Page 45 of Trick of the Flesh
I almost feel normal.
There’s chatter about grades, groaning about professors, and somebody bragging about the keg they’ve already got stashed for tonight. My backpack rests against my shin, heavy with textbooks—ones I won’t be cracking open for at least two weeks. My sneakers are scuffed from sprinting across campus, but for once, I’m not running anywhere. I let myself sink into the moment, into the relief of a semester finally over.
For a second, I almost believe that I’m just another guy. Just another student.
Almost.
Then my pocket buzzes. A steady vibration, insistent, like it knows better.
I fish out my phone, expecting maybe a group chat update from the basketball team or one of the guys spamming memes.
It’s not.
My chest tightens. Thumb hovering over the screen, I already know before I see it. Heat curls low in my stomach, winding tight.
Miguel.
His name lights up my screen like a brand.
I shouldn’t open it.
I do.
Miguel
Hope you did well on your exams, little brother. Make sure you bring your running shoes for Christmas break.
I can’t wait to be buried inside you again.
The words slam into me, stealing my breath.
Around me, the courtyard keeps moving—laughter, voices, the shuffle of footsteps—but it all fades to a low hum. I can only see the screen, those lines glowing back at me, his voice threading through them like he’s whispering against my ear.
I grip the phone so tight my knuckles ache. My heart hammers, my skin prickling with memory: rope biting into my wrists, his teeth dragging down my throat, the sound of his laugh when I begged him not to stop.
I bite down on my lip hard enough to taste blood. My friends keep talking, oblivious to what’s going on with me.
But I can feel him.
Every word drags me back to him, to the chase, to the obsession that’s never loosened its grip on me.
Heat and shame curl together, fire and smoke in my chest. My fingers hover over the screen. I shouldn’t reply. God, I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Caleb
I already have them packed.
I need you inside me as soon as I get home.
I shove the phone into my pocket, pulse racing. My leg bounces under the table. I can’t breathe right, can’t steady myself, because I know what I just set in motion.
It’s been like this since that night, since his voice claimed me in ways I can’t unhear.
I’ve tried to be normal. To study, to laugh with friends, to walk across campus like nothing inside me is completely falling apart and raw with hunger. But the truth is, I’ve been wrecked since I left. Every quiet night in the dorm, I’ve replayed the way he bound me, marked me, and forced me to say I loved it.
And I did.
