I think he’s great and love that he’s standing up for what’s right. He’s hot too. If we were friends I’d call him prissy to his face.
Then he’d probably punch my arm. I’d put him in a headlock. We’d start to wrestle and get sweaty. Our shirts come off because we’re competitive as fuck and not done wrestling. Fast as fuck, boyyy, I pin him to the ground, face down on his stomach, my ankles locking his legs in place. Hmm. Hadn’t noticed he’s got some cakes back there. Fuck got distracted. He flips me off like a punk giving the finger, so now I’m on my back, his big legs holding my beefier legs down while we struggle, our thin workout shorts barely containing the mutual excitement growing between us. He’s pinned my arms over my head, pressing his chest to mine. Am into sub-play? Fuck distracted again. We’re both breathing heavy from exhaustion and…something unspoken. I struggle some more, but the fights gone out of both of us. He collapses on me, resting his face by my ear. His heavy breathing like foreplay on my mind. After a few, ten, lifetime of minutes listening to our hearts beat in sync, he raises himself on his elbows and looks at me with that shit-eating grin he wears so well and asks, “why’d you let me win?”
