Chapter 17: Questions Answered

Lecture dragged today. Every minute felt like ten, my professor’s words blending into a meaningless drone. All I could think about was the dream I’d had. The roughness. Casper’s hands gripping my hair, tugging me back, the force of him shoving inside me with a rawness that sent chills down my spine just recalling it. It wasn’t like Casper at all, at least not the Casper I’d experienced in real life. He was always so controlled, methodical, careful. But the Casper in my dream had been wild, primal, a complete contrast to the composed gymnast I’d come to know.

And God, I’d loved it.

Admitting that made something surge in my stomach and my face flush right there in the middle of class. I glanced around quickly, paranoid someone had noticed, but the other students looked as bored and uninterested as usual. I shifted in my seat, my jeans suddenly feeling tighter, a pressure building between my legs as I replayed the scenes from the dream. Casper pressing my face into the mattress, whispering commands, taking me in ways I’d never imagined but apparently craved.

My mind wandered unbidden to Mason. That single drunken night we’d shared still lingered in my thoughts, surfacing unexpectedly. He’d been rough too, different from Casper but similar in ways I was now becoming increasingly aware of. Mason had pushed my boundaries, grabbing and holding and using my mouth with a kind of confidence that was intoxicating. Raw and unrefined. Nothing graceful. Nothing soft. Just pure, hungry force. It had left me shaken and desperate for more, even though I hadn’t admitted it to myself until now.

Is that what I really wanted? Roughness? Control stripped away, someone else’s desires overpowering mine, pushing me past hesitation and fear? The thought felt dangerous, reckless, but undeniably thrilling.

I wished, not for the first time, that I had a gay friend I could talk to about this stuff. Irina was supportive and kind, but there was no way I could bring this up to her. The few gay guys I knew on campus were acquaintances at best, and none of them felt approachable enough to unload my messy, complicated questions onto. I was alone in this, spinning through desires and confusions with no one to ground me.

Almost no one.

Mason’s face popped back into my thoughts. He wasn’t gay, at least, he’d never indicated anything beyond girls, but he knew sex. He understood desire. And weirdly, Mason was approachable in his own abrasive, teasing way. Maybe I could ask him without revealing too much. Frame it as curiosity, something vague, something I’d heard. Mason might make fun of me, but he’d also answer honestly. Probably too honestly.

I chewed the idea over, my knee bouncing nervously beneath the desk as the professor droned on. Could I really trust Mason to keep it casual? Would he suspect something more? My stomach knotted anxiously. He was all I had. He wasn’t perfect, not even close, but right now Mason was my best shot at understanding these desires churning inside me.

Class ended, and I stood, gathering my stuff. I’d talk to Mason tonight. I had no other choice.

When I got back to the dorm that evening, Mason was exactly where I’d expected him to be, sprawled lazily across his bed, earbuds half-in and the muted glow of his laptop illuminating his face. He glanced up briefly as I entered, offering his usual casual greeting.

“Yo, Eli. Done being a responsible human for the day?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled, dropping my bag onto the floor. My heartbeat quickened as the silence thickened between us. I stood awkwardly by my bed, trying to muster the courage to ask what I’d spent all day agonizing over. The questions felt heavy on my tongue, too clumsy and personal to say out loud. But I had to try.

“Hey, Mason...” I started.

He lifted an eyebrow, pulling out an earbud and fixing me with a curious stare. “Uh-oh. What’s up?”

I hesitated, heat rising to my face. “Can I ask you something?”

Mason swung his legs around, sitting up and giving me his full attention. He seemed amused by my hesitation. “Sure, man. Fire away.”

I drew a breath and dove straight in. “What do you know about rough sex?”

Mason’s eyes widened slightly, surprise quickly shifting into a cocky smirk. “Rough sex, huh? That’s an interesting choice of topic, especially for you.”

I shrugged, fighting to keep my voice steady and casual. “I’m just curious. Like ... what exactly does rough sex entail?”

He chuckled softly, clearly enjoying this more than he should have. “Depends. There’s a lot of ways to do rough. Like, you mean spanking, choking, hair-pulling, that kinda stuff?”

“Yeah,” I managed, cheeks burning. “Stuff like that. Or even ... rougher?”

He laughed lightly again, shifting forward on his mattress. “Damn, Eli. Didn’t expect this kind of curiosity out of you. But alright.” He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Well, rough oral is one thing. Girls can get into it if you hold their heads down a bit. Y’know, really control the rhythm. Spit gets everywhere, it’s messy, and usually, it’s pretty damn hot. If they’re into it, obviously.”

“Messy?” I echoed dumbly.

“Yeah, messy,” he confirmed, amused. “Spit, drool, sometimes tears if you’re really going at it. The whole thing is about control. Taking it. Not asking.”

The words sent fire surging through me, memories and dreams mingling in my mind. I forced myself to stay composed, to keep pressing. “And when it’s ... actual sex? How rough is normal?”

“Normal?” Mason laughed outright now, leaning back comfortably. “Normal’s whatever gets her off. But yeah, hair pulling, holding wrists down, slapping her ass or thighs ... all pretty standard. The trick is knowing how much she wants and when to back off.”

I nodded slowly, absorbing his words. “But how do you know how much they want?”

“Body language. How they sound. If she pushes back into you, begs you to keep going, that’s a pretty clear sign. Some girls want you to go hard. Like, leave a mark kind of hard. But they have to trust you first.”

I swallowed hard. “Trust?”

He raised an eyebrow at my nervous tone. “Yeah, man, trust. Rough sex isn’t about hurting someone, it’s about pushing boundaries safely. She’s trusting you to know where to stop. That’s part of what makes it hot. The risk, the intensity. But you have to have trust, or it’s just fucked up.”

I took a shaky breath, my mind spinning with possibilities, images from the dream flooding back. “What about ... talking? Do you usually talk during it?”

Mason’s smirk widened. “Talking’s half the fun. Doesn’t have to be complicated. Stuff like, ‘take it,’ or ‘you like that?’ or telling her how good she feels. Some girls like hearing dirtier stuff, being called names. But again, only if you know she wants it.”

My chest tightened, excitement mixed with anxiety. “Do you ... hit? Or bite?”

He laughed quietly, shaking his head. “You’re really diving deep, aren’t you? Yeah, biting can be good. Usually softer spots, neck or shoulders. Slaps are fine, too, as long as they’re not too hard. Again, it’s all about reading her. If you slap and she moans, you know you’re on the right track.”

I must’ve been staring intently, because Mason leaned forward suddenly, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Dude, you seem way too invested in this. You got something you wanna tell me?”

I jolted, quickly shaking my head. “No! I mean—no, I’m just curious. I don’t have anyone else to ask about this stuff.”

He grinned, amused by my discomfort. “Sure, sure. Well, I’m flattered you’re coming to me for advice.”

I rolled my eyes, but couldn’t stop my blush deepening. “Just figured you had more ... experience.”

Mason settled back, hands behind his head now, relaxing again. “You’re not wrong. And for the record, rough sex is fucking awesome. If you’ve never tried it, you’re missing out.”

I swallowed again, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice. “So, it’s better than ... regular sex?”

“Not necessarily better. Just different. More intense, more primal. But regular sex can be hot as hell too.” Mason’s mouth curled into a lazy grin as he leaned forward a little. “But when it’s rough, everything feels sharper. Harder thrusts, harder breathing. You don’t stop every two seconds to adjust a pillow or whisper something sweet. You just ... take. And you don’t give them time to think about what’s coming next.”