3

-North-

MALCOLM'S DARKeyes go first to my dick, swollen and leaking precum in my hand, and then to my phone on the floor where the video of him plays across the screen. The tinny sound of his grunts rises up between us. I'm completely frozen, all of my thoughts have skittered away to the dark corners of my mind. I don't breathe. My heart doesn't beat. I just stand there and watch him as he watches the video until it ends. Then there's silence. His face is cold and blank.

He crouches and reaches for my phone. It breaks me from whatever spell I'm under, and I drop my dick and lunge for it, as if I can stop him from seeing what's on it, as if he hasn't already, as if it isn't obvious what I was doing. But he's faster than me. I freeze as he touches the screen, and his grunts start again.

I'm so fucked. I'm so fucked. What is he going to do? Is he going to punch me? I deserve it. Or report me? I deserve that too.

Eventually, he speaks. "What the fuck is this?"

"I-I'm sorry. It's not . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

What?

I didn't mean to spy on you? I didn't mean to record it? I didn't mean to jerk off to it?

I want the tiles under my feet to open up and swallow me down into hell where I belong. That would be better than being here. I want the roof to fall in and crush me. I want to dissolve into atoms and float away through the air vents. But none of those things happen and I'm forced to keep on existing in this agonizing silence.

"You took a video of me?" Malcolm says.

What can I say? Of course I did, it's right there.

"No . . . I . . . someone sent it to me," I say.

"Who?"

I stammer for too long. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know who sent it to you?"

"Er . . ."

He glances down at my crotch and I realize my dick is still hanging out of my pants, still just as hard. I scramble to tuck it away and he grabs my wrist.

"I didn't tell you to stop," he says.

"What?" I wheeze. My head spins. My skin tingles under his hand where he's gripping my wrist hard enough for me to feel my pulse crashing against his fingers. Then he's pushing me backward until my back hits the wall and I'm staring up at him with wide eyes.

"I didn't tell you to put your dick away," he growls.

At his tone, my cock stiffens even more. What the fuck is happening? He leans in until his nose is almost brushing against mine.

"Keep jerking yourself off," he says in a voice so low and commanding that it sends a bolt of electricity straight to my cock and I gasp at how painfully aroused I am. I quiver inside, even as my hand inches back toward my dick and I take it in my clammy palm. He doesn't take his eyes off mine while I start to work my full length again mechanically, twitching at each stroke.

He keeps me pressed against the wall as I work myself up into a frenzy, his eyes burning into me. A strange mix of shame and arousal spreads through me, bringing me to life in a way I've never felt before.

"Grab your balls," he says.

I do, shuddering at the thrill it sends through me.

"Squeeze."

My eyes are wide, my heart pounding, my breath coming in pants.

"Harder." I do as he says. "Good."

Fuck.

I'm inches away from coming when he growls, "Now, take a hold of my cock," and I gasp and almost explode on the spot.

He wants me to touch his dick.

That huge cock I've been fantasizing about non-stop for over twelve hours straight. I fall over myself to oblige, and manage to fumble my fingers inside the waistband of his pants, jerking myself even harder. The tips of my fingers brush against his solid length, the skin hot and soft and I have to gulp the saliva suddenly pooling in my mouth.

Still staring into my eyes with a predatory fire, he makes the smallest noise in his throat as my hand closes around him.

This is the hottest thing that has ever happened to me. That has ever happened to anyone in the history of existence.

With one hand still pressed into my shoulder, keeping me pinned against the wall, he fishes in his pocket, and the next moment there's a phone in my face.

He pulls back slightly, angling it to get a full-body shot of me from above, dick in one hand, the other down his pants, and the shutter goes off. I know exactly how I must look; red, sweaty, eyes spaced out and heavy with arousal. He inspects the photo, then shoves his phone away. He's captured my shame, and I feel so pathetic, dirty, and vulnerable that it's almost too much, but I don't fucking stop. I moan as my orgasm approaches, hitching my hips into my own hand as I jerk us both furiously.

"Stop," he commands.

My head spins. "What—" I breathe.

"I told you to stop," he snarls. "Let go of your dick."

"But—"

I'm so close, I can't stop. Even if I wanted to my body wouldn't obey me, I'm past functional thought.

"I said stop," he growls, and his voice hits something deep inside me. My muscles react without any input from my brain, and I drop both of our dicks like they're burning hot. The twisting wild animal of my arousal thrashes in my belly, furious and starving. But, somehow, being overpowered by his will alone, being forced to stop, makes my blood fizz and my chest hitch.

There's a dark hunger shining in his eyes and I'm hanging on the edge of a cliff, waiting for what he's going to do next, or what he's going to make me do. Because right now, I'd do anything.

He watches me a moment longer, and then without another word, slips his dick away, spins on his heel, and walks off. It's like a punch to the gut.

"Wait!"

He pauses in the doorway, face entirely cool and controlled like absolutely nothing has happened, like I wasn't just jerking both our dicks while he held me against the wall. He is entirely unaffected. He shoots a smirk at me, and I realize with burning shame that this is the punishment I get for what I did. He's not going to let me finish. That might be what I deserve, but I'm so turned on I'm not thinking logically. I open my mouth to swear, to beg, I don't know, but something else comes out instead.

"What are the handcuffs for?" The words fall out of me, pathetically desperate.

Malcolm gives me a slow blink, and for a moment I think he's going to tell me. But then he turns and walks out, leaving me wet and panting and starving for more.

"Fuck," I hiss.

***

If there were any kind of God above, he would conjure a thunderstorm so I don't have to go through practice with Malcolm. But a thunderstorm doesn't come, and I have to endure it.

I avoid his eyes for the entire practice, I don't even look within ten feet of him at any time.

I'm reeling with humiliation; I've just made a massive asshole of myself, Malcolm knows I'm a pervert, and now he has a photo of me. Karma is the worst bitch.

What is he going to do with the photo? Will he use it against me? I wouldn't be shocked, he's made it more than clear how much he hates my guts. I'm sweating so much my pads squelch when I get tackled.

Maybe he'll just use it for protection to make sure I don't share the video. But then why didn't he just make me delete it when he had me under his power? I shudder at the memory and trip over my own feet, faceplanting on the field.

The whole practice is a complete write-off. The number of times I fumble the ball is horrendous, and Coach cusses me out for the worst practice of my life and makes everyone do extra sprints because of me. That gets me plenty of glares and complaints from the guys. I'm relieved when it's finally over and I can go back to my dingy dorm and take care of myself.

I'm going to delete that video, jerk off to Becki's boobs, and forget all about fucking Malcolm Blackwood.

He's had his revenge. Now that I've thought it through, I don't think he'll share that photo if I don't share mine. Scary as he is, he doesn't seem the sort of person to do that. I skip the showers—for obvious reasons—and head straight to my locker, glancing over my shoulder. Malcolm's nowhere to be seen, thank god.

I strip off and get dressed in ten seconds flat before most of the other guys have even come back into the locker room. Even so, I have to hide my semi before I yank my pants up.

"Hey, North."

I jump and spin around, but it's only Josh, pulling his sweaty jersey off.

"What was going on with you today? You were all over the place. Everything ok, Bro?"

I have to make a conscious effort not to cover my crotch with my hands.

"Oh. Yeah, I'm fine. Just uh . . . got a lot on my mind, I guess. Classes are beating my ass, you know how it is."

He nods sympathetically. "Yeah man, Professor Blake's been riding me about that paper all week." He rolls his eyes. "You coming for a drink? Take a load off."

"Nah I can't," I say, desperately trying to think of an excuse that's not "I need to go beat off over Malcolm Blackwood before I pass out."

Josh doesn't give me a chance though. "Come on, you can spare an hour for me. Anyway, you owe me a beer. See you at Delaney's in ten, or I'll come find you and drag you out anyway." He grabs his towel and walks off toward the shower stalls before I can reply.

Shit. I snatch up my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and escape the locker room before Malcolm shows up.

Delaney's is a block away from campus, and the Irish style bar is already packed when I get there. I'm not in any danger of running into Malcolm though. I come here a lot with the boys, and he never shows up, even when we pluck up the courage to invite him.

I dump my bag on the last free table and order a round. I'll get mine in quick and then make my excuses to retreat to the privacy of my dorm room as early as possible.

The guys show up, and we chat and drink for a while. I sip my beer and try my best to join in the conversation, but there's only one thing on my mind right now, and it's not beer, or the last big football game. It's a pair of dark eyes and a hand gripping my wrist. The slide of flesh in my palm.

This isn't working. The beer is making me warm and the guys aren't distracting me from my rapidly re-growing semi like I'd hoped. I need to get out of here.

I chug the rest of my beer, and I'm about halfway through when my phone buzzes. It's an unknown number, and I frown at the message.

Unknown Number: If you want to finish what we started and find out what the handcuffs are for, come to my place tomorrow evening.

My heart hammers hard and fast. There's no name, but there doesn't have to be. There's only one person it can possibly be.

Underneath it there's an address, outside of the campus grounds, in the wealthy area on the far side of the college.

As I stare at the screen, another arrives.

Unknown Number: I left you something. Check your bag.

What? With my pulse roaring in my ears, I reach down, unzip my bag, and peer inside. A brown folded paper bag is tucked beside my dirty uniform. What the fuck?

Unknown Number: Use it straight away and don't stop until I see you. Do not touch yourself.

How the fuck did he put that in there? Without thinking, I pick up the paper bag. There's something heavy inside. I drop it quickly, as if it had tried to bite me, and my eyes go back to the messages. My head spins as I read them through five more times, trying to make sure I haven't somehow misunderstood.

"North. Hey, North. Did you hear me?" Josh calls at me from the other end of the table as the guys laugh at something I've missed.

I stand up abruptly, almost dropping my phone and clutching my bag to my chest. "I have to go to the restroom," I say urgently.

"Leave a window open after you, bro," Randy shouts, and the guys all laugh uproariously as I hurry through the crowded bar.

Inside the restroom, I lock myself in one of the stalls and read the messages again, then carefully take out the brown paper bag. Whatever's inside, it's heavy and solid. And Malcolm says he wants me to "use" it.

After a furtive glance over my shoulder, as if someone might have snuck into the stall with me, I open the bag and peer in.

Inside is a shiny metallic butt plug.