Tboy Swag

Them (ramming their fingers into me so hard my whole body is bouncing): Can you? Stupid girl. I thought you were an English major.

Me (with Herculean effort): I’m a descriptivist not a prescriptivist.

1. computer you can fuck

2. strap you can feel

You’re currently pressed against the wall while he’s on his knees, cigarette hanging from his lips while rushes to undo your jeans.

“What…what if someone sees? They’ll see I’m not a real boy and I don’t belong here and-“ your stammering is interrupted by him smacking the inside of your thigh, glaring up at you.

“They’ll see you getting your fucking cock sucked and high-five you. Shut the fuck up with that real boy shit. You have a cock okay? You just don’t know how to fucking use it yet, but relax. That’s what I’m here for.” He tugs yours jeans down, staring at the wet mess of curls infront of him.

“But what if-“ interrupted again by him reaching up and shoving his cigarette between your lips.

“There, now we both have a fag in our mouth. Shut up and enjoy.”

You lean your head back, inhaling the smoke into your lungs. It tastes like his mouth, smells like him. And when his mouth is on you, wrapping his lips around you and running his tongue over that sensitive bundle of nerves, it feels like he’s kissing you. He’s too good at this and it isn’t long before your fingers are in his hair, hips jutting forward and fucking his mouth like a dog in rut. Not heat, rut.