Oscar - 25. Part 25

The moment I made it home, I dumped my bag on the floor, pulled off my blazer and yanked off my tie.

Undoing the top two buttons of my white school shirt I threw myself onto my bed. Landed on the fading duvet on my stomach, bundled a pillow under my chest and propped myself up on my elbows so I could get at my phone. Successfully retrieved I unlocked it and reread Tim’s most recent message to me.

Can‘t wait until Saturday sexy. We’re gonna have so much fun.

The tingle in my body every time I thought about him warmed through me.

His tingle.

A tingle made of memories. Memories of the park and his kitchen and his living room and his bedroom and his car swirling in my head and through my veins. I smiled to myself, still not really believing I was going to see him again so soon.

Saturday is tomorrow.

I thumbed out a message.

Evening handsome. I have an amazing idea. Tomorrow, how about we jump in your car and go somewhere? We could find a nice place to stay and really make the most of it. The things I would let you do to me in a hotel room …

Satisfied with ensuring a peaceful weekend away from whatever sad surprise Adam had in store, even though I’d told myself not to message until the morning, until at least twenty-four hours had passed to keep Tim keen, I put my phone away. Coming across a touch less smooth was an ok price to pay if it meant saving my skin.

I rolled onto my back.

My bedroom ceiling was disgusting. I stared at it for at least three minutes. Traced the large brown damp patch staining the greying white paint. Listened to the incessant tick-tock of the clock in the hallway as I searched for the starting point. Where the rot had set and grown and spread.

A car honked somewhere outside, snapping me out of my stupor. The blare came from at least the next street over, but it was still audible through the thin sheet of glass that did nothing to keep the growing winter at bay. My windows hadn’t received the double-glazed treatment my Dad’s had.

I shook my head. Fast.

Getting stuck in a mental black hole over my miserable excuse for a father and this house I was meant to call home was a bad idea. I couldn’t let the excitement of tomorrow be overshadowed by the hopelessness of everything else. I had to be productive.

I have time to kill.

Rocking up to sitting, I swivelled on my arse and stood. Headed downstairs. Dad’s door was closed as per usual; the tap-tap-click of his computer games drumming quietly into the narrow hallway. The peeling wallpaper by the bathroom door worse than this morning.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I reached the kitchen and opened the cupboard. Pulled out a jar of instant coffee and flicked on the kettle. Grabbed a mug. One sugar, a teaspoon of freeze-dried caffeine and a splash of milk from the fridge.

Dinner.

I had contemplated eating. But there was nothing that resembled food in the house other than the greasy, empty polystyrene trays of Dad’s dinner. Chinese today. Sweet and sour chicken judging by the red, sticky, congealed stain on the counter.

I’d been meaning to go to the shops for days. But with James and Adam and Mr. Price keeping me occupied I’d relied on school lunches to see me through.

The trip would do me good, I thought, as long as I kept my head down and stayed clear of large groups of hoodie-wearing lads. To pass the time, if anything.

But as the tinkle of my teaspoon rattled inside my mug, I made up my mind.

No. No meal tonight.

I didn’t want an inch of fat on my body tomorrow. I wanted every muscle and every line to be ripped and defined. Every inch of me as perfect as possible. Kissable. Lickable.

And fuckable. The best kind of fuckable, which meant being empty. Completely cleaned out.

Not that I minded douching. It was simple when you got the hang of it. I just knew first-hand the difference between a slick, flushed-out arse and the tight, grittiness of a more natural-feeling hole. The former was great, always, but if there were no unpleasant surprises the latter won hands down.

And Pricey deserves the best.

Making my way back upstairs I sipped the sweet, steaming liquid. Hotness dripped through me, down my throat, and my balls pulsed so hard I almost scolded myself.

The coffee had felt like his load. Tim’s load, spurting into my stomach like it had done two nights ago; my hands tied behind my back; his fat cock wedged down my neck.

Steadying myself against the wall, I enjoyed the aches of my groin as my swelling cock grew inside my underwear. Reaching my room, I placed my mug on my desk and threw myself onto my bed.

I was rock hard. My cock stretching thick and long under black polyester school trousers and white cotton briefs all the way across my right leg.

I wanted to jerk off so badly. Wrap my fingers around myself and squeeze and tug. It had felt like I could still feel him. Inside my mouth. My jaw still aching. My tongue still squashed down. His powerful hands still gripping my head.

I could still hear him. His grunts and moans. Still smell him. His sweat. His load whipped up with my saliva, streaming out of my nostrils as he’d pulled out. Salty like sea air.

But, again, no. Save it.

Beating off was never the same as the real thing, and I was sure Tim would appreciate a full pair of balls. He might not have been into bottoming, but from the way he’d licked up my load from my chest, I was certain he would happily enjoy a mouthful.

Don’t want to let him down with only one day of build-up.

I checked my phone. No response yet, which was fine. He was probably out running. It was Friday. He ran on Fridays.

Turning my head, I looked at my slanted, upside down reflection in the wardrobe mirror across from my bed. Curved my body like a cat so I could see my chest and stomach and legs. Undid all the buttons on my shirt and pulled it open. Looked at my abs and V-lines. At my pecs.

Standing I shrugged off my shirt and unbuttoned my trousers. Pulled the zip slowly, pretending I was stood in front of Tim. Imagined I was him and my reflection was me. Grinned like I hoped he would at my bulge slowly showing thicker and thicker as the tiny metal teeth came apart. Then my trousers fell to my ankles, showing off my white briefs clinging tight and full around my thighs.

Stepping out of the crumpled black I turned around. But not fully. Just enough so I could see my arse and my back and the backs of my legs.

Not bad. Not bad at all. But there’s always room for improvement.

Taking a large gulp of coffee, I turned on my computer. It had been my dad’s before he’d needed a new one for his games. It was so battered no one had wanted to buy it, so he’d begrudgingly given it to me. It had iTunes.

I pressed play on my running playlist and pop music blared into my room. I had no idea who the artist or band was. I hadn’t cared when I’d pressed download.

Just as long as it makes me sweat.

Grabbing a towel, I laid it on the floor between my bed and the mirror. Peeled off my socks, took another hot gulp of energy and laid on my back on the clean, scratchy white fabric.

Turning my head toward the mirror, I ran a hand down my stomach one more time. Watched myself in the glass as the hard ridges of my six-pack brushed under my palm.

Sit-ups first.

One-hundred-and-fifty in total. Ten sets of fifteen. Each time visualising Mr. Price holding my feet against the floor, like he’d used to, kneeling in front of the boys on the school rugby pitch.

With each rep, I got closer and closer to his stunning eyes and thick, model’s lips. Closer to his pecs and his bulging biceps and triceps and deltoids. Beads of sweat rolling down my forehead and cheeks and chest.

Then I flipped over. Wiped my wet, red face on the towel and did the same number of push-ups. This time imagining him somewhere just as inspiring.

Exhausted, I flopped onto my back and looked at the ceiling again. Made my vision blur, like I was looking through the neglect, and concentrated on my breathing instead. Back to normal, I stood up and picked up my phone.

Still no text.

But still ok. I’d only spent thirty or so minutes exercising. A run, if you factor getting to and from the house, as well as showering, can often take an hour. Maybe two depending on how far you go. How far you push yourself. And Tim was fit.

Shrugging, I scooped up the towel from the floor, wrapped it around my waist and walked to the bathroom. Dad’s door was open and his room was empty; I could hear him rattling around downstairs.

Glass chinked against wood. Twice: a tumbler and a bottle. Jack Daniels.

A shower will help. Help take my mind off the wait. Tim would be finished by the time I was out.

Surely.

Twenty minutes later I was back in my room, washed and dried and in a pair of grey jogging bottoms, a tight white t-shirt and a navy-blue jumper. The heating was on, for once, so I didn’t need to wrap myself in my duvet or add three extra layers. My breath wasn’t even steaming.

But I still had no word from Tim. No message. No missed call.

Typing a text to my own number I hit send. Just to check. Four letters pinged into my room immediately.

TEST

My phone was working. I had signal. Maybe he was going to wait until he’d cooked himself dinner, I wondered. Settled down for the night. Or maybe he was contemplating where to take me. Trying to think of somewhere exciting for us to go.

Where the fuck is he?

He’d been good on the text front. So far. Better than good. He’d replied pretty much straight away every time. Tim was eager. A good eager. And he wasn’t afraid to show it.

Why now?

Swallowing the unease rising in my chest, I took a seat at my desk and opened MSN on my computer. I realised, with James gone, now I had a chance to chat to all the other lads I’d been working on.

All the boys that had taken up my time until Adam had turned up the heat. All the boys questioning their sexuality. Wondering what it would be like to feel another lad’s cock in their mouth, or if fucking arse really was tighter.

Some I hadn’t spoken to in weeks, which should have made me excited. Eager to start stirring the pots again. Start fanning the flames of all those hormone-ridden, testosterone factories. But I didn’t.

The unease I’d swallowed wasn’t disappearing. It was growing and building. Turning and twisting and rumbling like a gathering storm.

Something was wrong. With Tim. I pulled out my phone.

Hey, you ok? We still on for tomorrow?

I hit send. A minute passed. Five minutes passed. Nothing. No reply.

For hours, I tried to ignore it. Ignore the blank screen in my pocket and focus on the windows of text popping up on my computer instead. On the stories Dan and Phil and Jemal and Edward and Oliver were spinning. But I wasn’t interested. They weren’t the same.

They don’t matter anymore.

Three hours after my second text, I finally cracked. Yanked my phone out of my pocket and opened my address book. Scrolled down to Tim Price and pressed call.

The dull hum of a ringtone droned into my ear.