Page 94 of Built To Perform

“Dude!” Jefferson’s tone was scolding. “That’s Coach you’re talking about.”

“Sure fucking is,” Donny mused. “Coach and his hot boyfriend. Or are you saying you didn’t notice that Luke’s a stud?”

The last of the question muffled by Carlos’ hand over Donny’s mouth. Nostrils flaring above the squeezing fingers.

“Such an active imagination, so full of ideas” the Brazilian observed. His other arm moved under the water; Donny’s eyes went wide. “And full of something else, I see.”

I could imagine Carlos’ hand, the way he’d be pressing and tugging on the plug wedged tightly inside Donny’s hole. Knew what that felt like, too: the pulling, stretching, dizzying sensations that would be radiating out from his ass.

The plug was thicker than the finger pressing deeper into me. Then again, the plug didn’t squirm and twist, like it was trying to find the spots inside me that were most susceptible to stroking.

“Guess that plug did the trick, lil bro,” Brayden teased, as he worked a second finger inside.

“Actually, you have Jefferson to thank for that,” I corrected, feeling bold.

He chuckled. “Oh right, I remember all the squealing.”

“I didn’t squeal!”

Another laugh, at my indignance. “What do you say we change that now?”

I wriggled, wedged between them, as the third finger stretched me further. My body not so much protesting as overwhelmed by the way his groping of me had accelerated; Brayden testing my limits, while on the other side of us Donny groaned at Carlos’ devious handiwork.

“Did it feel good, lil bro? All those people watching you, wanting your load?”

He should be able to answer that himself, I wanted to point out. The two of us, Brayden and I, knowing full well how it felt to see those barely-lit faces staring up at you. Hunger and lust, all raw and untempered: both terrifying and addictive in its sheer intensity.

“I guess,” I hedged, watching myself on the phone’s screen. Still stuck feeling like that was a different Eoin; like this was a glimpse of some parallel universe.

“You guess?” Brayden leaned on the word, sarcasm heavy.

The Eoin in the video had one hand wrapped tight around the thick root of his cock, the other strumming the swollen tip as he thrust his hips toward the crowd. Mouth hanging open, fingers gleaming with sweat and precum under the colorful lights. If he looked surprised, it was at how hard he was. Not that men might be braying for him to spray cum over them.

“You danced better,” I told him.

Brayden sighed. His strong fingers wrapped around my wrist, dragging my hand under the bubbling water. Guiding it between his legs, to the unmistakable swell of his erection straining against the Speedo. Molding my hand around it.

“You do this to me, lil bro, okay?” His grip tightened on me, as his cock throbbed. “It’s not arrogance to know that you’re fucking hot.”

I screwed my face up, frustrated. The argument wasn’t new; wasn’t even all that different from the competing voices in my head.

“It’s just that, in comparison,” I started, only for Brayden to interrupt me.

“Fuck comparisons.” He glared at Jefferson. “Put the damn phone down and help me out, here.”

I expected him to laugh, to make a joke of it. Not the dull thud of his phone hitting the ground, tossed from his hand like it was nothing. Not his fingers wrapping my throat instead, tipping my head back until I could feel Jefferson’s lips pressed against my crown. And certainly not the sudden push of his other hand, beneath the water. Joining Brayden’s in stretching me open further, as I gripped his muscled forearm and whimpered at the surging sensations.

Donny’s groan dragged my eyes across the hot tub. The junior in Carlos’ lap, now; three of the Brazilian’s fingers pushed into his mouth, stretching his lips. Donny’s arms thrown back, fingers digging into Carlos’ hair in a grip that looked like it should be painful. Knuckles as white as his swollen pupils were inky black, and no guesses needed to understand that the older wrestler’s other hand was still inside Donny’s briefs, fucking him with the thick rubber plug.

My hand found Jefferson’s crotch by instinct, the wet nylon molded around his hard inches. No obstacle at all to work his cock free, until I could feel his bare skin against my palm. Marvel, as I always marveled, at the knowledge that he’d somehow fit inside me; that I could walk, talk, exist afterwards.

“Did you give him a lap dance yet?” Brayden’s tone was teasing.

I blushed, despite everything. “N-no.” When I swallowed, my throat flexed against Jefferson’s palm. “It’d be... stupid.”

“Less talking,” Brayden suggested, twisting his fingers in me, “more dancing.”

His hand pulling free left me feeling hollow; Jefferson’s finger slipped out a moment later. I let myself be moved, repositioned. Relishing the hardness of Jefferson’s erection underneath me, the way it strained against my bare ass.