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  • Writer's pictureKat Nikoletta Monroe

Rough Off the Ice

Chilled air kissed my cheeks as we watched the hockey game over at a nearby University campus rink. My friend pushed the idea to head out and watch her new boytoy play.

“Oh, that’s him! Number 69!” she cheered. Amused, I shook my head. She always liked the bad-ass, immature type.

“Where’d you meet this guy, again?” “Bumble.” “Of course.” I smirked, swinging back the beer we snuck in. “What?” “You always manage to have the best luck on these apps. Meanwhile I seem to get stuck reeling in Buzz Killington or some sloppy Jersey Shore character.” So…” she said, theatrically extending her arm out before us, “take your pick!”  In the midst of our tipsy-girlish conversation alongside sporadic cheers from the stand, I kept notice of their right defenseman, Number 67. There was something about the way he hogged the puck: sportsmanlike, yet aggressively cocky. He had something to prove, and his consistency turned me on. I found myself secretly hoping his biceps are as big as his ego. Love-struck by her new beau's winning game, my friend further convinced me to join them out for celebratory drinks at the Jack Astors nearby.

C’mon, it’s not like you have anything better to do. And who knows,” she continued, nudging me, “maybe 67 will be there...” Whelp! Good enough for me. An hour later I was near-done a second glass of beer when a pitcher appeared from over my shoulder, topping me back up. “You’re thirsty tonight.” It was him. Had to be. “Your friend told me you enjoyed my playing earlier.” “Of course she did.” I smiled back at him, simultaneously rolling my eyes. His hair was noticeably damp from his post-game shower, his biceps bulked out of his t-shirt, and his eyes remained firm in my direction. His confident demeanor clearly existed beyond the ice rink. “Cheers” I said, lifting my glass toward him. “Cheers.” “No drink?” “Not for me.” “Oh?” He pulled in closer, removed the glass from my hand, and placed it further on the table.

I reached for it back but it was set aside by then.

“No. I prefer to keep a sense of control."

"Okay..." I replied, clearly confused.

"Come with me.” He took me by the hand and led me outside to a secluded alley around the corner and pressed me tightly between his body and the cooled brick wall. His hand crept up to my neck and stayed there as his lips glided atop mine.

In a soft whisper he spoke words making me quiver with sexual anticipation: “You’re free to tell me to stop whenever you’d like, though I prefer things a little more… rough. Only if you’re up for it.” My response was represented by a consensual pull of his belt, which in turn made him grip my neck harder as he kissed me.

I was soaked well before he turned me over and slid my tights off, inserting himself deep into my throbbing pussy. He pulled my hair back to watch me give into him.

I couldn’t contain my moans. The way his hands gripped and locked me in place made me want to beg him for more. More He then gradually brought me to my knees, and I diligently licked my cum off his shaft. I knew exactly how he wanted it. I locked onto his eyes and hung my head back for him, mouth opened wide, waiting his load. I loved the way he tasted. Fuck 69, Diary. This man just introduced a new play to the Kamasutra handbook: 67.

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