Page 24 of Iced Out

So, what? Am I bi now? Does sucking one dick make me bi?

I let out a tortured sigh, because in reality, I know that’s not how sexuality works. Like if I would’ve kissed him, it wouldn’t make me bi either.

Sexuality is about so many other things, but most of all, it’s want. Desire. Attraction.

So…am I attracted to Oakley? Do I want and desire him the way I’ve only ever wanted females in the past?

From the tent pitching my briefs just thinking about this, I’d say yes.

“Fucking hell,” I groan absently, because this is the last thing I need. Literally dicking around with Oakley is the dumbest idea I’veeverhad. Which is saying something, because I love to think up stupid shit. And follow through on it, apparently.

First with letting him shove his dick down my throat and swallowing his cum like it’s a fucking Slurpee. Then again, as I yank my dick free from my underwear, spit in my palm, and start stroking.

All with two brown eyes full of hatred rolling around in my mind, the star of the show.

My fist shuttles faster as images of tonight come flooding back to the forefront of my mind, this time, without me trying to stop them.

The closeness in the bathroom, the anger in his eyes. The breathy sounds, the bites of pain from him gripping my hair tight enough to yank it right from my skull. The ruthless way he held himself deep in the back of my throat. The intoxicating scent of his woodsy body soap in my nostrils as he filled my throat with his length, then again with his cum.

I welcome each and every thought; their presence bringing me closer and closer to a desperately needed release.

But then they take a turn, and just like that, Oakley and I have traded places.

He’s the one on his knees, taking my cock all the way to the back of his throat.

He’s the one swallowing down my cum, milking me for all I’m worth.

He’s the one who’s left a panting, breathless mess on the floor.

He’s the one who can’t get enough.

He’sthe one destroyed by what we just did.

Him.

My feet dig into the mattress below me, a mixture of memory and fantasy swirling and blending in my mind. Building my climax until the only thing left to do is to fall over the edge…and I come.

I come harder than I have in my entire fucking life.

I come with the taste of his still on my lips.

Not allowing myself to linger in a blissful, post-orgasmic state, I make a move to clean up the remnants of my release still coating my hand and stomach, all the while a low, churning feeling settles low in my stomach. One I recognize as frustration.

Climbing back into bed, I yank the sheets over me and slam my head against my pillow with enough force, I’m able to feel something hard beneath it.

My lucky puck.

Mysuperstition.

I shift, shoving my arm beneath my pillow until I find it. My fingers travel along the cool, smooth rubber disk, allowing the texture to calm the countless overwhelming emotions ebbing and flowing through me.

Taking a deep breath, I fiddle with it more until my racing heart subsides into slow, steady beats. And it works. Soon enough, I’m relaxed again. As much as I can be, focusing on the things I know and have control over rather than all the unanswered questions lingering in my brain to torment me.

What I don’t know is if my dick likes all dudes, some dudes, or what.

But Idoknow he definitely likes the one person he really fucking shouldn’t.

And I don’t think a dump truck full of lucky pucks would be enough to help me work through that unfortunate fact.

---