Page 32 of Brushed and Buried
Lance moves first, grinning wickedly. He leans over me, takes my nipple into his mouth, and starts sucking, tongue circling, teeth grazing just enough to make me writhe. George follows him, settling down on the other side, giving my other nipple the same treatment. A shocked laugh escapes me, quickly swallowed by a moan I cannot contain.
Trevor looks like he’s been punched in the gut, staring at me with wide eyes, his knees spread wider as he strokes himself.
And still, Vince is there, stroking me firmly, his thumb smearing my precum over the head, teasing the slit until my thighs are shaking.
“You gonna come just from this, slut?” Vince murmurs. “You’re gonna embarrass yourself in front of my friends?”
“Yes, fuck yes, Vince,” I gasp, my voice breaking, my body arching helplessly into his hand. My moans spill out, shameless, my voice high and needy. “P-please, I c-can’t…”
Vince signals Lance and George to let go, and then he squeezes me tighter. My vision blurs at the edges. The room spins with heat, with the heaviness of their stares. And then I shatter.
My orgasm rips through me loud and shameless, my whole body seizing as I cry out Vince’s name. My hips buck, cock spurting hard across his fist and my stomach, coating me in sticky heat. He strokes me through every pulse, milking me until I am gasping and whimpering, falling apart right there on the floor.
And he does not stop, not right away.
Vince smears the mess over my cock head and down my shaft, then shrewdly raises his glistening hand, pressing his cum-slicked fingers against my mouth. “Lick it,” he orders.
I lock eyes with him and obey without hesitation. I push my body up and my lips part, tongue darting out to lick. The taste hits, salty, hot, and humiliating. Vince pushes deeper, his fingerssliding over my tongue, and I whimper around them, licking desperately.
“Oh, fuck me,” Lance mutters, his exhales sounding way too breathless.
Trevor groans low in his throat, guttural, as if holding himself back from moving off the couch. “Jesus Christ, mate.”
George, sitting beside him, just stares, fingers tightening around his knees as if he’s trying to hold himself together, unable to look away.
Vince smirks, holding his fingers in my mouth until I’ve licked them clean. His voice is a whip-crack in the quiet room. “Three minutes. That’s your new record. And we all know exactly who made you do that.”
I whimper around his fingers, nodding, my eyes fluttering and body spent, slick with sweat. When he finally pulls back, I collapse fully, limp and wrecked.
Lance whistles low, leaning back and shaking his head. “Wow. Hot. So hot,” he says, voice playful, but there’s an edge to it too. “What a show, Pretty Boy. You have outdone yourself.”
George chimes in, amused. “But now we know who owns this one.”
Vince stands, unruffled as ever, wiping his hand on a towel like I’m not sprawled out ruined beneath him. He says nothing, simply turns and walks out, leaving the air heavy with the aftermath of what he’s done to me.
I watch him go, my body still trembling. No one else owns me like that. No one ever could.
12
Adrian
I stare at the foam art in my coffee cup, watching the leaf pattern slowly dissolve into nothing. The sun slants in through the café windows, warm and lazy, a quiet reminder that last night is officially behind us, though it still hums loudly at the edges of my mind. The game, the dares, and Vince’s presence flicker across my thoughts, impossible to shake off completely.
Around me, the café buzzes with conversation. Trevor animatedly describes some wedding disaster from his cousin’s reception, Holly laughs at something Lance whispers in her ear, and George scrolls quietly through his phone, sipping his black Americano. The sounds blur together like background music, distant and unimportant. My pencil taps against the edge of my sketchbook.
Tap-tap-tap.
I shouldn’t be thinking about the way Vince used to tap his fingers when he was bored in class, or how he still does it now, apparently. But some things don’t change; they just age.
He sits across the table from me, close enough that I can smell that piney cologne again and notice the small scar above his left eyebrow from some long-forgotten football injury. He’s listening to Trevor’s story with polite attention, but his fingers drum against the wooden table in that same restless pattern I remember.
Tap-tap-tap.
The sound pulls me backward through time, past the salt air and morning light, past the years of careful distance. Suddenly, I’m eighteen again, sitting in the back row of art class.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly institutional glow that makes everyone look slightly green. I hunch over my sketchpad, only half-listening as Mrs. Henderson drones on about negative space and compositional balance. Her voice fades to white noise.
In the front row, Vince Holloway taps his fingers against his desk. The same rhythm, always the same rhythm when he’s counting down the minutes until escape. His shoulders strain against his letterman jacket, too broad for the tiny desk and too restless for forty-five minutes of forced stillness.
