It made Austin nervous.
Maybe it made Danny nervous too, because he eventually ducked a look up at Puck then crouched to the floor to retrieve his hat, as ordered.
“How’s it feel down there?” At my feet?
Austin was expecting more disgust, more resistance, but what he got was Danny looking up, face bright red with shame, and saying, “Better than . . . better than I wanna admit. Sir.”
Lip curling, Austin snorted. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. Austin would have put up more of a fight.
He wouldn’t have . . . admitted to it.
Admitted to secretly wanting it. Wanting to be on his knees at Puck’s feet like that, looking at him still stunned and afraid, but eyes wide wanting more.
Because you don’t want it. You don’t want it. You don’t. You just want to get this out of your system so you can stay in your house.
The voice in his mind that whispered back to him was Puck’s, deep and gravelly and with that unpredictable mean humour: But boys who don’t want it don’t need to work it out of their systems.
“That’s right,” Puck said with a laugh, like he could hear Austin’s thoughts, but then Austin remembered there was another conversation happening here: the one on his screen. To Puck, Austin didn’t exist. “Get a straight boy on his knees at my feet, and suddenly he finds the fag inside him waiting to claw his way out.”
What, like magic or some kind of psychic hypnotizing force field? Or was it instinct, like when people went with their guts, or when you just knew something, the way Austin’s mother said when he met the right girl he’d just know?
Did Danny . . . just know?
Did Austin?
The scene cut. Opened on a dank, open warehouse space and Mistress Titania lounging on an out-of-place, fancy fainting couch filing her nails to dagger points, half an eye on something in the background, the way she might watch a TV show she wasn’t particularly interested in.
Except there was no TV in the background, only Danny kneeling naked on the hard cement floor, arms tightly restrained behind him with a complicated arrangement of thick white rope that shot up to some ceiling hook outside of the camera’s field of view. He was panting with exertion already, eyes glassy and startled.
And he had a raging hard-on.
So did Austin, coincidentally. One that he was stroking gently with the tips of his forefinger and thumb, like if he touched it any more firmly he’d burn his palms. Or grow hair on them—wasn’t that the old wives’ tale?
Whatever it was, he was fucking terrified of getting a good grip on himself but simultaneously way too into it now to even consider putting his dick away to remove all temptation.
Hadn’t he decided only to jerk off to Titania?
No, he’d decided to not jerk off to the ass fucking. No asses were getting fucked, therefore this was fine.
Right?
Titania blurred into the foreground, then disappeared entirely as the camera zoomed in on Danny. Puck was beside him now. Standing. Free and fully clothed, of course. He put the white cap back on Danny’s head. Turned it. Stepped back. Adjusted it half an inch until it was positioned just so. Then he crouched in front of Danny and slapped down hard on his erection, making it spring and Danny yelp.
“Who’s this for, straight boy?”
“Nobody!” Danny shouted. “I don’t know!”
“I see you didn’t say it was for Titania. Not a very good liar when you’re under pressure, huh?” As forceful as he’d been before, now he seemed strangely laid-back. Maybe that was how he got, once he knew the other guy couldn’t fight or run away. “That’s okay. I happen to like it way more when my boys are squirming. So let’s try that again. Who’s this—” He flicked Danny’s balls. “—for?”
Danny clamped his mouth shut and shook his head.
“So that’s how it’s gonna be, huh, tough guy? Vell, ve have vays of making you talk!”
God, Austin couldn’t take it anymore. Not even Puck’s terrible imitation of a German accent could make that not hot as hell. He wrapped his hand around his dick and pumped. Hard. Pictured himself tied to the chair he was sitting on, and Puck interrogating him, but he wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t give in, not when Puck clamped his nipples with wooden clothespins, not when Puck wrapped thin rope around his balls until they turned fucking purple. Not even when Puck stuffed fingers into his clenching asshole, or when he replaced those fingers with a thick black plug covered in lube so creamy and thick it looked like margarine.
(Jerking off to Puck doing exactly that to Danny—tied over something resembling a sawhorse with his ass exposed—didn’t count as getting off on ass fucking, did it? Fuck, who was he kidding, it probably did.)
Puck kept jacking off the plugged-and-clipped Danny, getting him right to the edge of orgasm before asking again, “Who’s this for?”
It felt like he was asking Austin, looking right through the computer screen at Austin with his hot, heavy dick in his hand.
And then Danny still refused to answer, and Puck brought out the ziplock baggie full of ice and pressed it against Danny’s dick and balls until he tilted his head back and howled and cried like a little bitch. And then he pulled the bag away and wrapped his hand around Danny’s dick—even as Danny begged him not to—and started the process over and over again. Brought to the edge, over and over again. Asked “Who’s this for?” over and over again. Austin found himself halting the motion of his hand every time Puck pulled off. Pinching himself—on his ball sac, on the head of his dick, on his nipple—every time Puck brought out the ice.
“Who’s this for?” Puck asked him, watching Austin arch in his chair and whimper and abuse his chafed dick, jacking himself to orgasm through the multiple points of pain all over his body. Where he’d pinched himself, but where he’d exercised to the point of injury, too. He felt it all. Felt every inch of his body throbbing with heat and pain and sensation, and then Puck asked, “Who’s this for?” and Austin was shouting, “For you, damn it!” as he shot ropy cum across his computer keyboard and right onto his monitor.
He gasped. Panted. Didn’t realize Danny had gotten to the same point until he looked up and saw Puck kissing him deep and dominant, a tight hand in Danny’s hair keeping him exactly where Puck wanted him. Even something as sweet as a kiss—and in a way, it was still sweet, the way Danny tried to arch up into Puck’s grasp, the way he trembled and whined—turned into a power play for Puck.
Austin gasped and trembled too, too sated to feel disgusted with himself . . . yet.
No, the disgust came about two minutes later, when the soundtrack of the porn went to boring dialogue and Austin realized someone was knocking on his door.
Banging on his door, actually.
He yanked his earbuds out, then, disgusted, wiped his sticky hand on the leg of his jeans.
“What?” he yelled at whoever was making all that noise.
Max’s voice came back through the door at him. “What the fuck are you doing in there, man? Would you answer your fucking phone already? Or at least put it on silent? I can hear your shitty fucking ringtone from my fucking room.”
“Oh boo-hoo-hoo!” Austin yelled back, embarrassment quickly overtaken by irritation. “I wouldn’t have to put my headphones in and turn my music up to eleven if you didn’t have such loud fucking butt sex!”
But it was true, Austin’s phone was ringing.
His ringtone wasn’t shitty, though. “What’s My Age Again?” was a classic.
“Who the hell can have butt sex to Blink-182?” Max shouted.
“Calm your tits and shake the sand out of your panties!” He rooted through his bag for his phone, but it was harder to find than the hidden DVD had been—shit, how had Max heard it, but not Austin?
No, he didn’t want to answer that. He tapped the screen to wake it up. Swept his thumb across to unlock the thing.
Four missed calls. Eight new texts. Shit, how long had he been jerking off for? God, who the fuck was calling him this l
ate at night?
Warren.
Warren had been calling. But it was past midnight . . . wasn’t Warren’s bedtime like 8 p.m.?
No need to call the guy back and risk waking his Leave It to Beaver parents though, because the line of texts said it all.
12:16 a.m. Drew quit team.
12:20 a.m. . . . . . .Ok didn’t quit per se.
Austin’s eyebrows popped up, all thoughts of gay porn and ass fucking and Max’s loud sex life and bad taste in music forgotten in favour of hearing the dirt on Drew.
12:22 a.m. I tried to find him after class to talk to him about missing assignments + found him in the bushes on the quad smoking marijuana
12:22 a.m. Had to talk to coach
12:22 a.m. Couldn’t even bench him
12:22 a.m. Had to kick him off team
Wow. Not that Austin was at all surprised Drew smoked pot—even Austin indulged occasionally, although not since getting really serious about his hockey career—but to be smoking it right on campus when he knew Warren was already on his ass?
Guy deserved to get kicked off for that. Austin refused to feel guilty for moving things along.
Hell, Drew himself had revealed how behind on his studies he was. The drinking—and Austin ratting him out for it—barely played into it at all.
12:27 a.m. You said Calabresi would b good replacement so I’m giving him Drew’s spot
12:29 a.m. Trusting yr judgment on this man, hope u know yr stuff
12:32 a.m. And I’m promoting u to alternate captain
12:36 a.m. Don’t make me regret it
All it took was a handful of texts to grant Austin’s greatest non-NHL wish: Alternate Captain.
After years of hard practices and early mornings, it had finally happened. Austin had literally dreamed of this day, right down to the showboating victory dance he’d do when he got the news, and how many drinks he’d have afterward in celebration.
So why the hell did he feel like someone had elbowed him in the solar plexus?
This was what he wanted. All he wanted, if you left aside the higher-tier goals like getting drafted and winning the Stanley Cup. And hell, he could probably make an argument for how achieving this was the first rung of the ladder to bigger and better things. Taking on a leadership role. Improving his team. Getting noticed. Getting drafted. One thing led to another.
Except there was another, lower, rung that he hadn’t anticipated: that he’d earn the A on his jersey after being openly involved in having someone else kicked off the team.
And sure, what had gone down with Drew proved Austin was able to take on the less-savory parts of leadership, and sure, their team was probably stronger already with him gone, but shit—
How the fuck was it going to look to his teammates?
Had Warren promoted Austin because of his skills and drive, or to reward him for narcing?
Or worse, was it a calculated attempt to take some of the heat off Calabresi, who thanks to inheriting Drew’s spot would otherwise be the easiest target?
But not with Austin newly promoted as well, and seemingly as a reward for getting Drew kicked off the team. After all, Calabresi may have benefitted from Drew’s expulsion, but it wasn’t like he’d planned it. Austin, on the other hand . . .
Oh God, was this a punishment?
As much of a dead weight as Drew had been, he’d been one of the team. A brother. By ratting on him, Austin had contributed to his downfall. Maybe the pot wouldn’t have been as big a deal if it wasn’t compounded by the other problems Austin had created. Maybe then, Warren wouldn’t have felt the need to take drastic action. Unthinkable, irreversible action. It was like cutting the spleen out of the team. Sure, it was basically a worthless organ, but it was still a part of them, full of the same blood from the same heart.
Austin was a traitor. Jesus.
They’d rake him over the coals for this.
And here he was jerking off to gay porn like some pussy fag? No wonder he was a backstabber, he was bathing in a concentrated tub of wuss-juice. Semen. Fuck.
Right there in front of his eyes was the menu screen for STRAIGHT SUB SETUP 4 with its shifting black-and-white images, Danny’s face and Puck’s chest and Titania’s latex-wrapped hips and waist. Taunting him. Reminding him.
You came thinking about a guy. Thinking about a guy turning you. Sissy. Traitor. Not a manly bone in your fucking body, except for the one you want up your ass. How can you expect your team’s respect or approval like this?
Austin hit eject on his computer in disgust, and the drive spit out the disc like it tasted bad. Austin grabbed it and threw it against the wall; it bounced.
No, no, not good enough. It wasn’t the disc’s fault he was like this. The disc was an object. Puck and Danny and Titania were just doing what they did: for money or because their parents didn’t love them enough or because they were just that perverted.
This, what was happening here in this room to Austin? It was Austin’s fault. Austin’s perversion. Austin’s defect.
He threw on gym clothes that still stank of this morning’s sweat and headed out for a run.
As long and as painful as he could make it.
He ran until his chest burned, until his eyes swam, until his muscles screamed with every step, until the impact of his footfalls felt like it was shattering his knees. Didn’t have a route planned, no turning point when he’d loop around, not even a sense of direction other than away.
He ran until the exercise endorphins faded, until he was working on pure adrenaline—fear hormones. He didn’t time himself, didn’t pace himself, didn’t alternate sprints and slogging, didn’t put on his US Marines–inspired music playlist to keep himself pumped. Who needed music when you had self-hatred? Now there was a playlist that never ended, that never seemed to lose its motivational power.
He ran until he puked.
Luckily, by the time he got to that point, he was somewhere in Chinatown, so he didn’t have to worry about the mess he left. Not that he had anything against Chinese people—just the gay ones, he scolded himself bitterly—but Chinatown in Vancouver was a complete fucking slum, one step up from druggie central on the intersection of Hastings and Main. What was one puddle of vomit in an alley full of used needles and soggy condoms?
Unluckily, when he was done, he was still stranded in a bad part of town in the middle of the night, too exhausted to even contemplate making his way home again. He’d run himself past the point of pain. Just like that, his punishment was complete. There was no pushing himself anymore, not now. The ritual was complete, and according to tradition, he was supposed to collapse into dreamless, overtired sleep, wake up to twinges of pain like battle scars, and move on.
Instead, he was slumped against the metal shutters of one of those Chinese medicine places, chest and muscles burning, wet and tired and weak. He shivered as the adrenaline left him. It left him empty and hungry and . . . so . . . tired, in a way that went so, so far beyond the physical.
He was tired of fighting. Tired of struggling.
So why not just stop?
He slammed his fist back against the metal wall behind him with a rattling clang.
Because he didn’t want to end up like Bobby, damn it. Because that was what happened when you stopped fighting yourself, stopped struggling to fit in. It wasn’t a minor slip, something with a reasonable limit. It never just stopped. It turned you into a runaway train and you wound up going completely off the rails: no rules, no boundaries, no guiding anything, not caring about what anyone thought about you, whether they mattered or not. Which may be fine for somebody like Bobby doing some pussy art degree where they all got off on his he/she act and transvestite painting projects, but Austin was a hockey player. People expected better of him. He was on a team.
No, more than that, because as of tonight he was a leader in his team, for better or for worse. Which came with more prestige and recognition, but also more responsibility and way more pressure.
Bein
g a part of a team meant conforming. It always had, even playing Peewee. That was all there was to it. Not on everything—they all had their hobbies, their quirks, their ethnic backgrounds, their personalities—they weren’t like Hitler Youth or some shit. But to completely let yourself go the way Bobby had?
No way. Even in the magical fairy kingdom where his teammates could accept Austin following Bobby down the gay rabbit hole and not rip him to shreds for it and humiliate him back into line, it still wouldn’t make Austin’s going there right.
Acting out was putting yourself before the team. No different from Drew’s drinking and pot smoking and homework dodging.
That was the problem with living with who he was living with and working where he was working and watching the porn that he was watching. It all conspired to convince him that there was another way when there fucking wasn’t.
It wasn’t okay.
He turned, limping. His spiralling mind mechanically plotted a route home, and he set himself to it like a dead man walking, like the maze of city blocks was the march down death row.
It wasn’t okay.
None of this was okay.
Austin wasn’t okay.
The next morning, Drew didn’t meet Austin at the campus bus stop like he usually did.
That shouldn’t have come as such a surprise. Why would Drew show up early for a training practice he didn’t have any reason to participate in anymore?
Would Austin have to see him later in class, though? (And why was he so anxious about that possibility? Pussy.)
Or had the guy dropped out of school entirely? That would be what Austin would do, if he lost his place on the team. Sure, some of the guys (cough, Warren) might get something out of college without hockey, but Austin definitely wasn’t one of them. There was nothing for Austin here.
In fact, it wasn’t just college that would lose its meaning and purpose, it was the world in general. Austin was nothing without hockey. What else was he gonna do, flip burgers? Become a plumber? He had no idea. None. He didn’t understand how other people functioned, how they decided, how they found passion in anything else.
Straight Shooter (Rear Entrance Video, #3) Page 5