His shoulders lock up in a shock of embarrassment so vivid he all but yanks his fingers out of himself (which only makes him moan, fuck) and feels the fluttery clenching that follows, then the dampness on his rim like slick or come dribbling out of his hole. I’m not a bloody girl. The words hover on the tip of his tongue but he swallows them down, swallows down the moan that follows a corrective yank on his hair and a scolding to mind his task, swallows down the desire to beg to have it removed.