Page 16 of Taste Test

His hand was still resting over his crotch, thumb stroking the seam. “We will be when you see me in my Bonds.”

I stared at him, this skinny punk with purple hair and a cocky grin, thinking he could win me over with a flash of bulge and some thigh. Like I was that easy. Like I’d sell Jared out and throw away my principles for a peek at Dash Parata in his underwear.

As if.

Two minutes later, I was standing in the stockroom watching Dash strip down to a pair of tight grey Bonds. Somewhere between him cupping himself and that sexy little sneer of his, my brain had apparently gone offline and my mouth had said, “Okay.”

And the cocky little bastard had been true to his word.

For the rest of our shift, he strutted around the stockroom in nothing but a pair of faded grey Bonds—boxer briefs, not as flash as I’d imagined on a guy like him.

They weren’t new either, the cotton dulled from too many washes, the elastic starting to fray at the waistband.

Threadbare in places, stretched thin in others.

Which, of course, only made them hotter.

“Need anything else from back here?” he’d call with mock innocence whenever I had a chance to come out and stare at him .

It should’ve been awkward, but Dash acted like parading half-naked in front of me was just another part of our work day.

Every time I ducked into the stockroom I caught him in a new pose.

Once he was sprawled on a sack of beans, scrolling his phone with one hand palming his bulge.

Next time he sprang into motion, stretching for a box on the top shelf so the cotton rode high and cut deep across his arse.

Each scene felt rehearsed, like he knew exactly what I wanted to see and was drip-feeding me just enough to keep me hooked.

And hooked I was. I found myself cataloguing every detail, burning him into memory like I’d need the footage later.

His upper half was typically smooth for someone his age—just a smudge of dark hair in his armpits and that scant trail below his bellybutton—but his legs were surprisingly hairy, dark curls dusting all the way down his thighs and calves.

The contrast only made the rest of him look sharper, leaner, like he’d been carved out of bronze and selectively polished.

The modest bulge I’d ogled countless times through his jeans was no more impressive with the denim out of the way.

If anything, the thin cotton of his Bonds just confirmed what I’d long suspected: Dash Parata wasn’t hiding monster equipment.

He had a modest cock, soft and pressing small against the pouch, his balls neat and compact beneath.

Nothing to write home about. Average? Maybe even a touch below.

But none of that mattered whenever he spun around to give me a full view of his arse.

The briefs hugged it perfectly, pale cotton stretched across two lean, rounded cheeks. Not bubble-big, but tight and high, the kind of arse that looked made to be grabbed. His back tapered down in a clean V, all sharp angles and smooth skin.

He caught me staring and flashed that cocky grin over his shoulder.

“You checking out my arse, bro? Course you are. Everyone does. Best bit of me, aye.” He gave one cheek a theatrical slap, the sound sharp in the confined space.

“Bet you’re wishing you could touch it, yeah?

Well, tough luck. The goods are for looking, not touching. ”

“Okay.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he went on, giving himself a wedgie to show off the lower swell of his cheeks, “I’m flattered by the attention. But I’m not that kind of boy. I’m a visual feast, not a hands-on experience.”

“Good to know.”

He turned back to face me, hands on his hips like some sort of underwear superhero. “Though I will say, you’ve got excellent taste. This arse has won awards.”

“What awards?”

“Best Bum at Tokoroa High, three years running. There’s a trophy and everything.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“Am I though?” He winked. “Guess you’ll never know.”

By closing time, I was trying to calculate exactly how much dignity I’d traded for glimpses of teenage arse cheeks and a collection of increasingly ridiculous claims about his posterior’s achievements.

“Right then,” I said, untying my apron. “I’m finishing up.”

“So we have a deal?” Dash asked, stretching his arms overhead like he hadn’t spent the last three hours parading around in his undies. “I get to meet the rugby god?”

I swallowed. Then nodded.

Without warning, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and shoved the Bonds down to his ankles. He stepped out of them, picked them up, and held them out to me like he was presenting the crown jewels.

“Something to remember me by,” he said.

He stood there completely starkers: hairless brown balls, neatly trimmed pubes, cock hanging soft between smooth inner thighs. The full package, modest as it was, on display without a hint of shame.

I took the underwear, warm and damp, and stuffed them into my bag.

“So what time should I come over?” he asked.

“I’ll text you.”

“Sweet. Enjoy my sniffing my grundies when you get home.”

I tried to grimace and play it off like I was disgusted.

But who was I kidding? We both knew I’d have my face buried in those pongy gruts the second I was alone.

I swear I didn’t have a stink kink. I didn’t.

But sniffing a man’s underwear was one way to get access to places touched by things you wanted.

A dirty little shortcut. A lesson I’d learned years back, when my cush of the moment had gone swimming and had left his shorts unattended.

Damp cotton, faint chlorine, and the musk of balls that weren’t mine.

The guilt had been sharp, but the rush sharper.

“If you like how they smell,” Dash said, “maybe we can do a trade like this again sometime.”

I stared at him standing there naked, all bone and sinew.

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I’d like that.”

He bent to grab his jeans and shimmied them up commando-style. Sad truth? Watching that soft dick and smooth brown nuts vanish behind denim felt like a loss I wasn’t ready for. He caught me looking, lips curling into a rizzy sneer.

“Don’t stress, bro. You’ll see the taiaha again soon enough.” He gave his hips a quick thrust, jeans still half-undone, like he was squaring up for battle. “A body like this deserves a proper audience.”

I didn’t trust myself to reply. Because for once, Dash Parata wasn’t wrong.

What was wrong, though, was me realising I’d just signed myself up for the impossible: getting Jared to sit through a night of forced bromance with someone I’d spent the last twelve months calling a complete fuckwit.

I’d instantly rejected Connor’s sleazy proposition because I wouldn’t betray Jared, and then turned around and sold him out for a strip show from an eighteen-year-old punk with purple hair and delusions of grandeur.

Now I had to somehow explain to my flatmate that my supervisor was coming over to fanboy him like he was meeting the bloody Queen.

“Oh, by the way, Jared,” I could already hear myself saying, “if you’re not busy tonight I’ve invited this kid from work who’s obsessed with you and has written multiple chants in your honour.

He’ll probably want photos. Maybe an autograph.

Almost definitely wants to watch you drink Powerade like it’s a religious experience. ”

Brilliant. Just brilliant .