Page 10 of The Key Holder

“It was a silly idea. I can take it back⁠—”

“No, it looks good. I'll read it.”

“You're not just saying that?”

“No. I'll start right now.”

“I didn't mean⁠—”

“Can't hear you! I'm reading this amazing book!”

For the first time since he discovered me plowing a rubber ass, Dylan laughed. His reaction made me smile instantaneously and then I realized I was supposed to be reading, so I turned to page one and started.

“I'm guessing you like it.”

Startled, I dropped the book down to cover my achingly hard cock and found Dylan leaning against the archway into the living room. I was sprawled on the couch, legs dangling over one arm, looking at him upside down.

“It's"—I cleared my throat—”good.”

“I hope it's more than that, you've been reading for more than an hour.”

“Has it been that long?” I swung my legs around so I sat upright, book still a cock-shield.

The book was more than good. I didn't quite identify with the larger man wanting to be dominated, but the building tension between the two main characters was hot. Plus, the pop star was my type and needed comforting. I always liked providing that to people, whether they be athletes, friends, or…more than friends.

“Almost time for lunch. I was going to pack some food and hike down to the lake. You wanna come?” Dylan asked.

“Sure.”

We didn’t even make it halfway to the lake.

I watched as Dylan stumbled, swore, and dove head first off the trail. Immediately, I dropped the picnic basket and rushed over to him.

“Are you okay?” I asked, stepping off the path to try to help him up. Pushing back a fern, I was greeted with an immediate and up-close view of his left buttcheek, hugged by a black strap. His shorts had torn almost clean off, revealing half his ass and a jockstrap. It also looked like he had a small gash.

“No, I fucking twisted my ankle.”

“Let me help you.” I offered him my hand, which he took, and helped him back⁠—

“Whoa!” Dylan dropped towards me and I caught him in my arms before he fell again. “My ankle hurts too much. I can’t put weight on it.”

“I think you cut yourself too,” I said.

One of his hands went to his face. “Where?”

There was no other way to say it. “Your butt.”

“My butt?”

I continued to hold him steady as he craned his neck—a futile gesture—and reached back there.

“God damn it. These are like my favorite shorts.”

“Maybe someone can sew them back up, or you can add a patch?” I said, trying to be positive.

“I can try to buy another pair. They feel pretty destroyed to me.”

I agreed, but didn’t say that. “The picnic can wait. We should get some antiseptic on that,” I suggested.