I'm not much for talking during sex. Not that I'm not a verbal guy. I can be, but it's not a conversation but instead rhetorical questions that are meant to fuck with your head more than anything else. I'm a little too old to multi-task and answer questions candidly while I'm trying to fuck the cum out of you.
But for some reason, I didn't mind so much with him.
TheTalker's a beefy framed, mature kid that disarms me with his earnest eyes and solid kiss. Soft lips. Moist, but never sloppy. Some how tender and coy but persistent and urgently passionate at the same time. And a complementary tongue that doesn't duel but dances with my own.
But what really made me lose two loads back to back in succession was seeing him on his stomach. With him on his elbows, you can see his strong, broad shoulders sweep down the valley of the natural arch in his back to two full globes of man that were perky and insisted on being explored. I asphyxiated myself sucking on his balls as my nose was buried deep into his cleft. And it was his scent that lingered on my nose that carried me through two loads and his persistent questions that demanded more than a monosyllabic answer.
It was the one time I didn't mind the questions and commentary during play. That is, until I was done and my natural instincts to bolt took over. Whereas his self-reflections were insightful before, they seemed now self-indulgent. His theories were interesting before, but now impossibly flawed and ridiculous. His questions somehow seemed more invasive. So I politely excused myself and gave up on trying for the third load, stopping myself from tarnishing the image of perfection I had framed in my mind with the typical post-coital funk.