He smiles and raises a brow. He doesn’t say anything, but in his expression I hear,“See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”and then he’s back on me, moving his mouth up and down, even more gently this time.
“Ohhh,” I whine, and purse my lips tight because the“Ohhh”echoes around inside my brain. “Yeah, that feels . . . good. That feels really good.”
Eggo rewards my vocalisation by massaging the flesh on my inner thigh with his thumb. Whenever I’m quiet for a while too long, he squeezes my leg three times. It’s now become shorthand.
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.“How’s this?”
“Yes, that’s good. Keep doing that.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.“How’s this?”
“Faster. Fuck, faster, please.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.“How’s this?”
“Oh my god, exactly like that.”
Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.“How’s this?”
“I’m gonna come. I’m gonna come.”
His fingers dig into my thigh as I break, but I can’t muster the words to tell him to hold still, so I brace my palm against his forehead and physically restrain him as I empty my load into his mouth.
He doesn’t swallow my cum straight away. Instead, he actually swishes it round his mouth as though he’s a fucking wine connoisseur at a vineyard. I have never been more horrified in my entire life.
“You’re right, that does not taste good. Tastes like . . . chard,” he says after swallowing.
“What the fuck is chard?” I tuck my sated dick back inside my jocks.
“It’s a village in Somerset. About an hour from here.” Eggo laughs. “But it’s also a vegetable? . . . Leaf type thing? I dunno. It tastes like . . . okay, imagine if spinach was a gym rat or a podcaster.”
Now I’m laughing. “What?”
“If you ever try it, you’ll know that makes total sense. What time is it?”
I lean forward and press the OK button on the remote control, bringing the time and date up on the TV screen. Eggo’s already pulling his trousers back on.
“Just gone ten. Are you going?”
He pauses and looks at me. “I probably should.” He’s silent again, and I realise there are so many unsaid words happening between us both right now.
But Eggo’s not wrong, he should leave. We should earmark this relationship for sexual matters only. He has a girlfriend, and I have a potential girlfriend, and we shouldn’t mess up either situation by doing mundane shit that might lead to pesky feelings. We can watch TV or “grab food” or snuggle with our designated romantic partners.
What we have should be a nut-and-go type of deal.
Nut and go and never risk developing any more complicated emotions.
Is this what he isn’t telling me? Are we on the same page? Or is it something else?
“Have you ever been exploring in the Cents’ stadium grounds before?” I ask.
Eggo cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t question my random topic change. “Not really, I guess.”
“I have. I like to arrive early for things, but sometimes I end up with hours to spare, so I often go for a wander. If you walk down the main part of the stadium hall, all the way to the far wall, past the away stands and turn right, there’s a dark little corridor. The auto-light sensors don’t work in there any more.”
“Okaay?” he says.
“There’s an old kiosk, which has a bunch of cardboard standees all stacked up on top of it. I mean, there’s even a standee of Owen Bosley, that’s how old it is.”
