A Shooter of Life-Force
Some boys don’t release desire like an accident.
They release it like proof.
Like the body had been carrying a secret fire all day — under the shirt, under the quiet face, under that fake innocence he wears when he pretends he doesn’t know what he does to people.
And then, when the moment finally breaks, there is no hesitation. No poetry left to explain it. Just instinct. A pulse. A flood of boyish force turning the room into something warmer, heavier, almost sacred.
He looks almost surprised by himself, as if his own body betrayed him beautifully.
A shooter of vital energy.
Not just pleasure — life-force.
Not just heat — evidence.
Not just a climax — a small pagan offering from a boy who had too much sun inside him.
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Cum Shots
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