Another Hotel Bar

I climbed in and held the blanket so you could climb in, too, your back to my chest. When you were settled, I found the base of the plug and twisted it back and forth and then slid it in and out before sliding it out altogether.

“I’m going to plug you, Clayton,” I whispered as I slowly entered you. “You don’t need toys when you have me.”

You answered me with a deep, chesty moan and a slight wiggle that freed me and allowed me to enter you fully, all the way to my base. We spent the better part of the afternoon watching Fleabag with me buried inside you, our own version of “Netflix and Chill.” Each time I started to flag, I whispered Clayton, and you worked me hard again from the inside. It was a pro move for someone who still had cherry juice in him.

At some point, you got the giggles. Each time you tried to suppress them, they came back stronger.

When I insisted on knowing what was so funny, you squeaked out something about a year ago and “now I’ve been lying here for over an hour with a dick in my ass, a hard dick no less.”

“A soft dick would have slipped out,” I helped, which only made you laugh harder. I could feel your laughter around my erection, and it revved my engine. I placed my right hand on your right hip and slowly fucked you, the way I like to fuck. Your laughter turned to feathery gasps.

“Go faster, Jacks,” you urged.