Page 22 of Off-Ice Misconduct
His eyes rake over me. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but they’re saying something.
“Get out of my sight, McKinnon. I expect to see you in class on time and well dressed.”
I can’t even wait till I’m home. I race to the closest restroom, lock myself in a stall, and pull out my cock. Resting one hand against the wall and spitting on the other, I wrap my hand around my cock. A low moan leaves my throat against my fucking will. That’s what the man does, makes me crave him against my fucking will.
A bead of cum pools like fire at the tip of my cock. I fist over the head, spreading the white-hot bead of lava down the shaft.
“Fuck,” I breathe.
Can you do that? Be perfect for me?
God.
All that control, all that authority over me. He’llpunishme if I don’t obey him. But he also said reward. Will he reward me if I’m a good boy? I imagine myself showing up to class, dressed as he’s dictated, his eyes on me. I’ll be fully clothed, but I’ll be writhing in my seat, the embarrassed thrill of knowing I’m dressed the way he told me to dress.
My strokes began fevered and rushed, but I slow them, lengthening the intense arousal. More cum leaks, and the wet squelch of my hand raking methodically over my dick echoes through the stall.Thud. Thud. Thud.My heart might break out of my ribcage. Long ropes of cum shoot over my hand as I try to lengthen this orgasm for all it’s worth.
It’s never felt like this.
As I catch my breath, my surroundings come into view. Blue metal enclosing me, toilet underneath. Damn, I forgot where I was. Dick in my hand, I freeze—anyone could have walked in here at any time. I wasn’t careful. Fuck, there’s a good chance a moan or two slipped free. I don’t hear anything. Maybe I got away with it?
I creep out to wash my hands. With the high of sex waning, the gravity of what I just did hits like a puck to the helmet. I jerked off in a public bathroom stall, at school, to the thought of my professor controlling me. And not even in a hot and sexy way with me on my knees sucking his dick, or something. Just him, having … I dunno … a domestic sort of dominion. My clothes, my food, my study habits.
That’s weird even for me. I can’t believe I masturbated so desperately to that shit. Other people are into leather and latex, and I’m into what? Domestic discipline?
No.No.Absolutely fucking not. What I need is porn. A couple of dudes tag-teaming a willing beach babe. I dunno why, but I have a thing for beach babes. Long dark hair, massive breasts, an ass I can squeeze. That’ll do the trick.
Itwillfucking do the trick.
“Look alive, McKinnon!”
Shep’s loud-ass voice hits my ears only just in time for me to dodge the puck he sent sailing toward my head. I’m distracted, and he knows it. But I can’t stop thinking about yesterday, and it’s pissing me off. Normally, I’d put all my fury into hockey, lord knows that’s the place for it, but I don’t feel right.
That porn adventure I was gonna go on? I found a video, alright, but the thing with porn is the wire to your brain has to be one hundred percent rerouted to your genitals for full enjoyment. It started off kinda hot, but the guys were tossing her around so roughly, I wanted to jump through the screen and beat them off of her. Not even so I could fuck her. I had the wild vision of putting my hockey jacket around her to cover her up.
Ugh, is that a thing of mine, too? Clearly. Me and jackets—I need help.
It’s all left me feeling broken, like my damn brain chemistry’s been changed. Because while fucking with men isn’t new for me, a man as alpha as the professor is. And it’s not even that I’ve never had the desire, but it’s just not something I was open to doing. With Luke VanCourt it’s all I can think about.
Know what? A puck to the helmet’s just what I needed. I smirk Shep’s way, catching the puck where it landed with my stick, and glower like a wolf about to feast. “You’re dead.” I proceed to kick his fucking ass via hockey.
At the end of practice, I do what I always do and wait on the ice by the door to the locker room, patting the guys on the back, telling them what a good job they did or consoling them if they had a shit practice. Doing it today takes more effort; I have to forcibly push the professor from my mind.
As soon as I’m near my cubby, I shed my gloves, and I check my phone out of habit. Was kind of expecting something from the professor, to be honest. Maybe some extra last-minute instructions or something before I get to class.
Don’t ask me why. It’s not like I’m his soldier. I don’t need him to tell me “good boy”.Wouldn’t fucking hurt, though.I slam my helmet into my cubby harder than is necessary, and head to the shower with no clear idea as to why I’m so pissed. But why warn me about watching my phone if he wasn’t gonna send anything to it?
Once I’ve washed the sweat off, hair dripping, towel around me, Shep barges into my space, knocking into my ass with his hip.
“What’s up with you today, man? I’ve never seen you this rattled, not even during quarter finals.”
I want to deny, blame it on poor sleep, but I’m staring down a barrel. That barrel is what I’m about to dress myself in. It’s not completely outlandish, but like Shep, I’m a strict sweatpants guy for class. I switch between t-shirts, hoodies, and henleys under my hockey jacket. People are gonna notice and comment on the change. What the fuck am I supposed to tell them?
Professor VanCourt made it clear that I was to be presentable for classes. Slacks or khakis on the bottom and clean shoes. My hockey jacket’s fine—can’t figure that one out. It eats at me alittle bit. Why is the jacket okay and not the rest of it? I got the impression he didn’t give a fuck about school or hockey pride. But underneath it, button-up shirts and polos.
Make it make sense.
“The professor’s riding my ass,” I mutter.
