Low, continuous groans poured out of him, muffled and wet around my cock, the sounds of a proud alpha jock completely shattered by a single finger in his ass.
Then he got his focus back.
And he went for my cock like the competitor he was.
He took me deeper than before, throat opening up with raw hunger, sucking me down in messy, enthusiastic strokes that had no technique left, just pure need. His tongue worked frantically, his lips stretched wide and shiny, spit everywhere as he bobbed like his life depended on it. His hole kept clenching and rippling around my finger while I rubbed that prostate in firm, relentless circles, milking him from the inside while he milked me from the outside.
The heat built fast.
My finger kept working that swollen little button, pressing and circling, feeling it pulse and swell even more under the constant stimulation. Brett kept shaking apart, groaning,grinding, then pulling himself back together only to fall apart again, his massive body trembling and sweating beneath me. The filthy wet sounds of his sloppy throat, the desperate slap of his hips against my hand, and the constant vibration of his broken moans pushed me right to the edge.
“I’m going to cum,” I said. A warning.
He didn’t stop.
He didn’t even slow down.
If anything, he sucked harder, throat working greedily, hands pulling my hips toward his face as he tried to take every inch.
I pressed hard against his prostate one final time, rubbing it firmly, and the orgasm slammed into me.
I came hard, hips stuttering as I shot thick, heavy ropes down his throat in long, rolling pulses that seemed to go on forever. A raw sound tore out of me that I barely recognized as my own voice. My cock throbbed and pulsed between his lips while he swallowed every drop like he was starving for it, throat milking me rhythmically, greedily, hands locked on my hips pulling me deeper instead of pushing me away. He kept sucking even after I was spent, tongue swirling, making sure he got every last drop of my cum.
Brett Calloway, the jock who’d never touched another man before tonight, had just swallowed my load like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done.
“Good boy,” I said again, quieter this time.
His only response was a long, shaky exhale against my thigh.
My finger was still buried deep inside him, still resting firm against that swollen, sensitive button.
I withdrew my finger slowly.
Brett whined. An actual, unguarded whine, high and needy, completely unlike anything I’d ever heard from him.
“More,” he said. Not demanding, but not asking, and not quite begging.
“Maybe tomorrow,” I said.
“Maybe?”
“Maybe.”
He made a low, dissatisfied growl deep in his chest, but didn’t argue. That was progress. The big, locked-up jock was already learning.
I rolled off him and lay on my back, coming back down from everything that had just happened. My body felt loose and heavy. Brett lay beside me, breathing hard, the cage glinting in the light, his hair a mess, his lips swollen.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” A pause. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“Drink some water,” I said. I reached over to my nightstand and handed him my bottle.
He drank. Handed it back. Lay still for a moment.
“You can stay the night,” I offered. “If you want.”
He didn’t answer right away. I thought he might make a joke or deflect, or do something characteristically Brett about it. Instead, he just shifted, rotated around, and settled his head against my chest.