He hates this but he's not protesting, not aloud. I can tell by the
too-even breathing and tight, tense muscles, there and there and, oh,
yeah, that's stiff too, but that's not a muscle.
That's his naked dick, hard for me, and that's Jim standing, silent,
beside me.
I watch the game a while; the one he's got his back to, though if he
wanted he could catch a reflection of the screen somewhere in the loft,
then turn my head and give that glazed-wet, head-height dick a casual
lick. He quivers, hands clenching, snarling, and I smile.
Sore loser.