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Summary
Stanford, a genius everywhere but the bedroom, stared across Bill, eyes wide with equal parts nervousness and curiosity. He looked like a lost puppy. “So, how - how does uh, this, work, typically?” He spoke quietly, gesturing between the three of them to punctuate his words, and leaning away to clear his throat afterwards.
As Bill opened his mouth to supply a confident answer, he was shoved forwards, tumbling into Ford's crotch with an indignant squeak as his nose became intimately acquainted with the large tent in Ford's pants. “Like this,” Fiddleford grumbled, an uncharacteristic coldness in his tone. “He's got plenty of holes, ‘n we just gotta pick and choose.”
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Nasty Billfiddlesford spitroast. Bill is the roast