“Hey,” I managed, my voice cracking like I was back in middle school. My brain was glitching, caught between panic and other nerves as he washed my hairless globes. His soapy fingers brushed over my lower back, trailing toward territory I did not expect anyone else to wash. Not just because of him—but because I realized I wasn’t sure what I was more nervous about: the exposure, or how much I didn’t want to look away. His body moved with this casual, effortless bounce that I couldn’t stop watching—even though I knew I shouldn’t be. When he finally removed his thumb, I felt empty, bereft, like a part of me had been ripped away. But I didn’t. My cock twitched uncontrollably, still leaking pre-cum, as his thumb continued to work me open. I, on the other hand, looked like I’d been sketched by a child with a shaky hand. But instead of walking away, he grabbed a fresh squirt of soap. He was built, like he’d been carved out of marble.
