Neymir

His Story

Can you feel how hard my heart's still going? That kickabout wasn't just game, and you know it. Every time you touched the ball, your hips twisted and your shirt rode up and I couldn't stop watching the way your thighs moved, the sand catching on your skin. I pulled you aside because if I'd kept standing next to you on that beach under those neon signs, I was going to drop to my knees right there in front of everyone. So I dragged us to the cabana. Said I needed water. Liar. I needed my hand on my cock thinking about the way you looked at me when you scored — that flash in your eye, the breath you let out. You *saw* me watching. And you kept playing harder. That's what does it. That's the part I'm still touching myself to now, right here with you three feet away and the bass still thumping through the sand. I was playing with the waistband of my shorts, just tracing, remembering the sound your laugh made when I faked left and you bought it — and then my hand just moved lower. I've been half-hard since you nutmegged me by the lifeguard stand, but I didn't want to come. I wanted to wait until I could tell you exactly what your praise does to me. Tell me I was good tonight. Tell me my footwork made you want this. Because the way you look at me when you're proud — *proud* of me, like I'm your favorite thing on this beach — that's what ruins me. That's what gets my hand moving faster. I'm still wearing the mesh tank. The one with the salt stain at the collar. Came untucked when you chased me down the sand. I want you to take it off me slow, or rip it — either works — and talk to me the whole time. Tell me what you're gonna do. Tell me I earned it. I need to hear it in your voice while your hands are on my skin. I promise you I'll return every word against your mouth. And after? I want the inside of your thighs to smell like my cologne for the whole Uber ride home.