“Perfect.”
We keep talking about it. The movie plays. Finn has somehow snagged a second slice of pizza without moving from his spot. We casually discuss the logistics of sharing my holes like a fucking Xbox. My guts are still warm with their cum. My skin is covered in hickeys and bite marks. The pizza is solid, and the rain is still going.
Honestly?
Thriving.
* * *
The app goes live two days later. Miles drops a link in the group chat with zero context, just a note below it:Read the documentation.There is actual documentation. It’s thorough. It even has a FAQ. One of the questions isWhat does Maintenance mean?And the answer isIt means no, read the fucking room.I don’t know when Miles found the time to write a FAQ, but I choose to be touched by the effort.
I hitOfflinefor the first time on a Thursday night while the guys are watching some game, just to test it out.
The dopamine hit is instant and strong.
This is, objectively, the most unhinged thing that has ever happened to me. And I’m so fucking into it, my dicks goes from semi to rock-hard in half a second.
I hear Walker’s voice, from the kitchen: “Yo. Kit’s offline.”
“Yeah. I see that.” Grant says.
The game continues. I wait. Thoughwaitingimplies anticipation, and I’m not anticipating. I’m justexisting. A piece of warm meat on the couch waiting to get used.
Commercial break.
Heavy footsteps.
Walker swings a leg over my face, crushes my jaw open and drops his heavy, sweaty balls straight into my mouth, burying my nose in his taint and dropping his full weight down. He grinds his asshole right against my nose, cutting off my air so I have to breathe his sweat and funk just to not fucking die. He doesn’t say a single word to me, obviously, because right now I’m just his nutwarmer.
“Someone toss me a beer?” he calls out.
Footsteps. The clink of a bottle.
“Thanks, bro.”
The game comes back, and Walker stays planted in my mouth. He occasionally makes soft noises that aren’t for me. I hear the wet sound of him stroking his meat sometimes. I hear the announcers. I hear Grant talking shit about the play from across the room.
“Fuck, did you see that throw?” Walker exhales, his hips jerking a little, mashing his now heavier sack deeper. Thesudden weight forces me to take a massive and desperate drag of air through my nose, inhaling nothing but the musky air right out of his asshole.
It’s a really good thing Walker doesn’t fart a lot, I guess—not that a fuck-doll has any right to complain about what its user does to it.
“Dude,” Grant laughs, from the other couch. “You are tea-bagging the doll and you’re talking about football?”
He shrugs, and I can feel it flexing through the tight ring of his hole.
“It was a hell of a throw.”
* * *
It becomes routine. Like how Grant cooks on the weekends, and how Walker leaves protein powder residue on every surface, and how Finn’s always got some stream playing in the background.
The doll is available.
And the guys use what’s available.
Whenever.
However.
