Three nights later, I’m at the window again. The two are at the kitchen table, only this time Jack’s pants are open and his legs are spread wide to accommodate Dutcher, sucking d**k. I watch his head bob as he brings Jack along, and when Jack bucks and unloads, I am seized by both desire and hatred. The fire is stoked within, heat rushing through me, and my d**k stirs because the sight of such a thing gets a man, no matter that it’s all wrong.
When Dutcher has swallowed Jack’s spend, he wipes his mouth, then rises to show his pants undone, his d**k stiff and aimed at Jack. He stands with hands on hips as Jack wets his palm with spit and begins to work the rod. He doesn’t look up at Dutcher while so engaged, and I take this as hopeful, him not wanting that other connection, the one we had.
