Chapter 5 #2
The heat was insane. Scorching, velvety, and so fucking tight it gripped my finger, his inner walls rippling and clenching in confused protest. Brett groaned deep in his throat, the sound traveling straight through my cock and into my spine.
He overcorrected hard, trying to take me deeper into his mouth all at once and choking himself in the process.
He pulled back, coughing wetly around the head, then resumed with raw determination, sucking harder like the stretch in his ass was fueling him.
I worked my finger in further, sliding into that scorching, gripping heat.
His hips rolled, chasing the intrusion. His breathing turned loud and ragged through his nose, heavy, desperate puffs against my skin as he tried to manage the overwhelming stretch of his virgin hole while still servicing my cock.
I smiled against the curve of his muscular ass.
“Good boy,” I said softly.
His body shuddered.
I worked my finger deeper, curling and searching until I found it.
There. That soft, swollen ridge of his prostate gland, slightly firmer than the rest of his slick inner walls, tucked right where I knew it would be.
I pressed it.
Brett’s entire body bucked beneath me. His hips jerked against my hand, a strangled, broken sound tearing out of his throat and vibrating through my cock.
His massive thighs shook, powerful muscles jumping and twitching as his hole clenched around my invading finger.
His big hands flew up and grabbed my hips with bruising strength, fingers digging in so hard I knew I’d have marks tomorrow.
I rubbed that magical spot again, tracing slow, deliberate circles right against his prostate.
He lost it.
The big, arrogant jock went absolutely fucking nuts.
His rhythm on my cock fell apart instantly.
He started sucking like a man possessed, sloppy and desperate, spit smearing all over my balls while he moaned around my shaft.
His hips ground against my hand in frantic little circles, chasing every stroke against that swollen button, his virgin hole fluttering and squeezing so tight it nearly trapped my finger inside him.
His heavy balls strained uselessly in the steel cage, the short tube bouncing and tugging with every desperate thrust of his hips.
The cage was already slick with a steady leak of pre-cum that smeared across his thigh and onto my sheets.
Low, continuous groans poured out of him, muffled and wet around my cock, the sounds of a proud alpha jock completely shattered by a single finger in his ass.
Then he got his focus back.
And he went for my cock like the competitor he was.
He took me deeper than before, throat opening up with raw hunger, sucking me down in messy, enthusiastic strokes that had no technique left, just pure need.
His tongue worked frantically, his lips stretched wide and shiny, spit everywhere as he bobbed like his life depended on it.
His hole kept clenching and rippling around my finger while I rubbed that prostate in firm, relentless circles, milking him from the inside while he milked me from the outside.
The heat built fast.
My finger kept working that swollen little button, pressing and circling, feeling it pulse and swell even more under the constant stimulation.
Brett kept shaking apart, groaning, grinding, then pulling himself back together only to fall apart again, his massive body trembling and sweating beneath me.
The filthy wet sounds of his sloppy throat, the desperate slap of his hips against my hand, and the constant vibration of his broken moans pushed me right to the edge.
“I’m going to cum,” I said. A warning.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t even slow down.
If anything, he sucked harder, throat working greedily, hands pulling my hips toward his face as he tried to take every inch.
I pressed hard against his prostate one final time, rubbing it firmly, and the orgasm slammed into me.
I came hard, hips stuttering as I shot thick, heavy ropes down his throat in long, rolling pulses that seemed to go on forever.
A raw sound tore out of me that I barely recognized as my own voice.
My cock throbbed and pulsed between his lips while he swallowed every drop like he was starving for it, throat milking me rhythmically, greedily, hands locked on my hips pulling me deeper instead of pushing me away.
He kept sucking even after I was spent, tongue swirling, making sure he got every last drop of my cum.
Brett Calloway, the jock who’d never touched another man before tonight, had just swallowed my load like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
“Good boy,” I said again, quieter this time.
His only response was a long, shaky exhale against my thigh.
My finger was still buried deep inside him, still resting firm against that swollen, sensitive button.
I withdrew my finger slowly.
Brett whined. An actual, unguarded whine, high and needy, completely unlike anything I’d ever heard from him.
“More,” he said. Not demanding, but not asking, and not quite begging.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe.”
He made a low, dissatisfied growl deep in his chest, but didn’t argue. That was progress. The big, locked-up jock was already learning.
I rolled off him and lay on my back, coming back down from everything that had just happened. My body felt loose and heavy. Brett lay beside me, breathing hard, the cage glinting in the light, his hair a mess, his lips swollen.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Drink some water,” I said. I reached over to my nightstand and handed him my bottle.
He drank. Handed it back. Lay still for a moment.
“You can stay the night,” I offered. “If you want.”
He didn’t answer right away. I thought he might make a joke or deflect, or do something characteristically Brett about it. Instead, he just shifted, rotated around, and settled his head against my chest.
All six-three of him, curled in, quiet, one heavy arm crossing my stomach.
I looked down at the top of his head.
There was something strange and tender about this big physical force of a person folded against me like he just needed somewhere to land. The performance was completely gone. No grin, no angle, no calculation. Just Brett, breathing slowly, getting heavier by the minute.
I put my hand on the back of his head and stroked behind his ear.
“Seven days,” he murmured into my chest.
“A little less than six and a half,” I said.
He made a sound that might have been a laugh.
Then he was asleep.
I lay there in the dark listening to him breathe, my hand still resting on his head, thinking about how this had started as an exercise in teaching the jock a lesson.
It had become something considerably more complicated.
I turned the lamp off, closed my eyes, and whispered, “Good night.”