Page 105 of Puck Your Feelings

I don't move to straighten back up. Instead, I start rolling my hips, pumping into him in this exact position. It's not the most convenient. O comfortable. But it's the closest I can be to him, so it's perfect.

"Fuck," he groans, his arms trembling, already struggling to support all that muscle og his upper body.

I want to say something, ask something, make any request I can to keep him talking, to keep hearing his voice, but I can't—I can't produce a single coherent sound, every brain cell laser-focused on the sensation of his hole enveloping me, squeezing my cock so tight it's hard to breathe.

And so I communicate with grunts and groans and whines as I fuck him, faster now, harder, as well as I can coordinate from this awkward position.

I’m struggling to keep my eyes open, but the reward is right there—Becker is a mess, a beautiful fucking mess, and I wish I could carve this image into my memory and keep it forever. His eyes have fallen closed, brows scrunched together in focused effort, head tilted to the side so I can see his profile. He's breathing heavy through parted lips, groans and half-curses falling out every time I shift my hips slightly, searching for new angles, hellbent on making this a night he'll remember forever.

"Yeah," he moans out, not without effort. "Right there. Like that. Keep doing that."

And so I do, fucking him with everything I've got, beads of sweat rolling off my forehead onto the back of his neck, keeping the right angle with utmost precision.

"Oh fuck, I'm gonna come," he barks out through gritted teeth.

"No. No. Not yet," I say, even though my balls are now so tight, so full they feel like they're a second from exploding, pleasure rolling down my body, keeping me on the verge of my own orgasm.

Not yet.

Just a moment more. Two moments. Three.

Every second counts. Every second I can stretch this moment is worth everything and so much more, and if I had my way, I'd make this last forever.

But then we're out of moments.

Becker comes first, a string of incoherent sounds ripping from his chest, cock jolting between his legs, untouched, as he spills onto the makeshift bed, onto the sheets—my sheets.

Good. I'll keep them. I'll steal them and take them home and roll in them every fucking night, forever. That's the lastthought I have before the spasming of Becker’s hole becomes too good, too strong, too much, and I come, hips stilling, cock buried deep inside his body.

I'm still coming, waves of orgasm rolling through my body violently as we both collapse at the same time, my body on top of his, pinning him to the ground with my entire weight.

I'm making him into a pancake, I know. I should move, let the man breathe. But I can't bring myself to lose the contact, the proximity, the weirdly addictive sensation of our combined sweat heating up between our connected bodies.

I give myself exactly seven seconds. Seven seconds of feeling, of being, of breathing him in. Then I lift my body up—not without effort and definitely not without every fiber of my being protesting. I manage to shift my weight to one arm, but barely, while I sneak my free hand between us, squeeze the base of my softening cock to keep the condom in place as I slide out of his body.

And I'm already fucking missing him.

I manage to roll onto my side with the last of my strength. Beside me, Becker has rolled onto his back, legs splayed, knees bent at two different angles, one arm above his head, the other resting on his stomach, boneless.

His eyes are closed and he's breathing through his parted mouth, lips curled into a small smile. He looks... blissful.

"Gotta say," he pants out finally, eyes still closed, still struggling to catch his breath. "Not bad for a robot."

I laugh and roll one hand into a fist to punch him on the chest, but I barely touch him. I have no strength left. I fucked it all out.

For a while, we both zone out—not sleeping, but not exactly conscious either, just existing next to each other in perfect stillness. What more could I ever ask for? What else is there?

By the time we start regaining some brain function, dusk has turned to night.

"Now, tell me," Becker says as he rolls to his side, hand propped on his elbow, eyes on mine. "How different was it?"

I scrunch my forehead. "Different? As in...?"

"As in, I take it that was your first time having butt sex?" He says it with such ease. "Or were you just yanking my chain?"

"Oh." My cheeks heat up again and I avert my gaze. Should I tell him? I bite my lower lip, considering. Ah, what the hell. Might as well let it all out. "Actually... it was, um. My first time having any sex."

I hold my breath and count the seconds. When no reaction comes after five, I chance a glance at his face, only to find him wide-eyed, mouth half-open. Stunned, I believe is the correct term.