Page 101 of Rule 3: Never Fake Marry the Coach's Son
I kiss Dmitri’s bottom again, sucking on his skin. I move closer to his hole. My cock is harder now, and before I know it, I’ve buried my face inside his crease. The musky scent isn’t unappealing. I kiss inside his cheeks, venturing to a place I know other people venture but which I’ve always been somewhat skeptical of.
I’m not skeptical any longer. Dmitri moans beneath me, and I go ahead and lick his puckered hole.
It’s good. It’s so good.
My cock hardens, and I bury my face between his cheeks, continuing to lick his hole.
His breaths sputter unevenly, growing louder and more frantic. I massage his cheeks with his hands, gripping hold of the firm globes, and move my tongue into his hole.
God, I want to be inside him.
I want to be inside him in every way.
I want our bodies to be joined.
I raise my head up. My cock jerks; I’m harder than I’ve ever been. I run my fingers along my cock once more, ascertaining that I’m still slicked up for him. I delve my fingers into his hole, spreading him open.
“Oskar...” Dmitri says, and that’s my cue.
I place my cock against his hole. I inhale.
Dmitri has already taken my anal virginity, but this, I’ve never done.
Then I slide in.
It’s amazing.
Of course it’s amazing.
Everyone says it’s amazing.
Dmitri might be experienced, but I’m doing something with him that he’s never done before. His body tenses.
“Are you okay? Was it too fast?”
He chuckles, but his voice sounds strangled, as if he’s really struggling.
“Keep on going.”
I hesitate, unsure.
Then Dmitri reaches behind himself, clutches hold of my cock and starts to slide up against.
“You want it in you?” My voice is soft.
“Of course. It’s you.”
And then I push deeper inside him, into a tight, hot world that is all new to me. His channel is smooth, and it grips my cock in a new, unfamiliar way.
I smooth my hands over Dmitri’s body, because there’s no way I can be satisfied with just my cock inside him. I want to be as close to him as I possibly can. Because I am not just creating a glorious, oh-my-God evening with him, I am creating memories to sustain me.
His body is slick with sweat. It glistens, as if he needed anything else to make the muscular planes of his body look anymore stunning.
He lets out a gasp.
“Was that okay?”
“That was...” He halts, as if struggling to speak. Guilt moves through me. Maybe I didn’t stretch him enough. Maybe I was hasty, too eager, too excited—
