If you haven't read part 6, do so here. Or you can start from the beginning.
The whole week before the final game of the Ultimate Frisbee season my stomach is in knots. Mr. Hale keeps showing up a little before it’s time for me to leave practice, though he hasn’t yet stepped out of the car, and I’ve taken to sitting in a booth at the coffee shop so that he is be unable to see Brandon lounging across from me. Mr. Hale, for all his faults, is an extremely intelligent man. It would not surprise me at all to discover that he has been aware of my attraction to Brandon the whole time.
Ever since that first day when Brandon sat with me during his break, he has been waiting to take off until I arrive, and I’ve noticed he times his break exactly fifteen minutes before I’m supposed to leave. He has an unending supply of entertaining stories, explains the sport of bouldering in great detail, and encourages me to sign up for floor hockey for the post-holiday winter season. I, in turn, say as little as possible about myself and ask as many questions as I can think of to keep him talking. Occasionally I’ll participate in the conversation, such as which famous author I would kick in the face and why, or what I would want in my pocket if I were abandoned on a desert island (I always pick a lighter). For the most part I watch and listen, admiring the way he says whatever is on his mind, latently wishing I were in a position to do more than talk with him.
On Friday, Mr. Hale pulls up to the coffee shop earlier than usual, which likely indicates that Mr. Hale has already been aroused elsewhere, but plans to favor me with his release. If I do not exit the coffee shop soon, Mr. Hale’s mood will quickly turn from amorously benevolent to irritably lecherous.
“Hey,” Brandon calls as I stand to leave, “are you coming to the championship celebration after we win?”
I raise my eyebrows. “So not only are we having a false championship, but we’re going to celebrate a likely loss?”
“Beauty of rec teams, man. The last game should be celebrated in a fashion worthy of the sport.” Brandon punches me in the chest but quickly withdraws his hand, shaking it. “Oh my god, Tuck. What’s wrong with your nipple?”
I don’t blush anymore when he says things like that. “What are you talking about?”
“I think your nip bit me.”
“My nip nipped you?”
Brandon rolls his eyes at my pun, but nods. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m going to have a bruise. What is that thing?”
“Oh.” Suddenly I’m back to my early days of stammering and nervousness. “Sorry, my nipples are pierced.”
Brandon’s eyes go wide, and he asks, “Are you serious? Like, rings?”
I shuffle my feet. “Yes.”
“Wow. I did not know that about you.”
I try to shrug nonchalantly, but think that there is quite a bit that Brandon doesn’t and should never know about me. “I keep thinking I’ll take them out, but I’m afraid that there will be nasty scarring,” I say flippantly.
Brandon gives me a funny look. “Does Mr. Hale know about these?” he asks, jerking his head at the idling car. I really should be going.
“Sure, I suppose,” I answer quickly. “Well, I think we’ve effectively murdered this conversation. I’m going to leave. See you.”
“Yeah, don’t forget about our victory party. Or to sign up for winter season while you’re there.”
I nod as I walk out. What just happened? Did I really just reveal that my nipples are pierced?
I climb in the car, and it’s as though the temperature drops. Mr. Hale probably saw
Brandon touch me. My version of damage control involves amorous kisses and fondling.
“Who was that?” Mr. Hale asks. His irritation shows in the clench of his jaw and the way he pushes me away when I attempt to kiss his mouth.
“Who?” I ask, nonchalant as I rub my cheek on the inside of his thigh, trying desperately to distract him. He is already erect, as I had suspected, and this exchange will probably mean an exciting round with the paddle unless I diffuse any notion that I enjoyed being touched by anyone save he. I quickly unzip his trousers and undo his belt. I wonder what his coworkers would think if they knew he goes without underwear. “Oh, that’s Brandon, the boy who plays Frisbee.”
“He works at the coffee shop?” Mr. Hale is displeased.
I adopt a petulant attitude, as though all this talk is hindering my playtime. “I told you that already. He’s a nice enough boy, I suppose, but seems very vanilla.”
Mr. Hale smiles at me, a wolfish expression, and grasps my head with both hands. “And my pet prefers something…”
“Darker,” I say in a sultry tone, turning my head to bite the base of his thumb. “More exotic.” Actually, I thought vanilla was a perfectly good flavor, and was also suitable for pie, cobbler, cake, sprinkles, a banana split, and other such desserts.
Mr. Hale grabs my hair right before I envelop him with my mouth and tilts my head back. The head of his penis rests on my lower lip, and I know I’m getting to him when I swirl my tongue over the tip and Mr. Hale’s blue eyes flicker.
“What were you talking about?” he asks me.
I shrug. “The last game of the season is on Thursday,” I pause to bob my head halfway down his length, “and one of the girls is hosting a post-game celebration.” I lower my head again until my nose is buried in the crinkly golden-brown hair at the base of his shaft, and pull back up, swirling my tongue around the top as I do. “That’s also the time to sign up for broom hockey, if you’d like me to play.” I blow lightly on the opening at the head and watch a pearl forming. “I hear it does wonders for the glutes and thighs.”
By this time I’m not sure that Mr. Hale is listening to me. His eyes are slightly glazed, he had loosened his tie, and he is playing with my hair instead of using it to mash my nose repeatedly into his pubic hair. There is nothing Mr. Hale likes better than for me to find him irresistible regardless of how he treats me.
If I were to take a picture of him from my angle, one would never believe the realities of our relationship. He looks like a corporate golden boy, his piercing blue eyes starting to lose their icy glare; his mouth is parted just slightly, and reddened, as though they’ve recently been bitten. His classically handsome face is unlined, relaxed; if I were to take a picture, one would never guess that he was receiving a blowjob, or that he had calmly instructed me to grind myself against his leg until I came, without lifting my head from its work. Ever the compliant companion, I close my eyes and like a gift, Brandon’s soft smile replaces the cool gaze of Mr. Hale, and it is surprisingly easy to give the man exactly what he wants. Like any john worth his salt, he gives his whore the due reward, and I desperately hope post-game pizza and floor hockey are worth what I’ve given up for them.