Top Secret Page 5

  SinnerThree: Are you stalling? I’m seconds away from touching your dick, and you want to talk about your preppy bathing suit?

  The man has a point, I guess. But then again, he doesn’t know me.

  LobsterShorts: If you were seconds away from touching my actual dick, I don’t think I’d stop for a convo. But just so you know, lobsters are cool. And they don’t need an app to find sex.

  SinnerThree: Okay, I’ll bite. How do lobsters find their playmates?

  LobsterShorts: The female pees into the male’s shelter. And the dude is like OH BABY. Then they both pee on each other. She enters his den and molts. He kicks her clothes away like a prom dress. Then they do it missionary style.

  SinnerThree: That’s a lot of detail, dude. I don’t know whether to be terrified or turned on.

  Great. Now I’ve probably scared him off with my encyclopedic knowledge of crustacean sex.

  LobsterShorts: Please carry on. My lobster shorts are discarded.

  SinnerThree: Are you at home right now?

  LobsterShorts: Now who’s asking for too many details? Does it matter where this fictional dick-sucking happens?

  SinnerThree: I meant are you ACTUALLY home. So you can shut the door and stroke yourself while I talk to you.

  Whoa! My cock feels heavy by the time I finish reading the sentence. But even as I roll off the bed and click the lock on my door, I’m not sure. There’s a line between chatting and touching that he wants me to cross.

  Am I really going there right now?

  I unzip my jeans and kick them off. And—fuck it—I drop my boxers, too. I sit on the edge of the bed, naked from the waist down. Then I answer him.

  LobsterShorts: Okay, door is locked. Shorts are history.

  SinnerThree: Well, done, rookie. I wasn’t sure you’d want to play along.

  I’m not sure about anything, really. But I’m pretty curious about my response to his little homework project. And I suppose this is a harmless enough way of exploring the idea.

  LobsterShorts: Let’s do this. Talk to me.

  SinnerThree: I think it should be the other way around. You tell me what you’re doing, and what I should do to you.

  Oh.

  That’s a different story, isn’t it? This fantasy has to be in my own words? I set my phone to silent and wonder how to start. Jacking off in my room isn’t exactly a new activity for me. But my pulse is elevated anyway. Because jacking off with help from a guy is.

  And maybe I’m taking too long, because he nudges me.

  SinnerThree: Am I naked too?

  LobsterShorts: No. But now I ask you to take off your shirt. And you pull it over your head.

  I hit send and look down at Sinner’s profile picture and imagine that set of abs in front of me. And it’s startling to realize that I can picture Sinner slowly removing his shirt, making sure to flex his chest to show me what he’s got.

  I blow out a breath, wondering how far I’m willing to take this. And why it’s so easy to play the encounter like a movie in my head.

  Then I keep typing.

  LobsterShorts: I’m sitting on the edge of the bed. You kneel down in front of me.

  SinnerThree: Yeah, okay. I’m down. So long as I don’t have to call you “Master.” I’m not into that.

  LobsterShorts: Noted.

  And now I’m picturing him down on the floor in front of me. Looking up at me, waiting for a cue.

  Whew. Is it hot in here?

  LobsterShorts: I have to spread my legs apart a little ways so you can get closer.

  SinnerThree: Spread them wide, okay? I’m kneeling between your legs. I’m putting my hands on your inner thighs. And you’re getting hard for me already.

  Suddenly I find myself spreading my legs quicker than a cheerleader doing the splits. Because I really want those hands on me. But how, exactly?

  It’s dawning on me that having sex with the same person for three years leaves some gaps in my imagination. It’s not that I don’t find my sex life fulfilling. But I don’t know how casual hookups work.

  LobsterShorts: Just keep going.

  SinnerThree: Okay. Maybe you wish I’d just deep-throat you immediately. To spare you the awkwardness. But I don’t do that, because I’m kind of digging your nervousness. First I put one hand on your thigh, and you just kind of stare at it.

  I suppose I would. And, hell. I can basically feel it there right now. I press my own hand to my bare flesh and it’s not enough. I want more.

  SinnerThree: Then—moving slowly—I use my other hand to stroke your balls, and cup them in my palm.

  I swear I break out in a sweat as my hand reaches down to do just what he’s described. My breathing quickens as my own palm slides under my sensitive sac.

  SinnerThree: Are you with me? Touch them for me, okay? Then slide your thumb across your cock.

  I let out a gasp as I touch myself. Then I type a response with one awkward thumb.

  LobsterShorts: yup

  My dick is standing at attention now. Not that it usually needs much encouragement.

  SinnerThree: Now I lean down and take you in both hands. Are you cut?

  LobsterShorts: yeah

  SinnerThree: My thumb is teasing the underside of your shaft. And then the tip. Until I finally lean down and taste you.

  Alone in my room I let out a groan, wishing that a real-life tongue was actually circling my cockhead. My own fingers are a poor substitute. I pick up my phone and text one-handed.

  LobsterShorts: then what

  SinnerThree: Are you still digging this?

  LobsterShorts: I’d dig it more if you were really here on your knees with my dick in your mouth.

  Shit, I can’t believe I actually typed that. But…it’s the truth. Figure that one out.

  SinnerThree: Good. Stroke yourself a little faster. And I have a question for you.

  With a groan, I pick up the pace.

  SinnerThree: Riddle me this. Would you still be having fun when I look up at you? Because you aren’t seeing just a talented mouth. You’re looking at a guy who wants to fuck you if he ever gets the chance. Not like I’m going to ruin the mood and say so. I’m smarter than that. I’ll suck you first. But when you’re getting close I’ll stroke your ass. And if it makes you moan, I press my luck and slide the tip of my finger inside.

  My eyes slam shut, as if I’m afraid to read another word. Sinner’s dirty talk has me hard and aching. I don’t know what that means. But I even wish I could hear his voice. There’s something base about his tone that I don’t mind at all. It’s honest. Here’s how I want you and here’s how I’ll get it.

  Apparently I have an honesty kink. Who knew?

  When I open my eyes, there’s a new message.

  SinnerThree: Still with me?

  It’s not easy to reply one-handed.

  LobsterShorts: Yeah. Are you jerking, too?

  SinnerThree: I wish. But I’m not at home right now. I want you to finish yourself off now. Tell me if this helps...

  A few beats go by, while I stroke myself slowly. But I can feel heat in my face, and my pulse is throbbing everywhere. I need release.

  Then a photograph appears on my screen. I see jeans, and a black T-shirt that’s pulled up to reveal a set of tight abs. The jeans are unzipped. And the guy is wearing gray underwear with a prominent bulge showing. His hand is spread out so only the thumb is touching the bulge. He’s just lightly teasing himself through the cotton.

  And it hits me—I made a guy hard. A guy who wants to blow me and play with my ass.

  My phone slides off the bed and onto the floor with a clunk as I jack myself in earnest. He’s kneeling in front of me, his hands on my thighs. His head bobs as he takes me deep. I put one hand on the back of his neck to hold him where I want him. There’s muscle there, not softness...

  That’s when I come all over my hand, stroking myself through it, wishing SinnerThree was there to swallow everything I give him.

  And then it’s over. I’m
sitting here alone with a sticky hand, my heart pounding. I get up and grab a paper towel off the roll I keep on my dresser.

  I don’t know what I just learned, except…not one of my thoughts these past ten minutes had anything to do with Annika or her birthday.

  The Cops Will Love That

  Luke

  Three or four minutes pass, but LobsterShorts doesn’t text me back. I’ve surreptitiously zipped up my jeans again under the library table. And I’ve put all my books away.

  Still. Blank screen.

  I don’t know why I should care. But I’m starting to like the guy. I mean—lobster sex! And here I thought nerds were boring. I’ll admit it. I want to meet him.

  My phone chimes, and I check it immediately. But it’s only a reminder for the meeting I’m headed back to the frat house to attend.

  As I leave the library and walk through the dark, I’m almost regretting my choice to run for president. Meetings are the worst, and I’m basically signing myself up for an endless number of them. Free rent for an entire year sounds like heaven, but is it worth the headache of running a fraternity?

  Ugh. Yes. I think it is. Because if I’m not paying rent, I can cut my work hours down to one night a weekend. Or, if I save up enough during the summer? I might not even have to work at all. I could spend my senior year focusing only on school, graduation, and career plans.

  And Alpha Delt. But I’m sure the prez duties won’t be half as stressful as working vampire hours all weekend long.

  When I get home, I find another meeting already in progress in our dining room. I guess tonight’s the night for meetings. Jako, my campaign manager, hasn’t arrived yet, so I kill time by eavesdropping on the Pledge Committee’s discussion.

  The head of the committee is Judd Keller. So I opted out this year.

  “Who wants to go first?” Judd asks the guys around the table. “We’ll brainstorm and then choose the best and craziest initiation ideas.”

  We tapped our pledges in September, and they’ve been probationary members since then. Now, we put them through hell for seven days before finally making them into full-fledged brothers. Last year, I sat on this committee because every member has to volunteer for something, and at least PC is a short-term commitment. But it was a nightmare, mostly because Judd is so fucking annoying.

  “Maybe the pledges should do the paperclip challenge,” a senior named Paul suggests.

  “The what?” Judd asks. “Is that, like, a physical exercise?”

  “No. We divide them into three teams of four. Each team gets a paperclip. And they have three days to trade it for something worthwhile. In this case it should be something they can donate to charity. They trade the paperclip for a pencil. They trade the pencil for a pen. They trade the pen for a stapler. And so on.” Paul shrugs. “I learned about it in one of my management classes.”

  “What the hell for?” Judd asks.

  “A couple things. It gets you comfortable asking for stuff, which is a life skill. You have to be willing to hear no if you’re ever going to hear yes.”

  Judd begins to sneer. “I think I read that in a self-help book once.”

  “I don’t know,” says Ahmad Mithani. “I kind of like it. It’s a nice break from the Haggar’s Rules of Hazing.”

  I laugh, because I can’t help myself. “Wait, there’s a hazing canon?”

  Judd’s head swivels in my direction. “What the hell, Bailey. You’re not even on this committee! Fuck off.”

  I stifle a grin. “Sorry. Just waiting for my committee to arrive. Is this house teeming with committees or what?”

  Paul snickers softly.

  “Don’t mind me,” I assure them. I make a zipping motion over my mouth. “I’ll keep quiet.”

  Although Judd is red-faced, he doesn’t argue. What’s he going to do, kick me out of my own house? The dining room is off the living room, which is where I’m supposed to meet my campaign manager.

  “I don’t mind the paperclip challenge,” Ahmad says with a shrug. “It’s mildly humiliating, but with real purpose.”

  “They could just contribute money to a charity instead,” Judd mumbles. “But, fine. Put it on the list of possibilities.”

  Ahmad hops up and goes to the whiteboard on the wall. He erases a giant drawing of a cock and balls, because what else do people put on a frat-house whiteboard? With the marker, he writes the heading IDEAS, and underneath it: Paperclip Challenge.

  “Now, who else has an idea that won’t bore me stupid?” Judd demands.

  “I have a great one,” Owen Rickman, one of Judd’s football teammates, pipes up. “I call it Bloody Knuckles.”

  Judd nods in approval. “Sick name. Tell me more.”

  “Okay, so we haul those fuckers out of their beds at, like, two in the morning and take ‘em outside. They line up in front of the back wall of the house and rub their knuckles against the bricks.”

  I won’t lie—I’m fascinated.

  By the sheer stupidity of this idea.

  “What’s the point of that?” asks Tim Hoffman, a senior.

  “See how long they can last, how tough they are. Their knuckles will be torn up, bloody as fuck. It’ll be so gory, dude.”

  Judd is nodding again, his dark eyes gleaming. “And the guy who lasts the longest is rewarded with having to scrub all the blood off the wall and patio.”

  Tim snickers. “How is that a reward?”

  “It’s not,” Judd says, rolling his eyes. “Because there’s no such thing as rewards during Hell Week. These losers need to suffer.”

  Why? I almost blurt out. Why do they need to “suffer”?

  To be honest, I’ve never understood the concept of hazing. It’s supposed to be about bonding, right? Creating long-lasting friendships with your fellow brothers?

  But we already live in a house together. We eat our meals together. We study together. We share bathrooms. We’re each other’s therapists. We hold our brother’s metaphorical hair back (or literal hair, if we’re talking about Jon Munsen’s long surfer locks) when he’s hugging the toilet after a kegger.

  You’re telling me all that doesn’t generate a lifelong bond? We need to watch our brothers scrape their knuckles raw on a brick wall in the middle of the night in order to solidify these friendships?

  “Yo.”

  I turn at the sound of Jako’s low voice. He must have just come from the gym, because he’s wearing a sweat-soaked tank top, track pants, and runners.

  “Hey,” I murmur back, so as to not disrupt Judd’s meeting.

  “You mind if I change quick-fast?” Jako asks. “I’ll come back down in five.”

  “No prob,” I tell him.

  As Jako bounds off, I glance back at the dining area.

  “Mithani, add Bloody Knuckles to the list,” Judd is saying. “Next idea?”

  Rounding out the group is Paxton Grier, the heir to a tech fortune. His dad is a Silicon Valley dude who invented an algorithm that compresses massive photo files, so it stands to reason his son is equally smart and innovative, right?

  “My brother’s frat does this thing called the Watermelon Sex Picnic.”

  I stifle a sigh.

  Ahmad guffaws. “That sounds like the name of an emo band.” They high-five each other.

  Judd, of course, is hanging on Grier’s every word. “Tell me more.”

  “We get a bunch of watermelons and take the pledges on a picnic, so, like, basically just setting up some blankets or tarps to contain the mess.”

  The mess? Oh boy, I already don’t like the sound of this.

  “We cut holes in the watermelons, strip the losers naked, and make them fuck the melons.”

  Owen hoots.

  “And the guy that lasts the longest has to eat all the leftovers.”

  Ahmad starts gagging. “Oh shit. That is so gross.”

  “I love it,” Judd declares. “Write that down on the board.”

  I genuinely feel queasy, and this is coming from a man who swallows
when giving a blowjob. A man who was sexting with another dude right before this meeting. But the idea of forcing other guys, whether they’re straight or gay, to eat a bunch of semen-covered watermelons is incredibly alarming to me.

  Despite the fact that I’m not even on the committee, I step forward and clear my throat. “Don’t write that down,” I order Ahmad.

  Judd directs a scowl at me. “You’re not the president of this fraternity, Bailey.”

  “Yet,” I mock.

  “No, you’ll never be,” he growls. “And you’re not the pledgemaster either. I am. You don’t call the shots here.”

  “No, but you know who does call the shots? The cops.” I loosely cross my arms over my chest. “Forced sexual contact during hazing is against the law.”

  “They’re drilling watermelons,” Judd sputters. “Not each other.”

  “They’re being forced to engage in a sexual activity, which most of them will do because they’re eager to get into this frat. It’s a power move for us and—” I stop, realizing I need a different tack with Judd. He craves the power. So I need to appeal to his…sense of self-preservation, I decide. “And if even one of those pledges talks about what happened or considers it sexual assault and tells the cops, you can say goodbye to Alpha Delt.”

  “Snitches get stitches,” Owen says darkly.

  “Yes, beat the shit out of them badly enough that they get stitches,” I tell him, smiling politely. “The cops will love that, too.”

  Owen rolls his eyes at me.

  To my surprise, Judd wavers, proving he’s not a complete idiot. “No, Bailey’s raised a good point. Whatever we make these fuckers do can’t be overtly illegal.”

  Jako appears at the foot of the stairs, so I leave Judd and his cronies to brainstorm ideas that don’t involve banging watermelons.

  “That guy is a real piece of work,” I mutter to Jako.

  “Yup,” he agrees. “But that piece of work is entitled to one vote in this election—and guess who needs to earn that vote, Luke? You.”

  I chuckle darkly. “Yeah, right. Even if I turned into a genie and granted him three wishes, he’d still never vote for me. He’s ride-or-die with Keaton Hayworth.”

  Jako nods. “Maybe. But that doesn’t mean you’re not capable of changing his mind.”