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.
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