My body aches, the next day. A dull, warm sensation, like every muscle is throbbing. As if I've worked out, but in some mirror version of the gym. The usual weights and machines exchanged, for a fresh set of tools that put different, unexpected parts of me through their paces.
It's entirely possible, I decide, as I chug from a half-gallon jug of OJ, that I had too much sex. Even if, had you asked me that 24 hours ago, I'd have told you it was a ridiculous premise.
Riley was true to his zipped-lips word, and didn't spill Jason's secret. Well, mine and Jason's secret, really. Either way, Aidan didn't find out that I'd hooked up with his younger brother while a couple of thick crust, extra-cheese, extra-pepperoni pies cooled alongside us.
I could taste Jason's sweat every time I licked the grease off my fingertips.
Anyway, we gorged, and watched the rest of the game, and then some dumb horror movie with fake blood splashing like cheap paint. About as normal, as standard a night in Riley's basement as you could get, laughing at the bad special effects for each hyper-gory murder.
And it felt good, real good, just to hang out with my buddies like that. Despite - or maybe because of - all the other shit I'd been doing with them, lately.
In the shower, my mouth tasting not-entirely-pleasantly of mint toothpaste and orange juice, I rake my fingers through my hair and try not to second-guess everything that'd happened. Brain drifting through, from that first night when I'd hooked up with Riley, to how things snowballed after that. His buddies watching me get my ass eaten, and Harper turning out to be a little slut, and then - like dominos falling - getting nailed by first Chance and then Aidan.
There was a world, a parallel universe, where all that could've fucked up our friendship. Splintered the group, left us all second-guessing about where we stood with each other. Not just a possibility, but a likely one: my bros looking at me and no longer seeing Lincoln, but some needy cumslut instead.
It felt - as we jeered at the footballers on the screen, and then just as loudly at the college kids getting slaughtered out in the woods - just like old times, though.
Chance had pulled my feet up into his lap, anyway. Not rubbing them, or even touching them after that, but just leaving them resting there. It seemed easier not to mention it.
And for as simple as all that felt, as natural, at the same time I knew I had to do something about Haley. Because while it wasn't like I'd stopped finding girls sexy just because I'd realized guys could be hot, too, it also wasn't fair to keep stringing her along.
Something has to give, I remind myself, as I scrub between my legs with the towel. One way or the other - Haley, or fucking dudes - I probably need to make a decision.
The irrational, greedy part of my brain doesn't understand why it can't have both.
I wish I could say I'm doing something meaningful, when the doorbell rings a half-hour later, but I'm just scrolling gay porn on my phone. It's weird, kinda, to have gone looking for it. Like, clips will show up in search results when you're hunting down some decent stroke material - especially if you don't mind seeing bi guys tag-teaming some chick - but I'd trained my finger to just scroll past that. Not as if I had a problem with it, like it offended my delicate sensibilities as a dude. Just that it wasn't meant for me.
I hadn't known what to search for, but "gay guys fucking" seemed to do the trick. And then the usual "related category" bullshit at the bottom of the porn video pages dug me in deeper, only with dude shit rather than girls getting pounded.
Anyway, I'm watching some frat-type bro's face getting creamed when the door buzzes. While my half-hard cock is visibly swinging in my sweats as I go to answer it, I'm not really too worried: the only people who ever show up are my buddies, or maybe some of those try-to-convert-you religious types. The former have all seen much more than my dickprint, now; the latter will maybe take the hint, and stop fucking coming around.
It's just Chance, though. I see him glance at the front of my pants, where things aren't exactly hidden through the clinging gray fabric, but he doesn't bother saying anything.
He follows me down the hallway, to the kitchen. Automatically, I start pulling out coffee mugs. There are a bunch in the cabinet, none of them matching, and all kinda chipped and battered. As long as you drink around the broken edges, though, it's okay.
"The gym?"
I glance back, over my shoulder, then wince at his expression.
"Fuck. Sorry, bro."
Turns out, too much dick can fuck up your mental calendar. I'd totally blanked on the fact we'd arranged to work out together.
"You'll do anything to skip leg day," Chance teases.
I wink at him, relieved he's not being pissy about it. Sometimes my best friend gets worked up over the stupidest shit.
"Got my squats in yesterday, didn't I."
He chuckles, then takes a mug from me. Twists it, pointedly, so that he's not drinking from the wide, jagged white gash that's stark against the black glaze.
I don't bother reacting. If I did, it'd only be to remind him that his kitchen cupboards are full of paper plates and Solo cups because he can't be bothered washing dishes, and so he should work on his own bullshit before bitching about mine.
It wouldn't be a new argument, certainly.
Smiling at the memory, I lean back against the kitchen counter. Arms folded across my bare chest, steam from the too-hot coffee drifting up and setting my mouth watering.
From the look of it, Chance didn't let my standing him up get in the way of his own workout. His arms have that "freshly pumped" look: biceps ripe and round; shoulders practically swollen. The sleeveless shirt clings in places to what must've still been damp skin - whether from sweat or his post-weights shower - when he pulled it on. His thighs are thick and powerful, barely covered by his shorts.
Chance might call me an exhibitionist, but he's not exactly subtle when he lifts. Then, it's like he's down to show as much skin as people might want to see.
They do like to see it, too; I've watched them. Smiled to myself, as heads turn to track my muscle-bro best buddy as he practically struts between the benches and the machines. Focused on his reps, and setting new weight records, and giving every impression that he's entirely unaware of the fact that guys and girls around him are practically drooling.
I don't tell him that, of course. In fact, I usually brand him a little bitch for wussing out on adding an extra plate, or something. It's fun to see his glare in response, just like it's fun to see his arms or legs strain - the muscles swelling hugely - when he inevitably rises to my taunts.
"You just do legs, today?"
Chance shrugs, sipping his drink. "Did everything. Seeing as how I had plenty of time, what with not needing to spot some lazy asshole who slept in."
I flip him off, carelessly. He doesn't take the bait.
"You could've bitched me out in a text."
"And not see your good-natured reaction?"
I grin at him: a big, wide, beaming smirk. "Do I look suitably contrite?"
Chance snorts. "You swallow a few of my brother's loads, and all of a sudden you've got his vocabulary, too?"
"Fuck off."
"You'd rather discuss Aidan's kid brother?"
I mutter a mental curse at Riley.
"He's hardly a kid. Nineteen. Maybe twenty."
"Ah, fair game, then."
"He hit on me."
"Not like you were putting out any signals first. Say, for instance, walking around with your dick wagging like a puppy tail."
The grunt of frustration escapes me before I can chew it back.
"Your brother told you." It's a statement, but I still want an explanation.
"Yeah."
"Since when do you guys talk?"
Chance rolls his eyes. "Whenever he thinks he can get under my skin, usually."
That sounds about right.
"Are you gonna tell Aidan?"
He fixes me with a look. "That my best friend's a fuckin' pervert, who hooked up with his little brother?"
"Younger brother," I correct. Jason's far from some little kid any more. "Anyway," I add, with a snort, "so says the guy who tried to sleep with twins, in the same weekend."
Chance shrugs, but there's a grin there, too. "Bagged one, ran out of time with the other."
I shake my head. "And I'm the pervert?"
The grin spreads a little wider. No way not to notice that he doesn't argue the accusation.
"So, was he any good?"
"Who?" I frown. "Jason?"
He gives me a "no shit, of course Jason" look.
It's all too easy to cast my mind back, remember how he'd pushed me down over the back of the chair and hammered at me. How I'd thrown down a three minute ultimatum, and how Jason had risen to the challenge so enthusiastically. Nailing me like he wanted to pound me through the chair, through the table, and right onto the floor. Maybe through that, too, the pair of us crashing through the basement ceiling onto Aidan's lap.
"He was okay," I say, trying not to smirk at the memory.
Chance watches my face for a moment, then shakes his head in mock-disgust. "Riley's created a monster."
It'd usually be an opportunity to heft my crotch, and thank him for the - unintended - compliment. I don't, though.
"Didn't seem like you hated it, when you unloaded in my ass yesterday."
Honestly, I'm expecting him to get all red-faced, or icy and reserved, or maybe just tell me I don't have a damn clue what I'm talking about. Only Chance just shrugs.
"Guess we're both monsters, then," I suggest, after the silence drags out.
He winks, like I'm finally catching on.
"So, what about Haley?"
That's the problem with best friends. Sometimes, they know you so well, it's almost like they can read your mind. Or, at least, the parts of it which still feel guilty and confused.
"What about her?" I'm not sure if I'm trying to brazen it out or play dumb.
Either way, Chance's expression makes clear what he thinks about that strategy.
"Are you gonna propose?"
I frown, feeling like the conversation has suddenly accelerated from zero to top speed. "Dude, come on."
He makes an exasperated gesture. "That's what she's waiting for, bro. That's Haley's end-game, here. And you can tiptoe around it like a little bitch, pretend it's not so serious as all that, but you know that's what she wants."
He's right. I do know that, and our friends know that, and hell, even Riley and his buddies know that. Because it's not like I haven't whined often enough about my girlfriend putting pressure on me to pop the question.
"I'm not ready for all that, bro," I complain, like I've done a thousand times before. "I'm still figuring my shit out, y'know. It's too soon to settle down, and all that crap."
"But she's ready," Chance pushes. "This isn't about you realizing you like dick as well as pussy. You're just not on the same page as Haley, bro."
"And that means I can't date?" I can hear the petulance in my voice, the almost childish tone. But there's a disconnect between knowing something and changing it.
"Even if you're not putting a ring on her finger, and playing happy families at home, you think it's fair to be sneaking around behind her back and letting dudes tap your ass for free beer?"
I scowl at him. "That was a blowjob."
Chance snorts, like my insisting on the distinction is maybe the funniest thing he's heard all week.
"What?" I demand, grumpily.
"You're hilarious, bro. I love you, but fuck, you're hilarious." He shakes his head, still looking entertained. "Would you have done it, if he'd said he wanted your ass instead?"
Not like I haven't thought about that - or, if I'm being honest, fantasized about it - since Aidan and I went to the liquor store. If Brody had wanted to bend me over the counter and turn me out, I'd have gone along with it. Free beer or otherwise.
"So what, just because I might've thought about it, that's a crime, suddenly?" I make a face, not hiding how angry and frustrated I am. "We can't help what turns us on."
"Yeah, I know."
The way Chance is looking at me - staring at me - feels flaying. An intensity to his gaze which makes me want to shift from foot to foot, antsy and exposed. I'm used to that sense of my best friend understanding me so damn well, but not with this edge of rawness to it.
"I did more with you than I did with that liquor store guy," I remind him, hoping I'm keeping the shake from my voice. "So what does that say about you?"
"That I like dudes, now, too?" He shrugs, still staring me down. "Or at least one dude, since you're the only guy I've actually hooked up with. I dunno."
"You're bi, then? Like Harper?"
There's that withering look again, the one I associate with Chance and his brother.
"For someone who does everything possible to avoid getting labeled, you're pretty fucking keen to give one to everyone else."
I bite my lip, annoyed because he's not wrong and we both know it.
"So why me, then?"
I feel stupid asking; like I'm some needy chick desperate for validation. I'm not even sure I want to know the answer, because there's a strong possibility that it'll amount to "you were a tight, convenient hole I could push my dick into." That doesn't feel like something one best friend should say to another, even if deep down it's true.
Sometimes, maybe, it's better to lie about this shit. To ourselves, and to each other.
Chance's jaw works, muscles tightening. Even with the sudden wave of stress I'm feeling, I can't help but notice how fucking incredible his jawline is. Not stupid-beefy, like he's some over-drawn superhero in a comic book, but strong and sharp, and effortlessly handsome.
It's weird, knowing so intimately how that handsome face looks when it's twisted in pleasure. I can't stop the shiver that runs through me, at that memory.
"It's not like I think of you like a girl," Chance says, finally.
I make an unimpressed face. "Well, good. Because I'm not a girl, am I."
His glance down is pointed, though I don't really need that help to know what he's paying attention to. In fact, I don't even need to look myself, to know how my dick must look right now. The clear outline of it, through my sweatpants.
"I know what you are, Lincoln," Chance says, softly.
There's that shiver again.
"And it doesn't... freak you out."
I don't know why I'm pushing, why I'm digging like this. Almost as if I want him to overreact, or to admit he can't handle it: that the fact that we're best friends who've also fucked, and sucked each other, and kissed, and had people watch us do it, is outside of what Chance can cope with.
He sets down the mug. "If I'm gonna try this shit, it's probably better that it's with my best friend, right?"
"I'm the only idiot who'll let you hump them like a horny dog, you mean?"
He grins, all white teeth and jock confidence. "You love it."
It's the point where I'm meant to tell him he's a lousy fuck, or has a pencil dick, or that I'd have more fun sticking a Q-tip up my ass compared to him nailing me.
"Yeah, I did," I admit, instead. Grinning back at him, and not exactly hating the way Chance licks his lips and eyes me like I'm a post-workout steak.
"Did you shower yet?"
He mimes sniffing under an arm. "You trying to tell me I stink?"
I puff my cheeks out like I'm about to hurl, making him laugh.
"I was just about to," I explain. I turn to go, figuring that's as clear an invitation as I need to make.
Chance's hand catches my bicep, stops me in my tracks. A yank on it has me spinning around, first to face him again, and then to pull me into his chest.
"Dude," I start to say, surprised, but most of the word gets swallowed in his kiss.
Only a beat, for the shock to wear off, and then I'm kissing him back. Relishing the feeling of Chance's tongue pushing into my mouth, and how his fingers tighten on me as I push back with my own. Like it's a battle, as much as it's us making out: the friendly competition that has defined our friendship pretty much from day one, cranked up to the conclusion neither of us saw coming.
I don't know when his hand shifted down to grab my ass; only realize it's there as he squeezes my cheek, hard. Something hungry and proprietorial in that grip, as I grind my crotch against his and feel the heat of his breath hiss urgently on my face.
I was teasing before, but I can smell him now. That ripe, rich, unmistakable blend of sweat, and musk, and something indescribably, indelibly linked with my best friend in the depths of my lizard brain. Raw enough that I'm certain I could identify it without sight, without sound. Like his pheromones have worked their way into my senses over the years, marking me in some essential way.
He doesn't resist when I push his arm up; groans when I run my tongue along his bicep, the heft of his muscles strong against my lips. Relinquishing his grip on my ass to grab the back of my head instead, pulling me in tight against his skin as I bury my face into his armpit.
Chance can feel my cock, how hard I am, I'm sure of it. More embarrassing still, there's no disguising how I'm rutting against his hip, grinding my erection into him. Brain and body overloaded, addicted, and there's neither sensible restraint nor shame to hold me back now.
He grunts when I grab his dick through his shorts. Stiff in a way I can't help but be flattered by, throbbing against my fingers as I paw at him.
A whimper, as I work my way around his chest. Stretching the already-gaping arm hole of his shirt, so that my teeth can find his nipple. Tease that rigid stub of flesh, nipping and pulling at it, until he can't resist. Strips the fabric away, leaving himself topless and open to my woken hunger.
Chance grabs my chin, and for a moment I think it's to stop me. The whine automatically building in my throat, only stoppered a second later as he pushes his thick fingers between my lips. Watching me - his gaze intent, fierce - as I slobber around those digits, my lips taut.
Only briefly, though. Just long enough to get them good and wet, before Chance is digging his hand past the loose waistband of my sweats.
The first fingertip finds my hole as if we've been doing this all our lives. Working inside me with slick ease, driving deep until I can feel his knuckles pressed against my skin and my vision is seething with stars. A few rough pumps - ignoring how I squirm, my mouth falling open as if he's still pushing half his hand inside it - and then the second finger is digging in, too. My body fluttering and clenching around him, muscles spasming as I force myself to relax.
He tugs up, blithe to my hiss of surprise, the way I teeter on the very tips of my toes.
"Dump her."
I'm not sure if his other hand, fingers laced into my hair, is to steady me or to stop me from looking away from him.
"W-wha..."
"Dump her," he interrupts.
"B-but..."
"Do you love her?" A demand accompanied by a shake, and then the unmistakable sensation of a third finger grinding inside me.
I want to give in to it, to shove away anything so mundane as speech and higher brain functions. Lean into how incredible this is, how glorious Chance's erection feels through the thin nylon of his shorts. How the fabric is already sticky, his drooling tip soaking it as I grope at him.
He shakes me again, frowning at my gasp.
"Do you?"
I love this, I want to tell him, love the way you're touching me, controlling me. Love the knowledge that I've made you this hard, that I've pushed you beyond the bounds of our friendship and into this new, exciting no-man's land of lust, and hunger, and need. I love the fact that you're my best friend, and we're doing this together, exploring this together. An experience not diluted by what I've done with other guys, but building on it.
"Lincoln!" My name snapped out, clawing me back to the moment.
"N-no," I admit, clinging to him and closing my eyes. The confession feels shameful, even though neither of us could really be surprised by it.
He splays his fingers in me, and I writhe atop his hand. Beyond self-control or embarrassment: nothing to me but dick, and hole, and unstoppable attraction.
Chance doesn't resist, when I yank his head in to bring our lips together.
It's an awkward kiss, a haphazard one. Mouths sliding as I drag Chance's shorts down, then my sweatpants too. Fighting the urge to pull back, just to get a glimpse of him naked, not that I think he'd allow it anyway. His arm around my torso holding me against him, as he roughly finger-fucks my ass.
I want him in me, stretching me, and I don't know what that says about me. As a man, as a friend; as someone who isn't ready to call himself gay, or bi, or any of the words that other people seem to navigate so readily. All I know is that delicious shiver when I'm being watched, and the thrill of my arousal being so obvious, and the sense of it being right when there are hands on me. Never mind the gender of the person they belong to.
The curse slips out, as he scoops me up. Lifting me, one hand still half-buried in my hole, the other spread under my cheek. I'm not light, but Chance isn't short on muscle; it feels so right, to wrap my legs around his waist as I lick along his jawline.
I'm easier to toy with, now: the angles better, my butt spread. Open to both of his hands, fingers from each sliding inside me. Uncountable, the movements too rapid and my body too overwhelmed, as my cock throbs against his stomach.
"You gonna fuck me?" I hardly recognize my own voice.
Chance chuckles as he pulls on me, his grin twisting beneath my lips. "Until you can't stand up. You did skip leg day, remember?"
My best friend takes my training seriously.
"Fine," I agree. As threats go, it's no great hardship. "But you're eating my ass when you're done."
He grunts, unimpressed. "You know I don't do that shit."
"Not with girls," I correct. "But you'll do it with me."
Another grunt. "You're such a fuckin' pervert."
I pat him on the cheek, gently but pointedly. Amused by the way his eyes narrow. "Says the guy with how many fingers inside me?"
I should know better, read the signs more, that's my first thought. Not like I don't know that my closest buddy has a breaking point, and how the throbbing vein in his neck is the telltale that he's about to smash through that.
My second thought - as I feel the fat, broad, precum-slicked head of Chance's thick cock nudge at my ass - is that I'm about to get split in two.
I brace myself, for the sharp thrust that could very well make me black out, only to feel overwhelmed by the measured, steady pressure as he makes my body accept him. My own weight turned against me, conspiring with my slick, hungry hole as Chance gapes me in dizzying slow motion.
My vision's tunneling, sweat dripping off my face, as I latch my teeth into his shoulder and bite down, hard.
Chance hisses - pain, or surprise, or maybe both - and then he's yanking down on me. Tugging me onto his cock, hands gripping my waist with vice-like tightness. I've taken him before, know how good it can feel to be speared halfway to my belly with his fat inches, only I'm still caught in the disbelief stage. Need the press of his skin against mine to be convinced that he could possibly be inside me.
Gingerly, I release his muscle and observe the double-crescent of white marks left behind. Lick across them, not so much distracted from the erection skewering me, as trying to find a way that my brain can be filled by something other than it.
When I look up, it's to find he's already watching me. Skin flushed, pupils vast.
He's so fucking hot, up close like this.
Chance's grin is skewed, like his face is trying to remember how to smile normally. Maybe I'm not the only one whose brain is currently preoccupied by how our bodies are meshed.
"You're cute, when you've got my dick in you." There's an edge to his voice, a burr that says he's trying hard to hold back.
"So romantic," I tease, grinning back at him.
His eyebrow lifts. "Since when did you care about romance?"
I don't, hence another of the things Haley and I argue about. Only I'm wondering, now, if there's another type of romance compared to buying someone stupid flowers and making them playlists. Something about being so close to someone that you can practically read their mind.
Not that I need magical mental powers to know what Chance wants.
The way he's moving me on him tells me that, shifting me - almost like he doesn't know he's doing it - up and down his cock. Barely an inch each way, but it's enough to have the wide flare of his tip gouge deliciously into my inner walls.
I try to raise myself further, legs flexing around him, but it's difficult. Our skin too sweaty, the angles not quite right.
"Sit," I demand.
He laughs, as he turns us and drops down onto a chair. Driving a gasp from me, as he sinks deeper inside from the impact; my legs loosen just at the last moment, heels catching behind the wooden backrest. Searching for leverage, as Chance's hold softens slightly.
Slow movements, at first. Easing myself up, then settling back into his lap. Watching the waves of pleasure work their way across my best buddy's expression, as his erection slides through me.
He groans, when I tilt my hips and change the angles. Not that I can hear it, not really, what with it blurring with my own gasp of pleasure. My ass stretching and pulling in new, giddying directions, until I'm not sure if it's Chance's thighs underneath me that are shaking, or my own body. Vibrations shared between us, communication that speaks far more honestly than any words we could currently muster.
There's a bruising reverence to how he grabs at me. No longer constrained by the need to support me, to hold me up atop his dick. Confident, even, that I'll continue this rocking, grinding motion, liberating him to touch me elsewhere, as he pleases.
Strong fingertips trace the groove of my spine, until hands cup my cheeks. Squeezing, pressing the flesh together around his cock, as I grip his shoulders and work myself in his lap.
"Why didn't we try this years ago?" I tease, then watch him roll his eyes at the suggestion.
"Because we didn't know how much of a freak you were until now?"
Laughing, I let my head tip back. Gratified by the way Chance's hands immediately stray to my chest, fingers sweeping up until they wrap my throat. Not a firm grip, a choking one, but unmistakable ownership nonetheless.
I like, I decide, fucking my best friend the best.
Not that I haven't enjoyed it when Riley pounded me, or Harper blew me or rode my cock, or even Aidan and his brother's jackrabbit attempts to nail me into next week. Not, even, as if I didn't enjoy hooking up with Brody, that sensation of perilous, thrilling risk: strangers' voices rowdy, as he secretly filled my throat.
Chance and I, though, we have history.
The sort of history where you've seen the body you're clinging to progress, from skinny kid to self-conscious teen to studly man. The sort so laced with subtext, that it feels like speech is pointless half the time; that glances are more than enough. A history of relentless competition, and unstinting loyalty, and some balance of envy and admiration that forever teeters, undecided.
My friendship with Chance is the longest relationship I've ever had, bar my parents, I realize. The thought makes me laugh again.
"Focus, pussy," he chides, smirking. Feigns outrage when I smack his muscular chest.
"Who're you calling 'pussy,' asshole."
His fingers are sly, groping where he's thrusting into me. As though - for all his confidence - Chance still can't quite believe that I'm stretched around him like this. That there's a way in which our bodies could be so compatible.
I squeak, with surprise and something more, when he pulls at me.
"This is why we need Harper," Chance muses, still looking entertained. "To keep your mouth occupied."
"Not because you like watching other guys use me, then," I suggest.
The glint in his eye shows me he's imagining it, and that the mental image isn't a disappointing one.
"Even if it's Riley?" I probe.
He grimaces, just slightly. "I guess if Aidan can share with his brother, I can."
I snort, as I guide his hands back up me. Liking this ability to position him, reshape the terms of our engagement. Gratified, too, by how Chance obediently starts squeezing my pecs.
"Ah, but Aiden doesn't know about Jason, does he." I should probably feel guilty, about that fact, but the tension between the two of them never quite made sense to me. Maybe you have to be something other than an only-child to understand.
"You think that's gonna last?" Chance sounds amused at my naivety. "You're gonna end up spit-roasted between them."
I widen my eyes, grin manic. "Promise?"
He shakes his head, feigning disbelief, then jabs his hips until I see stars.
Maybe it's fucked up, that we're both getting off on the idea of him watching me be passed around. Maybe it's fucked up that I'm having the best sex of my whole damn life, and there's not a girl in sight. Maybe it's most fucked up, as Chance pushes his fingers between my lips and his hand fills my mouth again, that far from protesting how he's treating me, it only turns me on more.
My cock is slapping against him, as I ride him with growing urgency. It's tempting to reach between our bodies, jerk myself desperately, but I know that's too risky. Impossible, when I'm so aroused, so caught up in how it feels to get pounded by a guy I know better than I would a brother. A fixture in my life, and I'm still not quite sure whether what we're doing now is long overdue or a disaster waiting to crash down upon us both.
It's a pointless argument, of course. Not like either of us could stop, not now.
"You want my load?"
I grunt hungry compliance into the gag of his fingers.
Thank you for reading, and for your comments and ratings! As you might've seen, itchio suddenly decided to delist a ton of LGBTQ writing recently, and my stories got caught up in that too. You can find other places to get them - like "Sloppy" for example, if you're into hot hookups and size-differences.
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