Page 8 of Brushed and Buried
My fingers dig into the waistband of my pants, yanking them off with a swift rip.
Their silence is deafening.
“Permission to educate the curious straight guys in the room?” I ask, now standing before them only in my black briefs. I do not miss how all four sets of eyes flick down, like the spotlight shifted down below my waist.
Trevor glances around the room, that easy grin faltering just slightly. “Everyone good with this getting…involved?” There’s a real question in his voice beneath the surface.
Lance shifts forward, eager. “I mean, it’s your bachelor party, man.”
George just nods once, steady as always. “Your call, Trev.”
The pause hangs there for a beat, thick with possibility. Then Trevor’s grin returns, wider. “Right then. Class is in session.”
My cock is half-hard already, the thrill of performance coursing through me like a second heartbeat. I walk toward the couch, propping one leg up, angling my ass toward the center of the room like it’s a spotlighted stage.
The black briefs have ridden low from all the grinding, a thin scrap of fabric clinging desperately, like it didn’t want to let go. For a moment, I thought about keeping them, teasing a little longer, but tonight I am going all out. I hook my thumbs in the waistband, slide them down, and toss them aside, leaving myself completely exposed.
Gasps. Hisses of breath. Someone curses softly. The air is so thick with heat and disbelief that it practically hums. My thighs spread wide, shameless and open. I glance at them with a smile that says,you’re welcome.
I don’t look at any of them directly, except Vince. His beer is frozen halfway to his mouth, and his eyes are burning into me like he wants to tear me open and run.
He’s watching like he can’t believe I’m real.
Good.
I want him to watch. I want him to know that this body, this pleasure, is mine to control.
I take another long sip of beer, letting the taste linger on my tongue. The buzz of alcohol, tension, and something darker curls in my gut.
“Alright,” I murmur. “Lesson one.”
The room goes quiet. There’s not a single sound except the shifting of bodies on the couch, the low whistle of wind through the balcony doors, and someone’s ragged exhale, maybe Trevor or Lance.
“This is how you get ready to be ruined properly,” I purr.
Even though I’ve never let anyone watch me like this before, never given a show this raw, I feel strangely comfortable with them. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or the charged curiosity in their eyes. If they were going to mock me, they would have by now. Instead, they lean in. They want this lesson. And part of me, beyond Vince, wants to give it to them.
I reach into my bag and pull out a bottle of body oil I use to stay shiny in my performances. I squeeze some over my fingers, making a point of letting it drip. They watch every motion, like I’ve cast a spell they can’t break.
I drop back onto the couch with a showy little flourish, one arm draped lazily along the top like I own the place. Then, melting downward, I slide lower into the cushions until I’m sprawled out, one leg lifted high, the other bent with my knee splayed wide. My thighs frame me open without pressing to my chest, posed, not cramped, every inch of me on display.
I reach between my legs, fingers gliding down the slick crease of my thigh before curling around my above-average cock, thick and substantial, the head prominent and sensitive, already heavy and leaking. I gather the precum at the tip, spreading it lazily down the length, mixing it with the sheen of oil until every stroke is smooth and wet. My other hand drifts lower, circling the tight ring of muscle at my entrance, teasing before I finally ease a finger inside, stretching slow, savoring the way my body opens around it.
I bite my lip and let out a soft moan. It’s not fake or performative, just enough of a tease to keep them on edge. I wait to see if I misread the room, if they are actually afraid to see another man with his ass open for everyone. I do not see anything like that.
“Nice and slow, boys,” I whisper. “Class is officially in session.”
The air shifts.
I can hear their breathing, with George’s low, tense inhale, Lance’s audible exhale, and Trevor’s soft muttering of “holy shit”, like I’m performing in surround sound.
“I never thought about…what it’d actually look like…in this kind of situation.” Trevor’s muttering continues under his breath, barely audible. There’s genuine wonder in his voice, like he’s discovering something he didn’t know existed.
My hole flutters around my finger as I push in deeper, curling to hit just the right spot. I moan again; it feels so good.
I let my head fall back, eyes half-lidded, but not before they catch Vince.
He hasn’t moved, yet something flickers across his face, a mix of conflict and maybe hunger. He takes a step back, then another, until he’s pressed against the far wall. His knuckles are white around that forgotten beer.
