Page 63 of Puck the Coach's Son
“Who told you you could be this hard?”
“You.”
“I did.”
My thumb drags along the crease.
“Yes.”
“Tell me whose hand this is.”
“Yours.”
My fist squeezes at the base of him.
“Tell me whose cock this is.”
“Yours.”
“Good.”
I work him slow. My other hand is back on him, soapy, the thumb along the crease, pressing and not pushing. I've got a thumb over his hole, a fist on his cock, my mouth on his ear.I'm whispering filth at him he's never going to unhear.Look at you. Look how wet you are for me. You gonna come for me in a shower stall at your dad's rink, sweetheart. You gonna come all over my fist right here.He's nodding against the tile. Nodding and nodding. I speed the fist up. I let my thumb breach him a second time, just a press at the tip. He comes.
He comes hard into my hand, biting down on his own arm. The sound he makes is almost nothing. I feel it come through his whole body because his whole body is against mine. The water takes what my fist doesn't hold. He's shaking. I hold him through it. The water keeps running. I tighten my grip to ride the last of it out.
He sags.
I hold him up.
“Good boy.”
“Maddox?”
His forehead stays pressed to the tile.
“Yeah?”
“I…”
“Yeah. I know.”
I wait. I let him get his breath. His forehead is on the tile. The water is the only sound. I reach past him and pump a handful of soap and I wash my hand, and then I wash him again where he came on himself, clinical this time, fast, because we are on a clock. The hot water is still going. The steam is thick.
Then I turn him around.
“On your knees.”
He goes down without waiting for me to make it an order a second time. He kneels on the tile with the water running down the back of his head and his eyes come up to me and his mouth opens a little, because he has learned in three days what his mouth is for when he is on his knees and I'm over him.
“Hand on the base. Yes?”
“Yes.”
I cup the back of his skull.
“Use your throat like I showed you Friday.”
“Yes.”
