Rating: NC-17
Original Date of Completion: October 2003
Pairing: Jeremy Roenick/Patrick Lalime
Disclaimer: I own no one, but if you do, can I borrow them? Yeah, this is all fake, conjured in the confines of my demented little mind. That means fiction, and that you can't sue me.
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Episode 2017-R
As the screen comes to light, Natalyn can be seen seated on the floor, her back resting against the red velvet sofa. In front of her sits the coffee table, a game of chess sitting in progress on the mahogany top. She stares intently at the wooden pieces, then glances forward, the camera pulling back to a wide angle. That reveals a man sitting across from her, clad only in a pair of leopard print pajama pants. He smirks at her as he reaches across the board, rearranging pieces and murmuring an accented "Check." She scowls at him, shaking her head as she pushes herself up from the floor. It's then that she notices the camera, and turns toward it with a grin.
"Welcome my smutaholics to another thrilling episode of the chess championships," She winked at the camera as she stepped backward and dropped down onto the sofa.
She turned toward her male companion and flashed a quick smile, mouthing the word "drink" before returning her attention to the camera. "In seriousness though, my dear smutaholics, do we have quite the tale for you this week. One of our favorites here at Confessions returns to regale us with another naughty exploit," She explains with a grin, laying back on the sofa, the camera changing angles to face her. "We all know there are only four men who've been given a Constant Confessor Card; Wayne Gretzky, Brett Hull, Pavel Bure, and J..."
She stopped as her male companion returned with a tray in hand, her trademark glass of wine setting atop. She grabbed the wine from the tray with a smile, taking a quick drink. With a refreshed sigh, she blew a kiss up at the man, asking quietly "Whatever would I do without you, Vincente?" He simply rolled his eyes in reply, dropping the tray to his side as he stepped off screen, and Natalyn resumed her earlier speech.
"Now as I was saying," She started, sitting up and placing her wine on the coffee table. "There are only four Constant Confessors in Confessions history; only four men who have visited the Confessional more than ten times. The Great One, of course, our baby chick haired hottie Brett Hull, everyone's favorite sexy Russian, Pasha Bure, and my good friend and your's, JR Superstar,"
She grinned, motioning to the wall at her left. There hung four plaques, one of each of the aforementioned men. Zooming in, the camera scanned over each slowly, before stopping at the plaque of Jeremy Roenick. Clad in a purple Confessions jersey, he pointed at the number 39 adorning his arm with a smug grin. Below the picture hung an engraved list, the words "Sins Confessed" scrolled across the top; scanning downward the camera revealed 39 names, each numbered and dated, with a piece of white masking tape concealing anything past that. The camera focused solely on that space for a moment, before Natalyn spoke once again.
"As all good smutaholics know, JR wears number 97 on the ice," Natalyn stated as she walked back on screen, the camera panning just slightly to meet her. "Because as JR has told us time and time again, ‘the 9 says enough, but the 7 makes it tough to say no’," She said with a smirk, kneeling in front of the plaque. "And as you can see by the number of conquests our Superstar has to boast, it really must. There's one certain Senator who surely won't disagree with us, and his name is..."
She stopped as she grabbed hold of the tape stuck to the plaque. Unexplainably a drum roll began to play, eliciting a giggle from Natalyn; and in dramatic fashion she pulled the tape away, revealing the words "#40. Patrick Lalime."
"And you thought Lalime was just number 40 for the Senators," She giggled, climbing back to her feet. "There was a time when that was true, but then one muggy Ottawa night, he ran into our Superstar, in the most unlikely of places; the bathroom of a Metallica concert. Apparently, both of our boys have quite the appreciation for heavy metal, so it seems fitting that we call this one "Kings of Rock." She said with a nod, brushing a piece of hair from her forehead.
"This is JR's 40th trip to the Confessional, but amazingly, this is the first time Lalime has even been mentioned on the show. But as you'll see, he's not only a budding superstar on the ice, he's got the makings to be one off it too," She smirked at the camera, then turned toward Roenick's plaque. "I advise you my smutaholics to record this one, because I have a feeling you'll want to be reliving it over and over. Because, to say it simply, this one rocks. So sit back and enjoy, smutaholics, as we all celebrate JR's milestone mark."
Suddenly, a loud pop resonated from the plaque, the picture shooting forward and falling at Natalyn's feet, leaving a thick cloud of smoke in its wake. Natalyn roared in laughter, shaking her head and waving her hand in an attempt to clear the smoke.
"Yeah, and you're definitely going to want the lotion for this one." She laughed, continuing to shake her head as she walked offscreen.
When the smoke began to clear, the camera focused once more on the Roenick plaque, with a new picture in place; he stood clad this time in a gold Confessions jersey, pointing smugly at the number 40 adorning his arm. The camera began to pull away slowly, staying focused on the plaque until it blurred, then suddenly panning to its left.
As the Confessional comes into view, the lights begin to dim, leaving "the Chair" glowing a bright gold. The light slowly begins to fade, until the screen goes completely black. Then with a flash of orange light, it abruptly returns to life, Jeremy Roenick seated in "The Chair".
Grinning smugly, he stretches his arms up, resting them behind his head as he relaxes back in his seat. "My name is Jeremy Roenick, and I have a confession to make."
* * *
There are only three things I love in my life; sex, hockey, and music. And I'm not talking about that frilly, queery Beethoven shit, or the slutty bubblegum Titney Spears J-Ho trash, I'm talking REAL music, hardcore rock, man. I grew up on the stuff, I wanted to be a rock star even before I wanted to be an NHL star. That only lasted long enough for me to realize I had absolutely no musical talent. I decided then that I had to stick to places where I WAS talented, sex and hockey, and that I would just live the rock star life as a hockey player. Of course, I couldn't live the life exactly the same. I still had the fame, and the money. But instead of getting fucked up on drugs, I just got shitfaced on beer (but only in moderation, man). And instead of fucking any girl with a nice rack, I fucked any guy with a nice ass. Big difference there, I know, but it's a fun difference. I love my life. And I owe it all to rock. In a way, anyway.
So I like to give back to rock, whenever I get the chance. It gave me so much, I like to give back just a little. Yeah, or I could just be thinking of a clever way to say that when I go to a concert, I tend to buy myself an entire row to sit in. Front row, of course, I can afford it. I just really hate people bumping into me, I get enough of that at work. So anywhere outside of work that I can prevent it, I do. Besides, having a front row at a concert all to myself created one of my favorite, most easiest ways to get laid. And that way, is what I call my Payment Plan.
When there are front row seats anywhere empty, people tend to just walk up and take them. Hell, even I do that sometimes. But when I'm paying for the seats, I just can't let them be taken for free. So I'll just flip open my little cell phone and call security, and have the seat thief taken away. That happens probably 1 in 10 times. On the usual what happens is, provided the seat thief meets my standards, I'll execute my Payment Plan. The plan is rather simple; head or money, the thief's choice. Wanna guess which of those I get most often? I've never actually received money as part of the Plan; my payments are all charged on Nature's Credit Card. I prefer things that way, personally. I've got more than enough money, I could never get enough head.
Most times, the Payment Plan wasn't all that special. Just some drunk or high teenager who can barely kneel properly giving me what could be more accurately referred to as "teeth", as opposed to head. I don't care though, I get off, even if it's jerking off while the payer licks my balls. As long as I come, I consider payment received. And if I don’t...let's not go there, it's never happened anyway. For the most part, people are pretty damned receptive of my Payment Plan, but who wouldn’t be with me? People understand that front row tickets must be earned, they don't come cheap, unless I'm feeling particularly giving. In those rare occurrences, they can become a gift. The recipient has to be really...special for that, though. And that's only happened one time. But man, that one time was awesome.
It was Ottawa in June, right after the playoffs. Me and the Flyers had been knocked out in May, by the Senators. That much fucking sucked, but something good came from the entire Ottawa experience; Metallica tickets. The night we got eliminated, me and the guys went to a bar, and while deflecting the attentions of all the puckbunnies off of me and onto Simon, I saw a commercial for the concert. So the next day I went down, and as usual, bought myself a row. Just a small one this time, 10 seats. Then I went home and waited for the concert to get here, before flying back to enjoy the greatest band ever from the front row. I wound up enjoying way more than that though. And all it took was a trip to the bathroom.
"No Flyers allowed in this bathroom, try the ladies room."
I turned to my left, shooting a glare in the direction of whomever had just said that. I expected to see some jackass in a Leafs jersey, but instead juts a few urinals down from me stood Patrick Lalime, goalie for the Ottawa Senators. He smirked at me, smugly proud of himself for his little crack. It was very uncharacteristic of me to wait more than 10 seconds without giving a rebuttal and allow a smirk to live that long, but there were extenuating circumstances in this situation. Like that fact that he's really fucking hot. His hair was a tangled mess of curls that combs would run screaming from, and he looked like he hadn’t shaved since the Clinton administration; scruffy yet sexy, he really looked like he belonged at this concert. But honestly, above all that was the fact that he was standing with his dick out a few feet away from me, and wasn't doing too great of a job covering it up. And fuck me hard, but my eyes were drawn right there. Hey, I'm only human.
Unfortunately though, he noticed and snickered, snapping my attention from his dick in the process. I glanced up at him quickly and saw that smirk of his had only increased in its smugness. That brought me to my senses, and without thinking too hard, I shot back my rebuttal.
"I've got nine of something in my pants that can prove I don't need the ladies room." I said with a shrug, unzipping my pants as I turned to the urinal.
Freeing my cock, I began to relieve myself, waiting a bit anxiously for his reply. In my experience, just a mention of having 9 can cement the deal with anyone who is even remotely interested in fucking. Of course, I didn't know if Lalime was even remotely interested, but he did let me stare at his dick for a while without professing his disgust, and/or trying to kick my ass. The Nine Drop, as I called that subtle mention, had never let me down when it came to a hockey player, so I was liking my chances of getting some here. I think it's only natural for a guy to be curious about nine inches, unless they have it themselves; and I think anyone who plays in the NHL is at least a little gay, with all that touching and groping and hugging they'd have to be. Goalies are a bit different, though, especially this one; I've seen him rocking out to the Canadian National Anthem before. But like I said, the Nine Drop has never let me down. And I've yet to find a goalie who didn't want a piece of JR jr. They're all as horny as they are flexible, I'm telling you.
"Nine eh?" He asked, walking toward me.
I turned my head to look at him, and grinned as I saw his dick still hanging free. My eyes latched onto it almost immediately, staring appraisingly at the thick shaft. It was quite a fine specimen, and I've seen enough to be a good judge, believe me. Semi-hard already, it got harder beneath my gaze, bouncing slightly with each step he took. My own cock began to swell with that sight, and absently I stroked my thumb down the length. He noticed this, snickering softly as the smirk returned triumphantly to his lips. When he reached where I stood, my cock was throbbing, and his poked at my hip as he stood beside me. I'm not the type to play the guessing game, but I can safely say his number isn't nearly as anatomically significant as mine is.
"I wear 97 on the ice," I said with a smirk, turning toward him. I glanced down at my dick, then glanced back up at him. "There's a reason for it,"
His eyes traveled to my cock, and absently he licked his lips. "So it appears,"
I glanced down at my dick, then up at him, grinning hungrily. "Why don't you check it out?"
"What do I get if I do?"
I briefly contemplated some smartass remark about cum, or a mind blowing orgasm, but decided against it. Instead I went with the other great thing I had with me to give. "A front row ticket?"
He glanced back up at me only long enough to smirk, then dropped down to his knees. Without another word, he wrapped his hand around my dick, and began to tongue eagerly at the head. I moaned loudly from the feeling, clutching at his shoulders to keep myself upright. That seemed to encourage him, and quickly he took me into his mouth. I thrust involuntarily into his mouth from the sudden feeling, but to my surprise he still held on, beginning a slow bobbing motion. His tongue tickled the underside as he moved, his hands coming to rest on my hips, holding them stationary. I growled at the impeding hold, but it felt too damned good to try and fight. If he wanted to take his own rhythm, by all means, as long as he kept doing this. His tongue worked expertly along the shaft, the fur of his beard tickling gently with each movement, his mouth holding just the right degree of suction; this was the greatest blow job in the history of the world. Nothing could ever be better than this...
He pulled away quickly and looked up at me, his eyes glazed over with lust. He wrapped his hand again around my dick, stroking slowly as he spoke. "Want it in me,"
Okay, THAT could be better. I grin down at him, grunting and nodding my eager agreement. That smirk washes over his lips again momentarily, and swiftly he hops to his feet. I open my mouth to alert him of the condoms in my pocket, but before I can utter a sound he shoves me back against the wall and drives his lips roughly onto mine. I gasp into the kiss, and he takes that opportunity to slip his tongue into my mouth. His tongue meets mine, massaging it deeply, eliciting a soft moan from me. He grins against my lips at the sound, grazing his hand down my chest, pinching at my nipples through my t-shirt. My moan grows louder from the feeling, and I slip my hand into his hair, tugging him out of the kiss. He growled in return and clamped his hand around my cock, pressing his forehead against mine.
"Want you," I breathed, nipping at his lip.
He pressed his lips to mine for a brief, deep kiss. "Then have me,"
Wasting no time, I spun him around, pushing him up against the wall. With a soft growl, I shoved his pants the rest of the way off, and pressed my hard cock against his opening. He moaned loudly, wiggling back against my dick. I snickered at him this time, smacking his ass with one hand, as I dug in my pocket for a condom with the other. I found one quickly, pulling it from my pocket, tearing it open with my teeth, and slipping it onto my aching cock all in a matter of seconds; I had that down to a science by now, you do it as much as I do and it becomes simple habit. Spitting into my hand, I lightly coated the shaft, before slowly pushing into him. I rocked my hips gently, garnering soft whimpers from him, until I reached the hilt. Fully sheathed inside him, I sucked softly at his neck, waiting for him to adjust. As much fun as rough might be, and as rough as things might get, I never took it any faster than this to start out. JR jr. is a lot to handle, and I know this, it's something I relate to. You take Iginla unprepared and you'll be relating pretty damned fast yourself.
Once fully relaxed, he wiggled back against me, clenching tight around my cock. I moaned loudly from the incredible tightness, pulling out fast, and thrusting hard back against the clenching. He responded with a moan of his own, clenching again as he gripped hold of the urinal before him to steady himself. I took that as my go ahead sign, and with a deep growl, I started a rough, frenzied thrusting pace. His moans grew in volume with each thrust, turning to a brief scream as I wrapped my hand around his dick, and gave it a hard squeeze. His clenching became tighter as I began a gentle stroking, the tightness surrounding my cock making my pleasure all the more intense. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, mingled with his moans, and my pleasured growls filled the air, making for a better soundtrack than the concert ever could've provided. I was lost quickly in the noise, in the pleasure, drifting away from the world as I fucked him for all I was worth.
Eventually, his moans became short whimpers, and he began to push back to meet my thrusts. I knew that to be a sure sign of orgasm, so I increased my pace in both thrusting and stroking. It took no time for that to push him over the edge, and he lost it, screaming my name and clenching tight around me. That pulled me too into orgasm, and thrusting deep I came with a loud growl. I stayed inside him until the last shot slipped from my cock, then made to pull out. But to my surprise, he clenched tight around me, and craned his head back to flash me yet another smirk.
"Just stay for a minute," He spoke, gasping for breath. "Never felt so good before,"
I grinned, pulling out slightly, then thrusting hard back in. "Anything you want. I could stay in you forever...”
"I don't know, I think I might want a turn first."
A grin spread across my lips as I heard the voice, and both of us turned back toward the door. Lalime's eyes widened and I couldn't help but snicker as I saw my captain standing there with his arms crossed across his bare chest. Staring at the two of us, he reached down and adjusted himself through the leather pants he wore, then began to walk towards us. When he reached us, he slipped his arm around my neck, and nipped lightly at my earlobe.
"Having fun, JR?" He whispered, tracing his tongue along my ear.
I craned my head back to look at him, grinning. "Definitely. You want a piece?"
He smirked, and grazed his hand along Lalime's ass. "You know me, I love to fuck the Senators..."
* * *
"Keith wasn't lying when he said he liked to fuck the Senators, either," Jeremy Roenick said with a sly grin. "That wasn't the only fucking he did though, you know I had to get me a piece..."
The screen flashes orange, and the red velvet sofa is the first thing to be seen. Panning to the right, Natalyn is seen on the coffee table, straddling the hips of Vincente. As the camera continues to move, it picks up the earlier chess pieces, scattered along the floor. It focuses briefly on them, until a soft male moan resonates from above, and it shoots up to focus on Natalyn. She notices the camera with a smirk, and a devious giggle, rolling a chess piece between her fingers.
"What can I say, JR always gets me a little worked up," She grinned, tracing the chess piece along Vincente's chest. "But I'm not the only one, Captain Primeau quite obviously agrees, as you'll see in a future installment. But for now my smutaholics, we're out of time. Do tune in next week, as always, I guarantee you'll go to bed satisfied," She giggled. "Until then, my smutaholics, I'm Natalyn Moore, and this has been Confessions."
The camera pans slowly away from her, until reaching the earlier picture of Jeremy Roenick. The camera stays focused on it, while pulling backward, until the picture begins to blur. Then with a sudden snap to the left, the Confessional is brought into view, brightly illuminated in a gold light. Zooming in on "The Chair", the camera sees a slip of paper taped to the back of it. The words "See you next week" are scrolled along the top, with the letters "JR" beneath. The camera stays focused on the piece of paper until the gold light begins to dim, and the screen eventually blackens. Then with a flash of orange light, the closing credits begin to scroll.
END Episode 2017-R "Kings of Rock"
© 2003 Triple X
Back to Disk 4
Disk 4: Random Encounters
"Kings of Rock"
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