They didn’t stay in the truck long.
Before I realized what was happening, they were out of the truck with one guy leaned against it and the other doing that popsicle thing, only this professional seemed to be Hoovering the shit out of the other guy’s cock.
They moved from that to . . . oh . . . he licked the other guy’s butthole.
Then he licked it more.
And spread his cheeks apart and shoved his whole face in between them.
The guy on the truck grunted.
The ass eater moaned.
Then the ass eater pulled out his cock and started stroking himself.
I couldn’t take it anymore. My own dick was leaking in my boxers. I yanked them off and tossed them aside, gripping my shaft for dear life.
When the ass man had eaten his fill, he kicked off his pants and . . . oh, shit . . . spit on his dick and . . . and wow . . . stuck it up the other guy’s ass.
My heart was pounding. Like rapid-fire, machine-gun rattling.
And I was stroking myself.
When had that started?
The fucking went from zero to sixty in two point three seconds, with both guys moaning and groaning so loud I worried my neighbors might hear through the walls.
But I couldn’t stop.
I was so fucking turned on that I couldn’t look away. I wanted to see those men fucking. Hell, I wanted to touch them, to feel them, to kiss them, to . . . damn . . . I wanted to be fucked while the other guy sucked my cock. I wanted to feel their bodies pressed against mine, the sweat of their heat slathering me, while they kissed my skin and stretched me wide. Iwanted—
Holy shit.
I wanted all that?
Cum shot so hard it hit my chin. Stream after stream flew out.
And the guys on screen had just started.
I wanted to watch, to see how things ended, to see what ways the one guy might pleasure the other, but my cum-drained body withered faster than my mind, and my OCD wouldn’t let me sit there covered in sticky man-goo.
With my still-clean hand, I closed my laptop and crab-walked into the bathroom to clean myself up.
Research.
That’s all this had been.
Research.
Chapter 21
Jacks
The woman at the bakery on Howard gave me a look. It wasn’t a judgmental look, more like the look a mother gives a toddler who’s been standing in front of the candy display for fifteen minutes, paralyzed by the enormity of choice.
“Honey,” she said, “it’s pie. Not a marriage proposal.”
She had a point.
