Page 69 of Forbidden Hockey

His hand reaches out; fingers gently brush my cock.

“That’s for you, baby.”

I can’t wait any more, pressing the head of my dick to that tight, slick ring, watching his breath falter, his eyes glued to what I’m doing.

Sliding into him is like a homecoming. Didn’t expect that. He’s special to me, there’s no doubt about it, but it still baffles me how right this feels despite our large-ass age difference.

He’s open for me, lube and saliva glistening around his hole and along my shaft, as I pull it out enough to make a nice long slide back in. I hit the sweet spot for him; his mouth falls open with a cry. I love the way he’s exposed, love the way he surrenders for me.

“Tell me where you belong, or I’m pulling out.”

“Your cock. I belong on your cock, Trav. Fucking, please!” he says, voice more desperate than I’ve ever heard it.

He could have totally called my bluff on that one. I doubt I could take my cock from his hole if I tried. I want to live here now. It feels so. Fucking. Good. I thrust, juggling between watching my dick disappear in and out of him and his face. I’m big, but he can take me, his muscles clenching around my dick in all the right places.

Dirk’s eyes are filled with wild amazement. “I can’t believe you’re in me, Trav,” he says as if this is a sacred moment.

And it is.

I pause here, so I can take a snapshot. Dirk’s got the masculine presence of a prowling lion, but when I’ve got him like this, at the command of my brutish energy, he’s fucking precious.

Nibbling on his neck, I’m careful not to leave the marks I want to there, where they can be seen, but I plot out what I’ll leave someday.

“What do you think, pretty boy? Time for me to claim you?”

“I—wait,” he says, halting the thrust I was about to make. He slides a hand over my cheek, closing his eyes as if he’s reciting a prayer. “Okay, fucking take me.”

Good. I have a stipulation of my own. With my thick thumb and forefinger, I maneuver his face so his eyes will be able toflick down and watch what my dick does, but also to me so he can witness the possession in my eyes.

“You’ll watch me as I ruin you.”

I don’t wait for an answer, and I thrust. He claws at my back, sensing he’ll need to hold on for dear life. With him being a hockey player, the same brand of guy who lives by the motto “We wear jerseys, chug beer, and go to war”, sometimes even playing with broken bones, I don’t need to restrain myself. I won’t insult him like that. I release the chains from my inner lion, letting him rip through me

And I take him.

Take what’s mine.

Dirk gets no mercy. He doesn’t want it, either.

“You’re mine,” I growl each time I hit that perfect spot, his body answering by taking me as if he’s been waiting his whole life to be broken open like this. I pound once, twice, harder, the rhythm building to something feral. He cycles between clawing the sheets and my skin, his nails leaving traces down my torso. I answer back with teeth, bruises, and kisses that force him to beg for air.

“Fuuuuuck. Oh my god. Yeah, right there. Right fucking—aaah!”

I drive my dick into his pert ass, my fucking ass now, over and over, carving my very own pathway through his insides.

Still feels like I’m not deep enough. I push his leg up, it’s a thick hockey thigh, but I easily maneuver it with my monstrous hands. He doesn’t get to hide from me. He can be spread, open and vulnerable for me. I bite his shoulder until he cries out, and quickly press my lips there to soothe the ache.

I want to be his pain and pleasure, his comfort and his nightmare.

A pleasure-filled hiss leaves my lungs, and Dirk’s eyes roll back as if my cock’s making him delirious. Through the wildpassion, I find a heartbeat to be amused and proud as a fucking peacock. Him here, writhing on my cock. Letting me take him. Hell, he begged me to. I’ll never take that gift for granted. He’s giving his body and soul to me, and I’ll always worship him in the way he deserves, but he’ll know how mine he is while I do it.

“Am I making myself clear, baby?” I say in a husky murmur, checking to see if he understands what I’m saying through action instead of words.

“Yes,” he cries. “Yes, Trav. You fucking own me, I’m fucking yours. I know where I belong—I know who I belong to.”

As much as I love telling him those things, words are useless if he can’t feel me in his body. I need his heart to pound with me, his blood to flow with me, and his bones to ache with want for me.

The same way my body cries for him.