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Summary
Shane had been sucking Rozanov’s mostly soft dick for between six and eight minutes. Since all the most important moments of Shane’s life were timed, he had a good internal clock. He was pretty sure it had been eight minutes.
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Bookmark Notes:
"A hockey stick was just a piece of wood, a puck was just rubber, a goal was just metal and netting, and a rink was just frozen water, polished to a shine. But in a game, they all felt like something else, and what they became in turn became the only thing. It was a whole world you could live in.
That was how Rozanov felt to Shane.
His tongue was just a tongue, made out of whatever muscle and tissue and weird skin anyone else’s tongue was made of. His chest was like anyone else’s chest. His dick—still not all the way hard, but warm and firmer, now, against Shane’s hip—was no different from Shane’s dick, or from any of the thousands of dicks Shane had glanced away from in locker rooms. But his body felt to Shane like something other than what it was. Sometimes Shane wanted to be closer to him than anyone could get to another person, including through anal. A few times when they were fucking he had had the nearly irresistible urge to wrap his arms and legs around Rozanov."
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Bookmark Notes:
Love! So soft
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Bookmark Notes:
Couple goals