Chet Pynchon naked was a glorious sight. I’d been too busy earlier twisting him into various pretzel shapes to really pore over the lean composition of his body, the biteable flex of his triceps as he reached for his boxers, the tight bubble of his ass and v-cut abs that weren’t as pronounced as they’d been back in his basketball days, but still sleek. Everything about him seemed like it’d been personally primed to turn me on.
