Chapter 3 Adrian
Adrian
I go back to my beer and take a long sip. I think I should just sit down and enjoy the rest of the night with drinks and their company, my accidental party-crashing enough to be the memorable element of this night. But I feel like I should do more, with Vince here. Especially because he is here.
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.
But his eyes never leave me.
No grin, scoff, or comment. Just…watching. Every shift of my body, every slick sound, every twitch of my hole as I work myself open; he’s drinking it in like he’s mad at it.
Now he’s watching me fuck myself on a couch at his best friend’s bachelor party.
So I smile.
Wider. Wilder.
I add a second finger, scissoring them open, moaning louder now, thighs trembling from the stretch. My eyes flutter shut, and I arch a little, shamelessly showing off the pink of my slick hole.
They groan. I hear Trevor’s beer hit the table, the soft rustle of someone adjusting their pants, the ragged panting from George beside him.
But all I can think of is Vince.
I want him to want it.
I want him to ache for it.
I spread my legs wider. The cool air ghosts across my skin. “Warm-up is everything.”
I circle my rim with two fingers, languid and intimate. The oil glistens in the soft amber light as I push inside with practiced ease. The guys collectively suck in a breath.
George, perched on the arm of the couch like a king surveying his territory, leans forward slightly. “That…looks too easy.”
“It’s supposed to be,” I answer with a smirk. “You play your partner’s body like an instrument; you touch it the way you want it to sing.”
Lance whistles, eyes wide and hungry. “What song would you usually do this to?”
“Oh, I have a playlist,” I say, reaching for my phone beside me. I tap on the screen a few times and let the sultry beat of “Streets” by Doja Cat pulse through the speakers.
“Just something slutty,” I grin.
Trevor laughs, lounging with his beer. “These are front-row seats to the best private show in town.”
I slide another finger in, angle slightly, and breathe out a ragged moan. I’m not faking it, not fully. This is still work, but I’ve always liked performing for a crowd.
“Can we…” Lance starts, then stops, color rising in his cheeks.
“Touch?” I finish for him, still working myself open. “I am all for hands-on learning.”
Trevor’s the first to move, hesitant fingers ghosting over my thigh. The contact sends a shiver through me that’s not entirely performance. Lance follows, palm flat against my hip, thumb tracing small circles.
George waits, watching their hands on me before placing one massive palm on my knee. His touch is careful, almost reverent.
“This okay?” Trevor asks, voice softer now.
“More than okay,” I breathe.
Lance clears his throat. “Okay, but…how do you know when you’re hitting the prostate? Like, is there a signal?”
I crook my fingers slightly, and my hips twitch. “Oh yeah. You’ll know. It’s like setting off fireworks in the spine. Pressure, not pain. And you aim up.”
“Up?” he repeats, miming the gesture with a surprised look.
George smirks. “Up makes sense. You’d wanna rub it in a come-hither motion?”
“You’re a natural,” I say, glancing at him.
Trevor grins. “Why do you like bottoming?”
“Because,” I breathe, “when it’s good, it feels like full-body surrender. I can take everything and still want more. There’s a kind of power in it.”
They’re quiet. Rapt. I roll onto my knees, giving them a better view. My cock’s hard, pressed to my abs, and I know they’re all watching it.
“Who’s up first?” I ask, voice light, teasing.
Lance, naturally.
He steps in with a crooked grin, nervous but game. He sits beside me on the couch, and I straddle his lap, the music still playing.
“You sure about this?” he asks. He looks like the question was actually for himself, not me.
“Let’s just say I’ve had practice with men who want to experiment, and they are unsure where to begin,” I murmur, grinding slowly. “But never with an ER nurse.”
He flushes, even as his hands slide over my hips. “You’re…warm.”
The music pulses louder, the beat vibrating in my bones.
I roll my hips as I dance on Lance’s lap, slow at first, then faster, grinding with controlled friction.
My hands slide up my chest, tweaking my nipples for show, then comb into Lance’s hair.
He watches me with reverent awe, like I’m some kind of sexed-up angel descending from a slutty heaven.
The others are dead silent, just breathing, drinking in every move.
Lance is compact and muscular, with blue-gray eyes. His chest is firm, abs taut under me, and I love the way he bites his lip, unaccustomed to being on this side of the attention.