Page 22 of Fitch

This was insanity.

This was role play and sex like I could only ever have dreamed of.

After that first all-night long with him, I knew. I just knew I had to find him and make it a permanent thing.

I’d never had it so good.

He was perfect.

Fitch was so utterly perfect for me.

He was boyishly cute, boyishly small, and he wanted it just as bad as I did.

I’d had every intention of only speaking to him, of putting the proposal to him, giving him time to think about it.

But he wanted it.

And god fucking help me, I wanted him.

Just thinking about sliding my cock into his small and willing arse had me hard. I barely managed to discuss the finer points of our arrangement with him, trying to lay some ground rules and guidelines, but god fucking help me, all I wanted to do was fuck him.

I wanted to bury myself inside him, feel him writhe and hear him call me daddy.

I wanted it so bad.

Too bad, I realised. So the next morning I was determined to have a clearer mind and a firmer resolve. But even after the amazing sex on the couch, the shower where he let me tend to him, then he let me feed him, he let me suck him, then he let me fuck him again, I still had to remind myself that I had responsibilities outside of sex.

So in the car when I was driving him home, I decided now was my best chance.

“I need to know you’re okay with this arrangement,” I began. Then I made the mistake of looking over at him, and he was half curled up in the passenger seat, facing me, smiling serenely.

“Oh, I really am,” he replied.

I huffed at him, trying to be serious when he was being all cute like that. “I’m being serious, Fitch. Any time either one wants to end our agreement, it ends. No problem.”

He snorted. “Uh, okay, real talk for a minute,” he said, his tone more serious now. “You wanna rail me like that for hours and make me feel so utterly precious, then drop me home with my boy-pussy full of your loads, I am never ending this agreement. Just so you know.”

Oh dear god.

“Boy-pussy...” I made a face. “Maybe we shouldn’t call it that.”

“What do you want me to call it,” he replied smugly. “My honey pot? My baby-maker?”

I looked at him again, grimacing, and he laughed.

So I scowled at him instead. “Anyway, my point is, if I do something that you’re not comfortable with, you need to tell me. Not bad enough to safe word, but anything you want to mention.Maybe we could use some time after breakfast to discuss how we’re feeling.”

He rolled his eyes.

He actually rolled his eyes.

“Did you just...” I reined in my anger. “I’m trying to be serious. It seems being in the car is the only time I have rational brain function around you, because every other time I just want to do very bad things to you, so if you could please?—”

“You keep doing those very bad things to me and I assure you, we will have no problems,” he replied.

I let out a slow, measured breath. “I see your boldness is back.”

He chuckled. “You’re killing my buzz. I’m on such a freaking high right now. I feel like I’m floating. Don’t ruin it.”

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