But he doesn’t.
Miles loses it right there, his hips jerking, his hand jacking off fast. He aims straight into the center of my gape without ever crossing the threshold. A thick jet of his load shoots cleanly past the rim, filling the cavity of my wide-open hole. My walls clench hard on nothing but the warm rush of it, desperately trying to pull the fluid deeper into my gut.
It turns out I absolutely love the idea of being bred, of having a dick fill me up completely. But there’s something so much viler,so much hotterabout this. Miles isn’t breeding me—breeding means fucking andclaiming.
This is just dumping.
I’m a trash can. A cum dumpster. An unworthy, dirty hole. Something to aim at and drain into.
He groans, and his dick gives a few final, weak twitches right against my skin, and then he steps back, panting. I’m left with my ass totally blown open, feeling his warm slime pooling inside my cavity and starting to slow-drip down my cheeks.
“Okay,” Grant holds me there a second longer, then looks at Walker. “Help me lay him down.”
Walker stands, clearing his spot, and the two of them maneuver me onto the cushions. I end up on my back, someone shoving a throw pillow under my head. I don’t know who did that but it was a kind thing to do.
I stare at the ceiling.
Idaho is still there, very faithful.
I should visit Idaho one day.
Silence stretches out.
Finn’s the first to break it, clearing his throat.
“Okay. This is awkward.”
“Kit, bro,” Grant says, a little hesitant, “if you want us to bounce so it’s not awkward, we’re out. Or you can just, like, wake up or whatever. No pressure either way, man.”
The thing is, I can’t move. I genuinely assess the situation and the situation is that my body is completely cooked. My thighs feel like I did leg day and then immediately got hit by a truck. Every nerve I have is fried. Moving feels like a theoretical concept.
But I also, honestly, could go more.
Not right now. Right now I’d probably die. But that part of my brain that’s been an object for the last hour is full and satisfied.
I blink slow, turning my head toward Miles and Finn rolling another joint by the coffee table, and my voice comes out rough as hell:
“Bro. Pass that shit over here.”
3 Loads
I wake up face-down.
My ass is a wreck.
Not injured or anything. More like the specific ache of muscles that got used in ways they weren’t trained for. I stay still, just taking stock of the situation. Bed. Pillow. Blanket that I definitely didn’t pull over myself. Saturday morning light filtering through the curtains.
My ass hurts, and I’m grinning like an idiot.
I remember fragments of the aftermath. Everything went soft and buzzy from the weed until I was a pile of bones on the couch. I remember Grant’s voice saying something about getting me cleaned up. I remember him hoisting me over his shoulder—which, again, does something to my brain. Then he and Miles basically pressure-washed the evidence off me while I leanedagainst the bathroom tile, too gone to feel anything but the warm water.
I remember that Grant’s hands, the ones white-knuckling my throat minutes before, were oddly careful.
I remember being deposited in my bed, and then Walker showing up with his professional athlete massage oils. He gave me a technical lecture on lactic acid and muscle fatigue while kneading the tension out of my thighs. I remember thinking that Walker is actually a great guy, Walker is genuinely one of the best people I know.
I crashed before he left the room.
And now I’m lying here, grinning.
