On the Lam

I had no intention to come under his spell again. I just forgot to tell my feet that. He scooted to the foot of the bed, on his belly, and reached up and unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers as I came up to him. He sucked my cock, as I unbuttoned my shirt, pulled it off my back, and then dropped my trousers and briefs. When I had stripped, he turned on his back and let his head drop over the end of the bed, giving me a straight passage for a deep-throated face fuck that had me moaning in remembrance of how good Kyle was at this.

Then I sat on the foot of the bed, as he—much smaller than I was and quite limber—sat in my lap, his channel sheathing my cock, facing me and, using the leverage of his feet planted on either side of my hips, rising and falling on my cock. His passage was tight, which surprised me, as I was sure he slutted around, and he had a thing he did with the muscles of his passage walls that made love to my cock and milked it as no one else had ever done.

“What do you want to drink while I’m fixing supper?” I asked him later when we went downstairs. He was sitting in the living room, facing the fireplace.

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

“I forgot you liked those. I’m afraid I don’t have any mix for that—haven’t had it since you were gone.”