Tread scratches down there while he's jogging The magical size bracelet chapter 9 by SatireMarker

As Tread began to warm up with a light jog - you thought you sensed a reluctance from the massive Islander, as if the jogging part of the warm-up wasn't a favourite - you held on even more tightly, desperate not to let go. Your face was well and truly buried in the fabric of the shorts and you could see nothing; cold air lapped at your back but it was more than offset than the warmth of your surroundings, and you had sunk into the fabric enough that it had formed slightly around you, cocooning you. But you could see nothing.

So you got only a split-second of warning when Tread's hand came to scratch his arse. That small element of cold air lapping at your back suddenly vanished and was replaced by the warmth that radiated from huge fingers. They slammed right into you, pushing you deeper against the glutes as they rubbed up and down. Your arousal reached new heights as you were crushed into them; even the fingers, rough and gargantuan as they were, exuded such overwhelming power that your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head.

Of course the whole thing was over in a few seconds, even though you wished it had lasted longer. So what had happened to you?