Spiked

“Bend over the bed,” Jacob instructed. I nodded and, a little wobbly, got to my feet. I bent forward, and Jacob immediately pushed his cock against my clit, then let it least at my slit— down, along my pussy, up the back toward my ass. It lingered there for a moment.

“You’re still so tight,” Jacob said, pushing against me a little harder, the head of his cock threatening to enter my ass, aided by the wetness my pussy had provided. Jacob rubbed my ass cheek with a hand, squeezed it hard enough that I knew he was looking down at his cock teasing against my entrance.

“You liked having my finger in your ass, didn’t you?” Jacob said huskily.

“Yes,” I gasped as he pressed a little harder still. He wasn’t going to fuck my ass though, was he? I didn’t know anything about that, I didn’t know what it entailed, I didn’t know how it would feel, but I did know that I wanted him in me again— maybe anywhere in me.

Jacob leaned forward so his mouth was closer to my ear. “We’ll build up to that too, I promise,” he said lowly, then almost instantly changed position and charged into my pussy. I cried out in pleasure as he pumped into me, fucking me harder than he had before— harder than I would have been able to stand before.

I woke up in darkness. I’d stayed at Jacob’s often enough now to be instantly familiar with the smells, the sounds, the feel of expensive sheets beneath me. That familiarity is why I knew instantly that I’d woken up because Jacob was no longer in the bed beside me. I sat up and saw that the bathroom light was on, the door opened a tiny crack, spilling yellow light in a stripe across the floor.

I couldn’t see directly into the bathroom from this angle, but I could see a reflection in the window. Jacob was standing in front of the sink, staring at his bare chest. He lifted his right arm, put it down again. Repeat, rotate, put it down again. His bad arm— he was doing the PT exercises. Lift, rotate, down—

He flinched. I froze, even though he surely had no idea I was watching. Jacob calmly lowered his arm. Lift, rotate, down. Lift, rotate, down. I stared at Jacob’s face, waiting for another flinch, trying to figure out how the exercise only seemed to aggravate his shoulder one out of every ten rotations.

Then I realized: He wasn’t doing his PT moves. He was trying to master his face— his expressions. He was trying to get rid of the flinch itself rather than the pain. I watched him go about it for nearly a half hour, until his face was expressionless as he moved his arm— until he was able to feign health.

My chest tightened and I felt tears stinging my eyes.

I felt words bubble up, the desire to call out, to tell him that was ridiculous, that he could hurt himself permanently if he tried to play on a still-injured arm.

But then I thought about his parents, and all they’d said that evening. That boy Adams is hot on your tail, son. Get back out there, or this’ll all have been for nothing. Sitting on the sidelines is every bit as bad for you as an injury is.

He’d told his father he’d be back in by the Clemson game— a week from tomorrow. I knew, without doubt, that he was going to play in that game— but also knew, without doubt, that he shouldn’t.

17

Piper was with Adams— not dating him, exactly, but with him in a way that meant other girls admired and hated her at the same time. It was clear his star was rising; he was a frequent topic of conversation on sports shows, in the school’s newspaper. Side by side charts compared him shamelessly to Jacob, and while the pros typically considered Jacob better overall, they always noted that Adams was stronger in his junior year than Jacob had been— which they speculated meant that Adams’ senior year would put Jacob’s to shame.

The additional playtime was giving the rest of the team a chance to adjust to Adams’ leadership style, and I heard grumblings that the freshmen players who had been relegated to serving seniors beers at parties were delighted to see the old guard taken down a notch.

“It’s all just stuff to fill air time,” Jacob said when we passed a bar after the homecoming game— Harton had won by a landslide— where two different college sports stations appeared to be doing profiles on Adams. “Once I’m back in, it’ll all fade. He’s a great player, don’t get me wrong, but I’ve got experience on him. That’s where it’s at, with quarterbacks.”

“Of course. Plus, I think Piper is actually pretty miserable with him,” I said, nudging him, and Jacob smiled. We were walking the same path we’d taken all those weeks ago, when I’d met him at the club and he’d left his friends behind. It wasn’t intentional— it was just a nice evening walk. As we neared the Manhattan, I saw that it was full of athletes once again— beefy football players had spilled onto the street, and inside, I could see the compact women of the gymnastics team, all wearing their Harton athletic gear.