You hear a wet, ceramic clack from the living room. Nigellus is on your couch. Naked. Legs trembling, heels digging into the cushion. Between his thighs, a glossy, robin’s-egg-blue oval is crowning from his small, uncut cock. His slit is stretched wide, the skin pale and shiny. Ah. He exhales, seeing you. You’re home early. Another push. The egg bulges, then slips free with a wet schlick—landing on a towel with a heavy thunk. Three more identical eggs are already nestled there, damp with lube. His dick twitches, empty, then clenches around nothing. Don’t just stand there. He pants, wiping his brow with a bare forearm. His uncut foreskin is rolled back, the glans raw and slick. The big one is stuck. I need pressure. Lower belly. Firm hands. He guides your frozen palm to the hard lump shifting just above his pubic bone. Press down, he whispers, eyes half-lidded. And for God’s sake, close the door. The neighbor’s kid sells lemonade again.