You wanna' make a man crazy? Mission fucking accomplished; Encke can hardly string two thoughts together in a halfway-coherent manner, and that's a rousing success as far as Keeler is concerned. No back rub is better than this. Very few things are better than this: filthy purity between Encke's legs and a mouth like sin so tight around his cock it's like the grip of death. Even if he can't endure having the fighter down his throat for long, he works the man's cock with pornographic abandon, riches to the gutter in one long sweep of his tongue.
There's no shame in this. Keeler comes to that realization with fingernails biting into Encke's thighs. This doesn't bring him down so much as bring him into perspective. An obscene grace, depicted too perfectly in the perfection of sweeping strokes. Encke tells him don't, and all Keeler hears is encouragement. A plea for more, divinity on the fighter's lips, and Keeler can no sooner stop than cease breath and life. Like Encke's cock is a thread of life, and he's clinging to it with every ounce of the impulsivity he'd withheld through the past six long years.
It's simple enough to wonder why, easy to disregard his own thoughts and morals in the heat of the moment. Because maybe he'll regret this later. Maybe he can't see the sky for the stars. Maybe he's gone too far to forgive himself. Fuck it. Encke's gasping and staggering his pleas and pushing desperate fingers through Keeler's hair, and Keeler's never felt more wanted. Giving pleasure, bringing a man to the edge of his sanity, forcing him to stare madness in the face through tongue lashes and heated strokes; is there anything more satisfying than that?
And it has Keeler so hard, he's practically aching.
"You don't want me to stop," Keeler pauses long enough to chide Encke, with a sly grin and sharp eyes. "You want me to swallow your cock until you can't even breathe anymore."
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There's no shame in this. Keeler comes to that realization with fingernails biting into Encke's thighs. This doesn't bring him down so much as bring him into perspective. An obscene grace, depicted too perfectly in the perfection of sweeping strokes. Encke tells him don't, and all Keeler hears is encouragement. A plea for more, divinity on the fighter's lips, and Keeler can no sooner stop than cease breath and life. Like Encke's cock is a thread of life, and he's clinging to it with every ounce of the impulsivity he'd withheld through the past six long years.
It's simple enough to wonder why, easy to disregard his own thoughts and morals in the heat of the moment. Because maybe he'll regret this later. Maybe he can't see the sky for the stars. Maybe he's gone too far to forgive himself. Fuck it. Encke's gasping and staggering his pleas and pushing desperate fingers through Keeler's hair, and Keeler's never felt more wanted. Giving pleasure, bringing a man to the edge of his sanity, forcing him to stare madness in the face through tongue lashes and heated strokes; is there anything more satisfying than that?
And it has Keeler so hard, he's practically aching.
"You don't want me to stop," Keeler pauses long enough to chide Encke, with a sly grin and sharp eyes. "You want me to swallow your cock until you can't even breathe anymore."