“Relax,” he said, his tone calm, almost soothing. His firm, round, and perfectly proportioned ass could have been a centerpiece at a museum of male anatomy. He could feel my hole clamp down and pulse from where his thumb was lodged, and instead of pulling away, he pressed in further, pulling out slightly only to push in again. My legs trembled, my breath came in shallow gasps, and my mind was a whirlwind of sensations and conflicting emotions. “Sure,” I muttered, trying not to squeak. When he finally removed his thumb, I felt empty, bereft, like a part of me had been ripped away. He put both hands on my ass and massaged in circles with his thumbs. I was red, hot and throbbing down there, and a big, jock senior was soaping up my ass. My breath froze. Not just because of him—but because I realized I wasn’t sure what I was more nervous about: the exposure, or how much I didn’t want to look away. “Sup, freshie?” he said, catching my gaze with a quick grin. Jake glanced down, then chuckled—that low, knowing sound that made me want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
