Page 60 of Slap Shot Daddies

Dirty, dirty images of three gorgeous cocks that I wish I was enjoying.

I slap a hand over my mouth, feeling the heat spread across my skin, a fiery blush that seems to sizzle in the cool of the church basement. The sacred space, with its low ceilings and walls lined with faded portraits of saints, feels unbearably inappropriate for such content.

My fork clatters against the plate, slipping from my grasp.

Clutching my phone tighter, I squirm in my seat, trying desperately to maintain a facade of calm, but my mother’s sharp gaze zeros in on me, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Kenzie,” she hisses, her voice low but firm, “you’re being rude.”

“I…” I pause, clearing my throat to mask my flustered state. “Sorry, just got an important text.”

“More important than God?” she challenges, her eyebrows raised in a silent reprimand.

“I need to take a call,” I fib, pushing my chair back with a soft scrape against the linoleum floor.

Before she can voice any objections, I’m on my feet, slipping quietly toward the shadowed hallway that promises a moment of solace.

I need a minute to myself, is that too much to ask?

I push into the nearest bathroom, the door clicking shut with a resolute lock behind me. My breath escapes in sharp, heated gasps, each one echoing off the tiled walls.

My phone vibrates persistently in my pocket, an incessant reminder of the situation at hand. Another picture arrives. This time, it’s from Braden.

I bite my lip so hard I fear it might bleed. This is a terrible idea, I know it deep down. Yet, my hands move of their own accord, trembling fingers fumbling as I flick open my camera.

I angle the phone carefully, capturing just enough to be provocative without revealing everything.

With a quick press, I snap the picture.

For a moment, I simply stare at the image, my heart pounding in my chest like a relentless drum. Then, before my courage falters, I send it off.

Braden responds instantly.

>> Fuck, baby.

Reggie chimes in.

>> That’s our girl.

Ambrose's message comes on the heels of Reggie’s.

>> Are you in the fucking bathroom at church?

A wave of guilt crashes over me, immediate and overwhelming.

Oh. Shit. I clutch my phone to my chest, the cool metal pressing against my skin, and gaze up at the ceiling, half-expecting God himself to descend and smite me for my transgressions.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I draw in a deep breath, then release it slowly, trying to calm the storm within. I can’t do this, not here, not now.

I quickly text my mom, my fingers moving swiftly across the screen.

>> I don’t feel well. Heading back to the hotel. I’ll call you later.

Resolute in my decision to avoid further mistakes, I slip quietly out of the church. I duck into my car and without a second thought, I peel out of the lot.

By the time I finally reach the hotel, I feel like the day has painted itself on me, layer by grimy layer, and I need to scrub it all away.

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