Page 6 of Loosened Up for My Bud

The thought is so out of left field it shocks me back to my senses. I pull my arm away with more force than necessary.

“I’m fine,” I snap.

He gives me a strange look, then slips right back into that cocky smile. “You’re a little on edge, Jay. Maybe you should, you know, loosen up a bit.” He winks, then takes off at a sprint, and I watch him pull ahead, trying to process what just happened.

Where the hell did that thought come from?

Stone’s been my roommate for three years. My teammate. My friend. I’ve never looked at him as anything other than the annoying jackass who steals my protein bars and leaves his dirty socks everywhere. Never. So why did that image flash through my head? The thought of his weight on me, pinning me down…

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Must be the plug fucking with my brain. This is what I get for not backing down. This is my brain, rewired by silicone and lube. I take a deep breath and focus on my legs, my feet hitting the ground, the rhythmic slap of cleats on turf.

Just make it through practice. One more hour, and you can get this thing out.

By the end of the warm-up, my muscles are burning, and sweat is pouring down my back. The plug is still firmly in place.

“You’re looking a little red in the face, man,” Diego, our wide receiver, says as we line up for a tackling drill.

“Working hard,” I grunt. “You should try it.”

Coach blows his whistle. “Alright, listen up! This is live tackling. Make pairs and don’t go easy on each other. I want to see some aggression, people!”

I turn to find Diego, or Tyler, or literally anyone else, but Stone’s already there.

“Partners?” he asks with mock innocence.

Coach’s whistle shrieks again before I can protest. The drill is a simple one. Ball carrier runs ten yards to the end zone. Tackler has to bring him down before he gets there.

“I’ll let you start,” Stone says, tossing me the football. “Let’s see if you can still run straight.”

I catch it, my grip sweaty on the leather. I shouldn’t be nervous. I’ve been tackling and getting tackled by this guy for years. I know his moves, his tells. But everything’s different today. The plug. That weird thought I had. The way he keeps looking at me…

“Ready when you are,” Stone says, settling into a defensive stance.

“Go!” I yell and take off. The world narrows to the fifty yards of green turf between me and the end zone. My feet pound against the ground, my breath comes in ragged bursts.

The plug digs in with every stride. That spot inside me lights up with sparks. The friction is maddening. It’s good. So fucking good. And it’s taking every ounce of my concentration not to trip over my own feet.

I can hear Stone closing in behind me. Heavy, thunderous footfalls. He’s bigger than me. Heavier. If he gets a clean shot, I’m going down. Hard. And the thought of him hitting me with that much force right now…

The end zone is ten yards away. Five. Three. I can make it. I can?—

He slams into me from behind, and we hit the turf with a solid thud.

Stone’s on top of me, a dead weight, his breath hot against my ear. “That all you got, Jay?” he grunts, trying to wrench the ball from my grip.

I thrash beneath him, but he’s got me pinned. His chest is a solid wall against my back, one arm wrapped around mywaist, the other trying to pry the football from my fingers. The impact drove the plug deep inside me, an electric shock that shot straight to my dick. Now, with him pressed against me, it’s like he’s intentionally grinding it into that spot, his crotch snug against my ass. I can feel him, even through all the padding.

A sound escapes me—something between a whimper and a moan that I’ve never made before. I clamp my mouth shut, mortified.

“Making some funny noises down there,” Stone whispers, his voice a low rumble against my back. “You good?”

I buck my hips, trying to throw him off, but it only makes the plug press deeper, and a fresh wave of pleasure washes over me, so intense it makes my head spin. My cock throbs against the unforgiving turf.

“Alright, break it up!” Coach yells. “Nice hit, Stone! Jay, you’re dragging today!”

The whistle blows, and Stone finally rolls off me. He stands up, offering me a hand. I ignore it and push myself up, my legs feeling like jelly. I can’t look at him. I can’t let him see my face. He’ll know. He’ll know how much I enjoyed that. He’ll know everything.

The rest of practice is a blur. I’m going through the motions, my body a vessel for this secret, shameful pleasure. Every hit, every jostle, every sudden stop is a new kind of torment. A delicious, terrifying torment.