#pacoier

Yes, his gatinho was right: Pac is an excellent kisser.

He tries muttering something against his tongue, like a doubt or a rebuttal, and Roier can’t have it, pawing down, looking for the hem of his underclothes to get at cool, oddly-textured skin and failing: “Shut up and take your pants off, where's your junk at—”

Pac chuckles and tugs off his sweatpants, shucks his jacket to reveal a long sleeved leotard, going down to his mid-thighs. Buttons snap off to reveal a convenient hole right where it's needed, the barest peeks of scarred thighs coming through, overshadowed by a bright pink cunt and its fat pink cock, dusted with curly black hair and winking for attention.

Roier pushes Pac around easily, soon has him flat on the table and his skinny thighs in his hands, face hovering close to his prize.

“Your thighs feel funny,” he muses, “slimy.”

“It's the sculk,” Pac says, suddenly bashful, “sorry.”