Enjoy yet another teaser for Michael Ampersant's new book (from Chapter 27, "We Need a Room"):
We proceed to the bed. I remove the cover. We make eye-contact again, embrace again, kiss a formal French kiss. “Lie down,” I say. He sits, reclines athwart the bed. “Turn around,” I say, “I have an idea.” He doesn’t ask, arranges himself prone on the bed. “We’ve showered, right?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says.
I have another good look at him, the curves of his back, the line of beauty there, the silty hue of his skin, the streaks of wet hair on his neck. I touch myself, it feels just great. “Where are you,” he asks.
“I’m here,” I say—I’m on my knees already.
He spreads his legs. My tongue enters his crack, works its way down the crease to the perineum, then back up again—my taste-muscle forcing its way through the butt cheeks, up and down a few times. He’s patient. He knows—which 18-year-old hasn’t seen millions of porn flicks—and the rimming part—if done well—is especially telegenic.
Now, there, my nose between the crack, my lips on his sphincter. I suck. He moans obligingly.
I disengage. “Feel it?” I ask. He moans.
I’m back at work, my tongue rimming his anal ring. How did Alex call these muscles? PC-group, something? Doesn’t matter. It’s fun. It’s fun for my obliging tongue, but more so for my willing brain. We feel how it feels, on the other side, on the inside, or wherever Taylor is at the moment. “Oohh,” he moans, “Oohh.” I’m keeping a steady pace, probing, licking, sucking, playing with the tiny caldera of his hole. “OOHH, AAHH, AAHH, OOHH.” This cannot go wrong. Rimming is never bad sex, especially on the receiving end. “AARGH,” he moans. “AARGH.”
He gasps. I disengage. “The electricity,” I say, “feel it?”
“This is what sex is all about,” (I say).
“Your nerve endings?”
Back to work, the tip of my tongue inside his hole.
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