#impure thoughts

Dennis opens his eyes but it’s impossible to get ‘em to focus. Here’s the deal. Robby agreed to go out tonight, which they don’t do a whole lot because they’re not supposed to be doing anything, really, even if that’s staying in. A dark theater is a happy medium. It provides them anonymity, but still appeases Dennis’ lovesick yearning to be taken out—to be something beyond a bedmate to his boss.

Not that this is really doing anything to dispel that concern. It’s not a bed, but apparently the back row of the Harris gets his old man just as hot. It’s eleven on a Friday night and they’re not even close to being the sole patrons. Robby seems to really like that, too.

“I’m watching, now shush,” says Dennis, stricken with fear that someone’ll hear them or see them and run for the hills and call the cops and everything will fall apart and Robby won’t ever talk to him again and-

That doesn’t mean he isn’t fucking soaking wet, practically sitting in a puddle of his own making.

His shorts are only looped around his left thigh—the right, the side closer to Robby, is totally bare, and not only that but it’s spread to make room for Robby’s burly, veiny hand. Robby’s hoodie is haphazardly tossed over them like a blanket, but take a close enough look and there’s no doubt about what’s going on underneath.

And what’s going on is this. Three of Robby’s big, long fingers are curled inside of his cunt, pumping in thick, sliding out sticky, and Dennis knows, knows, that were this movie not so loud, the theater would be ample with the echoing sounds of their slick, slippery fucking.

“You’re shushing me? Jesus, kid, d’you know how noisy your pussy is?”

He doesn’t even remember what it is—some movie from the seventies that Robby said is a classic, something he really should be paying attention to because Robby likes it. But Robby likes this, too. Likes playing with Dennis, likes making space for himself inside.