"Mm-mmmmm," says Charlie, because the answer was b: into his mouth. He circles the slick tip of John's cock with his thumb; his own cock practically punches him in the stomach at John's suggestion and at his smell and at the twisting thing in Charlie's mouth.

Yeah, he wants. He wants an astonishing number of things, and he wants them with a decreasing amount of anxiety. He feels good, and sort of fuzzy, and liquid and loose, and more than okay with all of it.

He can't see them, but his pupils are, like, an inch across right now.

"Whadda you wanna do to me," he says, unmistakably lustful but also a bit muffled by a tentacle.