Chapter 15 #2
“I washed my butthole,” I say, then slap my palms over my face because why? Why, God? And now, how am I supposed to live the rest of my life knowing that those words have, at some point, escaped my lips?
Eggo sits on the end of the bed and tries to pull my hands away. I relent after a few seconds, but my cheeks are burning up.
“You’re such an interesting person.” He says it with his head cocked to the side like he’s figuring out a riddle.
“Interesting” is an interesting word to choose.
It’s fairly neutral, but could hide a wealth of other meaning, and I’m trying not to let my mind pick over only the negative definitions I can conjure.
Luckily, distraction comes in the form of Eggo’s fingers tugging at the hem of my T-shirt and lifting it up over my stomach.
I finish the job and remove it, tossing it over to my chair.
He says nothing, doesn’t take his hoodie off, but his lips part as his eyes slide down my abdomen and land on the waistband of my trackies.
I’m painfully hard and these pants leave very little to the imagination.
The next second, Eggo grabs my face and pulls me on top of him.
We roll about kissing, hands travelling everywhere, hips thrusting, trying to glean friction from any available surface.
When I’m flat on my back, Eggo pushes to his knees and tugs his jumper with his T-shirt glued to the lining over his head.
His freshly showered scent washes over me, before he hooks his fingers around the waistband of my pants, pauses for consent, then inches them down to my feet.
He kicks them away as though they’ve personally offended him.
He takes in my nearly naked form and resumes his attention on my mouth by shoving his tongue into it. I pull off my jocks, and Eggo stops kissing me to look down and up my body, greedily hovering at my cock. He doesn’t hide his gaze. Evidently, he doesn’t feel shy knowing I know he’s staring at it.
“Fuck,” he says, grabbing the front of his shorts and dragging the heel of his palm over himself. “Can you?” He motions for me to flip over on the bed.
I do as he asks, and over my shoulder, I watch his eyes grow into saucers as I pop my ass into the air.
He’s on his knees again and crawls into position behind me, and unless I turn my head, I can’t see him, but gentle hands caress my buttocks and then a finger or thumb lightly presses against my hole.
My reflex action is to clench, which makes both of us laugh.
“Is this okay?” he says, like he’s out of breath.
“Yes.”
“Can I . . .” His words are even quieter.
I’m not even sure I know what he’s asking for, but I answer anyway. He could do anything he wanted to me right now, and I’d say yes. Finger me? Yes. Fuck me? Yes. Golden doughnut? Sure, why the fuck not?
Instead, the bed creaks, the mattress bounces, fingers part my cheeks further, and something much softer, warmer, and a little scratchy caresses my hole. His lips and tongue. The scratching is from his beard, and I don’t hate it. If anything it’s . . . affirming.
I cry out. The sound is twenty times louder than what I intended, and I’m trying to concentrate on the sensation rather than replaying echoes of my moan inside my head.
He circles my hole with his tongue, and I have to bury my face in the doona so that I can continue to make noise.
When I shakily look back at him, his jocks are bunched down under his balls and he’s stroking himself slowly.
And then his tongue dips inside me, and I think the only logical explanation is that I’ve died and gone to rimming heaven. I had no idea it was this good. Eventually, Eggo lifts himself away, and I push up from my elbows.
“That was . . . that is . . .” I laugh, let out all of my breath. “Have you ever done that before?”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t even know if I was doing it right.”
“It felt right, holy crap.” I’m shaking and leaking precum all over my sheets. “Do you want me to . . . uh, do the same to you?”
Eggo absentmindedly strokes his cock. “Sure, but first I want to watch you come. Okay?”
“Why the fuck would I say no to that?”
He laughs. “Turn over. Lie on your back. Do you have any lube?”
“Bottom drawer, on the left,” I reply, pointing to my bedside table.
He fetches the bottle and squeezes a little onto the fingers of his right hand, then he takes a dollop and thumbs it over my hole. I bring my knees up so he has better access.
“Have you ever touched yourself here?” he asks.
I have to remind myself he means fingered, not literally touch myself there, which I do every day in the shower when I wash. I shake my head. “Have you?”
“Sometimes when my girlfriend gives me a BJ, she’ll slip a cheeky finger in the back door.” The words should be cringe. I mean, they are cringe, but he says all of this without the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Honestly, pard, you . . . are not ready for how good this feels.”
I don’t respond. Don’t know what to say.
“Fuck your hand,” he says. “Let me watch.” His eyes unashamedly home in on my cock as I begin stroking myself, and I drink in his greedy face.
His finger circles my hole and nudges inside, and I can no longer keep my eyes on him. He’s saying shit like “Don’t hold back,” and “You’re doing great,” and “One day I’m gonna fill you with my cock and you’re gonna take it so well,” and it’s doing something for me.
How was I supposed to know I had a thing for praise? But I guess with all things considered, it makes a lot of sense.
Eggo curls his finger or adds another, I’m not sure, but that one movement is enough to shunt me dangerously close to an orgasm. I moan and bite down on my forearm to stem the noise.
“Don’t stop, baby. Don’t cover your mouth. Let me hear you.”
I shake my head, leave my arm where it is. I’m hanging on by a thread, edging myself, willing myself not to come too quickly so Eggo doesn’t think I’m a loser. Though, I’m losing this battle right now, and I can’t even slow my own pace.
There’s something so deliciously perverted about masturbating with an active audience.
“Fuck, Pi, this is so fucking hot. I wish you could see yourself from this angle.”
I feel my orgasm building, feel myself free falling into that no going back zone. “I’m gonna come.”
“Yes, princess, come for me. Let me watch.”
Princess?
Oh, fuck, I think I like that.
I stop jerking myself, and warmth erupts across my belly.
I don’t look at Eggo, but I sense him watching me, and it’s fucking hot.
My orgasm goes on longer than it ever does when I’m by myself.
Eggo continues massaging my P-spot whilst stroking himself.
Then he removes his finger, leaving me hollow and desperate for more contact, but I don’t have long to mourn his absence.
He cages me with his thick, hairy arm, and fucks his other hand until only seconds later, ribbons of silky cum spatter my chest.
I watch his face as he watched mine—eyebrows furrowed, jaw jutting forward, mouth open.
He’s loud when he climaxes. So fucking loud.
There’s no other way to describe it except that I’m in awe of how unashamed he is of .
. . well, everything. The noises he makes, the faces, the way he seems to live in the moment without a single concern that someone might think he’s weird or embarrassing.
It’s glorious. He’s glorious.
“Princess?” I say when he opens his eyes.
He laughs. “That was an accident.”
“I liked it.” I glance down at our joint messes mixing on my belly. There’s no way to tell what came from me and what came from him. “Call me princess again.”
He lowers himself to me, sandwiching the jizz between us, not giving a single fuck it’s now all over him, and he kisses the tip of my nose. “Princess.” Then he licks my face, and I remember his tongue has recently been up my butthole.
“Do you want to stay . . . tonight? I could make you some food or something? Pizzas?” I say.
“Uh . . .” Eggo pushes himself off me. “I should go, actually. I need to pick my girlfriend up from the airport really early tomorrow.”
I quash the disappointment rising in my chest.
It’s for the best.
“There a towel or some tissues? Or . . .” Eggo says, getting to his feet and heading towards the door.
“Don’t open that!” I yell. “Don’t let Trekkie in yet, or he’ll try to . . . lick it up.”
Eggo fake gags. “Oh god, that’s your villain origin story, isn’t it?”
“Lessons have been learned,” I say, wishing there was some way to erase certain memories. “There should be towels at the bottom of that cupboard.”
He fetches a blue striped towel, drags it down his stomach, and yeets it to me with a wink. “That was fun. We should do that again. Maybe next time . . .” He puffs out his cheek with his tongue and brings a loosely closed fist to the other cheek, miming a BJ.
I salute him with a single finger gun as I clean the mess off myself and toss the towel towards the basket.
“You can let him in now.” I jump to my feet and pull on my jocks before I’m bowled down by my dog, who’s obviously mistaken the five to ten minutes we’ve had the door closed as a warp-speed interplanetary attempt at permanent abandonment.
After Eggo leaves, I pace the kitchen, cleaning things I’ve already cleaned today.
I take Trekkie out for a late-night run.
I eat three Oreo ice cream sandwiches. I shower.
I put the TV on but I don’t see any of it.
I even text a photo of me that I’ve pulled from the Cents’ Instagram page to Mum.
It’s about nine a.m. in Perth, and the message flips to read, but no reply ever comes.
And great, now I’m typing Finn Eggington into every searchable platform there is. Google, Instagram, Threads, Bluesky, TikTok. Not Facebook, though, because I’m twenty-fucking-three and not a masochist for my family’s abhorrent opinions.
There are photos of Eggo walking onto the pitch, pictures of him mid scrum, videos of him giving interviews, there’s even a clip where his shorts get yanked down exposing his bare hairy ass for a good seven seconds, and I’m grinning like a kid, but there’s one thought that keeps swirling around in my head.
Why couldn’t he just stay?
I mean, I get it. He has a girlfriend. He has to be up early to collect said girlfriend from the airport, and we are only experimenting with shit. I just . . .
I’d just like it if . . .
I really wanted him to . . .
Fuck, I’m lonely.