Decompression Time

He has been out all day on the bike. He comes home and strips off his leather jacket, his pants, his shoes. He’s wearing a tank top, boxers, and the same socks he’s worn for three days. He reeks of leather and sunscreen.

You are naked on the couch. He barely pays you notice as he settles the opposite end. His weight pushes your legs into the cushions of the couch. His feet are by your face. He grabs his controller and changes whatever show you were watching over to that game he likes. The one with the zombies.

He twitches, does a deep stretch, his thick hairy calves rub across your chest. He pushes the flats of his socks against your cheeks. They drag at your stubble and smells like the sweaty stink of his boots. You inhale.

“I missed you,” you say.

He gives you a little side-eye and kicks the socks off his feet. He puts a bare foot against mouth and holds it steady.

“Fuck yeah, take that,” he says and blows another zombie’s head off its body.

His toes wiggle under your nose.

“Suck it,” he doesn’t look at you, but you know the command is for you. He pulls a soft cock out of the hole in his boxers and lets it flop.

He makes no effort to make it easy. You pry his foot from your mouth, push his weight off you. You lay on your stomach with your face in his crotch and take the soft cock into your mouth.

He continues to play.

You roll the cockhead around your tongue. The fleshy meatball head is salty and his bush is humid from the sweaty ride. You run your tongue up the hairs on his tight balls as you take him fully into your mouth. You swallow his entire manhood. You get the head, the shaft, both swollen testicles, all inside your mouth. You suck them clean.

He gets hard and the thickness forces his testicles out of your mouth. You pull it out, lick the entire shaft, and push the head back into that space your tonsils once inhabited. More room for cock.

“Get on the floor,” he pushes your head off his firm upright rod.

He’s made it to one of the big bosses. You know what that means. You know what he wants.

You lay on your stomach.

He keeps his eye on the screen, squats, holds the controller with one hand.

He spits on his free hand, lubes up the shaft, and pushes himself inside you.

You moan.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says. He grabs one of his discarded socks and shoves it in your mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” he repeats.

Is he talking to you or the game? Does it matter? You bite down on the sock, your eyes roll into the back of your head, and he starts to piston his cock up and down into your tight hole. He’s a machine. He slides in and out with the rhythm of the battle on screen.

“Take that, fucker,” he yells at the screen. Music plays, battle won. He tosses the controller onto the couch, leans into you, and wraps a sinewy arm around your neck. He rolls his fingers into a fist as he tightens his arm around your neck. Squeezes.

“Fuckin’ take it,” he says through gritted teeth as you feel the rush of his creamy DNA fill you up.

He collapses onto you and pulls the sock out of your mouth. He pulls your hair back to plant a deep kiss before spitting in your mouth.

He missed you too.