Chapter 3 Adrian #2
I slide off him, still in rhythm with the song, and slink over to Trevor.
He spreads his legs without hesitation, smiling like he’s won the jackpot.
He’s got laid-back charm, all swimmer’s build and sun-kissed curls, sea-blue eyes flashing as his cock presses a thick outline in his shorts.
I straddle him, chest to chest, rolling my ass against his length.
He grips my hips and lets me move, respecting the rhythm.
“You were made for this,” he murmurs, half drunk and devoted.
I grind down harder, torturously slow, until he groans. “I get that a lot.”
Then I turn, crawling over to George. I brace my hands on his wide thighs and rise up to grind against his lap.
He doesn’t touch at first, only watches, his eyes heavy-lidded and his jaw tightly clenched.
He’s easily the largest of the group; tall, thick in the shoulders and biceps, olive skin under his dark brown hair, grown out into a thick, slightly tousled cut.
His chest is broad and muscled, dusted with a trail of black hair leading into his shorts.
When he grips my hips, it’s firm and assured.
His palms are callused, the kind that leave an ache you remember.
I moan and toss my head back, letting my hair spill.
Finally, I move toward Vince.
He’s leaning against the wall, with his arms folded. His black hair falls unruly onto his brow, framing a strong, clean-shaven jaw and hazel eyes flecked with gold. His black tee clings to his tattooed right arm, his thighs thick beneath his jeans, all lean, compact strength.
I let the music guide me as I move closer, hips swaying and chest rising with each breath.
I dance in front of him, performing as I would for any stranger, arching, hands tangled in my hair, thighs flexing.
When I pivot to show him my ass, I press back against him, feeling him hard and warm beneath me.
His body is steady, but the tension in his chest, the subtle shift of his hips, tells me everything.
His hands hover near mine, restrained, like he’s holding himself back, but I feel every pull of muscle under my palms, every pulse as his body reacts to mine. I grind slightly, rolling against him, savoring the friction, the way his warmth spreads across me.
He barely moves and doesn’t blink, yet I feel him completely present.
Flickers of attention reveal his struggle.
His breath catches in small hitches. The lines of muscle beneath my hands pull taut.
Everything speaks of his resistance and of how I make it impossible for him to hold back.
When I step away, he releases a shaky breath, as he finally gives himself a measure of distance, but his gaze never wavers.
I move on.
I am now back to Lance, sitting on the couch. Sweet, curious Lance, who welcomes me like I’m dessert. I straddle him again, and that’s when the tension shifts.
George stands and casually pushes down his shorts. Everyone goes silent.
His cock springs free, heavy and thick, a real monster. It is long and veiny, the head already glistening.
“Bro! What the actual hell?” Trevor blurts, wincing and laughing.
Lance’s eyes go wide, mouth falling open. “God. Forget proportional,” he murmurs. “I’ve seen it before, but never hard. Does any uterus stand a chance?”
Even Vince cracks a slight grin. “Definitely built for destruction.”
George just shrugs, unbothered. “I work with my hands. This is just another tool.”
My mouth waters, not romantically but professionally. Mostly.
“I hope your tool knows how to play nice,” I say with a wink.
I move to the floor, now on my knees. Lance rises, hips tilting as he pushes his pants down, bare and waiting.
His cock is the first I wrap my hand around, now fully out.
His breath catches, and he looks down at me with something like amazement.
He’s thick, probably almost eight inches, the flushed head damp against my palm.
“This is really happening,” he says, breathless, more to himself than anyone.
I stroke him slow at first, watching the way his breath stutters.
His thighs tremble, his hands gripping the couch, and the soft gasp he lets out makes me grin.
Trevor’s laugh is breathless when I move to him.
He shifts, sliding his shorts down with confident ease, letting the reveal draw out, his cock fully freed and angled just right for me.
“Bloody hell, you’re good at this.” He groans as I stroke him at the same time.
His cock is blunt and proportioned, probably the same size as Lance’s, and the wet sheen of precum at the tip makes it shine under the soft light.
And then, I feel a new, delicious pressure. A different angle.
A finger pushing inside my hole.
I jolt and look back, twisting mid-movement, and catch Vince’s face, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tight, every line of him focused on me. His hand is right there, between my ass cheeks. It’s really him. He has finally made his move.
The intrusion burns for a second, but the stretch turns molten quick, like my body’s been waiting for this exact touch. He works me open with quiet determination, one finger becoming two, his knuckles pressing deeper, unrelenting.
The feeling isn’t just physical; it’s raw and electric, like he’s reaching into something locked tight inside me and dragging it out into the light.
Every push leaves me panting, sends a buzz through my skin, and brings me alive in a way I didn’t know I could be.
Because it’s Vince, and because it’s always been him.
I stroke Trevor’s cock with one hand, Lance’s with the other, both of them hot and hard against my palms. George shifts closer, thick shaft crowding my face, heavy against my cheek. I drag my tongue up his length, tasting the salt of his skin.
The pressure builds white-hot, my pulse hammering in my throat. I can’t hold it anymore.
Vince’s fingers curl deep and relentless, and it rips the choice from me.
I let go of Lance’s cock, wrap a slick fist around my own, stroking it fast and desperate.
The climax seizes me hard, a brutal surge that empties me until there’s nothing left but the shuddering aftershock.
Cum spills across the floor in thick ropes as I moan, back bowing, body shuddering with the force of it.
Trevor shoves his cock into my mouth, muffling the sounds.
He fucks my mouth a few times, then his hips jerk as he comes, the taste flooding my tongue, hot and bitter.
I swallow around him until he empties himself against the back of my throat.
George grunts, rough and urgent, pumping hard until he paints my cheek and jaw with his release, sticky warmth dripping down my skin.
I catch Lance’s shaft in my fist, stroking him tight and fast, and he growls low in his chest before spilling thick across me, streaks of heat striping my chest and stomach.
When it’s finally over, I drop onto the floor like my strings have been cut, body still buzzing, skin flushed and damp with sweat and cum. My chest heaves, with nerves raw and muscles loose.
The room is quiet, too quiet. Trevor slumps back onto the couch, eyes shut, like the blowjob fried his brain straight into sleep mode.
Lance just stares at me, chest rising and falling, lips parted like he can’t quite believe what just happened.
Even the solid and unshakable George looks wrecked now, his big hands dragging down his face as though he’s trying to ground himself.
No jokes or laughter, just stunned silence, like we all stepped off the edge of something we can’t climb back from.
Trevor runs a hand through his hair, still catching his breath, his easy grin replaced by something more thoughtful. “Well…that happened.” His voice carries a note of disbelief, like he’s testing the words. “That sobered me up.”
Lance stares at his own hands like they belong to someone else, cataloging every sensation as he shakes his head. “I…didn’t know I could…”
George sits solid as always, but his eyes are softer, taking it all in with that steady calm of his.
None of them seems ashamed. If anything, they look…awakened.
What did I do? I feel like I should go deeper into that question and feel responsible for doing all this. But all I can really think about is him.
Vince. Standing there the whole time, watching me give myself over and letting them take me apart.
His friends. The thought makes my stomach twist, not with sadness or shame, but with something sharper, a need that cuts deeper.
I liked that he saw it, that he knows exactly what I look like wrecked, used, and undone.
And now he’s gone, just an open bottle of beer where he was, beads of condensation sliding down the glass like a ghost of his hand still holding it.
A pulse low in my stomach tells me this isn’t the end; it’s the opening act.