"Right-- right." Thank goodness Crichton has the presence of mind to tell Arthur what to do or this might take forever.
As he lies down -- carefully, elbows-first, skin burning wherever Crichton's lips touch it -- he starts to think again, and his nervousness peaks at a level somewhere between 'giant deer-eating spider' and 'breathe out and squeeze into that tunnel'. Which is ridiculous -- he trusts Crichton, he feels safe with Crichton, he's been vulnerable with Crichton a hundred times before. He closes his eyes (old habit) and breathes, and the nerves are crowded out by excitement, each pushing against the other as if he's trying to have every reaction at once.
The breathing turns into a shallow gasp as he's freed from his trousers. Now there's only a loose pair of boxers between him and the room, and they do nothing to hide the fact that he's nearly all the way to hard. The fly of the boxers is parting where his cock pushes against it, a little flushed skin visible.
If only he could play this off the way Crichton did. His mind seizes on something said earlier, and he pipes "Hello," before realising that Crichton refused to give his dick a voice, and that he sure as hell isn't going to either. Mortified, all he can do to save himself is backtrack, in a rush: "I-- I, I don't have any suitable joke f-for the occasion." Can they please pretend that didn't happen?
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As he lies down -- carefully, elbows-first, skin burning wherever Crichton's lips touch it -- he starts to think again, and his nervousness peaks at a level somewhere between 'giant deer-eating spider' and 'breathe out and squeeze into that tunnel'. Which is ridiculous -- he trusts Crichton, he feels safe with Crichton, he's been vulnerable with Crichton a hundred times before. He closes his eyes (old habit) and breathes, and the nerves are crowded out by excitement, each pushing against the other as if he's trying to have every reaction at once.
The breathing turns into a shallow gasp as he's freed from his trousers. Now there's only a loose pair of boxers between him and the room, and they do nothing to hide the fact that he's nearly all the way to hard. The fly of the boxers is parting where his cock pushes against it, a little flushed skin visible.
If only he could play this off the way Crichton did. His mind seizes on something said earlier, and he pipes "Hello," before realising that Crichton refused to give his dick a voice, and that he sure as hell isn't going to either. Mortified, all he can do to save himself is backtrack, in a rush: "I-- I, I don't have any suitable joke f-for the occasion." Can they please pretend that didn't happen?