Page 16 of Bruised

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” I yell, and Mason rolls his eyes. I half expect him not to let me pass, but when I approach, he steps to the side with a little smirk.

“Next time, puppy,” he says, and it feels like a promise as well as a threat.

I slink past him with my heart in my throat. My mind is set on escape, but the heat between my legs tells a different story. Mason seems to enjoy making me embarrassed, and that part of my body seems to enjoy it just as much as he does—something I’d never admit to him, and I hesitate even admitting it to myself. The evidence is pretty hard to deny, though.

I try my best to deny anything and everything as I meet up with Oliver and hand him the funnel with shaky knees. I pretend as if nothing is wrong while a storm rages in my mind, and the relentless heat between my legs makes it hard to focus on anything he’s saying.

Hold this, pour that, and all I’m thinking of is Mason, his huge bottle of lube, and the way he looked at me as if he wanted to eat me.

The following day, Oliver and I enjoy the popsicles while we play Xbox games in the living room.

I still feel rattled after what happened yesterday, and last night, I had trouble sleeping again. It’s becoming a real problem. I’m exhausted during the day, and I can’t let Oliver know why.

That night, I try jerking off in the shower before bed, but my brain is too used to the visual stimuli of porn. Trying to make do with my own fantasies inevitably leads to thoughts of Mason. I try to be quiet, to be quick and just get on with it, but no matter how hard I try, I end up frustrated to the point of tears.

Scowling, I finish my shower, get dressed in an oversized T-shirt and boxers, and go to bed.

“Something wrong?” Oliver asks as he’s scrolling on his phone. If I know him, he’s scrolling through raid strategies in online forums.

“No,” I sigh. “Just tired.”

We chat about gaming a bit before bed. What loot we’re dreaming of, what bosses we want to defeat, that sort of thing. It’s a welcome distraction from my thoughts about Mason, but it’s not quite enough to clear my mind of him.

Ten minutes after lights are out, Oliver’s already snoring, and I’m wide awake and rock hard.

I turn around, my stubborn hard-on tenting my underwear. What if I just went to the bathroom again and tried to take care of it? If I brought my phone, maybe it would work this time… Or maybe failing would make me even more frustrated.

I groan and twist and turn, ending up on my stomach.

Mason is at the other end of the hallway, with that offensively huge bottle of lube. Is he really thinking about me when he gets himself off? And what does he look like when he, um… does it?

Before I can stop it, I get a vivid image in my mind of Mason lying naked on his bed, pumping his bottle and pouring lube over his erection. He seems like the type of guy who’d savor the process of masturbation—someone who’s made it a sort of ritual.

How does he like it? Loose and fast or hard and slow? Is he quiet and stoic during it, or does he buck into his fist and moan?

I’m moaning. I’m pressing my hips into the mattress, desperate for any relief I can find. I could almost cry from how horny I am and from the predicament I’m in. Going to the bathroom to jerk off would be like admitting to myself that I get off to thoughts of Mason, but I can’t lie sleepless all night either.

Maybe it’s in my best interest to keep humping the mattress… My boxers are already damp with precum, and I feel like a string about to snap. So close. Only a few more seconds of this, and I’m…

Oliver huffs out a great big snore, startling me. His hand flops over the edge of his bed and brushes against my shoulder.

I roll over with a frustrated sigh. I can’t do this while my best friend’s a few inches away. It’s too weird.

I guess I’ll try to sleep despite the ache between my legs, no matter how long it takes. I’ll figure out some other way to get off that doesn’t involve Mason. I won’t betray Oliver. I won’t. I won’t…

Eventually, I manage to fall asleep somehow, and when I do, I dream of strong hands holding me down, glittering eyes in the dark, and a husky voice whispering in my ear, “Next time, puppy.”

6. PLEASE-HURT-ME VIBES

So my parole officer is a fucking jackass.

I already knew that from our previous meetings, but now that I’m talking to him on the phone, the fact is clearer than ever.

He speaks to me like I’m an unruly child, all condescending about how I don’t apply for enough jobs. He goes on and on about integration back into society, as if I was locked up for two decades rather than eighteen months.

I pace my room while I let him run his mouth, fantasizing about what I would do if I were in the same room as the fucker.

Calm down, Mason. This is the kind of fucked-up, explosive anger that landed me in lockup to begin with.