“Where’s Deadlock?” I barked at another rookie sitting on a bench, untying his boots.
The kid looked up, wide-eyed. “Uh, bathroom I think?”
I rolled my eyes. Calling him Deadlock backstage usually pissed Cal off; he hated when people used the stage name unless they were fans, but I was annoyed. I was frustrated. And I was still aching from the car ride.
I pulled out my phone to text him.
Get your ass back here. We have to go.
Before I could hit send, a notification popped up.
A message from Cal.
Image loading…
I tapped it open.
The air left my lungs.
It was a photo, taken in the bathroom stall down the hall; I recognized the ugly beige tile. The angle was high, looking down. Cal was standing. He was still in his gear, his bright red and black trunks, but they were shoved down to his thighs.
He was fully hard.
Thick. Heavy. Veins prominent against the skin.
My mouth went dry. Heat flooded my face so fast I felt dizzy. I looked around frantically, shielding the screen with my hand. A producer was by the coolers. Two refs were talking ten feet away. If anyone saw this…
I looked back at the screen. I shouldn’t look. I should delete it.
But I zoomed in.
Below the photo, a block of text bubbled up.
I’m in here wrecking myself thinking about how good you looked in Miami. All marked up. You looked exactly like mine. Makes me want to do it again.
He wants to mark me again.
The thought hit me like a physical blow. And then, a darker, more dangerous thought followed it.
I want him to.
I stared at the phone, my thumb hovering over the glass. I realized, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that I had a thing for hickeys. Just the thought of him biting me, of him leaving that purple bruise on my neck again, made my knees weak. It made me want to drop to my knees right here on the locker room floor.
My eyes drifted back to the photo. To the size of him.
The girth of him looked intimidating even on a screen.
I remembered a girl, years ago in developmental, who tried to go down on me. She stopped after a minute, rubbing her jaw, complaining that I was too much, that she couldn’t take it. I had felt proud of that at the time. A stupid, masculine badge of honor.
Now, looking at Cal, I felt a spike of pure anxiety.
He’s bigger.
A sudden, violent image flashed in my mind, of me, in that stall, on my knees on the dirty tile. Trying to take him. Trying to fit his massive length past my lips. I had never done it. I had never even wanted to do it. The mechanics of it seemed impossible.
I’d choke,I thought, the panic rising. I wouldn’t be able to take it. I’d gag. I’d embarrass myself.
But beneath the fear, there was a perversion that terrified me even more.
