Page 78 of Puck the Coach's Son
I'm already unbuckling.
I get my pants open. I get the cup off. I get the compression shorts down far enough. My cock comes out hard and flushed and already leaking at the tip from forty minutes of watching him try not to come in his gear.
Theo looks up at me.
His eyes are wet.
“Open.”
He opens.
I put two fingers in his mouth first. I run them along his tongue. I check whether he's there. His eyes close and he leans into my hand, and I know he is.
“Good boy.”
I swap my fingers for my cock.
I don’t go easy.
I get one hand on the back of his helmet that he forgot to take off, which makes a fucking excellent handle, and I guide him onto me until I feel him hit the back of his throat. He gags. I hold. Two seconds. He swallows around me and it's the dirtiest thing a mouth has done to me in ten years.
I pull back.
“Breathe.”
He breathes.
I go back in.
I set a rhythm he can follow. I'm not cruel about it. Cruel isn't the word. Cruel would be making him choose. I'm not. I'm taking. There's a difference, and his mouth knows the difference and opens for it.
“You came in your gear for me.”
He hums around me.
“You came in your gear in front of your father.”
He hums again, and I feel his throat move.
“Nobody in the history of hockey has ever loved getting someone's dick like you love getting mine.”
His hand comes up and grips my thigh.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, baby. Just like that.”
I feel it start to climb. I pull back once, all the way out, just the head on his lower lip, because I want to see his face for the next part.
“Where do you want it.”
He can't talk. He tries. He can't. He opens his mouth wider instead.
“Good.”
I push back in.
I come with my hand on the back of his helmet and his mouth sealed around me and his eyes on mine the whole time and I don't pull out until he's swallowed everything he can swallow and a thin line of it has run down his chin onto his jersey.
I ease out.
