One afternoon, Walker folds me over on my hands and knees in the living room, drives into my ass from behind, and starts doing bicep curls with a dumbbell in his free hand. Just getting a casual pump in while he hammers my guts out. Grant casually grabs the back of my head and takes my mouth from the other end, skull-fucking me while chugging a beer.
Finn’s on the couch, scrolling Insta. He’s not in me anywhere, he just keeps reaching over to slap my ass when he thinks of it—probably just to see it wiggle.
The conversation going on over my head has nothing to do with me.
“—so Dre said the party starts at ten, but Dre always says ten and it means midnight.”
“Dre is a pathological liar about time, I swear.”
“Hey, bro, how’d the Tinder thing go?” Walker asks, his hips snapping forward in a meat-slapping thrust.
Grant laughs, his dick shaking inside my throat. “Bro, she thought he was a theater major because he was wearing a turtleneck.”
It’s Walker’s turn to laugh. The contraction of his core makes him hit my prostate dead-center.
“I wear turtlenecks,” Miles says, from an armchair, where he’s watching me being spit-roasted, and doing something that he’d describe as relaxing, and I’d describe as lazily bating.
“You looked theatrical, man.”
“I lookedsophisticated!”
“Didn’t she call you a tortured artist?”
“She wasn’t wrong about the tortured part, yeah.”
“Bro, did she at least let you hit?”
“Wasn’t interested anyway,” Miles says after a beat of silence.
Walker laughs again, and I hear him and Grant high-fiving over my body.
Grant’s hand comes back to me, and he starts fucking my face faster, telling Miles to get ready to tag in because he needs to empty his balls after being blue-balled like that.
I exist.
I don’t think.
Somewhere in the middle of a debate about whether hot dogs are sandwiches, with Miles delivering a very confident “a hot dog is a taco, the bread folds, it’s geometrically correct to say”,and Grant pulling out to say, indignant, “geometric correctness doesn’t determine food taxonomy”,and Miles saying “then what does determine food taxonomy, dude, enlighten me”…
I come.
Totally untouched.
Just leaking a massive puddle of cum onto the living room floor from the sheer degradation of being their communal spit-roast toy while they argue abouthot dogs.
Nobody notices immediately because they’re still arguing about bread.
Then Finn looks down, and goes, “oh, nice,” and reaches over to slap my ass once more.
The debate continues.
10 Loads
As I’ve probably bitched about a thousand times already, Derek was a total fucking nightmare.
I don’t wanna waste any more air on that prick because he doesn’t deserve the head-space, but for context: Derek had zero chill about, like,everything.The vibe in the house when Derek was here was just permanently off. You couldn’t relax. You couldn’t exist normally. You definitely couldn’t have a communal-use setup with the bros because Derek would’ve either called the cops or started a shitty podcast about it.
Derek moved out a couple of months ago and we’ve been decompressing ever since.
