Page 5 of Loosened Up for My Bud

“Just finished up,” I call back, my voice a little higher than usual.

I quickly rinse my hands and splash some cold water on my face, then on my junk in a desperate attempt to calm things down. It doesn’t really work. But at least it’s not pointing straight at the ceiling anymore.

“What are you waiting for then? Let’s see it!”

I take a deep breath as I step out of the tub and wrap a towel around my waist. Stone and I have seen each other naked more times than I can count—showers, locker rooms, drunken skinny-dipping sessions. But this is different. This is an inspection. I feel like a prize cow at the county fair.

Unlocking the door, I step into our room. Stone is leaning against the wall with a huge, expectant grin on his face. He’s already in his compression shorts and practice jersey.

“Alright,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Show me the goods.”

I turn around, dropping the towel just enough to expose my ass. I bend over slightly, resting my hands on my knees, and present the flared base for inspection. The plug shifts with the movement, and I have to bite my lip to keep a strange sound from escaping.

Stone lets out a whistle. “Well, look at that. It’s in there good and snug. Nice work, soldier.” He takes a step closer, and I flinch. “Purple’s your color, dude. Who knew?”

“Alright, you’ve seen it,” I say, standing up and pulling my towel tight. “Are we done here?”

“For now. Let’s get going. We don’t wanna be late.”

And while I get dressed, pulling on my compression shorts and trying not to think about the next two hours, Stone watches me with an unnerving intensity.

4

“You good, Jay?” Coach asks as he jogs past. “You’re running a little stiff.”

“I’m good, Coach,” I wheeze. “Just trying to get the blood flowing.”

The blood is certainly flowing. In all the wrong places.

It’s a perfect day for practice. Sunny, a cool breeze, the turf still damp from last night’s rain. Normally, I’d be flying across the field, feeling the burn in my legs, the adrenaline surging through my veins. Today, though, I can’t focus on any of it. All my attention is directed to the presence lodged in my ass.

The plug is an active participant in my stride during warm-up laps. I feel it with every step. A deep pressure that makes my body feel like it doesn’t fully belong to me anymore. My ass cheeks clench around the base, trying to adjust, and that only makes it worse. Or better. I don’t even know anymore.

I have to keep my face completely blank. Can’t let anyone see me react when the toy presses against that spot inside me that I didn’t even know existed, and that apparently feels incredible when something touches it.

Because here’s the thing. The horrifying part I can never, ever tell anyone.

It feels good.

Not just tolerable. Not just “I can get through this.” Actually, genuinely, disturbingly good. It feels so good that every so often, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from moaning. And my dick, that treasonous bastard, is still showing a concerning amount of interest. The compression pants are doing a decent job of hiding it, but every now and then, I have to adjust myself discreetly.

I’ve spent the last twenty minutes thinking about highly unsexy things. Defensive schemes. The smell of old shoulder pads. That homecoming loss sophomore year. The chalky protein powder I choke down every morning—anything to keep my body from getting the wrong idea.

So far, it’s not working. It’s like my body has developed a mind of its own, and it’s a pervert. It’s decided that having a piece of silicone jammed up its ass is the best thing that’s ever happened to it.

And that scares me more than anything.

Stone jogs beside me now, that smug, shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

“Holding up okay?”

“Never better,” I grit out. I try to pick up the pace, put some distance between us, but the sudden burst of speed jostles the plug hard enough to make my knee buckle. Stone catches my arm, steadying me.

“Easy, tiger. We don’t want any injuries.”

He’s enjoying this. The power. The control. He knows he’s got me in a position where I can’t do anything about it.

And something about that gets to me. The way he’s holding my arm. That smug look on his face. The dominance in his eyes. The knowledge that he can do whatever the fuck he wants withme. My brain does something weird, and for half a second, I think: If he pushes me against the ground right now and tells me to submit, I might.