Once a Nerd Ch. 05

"Don't be a bitch, Sammy, this is what your ass was made for." He chides, and it isn't in the horny, playful tone he'd normally use. It's cold, cruel. "It was made for me, to do whatever the fuck I want with it."

Worst of all, I'm hard. I was hard when he started undressing me, and even through the pain, my erection hasn't flagged. I bring my hands down to try and hide it, because it feels shameful, and he laughs at the effort. He knocks them away. "What, embarrassed? Don't be, cockwhores like you get off on this sort of treatment, right?"

Once I'm stretched enough for his liking, he undoes his pants. He doesn't even take them off, he simply slides them down just enough to pull his cock out. That's my last glimpse of it for the foreseeable future, because he flips me onto my stomach. My knees thump against the floor, my upper body bent over the seat, and Dean fists a hand in my hair to keep my face smothered in the cushion. It's terrifying, and my chest tightens with anxiety when I feel him lining up. Even though I'm halfway expecting it, it punches the breath from my lungs and the sense from my brain when he slams forward, sealing his groin against my ass in one thrust.

I dig my teeth into my lip so hard, I taste blood. I don't want him to hear me scream, because I think he'd actually like it. No, I know he would.

He proceeds to fuck the absolute shit out of me. There's no slow start, there's no warning, nothing of the sort. His free hand anchors at my hip, and he doesn't release that grip from the back of my head. Dean fixes me in place and fucks me just like I'm the hole he's always accused me of being [in the heat of the moment, but still]. He's smashing against my prostate with a battering-ram's force, and my cock is chafing against the lip of the couch. It isn't possible to stifle my sounds, because they're being literally shoved from my throat.

"Hah, yeah, that's it, baby! That's what I wanna hear, scream for me. I'm the only one who's gonna make you feel this good, I'm the only fuckin' one, Sammy."

My stomach is frothing, broiling with heat. It's barely been ten minutes, and I'm going to cum all over my couch from this brand of Dean's cruelty. Something must be wrong with me, too, because my orgasm is devastating. I bite a hole through the cushion, drooling into the fabric, and drive my hips back to meet it like my heart isn't breaking at the same time. Despite what has to be the vacuum-like suction of a black hole, Dean neither cums, nor stops fucking me.

Even as I'm shaking apart with it, he continues smashing into me with both power and precision, and it makes for the longest, most torturous orgasm I've ever suffered. I try to pull away, but there's nowhere to go. I try to brace my hand against his stomach, but he pins it to the small of my back. My vision is spotting, my nerves are completely fried. Seconds, minutes, days, I couldn't tell you the difference. It feels like my body is trapped in a perpetual state of pleasure overload, and if it continues, I'll either black out or die. Broken sobs rip from my chest, and I can't even catch a breath to beg him to stop. Finally, I manage it, but I know a simple 'stop' won't put an end to anything.

"H-Hawthorne!" I choke out.

He stops immediately, but clicks his tongue like he's disappointed. I'm twitching, shivering, violently. It takes me a full minute to catch my breath, find a thought in the blank spanse of my mind. He might've stopped moving, but he's still buried to the hilt. He hasn't let go of my arm, nor the clamp he's kept on the back of my neck. I turn my head so my cheek is flattened to the cushion and glare at him through my hair.

"Y-You...fucking asshole..."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "You're upset because, what, it felt too good? We're not done unless you specify it, so say it now or shut the fuck up."

Jesus Christ, my dick actually twitched.

Have I been a masochist, all this time?

"That's what I fuckin' thought."

Three hours. That's my best estimation of how long it went on. He fucked me everywhere except the bed, and it started to feel deliberate, as if there's a point he's trying to make. The couch, the ottoman, the floor, against the wall, etcetera. Eventually, Dean did shed his clothes, but he utilized every bit of his insane rebound time. There were only a few minutes between each round, and while he started to get a little more kind, I was feeling less and less human with every one of our orgasms. He would bust a thick, fat load in my guts, and then be sliding right back in less than five minutes later. It was sloppy, wet, and borderline inhuman in its savagery.

While he technically kept to the 'no visible marks' guideline, he went out of his way to mark me up everywhere else. He bit rings around my nipples, sucked bruises into my collar bones, stomach, thighs, and ass. I'll find his fingerprints in purple on my hips, shoulders, legs, and forearms in the morning. While I lost my voice somewhere in the fray, he never stopped reminding me: this is what my body's good for, he's the only one who can make me feel this way, I'll never be satisfied with anyone but him for the rest of my life. It was like a form of brainwashing, as he fed me those mantras on the cusp and descent of my orgasms. They soaked into the folds of my mind, already marinating in chemical pleasure.

At one point, he blatantly attacked my manhood: "Your dick is an unnecessary accessory, you know that, right? You couldn't stick it in something even if you wanted to, you need a cock in your ass to cum like this." He laughed.

He hadn't touched my cock once, the entire time, so those words struck a painful chord. I'd cum so many times, and they were all purely from being fucked. At the time, I had no idea what was bringing this behavior out of him, why he was being so inordinately mean. The reason for it wouldn't be hashed out until the following week, so in the moment I was resigned to confusion, heartache, and an eventual post-coital coma. I must've passed out or fallen asleep, as I have no idea what time it ended or when he left. He cleaned me up, righted the living room, and scrubbed out the stains.

He replaced my clothes on my body and laid me in bed, and I think he might have laid behind me for some time. I think he regretted it, or...maybe I dreamed that he did.

His whispered apology pressed behind my ear: "'m sorry, Sammy..."

Whether or not the apology was a dream, the rest of it absolutely was not. I took all day Sunday to recover, even contemplated calling out on Monday. My poor ass, that bastard completely brutalized it. It hurts to walk, stand, and sit. My voice is a crackly, pitchy mess. I spent the day in the bath, sipping hot tea, and napping like it'll restore my mental and physical health to rights. Dean has a foul mouth, but he's never fucked me like that before. He was...making some sort of point, but it's beyond me as of now. What could he possibly have going on, to be so bent out of shape?

Monday came all too soon. I felt decent enough to hack it out, so I pulled into the faculty lot with a burgeoning sense of dread. If Dean adheres to my guidelines, he won't approach me. I put them in place for a reason, so as not to put my job at risk, but the idea of being on the same grounds as Dean all day and having him ignore me [after the way he breezed in and out of my home like a category five on Saturday night] makes me...furious. It makes me angry, anxious, and deeply, deeply hurt. I can't keep going like this. No matter how good the sex is, none of it is remotely healthy. It was wrong from the start, but now it's ripping a gaping hole through me, my sense of peace and self-respect.

Walking through the halls as smoothly as I can manage, I paste on something like a 'customer service' smile. I greet my students and fellow teachers politely, before essentially hiding out in my room. I bypass the teacher's lounge altogether. I'm not sure what I'm expecting, hoping for, or hoping to avoid, but Dean appearing in my empty class less than five minutes after I've sat down brings me both relief and trepidation. He looks...bad, like he'd slept a total of four hours through the weekend.

Huh, so maybe he did feel bad about it.

"Good morning, what can I do for you?" I say in my dryest, most impersonal tone.

Dean tenses at the flat sound. He comes to rest awkwardly in front of my desk, hands stowed in his pockets, and does a quick scan of my person. His eyes pause on my wrist, where I'd opted for my old watch instead of the one he'd gotten me. It was the only way I could think to spite him, childish as it may be.

His face tightens, and he cuts his gaze away without mentioning it. "I..." He starts, and the sound of his voice nearly trips me up. Hearing it now, in my classroom, as my student, is...surreal. The last time I'd heard it, he was saying the cruelest things he could think of while fucking me to tears. I swallow around the sudden lump in my throat, struggling to stuff down the anxiety lifting like steam in my chest.

"...are you...okay?" He finally gets out.

I smile placidly. "I'm doing well, thanks for asking. How was your weekend?"

Okay, it's a cheap shot, I know that.

Dean is glaring at me now, as if he's upset with my bullshitting him. What the hell is he expecting from me? Does he want me to erupt into telenovela tears and have a lover's quarrel with him at 6:30am, in the middle of my classroom?

"Look, I'm...I won't have many chances to do this, so I just wanted to apo--"

"Knock, knock! Oh, hey, Dean!"

Jamie is in my doorway now, great. So, so great.

Dean smiles at her, straightening up from where he'd been starting to lean over my desk. "Hey, Ms. Rosenthal."

Wow, look at the kid go. It's like a flip has switched in him, and he's all easy-going charm. Jamie glances between us.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt anything, I can come back later."

The way she says it raises my hackles, like she's implying something.

"No, no, Dean was just asking about an assignment he had to make up last Friday." The lie slides smoothly between my teeth, and Dean stiffens, as he knows he's being blatantly dismissed. He cuts a sharp look at me from his periphery, before turning to leave.

"Thanks, Mr. Powell! See you later." He calls over his shoulder, as smooth in his charade as I am, and slips out into the hall.

Jamie takes his place, coming up to perch on my desk. Do attractive people just think they have an inherent right to other's personal space? "He looked upset." She chuckles. "Did he do poorly on it or something?"

"Hm? Yeah, he probably could've done better."

"Ah, that's a bummer. You should cut him some slack, Sam, we're doomed if he plays like shit this weekend."

I immediately change the subject, because what the entire fuck is she on about?

"What's up? Did you need help with anything?"

"Oh! No, no, I actually wanted to see if you'd be interested in grabbing a drink with me after work tonight."

...huh? I must look as mystified as I feel, because she belts that deep, rich laugh that seems to fill up a room. "Just as friends! You're the only one I've got, Sam, come on!"

I find that very, very hard to believe. But, even if it's Jamie Rosenthal, maybe it would do me some good to interact with someone besides Dean. I take a minute more to mull it over, before finally agreeing. She beams at me and sticks out her fist, which I think means I'm supposed to bump it with mine. "Okay, I'll give you the details during lunch!"

Little did I know then, but Jamie Rosenthal is the biggest snake in the grass there ever was.

--

What the fuck?

What the fuck.

What. The. Fuck.

I mean that in, like, a hundred different ways.

What the fuck am I doing? Why am I being so childish, throwing a tantrum like the toddler Sam compared me to?

What the fuck does Jamie Rosenthal think she's doing? I'm not blind, and she's been up Sam's ass since she stepped foot on school grounds. The Friday before last, I spotted him talking to a smokin' blonde in the faculty lot, before she'd been introduced as our replacement teacher on Monday. I couldn't make out the finer details, being all the way on the field, and my distraction earned me a pass to the solar plexus.

Is she interested in him? Is he interested in her?

No, no way. Sammy has to be strictly gay, right? The way he takes cock, it's like...

Then again, we've never discussed it. My history speaks for itself, and Sam's well aware of my fluidity in the bedroom. But I know next to nothing about his dating history or sexual preferences, other than that he's dated at least one man who was fairly hung. He could've dated plenty of women, too.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

There's no way, right?

But, she's another teacher. She's his age. She's hot as fuck. They have so much more in common than he and I do. Now, he's going out for drinks with her? Of course I eavesdropped, you should know me by now, come on.

So, please believe me when I say this: I'm not proud of what I did on Saturday. Sammy might not have safeworded me but the one time, but that doesn't make it okay. I fucking know that, okay? I acted out in a bad way, instead of using my big boy words. I'm still too much of a pussy to tell him what I want, how I feel. I'm terrified of his rejection, and I know as long as I'm a student in this school, he'll turn me down flat. I'm trying my best to wait.

Last week was hell, though. I'm not allowed to approach him, I can't text him, but she's hanging off of him like an ugly, fake fur all during lunch and in between classes? He didn't slip me any notes either. There were no green lights. By Friday, I was seeing red. My feet grew minds of their own, and I broke one of our rules: I approached him after school. It nearly got us caught, but guess what?

I got the green, sort of. He didn't argue it when I said I'd be over at seven, so I took that as a win and ran with it. However, all of Friday night and Saturday day, a storm of ugly feelings was growing and thundering through me, clouding my judgment. I tried working it off in the gym, I tried burning it out on a ten mile run, I tried showering in next-to-boiling water, but that ugliness remained. Sammy's lost his goddamn mind if he thinks someone like Jamie can satisfy him.

He's a born-to-bred cockslut, through and through, he just needs a little reminder. That was my original thought, and it sort of spiraled out of control. Walking through his front door, it's like I'd left my sanity and sense of restraint on his stoop. Seeing him sitting there on the couch, as pretty as always and nonethewiser to everything I'd been feeling for the entirety of the week, tipped me over the edge. I wanted to ruin him, make him cry, make him scream, make him cum on my cock over and over again. I wanted to remind him of his place, who he'd best be served by--me, obviously. I told myself it was okay because he was letting me do it, he didn't stop me with the safeword except for when I was plowing him through his first orgasm.

'Heat of the moment' is hardly an excuse, however. I said some really, really fucked-up shit to him, and I railed him relentlessly without any kindness. It must have felt like whiplash, considering the last time we had sex was such a slow, gentle affair full of...well, love. I won't call it love-making though, I'm not fifty. I know I probably did a number on him, and he had to be hurting the next day. I shouldn't fuck him like that unless he explicitly agrees to it, and I can be there the next day to help him out.

Needless to say, I was a wreck afterwards. I couldn't call him, text him, or drop by to check on him. I had to sit, alone, with what I'd done, and pray to God that he doesn't evict me from his life forever. I'll do whatever I've got to do, say whatever I've got to say, as long as I can earn his forgiveness. So, of course, I beeline for his room first thing Monday morning.

It didn't go at all like I wanted it to. He was cold, impersonal, and unfriendly. He isn't wearing my watch, either. Is it heartbreak, or did someone come up behind me and plunge a knife through my back? It felt par for par. I try to choke out the beginnings of a half-assed apology, because it's the best I can accomplish right now, but I can't even do that much. Because of Ms. Rosenthal, bane of my entire existence.

I decided to get some outside perspective, and there's only one person I can go to.

"Yo, Jacob, wanna come over later?"

"Yeah, man, I'll change and be over by four."

So, here we are now. I'm slouched in my bean bag, Jacob swishing back and forth in my desk chair [unbothered]. Between us, there's a box of half-eaten pizza riddled with grease spots and a three-pack that was once a six-pack. On my old, tiny TV, Jacob is whipping the daylights out of me in Tekken 7. The repeated defeats don't ignite my temper like they normally would, and the fact that I'm on such a horrific losing streak in the first place is a tip off. Jacob gives me a sidelong look.

"Spit it out, dude. I know you didn't invite me over just to binge carbs and get your ass beat in Tekken."

I groan, because he's right, I just didn't want to reduce a lifelong friendship down to venting about my affairs. It would be such a dick move to invite him over, bitch about my issues, then send him on his merry way. "Well, since you brought it up..."

I lay it all on the table, everything except my unbecoming treatment of Sammy on Saturday night. Jacob listens patiently as I express my frustrations with our new teacher and her wily ways, her flagrant attention towards Sam. Before long, he's giving me a look like I'm the stupidest son of a bitch alive. I pause, blinking back at him.

"Okay, so..." He starts slowly. "...you're upset because...you think Ms. Rosenthal is into Mr. Powell?"

"...yeah?"

"Dude." He deadpans. "Ms. Rosenthal is into every young, slightly attractive guy in school. She's been hanging all over you, too!" He swipes a hand at me.

"...she has?"

"Yes, dude! She's been flirting with you like crazy. Christ, how far is your head stuck up Sam's ass? She's just a slut, man. I mean, she's fine as fuck, don't get me wrong. I'd hit, but there'd be a line. She'd probably let the entire team run a train on her."

I sit with this newfound perspective for a moment. I review my memories of the past week and a half, and Ms. Rosenthal definitely is...on the touchy-feely side. She laughs a lot at things that aren't remotely funny. She punches her chest out, flips her hair, flashes smiles like she's in a Colgate commercial. She definitely has a preference for the student athletes. My God, she is a slut.

"But, but, she asked him out! For drinks!"

"Isn't Mr. Powell, like, gay?"

"I don't know! I thought so, but what if he likes chicks, too?"

"Well, did you ask him about it? What'd he say?"

"I--" The words stick in my throat like a glob of honey. Sam gives me a strange look.

"What? You were at his house on Saturday, right?"

"I...was." Jacob can read me like a book, and my expression must be saying everything I can't bring myself to get out. The guilt, shame, and discomfort.

"Dude, what'd you do?" He straightens in his seat. I drop my face in my hands, scrubbing up and down viciously.

"I just...I was pissed, dude! I'd been thinking about it all week, and when I saw him I--I don't know, I just lost it!"

"You didn't...did you beat him up or something?!"

"No, no!" I refute immediately. "We just...had sex, for like, three hours straight."

"Had sex." Jacob repeats flatly. "I can read between the lines, dude, I'm not retarded--unlike you. I know what you're like like when you lose your temper, and if you fucked him like that? For three hours? You messed up, big time. It's a miracle he made it in on Monday. Shit, it's a miracle he isn't paralyzed."