His whiskey-hued eyes study mine. He licks his lips again before he leans down and kisses me. He melts on top of me, the metaphorical chains holding him under the water of his own power struggle slipping away. Gently, I roll him over so his back is on the mat.
I slot myself into the space between his spread thighs. Spitting onto my fingers, I reach between our bodies and recoat his crease. “This isn’t submission,” I murmur on his lips. “This isempowermentin its highest form.”
“I trust you,” he groans, when I slide my spit-soaked dick back between his cheeks.
“And that means so much to me, Gordy,” I murmur, nipping my way down his neck, sucking when I get to his collarbone. “I promise I’ll take good care of you. Always.”
From there, we spiral into a fit of panting and writhing against each other as I pump my cock between the globes of his ass. The heat of our bodies creates friction for his re-inflated cock, eliciting more groans from him. He palms my ass, his strong grip forcing more power behind my every thrust. Pleasure overtakes me, crashing into me like hurricane-level surf, hauling me into the undertow in a current of pure ecstasy.
“W-where do you want it?” I ask him, not wanting to waste a bit of this impending orgasm by painting the mats with it. He opens his mouth, and that’s all it takes before I’m launching myself upward, pointing my pulsing dick towards his gaping maw.
My orgasm tears through me, making me weak in the knees, throwing me off balance. I can’t control my aim for shit as I cover his face, beard, and neck in my release. Almost none of it actually makes it past his lips. The sight of him covered in my cum unearths something primal in me—something feral. I grip his jaw and, like some starved animal, lap off what I can from his skin, feeding it back to him with my tongue.
Cum play. It’s something I’ve grown quite fond of. Before Gordy, my vanilla ass didn’t even realize that was a thing. My how hard I have been schooled, though.
“What’s that smirk for?” Gordy tilts his head.
“Have you noticed I’ve been eating pineapples?” I ask, curious if the lore surrounding it making your cum taste sweeter is true. I know Gordy likes his sugary treats, so naturally…
“What?” Gordy asks, his brows knit with confusion.
“Did that—taste kinda like a piña colada?”
Gordy rolls his eyes and shoves me off of him. “You have this way of taking every moment and making it real fucking awkward, you know that?” he grumbles. “I don’t even know what a piña colada tastes like. I hardly drink. If I did, it sure as hell wouldn’t be some fruity cocktail.”
I sigh, sitting up. “I was trying to make itsweeterfor you.”
He runs his fingers through his beard, grimacing when he realizes he’s just smeared more of my mess in it. “I appreciate the effort,” he grunts. “But we probably ought to get this place—and ourselves—cleaned up before Micah gets here to open up for the day.” He reaches down with his clean hand, offering me aid in standing on my still-wobbly legs.
“You’re showering here?” I ask, confused. I know he usually waits until he gets home. Probably feels safer there.
“Yep,” he notes. “Then we can go grab breakfast before we go do whatever it is you have planned for thisdate.”
I smirk. “You’re going to love it, promise. Dude dates are way funner to plan, lemme tell you what. No flowers, none of that woo-woo shit—”
“You’re generalizing again,” he reminds me. “You still have these heteronormative tendencies, I’ve noticed. Some guys like thatwoo-woo shit. It just so happens I’m not one of them.”
“Right, well, uh,” I stammer, feeling properly dressed down, “I’m still learning. Why don’t we just call it a big, gay date instead?”
He smirks, nudging me in the ribs. “I’m sure it’s all a part of your trademarkedMoving on With Maturityplan.”
I scowl. “Donotmock the plan!”
His grin softens, and he leans in and pecks a kiss on my temple. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Wee-Waters.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Batting cages. The “big, gay date” Gannett planned for us is taking a trip to the batting cages on the outskirts of town. The gesture really is thoughtful, I’ll give him that. Coaching Terra’s t-ball team has re-awakened the love I used to have for baseball. More than just an extra-curricular, the time I spent on the field was freedom.
Freedom from Marlin. Liberation from the ever-present feeling like I needed to protect my mother. Autonomy from feeling like I was forced to shed my childhood way too early.
The time I spent upon the pitcher’s mound was the closest I ever felt to having control of my life. I don’t know if Gannett truly knows just how much I appreciate him bringing this back to me today, but I’m touched that he took the day off to do it all the same.
The place is packed, I note, when he steers his truck into one of the parking spaces. “Huh,” he hums, “I don’t know why I thought it wouldn’t be so fuckin’ busy here today.” He spins in his seat to face me. “Sorry…”
“For what? It’s fine,” I reassure him, hopping out. “I don’t mind the wait, and we’ve got all day off together.”
He smiles, and we find a place to sit. It takes a bit, but we finally get a turn. Surprisingly, for a former footballer, Gannett doesn’t do too shabby. I still outshine him, though, the swing of the bat too well-engrained into my muscle memory.
