Page 34 of Wood

Holy fuck, he is inside me. My cock is down his throat and his finger is sliding in and out, in and out, then lightning flashes over me as he presses my prostate, and I scream a hoarse cry as the flash engulfs my body, every nerve aflame, gripping me without mercy, and I erupt into his throat.

Fuck, I didn’t mean to cum yet. He hasn’t told me to cum, but my cock is spurting with each stroke of his finger, and I’m utterly helpless.

“Fuuuuck!” I scream and he chuckles around my cock. “Ben, fuck, I can’t…”

He lifts his head. “It’s ok, baby, just cum, such a good boy you are.”

Another stroke of his finger and I’m pulsing again. He is controlling my body, stroking me like I’m his instrument to play, the master of my body and my mind, and I simply yield. He can do whatever he wants to me. I come apart and sob under his touch until I’m drained and still I throb under his fingers, onto his tongue.

“Fuck, Ben, please,” I beg.

“Please, what, baby,” he croons.

I have no idea, just please. Please stop. Please don’t stop, please never ever, ever stop, oh my god, so good, I can’t cum anymore, I’m sorry, please don’t stop, so good, I need it, so good, need you, oh please.

“Ohh baby, I won’t ever stop making it so good,” he says, kissing his way up my body.

Apparently, I said all of that aloud, but I don’t care. I’m a puddle, a mass of sweaty flesh, gooey and messy and oh, so fucking drained.

He wipes a hand over my face, brushing away the tears I apparently cried. He pulls the pillow from under me and tugs my legs from my clenching hands, and I’m lying prone, legs flopped open, boneless. Tugging my head onto his shoulder, he rolls me into him. I realize he still has his clothes on.

“You didn’t…” I murmur against his chest, and he laughs.

“Oh, I did,” he admits.

I look down and yes, there is a giant wet patch on his jeans. I look up and grin.

He is not embarrassed at all.

“Haven’t done that in at least a decade,” he admits. “But you were so beautiful, my gorgeous pretty boy.” He pecks a kiss on my lips, running his fingers through my hair.

I hum happily, my eyes drifting closed.

“Sleep,” he says, tugging me in tightly.

Monday is our first official practice day and we start out in the late morning with a ten-twenty-eight tee time.

The first hole is a difficult par-four and the mist is coming in sideways, drifting across the fairway and beading up on our jackets. We are alone, with a group of three ahead of us and a pair behind us.

“Two, two-fifty out of the left rough on a normal day,” I state, looking out from the tee box.

“Not a normal day,” Ben replies and pulls the driver out. He swings it around, waggles it over the ball.

I break some grass off and toss it up, testing the wind. Hard off the water, coming in on the right.

“Don’t,” I warn, and Ben chuckles.

“Just thinking about it,” he laughs.

I pull the three-wood and hand it to him. “Think with this.”

“Now who’s bossy?” he chuckles, but he trades me and takes a practice swing. The wind tugs at him at the top of the swing, and he shakes his head.

“Two more down?” I ask. “That wind isn’t done yet. It’s shifted since we walked up.”

He nods, and I pull the four-iron and trade him yet again.

“Feels silly off the tee,” Ben says, shaking his head, but he sets up.