Filthy Royal

by Roxeanne Rolling

  Finally, I can’t take it any more, and I pull my mouth away and throw myself down on the bed. “Take me,” I say.

  “I’ll get the condom,” he says, rummaging through his pants that are in a pile on the floor.

  I watch as he unwraps the condom, and puts it expertly onto his large cock, unrolling it all the way down. His cock is now ready, ready to go inside me.

  I’m so overcome with lust that I reach up and grab it again, and continue holding onto it as he pushes his body down against mine, massaging my breasts as he kisses me gently on my neck.

  He puts it gently inside me, just the tip of it.

  I gasp.

  “Oh, Anchor,” I cry, as he pushes it slowly inside me.

  Inside, I’m on fire with pleasure, a pleasure that I’ve never felt before, that swims up through me, warming my entire body, taking complete control of me.

  The speed is slow at first, but Anchor gradually picks up the speed, thrust his hips, so that his cock comes deep inside me, all the way down to the deep end.

  His muscular body is pressed against mine as he pumps into me. I feel his abs with my fingers, pushing my hands between our bodies. He’s completely chiseled, his muscles are working perfectly together, like a real athlete.

  He’s thrusting faster and faster, harder and harder, and I’m moaning while he’s grunting with almost each thrust.

  We’re completely lost in the moment together, unaware of anything but each other, and the pleasure.

  I let out what sounds almost like a squeal, as I begin to come.

  “I’m coming,” I say, breathless, my mouth pressed against his ear. His head is pressed down towards the pillow, to the side of my head. He turns his head, and licks my ear, without letting up fucking me hard and fast.

  “Good,” he says. “I can’t wait any more.

  And with that, we come together.

  I love the way he’s being vocal, grunting as he comes with me.

  I can feel his cock spasming inside me. I’m moaning as I experience the most intense orgasm of my life, for what feels like forever. Finally, his thrust stops, with his cock pushed all the way to the hilt, deep inside me.

  “Wow,” I say, as he rolls off me. I can hear him taking care of the condom, but I’m falling into a dreamy sleep state, partially unaware of what’s happening around me.

  I hear his belt buckle making sounds, and I finally open my eyes, to see him getting dressed in front of me.

  “Where are you going?” I say, my eyes widening. Is he going to leave me now, just like all the other girls he’s slept with? I’m instantly overwhelmed with self-loathing, feeling like a complete idiot. Is this really happening?

  “If anyone sees me coming from your dorm room, I’m dead,” he says. “I’m on strict orders from coach not to mess around with you. He told me I was supposed to show you the ropes of the swim team, tell you all about it, but that you were off limits. If I sleep with you, I’m off the team, and then there’s no Olympics for me.”

  “I see,” I say, not knowing what to say.

  He turns and goes towards the door, opening it.

  I feel tears welling in my eyes. “Bye,” I say, not knowing how it sounds coming out of my mouth, or how I even intend for it to sound. I feel confusion rumbling inside of me, tearing me apart from the inside out.

  11

  Anchor

  I walk back through the dark campus, heading back to the swim house. I’m feeling wonderful. I think we just connected in a way that I haven’t connected with anyone before. It was sex, and great sex, but there’s something else going on, like there’s a link between us.

  I know she understood perfectly why I had to go. I mean, what did she expect anyway, that I’d stay the night? I’m already risking my Olympics career by hooking up with her. It would be completely crazy to stay the night. Anyone might see us tomorrow morning together. I can just feel Spellman inching his way towards this thing already, butting his nose in where it doesn’t belong, like always, and I know he’d simply relish telling coach, and getting me kicked off the team. Word travels fast on this campus, and I make a resolution to tell no one, not even Dave.

  The party is still raging when I get back.

  I push my way through the dancing crowd, most of whom are completely plastered, and rolling on ecstasy, trying to get to the stairs so I can get up to my room.

  A junior girl I’ve seen around rushes up to me. She’s really stacked, with an ass that makes me want to take her right here and now. But, I think of Allison, and realize I can’t do it. My cock isn’t even springing to attention for this hot piece of ass, and it’s not because I just unloaded my balls, it’s because I feel something for Allison. No other girl has ever had this effect on me before.

  “Don’t you want to have a good time?” says the girl, pushing herself up against me. I can feel her breasts on my chest. She leans in drunkenly and tries to kiss me.

  “Find someone else,” I say.

  “Asshole,” she says, throwing her drink in my face.

  Great, now I stink like cheap, skunked beer. It’s all over me, and I can taste it in my mouth. There goes the delicious taste of Allison that was still on my tongue.

  “What’s the matter, man?” says Dave, sliding up next to me, seemingly out of nowhere. “You don’t want to get laid? She was begging for it, and she’s fucking hot.”

  “Not now,” I say. I’m not in the mood to talk to Dave right now, and anyway, he’s so drunk, he’s slurring his words, not really capable of a real conversation.

  “Wow, man, what’s gotten into you? You’re normally the center of the party. But you disappeared for an hour right when things are getting good.”

  “You can have her,” I say, and turn and walk away, finally pushing my way through the last bit of the crowd that blocks my way to the stairs.

  I flop down on my bed, the stink of the beer still bothering me, wafting up from my soaked shirt.

  I think over what happened with Allison. I’m suddenly not so sure of how things went. This is really unusual for me. Normally, I fuck a girl, then I’m done, and can never think about her again, unless I need some material for jacking off, and she was particularly hot.

  I briefly consider jerking off to Allison, since just thinking about her alone here on my bed has gotten me hard again. But it wouldn’t be the same. I already miss the feel of her body, her soft smell, her delicate skin, and the way her hair was falling all around me, and all around the pillow as I came inside of her.

  Should I call her?

  Now that I think over what happened, I’m starting to get worried. She did seem a little pissed, after all, that I was leaving the room, rather than staying and cuddling with her.

  But can’t she understand what I’m going through, the pressure I’m under to make the Olympics? Swimming is my whole world. If I can’t be on the team next year, I don’t have any other options. I can’t see myself doing anything else but swimming, and I’m already risking that for her…just for her.

  But I send a text anyway.

  “Sorry for running out,” I write, then delete it, then write it again. “I had a great time,” I finish the text message with, then hit send.

  I immediately regret it for a thousand reasons. Who am I turning into?

  Why did I have to write something that sounds so lame? Can’t I come up with anything better than, “I had a great time?” She’s a journalist after all, and she would have come up with something smarter, cleverer, wittier, and more full of feeling. Well, she’ll probably just think I’m a dumb jock like she thought before.

  There’s no knock on the door before Dave bursts in, grinning ear to ear. His arm is around the girl from downstairs, who threw the drink in my face. She gives me a look that says, “You turned me down, so I’m here to shove it in your face.”

  “Could you give us a couple minutes?” says Dave, slurring his words terribly.

  I don’t say
anything as I leave the room.

  I slump down against the wall in the hallway, but soon I can clearly hear them having hard, fast, drunk, sloppy sex inside the room, and I get up again and go to the end of the hall, where there’s a fire escape.

  I sit on the fire escape, staring into the dark night, the sounds of the party raging behind and below me.

  What has happened to me? I don’t feel like the cocky big shot athlete I was earlier today, and I can’t tell whether I like the feeling or hate it. I can’t tell whether I’m angry with Allison or in love with her.

  12

  Allison

  The sex was so hot, undoubtedly the best I’ve ever had. But I don’t even care about that. I felt a strong connection with Anchor, like nothing I’ve ever felt. But I don’t even care about that now. Well, I do, but I feel deceived, as if that feeling has been thrown into the trash, along with the condom that Anchor left in my room.

  I look at the used condom and am filled with shame, and then the shame turns to anger. How could he just leave me like that, as if nothing happened, as if I’m just another notch on his swim goggles? That asshole. There’s no way he’s seriously worried about getting caught. Who’s going to catch us? And what’s more, I’m risking just as much by having slept with him as he’s risking. He really thinks the he’s going to get kicked off the team for this?

  Well, I do know how to get him kicked off the team, or at least hurt him, and his precious swim team.

  Still naked, I uncurl myself from where I’ve been lying under the covers. My pillow is wet with tears, but I wipe them off my face, and grab my laptop from under the bed where I put it when I go to sleep.

  I prop the laptop on my knees and open a new email in my web browser. It’s time to start writing the swim team article. After all, I have all the details I wanted from my inside source. I know that a lot of the swimmers have taken anabolic steroids, and I know all the pathetic hijinks that Anchor and his pals have gotten up to over the years.

  Ever since I was a freshman, I’ve written every paper and article inside an email draft. I don’t know why I do it exactly, but I think it started because opening up a blank word document just looked so intimidating. It was my responsibility to fill that blank document with words, brilliant words that would wow my professors. Despite my mood, I let out a little laugh, aimed at my old freshman self who was so eager and anxious to succeed, and not only succeed, but become the best student and journalist the university has ever seen.

  And now that I am that person, I still write my articles in blank emails. I still go into a cold sweat when I open up a blank word document. With the email method, I can pretend I’m just writing a note to myself, or writing to a friend.

  I put the email of the campus paper in the recipient field, so that I can pretend I’m just writing my rough draft, my notes, my thoughts about my current project, and sending them to myself, even though it’s strictly not only my email, but shared by the whole newspaper staff.

  The trick works beautifully, and within an hour I have a multiple page article written up, an article that really damns the swim team like no other article I’ve ever seen, let alone written.

  I describe in detail the party I witnessed, and how almost everyone was taking ecstasy. I try not to exaggerate, but it’s hard, especially when Anchor was no doubt exaggerating himself when telling me all the stories. I write about the time Anchor stole the statue and didn’t get kicked off the team, how the coach shielded Anchor from any trouble with the administration. I write about the countless women Anchor has hooked up with, then dumped. I write about how Anchor sneaks into the swimming pool at night, and how he even has his own key. I write about the time Anchor told me about, when he and Dave stole the answers to their math test.

  Satisfied with my article, but still angry, I close my laptop, and close my eyes, trying to go to sleep. It has to be close to three in the morning, anyway.

  A few days later, my phone rings. It’s Beaumont, my one friend on campus.

  “I haven’t heard from you in a couple days, Allison,” he says. “Just wanted to see if you’re still working on the story.”

  “Yeah,” I say, in a noncommittal way, still reading the textbook for my senior biology class. I’ve sunk myself into my schoolwork.

  “You haven’t been going to the practices, though. I talked to the coach this morning on the phone.”

  “I feel like I’ve gotten all the information I need,” I say.

  “Allison, you know better than anyone else that there’s always more to the story, no matter what.”

  I don’t mention to him all the dirt I got from Anchor on the swim team.

  “I guess you’re right,” I say, probably sounding disinterested as hell.

  “Look, Allison. I’m your advisor, so I’m going to do a bit of advising now.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, not sure why I’m getting pissed off at Beaumont. He’s only trying to help, anyway.

  “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Allison. You haven’t had any…how shall I say…you know, any problems with the swim team members? What happened to your inside source?”

  “Nothing happened,” I lie, thinking of Anchor on top of me and inside me, on my dorm room bed.

  “Good,” he says. “I know you’re practically a professional, Allison, and I wasn’t expecting anything to happen, but I’m glad it hasn’t. But you’ve really got to get back on the case. I know you’re probably swamped with school work, with finals approaching in a couple months, but you haven’t even been to a swim meet yet, and it’s crucial that you explore absolutely all aspects of the swim team, or else you’re article isn’t going to be complete.”

  “Fine,” I say. “I’ll be at the meet tomorrow. It’s on Saturday, right?”

  “I’ll see you there,” says Beaumont, before hanging up the phone.

  I immediately worry I sounded too rude to Beaumont. Why am I pissed at him, anyway? Why was I talking to him like I don’t even like him?

  13

  Anchor

  Dave somehow injured himself the night of the party, and he’s not racing today.

  “Why don’t you just get over it?” I say to him, in kind of a nasty tone.

  “Dude, I broke my fucking ankle. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just swim with it anyway. You know how many swimmers have raced with broken bones?”

  “It’s a broken ankle, dude, and I’m in a cast. How am I going to swim?”

  I know he’s right, but it still pisses me off.

  “If you hadn’t been so drunk, it never would have happened. Now Spellman is taking your place in the relay, and he fucking sucks.”

  “He’s not so bad,” says Dave. “He’s not even a whole second behind me in time trials.”

  “Yeah, but he fucking sucks,” I say, realizing I’m not backing up my argument at all.

  “Whatever,” says Dave. “You going to get ready or what?”

  “Yeah,” I say, grabbing my duffel bag of swim stuff, and take one last look at Dave, whose crutches are propped up next to him against the bed. He’s got his laptop open, and is watching porn with the sound on as usual.

  “This is the same chick from the other night,” he says, excitedly, pointing at the screen, where a blonde chick with big breasts is getting drilled by a huge muscular guy.

  “The one who convinced you to jump out the window after you fucked her?” I say. It’s the same girl who wanted me, but took Dave instead. Somehow she knew Dave would be stupid and drunk enough to actually jump out the window. He did it just to impress her, even though he had already fucked her. But Dave’s always been kind of an idiot.

  “The same one!” he says. “I guess she’s been doing porn on the side.”

  “Is she even a student?” I say, giving him an incredulous look, like I can’t believe he hooked up with her.

  “Dunno,” he says, and goes back to watching the video.

  “A
t least I know what you’ll be doing when I’m warming up,” I say, referring the fact that I know he can’t hold himself back from jacking off to her. Unfortunately, there’s no doubt in my mind he’s going to be bragging for the rest of the semester about how he banged a porn star, although whether or not she’s a star is certainly in doubt. I take a look at the screen, and she doesn’t look too good on the video, with all the bright lights, and without the beer goggles of the night of the party. “You going to at least come to the meet to watch?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  As I close the door behind me, I can already hear him unzipping his pants. How disgusting, I think to myself.

  Coach greets me right when I enter the swim building.

  “You haven’t gotten up to any funny business with that reporter student, have you?” he says, gruff as always.

  “Of course not,” I say. “I’m not going to risk a chance at the Olympics.”

  “Hmmph,” he grunts. “Glad to see you’ve got your head on straight for once. And you sound a little less cocky. I’m glad to hear you say, ‘chance.’ That’s good. Maybe you’ll make it after all. The scout is here, and I want to introduce you to him.”

  He calls over the scout, a man who looks out of place, wearing a full suit, carrying a bag like a journalist, along with a video recorder.

  I was feeling nervous about the race but seeing the scout somehow brings me back to my old self. I feel sure of myself and cocky again. After all, I know I’m going to do well. I’m going to win the relay race, and the freestyle 100 M. I’ve been waiting for this day for four years, and there’s no way I’m going to fuck it up.

  “I want to present to you Anchor, I mean Matt,” says the Coach, looking at the scout with more respect than I’ve ever seen him look at anyone.