The rumble of the air conditioner did nothing to stop him from breaking out into a sweat. Tiny beads all over, bubbling up and growing before they bumped into each other, coalesced into tiny streams that rolled off his back, down the sides of his stomach, and dripping onto the hotel sheets. He's lying face-down, flat on his stomach but knees spread far apart, legs in amphibious opposing angles that naturally popped his ass up and out at just the right angle for my fuck. I'm on top of him. I'm inside him. And my chest sticks to every inch of the valley of his arched back. My hips undulate in gentle waves that crash against the soft shores of his ass. Deliberate but slow movements that make him feel the most inches. But he's sweating. Sweating hard lying there. He's struggling. His ass clenches and relaxes, bouncing my cock all around deep inside him. My cock probes without trying and feels ridge of his hole from deep within. Because he's struggling. Not struggling because he's tight. He's struggling because the crook of my arm is held firmly on his throat and as I flex my biceps, his air supply is cut off and he turns red before I relax. His one arm flails so my free arm feels the top of his shoulders and trace down his arm until my palm covers the back of his hand and my fingers intertwine with his. I still his arms, but his fingers make to clutch the sheets and I clench with him, white knuckled. My biceps flex. Then they relax. My hips a constant gently tempo. It's an odd juxtaposition. Calm regular rhythms causing the tempest below me. A sweaty, fierce struggling mass of uncontrolled spasms that inadvertently milks the cum out of me.
I lie on his back still until our heartbeats even out and get in sync.
He breathlessly whispers in a coarse voice, "Holy fuck."