Sophomore year, I’d talked my way out of a failing grade, a parking ticket, and a very bad situation involving my roommate’s girlfriend, all in the same week. I had a gift. People wanted to give me things. People wanted to make me happy. I didn’t know why it worked, it just did, something about the way I looked at people, or talked to them, or whatever.
Miles would be the same. I’d show up, be agreeable, let him have his little moment, and then figure out the angle. Maybe the thing wouldn’t fit right. Maybe I’d just charm him into calling itoff by Sunday. He was a person. Persons had weak spots. I was very good at finding weak spots.
I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the ceiling. It was just me, alone with the quiet, and the full uninterrupted use of my own body for one last night.
Another secret was gnawing at my subconscious...
When Miles put his mouth next to my ear and whispered the terms, I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t like it either.
I didn’t know what I did with it. Something in my chest went strange and tight. I filed it immediately under the category of surprise, which was a normal reaction to a surprising thing, and that was where it was staying.
He smelled so clean up close, with a trace of something sweet, too. Had he been wearing cologne for me? I didn’t know why I’d noticed that, but he smelled really good.
I stared at the ceiling, thinking about Miles saying my name, flat and certain, like he’d already won before I opened my mouth.
Fine, I thought.
Let him think he had me.
One last night.
I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. My dick was straining under the sheets, hard and heavy, pulsing with the memory of Miles’ mouth against my ear, and the way his voice sounded when he laid down the terms.
Fuck it.
One last night.
I reached down and shoved my hand into my shorts, wrapping my fingers around my cock. It throbbed hot and familiar in my grip as I started stroking.
In my head, it was Miles watching me. Those calm dark eyes locked on my face while I jerked my thick jock cock for him, pre-cum already slicking my palm. I imagined the way he’d look at me tomorrow when I was locked up and desperate, that quiet little smirk, while I begged.
My strokes got faster, rougher, my heavy balls drawing up tight as heat spread in my gut.
Then something twisted in my chest. A sharp, guilty stab that made no fucking sense. This already felt like cheating. Like I was touching something that didn’t belong to me anymore.
I’d lost the bet fair and square. The cage wasn’t even on yet, but the thought of blowing my load tonight suddenly felt wrong. Like I was stealing one last orgasm behind his back.
I grunted in frustration, cock still rock-hard and leaking in my fist. Miles’ face flashed behind my eyes again, that steady, knowing look, and the guilt only got worse. I yanked my hand out of my shorts like I’d been burned, breathing hard, chest tight.
“Fuck,” I muttered into the dark.
I rolled over, punched the pillow, and forced my eyes shut. My dick stayed stubbornly hard, aching against my stomach, but I didn’t touch it again.
One last night, and I couldn’t even enjoy it.
Tomorrow morning at 8 AM, I was walking into his room and putting that cage on like I’d promised.
I hated how much that thought made my cock twitch with anticipation.
CHAPTER 3
MILES
He knocked at8 AM exactly.
I’d clocked him as a punctual person. Jocks always are. Practice schedules, game days, protein shakes at the same time every morning. Brett Calloway ran on routine.