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Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 01

By: dayne



Author's Note

Characters really do take on a life of their own, so it's not my fault that I'm writing erotic fiction. I'd been developing characters for an unrelated project, and two of them couldn't keep their hands off each other. It was like those annoying neighbors that have loud sex all the fucking time, only it's going on in your own head and you can't call the management. So, I gave up on trying to keep them from fucking and started writing a vignette (and possibly an apology letter to some aurally abused former neighbors). Efrain and Cory liked it so much, they asked for another. Then they decided they were totally into each other and the rest kinda if-you-give-a-mouse-a-cookie'd out from there.

Efrain and Cory's story doesn't really have a plot-plot, as it was always episodic and character-driven to begin with, and the narrative point-of-view shifts to which ever character can most effectively tell the story at that moment. This is my first attempt at both erotica and extended fiction, and I more than welcome feedback. Thank you for reading. ~Dayne 

Prologue – Locker Staring Contest

I thought I'd left my days of staring into gym lockers back in high school. I picked up the habit in middle school the one time I caught the wrong asshole's attention and got the shit beat out of me. I'd kept it up for six years, and thought my senior year would be the last time. University was supposed to be the liberal bastion of sodomy and sin, and I'd left my homophobic Texas hometown for Virginia (which if you ask any Southerner isn't technically in the South, even if it is below the Mason-Dixon). I am in a much better place, I shouldn't have to stare at my locker while changing for practice.

It's not that I want to stay in the closet, I don't hide that I'm bi, I just can't find a less awkward time to come out. I don't really brag about conquests, male or female, and I'm not in a relationship either. Plus, the places I pick up men and the places I pick up women aren't the same, and there is only one place I seem to run into my teammates. So I can't really blame them for not figuring out that Cory Card, freshman linebacker, plays for both teams.

And, to be honest, most of them seem like they wouldn't care, nor would they read anything into stray looks. I've managed to break the locker-staring habit, and do well enough to look at whoever is talking to me, but I still have reason enough to keep my eyes fixed where they'd been for most of my teens –

Fucking Efrain fucking Garza.

Chapter One – Eat a Dick, Texas

Before I get anywhere, I would like to make this point understood: Texas can eat a dick. In fact, Texas can eat a big fucking bag of dicks. It's only 9 AM, but it's hot as balls already and mine are currently stuck to my leg. Kinda awkward to give my mom goodbye hugs and kisses while trying to discreetly unglue my family jewels from my thigh.

But, hug and kiss I do, rubber-cemented nutsack notwithstanding, and say my goodbyes to Dad before I climb into my truck. I turn the key in the ignition and roll down my window for final goodbyes. I promise to take frequent breaks, and they threaten to check my credit card charges to make sure I stop at the appropriate number of hotels to get a decent night's sleep.

"There's 24 hours in a day, what's the harm in using 19 of them to drive?"

"Two days, minimum." My dad gets this really stern look on his face.

"I really do wish you'd take at least three, Cory."

"I'm like the fourth son you've sent off," I say. "Aren't you supposed to be so over child rearing that you let me do whatever?"

"Two days. Minimum." He sets his jaw and folds his arms over his chest and I immediately 86 the "why" game.

I sigh. "Fine." Satisfied, they wave me off. I put the truck in gear and get on the road to my new life as a freshman at Virginia Tech. My friends think I'm crazy to move so far away; we've lived in this small Texas town for most of our lives. There are some upsides to being a big fish in a little pond. Everybody knows everybody. But then everybody knows everybody's business. I'm ready to be a little fish.

Not that I'm little. I'm just shy of 6 feet and weigh close to 200lbs, mostly muscle. This being Texas, I naturally ended up playing football. Now that I think about it, I do look like a walking (driving?) Texas stereotype. Country music just happens to be playing on the radio (although it is one of twenty songs out of 2000 songs on my phone), my Stetson is sitting on top of my bags (mainly because I didn't know where to put it), and I even brought my boots (along with half a dozen pairs of Converse). And I'm driving a big fucking truck. To be fair, it's a Toyota and it used to be my dad's. Still, I have a sinking feeling that someone is going to nickname me "Tex."

However, there is one thing that doesn't fit the stereotype. I'm bi. Which is why I really wanted to get out of this town, and why I jumped at VT's full ride. I've had enough with living in the closet because I'm too afraid of what people will say. Like I said, little fish. I can come out, get my ass pounded, and no one would even notice or care. I've managed to keep that part of my life hidden here in Cibolo, but I've had it – officially.

I thought about telling Mom and Dad about me. I think about it a lot. I mean, I'm sure I could bring them around and they wouldn't care. I even think about telling my brothers. One of my middle brothers already knows (Cameron kinda caught me in the tool shed with my hands down a friend's pants) and he's been okay with it. I could've pulled a dick move the day before and peace out before they can react. I think about all these things, but I can't seem to bring myself to do it. Skipping town just seems easier.

Before I leave town, I take a quick detour past my favorite Mexican place for some breakfast tacos because I know I'll never get decent tortillas in Virginia. I wolf down my chorizo and egg, and vow to visit every Buc-ees from here to the state line because this may be the last time I ever see a nice, clean gas station bathroom. If I didn't hate Texas so damn much, I'd consider crying for that alone.

I know I should feel little more nostalgic for all the stuff I'm leaving behind in Texas. I should also be upset about only getting in a couple weeks of summer vacation before I have to report for preseason training, but I'm too excited to start my new life.

Once I get to the Texas state line (a little later than schedule because I had to stop for a kolache...four times), I decide to get a little crazy. I log into Facebook from my phone and change my profile to say that I'm bi. I fully expect a shitstorm, but my phone isn't blowing up and nobody had commented on my status change by the time I log in at the hotel. I call my best friend Keenan (who's beyond straight, but okay with my semi-gay ass) to see if he's heard anything.

"Dude, no one gives a fuck."

"I doubt that man," I say. "Remember when Juan's little brother pranked him on Twitter? Everyone went insane. And he wasn't even remotely gay." Despite my efforts to convert him.

"Whatever. You left and we already forgot about your faggy ass."

Biggest. Let down. Ever.

***

I make the trip in a very Mom-pleasing un-record time. I tried for two days, but I figured I would have gotten in too late to check into my dorm, so I might as well take it easy. I get in Saturday afternoon, right before the dorm admin closes shop, so I'm able to get my keys. I bought a parking pass, but I soon learn that "parking pass" doesn't mean that you get a spot to park, just that you get to fight for a spot to park.

I manage to find a space two blocks from the dorms and I'm glad my mom talked me out of taking more stuff with me. I'm in great shape, but I'm still huffing by the time I get my things over to my room. The only upside is that it isn't so goddamn hot out here and I won't meet my roommate looking like a drowned rat.

As I unlock the door, it occurs to me that I should have found a way to contact this guy, instead of just walking in on him. Figured someone had to have told him I was coming today. I open the door and peek in, the guy is a pretty normal looking dude – a little bookish in the face, preppy clothes, decent body, short light brown hair. He's actually pretty cute, but looks kinda confused. He tells the person he's talking to on the phone that he'll call back and stands up.

I set down a duffle bag and extend my hand. "I'm Cory Card."

"Ah," the look of confusion fades into one of those polite business smiles, "You're here to invade my fortress of solitude." He shakes my hand. "Romero Mackey." Damn, he's really cute. This is like the premise to half the gay porn I've seen -- ya know, two roommates just chilling when BAM! GAY SEX!

Romero has been in this room since the fall term, so his side is pretty settled in. I notice a couple pictures of him and a girl thumbtacked to the wall above his desk. Damn, no BAM! GAY SEX!

He looks at me strangely then, and I realize he's waiting for a response. "Huh?"

"I heard you're on the football team."

"Ah, yeah."

"Fucking sweet! You can score me some tickets."

"Sure, I can try," I say. Then I get this idea "...only if you help me get the rest of my stuff."

This has the intended effect and his business smile becomes more genuine. "Was going to offer anyway."

We make quick work of getting my things in and I busy myself with getting the essentials unpacked. Romero picks back up his phone, probably to call back whoever he was talking to earlier, and begins talking about random shit. I make my bed up and flop onto it. I should call home to let them know I got in alright, but I'm just too tired. I at least force myself to call Mom and chat with her for a few minutes or else she will blow up my cell, then call all three of my brothers to bother me until I call.

By the time I hang up, Romero has picked up my Stetson from where I tossed it on my desk. "So," he says, examining my hat. "Texas license plates, cowboy hat, accent, big ass truck..."

"Hey, it's a mid-size."

"Big ass truck," he repeats. "I bet you listen to country music and own cowboy boots."

"I don't just listen to country, and" I point to my Chucks laying on the floor by my bed. "I own other shoes."

"'Other' shoes, he says." We both laugh a little. "You know what, I'm going to call you 'Tex' from now on."

Fucking knew it.

Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 02



Author's Note - The voices in my head are still sexually harassing me. ~Dayne 

Chapter Two – On Finger-Banging Cheerleaders

I'm not completely sure why we're tabling for yet another week during the summer session. But, Kiley thinks she can keep the GSA active even though most of our members went home for the summer, and somehow I'm roped into this. I honestly doubt we'll get any new members since so few students start here in the summer – anyone who wanted to join would have done so already. I'm seriously about to pack up here and lovingly tell that dyke Kiley that she can go fuck herself.

"Oh, cool, there's a gay-straight alliance here!" The voice is a soft baritone with a slight Texas drawl. When I look up, I find its owner to be the mass accumulation of every brotastic dumb jock that made fun of me for being gay and/or being a cheerleader in high school. Tall, broad shouldered, so muscled up that it makes his t-shirt and cargo shorts fit snuggly in the most eye-pleasing ways. Overall, an amazing body and the face is just as nice. His sandy blonde hair is cut short on the sides with a longer tousled fringe on top that he keeps brushed to one side, under are dark blue eyes, a small mouth with perfectly bowed lips and dimpled cheeks. 

His hand is out-stretched and his smile at least seems genuine. I figure Kiley will kick my ass if I don't greet everyone properly, even if he does turn out to be a homophobe, so I might as well talk. "Name's Cory," he tells me.

"Preston," I reply and seem at a loss, so I hand him a pamphlet.

"So," he says after an awkward pause. "When do you guys meet?" 

I consider giving him wrong information, but it's printed on the pamphlet anyway. "Mondays at 7:00 PM." 

"Will you be there?" he asks warmly.

"I'm the secretary; of course, I'll be..." I trail off as it occurs to me. Is this guy really..? You can't be serious. I look back at him, his expression, the way he holds his body. "Wait, are you hitting on me?"

***

Preston and I fall through the door. We fumble with zippers and buttons, our tongues buried in each other's mouth, all heavy breathing and roaming hands. We manage to pull off our shirts before we trip onto his bed, and he seems satisfied enough with this state to return to making out with me. I lie half on top of him, my leg pressed between his. He rolls his hips to rub his hard-on against my thigh. I grab his leg and guide it around my waist. He pants into my mouth as I rub myself against the leg I have trapped under me. 

"We should finish stripping," I tell him. "Or I'm going to cum in my pants."

"Been that long?"

"Fuck. You have no idea." He laughs at that. I'd like to say that I sealed the deal on him the day I met him – a classic twink looking cute as fuck in chino shorts, button up shirt, and bowtie with his short brown hair spiked up – but we became more like friends. Since he was the person who introduced me to the group, I naturally gravitated to him, but he's a pretty nice guy and easy to talk to. I never thought I would end up befriending one of those sassy gay types.

The only reason we're here ripping off clothes and humping each other's leg is because someone gave us a few beers and we have stupidly low alcohol tolerances (For fucking real, how can three beers be enough to get a guy my size buzzed?). He started giggling about wanting to fuck a football player and I started giggling about wanting to fuck a cheerleader that had a dick. And he's all like "Wait, you're a football player!" And I was like "Dude, you're a cheerleader AND you have a dick!"

Then we got bummed because we're both bottoms. 

"We could still blow each other."

"Shit. I would suck the hell out of your dick."

And so we dipped out of the party and hurried back to his place before one of us could regain the ability to really think this through. He takes too long getting the door open, so I pin him against it and lay one on him. His mouth is hot and tastes like cheap beer, which is actually pretty fucking arousing. Preston still tries to unlock his door and open it while my tongue clashes with his. I'm leaning into him with my whole body, so when he does get the door open, we go down.

Back on the bed, he's pushing my shorts and trunks over my hips. I get them to my ankles and have to stop to take off my high tops before I can consider myself stripped. Preston wore flip flops today, which were kicked off the moment we regained our balance, so peeling off his clothes is easier. Pretty soon, we're back to rolling around on the bed, just with significantly less clothing. 

His hands are all over me, but I want my mouth to do my exploring. He's used to picking up and tossing 120 pound girls and doing gymnastics, so his body is fucking amazing. I suck his neck, salty from the sweaty press of bodies in Kiley's living room, and kiss a trail down his chest. I draw a hardened nipple into my mouth and lightly bite it, which makes him gasp and arch his back. Not content to stay, I lick sweat from the ridges in his abs, dip my tongue into his belly button, and continue south. 

I position myself at a right angle to his body and put my head in his lap. I lower his cock to my mouth and lap the underside of his head. He wraps his fingers around my dick and lightly strokes it. I give him a little more attention with my lips and tongue. When he gets bolder with his hands, I put him further into my mouth as a reward. 

Preston soon intuits what my game is and repositions himself so we're both laying on our sides with our heads resting on the other's thigh. I reward this by putting him as deep as I can get him. He's smaller than me, a little bit longer than the width of my hand, so he easily bottoms out in my mouth.

He moans loudly around the mouthful he has taken so far and, as if by some unspoken cue, we start sucking each other off. I lift his leg, bending it up and wedging it under my arm. I push his leg a little and he extends it and lifts it higher until he's in a full split. I pause to lift myself up on my elbow to appreciate the view, admiring how this move exposes his most vulnerable parts. I rub my hands over the insides of his thigh and pert ass. He likes to tan, so there's a nice little line at his waist and below his ass. He stops sucking and I catch him watching me with a smug expression. 

Preston would later tell me that it's his signature move. 

Not breaking eye contact, I lick my middle and index fingers, getting them as slicked up as I can. He probably knows where I'm going with this because he starts panting in anticipation before I can start rubbing his hole with my fingers. He pauses himself and I feel his fingers on me. 

He folds his leg down and wraps it around my upper body, pulling me in to him. I put his dick back in my mouth and start bobbing on it again as I slowly push my middle finger inside. He whimpers and follows my lead. I whimper, too. When I slowly finger fuck him, he finger fucks me. He adds his index finger when I add mine. We find each other's sensitive spots and build speed at the same time. 

Preston is doing his best to make it hard for me to keep up what I'm doing. I persevere, his dick pinning down my moans in the back of my throat. At some point, he puts his foot on the back of my head (don't ask me how, but he did) and shoves my face into his groin. In retaliation, I fuck his tight little hole with my fingers, finding his weaknesses and exploiting them – knowing that every bit of punishment I dish out will be paid in kind. We fuck each other's mouth -- smooth, rolling thrusts at first, but that devolves into wild bucking the closer we get to climax. 

He cums first, shooting his load deep into my mouth. I suck it up and eagerly swallow. Not a drop of my cum escapes when it's my turn to nut. I slip free of him and roll onto my back, staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above me as I catch my breath.

When I leave Preston's a little while later, I text Keenan. 

"Dude, we haven't started college yet and I've already pulled a college cheerleader."

"It was probably a dude," he texts back.

"Doesn't matter, man. Still a cheerleader."

"Does matter, man. Still a queer."

"Whatever. You can't kill my spirit!"



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 03



Author's Note -- Another instalment. Finally we get some time with Efrain. For those unfamiliar with the name, the correct pronunciation is ef-RYE-een, with a slight roll to the "r". Vuis sounds like "vice".

This is my first attempt at both erotica and extended fiction, and I more than welcome feedback. Thank you for reading. ~Dayne 

Chapter 3 – Bareback SteersNQueers

So, here's the thing: I'm bored out of my fucking mind. I came up here early to practice, but not early enough to start classes. I have nothing to do but go to preseason conditioning, binge watch Netflix, and crash from a combination of fatigue and ennui. 

I've gotten so bored, I have to find newer and more pretentious words for expressing this boredom. 

I've gotten so bored, I'm too bored to beat off. 

Since the summer term is divided into two six-week sessions, Romero and the others in the dorm were already swamped with mid-terms when I arrived and are now wading into the morass of mini-mester finals. I've already signed up for a class for the second half so I'll have something to occupy my extra time.

Preseason would be a welcome respite, but I don't get to practice with the rest of the team. Instead, they have me and the rest of us in Freshmen Camp memorizing a massive ass playbook because the coaches don't trust us to not fuck up practices. I'm used to having to only know nine or so plays, nine being all that high school football coaches can remember themselves (or be creative enough to come up with in the first place). I compared notes with the other guys, no one else had to learn this many at once, and the ones we did learn were so simple we could still draw them out more than seven months after our senior seasons ended. 

Luckily, I can participate in conditioning with the rest of the team. I fucking hate double burpees, but I hate them a lot less than memorizing playbooks. The trainers count on the freshmen to suck balls since most kids don't keep active between their high school football seasons. But, I kept busy with soccer in my off seasons and did a lot of running and weight training. I maintained my muscle mass and my 40 stayed somewhere around 4.7. Not perfect, and the words "small for a linebacker" keep getting added to sentences in which I'm mentioned, but they decide I'm fit enough to run with the big guys after a couple weeks of breaking me of every bad habit I learned playing high school ball.

I got to know a few of my new teammates, but since I'm the lone freshman training with them, and they don't see me at practice, I'm still not part of their social cliques yet. I've been chatting with the guys assigned to the lockers on either side of mine, this white guy from the Midwest named JJ Teague and a massive black redshirt sophomore from Atlanta named Mitch Lithgow. They seem friendly enough, but I haven't seen them socially outside of football.

So, with no classes to attend, no parties to get invited to, and nothing else to occupy my time, I've been going slightly insane. The one bright spot happens to be Monday evenings. I go to GSA meetings and hang out with Preston. We decided our drunken roll in the sheets was a one-time thing and kept it at that, but we still meet for coffee or food from time to time. 

Today, the GSA is meeting up for dinner. I'm so thirsty for this that I enthusiastically offer to drive to the restaurant. Ironically enough, it's my gas-guzzling truck that is more fuel efficient than their little two door coupes. Preston calls shotgun and two other members, bi-Delia and lez-Delia, come along.

"So, SteersNQueers, explain the truck," Preston teases. "SteersNQueers" is his current nickname for me and is only slightly better than last week's "Brokeback", especially since it most often came out as "Bareback." Sadly, everyone in the group has picked it up. It is still better than Romero calling me "Tex."

"Not much to say about it, Virgin." Goose, gander. "My parents bought Caiden and Carson cars when they turned 16. But when Cameron turned 16, Mom bought a new car and handed her old one down to him. Dad used my turning 16 as a good excuse to buy a new F150." I really don't like trucks, but it pissed Cam off to no end because he fucking loved Dad's Tacoma.

"God, your parents' naming conventions are pretty fucked up."

"We all have the same middle name." Preston gags a little and lez-Delia reminds him that his own name is pretty fucking lame.

"It's like they were setting you up for gayness," bi-Delia confirms.

"Whatever, that isn't even what I was talking about." He points to the beaver wearing a red t-shirt and cap hanging from my key chain.

"Oh, the Buc-ee." 

"'All day I dream about beavers'?" he reads, pointing to the air freshener dangling from the rearview. "Is that how you reaffirm your straightness?" I even have a Buc-ee sticker on my bumper. It's right next to the "Puro Pinché Beavers" one that I'm sure isn't really licensed merch. "Bitch, you're the most cock-thirsty straight guy I know."

"For starters, I'm not cock-thirsty."

"You guzzled mine readily enough." 

The Delias laugh at this. For some reason, everyone thinks Preston and I are merely talking shit and not referencing something that actually happened.

"And, secondly, I'm bi." 

"You're just being indecisive."

"Uhm, bi-marginalization?" bi-Delia says. She may or may not be trying to ride my dick. I may or may not be interested in said riding.

"So, back to the beaver," lez-Delia interrupts.

"You would focus on the beaver."

"Suck my dick, Virgin."

"You don't even have a dick.

"I'll grow one for the occasion." And so on and so forth until we reach the restaurant. Preston gets out and the Delias tumble out of the back seat. Kiley called ahead to reserve a spot and is waiting inside, so we head over. 

Just as I'm about to open the door, it swings open and the person behind it walks into me. I find myself face-to-face with Efrain Garza, one of the sophomores on the team. I know of him, but I don't know him. Lez-D and Preston, who are still bickering, walk into me from behind pushing me into him again. We make full body contact and I'm instantly aware of how great he smells.

"Oh, hey, Card, right?" he laughs. Of course, it seems like he's always laughing about something, as if everything is just one big inside joke that only he is in on.

"Hey, Garza." I wave a little as we slide past them into the restaurant. I hear him say something that sounded like "interesting" under his breath, but when I turn around, he just waves and says he'll see me at practice tomorrow.

I nod and wave back before I follow everyone inside. Preston and the Delias, by this time, have lost the original argument and have started exchanging insults.

"Cumslut."

"Twatwaffle."

"For fuck's sake, get a room."

***

"So, defense is here on the line of scrimmage," I point to a row of taco sauce packets with O's marked on them in permanent marker. "And, here's your offense." I point to the ketchup packets marked with X's. 

At lunch, Martinez looked like he was going cross-eyed trying to memorize these plays, so I set up our little condiment scrimmage. Pretty soon, the rest of the freshmen crowded in around the table and it snowballed from there. They added symbols to the packets to represent specific positions and we started running through the plays. 

"Wait, which play is this?" Blanco asks. Montalvo flips through the playbook and calls them out. I don't remember the exact names yet, but I remember the configurations. 

I have the guys split up to move around the packets to the next position in the play, then we start debating the merits and pitfalls of their next moves. At some point, we started marking hypothetical moves on the table in dry erase marker because we kept forgetting the original positions. 

We're so wrapped up in this, all the guys talking loudly and all at once, that nobody notices when Coach Vuis walks in. 

"What the fuck is this?" He gestures down at the carefully arranged packets and dry erase arrows and squiggles. 

"Scrimmaging, Sir."

Vuis drags his palm down his face in exasperation.

Montalvo thinks for a moment. "Wait, maybe you can settle this" and he starts laying out some issue we'd been arguing about some hole I found in one of the plays.

"Fucking hell, Card."

"What?"

"Just, fucking hell." And next thing you know, I'm pulled from Freshmen Camp and thrown in with the rest of the team.

***

I remember Card from the brief introductions when the freshmen arrived to join preseason conditioning. From my own experience, it would be awhile before they start working with us regularly, if at all, so I wasn't really paying attention. Card, however, was pleasantly eye-catching. 

His looks were that kind of prototypical All-American football hero handsome. Roughly my height, broad in the chest and shoulders with a trim waist and an ass you could sink your teeth into. If he were a bit lighter and faster, he'd be the QB and, God, why the fuck am I checking out straight guys again?

But, yeah, Card stood out.

He ended up joining us for conditioning, ahead of the rest of the freshies, and ran circles around the more seasoned players. We're fucking sweating buckets, and he's bragging about how it's in the triple digits in whatever tiny tourist-trap town with a name that isn't pronounced like it's spelled the recruiters fished him out of. Then he started going on about how much he fucking loves double burpees and I think we all wanted to slug him.

Last week, I literally ran into him when I was out getting dinner with some friends. At first, I noticed Card and we exchange greetings. Then, I noticed the group he just happens to be with. 

I don't know the guy personally, but I recognize him from the commons where he tables for the GSA. I thought well, that's interesting.

I didn't realize I said that aloud until Card turned around with an odd look on his face. I waved and told him I'll see him at practice and he walked inside. Very interesting.

Today, he's in the locker room, gearing up with the rest of the team. 

"Hey, Baker," I gesture over at Card, who's chatting with Teague and Lithgow. "Isn't he supposed to be with the freshmeat?"

"Naw, get this. I heard Vuis saying that he'd memorized the playbook three weeks ago." Fuck, I poured over that fucking thing for two months before half of it even stuck. "He'd been running the rest of Freshmen Camp through mock scrimmages with ketchup packets when the other coaches left the room."

"You're shitting me."

"That's what I'm saying. They redshirted me my first season. I didn't get to practice with the team until the season started." I nod, I'm a redshirt freshman myself and I think I'm liking this kid less and less, no matter how fuckable his ass looks in full gear.

Once on the field, the coaches run us through the typical warm-ups and drills. Satisfied with our progress, they decide to run us through some plays. 

We set up on the line of scrimmage. This play has Card on the outside, but I seriously doubt they have him out to handle me. He's just too small. The ball snaps. I duck through, dodging the bigger OLBs and darting close to Card. I'm fly out the other side and the QB passes to me. I catch on the run and bolt. 

Pretty soon, I see Card coming at me from the side. He followed me out and is gaining. I ramp up to a full sprint. The other receivers have huge pockets around them as I'm supposed to pass to them in this play, but I already have the ball and Card can't match me at full speed. 

I'm within ten yards of the next goal line. I add one last push of speed, just to rub it in. Then, I feel him crash into me. He wraps his arms around my waist and we both fall over. The air leaves me in a whoosh and the ball slips from my fingers. How the fuck did that happen?

He looks down at me and spits out his mouth guard. "You alright?" He jumps up and grabs the ball, then offers me a hand.

Coach Schmidt bellows at us from the sidelines. Apparently, I'm not the only one who ran outside of the play.

"'No battle plan survives contact with the enemy,' Sir." Card is so smug I swear he's quoting someone. "If I remember this play correctly, Garza's supposed to pass over to another back," says the little shit. "But he didn't, so I harried. Figured I'd at least run him out of bounds. He's surprisingly easy to tackle. Best not leave him without protection in the next play." 

If he had a mic, he'd drop it. 

Schmidt rolls his eyes and the team walks off to set up the next play.

Once they're out of earshot, Card looks back over his shoulder at me, face split into a rather charming grin, and winks at me. 

"You're fun to chase," he quips and jogs back over to the formation.

I'm torn between wanting to hit him and wanting to hit it.

As we're walking back to the locker room to shower and change, we pass the cheerleaders on their way to the studio for practice. One, the guy I saw Card with the other night, moves to the edge of the group and exchanges a fist bump with him. I move over to get in step with Card.

"They frown on us dating the cheerleaders."

"Oh, you mean Preston?" he says and shrugs. "We're just friends."

No denials, no insistence that he's totally straight. Just "we're friends." Interesting. Very Interesting.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 04



Chapter 4 – Twink on the Dancefloor

 Now, let's bitch about my dating life. 

 I can pull in all kinds of girls, but can never bring in guys. Or at least the ones I want. If they meet my criteria looks-wise, they turn out to be bottoms. If they are tops, something about them seems sketchy. One time, I gained the unwanted attention of some bears and Preston called me "Otter Pup" for weeks, which I looked up and I highly doubt he even knows what it means.

 About three weeks after I'd started practicing with the team, Preston invited me out to the gay bar. According to Preston, I intimidated and scared off the relatively safe and sane tops. Which is why he wanted to take me dancing. He didn't care if I sucked at dancing, he just wanted there to be fewer guys trying to pick him up. I'm going to call that narcissist fuck "Twink Toes" until I think of something more clever (I exhausted "Narcissus" two weeks ago, and he liked it besides).

 So, yeah, Twink Toes is rubbing it in that he's getting all this male attention, when I can't seem to lure anyone in that I don't immediately want to throw back. But I'm game when he tells me it's Latin Night. The high school I went to has a pretty big Hispanic population, so Cumbia and Tejano were just as popular as American Top 40. 

 I talked the Mexican kids into teaching me the moves, which was what I was doing with Alonso Rios in the tool shed in the first place (before we ended up doing what we were doing when Cam walked in – fun times!). Among all that music on my phone, I still have a fuckton of Spanish dance music.

 I make a good show of reticence as Preston drags me out on the floor. Then, the music comes up and I move. I swing my hips into a solo bachata. I'm not the most amazing dancer in the world, but I'm good enough that people give me space and Preston gapes at me like I've sprouted longhorns. I grab his hand and spin him around, then pull him up close and roll my hips against him. 

 "Chingow! No sabes bachata?" He looks confused. Obviously, he doesn't know Spanish either. "Te enseñare. Mira." I point down at my hips and legs; he at least understands that. I show him the basic steps, which he emulates. I put my hand at the small of his back and we move together. 

When he masters the basics, I add in a new step, and another, and another, until we're spinning on the floor, moving in that sensual way of people who have been intimate, as if every movement is loaded with sexual intent and promise. At least, this is how my dick is interpreting things, and, from what I can feel, his is too. If we were drinking, and/or a little more hard-up, what we're doing could easily put us back in bed. 

We have a pretty decent audience by the third song, other dancers who observe us as we dance. Plenty of cat calls and "yaaass girl, slay!" come at us. They're disappointed when we move off to get water instead of throwing down and fucking right there on the dance floor.

"Fuck, where'd you learn to move like that?"

"Mis amigos."

"Would you fucking stop that?"

"Lo siento." Preston growls at me and I laugh. In my head, I transcribe it as ja ja ja ja. "Some friends in middle school."

"You learned that in middle school," he says doubtfully.

"Not the bachata," I tell him. "I learned cumbia and salsa first."

Preston's face lights up "Oh! Teach me to salsa next!"

I would totally love to bachata again, but it's just as well. The salsa, while still one of those really suggestive dances, is more involved and requires that we have some space between us. We dance until we're sweaty and thirsty, stop for water, then rinse and repeat. Preston and I are too exhausted to walk by last call. 

This performance earns me another spot in Preston's social rotation and I get to add Latin Night to the list of things to look forward to each week.

***

It's taking longer than I expected, but the team seems to be warming up to me. They finally realize that I'm being fucking sarcastic when I enthuse about loving double burpees. 

"I mean, it's all about yoga burpees," I tell Teague, who seems a little slow on the uptake. Luckily, Lithgow is hip to my game.

"I know man, nothing beats a good yoga burpee," he says. "But, you know you haven't lived until you've tried parkour burpees." 

This is about the fourth or fifth time we've had this conversation since I started conditioning with the team and we still haven't exhausted the Wikipedia entry of cracked-out variants. 

"Fuck, we did those in middle school."

"We did them in pee-wee league." By this point, Teague looks as confused as Martinez trying to memorize the team playbook. Garza walks up before I can think of something more absurd.

"We still on for tonight," he says to Lithgow. He nods in my and Teague's direction. He looked fucking pissed when I first tackled him, but he seemed to have gotten over it quickly. Good thing as too many scrimmages since then capitalize on me throwing Garza on the ground.

"Yeah."

"By the way," Garza points at me. "You're coming." With that said, he walks off.

"I'm coming where?" I ask Lithgow doubtfully. 

"Ah, some nightclub. Since he's the only one of the crew underage, I think he wants a partner in sobriety."

"We also need another designated driver," Teague tactlessly adds.

I get back to my dorm and knock out a quick nap before getting ready. I throw on a pair of dark blue jeans and a hunter green t-shirt. I add a grey linen button-up shirt and roll the sleeves up to my elbows. This gets topped off with black oxfords, leather belt, wrist watch, and a quick finger tousle of my hair. 

Romero, in a disinterested voice, tells me that unless I'm going line dancing, the Stetson stays here. 

"Have fun, Tex." 

I wasn't seriously thinking of putting it on. Seriously.

I roll up to Teague's place at the appointed time. I'm taking Teague and two other teammates, Whitlock and Rice, in my truck. Garza picked up Lithgow and Baker and will meet us. Teague asks me to explain the beavers. So, I tell them all about the magic of Buc-ees.

"Dude," says Whitlock. "Remember when we played in Austin? They had signs for this place all over."

"What's so awesome about a big fucking gas station with clean bathrooms?"

"You don't understand," says Rice, who grew up in Houston. "Buc-ees is like an institution."

We're still arguing about beavers when we meet up with the others. Teague grabs my hand, which is still holding my keys, and says "Look, he's got a Garza keychain" while pointing to Buc-ee. Everyone looks a little confused by this before he points out the red shirt. Garza rolls his eyes and the joke fizzles. 

I'm so used to seeing everyone in a uniform that it's a little jarring to see them dressed up. Admittedly, they're all wearing some variation on the basic jeans and button-up/polo, but Garza looks anything but basic. 

Black slim-fit jeans, black short-sleeve button-up over a blue (not red) v-neck that hugs his pecs, and black Doc Martens. He wears this all, effortlessly, on his tall, athletic frame. His near-black hair is pulled back into a top-knot, highlighting his ruggedly attractive face – high cheekbones, Roman nose, full mouth, hazel eyes, strong chin with a couple days' worth of stubble. 

In the most simple terms, the man is fucking gorgeous and I seriously need to stop looking. 

Yet, when he turns around to lead the way, it's all I can do to not fall over myself while checking out the way his jeans hug his ass. He doesn't ever "walk", his steps are somewhere between prowl and saunter. Right now he is prowling. I consider myself lucky that I decided against tucking in my shirt because I'm already getting close to half-mast watching him move. 

I shake my head to clear it and fall in with the pack. The conversation flits between subjects, barely staying on one topic for very long, as we walk the rest of the way to the nightclub. The guys walk past the line of people waiting to get inside and the bouncer takes one look at our entourage before letting us in ahead of the line and without charging cover. It didn't hit me until later that I'd just experienced my first perk as a player, but whatever. A second bouncer checks our IDs and Efrain and I get a small black "x" across the back of our hand to signal that we're under 21. We could go to a club that serves minors under the table, but that would defeat the purpose of bringing us along.

The nightclub is already in full swing when we walk in. The DJ is spinning some reggeaton at the moment, but he mixes subtle Latin beats into everything he plays. People chat at the bar and in the lounges around the sides of the room. Steps lead down to the dance floor where women dance together in clumps. Men prowl the edges looking to pick one of them off or else fist pump in time to the music. I scan the crowd and recognize a chick named Marina that I met while out dancing with Preston. 

Marina and a couple of her friends are dancing off to one side. I break away from the guys to say hi. 

***

Most of my teammates clean up nicely. I can say this objectively, without any hint of sexual intent. I'm not interested in straight guys, but they're not half bad for breeders. 

Card, on the other hand...

For some baby-faced 18 year old kid, who I've only seen in Chuck Taylors and cargo shorts when he isn't in uniform, he knows how to put himself together. I'm too busy checking him out without looking like I'm checking him out when Teague makes some dipshit comment about this stupid beaver keychain that I can't think of a decent thing to shut him down with. I settle for rolling my eyes and leading the group to the club so I don't end up staring at Card the whole way there.

We walk into the club and Card barely stays with us for longer than a minute before he walks off to talk to some Spanish girl. They hug and she starts enthusiastically introducing him to her friends. He tries to move off, but she grabs his hand and pulls him further onto the dance floor. 

I get the guys' attention and point over to where Card and the girl are taking their places. "This should be good."

We find a decent vantage point to watch. Baker's face is split in a sadistic grin. I wasn't there to witness it, but I'd seen enough videos and pictures of the night Baker got shitfaced and danced like an asshole. He still hasn't lived that down and it seems his only respite is to inflict the same pain on other guys dumb enough to dance while out with teammates. He, Whitlock, and Teague all whip out their phones to record Card's imminent flailing.

On the floor, Card has the girl pressed against him. "Ima call this 'Card's Texas Two-step'" Whitlock jokes good naturedly. They trade quips back and forth, you know, guys being guys.

Rice tries to defend him. "Shit, you know you'd be out there making an ass out of yourselves if the chick was that hot."

"He has a point," Lithgow adds. "God, I'd flop around like Baker on a rager for an ass like that." She's beautiful, even I can admit that despite not being into women. However, this does not stop us from cracking jokes. 

The jokes stop when Card and his partner start moving. 

Their steps are small at first, relying more on the motion of their hips. Other dancers notice what they're doing and a pocket opens around them. Their steps expand to work the open space and they're given even more room. In less than a minute, he has enough space to dance her through complex dips, turns, and spins. Head, arms, shoulders, hips, legs, feet thrown into his movements. Those immediately around him stop and gape. He's fucking good.

I look over at the guys, their faces looking as confused as I feel. No one knows what to make of what they're seeing. "How'd a white kid learn to move his hips like that?" I'm not sure who said it, but I nod in agreement. For the moment, Card has his back to us and his hips roll almost as much as hers do. Those rolling hips would haunt me at night for weeks to come, but I'm still too stunned at the moment to appreciate this. 

"You still recording this?" asks Rice. By this time another song has started. Card and his friend keep dancing. I think they switched styles because I recognize some of the steps as merengue. 

They dance for a bit before her two friends join them. 

I don't know how, but he works it to where he's dancing with all three girls – bringing in one close then spinning her back out, grabbing her friend and moving through some steps, taking the third by the hand and twirling them both around, spinning out the second, dancing close to the third, and on and on. He switches back and forth between them so no girl goes long without being involved. The girls are all breathless and laughing. He seems a little sweaty, but completely in command. 

The guys cat call at him and he sends back a smug grin.

"Fuck, man," Lithgow claps me on the shoulder. "Are you sure you're Puerto Rican? He's more Latino that you are." 

For some reason, that comment and Card's face piss me off. I've had to deal with the comparisons ever since the first time Card took me down – that he's as fast as I am, or as good as I am at reading the field, or able to think as fast as I can, or any number of things. Every scrimmage has him hounding me, and it drives me insane with how he knocks my ass over every damn time. Then he turns around with that smug fucking look and I want to deck him. I don't care how good he looks in grey linen and hunter green.

Without thinking, I hop off my barstool and wind my way over. When I get to the edge of their little group, he spins one of the girls and she goes a little wide. She falls against me, so I cock my eyebrow and offer her my hand. She takes it and we dance. I don't know multiple styles like Card; I prefer to master one, rather than be merely competent in two or three. For his part, Card seems undaunted in facing off against a much better dancer. He grins that fucking good boy smile of his and says "Sup, Garza!"

I smile back, you know, because there's no hard feelings or anything, I'm just here to dance. 

***

By the time the last song plays, Card, the girls and I have paused only long enough to get water and catch our breath. The five of us go to look for the other guys and only find Teague and Rice waiting. The rest had long since left with whatever hookup they found for the night or to drink somewhere else. We all decide to head home, and start heading for the cars. 

Card has a girl under each arm and the third hanging off his back. The four of them are chatting animatedly in Spanish. My mom is half Cuban and my dad is Puerto Rican, like immigrated-from-Puerto-Rico Puerto Rican, I grew up in a Spanish-speaking household, but I can barely follow what they're saying. Fuck if I'd actually be able to respond in Spanish. 

Teague, Rice, and I walk behind them in disbelief. Teague still has his phone out snapping pictures because no one would believe us if we told them. He'd apparently been live-Tweeting the whole thing and people still don't believe it.

"What the hell are they talking about?" Rice says to me quietly.

"How they can't believe he's only 18 and something about finding a third guy, I think."

"Damn, if they weren't hanging on him like that, I'd say you have a decent chance of pulling one," Teague adds. "By the way, since when have you been able to dance?"

I don't answer. Card is now talking about his friend Preston, who is a cheerleader and also knows how to salsa and bachata. He shows them a picture on his phone and they make appreciative noises. 

"I taught him everything he knows."

The one on his left says "Espera!" and leans in to whisper something. The other two girls lean in, too. He nods his head and the one on his left and the one behind him squeal. The one on his right, Marina, I think, giggles then shoots me a look like she knows something I don't.

"What about you?" says the one behind.

"Column A, Column B."

"Ala," says the one on his left. "The good ones are either gay or taken."

"You're only half right," he says and the girls giggle. So, he has a girl somewhere, but it's not serious. Which confirms that he's definitely not gay, even if he does hang out with the GSA and considers the openly gay cheerleader "just a friend."

I feel let down. Then I feel more pissed off because of that.

When we get back to the corner, he turns back to us. "Hey, Garza, do you mind taking back Teague and Rice? I'm not comfortable leaving the girls alone to wait for a cab." He doesn't even wait for a reply, just says "Thanks, man." The girls take turns hugging me and kissing me on the cheek. They even hug Teague and Rice and promise to friend us all on Facebook (which they do the next day). Then, Card and his entourage walk off, giggling and talking over each other in Spanish.

"Card's Texas Two-step" is never dropped. Instead, a series of videos and pics blow up Facebook and Instagram, and no one will shut the fuck up about "The Night Card Stomped Garza in a Dance-off Then Went Home with Three Senoritas."



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 05



Author's Note - Another chapter in. Next chapter will have some erotic content, but we're still a little ways away from the Efrain and Cory throw down. 

Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think. ~ Dayne 

***** 

Chapter 5 - GSA, Yaoi, Chimps Fucking, and Other Things That Don't Interest Straight Guys 

After all that complaining I did about being mindlessly bored, I suddenly find myself with a lot to keep me busy. 

Football conditioning and practice take up the better part of my morning. I'm still kicking it with the GSA (which, by the way, is a really strange name since almost no straight people show up). I go out with Preston every other week for Latin Night and get invited to more of the team's get-togethers, owing in no small part to my and Garza's performance. I should probably thank him for helping me fit in better. 

At Romero's recommendation, I started taking an anthropology course called Human Sexuality and Culture. He said it was like the class in the movie Kinsey. I said "cool," then looked it up on Netflix the moment he was out of the room so I'd know what the fuck he was talking about. There ended up being some BAM! GAY SEX! in the movie, so I figured that it was my kind of class. 

Mind you, it's now a full week into the mini-mester and the class has yet to deliver on this promise. Hot as fuck TA with piercings, yes. Anal wreckage, no. I'm currently a little peeved with Romero, but somehow he wrangles me into driving him and our suitemates, Gio and Al, to get pizza. 

"It's on the other side of town," he says. "But, man, it is the best pizza you'll ever have." Thing is, they only take cash and you have to get there early if you want deep dish. I resolve to make Romero suffer the whole ride with my music. 

I've mentioned it before, but I listen to a lot of stuff - pop, country, rap, Tejano, you name it. I even have a bunch of music I ripped off my brothers' CDs before they all left home. However, I pass all of this up for a playlist of my most offensively raunchy music, things I would never play if my mom were around to hear. 

Currently, the guys are being treated to "Colt 45" by Afroman. Before that was "Bitches" by Mindless Self Indulgence and "Go Cart Racing (Accidentally Masturbating)" by Garfunkle and Oates. 

I have enough relatively normal songs in between, including some Christian Contemporary (what? I like the rhythms and if you aren't paying attention too closely it sounds more like an erotic love song), that I can act like I'm completely innocent. What, offensive, I have no idea what you're talking about. See? There's some Flyleaf (right after G&O singing "Fuck me in the ass, 'cause I love Jesus"). 

Sadly, not only are they not offended, they are doubled over laughing and asking me to play another. I forward to "Do You Take It?" by The Wet Spots. They look a little perplexed at first, but start rolling soon enough. 

Al is the first one to talk. "Fuck, Tex." He also picked up that stupid fucking nickname. God, I miss Preston calling me "Bearbait." "Where did you find all this shit?" 

"Around." 

"I expected a playlist of nothing but musicals and Cher." 

"Because..." I do actually have some non-Avenue Q musicals and old Sonny and Cher era songs. 

"Because you're gay," says Gio, as if the answer is that obvious. 

"Dude, he swings both ways," Al corrects. 

"Yeah, man, mother fucker gets more play from girls than you both combined." The way Romero says it, it's like he's proud that while the guy sharing his dorm room does suck cock, he's still a lady killer. Although he is seriously overstating my pimp game, I'm still getting the verbal equivalent of a slow clap. And the way they all talk, it's more genuine than malicious. 

"How'd you guys..?" 

"Figure it out?" 

"Most gay men can't clock me." Total lady killer, totally dead to men. 

"GSA pamphlet on your desk," Gio answers. 

"Yeah, no straight guy goes to GSA," adds Romero. 

"It was on your Facebook profile, dude." 

"Oh, yeah." I left it up to see if anyone back home would pick up on it. Not even the people who know I also like guys have noticed the edit. 

"Then there was the time you left your tablet out," Romero says. "You were reading some comic. Caw-ee something or other." 

"Kawaii Akuma?" Some girls back home got me hooked on yaoi and shonen-ai. 

"Yeah, that's the one. It was pretty funny actually." 

"'Fu-Fuuta, it's bad to force people'" Al mimics. 

"Wait, you read it?" I think my brain just turned inside out. 

"I just pretended that Akiyoshi and Hisashi were chicks," Gio says. And my brain just imploded. 

"The middle brother is a fucking trip." I'm sure the three of them wouldn't be as amused by the Tiger and Bunny doujinshi that I've been reading lately. There's no way you can pretend Tiger is female (Bunny x Tiger is my OTP!). 

"So, I go for guys and y'all are okay with this?" I ask to be sure. 

"Remember that optional questionnaire you did with the housing application?" Al says and I nod. "You probably checked the little box that said 'bisexual,' correct?" 

"Yeah..." 

"Housing figured out that they get fewer requests to change room assignments if they screen applicants first." 

"There's a little box next to the one for 'straight' that says 'not a raging homophobe.' We checked both," says Gio. 

"Hm, fair enough." 

"Now," Al says over Awkwafina rapping about her epic queef game. "Explain the beaver thing." 

*** 

The first thing I notice when I get up to the study room is Card's blue low-top Chucks. He's not the only guy on the team that wears them, but somehow I know the ones sitting on the floor are his. I've seen him wearing at least five different versions, but I can instantly recognize the ones that belong to him. It's usually the ones that do not have feet in them. What is with this kid and not being able to keep his shoes on? 

He's sitting Indian-style in one of the arm chairs (I know it's not politically correct, but fuck you if you think I'm going to call it what they made me call it in kinder). His textbook and notebook are balanced on either knee as he carefully jots down notes and highlights in his book. He gets this look on his face, like he suddenly has an idea, puts the highlighter between his teeth and starts looking up something on his phone. 

I notice then why his face looks different today. Since when has he worn glasses? The narrow black frames look good on his face, adding a touch of seriousness I'm not used to seeing in him. 

It seems that he found what he was looking for, makes note of it, and goes back to his textbook. The highlighter is still in his mouth. He doesn't even look up when I flop down in the arm chair next to him. 

"What are you so engrossed in?" 

"Social functions of non-reproductive intercourse in hominid species." He at least spits out the highlighter before attempting that mouthful. 

"Seriously?" 

"Most of it tends to be about bonobos and chimpanzees," he says absently. "And humans of course. But, I've been finding some interesting stuff on other primates." 

"You're shitting me." He hands me his notebook, which is full of idle drawings with research notes scattered throughout. Yeah, it's all about chimps fucking. 

"Fuck, you're one of those brainy types. My roommate would fucking love you, Card." 

He looks up from his notes and grins. "Dude, call me Cory. Efrain, right?" The way he says it, ef-RYE-een. I think it's the first time anyone has gotten my name right on the first try. The guys have known me for a year now, and none of them can say it. He even rolls the r. "I never got to thank you," he says, earnestly. 

"Thank me for what?" 

"Inviting me to go clubbing. You didn't have to, but you really helped me fit in." 

God, that. I only did that because we needed another driver that we knew wouldn't drink. Then, I started acting like an asshole. And this kid thanks me? I'm not quite sure how to respond, but he looks at his watch and I'm spared. 

"Shit, I didn't realize it was this late." He shoves his feet back into his shoes and sticks his books back into his pack. 

"Primate mating habits are pretty distracting." 

"They are, aren't they?" I'm not sure whether this was meant as a serious comment or double entendre. "See you tomorrow, Efrain." 

"Yeah, see you, Cory." He grins when I say his name and heads off to his class. Guys his size aren't supposed to be cute, but the glasses and his smile are a dangerous combination. And there's something about a man saying my name correctly that gets me. 

It takes me a while to realize that I'm slowly losing my head over a straight guy.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 06



Author's Note - Indie was another character I'd developed for that COMPLETELY unrelated project that produced Efrain and Cory. They took one look at him and wouldn't leave him alone. Of course, he got a little miffed about being used as a plot device, and another character took interest in him, so you'll see some more of him later. 

So, after this, there's one more chapter, and then you get a peek at what I've been dealing with for the last month. 

I love feedback, and I love critique. This is the first time I've written like this - I've never made it past the short story point and writing a novella is so weird. Thanks ~Dayne. 

***** 

Chapter 6 - Along Comes Indie 

Laurel and Mike have been on my ass for most of the year since Jameson dumped me. It's getting fucking old. 

"You just need to get your dick wet," Mike says from the driver's seat. 

"Indie, the easiest way to get over someone is to get under someone else." This is from the wise and most sage Laurel riding shotgun. 

My best friends tricked me into the car by telling me that we were going to screen a documentary on pornography censorship policies in China. "Tell me again why I have to go to this party?" 

"Because you'll sit at home and be fucking lame if you don't." 

"And watching a bunch of underage kids get drunk and make out is supposed to be better." 

"Yes," Mike says flatly. "Yes, it is." 

I'm almost 23 in a town where you're too old at 21. And I have better things to worry about, including actual academic research on pornography and censorship. Yeah, it was shitty that Jameson left me for some girl he knocked up, but it left me with more time to devote to my graduate work. 

"Honey, petulance isn't a good look for toddlers. It hardly looks any better on a 6-foot-6 grown man." 

I resist telling her that I am not being petulant, mostly because it sounds petulant. 

We pull up to Kiley's an hour after the party was set to start. Mike and Laurel brought some cheap beers and rum to contribute, but everyone looks pretty deep in their cups already. I mix myself a drink from what's available and lean against the door frame while I try to find the least populated spot to eventually occupy. 

The party delivers on what I assumed it would. Straight girls performing for male gaze by pretending to be bi-sexual is a common trope at hetero parties. It's interesting, in a strictly academic sense, that gay people pretend to be straight while under the influence. 

Case in point, in a corner of the living room, two women and two guys are huddled up and sloppily sticking their tongues in each other's mouths. I don't recognize the first pair, a twinkish guy with short brown hair spiked in the front and a pretty Hispanic girl. I do know the second, a junior that everyone calls lez-Delia with this kid Cory that I recognize from the anthro course I'm helping my advisor with. 

Barely legal and barely a freshman, but he comes to class consistently, sits in the front row, and earnestly takes notes. At least, I thought he was taking notes until I saw pages and pages of doodles with some words mixed in. 

He still aces every test. Which is more than I can say for the rest of the students in that section. 

The drunken farce continues for a bit before they separate. 

"Completely unarousing." This is from the twink. 

Lez-Delia wipes her face "Yeah, I felt nothing." 

"That's weird," says Cory. "I got nothing from that either." And the Spanish girl (who I later learn is named Marina and attends the junior college nearby) agrees that she was similarly unaffected. 

And so they trade. Twink with lez-Delia and Cory with Marina. They make out as if they really are trying to accomplish something. Then, they separate and compare notes. 

"Still nothing," lez-Delia tells them. "No offense, Preston." 

"None taken," he answers. "It's not that you ladies are bad or anything." 

"What about you guys?" The Hispanic girl's cheeks are a little flushed and Cory flashes a grin. Lez-Delia grabs the front of his pants and he jumps. 

"BeavReaver has a chub!" She cackles then pats him again. "Man, you're packing." 

The next round pairs Twink/Preston with Cory and lez-Delia with Marina. Lez-Delia attacks her partner, body pressed against her, hands exploring her backside. The girl looks absolutely helpless in the onslaught. Whatever she got out of kissing Cory is nothing to what lez-Delia is doing to her now. 

But, there's a feel to Cory and Preston's kissing that I don't sense in the women. For the latter, this is a beginning, while the former seem to have done this before. Cory holds him by the back of the neck and nips his lower lip. Both mouths part, tongues extending to fold against each other, and their bodies flow in to each other. Preston doesn't lift his arms to touch him (by contrast, Marina and lez-Delia are all over each other by this point), and only Cory's hand on his neck holds them together. Yet, their bodies are so glued to each other that it doesn't matter. 

Of all three of the experiments, this one last the longest and all four seem to forget where they are. Then someone in the living room tells them to get a room and they separate, laughing. The outcome of that trial is pretty obvious. There are a few good natured jokes, including some regarding hard-ons, before they move on to other diversions. 

And as soon as they think no one is paying attention, the girls slip off to find a room. 

I'm too busy noticing the women that I don't notice the person trying to get by me until his body brushes against mine. I look down as Cory looks up, the both of us slightly pressed together by the door frame. We're both big enough, and the frame is small enough, that I can tell he's still erect. 

"Hi, Indie." 

"Cory, right?" 

"Yup. What brings you here?" 

"Well-meaning friends. You?" 

"Likeminded people and alcohol." He looks at my hand. "Oh, what are you drinking? Lemme try." And he takes it from me and gulps half of it down. I'm too dumbfounded to respond. He begs me to mix one for him. When I mention his age, he insists that he'll be 19 in November, as if it actually makes a difference. 

I give up and walk off. 

*** 

Once again, someone gave me alcohol when they shouldn't have. 

Drinking wasn't very taboo in my family and if I really wanted a drink with dinner, they'd let me have it. I was even allowed a beer and some champagne last New Year's. As a result, I didn't see the big deal in drinking at parties and end up spending the whole night nursing one cup. 

So, you can blame my parents for me not knowing that not only do I have a low tolerance, I also get extremely horny when I'm wasted. 

Kiley was throwing her usual end-of-the-semester house party. Before we went, I pre-gamed at lez-Delia's with Preston, Marina, and bi-Delia (who may or may not have rode my dick). I rolled up to the party on a two-drink buzz and it went downhill from there. 

I was already pretty drunk by the time Preston and I decided to play matchmaker for Marina and lez-Delia. Neither has shown an interest in the other, but I kinda ship them a little and Preston is along for the ride because he thinks it would be funny. 

I tell the girls that I'm conducting an experiment for my anthropology course and need their assistance. 

"Okay, so to make this as scientific as possible," I say, not sure if all the words are coming out right, "You have to really try to arouse the other person, even if they aren't in your strike zone." All three agree to the research conditions and we run through the trial pairings, pausing after each one to compare field notes. 

I kissed lez-Delia first. From a technical standpoint, she's a pro, but I strangely don't feel anything. Marina isn't as good as lez-D, but she does more to make me hot and I get a semi-hardon. We saved the same-sex pairing for last, because we're trying to hook the girls up. I know I'm supposed to be playing Cupid, but my dick really responds to Preston. Part of it is the alcohol, but I still remember what that mouth can do. 

And that split. Oh my fucking God, that split. 

I'm kinda lost in musings of fit and flexible cheerleaders with cute dicks for a little while, and when I finally remember where I am, Preston is talking with friends and the girls are slipping off to find an empty room. 

And that's when I notice Indie. 

Of course, it's hard to not notice Indie. 6'6", slim runner's build, strong nose, chocolate brown eyes, long shaggy hair dyed a brilliant blue, and enough metal in his face and ears to make magnets a dangerous prospect. I know him from the sexuality course I'm taking this term. He's the aforementioned hot TA about which I spend an improper amount of time having very improper thoughts. 

Right now, he's holding up the door frame wearing a plain red t-shirt, dark grey Dickies shorts, and canvas Vans. Indie drinks from a plastic cup, looking like he'd rather be anywhere but Kiley's. 

There is only one word my alcohol addled mind can think at this time: WANT. I decide this is the perfect time to get another maintenance drink. 

Indie's attention is focused somewhere else when I walk up, so I squeeze into the doorway with him, instead of asking him to move. I innocently look up as he looks down. Girls dig it when I act confident and aggressive, but I've since learned that guys totally go for my little naif routine. His deep bass voice vibrates through me as we exchange small talk and I use his drink as an excuse to flirt. I take it and almost drain the cup before handing it back to him. He gives me a stunned look and walks off. 

Mark set. 

*** 

I run into Cory a few more times throughout the house. He's dancing in the living room, getting another drink from the kitchen, doing shots in the dining room, chatting with friends on the patio out back. No matter where I am, or what I'm doing, the kid is somewhere nearby. Not following me, per se, just there in my general vicinity. 

I've had a couple drinks more than I intended by this point and have to go to take a piss. On my way back up the hall, I notice one of the bedrooms. The door is ajar and no one seems to be in it. It's the first room (aside from the bathroom) that isn't filled with people, so I sneak in and pull the door almost closed. 

The room is large enough to fit a queen-sized bed, desk with chair, and the rest of the typical bedroom furniture. There's even a row of bookshelves and a small loveseat. She has a book called You're So Sexy When You Aren't Spreading STDs that looks mildly interesting. I pick it up and flop on the loveseat to read. 

A few minutes later, the door creaks open and a head pops in. "So, that's where you went." Cory walks in and shuts the door behind him. I'm not sure, but I hear a small click as if he'd locked the door. He walks over and sits on the other side of the loveseat. "God, it's fucking loud out there. Great idea to hide in here." Cory kicks off his Chucks and sits with his back against the armrest, one knee drawn up to his chest, his other foot resting on the floor. 

For the second time tonight, he plucks something from my hands. 

"I was reading that." 

"How is it?" he says, ignoring (or else oblivious to) my tone. "Seemed pretty balanced and non-heteronormative, at least from the reviews I've read." It was startling at first, hearing this muscled up kid suddenly spout informed and articulate assertions, but I've had several weeks to get used to it. His words are a little slurred, but the fact that he can get them out at all is a feat. 

I make a non-committal sound and try to finish my drink before he tries to take it from me again. 

We sit in silence for a bit before he starts talking again. "So, there's a huge party going on, and you're in here hiding." 

"Yep." 

"You look like you'd rather be at home." 

"Yep." 

"So, why are you here?" 

"My best friends tricked me." 

"Oh, really? There has to be a story behind this." He grins and slouches down a little, his legs getting almost close enough to touch mine. 

"Not really. They think I need to get laid, so they dragged me here." 

"What makes them think you need help with that? Can't have been that long." 

I think for a moment, counting the months in my head. For some reason, I find myself being honest. "My ex and I stopped sleeping together about 3 months before he moved out, and that was last spring," I say. "So, that would make it almost a year and a half." 

"Fuck," his face gets a little serious and he sits up. "Still hung up on him?" 

"No, I just got really busy." 

He cocks his head to the side. "Or kept yourself busy." 

"You're perceptive, I'll give you that." 

"But, damn, that throws a wrench into my plan." The look he's making, you'd think I'd just told him he couldn't have dessert. 

"Your plan?" 

"Yeah, I was going to seduce you." I end up spitting out the sip I'd just taken. 

"Seduce me?" 

"Of course. I spend enough time in class thinking about it, might as well act on it." The grin creeps back on to his face and I have a hard time not smiling back incredulously. If Jameson hadn't been my high school sweetheart, if I hadn't wasted all of undergrad on him, this is the type of guy I'd be chasing after. Always had a weak spot for nerd jocks, which was everything Jameson wasn't. 

"So, you waste that much time thinking about your TA? And here I thought all you did was make crude illustrations." I know it's the alcohol talking, but the thought of this kid sitting in the front row of the lecture hall, thinking about getting in my pants, makes the blood rush south, leaving my brain bereft of the resources necessary for sane thought. 

"I don't waste anything," he purrs, leaning forward. "What is a waste is someone as hot as you spending a year and a half on the shelf." 

"Hot?" 

"Very hot." 

I rest my head on the back of the couch and close my eyes. "I should not be doing this." 

"But, you really really want to," he responds while drawing his fingers down the growing bulge in my shorts. 

*** 

Touching him is a gamble, but it pays off when he bites back a moan. He lifts his head and looks at me. I give him my best butter-wouldn't-melt-in-my-mouth-(but-you-will) look. 

Indie sits up, looks like he's about to say something, pauses seeming to think it over, opens his mouth again to speak, then stops himself. Finally, he says "fuck it" and jumps me. His tongue invades my mouth, practiced enough in kissing that the rhythms come naturally to him. I thought the bar in his tongue and the two hoops on either side of his bottom lip were for show, but they add an extra sensation to his kiss. My cock gets painfully hard thinking about how the piercings would feel on my head and shaft. 

I stroke my hands down his body, then slip under the hem of his shirt to trace the contours of his stomach and ribs. He breaks the kiss to whip of his t-shirt and I pull off mine. Indie half kneels on the couch and pushes me back against the armrest, his mouth hungrily taking mine again. 

Unable to wait, I start unbuttoning his fly and reaching in after his cock. My fingers wrap around his shaft and his breath hitches. Emboldened, I stroke his full length. It feels longer than it did when I was rubbing him through his shorts. Like, substantially longer. 

I carefully pull him out. Fuck. Over nine inches and fucking thick. My dick jumps in anticipation. 

"You could wreck someone with this," I giggle nervously. 

He nibbles a line across my jaw to my earlobe. "Not someone. You." His bass voice sends a rumbling wave of shivers from head to toe. Indie rolls one of my nipples between his finger and thumb before sending his hand lower to rub my dick through my cargo shorts. I can already feel precum soaking the front of my trunks. 

He sucks on my neck, gradually making his way down. His tongue laps at my nipple, hardening it. He holds it between his teeth, tugging slightly, then flicks it rapidly with his tongue. He repeats this on my other nipple, even though I'm already panting hard and on the verge of begging him to wreck my ass now. 

"I wonder if my roommate realizes," he says, his tongue working down my stomach, his hand tugging open my shorts, "that he isn't the only gay guy on the team." His mouth works over the lower part and my belly and he grabs the waistband of my trunks between his teeth. 

"But, I'm not gay." 

"What's that?" he asks around a mouthful of my underwear, teeth drawing the band down, exposing my dick. 

"I'm bi, not gay." 

Indie freezes. 

The band slips out of his mouth and snaps against my exposed head. I moan, the sharp sting registering as both pain and pleasure, and my back arches. 

*** 

Fuck, I've fucking fucked up. 

Cory - half undressed, flushed, beautiful - writhes under me. 

I shouldn't be here. 

I shouldn't be doing this. 

And with him of all people. Fuck. 

I sit back up, shove my hand through my hair. "Listen, I'm sorry." I make up some lame excuse and Cory looks hurt and confused. I feel like I kicked a puppy, but I still grab my clothes and bolt. I walk out of the house, the August heat pressing my anxiety tighter, and wait until I get a few blocks away to call a taxi. I don't even tell Laurel or Mike what happened. 

I fucking flipped. I lost my shit because the guy says he's bi. 

How the fuck am I supposed to fucking explain that?



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 07



Author's Note - My boyfriend and I are driving the other day when he starts trolling me on my writing. He thinks it's funny that I chose to write about football players. The man doesn't realize what I'm dealing with, but whatever. So, he's selling me on a plot line - wealthy and sexy lawyer with a cold and distant father and a vampire who was turned during the Spanish influenza who have hot sexy sex in their love dungeon. "Double fanfic, Babe!" 

The sad part wasn't that he's pitching Shades/Twilight slashfic at me, but Preston and Cory in the back of my head shouting "DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!" 

*whimper* 

~ Dayne 

Chapter 7 - Surprisingly Tasty 

The balcony and player's lounge are stuffed with people. It's on the ass-end of July, but the coaches finally have the freshmen in good enough shape to bring them into the fold, or have weeded out those who won't work on the team. To celebrate, they're hosting a massive barbeque in the locker complex. The team and coaches are all here, along with some ol' boy alumi with deep pockets and select members of the press. Thus, we all have to look presentable and act like our mothers taught us manners. 

I'm coming out of my redshirt season, so there's some interest around me. However, most of it is centered on Cory, who left Freshmen Camp weeks ahead of the others. It's all anyone can talk about. The coaches announced today that he would be playing with the team this fall, the only freshman without a redshirt. He's a natural with crowds, so everyone wants to talk to him, and I can't even begrudge him that. 

He wore his glasses today, which seem to draw more attention to his eyes rather than hiding them. A couple times, our eyes meet and he grins at me. Then I feel really stupid for how attracted I am to him and that just makes me cranky and irritable. 

Right now he and Rice are convincing a bunch of people to put weird shit on fruit. Cory's mother sent him a care package that contained - among 5 more pairs of Converse - some Mexican candies and a bottle of chamoy, this blood red condiment that looks rather revolting. Apparently, it goes on everything, including watermelon, which is in no short supply here. Both guys have plastic cups packed with the fruit and doused in chamoy and some chili-lime salt called Tajin. I'm their next target. 

"Dude, seriously," Rice says, "just try it." 

Cory spears a piece of melon on his fork and waves it in my face. A drop of chamoy falls off and plops wetly on the concrete. Good thing we're outside or Vuis would pitch a fit. "Come on, Efrain. You know you want to." 

I know I want to do a lot of things. They all involve things he wouldn't like. But, the kid says my name with that taunting voice and good boy grin, and suddenly I can't say no to him. 

"Fine." I bite the fruit off his fork and immediately wish I hadn't. This weird mix of salty, sweet, and spicy, I swear there's this kind of pickled flavor somewhere. 

"Oh, I ask you three times, but the first time Card says something..." 

I'm probably more infatuated with Cory than I should be, but I seriously do not do everything he asks me to. I finish chewing and try to swallow, so I can defend myself. Yet, the longer it's in my mouth... 

"Huh, that's actually pretty good." 

Cory turns to Rice. "I told you I could get him to eat it. You owe me lunch." 

"Dammit, Garza," Rice swears. 

I should feel offended at being tricked, but Cory beams at me and shoves more sauced fruit in his mouth and my indignation slips away under that blue gaze. Thankfully, Rice leads him off to sucker in more teammates before I lose my wits completely. 

*** 

Nope, wits are completely lost. 

The last time I boned up in the locker room was early high school. There I was, just minding my own business, when oh hey, guys, this is my penis. I wasn't even looking at the other boys, my dick just makes a grab for attention in a room full of guys in various states of undress. Of course it was embarrassing, but I wasn't the only one it happened to, so it didn't matter to anyone. It's just what adolescent dicks do. 

If only I could still use that excuse. 

Okay, it's not like I'm actively creeping on my straight teammate. I just happen to see Cory, out the corner of my eye, coming out of the showers, towel around his waist and water still clinging to his chest. He's muscled and defined, with just enough body fat to keep him from looking too hard and veiny. He takes another towel and starts drying his hair. 

And that's when the towel around his hips slips off. 

I look away and focus on getting my shorts on. 

"Damn, Card," I hear Teague say. "Are you sure you aren't black, too?" 

Against my better judgement, I look over. Lithgow and Cory are giving him almost identical flat stares. Cory has the towel in front of his crotch, but the entire length of his powerful legs are exposed. All of it, from trim ankle to the rounded swell of his ass, is burned into my eyes before I have the sense to look elsewhere. I get my shirt over my head and try not to think about the blood rushing to my dick. 

"Could you be less weird, Teague?" 

I deal with my embarrassment the same way I deal with any other emotion I don't like. "Oh, lay off him, Lithgow. When you're that small, every dick is monstrous." 

"Fuck, we must be talking micro-peen," Lithgow says. "If the size of Card's truck is any indication, it can't be that big." 

"Vehicle size seems like a poor measure," Cory reasons. "Or, else you'd need a semi." 

"Damn, Lithgow," says one of the guys on the other side of their section. "I think the trainers might have some cream for that burn." 

Card smirks. He sets down his towel and starts stepping into his underwear - these cute short boxer briefs. I'm trying and failing not to look at what's nestled in his light brown pubic hair. Even flaccid, I can tell that he's not compensating for anything. 

"So, is everyone done creeping on my dick?" He looks at each of us, and includes the guys in the lockers behind him. "You guys good? Great." Then he turns to pull on the rest of his clothes. 

"It seems that we have been dismissed, gentlemen," I say and walk off before I really embarrass myself. 

On my way out of the locker complex, Vuis stops me to talk about my progress. "You've grown a lot, son. It was good thinking to put Card on your ass." 

I realize that's when all this started. That first tackle. Fuck you, well-meaning coach. It's all I can do to say something polite and leave. I've been pushing myself lately, mainly to keep up with Cory, but it has paid off. I just wish it didn't come with such a steep price. 

On the way to the bus stop, I start messing with Grindr. I lost interest in hooking up a month or so ago, which may be why I'm panting after Cory. I just need to get balls deep in someone's ass, that's all. Once I satisfy that urge, his rolling r and blue eyes and...fucking hell. I spend the whole bus ride discreetly swiping through matches and pretending that my hard-on is from the pictures on my phone and not a certain baby faced lineman with delicious thighs. 

I have a date before I reach my house. 

*** 

Sleep, eat, practice, creep on Cory, fuck some random guy, sleep, eat, practice, accidentally flirt with Cory and hope he doesn't notice, fuck some random guy, sleep, eat, practice, spend an entire night chatting with Cory at a party, fuck some random guy that kinda looks like him, sleep, eat... 

I throw myself into football and fucking around, but my mind keeps going back to Cory. I probably wouldn't want him as much if I could have him. Men don't keep my interest long after the first fuck and it's rare for guys to last more than a week. It's really for the best that he's straight, otherwise it would mess with our friendship. I like him. I like hanging around him. I just wish my dick would get with the program. 

But, it won't. 

And thus, I am looking up pictures of him on Facebook. The recent ones from hanging out with the team, the night of our dance-off, even stuff from when he was in high school. I run my hands through my hair in frustration because I'm lusting over pictures of his 15-year old self in his soccer uniform. I thought I'd be safer creep-stalking him in the living room, where I can't immediately whip out my cock and start pumping, but the urge is just as strong. 

I'm at my limit when I finally notice his profile information. All at once his "column A, column B" comment makes sense. Why didn't I notice this before? I suddenly feel like shouting. 

Then, Indie stumbles in, drunk and rambling about how he fucked up.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 08



Author's Note - So, I've realized there's a benefit to writing erotic fiction. All my other...hobbies?...are now valuable uses of my freetime. Google Image searching ESPN Body Issue? Research. Related image searches for Colin Kapernick and Carlos Bocanegra? Research. Looking for bootleg copies of The Joy of Gay Sex? Research. Reading erotica and yaoi? Research. Watching porn? Research. 

Thanks for helping me justify my research habits. ~ Dayne 

Chapter 8 - Warming Up 

I hurry down the hall to Cory's dorm suite, looking like my usual cute self in a polo-shirt and rolled-up jeans. I knock on his door and he calls that it's open. 

When I walk in, he's sitting on the common room sofa with his laptop open on the coffee table. I don't even let him get a word in before I bounce onto the seat next to him and start in with my carefully rehearsed speech. 

"So, we need to make leggings a thing. Or not even leggings, like a legging equivalent. By the way, you look hot in glasses. You should wear glasses more. You know there are some basic bitches who wear leggings when they really shouldn't. I could totally pull off leggings. We got manbuns. Manbuns are a thing. Your roomie, Fabio, totally has a manbun. It's cute. Leggings are like the next logical leap. Come on, man, leggings! Leeee-eeee-eeee-eeeeggiiii-iiii-iiii-iiiings." I grip his shoulders and shake him on each added syllable. 

"How much coffee did you have?" 

"Not enough," I say as I hang off his neck. "Oh, speaking of roommates. I know you said no. Well, your exact words were Hell fucking no, Cumdumpster. But I digress. Anyhow, I still think you should let me turn one of your roommates gay. Or at least partially gay. Just have to identify the most likely candidate. Maybe I should turn all of them. That would be fun." 

Cory pinches the bridge of his nose and I hear a peal of laughter from the laptop. His entirely too bangable best friend is laughing his ass off in an open Skype window. "Your roommates are there, aren't they?" he asks. 

"All of them." 

I look up, the gloriously golden Al (he of the manbun) is in the kitchenette with a spoonful of cereal frozen mid-way between his bowl and his mouth. The other two, the very cute Romero and the darkly handsome Gio, are looking out from their respective rooms. I smile charmingly and wave. "Hi, guys." 

"Hey, Preston," Keenan says. We've chatted via comments on Facebook, but this is the first time I've heard his voice and it's making me a little wet. 

"Hey, Cutestuff." 

"So, what are you calling Cory this week?" 

"The Dread Pirate Blueballs," I say in my most dramatic and serious voice. Al chokes on a bite of cereal. My little pet names for Cory have become a thing now. Kiley, wonderful box-eating Kiley, even let me add it to the GSA minutes. Seriously. The words Secretary Preston James Finnegan motions that Member Cory Frederick Card be known as The Dread Pirate Blueballs until otherwise decided are on the record. It was quickly seconded and granted, despite Cory's objections. 

"I have to hear this," Gio comes out and eagerly plops down in one of the armchairs. Cory told me about "Tex" and now that these three are in on my name game, I imagine that he regrets it. 

"So, last Friday, we were at this party, see, and Blueballs has been chasing his TA all over the place." 

"Professor Collins' TA?" Romero moves from the doorway, grabs one of the chairs from the breakfast bar and sits in it backwards. Hmmm...there's nothing hotter than manspreading. 

"Yup." 

"Wait, which one? Mike Tran or Indie Norman?" 

"The tall one with blue hair." 

"Seriously?" 

"Yessir. So, our main man here manages to pin him down in Kiley's room." 

Cory drops his face into his hands. "Could you not tell them this?" 

"And they're all over each other." 

"I was not all over him." 

"Norman?" Romero asks in a disbelieving voice. 

"Yep, turns out he has a ten-inch dick." 

"That guy?" 

"I wasn't exactly able to measure," Cory answers, his forehead resting on his fist like he's the thinker or something. His cheeks are an adorable shade of red. "But, he's hung like a horse." 

Romero's face is stuck somewhere between awe and horror. 

"So, yeah, Blueballs is facing off with the Asswrecker." The guys get a kick out of that. I think I have a small talent for these names. "But guess who ends up running off with his tail between his legs." 

"No shit," says Keenan from the laptop. 

"So, Cory struck out with Mr. Freeze." Damn, Gio isn't too bad with nicknames. 

"Bitch is colder than Elsa," I confirm. "Poor guy is like would you like to build a snowman? and that ice queen is like nope!" 

"Whatever. He probably had a reason," Cory says, bravely putting up a confident front despite the crushing rejection he suffered. My little trooper. I press his face to my bosom and stroke his hair. "It has nothing to do with me." 

"Come on, Anna," I say soothingly. "Let's go bait bears at the gay bar." 

Al looks confused. "Do I want to know what that means?" 

"No," Cory answers, quickly cutting me off. "No, you don't." 

*** 

I got all of a weekend to be bummed out about Indie. Just two days to feel sorry for myself. 

Then I had my hands full with Efrain. 

I've been hanging out with him a lot for the past few weeks. He says he likes chilling with me because I'm the only one who can pronounce his first name ("I told those assholes 'It's Ef-RYE-een, mother-fucker' but they still don't get it!"). I like his dark humor, and it doesn't hurt that Efrain is nice to look at. 

Okay, "nice to look at" is understating it, the man is fucking hot as hell. Like ten times hotter than Indie. He's beautiful from top to bottom, and I'm a sucker for his eyes. He's all dark features and rugged lines, making his gaze - shifting somewhere between light green and gold - that much more striking. 

Then, there's his mouth. The gods made that mouth, then wept that it would never touch the cocks of god or mortal. In my weaker moments, the way his mouth curves into that easy wolfish grin of his makes the blood rush to my groin. 

And that part has become more of an issue lately. I know I'm just deluding himself, but since the Indie incident it feels like there has been more to the casual joking; more and more it feel like flirting. It wasn't even a gradual change. I guess getting shot down by Indie hit me harder than I let on. In any case, I'm pretty sure that Efrain wouldn't joke with me the same if he knew I like men. Yet whether or not he's aware of what he does to my head, the effect's the same. I can't stop thinking about him, which has led to my rising dilemma. 

Efrain had already showered and changed after today's practice, yet lingered to joke around with Teague and Lithgow. This is fine most of the time, but I'm finding it harder to hide the way Efrain affects me, and sometimes the fact that we are in a room full of other guys changing in or out of their practice uniforms makes the effect stronger. His deep voice makes me flush enough; meeting his eyes, or remembering what he looks like under his clothes (sneaking a peek was the worst idea ever), will undo me. 

I like Efrain, even in the platonic-not-trying-to-fuck-him sense, and I really ain't trying to fuck him. But, could he have some sense of self-preservation for fuck's sake? 

When I finish getting dressed and head out, he falls in step with me. I let myself relax only when we reach the atrium. 

"Well, this sucks." Efrain gestures to the glass doors where a light rain falls on the other side. 

"It's not that bad." 

"Unless you have a half-hour wait for the next bus." 

"Your fault for living in the suburbs." 

"Hey, I don't live that far." 

I shrug. "My truck's only two blocks away, if you want a ride." Efrain accepts and follows me to the parking lot. Light rain had given way to deluge before we could make it there. 

"Fuck, if you didn't take so damn long in the shower," Efrain laughs, "I'd be standing out there like a jackass when that hit." 

We remain quiet while the cab warms up and we gradually stop shivering. Even after getting soaked, I can smell his cologne - YSL La Nuit De L'Homme. Some random chick gave it to him last season, hoping to get in his pants, but the dark notes fit him perfectly and he'd worn it ever since. He smells so good I'm semi-erect before we make it off campus. 

Suddenly, Efrain turns in his seat and turns down the stereo. "Okay, so get this," he begins. "A couple weeks ago, my roommate, Indie, comes home..." 

"Indie?" 

"Yeah, Indie Norman. Grad student, glasses, blue hair, tons of piercings, tall as fuck," Efrain answers and my stomach drops. "So, he comes home plastered, bitching about how he wasted the whole night at this party fooling around with some freshman football player." 

"Oh?" Shit shit shit shit shit 

"Apparently, the guy had cornered him in a bedroom," he continues, as if he's letting me in on some great big conspiracy. "They were totally down to fuck, too. But, the guy turned out to be bi and Indie has this fucking lame ass hang-up about men who are bi." 

I remain silent, remembering the teasing and flirting, the questing fingers and tongues, the sudden shitty excuse about grading some fucking term papers that left me high and dry. 

"He asked if you really were on the team." 

"Me? Why'd you think it's me?" 

Efrain arches an eyebrow. "He showed me a picture." 

"Oh." Caught. "So, why'd he want to know that?" 

"Curious, really. Plus, he and I seem to lust after the same guys, so if he noticed you, he assumed I'm trying to hit it." 

I hit the brakes harder than I mean to. "What?" I turn to find the other man grinning wickedly. 

"Indie and I have similar tastes - blonde, blue-eyed, muscle twinks." 

I bark out a laugh as I turn the truck into the neighborhood. "The fuck is a muscle twink?" 

"The kind that I like to make cry." 

I try to ignore how tight my trunks suddenly feel. "Seriously? Like tears and all that shit?" 

"Nah. Nothing like that. Like cumming so hard you can't control how loud you are." Efrain explains. "Although, making a guy loud and weepy would be interesting." 

"We need to get you some better pick-up lines." I pull into his driveway and put the truck in park. With the rain continuing to pound against the windows, the truck feels too confining, the man in the passenger seat too close for me to keep calm. I hope my face isn't as red as it feels. "Most guys who brag about that kinda stuff seem to be the least likely to actually deliver," I bluff. While I lost my virginity to a girl in middle school, it took me all the way to junior year to get in bed with a guy. My experience with men is pretty limited. 

"That sounded like a challenge." 

"And that sounded like a waste of time." I sit back and turn toward Efrain, trying really hard to sound bored and totally over it. "I'm sure there's a point to this." 

"There is," he says simply. And with that, he leans over the center console, bringing his full, generous mouth close enough to brush against mine as he speaks. "I want to make you cry." 

Lame ass pick-up line, or not, a small shiver runs up my spine as Efrain takes my mouth, nibbling my lips and drawing me deeper into the kiss until it makes both of us breathless. His hand tickles up my inner thigh, finding the erection straining the front of my jeans. He teases me while his tongue invades my mouth. A moan escapes my throat and I grip the sides of my seat to keep from grabbing him. 

He breaks off the kiss and pulls back far enough to meet my eyes. "Come in with me." It seems more command than request. "We'll get soaked, but I have a shower big enough to fuck in while we warm up." 

I don't trust myself to respond, and instead kill the engine and remove the keys from the ignition. We open our respective car door and make a run for the house. Efrain opens the door and pulls me inside, then pins me against the door with his body. Here, our kissing becomes more aggressive and insistent. Hands franticly peel off sodden clothing, forming a trail as Efrain guides me back to his room. 

Once in his room, he goes to pull something from his nightstand, leaving me shivering, nervous, and wearing nothing but my trunks in the middle of the room. "The master suite, huh." 

"It happened to be the room open when I moved in," he shrugs. He takes me by the hand and leads me into the adjoining bathroom. He's carrying a small black bottle and some condoms in his other hand. 

"Water-based lube in a shower? Sounds super effective," I joke. 

"Nope, silicone." Efrain reaches in the shower to set both items down on a small bench and turns on the water. Satisfied, he turns back and tugs at my hand. I step in to him and melt into his body. His tongue explores my mouth while we shed the last bits of clothing. Now that the room is starting to warm up, I feel the blood pooling in my groin again, and signs of Efrain's arousal pressing against my thigh. 

While Efrain licks and nibbles down my neck and shoulder, I admire his body. Dark skin stretches over tightly corded muscles, with a light dusting of dark hair on his forearms and legs and a trail of hair from his navel down - a nice contrast to my own bulkier muscle mass and sparse body hair. The cut of his obliques and abs angle down into a thatch of dark curly hair from which his long, thick cock stands. While Efrain digs his fingers into my rounded ass, I wrap my fingers around his dick. 

Efrain yelps. 

"Your hands are fucking freezing." 

I chuckle a little and apologize. "Think the water is warm enough?" I pull away to step inside. Efrain wasn't kidding about the size of the thing. You couldn't lay down in it, but there is plenty enough room to bend someone over. 

Efrain enters behind me. "Nevermind about your hands," he places his hands (which are also cold) on my hips and rubs his cock against my ass. "Goddamn, your ass is fuckable." 

Goosebumps tighten my skin. "Is that how you're gonna make me cry?" 

Efrain brushes his lips against my earlobe. "I have my methods," he rumbles in a voice that makes my cock throb and my nipples harden. The tip of his tongue traces the shell of my ear. 

"You have methods?" I mock as he nibbles the side of my neck and shoulder. "Seems like all you've done so far is tease." 

"Is that so?" Efrain abruptly turns me around, and shoves me against the cold tile wall. He licks and bites a trail from neck to abdomen while he lowers himself down onto his knees. "So, no teasing, huh?" His mouth plays with the head of my dick, nipping at the glans and toying with the frenulum with his tongue. "Not even this kind?" 

"That's tolerable." I'm still trying to maintain a poker face, but my voice falters when Efrain slides his tongue around the head. I barely notice when Efrain picks up the little black bottle until his slicked fingers begin drawing lazy circles between my cheeks. He slides the other hand behind my knee to bend the leg and guide my foot onto the corner bench. 

Fingers continue to rub in little circles from right behind my balls all the way back to press firmly against my hole. I struggle to hide how much I want to moan. The mouth on my cock continues to draw me in. Efrain's hazel eyes lock with mine and he slides the very tip of his finger inside. 

"Fuck," I let out in a shuddering breath, giving up my bluffing pretense. Efrain works in deeper, playing open my ass, letting my now rocking hips work my cock further between his lips. "Fuck," I moan again, repeating the word over and over as Efrain lightly grinds his knuckles against my sensitive ass. I arch my back, adding my own resistance to the grinding. Efrain pulls back his finger enough to begin working in a second up to the knuckles before slowly fucking me with his fingers. 

As fingers work, his mouth stays busy on my dick. I thought I gave great head, and thought I'd received it too, but Efrain is something else. Nipping and nibbling with his lips, teasing with both the tip and the flat of his tongue, alternating between shallow and deep throating. My 7 inches isn't exactly monstrous, but it's not small either, yet he still gets the whole thing in his mouth without gagging. I know I wouldn't be able to return that favor, especially since he is definitely larger than me. 

Randomly, he pauses and holds me between his teeth, firm enough for the sensation to register. Everything I've ever read or have been told on the matter absolutely forbids teeth during oral, and I've had enough experience with bad blowjobs to know how much it hurts when teeth slip, but, God, if I don't moan louder each time Efrain uses his. And he performs like he knows I'm watching, catching my gaze as he bites, licks, teases. Between his skilled hands and mouth, and the sight of the man working his own dick with his free hand, I feel like exploding. I want to cum so bad, but I don't want this to end. 

"I'm getting close," I pant. "Dial it back some." 

Efrain looks up, dick between his teeth, and cocks his eyebrow. His free hand moves up between my legs and I feel him press firmly behind my balls. Then, he attacks, working me harder with fingers and mouth, bringing me closer to climax. I tilt back my head and brace my shoulders against the tile wall, thrusting my hips forward. I clench my teeth, ragged breaths hissing between, feeling the throbbing coil tighter and tighter. 

I break hard, somehow cumming and not cumming. A climax without the release of ejaculation. I feel like I've imploded when everything has been fighting to fling itself outward. Suddenly weak-kneed, I throw out my hands to catch myself on the small inset shelves on either side, sending bottles and soap crashing. I move my foot off the bench and slide to the ground. 

Efrain moves up between my knees, kissing me and stroking my abs, which are still contracting from the force of my orgasm. "That was fun to watch." 

"Fuck! What did you do to me?" 

"Pressure point. You'll still orgasm, but without the cum," he explains between kisses. "I told you I had my methods." 

"I didn't scream." 

"You were trying really hard not to." I have to concede that point. "Also, I'm not done yet, and" he taps my still hard cock with his finger, making me gasp. "Neither are you." He sits back and draws me onto his lap. I watch as he unwraps a condom and rolls it down his dick before adding lube. 

Efrain lifts my hips and lines up his cock. He rubs there, as he had with his fingers, distributing lubricant and relaxing my hole. Still sensitive from my orgasm, the feel of Efrain's member between my cheeks draws forth more shuddering moans and gasps. 

Satisfied, Efrain positions himself against my ass. "Ready?" 

Unable to speak coherently, I simply nod and brace my hands on his shoulders. Efrain carefully eases me down on his cock, murmuring "good boy" in my ear. Shit like that should feel demeaning, but my dick jumps and I whimper every time he does it. "Take it just like that. Good boy, don't rush." I shiver and clench around the dick slowly stretching me open until he bottoms out. By that time, I already feel like I could blow at any minute. 

Efrain gives me some time to adjust to his length, gently massaging where my ass holds him with still lubed up fingers. "You're fucking tight," he murmurs. Arousal deepens his voice and his breathing is heavier - he's feeling this as much as I am. My ass spasms around him. "You sure I'm not hurting you?" I shake my head. It hurts a little, it'd been a while since I've had something in my ass and nothing as big as him, but the ache feels indescribably good. 

His fingers tease my ass some more before he lifts my hips, sliding himself almost entirely out. He eases me back down in one slow, fluid thrust. I let out a moan that lasts from tip to base, and he repeats the move. He continues rolling me up and down the length of his dick until I pick up the rhythm. 




Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 08



I ride Efrain, feeling things getting tight inside of me. The sounds of our mingling gasps and moans make me bold. I wanted to pay him back for how much he'd made me squirm. I want him to feel me more. I thrust down hard, bringing out a clenched-jaw growl from Efrain. I make him squirm all right, but, the angle thrusts him over a sensitive spot in just the right way and I end up feeling it more than he does. I cry out, head thrown back, back arched, fingers digging into Efrain's shoulders. 

"That hurt you more than it hurt me, huh?" he chuckles between panting breaths. Efrain digs his own fingers into my ass, spreading it apart. He isn't bothering with pretense. He's into what I'm doing to him and not afraid to let me know. "Keep moving," he growls and drives my hips into a hard thrusting pace, moaning and murmuring in my ear about how much of a good boy I am for giving him my ass. He grabs my dick and lets the thrusting move his hand along the shaft. 

My continued cries accent the wet slapping as my ass hits Efrain's hard thighs. As my climax mounts, the only way to let off the excess pressure is to scream louder and louder. My voice rises and echoes through the small room as I drive myself harder down his cock. I break in waves, cum spilling over his hand, crying out until my voice gives out. 

Efrain wraps his arms around my waist and drives me on still. He grabs my shoulder between his teeth, the bite sinking into my skin as his own orgasm takes him. The pain from the bite and the feel of Efrain's spasms trigger aftershocks, making me clench and shudder around him. Even with how loud I'd been earlier, my voice still rises in octaves as I moan. I rock my hips against Efrain, my still twitching dick rubbing against the man's abs. I can't tell how long we feed off each other's orgasms, prolonging the climax until we both wind down. 

I'm barely able to move, but I manage to disentangle from Efrain and ease myself off. I sit next to him, knees drawn up, shivering despite the warm water pouring over me. My hips ache. The water stings where Efrain had bitten me; most likely, he broke the skin. I whimper when a final aftershock hits. 

"Holy fuck," I whisper, my voice too raw and broken for anything else. 

"I was not expecting that." Efrain shifts himself over to sit closer to me. He looks as shocked as I feel. He slips his arm around my waist and lets me rest my head on his shoulder. 

"Yeah," I agree weakly and then pass the fuck out. 

*** 

I wake up with a sore ass and a sore throat in a bed I don't recognize. 

Efrain took care of me after he fucked me into oblivion. A bandage covers my shoulder. The contents of my pockets sit on the nightstand in front of me. Under them are the clothes he had pulled off me earlier. They smell like fresh laundry. 

He lies next to me, curled up against my back, an arm flung over my waist holding me tight. 

"Fuck, is it going to be like that every time?" he murmurs, noticing that I had woken up. 

"God, I fucking hope so." 

As I settle down to go back to sleep, I realize that I rather like being made to cry.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 09



Author's Note - And more fucking. 

Thanks for reading. Let me know how I'm doing. ~Dayne 

***** 

Chapter 9 - Feeding 

It's past midnight when I wake up again. Efrain's warmth wraps around me and for a moment I panic. More than anything I want to stay in his arms, but I worry that it's just me. It will be awkward enough to face him tomorrow without me throwing my feelings into it. This isn't the first time I've been with someone I know, and I've gotten hurt enough when I wanted more than they wanted to give. 

I carefully leave his arms and get out of bed. I'm in the middle of getting dressed when he wakes up. 

"You're leaving?" 

"Yeah, I have class in the morning," I lie. 

"Skip it," he says sleepily and pats the bed, asking me to come back. 

I chuckle. "I don't think I could go again." 

"That's not why I'm asking you to stay." 

"Sure it's not." I bend over to kiss him goodnight. "I'll see you at practice. Good night, Efrain." 

"Good night," he says, sounding a little disappointed. 

I let myself out and lock the door behind me with my shoes in my hand because they're still soaked. 

When I get back to the dorms, I let myself in quietly in case the guys are asleep already. Romero is sitting in bed reading when I come in. 

"The walk of shame, eh?" 

"Of course." I pull off my shirt and jeans and start rummaging in my dresser for pajama pants and an undershirt. 

"Holy fuck." 

"What?" 

"What happened?" He points to my shoulder. 

"He bit me." 

"Bit you? Wait, he bit you?" 

"Yes, a guy bit me." 

"Hard enough to need a bandage?" 

"Seems so," I answer as I drag on my pjs. 

"During sex?" 

"I'm not going to answer that." 

"You let him?" 

"It felt good," I say defensively, flopping down on my bed. 

"Were you always this masochistic?" 

"No idea, no one's bitten me before." 

"So back to the guy." 

"You know, you've never given the third degree when I hook up with women." 

"So, was it...what is Preston calling him now?" 

"Asswrecker McFrostybitch," I say. "And, no, it wasn't Indie." 

"So, who was it?" 

"A teammate." 

"Anyone I'd recognize?" 

"Probably." 

"That's going to be awkward." 

"You're already making it awkward." 

*** 

I thought I'd have Cory out of my system if we slept together once, but I'm still starving for him. If anything, tasting him made the hunger worse. I let him go last night, but I'm hunting him down again at conditioning. 

I find him using the reclining leg press machine to run through some exercises - multiple sets of reps with his feet in different positions on the platform meant to hit various parts of his thighs. His shorts ride up over his compression underwear, thighs rippling under the skin-tight material, and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. I'm thankful for my own compression pants holding me down under my workout clothes. 

I crouch down next to him as he lines up the safety bars for a short break. 

"How are you feeling?" Not many of our teammates are working at the leg equipment (there are some you have to force to do a leg day), but I still keep my voice low. 

"Not bad. Yourself?" 

"Hungry." I give him a meaningful look. His cheeks get a little redder as if he realizes what I mean. "Are you free today?" 

"I got a class this afternoon." 

"And after that?" 

"I'm wide open." 

"Oh, really?" I shouldn't be flirting with him when there are possible witnesses, but I can't help it. "Text me when you're 'wide open' then." I fist-tap his shoulder before I walk off. 

*** 

I've seen Efrain in his football uniform, dressed up for clubbing, dressed down for practice, even in everyday clothes. 

I'm not prepared for how he opens the door. 

A pair of charcoal grey pajama pants ride low on his hips. It's a simple item, but the way the soft cotton hugs his body makes me hot. The V of his Adonis belt arches out of his waistband, begging for me trace it back down. Like I need another reason to want him. 

Wordlessly, he pulls me inside the house and his mouth is on mine before I can speak. His tongue dives between my lips, tasting me, and his arms pull me close. His heat radiates into me. I run my hands up his arms, the biceps perfectly developed and tight. His own hands slip down the back of my shorts to knead my ass through my trunks. 

He kisses me thoroughly and passionately. I'm dimly aware that we aren't alone. 

"Hate to interrupt, but I need to get by." Indie's voice is unmistakable, and I'm taken aback at first. Other than on campus, and very rarely then, I haven't seen him since he ran out of Kiley's room a month ago. I'm a little shocked to see him, mostly because of the compromising position I'm in. 

"Sorry man, I forgot you were still here," Efrain says and pulls me to the side. His hands are still massaging me under my shorts, pressing me against the hard bulge in his pants. If Indie notices the movement he doesn't say anything. I try really hard not to moan, but my cheeks probably speak volumes. 

"Bringing hook-ups home, I see," he taunts as he passes. "Didn't think you liked the guys you fuck to know where you live." He gives us a mock salute then dips out the front door. 

"I really forgot he was home. You cool?" Efrain gently bites the side of my neck and I really do moan then. His half laugh is deep and makes me tingly. "Take that as a 'yes.'" 

*** 

Mine. 

The word snarls through me. I don't understand this urge to stake Cory out as my own. I know nothing happened between them, but I still feel like I have to show Indie that the kid belongs to me. I spent weeks losing my head over Cory, then another couple weeks making damn sure he lost his over me. I'm not going to let someone else waltz in on my conquest. 

Mine. I suck his neck hard, making my marks physical. He inhales sharply, his breath hissing between his teeth, and his head falls back. "You said you were hungry. I didn't think you meant literally." 

Mine. It still echoes in my head, so I growl and bite him again. He makes a sound somewhere between a chuckle and a moan. 

"So, are you going to eat me here? Or, will we make it to the room?" Throwing him down right now and having my way with him is tempting, but I lead him to my room instead. 

I have low-key EDM playing in the background. Cahb, Koven, The XX, Blackmill - real chill shit like that. It flows from the speakers on my desk, filling the room. The ambient music helps loosen me up and I feel like I'm back in control. Our clothes come off quickly, but we carefully explore each other. Yesterday was insane, today I'm going to take my time and feed him some of this gnawing need. 

Cory has other ideas. 

He draws in my lower lip, sucks on it, holds it between his teeth. "Your mouth is incredible." 

"Likewise." 

"I had a hard-on all day thinking about what your mouth can do." 

"Want me to do it again?" 

"No." 

"No?" 

"I want to return the favor." Goosebumps slide across my skin as he starts backing me up to the chair at the desk. "Although, I don't think I can take you as deep as you can take me." 

I sit back in the chair, my arms on the armrests, and grin up at him. "There's a trick to it." 

He takes position on his knees between my legs and rubs his hands up my thighs. His blue eyes lock onto mine as he lowers his head. The head of my cock passes between Cory's lips, his tongue laps the underside, swirls around me. He pulls back, his lips catching on the crown. 

"Teach me." 

I'm already fighting the urge to moan with just a small gesture. I don't know how long I'll last with him doing more. He grabs my shaft and trails small nibbling kisses down its length. Cory sucks my nuts into his mouth and I'm almost unable to answer him. His eyes never leave mine the whole time. 

"Fuck, kid. This sweet and innocent game is killing me." 

He drags his tongue along the underside of my shaft from base to tip and sucks my head into his mouth again. I run my fingers through his hair and let my hand rest at the base of his skull. "So, you're not going to show me how to deepthroat your cock?" 

How the fuck am I supposed to say no to that? 

I coach him through the first steps. Cory is an eager and willing student. He gradually works me into his mouth, pushing himself further each time he slides my dick between his lips. My fingertips gently press him forward, encouraging him. His tongue rolls against me. He still has a few inches to go, but I'm already breathing hard. 

"Now pretend like you're swall..." the rest of whatever I was going to say, all coherent thought, is lost as I slide into his throat. His pleased hum vibrates on my head and I moan. Cory slides my dick back before he takes me into his throat again. The sight of his small mouth stretched around my shaft, disappearing into my pubic hair, is just as arousing as the muscles in his throat massaging my head. I love a good pair of DSLs, but his perfect bow lips send me over the edge. 

I'm panting hard, fighting the urge to fuck his pretty little mouth. He bobs on my dick a bit, but that's all I need before I blow. I meant to warn him, but the only thing I can get out is a loud moan. I fist my fingers in his hair and pump my cum into his throat. Far from offended, Cory eagerly swallows, looking pleased with himself. 

I lift his head off my dick and kiss him until he's breathless. "Are you still going to look that smug when I fuck you senseless?" I pinch his nipple hard and he gasps. 

"Only one way to find out." 

I lead him over to the bed and pull back the bed spread. He gets one knee on the mattress and I stop him. I bend him over there, half kneeling on the bed and half standing on the floor. He leans down and rests his cheek on the bed, sticking his ass in the air. 

I pull the bottle of lube off my nightstand and dribble it down over his hole. He shivers as the cool liquid slips over his crack and over the back of his balls. I distribute it evenly with my fingers, making sure to coat those as well. 

Cory whimpers when I slowly sink my middle finger into his waiting hole. I work him a little before I add in the second finger. His toes curl as I start slowly easing in and out of him. I grab his asscheek with my free hand and spread him open. I add a third finger and he starts cursing in a mix of Spanish and English. 

My hand twitches on his ass, fighting a sudden and overwhelming urge to spank him. I don't understand this anymore than I understand the need to bite his neck yesterday. Something about Cory's body screams "hurt me," like he's releasing some weird pheromone that flips a switch in the darker parts of my psyche. I knead his ass, spreading him so far open that it has to hurt. I worry briefly, but he's so into it. 

And so I give in. I give him a light smack on his ass as I finger fuck him and feel his answering tremble under my palm. I smack him again, this time hard enough to leave a handprint. He moans loudly and thrusts his ass onto my fingers. My dick, now hard again, jumps. His is leaking so much pre-cum it looks like it could drip at any moment. I work his ass harder with my fingers. 

"Cogerme," he pants, clenching his fists in the bedspread. 

"What was that?" I pick back up the bottle. I spread my fingers out a little and shoot lube down into his ass. His whole body quivers. 

"Cogerme sin sentido" he pleads. I don't even think he realizes what he's saying, or that he's doing it in Spanish. "Cogerme duro." 

"En ingles," I demand and smack him again. 

*** 

First, he fucks me until I cry, then he bites me until I bleed. He calls me "good boy" like I'm some fucking dog and I eat that shit up. 

Now, I'm getting spanked. 

Aside from horseplay, no one has smacked me. Hell, my own dad never hit me as a kid. I have no lingering psychological traumas that can explain why the warm sting of his palm drives me crazy. I want more of these little bits of pain - taunting, rough handling, biting, slapping. I just can't bring myself to say the words. So I beg in Spanish. 

"Por favor," I whimper. Even the embarrassment of begging him to do more makes me hot. 

"English," he demands in response. He thrusts his fingers deep inside and grinds his knuckles against my rim, as if to taunt me. I'm whimpering, and I hate it, but I can't stop. 

"Please, Efrain." 

"That's at least one English word," he laughs. 

"God damn it," I moan in frustration. "Fuck me." 

"Good boy." He gives my ass a squeeze as he pulls out his fingers, leaving me to shiver and pant while he puts on a condom. "See? That wasn't so hard." I can't tell if I'm shaking because I'm still feeling his fingers or if I'm anticipating what he's about to do to me. Condom on and lubed up, he rubs against me. 

Then slaps his dick against my hole. I feel the shock of that slap all the way in my toes. He slaps me with his dick again. 

I'm shaking hard when he sinks his head into me. My ass clenches hard around him and he sinks a little deeper. I bury my face in the covers and moan. Even with the fabric pressed around my mouth, I feel like I'm too loud. However, he pulls me up until my back is pressed into his chest. He thrusts deeper into my body and I gasp. 

"No muffling," he tells me. "I want to hear you scream." 

His words hum in my ear. I know I'm already in trouble, but I can't help egging him on. "Give me a reason." 

Efrain slowly slides in and out of me. His arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me tighter to his body. It feels so good that I can't help moaning, but I wonder for a moment if he's really going to talk a big game then slow fuck me to death. 

I'm about to say something smart when slams into my ass hard, knocking the air completely out of my chest. He hits me again and again and again. His arms help drive my ass down on his dick so brutally that I'm too winded to cry out. Little black spots swim in front of my eyes as he assaults my hole and I feel like I could pass out. 

And just as suddenly, he slows down, resuming the long, slow fucking from before. This time, my ass is so keyed up that even the smallest movement makes me cry out. My voice rises as he drives me closer to cumming. I reach up to stroke my cock, but he slaps my hands away and tells me no. He laughs when I start whining. With how hard I'm clenched around him, there's no way he doesn't know how close I am to climaxing. 

Infuriatingly, he grabs both of my arms and twists them behind me, crossing them across the small of my back. He pins my arms there, pitching my body forward, and begins fucking me hard again. It's just as fast and vicious as before, but I'm able to breathe this time. I just end up screaming more than breathing while he thoroughly wrecks my ass. 

I'm shaking, barely able to hold myself up. My shoulders and hips hurt. It hurts and feels impossibly good all at the same time and I edge closer to the brink. He's right there with me; his dick feels thicker than before and his bucking thrusts go wild. He growls as he plows into me. His moans get tighter and closer together. 

I feel the tell-tale pulse along his shaft. Soon, he's cumming hard, but he doesn't stop. I'm so lost that the only words I can remember are "oh fuck". I want him to slap me again, to jerk my dick, to fuck me harder, to let me cum, but the only thing I can get out are those two little words. I start repeating them over and over, trying and failing to communicate these needs. 

And then, I cum. It spills out of me, spreads across the sheets. He lets go of my arms and I fall forward. With my face safely buried in the covers again, I scream louder than I've ever screamed. Efrain milks my dick, squeezing out the last remnants. He slaps me and my ass returns the favor.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 10



Chapter 10 - Post-Fuck Etiquette 

I have three simple rules: 

1. Do not fuck people you know. 

2. Do not bring home your hook-ups. 

3. Do not spend the night. 

These rules have seen me through my first year of college, through countless hook-ups. I've avoided all kinds of drama and headache. I don't have the patience or the desire to deal with boyfriend bullshit; my rules make this clear. 

And yet, I'm breaking all of them with Cory. 

I broke the first rule the moment I decided to pursue him. I couldn't help myself. And the second broken rule was a matter of chance. 

The third? Cuddling is what you do when you don't want the guy to think you're just after his ass. Of course, I've always been after sex, so I never bothered with the pretense. So, I have no fucking idea why I wanted him to stay last night. Asking just felt right at the time. 

Or it could be that it still feels so unreal. I'm having a hard time reconciling the cute and honest Cory on the field with the wanton and sensual Cory in my bed. One minute we're joking around and the next I'm buried so deep inside him; it makes me worry that what we've done is all in my head. 

But, he's here, sprawled across my chest. 

I usually clean up and book it after, but I find myself having a post-fuck nap with Cory for the second time. Holding him just feels good. So does running my fingers through his hair. And flirting with him. 

I tell myself that it just makes it easier to fuck him again when I've rested enough, but it's not that convincing. 

*** 

I stayed the night with Efrain because he really didn't give me a choice. 

I didn't pass out like I did last time. We dozed a little, fucked a little, slept some more, fucked again. Not a lot of the biting and slapping kind, but it was still pretty intense. By the third time, my throat was too raw to speak and my legs were too weak to stand. I couldn't walk to the bathroom to clean myself up, let alone walk out the door. He had to bring me hot tea and a washcloth in bed. 

All told, I got in three good hours of sleep last night. Football practice is going to be a bitch. 

It's 8 in the morning when I finally stumble back to the dorms. The guys all have early morning classes or work, so they're milling about in the suite when I walk in. 

"The biter strikes again," Romero leers. 

"He did not." 

Gio points at his neck without looking up from his notes. 

I hurry over to the mirror on my closet door. On the side of my neck are two thumb-print sized hickeys. I find a third on my collarbone. I have a slight tan still, but the marks stand out against my skin. 

"I'm going to fucking kill him." 

"How did you not notice him giving you a hickey?" Al asks 

"How did you not notice three?" 

"Same way he didn't notice when the guy bit him," Gio laughs. Since I had to take the bandage off in the shower, both the guys in the locker room and my roommates saw Efrain's teeth marks. My teammates think it was a girl, but Romero blabbed to Al and Gio. He's been trying to get me to tell him which guy since yesterday morning. 

I ignore them all and grab a quick shower. I'm already running late by the time I get on my clothes and nab a protein shake from the fridge. Thank fucking God that my legs are less gelatinous or else I wouldn't be able to book it to my 8:30 class. 

At practice later, I punch Efrain's arm when no one is looking. 

"What was that for?" 

I narrow my eyes. "You know exactly what that was for." 

He laughs. "I couldn't help myself." 

I punch his shoulder in the same spot, winning a satisfying ouch from him. "Oh man, I couldn't help myself." 

He rubs his arm. "I'll make it up to you tonight," he says with his characteristic wolfish grin. 

"Nope." 

"What do you mean nope?" 

"Already have plans." He gets this odd look on his face. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was jealousy. 

"Because I left hickeys?" 

"I'm going out dancing with some friends." 

"Tomorrow night, then?" 

"Study group," I lie. 

"On a Friday?" The odd look, again. 

"Well, yeah." Fuck, telling him no is almost as fun as telling him yes. 

He sighs. "Fine, but you're coming over Saturday after the game." 

"Oh, I am?" 

"Yeah, so clear your schedule." 

"You're so sure that I'm going to cancel my weekend plans." 

"Damn straight," he smirks. "Oh, and bring a toothbrush. I'm making you breakfast." He saunters off before I can respond. 

It seems he's not giving me a choice about spending the night again. 

*** 

"Why are you still in your underwear?" 

I walk my bikini brief-clad ass back to my bed to peruse my wardrobe choices, leaving Cory to close the door. 

"God, Preston," he complains. "We're supposed to pick up Berta and Luz in 10 minutes." 

"Oh, please," I shoot back over my shoulder. "They're probably more behind than I am." Marina's friends Berta and Luz have been whining about her ditching them for lez-Delia. Apparently, Cory and I are to blame for them hooking up, and they demanded that we go out dancing with them as compensation. 

I don't know why, but they chose country line dancing. I hate country music. Country music is why we can't have nice things. But, it's a good excuse to make Cory wear his Stetson and boots. He even has his shirt tucked in with respectably sized belt buckle. 

He slips off his boots and flops down on my bed while I try to decide what I'm wearing. 

"Don't overthink it," he says. "Solid colors are a pretty safe bet." He rolls over on his back and puts his hat over his face as if he's going to take a nap. The first three buttons of his shirt are open over his muscular chest and a simple braided leather cord hugs his neck. Above that are two lovebites. 

That little whore. 

I pounce on him and straddle his lap. His hat falls off his face as I tickle the side of his neck. "Where'd you get these? Hm? Have anymore?" I try to look under his shirt, but he grabs my hands and fights me off. Thus routed, I start bouncing on his lap and chanting "tell me, tell me" over and over. 

He rolls over and pins me under his body. "Could you at least put on clothes before you start jumping on me?" 

I wrap my arms and legs around him. "Bitch, this is closest you've been to a dick in weeks." 

He smirks down at me. 

"No way. Who?" 

"I'm not telling you that." 

I tighten my hold on him and threaten to stay in my underwear until he tells me. He rolls his eyes and reaches around to pull his phone out of his back pocket. "Alright, but you can't tell Romero and them who it is." 

Cory quickly scrolls through his phone and shows me a picture. It's a bathroom selfie with the message "you turned this down to go dancing????" 

Damn, Cory knows how to pick 'em. 

The guy is totally of the tall, dark and handsome variety. He's shirtless, exposing his gorgeous chest. His thumb is hooked on his waistband, drawing it down teasingly, but the fabric is thin enough that you know exactly what he has going on under there - a lot. 

God, I wonder if he could be persuaded to share. 

Then, I get a good look at his face. 

"He looks familiar. Why does he look familiar, Cory?" 

"We play together." 

"You clearly have," I say, pointing out his hickeys. While rolling around, I noticed another one on his collarbone. 

"No, literally. Football. He's on the team." 

"You skank," I gasp. 

"Oh, you wouldn't hesitate to hit it, given the chance." He reaches between us and pokes at my dick, which I admit is a little hard. Though, to be fair, I've been rolling around in my underwear with my legs wrapped around a seriously cute football player that I've already had the pleasure of sucking off. 

"So, you've managed to land a boyfriend." 

"We're just fucking around." 

I poke at the hickeys on his neck. "That's not fucking around, that's marking territory." 

"I doubt that." 

"No, seriously. Ever try picking up someone while sporting visible lovebites?" 

"Can't say that I have." 

"It's not easy," I explain. "He's cock-blocking you." 

"He has no reason to cock-block me." 

"He wants to keep you for himself." Cory seems to think on this for a bit, a half-smile begins to form. "You'd like that wouldn't you?" 

"I guess so." 

"You guess so. Bitch, please. You're already in love with him." 

"I'm not in love with him." 

"But, you really like him." 

He sighs forlornly. "Yeah, I really like him." 

"So," I say, bouncing up. "How big is his dick?" 

"Oh my God, Preston." 

"On a scale of Micro to Indie." 

"You're such a fucking size queen." 

"Bigger than me? Bigger than you?" I gasp. "Bigger than Indie?" 

He groans, but finally fesses up. "Closer to Indie's size." 

I jump on him again. "Bitch, who's the size queen?" Then I notice a bandage sticking out. "What happened there?" 

He rolls his eyes. "I'm going to regret this," he says as he lifts one side of the bandage. Underneath is a scabbed-over bite. 

"This guy?" I point to his phone. 

"Yeah," he says as he rolls off me. "Right at the climax." He puts his hands over his face as if in shame. "I came so hard." 

"Damn, Bo Peep, you went from bears to wolves."



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 11



Chapter 11 – Barely Legal Fuck-a-thon

want to follow me home?

I resist looking over at Cory, but I still catch him out the corner of my eye. He discreetly checks his phone and sends back a message.

sure

The team decided to get burgers after the game, dragging Cory and me along. I get the feeling I'm not the only one that can't wait to leave.

"Oh fuck me, look at the time," I say, not caring about how unconvincing I sound. Our teammates start laying into me about trying to leave early. "Sorry guys, I have things to do at home." Not a total lie. I just omit that the thing I really need to do is fuck the living hell out of the guy sitting a few seats down from me.

I head for the door. Cory gets up to follow me out. When the guys start harassing him, he just shrugs and says "hot date." No one can argue with leaving to get laid.

I pause on the edge of the sidewalk and look out at the parking lot with my hands in my pockets. A few moments later, he's standing next to me. I glance at him. Cory's been wearing this leather necklace the past couple days. He's wearing his glasses, too. Both items are making me crazy. "Hot date, eh?"

"Yeah, I have someone I want to keep up all night." This admission causes a flood of warmth in the pit of my stomach. 

I put my hands up. "Don't let me stop you." He grins at me, and I can't help grinning back. He jumps down and walks over to his truck. I force myself to not run to my car. I get a message on my cellphone before I can get my key in the ignition.

im hard af

A simple statement, but it makes me hot. I've been hungering for him since he left my house Thursday morning. I managed to keep it together at the game and in the restaurant, but now that he's coming home with me, my dick is starting to throb painfully. I grip my cock through my jeans and give it a light squeeze. 

im going to throw you down and fuck you in the parking lot if you dont move

His engine roars to life. My dick is hard enough to shift gears with. I end up stroking myself the whole drive home.

After what seems like forever, we make it to my place. He's playing it cool when he gets out of his truck, but the bulge in his jeans tells another story. Cory and I manage to get my bedroom door shut and locked behind us before we start ripping off our clothes. 

His mouth is hot on mine. "I need you to fuck my ass."

"I will," I laugh.

"No, now," he insists, and he hands me a condom from my stash in the nightstand. "I need you to take my ass now." He doesn't wait for me to put it on. Instead, he grabs the bottle of lube and crawls onto my bed. 

I watch as he rolls on to his side and props himself up on his elbow. He reaches behind to begin rubbing lube on his ass before he starts fingering himself. 

I stare at him, transfixed. "You weren't kidding." I stroke myself.

"No," he pants. Cory bends his knee and lifts up his leg so I can watch him work his fingers in and out of his ass. "Efrain..."

The way my name falls from his lips, the panting breaths accenting the syllables, makes my dick pulse against my fingers.

"Yes."

"The condom."

"God, yes," I say and immediately start unwrapping it. I approach the bed and he moves to roll over onto his back. "No, stay just like that." I straddle one leg and slide my arm under the other. He slips his fingers out and lubes up my cock for me; his hand stays there to help guide me in. I press my head against his hole. 

And I wait.

Cory pants harder as I press into him without penetrating him. He closes his eyes and moans. The barest tip eases into him and he starts shaking. I give him more of the tip and he trembles harder. When I have my head inside of him, his ass clenches around me as if trying to force me back out. I press into this tightening, sliding half of my cock into him. A moan vibrates deep in his throat.

I slide my dick back and forth in shallow thrusts, slowly working myself deep inside of him. His eyes open and lock with mine. Cory grabs his leg behind the knee and draws it up toward his chest. With his legs spread this wide, I have an uninterrupted view of where our bodies are connected. He watches me watching my dick thrust into his hole. 

I look up at him. He does this thing when he's trying not to scream or moan where he bites his lip and ends up whimpering. He's trying so hard right now that his whole body quivers.

"I'm not going to last much longer," I admit.

"Me either," he says, and closes his eyes and finally lets out a loud moan.

That's all the encouragement I need.

I slip his leg over my shoulder and press his thigh to my stomach. With my other hand I grab his dick. I jerk him as I increase speed. 

He clenches down on me hard and I blow. His voice rises as my thrusts go wild. Soon, I feel him spasm around me and he cums in my hand. My dick gets too incredibly sensitive to move, so I grind against his ass and he starts doing that cute whimpering thing again. 

***

Efrain grinds against my ass before he pulls out. While he grabs his t-shirt and cleans up, I flop on my back, feeling that euphoric and giddy high I get when I'm drunk. My whole body is still shivering when he joins me under the covers and pulls me close.

I knew I was going to end up in bed with him tonight, so every look we exchanged today cranked me a little tighter. The ride to his place was almost unbearable. I couldn't wait for the foreplay, I needed him right then. So, I got a little bold. 

God, the look on his face when I started touching myself. I know I was acting a little out of character, but I didn't realize how it would throw him.

"Are you always this intense?" he asks me.

"You're one to talk." I rest my head on his shoulder and sprawl out on his chest. He runs his fingers through my hair. If I were a cat, I'd probably start purring. "Just a few days ago, you were spanking me and telling me that I'm a good boy."

"But, you wanted me to."

"You started it." I reach up and scratch the side of his neck. He growls appreciatively. "I was just along for the ride."

"And you liked it."

"Only because you liked it."

He rolls over and pins my body under his. "Don't think I can't notice how hard your ass cums when I'm rough with you." He slides his hand up the inside of my thigh. "And don't think I can't notice how hard all this talk is getting you now." His fingers brush against my thickening cock and I inhale sharply.

"And then there's the territory marking."

"Hm?"

I point to the bite marks and hickeys he's left on me. 

"So," he says.

"It's like you're laying claim on me so I can't hook up with anyone else," I say. "You're cock-blocking me."

He pauses to think on this. A smile slowly creeps across his face and I'm suddenly a little apprehensive. "I am."

"You are?"

"Yes." 

"You do realize what you're saying."

"Uh huh." He lowers his head and nibbles my earlobe.

"If I can't fuck anyone else, neither can you."

"Works for me," he says. Then his hands and mouth are all over me and I can't think anymore. He slips on a condom and rolls me on to my side with my back toward him. I bend my knee and shift my leg forward. His cock eases into me and he begins rolling his hips against my body. 

Moments later, I feel his lips on the back of my shoulder. A lick. A bite. Then sucking.

"Wait...are you...aw, man..."

He laughs.

"Mine."

***

There's this huge black truck sitting in my driveway behind Efrain's Civic when I get home. He's inside slightly freaking out and rummaging through the kitchen drawers in nothing but his boxer briefs.

"What are you doing?"

"First aid kit."

"What?"

"First aid kit, do we have one?"

"Yeah, why do you need a first aid kit?"

He gets this sort of giddy look on his face. "I just fucked a guy so hard he passed out." That explains the truck at least. 

"And that's why you need a first aid kit?"

"No. I bit him," he mumbles it, so I almost don't understand him.

"Because he passed out?"

"That happened after I bit him."

This is more information than I want and I really do not need to hear anymore. I point him to the hall closet and shut myself up in my room. The truck is gone when I leave for my morning run.

Later that evening, I hear it pull up to the house. I'm meeting up with Mike and Laurel for drinks, so I'm not really concerned. However, the sight that greets me as I try to leave is surprising to say the least. VT is big enough that I've been able to mostly avoid the subject of my failed drunken hook-up from a few weeks ago. However, Cory Card is here in my foyer furiously making out with my roommate. 

I can't help making a few digs at them before I leave. At least, that explains the truck, which is still there when I get home and when I leave for my run in the morning. 

I get two nights without Cory in my house, but his truck is back Saturday evening. They're going at it when I walk in. That night, their barely legal fuck-a-thon wakes me up at least twice. For fuck's sake, Efrain's room is on the opposite side of the house from mine, but I still hear Cory. 

And Efrain. 

Apparently, he growls when he cums. 

I even hear the bed, and I bolted the fucking thing to the wall when I furnished the damn place.

At 6 AM, I give up on trying to sleep and put on my running shorts and shoes. Those assholes are still at it when I come home.

Thankfully, they've stopped by the time I get out of the shower and I'm able to get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep.

Life with Efrain had been mostly peaceful, strangely peaceful given that he's only 19. He started out in the freshman dorms over the summer, but moved in with me before the start of the fall term. He was pretty serious for a freshman. He only partied every so often, and never brought his hook-ups home. 

His only quirk was cheat day. Unless he was at an away game, he got up every Sunday, made a huge fucking stack of pancakes, and camped out on the couch to watch ESPN all day. It seems Cory will be joining in on the festivities this Sunday.

I get back up around noon and decide to make some coffee. The two of them are in the kitchen laughing and having this flirty argument over who's going to eat the quasi-burnt pancakes.

When I walk in, Cory is playing keep-away with the plate while Efrain tries to reach around him. They're making out, pausing only long enough to advance the argument before going back to shoving their tongues down the other guy's throat.

"I made them."

"But, you made them for me."

"You're the reason I burned them."

"Aren't you trying to impress me?"

They're so engrossed in each other that they don't notice me, or the fact that Cory is about to spill the unburnt cakes on the floor. 

I turn off the stove burner. Those two are vigorously dry humping each other enough, I don't need another potential fire hazard threatening my home. I grab the precariously balanced plate before it topples out of his hands.

They look at me. 

I look at them. 

They look at the plate. 

I look at the plate. 

I set the plate down on the counter. 

I go to start some coffee, but stop. I go back to the plate and pick the best pancake off the top. I take the biggest bite I can.

"Ugh. I hate blueberry," I say around a huge mouthful and toss the rest of the pancake into the trash can while they look on in mild horror.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 12



Chapter 12 – Dame Esa Leche

"So, do I use ser or estar here?" Efrain asks, one hand taking careful notes, the other under the table teasing the inside of my thigh.

"Ser." Usually, I'd ask him some questions to help him figure it out for himself, but I'm too distracted by his hands to be a proper tutor. He gives me a quick thanks and returns to his practice exercises. I try to work on the literature for my advanced Spanish class, but I've read the same three sentences over and over without any of it sticking. 

The rest of it slides out of my head when his fingers brush against my erection. 

It's pretty damn hard to keep our hands off each other when we study alone. When we camped out on his bed, we ended up fucking. When we took opposite sides of the room, we ended up fucking. When we took it to the couch, we ended up fucking. When we sat on the floor, we ended up fucking.

We're sitting at Indie's dining table now, but we will probably end up fucking. 

As if to underscore this, his hand unbuttons my pants and his fingers slip under my waistband. His knuckles brush against my shaft and I bite back a moan. All this time, however, he's still casually writing out his exercises. Well, two can play this game. I slip my hand onto his lap and start fumbling with his zipper. 

He pops my fingers with a small, sharp slap and I pull back with a surprised yelp.

"Hey what's this? I thought you wanted to study." He says this, even though it's his fingers stroking me under the table. 

I narrow my eyes at him. "You're the one playing around."

"I don't know what you're talking about." He runs his thumb over the tip; enough pre-cum beads at my slit to make it slippery as he rubs tight little circles around my head. His fingers wrap around my dick. A little whimpering noise escapes me before I can swallow it back down.

He turns back to his notebook and points to a sentence on the paper. "Did I use the right conjugation here?" His hand lightly squeezes my shaft. My eyes roll back in my head.

"Huh?"

"So, Mr. We-really-need-to-do-homework-this-time-Efrain," he mocks as his fingers start sliding up and down my dick. "What happened to helping me with my Spanish?"

***

I find Efrain in the dining room, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Cory. Their notebooks, textbooks, and other study paraphernalia spill out across the table. 

"Could you stop?" Cory asks.

"Stop what?" he answers.

I clear my throat and both men look up at me. Cory adjusts his glasses nervously. "Do we have any kosher salt left?"

"I think so," Efrain says. "Did you look in the pantry?" His tone is nonchalant, but for some reason Cory's clenching his hands and biting his lip. His cheeks look flushed.

"Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Why wouldn't he be?" Cory squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

"If you say so."

Suddenly, Efrain blinks in surprise before his mouth twists into a smirk. Cory puts his head on the table with a quiet whimper. He quietly moans something that sounds suspiciously like "I'm going to kill you, 'Rain."

I'm a little confused, but then I realize that Efrain's hand is below the table doing I don't want to know what. Leaving the room now seems like a really good idea.

God, that asshole better wash his hands before he touches my stuff.

***

My attention span is currently occupied with two things – how warm and alive his dick feels in my hand and keeping a straight face. I have no idea what I'm writing on my paper. It only vaguely looks like Spanish. 

Indie walks in asking about salt. 

I'm about to pull my hand out of Cory's pants when his cock suddenly quickens. I stroke him and he takes a huge breath as if to calm himself. I stroke him more and his dick pulses against my fingers. 

Without warning, Cory cums. He slumps forward to hide his face, but he isn't able to hide the little noises. I can't help smiling.

As if sensing what's going on under the table, Indie backs out of the room, and we're alone again.

"He's gone."

Cory doesn't lift his head. "I'm seriously going to kill you."

I lean over and nibble his neck. He starts panting again.

"What is up with you and this sadism shit?"

"I honestly don't know," I answer. I press my lips behind his ear and he shivers. "But, I do know that I'm not the only one getting off on it." I rub his dick with cum-drenched fingers to drive home my point.

He takes a deep breath before sitting back up. "Next thing you know, you're going to try tying me to the bedposts."

I crook my finger under his chin and turn him to face to me. 

"That can be arranged." 

***

A tingling electric kick runs up my spine at Efrain's words, but he kisses me before I can respond. His lips drive away my indignation at being made to cum in front of Indie. It wasn't a full orgasm, so I'm still just as aroused and the feel of his tongue sliding against mine makes it worse.

With a final squeeze, he slides his hand out of my pants. He whips off his t-shirt and uses it to clean up. 

"Come on," he beckons to me as he stands up and walks out of the dining room. "Let's get you out of those clothes."

I hear Indie knocking around in the kitchen and pray that he doesn't come out. I'm sure he knew something was up, but I don't want the front of my jeans confirming his suspicions. 

We're barely on the other side of Efrain's locked door before he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my cum-soaked trunks and eases those off my hips, along with my jeans. He pushes me toward the bed while pulling up my shirt. I know where this is going, so I take it off. 

He tells me to leave on my glasses. It became pretty apparent early on that Efrain is a hardcore meganecon. 

I move until the back of my legs hit the bed and I stop. Efrain playfully shoves me and I fall. I scoot back to lay against the pillows and he follows me onto the bed. I watch him crawl on top to sit astride my thighs. I close my eyes as he dips his head to kiss me again. 

But the kiss never comes.

I open my eyes to find him staring in the direction of his nightstand. I turn to see what he's so deep in thought about, but all I see are a couple packs of self-adhering sports bandages. We look back at each other and a wicked smile draws up the corners of his full mouth. 

I swallow hard. I know what Efrain's smiles mean. 

He grabs two rolls and quickly pulls them out of the box. He lifts my wrist to his mouth and kisses the sensitive skin just below the heel of my hand. His tongue darts out to trace tendons and veins, his teeth scrape across my skin. 

He wraps the bandage around my wrist a couple times and it sticks to itself. He then stretches my arm over to the bedpost and uses the rest of the bandage to wrap my wrist and the post together. After he tests the restraints, he uses the second bandage on my other wrist.

Efrain sits back on his heels to admire his handiwork. I can't help shivering. The soft denim of his jeans brushes against my thighs as I shift nervously. 

"Still trying to decide what I'm going to do to you," he says absently. The tips of his fingers trace the contours of my stomach and chest, raising goosebumps on my skin. He draws circles around my nipples.

"Kiss me."

"You're not exactly in a position to issue commands," he says, but kisses me anyway. His fingertips tease the underside of my arms, from bicep to wrist and back again. They slip down my ribs as he starts moving his mouth down my body. I'm already panting hard by the time his tongue flicks across the ridge of muscle riding over my hipbone. 

His knees nudge my legs open so he can kneel between. He tells me to open my legs more and I oblige while he strips off his jeans. I draw up my knees and he eases a pillow under my hips. Thus satisfied with my positioning, he grabs the lube. It dribbles onto his fingers.

"Now the fun begins." I'm aiming for levity, but my voice shakes a little.

He leans back over me and kisses me hard. His fingers press against my ass. When he speaks, his low voice carries a hard edge.

"The fun began when you told me I couldn't fuck you until I finished my work."

***

My finger sinks into him and his back arches so far off the bed that his shoulders and tip toes are the only parts of him still on the mattress. 

I work his ass harder, deeper. "You've been pretty bossy today," I murmur in his ear. His panting breaths tickle my ear. "'Focus on your work.' 'Stop playing around.' 'Kiss me.' Any more commands?" 

I sit back on my heels between his legs. Even if he did have more commands, he's too incoherent to issue them now. Everything is locked up in writhing against my hand. Still, I push in a second finger, just to be sure. Cory's head falls back as he moans. Having him at my mercy is so much wilder than I anticipated and I can't help wanting to take advantage of the situation.

His muscled arms flex, testing the bonds, but they hold him fast. He's only been able to maneuver his hands around so he can grip the bedpost. Since he can't grab me, he squeezes me between his thighs. I roughly shove his knees back apart and finger-blast him even harder. His chest heaves and I worry that he's going to hyperventilate. Ironically, it's when I lift and extend his leg straight up and tongue the back of his knee that he starts moaning louder. 

I swirl my tongue around before I trail off over the inside of his thigh. I test the length of skin between knee and groin for weak spots to sink my teeth into. I know he doesn't like when I mark him, but I leave teeth marks and lovebites anyway as I inch closer to his dick. I suck him into my mouth and his body comes up off the bed again. His ass clenches hard like he's trying to rip off my fingers. 

He starts crying, and cursing, and begging in a torrent of random English and Spanish words. I slip my fingers out and lift my head. He whimpers a little at the loss. However, I'm only stopping long enough to reposition to press my cockhead against his hole.

"Is this what you want?"

"Yes," he whines. I press harder and he starts repeating it, urging me on. The repetitions come faster the harder I press into him. I slip in the tip and pause to give his ass time to accommodate my girth before I start burrowing deeper into his body. His arms pull helplessly against the restraints. Gradually, I slide my full length into him and the chain of yeses breaks off in a long moan. 

He lifts his hips to meet my thrusts as I longdick him. But, I have other plans for his ass. I hook my arms under his knees and lift. His feet come up off the bed as I lean forward. I press his knees toward his shoulders, effectively folding his body in half. Then, I plow into his ass hard and fast, and he lies trapped under me, unable to do anything except take the pounding abuse. 

His arms struggle with the opposing forces of the bindings and the havoc I'm wrecking on his hips. I'm half afraid he's going to break the bedposts or rip his own shoulders out of his sockets, but it's all drowned out when he starts cumming without either of us touching his cock. The angle I have his body at sends cum flying at his face, where it splats across his glasses. I can't count the number of times I've fantasized about cumming on his glasses, but he doesn't give me a chance to appreciate this development as he clamps down hard on my dick and it suddenly feels like every nerve ending in my body migrated south. I moan loudly and pulse inside him. 

It isn't until my cum floods him that I realize I went in raw. 

***

"So, the fuck-a-thon is still going strong," Mike says.

"And that could've been you." Laurel pats me on the shoulder before taking another swig of her beer. 

"God, don't remind me." 

"You fucking dumbass." 

I had to fess up to the Cory debacle eventually, and they'd been periodically slapping me upside the head for letting the kid get away from me ever since. Neither sees the fact that he is a student, and nearly five years younger besides, as a problem.

The first time I complained about Efrain and Cory, Laurel reminded me how Jameson and I were when she first moved in with us. We fucked like that all the time, and not only had we been living together for a year already, we'd been dating since I was a high school sophomore and she was still in middle school.

We were worse still when we were fighting all the time about everything. She ended up sleeping on Mike's couch to get away from our screaming matches.

But my behavior when I was too young, dumb, and in love to know better doesn't make their current behavior any less annoying. 

***

Okay, so Cory's legs really can't go back that far. 

He pulled his hamstring, probably some combination of a hit he took during our most recent game and me trying to put his legs behind his head and plowing into him. Although, it most likely my fault. What can I say, sex with him is infinitely hotter when I'm hurting him.

But he's too hurt to move right now – which is why I'm looking for pain pills when Indie starts up on me.

"Aren't you tired of that guy yet?" he asks me from the doorway. This is out of the blue, but it's not the reason I'm surprised. 

"No," I answer truthfully. It amazes me that it's been over three weeks since Cory and I started sleeping together and I'm still not bored with him.

"Pretty long time as far as hook-ups go."

"You can't exactly smash-and-dash someone you're on the same team as," I say.

"How long do I have to deal with him?"

"Him?" His disdain for Cory is a little confusing. I only got Indie's side of the story, but I'm pretty sure Cory was the injured party.

"Yeah, him."

"Get used to him. I'm rather enjoying him."

"Fuck, you can't seriously be thinking about dating the guy."

"Why the fuck not?"

"He's bi."

"And?"

"Your boyfriend's lower half is looser than..."

"Compared to you?" I laugh. "Compared to you nuns are skanks."

"He jumped me readily enough," he says then rolls his eyes. "God, he's probably after you to get back at me."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"No, really. You don't know how these guys are. Fuck, at least you're using condoms with the guy."

I don't answer.

"Please tell me you're using condoms with him."

"It's none of your business."

"Seriously? Men like him are walking STD's."

"Cory's not like that."

"That's what I said about Jameson."

I drag my hand over my face and try to compose myself. This probably counts as the first fight I've ever had with my roommate, and I'm trying to not be a dick. Homeboy isn't making it easy. 

"This shit's about that guy? Fuck that guy, and fuck you. Quit getting your dick bent out of shape because..." I faintly hear Cory's truck fire up in the driveway. "Shit."



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 13



Chapter 13 – Indie Comes to Jesus

"Shit." 

Whatever Efrain had to say is lost as he pushes past me, calling for Cory. He pauses at the door to shoot a terse "fucking asshole" over his shoulder. I can just barely make out a truck engine pulling away. I few moments later, the front door slams shut. 

There's a loud thump followed by a string of curses from Efrain. Then some stomping before his bedroom door slams closed. 

I know I overstepped, but he had to be warned. I decide the best thing right now is to give the guy some space. 

***

Cory is at my door, at three in the damn morning, asking for pain pills and a hug. 

I'm about ready to shut the door on him when I notice how miserable he looks. I quickly usher him inside. My studio apartment is too small for a couch, so I get him comfortable on my bed before I retrieve medicine and a bottle of water. 

"Hey, Preston. This is going to sound really lame, but could you open those for me," he asks when I offer him the bottles. "My arms aren't working right." 

Once open, he shakes out a couple pills and pops them into his mouth. He winces as he brings the water bottle to his lips. He'd also been walking a little stiffly when he came in. I figured he hurt himself during practice.

It isn't until he hands back the pill bottle that I notice his wrists and my stomach drops.

"What happened?" I'm trying to not freak out. Apparently, I'm failing.

"Dude, I have a good twenty pounds on him. This," he says while indicating his wrists, "happened because I wanted it to happen."

I briefly leave him to root around in my bathroom for some ointment and gauze. I stand between his knees and apply cream to his raw skin. "How..."

"Tied me to the bed."

"With what, exactly?"

"Self-sticking Ace bandages."

"Resourceful," I say dryly as I wrap his injuries. "And the rest?"

"Guess I struggled too much."

"You seriously let Wolfie do this?" We'd been using the nickname to discuss Efrain around his roommates and it stuck.

He gives a half-laugh. "Ever cum without touching your dick?"

"Oh my God." Somehow relieved, I put my arms around his shoulders as his arms wrap around my waist. "You're lucky I like you."

"Yeah. I'm pretty damn lucky." His miserable look from earlier returns and he rests his forehead on my stomach. "You know, you're one of my best friends."

"Does Keenan know this?"

"He said you can be my side chick." It should be a joke, but his voice is too flat to do it justice. An uncomfortable silence stretches behind it.

"Gonna tell me what this is about?"

"I'm overreacting like a little bitch."

"I doubt that. I mean, you're the one who started lecturing me when I trash-talked Iceman for going cold on you."

His arms wrap around me tighter.

"I overheard him and Efrain talking about me." 

I figure this story will last longer than my legs can hold me up, so I sit against the headboard and Cory puts his head in my lap. While he fills me in on the conversation, I run my fingers through his baby-fine hair to soothe him. My opinion of Indie sinks further the more Cory tells me about him.

"And after he called you a walking STD..." 

"I don't know," he admits. "Couldn't let 'Rain see me like this, so I left."

"And you came here."

"I didn't feel like dealing with the guys either."

I think about what I could say to reassure him, but by this point, he's all talked out and I'm tired as fuck. We crawl under the covers to catch the last few hours of sleep. 

I've already decided that I need to kick Indie's ass; Wolfie's fate is still undetermined.

***

When I leave for my morning jog, there's a fist-sized hole in the drywall. Efrain missed punching the wall stud by mere inches. I'm a little pissed off about the damage, but he'd already left for the day, and I was running late besides. 

At noon, Mike and I decide to break for lunch. I'm closing the office door before we head to the dining hall just as Romero Mackey catches up to me. 

"Hey, man, I got a question about an essay for Dr. Collins," he says. "When will you be back in your office?"

Before I can answer, I'm accosted by 5-feet-8-inches of hard fury. Preston, the guy Cory had been making out with at Kiley's party, storms up to me and slaps both hands into the middle of my chest, shoving me backward. 

"Move." His voice is cold and forceful, his soft brown eyes seethe with rage.

"What the fuck is this about?" He shoves me another step back and follows me into the office.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," he addresses Mike and Romero, who are watching from the doorway, without looking away from me. "This asshole and I need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting." 

Mike throws up his hands and says about the only thing you can, given the situation. "He's all yours." 

Romero just looks confused.

"What the fuck have you been telling Efrain? The fuck is wrong with you? Are you jealous 'cause you can't get anyone on your dick? Is that why you're talking shit?" he demands. "Or is it because you were too much of a pussy to fuck Cory when you had the chance and now you don't want anyone else to?"

"But..." I start. He grabs me by the front of my shirt and pulls me down. I'm a whole head taller than the guy, but he's pretty fucking strong. I look to Mike and Romero for support. The former looks like he's trying really hard not to laugh, the latter looks like an over-excited Labrador with a new toy.

"Bitch, I don't give a shit about your sad fucking excuses. Cory likes Efrain. A lot. And you're sticking your ass in where it doesn't belong. I swear to mother-fucking God, if you screw things up for them, you pretentious wine-drinking hipster fuck..."

***

"...then he grabs Norman's junk and threatens to twist his cock up like a balloon animal and make him suck his own dick." 

"Oh God." I can't imagine Preston James Finnegan, bow-tie and all, threatening to make someone self-fellate. 

"Damn. Fucker is stone cold," Gio says. 

"That's not the scary part." 

"Hm?"

"He literally has the guy by the balls and is ripping him to shreds. He even details the exact Brazilian jui-jitsu moves he plans to use on him. Did you know he was into that shit?"

I shake my head.

"So, yeah, he's maddogging the fuck out of Indie, who looks like he's about to piss himself, but we hear Dr. Collins coming up the hall and he pulls a complete 180. He's suddenly all chipper chipmunk and trying drag me off for coffee so he can show me videos from his last tournament."

Al laughs. "I can imagine."

"He seriously used the words 'testicular torsion.'"

"Sounds like an awesome name for a band," Gio comments.

"Oh, hell yes!" Al's band already has a name, but they've been arguing about album names for a couple weeks.

The guys move on to another topic and I stop paying attention. I still haven't talked to Efrain, and I probably need to talk to Preston, too. But, all I really want to do is turn off my phone and go back to bed.

"Oh, before I forget." Something in Romero's voice grabs my attention. I have a bad feeling about this. "We have an ID on Cory's Wolfie." 

As if the situation couldn't get worse.

***

My shoulders and legs are sore enough that I feel it's a good enough excuse to skip football practice. Vuis agreed to let me off the hook as long as I visit the trainers so they can look me over. I figured if I went before the guys started coming in for practice, I could avoid seeing Efrain. My head is still too fucked up to deal with him, or anyone else for that matter.

Unfortunately, he's waiting for me when I leave the trainer's office.

He drags me into an empty room and locks the door. His body presses me against the wall and he holds my face in his hands. His mouth slants hungrily across mine. Against my better judgement, I kiss him back. This only further knots my jacked up emotions.

"This isn't the best place to talk," he says and looks like he's about to say more. Instead, he shows me his cellphone where he has a text message from someone he has labeled as "Epic Douchebag."

"Tell your boyfriend to call off his attack twink," I read out loud. He moves it away, but not before I read his answer – Consider yourself lucky. My boyfriend's attack twink isn't the one who wants to strangle you. 

"So, you have an attack twink?"

"Seems so."

"Kinda sad that I missed that," he rests his forehead against mine. "You turned off your phone."

"Sorry."

"How much did you hear last night?"

"More than I wanted to."

"Why'd you leave?"

I take a fortifying breath. "This isn't a smash-and-dash," I start and he winces. "But it isn't a relationship either. My hurt feelings are above your pay grade."

"Cory..."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine."

"I just need to cool down."

"We need to talk about this."

"But not right now. I just want to go back to bed," I say as I slip away from him. I leave the room before he can form a reply.

***

Everything's making me fucking pissed off. 

Silence is pissing me off. My pencil tapping on my book is pissing me off. My leg bouncing under the table is pissing me off. Looking at the same goddamn problem all night is pissing me off.

I tried playing some music to calm down, but it started to feel like one of those stupid fucking montages they have in romantic comedies where the guy fucks up and the bitch won't talk to him. 

Above my fucking pay grade. What kind of fucking bullshit is that?

There's a tentative knock on my door, and for the first time in a while, I'm excited that Indie is home because I really want to break shit and his bitch-ass face seems like a pretty fucking good place to start.

Instead, a soft feminine voice calls me.

"Efrain?"

"It's open, Laurel," I say without turning around. I open my hand to set down my pencil, only to find that I'd just snapped the stupid thing in half. I'm still staring down at it when she hugs my shoulders from behind and rests her chin on my head.

"Hey, roomie."

"Hey."

"Heard you had a bad day."

"From who?"

"Mike," she answers. "Seems the secretary of the GSA threatened to rip off Indie's dick and feed it to him."

"He fucking deserves it."

"I know. Once I got the whole story out of him, I was hard pressed not to do it myself."

I manage a half laugh at this. I've only known Laurel for this past year, and not as well at that considering that she practically lives at her boyfriend's apartment, but she's always struck me as too sweet and nurturing to beat up the guy she's been best friends with for nearly a decade.

"Mike and I decided he should stay on our couch tonight, so you weren't tempted to kill him in his sleep."

"What brought you here, then?"

"Figured you needed someone to talk to. You're kind of a lone wolf."

"I guess so."

"I also busted Indie's lip open."

I can't help smiling at this.

"Oh, that's an improvement," she laughs. Then my stomach growls (I was pissed off about being hungry, but more pissed off about having to cook). "Come on. I know I'm not as good as you are in the kitchen, but I can still put something together."

Laurel rummages through the kitchen for dinner ideas. She finds some over-priced grass-fed organic strip steaks in the fridge. They're Indie's, and when I tell her this, she decides that steak is exactly what I need. 

The dinner theme becomes "Indie's stuff" as we pull together the rest of our menu. 

While she pan-sears Indie's steaks, I slice up Indie's baby portabella mushrooms and sauté them in Indie's Irish butter. She deglazes the pan with Indie's Merlot and pours that over the mushrooms. We steam Indie's fresh green beans with cracked pepper and salt and nuke Indie's sweet potatoes in the microwave. We're halfway through a six-pack of Indie's locally-bottled craft beer by the time we're ready to dig in.

I could live another 19 years and still not have a more satisfying meal. 

After dinner, I fill her in on my side of the story while we drink Indie's Moscato d'Asti and share a pint of Indie's pistachio gelato on the couch. I'm surprised that mine and Indie's versions of what happened last night match up. She isn't. Indie still doesn't think he did anything wrong. 

"He doesn't make friends easily, but he does care about you." I scoff at that. "No, really," she insists. "Other than Mike, you're the only friend he's made since coming here."

It's weird, but I do think of him as a friend, too. I still want to rearrange his face.

"I know I was using you at first to scrub all traces of Jameson from that bedroom, but Indie's done a lot better since you came along." She'd told me a little about the tragic saga of Indie and Jameson before. I'm still having a hard time imagining Indie crying himself to sleep for weeks at a time, but I never knew him when he wasn't so cold and cynical.

"He's still an asshole."

"Yes, we're working on that," she says absently. "Have you talked to Cory yet?"

"I tried. He wasn't even taking my calls and he skipped class and practice." Then I tell her about running into him at the locker complex.

"And how'd that make you feel?"

"Fucking pissed off." 

"You don't want his feelings to be above your paygrade."

I think about this for a moment. "Makes sense."

She gives me a knowing grin. "This is amusing."

"What?"

"You fell for him."

"I did not."

"You did," she giggles. "Hard."

"Shit."

"I told you your silly little rules were going to bite you in the ass."



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 14



Chapter 14 – The B-word

I'm in the middle of my early morning errand when I get a text from Cory's roommate.

hes acting all weird and emo fix it

I briefly wonder what exactly Romero thinks I can do, but I figure I might as well get details.

he wont get out of bed and is skipping class again

Seriously, that's it? Sleeping in and skipping class. How is that any different from your average college freshman?

just check on him hes creeping me out

I relent and message Romero that I'm on my way. 

* * *

I doze for a bit after my roommates leave for whatever they have going on. 

I climbed into bed when I got back from the locker complex yesterday. I couldn't find the motivation to get back up, so I stayed under my blanket. When Romero asked if I wanted to get dinner, I lied and said I ate already. Pretty much the same thing I told him about lunch earlier.

The sound of the bedroom door closing wakes me back up. For all I know, it's someone here to steal shit, but I still can't be bothered to roll over to look. 

However, it's Preston's voice I hear before the covers are lifted and a warm body slips into bed with me. The width of the bed forces him to snuggle against my back, but he puts his arm around me and hugs me closer. 

"Hey, big guy." As if validating my misery, his presence sends another wave of it crashing over me. 

"Hey, Preston."

"You know you have to get up eventually."

"Why bother? I'm benched for this week's game and they have me on modified conditioning."

"Your shoulders and legs are that bad?"

"No. They just don't want to risk a worse injury," I tell him.

"So, have you talked to your guy yet?"

"Kinda."

"Kinda?"

"I ran into him after I saw the trainer. Kept insisting that he wanted to talk, but I begged off."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Scared of what he'd say."

"What could he possibly say?"

"I don't know," I admit. "That he agrees with Indie. That I'm acting like a girl. That I'm getting too serious for a friends-with-benefits thing."

"The fact that he wants to talk is a good sign."

"Or it could just be my wishful thinking."

Preston seems like he's about the protest this, but my phone cuts him off.

* * *

Before I can get on Cory's case for being so goddamn pessimistic, his phone rings from its place on the charger. Efrain's name appears on the screen. I grab it and swipe to answer the call before he can reject it. Cory glares at me when I pass it to him.

"Hey," he says and rolls back over. 

I snuggle back up to his back, mostly so I can hear Efrain's voice. It's so deep and rich that I'm pretty sure he could talk me to climax. I'll have to ask Cory if he's tried it when he's done being gloomy.

"Hey, man. I'm sorry I got you benched."

"S'okay. I at least enjoyed it."

"Cory, I promise to go easy next time," he says and Cory smiles a little but says nothing in response. 

The silence stretches a little too long, and I'm afraid that they're not going to fix anything. I'm about to intervene when Efrain speaks up.

"Listen. I really need to talk to you. I know you want some space and all that, but..." he trails off with a frustrated sigh. 

I hear Cory swallow as if trying to hold something in. Yeah, it's time for me to step in.

I pull the phone from Cory's grasp. He protests and tries to take it back, but I roll over and hit the speaker.

"Hey, Efrain, you there?"

"Yeah," he says warily. "Who's this?"

"Goddammit, Preston, gimme the fucking phone."

"Aha, the attack twink."

"Attack twink? I think I like the sound of that." I'll confess, my grin is a little too evil given the situation. Cory flops back down on the bed with a resigned sigh.

"I got a pissy text from my roommate yesterday afternoon. Thank you, by the way."

"I still want to kick him."

"Get in line, my man," he laughs. Fuck, even his laugh is sexy. "If it makes you feel any better, his best friend slapped him hard enough to bust his lip open."

"Ooooooh! That does make me feel better!"

"Is Cory still there?"

"He is, but you two are acting like idiots and need fucking help." Both make equal sounds of indignation. I march on before they can mount a protest. "I agree that you need to talk, but Mr. Man over here is trying to skip class for the second day in a row, which I fully intend to fix."

"Excuse me?" Cory squawks.

"We're all going to class, and you're both going to practice." Cory starts to object, but I cut him off. "You will go to conditioning, whether you like it or not. Or do you really want to be benched for a second game?" 

He exhales slowly. "No."

"That's what I thought." Cory narrows his eyes at me, but says nothing. "Now, as for you two. Efrain, Cory will take you home after practice today. You will talk then."

"Fair enough," Efrain responds evenly.

"Alright, now that that's settled, we need to let you go. Someone's roommate informed me that he's been skipping meals, too."

"Fuck," Efrain says miserably. "Cory, I..."

"Don't worry about him, I've got the situation in hand," I say briskly. "Say 'see ya,' guys." 

There's a slight pause before Efrain complies and Cory follows. I hang up the phone.

* * *

"Hey, Mike."

"Yes, Indie," he answers without looking up from his stack of ungraded essays.

"Did you put these here?" I point to the pile of clear plastic blocks sitting in the middle of my desk blotter. 

"No, they were there when I got here," he answers. "What are they anyway?"

"I don't know." I pick a couple up and toss one to him. They're cut to look like ice cubes, but have faces drawn on each of the six sides in what appears to be black permanent marker. 

"Kinda interesting," he says. "They're all mean faces." 

I look at the cubes in my hand. Sure enough, each side has a different type, which is repeated on the six sides of the other cubes.

"Almost like dice," I say and stack the curious little things in front of my computer monitor.

* * *

I'm pretty miffed at Preston for this morning, but I guess it's for the best. I suppose the sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can work on getting myself straight.

Efrain means a lot to me, but he's never indicated that he feels the same way. I'm falling for him, but I've been too afraid of ruining what we do have to ask for more. I did a good job of pretending to be okay with our existing agreement, but the night before last made it harder to hide how I felt. Just sleeping with him isn't going to be enough. 

If that means we can't be together at all, then so be it.

True to Preston's arrangement, Efrain meets me outside of the locker complex to walk with me to my truck.

"Preston is an interesting guy," he ventures.

"He is," I respond. 

"You guys seem close."

"Pretty much."

We continue our walk in silence until we reach the truck and climb in. I start up the engine and pull out on to the road.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks after a bit.

I'm thinking about how ironic it is that our relationship begins and ends with me driving him home from practice. But, I can't exactly tell him this, so I give a noncommittal shrug.

"Cory, how do you feel about what we're doing?"

"I can't really say."

"I suppose not," he says with a sigh. He's silent for a bit, and I assume he's letting the whole matter go. But, then he speaks again. "We're not going to get anywhere unless one of us drops the poker face."

"What?"

"I'm too chicken-shit to say anything, and you're too chicken-shit to say anything, so nobody says anything, and we're stuck with nothing. Right?" 

He seems to take my silence as agreement and presses forward. 

"Dude, I've been after you for a long time. This is the first time I've been in this situation, but I'm pretty sure that gives me the right to give a fuck about you."

"I never said you weren't allowed to care," I say. "I just didn't want to force you."

"You're not forcing me." He rests his elbow on his side of the center console and his fingers brush against my hand. When I don't move away, he lays his hand on top of mine. "Indie said some really shitty things that I wish you hadn't heard. If it means anything, I don't think those things about you."

His words mean a lot, but I can't find the right things to say in response. Instead, I turn my hand palm up and our fingers lace together. He squeezes my hand and rubs his thumb in little circles against the heel. I steal a quick glance at him and he smiles. We don't let go of each other until I pull into his driveway. 

"Mind coming in with me to continue this?" 

"Not at all." I smile, I mean really smile, for the first time in two days. 

Once on the other side of the door, Efrain pulls me into his arms. He and I hold each other in the foyer. 

"You know, there's one thing that Indie said that I liked," he says after a while. "Actually, he said it quite a lot."

My whole body goes cold and I pull away, but Efrain takes my face in his hands and kisses me gently. 

"Boyfriend." 

"Huh?"

"He called you my boyfriend." He kisses me again and I melt. 

"I gotta say, I rather like the sound of that," I say and kiss him back. His arms come up around my waist and the gentle kissing gives way to something more intense and need-filled.

"If I'd known it would make you this deliriously happy," Efrain says when we finally come up for air. "I would have called you the b-word sooner." 

"You mean bitch?" I joke as my mouth moves down to the sensitive spot just below his jaw. His fingers grip me tighter when my tongue dances over it. "Preston calls me bitch all the time and it doesn't make me happy." 

"I meant boyfriend."

"I know." My low voice breathes across his ear and a hum of pleasure rises from his chest. "I just wanted to make you say it again."

"I'll say it as much as you want," he tells me. His hands roam over my back all the way down to my hips and thighs before finally settling on my ass. He spreads his fingers out over both rounded globes and grabs me hard, grinding me against his burgeoning erection. "Fuck, I know it's only been two days, but I missed you."

"I missed you, too," I answer breathlessly. His mouth finds mine again and I'm unable to catch my breath.

"So, how 'bout we go make up for missed time?"

* * *

they made up. u can prob go home w/o getting ur ass kicked

I get Laurel's text just as I'm about to enter the office for the morning. I'm not really happy about the development, but I guess if it smooths things over with Efrain, then whatever. I'm still making him pay to repair the hole in the drywall.

As I approach my desk, there's another offering left on the desk blotter. I set down my coffee and pick up the toy. This time, it's a small goofy looking snowman with buckteeth and some twigs coming out the top of his head like hair.

I'm still trying to puzzle out what this thing is when Mike comes in. 

"Olaf! I fucking love Olaf!"

"Is that what this is?" I say, waving it at him.

"Didn't you see Frozen?"

"I avoid Disney movies on principle."

"God, you're no fun," he complains.

I put "Olaf," or whoever the fuck he is, next to my pile of angry ice cubes. 

"I'm plenty of fun." 



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 15



Smitten Wolfie, Drunken Boyfriend 

This is what I hate about Cards Against Humanity. I have the suckassiest hand, and have to play a lame as fuck card, only to pull up the most perfect card. Not like it would matter. Laurel's friends are fucking idiots and wouldn't get a clever play if it bit their basic asses. Her posse of girlfriends and attendant boyfriends brought over cheap alcohol, but have been steadily plowing through my craft brews and wine. Laurel and Efrain still haven't apologized or paid me back for what they drank (and ate - I can forgive the steaks, but I was looking forward to that fucking gelato. She knows pistachio is my favorite). 

If it wasn't for my stupid TV, I wouldn't have to deal with them. 

Letting Jameson talk me into buying a bigass flatscreen was the worst idea ever. Now, I have to put up with Efrain and Cory watching Sports Center all Sunday and Laurel bringing over friends for dinner and movies. 

They made me watch Frozen. I thought I had escaped that stupid movie, but now Mike and Laurel are singing "Let it Go" and I'm unable to get the godforsaken song out of my head. Just when I think I finally got rid of it, one of them will start singing again and Laurel's friends will join in like the mindless lemmings they are. Mike even started randomly texting me lines from the stupid fucking song whenever he thought I needed a reminder. 

And if that wasn't bad enough, they brought out the board games. 

One of the boyfriends pulls up ESPN, so he can watch recaps from this afternoon's game while we play. Cory and Efrain did some impressive something or other and got a little screentime. I have to admit, they're both pretty photogenic, even sweaty and wearing eyeblack. However, seeing my hot roommate wearing his usual black bandana over his near-ebony waves, and his equally hot boyfriend sporting that braided leather choker he's been wearing for over a month, running around in skin-tight football pants does more to piss me off than anything else because I still remember how much sleep I lose when they spend the night together. 

So, between stupid fucking Disney, Laurel's friends drinking my alcohol, hot football players who have loud raucous sex with each other, and bad Cards Against Humanity hands, my night fucking sucks. 

As if the evening couldn't get worse, I hear Cory's truck screech to a halt into the driveway. My lip finally healed up a couple days ago, but Efrain has been keeping us separated as much as possible. Seems my grace period is over. 

Two doors slam shut, and I hear him and Efrain laughing and horsing around in the driveway. Everyone else in the room is guffawing over the latest round, so they're caught completely unaware when the two massive football players who were just on screen tumble through the door, drunk and about two seconds from fornicating with each other. 

* * * 

"Road head." 

I glance over at Cory, drunk off his ass in the passenger seat. 

"Come again?" 

"I've never given road head," he says. He starts unbuckling his seat belt. "I want to give you road head." 

Admitting that he can't hold his liquor was probably the worst thing Cory could have told the crew. Next thing you know, we're back from taking his truck on a keg run and everyone is surreptitiously keeping his cup full. I tried to stop them, but they started ragging on me. 

Thankfully, they didn't get the Baker-worthy cringe-fest they'd hoped for. 

Instead, he and Teague spent all night having deeply philosophical conversations about quantum physics and string theory. It weirded everyone the fuck out, but wasn't anything to post on Facebook about. Then, when I finally got him away from the guys, he dropped a bomb on me. 

I caught him alone in the hallway on his way back from taking a leak. I wanted to make sure he's alright, but he had other ideas. He pushed me against the wall and kissed me. 

"Did I ever tell you how really horny alcohol makes me?" He slurred against my mouth. I touched up my hair again, so he's been running his hands over the stubble on the sides and back whenever we're alone. He already pulled the rest of my hair out of the topknot so he could run his fingers through it. He has to know how much it gets me going. 

"You should take advantage of my ine...inebri...inebriated state and have your way with me." 

I rolled my eyes and groaned. "Oh yay, whiskey dick." 

"But, I didn't drink any whiskey," he said. "Besides, my dick isn't the one we need to get up." 

And then, he dove for my junk. Good thing we were alone in the hallway. I decided it was time to call it a night, so I loaded my loaded boyfriend into his truck and headed back to my place. 

He at least waited until we were out of the neighborhood before he started trying to pull my dick out of my pants. 

Not going to lie - I'm turned on as fuck, especially with the added danger of getting caught, but that's seriously the last thing we need. I can see the headlines. I mean, it's all there - two underage football players, caught en flagrante, and under influence (I'm pretty sure I'm not legally drunk, but I definitely have a decent buzz going). 

As much as my dick is protesting it, I make Cory keep his seatbelt on. He still plays with me the whole ride home, running his hands over any part of my body he can get at - hair, chest, stomach, arms, thighs, cock. Worse still, I avoid looking at him, but I can still see him out the corner of my eye giving himself the same attention. 

"You are so getting it when I get you inside," I manage to grind out as I pull into the subdivision. We're both riled up and breathing hard by this point. 

"Is that supposed to scare me, 'Rain?" 

"No," I say, tapping under his chin with my finger. "But, you're trembling just the same." 

He licks his lips nervously, and I think I have him cowed for the moment, but then he firmly grabs my cock through my jeans and rubs me in just the right way. I lose it. My foot comes down on the break harder than I intended and the truck screeches to a halt in the driveway. 

"I'm going to nail the fuck out of your ass," I moan. 

"You'll have to catch me first," he whoops and runs out of the truck. 

I give chase. 

It takes a few laps around the truck before I finally grab him. I'm faster and lighter than him, but I still count myself lucky that he's drunk and wants to be caught. I wrap my arms around him from behind, so I can corral him into the house. We hobble, laughing and breathing heavy, toward the front door. As I'm unlocking the door, he turns around in my arms and kisses me hard. His tongue traces my bottom lip before he bites it. 

"How bad am I going to get it?" 

"Hmm," I say, my voice heavy with arousal. "You won't be able to sit down for days." 

"That's it?" he murmurs against my mouth. He rolls his hips against me, and I'm so lost in the feel of our cocks rubbing against each other's body that I forget to worry about my neighbors seeing us. It's late, but I'm sure we're making enough noise outside to wake up somebody. 

"There are no words for what I'm about to do to you." I manage to get the door open and we tumble in. 

We make it a few steps past the foyers before he body-checks me against the wall. It knocks my head, making little dizzy tingles go through me as he grinds against me. His tongue steals into my mouth and I can't help moaning. 

"So, when you gonna start wrecking my ass?" He nibbles my jaw and moves down my neck. I lift my chin to give him access, and that's when I notice that we have an audience. Indie, along with Laurel, Mike, and a couple people I don't know, gape at us from the living room. 

"Oh, hi," I say, just as Cory makes this adorable growling sound and bites my neck. My knees go weak and my eyes roll back. He starts sucking on my neck, and I bite back a moan. "Uhm, CC..." 

"Si Si?" he chuckles against my neck. He purrs a low "yes, yes" in my ear. 

Okay, I'm new to using pet names; calling him "Babe" or whatever just feels weird. 

"Cory," I try again. "We aren't alone." 

He finally lifts his head and looks at the room. 

"Oh, it's Indie," he says dismissively. He turns back to me. "Who gives a fuck about Indie?" 

"It's not just Indie," I start, but he cuts me off. 

"You know, Indie didn't want to build a snowman with me," he pouts. It's absolutely sinful that a 210lbs, muscled-up man should look this hot while being pouty and cute. 

"What are you even talking about?" 

"Preston still calls him Iceman," he says. 

"Iceman?" Indie asks. God, he looks pissed. Laurel giggles. 

"Preston has a bunch of others - Mr. Freeze, Frostybitch, Asswrecker, Southpole..." he starts listing off. With each entry on the list, Indie inches closer to fucking exploding. Mike's fighting really hard to not laugh his ass off. The others in the room (most likely Mike or Laurel's friends because Indie doesn't make friends) don't even know what to make of the spectacle. 

I need to get Cory out of here fast. 

"Come on," I say, dragging him off. 

"Yes! Bedtime!" 

Before I get him out of the room, he turns around to address the living room. 

"Y'all might wanna turn up the TV," Cory calls back to them. "I get pretty loud." 

"I'll try to keep him quiet," I tell Indie, whose face is almost red. It's either from rage or embarrassment, but I'm not sticking around to find out which. 

I breathe a sigh of relief when I get him to my bedroom. God, this fucker is going down. I hope he doesn't have any plans for walking out my room for the next couple days. 

"Ooooooh. Is shit about to get real?" he giggles. I shoot him a level look. He laughs and dances out of my reach. "I like when shit gets real." 

As if he has no idea that he's walking toward his doom, he waltzes to the bed. I put on some music before I follow. A lifetime of shucking off his shoes at any opportunity has left Cory with a preternatural ability for getting things off his feet. He already has his socks and shoes off and is jumping into bed by the time I get off my first shoe. Guess whose shoes didn't have laces. Hint: he's not the one sitting in the middle of the bed, waiting for the other to join him. 

I pull my shirt over my head, as if to even us up, as I close the distance between us. He follows my lead. When I unbutton my jeans and lower the zipper, he does the same. I pause. Cory's still grinning widely, as if he isn't about to get fucked within an inch of his life. I drop my jeans to the floor and watch as he pulls off his and crawls on all fours to the edge of the bed. 

I stand in front of him. He dips down and playfully slurps his tongue over my abs, between my pecs, along my collarbone, and onto my neck, where he growls and bites me again. He laughs and says something that I swear sounded like "good boy." 

Enough of this shit. 

I grip his chin and kiss him hard. His fingers hook into my waistband and draw down my boxer briefs until my cock springs free. The fabric falls down my legs and I kick them off. He pulls out his own cock and grips both members in one hand. He eases his hand up and down our shafts while I send my free hand down to his trunks. I slip them over his hips, exposing his mouth-watering ass. I rub over both cheeks, pull them apart, tease the sensitive bud between. He gasps when I grip him hard and trembles when I smack him. The tips of my fingers soothe the sharp sting of my palm before I hit smack him again. Cory jumps, thrusting his hips forward and making his cock rub against mine. 

Through all this, my other hand maintains its hold on his chin while I continue plundering his mouth until he whimpers in surrender. 

When I pull back, a panting and trembling Cory kneels in place of the laughing and playful one of only a few moments prior. I can't help grinning. I shove him back and crawl on top of him, yanking off his underwear as I go. I lie between his thighs, bracing myself on my forearms, and grind my hips into his. His legs wrap around me and his hands grip my biceps. 

"Nothing quippy to say about this?" I growl into his ear. 

"No," he pants, short nails digging into my arms. 

"Good boy." I reach over for the bottle of lube I left on the nightstand after this morning's beatoff session and squirt some onto my fingers. I reach between our bodies to seek out his ass. My middle finger sinks easily into his hole, so I thrust in a second finger. I twist my hand back and forth, scissoring my fingers inside him, and his back arches off the bed. 

I slip out my fingers long enough to lube up my dick and press my head against him. 

"No more foreplay. I'm taking your ass." 

"Yes," he begs. "Please." 

The tip of my cock forces past his inner ring. I marvel at the tightness encircling me as I sheath my dick in his hot ass. 

"Ay, que rico," he purrs. Before I have no more than a third of my length buried inside, I pull back, almost to the tip, and slowly thrust back into him. I fuck him slowly with these short, shallow thrusts until he starts panting and pleading for more. 

"Please, 'Rain." 

"What is it, Cory?" I stare into his arousal-darkened blue eyes. "Tell me what you want." 

"I need more." 

"More?" I ask. 

"Please, give me your cock," he whines. I continue my torturous movements, despite knowing exactly what he's pleading for. "I promise I'll be a good boy." 

"I doubt that," I respond and he whimpers in frustration. "But, I have an idea." 

I reach over to my nightstand for the washcloth I used to clean off my cum this morning. 

"Open your mouth." 

"But..." 

"I thought you promised to be a good boy." 

He obeys, and I shove my jizzrag between his teeth. A look of confusion steals over his face, but I grab both of his hands and pin them above his head before he can react. 

"Yeah, it's exactly what you think it is," I tell him as I thrust deeper into him. He starts panting in indignation and I laugh. "Oh, please. You know you like it." 

He fights it, but I pull back and thrust into him again, digging further in his ass. His eyes roll back and his head falls against the pillows. 

"That what you wanted?" Cory's deep moan is muffled by the rag, but it still vibrates between our chests. 

His legs come up and wrap around my waist. The angle of his hips sends my cockhead over his prostate and his moans get louder. Still unsatisfied with my progress, he digs his heels into my ass and shoves me down into his hole. I grunt as I bottom out in him. He clenches hard around me, and his whole body shivers. 

"So, all that talk about being good," I start, my words growling out between clenched teeth. I reposition his hands so I can hold both wrists in one hand. My free hand hooks under his arm to grip his shoulder for leverage. I pull back my hips, pulling my dick out of his ass completely. He whimpers in protest. I pause, waiting until he's about to breathe out, before I slam my cock into his ass so brutally that it forces the air out of his lungs. "You're just making your punishment that much worse."  

Cory throws back his head and screams around a mouthful of jizz- and lube-soaked terrycloth. I pull back again to repeat the move and he screams even louder. 

I fuck him hard and fast. His thighs grip my waist, urging me on. There's nothing left of my rational mind to give a fuck about who can hear us, but my impromptu gag is doing a decent job of keeping his screams muffled. 

My entire body comes alive at the feel of his tight ass pulling me deeper. His ass spasms around me and I feel my balls pull tighter to the base of my cock. I free his hands. 

"Jerk your dick," I tell him. "I want to feel you cum while I unload in your ass." 

One hand complies with my command, while the other wraps across my shoulders. I slip my newly-freed hand under to grab his other shoulder. With both hands in position, I slam into his body even harder. I feel his short nails digging into my back hard enough to leave marks. 

I hold back my orgasm until I feel the early stages of his - the tightening of his legs around my waist, the whole body trembling, the spasmodic clenching in his ass. He jerks his dick harder before throwing back his head and screaming. Jets of hot cum splash us both, coating our chests, before I explode. 

"Fuck!" 

I cum harder than I expected to and rush to bury my face against his neck to muffle the desperate noises falling out of me as my dick unloads in his ass. I keep thrusting into him, shooting cum deeper and deeper into his ass. His teeth bite down hard on the washcloth and his voice rises in ecstasy. My hips plow him as if possessed and working completely of their own will. The burn of his nails marking my back heightens the shocks rocking my body. 

It seems like forever before I finally wind down. I'm as much of a panting, whimpering mess as he is when our limbs finally untangle and my dick slips out of him. He pulls the cumrag out of his mouth and we take turns using it to clean up before we curl up and fall asleep. 

* * * 

"Oh my God, that was so hot." 

I'm mad enough to spit fire by the time Efrain pulls Cory out of sight, but one of Laurel's friends snaps me out of it. A bunch of us shoot her a confused look. 

"I think I came a little," breathes the other. Her cheeks are flush and a nervous giggle rises from her mouth. But, she clears her throat and the moment passes. 

It's my turn to play card czar, so I pick up a black card. I'm about to read it when I notice one of the boyfriends, the one who turned on ESPN, staring at the hall leading to Efrain's room with a look of confused horror fixed on his face. 

Seems that display broke his simple little dude-bro brain. I don't even both trying to not laugh my ass off. 

"What's so funny, Indie?" I can't stop laughing long enough to answer Laurel, so I just wave my hand in the poor guy's direction. The other boyfriend gets a good look at the comical thousand-yard stare before he's rolling, too. 

"That's probably our cue to go," he chokes out. 

"Holy fuck," I snort while he starts gathering the cards. "That alone was worth a whole night of playing 7th wheel." 

"Here, I'll help you clean up," Laurel offers and Mike stands to join her. 

"No," I wave, eyes tearing up because I can't stop laughing. "I'll take care of it." Cory will most likely be hungover tomorrow, which will make noisy early morning house cleaning a very rewarding activity. 

It takes a few minutes, but I herd everyone out the door and lock it behind them. Three sets of car doors close, and three engines turn over, and I finally have my house back (give or take a couple football players rutting like animals in the master suite). 

As I'm shutting off the lights and locking down for the night, I hear a roar that I can only assume is Efrain's orgasm. He did say he'd keep Cory quiet. He said nothing about himself. 

I'm chuckling a little to myself, feeling slightly less peeved with my roommate and his boyfriend, when I get a text from Mike. 

THE COLD NEVER BOTHERED ME ANYWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY 

Did I mention how much I fucking hate Disney?



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 16



Author's Note - This chapter was kind of a pain in the ass, but I still had fun writing it. 

I've received a couple emails commenting on my epic grammar skills. I probably read my manuscripts a dozen or so times before I post 'em (and just as many times again AFTER I post), but I always miss one or two things. Even had to put in a last minute revision for chapter 15, and I still missed shit. It's like one or two errors, but they haunt me at night. 

This is coming from the guy who agonizes over whether or not to use an exclamation mark and worries that his switch to past tense narrative will throw off readers, so grain of salt. 

I'm using some Spanish and Japanese slang in this chapter, so I'll drop a few quick glosses here. Acho and vato are Spanish slang for man and dude, respectively. I can't bring myself to have our boys call each other "baby" (Cory would do it, but it seemed too out of character for Efrain). Acho and vato seem like a decent compromise, and would allow them to use the petnames around people they aren't out to. 

Neko and tachi are Japanese slang for bottom and top. Neko means cat and tachi is a type of Japanese sword. Makes sense, right? Nekokke is how the Japanese describe what we call "baby fine" hair. Neko and nekokke are where Cory's Kitten petname comes from. Incidentally, Itoshi no Nekokke (literally "My Darling Kitten Hair"), probably one of my favorite yaoi stories of all time, influenced Cory's character design and the story overall (Kurose Riku from Ten Count influenced Efrain's character...along with Geralt of Rivia's haircut from Witcher III...Oh, Geralt yous a manbeast). I didn't realize it at the time, but totally I made them a shiro/kuro (white/black) pairing. Bonus, fans of yaoi and shounen-ai are sometimes called fujoshi and fudanshi (meaning, rotten girl and rotten boy). Romero went full fudanshi. You never go full fudanshi. 

This is my longest chapter to date, and probably the longest I've gone so far without an update. Hope it's worth the wait! ~ Dayne 

***** 

Chapter 16 - El Amorío de Acho y Vato 

I carefully eased out from under Efrain's arm and out of his warm bed. I padded across the room toward my drawer to get something to wear. 

About three weeks into our relationship (the fuckbuddy one, not the boyfriend part) Efrain decided that it was silly for me to carry a bag full of clothes and toiletries back and forth when I stayed over, and that it was even sillier for me to leave early so I could run back to my place to shower and change before class. He cleared out a drawer in his bureau and set aside a space in his closet. Pretty soon, I had a collection of underwear, pajamas, street clothes, and shoes at his place. 

As I pulled out a pair of lounge pants to slip on, it occurred to me that I should have known Efrain saw me as more than just a regular hook-up. A toothbrush and a bottle of my favorite body wash kinda pushed the confines of "no-strings," a couple pairs of my shoes and some changes of clothes violated it all together. We'd been a romantic couple before we even thought to add the labels. The thought sent another wave of warm, giddy feelings over me - the kind where I can't think of anything else but cuddling back up to him and kissing him awake. 

It's weird, but we kinda regressed to this stage where we spend stupid amounts of time snuggling and snogging. Like, we'd be doing some random mundane thing, then one of us would give the other an innocent peck. The peck would be matched with a nibble, the nibble would become a series of nibbling kisses, the kisses would lead to a tongue seeking entry, the tongue would gently coax its mate into the dance, and so on until it's half an hour later and we're still locked in a tantalizingly gentle exchange rife with longing gazes, soft caresses, and tender sighs. We still fucked like rabbits, if the delicious ache in my hips was any indication, but within all that were the various wonderful emotions attendant to falling for someone. I didn't know about Efrain, but, God, I was falling fucking hard for him. 

I guess we owed it to Indie for forcing Efrain and me to open up about what we wanted. 

I pulled on a pair of soft fleece lounge pants and a t-shirt. I grabbed my hoodie, too. It was late October, and a hell of a lot colder than Texas. The average high for Blacksburg was the average low for Cibolo. I wasn't quite sure if I liked this. I mean, it would take another month or two for a cold front to mosey on down to South Texas. Everyone back home was still in shorts and shit, while I was already bundled up in my hoodies and begging Mom to send me a winter coat. 

I really wanted to get back in bed with my furnace of a boyfriend (he considered the current weather refreshing and was still in his t-shirts most days), but I really needed some water and ibuprofen. I drank a lot more than I meant to last night, but I wasn't suffering too badly. I did figure out rather late that I'm a horny drunk and a lightweight, but I was quite pleased to discover that I never got hungover. No, this had more to do with having a dirty washcloth crudely shoved in my mouth and getting held down while my boyfriend pounded my ass. 

Man, last night was fun. 

I knew Indie was in the kitchen even before I walked in. I could hear the loud clanking of dishes from Efrain's room. It was his vacuuming that woke me up this morning. 

He was at the sink, looking oddly cheerful for someone working his way through a massive stack of dirty dishes. I vaguely remembered a room full of people last night; I think he may have had friends over for dinner or something. 

For some reason, the noise seemed too loud for normal dishwashing. The sound of clanking dishes got even louder when I said good morning to him. 

He wasn't wearing the dozen or so earrings I'm used to seeing him with, but still had in all his facial piercings - two sets of silver balls straddling the outer edge of his right eyebrow, a bullring through his septum (I still wonder how he blows his nose with that thing), and a little silver ball at either side of his bottom lip. I could see the bar going through his tongue when he spoke. Not going to lie, but I still thought those piercings were sexy as fuck (even Efrain had to admit he's thought about what a blowjob from Indie would feel like). 

"Coffee?" he asked. He gestured at the coffee pot with his elbow since both hands were submerged in soapy water jostling dirty pots against each other. The dishwasher hummed and sloshed under the counter. 

"That actually sounds pretty good." I always loved cupping my hands around a warm mug when it got cold. 

I already knew that Indie was a morning person. He got up every morning, no matter what the weather looked like, to go running. I'd often run into him when I slipped out to shower and change in my dorm room. He was usually on his second cup of coffee or heading out himself. I had offered him a lift to school a few times, but he always politely declined. 

"How's the hangover?" he asked sunnily and, for whatever reason, louder than he needed to. 

"Nonexistent." 

Indie looked a little disappointed, but appeared to recover quickly. I didn't know if it was my imagination, but the clanking of dishes seemed to get quieter. I rummaged through their cabinets for the necessary supplies for pain relief and caffeination. 

"You two seemed to have fun last night," he said, a big leering grin spread across his face. 

"Yeah," I said noncommittally. "I enjoyed myself." 

"Gave Laurel's friends quite the show," he said as he rinsed and dried his hands. He turned and leaned his hip against the counter and calmly sipped from his cup. "Oh, and you traumatized a fan. I think he was a little uncomfortable being in a gay man's home, but the sight of two football players all but fucking each other four yards away might have been enough to put him in the psyche ward." 

"I have no idea what..." and then I remembered, and my face went a little pink. 

"At least they got the fuck out of my house," he smirked. "And before you started squealing." 

"I do not squeal." 

"You kidding me? I can hear you both in my room with the door closed," he said. "Not a peep out of you last night, though." 

My cheeks grew hotter, and I was sure I was blushing pretty hard. Fucking WASP ancestry and its fairer fucking skin tones. I can't even tan enough to hide my blushes. Yet, I was surprisingly not embarrassed about being overheard. I took a sip of coffee, keeping my own council as to why he didn't hear anything last night. I could complain about it all I wanted, but when I tasted Efrain's cum drying on that cloth, I was so turned on I couldn't think straight. I wondered if it was sick that I wanted to suck on his jizzrag again. 

"So, your little friend has nicknames for me." 

"Preston has nicknames for everyone," I answered. "At least what he calls you doesn't end up on the GSA meeting agenda." Even if it is a regular topic of discussion between Preston and my roommates. 

"I see." 

The conversation fell off and we drank our coffee in silence. Eventually, Indie returned to his dishes. Strange, but this might be the closest he and I have come to having an actually conversation since our disaster of a hookup nearly three months ago. 

I made up another cup of coffee and poured one for Efrain, too. Like Indie, he took his black. The flavored creamer I used in my own coffee was something Efrain picked up just for me because I can't handle it straight. That happened in week two. Another sign that I was never really NSA for him. 

I nabbed a small tray to carry everything back on (I learned the hard way that you can't open bedroom doors with coffee mugs in both hands). I added a protein bar for him because he's always grouchy until he eats something. 

This practice started in week three; I failed miserably at doing NSA. 

The sound of the door closing woke Efrain. He sat up against the pillows, gloriously naked save for a pair of black boxer briefs. I put the tray on the night stand on his side of the bed before I stripped down to my trunks and climbed back in bed with him. Efrain's warmth was a welcome comfort after the shock of cold air I suffered before I could get under the blankets. 

He'd already unwrapped and devoured the bar by the time I snuggled up to him. He chased it down with a sip of coffee and sighed contentedly. 

"Best. Boyfriend. Ever." He took another sip as I reached over him for my own mug. 

"Aren't I the only boyfriend you've had?" I asked. He shrugged. 

Being a military brat, he went to mostly Department of Defense schools until his early teens. Even though Don't Ask, Don't Tell had been lifted before then, and it really didn't apply to service members' families, DoD kids still tended to keep that shit under wraps, which really limited his romantic prospects. He told me that it had been easier when his family moved to Maryland and his dad retired from the Navy three years ago, but he was still wary of dating. As much of a closet case as I had been in my hometown, I still dated guys. Efrain had done little more than randomly hook up. 

I moved my toes over to warm them on his leg. 

"Damn, you're cold." 

"Damn, you're hot," I countered. "Warm me up?" 

He chuckled and set aside his mug. He took mine too, and invited me back under the covers. I cuddled up to his chest and he wrapped his arms around me. The blankets in his lap had it covered, but with our legs and arms tangled up, his morning wood was unmistakable. Mine decided to make a comeback, and we fell into kissing and thrusting against each other as a matter of course. 

"Here," he said while tugging on my trunks. "Take these off and straddle me." 

He rolled over onto his back and shoved down his boxer briefs until his cock sprang free. I got on top and he maneuvered me until our cocks were perfectly lined up, shaft to shaft. My head sat slightly below his, and my nuts rested on top of his sack. He grabbed the bottle of lube from where he left it last night and slathered up both of our dicks. 

"You probably don't remember, but you did this last night and I've been fantasizing about it ever since I woke up," he said. I wondered what he was talking about until he gripped our dicks together in one hand. He slowly stroked his fist up our shafts, twisting his hand once he reached our heads, then sent it back down. My breath hitched slightly. 

"No, I remember this part," I said, licking my lips. 

This time on the upstroke, he tightened his fist as it ran over the tip. We both gasped and my hips thrust forward of their own accord. The movement rubbed the underside of my cock against his and his fingers tightened even more around us. 

"Fuck yeah," he sighed. "Ride me just like that." 

I rolled my hips against him, thrusting my shaft along the length of his, as he continued to stroke with his hand. Efrain placed his other hand on my hip to encourage me. As if I really needed it. It felt amazing to be held together like this, but my sensitive underside sliding against his felt so good it bordered on painful. Indie's comment about overhearing us chastened me to keep it down, but I moaned aloud in spite of myself. 

He added more lube, increasing the wet gushing sound of cock sliding against cock inside his fist. Efrain switched hands, sending his free hand down to cup my balls and then his own. My scrotum had merely been resting on his before, but once lubed up, our balls slid against each other with each thrust. He moved his hand back to our dicks, stacking it on top of the other, and double fisted us, stroking along the shaft with one hand while alternating between squeezes and twists with the other. He added the rocking of his own hip into the mix and I forgot all about keeping my voice down. My hips bucked against him hard and my moans rose in volume. 

Our vigorous movements rolled the bottle of lube across the bed. It fell against my calf as if trying to suggest its other uses. I picked it up and squirted some onto my fingers before reaching around to rub lube around my hole. I was still pretty open from last night's pounding, so the first and second fingers sank into me with little resistance. I angled my knuckles down over my prostate, just as Efrain's fingers squeezed over my head, and saw stars. I fell forward with a loud cry, barely holding myself up with my free hand. 

I splayed my knees out wider and pumped my dick in and out of his fists with abandon. He watched me fuck myself with my own fingers and his hands. The bed sheets, a soft sage green, deepened the color of his half-lidded hazel eyes. Of all the things going on in that moment - our cocks sliding together, his rough fingers gripping me tight, my knuckles digging into that bundle of nerves, his hips rising to meet mine - his strikingly beautiful eyes were what tipped me over. 

My ass clamped down as I broke, nearly forcing my fingers out. I dug in deeper, magnifying the tingling shocks throwing my body into near-convulsion. Efrain begged me to keep moving as I unloaded on his chest. It didn't take long before his dick pulsed against mine and his cum joined the little puddles forming on his abs and pecs. 

I sat back on my heels to catch my breath. He milked the last drops before his hands fell away. Small rivulets of milky white liquid slid down his side and over his shoulder. 

"Damn, vato," I panted. "You need a shower." 

"You need a shower." 

"Naw, all I need is a damp washcloth." 

"Is that so?" he smirked and before I knew it, he had me rolled over and was pressing his chest to mine. Two loads worth of cum squelched audibly between our bodies. We both came last night, but I've since learned to never underestimate a 19-year-old male's jizz-production abilities. I tried to push him off, but my hands slipped in the mess coating his chest. 

"I don't know what you're looking so disgusted for, acho. Half that's yours." 

"A third of this is mine," I corrected. "You went all Ol' Faithful on your own damn chest." 

"Aw, someone's indignant." He raised himself up on his elbows above me while I pawed at the rapidly cooling ejaculate. A little bit dribbled off his chest and on to mine. If it were any other erotic story, this would be totally sexy and we'd be going on about eating it off each other, but I really wasn't a fan at the moment. Especially with him grinning down at me like that. I put my hands on his spunked up chest. 

"What are you about to do?" 

"Nothing," I said, full naif-mode engaged. And then I clapped both hands on either side of his face, coating his cheeks in goo and rubbing it into his stubble. 

He laughed and brought up his lube- and jizz-smeared hands to mess with my hair. 

"You bitch!" 

"My bitch," he cooed, still chuckling, and kissed me. "Now you really need a shower." 

I've also learned to never underestimate a 19-year-old male's capacity for immaturity. 

Once in the shower, we made quick work of getting the other sudsed up. I knew he was as perfectly capable of washing his own back as I was at shampooing my own hair, but I still liked how it felt. 

He leaned in to give me a quick kiss while I lathered his chest. I returned the favor, letting my mouth linger on his a little longer. In keeping with our pattern since we used the b-word, Efrain rested his forehead on mine and we alternated between gazes and kisses until his hands stole up to cradle the back of my head. Lips parted and tongues sallied forth. I rested my hands on his hips. 

I already knew how well his mouth could fire me up; I delighted in discovering how sweetly his mouth could make me melt. 

Efrain made out with me under the hot water. Despite having just cum, I was soon plumping up under his touch and he was responding in kind. 

blah blah blah 19-year-old-male's blah blah blah 

"Think my ass is still open enough to take you?" 

Rather than answer, he spun me around and had me kneel on the tile floor and lean against the wall. He spat into his hand and ran that over his dick before settling against my ass. The tip popped in and I gasped. 

"Fuck, that feels so good," I whimpered. 

"You have no idea," he said. He threaded his fingers through mine and brought both hands up to rest against the wall above my head. His chest pressed against my back and his tongue snaked out to trace my ear. His dick pushed deeper. I panted harder the further he delved until I felt his public hair against my ass. He paused, waiting for me to adjust to the sudden fullness. 

"Ready for me to move?" he whispered into my ear. 

"God," I moaned. "Please." 

He fucked me, movements agonizingly slow, while I moaned and cried out. His harsh breathing tickled my ear. His deep voice ran in an explicit narrative on how the tightness of my hole held him practically hostage, how my voice made him crazy, how much he wanted to feel me cumming on his dick. Last night, he held me down. This morning, I might have fallen had he not been holding me up. I squeezed his fingers and let my head fall back to rest on his shoulder. He took that opportunity to bite the sensitive juncture between my shoulder and neck. 

"Kiss me," he commanded. I obeyed, moaning in his mouth as he surged within the tight confines of my body. 

His hands fell away from mine. I hated the little mewling noises I made in protest, but I couldn't help it. However, one arm wrapped around my waist and the other reached down to tease my cock and balls, which was a more than satisfying alternative. I reached back to thread my fingers through his hair, holding his mouth to mine so he couldn't break the kiss. I left the other on the wall for resistance. He pulled back and slammed into my ass moments later, and I screamed into his mouth. My fingers tightened in his hair, and he growled in pleasure. He grabbed my dick, and I pulled his hair harder. Efrain let out a strangled moan. 




Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 16



He bounced my ass on his cock, setting a grueling cadence and matching the movement of his fist pumping my dick to that of his hips. His balls slapped against mine as he thrusted. It was all I could do to hold on while he pounded me for a second time in less than ten hours. I was still a little tender from last night, but the ache heightened the pleasure. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't get enough of his cock in my ass. 

I screamed into his mouth until I felt like would hyperventilate. My body shivered in his arms. His dick rammed into me, making mine leak crazy amounts of precum. 

He tore away from me and forcefully shoved me forward until my cheek pressed against the cold tile. He gripped my shoulders with both hands and fucked me harder. I arched my back to meet his thrusts, angling him to hit my sweet spot. It felt like he was fucking my ass in two, and I yielded to the abuse, begging him to fuck me harder. I grabbed my cock and pumped it hard. I bit my own arm to muffle my keening cries. He growled through clenched teeth and plunged harder into me. He'd been watching me and liked what he saw. 

And then I broke. My whole body seized up and my dick exploded in milky spurts against the tile. My ass shuddered around him as he came just moments later, coating me from the inside for a second time. I was shivering so hard I couldn't keep myself up. I sank down, letting his cock slip out of me, and rested my head against the wall. It might take a day or two before I could sit down comfortably. It might take me just as long to catch my breath. 

"Good morning, acho," he whispered huskily. He sank down with me. His arms came up around me and he laid his head on the back of my shoulder. 

"Good morning, vato." 

~*~*~*~ 

The underclassman came in asking for help with one of Professor Collins' assignments, but he seemed more interested in the corkboard behind my desk. He pointed to the drawing I'd found on my desk this morning, a chick with blue hair in this weird costume covered in Pepsi NEX logos. I looked up the product to see if it actually existed, which it did, and also found out that the girl was a character from some Japanese cartoon about rabbits and tigers. I still had no idea what blue chicks and Pepsi product placements had to do with rabbits and tigers, but I tacked it to the board all the same. 

Then the guy started asking me if Blue Rose, or whatever her name was, was my "why-foo." 

"Why-foo?" I asked. "What the fuck is a why-foo?" 

"No, wifu," he repeated slowly, as if slowness would help me understand what he meant. Then, he spelled it out. 

"Still don't get it." 

"It's the Japanese pronunciation of wife," he said in exasperation. "Like, your wifu is your anime crush. Never figured you for a Blue Rose fan." 

"I don't even know who she is really." 

"Yet, you have her picture..." 

"Yeah, I've been getting these anonymous prank gifts lately," I said, pointing to the row of trinkets in front of my computer monitor. 

In the couple weeks since my little disagreement with Efrain over Cory, a number of toys had joined the ranks - Mr. Freeze from the animated Batman TV series, the indomitable snowman from the Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer TV special, the Coke polar bear, and the Ice King from Adventure Time. The little gifts amused me, although I had a sneaking suspicion that they weren't supposed to. In any case, I kept them out of curiosity. 

"Somebody likes you," he joked. 

"Yeah, I highly doubt that," I said and redirected him to his original purpose for interrupting my damn research. 

~*~*~*~ 

"It's this guy, right?" 

Romero had plucked this picture off the corkboard above Cory's desk. Cory and his friends were in full gear, complete with eyeblack, and making silly faces. He'd clipped it from the newspaper after the first home game of the season, back before he and Efrain were a thing. Apparently, the photographer kept telling them to show him their "game face." I read the caption: "This is my game face!" Hokies goof off before the game (left to right - JJ Teague, Denholm Whitlock, Mitch Lithgow, Cory Card, Efrain Garza, Paul Baker, Adrian Rice). Romero pointed to Efrain, who stood next to Cory with his arm thrown companionably around his shoulders. 

"Why are you asking me?" 

"Cory's still pulling the I-won't-confirm-or-deny game," he answered. "Besides, you said it was him." 

"When did I do that?" I asked, and then I really thought about it. Cory did mention that I outed Efrain during my little visit to Indie's office. "Oh." 

He looked back at the picture. "Knew it had to be one of these guys." 

"Oh, did you now." 

"Yeah, spends way more time with them than us," he said, sounding almost miffed. "At least it won me forty bucks. Gio thought it was Denholm. 'That jeans guy totally looks like he could take cock.'" 

"So, you guys have become experts on who could take a cock," I said acerbically. 

Cory accidentally got the three of them hooked on Japanese gay romance comics, which has led to some rather hilarious conversations. Especially, when Cory had to explain neko to me. Rather than bottom, the Japanese used their word for cat. After he explained that, I didn't have the heart to let him know about the "neko pool." Seriously, what straight guy has a running bet with his roommates about whether or not their not-straight roommate takes it up the ass? 

"Al bet on Mitch because it would be fucking hilarious if Cory was hooking up with some big black guy," he continued. "But, I had a gut feeling it was Efrain." 

"You do realize you're saying his name wrong." I about jumped out of my skin when I heard Cory's voice from the door. He at least looked amused by the conversation. "Just stick to Wolfie." 

"Sup, Kitten!" I said. I never told Cory about the neko pool, but that didn't stop my name game. I ruffled his hair playfully. 

"Kitten?" Romero asked and I'm suddenly afraid that he's about to make the logical connection. My hand froze on Cory's head. "Oh! Nekokke." 

"Huh?" 

"Kitten hair," Cory explained. "Instead of saying fine hair is like a baby's, the Japanese say it's like a kitten's." 

"Oh, I knew that," I lied. I checked my phone to cover the slip up. "When are we supposed to log in?" 

"Keenan said he'd be on at 5 PM, so 6 adjusting for the time zone difference." 

Cory had told Keenan about the new boyfriend, but his best friend wanted the details. As his other best friend, I decided to invite myself. 

We piled on to his bed with our backs against the wall and Kitten made quick work of setting up his laptop and logging into Skype. Keenan Jerome was as handsome as ever. He and Cory greeted each other before he turned his attention to me. 

"Sup, Side chick," he said. 

"Sup, Main bitch," I answered. 

"So, a little birdy told me our man locked down a man." 

"They grow up so fast," I said, pretending to cry. 

"Met him yet?" 

"Nope, Mr. Boyfriend plays football, so I only know of him," I said. "Cory has yet to introduce us formally." 

"Yeah, I've watch a couple of their games," he said. "Not half bad." 

Keenan gave him a mock clap as Romero bounced onto the bed on Cory's other side. 

"Have you met any of his friends?" he asked. 

"Of course," Cory said, as if he were asking a stupid question. "We're both friends with a bunch of the guys on the team." 

"But, do they know that you're going out?" he said. 

Cory shook his head and Romero's expression got a little tense. 

"There's this old song that my mom used to bitch at my dad for letting me listen to," he said. "It made fun of this graduation speech." 

"Go on," Cory said, evenly. 

"So, yeah, there was a line that said something like 'if you haven't met any of his friends, you are not his girlfriend.'" 

"But, I do know his friends," Cory said. 

"But, not as his boyfriend." 

"True," Cory conceded, a small look of defeat on his face. 

"Plus, they haven't met him," Romero gestured to Keenan and me. "Not to mention that you hid him from me and the guys." 

"Be fair," Keenan said. "It's not like they can suddenly come out to their teammates." 

"And he couldn't out Efrain to you assholes," I added. Gio and Al seemed amused by the whole business, but Romero took an unusual delight in Cory's dating life. 

"I guess same-sex couples get a free pass on this," Cory said. "I mean, I doubt we'd be able to introduce each other to our families since neither of us is out back home." 

"I don't know why you haven't done that, yet." 

"You don't need to lecture me about this again." 

"Dude, seriously. If Cam didn't freak the fuck out after walking in on you and Alonso, the rest of them should be alright," Keenan said. "Just don't, you know, let them walk in on you giving Efrain a handjob and it'll all be good." 

"Oh, this sounds like a story I need to hear," I said. 

"Not going to happen," Cory said. 

"I'll give you the details later." 

"I love you, Main bitch." 

"I love you, too, man." 

"I regret letting you two meet," Cory groaned. 

"That's why you keep your side chicks separated, Kitten," Romero added. 

I looked across Cory's lap over at his roommate. 

"I should have mentioned this sooner," I said. "But, don't you think it's a little dangerous to be lying in bed with two gay men?" 

"I'm not gay." 

"Listen, sugar, you can't be that good at sucking dick and still not consider yourself totally gay." 

"Aw, you're just pissy because I won't do it again." 

"God," Romero chuckled. "You two are still playing that joke?" 

"God," Keenan said. "People still think that's a joke?" 

Well, that's one way to shut up Romero Mackey.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 17



Author's Note – Seems that every time I have a pain in the ass chapter, the next one just flows out with no problem whatsoever. Watch, chapter 18 will take fucking forever and I'll spend my entire winter break fretting over it. 

Okay, I may have had a bit more fun than I intended with Indie's non-admirer's offerings. A lot of Google searching and stuff. I wish some of these things actually existed. Speaking of actually existing – I think I'm living vicariously through Cory's shoe collection... 

So, according to Word, I've written over 55k words about these guys. There's about 10 pages that I haven't published yet, and I still need exposition to even get to them. If you're still reading, holy fuck I love you! 

~ Dayne 

***** 

Chapter 17 – Sticky Fingers be Damned 

"Dr. Collins, I could have brought the book up to you." 

I came back from my coffee break to find my graduate advisor pulling a book from one of the shelves. Digital age and all, but some of the stuff needed for our research we had to get the old fashioned way. Mine and Mike's office was technically Professor Collins' professional library. 

"Not a problem, Indie," he said, plopping down into the old leather chair near my desk. "Gives an old man an excuse to stretch his legs." 

"Dude, you're barely forty." 

"And I still feel like shit," he joked. "Actually, I came down to check on your ever-growing collection." 

My non-admirer had really been pulling out all the stops these last few weeks. 

A miniature Tonka die cast snow plow. 

A little snow globe with "FUCK OFF" in big red letters swimming around in silver and gold confetti. 

A handful of Pokémon cards, all ice-type. 

A six foot inflatable yeti that scared the shit out of Dr. Collins when he discovered it behind the door. 

A button of a much younger (and significantly thinner) Val Kilmer wearing douche-y aviator sunglasses and a flight suit. 

A shitload of glittery fake snow dumped (four inches deep in some places) all over my desk and chair. 

A snow-brick maker the following day. 

An Ice Cube air freshener that now graced my rearview mirror even though I hated rap. 

A tiny ice hockey set, complete with two tiny blades you put on the end of your pencil, that Mike promptly stole. 

A Jon Snow action figure that I was sure as fuck keeping, Mike's sticky fingers be damned. 

It looked like a white elephant party threw up on my desk. 

By now, I had so much shit that I was forced to move it to a nearby shelf or else have no working space. The angry ice cubes, snow globe, and Jon Snow stayed. 

"Still don't know who's doing it?" 

"I have some ideas," I said. "But zero fucks to give on the issue overall." 

I wasn't the easiest person to get along with. Plenty of people, mostly students on the receiving end of some deservedly bad grades, have commented on my icy persona. I was totally fine with this, even with these angsty passive-aggressive gifts. Hell, I wasn't even that pissed off about the snow. Sure, I had to clean it all up, but watching confused undergrads shake fake snow out of their research papers was so worth it. I didn't offer an explanation, and tried not to laugh when they complained. And I saved a whole garbage bag of snow in case I needed to pull a prank of my own. 

Like, say if my goddamn Jon Snow action figure walked off again. 

"Oh, hey! I remember this one." The most recent offering came in the form of a little penguin wearing a red and white hat and red mittens. Professor Collins had picked it up and was turning it over in his hand. 

"Surprised your friend knows about this. They had a rebooted show when I was in my teens. You were probably still in pre-school." 

"I thought it looked like Woody Woodpecker." 

"They were created by the same man," he said, returning the toy to my collection. "Funny that everyone knows Woody Woodpecker, but no one remembers Chilly Willy." 

"Wait, what's his name again?" 

"Chilly Willy. Why?" 

Of course. 

A lot of people called me frosty or frigid. However, there was only one person I knew of who also had plenty to say about my dick. 

"Mystery solved," I muttered. 

"Hm? You say something?" 

"No, nothing," I said, pulling my coat back on. "I just need to run a little errand." 

~*~*~*~ 

Cory toed off his shoes. His birthday was still a week away, but he already received the maroon hightops last week. His mom bought them and had a friend paint all over them with little drawings of Pusheen eating pizza. They were his new favorite Chucks, yet that didn't seem to make him any less glad to have them off. He wiggled his toes appreciatively then tucked his feet under him in the chair and started pulling study materials out of his bookbag. 

I watched him with an amused expression before I slipped off my tan leather Top Siders. I stretched my legs out in front of me and crossed them at the ankle. 

"Kid's got the right idea," Whitlock chuckled. He started unlacing his sneakers. 

"Fuck," Rice groaned. "We're really doing this?" 

"Yup." Teague already had his feet, in his usual garishly patterned socks (mismatched, of course), propped up on the table. 

Pretty soon, a dozen or so pairs of shoes lay discarded on the floor and everyone was that much more comfortable. 

Cory and I finally figured out that if we were going to be in a room together, we needed a chaperone if we hoped to get any work done. I was tired of my gringo boyfriend being better than me at Spanish, so I swallowed my pride and asked for his help. He'd offered it before. It was fucking embarrassing, and I kinda-sorta-maybe-just-a-little used sex as an avoidance strategy. 

But, only at first. 

However, after the first few times, I started associating my Spanish textbook with fucking him and now just opening the damn thing made my dick twitch. Conjugating verbs was difficult enough without the raging hard-on. Now that I really wanted his help, I had to fight my baser instincts and keep my hands off him long enough so he could give it to me. And thus the chaperones. I was pretty sure the guys wouldn't be amused to know that they were the only thing preventing me from throwing Cory down and breeding his ass. Although, not all of it was my fault. 

Some of his methods were unconventional. I thought he'd do shit like correct my compositions or something. Instead, he made me carry out entire conversations in Spanish and watch tawdry telenovelas. He taught me bachata and cumbia, all while discussing the Tejano music we were dancing to. I knew it wasn't possible, but at some point, he must have talked to my mother because I swear all that shit came straight from the official Analena Osita Santos-Garza manual for Spanish instruction and torture. 

The times when he wasn't reminding me of my mother, he was making me crazy. 

It started a week or so ago. We were lying in bed watching some movie on my laptop when he suddenly sat up. 

"I think you need a different motivation," he said, moving my computer off to the side. 

"Motivation?" 

He grinned mischievously and straddled my lap. His hard-on pushed against the thin cotton of his dark blue trunks, desperately trying to make a run for it. Pre-cum had already formed a wet patch over the head. It dug into my hip as he leaned forward to nibble my neck, hitting that sensitive spot below my ear that made my nipples hard. My fingers skimmed his back before slipping under his waistband. His tongue flicked my earlobe; his low voice hummed in my ear. 

"Anhelo su boca, su voz, su pelo." I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. 

I gripped him hard while he thrust himself against me. He continued his recitation. 

"Silenicoso y muerto de hambre..." Silent and starving... 

My fingers found his center, still wet and open from our earlier fucking. He flexed his hips back as I slid in, and his breath caught on the next line. He pressed on while I fingered him. Gasps and moans and nibbles punctuated his Neruda, breaking the poem apart until it was almost unintelligible. 

I let him get as far as "I want to eat your skin" before I pulled our underwear far enough out of the way and thrust up into him. The rest of the line was lost in a strangled cry. I brought up my knees to fuck him from underneath. 

"How does the rest go?" I asked. 

He pulled back to look at me. I stared back, managing to look unaffected despite his tight ring drawing me further into his body. 

"Finish what you started, Cory," I prompted and thrust deeper. 

Cory panted out the next two lines. I worked him harder, looking for his breaking point. Exactly how far could I push him? 

When he wasn't forthcoming with the next line, I slapped his ass. 

"Oh my God," he moaned. 

"I don't think that was in the poem, acho." 

He fed me the next line through clenched teeth and a glare. I kept thrusting and he kept delivering. Words of lust and hunger and need filled the spaces between passionate cries. He kept going out of strength of will alone. His last line, something about pumas, was lost completely in his shuddering, screaming climax, and I came soon after. 

We did this a few other times – memorizing erotic poetry to recite while the other did everything in his power to distract. 

Last night, he let me get through two stanzas of Alarcón before I blasted the back of his throat so hard I was surprised he was able to talk this morning. He told me I fucked up most of the lines anyway, but who could blame me for losing to such a devastatingly gifted mouth? Cory had taken every bit of my original deepthroat lesson and vastly improved on the methods. I knew the battle was over when he declared that his weapon of choice. 

Despite our chaperones, my dick swelled at the memory of his small mouth working my cock. I adjusted my book in my lap and hoped nobody noticed. 

"You okay, vato?" 

He called me vato once, and I answered with acho, and those kinda stuck as our pet names. Thank fucking God, because I was NOT going to call him babe or baby (or papí for that matter). 

"Muerto de hambre," I said. 

"Oh, that's all?" he said then tossed me the snack bar he'd pulled from one of the baskets stashed around the room when he came in. Fucker knew exactly what I meant and chose to ignore the double meaning. I still ate the damn thing (okay, so I was figuratively dying of hunger for multiple reasons), which drew a chuckle out of him. 

"Yo, Card," Baker called from the other side of the couches. "How come he's not tutoring you?" 

"Dude, that's racist," laughed Martinez, one of the freshmen recruits Cory introduced to the crew. Yeah, he didn't know Spanish either. 

"My mom had me in dual language schools since I was four," he answered. 

"Funny," I said. "Four was about the time I started fighting my mom on learning anything but English." 

"How long did it take you to learn to cuss?" Lithgow asked him. 

"A couple years, tops. Sadly, much longer than it took Mom," he laughed, then continued in a high-pitched mom-voice "Cory Frederick Card, I know what pinche means." 

"What does pinche mean?" 

"Fucking. But only if you use it with something else." He noticed that I was about to argue and shook his head. "Mexican dialect." 

"So, back to fucking," Baker interrupted. "You've fucked Spanish chicks, right? Do they really say 'ay papí?'" 

"I've rarely heard it," he answered. 

"So, what do they say?" asked one of the other guys in the lounge. 

Seemed he had everyone's attention now. Cory never bragged about conquests (which was good, since I was technically one of them), but the team had been convinced that he was a serious ladies' man since our performance with Marina, Berta, and Luz. He leveled the room with a flat stare, but that didn't dissuade them. 

Cory sighed with annoyance and then launched into a litany of Spanish with all the detached enthusiasm of a henpecked husband reading a grocery list. He went on for a minute, paused for a breather or a drink of water, then continued for another minute before repeating, going on for at least five minutes. Most of it was utter nonsense, peppered with some pretty innocent statements, and salted with the occasional dirty phrase (including some that he had said to me at one point or another, and some that he definitely didn't hear from a chick). The whole time, he sat twirling his pencil between his fingers. 

The team stared at him in awe. I, however, lost it at "que hora es?" It started as a chuckle, which quickly ramped up to a full laugh the further he went with the performance. Teague noticed my dilemma, and soon we were both laughing too hard to breathe. 

Cory rounded out his performance with "Chingow, eso es todo?" and the guys looked at him in reverential silence. Well, mostly silent – Teague and I were still laughing. 

"Dude, what did you even say?" Baker asked. Teague had already fallen from his seat and my eyes were watering. 

"Google Translate is your friend," Cory answered. I managed to control my laughing enough to look over at him. He was trying really hard not to laugh himself. 

"No it's not," Teague wheezed from the floor and I was laughing in full again. 

Our teammates looked from Teague and me to Cory, unsure of what to make of our reactions. 

"Orale" was all Cory could manage before he finally cracked. 

~*~*~*~ 

Preston Finnegan stood by my desk looking at the tiny rabid Yorkshire terrier now hanging from his keyring. 

"It fit," I said. "Adorable, but makes annoying noises whenever that filthy mouth opens." 

I spotted the keychain at some gift shop a few blocks off campus a couple weeks ago and Preston was the first person to come to mind. I was glad it was still there when I stopped mentally slapping myself upside the head for not figuring out sooner that he'd been the one leaving things on my desk. 

Of course it was Preston. Who else would have the tenacity to keep something like this up for weeks? 

I left him the keychain with a quick note on my desk blotter, but should have known he would wait for me to show up. 

He sat on the edge of my desk while I hung up my coat and unloaded my satchel. 

"So I'm adorable," he said, blithely ignoring the rest. He wore a soft gray cardigan with red trim over an untucked white dress shirt and blue jeans. The dark gray tie knotted at his throat in a complicated pattern. The tan was fading from his pretty face, and his cheeks were a touch pink from the colder weather. Yes, Preston was cute. 

"Since you're here, care to explain..." I trailed off and waved over at the collection on the shelf. I avoided looking at my desk. He could have back everything else, but I was keeping Jon. 

"I thought it all seemed pretty self-explanatory." 

"For the most part," I said, pointing out the Val Kilmer button. 

"Iceman? From Top Gun?" he said. "How do you not know that?" 

"And her." I pointed to Blue Rose. At least I knew where she came from, if not what she signified. 

"Blue hair, bad fashion sense," he replied as his eyes swept over my navy blue Dickies work pants and faded Radiohead t-shirt. "Also, her signature move is getting scared and running away." 

It took a minute for his words to register. 

"Might want to close your mouth, sugar," he said. "Or else someone will find something to stuff it with, and Lord knows you wouldn't want to be sent running from your own office." 

Like I said, the very picture of cute. At least, until he opened his mouth. 

"He told you about that?" 

"The guy he'd been crushing on for weeks embarrassed the ever living fuck out of him," he spat. "Of course he told me about it." 

I rolled my eyes. I still felt a little guilty about that night, but Cory obviously seemed to get over it pretty quickly. I also doubted Preston's claims about the extent of Cory's attraction. 

"The really shitty part isn't that he defended you for running out," he continued. "But that you've been nothing but an asshole to him ever since." 

"So you leave passive-aggressive mementos?" 

Preston clicked his tongue. 

"He told me to leave you alone," he answered, his annoyance at the order quite evident. "And that I wasn't allowed to use you as a human punching bag." 

Had this been any other person, I would have laughed. However, Mike and I found a bunch of his tournament videos on YouTube. The difference between Preston the Cheerleader and Preston the Black Belt was frightening. He seemed disturbingly adept at making men much larger than me literally cry. There was one video where he'd taken a kick to the face, but still pulled the guy down despite a broken nose. He accepted his trophy with two black eyes, a bandaged nose, and his own blood drying on his gi. 

Still finding fake snow in my keyboard no matter how many times I cleaned it seemed a small price to pay compared to what he could have done to me. 

"And, you're here now because..." 

"My best friend is happy, and I want him to stay happy." 

"My roommate is happy, yet I know it's a matter of time before he gets hurt," I said, moving to stand in front of him. "But, I'm keeping out of it. What's your excuse?" 

"I can't help it," he said. "Something about you screams I'm a massive twat; please abuse me." 

I arched my eyebrow. 

"I see." 

"You still owe Cory an apology." 

"No," I said evenly and crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't." 

"You do. In fact, you owe him several." 

"And so you're here to fight his battles for him." 

"Of course," he said. "He's my best friend." 

"How noble of you." 

"Fuck. With how much time he spent checking out your ass, I'm amazed Cory missed the massive stick you have shoved up there," he muttered. "God, you need to get laid." 

"Wouldn't be the first time I've heard that." 

"And yet you fail to take the hint," he said. "Need to find you a charity fuck, if only to do the whole damn world a favor." 

I moved closer to him. 

"Is that really why you're here, Preston?" I asked. 

"Seriously?" he said. "If ever had the desire to know what it felt like to be fucked by a cadaver, you'd be the first person I'd call." 

"If you say so," I said and leaned down over him, planting my fists on the desk. He leaned back. "But we both know you're hoping to sacrifice that sweet little ass of yours for your friend's happiness." 

"Even if I were to offer up my 'sweet little ass,'" he snapped. His eyes, which I noticed were more of a rich honey brown, flashed angrily behind his long lashes. "I highly doubt La Virgen de Grad School would know what the fuck to do with it." 

"Just keep telling yourself that, babe," I said, stepping between his knees (lest one decided to become intimately involved with my tender bits) and leaning further into him. He refused to give ground, even with our noses practically touching. "But, trust me, there are things I could do to you that would leave you a babbling mess." 

"A lobotomy?" 

"Sure, if that's what you kids call it these days." 

His eyes (they were the exact color as this one ale I had over a year ago, but haven't been able to find since) locked onto mine, but his tongue flicked out nervously over his lips, betraying his wavering confidence. A predatory grin stretched across my face. 

"You're afraid of me," I said. 

"Bitch, please," he said. "We both know you'd tuck tail and run before anything serious could happen." 

"Want to test that?" 

I knew I should have been more careful as there was no telling how far I could goad him before he started foaming at the mouth, but this guy had a knack for pushing my buttons. In fact, he'd been pushing them for weeks now. My annoyance and bruised ego got the better of me. 




Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 17



"Got your running shoes on?" 

I slipped a hand up his back and jerked his body to me. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't pull away. If he wouldn't back down, neither would I. I brushed my lips over his moistened pout. He shivered, and I found myself compelled to do it again. The tip of my tongue teased his pillowy bottom lip. 

Preston's hands came up to rest on my arms like he was going to push me away, but he leaned into me and that was all the invitation I needed. My mouth slanted across his, and I kissed him in full. His fingers dug into my arms and a small whimper escaped his throat. 

I told myself that my reaction probably had more to do with the fact that this was the second time I'd kissed anyone since Jameson, and not any actual desire for the man currently parting his lips for me. I would later wonder why I wasn't worried about him luring out my tongue so he could bite it off, but my dick was currently doing all the thinking, and its only thought was on assessing the touchability of his skin. 

I bunched up his cardigan and shirt until I could reach my hand underneath. I stroked over the soft skin I found. Touchable, hot. His breath caught when my fingers splayed out across the small of his back. I used his momentary surprise to deepen my exploration of his mouth. It was soft and warm and, despite all its filthiness, very inviting. I pressed him until his back rested on the desk and continued to massage his tongue with mine. 

He moaned into my mouth and tangled his fingers in my hair. His legs wrapped around my hips, rubbing his hardening member against me. Hell, that could have been his zipper, but my blood-engorged dick didn't care. Thrusting against him was a far cry from the bluff-calling that I originally intended, yet I couldn't stop. My hips flexed into him, grinding my dick against his hips, and he arched up to meet me. His low moan spurred me on, and I was soon grinding into him over and over until I was on the cusp of spilling into my own boxers. 

I probably would have embarrassed myself if Mike hadn't called at that exact moment. 

"Dr. Collins and I are almost to the office," he said. "You there yet?" 

"Yeah," I said, pulling away from Preston. I was almost annoyed with my reluctance to do so. 

"Good deal. See you in a few." 

Preston appeared to have heard the conversation on the other end because he sat up and tried to make himself presentable. I took in his flushed cheeks and heavy breathing as he discreetly adjusted his package. I looked down. Knowing that he had indeed been grinding his hard-on into me made it more necessary that I fix myself. His eyes widened when I rearranged my dick and I couldn't help grinning at why (I know what I have. What's the point of modesty?). Preston noticed my grin and glowered. 

"This isn't over," he growled. 

"No, it's not." 

"But, you'll still run before finishing things." 

I simply smiled and flicked my finger over his poorly disguised erection. 

Preston left my office in a huff. 

Mike and Professor Collins swept in a minute later. I had managed to get my breathing under control, but was pretty sure I still looked disheveled. I hoped my hard-on wasn't that noticeable, as I was still trying to get it to go down. I tried to school my features and pay attention to my graduate advisor, but I was still drunk off a pair of honey-brown eyes and kiss-swollen lips. 

Dr. Collins chatted with us for a few minutes, grabbed a couple books, then remembered he had a meeting to attend. 

When he left, I sagged into my chair and laid my head on the desk blotter. I'd been rolling Preston around on stacks of student papers that I would now have to make excuses for wrinkling (throw the papers in the fake snow and hope that distracts them?). 

I'd been so caught up in everything that went down from the time I walked into the office that I failed to notice the box in the middle of the blotter. A string of USB-powered lights in the shape of icicles and snowflakes. I had a port on my monitor, so they'd be perfect there. Then I saw the attached note. 

You're still an asshole. 

Preston's handwriting was prim and neat, but still very masculine. He signed the note with what had to be the most sarcastic cartoon heart ever penned in the whole history of human writing and his name in a well-flourished script. He was probably that guy that practiced signing his name for hours at a time until it was perfect. A small post-script sat underneath his name: Who the fuck else would it be? 

"So, how screwed would you have been if I hadn't called?" Mike asked. An evil grin spread across his face. 

"What do you mean?" 

"What do you mean?" he scoffed. "Heard you and Preston in here, so I went for coffee." 

I groaned and put my head back on the desk. God, he's going to tell Laurel. 

"Caught Dr. Collins on his way here when I was walking back," he said. "You owe me, man." 

How much could I owe him so he wouldn't tell Laurel? I eyed Jon Snow and almost cried. I fucking regretted letting them hook-up. 

"Yeah, yeah," I said, waving my hand weakly without bothering to lift my head off the desk. "I owe you." 

I listened to Mike typing and clicking away at this computer. I willed the blood to flow back out of my lower regions, but my dick was reluctant to calm the fuck down. I banged my forehead against my desktop once, twice, again, yet I couldn't shake it off. Is it possible to go rabid from kissing? Mike fucking snorted from his computer. I had a good idea why, but I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of looking over. I couldn't bring myself to even ask what he heard, but I knew I'd hear about it eventually. 

"La Virgen de Grad School," he chortled over his coffee. 

See? 

I tried to not groan out loud again. I was so screwed when Laurel found out.



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 18



Author's Note - Apologies for the South Park reference. Honey and I finally saw The Book of Mormon and we've been quoting it non-stop for nearly a week. Interestingly enough, Josh Gad was in the original cast. Amusing to hear Olaf (at least, Olaf's voice) singing that he's going to "Man up all over [him]self." 

So, yeah, put your feelings in a box an' crush 'em, magical fuck-frog, he's got the golden plates, welcome back to spooky Mormon hell dream, hasa diga eebowai, I can't believe Jesus called me a dick, etc. The last time I quote-barfed this much was Team America. It seems I have the sense of humor of a teenage boy. 

Of course, I did have one character slap another character in the face with his own jizz two chapters ago, so you probably knew that already (luckily Honey didn't make me explain why I'd been giggling for two days straight). 

Happy Holidays! ~Dayne 

***** 

Chapter 18 - To Die in Thy Lap 

I rolled off Cory and laid next to him on the floor while we both tried to catch our breath. I had stopped cumming, but the aftershocks still rocked my body, making my abs spasmodically contract and release. Aftershocks didn't always happen, but they were certainly more consistent when Cory and I fucked. 

With no blankets and no pillows, the hardwood wasn't exactly comfortable, but we were still too spent to move. The most we could manage was our usual post-fuck cuddle - me on my back with my hand behind my head and him sprawled across my chest. I figured we'd make it to the bed eventually, so I was content to snuggle. 

"Have you thought about what you want to do about your birthday?" I asked. I stroked my fingertips up and down his back, eliciting purr-like noises. 

"Kinda." He bit his lip like he was unsure about something. "Al's band is having a show this weekend." 

"And..." I prompted. 

"I want you to meet my friends." 

"That's all?" 

He propped himself up on his elbow. He looked like he didn't exactly believe me. 

"As my boyfriend." 

"So, a date?" 

"Yes," he said, smiling widely. 

"Anything else?" I mean, that was nothing. So, I meet a few people. There had to be a catch or something. Nothing that simple should make him that happy. 

"No." 

"You sure?" I said. "Anything you want." 

"A pony." 

"Something realistic." 

"Could let me top you," he arched his eyebrow and hit me with a wicked grin. 

"Indie probably has enough room in the backyard," I joked. "Ponies don't need much space, right?" 

"God," Cory laughed and swatted my chest. "Dad jokes for days." 

I pulled him down for a kiss. 

"Acho, if you're serious about it, I wouldn't mind bottoming for you." I definitely preferred to top, but it wasn't the first time I'd thought about letting him take my ass. 

"I'll think about it." 

"You're already thinking about it." My hand brushed against his cock, which was getting hard against my thigh. 

"Is that what's happening here?" he asked, tickling his fingers over my dick. 

"And if it was?" I wasn't exactly ready, but if it was what he wanted... 

"I'm content to get off on the thought," he said. He climbed on top of me and took my cock in one quick thrust. 

"Fuck, man." I arched up into him. He leaned down to growl in my ear. 

"For now." 

We'd make it to the bed eventually. 

~*~*~*~ 

For the first time ever, I entered Indie's office the "correct" way - by knocking. 

It was insulting. 

That asshole was lucky that Mrs. Gail wasn't there to sneak me in like she did every other time. Fucking Indie and his stupid fucking dick that was fucking microscopic compared to the dick that comprised his whole fucking dick personality. 

Indie Norman was a massive dick with a massive dick. 

Dick-within-a-dick. 

Dick-fucking-ception. 

And an asshole. 

Always an asshole. 

Don't bother with a funny reference and just sink him with the ship. 

The door opened and he peeked out. 

"Good morning, Preston." 

Half man, half dick, half asshole. Man-bear-dick-asshole. Why the fuck was he grinning? Cocksure fucking cock sucker. He might not have had a dick in his mouth for nearly two years, but still... 

I brushed past him and walked into the room. 

"Do you always walk around like you own the place?" he asked. 

"But, I do," I said, shooting him a look over my shoulder. 

"Do what?" 

"Own the place." 

I pretended to not hear his little snort. 

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy. 

I slipped off my coat and tossed it into a chair. Indie shut the door behind me. I heard a faint click - probably locking the door. Good. Fewer witnesses. I cracked my knuckles. 

"You're rather dressed down today," he said. I wore a cotton henley, loose-fit jeans, and tennis shoes. I didn't bother doing my hair, either. 

I was dressed to kill. 

Literally. 

Not like Rachel Zoe literally. Like, literally-literally. Like, this jerk was gonna die literally. Like, call his momma with your condolences literally. 

Indie swept past me on the way to his desk while I stayed at the door. 

How the hell does a skinny guy have an ass? Like, it wasn't a tasty Cory-level bubble butt, just a modest bump, but still. Goddamn. And how does a guy have an ass like that and still dress like, well, an ass? Another t-shirt from a band nobody cared about over a long-sleeve thermal pushed up to his elbows, with faded jeans and Vans. A wallet chain trailed from his belt loop to his back pocket. It jingled against his hip as he walked. Who the fuck wears a wallet chain? I bet he had a skateboard that he barely knew how to stay upright on tucked away somewhere. And a hacky-sack. A whole army of hacky-sacks. The top half of his hair was pulled back with an elastic, leaving some pieces to fall across his forehead. 

"Since when has your hair been purple?" He even had some stripes of black going through the purple like he was a fine arts student and not in the department of fucking anthropology. 

"A couple days. It's still staining everything," he said. "So, what is this unfinished business you have with me?" 

He still owed my best friend a fucking apology, but when I tried to wring it out of him, he kissed me. 

Kissed me hard, rubbed his hands all over me, ground his massive dick into my hip. All on top of the desk he now leaned against. Shamefully, I responded like a cheap whore - writhing and moaning under him, wrapping myself around him. 

Then later locking myself in the men's bathroom at the very top floor of the student union where no one went so I could jerk off while thinking about it. 

After I killed Indie, I was going to murder Cory for not warning me about that man. He was supposed to have been without dick for so long that he forgot how to use his own. 

So, yeah, I had unfinished business with Indie. I'd messaged him over Facebook because I didn't know how else to contact him. His professor was out of town and his friend/officemate was covering the professor's morning classes. He said that would be a good time to meet. At first, I only wanted to settle the situation with Cory. However, most of my problems with Indie were now a matter of pride. I just needed to stop growling long enough to spit it out. 

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk. 

I cracked my knuckles again. Man, that felt good. Indie watched me thoughtfully while I tried to string together coherent sentences. We stood in silence before he finally broke it. 

"I need to try something," he said and came back to me. 

Indie closed the distance between us until he was a mere hair's breadth from me. Before I realized what I was doing, I stepped back from him. He followed me until my back hit the door. The full length of his body pressed into mine. He smelled warm and clean, like fresh laundry and bath soap. No cologne, and none of that noxious as fuck Axe shit that I had to break Cory of wearing. Just his own scent that I seriously did not find intoxicating. Yeah, it did absolutely nothing for me in the slightest. I was totally not getting turned on by this. At. All. 

"What are you doing?" I said, cursing the slight tremor in my voice. I still had to kill this bitch. 

He cupped my face in both hands and lowered his head to mine. I mentally cursed at my dick to stop plumping up. 

"This," he murmured. His mouth brushed against mine, and his tongue flicked out to trace my bottom lip. 

I shivered. 

"Open your mouth, Preston." 

I started to argue, but he took advantage of the opening. He kissed me deeply, and the world went sideways. My knees became weak and the only thing holding me up was his body pressing mine into the door. I sagged into him and willed myself to not moan into his mouth. It was bad enough that I was kissing him back, but I was not going to give him the satisfaction of making encouraging noises. The last thing the man needed was encouragement. 

Whimpering wasn't technically moaning, right? 

Just when I thought I was going to die from lack of oxygen, Indie pulled back and brushed an almost chaste kiss at the corner of my mouth. I kept my eyes closed and concentrated on getting my pulse back to normal. He let me go and stepped back. I had to lock my knees to keep from sliding down the door. 

"Thought as much," he said. My eyes were still shut, but I could still tell he was grinning. I opened my eyes in time to watch him walk to his chair and sit down. He set his elbows on the armrests and propped his chin up on his fist. He made a "come hither" with his other hand. He was still smirking at me. I almost told him he could go fuck himself with that fucking "come hither," but I realized I couldn't exactly kick his ass from over here. 

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig. 

Once my legs were more solid, I pushed away from the wall and came to him. I walked around the desk (only because I couldn't beat the shit out of him over it) and leaned against the desktop. 

"Your unfinished business?" 

"Apologize," I demanded. 

"To whom? For what?" he asked while flipping up the armrests. 

"The world. Your continued existence." 

He laughed. Motherfucker thought I was joking. He grabbed my hand and pulled me astride his lap. 

"I know 'you're cute when you're mad' is pretty cliché," he chuckled, putting his arm around my waist. "But, damn. Maybe I'm just used to seeing you mad." 

"Then stop pissing me off." 

"And how can I accomplish this feat?" 

"Die." 

"La petite morte?" 

"No, just morte." 

"What's the fun in that?" 

"You don't have enough holes in you," I said. "Mind if I stab you a few times?" 

"Dude, I already have twenty-five." 

"Twenty-five?" 

He pointed to his piercings. He had three studs on each forward helix. Thin silver chains threaded through the four piercings on each earlobe instead of traditional earrings. I counted six holes in his face between his eyebrow, nose and mouth. 

"That's only twenty." 

He pulled his t-shirt up to reveal two piercings over his sternum and a bar through one nipple. And a nicely developed chest and stomach with a happy trail of light-brown hair that disappeared under the waistband of his boxers. Meow. 

God, please make him put his shirt down before I embarrassed myself. 

"Okay, twenty-three," I said and he let go of his shirt. It fell back down, leaving a couple inches of his stomach still exposed over which I was most certainly not drooling. 

"I'd have to take off my pants to show you the rest," he said, his voice low and suggestive. 

I fought the rush of blood surging into my dick. 

"Cory never said anything about..." 

"Cory never got my pants off." 

I could only stare back at him. 

"Oh, I bet you're thinking really hard now," he said. His tone was completely mocking. "Should I drop trou and show you?" 

"Unfinished business," I ground out before he started unzipping. 

"Yes, yes," he said. "You wanted to apologize to me." 

"What have I done that would necessitate an apology?" 

"Assault, unlawful entry, harassment, vandalism," he said. "Oh, and now death threats." 

"You deserve all of it." 

"Because I'm looking out for my friend and roommate?" 

"Because you're a dick," I answered. "By the way, why am I in your lap?" 

"You're easier to disarm this way." 

"Disarm?" 

"Are you about to go rabid again?" 

"Rabid?" I was sputtering. "What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"The maddog thing," he said. "You growl and foam at the mouth." 

I narrowed my eyes. 

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig-douchebag-wanker. 

"See? Right there. You're doing it again." He sighed and shrugged. "Guess there's no helping it." 

"Bitch, I do not foam at the mouth. I'm going to ki..." 

Indie's lips cut me off. I growled in my throat, and he laughed. His mouth worked over mine until my resistance slipped. He pressed his newly won advantage and his tongue slid into my mouth. The stainless steel barbell, warmed by his mouth, glided along my tongue. I gave up trying to fight the little mewling noises that seemed to be the only sounds my throat was capable of producing. It certainly wasn't up for mounting a protest against his hands slithering up the back of my shirt and pulling me closer. 

My cock pressed against the confines of my jeans. I was wearing boxers and the least constricting pants I owned, but it all felt too tight. It didn't help matters that I could feel his member lengthening and hardening under my thigh. One of his hands had moved down to knead my ass and I wanted to kick myself for the cooing noises I started making. I clung desperately to his shoulders and kissed him hard, little desperate mewling sounds gave way to moans, while my hips rolled into him. 

Indie's hand came around to palm my dick through my jeans and I cried out into his mouth. He pulled back and we stared at each other, panting. I remembered that Cory had once described his eyes as chocolate brown. Accurate. Dark, rich, fucking bitter chocolate brown. The palm of his hand rubbed over my cockhead and had to bite my lip to keep from crying out again. 

He lifted the edge of my shirt and pressed it to my lips. 

"Hold on to this, wouldja?" 

For once, I did as I was told. My mother would be so proud. 

As soon as my shirt was between my teeth, his hand fell back down to my straining cock. He unbuttoned my jeans and drew down the zipper. I knew where this was going - I hoped I knew where this was going. His fingertips brushed me lightly through the thin fabric of my boxers and I made disgustingly desperate noises. I willed him to pleasepleaseplease touch me more, but all I got were more feathering strokes. I almost wailed in frustration. His lips nipped the side of my neck. 

"Preston," he murmured into my ear. "I can stop if you need me to." 

I ground my hips into him, earning a moan from him, and his hand disappeared under my waistband. His fingers wrapped around me with a firm squeeze. I moaned around a mouthful of cotton henley. He pulled my dick out of my boxers and started pumping - slow, steady strokes that I couldn't help thrusting into. His other hand wandered all over my back side, rubbing my back, ass, and hips. He kneaded anything he could get his hands on. 

"You going to cum for me?" he asked in a low, husky voice. 

Yes, if it would shut you the fuck up. I wanted to say it, but my throat still wasn't working right. He lowered his head to first one nipple, then the other, working them with his whole mouth. Teeth, tongue, lips. He alternated between rapid flicks with the tip, and full-on licks that drug his piercing over my stiff nipples. My eyes rolled back and my fingers dug into his shoulders. 

I thrust my hips into his hand, panting harder as I got closer to cumming. I concentrated on keeping my shirt between my teeth so I wouldn't be tempted to get louder. All that was for not when I felt it, that feeling like where you're on a roller coaster and you're about to go down the first drop. That moment right before the ground starts rushing up at you. 

"Oh fuck," I ground out, the first thing I'd been able to say since he started. The shirt fell out of my mouth. "Oh fu..." 

Indie's other hand came up to grab the back of my head as his mouth slammed down over mine, swallowing the rest of whatever I was going to start screaming. My hips arched up and I came. He didn't stop kissing me until he'd milked every last bit from me and I stopped shivering. 

He pulled his t-shirt over his head, leaving on the thermal. Wasn't like he could wear it now that I'd exploded all over it. I tried not to quiver when he cleaned me off. 

"Well, you're good and disarmed now," he laughed and wiped off his hands. He tossed the shirt under his desk. 

"What?" 

"Completely and totally disarmed." 

"I'll show you fucking disarmed." 

I slapped him so hard my palm stung. I knew his ears had to be ringing, but he just laughed. 

Man-bear-dick-asshole-fuckboy-jerk-pig-douchebag-wanker-twat-dickcheese-baddresser-bitchass-motherfucker-pissant-limpdick-ARGH! 

I scrambled off his lap, refastened my jeans, and grabbed my coat. I stormed out, slamming the door behind me. Halfway across the campus and his laughter was still ringing in my ears. 

I locked myself in the men's bathroom at the very top floor of the student union where no one went so I could jerk off while thinking about it. 

~*~*~*~ 

"Hey, Preston? Are you feeling okay?" 

I held the inside of my wrist up to his forehead like my mom had done for me countless times when I told her I wasn't feeling well before declaring I was just fine to go to school. The other patrons in the coffee shop looked at us a little weird, but I really didn't give a fuck. I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to be feeling for. Did he seem warmer than usual? I put my other wrist up to my own forehead for comparison. He didn't feel any warmer than I did. 

But, regardless of how he felt, Preston looked nothing like himself. For starters, he wasn't even dressed like himself. He was wearing a plain and very uncute long-sleeved shirt that he'd normally kick my ass for calling anything but a henley. His jeans were so loose I'd swear his laundry got mixed up with someone else's. I've only ever seen the guy in slim-fit slacks and skinny jeans. Worst of all were his shoes. He only wore sneakers for one of two reasons - cheerleading and cheerleading practice. Combine that with the fact that his hair was completely unstyled, and you could see why I was concerned. 

"Come back to me, little buddy," I said, ruffling his hair. 

Maybe if I distracted him. 

"So, Indie's been acting really weird the past couple days. He's actually been smiling. Fucker never smiles," I said. Preston could never resist a chance to talk shit about Indie. "Efrain said he asked him what was going on and he told Efrain he 'found a new toy.' Can you believe that?" 

For some reason, Preston started grinding his teeth. He took the napkin he'd been crushing in his fist and ripped it into little pieces. 

"...fuckwad-jizzrag-dickweed-pig-jerk-asshole..." he muttered. After he'd run through a full list of what I assumed to be every insult he knew interspersed, oddly enough, with names of animals, he made a miserable little sound and put his head on the table. 

He'd barely drank any of his coffee. It sat forgotten and neglected next to his keyring. For someone as ostentatious as Preston, his keyring was weirdly non-descript - just a ring and a handful of keys. 

Except now, there was a little Yorkie hanging out with his assorted keys. I picked it up. That was odd. Why would Preston have a rabid Yorkie keychain? 

"What's this?" 

He cracked open his eye and looked where I was pointing before making the same miserable sound again. 





Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 18



"A taste of my own medicine." 

I put down his keyring and patted his head. Preston was being whiney. Preston never whined. He was the mature almost-21 junior. His little brother and sister looked up to him and practically worshipped him (by Preston's accounts, at least). I was starting to get really worried. As much as I wanted to tell him about Efrain coming to Al's gig, my good news had to wait. 

"Come on, man," I said. "Tell me what this is about." 

"Promise you won't hate me?" 

"What could you do to make me hate you?" 

Before he could answer, three women - two brunettes and a blonde - slid into the booth with us. They looked a little familiar. One of the brunettes, with straight hair that hung down to her shoulders, spoke first. 

"Hi, Cory." 

"Hi?" 

The blonde, who spoke with a vocal fry creaky enough to make a Kardashian step back and question her value as an individual, greeted me next. 

"He was probably too drunk to remember us." 

The other brunette, long curly hair pulled into a pretty ponytail, giggled and laid her head on the table next to Preston. I think I recognized her as one of the cheerleaders, but I got a sneaking suspicion that I should have known her, as well as the other two women, from somewhere else. 

"Hello, Preston." 

"Hey, Meggie," he said, lifting his head. "Cory, this is Meggie. Meggie, Cory." 

"Oh, we've met before," she said. 

"I don't..." 

"Like I said," the blonde cut me off. "He was too drunk. He wouldn't remember." 

"What wouldn't I remember?" 

"'Y'all might wanna turn up the TV'" said the first brunette. 

"'I get pretty loud,'" giggled Meggie. 

Oh fuck. 

A room full of people at Indie's and me drunk off my ass. I covered my face with both hands and stammered out an apology. Fortunately, my shame seemed to snap Preston out of his mood. 

"Okay, I need to hear this," he said. 

"Oh yeah. Preston, these are my friends, Laurel and Lacey," Meggie said, indicating the other brunette, and then the blonde. Then it clicked. Laurel was one of Indie's best friends. She was also Indie and Efrain's roommate-in-absentia. 

"Charmed," he said, shaking each woman's hand. "Now, what embarrassing thing did Cory do?" 

They took turns filling him in on the details. And then some. I understood that straight dudes got off on watching women together, but no amount of yaoi reading could help me wrap my head around straight women getting off on gay men. 

"You're making half that up," I said. 

"Nope," Laurel said. "Our boyfriends and Indie can verify." 

"Fuck," I sighed. "So whose boyfriend did I traumatize?" 

"That would be mine," Lacey drawled. 

"Oh!" Preston said. "You traumatized a straight dude. How many does this make?" 

"Don't worry," I said. "It'll be awhile before I warp enough to catch up to your kill count." 

"You've been working pretty hard on your own roommates." 

"You have been working hard on my roommates." 

"I wasn't the one that got them hooked on gay cartoon porn." 

The women giggled over their respective drinks. We chatted a little longer. Despite my embarrassing start, I liked them. We exchanged social media connections, and Laurel and I traded cell numbers. 

"Well, I think we've heard enough," Laurel said eventually. She stood up and the other two followed. "I think my boys will do just fine in their hands." 

They wished us farewell and sailed out. 

"Boys? Plural?" I thought out loud. "Why plural? What am I supposed to do with Indie?" 

"Cory," Preston whined. He put his head back on the table. "Please don't be mad." 

"Why would I..." 

Their hands. Not his hands, their hands. 

"Preston," I said in a sing-song voice. "You have some explaining to do." 

He sat up. The look was as despondent and plaintive as I'd ever seen him. 

"Remember how you said I had to leave Indie alone?" 

"Yes." 

"I didn't," he said guiltily. 

He filled me in on the harassment campaign. 

"How were you getting into his office?" 

"Mrs. Gail." 

"The cleaning lady?" I said. "Preston, that could get her fired!" 

I met Mrs. Gail over the summer when she was cleaning the student union. Indie's building was her usual gig, but the reduced hours and staffing during the summer forced her into working nights cleaning the student council offices, where I sometimes hung out with Preston while he handled GSA business. She was really nice to us. When her car broke down, Preston and I helped her get groceries and run errands. We even repaired some things in her apartment that her landlord kept dragging his ass about. I missed chatting with her, but was glad she got her normal schedule back. The nightshift was pretty hard on her. 

"When I told her what Indie said about you, she was all about helping me out," he said. "She even put in some of her own stuff and gave me ideas for others." 

"Fucking hell, Preston." 

"No really," he laughed. "She had these bags of fake snow left over from a church thing last year. We dumped it all over his desk." 

I tried not to laugh; Indie must have had a bitchfit of epic proportions. 

"It was weird though. You'd think an asshole like him would make the cleaning lady clean up the mess, but she said he just asked to borrow a broom and refused to let her help." 

"That is interesting," I conceded. "So, is this why you'd thought I'd be mad?" 

Preston's smile faded, and he looked down at his hands. 

"I..." he faltered. 

"You what?" 

"Oh God." He whined and put his head back on the table. He banged his head a couple times. I ruffled his hair again. "Why didn't you warn me that he could kiss like that?" 

My hand stilled on his head. 

"I thought you were just doing anonymous shit." Immature as fuck anonymous shit. And Mrs. Gail? What the fuck? 

"Indie figured out it was me. He left me this," he said, pointing to the Yorkie. "And a note saying 'I get it, Preston. You can stop now.' I was kinda shocked, so I didn't leave in time and he came in." 

I knew there was more to this, so I waited for him to continue. He whined again, but pressed on. 

I forced myself to not laugh as he led me through the and-one-thing-led-to-another that ended with the two of them rolling around on Indie's desk making out like horny teenagers. 

"Poor Preston," I said, patting his head. 

"I went back again this morning, and..." I lost the rest of his statement in his mumbling. 

"Come again?" 

"He...we..." 

"What did you do?" I prodded. Preston sat up abruptly. 

"He gave me a hand job, okay?" he wailed just a little too loudly. The patrons at the nearest tables turn around, but he'd already covered his face with both hands. "I'm so ashamed." 

"Wow, I'm surprised you know what that word means." 

"I looked it up once," he said, his normal wit making a brief appearance. He took a calming breath and put his hands down. 

"So," I said, grinning. "You played gay chicken with Indie Norman and lost." 

"Gay chicken?" 

"Yeah, two guys put the moves on each other, and the one who chickens out loses," I said. "Aka - 'seduce the straight boy.' It's technically cheating if you're into dudes, but they didn't need to know that." 

"Really?" he asked sarcastically. 

"Don't judge, man," I said. "Gay chicken got me some serious play." 

"Fucking closet case." 

"Hey, at least I didn't let Indie beat me at gay chicken." 

~*~*~*~



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 19



Chapter 19 ‒ Cory Has a Posse 

Part One ‒ Little Indiana 

For reasons that were beyond me, I fully expected to jump off the school bus and find Laurel Sage waiting for me in the middle of the high school quad. We'd been inseparable my last year at Townsend, but I was going to have to wait another two years before she'd be able to join me at Bishop. I made it all the way through seventh grade without a having friend at all, let alone a best friend. I told myself I could survive until my junior year without Laurel. 

But, standing in front of the massive collection of buildings, with crowds of much larger kids swarming around me, I wanted nothing more than to run back to middle school and wait out the next couple years. I wouldn't be the first 16 year-old high school freshman, right? 

I hitched my bookbag higher on my shoulder and took a deep breath. 

Alright, Indiana, man the fuck up. 

I checked over the class schedule and did my best to navigate through the halls with the poorly rendered school map in the back of my planner and what little I remembered from freshman orientation camp. World history was my first class of the day, and I could at least look forward to that. 

My second period gym class was another story. 

At just a week shy of my fourteenth birthday, I still hadn't passed through the last of my pubescent growth spurts, but at 5'10" I was doing alright in the height category. I was even taller than some of the seniors. Yet, even my baby fat couldn't disguise how scrawny I was. Running cross country and track just seemed to make it worse. I had eventually learned to use my weirdness to cover where I lacked. Mom said yes to piercings, which she probably regretted after I started hitting the double digits, and she let me dye my hair whatever color I could make stick. But I still felt awkward stripping down to my boxers in the middle of the boys' locker room. 

The coaches had assigned our lockers and sent us off to change out for class. I was in the middle of shrugging on my gym shirt when someone knocked into me. 

"Hey, watch out," I said, glad that my voice didn't crack like it had been doing lately. Dad's voice was really deep, I was hoping mine would get somewhere near that deep someday. My head popped out of my t-shirt just in time to catch who had bumped me. 

"Why the fuck should I watch out?" The guy's letterman jacket proclaimed him to be a senior. A massive as fuck senior. "What you gunna do?" 

I stared back at him. First day of high school and I was already about to get my ass kicked. Way to go, fucktard! 

"What you looking at?" he demanded. I knew we were supposed to avoid "to be" verbs, but he took the rule a little too literally. "You a fag or somethin'?" 

I straightened my spine and threw back my shoulders. If I was going to get my ass kicked, might as well make it memorable. 

"And if I am?" I said, tipping up my chin and narrowing my eyes. I was still a lanky kid standing in my t-shirt and boxers, but I imagined the short, flaming red mohawk and eyebrow piercing made me look a little tougher than I actually was. Nobody but Laurel and my mom knew I liked boys, and I suddenly felt bold to be coming out in a high school boys' locker room. "Do you have a problem with me being gay?" 

Dudebro the Senior took a bit to process what I was saying. Faggotry was the go-to all-purpose threat for your average adolescent male, and sometimes it wasn't even a real comment on the person's sexuality. Even still, the natural reaction was to DENY, DENY, DENY. No one expected the twiggy freshman to buck tradition. 

"You better not be trying to get on my dick, faggot." 

I made an obvious show of looking him over ‒ from the top of his dudebro hair down to his over-priced and overrated Jordans. 

"Sorry, bro," I said with as much derisive contempt as I could manage without actually knowing what either word meant. "But, you're not my type." 

The other boys in the locker room laughed. Not at me, oddly enough, but at the senior. If you couldn't even get the gay freshman on your jock, then how much luck would you have with girls, right? 

"Fucking queer," he muttered and stomped out. 

Eventually, everyone's attention was elsewhere, and I was once again forgotten. I let out the breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding and pulled on my gym shorts. Then, a hand wrapped around my upper arm. I let out a surprised yelp and about jumped into my locker. 

"Holy shit!" I squawked, my voice choosing that moment to start cracking. I looked down at the boy who had grabbed me ‒ a shorter, pudgy kid with a mop of mousy brown curls and smiling green eyes. He wasn't ugly, nor was he particularly pretty, but his amused expression definitely made up for it. 

"That was fucking awesome," he laughed. "I thought that guy was going to kill you!" 

"You and me both." 

"Fuck, man, the way you stood up to him. Must have some fucking balls." 

"Or a death wish." 

"I'm Michael, by the way," he said. "But, everyone and their fucking brother is named Michael, so you can call me Jameson." 

"I'm Indiana," I said. "But my friends call me Indie." 

Okay, technically, I only had the one friend, but that's what she called me. 

"Like Indiana Jones?" 

"Yeah," I said, rolling my eyes. My mother's maiden name was Jones, and that's exactly what she was going for. It certainly didn't cause my parents to split, but I still think her putting Indiana Jones Norman on my fucking birth certificate was what set their divorce in motion. Of course, if you chose to be out on business the week your wife was due, you kinda had it coming. 

Jameson chatted with me while we finished getting dressed. Well, he chatted at me, and I listened. The guy never stopped for air. By the time we had our shoes laced up and were following the other boys out the door, I already knew he'd moved here from Richmond over the summer, lived a couple miles from my house, liked to swim at the beach, and had a dog whose name meant "golden" in some language that I could never remember. 

Months later and Jameson still hadn't run out of things to chatter about. 

We were sitting on his bed, playing Call of Duty. We had to keep it down because it was past midnight, and we were supposed to be asleep. His dad had already come in twice to warn us. Jameson had been telling me about this kid he knew back in Richmond who stayed up for three days straight playing CoD and ended up in intensive care. Laurel had been, and always will be, my best friend, but Jameson was special. You couldn't stay up late at night, playing video games and talking shit with a girl. 

"By the way," he said after a very un-Jameson-like silence. I leaned closer so I could hear him. "What is your type?" 

"My type?" 

"You said the jock guy wasn't your type," he clarified. 

"What jock?" 

"The one of the first day," he said. "Remember? You told him that you weren't into him, that he wasn't your type. So, what is?" 

"Why are you asking about my type?" 

"No reason in particular," he said quietly, seeming almost unsure of himself. "Maybe I just wanted to know if I stood a chance." 

I looked back at Jameson, with his laughing green eyes and mile-a-minute mouth. I don't remember what possessed me to say what I did any more than I remember who initiated the kiss that followed. 

"Maybe you do." 

~*~*~*~ 

I used to wonder how Cory put up with Efrain's music, but I had come to realize that his taste was just as bad. 

First, there was the weird as fuck song, some kind of deathmetal/J-pop hybrid, about playing tag. Next, there was the drum and bass techno song that featured a screaming auto-tuned orgasm in the middle. Then, there was the song demanding a blowjob, where the singer simulated gagging then repeatedly shouted "SUCK IT" over the bridge. He even did a hyperstereotypical gay impression at the end. I imagined it would have been funny to a slightly older person who would get the pop culture references. 

Or, to a straight guy. 

As if out to prove my point, it was the straight guy laughing the loudest. I looked over at Efrain's teammate, in the backseat of Cory's truck with me. They introduced him as JJ, then spent most of the ride downtown calling him Teague. It confused the hell out of me, especially since he called them Garza and Card in turn, and I had to remind myself that those were Efrain and Cory's last names. 

"Have I told you lately how crappy your taste in music is?" Efrain asked Cory over the strains of some industrial pop number about a mommy complex. 

"My taste in music?" Cory responded in mock indignation. "Half the shit you listen to sounds like some dude in a basement was like, Oh hey, I have this slick beat, let's see how many random sounds I can shove in. What? Lyrics? Why would I need lyrics?" 

"Hey, you leave edIT out of this," he said. "At least I don't pick my favorite artists based on how bangable their ass is." 

"Hey," Cory mimicked, finger pointing at Efrain in much the same way. "You leave Sam Hunt out of this." 

JJ was laughing so hard at their bickering that I doubted he picked up on Cory's slip. I knew Efrain was a hardcore closet case, but they were failing miserably at not flirting with each other. I cleared my throat, hoping to distract them before they outed themselves. They were still going back and forth in the front seat, but JJ's attention seemed to shift to me instead. 

He looked at me with a curious expression. This was the first time I'd met him, but Laurel had mentioned him to me before. The guy liked to play stupid, yet was anything but. He was the same age as Laurel, but was already working on his Master's while she was still a senior. 

JJ hummed thoughtfully and turned to look out the window as Cory pulled up at a stop light. 

A truck waited on my and Cory's side of the vehicle, loaded up with boxes and furniture. Cory started giggling like the still-teenaged guy he was over the labeling on the side of one box. Apparently, it had been used to ship lube in a past life. Didn't matter that it was now full of "kitchen stuff," as was written in black permanent marker. 

"That could come in handy." 

"Eres apretado, acho," Efrain laughed. "Pero no está tan apretado." 

"Eres grande, vato," he said in response. "Pero no está tan grande." 

I had no idea what the fuck they'd just said, but we didn't need to know that to understand that they were still flirting. 

"Funny," JJ said. He was still staring out his side of the truck. 

"What's that?" Cory asked over his shoulder. 

"I'm the only straight person here." 

As he was sitting in front of me, I couldn't quite see Cory's face, but I assumed it carried an expression like Efrain's look of stunned horror. Luckily, we were still at a stop light, or else Cory might have caused some vehicular carnage in his state of shock. Of course, I was pretty sure shock was plain as day on my face, too. 

The three of us turned to stare at JJ, who turned away from whatever held his attention outside to take in the three of us in our stupefied silence. A car horn blared behind the truck; at some point, the light had changed. He managed to keep his face straight for all of a minute before breaking down in a fit of laughter. Cory turned around and nervously drove on while JJ's laughter gave way to giggles before finally settling down. 

The obvious questions were answered in short order. How long did he know? ("The whole damn time.") How'd he figure it out? (Efrain ‒ "Never picked up chicks." Cory ‒ "He's openly bi. Still don't get how no one else has noticed." Me ‒ "Lucky guess, man.") Why didn't he say anything? ("Watching Garza squirm: Priceless.") Was he really cool with this? ("Why not?") Did the others know? ("God, you're lucky the rest of the guys are fucking thick as bricks. You're obvious as fuck.") 

Eventually, JJ and I settled into ribbing the poor couple. 

"Garza's always had a raging hard-on for Card. Shoulda seen him when the coaches brought out the new freshmen," he said. "He tried pretty hard to hide it, but his face had DAT ASS! written all over it." 

Seemed the only thing written on Efrain's face now was please make him stop. I caught Cory's amused reflection in the side mirror. 

"Fuck, there was this one time that Card had this weird shit called chamoy that he and Rice were trying to get everyone to eat. I bet Rice $50 that Garza would do it if Card asked him." 

"And?" I said. 

"Motherfucker let Card feed him," he laughed. "Dude, man ate it right off his fork in the middle of a press event. Rice was so fucking pissed." 

"I knew Rice seemed too pissed off for losing a lunch bet," Cory chuckled. 

"If you ever want something out of Garza," JJ said to me, "you'll have to stay on the kid's good side." 

"Oh, no, he went and fucked himself over with that one," Efrain said. "Should I share how that came about?" 

"Efrain," Cory said quietly and shook his head. Whatever he had been about to say died. 

"See what I mean?" JJ asked me. 

"I already knew about that," I said. "Cory has him completely housebroken. Used to be a massive slut, but Efrain's totally cock-whipped now." 

"I can imagine," he said. "Know how dogs do that one thing when their owner comes home?" 

"Yeah." I never had a dog myself, but I remembered how Jameson's old dog used to perk up moments before he walked in, as if she had some psychic ability and knew when her boy was nearby. "Not sure where you're going with this, though." 

"Let's just say we knew when Card was about to walk in the room." Efrain sank a little lower in his seat while his boyfriend barely contained an amused snort. JJ continued. "Though, it goes both ways. Card started wearing his glasses all the time, probably 'cause Garza gets off on it." 

"Huh, now that you mention it," I said. "Hey, Cory, aren't you far-sighted?" 

He gave a noncommittal shrug. While Efrain looked downright embarrassed, Cory just seemed mildly amused. 

"Best part, though, was watching them self-friendzone themselves because they were convinced the other guy was straight," JJ said. "Almost as much fun as watching them be all awkward and shit after they hooked up. Card came into the locker room with this massive bite mark on his shoulder." 

"I remember Efrain freaking out about that," I said. "Seems he also—" 

"Do not finish that," Efrain all but snapped. 

"But, this," JJ said, pointing at the couple, "is a little weird. Probably the most I've seen them act like they're dating." 

"Better than what I have to put up with," I muttered. "You should hear what—" 

"Indie," Cory cut in, a strange warning note in his voice. "Choose your next words carefully." 

~*~*~*~ 

Part Two ‒ What All the Howling's For 

How what was supposed to be me officially introducing my boyfriend to my best friend and my roommates turned into a major event was still beyond me. 

When I got Preston calmed down after his gay chicken loss to Indie, I told him about Efrain agreeing to come to the show. Then he bragged to the GSA about meeting "Kitten's Wolfie," and they promptly invited themselves. Since lez-Delia was going, Marina would be there, too. She told Berta and Luz, who told the rest of the people I went out dancing with (who Preston collectively referred to as my "dance crew"), and they decided to come. 

Earlier this week, I was a fucking dumbass and told the guys about the gig when they asked about my birthday plans. Baker was all like "dude, scene chicks," then Whitlock was like "yeah, scene chicks," and the next thing I knew, they'd all decided that Friday's show was the place to be. 

I think Indie invited himself because he correctly guessed that Preston would be there. I was not looking forward to that particular encounter, or what Preston planned to do to me later. 

I parked the truck in the garage closest to the venue. Teague and Indie were still making jokes at Efrain's expense. He had earned himself another round of ribbing when he quickly ruffled my hair before we met up with the rest of our teammates. I was having a hard time wrapping my head around being out to Teague, but I definitely had a new appreciation for the big guy. 

The team met us on the ground floor, and Efrain quickly introduced them to his roommate. Indie looked a little out of place standing among eight football players, but he integrated pretty well for someone who, at least by Efrain's accounts, didn't make friends. Indie and Teague's chuckling signaled that they were still enjoying their common interest, even if they were being more discreet about it with the rest of the guys around. 

Down the block, the GSA and the dance crew converged on us from two different directions. A squealing Berta broke away from the dance crew and threw herself into Teague's arms. He threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and started down the block while she giggled and squealed in protest. 

"Man, talk about self-friendzoning," I muttered low enough that only Efrain heard. The two of them had hit it off on Facebook, but he still hadn't asked her out. 

Preston led the GSA charge, wearing his usual. Tonight was supposed to be casual, the guys were all in jeans with t-shirts under their hoodies and coats, but Preston didn't do casual. Black slim-fit slacks, leather oxfords, and a cardigan with coordinating t-shirt underneath his black military-style peacoat. Only his confidence kept him from looking out of place in a sea of slouchy guys. At least he had left his bowtie at home. 

I tried introducing everyone, but that soon fell apart when I got to the team. Garza, Baker, Whitlock, Lithgow, Rice, Martinez, and Teague had a hard time remembering that they were Efrain, Paul, Denholm, Mitch, Adrian, Greg, and JJ to the outside world. Worse still, was when the GSA, and some of the dance crew, started greeting Efrain with "Wolfie! CHOMP!" 

"Wolfie?" Baker said. 

I noticed Berta casually pointing at her shoulder in answer to Teague, who started laughing. I knew he would no longer be content to call Efrain anything but. 

"Why Wolfie?" Lithgow asked Efrain. 

I started to panic a little, as I couldn't come up with a good excuse. Efrain rolled his eyes in annoyance. 

"Lope," he said testily. "My middle name means wolf. Why the hell did you tell them that, Cory?" 

Holy fuck, the man could think fast. 

"I didn't know Garza had a middle name," Baker said. 

"Dude," Lithgow laughed. "Your ass didn't know Garza had a first name." 

Among the confusion, Indie moved away from the team. He sidled up to Preston and put his arm across my best friend's shoulders. 

"Who said you can touch me in public?" Preston snapped at him. 

"Oh ho," Indie said. "Does this mean I get to touch you in private?" 

Not only was this the first time I'd seen them together, this was also the first time I'd seen Preston get snippy. He growled and folded his arms over his chest, but he made no move to shake Indie off, even when he tipped up Preston's chin and kissed him. If anything, he seemed to melt into it. 

I nervously shot my teammates a glance. If they reacted poorly to Efrain's gay roommate gay kissing my gay best friend into a little gay puddle of gay surrender, then they sure as hell wouldn't take too kindly to Efrain and me dating. However, none of them acted like they'd seen anything out of the ordinary. It was a promising sign. 




Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 19



The GSA, however, did take notice. Efrain wouldn't be the only person living something down after tonight. 

My rapidly expanding mob continued on. A little ways from the venue, our entourage picked up Laurel, Lacey and Meggie, along with some pretty bemused boyfriends, including the one Efrain and I had "traumatized." Despite all of them being in his house and drinking his alcohol, Indie only knew three of their names, but they fell in with our group, aided by mutual connections across the faction lines. 

And thus, we rolled up on Al's gig like someone took Homecoming, a Pride parade, and a dance competition, threw them into a bag with some hapless spectators, shook it all up, then skimmed a modestly sized crowd off the top. Considering that Al's band, Woodchuck Sanchez (don't ask, long story), was an opening act, my posse easily doubled the audience. 

Al and Gio were outside enjoying a little smoke-free air after unloading and setting up. Gio waved when he saw me walking up. 

"Sup, Birthday B—" he said, cutting off when he finally noticed the crowd behind me. Al about dropped the water bottle he had been drinking from. He just barely got enough of his wits about him to tell me that Romero was already inside with his girlfriend. 

We paid the cover fee and entered. Whether the bouncers felt intimidated charging cover to guys who were much larger than them was anybody's guess. In any case, we were quickly ushered into the venue where we proceeded to stand around awkwardly until Woodchuck Sanchez finished the last of their soundchecks and was ready to play. 

I'd heard samples of their stuff before, and it was really cool. The lead singer was training to be a voice coach, so he practiced on his bandmates. Gio had told me that Al already had a decent singing voice, but under Lem's tutelage, he'd really grown. Brit, the cool girl bassist, and Joey, the drummer, also improved, which allowed them to take more risks in their song harmonies. One of my favorites used a sort of reverse chorus, where all four members sang on the main verses while Lem sang without back-up on the chorus. 

Once things were good to go, the house music went down, and Lem greeted the audience. 

"We brought the noise, but looks like Birthday Boy brought the crowd," he joked. The audience cheered. I wasn't sure on the numbers, but until people started showing up for the later acts, my posse accounted for nearly half the people there. Lem waited until the cheering died down before he spoke again. "Alright, let's do this." 

Joey counted off the beats, and Brit launched into a killer bass line. Al and Lem came in on their guitars, with Al on lead. Lem's naturally gifted voice exploded over the instrumentation. The noise had been brought in full and it was only right that we lost our collective shit. I knew this wasn't everybody's thing, but Woodchuck Sanchez was too good to be denied. Teague and the rest of the team rocked out, and my dance crew and the GSA danced where the beats allowed. 

"They're really good!" Efrain shouted over the music. 

"I know, right!" I answered. 

He had been nodding his head in time with the music since the show started. Efrain shot a quick look over my shoulder then started grinning. He pointed behind me. 

"All that shit talking, now look at him." 

I looked back. At first I noted Berta and Teague, who were dancing, but I didn't think that's who Efrain meant. I scanned the crowd until I noticed Preston and Indie together. Indie stood behind Preston with his arms wrapped around him and his chin resting on the top of his head. Preston leaned back into his chest while tapping his fingers on Indie's thigh in time with the music. 

Romero caught my eye when I turned back and mouthed something that looked like when did that happen. I shrugged. I guessed this development would look the oddest to him since he had been witness to Preston's little attack twink episode. To him, Indie hanging all over Preston probably looked like the human equivalent of a gazelle getting affectionate with the lion that had been tearing into its ass all of ten minutes ago. Forget circles, that was like the Clusterfuck of Life. 

As soon as I could get him away, I was going to have to ask Preston if this was an extension of their gay chicken game, or a sign of actual interest in each other. Something, however, told me this was a column-A-column-B situation. 

Nevertheless, I was still amazed at my teammates' reactions. It wouldn't be out of the ordinary for a straight person who suddenly found himself surrounded by openly gay and lesbian couples to freak out. Yet, they took it in stride, even stepping in to stare down some assholes who were harassing Marina and lez-D. I was sure it would be something else entirely if they were to find out that two of the guys they regularly undressed and showered in front of were in a same-sex relationship, but I was hopeful. 

While I contemplated my teammates' ally-ness, Woodchuck Sanchez kept killing it on stage. I knew they were good based on the samples, but you couldn't really gauge how good a band was until you saw them live. If anything, however, they sounded even better in front of an audience. They mixed some covers into their set, so there'd be some tunes to sing along to, but everyone was just as content to rock out to their ordinal songs. Overall, I think my various social circles enjoyed the show. 

Between songs, Lem made really weird small talk ‒ repeatedly and awkwardly introducing the band, talking about the town, mentioning the weather, etc. It was strange until I realized he was saying almost the exact same thing every time, and that he was doing it on purpose. 

Toward the end of the set, he addressed the crowd. 

"So, this one is for Birthday Boy." 

"Sup, Kitten!" Al yelled after him, and some people from GSA and the dance crew called out "Kitten!" in response. I pretended not to notice my teammates' confused expressions (I was sure Berta was already filling Teague in) as Joey counted out the beats and the band launched into their next song. 

I couldn't quite place it until Lem sang the first line. 

Say, say my playmate/ Won't you lay hands on me? 

"Wolf Like Me" by TV on the Radio. 

The choice was not lost on me. 

~*~*~*~ 

By the time Al (and his glorious manbun) did his little rocker thing, the club was too stuffy for me to think straight. I stepped out onto the patio to get some fresh air. I was followed by the smell that had seeped into my wool coat and Indie Norman. 

I was going to kill Cory for not warning me that that man would be here, but only after he paid my dry cleaning bill. Nothing short of the cleaners was going to get the smell of clove cigarettes, vape fumes, and scenester desperation out of my favorite coat. Yeah, he told me it was casual, but after suffering defeat at Indie's hands (well, hand) while dressed like that, I couldn't bring myself to dress down. Good thing, too, as I needed all the social armor I could muster to deal with the Iceman. 

Indie finished off the last of his beer and tossed the bottle in the trash can. He walked over and draped his arm across my shoulders. He looked just like he always did ‒ pseudo-skater-slacker realness. Jeans, t-shirt from a local band (not any in tonight's lineup, I was told, as that would be absolutely gauche), and a jacket. His wallet chain looped across his hip. Indie was so not my type, and it pissed me off to no end that my lower half totally disagreed with the assessment. 

"Why are you being so touchy-feely?" 

"Just trying to keep you from going rabid." 

"That 'disarming' bullshit, again," I said. "It didn't work last time, so I have no idea why you're still trying." 

"What makes you think it didn't work?" 

"I slapped you." 

"Yes, you slapped me," he conceded, pulling me closer. "But, I know what you can do to a man, so I still consider my first experiment a success." 

"First? You think I'm going to let you do that again." 

He leaned down and murmured in my ear. 

"You know what I can do to a man; you want me to do it again," he said. "You're also really curious about my other piercings." 

He nibbled my earlobe, and my legs suddenly felt like jello. I was forced - yes, forced - to lean into him for support. 

Okay, so I may or may not have done a few late night Google searches for genital piercings. I had it narrowed down to three types, which made me hate myself even more for the amount of time I wasted thinking about Indie and his dick. 

I turned my head, seeking his mouth. In for a penny, in for a pound. Fortunately, an unfamiliar male voice cut into our little moment, and I was spared from embarrassing myself by initiating a kiss with Indie Dick-ception Norman. 

"Hey, Indie," the man said. He was plain, bordering on unattractive. Curly light-brown hair that covered his ears, face freckled almost to the point of tanned, body a little on the chunky side. His eyes, however, were an enviable emerald hue. It had to be his natural color, as no colored contact lens could mimic that exact shade. Of the great many injustices in the world, a man as unremarkable as this guy having such absolutely remarkable eyes just about topped the list. "Didn't think I'd see you here." 

Indie stiffened, his whole body going tense, and his hand twitched on my shoulder. His voice, when he eventually spoke, had lost the knee-weakening heat. He sounded nervous, maybe even a little scared. 

"Hello, Jameson," he said. 

Cory had mentioned this guy before. So, this was the man that ruined Indie Norman. If this seriously was the guy, then Indie had even more explaining to do. 

But, that would have to wait. 

I rose up on my tiptoes and whispered in Indie's ear. 

"Want me to stay for this? Need me to kick his ass?" 

"I'll be fine," he whispered back. Then, he added aloud "Mind grabbing me another beer on your way back?" as if to mask the nature of our conversation. 

"Not a problem," I answered. Granted, I barely knew Indie, but I hadn't ever heard him sound that unsure, even when I was about to beat the shit out of him. Still, I walked away to give them a chance to talk. Letting a man get you off once didn't entitle you to his business. 

They made small chit chat ‒ hello, how are you, blah blah blah. I was almost to the entrance, but couldn't bring myself to go back into the bar. 

"I miss you," I heard the guy say to him. 

I stood there, waiting for Indie's response. I think we all were, but it wasn't forthcoming. I tried to move forward, but for some reason, I couldn't take the next step. I recognized that every man needed a flaw, but why the hell did mine have to be an overwhelming need to meddle in everyone's affairs? 

I spun around on my heel and strode back to Indie and this Jameson guy ‒ swish in my step, smile on my face. If Indie was surprised to see me walking back, he didn't let it show. I gave him my best ­just-go-with-it look as I wrapped my arms around his neck. I felt his hands on my hips. 

"I forgot," I said, sheepishly showing him the little "x" on the back of my hand. "It'll be a couple months before I can buy you a beer." 

"I guess I'll have to wait then," he said. He had picked up my flirty tone and matched it. 

"Hm, I do have some at my place, though." 

"That could work." 

"That's of course if," I pretended to notice Jameson still standing there, "you're done talking, sugar." 

The ugly toad of a man called Jameson stood there gaping at me. I suppressed a superior smirk. 

"Good deal," I said, taking Indie's hand and leading him away. "Let's make our goodbyes and get out of here, eh?" 

"I can get with this plan," Indie said. I wasn't going to guess at why he was grinning. 

"Good night, Jameson," I said ever so sweetly, just to rub it in that I was sashaying off with the ex he still missed. 

~*~*~*~



Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 20



Content Warning: Domestic Abuse 

Chapter 20 -- Fragments 

Bright red spots on a field of old linoleum. 

I continue digging with tweezers, the tips falling to get a hold on the tiny sliver. 

Stainless steel scrapes on jagged glass. More blood drips off my heel. 

No matter how many times I clean them up, fragments remain. 

I'll be walking on broken glass forever. 

~*~*~*~ 

"Where we heading?" 

"My place." 

"Is that so?" I said. I arched my eyebrow at him. I knew Preston had said he was taking me back to his apartment, but I didn't know whether he had said it for Jameson's benefit or what. At the time, I was so glad to get away from my ex that I didn't ask any questions. 

"It's not what you're thinking," he said quickly. "I just didn't think you'd want to overhear Kitten getting his birthday spanking." 

I rolled my eyes. 

"At least they're making an effort to be quiet now." 

"Cory is making an effort to be quiet," he said. "Wolfie has been making a game out of it." 

"God, he would do that," I laughed, then sobered up. Fuck. I did not look forward to going back alone only to listen to meowing and growling all night. As if running into my ex wasn't bad enough. I sank down into the passenger seat and drug my hand over my face with a groan. 

"That bad, eh?" Preston asked. 

"Why'd you come back?" 

"I take care of my friends," he said. I looked at him, and he simply shrugged. His casual admission floored me so much that I couldn't find anything to say until Preston pulled into the apartment complex and led me to his door. 

Once on the other side, I took his hand and pulled him into my arms. He braced his hands on my chest and looked up at me. 

"Like I said, it's not what you're thinking," he said. "I don't want to take advantage—" 

"You're not." He started to back out of my arms, but I held him tighter. I knew he wanted to be nice, but the last thing I wanted to do tonight was think. 

"Let me just—" 

I kissed him before he could say anything else. I nipped at his lips and they parted, granting me access. His cologne teased at my senses, reminding me of the other times I'd had his body pressed to mine. He rose up on his toes and I coaxed his tongue into my mouth, deepening our kiss. Jackets shook from shoulders, shoes slipped from feet. We let go of each other long enough to throw whatever item across the room. 

The fingers of one hand stole up the back of his shirt to trace the column of his spine, the other hand I sent down to knead his ass. I could feel the tight swell clench under my palm as his hips rolled into me. He broke away and started making attempts at offering me a beer, an opportunity to talk, a million other things I could possibly want. I pulled my t-shirt over my head and threw it in the vague direction of my jacket. 

Preston bit his lip as he lifted a hesitant hand and let his fingers ghost over my nipple ring. I tipped up his chin and watched the realization bloom in his honey-brown eyes that my free hand had just unsnapped my jeans and drawn down the zipper. 

When our lips next met, any sense of reserve vanished. Preston and I stumbled to his bed in a flurry of writhing tongues and groping hands. He pulled back to slide under the covers and invited me in with him. A few pieces of hastily shorn clothing flung out from under the blanket, and I was finally able to stretch myself along the full length of his warm and pliant body. I looked at him, from the tips of his soft brown hair, down to the parts of his body that I could see under the blanket. I felt his legs tangled up with mine, his sex digging into my hip. A fucking feast after nearly two years of famine. I'd spent enough sleepless nights thinking about what he had hidden under his clothes, and a few more besides having tasted and touched some of those secret places, but now that I had him in his full naked glory, I almost didn't know where to start. 

Preston squirmed under my reverential palms, arched into me when they brushed over his hips and pulled him closer. His lips nibbled at my neck, followed the trail his hands blazed across my chest. He scooted down the bed, licking lower. His eyes went wide when he got down to my dick, and wider still when he found piercings twenty-four and twenty-five as if he knew where to look. 

"You have been thinking about it," I said. 

"I have," he admitted. He wrapped his fingers around my shaft and we both shivered at the contact. His attention went back to the little bits of metal. "Fuck, a lorum and a guiche." 

"How do you know what they're called?" Not that I'd shown them off to many people, but most would be surprised you could put a ring through the base of your dick or taint, let alone that there was a name for either one. 

"Research." His perfectly shaped eyebrow swept up into a decidedly wicked look. "Always wanted to play with a pierced dick." 

And with that said, his mouth closed over my head. I swore and he giggled as best he could around a mouthful of my dick. His fingers crept over my balls and flicked the little metal ring hiding behind while his tongue and lips worked me. I swore again and Preston pulled my head out of his mouth with a lascivious pop. 

"Damn, sugar," he said. "The face you're making, you'd think I was hurting you." 

Rather than answer, I pulled him up and shoved my tongue into his mouth. Preston wrapped his leg around my waist, and I took advantage of the position to touch where my hands had yet to stray before. My fingers slipped over the inside of his thigh, over a rounded cheek, and back down the cleft. He whimpered quietly when my fingertips first brushed over his tight little hole. I tickled over him again and he shivered. He grabbed my hand, and I was half afraid he was going to make me stop. Instead, he brought my hand to his lips and sucked two fingers into his mouth, running his tongue over them in much the same way as he had with my cock. 

When he finally let them go, I let my fingers find his center once more. I pressed into him until his ass relaxed enough under my fingertips to allow me entry. He flexed his hips back, taking my finger up to the first knuckle. He flexed forward, grinding our cocks into each other's hip. I let him fuck himself on my finger, adding the second digit to further open him. His small moans filled my mouth. 

"Do you have a condom?" 

"Yes," he said. I pressed deeper inside of him and the word broke off in a cry. He slipped from me long enough to grab a condom and some lube. I quickly took out the lorum while he straddled my thighs. I let him slip on the rubber and slick me up. 

Preston lined me up and carefully eased himself down on my cock. He worked his way down over me, taking me in another inch, lifting himself back almost to the tip, before sliding himself back down again, moaning and licking his lips in much the same way I had seen people react to really good cheesecake. At the last moment, I lifted my hips as he plunged back down and buried myself to the hilt in his body. We were both breathing hard by the time his sweet little ass rested on my thighs. His hand rested on my stomach, his body erect, back slightly arched, while he adjusted. I felt him twitch and spasm around me. 

Yet, as amazing as he felt just sitting there, I desperately needed him to move. When he leaned back and put his hands back on his heels, I couldn't help the way my breath stopped. Cute little Preston, ball of fucking fury, rode my dick in graceful thrusts. 

He rolled his body as he lifted his hips off me -- arching back on the up stroke, forward on the down. His lip held between his teeth, his breath coming in panting whimpers. The way he moved hit all his little sweet spots, the ones I'd never be able to find without asking first. Each thrust drove his voice higher, wound his ass tighter around my shaft. I stroked my hands over his body -- grabbing at his ass, rubbing his thighs, teasing over his chest. 

"Something tells me we aren't fucking," I said between my own panting breaths. 

"What makes you say that?" He gasped while I flexed my hips up to meet his down-thrust. 

"You're just getting yourself off on my dick." 

"Doesn't seem like you have a problem with that," he said as he ground into me. I had to admit, watching him was arousing and he knew it. I'd heard guys described as moving like a porn star, but I doubt a porn star could capture the undulating rise and fall of his hips. Preston was why porn stars moved like that in the first place. "With how long it's been, you won't last. Might as well get mine first." 

"Guess I'll just have to enjoy the show then," I said, rising up on my elbows to better watch his body dance in my lap. Something about it must have done it for him because he suddenly arched his back higher. 

"Oh God!" he cried out. 

"Angle hit something good?" I asked, but all I could get in reply were some whimpered curses and comments about the size of my dick. His controlled grinding faltered and he almost stopped completely. 

I considered it about time that I disabused him of his notions regarding my abilities. 

I rolled him onto his back before I pulled out to the tip and drove back into him. He cried out again. 

"Nice thing about endurance runners," I murmured in his ear. "We can keep it up forever." 

Eyes shut, nails in my back, legs gripping my waist, an endless chorus of oh God, more, don't stop, please, fuck, yes, and theretherethere falling from his pretty lips. It didn't take long before I was breathing heavy and moaning with him, but his rising voice drowned mine out. 

I fucked him long and hard ‒ witness to the side of Preston that falls apart. 

~*~*~*~ 

I pulled up to the house -- cream colored with dark blue trim. The older BMW M5 that I parked next to looked well cared for. Similar care had been taken with the yard, but other than a few rows of dogwood shrubs and a couple small magnolia trees, the landscaping was simple. From the outside, you couldn't really tell that college students lived in the modestly-sized home. 

The tall, lanky guy who opened the door, however, definitely looked like a college student. Black hair with turquoise highlights, multiple hoops through his ears and face, jeans and a Bad Religion t-shirt. Attractive in that alt scene kind of way. I wondered how Teague even knew, or knew of, this guy. 

"You must be Efrain," he said and offered his hand. 

"You must be Indie," I replied and shook the offered hand. "A teammate said you're looking for a roommate." 

He waved me in and led me past the foyer. He seemed to be favoring his heel; the sock covering it sported an inch-wide spot of blood. 

Indie showed me the living room, which boasted a fireplace, a massive flat-screen TV and even more massive couches. It made sense, the furniture at least. He towered over my 6'1" height, and I doubted he'd sit comfortably on a normal sized couch. He pointed through a sliding glass door to the backyard. More magnolias and dogwood, nice lawn furniture (none of the cheap white plastic stuff favored by most young adults), and a custom firepit that he said he'd built himself from some plans he found on the internet. 

The guy seemed nice enough, and the house neat enough, but it could have been a crack house for all I cared. I needed to get out of the dorms and away from my roommate. Carey was an okay guy, that is, until someone mentioned gay people. I didn't have any plans to come out at VT, but I somehow knew Carey would fucking flip if he found out he'd been rooming with one of them homosexuals. 

"This is the kitchen," Indie said. 

I think he meant for me to just glance and move on to the bedroom, but I needed to see this. The homophobic roommate was my primary reason for leaving, but I was also going fucking crazy eating college food. I needed a goddamn kitchen, so I could make my own goddamn food. 

The kitchen fit in with the rest of the house -- way too fucking nice for a college student. A massive fridge with French doors and a freezer drawer, six-burner natural gas stove, and dual ovens -- all in stainless steel. A wealth of cabinet and counter space, with an island that featured a prep top surrounded by bar seating. Smaller appliances, like a top-of-the-line stand mixer and a food processor, sat on the counters. He even had an espresso machine in addition to the coffee pot. 

He must have noticed me gawking. 

"My step-mother remodeled their kitchen and sent all the old stuff here." 

"Old stuff?" All this crap couldn't have been more than a few years old. 

"If Molly's brat was getting a house, then good ol' Claire was going to at least get a brand new kitchen out of it," he said, rolling his eyes. "That's where most of my furniture came from, too. She even got my step-brothers new bedroom sets." 

"Your dad bought you a house?" 

"No, my dad bought a house," he shrugged. "I just take care of it." 

"Like a manager." 

"Exactly," he said. "I'd charge a hell of a lot more if I were paying down my own mortgage." 

"I was wondering why the rent was so cheap," I said. "But why get a house?" 

"He figured that if he was going to be paying my rent for four years, he might as well get something from it." 

"But, to buy one this big?" I remembered Indie saying something about four bedrooms and three-and-a-half bathrooms. 

"Resale value," he said. "Besides, my dad originally planned to use this like his personal hotel during home games." 

"Man, nothing like dear old Dad crashing your football parties." I was pretty sure from his tone that there was little love lost between my potential roommate and his father and step-mother. 

I started opening random cabinets and drawers. His step-mother had probably re-outfitted her kitchen from top to bottom, if Indie's kitchen was any indication. What normal college student owned chef-quality knives and a full set of la Creuset cookware? My mom only had the one Dutch oven, and that was because it was on sale at the base exchange. "You know how to use any of this stuff?" 

"Do you?" I briefly worried that he would get annoyed with my going through his kitchen, but if anything he looked indifferent. 

"Yup. My mom's a caterer," I said. "She taught me everything she knows." 

Of course, she had regretted doing so when my cooking turned out to be better than hers. I could definitely teach a thing or two to whatever jackass they had in charge of VT food services. 

As I went through Indie's cabinets, I started fantasizing about the damage I could do in a kitchen this well-stocked. The one thing he seemed short on, however, was glassware and dishes. I figured he might be one of those guys that used paper plates and plastic forks because he was too lazy to load a dishwasher. Dad had more than a few sailors like that under his command before he retired. 

I got to a cabinet with a massive dent in the door and no shelves inside. 

"A minor accident," he said. "It knocked a shelf loose and the whole thing came crashing down." 

"The glasses and dishes?" 

"Yup. My ex insisted on putting everything in one cabinet." 

"No shit." 

"Happened back in the spring. Swept the floor dozens of times, but I'm still stepping on glass," he said and pointed down at the blood on his sock. "Just got that out all of five minutes ago." 

"You didn't vacuum it up? Mom always used the vacuum." 

"No, 'cause that would have made sense," he joked and led me off to check out the rest of the house. 

"So, did she at least replace them?" I asked. 

"Who?" 

"Your ex-girlfriend." 

"Nope," he said. "And it was a 'he.' My ex-boyfriend lived with me." 

"I see." 

"Hope my being gay isn't a problem," he said as he showed me into what would be my room. 

"Would be a bit hypocritical if it was." At least I wouldn't have to deal with a raving homophobic lunatic, so one more point for Indie. "Lemme guess, Claire got a new bedroom set." 

"How'd you know?" he chuckled. The room was fully furnished with a king-sized bed and matching oak furniture. I walked through the door that led to the connected bathroom. It was fucking huge with the most unbelievable shower. 

"This is the master suite," I said. 

"It is." 

"Then why didn't you take it?" 

"The previous owner converted the garage into a mother suite," he answered. "As awesome as that shower is, the tub is even better." 

"Aw man," I said. "This shower vs. tub thing could be a total deal breaker." 

"I'm sure I could pull out some kitchen appliances to sweeten the deal." 

"God, how much shit did your step-mother buy?" 

"What shit didn't she buy?" 

~*~*~*~ 

I fingered the cord around Cory's neck -- black leather braided with stainless steel beads. Indie had called it a choker when he laughed at me for buying jewelry, but I liked how it looked on my boyfriend. I could see how it got the name, any tighter and the thing would likely strangle Cory. I ran my fingertip along the cool metal beads, my knuckle brushing against his throat. 

It was well past midnight by the time I got Cory away from the bar and into his truck. Preston had sent him a quick text that Indie was staying with him so we'd have the place to ourselves. For some reason, we'd decided to do the most unoriginal thing ever and snuggle in front of the fireplace in the living room. I nabbed any blanket that wasn't attached to a bed, and he pulled all the cushions off the couches. Since he was the only one who knew how to work a fireplace (apparently those weren't uncommon in south Texas -- who knew?), I made up a pallet while he got the fire going. In no time at all, we were under a jumble of blankets being all cuddly 'n shit. 

I didn't know how I turned into one of those guys who fucking liked cuddling or making out, but Cory did all this cute shit and it was hard to deny him when he did cute shit. I wouldn't go so far as to say I liked it myself, but... 

Who the fuck was I kidding? 

I was propped up on my elbow, gazing down at my boyfriend, for fuck's sake. We were tangled up in the blankets, but still fully dressed, in front of a motherfucking fireplace. I wasn't even doing something respectable like feeling up on his junk through his jeans, just playing with the beads on his necklace, but I was perfectly happy to be there with him. Occasionally, my finger would stroke him in a way he liked and he'd make some cute little noise, and my dick would plump up a bit, and maybe he'd pull me down for kiss, and maybe we'd nuzzle a little bit, but we didn't get further than that. 

As much as I wanted to complain, I rather liked being Cory's housebroken "Wolfie." I couldn't even be pissed off about the nickname, especially seeing as how he got the worst of it. 

How in the hell was a 210lbs hunk anything remotely like a kitten? 

Although, the prospect of viciously fucking him until he made cute kitteny noises wasn't without its merits. 

As if able to read the direction of my thoughts (or, more likely, able to feel my dick suddenly digging into his leg), Cory spoke up. 

"So, if Indie's not here," he said, "I don't have to be quiet." 

"Wasn't going to give you the option, anyway." 

"And we don't have to move this to your room." 




Wolfie Kitten Iceman Maddog Ch. 20



"Fuck," I said. "I didn't think about that." 

I let him pull me down over him. He whimpered when I shifted my leg between his thighs, brushing against his cock as I lay back down next to him. I'd been digging into his leg before, but now he was digging right back. I briefly wondered how long he'd been that hard. 

Gone were the nuzzling kisses when I took his mouth. As content as we had been snuggling with our clothes on, we couldn't get undressed fast enough. We struggled out of shirts and jeans and kicked them out from under the blankets as soon as they were off, grabbing at each newly exposed body part. I swatted at his ass, hitting him just hard enough to make it register. 

"Knew you couldn't resist giving me a birthday spanking," he said. 

"Of course not," I answered him. "So, how many licks?" 

"Licks? That can be taken so many ways." 

"I'm going to take you so many ways." 

"Is that so, Mr. Talk-Big-Game?" 

I bit the sensitive juncture between his neck and shoulder, and he gasped. I rolled him on to his stomach and straddled his hips. 

"Don't get cheeky with me, Kitten," I growled into his ear before I trailed nibbles and licks down his spine, yanking his trunks down as I went. I slapped him once, twice, then again, and gripped the stinging cheek in my hand as I licked the dimples at the small of his back before sinking my teeth into the other side (which, in my opinion, was the only reasonable thing a man could do with such a bitable ass). Cory arched his back with a curse and panted harder when I gripped a cheek in each hand. I watched his fingers dig into the blankets as I spread him open, almost to the point of pain. He whimpered and my dick twitched in response. I decided to wait until he begged. 

Not like I really had to wait long. 

Not like I really wanted to wait long. 

I let him get half-way through please before my tongue lapped at his ass and the -ease part ended up sounding a lot like goddamnyesyesyesohfuck. I licked again and he cried out again. Licking him more made him beg harder for it. By the time I was eating his ass in full, I did so to a constant string of bilingual entreaties. He lifted his hips, opening himself further under my tongue. I slid my finger into him and he slipped into a territory better known as "incoherent babbling." 

Now came the fun part. 

"How many licks has that been?" I said while I continued fucking him on fingers and tongue. 

"Licks?" 

I spanked him again. 

"Wasn't counting," he whimpered. 

"Start now," I said and punctuated the command with a slap. 

He jumped and gasped. 

"One." 

I continued my assault, making him keep count. Every time he jumped, my fingers and tongue dug deeper. At five, I crooked my fingertips over his prostate and he lost count. We started over. When we got back to five, I pressed my thumb down on his perineum, attacking his prostate from within and without. I still wasn't striking hard enough to really hurt, but the little stings added up and pink handprints blossomed across his ass. He'd obediently count every time I struck, then go right back to senselessness. His ass clenched harder around my fingers and his back arched higher the further he counted, until right around seventeen when he suddenly went rigid and hissed out a quick "oh fuck." I'd managed to get my thumb pressed into him at just the right time, so he came dry. Eighteen and nineteen whimpered out weakly. I didn't pull my little prostate trick often, but man was it fun to watch him cum like that. 

Cory trembled as my kisses soothed over his warm pink cheeks. I rolled him back over, nibbled at his neck. 

"You kept count for me," I said. I bit his earlobe and said the one thing that never failed to get him hot. "Good boy." 

I scooped up the little black bottle that I'd secreted out when I grabbed the blankets (you seriously thought I was going to let him cuddle me all night?) and lubed myself up. When I spread his legs and positioned myself, he started pleading with me to keep going. He practically cried as I sank into him. Muscles that had been pulling at my fingers swallowed my cock whole as I bottomed out in him. I pulled back to thrust into him and his hips rose to meet me. 

His head fell back with a shuddering moan. I recognized this as the quiet before the storm, the moment of calm before he started getting really vocal. I watched him as I steadily plowed into him. The choker stretched tight around his neck; I was almost afraid the leather would cut into his throat. 

The word choker swirled around in my head. 

My hands crept up his body, from his hips where I'd been gripping him, to his waist, and over his pecs. I pinched his nipples and he writhed under my hands, but my brain kept itching. I looked at his neck again, at the black leather and bits of metal resting against his straining Adam's apple. He swallowed hard when I thrust back into him, making the choker rise and fall. My hands inched up and encircled his neck, his pulse leapt against my fingertips. His hands came up to grip my forearms and I stopped moving. 

We had talked about the kind of kinks we'd been getting into, even went so far as to set up a safe word, but I was afraid me putting my hands on him like this pushed the boundaries. My dick throbbed in time to the pulse beating against my hands. I swallowed and looked at him. Cory's dark blue eyes met mine. He knew the words to make me go and the words to make me stop. I could back off if he didn't want this, but his eyes spoke volumes. 

He trusted me. 

I pulled back my hips and pushed into him again. His moan vibrated against my fingers. As my hips built a steady rhythm that drove us both closer to the edge, my fingers stayed around his throat with his hands around my forearms, almost holding me there. I felt the rising crescendo of his voice against my palms. I knew it couldn't be my imagination, but his ass felt tighter the longer I held him. 

If there was a bad time for someone to walk in, it would be now. The blankets had long fallen off our sweaty and writhing bodies. There was nothing hiding my boyfriend and me from anyone who suddenly found themselves in the living room. He had both knees drawn up, head thrown back, screaming curses in two different languages, while I was practically choking him and fucking his ass hard enough for the slapping sounds to be audible clear across the room. The added thrill of potential discovery drove me on. I wasn't sure if the same thoughts were going through his head, but something had him grabbing for his dick. I held back until he came first, letting his second orgasm pull me toward climax. 

I released his neck and pulled close to his body before I exploded into him, seeming to push out against the walls that had been collapsing around me. Cory's arms, mouth, ass drew me in, held me, until I wound down. 

We stayed wrapped around each other for a long time, and I wondered if it was still considered cuddling with my softening dick still in his ass. 

"So," he said while catching his breath. His nose nuzzled my neck. Yep, we were back to cuddling. "Choking kink?" 

"Yeah, sorry 'bout that." 

"No, I like it." He nosed me again, then bit my neck. He cupped the back of my head, threading his fingers through my hair. I felt his fingers tightening; the tug at my scalp gave me goosebumps. "Although, I'm not looking forward to explaining fingerprints to the guys." 

I pulled back to check out the damage. I didn't think I'd held too tightly, not like I was actually choking him, but I figured it was best to be sure (especially since JJ fucking Teague would know exactly who to blame). 

"Neck seems fine," I said. 

"Not there," he said. 

"Aha, the birthday spanking." 

"According to my ass, you think I'm eighty!" 

"Want a recount?" I growled through a predatory grin. 

~*~*~*~ 

I always fucking hated when professors cancelled class at the last minute. More so today than any other. Had class gone on like it should, I would have had an excuse to ignore my dad's phone call. Ever since Jameson's parents found out that he'd flunked out of college and cut him off, he'd been riding my ass about getting rent money. I kept telling him that Jameson was looking for work, but could only find part-time gigs. My dad didn't care. 

Yet by this point, he knew he wasn't getting back rent and just wanted Jameson out. Even breaking down and telling him that I couldn't kick him out because he was my boyfriend, and not my best friend like Dad had assumed, couldn't make him budge. If anything, it made things between my dad and me worse. He had stopped coming to stay at the house for home games, which was the only time I saw him anymore. It wasn't like I needed a relationship with my father, but it still stung that he preferred his second wife's kids over a son he actually shared DNA with. 

He still "did right by me" and helped me through college, even if it was giving me a place to stay and paying my credit card bills without looking at the statements -- a small detail that obscured the fact that I was helping Jameson out a lot more than I'd told him. 

But, Dad was done. His latest call had been to tell me that my boyfriend needed to move out, or else he'd evict Jameson himself. No matter what I said, he couldn't get that Jameson was going through a rough patch and our relationship was strained enough. We hadn't cooled off so much as froze out -- we hadn't had a decent conversation, let alone sex, in months. Telling him that he had to move out wouldn't help me fix what was wrong with us. It was almost like my dad wanted Jameson to break up with me. 

In the end, however, the Norman on the house deed was Andre, not Indiana. If he wanted my boyfriend out, then he was going to have his way. I just needed time to think of a decent way to break it to Jameson without starting yet another fight. 

At least the upside to the last-minute cancellation was that, with Laurel still in class and Jameson at his part-time job, I'd have the house to myself. I fully planned to make a bee-line for the shower, turn on every shower head full-blast and as hot as I could handle, then stand under the water until it went cold. I did all my best thinking in the shower, which was why I wasn't too broken up over my dad claiming the mother suite, the best room in the house, for himself, despite only being in it a dozen or so weekends a year. 

However, I lost all interest in taking a shower half-way down the hall to my bedroom. I did not recognize the feminine squeals coming from behind the door, but I would recognize the other voice anywhere as I'd heard that particular moan hundreds of times in the last eight years. 

Still, my fucking stupid ass had to open the damn door. 

I didn't see the woman he was fucking, just her nails raking down his bare back. It wasn't even midmorning, but I'd already had a shit day, only to come home to my boyfriend in my bed with some fucking skank. 

"Good morning, Jameson. You're off work early." 

Jameson turned around and stared at me. I stared back, hoping he'd break before I did. Seemed his little playdate decided to beat us both to the punch. 

"Who the fuck are you?" The woman had all but screeched the question. 

"Could ask the same," I said. I folded my arms across my chest, if only to hide how badly my hands had started to shake. 

"Who the fuck is this?" she asked Jameson. 

"Get out, Indie," he said. 

"Last time I checked, this is my bedroom," I said, leaning against the door. "If anyone needed to leave, it wouldn't be me." 

"What is he talking about, Michael?" 

"My house, my bed," I said, then pointed to Jameson, "my boyfriend." 

She repeated the question. I was two seconds from elaborating for the stupid bitch when I finally got a look at her. She'd had the duvet, my fucking duvet, pulled up, but the outline was unmistakable. 

"How pregnant is she, Jameson?" 

"How the fuck is that any of your business?" she asked. Her face twisted into a snide look. "Michael said his roommate was fucking crazy, but—" 

I slammed the door and stormed out before she could finish. 

~*~*~*~ 

I just stood there. 

It took very little in the last years of our relationship to get Jameson screaming. This however, was by far the worst I'd ever done. 

"What the fuck is this?" He'd shoved the piece of paper in my face, almost grinding my nose in it. The words "EVICTION NOTICE" in angry red letters rendered the rest of the page superfluous. He'd already left me in deed, if not by word, and that had made it much easier to follow my father's orders. 

Easier, at least, until I had to face Jameson. 

He had cornered me in the kitchen when I returned from class. I had made sure I'd be out when they served him the notice, but I hadn't counted on seeing him afterwards. 

He screamed the question at me again as I retreated to the other side of the kitchen. 

I didn't answer him. 

I didn't know what to say. 

He did. 

I'd heard all of it in one form or another before -- small remarks, just-kidding-but-not-really comments, out-right insults, hurled accusations in the middle of a fight -- but the things Jameson said never lost their sting. 

I was lucky he'd stuck around as long as he had. 

I was weird, and a nerd, and not particularly attractive, and a terrible kisser. 

Possibly, no definitely, crazy. 

If it wasn't for him, I'd have been alone all this time. 

I was going to be alone without him. 

I would die alone without him. 

He railed at me for being such an asshole to him. He was doing the right thing by taking care of his kid. I, of all people, should understand that there were enough shitty dads in the world. What right did I have to do this shit to him? 

The piece of paper in his hand was supposed to fix all this for me. It was supposed to get rid of him because I was too scared of him to do it myself. He made sure to include that I was a fucking pussy for not talking to him like a man. 

I just stood there, taking his abuse, not quite knowing what to do or say. 

Apparently, doing and saying nothing was even worse. 

He decided yelling wasn't enough when he wasn't getting the reaction he wanted. He picked up the nearest thing he could get his hands on -- a pot I'd had drying on the counter -- and aimed for my head. 

His throw slammed the pot into the cupboard, missing me by a good foot, but was still close enough that my whole body went rigid. My brain had failed to process the noises -- the domino effect of shelf brackets breaking and shelves falling onto each other, one by one -- until the cabinet doors swung open, spilling all the plates, bowls, mugs, glasses that I owned out onto the floor where they shattered. What seemed like a thousand cuts and stings bloomed on my bare legs and feet. No matter where I stepped to get out, I would have to walk on broken glass. 

At some point, I would need to clean all this up, to tend to my wounds, to get away from him. 

But, I just stood there. 

~*~*~*~ 

A bed that is not my own, a body that is not my own, a warmth that is not my own. 

The initial strangeness of waking up holding Preston's small body wore off the longer I watched him sleep. The arm carelessly thrown across my waist, the even rise and fall of his chest, the beginnings of a most epic case of bedhead, the haphazard tangling of limbs below. 

I wasn't sure if Preston knew what he'd given in not letting me wake up alone. 

~*~*~*~