Once a Nerd Ch. 07

"Heuk—! No, don't...do tha—ah!"

I bounce him forward, and it's not by much, but it's enough. I roll my hips in a slow grind, occasionally jerking with sharp, significant force. He's so tightly-strung, I'm afraid he'll snap a tendon. I resume those ministrations on his ear, sucking purple into the skin behind it.

He tries to twist away, digging his nails into my forearm, gasping: "Stop, stop, please—! I'm...I feel weird, I don't like it!"

He cries out with relief when his feet touch the floor, my having lowered him, but it's short lived. I catch his right leg is caught by the underside of his knee. He tumbles forward, slapping his palms to the table to keep from planting his face into it. Balanced precariously on the ball of one foot, his other leg is held tight and drawn back. My other hand comes around to flatten against his belly. I'm sliding out, and Sammy must start to think it's over.

"Hngh—?!" Sam hiccups a shocked noise.

I slam into him, sandwiching him between the hard press of my palm at his stomach and the unyielding wall of my body. In this balancing act, he can do nothing but feel it. He can't think, speak, or function beyond simply enduring, and I can't get enough of it. The way he's been contorted, I can feel the strength bleeding from his limbs. He whips his head back in a panic.

"Stop, stop, don't! I'm, hah, I—there's something...strange, please!"

I know exactly what he's talking about, even if he doesn't. That uncomfortable feeling like he's about to piss himself from way, way too much prostate stimulation. It's my Moby Dick, and I've been trying to make it happen for weeks. If I can make Sam squirt at least once, I could die a happy, satisfied man today. "'s okay, Sammy, let it out, you're...doin' such a good job—hah, fuck, just like that!"

As if to force it from him, to make it a reality, I recertify my grip around his knee, moving my opposite hand to clamp around his bicep. We're closer to the table, and the hard edge of it digs into his diaphragm as I fuck the lucidity from him. He chokes on his panic. Building, building, building, so much pressure. He can't hold it. He involuntarily clenches down on my cock, and his back bows to a point of breaking, ass bubbling out. He sobs, raw and shredded.

He knows it's an orgasm of some kind, but it wrecks him from head to toe. There's no muscle that doesn't twitch or tremble. Sam's brain floods with all those chemicals that convince a person they've met God or paid visit to his domain. Untouched, he erupts violently, but it's not what he's used to.

Sam has no idea what it is, but there's a lot of it. It's not viscous or faintly white like the typical byproduct of an orgasm. It's...thin, clear, watery. Behind him, I watch his undoing with wide, hungry eyes. My mouth has fallen open, as I'm in a state of total awe. Sam looks...otherworldly. He looks like the most sultry, pale, twisted being put to marble in the Classical period. His face is partially obscured, but what I catch of his profile will live in the back of my mind for the rest of my life. Shocks of dark curls stick to him, sticky with sweat and tears.

Fine brows are pinched over eyes squeezed tight, lashes damp and stark against his cheekbones. His entire body is ripe with a flush.

I know I'm grabbing too hard, bruises will manifest by the time he wakes up tomorrow, but my own orgasm hits harder than a tackle from Levon Kirkland ever could. His insides are gripping me so tightly, it'd probably peel the skin off my dick if I tried to withdraw now.

"Fuck, fuck, Sammy, shit—!"

It takes me a solid minute to start coming down, and I finally release Sam's leg from its suspension. Carefully, I extricate myself from that holy warmth. I miss it immediately. He starts to stumble forward, and I catch him with an arm slung fast at his waist. He heaves for breath. "What...what the fuck did you do to me?"

"I made history here today, baby. You're first squirt!"

"Oh..." He whimpers, mortified. "...my fucking God. Never, ever do that again."

"It's gonna be my personal goal from now on."

"Take me to the goddamn shower and get the hell out of my house. You're banned."

"Wha—?! Come on, don't be like that!"

Little did I know, it would be our last tidbit of domestic bliss for a while.

With graduation right around the corner, this provides him the perfect reason to bar me from his house. I'm done with classes, so I don't see him at the school. Graduation is held the following Saturday, and I didn't get my hopes up about getting to spend time with him during the event. I know who I am, the kind of attention I'll receive, and he'll be busy with administrative tasks. I have social obligations to uphold Saturday night. I thought Sunday, at least, would be a sure thing. Finally, I'm no longer his student. It's a cause for celebration for many reasons.

He still won't tell me his number, but I know it anyway.

I got it from Mrs. Hildabrant weeks ago, I just thought better of wasting that ace-in-the-hole before I really need it. Turns out, I'll be needing it sooner than later. Sam's already building the wall.

I know what he's thinking. School is over. We haven't exchanged contact information, so there's no way we can communicate tryst appointments anymore. He must think I respect him too much to show up unannounced. If he can slip away now, I'll have to let him. I'll be too busy with my own plans for the fall, which he still doesn't know the details of. You'd think he'd know me better by now. My first inkling, believe it or not, is a gift. Once I'm able to pull away from my dad, my buddies, and the faculty, I join the masses flooding the student's lot.

Whoever settled on outdoor graduations in June should be dragged out back and shot in the kneecaps, because the cap and gown combination is heinous in the summer. The plan is to shower and change at home, then regroup with half the student body at Kayla's McMansion in this town's only upper class suburb. On my hood, there's a small, neatly wrapped present. I don't have to get in close, pick it up, or look for a tag. It's from Sam, and it feels like a tacky goodbye.

My stomach tightens with anger, but I swipe it from the hood nonetheless. There's no sense in hurrying, as the parking lot is already jammed with kids clambering to be first to the traffic light. I crank the truck, flip the AC to max, and sit with the present in my lap for many minutes. I don't even look at it, just...acknowledge its weight—that it exists. It's light. Five minutes might've passed before I finally glance down at it. It's wrapped in satin, navy paper with perfect, angled creases. There's a matte bow and a small, white tag. It reads:

"Congratulations, Dean. I'm proud of you."

I breathe a bitter laugh, dragging my teeth over my lip.

So fucking impersonal, I'm not sure why he got anything at all. I rip the paper from the box like it's responsible for my mood, or maybe because I want to thoughtlessly destroy some part of it. The box is white, sturdy cardboard, and that gets torn apart too. Inside, he'd gotten me...jewelry?

It definitely looks like a jewelry box: small, black, velvet. There's another bit of eggshell cardstock, a note. It reads: "Look through the back of it, idiot."

Okay, so that picks up my mood, I won't lie. Inside the velvet box, a necklace. It's a silver pendant shaped vaguely like a celtic cross, or...a flower. The cord is black, tough. There's a dark gem in the center of the pendant, but on the back, there's a larger square lasered from the metal. Look through the back of it...?

I hold it up to my eye, focusing my vision in the way you'd look through binoculars or a scope. My next breath is snagged up somewhere between my lungs and mouth, because there's a picture inside. Not just any picture, but one of Sam. It's the only picture he let me take of him, on his phone. It's a still of a scene I've witnessed many, many times. He's sitting beneath the lamp on his preferred side of the couch, blanket trapping his legs, reading. Holy shit.

Holy.

Shit.

He gave me a picture of himself, something I've been literally begging for.

But, what the fuck does this mean? Is it his way of saying: 'sayonara, here's a scrap of a memory for you to take, good luck with your life'? Or, is it, like...a lover's memento? Obviously, I'd prefer the latter. I mean, it will be the latter, as far as I'm concerned. I just have to...break that news.

I can't spring myself on him in California, I know that.

Needless to say, that night, my mind is a million miles away from my physical body, which is lumbering around Kayla's rager. I drink, socialize, play beer pong, dodge pretty girls who are inebriated and horny in equal measure. I use Jacob like a shield, doubling as his wingman. Rosa Mennings is apparently much more willing to blow him in the bathroom once I give my seal of approval: 'yeah, my buddy here's a great guy! Fantastic cock, too, you'll love it.'

Kayla herself, however, is not easily deterred. No matter how many times I've slipped her possession, she keeps up a dogged pursuit. While Jacob's on the receiving end of that aforementioned head, I'm idling in the hall outside the door like a kid waiting on their inattentive parent to wrap it up at the slot machine. He's my buffer, goddamnit. This is where Kayla sniffs me out for the fifth time.

"Dean, hey! There you are!"

Fuck my life.

"Hey, sorry. Just waitin' on the bathroom. I think some asshole is getting his dick sucked in there!" I say the second part loudly, aiming my voice through the door. Jacob's muffled 'fuck you, Dean!' doesn't go unheard.

"Oh, I have a bathroom in my room, you can use it."

Well. Fuck me to absolute tears, then.

"Uh, yeah, sure."

We make the trip upstairs, and Kayla's rambling is blessedly hard to hear beneath the bass-heavy music for most of it. Of course, in her bedroom—half the size of my humble trailer, it's quiet enough to hear our hair growing. She points towards the cracked door on the opposite side of the room, giggling, "you remember where it is, right?"

I sigh under my breath. "Yup."

In the bathroom, I mourn my decision to come here instead of begging Sammy to let me stay over at his. This fucking blows, and I know exactly how it's going down when I walk back out. I'm going to have to hurt Kayla's feelings. I piss, flush, halfheartedly scrub my hands, and brace myself. It's even worse than I imagined. She's on the bed, topless. Christ, at least she kept her shorts on. Can I get away with pretending I didn't notice?

We're making eye-contact, so, probably not.

"Uh, were you...did you need to change?"

"God, don't be dense, Dean." She pushes onto her knees, spreading them across the sheets. Her hands lift to cup around her breasts, kneading the supple flesh and pushing them together. They are really, really nice tits, but—

If I hadn't beat off to Sammy just this morning, I'd be genuinely worried my dick was broken. "Kayla, come on." I groan, dragging my hand down my face. "I'm seeing someone."

She scoffs, slinking off the bed. "You come on, Dean. Like that ever fucking stopped you before. Is your dick actually broken or some shit?" She approaches, and I take a step back for each one she takes forward. Eventually, there's a wall at my back. She pushes against me, flattening her tits against my chest. They feel like huge marshmallows. I turn my face, deliberately looking away. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Sam will get jealous if I tell him about this. He never acts jealous.

I nearly jump out of my skin as her hand claps against my dick through my jeans. It's undeniably soft, and she can hardly believe it. She backs up, frowning in confusion. "Holy fuck, are you...what the fuck is wrong with you? Do you actually have erectile dysfunction?"

"...yes?"

It's my best bet. Unfortunately, Kayla's more observant than I give her credit for. Her eyes land on the necklace dangling from my throat, and she must recognize the style. "Is that a projection necklace? Did your girlfriend get it for you?"

"My dick's fine, Kayla. I'm just...in love, I guess?"

I mean, I am, but it's so fucking awkward to have this conversation with her tits in my face. She's unbothered, still making no moves to cover herself. She approaches again, this time reaching for the pendant. "There's a picture in there, right? Is it her? Let me see—"

I knock her hand away a little harder than I should, but I don't regret it. As I thought, there's no getting out of this without crushing her ego. "Fuck off, and put a shirt on. Or, don't. But I won't be the one fuckin' 'em tonight. Great party." I salute, then beeline for the door. She doesn't stop me, and whatever hellish indignation she's brewing, I'm already at the top of the stairs before she can unleash it. I don't go back for Jacob, nor do I spread around any farewells. I've only been here for two hours, and these types of parties can last until dawn, but I can't stand any of it for another minute.

I miss Sam.