Once a Nerd Ch. 08

"Stop manufacturing excuses, Sam, Christ." He murmurs, nestling his face beneath my jaw. His mouth, teeth, fuck--

"Hah, why, are we just gonna fuck our way through it? Nngh! These are...things that we should talk about, you--God, Dean, stop!"

He's working me over at the tip of my jaw, right beneath my earlobe. Sucking, biting, kissing, absolutely trying to leave a mark. Even as I tell him to stop, I crane my neck to give him more leeway. He slides his leg between my thighs and I all but sit on it, grinding myself against his quad. I'm so goddamn weak to him.

"We've got the whole summer to talk about it. We can talk in the car, on the plane, wherever the fuck you want. If you really, really wanna keep talking about it now, I'll stop. Tell me again, go ahead."

I won't, and he knows it. Not when his hands are hot on my skin, sliding and squeezing up my back, my thighs. Not when his cock is a hard, blistering promise against my stomach, and his teeth are digging yet another bruise into the knot of my shoulder. I can't even describe how badly I want him. My lower belly throbs with it. I'm supposed to be worried, agonizing over the future. Not panting like a bitch because he's teased me a little. "D-Dean..."

"What, ready to talk?"

I pull back to look up at him, and his pupils are just as blown as I'm sure mine are. I want him to feel as batshit insane as I do. Unclenching my hand from his shirt, I drag it down towards the waistband of his joggers. I wouldn't have pegged Dean as the type to keep himself shaven, but he's damn near religious about it. He likes to feel clean, and since he sweats a lot, he refuses to deal with wiry pubes saturated in perspiration. There's the littlest bit of downy, golden fur that descends from his navel to the top of his groin, but it's plush and hairless beyond that. Without a bush obscuring the base, his cock looks like a fucking...baby's leg or something. He won every scratch-off of the genetic lottery.

I wrap my hand around him, barely any pressure, and set a painstakingly slow, gentle pump. His breath gets heavy, and a shudder takes him by the shoulders. He's watching my face intently through low lashes.

"Will you...make me feel good?"

He huffs a laugh, dragging the tip of his tongue across an incisor. "Only if you remember that you asked for it."

This is how, forty five minutes and a lot of generous preparation later, I find myself in a much more humiliating position than I was anticipating. I can't tell you when, where, or why Dean procured a pair of handcuffs, but they're tight around my wrists and looped through a gap in my headboard. I don't even think they're prop cuffs for kink play, I'm pretty sure they're the real deal, which is even more of a mystery.

"Come on, Sam, do it right. Stick your ass out, arch your back."

"This isn't--nngh! 's not what I had in mind!"

"Tough it out."

Where did he even find anal beads in this town? Did he order them online? When? God, has he used them before on someone else? He's definitely acting like some worldly, experienced 'Lord of Kink' all of a sudden. He's generous with the lube, to the point it's damp and oily down to my knees. He didn't even let me see the beads, so I have no idea how long the string is, but they're starting to feel endless. They feel like fucking golf balls, and the stretch and pressure is pitching a tickling heat through my stomach. My guts feel like the hot, bubbling water in a jacuzzi, seeping outwards into my limbs.

He keeps stopping to spread my ass apart and admire his handiwork, which makes me embarrassed enough to flush down my back. There has to be at least ten beads stuffed in my hole, forced through the muscle by his thumb, and it's beginning to feel unbearably full.

"How...many left?" I gasp into the pillow, grinding the cotton case between my front teeth.

"It's a secret."

"Dean, fuck! It's too much!"

He strokes soothingly up and down my spine. "Just a few more, Sammy, you can take it. Your pussy swallows 'em up so good."

My stomach aches, like I'm pregnant with a bunch of eggs. My hole is so hypersensitive, it spasms and clamps down involuntarily. Each time I tighten up, preventing him from inserting another bead, he rains a stinging slap against the bruised bubble of my cheek. I'm assuming it's bruised, as many times as he's struck it.

"Loosen the fuck up."

My answer, a sob or whimper, is usually something like, "I-I'm trying!"

Finally, finally he says, "last one, baby."

I almost break down, because I can't imagine there's room for anything else in my body. It feels like my bowels will burst any second. I yank against the cuffs and attempt to curl away, but he pins me by the lower back, forcing me to maintain that dramatic arch. "Dean, don't, it's too full! Please!"

"You can do it." He's rubbing the last bead against my swollen, stretched muscle, increasing the pressure. When it pops through, I heave a shattered noise into my pillow. I can't fucking believe they all fit. There's so many, they clink together inside me with the smallest movement or flex. If I tighten up at all, it stimulates my prostate to hell and back. I can't stop twitching, and my cock is puddling precum on the sheet.

Dean is such a bastard, because now that they're all in, he makes it his mission to edge me to the brink of insanity. He forms a tight seal just beneath the head of my cock, cinching it off in his fist. With his other hand, he massages my thighs, ass, and back. His mouth follows similar patterns: sucking, biting, licking. He drags his tongue from between my balls, all the way up to my hole, spearing it through until he can lick the last bead. The pillow is uncomfortably damp around my face from how much I've cried and drooled into it, but this is way, way too much.

I guess I should just be grateful he hasn't tried to force his cock in next to the beads. That definitely seems like something he'd try to do, and I'd safeword his ass in a heartbeat. My back jumps with stifled sobs. "Please, please let me cum, I'm--hah! Dean, fuck, please!"

He doesn't answer right away, as he's sucking on my hole like he can vacuum the beads out if he tries hard enough.

"Dean!" I'm frustrated to goddamn tears.

When he does pull back, the next words out of his mouth make me want to snap his neck like a toothpick: "I'll let you cum if you tell me you love me."

I can hear the grin in his voice. I crane my neck, but I can't see him through my hair. "Is this really how you wanna fuckin' hear it?!"

"You're so goddamn stubborn, I bet this is the only way I'll ever hear it." He scoffs.

"You unbelievable--hngh! God, fuck, stop!"

He's pushed two fingers in to join the beads, deliberately flattening the hard spheres against my inner walls. My prostate lights up like the Chinese New Year, and my vision spots. I thrash against my confinement, desperate to get away from the overstimulation, but there's nowhere to go. If I safeword him, I won't get to cum. Scraping my teeth across my bottom lip, I manifest the words. It doesn't feel right to say them like this, or at all. "I..."

He tightens around my cock, adding a third finger. "Mmph, shit--!"

"Say it like you mean it, too, Sammy."

I have to. I have to say it. I'm afraid I'll actually die if he keeps edging me like this. My heart is hammering hard enough to encroach on 'attack' territory, surely. My brain is replaced by cotton candy, melting to sweetness in my head. Every muscle is so tight, something's bound to snap like a rubber band.

"I-I...I love you, Dean, I fucking love you, so please--!"

"I love you too, baby."

My mind can't catch up to the sudden, violent onslaught of sensation. He frees my cock, but then--

Without warning, he viciously yanks the beads out of my ass, every single one. I cum so fucking hard, it feels like static is spraying out of my cock. My nervous system fries, and I'm not even sure if I make a sound or not. I lock up, then slacken with a black out, eyes rolling to whites. Upon coming to, it's one confinement traded for another. The cuffs are gone, but I'm ragdolled in Dean's lap. My face is pillowed against his throat, and my legs are splayed wide around his hips. He's rubbing up and down my back, ribs, nape, scalp. It feels...good, until it doesn't, because his cock is lodged in my abused guts like a pike.

"You...fuckin' animal..." I mumble.

He bumps his hips, and I hiss like a spurned cat.

"I'll do it slowly, I just wanted to feel you." He promises. "I won't even move if you don't want me to."

"Nngh, just...give me a second, Christ." I lift my face to look at him, and his expression is much more mellow than I thought it'd be. He's leaning back against the headboard. "That doesn't count, you know. Coercion."

He smiles, and it isn't Machivellian or full of lust. It's just...a genuine smile. My breath catches. He's so...handsome, it's sickening. Who needs to be that attractive? For what purpose?

"I'll have you sayin' it all the time, I won't even have to ask."

It's the beginning of our first summer. In my mind, I'm pretty sure it'll be our only summer. Dean spends more time at my house than I'm comfortable with, at least four nights a week. He does a lot of odd jobs around town, including a few shifts at a garage. If he isn't working or at my place, he's monopolizing the good squat rack at the gym or badgering his latent teammates into practice. The only people he's told of his acceptance at CSU, excluding myself, are his father and closest friend, Jacob Hamm. He's got less to pack than I do, but even I'm not bringing my entire house along. Most of my belongings will find a fresh start in storage.

Dean will be moving into Fresno State's student housing, while I'm once again mooching off my mother. She has a condominium that's normally used as a rental property, but she's emptied it for my sake. She offered to let me stay for free, but I refused. My pride wouldn't allow me to pay nothing for a place she's still making payments on. Berkeley is a posh city, however, so I did accept her second offer of a discounted rate. It took Dean the entire month of July to convince me to take the same flight as him.

While he's relaxed in some ways, he's tense in others. He's almost clingier than he was during the school year, and I think it's because he knows we won't be able to spend this much quality time together once our respective semesters start. No more showering together, eating together, and sleeping in the same bed. The sex, too. Dean's basically an Incubus. He acts like he'll actually die without regular sex, and we fuck a lot more than regularly. It's excessive. He makes me feel like I'm sixty instead of thirty, I can barely keep up. The lumbar pain is all but chronic.

I don't verbalize my anxieties to him, as he's already said his piece on it, but I can't imagine his loyalty lasting through the autumn and winter months. He's clearly a man of...needs, and I just won't have the time to satisfy them like he's used to. There's the distance, too. It's not practical for either of us to make a two-hour trip multiple times a week just to satisfy an urge. It's reasonable to think he'd be tempted to get his rocks off with someone the next dorm over, someone his own age, someone just as attractive as he is.

He talked a big, big game after graduation, and I couldn't help but put stock in it then, but as the weeks pass us by, clarity returns. I allow myself to bask in this time with him. I lose myself in all of it: the amazing sex, the comfort of his chest warming my back while we sleep, his surprisingly delightful cooking, his silly commentary on movies and television series, his presence in the same room while I work. I can only appreciate it as much as I do because I keep reminding myself it comes with an expiration date. I don't believe that absence makes the heart grow fonder, at least not for him.

I think my absence from his life will reset this obsession he has. It's going to suck, hard, but not as much as if I was stupid enough to believe him. When he stops looking for me, I'll drown myself in coursework, maybe try a little harder at maintaining friends. I wouldn't have been so susceptible to him in the first place if I had a healthy support network, probably. Or not. He's a bewitching bastard.

July burns into August, and by this time, we've taken a few trips out of town. I refuse to be seen in public with him when everyone knows the answers to each other's security questions, so he badgers me into a few weekend getaways. When we go up to Chicago for the first time, he tells me the reason he decided to double-down on his pursuit of his English teacher. I came up to Chicago during the last Christmas break to reconnect with an old flame, and little did I know, Dean was in the city with his father.

"You saw that?" I groan, horrified.

"Mm, who was that motherfucker? Did you come all the way up here just to see him?"

We decided on a stroll through Millennium Park, as I'm living on a highschool teacher's meager salary and Dean needs to save every penny earned. It's one of the few inexpensive things to do, though I didn't imagine having this conversation while passing under the infamous bean [a big, ugly chrome sculpture one's forced to pass beneath to get into the park].

"Would you believe me if I said a Tinder hook-up?"

"Nah." He says immediately. "You looked way too familiar for that. Was he an ex? Does he live up here?"

"Why?" I huff. "Are you looking to bust up his kneecaps?"

This time, he doesn't reply. He looks lost in thought. "Hey," I shove an elbow at him, and he finally glances over. "No murder fantasies."

"What, I'm not allowed to fantasize now?" I can't even tell if he's joking.

"He's an ex. We weren't together last year, I just came up to visit."

"To get laid."

"What, am I not allowed to get laid now?"

"Not with pricks like that."

"You don't even know him!"

"Tell me about him."

"You really want to hear about my ex?"

"Yup, every detail."

We continue onto Lurie Gardens, a fragrant oasis in the midst of the Windy City. It's over two acres of perennials, bulbs, shrubs, and trees that form dense, sheltering hedges and wide expanses of vibrant movement. There are benched hideaways here and there, and a narrow canal to perch by. Birds of broad species thrive here, patiently waiting for stray crumbs to drop from the lunches of inattentive visitors. We take to a bench with one such lunch, trays of individually sliced pizza. I feel like it's safe to admit to Dean:

"I hate Chicago-style pizza. New York is better."

He clutches his metaphorical pearls. "Enjoy your freedom while it lasts, I'll be alerting the proper authorities."

I laugh, careful not to jostle my slice out of the box.

"Why the fuck did you get it if you don't like it?"

"Mm, not sure. Maybe...state pride?"

"Yeah, the great state of Illinois." He snorts.

"You like it, don't you? The pizza, I mean."

"Pizza's pizza to me. Crust, cheese, sauce. Who gives a shit about the order or quantity?"

"Wow," I lift my brows. "That's almost more blasphemous."

"For our crimes, you'll go to prison, and I'll get the death penalty."

"My God, too soon. I feel like a criminal just breathing the same air as you."

He busts a laugh at my genuine discomfort. We take a pedestrian bridge from Millennium to Maggie Daley Park, where Dean damn near loses his mind at the prospect of climbing one of the two 40-foot rock walls. It's free, so there's no real reason not to, except he's apparently never done it before. He isn't bothered by my unwillingness to join him, opting for the more secure 'top rope' climb. He takes to it like a fish in water, grappling with the artificial rocks and ledges like he's done it a million times. I start to think he was only pretending to be an amateur to showboat. He's wearing skimpy, athletic clothes to beat the heat, and it's like an anatomy lesson. Defined as he is, I can see every muscle contract with effort.

I'm not the only one. Dean's ignored it, because there's no way he hasn't noticed, but he's magnetic. He earns rubbernecks, appreciative once-overs, and quite a few borderline stalkers. At the base of the wall, waiting for him, a trio of pretty, young women must find me safer to interrogate than the man himself. They're of the fitness influencer breed: GymShark sets, bottom heavy from neglecting upper body, Hydro Flasks as long as their torsos. I could imagine Dean dating any one of these girls.

"Hi, sorry to bother you!"

"No bother." I smile.

They introduce themselves as Anna, Kaylee, and Maggie. Maggie's the mouthpiece for the group, but the other two insert comments here and there. "We were just wondering if you and your friend had any plans for tonight!" She says.

"Uh," I glance back to where Dean's descending the wall. We don't have set plans, no reservations, but I'm sure these girls are interested in going clubbing or bar-hopping. Dean can't drink, but maybe he'd enjoy getting out...?

"We...don't. Ah, what'd you have in mind?"

Predictably, they suggest Clark Street and the Navy Pier. Anna, a long-haired, doe-eyed brunette who's refreshingly shorter than me, doesn't seem quite as interested in Dean as the other two. She's flashing me a telling look from beneath her curled, darkened lashes, pushing shiny hair behind a small ear. This is more the attention I'm used to from the teenage girls in my classes, though I'd peg her somewhere between twenty-one and twenty-three. While there isn't a heterosexual bone in my body, it's nice to be looked at with appreciation.

"Ungh--!"

I fold under Dean's very sudden, very heavy weight. His arm is slung around my neck, one flex from actively strangling me, and his sweaty chest is halfway plastered to my back. "Who are these lovely ladies?" I can't see his expression, but I know that tone intimately. It's his 'the pleasure is all yours' tone. The 'charm dial' is cranked up, but it's so phony, it's grating.

Before I can introduce them, they introduce themselves. "We were just wondering if you'd be interested in going out with us tonight! Sam said you didn't have any plans." Maggie smiles sweetly, and wow, she's a natural. While she isn't the unholy, unethical sort of charismatic that Dean is, she's certainly confident in herself. She knows what she has to offer, and she's not one to short her own standards. Dean probably checks all of her boxes.

"Is that right?" His voice is sharp, accusatory in my ear. I wince.

"I wasn't sure if--" I try to explain myself.

"Ah, I'm sorry, girls. Sam didn't know, but we've got a reservation tonight."

Their comely faces flip through a series of expression, and Dean's must not be quite as pleasant as he thinks it is. Maggie glances between the two of us, and Kaylee and Anna share an 'oh' look. She's persistent, however.

"What time's your reservation? Maybe we can all grab a drink together afterwards!"

I ripen with color, embarrassed beyond description, as Dean's big hand clamps around my jaw. His face is so close to mine, his lips rustle the hair at my temple with every word. "We'll be busy all night, actually."

That evening, in our affordable hostel [$50/night, a steal], Dean fucks me like he's punishing me, which I'm sure he is. We're sharing this room with two other people, a couple, but when they tried to come through the door thirty minutes after us, he stopped them in the hall. From his tone, they were probably expecting to return to my disemboweled corpse: "Find something to do for an hour."

The slap of his balls against my ass is as rhythmic, fast, and loud as the applause after a Bartòk concerto. One hand is a vice at my hip, the other fast in my hair as he keeps me bent at a rigid ninety degrees. I'm hanging onto the railing of the top bunk for dear life, because my legs are boneless gelatin. Every time we have sex, his cock feels bigger, like it gains an inch overnight. Maybe my body is just used to adjusting to him, because the stretch and burn isn't unpleasant.