2

-North-

MALCOLM HANDCUFFSme and pulls down my pants. Then his own. His cock is huge inside his boxers, straining against the material. I don't need to use my imagination to fill in the details, I've already seen the proof. He comes up behind me, grabs my hair, and puts his hand around my throat. He tears my boxers away and then plunges into me from behind. His strong body presses up against me as he fucks me hard.

What would that feel like? To be fucked by Malcolm Blackwood?

I lie in bed wide awake with my eyes shut, trying to trick myself into falling asleep, but my mind won't let me. I can't stop thinking about him. The image is on a constant replay in my head; Malcolm, hunched over, glistening, pleasuring himself—interspersed with intrusive thoughts of the things he could do to me with those handcuffs. And those hands. And that cock. They're intrusive thoughts, not fantasies, because I don't want him to do those things. Even though I've had a half-boner for hours, which, firstly is annoying as hell because it's stopping me from going to sleep, and secondly, doesn't even make sense, because I'm not gay.

I roll over, tangled in my bedsheets, and huff in frustration. My phone is sitting on the small table next to my bed. Even with my eyes tightly closed, I can feel its presence there, throbbing in my mind, like it's looking at me, wanting me to pick it up, to watch the video I took of him. But I'm NOT going to look at it. I have no idea what came over me to make me record Malcolm doing that, but I'm not going to look at it. I'm NOT.

Sighing, I rub my forehead, but the image of him doesn't fade. For some reason it's lodged in my head, like the one and only time I ever watched a scary movie at the cinema and had nightmares for a week.

It's not even like I've never seen a dick before! I've seen plenty in the locker room showers, and it's never really bothered me.

But I've never seen Malcolm's . . . and those handcuffs . . . I chew on my cheek and stare at the inside of my eyelids. Why the hell did he have handcuffs in his bag? My heart pounds a little harder. It could be something perfectly harmless like part of a costume . . . or maybe some kind of prank. People do shit like that all of the time. It's probably something like that. Something normal and not at all kinky.

But no matter how many times I think it, my mind won't stop projecting a god damn porn film across the inside of my head. He chains me up and takes his sweet time with me as I writhe and beg for more, for him to . . . do things. Filthy things. Things I've never even thought about before.

A small noise slips out between my lips, and I snap my eyes open.

No, no, no, this is wrong. This is so wrong.

I rub my eyes. Morning light is sifting through the flimsy blind already, and I've barely slept at all. The whole point of going to the bleachers was so I could wear myself out and sleep, but all I've done is make it much, much worse.

I peek under the covers at my offending semi.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I hiss at it. "He's a dude. And he's scary as shit."

My dick presses against my boxers stubbornly; it's not going anywhere. With a full-body sigh, I roll out of bed, giving up on trying to sleep. I have a big game coming up, and an array of tests and classes I need to pass, and my boner isn't helping my state of mind. I check the time, it's still hours before I need to get moving.

In these circumstances there's only one thing I can do to clear my head.

***

Warm water runs over my body. It feels good, especially on my stubbornly half-hard dick, and I allow my hand to wander down to it slowly, like I want to catch it by surprise. I can't believe it's come to this, jerking off in the shower. I don't know where this boner came from, but I'm getting rid of it. As I take hold of it, I bite my lip at the aching pleasure that seeps through me, and I haven't even started yet. The image of Malcolm swims into my mind.

"No," I murmur. "Think about Becki."

With some effort, I shift my thoughts and picture her, settling on the time she took me into the equipment closet and let me see her boobs after I scored the winning touchdown. I was too freaked out by my inexperience to go any further with her, but it was hot anyway, and I'd played it off like I was playing hard to get. Her boobs were great though—round and soft—and I hold the image there as I stroke my dick.

It starts to soften, and I pump harder, gritting my teeth. I lean my forearm against the tiled shower wall and press my head against it.

"Shit. Come on. Becki's nice."

My cock doesn't listen to me. Shit, I need to get rid of this horniness if I want to concentrate in any way today, and I'm already falling behind in my classes. But my dick seems to only want one thing.

Fine.

I heave a sigh and begrudgingly allow my mind to wander back to Malcolm. Maybe I just need to do this to get it out of my head. One and done. And then I can get on with my life.

"But only this one time, ok?"

I close my eyes and let myself think about him. About the handcuffs. About him using the handcuffs on me. My treacherous dick is instantly rock hard again, and I drag my hand along its length and shudder.

It doesn't mean anything, I tell myself.

Water runs down my face as I turn it up into the stream, my mouth hanging open. My mind reels at the images being conjured as I jerk myself, and before I'm even properly started, my hips buck, mindlessly fucking into my hand, and then I'm coming violently. Taken by surprise, I brace myself against the wall as my body shudders and I spurt my load in surges over my fist before the hot water washes it away. My orgasm is mind-blowing in its intensity, and I have to remember how to breathe until the waves of pleasure start to diminish.

When I'm done I slump against the wall and gasp. What the hell? That's the fastest I've ever come in my life. I think it's the fastest anyone's ever come. I sweep my dripping hair out of my face and look down at my dick, still squeezed tightly in my hand, and try not to analyze it. At least my mind is clear now; Malcolm has been jerked out of there, and I can get back to living my life like normal.

One and done.

***

The joke's on me, because my life does not, in fact, go back to normal. After my morning shower activities, I manage to keep a clear head for about thirty glorious minutes before the images of him come creeping back in again like a bad case of gas brought on by last night's questionable burrito. They haunt me all day. There's nothing more distracting during a slow bio class than a raging boner and a fantasy of my teammate doing unspeakable things to me. I shift so much the professor asks if I need to use the bathroom.

My phone is zipped safely in the pocket of my backpack all day, and I don't dare look at it, even to check the time. Maybe if I delete the video I can stop thinking about it. But I'm worried if I try to, I'll just watch it instead, and I know myself well enough not to risk it.

Now classes are done and it's time for practice, and I'm almost frantic with arousal and the dread of seeing him again. The first thing I do when I get into the locker room is check for the big dark shape of Malcolm. He's almost impossible to miss in a crowd, with how tall and broad he is, like a dark cloud hovering over everything.

His locker is empty and I breathe a sigh of relief and go to grab my bag. If I get dressed quickly I can get out before he arrives and not have to deal with him and this pounding in my chest every time I think about what I did.

I pull my shirt off, throw it into my locker, and grab my gear and cleats. Then I turn and slam full body into the rock-hard chest of someone behind me, sending me rebounding back against the locker with a clang.

"Shit, sorry—"

My words choke off as I look up into the dark eyes of Malcolm, inches away from me. He's wearing nothing but a skintight tank and a pair of black sweatpants that hang off his hips, displaying his muscled torso and wide shoulders. The harsh florescent lights wash out his skin even more than it already is, making him look like some kind of ominous apparition towering over me, even though I know logically he's only a few inches taller.

My gear falls from my arms and scatters at our feet. Those penetrating eyes narrow at me and I'm terrified that he can see straight into my head to the shame boiling there. Does he somehow know I saw him last night? That I recorded him? That I jerked off to him? He looks pissed, but that's no clue because he always looks pissed when he sees me.

Heat flares across my face as, inevitably, the memory of him on the field, and all of the dirty fantasies I've had since, flood my brain, and I know from experience that I'm blushing bright red.

I need to say something, but my mind is entirely taken up with the horrifically shameful images of the man in front of me doing unspeakably arousing things.

"Oh . . . Ma—Hi. Malcolm. Hi . . . I er . . ."

Shut up, shut up, I scream internally.

His face is unreadable, cold and hard like it always is, and I concentrate on not looking at his chest and the mounds of muscle there, or at his groin, where his pants conceal what I now know is a huge—

Fuck! Before I can drag my mind away, my dick, which has been semi-hard all day, starts to fill. I'm wearing loose pants and there's no way he won't see my growing erection if he looks down slightly.

"I-er . . . shit," I stammer.

I'm sweating. I have to get out of here. Without another word, I abandon my stuff on the floor at his feet, along with my dignity, clutch my backpack over my groin, sidestep around him, and run. A single look back over my shoulder confirms my fears; he's still standing there, watching me, brow creased, eyes narrow and suspicious. Then my view of him cuts off as I duck into the shower stalls. I lean back against the tiled wall and my heart hammers in my chest.

Shit, that could not have gone any worse. What the fuck is wrong with me? I couldn't have been more obvious. He definitely knows something is up, and now I'm sweaty and horny as fuck.

I inch my bag away from my groin and glance down. It's just as bad as I thought it'd be, my sweatpants are tented and it's painfully obvious.

A shout from the changing area makes me jump. "Come on guys, let's get a move on, those drills aren't going to run themselves," Coach calls, clapping his hands over the noise of chatter.

I can't go out like this. The most conspicuous hard-on in the universe is standing out like a flagpole between my legs, and I left all of my gear on the floor out there. I stay put, praying it'll magically go away.

The noises diminish as the others go out onto the field. I'm the star player, they're going to notice pretty quickly if I'm not out there. And I can't waltz out onto the field with this boner. Which leaves me one option.

I strain my ears, listening for any sign of life in the locker room, but my heart pounds so loudly that it's hard to make out anything, and my need is pushing on me like a freight train.

The waistband of my pants twangs as I stuff my hand in, the contact shooting instant pleasure through me. Am I really going to do this? Here? But I need to take care of this monster in my pants and get my head in the game, or I'm gonna end up dry humping the first guy who tackles me in the wrong way. There's no other way. At least that's what my horny brain is telling me, and I'm not exactly in the position to argue.

I jerk my cock, wanting to get it over and done with quickly, and the pleasure makes my toes curl. But it's not enough. Now, with my dick in my hand and the pleasure building inside me, what little self-control I've managed to hold on to all day shatters, and I tear my bag open and snatch my phone out, like a starving man seeing food for the first time in months. In an instant I have the video open, my finger hovering over the play button, but I hesitate. If I do this, what does it mean? Am I gay? Bi? Am I a sick freak who spies on people and jacks off?

But my body is shaking, and my dick is aching and leaking already, and I need it. I press play and the image on the screen jumps to life.

The image of Malcolm fills the screen, hunched over on the ground, hand furiously jerking his huge cock as the moonlight gleams on his sweaty skin. It's like the hottest porn I've ever watched.

I jerk my cock in convulsive movements, gasping at how good it feels, my eyes glued to the screen as the sound of his grunts whisper out of the speakers. The video is only a few seconds long, but my chest is already hitching with pleasure when it ends and I hit replay instantly, turning the volume up to better hear the impossibly hot noises he's making.

Fuck. I hunch over, already on the verge of coming, and grunt as I thrust into my fist erratically.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

I jump. The phone drops from my fingers and clatters across the floor, landing screen up. At the same time, I spin, dick in hand.

Malcolm Blackwood is standing in the entrance to the shower stalls, staring at me.