Jock Royal

by Ney, Sara

  I would never cross the line.

  Never.

  But I can close my eyes again and lose myself in the daydream…one where she’s walking through my bedroom door, slowly moving toward the bed, pulling that baggy red t-shirt up over her head and tossing it to the ground.

  Nothing wrong with that, is there?

  “I thought I heard you say my name,” Georgie is saying, parting her lips as she comes closer, hips swaying—even wrapped in those ridiculous gray sweatpants, her body is gorgeous.

  Every delicate curve.

  Every feminine, toned line.

  “Did you need me for something?” she asks, glancing back at me over her shoulder, facing the door whilst she shimmies, arse out, bending at the waist to push those ugly gray sweats down over her hips.

  I watch, lips parted, cock throbbing in my lap.

  Hand leisurely stroking as she puts on a deliberate show before me, standing in a thong and that sheer bra I found stuck to my pants in the laundry room, dark nipples flirting with me—making me harder.

  Her arse wiggles.

  I yearn to smack it.

  It looks smooth, but I won’t know until she gets it over here whether or not she’s shaved—not until I can caress it, palm itching to run the length of her flesh.

  Damn she’s pretty.

  So strong and confident.

  “What are you doing under those blankets?” she teases in a soft voice, walking over, bra and panties magically on the floor.

  Her breasts aren’t big, but they sway, my eyes lowering to the place between her thighs.

  “Naughty boy…have you been having dirty thoughts about me?”

  Georgia climbs on top of the mattress, arse in the air, sliding her hand along my stomach…down over my pelvis…until she’s gripping my shaft, dragging that hand up and down slowly. Painfully slow.

  Up and down.

  Down then up.

  I tilt my head back as she strokes, my eyes still closed, mouth falling open from the pleasure.

  “Oh fuck, Georgia.”

  Yeah, just like that—stroke it, baby.

  Harder.

  I’m biting down on my lower lip, teeth gnashing, wanting to thrash my hips to make myself come quicker, the stroking barely enough to satisfy me.

  Frustrates me more.

  Wanting to be inside.

  Her face.

  Her body.

  Her long, delicate fingers wrapped around my girth.

  “I want this in my mouth,” she whimpers, lowering her head—hair in the way, obstructing the most perfect view God ever created: the sight of her glorious lips about to suck my dick.

  “Suck it,” I whisper, spellbound by the sight. Reach for her hair, gathering the silky tresses in my hands so I can watch. “You’re so sexy, baby.” I croon the encouraging words over and over. “So sexy.”

  “God I love your dick, it tastes so good. Mmm, it’s all I want,” she moans, slurping like it’s a popsicle and I’m her favorite flavor.

  Only in a man’s fantasies is a woman insatiable for his cock—it’s one dream I never want to wake from.

  I move my hands behind my head, resting back so I can watch her do all the work. Watch as her head bobs up and down on my cock, deep-throating it without choking like a true champion.

  It’s wet, warm, and intoxicating.

  “Oh fuck, Georgia.” The groan escapes my throat.

  I want to take my hand and place it on the back of her head for encouragement, but she barely needs it.

  “Yeah…yeah…” Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop.

  Brown hair.

  Blue eyes.

  The pert little nose with its smattering of freckles.

  I fucking love freckles, each and every last one of them.

  “Oh fuck, Georgia.”

  Yeah Georgia…fuck me.

  * * *

  Georgia

  “Oh fuck, Georgia.”

  My eyes fly open at the sound of my name—I’m not asleep but a lil’ bit out of it, so at first I thought I was imagining it.

  I tilt my head, listening hard, straining to hear it again.

  Not a whisper.

  Not a muffled tone.

  Definitely louder than it was the first time I thought I heard it.

  Surely I’m not dreaming it; I’m wide awake.

  Aren’t I?

  Perhaps I am losing my mind? Even I can admit I haven’t been the same since I transferred here, and this is a new house I’m living in. Could it be haunted? That would explain the noises.

  The voices.

  “Georgie, fuck…oh fuck…”

  Hold up—that’s definitely my name. But why would a ghost be mumbling my name? I’ve only lived here a few days—hardly enough time for one to take a liking to me, yeah?

  I chuckle at the absurdity of my thoughts, pushing them aside.

  “Georgie, fuck.”

  I sit up in bed, the sounds coming from the next bedroom through the wall. Have to be.

  Which means…

  Is…

  Is Ashley moaning my name?

  He can’t be. There is no freaking way.

  None.

  Impossible.

  I sit paralyzed, silent—not moving a muscle, so stunned at the thought that I hold my breath, barely breathing.

  Why would he be saying my name? What possible reason?

  Is he in distress?

  What if…

  What if something is wrong?

  I throw back my covers and slide out of bed, tiptoeing across the carpet like a cat as if he’d be able to hear me, creeping to the door and cringing as I turn the door handle.

  It creaks.

  Shh, quiet!

  Quietly, Georgia! Stealth-like.

  I peek my head out slowly to find his door closed.

  Cock my head and give another listen.

  There it is again.

  My name.

  I am not imagining this—but come on, what on earth is going on in his room!? The moaning cannot be normal, can it? Is he having a freaking nightmare already? We only just came up to bed an hour ago after watching that movie!

  It sounds like a softcore porn is being filmed in his bedroom, and there’s no doubt he’s jerking off based on the sounds he’s making while visualizing—

  I gasp.

  Oh my god.

  Oh no.

  Oh no, no, no, no.

  He’s not.

  He can’t be.

  Heart racing, I step back inside my room, shutting the door as quietly as I can with how horrified I am, throwing myself back onto the bed and lying on my back.

  My skin burns from the sounds I can now only vaguely hear.

  Ashley, Ashley, Ashley—the walls are thinner than you realize.

  And he’s more into you than you realized.

  I bury my head in my pillow, giggling hysterically.

  But.

  WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN?

  Sixteen

  Georgia

  The next few days I hardly see my roommate at all; he’s all but ghosted me, if you don’t count the fact that we live under the same roof and sleep down the hall from one another.

  He must be avoiding me.

  Not surprising, since he was jerking off and calling out my name the other night.

  I’m sitting in the grass watching Veronica do the high jump at the end of the stadium field, the vault set up in the end zone. So far she has made it over the bar every time with ease, an impressive feat considering she’s not that tall and not that fast.

  If it weren’t for Ronnie’s bad attitude, I would admire her more. I would want to be her friend. Unfortunately, her attitude stinks, and if she weren’t my teammate, I wouldn’t be sitting here now clapping and cheering for her victory.

  She lands on the mat, on her back, barely getting over without knocking the bar off the rack. I think the next time she runs, leaps, and goes over may be her last, and she is the last event of the day, whic
h means I will get to leave and go home.

  Actually…

  I think Ashley has a match today, too. I think I remember seeing it written on the calendar he keeps on the fridge, his schedule scribbled in black dry erase marker in sloppy letters and numbers I can scarcely make out.

  If I’m remembering correctly, his is at home too.

  Perhaps the rugby team needs cheerleaders the same way we do to motivate us.

  I was right.

  Ronnie is done.

  She hasn’t been able to make it over the pole without knocking it off, finishing her for the day.

  Fortunately for our team and the points system kept for track and field events, Ronnie has scored enough points to put our team in first place and probably make us the winners of this meet.

  Which puts us in the top three for our entire division.

  I push myself off the ground, wiping grass off my ass and the back of my legs, heading over to our coaches, who congregate near a bench with all the water and the trainers. They usually go over the day, giving us notes and sometimes criticism while we’re standing around, and they tell us what time to be at our team meeting the following morning.

  Early.

  I hate having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to sit in a meeting when I’m barely awake and retaining little to no information, but that’s just the way it is.

  Practices before class and sometimes in the middle of the day to stay conditioned is what it takes to compete at this level.

  I don’t bother going to the field house to shower and change out of my clothes, heading for the locker room. I have a spare set in my locker so I won’t have to wear my track uniform to Ashley’s rugby game.

  That’s where I’m headed, and I want to make sure I have time to get there before it’s over.

  I want to see him play.

  He’s been ignoring me for days, and I miss him. In an odd, weird way, I miss him.

  The house has been too quiet.

  He cannot avoid me forever.

  If ambushing him is what I have to do, ambushing him is what I will do.

  Googling the rugby schedule on my phone, I walk toward the outskirts of campus, following the sidewalk to the park where I’ve seen rec leagues play; there’s a big field for intramurals, and I know I’m in the right spot a few minutes later when I come through a row of residential houses and the field appears.

  It’s filled with dirty giants.

  Grunting, shouting, dirty giants, tossing around an oblong ball that kind of looks like a football but isn’t.

  I walk the perimeter of the field to the opposite side where guys in our school colors sit, lining a wooden bench, bleachers behind them.

  The crowd is sparse, but loud—and I lean over to ask a guy seated nearby what the score is and who’s winning. I know absolutely nothing about rugby.

  The score is three to one, our game.

  Good.

  Still, I have zero clue what’s happening on the field, transfixed as a mass of players begins piling up when one goes down, climbing over each other, elbows and knees flying.

  Faces get smashed.

  Mud everywhere.

  One guy’s nose begins to profusely bleed as he steps away from the pack, and for the love of all that is holy, what the hell is going on?

  I’d compare the sight to a cross between the Scottish Highland games and an actual brawl—it’s not a fight but it looks like one?

  I’m so confused.

  Not sure what I was expecting, but this was not it.

  No wonder Ashley is so damn tired all the time, bumps, bruises and scrapes on every part of his body. The black eye he had that first night we met, the scar on his left eyebrow, the cut lips.

  Sheesh.

  It’s a shocker he still has all his teeth. Honestly.

  I lean over to the same guy who gave me the score to ask, “Does rugby have halves or quarters?”

  He gazes back at me like I have three heads. “Halves.”

  “How many?”

  Another odd look. “Two.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I should have googled it instead. “Um. Where are we at in this game?”

  “Ten minutes left in the second half.”

  “Awesome. Thanks.”

  I rest back against the cold metal bleacher behind me, doing my best to identify Ashley on the field.

  In a strange way, all the players look the same.

  Big.

  Covered in mud.

  Why are they covered in mud—it hasn’t rained outside. Do they drench the field with water before each match? There’s no other explanation for it!

  What an odd game this is.

  Only a few of them are wearing helmets with ear guards. The others are insane, no doubt, not afraid of having their brains addled by an errant knee to the cranium.

  Most—from what I can see at this vantage point—are wearing mouth guards.

  Spit. Blood.

  I lean over again. “Excuse me—sorry. Would you happen to know which player is Ashley Jones?”

  My bench partner scans the field, squinting. Searching. “Uh, yeah, he’s number nine I think.”

  Number nine.

  Tall, muscular, filthy.

  Clearly out of his damn mind because he has no safety gear on his head, hair mussed and shooting in different directions, perspiration dripping down his forehead.

  I can see it from here.

  Ew.

  So sweaty.

  So gross.

  He’s dodging and weaving on the field, headed straight for the kid with the ball, a messy tangle of competitors running like a herd of bulls through the wilderness.

  They huddle.

  “What on earth are they doing?” I wonder out loud to no one in particular.

  “That’s a scrum.”

  Oh. Okayyy…

  I stop asking questions; it’s pointless—I will never grasp the rules of this game.

  My head whips back and forth as I watch the action down in front of me, occasionally googling how things work so I can leave the poor guy next to me alone.

  Mostly I just watch Ashley.

  Check him out as he runs, huddles, takes hits.

  His calf muscles are ridiculous.

  Sweaty arms a work of art.

  He is a wet dream personified out on that playing field, and he jerked off to the thought of me the other night.

  Some girls would be disgusted by the idea of their roommate fantasizing about them to wank off, but not me, not when I harbor my own dreams of him.

  And there he is, looking all kinds of masculine and rugged and badass.

  When I sigh out loud, I receive a few looks, giving an awkward smile back in return.

  Oops.

  I fiddle with my phone.

  Type out a message in my group chat with Nalla and Priya.

  Me: I’m at Ashley’s rugby match—have you ever been to one? This is crazy.

  Nalla: I haven’t but isn’t it just like football?

  Me: Um, kind of? But with no pads and they’re jumping on each other and it’s CRAZY. Someone just lost a tooth and none of them seem to care!

  Me: It’s barbaric!

  Priya: I dated a rugby player once. He used to pour beer into a frisbee and drink from it. That relationship didn’t last long, but he always wanted to go down on me, soooo…I stuck it out LOL.

  Nalla: Those are goals.

  Me: Would it be weird if I admitted right now that I’ve never had a guy go down on me?

  Nalla: WHAT?!?!

  Priya: Girl, you are missing out. We’ll go out this weekend and find you someone.

  Me: Lol stop it, we are NOT doing that.

  Priya: OH that’s right, you’re going to sit around your house waiting for your roommate to accidentally walk out of his bedroom wrapped in a towel.

  Nalla: …and then tell us all about it.

  The person who said girls aren’t as perverted as guys was a damn liar, because we are—at least my two new fri
ends are, and you’d never know that by first glance at them.

  Prim and proper is how I originally would have described these two. Studious. Serious.

  The more I learn about them, the more I’m proven wrong.

  They’re upbeat and fun. Goofy and playful.

  And.

  Sex positive, apparently.

  Me: First of all, I would NEVER kiss and tell. Even if I was kissing.

  Priya: Which you’re not because you FRIEND-ZONED YOURSELF.

  Me: You can’t friend-zone yourself…can you???

  Priya: Yes, you can, and you did it by moving in with the boy.

  Nalla: Haha there’s nothing BOYish about Ashley Jones.

  Me: And SECOND OF ALL…The odds of me seeing him naked are slim to none.

  Nalla: Actually the odds are pretty high you’re going to see him naked if you’re living together—they just shot up exponentially.

  Me: I DON’T WANT TO SEE HIM NAKED.

  Priya: Oh. Well that’s a bummer…

  Nalla: Totally.

  Priya: But for real, you would tell us, right? If you kissed him?

  Me: Yeah, probably LOL.

  Priya: Good because we’d tell you. By the way, who’s winning the game?

  Me: I think we are, it’s almost over.

  Thank god.

  My stomach is starting to grumble and it’s definitely nearly dinnertime and I have no idea what I’m eating. Or maybe Ashley and I can go somewhere once he’s taken a shower.

  That would be nice. Then neither of us have to cook.

  Or DoorDash? Be lazy and have something delivered?

  My phone beeps again and I palm it, glancing down, expecting Nalla or Priya or both, smile already pasted on my face.

  Those two crack me up.

  I’m so happy the three of us are friends.

  The notification is from a number I don’t recognize and that’s not in my contacts.

  Huh.

  I click it open.

  212-555-9093: Georgia Parker, you are the grand prize winner of the all-expenses-paid trip to fabulous Las Vegas, courtesy of Moonlight Travel!

  Another text immediately pops up.

  212-555-9093: No purchase necessary. Reply YES

  to redeem your prize; some exclusions apply, see terms & conditions for eligibility. To opt out of these messages, reply STOP.