Right-hand English
folder
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,101
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Erotica › General
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
1
Views:
1,101
Reviews:
1
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.
Right-hand English
Right-hand English, that's what Darian calls it. It's a pool term, for the spin placed on the cue ball when you hit it with the cue to the right of the ball's center. Nevertheless, when ever he calls it that, it makes me feel like a professional; as if this were a championship game of 9-ball and he was the one who payed for my registration fee and I was his biggest investment. At least, I like to think that.
I have this thing for looking him in the eye when I'm giving him a handjob. Either pressing him up against a random wall, or catching him while he's trying to read his favorite book, it doesn't matter. When staring into those eyes, leering, and sliding my hands over his cock, I secretly challenge him to muster up the strength to stop me. It's been our little game for a while. He even places his hands on my shoulders as if to push me away. It's cute. I haven't lost yet.
I often daydream about him like this. His body tilting forward, almost hesitantly, head bowed, ass up against the wall with his left leg locked and his right leg buckling from the sudden bouts of lightning rushing through him whenever I twist my hand to the right around the tip of his dick. I love it when his jeans are undone too far down and he has to fight to keep them above his knees. I live to utterly destroy his cool and collected countenance. I smile as I hear him struggling to keep quiet when I'm fisting him in public. I laugh when I finger him and he's trying his best not to scream when I rub that spot. Vindictive, I know. But he's a pool player.
My dreams usually center around the look on his not-normally-expressive face, whenever I give him extra right-hand English. It's an alarming mix between awe, worship, horror, and desperation that I can't ever forget. It's when he's looking at me like this that I want to scream and follow him into what he's feeling. I want to be deep inside of him, so that I can really know it was me doing this to him when he felt like this. It usually only takes a few minutes before he moans for me to stroke faster, then his legs will buckle completely and he'll grunt and sob his completion and relief.
Then it's his turn. And my game is poker.
(A/N: Fisting as in Brit slang for wanking or handjob, not shoving a fist up his ass. That's just counterproductive.)
I have this thing for looking him in the eye when I'm giving him a handjob. Either pressing him up against a random wall, or catching him while he's trying to read his favorite book, it doesn't matter. When staring into those eyes, leering, and sliding my hands over his cock, I secretly challenge him to muster up the strength to stop me. It's been our little game for a while. He even places his hands on my shoulders as if to push me away. It's cute. I haven't lost yet.
I often daydream about him like this. His body tilting forward, almost hesitantly, head bowed, ass up against the wall with his left leg locked and his right leg buckling from the sudden bouts of lightning rushing through him whenever I twist my hand to the right around the tip of his dick. I love it when his jeans are undone too far down and he has to fight to keep them above his knees. I live to utterly destroy his cool and collected countenance. I smile as I hear him struggling to keep quiet when I'm fisting him in public. I laugh when I finger him and he's trying his best not to scream when I rub that spot. Vindictive, I know. But he's a pool player.
My dreams usually center around the look on his not-normally-expressive face, whenever I give him extra right-hand English. It's an alarming mix between awe, worship, horror, and desperation that I can't ever forget. It's when he's looking at me like this that I want to scream and follow him into what he's feeling. I want to be deep inside of him, so that I can really know it was me doing this to him when he felt like this. It usually only takes a few minutes before he moans for me to stroke faster, then his legs will buckle completely and he'll grunt and sob his completion and relief.
Then it's his turn. And my game is poker.
(A/N: Fisting as in Brit slang for wanking or handjob, not shoving a fist up his ass. That's just counterproductive.)