All four of them, leaning forward, staring straight at my asshole.
There’s a moment of total silence.
Then Grant lets out a breath.
“Okay. What the fuck.”
“I know, right?” Walker says.
“No, I mean—is that what a guy’s ass is supposed to look like?”
“Man, what were you expecting?” Miles asks, amused.
I’m curious too.
“I don’t know. More hair?”
“Some shit?” Finn adds.
“Dude, shut the fuck up.”
“Do you think he waxes it?”
What the hell?
“No, that’s just genetics,” Walker says.
“You’re saying this from experience?”
“I’m saying it because I also don’t have a lot of hair and I’ve always just assumed—you know what? I don’t want to talk about my ass right now.”
“No one wants to hear about your ass either,” Finn says.
Walker pushes my legs up a little more. “Can someone hold him open?”
Grant steps to the other end of the couch and looms above my head. His hands come down and grip my legs behind the knees, pulling them back until I’m folded open. My body is forced to collapse inward, and suddenly I can see my own dick in front of me—rigid and red, leaking a slug-thick goo that clings to my slit.
And right above my face is the massive tent in Grant’s jeans.
Grant is boned up. Grant isvery boned up.
Idaho has never felt so far away behind that mountain.
Walker gathers some spit. I hear the slop, and then I feel it right against my hole. My entire body wants to shudder and I tell it to absolutely not do that. It listens, barely.
A fingertip circles my rim.
I feel my cock throb. I feel my hole throb, too. This heavy pulse that goes through everything.
“Oh, fuck,” Walker breathes. “Oh, that’s—fuck, it’s so soft. I don’t think a dick fits here, man.”
“It can,” Finn insists.
“Put your finger in. You gotta open it up first.” Miles is leaning in now too.
“I know I gotta work him open.”
“Then just do it.”
