Olive Juice

"You are so fucking hot to me," he says, his voice husky as his hands fumble at my zipper. I lift my hips to help him, pressing my thighs against his. His mouth catches mine in a ragged kiss. "Do you want me?"

I can barely speak with my lip trapped between his teeth. "Yeah."

"I want you, too."

My head is swollen with his words, that swirling feeling that makes my face hot and my cock hard and my common sense go away. "Lock the door," I remind him. When he leans to do so I run my fingers up his shoulder into his hair. The lock clicks and I pull his mouth back to mine. All day I've been desperate for him, pretending that I don't care when someone sits between us, or that we aren't put in the same discussion group, or that I don't have an erection after I read the note he passes me. "3:20. Forget something in the equipment room."

His fingers lift my uniform. "Let me see you," he insists. I finish the job by pulling it over my head, then do the same for him. I can't use my words like he does; I can't say all the things I want out loud. Let me touch you. Let me taste you. He has to say them for us both so I can follow suit.

I tremble with need when I hook my thumbs into my pants and underwear, displaying myself for him. He breathes out as his eyes scan me from head to toe, and then his hand follows. His touch burns my forehead, my nose, lips, chin and throat, my chest, my stomach, my cock. He closes his fingers around me and I moan.

He kisses me to silence. "On the floor," is all he whispers, but I know to sink with him, to wait on my side for him to turn around so I can finally pull his hips into my embrace and inhale his musk. He laughs a little bit when I do things like that. That's fine; it's the only way I can get enough of him when there's so little time to share.

Sometimes I wish I could open my throat like he can. Maybe today is when he'll finally swallow me whole, when my whole existence shrinks into my cock and he'll slurp slurp and I'll disappear inside him forever. His full-throated suction distracts me for a moment until he reaches down to pat my head. So little time.

He has the most beautiful cock. It was made for a mouth like mine to explore, made for kisses down the thick ridged shaft, made for licks that give salt and sweat and something else. This head a smooth helmet, this shaft a spear. I reach around to squeeze his balls because I love their heft.

He grunts in approval. "Oh, that's good. Play with me."

That's all I need to abandon any effort to keep quiet. Rolling the sack through my fingers I take his cock as deep as I can, humming my happiness around him. Whatever remains past my lips I pull off to lick, then bury my nose in his balls to suck on them. The crinkly hairs tickle my skin, make me giggle, but I stop laughing when he does the same to me.

He'll suck me dry before I can make him come. I throb in his mouth. He isn't wasting any time, and I don't want to waste any of him, so I grip his shaft and suck hard, jerking him in syncopation with my tongue.

He pulls off just long enough to tell me, "Oh, my god, that feels so fucking good." I love that he does that. I'm too selfish to do the same. He can have me ready to explode in half the time--maybe I'm just sensitive--but I get too wrapped up in what he's doing to me to tell him good job. And he does such a good job. It's getting harder and harder to keep a steady pace on his cock when he's bobbing on mine.

I roll us so that I'm on my back, enjoying the weight of his body on mine. But he shifts so that his knees are on the floor; I lash my tongue over him, barely paying attention to the vigorous jerking of my cock in his hands. We've gotten good at this. He said it was lonely to cum without me, and we got enough practice to be less lonely whenever we fooled around.

Pounding feet and giggles speed past the door, startling us both.

"Hurry," he urges before diving onto my shaft, now so engorged it's almost purple, and stopping my reply with his sweet dick.

I fill my mouth and throat with as much of him as I can, holding his taut ass cheeks for leverage. The familiar muffled moans of pleasure fill the air as we race to make each other cum.

"Mm mmmph," I grunt as my only warning before my hips take over, cramming my cock into his wet mouth, faster, harder and I'm there, I'm cumming down his throat so hard, shot after shot of hot cum that he swallows instantly.

Then I'm done, but he quickly scoots backwards to kneel over my head so he can fuck my face and I don't care what it says about me that I love it. My fist catches what my throat can't. It's a game to see what grip works best; today it's thumb and two fingers, with my index and pinky gently teasing the shaft that escape my lips.

I pull off just to encourage him, "Cum in my mouth."

"Oh fuck, yes," he gasps, his hips jerking as his tight balls slap my forehead. "Shit, I'm cumming. Eat it. Eat all of it."

Hot thick globs spurt over my tongue and I slurp it down. He's sensitive, he tries to pull back but I hang onto his hips until I have every drop and he's trembling in my grasp. He's mine now. He's all mine. We're still for a moment, breathing hard while the sounds outside the equipment room return.

He moves first, pulling up his shorts. He turns to drape himself over me. It's all I can do to throw an arm around him.

Finally I find my voice. "Oh my god." It isn't Shakespeare, but he laughs and nods in agreement.

"Yeah."

I'd like to freeze right now, with the pleasant cooling of sweat and his heartbeat on mine. He kisses my neck, bites my chin, and nudges my nose with his. We both know that every second spent here is more trouble that we'll be in later.

"You were helping me look for my wallet," I suggest. "We found it in the library."

He raises his head to look at me, grinning. "It's almost scary how good at this you are."

"I only use my powers for evil," I reply, wiggling out from underneath his body. If I wait longer I'll be hard again, and he won't let me leave, then he'll get hard, then I'll want to take care of it... better to run laps than get detention for skipping practice entirely.

He groans and gets to his feet. I accept his hand, almost trip us both by getting tangled in my sliders, and find my shirt.

"Wait, wait," he says, rifling through a basket of practice jerseys. Two mints, the thick chalky kind that the receptionist keeps on her desk, emerge from the brightly-colored mesh. I get one, he gets the other--I grin at him, and he shuffles a little bashfully. Well planned.

We both get in trouble for disappearing. When the rest of the players are packing up I start laps, and as I round the outfield I notice the track team making its slow way back to the locker rooms. He isn't with them. The track is too far away from the baseball field for me to call out to him, but I can see his head popping up like a gopher from the swell of the hill that separates us. Even under the brim of my cap he gives off light, shining in the sun.

There's no more time after that day to steal kisses or sneak blowjobs. We resort to phone sex late at night, the cameras trained on our lamp-lit bodies and his instructions fed directly to my ears. I miss the taste of him. I miss how sweaty he gets, how he holds my head when I kneel at his feet and suck him. At least we can eat lunch together, legs stretched underneath the table so that we can still touch. Once he catches me staring at him in class. His smile is huge. "Summer," he mouths at me, and hides his laughter when I lift my eyes to the heavens and pretend to clasp my hands in prayer.

We do sit together at graduation. Merchant. Messler. The principal calls Matthews and I know he's next. The bright lights on the stage make it hard to pick out where our parents are sitting, even the guys in their tuxedos and girls in white dresses get washed pale as they cross to the front and receive their diplomas. He sits up, ready to shake hands and get his photo taken, and in the burst of Matthews-applause I lean over and cup my hands around his ear. He presses back a little to better listen past the whoops and hollers, because I'm whispering. He hears me, though. His gaze snaps to mine right as his name is called, and the shrieking of his family and our friends would to an outsider look like the source of his brilliant smile.

"Olive juice, dude," he says, enunciating each syllable. The people around us laugh because it makes no sense, but I know this elementary school joke and read his lips.

I love you, too.