Chapter 12: Silent Witness

Wednesday morning sunlight stung my eyes as I pushed open the dorm door, stepping inside feeling like I was glowing from the inside out. My whole body was humming, skin flushed, heart still fluttering wildly. Mason glanced up from his desk, earbuds dangling loosely from his ears, textbook forgotten the instant he saw me.

“Dude,” he said with an exaggerated smirk, dropping his pen dramatically. “Seriously, again? What the fuck did Casper do to you?”

“Nothing,” I protested weakly, face already burning.

“Nothing, my ass,” Mason snorted, shaking his head, eyes glittering mischievously. “You look like someone ran you over with a good time. You definitely got laid. Who was it, Eli? Hot gymnast chick? Dance major? Wait, wait, don’t tell me—yoga instructor?”

“It wasn’t like that,” I managed lamely, slinging my bag onto the floor by my bed.

“Sure,” Mason drawled, leaning back with a cocky grin, folding his arms behind his head. “Keep your secrets, Romeo. But don’t think I’m buying your bullshit ‘just training’ line.”

He winked, utterly pleased with himself, and I turned away, forcing out a shaky breath as heat coiled tightly in my chest. I tried desperately to suppress the thoughts flickering behind my eyes: Casper’s strong hands on my shoulders, the sharp, low commands, his cock sliding between my lips...

Thursday and Friday blurred together into a dizzying pattern of early mornings. Each session started the same way: kneeling obediently, Casper’s firm grip guiding my movements, his quiet murmurs as he pushed himself deeper into my mouth, and then relentless, punishing drills that left me trembling, exhilarated, my performances improving noticeably each time. It was working, exactly as Casper said it would.

But there was a problem, a big one. Every training session left me aching, throbbing, impossibly turned on, with no relief in sight. Classes, gym, Mason always fucking around, always there, cock-blocking by sheer proximity. By Friday evening I was climbing the walls, desperate to find some space to release the frustration simmering under my skin.

Then Casper surprised me, texting Friday night that we’d have an extra session Saturday morning, later at 8 a.m., a small mercy. When I crept out of the dorm early Saturday, I was startled to see Mason already awake, lounging casually on his bed, watching me intently.

“Off for another round, Eli?” Mason asked lazily, a teasing edge to his voice.

“Just training,” I muttered, slipping out quickly before he could interrogate me further.

The halls were eerily quiet, the whole building still sleeping off Friday night. As I hurried through the deserted corridors, I felt an uneasy prickle down my spine. The feeling persisted even after I glanced back, seeing nothing. Just my imagination, probably.

Casper was waiting for me, calm and composed as always, ice-blue eyes glittering faintly with that now-familiar predatory gleam. Kneeling became second nature, a relief almost, as my lips parted willingly, welcoming his hardness deep into my throat, tasting him, savoring the control he wielded effortlessly. Each stroke he pushed me further, trained me deeper, until I was gasping, shaking, beautifully wrecked.

As I rose afterward, breath still ragged, I swore I heard the faint creak of a door somewhere in the gym. I glanced around quickly, heart jumping, but saw nothing. Casper didn’t seem to notice.

“Good work, Eli,” he said softly, handing me a towel. “You’re improving fast.”