4

-North-

THIS IScrazy.

I'm not going to do it. No way. No fucking way.

He wants me to put in a butt plug and wear it all day.

No. I can't do that. I don't do that kind of thing. I play football and study, and flirt with girls. I'm straight and, to be honest, pretty vanilla. I don't shove butt plugs up my fucking ass.

I keep thinking this must be some kind of trick. He's messing with me. But then why would he give me his address?

Of all the things I expected to happen, this was the last. Ok, him joining me in the showers was the last, but this is a close second.

I'm so confused. I thought he hated me? So, was that stuff in the shower a test run? My head spins at the possibilities.

The offending plug sits on my bed as I pace the length of my dorm room, glaring at it.

No, this is crazy, and anyway, I don't have time for his games. I have studying to do, I have tests, I have classes I desperately need to catch up on, and I have to work on my game.

Mind made up, I grab the bag and march out of my dorm room into the shared social and kitchen area. I sling the bag into the trash and march straight back to my room. There, I'm too fucking busy for this shit. He can find someone else to mess with. I'm sure he'd have plenty of volunteers to play his twisted games. He can take his pick. I ignore the small prickling feeling that thought produces in my chest.

I sit down at the small desk next to my bed, get my bio book out, open it to the page I need, and start reading.

Who does he think he is anyway? Bossing me around, telling me what to do. Yeah, he's big and intimidating, with that air of effortless cool that you only get when you give zero fucks. So what if I can't stop thinking about him? It doesn't mean I have to do what he says.

I'm not even gay, or bi, or whatever. I'd know if I was, wouldn't I? I'm probably just bored and horny.

I get to the bottom of the page when I realize none of the text has registered, and I read it again, really trying to concentrate this time.

. . . His dark eyes in the shower cubicles. The way his face had darkened into something lustful and vindictive. The expanse of his solid chest. How he shoved me against the wall, forced me to keep going, his arm pinning me in place, overpowering me as if it were nothing.

My dick stirs and without thinking I slip my hand down into my pants and touch it lightly, then freeze, as a thought pops into my head unbidden.

He told me not to touch myself.

I whip my hand out of my pants, an ache shoots up from my groin, and my dick gets even harder. Why is his command so hot? And why do I want to obey him?

But it doesn't matter anyway, I can puzzle over it as much as I want, I'm not going to do it.

I stick the end of my pen into my mouth and try to clear my mind. After the fourth reread and still no retained information, I'm so horny I can hardly sit still.

Before I can stop myself, I'm shoving my chair back and running out of my room, down the hall, to the kitchen, and diving into the trashcan. The paper bag is on top of the trash, and I snatch it up. I'm still half in the garbage when I hear someone enter.

"What are you doing, bro?"

I jump upright, paper bag clutched in my hand, face bright red. One of my dormmates, Paul, is watching me with his glasses halfway down his nose, looking like a disapproving librarian.

"Nothing, I was just . . . er . . . looking for something."

"By digging in the trash?" He wrinkles his nose at me.

"Yeah, it's uh . . . I threw it away by accident. I put it in the wrong bin. Needs to go in recycling. Gotta save the planet, you know?" I say brightly.

He looks at me like I just grew another head and pulls a packet of pop tarts from the cupboard, and I flee back to my dorm, the weight of the plug heavy in my hand.

The bottom of the bag has a bit of orange peel stuck on it, and I flick it off and tip the plug out onto my bed, where it falls onto my sheets. It's a dark-grey metal, smooth and shiny as a new coin, with a wide, flat base.

Fuck. Malcolm wants it inside me. I don't understand why but that means I need it inside me, like right now. I'm so fucking hard.

I wrench my pants down before I remember I haven't shut the door yet, and almost fall over myself as I stumble back across the room, my pants around my ankles. Then I move with a singular focus. Door locked. Lube in the drawer beside my bed. Boxers kicked off. Socks on or off? I shake my head—it doesn't matter!

How are you supposed to put it in? Obviously, I know where it goes, but how do you get it in there? I end up kneeling, bent over my bed, and awkwardly dollop a healthy amount of lube onto my asshole. Probably too much, because a fat drop of it slides down my leg and plops onto the threadbare carpet. I slather lube on the plug, too, getting it all slippery. It feels so solid in my hands I almost chicken out again.

Then I reach around, position the end of the plug between my cheeks and pause, closing my eyes. I imagine Malcolm standing over me. It's his hand that holds my cheeks open, his fingers that press the plug against my twitching hole. I shudder and press it in harder, and it starts to slide inside me, stretching me slightly. Fuck, it feels so good in there. My breath hitches as my hand—his hand—pushes it further inside, my hole stretches and opens up around it, and I can feel it nudging inside me, filling a space I didn't know was there, until my ring closes around the neck and the base of the plug sits against my hole.

I've never done butt stuff before, and it feels so strange and good at the same time. I'm so full. My cock is already rock-solid and leaking precum, and I want to touch it so bad, but he told me not to, and that stops me as strongly as if his hands were here holding me, controlling me.

I carefully sit back down at my desk, feeling the plug shift inside me. My hole clenches around it with every move. I sit here pretending to study and leaking into my sweatpants as I imagine Mal. When did I start thinking of him as "Mal" instead of "Malcolm?" I want to touch myself so badly, but I have to do as he says, and that makes me even harder, turns me on even more still, until I'm biting down on my lip, gripping the edge of the desk, and fighting the urge to grind down onto the plug. Is this what it would feel like to have his cock inside me?

I already know I'm not going to get any studying done, or even sleep tonight, but I can't bring myself to care. The tension twisting in my belly, the utter frustration of not touching myself, is sinfully hot. I give up and get into bed, lying with my hands behind my back, pretending they're handcuffed, and feeling the shame and arousal burn through me.

I don't know how it came to this, but I know deep down that I already have no control over it, all I can do is hold on tight as I'm swept along in the hurricane that is Malcolm Blackwood.