Jock Hard

by Ney, Sara

  I grin at my own pun, even though I didn’t say it out loud, and as if Teddy can read my mind, she rolls her eyes up at me as I shuck my shirt, pants, and—

  “Can you take off your socks?” And socks.

  If I wasn’t so damn horny, I’d be nervous too—getting blowjobs and jerking off is fine, but nothing beats the real deal. Not when all five foot five of beautiful, funny, and intelligent sleeps in bed next to you every night, reminding you.

  It’s to the point where every one of Teddy’s quiet sighs and inhaled breaths gets me hard. Every flirty laugh and touch to my body.

  I lean in, kissing the tip of her breast through the sheer, red fabric of her lingerie—her teddy—wetting it through the lace.

  Kiss along her collarbone, the column of her neck.

  We kiss, making out—tongues wet, mouths greedy—as my hands roam her body, feeling for the snaps at the crotch of her bodysuit.

  Rub her pussy with my thumb until her pelvis begins rocking and she squirms.

  Until she begs me to, “Take it off.”

  Then I’m above her, teasing her clit with the head of my cock, guiding it along her slit, stroking up and down, watching as her pupils dilate and nostrils flare. This is different than when we dry hump—this is the moment we both know we’re going to fuck.

  Screw.

  Make love. Whatever you want to call it, I’m ready. We both are.

  “Go slow,” comes her soft request.

  “Scared?” I kiss her forehead and brush away a few strands of hair.

  “A little.” Her hands cuff my biceps, and she’s biting down on her lower lip.

  “Me too.”

  “You are? Why?”

  “I’ve never done this with anyone I gave a shit about before.”

  “And you give a shit about me, huh?” Her eyes are sparkling, pleased.

  She knows what I mean—that I fucking love her even if neither of us has said the words out loud to each other yet.

  We know.

  I move again, this time pushing forward, cringing. Calling on my self-control—I have tons of it, I do; it’s just so fucking hard not to go balls deep.

  She’s wet so my cock glides in easy, searching for that point of resistance we’re both dreading.

  I kiss her again, catching the gasp that escapes her lungs, pausing before going farther.

  “Should I stop?” The last thing I want to do is hurt her.

  “No. Let’s get it over with.” When I laugh, she smacks me on the arm. “Stop it—your whole body is vibrating.”

  “Right. Game faces.” I stop laughing. Time to get serious.

  “Just do it, okay? The longer it takes you the worse it’s going to be.”

  “Are you sure?” I’m doubtful.

  “No, but it’s only going to hurt this one time, right?”

  “How the hell should I know?” It certainly didn’t hurt when I lost my virginity—it felt so fucking good, I came within seconds.

  “Push, Kip.” Push.

  Oh fuck she’s tight. And wet and…tight.

  She tenses beneath me when I thrust all the way in, expecting the worst, eyes squeezing shut.

  One peeps open. “Was that it?”

  “I mean…we’re not done, if that’s what you mean.”

  “No, I mean—that pinched but it didn’t really hurt. Is that

  normal?”

  Again, how the hell would I know? “Not sure babe. Can I move now?”

  Her only reply is a wiggle of her hips, and I begin moving, in and out, thrusting slowly. Gradually going faster, gauging her reaction by reading her face.

  Mouth gaped open, her expression is almost unreadable.

  Hmm.

  Bracing myself with one elbow, I reach between our bodies, thumb finding her nub. Her clit. That tiny spot in her pussy I know will make her come.

  I rub.

  Slow circles as I fuck her slowly, around and around and around…

  So wet.

  So tight.

  My forehead perspires, and Jesus, I wish it fucking wouldn’t because who wants to be covered in sweat while they’re banging their girlfriend for the first time?

  Not me.

  Christ.

  But…

  Teddy begins moaning.

  Low in her throat. Tiny gasps. Holy shit, is she going to…?

  Is she seriously about to fucking come?

  There is no way. She is.

  She does.

  “Oh my god, Kip, oh my g-god, oh my god, oh my god…”

  The clenching of her inner muscles and ripples of pleasure send shocks to my dick, my balls receiving the message of all clear.

  “Fuck,” I moan into her hair. “Oh fuck, Teddy.”

  When I roll off of her, I take her hand in mine and hold it while we both stare at the ceiling, waiting to catch our breath.

  * * *

  “I cannot believe you actually had an orgasm.” Honestly. Still can’t fucking believe it. The odds of that happening were slim to none. I didn’t think virgins could orgasm their first time.

  “Neither can I.”

  “I must have a magic cock or something.” What other explanation could there possibly be?

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay? If you hadn’t been rubbing me off at the same time, no way would I have come.”

  “Wanna make a bet?” My dick becomes alert, interested in the conversation.

  “Kip, I am not having sex with you again tonight.” Even in the dark, I can hear her eyes roll. “I’ll barely be able to walk to the bathroom as it is.”

  “Fine, but if you change your mind, I’ll be over here, thinkin’ ‘bout that sex.”

  “Keep your hands to yourself, unless you want to cuddle me.”

  “Cuddling I can do. You want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?”

  “Little spoon, please.” Her small body fits itself into mine, ass against my cock, back against my chest. Perfect fit. “Can you not drape your giant arm over my stomach? I won’t be able to breathe if you do—it weighs a ton.”

  My phone pings on the nightstand. I ignore it, obviously.

  “Are you going to see who that is?”

  We both know who it is, because I never receive texts from anyone but Teddy, my parents, and Veronica. Sometimes from one of the guys on the team, but rarely.

  “I don’t want to know what Ronnie wants at this hour of the night.”

  “Kip, it’s ten o’clock.”

  “So?”

  “That is not late, and she’s an hour behind us. Besides, what if it’s an emergency?”

  I glance down at Teddy, speaking into the crown of her head. “Are you serious? Nothing is ever an emergency with my sister. She’s texting because she’s nosy.”

  Her spidey senses were probably tingling, and she knows I just got laid so she’s texting to investigate.

  On the opposite nightstand, Teddy’s phone pings. “It’s like she knows.”

  Yeah, she knows all right.

  “Send her a Snap of the teddy on the floor with my dirty underwear—that will get her to leave us alone.”

  “Your sister?” Teddy cocks a brow. “She’d only screenshot it and use it against you later.”

  True. “What she needs to do is mind her own business.”

  “That’s funny, Veronica minding her own business.” Teddy laughs. “In her own way, she kind of played matchmaker.”

  I’m quiet for a few seconds, considering that. “Holy shit.

  You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Yes, and that made me throw up in my mouth a little.”

  Teddy gives me a poke in the ribs. “Find out what she wants.” I sigh, rolling toward the nightstand.

  Ronnie: I told you so.

  Me: That’s why you’re texting me at 10 PM? To say I told you so?

  Ronnie: Yes.

  Me: Explain

  A few seconds later, a screenshot pops up—it’s part of the conversatio
n we had weeks ago, on the weekend I brought Teddy back to my place. When I said we were only friends.

  Me: She’s just a friend. Barely even a friend.

  Ronnie: Mark my words, Kipling: this isn’t going to have the ending you think it will…

  “God I hate it when she’s right. It’s so fucking annoying.”

  Teddy is reading the text over my shoulder, and I can feel her smiling against my skin, her hand stroking my back. Lips kissing my shoulder.

  “I love that,” comes her timid whisper. “And I love you.”

  I set the phone back down, and, careful not to crush her, flip to my back. Find her lips and kiss her.

  “I love you too, babe.” Then, “Can we not tell Ronnie she was right?”

  “I think she already knows.” Yeah, probably. But still.

  “Did she send you anything else besides that red thing?”

  Teddy demurs, tracing my right pec with the tip of her finger. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

  The End

  Jock Road

  FIRST FRIDAY

  Charlie

  What the actual fu…

  The light behind me is so bright I squint, reaching to adjust my rear-view mirror, pink glitter nail polish catching in the light. I turn the mirror this way and that, working it so the headlights blasting my retinas are shining back at the driver, probably blinding them now, too.

  Good. Serves them right. Jerk.

  I slow my car to five under the speed limit, conscious of the fact that campus security and police presence have increased since a student was assaulted by a driver of an unmarked cab first semester. More than assaulted—she ended up in the hospital.

  I visibly cringe at the thought, tightening my grip on the wheel.

  A car passes slowly on my left. Another pulls out in front of me, causing me to jam my foot on the brake. Ten under the speed limit, my fingers drum the steering wheel. Reach to spin the volume dial to the right, just a bit louder—this song is one of my favorites.

  Upbeat. Catchy. Sexy.

  My thoughts stray and land on a conversation I had earlier with my friend Claire about how she’s breaking up with her boyfriend Donnie—Donnie the Douche, as we’ve started calling him behind her back, mostly because the alliteration is fun. A running back on the university’s team, Donnie cannot keep his dick in his pants—or in one girl’s vagina, specifically Claire’s.

  She used to forgive him every time and take him back. She’d forgive him for every indiscretion, probably because she’s somewhat a jock chaser and Donnie was headed for the NFL—until he tore his UCL throwing a reverse pass, taking him out for the rest of the season and killing his career.

  Poor Claire; she wanted to be a WAG so damn bad.

  Now? No way is she willing to tolerate any of his bullshit, not with him forced to finish his business degree and take a job at his uncle’s car dealership.

  Football was the only thing the kid had going for him; conversations with him are mind-numbing and decreased my IQ tenfold. Just plain dumb.

  I hate to call him a dumb jock, but… Donnie is a dumb jock.

  A small rock hits my windshield, knocking me out of my stupor—I realize I’ve been crawling along this road at barely the legal minimum and totally sober on a Friday night. I sigh when the car ahead of me stops at the light, the glare from their cell phone visible from here.

  The driver is checking their damn messages. Huffing, I glance in my mirror. There is a truck behind me, easing up so close a body probably wouldn’t fit between the two vehicles.

  I inch forward a bit.

  The truck inches forward.

  “What the hell, dude—back off,” I mutter out loud, irritated. No—irritated is an understatement. The annoyance grows when the car in front of me stays put, despite the fact that it’s their turn to go at the four-way stop sign.

  Hang a right. Hang a left. Go straight. Something!

  “Move!” I shout, smacking the middle of my steering wheel with the palm of my hand. “Oh my god.”

  Lights blind me and I blink, seeing stars. “What the hell, man!”

  I hate trucks sometimes—they think they own the road. In the winter, it seems to be worse. Newsflash: just because you’re heads above the rest of us peons who drive cars does not mean you rule the streets. It doesn’t mean you get to be an asshole and blaze past everyone trying to get to their destination in one piece. Especially in the snow.

  Rude.

  And this jerk behind me? If he was riding my ass any closer, he’d be up my butthole.

  In fact…

  I bite down on my bottom lip. It seems like…

  I take my foot off the brake, moving a foot. Then another. The truck mimics my movements.

  Weird.

  The car ahead of me finally lifts their foot off the brake and inches forward as the glaring set of lights flash behind me.

  “Knock it off!” I loudly complain to no one. Seriously.

  Knock it off.

  But they don’t. The driver of the truck flashes their lights again—this time it’s their brights.

  “I swear, if you do that shit one more time…” I threaten, more to myself because I’m becoming irrationally angry.

  They do that shit one more time.

  This is where the rubber meets the metaphorical road, and I have a choice: I can either calm down and keep going—or I can yank my car into park, get out, and give that reckless ass a piece of my mind.

  Always a bit late to the party, my common sense rears its responsible head, and I do nothing but white-knuckle the steering wheel, my pretty pink nails filed short, the glitter in my polish once again catching a bit of light and twinkling.

  I admire it despite my ire.

  Get a grip, Charlie. Now is not the time. There is a psychopath riding your tail. This never ends well in the movies.

  If this were a horror flick, I would put my car in park and make the fatal mistake of exiting my vehicle. I’d stalk over to the truck, probably wouldn’t be able to see the driver because I bet the window tint is opaque. Then I’d get too close, the door would open, and the driver would get out with his chainsaw. Force me to retreat into a nearby alleyway or cornfield. I’d run and run and run until I’m too far from civilization or any hope of help. Then the psycho—probably in a mask—would follow me, hacking everything in his path to pieces.

  Except: there is no nearby alley. There are no cornfields.

  This isn’t a scary movie.

  The odds of this guy having an actual working chainsaw are slim to none, but ya know what? I’m not taking any chances.

  I know how the story ends, and I’d rather not end up the casualty of stupidity on the evening news.

  So. I curse him out, but privately, in the safety of my car.

  Oh my god, what if he follows me after I drive off? I decide if I turn left and he turns left, I’m driving to the police station. Yes, that’s what I’ll do—go to the cop shop.

  He definitely is giving me a stalker vibe. Flash.

  Flash.

  “Stop! Ugh!” I screech, scared, wishing I could see the license plate the truck is legally obligated to have affixed to its front bumper.

  When it’s finally my turn to go, I don’t announce my direction with a signal—I just hang a left and exhale a great puff of air.

  He didn’t follow me. Thank. God.

  Shaking a little, I release my grip on my leather steering wheel and slump. Lean forward and adjust the dial on my radio, lowering the volume so I can hear myself think with the blood racing through my veins.

  I hear it thundering in my ears.

  Behind me, in the rear-view, the truck—black if my eyes don’t deceive me—passes through the intersection.

  Jerk.

  SECOND FRIDAY

  JACKSON

  Goddamn I’m hungry.

  Nothing new there; I could always go for food. Trouble is, I’m too far from home to dash there real quick, even with my truck on
campus—fuck if I’m willing to lose my parking spot next to the athletic building over a snack—and I’m not jogging home for the frozen burrito I’m craving, even if it would burn off the calories.

  Like a bear sniffing out food after a long winter, I skip the athletic dining hall—that’s too far, too, because this is an emergency.

  The on-campus cafeteria for regular students will have to do.

  I turn my nose up at the thought, dreading the flat hamburger patties and stale lettuce I’ll surely find when I get there. Chicken sounds appealing; so do a few fatty hot dogs.

  I quicken my pace, not sure where this fucking joint is located; I haven’t eaten there since…well, freshman year, and that one time was a mistake. The eats here are utter shit.

  The perks of being a jock at a school this size are considerable. Special facilities. Massage therapist at my beck and call. Hot tubs in the training room. Free clothes through sponsorships.

  I walk taller, a head above most everyone I pass. They scurry by, giving me the side-eye, some backward glances I ignore. Whispers. I don’t miss the elbow jabs.

  Arrogantly, I know many of them recognize me. Guys especially.

  My nose leads me to the food, the room full, lines long.

  Fuck.

  I don’t have time to stand in line—I have to be in the weight room in forty minutes, and it will take me that long to grab what I want.

  I’m a big boy; this won’t be a light meal. It’ll be enough food to feed a family. Not having eaten since late last night, I desperately swipe a bag of potato chips on my walk to the grill. I tear it open with my teeth like a barbarian and stuff a handful in my face. Chew loudly, crumbs falling down the front of my Iowa t-shirt.

  Iowa. How the fuck I ended up here is beyond me.

  I was all set to attend school in my home state of Texas until, at the last minute, the scholarship money wasn’t there anymore. I had a spot on the team, but not enough money to cover tuition, and my family ain’t rollin’ in dough.

  Enter Iowa.

  More money. More allowance for living expenses. More stability.

  No way did I have the spare change to afford A&M on my own; I’m a great player, but not full-ride great.