ago he hadn’t seen anything wrong with his choice of scent, being forced to admit to it like he should be ashamed somehow flipped a switch inside him and then he was. So ashamed. So ashamed, and all he could do was take that shame and present it to Puck in upraised palms and hope Puck still accepted him.

  Puck dropped his head, and after Austin had given in and let it rest on Puck’s thigh, Puck’s hand returned to his hair. This time, though, his touch was gentle: he petted and raked his fingers over Austin’s scalp. “That’s okay, buddy. You know why? Because we can fix it.” He sounded optimistic, and he tapped Austin right on the nose to punctuate his words, like he was comforting a child. “Because Master Puck can piss that stench right off you, can’t he?”

  No. Austin’s heart thrashed. His muscles tensed. He pushed back against Puck’s grip on him. No. I didn’t sign up for that. Luongo. No. Luongo.

  But he couldn’t say it aloud. Didn’t make any noise beyond a slightly high-pitched, miserable moan. He didn’t want to get pissed on, he didn’t, but he also didn’t want to refuse Puck. Anything.

  Puck continued to pet him thoughtfully. Didn’t let up on the pressure that was keeping Austin pinned to his lap. “Hmm. Maybe later, though.”

  Austin went absolutely boneless with relief.

  “There, there. See? See how much easier it is for you if you accept your place? You talk a big game, kid, but like all macho straight boys, you’ve got a submissive little fag deep down inside you begging to be let out.”

  This time, when Austin moaned, there was nothing miserable about it. Fag. He loved and hated that word. Hated being insulted, hated being thought of as less of a man. Hated his uncontrollable reaction, that sharp arousal he felt every time he heard it used against him.

  Loved that for the first time in his life, he didn’t have to hide how much it affected him. The way it made him hot and hard and needy, even as he despised himself. Despised being like this.

  Loved that Puck didn’t send him away or reject him for it. Didn’t beat him up or kick him off the team. Puck wanted him like this. Preferred him like this. Groaned his approval when Austin compulsively rubbed against the firmness of the couch, wishing it was Puck’s strong thigh he was humping instead. The hand Puck wasn’t using to pin Austin’s head slipped down his back to cup the swell of his ass and rub firmly against the centre seam of his jeans, mimicking the motion of rubbing across Austin’s tight but hungry hole. And Austin pushed through the disgust, lifting up his slutty ass, pressing it against Puck’s big hand, begging for more.

  “That’s it, buddy. That’s good. That’s better.”

  Yes, yes. The praise made Austin’s head swim. He felt fucking drunk, that feeling right on the edge of vomiting but still good: six cans of beer chased by a shot of tequila, and he knew he couldn’t walk straight, and he knew he was a sloppy fucking mess, but he felt so good, too, so free, so good. He didn’t need to worry about what happened after.

  “Are you ready to follow directions now?”

  Austin squeezed his eyes shut and nodded.

  “So what do you need to do for me?”

  He didn’t want to say it. Didn’t want to speak at all. It was bad enough to be reduced to this needy moaning thing, would Puck really force him to speak his shame aloud?

  “Austin,” Puck said. Not buddy, not kid. His name. Drawing him back into himself like tugging on a line. The threat was clear. I can make you fly, but I can yank you back to earth again just as fast.

  “I need . . .” It hurt to speak. Felt like he was fighting every fibre of his being. Fighting himself in a way he’d never fought before, not for anything. But he could do it. Win this fight. Puck believed in him, didn’t he? He wouldn’t ask for something he knew Austin couldn’t give. All Austin had to do was grasp on to that faith and let it pull him through. “I need to get on my knees so you can get a look at me.”

  “Very good. What else do you need to do?”

  I don’t know. You didn’t tell me. You didn’t give me directions. You need to tell me. Panic swelled. Austin wasn’t a thinker. He’d never been a thinker. He was a follower, and that was okay, that was what loyalty and teamwork were made of.

  “Austin,” Puck said again, and now his hands were cupping Austin’s shoulders. “I need you to focus. In order for me to get a good look at you, what do you need to do?”

  I need to be naked. I need to show you everything. I need to give you everything. “Take off my clothes?” he asked, because somehow speaking it aloud made him feel so much less sure, so much less secure in his answer.

  “So get to it,” Puck replied, folding his arms over his chest and leaning back, and it was obvious he was trying to look stern and disaffected, but he was smiling a little, too. Wanting to look tough, but secretly pleased. Austin had seen that expression hundreds of times before, on the faces of coaches mostly. Usually when he was being a showboating shithead.

  Not much of that Austin left now, not here with Puck. Puck, who made him feel so small and desperate. (And safe, and wanted, and understood.)

  Eyes locked on Puck’s, drawing strength from him, he started to undress.

  Stripping off his shirt was easy; Austin was proud of his body, and he knew damn well that he was hot, and he wasn’t quite homophobic enough to mind who noticed. It wasn’t like he’d never flexed his muscles or gone shirtless or worked out hoping that Christian or Bobby or Max might notice, although mostly the first two because he liked the way they got flustered. Max, on the other hand, had a decent chance of trying to make something of it, and that was where Austin usually drew the line. Not with Puck, apparently. Puck, who was looking at him with unmasked hunger, not the least bit awkward or flustered.

  So yeah, the shirt was easy. Pants, on the other hand . . . Well, it took a bit to remind himself that this was the one man he didn’t have to hide his erection from. It was okay, with Puck. It was okay to like what he liked. Okay for his body to respond this way. And Puck was still smiling that half-hidden smile, pretending like he wasn’t pleased. With Austin’s body. With his submission. With the way his dick popped right out of his newly opened fly and sprung over the elastic waist of his boxers.

  “Well, well, well,” Puck said as Austin scrambled out of his sneakers and jeans, the worst—hardest?—part over. “Not too shabby, kiddo. You work out.”

  Austin blushed, and where once he’d be proud of that fact, now he was the one flustered.

  “Knees,” Puck reminded.

  Austin dropped to them so hard it fucking hurt.

  “Nice.” Puck pushed off the couch and up to his feet, moving in a graceful, predatory way: like a cat, or one of the Sedin twins.

  Austin put his hands behind his back. Spread his knees a little. It seemed like the right thing to do.

  Puck put a hand on top of his head. “Very nice, kid. You’re pretty, you know that?”

  On his knees and naked, sporting a huge gay boner, but that little sentence—you’re pretty, you know that?—set Austin off. It was too humiliating to stand. “Fuck you, I am not!” he shouted, but he also didn’t get off his knees.

  Puck laughed at him, at his anger and denial—laughed!—and that only made Austin’s dick harder. “Don’t like being called pretty, huh, buddy? That’s quite the predicament for a kid as pretty as you.”

  “I’m not fucking pretty.” Hot, sure. Sexy, okay. Maybe even handsome, if you like little old lady words. But pretty? No way. Pretty’s for girls.

  Girls and fags.

  “Sorry, but you are.” Puck petted his head. Circled him, like he was prey. Traced his
hands all over Austin’s skin, lighting fires in his capillaries, and narrating as he went: “Pretty, soft lips; pretty, pink nips; pretty, cut dick with pretty, tight little balls. Pretty blush that goes from your cheeks to your chest when I call you pretty. Bet your hole is pretty and pink too, isn’t it?”

  “It fucking isn’t.”

  “Prove it.” His hand tightened on Austin’s shoulder. Squeezed. Pushed, slightly.

  “N-no!” Austin reared back against the hand bearing down on him, but it was a lost cause. Puck had at least thirty pounds on him, and he had a few feet of leverage. And also? Partway down, Austin suddenly started lowering himself of his own accord.

  Because he didn’t want Puck to crack his face on the floor, he told himself, but that didn’t explain why, as his face went down, his ass went up, high and proud without a struggle.

  “Damn, kid.” Puck sounded impressed, a tone that filled Austin with a weird, unwanted pleasure. And then Puck’s hand came down on Austin’s upraised ass with a quick thwack! and Austin’s whole body jerked in surprise. It wasn’t a hard slap, but heat still rose to the surface of his skin—of his ass and his face. “You like that?” Puck asked, and his hand slipped between Austin’s spread legs, down to cup his heavy balls.

  “No.” Austin squirmed as Puck rolled his balls in the cage of his thick fingers.

  “No?” Puck’s hand abandoned his balls. Slapped his ass again. This time Austin moaned. “That doesn’t sound like a no to me, buddy. How’s your hole right now? Twitching a little? Getting hungry for something?”

  “It’s not— It is not twitching.”

  “Hmm.” Puck slipped a hand down the crack of Austin’s ass, his middle finger gently rubbing the slight indent of his hole. And sure enough, it twitched at the touch. “Feel that? That’s how I know you’re secretly a fag, buddy. Say what you like, but your hungry little cunt doesn’t lie.”

  “My what?”

  “Oh, you heard me. Your hole. Your cunt. Your boypussy. This hungry little spot right here.” The rubbing finger pressed, and Austin cried out, as much in surprise as in pain. “Nice and tight, isn’t it? We’ll have to get it all wet if we’re gonna have a hope of getting anything in there.”

  “You’re not gonna put anything in there.”

  “Yes I am.” Puck spat, and then his fingers were back, three of them wet with saliva rubbing all over Austin’s hole.

  Which, yes, was twitching at every touch.

  “And you know what else?” Puck crouched down behind him, still rubbing, and his other hand came to cover Austin’s shoulder, body draped over Austin’s, his mouth at Austin’s ear. “You’re gonna love it,” he whispered.

  “No, no,” Austin moaned, but despite his words, his hole half opened, like it was trying to capture Puck’s teasing fingers.

  Another spank landed on his ass, making him yelp. The spanks were starting to hurt, now, the burning changing from humiliation to plain old pain. Austin twisted. Felt like he was trying to climb out of his own skin, away from the hurt all over his ass and upper thighs.

  “You can say no all you like, boy, but that doesn’t make it any more true. I know what you want. I know what you need.”

  What I need. What I need.

  What did he need, anyway? To have this ache—this perverse hunger—satisfied? Or did he need to be taught a lesson, one that would ultimately cure him of it? Wasn’t that why he was here? To have the gay fucked out of him? Beaten out of him?

  “More,” he gasped, even though it was a lie, even though Puck was already pushing hard against the limits of his tolerance. He needed more. Needed to stop being such a pussy, acting like having his ass spanked was the worst pain in the world. He needed— “Harder.”

  “Two of my favourite words,” Puck praised. “All right, buddy. You asked for it. Get up on the couch for me, ass up over the arm, and I’ll give that slutty little boypussy of yours what it needs.”

  “Stop calling it that,” Austin bit out, face hot with shame, and scrambled to get himself arranged over the couch the way Puck had ordered.

  “No,” Puck said, and strode away.

  As soon as he’d gone, it felt like suddenly there was air in the room again. Cold air, to be specific. Austin heaved a shaky breath, burrowing his face in his arms. His body was trembling. His ass hurt. He didn’t want to do this anymore. He wanted to—

  He wanted to—

  He wasn’t sure, actually. He was torn between curling up and crying himself to sleep, or doing push-ups until his gut and calves cramped and he puked.

  But he didn’t need to punish himself, not anymore. Because that’s what Puck was for. Puck would punish him. Puck would fix him, where cutting himself and overexercising never had.

  He had to tough it out. Let Puck have his way with him.

  He shivered when he heard Puck’s returning footsteps. Fought back the urge to get up and grab his pants and fucking run. But no. He had to go through with this. He had to man up and take it.

  “I brought you a present,” Puck taunted, and Austin shuddered with fear. What if it was a huge black plug, like the one he’d used on Danny Domino? What if it was Puck’s fist in a latex glove? He’d seen Puck do that, too. But it wasn’t either of those things. Puck petted his ass, cupped it in his hand, jiggled it a little, then let it go.

  And then he slapped it, hard, and not with his hand, either. Austin jerked upright. Turned. Puck had a black leather paddle in one hand and was stroking it thoughtfully.

  “What the fuck, dude?” Austin shouted.

  Puck raised an eyebrow at him. “Language, Austin. Now get back into position before I tie you down.”

  Hands shivering with adrenaline, Austin swallowed a comeback and bent over the couch arm again.

  Go through with it. He’d promised himself he’d go through with it. And if making him never want this again was the goal, well, beating him with a paddle was a damn good way to accomplish it. The ends justified the means.

  “You need to breathe, buddy. Big deep breaths. Just like exercising, you can’t forget. Let’s hear a breath.” Puck breathed in theatrically, then breathed out. Austin followed suit. “That’s it. In, out.”

  They did three more, and on the third, the paddle came down again, this time on Austin’s upper thigh, right at the crease of his ass. “Fuck!” he shouted, his voice raw. He clawed at the hideous afghan thrown over the sofa and squeezed his eyes shut. Those weren’t tears in his eyes, damn it. And he wasn’t going to let them fall.

  Another hit, and it took all his power to stay down. To breathe, the way Puck was coaching him. In. Out. The air shuddered in his lungs. It fucking hurt. He choked back a sob.

  The next one, he screamed. Screamed this horrible, gritty scream, and now he knew there were tears on his face. He shifted his weight from one knee to the other, trying to push through the pain, trying to work it out of his body, but it wasn’t going anywhere.

  He needed to take it. He needed to take it. He needed to man up and take Puck’s punishment, or he was never gonna fucking get better. His body vibrated. The strikes came closer together, now, the pain of them overlapping now, multiplying where the hot lines of them met. Austin couldn’t deal anymore. “Stop,” he bawled.

  He hated this. Hated it. And not in the way he’d hated Puck playing with his asshole, where he’d hated it but, in a sick kind of way, loved it too. This was pure hate.

  And fuck, he didn’t want to do it anymore. Fuck manning up. Fuck being cured. Pain hadn’t cured him before, so why would it cure him now? Because Puck was the one inflicting it instead of his own hand? He was going backward. Any more of this, and he’d be getting out the knife to cut himself again.

  Breathe in. Breathe out. Cut. Thwack.

  The skin on Austin’s ass felt like it was about to split open.

  “Fucking stop it!” he screamed, high pitched, hysterical. “Stop it, damn it! Just stop!”

  No mercy. Puck hit him again. And again.

  The tears fell.
Austin gave up trying not to cry. Gave up on trying to hide that he was crying. No pride left for that. None at all. “Please!” he sobbed, and his voice broke. “Jesus, please, this wasn’t what I wanted!”

  What I wanted.

  What had he wanted?

  If not this, then what?

  If not pain, if not punishment, then what?

  The truth was, he’d liked it when Puck had played with his asshole, when Puck had called him pretty and a fag. He’d liked all of it. Loved it. Wanted it.

  But not this.

  What did that mean, to want your asshole played with by a man, to have a man taunt you and call you pretty, but to not want it to hurt?

  It means you really are a fag. It means you didn’t come here for punishment, did you?

  “Fine! You’re right! I’m a fucking fag! I came here because I’m a fucking fag.” He collapsed forward bonelessly. Rubbed his tears and snot across the arm of the couch. “Luongo,” he cried at last, remembering. “Fucking Luongo, already.”

  “Okay, buddy. Okay. Okay. You’re okay. You’re with me.”

  Somehow, he’d wound up in Liam’s lap, Liam’s strong arms wrapped around his body. Liam was rocking him. Like a fucking baby. A hundred and eighty pound, totally shredded baby.

  “Shhh, shhh, it’s all right. It’s over now.” Liam’s hand stroked his hair.

  His soaking wet hair. Jesus, had he been sweating that badly?

  God, what the fuck had happened just now?

  Why the fuck was he naked and sitting in a man’s lap?

  Because you’re a fucking fag, remember? You’re a fucking fag who likes having his asshole—no, his boypussy—played with.

  “Dude! Fuck! I’m not gay, man!” Austin broke free of Liam’s grip and leapt off his lap. Stood there, buck-ass naked, panting and sore and fucking furious.

  “I know that,” Liam said, and levelled Austin a perfectly calm look. Somehow, his whole composure thing only made Austin angrier.