by Rylee Swann
One hand drops from my hip, and his fingers flick over my clit. It only takes a few breaths, and I’m coming, hips jerking forward, eyes rolling back. He moans too, and my pussy massages his cock as I clamped down around him. He stops fucking me, holds me still as I come on his dick. When the orgasm subsides, he pulls out and forces me onto my back, my head hanging off the bed slightly, my arms trapped beneath my weight.
“Now you’re going to be a good slut and clean my dick. Look at this mess you made,” he says, his tone reproachful as he pulls the condom off. I like the humiliation. I want to be his slut. I don’t want to be a good girl at all.
I whine, the ‘o’ ring keeping me from answering with words. He grasps me by the sides of my head and slides his dick into my open mouth. He doesn’t stop until I gag, until the head of his cock slides down my throat. As promised, he fucks my face roughly, until tears stream down my cheeks. It’s so good, being submissive to him, doing this with him. I want it to last forever.
I’ve watched BDSM porn before and always felt so envious of the submissives. They got all the attention lavished on them. I wanted to be in their place, used and fucked, tied up, spanked. It’s like Cole knows my every dark desire and secret.
I can’t suck his cock like I want to because of the ring, but I press my tongue against his shaft as he continues to fuck my mouth. At my tender ministrations, he bucks harder against me and finally stills. My reward is his hot cum. He pulls out of my mouth and paints my face with his pleasure, then my tits.
He looks down at me, breathing heavily. Cole continues to be many firsts for me. I’ve never seen a man look at me with such want and hunger and possessiveness. His hand smoothes over my hair, and I can feel him tremble.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says, his voice soft for once.
I half expect him to leave me there. I know he’d untie me, but I expect this to be it. It would be the end. I’d have to go.
Instead, he gently sits me up and removes the gag before untying my wrists. He disappears for only a moment and brings a washcloth to clean my face and breasts. After that, he rubs my reddened wrists and places tender, sweet kisses to the abused skin. Cole gets up, but only to turn off the lights. He joins me back in bed and draws me to his chest, his hand moving through my hair again.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice soft, a little unsure.
“I’m good,” I say, though I feel even more vulnerable now than I did while we were fucking. It’s more than just sex and pleasure and taboo to me now, but I can’t admit that to him yet. It feels so good to be in his arms. Safe and comfortable. I can feel the affection he lavishes on me.
I’m like a very thirsty sponge and absorb all the light kisses and soft touches, the gentle sound of his breath in his chest.
“If we were… more of a thing,” he begins hesitantly, “would you still want it kept a secret?”
I’m not sure how to answer that. “I don’t know, Cole. I’d have to give up the story.”
He grows quiet and stops stroking my hair. I can feel the muscles in his arms tighten. Did what I said hurt him?
“Would you?” he finally asks, his tone guarded.
I didn’t know it would come to this. My old self screams at me. Look, it’s exactly as you thought, my mind lectures. Relationships only get in the way of school and career. Men come and go, but you have to take care of yourself. It’s a hard decision to make on the fly and post coitus to boot… so I don’t. I can’t.
“I can’t answer that right now, Cole. I won’t lie to you. I’m not in the market for a relationship. We don’t really know each other...” I trail off. It sounds like lame excuses to me. It’s not you, it’s me. I don’t want to do that to him.
He doesn’t say a word, and I know that it’s a wedge between us, and if anything is going to happen, I’m not so sure it can happen now. I sigh and sit up, tugging up the thin sheet to cover my breasts.
“I had a bad experience with Rob, my ex,” I tell him. “He held me back and was always competing with me. I felt, I don’t know… damaged after that. I want to focus on school and becoming a journalist.”
“Mmm,” he murmurs, sounding as if he’s really hearing me. “It’s important to you, huh?”
I nod. “Probably like football is important to you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Ever since I was little.”
The way the conversation has turned is a comfort. God, we’re so volatile together. I feel like we’re teetering on the edge of disaster every five minutes. That’s not a comfort.
“Yeah. I get it. I knew the only way out of my small town was a scholarship. I just keep fucking things up. I had this girl,” he says, his voice thick. “Ruined the first two years of college for me. I’m still trying to recover.”
“Maybe,” I say, my tone gentle and soft. “We don’t define it right now. We’re not ‘us’ yet. We take it slow. See what happens?”
In the dark, I can’t tell if he’s thinking about it or just not answering. Either way, I feel a little sad and more than a little lost. I know that tonight has complicated things even more. I sigh heavily and wonder if I should go home or stay.
I start to get up, but his hand closes over my forearm. “Stay?”
For once, it isn’t a command. It’s a plea.
“Okay,” I say, “I’ll stay.”
A few beats of endlessly stretching silence and he speaks again, “And we’ll do what you say. We’ll take it slow. Not define it.”
I lean over and kiss him. It isn’t a kiss of passion or want, but a kiss of comfort. We’re both carrying our own hurts. And we aren’t ready to share them with each other yet. I just hope he knows how to give it time. I hope we won’t implode before we even have a chance to be us.
I get up to go to the bathroom and wash up. I reach for his toothbrush, then hesitate. I don’t enjoy sharing a toothbrush but haven’t packed my own considering I never counted on this happening. I turn on the flickering, fluorescent lights in the bathroom and look in the mirror. My hair is a mess, and I look tired.
Opening a drawer to see if there is an unopened one, something strange catches my eye. A bunch of syringes and a number of vials. Alcohol pads. My stomach turns over. My fingers fly to my mouth and I shake my head in disbelief as I feel it all come crashing down. Imploding just as I feared.
Gingerly, I pick up one of the bottles, turning it to read the label. Masteron-Propionate. I don’t recognize the name, so I grab another one. Arimidex. The next one is Testosterone-Enanthate, then Equipoise, then Trenbolone-Acetate. There’s also HGH and Winstrol. Nothing familiar, except testosterone. Why seven drugs? I don’t understand. Is he sick? Or an addict of some kind? Why would he need so much?
I look at the vials, hoping and not hoping to find a doctor’s prescription. Surely it would mean Cole is very sick if he was prescribed so much. There’s no pharmacy label, so it must be drugs. I have some hard and fast rules in my life. I don’t mess with addicts. Not because I’m heartless but because of my dad.
When I was sixteen, the police came to the door at my mother’s house really late at night. I stood at the end of the hall. I couldn’t see them clearly, but I could hear the tone of their voices. They had bad news. They were sorry. They said that they were sorry more than once.
The bottom line of it all was that my dad was dead. He’d overdosed on heroin.
Just seeing the syringes in Cole’s bathroom drawer brings it all back. The funeral. My mother crying. All those times my dad never showed up for visitation. All those times he chose drugs over me. I feel panic bubble in my chest, and all I want to do is run away. I’m so scared I’m not rational anymore. What if I lose Cole the very same way? I couldn’t handle that. I’ve already lost so much.
I set the bottle back down and stare at the drawer, then take in the state of the bathroom itself.
It’s filthy. Which isn’t a surprise.
Steroids.
The word comes to me like a whisper in my ear, and I remember
my professor talking about how those types of drugs affect a person’s personality. I desperately try to remember the names of the steroids he’d mentioned, but they won’t come to me.
What I do remember is the anger problems users experienced, and suddenly, Cole’s bouts of rage make sense. His erratic, elusive behavior. The state of his house. The violent temper. His need for control. It all spins in my head, and I feel sick. I don’t know what I’m going to do, but I know one thing, I can’t stay.
When I creep into the bedroom, I find Cole asleep, snoring softly on his back, his forearm flung over his eyes. I’m glad I won’t have to come up with a lame excuse. I feel so stupid, so foolish. How can I allow myself to have feelings for an addict?
I dress in the hallway and just leave, and at the last minute decide to take a picture of the vials. I’ll research them, see if I’m right and how much trouble Cole would be in if caught. Being as quiet as possible, I tiptoe back to the bathroom and line the vials up, snap a picture with my phone and put everything back. Well, I try to put everything back. I’m shaking so hard that I drop half of the vials, then curse when I have to scramble for them on the floor.
I don’t think I breathe again until I step outside in the cold. With trembling fingers, I get into my car and pull out of his driveway, a lump in my throat and a knot in my stomach. It isn’t until I’m a mile away that the tears start. I’ve failed in every way with this story. I made it personal. I’ve been very inappropriate, and now I’m involved with a man who is likely addicted to some kind of drugs. If it were found out, he’d surely be kicked off the team. Bring shame to the school. Ruin his career. His life.
And still, under all the shame coursing through me is this tender little flame for Cole. It burns just as bright under the onslaught of all this. I try to squelch it, smother it. I want it gone. I know it will just cause me pain.
But it remains, no matter what I tell myself.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cole
I wake up expecting to find her in my arms. After the night we shared, I can’t have possibly anticipated what I would wake up to. Which is nothing. She’s gone. Not only is she gone, but she didn’t leave a note. Her side of the bed is cold. The sheets are still pulled up. It’s as if she hasn’t slept there at all.
I sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed and try to feel something, but I just can’t. I’m numb. I know I’ll be angry later. I should be, at least. Maybe it’s later than I think, and she’s just taken off to go to class and will be back soon, but even as I think this, I know it’s bullshit. She’s just gone. She ghosted on me. Just like Joanie. Does that mean she doesn’t care?
It wouldn’t be the first time a “good girl” used me for sex. I can’t be mad about that. I’ve done it to enough women. It’s what I deserve, I know that. I’m not fooling myself or lying about how I am. Maybe I used to, but I’m not dumb enough to buy my own lies. I see right through them.
Getting up, I go to the bathroom and take a long piss. Fuck it. If she’s not going to hang around, I won’t feel bad taking a hit. I didn’t inject before because I wanted to be a better man for Becca. Now it doesn’t matter.
I open the drawer and pull out a fresh syringe. And notice the drawer is wrong. The rest of my life might be a wreck, but I’m always careful with this. I once almost got two of the drugs mixed up and shot too much, so I’m always careful to organize them based on the amount I’ll dose. These are messed up, and shit, one of the vials is missing. Fuck. I look around, get down on my hands and knees before I see where it’s rolled behind the toilet.
And I know.
Fuck it all, I know why Becca split.
For some reason, she opened this drawer and found my stash. She probably thinks I do hard drugs, shit like heroin or something. Even so, I’m not sure I have the strength to explain myself. It isn’t like she would be okay with me doping or be relieved that it isn’t some other drug. It would have shattered her illusion of me even further, I get it. She’s know that I’m not some big, strong guy. I have a crutch.
I guess I understand why she took off, but at the same time, she could have asked me. Talked to me. I’d have been honest. But even as I think it, I wonder if that’s true. I’ve been lying to women for a long time. I’m not even sure if I know the real truth anymore.
After using the bathroom and splashing some water on my face, I get my phone and pull up Becca’s number. I can call. I can text her. Something. Ask her to talk this out. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I feel the rage burning in the pit of my stomach, overtaking the concern. Fuck her. Fuck all of this. I should have listened to my own advice from the start.
Don’t fuck them more than once. Don’t bring them home. And damn it all to hell, don’t fall in love.
The time stares up at me from my phone. I’m going to be late to class. Again. I’m going to fail the test. I should have studied. I should have gotten a tutor like my professor suggested. Another wave of rage towards Becca punches me in the gut. Fuck her. She’s supposed to help me, not just come over to get laid.
My phone is out of my hand before I even register throwing it. It smashes to pieces. I don’t give a shit. I have to get out of the house. I need a drink. Something. Maybe I’ll find someone else. Nothing serious. Nothing serious ever again. Women are, at best, a distraction. A good time. You give them an inch, they give you heartache and lies.
I know I’ve suffered from this for a while, but I’m bound and determined to get Becca out of my head.
For now, I put the vials back in order and begin to measure out each dose.
Fuck Becca and fuck everything. I have only one thing to live for. Football.
Becca
It’s late when I get home, and the first thing I do is go to bed, but end up tossing and turning the rest of the night.
I regret leaving now. I should have stayed and talked to him. He won’t understand why I just left. Ran. Like his ex.
It’s still dark outside when I finally roll out of bed and spend some time writing in my online journal about it. I’ve kept a journal since childhood. Where it was once in a pink book with a little lock, it has evolved to live in the cloud where I can access it easily from anywhere. But the results are the same. I write and write, until all the words that need to be said leave me, the anger or sadness purged from my system. The journal is often the place for me to vent, but it is also a place where I come up with a solution. So I write. About my complicated feelings for Cole. About finding the drugs. About running like a scared child instead of facing the monster in the room.
Running is my habit, I know that, which was fine as a child, but not so much know. Being an adult officially sucks. I thought that when I turned twenty-one, I’d automatically know what to do, that some button inside me would switch on and I’d find some inner resource that would help me navigate times like these.
Nope.
I don’t have a mother or a father to go to for advice. My grandparents aren’t available to me either. I have Mia, but hell, she’s my age and facing the same types of problems. There is no one I can go to. I feel so alone.
After I journal, I forward a picture of the drugs from my phone to my email, then pull it up and research each drug. Sure enough, they are different types of steroids, and from what I understand, he’s using so many so he can stack them, increase their efficiency. I take notes, trying to understand, then research the consequences should Cole be caught with the drugs.
The NCAA has a no doping policy, but from what I learn, it’s rarely enforced. It costs colleges too much to test for anabolic steroids without cause, so the drug screenings they do involve street drugs, like marijuana and coke.
Besides, one article talks about how many coaches stick their heads in the sand when it comes to doping. It benefits their team to have bigger, stronger players with an edge of meanness to them.
One survey shows that steroids in college athletics is a huge problem that everyone pretends isn’t there. It makes me wonder how man
y other players use. It makes me wonder if anyone cares.
When the alarm sounds on my phone, reminding me to get ready for class, I save the documents and snap my laptop shut. I’m it emotionally and physically drained. I just want to go back to bed, but I can’t.
Trying to just have a normal day with class and schoolwork, I have a cup of coffee and a hot shower. I wish the water could just wash everything away, but it ends up only washing away the tears that begin to fall.
I try to imagine how Cole felt when he woke up alone. Was he hurt? Did he even care?
I don’t know what to do. When I left Cole’s house, I told myself I was done with him. Done with men in general, at least until I graduated and was settled in my career. But now that I have a little space from the moment, I wonder how rational that is. I care about Cole. I don’t know why, but I do. And not just because of how me makes me feel in bed.
There’s something unique and precious about the two of us together. As hard and frustrating as it can be, I don’t want to lose it. I don’t want to let him go.
I need to research steroids more, understand them more. Of course, I’ve heard about ‘roid rage,’ but I wonder now how accurate that is. Will Cole be upset that I left without a word last night because of his past abandonment issues? Or will it be the drugs that make him angry? Because I know he will be angry. He’ll lash out, not physically but verbally and emotionally. Do I want to put myself in his path?
I pulled a real jerk move by just leaving. It was stupid and wrong. Something special happened between us, and I’ve probably ruined that by cutting and running. I should have talked to him, tell him how it makes me feel. And then I should have tried to find him some help. If I really cared, that’s what I would have done.
I do care, though, more than I even want to admit. I worry about him. Long for him. Seeing the needle and bottle was like a punch to the heart, and I just fled. I hate to think that I’m still ruled by what happened to me as a kid, but there it is, and I guess I can’t deny it anymore.
