Once a Nerd Ch. 09

It's such a demoralizing position, an act of presenting, waiting. Chest down, knees spread, cool air kissing the nakedness of my tipped ass. I'm waiting for Dean to fuck me. He'll praise me for my eagerness and patience, then he'll say cruel and possessive things in a voice roughened with gravel. "Fuck, look at you, Sammy." He'd slide his big, open hands from the back of my knees, up the columns of my hamstrings, thumbs applying pressure to the sensitive slips of skin where inner thigh meets groin. He'd deliberately skip over all the places I'm desperate for him to touch.

"...waitin' for me like this, you're so good. I'll fuck you just like you want, baby, just like you deserve."

My insides spasm at the fantasy, cock beading pearls to stain the sheet. I take the picture before I can overthink it, and the act of doing so is enough to sober me up a little. Slumping out of the risqué position, I spend another five minutes agonizing over whether or not I should send it. That, too, I rip off like a bandaid. I send a pre/post text, both far more clinical and curt than I'm feeling, and toss my phone away like it's set to detonate. I can't bear to look at the thread for longer than that, as I already regret everything about what I've just done.

It's official. I'm complicit.

I intentionally sent a nineteen-year-old, ex-student a sexual photo. I feel I should throw my clothes back on and call the cops on myself. Technically, nothing about it is against the law, but maybe they'd be disgusted enough to give me a few punitive whacks with a nightstick. I decide a shower is in order, anything to keep me away from my phone. I also might vomit, and the shower's as good a place to do it as any. The scalding, penalty shower turns into a thirty-minute pity soak with what's left of the hot water. I don't vomit, but my stomach does roll a warning into my throat.

Returning to my bedroom, I'm more prune than man. My phone leers at me from its exilement at the foot of the bed, and it might as well be a huge fucking snake for how much anxiety it spikes in my breast. I ignore it for all of thirty minutes, taking my time in every nighttime indulgence I can think of. I've never moisturized my entire body before, but tonight's the night. Eventually, there's nothing else to do but face the music. I scoop my phone from the bed, and sure enough, there's a text from Dean.

Giddiness, embarrassment, anxiety, raw fucking fear. I've never felt more like a helpless, emotionally-wrecked teenager than I do right now. Not even when I was a helpless, emotionally-wrecked, very gay teenager. I'm scared to read it. If his reply is too bland, I'm afraid my heart might actually shatter. He's busy, though. He was going to a party, he might've just sent something brusque to let me know he saw it.

"Goddamnit, Sam, you're a fucking...adult." I berate myself, even though my voice is audibly cracking. "Be an adult."

Yet another bandaid. I open it.

And just like Dean, he somehow knows exactly what to say: "I'm going to fuck the absolute shit out of you, Sam."

Short, concise, powerful.

It's the type of phrase that's so like him, it jumps off the screen and fills the air with his voice: low, hungry, and guttural with desire. Instead of a shattered heart, I'm slingshot back to square one. So horny, it hurts. I squeeze my legs together and dig the butt of my palm into my navel, like I'll feel his cock behind it if I press hard enough. "I'm so fucked..." I whisper the admittance into my empty bedroom, wishing it was crowded by one occupant more.

Believe it or not, instead of immediately ripping that unused toy out of my bedside drawer, I try to sleep it off. I'm convinced I'll have less to feel guilty about in the morning if I can fall asleep without first fucking myself to fantasies of a teenager. I've managed to avoid doing so since we separated. It's nearly ten when I crawl under the covers, willing my erection to die. Unfortunately, it can't be reasoned with. My head's too full of Dean, and the second my cock starts to wilt, it snaps back to attention with a stray thought or memory. After an hour, my lower abdominals start to burn. Whether or not it makes me scum of the lowest labyrinth of Hell, I might combust if I don't see stimulation in the next ten minutes.

I flip the bedside lamp on and begin a frantic rifle through the nightstand's drawer for that small, unopened box and a bottle of lube. Said items are found quickly, and I rip the box open like it holds the secrets of the Universe. It might as well. The toy is shaped like a classic plug, but it comes equipped with a charging port and a little remote. According to Amazon, the thing's supposed to do all kinds of everything. It heats up, vibrates, rotates, and thrusts. When purchasing it, I jokingly muttered aloud: "shit, will it wash the dishes too?"

For the price point, I have faith it'll get the job done. If it's a dud, I might sue.

Shimmying onto my back, I flatten my feet to the mattress. Knees bent, thighs spread as wide as they'll go. With little to no patience left, I grit through an unsatisfactory prep with way too much lube and too few fingers. The toy is quite bulbous, and I'm sure to regret shoving it in after less than a minute of a two-finger stretch, but I'm losing my mind. Even the uncoordinated, jerky thrust of fingers is making that knot of muscle spasm, guts fluttering. My body is begging to be fucked by something, anything in lieu of the one thing I can't have. Dean's cock would put any toy to shame, but beggars can't be choosers.

I click a few arbitrary buttons on the remote to make sure the plug works in accordance, and once satisfied that it does, I bring the tip of it to nudge against my wet hole. As predicted, I'm filled with more than silicone as I try pushing it in. Regret, mostly. Determined, I power through it. I pretend it's Dean forcing his thick cock into my ill-prepared body ["you can take it, Sammy, come on"], and the pain is lanced through with hot flashes of pleasure. Unsafe sex probably shouldn't arouse me so much, but I've not got the presence of mind to care.

I drop my head into the pillow, eyes clenched against the burn of tears, and a pained hiss cuts between my teeth: "Nngh, shit!"

The sharp discomfort is over in a beat, and with the flat base flush against my rim, I go limp against the bed. While my body adjusts around the size and shape of it, I work to regulate my breathing. Plugs always feel so awkward at first, like there's a balloon in my ass. Squirming in place, shifting my hips, it's not long before the stretch creates a pleasant friction in my lower body. There's nothing left to do but try out all the bells and whistles, and I sort of feel like a kid figuring out how to deploy their shiny, new RC car. They're...fucking complicated.

I activate the heating function first, as that seems the safest place to start. Unless it's so cheaply made, it overheats and catches fire in my ass. God would love that too. Over the course of two minutes, artificial warmth blooms in my belly. It's a strange, liquid feeling, but not something I dislike. It's...relaxing, and I almost wonder if I could fall asleep like this. Better not to risk it, as internal burns would be even more humiliating than death via sex-toy-related-fire. I'd have to live through that consequence. Curiosity persists, and I click the button for rotation.

"H-ah! Holy...fuck, oh my God!"

I involuntarily jackknife forward, twisting like I can escape the terrible sensation by doing so. It's like the plug is trying to blend up my insides. I shut it off seconds after turning it on. Isn't shit like this supposed to go through...test groups? Who the fuck okay-d this function? I'm almost nervous to try anything else, but goddamnit, I spent too much money not to. There are something like nine vibration modes, so I warily begin flipping through them until I find one I like.

Short bursts.

Patterns of repeating short and long pulses.

By the fourth click, the vibration no longer pulses. It's a gentle, steady buzz that massages my inner walls. "Mm, hah—!" Flattening my palm to the button of my stomach, I smooth it downwards to the root of my cock. I squeeze the rigid flesh in the circle of my hand, but resist stroking it. Now that I'm actually in the midst of it, I don't want to race to the finishing line of my orgasm. If Dean were here, he'd sooner break my wrist than let me touch myself. I swear to God, that's the secret. Orgasm denial until there's enough stimulation against my prostate to rip it from my body, tooth and nail. To be sure I can achieve that same result.

Feeling brave, I increase the strength of the vibration.

"Nngh! Oh, fuck!" I don't even sound like myself. It's that soft, cracked, high-pitched mess Dean's so good at wrenching from me. Normally, I'd be mortified to make such a weak, wanton voice, but he eats it up. My ears burn with the memory of him tabled over me, watching me, lusting after me like I'm the end and beginning of things to be desired on this Earth. His body is a sculpted, well-oiled machine—the pinnacle of masculinity. Large, strong arms threaded with the occasional bulging vein rise up around my head like pillars, the kind erected centuries ago that have stood the test of time. Shoulders like handholds on a cliffside, ironclad abdominals flexing and dewy with sweat.

We're so...different. I'm not strong, nor athletic. I'm not the classic definition of a man's man. Dean's achieved a mastery over his body that most people, even fellow athletes, can only dream about. His strides are always sure, simple movements fluid and wasteless. Meanwhile, I'll find a pocket of air to trip over any given day. To have a man like that putting his everything into wrenching ecstasy from me, it's...addictive. I'm addicted to him. I might never see another orgasm again without, at the very least, memories of him.

The sustained vibration is electrifying my prostate, and my hips are beginning to twitch. Thighs and stomach shaking. Cock leaking. The balls of my feet dig into the mattress, lower back jumping from the bed. I turn my face and squish my cheek into the pillow, catching the thin, cotton case in my teeth. More, I need...something more than this. Fumbling with the remote, I increase the vibration again. It's good, but—

The thrusting option. Now, what's that all about?

It's black magic, is what it is.

"Mmph! Nngh, fuck! Ah, that's—!"

It feels like the tip of the plug is lunging forward like a spear, and goddamn, if it isn't stupidly accurate. I can't imagine how ridiculous my face looks, because it feels like I'm running through all seven stages of grief in a span of seconds. Eyes wide and rolling, then pinched and blinking away stars. Mouth working around what might be a prayer, were it nothing but obscenities. To keep from fisting my cock, I ball up the sheet in my hands, twisting it to wrinkles. "Oh...my God! Hah, gah—! M—ngh!"

Close, close, so fucking close. I can taste it, like static. There's a rolling boil in my lower belly. I just need—

My phone rings.

My heart rackets in my chest for an altogether different reason from an impending orgasm. There's only one person who'd call me this late, and sure enough, Dean's caller ID tempts me from the too-bright screen.

"Oh, shit, no. No, no, fuck—"

The remote, where's the fucking remote?! I fumble blindly around the strewn sheets, but the little piece of hard plastic doesn't jump into my hand. I want...to talk to him, hear his voice, but I don't want him to know! Shit, shit, shit—

Against my better judgment, I answer the call. Instead of immediately putting the receiver to my ear, I continue my desperate search for the remote. In changing position, it puts a new kind of pressure on my prostate. I can hardly move through it. Distantly, I can hear Dean say something, probably calling name. Knowing him, he won't hang up the phone just because I don't respond. Oh, God, I'm...so fucked. Even as I pick up the phone, my hand shakes. I can't get my breath or voice under any semblance of control. "Dean? I...hah..."

I don't even know what to say. Should I just try and...take the plug out? I put the phone on speaker. "Uh, give me a—"

His voice is hard and unarguable: "Answer it."

"Eh—?"

My heart leapfrogs into the back of my mouth, as a request for FaceTime comes through. Heat explodes in my face. I make a strangled, terrified sound, because he definitely knows. What's he going to do? Say? Will he mock me for using a toy? He'll want to see it, oh my God. I'm wilting from embarrassment at just the thought. Shit, fuck—

I recline against the headboard, attempting and failing to create a picture of nonchalant relaxation. When I accept the video request, I keep the phone angled strategically above my neck. The vibration and jabbing pressure against my prostate is a ceaseless torment, and my dick is actually throbbing. I grit my molars against a string of noises. When Dean appears on the screen, like Pavlolv's dog, my chest flutters and my hole tightens up. He's so fucking hot. God, it's unfair. Feathery, blonde hair tousled around a face fit for movies and magazines. His jaw is tight, the muscle jumping. There's no trace of lagoon blue in his eyes, as his pupils have grown to a point of eating up any color. Lids heavy, predatory.

Aren't people supposed to look a little uglier over FaceTime?

"Sam."

"Mmhmm." I respond with my lips pressed together, because if I dare to part them, God only knows what sound is coming out.

I can't bring myself to look at my own miniaturized image on the screen, instead discreetly sweeping my gaze around for that slippery fucking remote. It didn't phase through the bed or fall off the face of the Earth, it's around here somewhere. It's—

Oh! I jump in place, eyes blowing open. It's on the fucking floor, shit! "One sec—!"

"Don't even fucking think about it." Dean snaps through the screen. I flinch, white-knuckling the phone. Sitting upright like this is actually killing me, and I drop my head to use my hair as a shield. Sweat makes a fine sheen on the back of my neck, in the dip of my throat, and a small groan worms through a crack in my lips. Dean's not an idiot, and he knows better than anyone what I look and sound like in the middle of sex. He exhales hard: "Show me."

"Nngh, please, let me just—"

"I've been dying to fuck you over the phone, and you're doing it under my nose? Gettin' off without me? You're really fucking trying it, Sam." There's a bit of shuffling from the screen, and when I dare to look up, my pulse slams in my throat. Dean's got his shorts yanked down his upper thighs, brazenly wielding the phone on the opposite side of his cock. He must have his phone-hand resting on his thigh, because his right hand is a loose, damp fist sliding up and down that engorged length of flesh. In the background, he's watching me, waiting not-so-patiently.

Dean couldn't find a bad angle if his life depended on it, and this particular one makes it feel like I'm on my belly between his legs. He's shirtless, and the muscle in his stomach is rolling and twitching with effort. No low-angle shot can get the better of him, as looking downwards at the camera doesn't soften the line of his jaw or skew his striking features.

"See? Look how easy it is, dick out. Now, show me, or I'll come catch the show in person. I've got, like, ten assignments to do too—"

"Okay, just, hang on!"

Jesus Christ, am I really about to point my phone at a vibrating plug in my ass? Dean doesn't make empty threats, so, unfortunately. Sliding down the headboard until my ass and lower back are parallel with the mattress, I widen the space between my thighs. Lowering my phone's camera between my legs is one of the top five most humiliating things I've ever done. It's made more unbearable by the fact that it's still humming violently and drilling me directly in the prostate. I'm trembling, dripping. It's so fucking wet between my legs.

Palming my cock to try and at least hide that much, I aim the camera at my hole stretched around the silicone. Dean swears, a series of curses ripped forcefully from his chest. "Holy fucking God, Sammy—" He groans hard. His reaction flushes heat through my core, and I shudder. I'm starting to feel lightheaded from the combination of physical stimuli and shame. I quickly bring the phone back up, but I can't make myself look at him.

"It's—is it fucking vibrating?" His voice has a hungry, breathless quality to it.

"I...couldn't—hngh! I couldn't find the remote—!"

"How many times have you used it?" As he interrogates me, he's stroking his massive cock leisurely and methodically, dragging the flat pad of his thumb across the sticky head. My mouth waters, and I won't be analyzing what that says about my proclivities.

"First...time." I grit, shivering through a punch of pleasure. I would've cum ages ago if the thrusting function had more power behind it, but with the distraction of Dean, it's keeping me leashed at the edge.

"Have you cum yet?"

"I was...about—mm!—about to, you bastard!"

"Get back in that position, the one from the picture."

I look at him like he's asked me to drown a boxful of puppies in cold blood. "What? No, I—"

"Sam." Fuck, that gritty, cruel tone. Soft, but severe. If he were in the room, I'd have gotten in position so fast, my head would spin with it. He'd bruise my ass for not listening the first time, and my skin itches with the memory of it. My belly tightens, and my cock jumps like a trained poodle. Hesitantly, I move to comply, and he praises me in a sinful, quiet voice:

"Good job, baby, lemme see it. That's it, fuck."

Back on my knees, chest flush with the mattress, ass in the air. I feel like such a whore, moreso because it's a live performance for Dean's rapt viewing. This position is a dangerous one, because the arch in my back stretches my rim further around the neck of the plug. There's a sudden, astonishing amount of pressure on my prostate, the tip jabbing away at it. My insides had grown somewhat numb from the vibration, but now I'm very, very aware of it. My whole body is twitching, shaking, and I can barely hold the camera.

"Look at me, Sammy, come on. I wanna see your face."

Too far gone to argue, I drag my face across the pillow. On the screen, Dean's feverishly beating himself off, lip caught between his teeth. I rest the phone against the headboard, so I have free reign of my hands. For now, they're uselessly clenched in the sheets. I desperately want to touch myself, but I want...permission. I know he'll give it without my having to ask. I miss him, and I miss his cock. With it right in front of my face, separated by a thin sheet of glass, I feel like crying. I'd give anything to have it sliding down my throat, gagging me. I want him to fuck my face until I black out, keep it in the back of my esophagus until he repaints my stomach with his cum.

"Fuck, Sam, what's going through your head, huh? Tell me."

"I just...miss you—! Shit, hah!"

"You mean you miss my cock."

"That...too, mmph, I just...want you! All the time, I'm—nngh! I'm losing my mind!"

"Me too, Christ, you have no goddamn idea—hah, fuck! Go ahead, Sammy, touch yourself. Cum for me while thinking about how good I'm going to fuck you later, 'kay? Nothing and no one will ever make you feel as good as I can, baby. I promise I'll make it up to you."

Instantly, I snake my hand between my legs to catch my weeping cock in a fist. I didn't expect to be so sensitive, and the second contact is made, my sizzling nerves catch fire. I sob loudly, then attempt to smother any further cries in the pillow. Two or three more pumps, and I might not be on this plane of existence anymore. I might actually fucking ascend. Returning my gaze to the screen, Dean's not far behind. He might not have a plug in his ass, but I know he's pent up. He's watching me like a starving man eyeballs a glass case of ribeyes, tongue swiping across his teeth, muttering obscenities and backhanded praises.