Top Secret

LUKE

Unfuckingbelievable. Fifty dollars at the Darby Brew Pub? If I received one of these, then so did every sitting member of Alpha Delt. Who does that?

Keaton is a giant, epic dickface.

I roll over on my bed and groan. I shouldn’t spend it, right? If I spend it, that’s taking money from the enemy. Well, not money. Thick, juicy burgers and the kind of beer I can’t really afford.

“Fuck you, Keaton Hayworth the third!” I yell at the ceiling.

Luckily, nobody else is here to witness this moment of crazy. I’m the only member of Alpha Delt with no place better to be on Christmas.

Earlier I did swing by my former home, where I had the good fortune to find my mom home alone. I let her feed me a piece of pumpkin pie while I handed over the money she’d asked to “borrow.”

“This is your Christmas gift,” I said as I passed her the bills.

“Lukey! You know I’d pay you back!”

I know nothing of the sort. “Merry Christmas, Ma.” Honestly it’s a gift to myself to avoid the disappointment when she doesn’t pay me back.

Her Christmas gift to me is a winter hat with the Patriots logo on it. I’ve never been interested in football, but that’s my mom for you.

Before I left, I’d put a sealed envelope on Joe’s pillow with the hundred bucks he asked me for. Then I texted him a photo of it, because I don’t really trust my mother not to take it.

Seriously, who needs family? They’re exhausting.

The whole thing took maybe an hour, including travel time. Now I’m rattling around in my empty fraternity house, feeling like a lonely loser. Since all the stores are closed, I did some provisioning yesterday. I have food, and downstairs I get the seventy-inch TV all to myself.

When this place is full of frat boys, I usually wish they’d all shut up. But God it’s so quiet right now that the silence is pressing in on my eardrums.

I pick up my phone and unlock it, wondering if LobsterShorts is around. What are the odds?

Good, as it turns out. There’s a new message from him.

LobsterShorts: I fucking hate holidays and what is really the goddamn point?

I laugh out loud.

SinnerThree: Preach, brother! It took me way too long to realize that Christmas is a fucking crock. I finally got it when I was thirteen. Not only did I finally realize that nobody was ever going to surprise me with a decent present, togetherness makes people crazy. Mom and Grandma used to get drunk and scream at each other.

LobsterShorts: Ouch. I think I’m going to be the screaming drunk tonight. My family is really good at presents. But they suck at boundaries.

SinnerThree: But hey, presents!

LobsterShorts: Eh. I’m too old to be bought with the latest gaming console. The gift I want is respect. My father is such an asshole. I thought we’d be fighting about my summer plans but I haven’t even told him about those yet and we’re already killing each other. What’s your dream gift?

Now there’s something I don’t ever bother asking myself.

SinnerThree: A winning lottery ticket. I don’t mean it in a flip way. I just want to stop stressing about money. Making rent every month is always a trial. I’m always down to ramen and cans of beans at some point during the month.

Then I read that over and wonder what the hell I’m doing.

SinnerThree: It’s like woe is me day right now. Tell me something funny about animals.

LobsterShorts: Let’s see. Rats laugh when you tickle them.

SinnerThree: No way!

LobsterShorts: Hummingbirds eat twice their weight in food every day. Although, so do I.

SinnerThree: Well, you are a growing boy.

LobsterShorts: In more ways than one 😉

He follows that up with, As in, I’m growing right now…

And then—oh fuck yeah—an image appears in the chat thread. He’s growing, all right. The hard cock in the pic makes me salivate. It’s been months since I’ve gotten laid. Not for lack of interest, but lack of time. Work, school, and the Dance-off have eaten into any time I might’ve spent finding sex. And teasing LobsterShorts over the app has only made it worse. I might explode from all my pent-up frustrations.

In the photo, his thumb rests right beneath the mushroom head of his cock, as if he’d snapped the photo while stroking that sensitive spot. My body responds to the erotic sight, cock rising beneath my sweatpants. Then I notice the waistband of the trunks he’d pushed down in order to expose himself, and I’m laughing even as I slide my hands beneath my waistband.

SinnerThree: Are you wearing the lobster shorts???

LobsterShorts: Of course. They’re my fave.

He sends another pic, and I laugh harder. In this one, he’s zoomed in on one of the red lobsters, with his hand forming a thumbs-up beside it.

SinnerThree: Why are you in swim trunks, you asshole? Don’t tell me you went somewhere warm for the holidays while I’m stuck here in blizzard land.

LobsterShorts: OK. I won’t tell you that.

SinnerThree: So you’re still in Connecticut?

LobsterShorts: No. I escaped to the beach. Sorry?

SinnerThree: You’d better be. I ain’t lying about the blizzard. We got eight inches of snow last night.

LobsterShorts: I’ll give you eight inches.

And then he does. Or at least I think so. I’ll be better able to judge his dick size when I get my hands on it in person, but in the pics it looks nearly as big as mine. And I’m well-endowed, as the dollar-bill-waving women at Jill’s can attest to.

SinnerThree: Yes. Please give it to me. I’m in a shit mood and it’s the holidays. I require the gift of your cock.

LobsterShorts: Soon. First show me yours.

SinnerThree: I’ll do you one better. Stand by.

I yank my sweats down and kick them away, making myself comfortable on my bed. I shove a couple of pillows beneath my head, grip my dick in one hand, and hold my phone in the other. A quick peek at the screen assures me that I’m not revealing any incriminating evidence about my identity. All he’ll be able to see is my cock, my hand, and the patterned bedspread. I think I’m safe.

I rarely send videos because of this exact worry. Winding up in some jerkoff compilation on PornHub doesn’t concern me so much as someone figuring out who I am. If I’m going to be a multi-millionaire by the time I’m thirty, I can’t have dirty videos of me floating around the internet. Unless I make my millions building a Hugh Hefner-like empire… Maybe I’ll put a pin in that one.

At the moment, I’m busy jerking off for Lobsterman.

Oh fuckkkkkk, is his immediate response after I send him a five-second vid of some lazy stroking.

Then he says: MORE.

Greedy fucker.

Grinning, I decide to tease it out. My fingers close in a fist, which I slowly slide down to the base, then equally slowly slide back up. When I reach the tip, I give a slight twist and squeeze. The camera perfectly captures the bead of pre-come that forms.

I hit Send.

LobsterShorts: You have such a hot dick.

My breathing quickens. I stroke a bit faster, groaning quietly, before realizing I’m no longer recording myself or responding to LobsterShorts. The heat in my blood and the ache in my balls distracted me.

LobsterShorts: What, can I not say that?

I swallow through my arid throat and still my hand.

SinnerThree: Sorry. Got caught up in the self-stroking. Can you not say what?

LobsterShorts: That you have a hot dick.

SinnerThree: God, no, definitely say it. That’s what got me distracted 😉

LobsterShorts: Good. Send another vid. I wanna see more.

SinnerThree: Are you jacking yours right now?

LobsterShorts: Obvs.

I smile at the phone. He’s gotten bolder and bolder with every chat, every naughty message. And it’s been a while since he’s disappeared on me. Lately, he’s coming back for more almost instantly, instead of hiding because of his guilt. I…don’t think he feels guilty about this anymore.

Since I can’t record myself and read his messages at the same time, I rely on my brain to provide the stimulation I need. I picture Lobsterman kneeling between my legs, his head bobbing over me. His lips are wrapped tightly around my dick, tongue scraping the entire length each time he takes me deep. I picture my fingers tangling in his hair—can they tangle there? Is it long? Buzzed? I realize I’ve never thought to ask. And right now I don’t care to. Fine. There’s enough hair for my fingers to grasp, to tug on as I thrust my hips and fuck his mouth.

Hoarse breaths provide the soundtrack for my dirty video. A grunt. A torturous moan as my mind conjures up the image of me coming in Lobster’s mouth and him greedily swallowing every drop.

I explode in real life, nearly dropping the phone as the climax rips through me. As it is, the camera work is severely lacking in skill, because I’m shuddering and groaning too hard to keep the phone steady. I guess that cameraman job on the set of Martin Scorsese’s next film is out—and yet judging by Lobster’s response to my masterpiece, I just created an Academy Award winner.

LobsterShorts: Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.

LobsterShorts: Do you even realize how goddamn sexy that was?

I can’t answer, because my body has sunk into the mattress. My limbs are jelly from the orgasm, and my abs are sticky from it.

I finally catch my breath just as a video message from him fills our chat. I find the strength to click on it, and in a heartbeat I’m back to being breathless. It’s not even ten seconds long, but it’s enough to make me semi-hard again, which I would’ve thought impossible.

Biting my lip, I watch as his strong fist works his dick. I listen to the husky moan he lets out as he comes.

My pulse is racing as I type a shaky message.

SinnerThree: Okay. Jesus. Enough is enough, dude. We need to fuck. In person. Like, ASAP.

LobsterShorts: January 4^th, remember?

SinnerThree: Promise you won’t bail on me? Because, fuck, I need this.

LobsterShorts: I won’t bail. I need this, too.

It doesn’t escape me that he wrote “I”, and not “we.” Which makes me wonder if his girlfriend is no longer part of this equation.

But he squashes that notion by adding, My gf and I got a suite at the Grand Windsor. So. Saturday, around nine o’clock?

Um. Yes, please. I just have to figure out how to make this happen without missing work. Saturday nights at Jill’s are huge money. Maybe I can start at midnight instead of ten? But that’s assuming three hours is enough time for all the fucking I have planned.

I’ll figure something out, though. I always do.

SinnerThree: I’ll be there.