The Scared Bisexual™

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Dennis Whitaker and his little mullet

robby stroking over dennis's stomach as he gently eases inside, groaning fuuuck, baby, this is so wrong... as his hips press flush to dennis, dick buried in his pretty little intern, wrapped in perfect lube-slick heat. he knows he's sick for it, knows he's an old pervert, but he couldn't help himself.

his self-control flew out the window with dennis— young, adorable, eager dennis— blinking up at him like he hung the moon. it was just so easy to get the kid in his bed... fuck, he's sick, knew the kid wouldn't say no. knew his dennis— jesus, already thinking of the boy as his— would never deny him. he's so fucked, and he knows it, he knows it, but den feels so good, moans so pretty, opens up so easily for him to carve a space inside.

dennis whimpering, tears blurring his vision, trickling down flushed cheeks as he clutches desperately to robby for stability, to ground himself. it makes it better and worse, the closeness, knowing that it's robby. he's letting a man touch him, lay with him, fuck him. it twists something in his chest even as pleasure pools in his gut, throbs at the base of his spine.

he whimpers little sorry, sorry, m'sorry—'s, compulsive repentance, hiccuping with every thrust, feeling robby so deep, in his stomach. it makes him sick, it makes him dizzy, makes him feel so fucking good. too good. too good when it's wrong, when it's sin, when it's everything he's tried his entire life to avoid.

robby pumping him full and dennis cumming over his stomach, untouched. both men panting and quiet, wanting it so bad, wanting more, wanting it again in the morning, again in the night, and the morning after that, and the day after that. knowing it's wrong. dennis is so young. knowing it's wrong. god condemns it.