First-person View: Oh Shit!

I wanted to protest, to stop him, but my body betrayed me, arching into his touch, craving more. “Sure,” I muttered, trying not to squeak. I learned a new sense of pleasure. My breath froze. But my eyes kept drifting, pulled by some magnetic force. But his thumb pressed at an angle, right against my hole, that made my knees buckle slightly. Because I liked it. When he finally removed his thumb, I felt empty, bereft, like a part of me had been ripped away. He could feel my hole clamp down and pulse from where his thumb was lodged, and instead of pulling away, he pressed in further, pulling out slightly only to push in again. Unless you want the whole team to bombard you with whistling and clapping.