Once a Nerd Ch. 07

Houston, we've got a motherfuckin' problem.

Graduation is less than a week away, and you'd think that would be something to celebrate. Sammy won't be able to bitch and moan about the ethics of our relationship to quite the same extent, once the teacher-student factor is eliminated. So, what's the issue, you ask?

He still hasn't said a word about his move, re-enrolling into school, or anything at all of his life beyond the summer. Sometimes, when he talks, it's like he's got a terminal illness. He pointedly refuses to discuss anything about the future, our future, beyond a certain date. He's constantly, constantly asking about my plans, however. It's like he wants to reassure himself that I'll make a good, responsible choice. Or, that he and I have an expiration date.

Here's my dilemma: I've already been accepted for the fall semester at CSU, Fresno. For football, they're one of the best NCAA, D1 universities in California. We won't be attending the same school like I'd originally hoped, but we'll be less than an hour's drive apart. Soon, Sam will have to start packing up his house for the move, and that's not something he'll be able to gloss over. He'll have to give me a proper explanation. It's just, this is how I imagine it'll go:

Sammy will sit me down, looking at anything and everything but my face. He'll be uncomfortable, but firm. He'll tell me he's leaving for California, or maybe he'll withhold the details, and say it's been fun while it lasted but it's time for us to go our separate ways. He's probably expecting it to be difficult, but final. I might get angry, argue, suggest something long distance, but even I would eventually have to give in to the raw truth of it. Sammy's going one way, and he believes I'm going another.

So, how do I bring it up?

Obviously, I have to, somehow. If I were to just pop up on his campus one day without any warning, in a completely different state, he'd shit an entire brick. But, it's not like he'll buy it if I say something like: "SoCal, huh? What a crazy coincidence, me too! Should we make a road trip out of it?"

He's gonna be pissed either way, but one path is easily more treacherous than the other. With graduation looming, Sammy relaxed his tight grip on the rules. It's Sunday morning, and I've been at his home since late Saturday afternoon. He lets me sleep over on the weekends, and he's not so quick to boot me on Sundays as long as he's not got something to do in town. There are no more games or practices, and testing is over. He's much busier than I am these days, but I'm content to just be in the same room as him while he works. I can imagine this is what it'll be like in Cali, too. He'll probably be swamped with working towards his PhD.

My adorable, fuckable nerd.

Sammy leans back his office chair, arching his back in search of a satisfying pop. "I'm so stiff, God."

He tends to avoid his home office, as he prefers not to be stuck behind a desk in his own home more than necessary. He'd normally snuggle into his corner of the couch with whatever stack of papers require grading or his laptop warming his thighs, but there's too much to juggle today: two binders, multiple stacks, and his laptop are sprawled across the polished, cherry top. I'd taken up residence in his office's armchair, my own outdated laptop overheating on top of my thighs, whirring like a XF-84H taking off.

"Wanna take a break?"

He glares at me

I huff, as if I haven't given him enough reason to think my version of a 'break' is fucking him half to death. "That's not what I meant!"

Really, it isn't.

"What, then?"

I cajole him out from behind the desk, all the way into his sprawling backyard. He hesitates at the backdoor like a vampire wary of the daylight, but I know it's paranoia. His backyard is walled off by a treeline, then a short strip of fencing on either side of the home. It's also on a downhill slope. Unless his distant neighbors plan on popping their head over the fence in request of some emergency sugar, no one will see us.

"Sammy, for the love of God, get your pussy-ass out here."

"I'll find a way to flunk you, brat."

"...that's hot."

He scoffs, but obediently steps out onto the veranda. "Why are we out here?"

"Ta-da!"

I procure a football from behind one of the patio chairs with all the theatrics of a magician pulling a dehydrated bunny from a tophat. He groans, agonized, and immediately swoops on his heel to head back inside. I catch him by the back of his T-shirt, yanking. His back smarts against my chest, and he lifts his face to fix me with a dirty, annoyed look. My pretty, pretty boy. I plant a sloppy kiss on his forehead, which he petulantly scrubs away. "Physical activity will make you feel better, and if you don't wanna fuck, this is good too."

"Wha—?!" He sputters. "We had sex an hour ago!"

"Yeah, but just once."

"Dean, you're a quarterback. I trip going up the stairs too fast. I'm not doing this."

"Come on, Sammy, it'll be fun! I'll throw it easy, swear to God."

He gives in, like he always does. His subservience in little ways like this is such a turn-on, and goddamn, I have problems. We pad out into the grass, and I pull back a good thirty feet. He's standing awkwardly, nervously, like he's never caught a ball in his life. It's the beginning of July, so his loungewear is more revealing than usual. Cotton shorts that cuff around his upper thighs, a thin T-shirt that must've shrunk in the dryer, riding his smooth navel. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my head on straight. He really will pry me off with a crowbar and boot me out of his life if I keep trying to hump his leg like a pooch in heat.

"Ready?!"

"Sure."

I swing a gentle, arching pass towards him, and while he fumbles with it, it doesn't touch the lawn. He shoves it in the air like a trophy, grinning. "Hey, I caught it!"

Warmth blossoms in my chest. "Throw it back, lemme see that killer arm!"

He scoffs, but the smile's still there. Sticking his tongue between his teeth, he cocks his arm back and sets it loose. It isn't the worst throw I've ever seen, but it's a clunky thing all but dropping out of the air, no spin. It's more than enough of an excuse, in my book. I jog over with the ball, and he monitors my approach suspiciously. I flash my most disarming grin, which hasn't worked on him in months. "Hey, hey, I'm just trying to offer some wisdom."

"Bullshit."

Saddling up behind him, I whisper a teasing hand beneath the front of his shirt. I don't miss the delicious shiver that runs through him, nor the telltale clenching of his back, like he has to physically stop himself from pushing his ass back. Blood blooms bright against his nape through that tickle of dark curls. Christ, he's practically trained. "Hand to God. Now, grab it."

He grabs the football from my outstretched hand. Pay attention, kids, this is what we in the business call: a textbook maneuver. It toes the line of mansplaining, so you've got to be completely, totally sure the recipient is into you. In my case, there's no question. I line my body up with his, closer than is necessary for any demonstration, and splay my hand atop his where he grips the ball, adjusting his finger placement. I puppet his body through the movement: feet shoulder width apart, twisting hips, drawn arm.

"You wanna load it correctly, so start with it here, right above your belly button. You want the nose of the ball facing down. Keep your knees a little bent, you want your feet wider than your hips. The step you take helps you gain some momentum, so you take one firm step with your left foot, then push off with your right. Put as much of your weight as you can into your back foot, but give it a little twist at the same time. Then, it's all in your shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Keep it loose, extend your elbow, and snap your wrist when you release. Your index finger should be the last one touching the ball when you let go."

It's a pretty professional explanation, if I say so myself, but I'm sure it's going in one ear and out the other. With every tip and suggestion, I make it a reality by contorting him like an artist's tiny wooden mannequin. I slide my hand between his thighs to fix his leg placement, then along his ribs to get the right twist from his hips. My cock must feel like a soldering iron against his lower back. His skin jumps, muscles fluttering, wherever I touch. He's tense, and his breath hitches. If I stuck my hand down the front of his shorts, I'm sure he'd be wet.

Sammy's like...a beautiful instrument I get to play.

Then, I leave him like that, returning to my place across the yard. He stares after me, mouth slightly agape. Knowing him, he'd rather suffer in silence than admit how horny he is, and that's exactly what he does. He pretends to be unaffected, straightening his clothes with one hand. To my surprise, he takes my instruction to heart and adjusts his body accordingly. His next pass is smooth, and I praise him for it. We go back and forth like that for about twenty minutes. I mock him when he drops the ball or passes poorly, he mocks me for it being the only thing I'm good at. It's...nice, lighthearted, and I never, ever want this feeling to end.

He has the ball again, but instead of passing it, he tucks it behind his back. His expression is playful, saying: 'come and get it.'

"I'm—I'm not gonna tackle you!" I laugh, disbelieving.

"Well," He calls back, cheeky. "Looks like the game is over."

I feign nonchalance and shrug. "Guess so."

He gets this devious little smile, one that puts a tickle in my scalp, snaking my spine. I've got fuckin' chills over it, a simple smile.

"Pussy!" He heckles.

Oh.

Oh, so we're playing it like that.

I'm not sure what my own face looks like as I break into a run, but it scares the pure shit out of him. He aborts a shriek, stumbling into his own breakneck sprint. I don't chase him like I'd chase a real opponent on the field, because it'd be over too soon. I'm gracious enough to grant a few seconds of a head start. Then, I tear up the lawn in pursuit.

You remember how it used to feel playing tag as a kid? Running away as hard as you could because it almost felt like you'd die if you got caught, like the world would end? Or, chasing just as hard because some instinctual, predatory part of the brain demands you catch something that runs, something you need or want?

The adrenaline, the excitement, the anticipation. It's just like that, and I feel like I have a newfound understanding of couples that roleplay similar, crazy shit: chasing your partner through the woods, breaking into your own home in a ski-mask and wielding a prop knife. His shrieks of laughter. Cat-green eyes thrown over his shoulder, wide with the littlest bit of genuine fear over what'll happen to him when he's caught. I'm barely five paces behind, and he chucks the football at me like that's what I might be after. I ignore it.

"D-Dean, wait—!"

I catch him by the back of his shirt, dragging us to a stop.

Then, I sweep him from the ground by the back of his thighs, seating our groins together. I supplant my hands just beneath the swell of his ass, kneading that firm flesh in a widespread grip. Sammy's reticence is swallowed up, as I take his mouth in a hard, antagonistic kiss. He can do little more than cling with the last bit of feeling he has in his arms and legs. My tongue is a stopper to keep breath and noise at bay, and if he tries to withdraw, he's pursued, suffering punitive bites. Sam's head must be spinning with the lack of oxygen, the lack of blood in his brain as it migrates south, and it comes as a shock when his ass lands atop something hard.

I'd brought us back onto the veranda, dropping him onto his outdoor dinette. Sam fists the material of my T-shirt in damp, shaking hands. He draws breath too quickly.

He starts to bargain: "Dean, we can't, not...not out here—"

I chuckle without mirth. The pads of my fingers dig ruthlessly into that sensitive spot as I spread the mounds of his ass through his shorts, deliberately grinding my stomach against the treacherous hardness in the front of his shorts.

"What are you talking about, Sammy, you're already this wound up. You think you can leave it like this?"

He flinches at the dual attention, and a terse sound rattles from his throat. "It's...it's because you kissed me like that—nngh, Dean, don't—!"

snick—!

He startles at the familiar sound. Before he can find the source with his eyes, there's the telltale drip of it down his lower back—cold, oily, and undeniably lubricant. I shove my hand completely down the back of his shorts, and the slick sensation becomes an uncomfortable smear. He chokes on a high sound as I sink into him. Now, he's more sitting on my palm than the table, and a visible shiver wracks him, curling his toes. We'd done it just this morning, so his insides are pliant enough for me to manhandle him without risk of damage.

Before he can catch up to two, there are three, and I curl them in a way that puts explosions behind his eyes. His back bows like a tether with too much tension.

"Hah! Angh! D-Don't, I'm—!"

"Fuck, Sam, try'na snap my fingers off?"

"Dean, pl—please!" He whimpers, smothering his face against my thumping chest.

Suddenly, they're gone, and Sammy's left to mourn the phantom of his orgasm. I know that feeling, and it's like dying, floating up to the outskirts of Heaven, but then—an EMT slams 1000-volts into your heart and drags you back into a busted-up body on the side of the freeway. He shudders against me, curling in as a reptile seeks warmth beneath a lamp.

"I'm sorry, baby, that was cruel, huh?" I murmur, dragging against his temple, my callouses catching up his back, and I don't sound sorry at all. "I'll make it up to you, don't worry." I promise, and Sammy tightens at the tone.

My warmth and support vanishes momentarily. I tear out of my shirt and lower onto one knee in front of him. Catching his shorts by the waistband, the soiled material is hiked down the length of his legs. Sam doesn't have the presence of mind to be embarrassed over the sudden exposure, nor to worry over getting caught. I ravish the insides of his thighs with micro-massages and suctioning kisses, the kind that he'll be able to count in the morning.

He melts back into the table, having halfway slid off of it.

I throw one of his legs over the shelf of my shoulder, and he's left to precariously balance himself on the ball of his opposite foot. His eyes blow open as his cock is taken by pressure, constriction, and moisture. My fingers, slippery from earlier, drive into him at the same time, and he screams into the back of his wrist.

"'s too much, nngh—! Not at the same—hah! Ah! D-Dea—!" He can't get a word out.

I'm working him over from both ends, and in our short time together, I've become a master of my craft. I take him into the back of my throat, swallowing around him, and shove my fingers as deeply as they'll go without engaging my entire hand, crooking them just right. He doubles over as his orgasm hits like a speeding car. His thighs tighten to vices around my ears, and the muscles in his stomach jump spasmodically.

He grabs at my hair like he means to leave bald spots. His scream is a borderline silent one, as he can't find the breath to make a real sound.

I don't allow our momentum to slow, not even for a second. His innards are still a clenching mess, his body still riddled with dopamine, when I flip him onto his stomach across the table.

He gasps, frantic: "wait, wait, I'm—!"

I can't wait, even if our lives literally depended on it. The house could catch fire, a neighbor could be hopping the fence with a video camera. I press the tip of my cock against his wet, warm hole and slam forward with undue force, melting our bodies together. I hiss a ragged, guttural sound, and my abdominals flutter in effort not to bust immediately. Sammy goes rigid across the table. The muscle in his back and legs seize with tension, and a bitten-off scream escapes him. I note with no small amount of glee that he's just cum a second time, deduced from the pearlescent fluid that runs between his legs.

"Hah, you were made for this, Sammy, fuck."

I experiment with a shallow thrust, and Sam squeezes around me like a too-small sleeve. The T-shirt he wears gets pushed up to his armpits, and I greedily take in the sight of his back, smoothing my palms up and down the milky expanse of it.

"Sam," He flinches. "—you're perfect, you know that? I fucking can't get enough of you, you make me so crazy."

I breathe these blandishments in between the notches of his spine as a shaman would impart a prayer into a string of beads, all the while rocking forward to a point of totality. Each slow, tedious crush of my hips puts a blitz of sensation on Sammy's tender prostate. He's crying, and something inside of me feels bad, whereas something else makes me wonder if I'm actually a bad person—because I get harder, bigger at the sound of it, at the way Sam's slight body trembles with it. My mantras come darker as I accelerate the pace of our coupling.

My hands have practically left dents all over him for how often they grab, hold, love, and bruise. Now, my hands are fixtures at his hips, pinning his lower body to the table's edge.

My mouth moves across his back, shoulders, and throat in a lazy, unhurried survey of his erogenous zones. I know them well by now, but I still take care to hit each one. His eyes swing back to their whites as one such zone, his ear, is given particular attention. The shell of his ear is gently ground to inflammation between the flats of my teeth, and my tongue takes to burning stripes on the patch of skin behind it. This never fails to turn him into jelly, and he jerks between me and the table. For now, I fuck him softly, but that doesn't last. He'd go mad if it did. The harder it comes, the more of his mind he loses. The filthier the words I murmur in his ear, the tighter that knot in his belly becomes.

"Hah, so pretty, Sammy, so pretty like this, so fuckin' pretty..."

The twisted praise is barely discernible through the natural gravel of my voice, deepened with the act. My mumbling might come across as mindless, but it's the opposite. I'm trying so hard to put the depth of my feelings into words, and I hope my tone delivers it more than the salacious commentary itself.

Before he can wrap his head around the change of pace, I'm crushing into him with speed, power, and precision. The table scrapes across the veranda, and I spare half a second's worry that we'll break it. That worry evaporates against the insane suction around my cock as I distend his stomach. Nothing, nothing feels better than this.

"Nngh—! Harder, please—ah!"

Harder might mean actually crippling him, but it's the type of experience that seems to transcend flesh—despite it being nothing but.

Speaking of, position changes. Those always rip him right back to reality, reminding him just how fragile and human he is. I lift him away from the table, away from the floor completely. His back fits tight to my chest, and my arms come around his ribs like steel supports. He's impaled, dangling, like a dead animal on a harpoon. The pressure in his stomach has to be unlike anything he's ever experienced. He squirms, attempting to touch his toes to the floor, but it just lodges my cock deeper, somehow. He gags on a scream.

"Dean, put me down—!" He sobs.

"Sammy, look," I laugh breathlessly. "—you can see it. It's like you're pregnant."

He chances a glance downwards, and sure enough, there's the slightest bulge in his stomach. Humiliation washes through him, settling heavy in his face and chest. He makes a reedy, miserable sound behind his teeth, as he can do nothing more than twitch apart in the trap of my arms. Then, there's an unexpected, tiny movement: