Page 9 of Loosened Up for My Bud

“Can I…?” he starts, then stops.

“Can you what?”

“No, that’s weird. Forget it.”

“Just say it, Stone.”

I hear a small hitch in his breathing. “Can I touch? Just to… I don’t know. See what it feels like.”

My brain is screaming at me.No. Absolutely not. This is your best bud. This has already gone way too far. We’re miles past the line. We’ve set up a tent and built a fire in Gay County, and we’re roasting marshmallows on it.

But then I think about the plug. The way I felt on the field, with him on top of me. And a different part of me takes over. The daredevil. The wildcard. The guy who always does the stupid, reckless thing.

“Yeah, whatever. Go ahead.” I try to sound casual, like he’s asking to borrow my car, not touch my gaping asshole. “Knock yourself out.”

“Damn, Jay.” A soft laugh. “Never thought I’d hear you say that.”

He walks over to the sink. Water runs for a few seconds, then the squeak of the faucet shutting off. He comes back behind me, and I catch the scent of the cheap hand soap we both use.

I hold my breath. Then I feel the tip of his finger, calloused from football and years of lifting, trace the rim of my hole. It’s a light touch. Exploratory. My hole flutters at the contact, a spasm of pure instinct.

“Sensitive?” he asks, his finger circling the puckered flesh.

“Mmm.”

He presses a little harder, and I feel my muscles give way. He slides the tip of one finger inside me with zero resistance. Just sinks right in.

“Fuck, you’re still so slick,” he breathes. His finger explores the stretched rim, sliding around the edges. It’s nothing like the plug. This is warm. Alive. Another person’s touch. It’s a hundred times more intense.

I can feel everything. The texture of his skin. The shape of his nail. The slight roughness of his knuckle as he pushes deeper.

“You’re so loose from the plug, man. Loose and wet.”

“I used a shitload of lube.”

“I can tell.” He’s all the way in now. His whole finger. He curls it inside me, and I choke back a cry. He’s found it. That button. The one the plug was pressing against. But this is different. The plug was a blunt instrument. His finger is a precise tool, a guided missile aimed directly at that sensitive spot.

“It feels so soft inside,” he says. “So soft and… hungry. Your ass is pulling me in.” He sounds hypnotized.

I’m breathing hard now. Each exhale is a soft moan I can’t seem to stop. I’ve never felt anything like this. This strange, invasive pleasure that makes me want to push back against him, to take more.

“Does it feel good when I do this?” he asks, wiggling the tip of his finger against that spot.

“Ah—” I manage, my hips bucking on their own. “Kinda.”

“Yeah?” He slides his finger in and out, slow at first, then a little faster. The squelch is obscene in the quiet room. “You like that?”

“Dude…” I can’t form a full sentence. My brain is mush. My cock is so hard it feels like it’s about to tear through the fabric of my shorts. A wet spot is forming where the head is leaking.

He’s leaning over me now. I can feel his breath on my back.

“Damn, you’re shaking. Are you cold?” he asks, but he knows I’m not. I can hear the smug satisfaction in his voice.

“It’s just... a lot.” My hands are clenched so tight in the comforter my knuckles are white. I want to let go, to lean into the sensation, but I’m fighting it. Because if I let go, I’m not sure anything will ever be the same.

“It’s a lot, huh?” He slides a second finger in alongside the first. It’s a tight stretch, but I’m still so open from the plug that it slides in easily. The feeling of fullness is back. It’s better than the toy. So much better. “What about now?”

“Ah, fuck,” I groan. “That’s… two.”