Second Chance

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Second Chance Page 4

by Van Barrett


  And so the group left the bar and climbed into Clay's truck. The two girls crammed on the bench-seat between the athletes.

  ***

  Before Rusty could even start the engine, Clay and Manon began to kiss. The cramped cabin filled with the sounds of their wet kisses, the sound of her hand scraping against his stubble, his satisfied grunts, her whimpering moans.

  Slightly mortified, Rusty and Emily pretended not to notice. They kept their eyes glued to the road ahead. Even as Manon's hand went between Clay's legs and she stroked him over his jeans.

  But the sound of a zipper opening was too much for Emily to ignore.

  “Okay—no, I can't do this!” The shy girl had reached her breaking point. She turned to Rusty. “Can you take me home instead?”

  “Of course,” Rusty replied.

  He turned the truck around and drove the girl home. Manon, a little drunk and a lot embarrassed, apologized to her friend profusely.

  “It's okay, it's okay,” Emily kept repeating. “I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight.”

  So, out of respect to her friend, Manon kept her hands off Clay—at least until Emily was out of the truck.

  And then, as Rusty drove the truck back to their digs, Manon leaned over, pulled Clay's jeans down, and started to slide her tongue up and down his dick.

  Clay couldn't help but notice that Rusty had a hard time focusing on the drive. His mouth agape, he kept his eyes trained on the couple, watching as much of the blowjob as he could.

  “Fuck,” Rusty mumbled again and again as he watched his teammate, his captain, his best friend get blown in the passenger seat. “Damn, that's hot.”

  Manon liked hearing that. She sat up with a giggle and asked him, “you like to watch?”

  “Yes,” he blurted out, sounding surprised.

  Yeah, hockey players do pretty much everything together. They form a bond closer than best friends, tighter than brothers.

  That was the first time Rusty saw Clay's cock.

  It wouldn't be the last.

  5

  Read the Signs

  – Rustin –

  The twilight sky turned a deeper, darker shade of blue. They'd left the hockey game on the truck's radio, but out here, on the truck hood, the broadcast was a faint whisper.

  Sprawled out on top of that warm hood and nestled neatly between his captain's meaty thighs, Rustin wondered what might be going through Clay's mind.

  Rustin hoped Clay was enjoying the blowjob as much as he enjoyed giving it. At least Clay's dick was hard—very hard, his veins visibly pounding. That had to be worth something, right?

  Because if Clay wasn't into it at least a little bit, there was no way in hell he'd actually let Rustin suck him off. Right?

  Rustin knew what Clay liked, after all. He'd seen the guy get blown enough times to know what got him going. So Rustin held Clay's round, shaved, tight ball-sack firmly in his palm, stroking and massaging his cum-heavy nuts, all the while he sucked and slurped at his teammate's towering manhood.

  And Clay did all the little things he always did before he blew a giant load. The short, punctuated gasps. The vulnerable grunts, the sexy sighs. The way his pelvis uncontrollably shook, and his hips thrust forward.

  All those things were a good sign, right?

  Still, Rustin couldn't help but take frequent glances up at Clay. Even though he had Clay's pulsing, throbbing dick in his mouth, he couldn't shake the unsettling worry that he was making a very big mistake right now.

  This was still a giant risk he was taking.

  Clay's eyes were shut. Ever since Rustin told him to close his eyes and enjoy, he hadn't opened them. His lips were cracked open, his mouth crinkling up in the corner. Something about it, Rustin didn't like. It was almost a look of—dare he say it—disapproval? Or something else, like … panic?

  Maybe it was something even worse than that.

  Disgust? God! … hopefully not.

  If that were the case, if Clay was silently hating every moment of this, he would just stop the blowjob. Right? He wasn't the type of guy to get pushed around, or idly endure something he didn't approve of—he'd nip it right in the bud. Just like on the ice, when an opponent got out of line. Clay had exactly zero qualms with throwing his gloves off and pummeling a guy in the face if the situation called for it.

  And, crazy as it might sound, Rustin didn't just expect Clay to do the very same thing with him—he hoped he would. It would be the only way things could ever have a chance at returning to normal. An intense, spirited fight was a really good method of blowing off frustrations and solving a serious disagreement between men. People who didn't play hockey didn't understand that, hell, they could never understand that.

  Those were some of the worries and the non-stop mental chatter that sprinted through Rustin's mind. And those thoughts were sapping his enjoyment of what should've been a huge moment for him.

  Because hell, he finally did it. He had Clay's erect dick in his mouth, and no one else was around.

  Clay fucking Grayson. Teammate, defensive partner, captain, roommate, best friend. And a guy that Rustin had secretly pined over so hard for the past three years, he did the dumbest thing of all.

  He'd fallen completely, stupidly, and totally head-over-heels in love with him.

  And now here he was. Sucking his dick at their private spot on top of the hill at Sand Beach.

  He'd thrown all his cards on the table in the riskiest, most aggressive, and downright sluttiest of ways.

  And as Clay started to huff and groan, and his ass started to rise off the truck hood, and his fat cock swelled with a bloating pressure … Rustin knew his best friend was about to blow his load.

  And then it'd be the moment of truth. The moment after he swallowed Clay's cum, and they tried to figure out what happened next.

  Gulp.

  That was kinda fuckin' scary.

  How did it ever come to this? How did I manage to fall in love with Clay? Rustin wondered as he swirled his tongue all over Clay's head and coaxed the muscled hunk to give him his seed.

  ***

  Well—obviously—it all started with Manon.

  Truthfully though, now that Rustin could look back on his young life, he understood that the signs that he liked boys were always there. He just hadn't understood the signs at the time, or what they meant.

  Growing up, Rustin was always a popular kid in school. Growing up in Canada and being damned good at hockey from an early age will have that kind of effect on a young athlete's social status. He was only 13 years old when he was featured on Hockey Night in Canada.

  That was like announcing to the world that he was the real deal. All the girls at school were suddenly interested in him. Hell, so were their fathers! Those girls' fathers would always chat Rustin up when they ran into each other around town. They'd never fail to subtly (not-so-subtly) mention what their daughters were up to, how they were single, wink wink.

  For a Canadian father, the prospect of having an NHL player for a son-in-law is like hitting the jackpot in life. You get to brag to your buddies endlessly, and you know your daughter will be taken care of for the rest of her life—instead of ending up with some dead-beat loser.

  So those fathers pushed their daughters toward Rustin, whispering in their ears about what a great, hard-working boy he was, and what a bright future he had.

  And that's how Rustin started dating girls. It was easy enough. Maybe it was easier knowing that a girl's Dad wouldn't come after him with a shotgun if they ever got caught kissing (or doing something worse).

  With all those girls vying for his attention, Rustin didn't have to do any deep soul-searching to earn his first kiss. It came easily enough. So did his first handjob, and blowjob, and well, it all progressed easily enough from there.

  Rustin never stopped to think there might be something 'wrong' with him. He never realized that it was a little strange that he really, really liked the way his teammates looked. When he caught himself staring
at their hard, athletic bodies in the dressing room? He figured he was simply, and rightfully, admiring the form of young men at the peak of their physical prime. A rare and beautiful thing.

  Simple as that.

  And hockey culture encouraged that kind of thing. They knew they were all hot guys with great bodies. They told each other all the time! Sure, the praise was often delivered with the cadence of a joke. But when one naked guy in the shower tells his naked teammate that he's got a 'great ass,' and seals the compliment with a mighty smack on his bare bottom?

  Is that gay? Because that's the kind of thing that goes on in hockey dressing rooms all the time.

  Or, was it gay to, say, swap girlfriends for a night? What about a threesome? Was it gay for two guys to double-up on a girl? (“Spit-roasting,” as his bawdy teammates called it?)

  Rustin had been invited to join those types of shenanigans plenty of times, but he always politely declined or invented an excuse to do something else. The point was, Rustin's teammates did those kinds of things all the time, and he knew they weren't gay. They were just that close.

  So for Rustin, it was easy enough to write off his confused feelings as something else entirely: the feeling that this group of men was a part of something special, something bigger than themselves. A brotherly bond that went beyond social norms, a kinship that other people could never understand.

  ***

  But life gives you signs expecting you to take the hint. And if you don't take the hint, the signs only get bigger and louder. Until they're practically bludgeoning you over the head and begging you to pay attention.

  Rustin's first inkling that he might be 'different' occurred on a junior hockey road trip. Aebischer, the team's third-line muck-raking center, was practically obsessed with lesbian porn. The guy would bring his laptop on road trips and sit there and watch porn the whole trip if he could. He wouldn't jerk off to it—at least, not without being somewhere private. But he'd sit there and eat a sandwich and watch porn like it was a classic movie or something.

  Naturally, the team did their best to haze him and try to get him to stop being a creepy weirdo. But sometimes, sometimes—at the height of boredom—a group of guys might gather around Aebi and ask him to fire up one of his lesbian flicks so the team could watch and laugh at it.

  When a group assembled, Rustin would join them, too. But what he found sexy and appealing wasn't the sight of the moaning lesbians on screen. (In fact, he thought lesbian porn was the most boring kind of porn.)

  No, what made Rustin hot under the collar was the sight of his teammate's stubbornly hard boners. And the way they shifted their hands in the pockets of their swishy athletic pants and tried to hide their erections. And how cute they looked with their cheeks turning pink with embarrassment.

  Oh, yeah. Those were the moments that made Rustin's throat ache in a strange way.

  And yet, still, Rustin didn't know that he was into guys. Or maybe he knew, but he couldn't accept the truth.

  Until … the night Clay met Manon. She was all over him at the bar. And when they left? Jesus, those two couldn't even wait to get home. The hot and bothered action in the truck even freaked out Manon's poor, shy friend.

  Rustin hadn't thought anything would happen with Emily—he was going to offer his bed to her and he'd sleep on the couch. Because he knew that Emily was being a good friend, and doing her duty to make sure that Manon wasn't getting herself into trouble.

  But once Manon started to get freaky in the truck, Emily wanted out.

  And once Emily was out, Manon went right back at it.

  Rustin could barely focus on the road. He wasn't drunk, he hadn't taken a single drink all night—but you wouldn't know it, based on the way that truck was swerving in its lane. Once Manon pulled Clay's pants down, and whipped out his cock, Rustin couldn't help himself.

  Fuck, he gasped again and again. Clay's cock. Holy shit. Calling him 'big' didn't do his dick justice. He was long enough for two hands, and thick enough that Rustin doubted he could span it with one hand and still have his fingers touch.

  Robust veins branched all along Clay's meaty shaft, and pumped with the force of his heart. His cock was gorgeous, powerful, even.

  The tip of his dick? A wonderful shape, with a cute up-turn. And, most mouth-watering of all, a glowing drop of pre-cum. Rustin licked his lips at the sight of Clay's excited dew. But it wasn't him that would get to taste it, of course.

  It was Manon.

  He watched, with streaks of jealousy stabbing through him, as she leaned over Clay and sucked it right up.

  “Damn,” Rustin mumbled. The truck's tires fell off the paved road and into the gravel. He jerked the wheel to the left and brought the truck back onto the road.

  “Dude,” Clay laughed. “You alright to drive over there, pal?”

  “Yeah, bud, I got it,” Rustin replied quietly. “I'm the DD, remember? Sober as a stone. You just … keep getting your—… yeah.”

  Miraculously, Rustin didn't crash the truck and kill them all, because he'd be damned if he was going to miss a single second of the hot scene.

  Rustin peeked over again as Manon pushed her lips down his length.

  Fuck. He was too big to suck. She couldn't get her mouth but half-way down his dick.

  A surprising (or maybe not-so-surprising) thought raced through Rustin's mind:

  I could do better.

  But then again, Clay didn't seem to mind. He shut his eyes, spread his legs wider, let his head fall back against the head-rest, and let out a long, sexy groan as she sucked him harder, faster. The half of him she could suck, anyway.

  The wet sounds of a sloppy blowjob had grown louder in that truck's cab. Clay's grunts and groans grew louder, too. And as they pulled into their apartment's driveway, Clay suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of Rustin's wrist.

  It was impossible for Rustin not to get his hopes up—hopes up for what, he didn't know—but Clay was merely at the height of ecstasy and instinctively grabbing on to the first thing he could for support.

  “FUCK!” Clay roared, his clenched hand trembling on Rustin's forearm. “I'm cumming! Oh my God I'm cumming so hard!”

  Rustin killed the engine and silently watched. Clay's big cock twitched, and his balls methodically lifted and fell, as he pumped his load into Manon's mouth. She swallowed again and again. But his load must've been too much to swallow cleanly, because cream spilled out of her mouth and flowed down Clay's shaft, and dribbled down his balls.

  “Fuck,” Rustin mumbled again. The presence of Clay's hand on his arm was nice. Clay gently squeezed at his arm as he drifted back to Earth, like a feather tumbling through the air.

  With the blowjob finished, Manon sat up, wiped her mouth, and looked at Rustin. And then Clay's hand that was tightly wrenched around Rustin's forearm. She giggled.

  “Aw, you guys, holding each other. You're both so cute.”

  Clay's eyebrows raised with surprise and he quickly let go of Rustin's arm. That sinking feeling in Rustin's chest might have been his heart dropping like a rock, but he ignored it as best he could.

  “Oh my God!” Manon giggled again. “Look! Your teammate, Clay. He's so hard!”

  The two both laughed. Apparently, Rustin's erection was the funniest thing in the world.

  “Of—of course I'm hard. I just had to listen to you suck my friend off!” Rustin snapped defensively.

  Manon reached for Rustin's package, but he pushed her hand away defensively.

  “Aw, c'mon, Rusty,” Clay said with a chuckle. “You're the one who said this would be a good idea! And she's obviously down for us both.”

  “Yes,” Manon purred. “Obviously down.”

  She reached for Rustin's crotch again. This time, with his eyes locked on Clay, Rustin didn't stop her.

  Rustin had managed to avoid all those hockey orgies and sex-capades up until that very point of his life. But the three climbed out of the truck, went inside, and all plopped down on the living room couch.


  Manon didn't waste much time. She sucked Rustin's dick right there, on the couch.

  But Rustin's favorite part was that Clay took off his clothes too, sat right next to them, and watched the whole thing—while jerking himself off.

  6

  Don't Think About It

  – Clay –

  “Oh fuck! Oh fuck!” Clay growled with a sudden urgency. He realized he was cumming—and cumming harder than he'd ever had in his life.

  His eyes shot open and his fists pounded the truck's hood again and again as his surging orgasm rushed right through him. His cock heaved and lunged with deep spasms of toe-curling climax, and he let loose a roar like a lion.

  Clay's seed sprayed right into the sweet, forbidden suction of Rusty's mouth. Clay never had a chance to see his load, but he was sure it was big. Rusty had dragged that blowjob out like a motherfucker. He'd tongued and sucked his swollen balls, licked his cock until Clay was begging for his mouth.

  That was weird and unsettling. How quickly a straight guy could lose himself, and beg another man for his mouth. Clay didn't quite understand how it all happened so fast—and yet, so slowly, too.

  And then there was the way Rusty sucked him off.

  Holy shit.

  Way, way better than any girl he'd ever been with. That orgasm might as well have shattered Clay's mind, fracturing it into a thousand pieces—and he was left scratching his head over how to put them back together again.

  Rusty had milked him for every ounce of his cream and swallowed it right down. He sat licking his lips like a satisfied cat while Clay struggled to piece his reality back together.

  And, as the whirlwind of passion had blown by and left the two in an eerie calm, Clay began to process what had actually happened.

  Holy shit. Rusty really, truly, just sucked me off.

  Clay laid on top of the truck turning that thought 'round and 'round in his head for what felt like hours, but couldn't have been longer than a few minutes.

 

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