Page 85 of Pucking Obsessed

It’s not worth the risk to my arse to try.

“Feels good?” D’Angelo’s deep voice rumbles.

“Heaven, darlin’.”

I push into the sensation of his strong fingers massaging my scalp, as he washes my hair.

It makes my whole body tingle.

I never thought that anyone would care for me like this.

D’Angelo is alert to my cues, checking in frequently with me.

I only needed to tell D’Angelo once how good it felt to be washed and then toweled dry after we shared our showers at home, and now he does it without me having to say anything.

I don’t even need to earn it.

I felt bloody embarrassed admitting to enjoying the same soft treatment as D’Angelo gives to Robyn.

Blythe told me that subs were there to be trained to take pain and give their doms pleasure.

It makes me feel itchy and wrong to expect my dom to treat me this carefully like I’m his true boyfriend.

Yet I’m not going to self-sabotage my good luck.

Not anymore.

D’Angelo’s naked body is pressed close against mine in the individual shower stall.

Half an hour ago, he led me through the empty locker room, firmly locking the door.

Being in charge of the key is another privilege of being the captain.

Right now, I’m appreciating that privilege.

The Rebel Arena’s locker room is at the end of a long, white corridor. The walls are lined with stalls above arctic blue padded benches. The players’ equipment is hung up on each stall: pads, helmets, skates, and jerseys.

It’s pervaded with the chemical scent of rubber mixed with sweat, along with the mildew stench of hockey equipment.

It’s become a home away from home with a television in the corner, surround sound, and a fridge.

The team are close enough to feel like friends.

D’Angelo treats them like family.

In the middle is a mat with the puck on flames team logo printed on it. It’s sacrosanct. No one steps on it.

You would probably get snapped with towels by each member ceremonially if you did.

D’Angelo has already snapped me with a towel on the way to the shower. My arse tingles in a delicious way.

I smile at Pulp’s Britpop anthem “Common People”, which is blasting its scathing wit through the room on the sound system.

I identified deep in my soul with this song at college: the story of a poor working class student vs the rich one, who acts like she’s slumming it by sleeping with him.

Playing “Common People” helped me to feelseen, at least as long as its wild anger played through my dorm room.

Except, D’Angelo is slowly helping me to realize I’m not that poor student any longer.

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