Read Chapter One of The Bones here and Chapter Two here. They’re free for all subscribers.

And my promotion ends tomorrow 5/25, when it finally concludes. That’s 50% off an annual subscription, 12 months for just $40.

—

“What the fuck did he call you?!” Nolan asked as we walked back across campus, his face aghast.

My voice got low. “A…pretty little faggot.”

Nolan’s eyes might as well have been replaced by giant red exclamation marks.

I mean, it had shocked me, too.

I’d stared back—stunned, silent—as Trevor had pulled away, discarding the used paper towel in the garbage bin before turning and exiting, the door slamming tight behind him.

“You gotta report him,” Nolan continued, snapping me back to reality. “He could get expelled for that shit!”

“No one would believe me,” I demurred. “We were alone. And besides, it didn’t exactly feel like a slur.”

Nolan stopped in his tracks. “What do you mean? He called you the f-word! I don’t even think I could bring myself to say it.”

Sweet, sweet, innocent Nolan, ever the ally, even if he was tired of hearing about my sexual exploits.

“There was something different about it. Something…seductive.”

“How can anyone calling you something like that be sexy?” he asked, that familiar judgment in his tone.

“I dunno, fuckface, but it was.” I couldn’t explain it. “He’s hot, I’ll give him that.”

“Him? Really?” Nolan made a face in disgust.

I grinned back at him, amused. “Oh? Not your type?”

Trevor Shults was objectively attractive. 90s Abercrombie model/movie star/bedtime beat off attractive.

“No,” Nolan said, giving me a light punch on the shoulder. “I like my boys prettier.” He smiled. “Like you.”

My ride or die until the end.

We convened in the Chronicle’s offices, rather less glamorous than one might expect for a 175-year-old publication at an elite institution. Instead of a gleaming new setup, it was a hovel located in the bowels of the science building. It hardly mattered that we were relegated to the subterranean since our exploits were mostly nocturnal—burning the midnight oil in the name of high-stakes prep school investigative journalism.

The leadership team found its seats, with Ethan Pomerantz, our editor-in-chief, at the front. While a tad uptight and humorless, he was handsome and a benevolent, consistent leader. Raised in Newton, BB&N for middle school, summered in Newport—you know the vibe. I’d spent the last two plus years doing my best to win his favor in the hopes of becoming his replacement. Editor-in-Chief of the Chronicle was the perfect starting point for a lifelong career in journalism.

“So what do we have for this week’s closing?” Ethan asked, passed a final printed rundown by his lieutenant Vivek, ever ready with collateral.

Vivek began rattling off a long list of top stories. “The opening of the new performing arts center, our major loss to Exeter last weekend…”

“And the flag burning today, right?” I interjected.

The pair peered back at me. “It’s too late to run anything before print,” Ethan started. “We should hit it for next week.”

I knew for a fact it wasn’t too late, and in fact, that it would be too late if we waited until the next issue. Anything that wasn’t timely would be cut, deemed old news, or, in this case, killed by the school board intervening for fear of bad publicity. It certainly didn’t reflect positively upon the student body, burning shit in the middle of campus in broad daylight.

Either way, we had to hit it fast.

“We can’t wait—it’s too big a story!” I replied, annoyed. “It’s all anyone is talking about. Today.”

It was an open secret that the Bones operated on campus, their ranks under a shroud of secrecy. It was just a matter of narrowing down the list of suspects who might be involved. Trevor Shults was the perfect start, and from there, all the most illustrious characters were likely involved.

“This is what happens every year,” I continued. “The Bones come out of hiding, swing their dicks around, and then go back into the shadows as if they don’t exist. They’re taunting us, reminding us of their power before we have enough evidence to follow them.”

“Next week,” Ethan said, not budging.

I leaned in seductively, affecting my best whisper. “Hitting too close to home?” I asked.

Nolan hit me involuntarily.

The “most illustrious characters” included journalists. Ethan could very likely be one of them. Plus, I’d always had a bit of a crush on him, my flirtation of great amusement to me if not him.

But perhaps, this time, I’d gone too far. Nolan’s face seemed to say so.

“Hardly,” Ethan replied, breaking out into a blush before pulling himself together. “But we can’t compromise proper journalism for the sake of a scoop. So we wait and go in depth next week.”

I looked at Vivek and the rest of the team, all of whom nodded in deference. I was outnumbered.

“Fine.”

I sat back in a huff. I suppose this meant I’d have more time to snoop around, particularly if I was doing it on my own. If I could crack this, I mean really crack this, then I’d have the story of a lifetime. They’d have to make me Editor-in-Chief of the Chronicle, and the rest of my life would be made.

Ethan and the team moved on, divvying up tasks to finalize the layout for the next week’s issue.

“It’s mine, then?” I asked, interrupting. “The byline?”

“Unless anyone else objects,” said Ethan, scanning the room for dissent.

The remainder of the team looked back silently.

He placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Then by all my means—the byline is yours.”

—

I left the Chronicle meeting, making my way back across campus to the Student Affairs office, the slip of paper Dr. Campbell had given me that morning burning a hole in my pocket.

It was time to face the music, to learn what my punishment would be.

“How may I help you?” the clerk asked, looking up at me with her default mild irritation.

“I was sent by my professor,” I started, assuming my most conciliatory smile. “You see, I have some tardies…”

She looked down at the piece of paper. “All right, give me a few minutes.”

I was about to protest, make a sound, reasoned argument for why I should be cut loose, but she had already walked away, lost to the deep recesses of the office.

I stood there, annoyed, hoping that nobody would see me, when out of the corner of my eye a lumbering figure appeared.

Fuck. No. Of course.

“Headmaster Skinner!” I said brightly, trying to put forth an air of innocence and professionalism.

Skinner was the ne plus ultra of Hanover alumni, the golden cock who had come back to roost. If there were a mascot for the Hanover man (other than that deranged-looking gorilla that showed up at sporting events), it would be him.

Early 50s, full head of hair still intact, Skinner had a flawless jawline and a deeply worked-out body. He was, in short, a hunk—the epitome of a man who had aged gracefully. Put less elegantly, he was a Daddy. A very, very, sexy, hot Daddy. I’d always had a little bit of a crush on him, his visage serving as perfect beat off material in my earliest days as a student. Even now, Reed would comment on him in his dopey way.

“That ass,” he’d say, staring during assemblies as Skinner spouted off some dumb announcement wearing khakis that were criminally tight. ”I need to see that ass.”

Reed was an idiot, but in this case, he was right. I wanted to see that ass too, though such an opportunity was unlikely to come to pass. Married and then divorced, he seemed decidedly straight.

But now, here the man was, live and in the flesh, but unfortunately facing towards me rather than away.

“Hello, Max,” he responded, warm but gruff. He’d been classmates with my father so many years back, my presence likely to set off some alarm bells. “What are you doing here?”

I turned, sheepish, deflecting. “Just, uh….picking something up for a friend.”

His eyes narrowed, about to call my bluff—no one really ever came here unless they were in a spot of trouble—but before he could ask anything further, I shifted into reporter mode.

“Crazy about the fire this morning. Anything you’d want to say about it for the paper?”

He looked back, bemused at my gumption. But he played ball. “Horrible. Deeply concerning.” I nodded, expression serious, about to reach for my phone to take notes. “But nothing else I can say before our all-school meeting tomorrow morning.”

My face fell.

So much for getting a first comment.

A voice came from behind me. “All right, Mr. Granger.” I turned to the clerk, now back at her desk. “Looks like you’ve been given laundry duty for your censure.”

“Censure?” Skinner raised his eyebrows

I glanced back at him, embarrassed.

“I—” I stammered, trying and failing to summon a further reply.

Skinner’s face turned grave. “Are you sure there’s nothing I, or your father, should be worried about?”

I put on my best smile. “Nothing at all. Just a little confusion around class start times.”

He smiled back at me tightly, voice melodic. “Then, best to get…unconfused.”

And with that, he walked away, leaving me high and dry. No scoop. No nothing. Just a pile of dirty jockstraps and a likely call to my parents.

How fun. How festive.

And before I could remember to check out his rear view, he was already long gone.

Drat.

The clerk handed me back a new piece of paper.

“You report tomorrow evening. 7 pm sharp.”

“7 pm?” I asked. “Why so fucking late?!”

“Language!” the clerk huffed.

“Sorry, it’s just…I’m on the Chronicle. We work at that time. Can’t it be earlier?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “End of the day’s when all the dirty stuff’s…dirty. And you’ll be there to clean it.”

Yes, I would be. With bells on.

If only I had an underwear fetish.

I left student affairs and made my way down to the mailroom, the vestibule having thinned out after the early afternoon rush. Classes were mostly done, people were on their way to sports by now, or spending the free time getting a jump start on their homework.

Laundry duty? Seriously? Couldn’t I be on library duty or something, putting away books or shushing freshmen?

I pressed my key into my mailbox, turning the lock and pulling out a small pile of correspondence. Party invites, an issue of The Nation, a copy of the International Male catalogue—how did they get my address!?!—and then a small, crisp black envelope.

Pristine, actually. Thick cardstock. It looked expensive.

I dropped the other items on the table, glancing around before sliding my finger along the flap on the underside. Inside was a note, the same dark black as the envelope.

My jaw dropped.

Engraved in perfect white embossed font were two words.

WE’RE WATCHING.

And just below was an insignia, small but distinguishable nonetheless.

A skull and crossbones.

I set the card down on the table, looking around as if under surveillance, as if someone were waiting for this exact moment. But the hall was mostly empty, just a few nerdy-looking freshmen lingering around before heading to PE.

My mind raced. Could they know that I was onto them already? I’d only run into Trevor a few hours ago. Assuming he was the sort to be involved, maybe he’d already given word that I was on the trail?

Not that it mattered. I’d hardly made a secret of going after them.

But it did mean something, the fact that they’d acknowledged my efforts.

Because if they were trying to frighten me off the trail, then one thing was certain.

I was a threat, and they knew it.

Nobody tried to intimidate someone they weren’t afraid of, or at least concerned by. No, this wasn’t just a scare tactic. It was affirmation. I was doing exactly the right thing.

All right, I thought to myself. If they were upping the ante, then I was game.

This wasn’t just an investigation. This was war.

—

Where was I?

I was in complete darkness, wherever I was, the space utterly pitch dark. I felt around, my eyes slowly adjusting as I got my bearings, desperate to understand what was happening.

I could discern only a few things.

I was naked, knees hard and aching against the concrete, my dick hanging erect between my legs.

The air was cold, sending goosebumps along my skin, my nipples small and tight against my chest.

And despite only being able to make out shadows, I knew I wasn’t alone.

I blinked, straining to focus, and then I saw it—him—the figure slowly approaching and coming into view.

It was Trevor Schult’s shirtless form, lumbering above me.

He looked good, better than good—he looked fucking amazing. High, weighty pecs. The narrow of his waist and a six-pack that gave way to cum gutters, smooth as if carved in marble. And a pair of tight, white briefs rested on his hips, barely concealing his dick.

All right. Maybe I did have an underwear fetish

I struggled with my hands, gleaning the truth—they were tied behind me.

I was trapped.

I continued in my attempts to wriggle free until I noticed Trevor shifting, a hand slowly lifted in the air, suspended. And then, before I could think twice, it lowered, slapping me hard and rough across the face—not so hard as to break skin, but certainly hard enough to feel it.

I recoiled, smarting along my cheek. And then I turned back to face him, my blood beginning to boil as it had in the bathroom the day before, eyes welling in anger.

But before I could speak, he hunched down before me, face spitting distance away, saying those same words to me, the ones that had haunted me since he’d first uttered them.

“You really are a pretty little faggot.”

I stared up at him, rage pulsing through my body. And then I observed as it slowly morphed into something else.

Fuel. Desire.

He placed his hands on his briefs, slowly grazing his fingertips along the waistband.

No.

His thumbs found their way beneath the elastic, gripping its edge, flicking it as he began pulling them down, the white of the jersey lowering to give way to blonde whisps of his pubes, the first stretches of his cock appearing when…

Read more

Read Chapter One of The Bones here—it’s free for all subscribers.

And in honor of the launch, I’ve extended my promotion through Monday 5/25. That’s 50% off an annual subscription to DS.

—

I couldn’t look away—the flag emblazoned with the skull and crossbones, most of it consumed by flames, ashes trailing to the ground before two words scrawled in red spray paint.

BONES FOREVER.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!”

Nolan and I looked up to see the crowd part and Professor Thomas, the English teacher, push his way through, fire extinguisher in hand.

“Back up, everyone,” he called out. “Back UP!!”

He ran around the ring of students, willing them further back before lifting the metal canister into the air and clamping down the trigger. A long cloud of grey dust shot out towards the flag, extinguishing it handily after a few short bursts. What remained of its tatters hung low on the pole, smeared in soot, now totally unrecognizable.

Thomas lowered his hands, brow covered in sweat, out of breath. Man, he’d acted fast.

“C’mon,” he muttered, “everyone back to your classes. Nothing to see here.”

The crowd began thinning out, frightened freshmen mumbling amongst themselves, shock and concern written across their faces

Nolan and I remained, hanging back. This was too good a story to just walk away. Plus, Thomas was my English teacher, one of the good ones, and a gay guy to boot.

“You see something, Max?” Thomas asked. “Anything?”

“I wish,” I replied. “I just got here myself, was about to head to Calc. Not a bad way to get out of class.”

Thomas let out a huff, wiping his brow. “Whoever did this is fucked up. The whole quad could have caught on fire.”

I heard the sound of fire engines off in the distance, already too late but ringing their sirens, regardless.

“Safe to say they left a clue.” I nodded down towards their calling card.

BONES FOREVER. No room for equivocation there.

“As if that will do us any good, those shady fuckers,” Thomas continued, a smattering of other faculty members walking over to see what had transpired. “All right, you boys should head to class too.”

I looked at my watch. 9:13. Fuck. Almost late again.

“Roger that,” I replied, reaching down for my backpack. “See you in fourth period.”

“Indeed, you will,” Thomas replied. He glanced down at my chest. “What’s with your shirt?”

Nolan almost choked, my face again turning beet red.

“Ermmm,” I started. “Nothing. I spilled.”

Thomas looked at it, eyebrows furrowed. “Pretty big spill.”

And with that, I turned on my heels and booked it towards the next period, refusing to look in Nolan’s direction.

“Dude…” he snickered, hustling to keep up.

I shook my head.

“I’ve gotta turn this thing inside out.”

—

“Who do you think did it?” Nolan asked as we snaked our way along the cafeteria line.

“Sloppy Joe?” the lunch lady asked, holding forth a spoon of tomato-tinged grey meat.

“No, thank you,” I replied. I was barely hungry, too amped and anxious to eat. I turned back to Nolan, whispering. “The Bones, you fucking idiot.”

The Bones. The Bones. The one and only secret society on Hanover’s campus. As old as the school itself. As old as time.

He glared. “Duh. But…who are they?”

I bypassed all the cold lunch options and instead grabbed an apple, adding it to my tray along with about six small glasses of water and a granola bar.

Hanover’s main cafeteria building was a monstrosity—4 separate dining halls across two floors, one on each corner, each with its own personality. Lower Right was like Top 40—mainstream, a bit of everything. Upper Right was where the coolest kids hung out, particularly hot at dinner time. Lower Left was faculty, their kids, and nerds like us. And Upper Left was…Siberia. Nobody went there, as far as I knew.

“You’re going to die of malnutrition,” Nolan said as we seated ourselves in the lower left dining hall.

“I’m getting all my protein from Reed,” I replied.

Nolan let out a faux heave.

“I kid, I kid.” I opened up the granola bar, breaking off a small piece and putting it in my mouth. “See?”

Nolan got down to business. “So, what do we know about them, the Bones?”

I dropped my voice. “Storied. Elusive. Almost impossible to track down.”

“So you’ve never known of anyone who was one? One of your dad’s friends?”

“My father? He was the biggest nerd this school had ever seen. And if he’d been one, I’d know. The man couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.” I threw another chunk of granola in my mouth. “The legend is that they’re all seniors. But this is the problem with the Bones. Every year, it’s a different group, so we only have about nine months to figure out who they are. By the time we have any leads, they graduate, and then it’s on to the next. A fresh batch to try and track down.”

Nolan took a bite of sloppy joe, half of it falling out between the bun.

“Well,” he started, “you’ve gotta have some suspicions as to who they could be, right?”

My voice dropped even closer to a whisper. “Of course. There are some through lines.”

Nolan leaned in closer, his lips smeared with red sauce. “Such as?”

“Wipe your face, you fucking hooligan. You look like a vampire.”

Nolan groaned, dabbing either side of his mouth daintily for effect. “Happy?”

“Elated.” I leaned back in. “So they say it’s about eight people, give or take, usually falling into a few buckets—offspring of wealthy people, powerful students on campus, maybe even someone creative. It’s the elite of the elite. The future leaders of America. The people that will shape history.”

Nolan grinned. “So…people like you?”

I looked back, aghast. “What? No! I’m not a senior, and I’m not important. And I’m gay!”

“Last I checked, being gay is legal now. And you’re a Chronicle deputy editor, possibly the next EIC. And you’re loaded. Aaaaand you’re third generation Hanover.”

“Sure, but…” I stared off, annoyed. “It doesn’t matter. There won’t be any Bones left once I have my way with them.”

Nolan furrowed his brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This morning,” I replied, leaning in closer. “It’s a provocation.”

“A provocation? For what?” he asked.

“To take them down. For real.”

“You wanna singlehandedly destroy the Bones?”

“Not singlehandedly,” I replied, leaning back, placing my hands behind my head. “With you.”

Nolan shook his head. “Hard pass.”

I dove forward. “What? Why not!?”

“Some of us aren’t here by default,” he started, giving me a pointed stare. “Some of us are here by the skin of our teeth and grateful for the privilege.” He lifted his sandwich, about to take another big bite of sloppy joe. “And some of us don’t want to fuck with the powers that be and bite the hand that feeds us.”

I sat back, deflated. “These aren’t the powers that be. It’s not the school—it’s some rogue organization of douchebags.”

Nolan shook his head.

“Do you really think,” he replied, “I mean really think that the school isn’t somehow condoning this when it’s gone on for so long?” I stared back at him. “That if they really cared about it and didn’t benefit from it in some way, they’d have put a stop to it for good?”

I drummed my hand against the table. “I mean…maybe.”

Nolan put his napkin down. “Not maybe. Definitely.”

“Well, maybe I’m ready to find out.”

“Then godspeed, my friend, godspeed,” Nolan said, reaching for the uneaten apple on my tray and taking a bite of it. “But you’re going to be doing it all on your own.”

I groaned back at him. “Seriously? You aren’t going to help me?”

“Nope. Not a chance.”

“All right. If you insist. But if you take none of the risk, you get none of the reward.”

Nolan sniffed. “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

“None of the guts and none of the glory,” I practically sang.

He shook his head, dead certain.

I raised my hands in defeat. “Fine.”

I’d just have to do it without him. He’d be dead weight anyway—too many scruples. Might as well use my leg up for good, right? After all, what was the point of being privileged if not to speak truth to power?

I stood up from the table. “I gotta take a piss.”

“Don’t let me stop you,” he replied, picking up an eclair he’d nabbed for dessert.

How that kid put it away like that without gaining a pound was beyond me.

I made my way out of the dining hall and down to the men’s room. It was fully empty, as ancient-looking as the rest of the building—all marble and dark wood, the same wainscotting as in the dining rooms continuing throughout.

I assembled myself in front of the urinal, pulling out my dick and unleashing a torrent of piss.

How many dudes across history had taken a leak in this very spot, I wondered?

Suddenly, I heard a toilet flush behind me, glancing through the mirror to see a stall door open behind me, and a face appearing in its frame

Not just any face. No, staring back before was Trevor Shults.

Trevor fucking Shults.

Senior. Captain of the football team. Blonde. Ripped. A prick. Maybe the hottest guy in the entire school, with the attitude to prove it. He was a phony if there ever was one, the kind of guy who’d be a prince to your face and then talk all the shit in the world behind your back.

But, most importantly, he was a prime candidate for a Bones member. Let’s call him patient zero. Presumed guilty. Suspect number one.

So just the man I wanted to see.

A grin came over his face.

“Well, well…” he started.

“Trevor,” I said curtly, the stream thickening as my dick pulsed involuntarily at his presence, inspired by the thought of unleashing over his pretty, unwitting face.

It was maddening how attractive he was, a fact made all the more irritating by the fact that he knew it. Yes, he wielded it all for his benefit, the rest of the world falling into alignment as if it were god’s will.

What would that even be like? I asked myself. To move through life like that, with such ease?

Then I reminded myself that was exactly how Nolan viewed me.

“How’s my favorite cub reporter?” Trevor asked as he exited the stall, sarcasm duly noted, fastening his belt before lathering his hands under the faucet.

“Thriving. Conniving.” I replied, finishing up at the urinal and placing my dick back in my pants. “I’m on a hot new story. Did you see the fire today?”

His face turned in mock concern. “Fire!? No…”

I placed my hands into the same sink—his sink—lathering them up with soap under the hot water.

“Know anything about it?” I asked, calling his bluff.

He looked back at me with an air of innocence, his face just mere inches away. “Now, why would I know about a thing like that?”

I stood in awe of his gall, his gumption—so cocky in all of his straightness that he could laugh off the accusation of doing something so vile.

I stared into his eyes, searching for truth and finding none, my voice growing quiet. “Just a wild guess, I suppose.”

“You’re barking up the wrong tree,” he replied, lips forming into a tight smile before pulling away and reaching for a paper towel. “Putting your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

I summoned every fibre of my being to restrain myself from shoving him against the stall, leaving him there for dead or, more likely, mildly concussed.

“I’m not so certain,” I replied, refusing to back down.

He wiped his hands thoughtfully before resting his gaze back on me.

“You know,” he started, “I’ve always wanted to tell you something.”

And then he walked over to me, his face drawing nearer, nearer, until he was so close I could feel his breath up against my skin.

“Yeah?” I replied, daring him to finish the thought. “What’s that?”

He looked down at my lips—parted, wet. If I didn’t know any better, if my blood wasn’t boiling in absolute anger and disdain, I would think he was flirting with me.

And then he spoke.

“You really are a pretty little faggot.”

I stared back—stunned, silent—as Trevor had pulled away, discarding the used paper towel in the garbage bin before turning and exiting, the door slamming tight behind him as he left, all as if it were nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing. No, I was enraged, my fists tightening, and most surprisingly, my dick swelling.

I shook my head, yet another rush of crimson to my face.

Trevor Shults had called me a faggot, and I liked it.

—

Continue the story and read Chapter Three here…

In honor of the of The Bones launch, I’ve extended my promotion through Monday 5/25. That’s 50% off an annual subscription to DS.

—

I sat bolt upright in my bed, light beaming in through the windows of my dorm room. I glanced at the clock.

Fuck. I was late.

My laptop was still beside me, my assignment that was due for fifth period—today!—unfinished, cursor blinking on a blank page.

Shit. Fuck.

I must have nodded off.

I rose, throwing on the first pair of shorts I found, almost slipping on the piles of clothes and books that lined the floor.

Where the fuck was my backpack?

Not again. Not…again…

“Max…”

My roommate Reed’s voice came from just outside as I scurried about in vain.

“What?” I asked, annoyed, trying to find a shirt that wasn’t totally soiled.

“Come here…” he whispered.

I paused, gazing out the doorway to see him—head hanging off the bed, eyes closed, mouth wide open.

Reed would have been exceptionally hot had he not looked like a dolt most of the time—wire rimmed glasses that concealed half his face, his googly, if sea blue eyes.

But that body. Oh, that body. He was a diver, the main reason he’d even been admitted here—Hanover Prep, the boarding school of boarding schools. At 6 feet 3 inches, he was all lean muscle, towering above me with his high, tight pecs and lean six-pack. Oh, and he was a third-generation legacy to boot.

That, to be fair, was the main reason we were roommates, because so was I. While I was actually here on my own merits—straight A’s, debate society, the newspaper—and Reed was not, he was one of the few classmates who understood the pressure I was under, given my long family lineage.

It didn’t hurt that we’d started hooking up—first at night, and then in the mornings, and then whenever we were horny, which, frankly, was all the time.

It was a convenient arrangement if there ever was one.

But not this morning. No, this morning it was the opposite, because this morning I was late.

Again.

“I have class!” I called out, now on my hands and knees, checking under the bed like a maniac.

“Nice view,” said Reed, admiringly.

Mercifully, the black canvas of my bag came into view, and I grabbed for it, hoisting it in the air like a trophy.

“Got it!”

I shoved my books and laptop inside and zipped up the top before grabbing a grey sweatshirt off the floor and throwing it over my sleep-wrinkled body.

I was halfway to the door when Reed pulled down the covers to reveal himself—cock tight, fully erect, his length straining against his stomach, already wet at the tip.

I stopped short.

“Please,” he said, still half asleep, his mouth opening wider, eyes barely open—blind, hungry for dick. “Stay for just a second.”

Fuck.

I’d woken up with a boner, having slightly receded amidst the impending doom of being tardy for the third week in a row.

“Dude,” I started, “if I’m late for one more of Dr. Campbell’s classes, he said he’s going to write me up.”

My words barely registered, Reed ignoring me and instead extending a hand—grasping, searching.

I shifted, dodging his fist while I looked at my watch.

7:55. I only had 10 minutes to get to class.

But then Reed actually made contact, his fingers finding the thin layer of fabric and my boner underneath.

My dick jumped, and a satisfied grin came across his dumb face. At his touch, I was powerless to resist.

Fuck it.

Reaching for my waistband, I let my cock spring loose, its length almost hitting Reed in the face.

“Yeahhhhhh,” he bellowed, and then he was on me, taking me inside in one long, slow suck.

My breath caught in my throat as he clamped around me. The kid may have been a C-student at best, but he earned advanced honors in sucking cock.

I slid in and out of him, practically using him, his hand feverishly jerking himself at the same time.

That stupid fucking face with that stupid fucking mouth, I thought to myself. I need to get a real boyfriend.

But then I found a rhythm, placing a hand behind his head and increasing speed, face fucking him, my roughness seeming only to please him more. He curled his tongue around my dick—remarkably long, practically touching his chin when he extended it—a velvety taco around my swollen chimichanga.

I glanced at my watch. 7:58. It was now or never.

“Reed…I’m close…” I muttered. He began working doubly hard, his mouth tightening like a Hoover.

“Yueauhhuehh—” he replied, garbled, trying to nod but too consumed with…me.

And then I finally let it rip, load filling Reed’s cheeks, each thrust of his head taking more and more of me inside him, my body barely able to contain my convulsions.

And then, as if in slow motion, a synchronized event, a ribbon of cum shot out of Reed’s dick, leaving its head and flying upwards, outwards, extending well past his face.

For a moment, I stared at it—in awe. The distance, it was impressive— admirable.

Until it continued forward and hit me squarely in the chest, a long dark slash along the light grey of my sweatshirt.

“Reed……no….”

I tried to stop him, but it was too late. He continued slurping on my cock—happily, blindly—while he busted, one shot and then another and another flying out at me like gunfire until my entire front was streaked in his seed.

Jesus fucking Christ.

I might have been flattered, impressed even—the height! the distance! all inspired by me!—but I wasn’t.

I was just pissed.

I looked around the room for something, anything—a towel, something else to wear—but there was no time.

8:01.

“Dude, I gotta bounce!”

I pulled my dick out of Reed’s spitty, cummy mouth, unceremoniously stuffing it back into my sweatpants before grabbing for my bag and making a run for the door.

“Sorry!” I called out behind.

But it hardly mattered.

He turned over sleepily, lazily, immediately falling back to sleep as if nothing had ever happened.

I cannonballed out of my dorm, Stearns House, hustling up the long hill towards the main part of campus—dick bouncing, still half-hard within my sweatpants, my breath steaming in the October chill.

It was five weeks into the semester, and already I’d proven myself a liability. Too many late nights working on the newspaper, too few actually getting school work done. It was a catch-22—either prioritize the credential of working for one of the best high school verticals in the country, or the grades good enough for admission to the Ivy League school of my choosing.

As of now, I was erring on the former at the expense of the latter. And if I wasn’t careful, it was going to screw me.

I ran into Samuel Phillips Hall, the main campus building, shuffling down the hallway to my classroom. 8:07. Only two minutes late. Maybe Professor Campbell wouldn’t notice.

I opened the door in a rush and assumed stealth mode, employing the best tool at my disposal—plausible deniability.

If I pretended nothing was wrong, nothing really would be.

Dr. Campbell was bloviating from the front of the room, back turned, writing down a series of dates in quick succession on the dry-erase board, and so I booked it straight to my assigned seat at one end of the room.

I sat down, whipping out my notebook and pencil, my best friend Nolan beside me.

Nothing to see here. I’d been here the whole time.

“What the fuck, dude?” he whispered, looking at me like I was a psychopath. “Third week in a row…”

“I know,” I mouthed, raising my hands like I was being mugged.

His eyes left mine and trailed down to my sweatshirt, narrowing as he noticed the slashes of dark grey all across my chest.

“Did you spill something…?” he whispered.

My face flushed crimson, and I was about to answer when I was cut off by the low cough of Campbell from the front of the room.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asked.

Nolan and I turned, caught.

“No…” I stammered.

“Mr. Granger, you are late, yet again…”

“Only two minutes,” I protested.

“What did I say last time that you were late?”

My eyes flicked from side to side, face motionless. “That the next time you would write me up.”

“Indeed, I did. And would you say I am a man of my word?”

“No.” He glared at me. “I mean, yes…but you’re also a benevolent man, a kind man. Understanding, most would say.”

He looked back, unfazed. “See me after class.”

I sat low in my chair, defeated, as Nolan shrugged and began feverishly taking notes.

My god, what a brown-noser.

It was irritating, sometimes, having such a goody two-shoes as a best friend, but they didn’t get much better than Nole. He had my back without question, even if he was judging me for my misbehaviors. Because, after all, Nolan and I were polar opposites.

Hanover was one of the oldest boarding schools in the country. Presidents went here. The first American president attended the first graduation here. It had history. It was history. And it had money, enough money to attract any kind of student it wanted, the best of the best, no matter who could pay. And while I was the beneficiary of years of former relatives walking through these doors and advancing to great success, Nolan was not.

He was a scholarship kid, first generation from Ghana, and here entirely on his own merits. Not a day went by that he didn’t let me forget it. So while I lived with a certain comfort level, a familiarity, a privilege that my attendance was an almost foregone conclusion, for Nolan, it wasn’t. He worked twice as hard and with much greater care, his entire future resting on his performance in these four years.

Because attendance at Hanover was more than just high school—it was an audition for life. If you performed here, you got into the best colleges. And from the best colleges, you got the best jobs. And with the best jobs, you eventually came to rule the world and become…the elite.

At every stage, you were being monitored, evaluated for admission into an ever more exclusive club bound for the same destination.

Success.

No, Hanover was more than just high school. It was 1,000 young men being groomed for their futures, all competing and duking it out in one epic battle royale that set the course for the rest of their lives.

No wonder the energy could get so intense.

On one of the most picturesque hilltops in all of Massachusetts was a hotbed of masculinity and testosterone, the only remaining prestigious all-boys boarding school left after all the rest had co-educated. When asked why it stayed single sex, the trustees demurred, the rumor always having been this—women would have softened what was already one of the most brutal environments.

Misogyny, still alive and well.

That part always roiled me, and so I ignored it. It hadn’t been a choice anyway, my matriculation. No, my attendance was a foregone conclusion from the moment my X and Y chromosomes linked. At least the school had evolved some since 1778, namely that fact that I could be an out gay kid and not be burned at the stake. Not that being out didn’t come with its consequences. Being a legacy of my caliber afforded me a certain protection, a certain insurance policy against total social suicide, but I remained keenly aware that my sexuality set me down a few rungs on the totem pole.

Despite being full of exceptional students, Hanover was like any other school.

Jocks ruled the campus, nerds in power positions (student government, newspaper) played a close second, and being gay, well….that was its own demerit, landing me squarely on the third rung, at best. I hardly minded. Almost everyone here was essentially a means to an end. It was all about where everyone could get you, and those douchebags all played nice to my face at least, even if their own homophobia simmered just below.

Except for Nole. He was as genuine as they came, which is why we were best friends. And why I still loved him even though he was a kiss-ass.

I looked up. 40 minutes had passed, class nearing its inevitable conclusion. I’d barely absorbed a thing. What war were we on? Did it even matter? It was all just old dudes trying to dominate and control shit. If my peers here had taught me anything, nothing had changed. No one had learned from any of these lessons. Same shit, different day.

Why even bother?

“And what do you think, Mr. Granger?”

My eyes darted up, Campbell’s mug suddenly coming into focus. I squinted, the dates behind him giving me nothing.

“Surely you have an opinion on the subject?”

Nolan nudged me, turning his notebook to share his copious notes, as if I could read his chicken scratch.

But before I could reply, the bell rang for the end of period, and the room already began to disperse.

“Until next time, then,” Campbell said, his smile bordering on sadistic. Man, he loved to ride me, every bit of torture a special pleasure. “Please join me at the front.”

I tossed my notebook into my backpack—so much good finding that had done me—and collected my things before making my way to the front.

Campbell barely looked up from his papers.

“Do you have disdain for my class, Mr. Granger?” he asked.

“What? No!” I replied, flailing in my attempt to salvage an ever-deteriorating circumstance.

“History in general, perhaps?”

“No, of course not, it’s just…I have this sleep apnea thing, like Kendall Jenner…”

I was grasping.

He held up a piece of paper. “Take this to the dean of students. He will do with you what he will…”

I stared at the paper—small, yellow, sinister— before claiming it with my free hand.

“I’m really…I’m so sorry…” I pleaded, hoping for a reprieve. But he held his hand out to silence me.

Defeated, I turned and left.

“Dude…” Nolan was waiting for me outside, hands tucked behind his backpack straps. “What’d he give you?”

“Censure, probably,” I replied, stuffing the slip into my pocket, trying to pretend like it didn’t exist.

“Dick. And what the fuck happened to your shirt?”

I’m almost forgotten. The discoloration had gone away, but the remains had crusted over. It was distinctly less visible but slightly more gross.

“Reed,” I replied sheepishly. “Reed happened to my shirt.”

Nolan stared back, confused, before his face finally turned.

“Dude…gross!”

I shrugged. “You asked!”

It had been pretty hot, actually, seeing Reed come so hard while swallowing me. He was like my own personal Japanese sex doll, only variably more intelligent.

“I guess if I had someone to get me off every morning, I’d be late too…” Nolan trailed off as we made our way down the hall, its confines filling up with students heading towards second period.

“See!” I replied, justified, gripping his face in gratitude. “Thank you!”

“Nope! Nope!” he said, pulling away my hands dramatically. “I don’t know where those have been!”

We exited the front doors of Sam Phil, the day having already grown warmer, frost softening atop the grassy quad and the vast campus visible from those very stairs.

If Hanover was the most elite school in America, the campus was that reality made manifest. The buildings were Georgian in style and planned by Frederick Olmsted at the end of the 19^th century. I could remember arriving here two years prior and about six inches shorter. How small I felt walking across the expansive quads to class, as if the entire thing might gobble me up, never to be found again.

It had come to feel less gargantuan, but it still dazzled, particularly on high-fall days like this when the foliage had turned just so. The view out into the rest of campus was an explosion of color—burnished reds and deep yellows jumbled together as far as the eye could see.

“We closing tonight?” Nolan asked.

He, too, was newspaper staff—a deputy editor, just like me. Every Wednesday night, a select few closed the issue, finalizing the week’s stories and layout and setting it for print. Some questioned why we even made physical editions anymore, but I liked it, the nostalgia of it all. We’d been printing since 1870. Who were we to say when that streak ended?

“You know it,” I replied, realizing I was probably headed for another interminably late night and later morning. I needed to set my alarm louder. I also needed some coffee. Some serious coffee.

We turned across campus towards Sanders, the math building. Oof. My brain didn’t have the energy for Pre-Calc. It would be another 45 minutes of phoning it in, that was for sure.

And then, just as we were about to make it inside, I noticed a group gathering further afield, voices raised, a trail of smoke emanating from within.

“What the—” Nolan’s voice trailed off as he saw it too. We started walking faster, closer, the crowd growing thicker and fuller with students.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I said, assuming an air of importance only possible from a true cub reporter. We made our way to the front, pushing aside oblivious freshmen and the occasional jock until there was a clearing, the circumstance in question just before us.

There, in the center, was a flag, a skull across the front of it, burning on a makeshift pole buried deep in the ground.

“Christ,” Nolan said, shaking his head beside me.

I stared at it. I knew that insignia. We all did.

It belonged to the Bones.

—

Continue the story and read Chapter Two here.

Read Chapter One of The Bones here and Chapter Two here. They’re free for all subscribers.

—

In the world of boarding schools, Hanover Prep is as elite as they come.

It’s the all-boys high school that accepts only the best of the best. Presidents, titans of industry, Pulitzer prize winners—they’re all among its esteemed graduates.

But simply enrolling isn’t enough.

Even within its walls, there remains an elite, of which only a select few can be counted—the Bones, the secret society that has long been the subject of whispers, but never substantiated…until now.

A defacement on campus inspires Max Granger to dig into The Bones’ storied past, plunging him into a web of deception and seduction that will drive him to question everything.

Is he one of the good guys? And who are the good guys, after all? Certainly not Trevor Shults, the captain of the football team, and Max’s greatest rival— the senior he’s certain is at the center of it all, and the very douchebag he can’t resist.

Introducing The Bones, a new series full of heat, humor, and intrigue, starting with three chapters this weekend.

xx DS