Houston, we've got a motherfuckin' problem.
Graduation is less than a week away, and you'd think that would be something to celebrate. Sammy won't be able to bitch and moan about the ethics of our relationship to quite the same extent, once the teacher-student factor is eliminated. So, what's the issue, you ask?
He still hasn't said a word about his move, re-enrolling into school, or anything at all of his life beyond the summer. Sometimes, when he talks, it's like he's got a terminal illness. He pointedly refuses to discuss anything about the future, our future, beyond a certain date. He's constantly, constantly asking about my plans, however. It's like he wants to reassure himself that I'll make a good, responsible choice. Or, that he and I have an expiration date.
Here's my dilemma: I've already been accepted for the fall semester at CSU, Fresno. For football, they're one of the best NCAA, D1 universities in California. We won't be attending the same school like I'd originally hoped, but we'll be less than an hour's drive apart. Soon, Sam will have to start packing up his house for the move, and that's not something he'll be able to gloss over. He'll have to give me a proper explanation. It's just, this is how I imagine it'll go:
Sammy will sit me down, looking at anything and everything but my face. He'll be uncomfortable, but firm. He'll tell me he's leaving for California, or maybe he'll withhold the details, and say it's been fun while it lasted but it's time for us to go our separate ways. He's probably expecting it to be difficult, but final. I might get angry, argue, suggest something long distance, but even I would eventually have to give in to the raw truth of it. Sammy's going one way, and he believes I'm going another.
So, how do I bring it up?
Obviously, I have to, somehow. If I were to just pop up on his campus one day without any warning, in a completely different state, he'd shit an entire brick. But, it's not like he'll buy it if I say something like: "SoCal, huh? What a crazy coincidence, me too! Should we make a road trip out of it?"
He's gonna be pissed either way, but one path is easily more treacherous than the other. With graduation looming, Sammy relaxed his tight grip on the rules. It's Sunday morning, and I've been at his home since late Saturday afternoon. He lets me sleep over on the weekends, and he's not so quick to boot me on Sundays as long as he's not got something to do in town. There are no more games or practices, and testing is over. He's much busier than I am these days, but I'm content to just be in the same room as him while he works. I can imagine this is what it'll be like in Cali, too. He'll probably be swamped with working towards his PhD.
My adorable, fuckable nerd.
Sammy leans back his office chair, arching his back in search of a satisfying pop. "I'm so stiff, God."
He tends to avoid his home office, as he prefers not to be stuck behind a desk in his own home more than necessary. He'd normally snuggle into his corner of the couch with whatever stack of papers require grading or his laptop warming his thighs, but there's too much to juggle today: two binders, multiple stacks, and his laptop are sprawled across the polished, cherry top. I'd taken up residence in his office's armchair, my own outdated laptop overheating on top of my thighs, whirring like a XF-84H taking off.
"Wanna take a break?"
He glares at me
I huff, as if I haven't given him enough reason to think my version of a 'break' is fucking him half to death. "That's not what I meant!"
Really, it isn't.
"What, then?"
I cajole him out from behind the desk, all the way into his sprawling backyard. He hesitates at the backdoor like a vampire wary of the daylight, but I know it's paranoia. His backyard is walled off by a treeline, then a short strip of fencing on either side of the home. It's also on a downhill slope. Unless his distant neighbors plan on popping their head over the fence in request of some emergency sugar, no one will see us.
"Sammy, for the love of God, get your pussy-ass out here."
"I'll find a way to flunk you, brat."
"...that's hot."
He scoffs, but obediently steps out onto the veranda. "Why are we out here?"
"Ta-da!"
I procure a football from behind one of the patio chairs with all the theatrics of a magician pulling a dehydrated bunny from a tophat. He groans, agonized, and immediately swoops on his heel to head back inside. I catch him by the back of his T-shirt, yanking. His back smarts against my chest, and he lifts his face to fix me with a dirty, annoyed look. My pretty, pretty boy. I plant a sloppy kiss on his forehead, which he petulantly scrubs away. "Physical activity will make you feel better, and if you don't wanna fuck, this is good too."
"Wha—?!" He sputters. "We had sex an
hour ago!"
"Yeah, but just once."
"Dean, you're a quarterback. I trip going up the stairs too fast. I'm not doing this."
"Come on, Sammy, it'll be fun! I'll throw it easy, swear to God."
He gives in, like he always does. His subservience in little ways like this is such a turn-on, and goddamn, I have problems. We pad out into the grass, and I pull back a good thirty feet. He's standing awkwardly, nervously, like he's never caught a ball in his life. It's the beginning of July, so his loungewear is more revealing than usual. Cotton shorts that cuff around his upper thighs, a thin T-shirt that must've shrunk in the dryer, riding his smooth navel. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my head on straight. He really will pry me off with a crowbar and boot me out of his life if I keep trying to hump his leg like a pooch in heat.
"Ready?!"
"Sure."
I swing a gentle, arching pass towards him, and while he fumbles with it, it doesn't touch the lawn. He shoves it in the air like a trophy, grinning. "Hey, I caught it!"
Warmth blossoms in my chest. "Throw it back, lemme see that killer arm!"
He scoffs, but the smile's still there. Sticking his tongue between his teeth, he cocks his arm back and sets it loose. It isn't the worst throw I've ever seen, but it's a clunky thing all but dropping out of the air, no spin. It's more than enough of an excuse, in my book. I jog over with the ball, and he monitors my approach suspiciously. I flash my most disarming grin, which hasn't worked on him in months. "Hey, hey, I'm just trying to offer some wisdom."
"Bullshit."
Saddling up behind him, I whisper a teasing hand beneath the front of his shirt. I don't miss the delicious shiver that runs through him, nor the telltale clenching of his back, like he has to physically stop himself from pushing his ass back. Blood blooms bright against his nape through that tickle of dark curls. Christ, he's practically trained. "Hand to God. Now, grab it."
He grabs the football from my outstretched hand. Pay attention, kids, this is what we in the business call: a textbook maneuver. It toes the line of mansplaining, so you've got to be completely, totally sure the recipient is into you. In my case, there's no question. I line my body up with his, closer than is necessary for any demonstration, and splay my hand atop his where he grips the ball, adjusting his finger placement. I puppet his body through the movement: feet shoulder width apart, twisting hips, drawn arm.
"You wanna load it correctly, so start with it here, right above your belly button. You want the nose of the ball facing down. Keep your knees a little bent, you want your feet wider than your hips. The step you take helps you gain some momentum, so you take one firm step with your left foot, then push off with your right. Put as much of your weight as you can into your back foot, but give it a little twist at the same time. Then, it's all in your shoulder, elbow, and wrist. Keep it loose, extend your elbow, and snap your wrist when you release. Your index finger should be the last one touching the ball when you let go."
It's a pretty professional explanation, if I say so myself, but I'm sure it's going in one ear and out the other. With every tip and suggestion, I make it a reality by contorting him like an artist's tiny wooden mannequin. I slide my hand between his thighs to fix his leg placement, then along his ribs to get the right twist from his hips. My cock must feel like a soldering iron against his lower back. His skin jumps, muscles fluttering, wherever I touch. He's tense, and his breath hitches. If I stuck my hand down the front of his shorts, I'm sure he'd be wet.
Sammy's like...a beautiful instrument I get to play.
Then, I leave him like that, returning to my place across the yard. He stares after me, mouth slightly agape. Knowing him, he'd rather suffer in silence than admit how horny he is, and that's exactly what he does. He pretends to be unaffected, straightening his clothes with one hand. To my surprise, he takes my instruction to heart and adjusts his body accordingly. His next pass is smooth, and I praise him for it. We go back and forth like that for about twenty minutes. I mock him when he drops the ball or passes poorly, he mocks me for it being the only thing I'm good at. It's...nice, lighthearted, and I never, ever want this feeling to end.
He has the ball again, but instead of passing it, he tucks it behind his back. His expression is playful, saying: 'come and get it.'
"I'm—I'm not gonna tackle you!" I laugh, disbelieving.
"Well," He calls back, cheeky. "Looks like the game is over."
I feign nonchalance and shrug. "Guess so."
He gets this devious little smile, one that puts a tickle in my scalp, snaking my spine. I've got fuckin' chills over it, a simple smile.
"Pussy!" He heckles.
Oh.
