Page 19 of Built To Perform

Jefferson gave me a “go on, then” look.

Crouching down so close felt strange, a fresh level of intimacy. Glare from the lights making it difficult to see the face of the man whose outstretched hand shoved money into the waistband of the jock.

That arm nudged away, then, by another, and then another. My knees hitting the rough wood as I watched with spellbound fascination, my thighs spread wide and the rustling belt of currency growing around me.

The touches were accidental, all coincidence, I told myself. The backs of hands inadvertently brushing my dangling, half-hard cock as their owners pulled back; fingers grazing after making their deposits in my sweat-soaked underwear. Nothing worthy of consideration, until I felt an unmistakable stroke down my heavy length.

“Hey,” I muttered, almost to myself. Thoughts stacking up in a brain that still felt wool-filled.

It was like that first proper touch gave permission. More fingers on me, then; along my thighs, under my balls, and tugging gently but pointedly along my dangling prick.

And for a moment - a distant, churning moment, one laced with disbelief - I wanted to lean into it. Splay my thighs wider, push my crotch forward. Relish the anonymity of the men groping at me, allow them to coax me into hardness again. Bask, crouching on the edge of a dirty stage, in the fierce glow of their hunger.

A realization like ice water, almost sending me toppling onto my ass. Staggering back until I collided with the chair, instead; clinging to it, my bobbing erection a reminder of my body’s treachery, as I panted and felt the adrenaline sour.

“Clear the stage, pretty boy.” The instruction hissed from the darker edges.

On legs that felt foal-fresh, I fled the spotlights.

Chapter Seven

He caught me moments after I stumbled off the stage. My head still spinning; clothes hurriedly pulled into place, or near enough to it. Strong fingers around my biceps, unexpected enough that my first reaction was to jerk away. It was like trying to drag your arm from a bear trap, though.

Funny how that was what calmed me: only Jefferson could pin you so resolutely, and with such little effort.

“Lil bro.”

A question in there, among other things.

I looked up at him. Still blinking away the bright lights, the pinpricks of color studding my vision. Breathless, like I’d been running a marathon, even though I’d done little more than take a dozen steps.

“I... I...”

He pulled me to the side, glancing around us. The shadows cloaking me: the room dim at its edges, and Jefferson eclipsing the rest.

“Breathe, Eoin.”

I tried to focus on his fingers, their press into the muscle of my arm. Jefferson’s heft reassuring in how it monopolized my vision.

It was funny, I’d seen so many reactions to my teammate’s epic scale. Fascination the most common - regardless of the gender of whoever was looking - but others there, too. Antagonism, like Jefferson’s bulk was an automatic affront to a certain type of ego. Or fear, even. The assumption that war elephant size meant a similar disposition.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, softly. The real Jefferson, the senior I knew.

I blinked at him.

“Was I sexy?”

The question bursting out of me, propelled with a curiosity I hadn’t expected.

“You know I think you’re sexy.”

I frowned. Wanting to melt, to preen, and yet it wasn’t quite the answer I needed. Or, it wasn’t the answer to the question suddenly dominating my brain.

“But on the stage, just now,” I pressed. “Was that sexy? Did you think it was?”

No answer to that, at least not one with words. Just Jefferson taking my other wrist and pulling my hand to his crotch. Instinct seeing my fingers close around the heft of his cock, straining against the soft denim.

For a moment I allowed myself the liberty of groping at him. Relishing the length of his dick, the thickness. Jefferson’s jeans not exactly tight, not ordinarily, but now stuffed to bursting.