maybe five left, then one to clean up and one to get back. So I don’t speed up too much, because I want to use up every one of those five minutes. It’s just a quickie, but I want to feel those legs back against mine, the shoulders against my chest, the muscles that can stop him on a dime, turn him to catch the ball carrier, and bring him down.
My legs strain against his, the legs that can push me past blockers and take tacklers with me down the field. I hold onto his chest with an arm, my other hand wrapped around his cock. For all the lube, I won’t let it out of my grip, not ’til we’re in the end zone. He writhes and pushes back, both of us panting now, his whole body tight and hard as his cock, me crushing him against the wall, buried deep in him and thrusting faster despite myself, unable to help it.
It’s still not as fast as that one time up in Yerba where his team was losing at the half. Coach kept them three precious extra minutes, so he already had his pants off and the condom on when he jumped into the storeroom back there where I was waiting. I barely had time to gloat about our first half before we were both shuddering, coming together, and then he pulled out of me and yanked the condom off, and was gone, with a kiss.
I did gloat later that night, though. That’s the only game we’ve won against them since I joined the team, and even though I only got on the field to return a punt, it still felt good.
The radio says, “We’ll be back with the second half kickoff right after these messages,” and that’s our three-minute warning.
I speed up, both in front and behind. My arm pins him against me while my weight holds him against the wall. His rear works back against my cock, pulling it all the way in, so my hips bang up against him. I bite my lip and then grab his ear; he squirms and clasps my arm, shuddering as I go faster with my fingers, too. His leg shifts. I feel the soreness in the quick movement, but he’s not going to complain, just like I’m not complaining about my shoulder. We know how the game is played. Injuries are for later. Nothing matters when the game’s on.
I huff harder against him. He’s tight in my arms, a compact machine of muscle with energy building, revving up like I am, hot and fast. A moan escapes his throat through his clenched teeth. He’s loud. I love that about him. I hit that moment, that point of no return, when I break into the clear and there’s nothing but green between me and the goal line. My legs work, my hips work, and I let the momentum carry us both. We shudder and spasm, hard coiled springs letting their energy out in a contained burst, a warm, slick, moaning collision of two bodies straining toward the same goal. Heat and sweat and focus all come together in the moment, his warmth spurting out over my fingers, mine emptying into the condom inside him. My antlers smack the wall in front of us as my head jerks forward. I squeeze his body and pump his cock; he squeezes his rear around me and my arm with his fingers.
Together we rock, he moans again and I echo him as the last of the passion drips out of us. He sinks back into me and I grip him tight, his warmth spilling out over my slick fingers. My shoulder complains a little, a distant, barely-noticeable cry. My breath comes hot against his ear, which twitches and flicks. I give it a five count and then pull out of him, through the tightness of him clenching around me the whole time. I lean back on a shelf and pull the condom off, knotting it up at the end.
He kicks a wastebasket toward me and wipes himself clean with a cloth he’s rubbed deodorant into, so the guys won’t smell the lube. I’ve got one in my pocket too, even though I don’t need it as much. My fingers and the base of my cock are slick, that’s all.
Still, he’s finished before I am, pants up, uniform all in place. He looks down at me, tail wagging. I draw the cloth up my shaft. He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips, but
My legs strain against his, the legs that can push me past blockers and take tacklers with me down the field. I hold onto his chest with an arm, my other hand wrapped around his cock. For all the lube, I won’t let it out of my grip, not ’til we’re in the end zone. He writhes and pushes back, both of us panting now, his whole body tight and hard as his cock, me crushing him against the wall, buried deep in him and thrusting faster despite myself, unable to help it.
It’s still not as fast as that one time up in Yerba where his team was losing at the half. Coach kept them three precious extra minutes, so he already had his pants off and the condom on when he jumped into the storeroom back there where I was waiting. I barely had time to gloat about our first half before we were both shuddering, coming together, and then he pulled out of me and yanked the condom off, and was gone, with a kiss.
I did gloat later that night, though. That’s the only game we’ve won against them since I joined the team, and even though I only got on the field to return a punt, it still felt good.
The radio says, “We’ll be back with the second half kickoff right after these messages,” and that’s our three-minute warning.
I speed up, both in front and behind. My arm pins him against me while my weight holds him against the wall. His rear works back against my cock, pulling it all the way in, so my hips bang up against him. I bite my lip and then grab his ear; he squirms and clasps my arm, shuddering as I go faster with my fingers, too. His leg shifts. I feel the soreness in the quick movement, but he’s not going to complain, just like I’m not complaining about my shoulder. We know how the game is played. Injuries are for later. Nothing matters when the game’s on.
I huff harder against him. He’s tight in my arms, a compact machine of muscle with energy building, revving up like I am, hot and fast. A moan escapes his throat through his clenched teeth. He’s loud. I love that about him. I hit that moment, that point of no return, when I break into the clear and there’s nothing but green between me and the goal line. My legs work, my hips work, and I let the momentum carry us both. We shudder and spasm, hard coiled springs letting their energy out in a contained burst, a warm, slick, moaning collision of two bodies straining toward the same goal. Heat and sweat and focus all come together in the moment, his warmth spurting out over my fingers, mine emptying into the condom inside him. My antlers smack the wall in front of us as my head jerks forward. I squeeze his body and pump his cock; he squeezes his rear around me and my arm with his fingers.
Together we rock, he moans again and I echo him as the last of the passion drips out of us. He sinks back into me and I grip him tight, his warmth spilling out over my slick fingers. My shoulder complains a little, a distant, barely-noticeable cry. My breath comes hot against his ear, which twitches and flicks. I give it a five count and then pull out of him, through the tightness of him clenching around me the whole time. I lean back on a shelf and pull the condom off, knotting it up at the end.
He kicks a wastebasket toward me and wipes himself clean with a cloth he’s rubbed deodorant into, so the guys won’t smell the lube. I’ve got one in my pocket too, even though I don’t need it as much. My fingers and the base of my cock are slick, that’s all.
Still, he’s finished before I am, pants up, uniform all in place. He looks down at me, tail wagging. I draw the cloth up my shaft. He raises an eyebrow, licking his lips, but
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