Page 51 of Puck the Coach's Son
His cock is hard.
I'm looking at a cock that isn't mine for the first time in my life. It's hard because of me. The fact of it doesn't fit inside myhead all at once. I have to look at it in pieces. The length. The curve. The vein along the underside. The foreskin partly back and the flushed head. The dark hair at the base. The heavy weight of it jutting at me from his hips.
His hand comes into my hair.
His hand is big. His fingers slide up the back of my head. His palm settles. He doesn't pull. He just holds.
“Look at me, sweetheart.”
I look up.
His face is above me. Green-brown eyes. Mouth a hard line. Hair damp at the temples.
“Open your mouth.”
“Okay.”
His hand in my hair flexes once.
“Relax your jaw. I'm going to use it.”
“Okay.”
His eyes hold mine.
“One rule. If you actually need me to stop, you tap my leg twice. Twice. Hard. Hear me.”
“I hear you.”
His grip in my hair tightens.
“Otherwise I'm not stopping.”
“Okay.”
His palm settles against the back of my skull.
“Say back the tap.”
“Two taps.”
“Good boy.”
My stomach does the drop again.
He guides me with the hand in my hair.
I open my mouth.
He slides himself through my lips. The taste doesn't match anything I've ever had in my mouth before. Skin. Heat. A small salt. The weight of him on my tongue is a weight I don't havea word for. His hand tightens in my hair one degree. He makes a sound that isn't a word. The sound goes through me from the crown of my head to the place low in my belly where the pull is.
I do what he said.
My mouth. My tongue. My hand on the base.
I do it badly for about ten seconds.
I do it less badly after that.
