Yes, I willed him like a coach to, “Blow your load, Nate. Shoot a spray on your stomach. I want to see you blow it. Don’t let me down.”
“Of course,” he groaned beneath my work.
I pumped his stick with my mouth and throat, and felt both of his palms on the rear of my skull. He pushed me against and over his tool, and attempted to suffocate me, blocking off oxygen to my brain. I didn’t mind such firm and aggressive action, though. Not in the least. In fact, it was precisely what I wanted from him. My head thrust up and down with his palms’ help. And his hips thrusts upwards, fierce and dynamic, unstoppable. Together we labored and built perspiration between us, willing him to blow a white spiral of cream out of his spigot, causing him to go spent.
Our final goal became achieved a few minu
