by Van Barrett
“Oh!” I roar. “Oh! Oh, yeah!”
I open my eyes and watch. Watch as my cock swells, the head growing bigger and fatter as I cum.
“Yeessss!” I hiss, stroking myself rapidly, until I burst and lose myself.
Streaks of cum paint my abs, my pecs. The rain quickly beats the gobs of seed off my chest. It streams off me and washes away.
I can't believe I just did that ... I can't believe I let myself get so carried away! Cautiously, I look over at Vance, afraid of what I'll find.
One corner of his mouth is tweaked up in a half-smile. “Heh.” I can't hear him, but I can tell he's making that little laugh of his.
The bulge in his pants is even bigger now. But that's because his hand is stuffed down there, too.
“Fuck,” I whimper.
I can't take it anymore. I know what he wants. I know what I want, too.
I reach over and snag the button of his khakis. I pull it 'til it pops free. His eyes widen with a troubled look, but I've already gone this far – I ain't stopping unless he tells me to. I whip his zipper down and tug his khakis off him.
“I want you to jerk it with me,” I say softly in his ear, coaxing him out of his boxers.
He looks unsure. “C'mon,” I plead, scooting closer to him.
That's all the persuasion he needs. He lifts his ass and lets his boxers get torn off his bottom. And his cock springs out.
It's big – I knew he would be, from what I could see in the locker room shower. But I didn't expect it to look so goddamn nice. It reminds me of a Perfecto cigar. A long, thick cock with a girthy swell that tapers until it reaches the glans.
It's the kind of mouth-watering thickness that just dares you to wrap your hands around him and stroke.
But no, I won't touch him. I'm afraid I'll do something I'd regret.
Reluctantly, Vance grabs it himself. He grabs it just below his thick knot and strokes.
The two of us lie side by side on these lounge chairs. Our hips and bare thighs touch. We're naked on a hotel roof-top. Two pro hockey players – teammates – jerking it in the rain.
Wow. Can't make shit like that up in a million years.
I stare at him. I watch his technique closely while I jerk myself.
He toys with himself, but somehow he seems unsure. He takes cautious glances at me.
I feel Vance press closer. His body heat grows against my side as he nears. I know what he wants – well, I think I do. Hell, we got this far, how could I be wrong?
Don't do it Callan, don't do it Callan! I tell myself.
But I'm too weak. And with a self-loathing sigh, I reach over. I knock his hand away and grab him myself.
Vance drops his arms at his side, feigning surprise. But he's got no problem letting me do the dirty work. He melts into his lounge chair, his cock going higher and higher while the rest of his body sinks lower.
And I tug him with one hand, and I jerk myself with the other.
The rainfall is too loud to hear Vance – but I can feel his moans and groans reverberate through his flesh and resonate deep down. I can feel so much of him just through his big dick. I feel his breath rising, his excitement ratcheting higher as his tension mounts. His hips thrust uncontrollably into my hands.
And all I can think about as I pleasure my teammate, my captain, Tyler Vance? Honestly, I can't believe I've gotten myself into this situation. As much as I wanna enjoy it totally, it's bittersweet as hell. Because I've been through it before and I know what's gonna happen.
I'm gonna jerk him 'til he cums. Then he's gonna jump up, throw his clothes on and leave, and not say another word. And then it's gonna be weird all over again – just like it was when he caught me masturbating in the bathroom.
And then it's back to hockey. Which is where more weirdness awaits. It's a never-ending cycle for me.
But then I take one look at Vance – beautiful but manly Vance – naked in the rain, his ass rising off the lounge chair as I tug him closer to his climax. And I can't help but think, maybe it's worth it. Maybe this is the one time that'll be different?
I'm ready to cum again. I'm holding myself back. I'm waiting for Vance. I wanna cum with him.
“Cum, Vance,” I whisper under my breath. “C'mon, Vance, cum.”
His hand grabs my thigh for support, and he digs his fingers into my flesh. I hear his troubled grunts and groans. “Oh! Oh! Aughhh!”
I can't help myself – the rising tension, about to burst, takes control of me. And I end up doing something that maybe I shouldn't have done.
With Vance hanging from a thread, I lean over him and press my lips into his. It takes him by surprise. His eyes shoot open with shock, and I feel his inward gasp against my mouth.
But he surrenders. Dangling from the edge, Vance surrenders to my lips and my hands.
His lips are warm and velvety, softened by the fresh rain. A rush of water streams between our lips and I suck his upper lip hungrily as I stroke him to his climax.
But, with an orgasm on his mind, he manages to peel himself away from me.
“Auuughhh yeah!” Vance roars as he busts. His load is big. His load is huge, actually, but I wouldn't expect any less from his thick, manly cock.
I'm a second behind him. “Yes! Yes!” I chant as I milk myself a second time.
I rub us both until the two cocks in my grasp start to go limp. Then my hands go limp, too. We sit quietly, listening to the roar of the downpour and the occasional grumble of thunder. We let the rainfall clean us.
I don't know what's going through Vance's mind. I can only guess. I hope he's not having 'straight guy anxiety' right now. Because now is usually when it strikes – in the moments after orgasm. When the thrill of the taboo has passed, and suddenly they're back to their regular ol' 'straight' selves. And they're horrified by what they've just done and what it might mean.
But Vance doesn't make a move. He doesn't jump up and scramble to put his clothes on and run outta there. He sits with me. We don't say a word – we're too tired. I'm not sure how much time passes while we're up there on the roof. I might even have fallen asleep for a few minutes.
But, in time, the rain slows until we're back to a light sprinkle. And then the early morning birds come out. They chirp and sing as they wake, and they announce the new day as the clouds pass overhead and the Sun rises in the East.
Vance lies at my side. Shoulder to shoulder. But I can't help but feel like we're actually a million miles apart.
“We should probably get outta here,” Vance says, his voice soft. He blinks tiredly. I wonder if he might have dozed off too? “Someone might find us naked up here.”
“Yeah,” I say, and a sadness washes over me as I watch Vance stand up, naked. I steal a last peek at his perfect, round ass. He wrings his clothes out and makes a sour face as he puts the soaked items on.
This is the bitter part. I've had my fun, but it comes at a cost. The weirdness between us. It's inevitable. And all I can do is curse myself for not being strong enough to resist his curiosity. A straight guy's curiosity – the bane of my existence.
The kiss, I think with dread. I went too far with that damned kiss and I know it. Vance wasn't ready for a kiss – that wasn't part of the deal.
If I'm lucky, he'll be the professional he always is – and we'll act as if nothing happened. Maybe, in time, it'll feel like nothing happened after all.
If I'm unlucky, he'll pull something like Burky did to me in Winnipeg. I wonder which one it'll be.
“Hey, Vance. Listen.” I scratch my neck pensively. I wanna say so many things, I'm not sure where to start.
“Don't worry,” he says. “I won't tell anyone what you told me.”
“Okay ...” I trail off.
Obviously there's more I want to talk about. But Vance's body language is also macho and gruff, and I know I'm supposed to move on and just forget what happened between us.
29.
Putting the Bag in Bag Skate
Tyler
“C'mon, let's go.”
With the Sun rising on the horizon, I lead Callan off the roof and back into the hotel. We take the stairs, leaving a trail of water all the way to our floor, down the hallway, and at last to our hotel rooms.
Thank God no one saw us. For so many different reasons, the least of which is that we look absurd in our dripping wet clothes.
“Alright, uh, goodnight,” I say to Callan as I unlock my door and head in. It's been a while since I've told someone goodnight when the Sun is climbing the morning sky.
“Yeah, yeah, g'night,” he mumbles back. And he seems as shell-shocked as I am.
“Hey Callan,” I call after him. “Don't forget. Practice at 2 PM.”
“Right.”
I shuffle inside my room and lean against the door until it slams shut. And then, slowly, I lower myself to the ground.
What. The. Hell.
What just happened?
It's hard to believe that twelve hours ago, we were playing a hockey game. That game feels like it happened days ago at this point. Then, we went out for drinking – got good and lit, obviously. And then we end up back at the hotel. Telling our secrets.
The entire night from there on is a blur. An absolute fucking blur and I almost can't believe what happened. If I'd woken up in my own bed this morning, I might think the events on the roof were a dream.
But that's not where I woke up – I woke up on the roof-top. Naked. With Callan right against my side.
I don't know what came over me. I didn't know I even had 'that' inside me – the ability for, uh, that. What is 'that'? I don't fucking know. I guess 'that' is ... you know ... another guy touching my cock.
What possessed me – to let Callan touch my cock? To let him stroke me until I came?
I'd never planned on that. At all. Never thought about guys or anything.
But one minute he's telling me his story. And, I dunno. I wasn't grossed out or repulsed like I thought I might be. I actually thought it sounded ... kinda hot. A secret love affair with the billet family's son? Two boys sneaking around under the same roof-top? Holy shit.
It all sounded so naughty. So dirty.
Next thing I knew, my cock was growing hard in my shorts. And then our shirts were coming off. And all I could think about, with that water raining down on us, was Callan in the shower. How I'd watched him stroke it without me even knowing.
And then I wanted to see it all over again. I couldn't stop thinking about how amazing it was to watch another guy masturbate. The look of tortured bliss and agony crashing over his face as he pleasured himself ...
I can't believe I even managed to ask him – but thanks to the drinks we'd had earlier, I guess I had the courage. Or depravity. Or whatever it is that compels a straight guy to ask a gay guy to jerk off in front of him.
Then I'm watching his cum blast through the air and splatter all over his hard chest. It doesn't take him long, does it?
And before I know it, Callan's hand is wrapped around my cock. Not that I tried to stop him. And then he's jerking us both.
And then his lips are on mine.
I wasn't expecting that. I guess I also wasn't expecting his lips to taste so sweet, so juicy and warm. Hot flashes rippled through me – and I felt myself melt into him. Every bit of him, not just the tight fist that slid up and down my cock.
No, I hate to say it, but it's true. I wanted more of him. I wanted his tongue, but he was too afraid to give it to me – and before I could give him mine, I lost control of myself. I thrashed about on the lounge chair, in the throes of my orgasm, and our mouths came apart.
“I can't believe it. Any of it,” I mumble to myself. I pick myself up off the floor, toss my wet clothes in the dirty laundry hamper, and towel myself dry.
Naked, I climb into bed. All I can think about is what we've just done.
“That can't ever happen again,” I grumble to myself. “Obviously.”
But all I can think about is that hand job. The sight of Callan handling two dicks at once, until they both shoot off at the same time.
And I'm hard again. And my cock finds its way into my hands, and I'm thrusting myself into my fist until I blow my load all over my chest.
“God damn!” I grunt. I'm too tired to clean up. I lay still, cum on my pecs, my chest heaving as I pant for air.
SCREECH SCREECH SCREECH!
“Holy shit!” I grunt, slapping my hand all over the alarm clock until I manage to find the off button.
It's 12:00 PM, but I'm not sure why I'm sleeping so late or what exactly I'm getting up for. My head is throbbing so hard, I can barely think straight. I've got the hangover from hell.
For a second, my mind is a blank slate. I wake up without the knowledge of last night's events. But as my eyes open wider and take my world in, everything rushes back in.
And the realization hits me like a freight train. My lungs tighten and I can't get any air down, no matter how much I breathe.
Holy shit. I actually did all that with Callan last night.
But I don't have time to sit around and freak out about what I did, or what I'm gonna do next. I gotta get up and drag my sorry ass to practice.
My stomach is upset and weak as hell, but calling in sick is not an option for a pro athlete. I jump into the shower and wash up. I brush my teeth, but I know my breath still reeks of alcohol. So I do a little trick us hockey guys know well. I rub Vicks all over my body. The menthol will cover up the smell of the alcohol. Coach won't be able to smell the booze on me even if he tries.
I'm not sure what last night means in the grand scheme of things. I do know it can't ever happen again. And I also know that no matter what, Callan is my roommate, and there's no use being weird around him.
That means everything else has to go back to normal. So on the way out the door, I'll stop by his room, like I'd normally do before practice.
But before that, I pull out my phone and a wadded up piece of paper that's been sitting on my nightstand for weeks.
It rings twice before she answers.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Britt, this is T—”
“Tyler Vance!” she shrieks.
“Yeah,” I swallow. “How'd you know?”
“I called my phone with your phone while you were asleep, so I'd have your number, duh!”
“Oh, er, alright... hey, listen, I was wondering ...”
. . . After the phone call, it's time to go. I hurry out and stop in front of Callan's door.
Bang bang bang! I slam my fist into his door.
He opens up, only wearing boxers. He still looks sleepy, and I know I've woken him. He doesn't even have to look up. He knows it's me at the door. He keeps his gaze low, staring at the floor, a morning-after shame plastered over his face.
“Ugh,” he grumbles, and I can tell he feels worse than I did this morning. “I overslept.”
“I can see that. Better hurry up, man.”
“Go without me. I can't.”
“Nuh uh. There's no time. C'mon. Grab your bag and let's go.”
“I'm gonna be fucked, Tyler. There's no way I can skate like this.”
“You'll be fucked if you don't show up! After all the shit you've been through, you wanna not show up to practice? Bad idea, dude.”
He throws himself on his bed and moans. I rush over and pull him up by the arm. “Get up, Cal!”
He stumbles up to his feet. His room is a mess, piles of clothes on the floor. I pick up some pants and a shirt and throw it at him. “Get dressed. You're not gonna be the only hungover guy there. Don't be the one idiot who doesn't show up and gets suspended for it.”
“What, you mean like I did before? What's it matter, anyway?” he sulks as he slowly and still-drunkenly steps into his pants. “My fuckin' career is done.”
“Jeez, you're dramatic,” I mutter. “I'll be waiting for you in the hall. Don't make me late.”
CALLAN COMES OUT A few minutes later, looking sheepish.
“'Bout ti
me! Let's go already!” I rush him out the door and hail a cab outside. We don't have time to walk.
The cab ride is quiet. Callan stares out his window and I stare out mine. Judging by his demeanor, he might regret last night worse than I do. I'm sure he's embarrassed.
We hurry into the arena and make our way to the dressing room. I take a look around the room and see that me and Callan aren't alone, at least. Everyone who went out with us last night – a good two-thirds of the team – sits hunched over, moaning and groaning as they suit up.
“Hey boys,” I say. “We're a sorry bunch today, eh?”
“Urp,” someone replies.
We hurry to get dressed. Coach comes in a bit later. He takes one step in and then reels with disgust.
“Holy shit, it smells like a goddamned bar in here! Have a good time celebrating last night, did we, ladies?”
He's answered by a chorus of groans.
“Good. So this is how we celebrate making the playoffs, huh? We're so proud of ourselves, aren't we? Well, I hope you brought your legs today. 'Cause I'm gonna bag skate the fuck outta you today, gentlemen.”
More groans. Coach obviously derives a lot of joy from our suffering.
Practice is brutal. Coach stays true to his word, and we don't do anything but skating drills. Red line to blue line and back. Red line to center and back. Red line to far blue line and back. Red line to far red line and back. Then start it all over again.
Bag skates are already the worst, but in our condition? We're all hunched over, with wobbly knees, our feet barely moving.
Let's just say, we're all thankful when Callan drops to his knees and pukes last night's cherry-red drinks on the ice a half-hour into our practice.
Coach blows his whistle and shakes his head. He's seen enough from us. “Alright. That's it. That's a day. I can't believe you boys would do that to your bodies before a fuckin' playoff series, for god's sake. Get outta my sight and go home. And don't think about pullin' this crap before a game or you're dead. Every last one of you.”
Donovan skates up to me while Callan is retching on the ice.
“You ask pretty boy what his problem is yet?” he asks.