I wrap my hand around the base, my skin pale against his; he’s so thick my fingers barely meet on the other side, the heat of him radiating into my palm. I lean in, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs, and lick the tip—salty, musky, and utterly addictive. He lets out a low, guttural groan that vibrates in his chest, his hips twitching forward, his denim rough against my knuckles as I steady him. I take him in—slowly at first, my jaw aching as my mouth stretches wide to accommodate the sheer width of him, my tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. He fills me completely, the blunt length of him hitting the sensitive back of my throat. I gag slightly, a sharp, involuntary reflex that makes my eyes water and my throat constrict, but I don’t pull away. I push deeper, sucking harder, my hand moving in a tight, friction-heavy sync as I bob my head faster. The metallic scent of the bathroom—bleach, cold water, and damp towels—mixes with the heavy, primal scent of
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