I do my best to type with one hand while servicing myself with the other.
TwinkleTop:Your big ugly cock would be good in Daddy’s hands.
3dge-m3:I know. Fuck I know.
3dge-m3:What would I have to do to come?
TwinkleTop:You’d need to be respectful. Take my cock to the very back of your throat. Look me in the eyes while you choke on me and thank me for it.
I moan into the comforter, struggling to keep my phone upright.
TwinkleTop:Are you touching yourself?
3dge-m3:No.
3dge-m3:You never said I could.
TwinkleTop:Such a good slut. Touch yourself.
My imagination takes over. Picturing Christos on that worn leather couch, his fat cock in his hand while he jerks himself to my texts. His pink tongue dragging across his lips as he too gets lost in a fantasy—eating my ass while my hands stroke him raw. I can picture his muscles straining, chest heaving, a bead of sweat rolling down his flat nose.
If I make the podium tomorrow, he’ll want me. His Daddy will be back and he’ll be all over me. Finally, I’ll get to hear him moan. Taste his ass and cock for myself. I roll onto my back, abandoning my phone on the mattress so I can use both hands. My hips buck, the head of my cock already so sensitive. I could draw this out, but there’s no reward here for patience here.
I pull my shirt up, spilling on my bare torso. With my clean hand, I grab my phone again to snap a photo, sending it to Christos before deleting it. I don’t get a chance to admire the pic till it’s already sent through the app.
He responds with his own photo. His thick cock red and veiny, cum already pooling at the tip.
TwinkleTop:Cute. I should tell you to wait till I’m back to finish.
TwinkleTop:But you only have to say my name while you cum.
TwinkleTop:Practice for when we’re together again.
I should clean myself up, maybe hop in the shower again, but I linger—imagining how Christos will say my name. Will it be mangled by lust? A desperate cry for more? Or a whisper, a chilling promise to keep this our secret?
Whatever the answer, I know he sounds so fucking good.
Meetingwith your advisor after making podium is deeply humbling. My grades are good, but I need to figure out my capstone project, and she rightfully asked if I am considering grad school. The whole walk to the rink my head swirls with the possibility. What do people do with a Masters in English other than teach? Or use it as an excuse to study abroad.
Reading old books in a Scottish castle doesn’t sound so bad. I’d have to find a new skating club and coach. Unless I really want to test Maude’s love for me. I think Garth would like all the sheep. I know she would hate the rain—and leaving the clientele she’s built up over the past two decades.
I’m talking through the hypotheticals with Marcus as we lace up our skates. “Pause. Why would you need to skate if you’re going to grad school?”
“There would be a lot of opportunities to skate in the EU, competition, ice shows—”
“You wouldn’t retire?” He grabs some handheld camera equipment—a gimbal, I think it’s called—and starts attaching the camera. “Don’t most skaters retire in their twenties?”
“There are still competitive skaters in their thirties. And I wouldn’t be in my thirties anyway. Twenty-three isn’t ancient.”
Marcus shrugs so hard his glasses slide down his scaly face. “I’m ignorant to this stuff.” He stands up, and we both make our way to the ice. “It sounds like you want to hang out in Scotland, skate, and study in that order.”
We get right to business once we’re on the ice. “You want to do the scripted stuff or the spins first?”
It’s not my first sponsorship, but it is the first time I’m filming something on campus instead of my home rink. I’ve cleared it with Maude and the brand, who seemed even more excited by the prospect—something about authenticity, that thing advertisements are so known for.
“Ad read first.” I’ve got the copy in my back pocket despite memorizing it. It helps make the unnatural speech sound a bit more realistic. “Whether I’m on or off the ice—” a phrase I have never said without a paycheck being lorded over my head, “I need to be fresh, comfortable, and at my best—”
We’re on our third take when the door to the rink creeks open. “My go-to scent is—”
