Chapter 22

Then, J.T. sank to his knees, as though his legs would hold him up no longer. His fuzzy gloves making him clumsy, he fumbled at Bart’s zipper. I liked the impression of coltish eagerness it created. Bart turned slightly, playing to the cameras as J.T. leaned back to admire the exposed cock, standing nearly straight out from the nest of (bleached) blond pubes. Slowly, almost reverently, J.T. reached out to stroke the organ, his fuzzy fingers dancing over the shaft.

The lead fished a familiar foil packet from his jeans, flashing the logo for the camera. I grinned at John—that tie-in concession with the condoms had been one of our best ideas. John pointed silently to the monitor. What the hell was that kid up to now?