Page 62 of Puck the Coach's Son
I'm not gentle. Gentle isn't what I'm here for. My hands are big and I use them like hands, not like a washcloth. I run them along the line of his traps, down his biceps, up again, around his collarbones. I find the two small moles on his left shoulder I noticed on Friday. I put my thumb over the upper one and press and hold.
“Breathe,” I say.
He breathes.
His chest goes under my palm when I slide my hand down around the front of him. I find the flat of his sternum. His ribs. The small divot at the base of his throat. I wash him with the whole weight of my hand. Every pass is a mark I'm leaving onhim. He's going to walk out of this stall with the feel of my hands all over his skin.
My other hand comes around the front and finds his nipple.
I put my thumb over it.
I drag my thumb across it once.
He makes a sound.
He cuts the sound in half in his throat. He remembers. Quiet. The building. I slide my palm off his chest and up to his mouth, and I put two fingers against his lips.
“Open.”
He opens.
I put the fingers in his mouth.
His tongue is hot. His mouth closes over my fingers. He sucks once on instinct. His throat works. His whole body pushes back against mine. My cock jumps against the small of his back.
“There it is,” I say at his ear. “There you are.”
My hands continue to map him.
I wash his ribs. His flanks. The line of his waist. I wash his hips. I run my palm flat over his stomach and feel it tighten in small jumps under my hand. I wash his thighs, front and inside. I crouch behind him and wash the backs of his knees, the backs of his thighs, the line where his ass meets his thighs. He's holding the tile with both hands now. His back is bowed. Water hits his neck and runs down his sides in sheets.
I stand up.
I kiss the back of his neck.
Then I get to the part I've been saving.
I pump more soap. I run my hand down the crease of his ass. The heel of my hand first, then my fingers. He gasps against the tile. His fingers scratch at the grout. I put my soapy fingers between his cheeks and drag the pad of my index finger over his hole, light, once, just to say I'm here.
He whimpers.
“Shh.”
He bites the inside of his forearm.
I smile at his neck.
“Good. Good boy.”
I push the tip of my finger in a quarter inch. No further. I don't have prep. I don't have patience to find any. I want him to know what my finger feels like. I want him to feel me there and think about me there in his bed tonight and think about me there at lunch with his father and think about me there at every meal and every skate and every fucking hour until he gets to see me next.
I pull my finger out.
I reach around the front of him.
I take his cock in my hand.
He's hard and slick and leaking. The water makes him slicker. I've had this fist around him in my head for three days and now I've got him in it for real. I stroke once, slow, full length. He makes a small sound at the tile. He buries his face in his arm to keep it in his chest.
