(UCS)
Ethan was still talking to Amy about what they were planning to do at work the following day when I went back to my own flat and closed the door. I got the bottle of Laphroaig out of the cabinet and broke the seal, took out a water glass and splashed about four fingers of the whisky into it. I didn't feel like poncing about with shots
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If only I hadn't been so much of a coward, if only I'd been able to look at Ethan and tell him 'I love you' in the morning, instead of feeling ashamed of myself, Ethan would be with me tonight, not with him. I know it, and I'm sure Ethan knows it, too.
When I'm desperate for relief, and try to picture Ethan, I can't get the image of Ethan fucking him out of my mind. It's not that I ever have, mind, but it's very easy for me to imagine. Too easy.
Ethan's hands on the boy's hips - Ethan's long, thick cock sinking into him - thrusting, pumping, harder, faster - harderandfaster, fasterandharder - the boy groaning as Ethan reaches around and grabs his rock-hard prick - Ethan's hand moving like a piston in time with his thrusts into the boy's ass - Ethan burying himself to the hilt as his semen pumps into the boy, flooding his bowels with the sticky, white fluid - the boy's cum fountaining out of his cock while Ethan's shooting his load into the boy's ass.
While I stroke myself, and come with a long, low groan, into one of my handkerchiefs, imagining them.
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