Let’s rewind.
What could’ve happened to trigger Kolya’s silent treatment? He’s been caught in this strange stage where he’s about to grow a boner but never exactly gets there.
Yesterday morning, I was coming all over an ass and a pussy, or was it two asses and a pussy? Anyway, I was a bit high at the time, so who knows how many?
What I do know, however, is that Kolya was definitely pumped up for the highly awaited event—the initiation. Punching people to near death? Holding power over their insignificant existence?
Fucking ecstatic.
Kolya was most certainly feeling himself and had the night of his dickish life, especially after…
A twitch rushes to my groin and I pause.
He was feeling himself more than usual when…
A reluctant, uptight preppy boy was gliding his firm ass all over him.
“Oh no.” I glare down at my pants. “Fuck no, you fucking fuck.”
He twitches again as if saying, “Fuck yeah.”
“The fuck are you? A masochist? He said he was straight. Told you to keep your nonsense away from him as if it were an insult.”
My dick doesn’t understand insults, since he has the moral compass of a used condom, and remains standing at attention like an eager kid in class.
“You need to get yourself fucking checked, dude. Preferably by an exorcist so they can get those demons out and shit.”
Now that I think about it, when I was falling asleep, I wasn’t seeing the hot threesome, but the up and down of a gorgeous Adam’s apple as he flinched, jerked, and swallowed thickly.
Fuck me sideways.
Kolya is definitely hard and in the mood now. Maybe if I get him the same flavor as the three from last night…
He flops down so fast, I curse his goddamned maker.
It’s me. I’m the maker.
“Fuck you right the fuck off, motherfucker,” I mutter.
I don’t fuck with straight guys.
At all.
Many of them have fragile egos and macho manly energy that pisses me off and propels me to sudden, impulsive violence. I prefer queers who are comfortable in their own sexuality, like myself, thank you very much.
The only time I hover near a heterosexual man is if he’s a lost bi-curious lamb who wants to experiment. In that case, I make it my mission to take him to heaven. Like an angel did to some prophet—don’t ask me what his name is; I can’t even remember mine half the time.
Brandon King does not belong on any of my lists of interest.
He’s too uptight and closed off, not to mention standoffish and arrogant. His entire existence should give me a serious case of erectile dysfunction.
Jesus fuck.
That guy could use a chill pill. Or a few. In fact, someone should shove the entire bottle down his throat and make him choke on it.
Fuck him and his back off and stop touching me.
I’m straight. Like fuck he is.
He nearly bounced on my cock and he sat there so prettily while I was nursing an erection of epic proportions for a whole five minutes. Not that I was counting or anything.
Or maybe I was. To prove his theory.
Straight, my ass. Or his, to be more specific—pun totally intended.
I should note that during that time, his sister walked by and he nearly lost his marbles, which is probably why he remained frozen for a long period of time, but I digress.
I’m completely uninterested in his mythical straight battle. Fuck that right the fuck off, if you ask me.
The reason I invited him to the initiation was solely to mess with his twin brother. The major asshole who leads the preppy kids in the Elites and thinks he could go head-to-head with us.
A few nights ago, Landon and I fought at one of my favorite places on the island—the fight club. I was so pumped to pummel that English prick to the ground in front of his wannabe fans.
But then Brandon showed up and stood there like the prince version of his brother.
I admit that I lost concentration because he looked so fucking agitated at the prospect of Landon being beaten to death, and I also admit Kolya appreciated the view.
He’s hot. And it’s different on him than his show-off, in-your-face brother.
Brandon has a quieter presence and carries himself in a total golden-boy fashion.
Slick brown hair, groomed face, tall and slim frame, but muscled. Yup, don’t let those preppy clothes fool you. Asshole has abs. All six of them. I counted them yesterday since I had nothing else to do with my hands. I would’ve preferred to let my hand go down a more fun path, but I doubt grouchy Brandon would’ve been thrilled.
Anyway…stop sidetracking. Now, brain. I mean it.