Charlie drinks in every word, half picturing it and half watching John stroke himself, transfixed. His own hand is moving at the head of his cock again, through the fabric (no longer entirely dry), less than he wants (exactly as much as he wants).

Then, while John is still talking, he shifts. Tortures himself by letting go again and gets up on one elbow, so that he can slide his fingers down that yellow brick road in John's abdomen, fording golden liquid that sticks deliciously to his fingers. His brain is fizzing.

"Wowie," he says. Science may never know why, but he's gotten quite breathless.

His hand probably reaches the squirming tentacles before it reaches John's cock, but to be honest Charlie is equally excited to meet both.