havin’ much luck feeling your way out there in the field.”
My cock gives another jump. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let go, not just pressing bare hips against bare rear, not just thrusting up inside him, but just to be with him, to be myself and be with him. “I got a feeling this hole’s gonna be easier to find,” I say. His tongue lolls out when he laughs, even though it’s the same joke we always make. I yank my pants down, taking a precious five seconds just to stand there and look at him, the muscular, beautiful lines, the slightly spread legs. I dunno which I like more, fucking him or being fucked, but it don’t matter, ‘cause he feels the same. We worked it out like this: home team gets to be on bottom, visitor on top.
“Play clock’s windin’ down,” he growls, holding a bottle of lube in a backthrust paw. “Yeah, yeah. Let me get my uni on.” I keep a condom in my pocket. It takes about ten seconds to roll it down over myself, another ten to grab his lube and coat myself with it pretty good. Then I step in behind him and get into position. Later, after the game, there’ll be a quiet dinner in Crystal City’s gay neighborhood, where a big coyote and stag blend in pretty well with the rest of the gym rats from the beach. There’ll be a few drinks in a bar, maybe dancing in a club where the lights stay low and we can bump and shove without football pads between us. There’ll be time to undress slowly at his apartment, to look at each other and touch each other, to make comments on workouts and the injuries of the season, my sore shoulder, his sore knee. And there’ll be, maybe, a little time tomorrow morning before my team’s plane leaves. This moment here is all about the game and the sex, the need and the release, the here and the now, but it doesn’t stop me thinkin’ about the other stuff while I’m gettin’ my hands on him.
The highlights on the radio are all about the Sabretooths scoring now as I get into position between his cheeks. He chuckles and says, “Sweet,” and that might be about the pressure behind him, but the radio’s also just played the highlight of a passing touchdown. And I know him. Whichever one I assume it is, he’ll claim it’s the other. It was a sweet play—70-something yards—but I don’t rise to the bait. I just reach around and find him as hard as I am. My slick fingers squeeze, rubbing up and down his cock. “Shut up,” I say pleasantly.
“Big talk,” he says, but he shivers and pushes back against me. I push myself inside him, a little roughly, giving his cock another squeeze as I do. He stiffens. I press my nose to his cheek and exhale through the fur. My blood’s racing like it does when I stand behind the quarterback, waiting to get the ball. Every muscle tenses and twitches. The radio moves on to defensive highlights, choosing one where my coyote here broke through the line and dropped our wolverine in the backfield for a loss. “That run is stuffed,” the announcer yells.
I see his tongue lolling out again as he laughs. “How’s this for stuffed?” I growl, and shove myself into him, all the way up. He’s tight around my cock, and hot, too, with the exertion of the first half. I feel him relax to let me in, then clench again.
He growls. A moan escapes through them. “Good… penetration there…” he pants.
I wriggle, then pull out and start thrusting again, up and back, up and back, in a quick rhythm. He arches back against me as I wrap my other arm around his waist, holding his back to my stomach as my hips move back and forth, sliding my cock out and pressing it back in. I give him the same rhythm, stroking up and down his shaft, jerking him off the way I know he likes it. His squirming, panting response tells me I’m doing it right.
And he clenches around me the way he knows I like it, keeping it nice and tight as I press in. We’re both of us counting off the minutes in our head, and we know we’ve got
My cock gives another jump. I want to wrap my arms around him and never let go, not just pressing bare hips against bare rear, not just thrusting up inside him, but just to be with him, to be myself and be with him. “I got a feeling this hole’s gonna be easier to find,” I say. His tongue lolls out when he laughs, even though it’s the same joke we always make. I yank my pants down, taking a precious five seconds just to stand there and look at him, the muscular, beautiful lines, the slightly spread legs. I dunno which I like more, fucking him or being fucked, but it don’t matter, ‘cause he feels the same. We worked it out like this: home team gets to be on bottom, visitor on top.
“Play clock’s windin’ down,” he growls, holding a bottle of lube in a backthrust paw. “Yeah, yeah. Let me get my uni on.” I keep a condom in my pocket. It takes about ten seconds to roll it down over myself, another ten to grab his lube and coat myself with it pretty good. Then I step in behind him and get into position. Later, after the game, there’ll be a quiet dinner in Crystal City’s gay neighborhood, where a big coyote and stag blend in pretty well with the rest of the gym rats from the beach. There’ll be a few drinks in a bar, maybe dancing in a club where the lights stay low and we can bump and shove without football pads between us. There’ll be time to undress slowly at his apartment, to look at each other and touch each other, to make comments on workouts and the injuries of the season, my sore shoulder, his sore knee. And there’ll be, maybe, a little time tomorrow morning before my team’s plane leaves. This moment here is all about the game and the sex, the need and the release, the here and the now, but it doesn’t stop me thinkin’ about the other stuff while I’m gettin’ my hands on him.
The highlights on the radio are all about the Sabretooths scoring now as I get into position between his cheeks. He chuckles and says, “Sweet,” and that might be about the pressure behind him, but the radio’s also just played the highlight of a passing touchdown. And I know him. Whichever one I assume it is, he’ll claim it’s the other. It was a sweet play—70-something yards—but I don’t rise to the bait. I just reach around and find him as hard as I am. My slick fingers squeeze, rubbing up and down his cock. “Shut up,” I say pleasantly.
“Big talk,” he says, but he shivers and pushes back against me. I push myself inside him, a little roughly, giving his cock another squeeze as I do. He stiffens. I press my nose to his cheek and exhale through the fur. My blood’s racing like it does when I stand behind the quarterback, waiting to get the ball. Every muscle tenses and twitches. The radio moves on to defensive highlights, choosing one where my coyote here broke through the line and dropped our wolverine in the backfield for a loss. “That run is stuffed,” the announcer yells.
I see his tongue lolling out again as he laughs. “How’s this for stuffed?” I growl, and shove myself into him, all the way up. He’s tight around my cock, and hot, too, with the exertion of the first half. I feel him relax to let me in, then clench again.
He growls. A moan escapes through them. “Good… penetration there…” he pants.
I wriggle, then pull out and start thrusting again, up and back, up and back, in a quick rhythm. He arches back against me as I wrap my other arm around his waist, holding his back to my stomach as my hips move back and forth, sliding my cock out and pressing it back in. I give him the same rhythm, stroking up and down his shaft, jerking him off the way I know he likes it. His squirming, panting response tells me I’m doing it right.
And he clenches around me the way he knows I like it, keeping it nice and tight as I press in. We’re both of us counting off the minutes in our head, and we know we’ve got
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