His buddy was over for the game. Usual Sunday thing. Beer in the cooler, wings getting cold on the coffee table, commentators yelling about passes I didn’t care about.
I was on my knees in front of the couch between my boyfriend’s legs and his buddy was sitting three feet away, pretending very hard that nothing was happening.
My boyfriend had one hand on my head, steering me, and he was watching the screen like I wasn’t taking him down my throat. “Next play,” he said into his beer, like he wasn’t pushing deeper every time the announcers got excited.
His buddy kept his eyes forward. I could see him doing it, that hyper-focus on the screen that means he’s acutely aware of everything else. His jaw was tight. His hand on the armrest was gripping a little too hard.
“Come on,” my boyfriend said to the TV, but his cock got harder in my mouth.
He started fucking my throat slow, this casual thing, like we were just hanging out. His buddy turned a little red. Reached for another wing he didn’t eat.
When the team scored, my boyfriend pushed all the way in and held me there, and I felt him swell and—
“Yeah!” he yelled, and his buddy jumped a little, like he’d been startled by the touchdown and not by the visual of me on my knees taking everything he had.
He came down my throat and didn’t let me pull back for a long second. Then he settled back into the couch like nothing happened.
The game went back to commercial. His buddy cleared his throat, got up to grab another beer.
When he came back, he was already hard. He sat down and didn’t look at me, but his voice was strained when he asked my boyfriend if he was bringing me to next week’s game too.
Already picked out what I’m wearing next Sunday.
