Some minutes later, Otto’s phone buzzed. It was a text from Caulin. With a photo attachment...? Is he having trouble? Otto opened the message. And he glimpsed a blurry swathe of skin—two swathes of skin, actually. With a crease down the middle, and a pink, puckered hole, rivulets of water flowing over it. Fuck. Otto dropped the phone, blood swooping between his legs. Fucking hell! He knew he wasn’t supposed to look; Caulin still smelled like alcohol. But when he picked up his phone, his eyes went straight to that little pucker, and his balls pulled tight. It’s not like I need sex, Otto
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