Monto La Verga De Mi Amante Con Mi Apretado Culo Y Se La Chupo Bien Sucia

Or maybe found one I hadn’t known was there. Dear God, please don’t let me be gay, I thought, repeating it like a mantra. He paused, picking up on my expression, then gave a half-smirk. It was like some weird combination of panic, pleasure, and complete system override. I was hyper-aware of every inch of his hands as they pressed against my body, the heat of his skin, the rough texture of his palms, the skilled pressuring of his fingers. “Colt,” I said, giving him the nickname I wanted to have at my new school, my cheeks burning as I hadn’t even gotten used to hearing it yet. He didn’t miss it. But his thumb pressed at an angle, right against my hole, that made my knees buckle slightly. “Relax,” he said, his tone calm, almost soothing. Hips too. He started at my shoulders and focused on the parts of the center of my back that were hardest to reach. He started soaping himself up casually, not a trace of insecurity, running the lather across his chest and down his arms with a casualness that made my skin crawl with envy—and something else I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.