And the dream had been so real— so vivid, so detailed, so overwhelmingly sensory— that their bodies had responded. Their cocks had hardened. Their balls had tightened. Their prostates had pulsed. They had ejaculated— in their pants, in their armor, sitting in chairs in a dark stone room, while their minds were somewhere else entirely.
The tall one's eyes widened.
He looked down. At his wet trousers. At his hard cock, tenting the fabric. At the wet spot— large, spreading, the fabric dark with moisture. He touched it. His fingers came away wet. Warm. The scent— musk, seed, the unmistakable smell of a man who has come in his pants— rose from his crotch.
He looked up.
A man stood beside the chair.
He was tall. Dark-haired. His coat was black. His hands were in his pockets. His posture was casual. Relaxed. The posture of a man who has been standing here for— how long? Minutes? Hours? Watching four men sit in chairs and dream and come in their pants and not move.
His eyes were black.
