He’s pumping into me roughly now, my vision whiting out as I just experience it. I should fight harder, tell him I don’t want this—but I do. I fucking want it.
He knows it, too. The way I suck so well, the way I’m drooling for it.
“Fuck. Fuck. I’m coming,” he grunts, and then I feel him shake, his hands tightening painfully on my scalp. He doesn’t even pull away, just empties himself into my mouth. It’s so much, so fucking much, that I can’t even swallow. It spills out of my mouth as I choke on it, trying to inhale but unable to.
When I finally come to, I’m on my hands and knees, the mess spattered on the floor. I stare at it, blinking roughly.
“Fuck,” Colton murmurs and then steps next to me. “You okay?”
“Fuck. You,” I manage to say as I grab on to my still-hard dick and stroke it.
“I so would. Shit. I’d do it if you’d let me.”
Would I? I don’t know. I’m so fucking confused, and it doesn’t help that I’m so fucking horny still.
I spit out the rest of his release onto the hardwood floor and then lean back, my blurry vision taking him in. He’s still standing above me, his cock half hard and sitting limply against his thigh.
“You wanna come?” he asks darkly, but I don’t respond, just continue to touch myself.
“You still have me on your lips. I can see it. Fuck,” he murmurs, his thumb reaching down and smearing it across my cheeks.
I let out a shaky breath as he kneels beside me, and as soon as his long fingers wrap around my cock, I come. It’s intense and quick, just an eruption that spills onto my legs and his hand.
I shudder and shake, my mouth opening and closing as I gasp for air. And when I come back to reality, he’s kissing me. His mouth closing in on mine, his tongue thrusting into my mouth.
“You’re fucking perfect,” he murmurs, and I just let him have me.
He takes andtakesuntil I finally find my senses and stand up, pulling on my clothes as quickly as I can and nearly running out of the house.
I gave a guy a blow job.
I’m so fucking gay.
Chapter Four
Colton’s jersey reappears at our front door the next day, a reminder from last night.
I can still taste him on my tongue despite brushing my teeth.
My throat is sore from the fucking he gave it.
Paulie is the one who found it and brought it to me. It’s wrapped in a plastic bag, but he knows it’s something from the guy I’m into. Or mostly dislike…I think.
I take it from him and shove it under my bed. But as I get ready, I can sense it. Feel it. I pull it out and yank the jersey free, pushing the fabric up to my face and inhaling.
It smells fresh. Like he washed it.
This is even worse because now I know what his detergent smells like.
I inhale it again before stuffing it under my pillow. I’ll figure out what to do about it later.
But later only brings me to a low point. I lie in bed and press my face into it while I jack off, thinking about the throat-fucking he gave me. I think about the way he shook and moaned. I should have just thrown the jersey away, but here I am, humping my fist while I imagine him standing over me.
This is becoming a problem.
After I come, I shove the jersey back under my pillow and then wipe my mess off on a discarded t-shirt. When I’m done, I make my way to the bathroom and wash my hands. Shame slithers through me, but more than that, excitement lingers there. Right on the periphery. Warning me, reminding me.
I desperately want to never do that again. Only I do. It’s a lie I’m telling myself.
