A dull, throbbing numbness was the first thing to breach the surface of consciousness. My arm was dead. Not asleep, dead. A colony of fire ants had seemingly taken up residence from my shoulder to my fingertips, a static, prickling void that screamed its presence before I'd even managed to pry my eyes open.
Where am I?
The question was a panicked flutter in my chest, squashed almost immediately by a wave of familiar, morning-after dread. The room came into focus not as a place, but as a series of clues. Faded band poster tacked to a wall. A faint smell of sandalwood and clean laundry. A stack of vinyl records next to a turntable.
Oh, yeah.
The memories assembled themselves like reluctant witnesses. The bar. The flannel shirt. The conversation about some indie film I'd never seen. Nice hippy, hipster guy. Sean. Yeah, I was almost certain it was Sean.
Now fully awake, the reality of my predicament solidified. I was lying on my side, cupping a warm, firm back. His skin was smooth, with little to no hair, and he did smell good, a hell of a lot better than my own breath, which was a stale cocktail of cheap dark rum and poor life choices. I could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. A dark, well-kept curtain of hair fanned across the pillow, and in the grey morning light, he looked peaceful. Quite nice, even.
But his entire, peacefully sleeping body had become a prison for my left arm. It was pinned beneath him, a sacrificial offering to a one-night stand, now paying the price in agonizing pins and needles. A frantic, primal need took hold: Extract the limb. Grab the clothes. Vanish.
I calculated the move. A slow, steady roll. Maybe if I held my breath… But no. The slightest shift made the dead nerves shriek in protest, and he stirred with a soft, sleepy murmur.
My heart sank. This was the part I hated. The Awkward Morning After. The mandatory performance where we'd both pretend to be fully formed, interested human beings. We'd fumble through a conversation, exchange numbers we had no intention of ever using, and chirp empty promises about catching up soon. "I'll call you," I'd lie, already mentally composing the text I'd never send.
Or worse. He was a hipster, after all. He was probably one of the feely ones. The kind who wanted to dissect the night before, to talk about energies and connections before he'd even had his fair-trade, luxury whole coffee bean, mocha. He'd look at me with those sincere, soulful eyes and ask what I was passionate about, or worse still, offer unsolicited advice on what I should be doing with my life.
The absolute worst-case scenario loomed: he wasn't just feely, but pathetic. A love-sick fool who'd mistake a night of drunken friction for a cosmic sign, already picking out star signs after a single shag. The kind who'd want to get married as soon as you blew them.
I just wanted my arm back and get out of here. Was that too much to ask?
I tried pulling my arm again, a slow, steady pressure that felt like trying to slide a piece of paper out from under a sleeping cat.
Two things happened at once.
First, his sleepy murmur deepened into a low, rumbling groan as the dead weight of my arm finally shifted. And second, as my numb, prickling limb slipped free, my lifeless hand and fingers dragged clumsily across his skin, brushing directly against his now fully erect member. The groan that escaped him then was less one of sleep and more of a primal, hungry growl, a sound that vibrated through the quiet room.
As I became free, he rolled onto his back, one arm flung over his head, the invitation and the vulnerability of the pose completely unconscious. My freed arm screamed back to life with a thousand electric needles, but I ignored the agony. The escape route was clear. There was only one thing for it, only one way I was going to get out of here without the cheesy, morning-after conversation that my throbbing head and fragile ego simply could not handle right now. If he wanted a connection, I'd give him a distraction. A memorable exit, but not a conversational one.
I started by sucking his toes. It was a bold, ridiculous opening gambit, but it had the desired effect. He jolted slightly, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. I moved from there, nibbling my way up the sensitive arch of his foot, the corded muscle of his calf. I made a performance of it, ensuring my long hair trailed behind me, a silken caress over his skin with every deliberate movement. I worked my way further up, past the knee, my mouth charting a course along the soft skin of his inner thigh, feeling the muscle there, twitch and tense in anticipation. The air grew thick, charged with a single, focused purpose. Talk was off the menu. This was just a transaction, a final, physical punctuation mark on a night that was already over. The need to shift the dynamic, to reclaim some sliver of control, was a sudden, physical impulse. My hand, which had been splayed on his thigh, drifted upwards. I cupped the heavy warmth of his balls, feeling them tighten in response. He let out a sharp, gratifying hiss of air.
Bending my head, I ignored the protest in my dead arm and traced a path with my tongue. I licked slowly up the prominent seam on the underside of his cock, a journey from root to tip, tasting the clean salt of his skin. My destination was the slick, velvety head, where a single, translucent pearl of precum had welled up. I paused there, letting him feel the heat of my breath, before my tongue stabbed out, claiming that moist offering. The taste was bitter and primal.
Emboldened, I took the whole length of him into my mouth. God, he was so big. The sheer size of him triggered my gag reflex almost immediately, a violent, involuntary convulsion that made my eyes water. I didn't retreat. Instead, I leaned into the discomfort, using it. I began to pump back and forth, not just with my mouth, but with my whole head, a rhythmic, drowning motion. My hair fell around us like a curtain, closing us in this wet, dark space.
I could feel the telltale signs building in him, the twitch deep in my throat, the way his hips began to stutter, the sharp intake of breath as his entire body went taut, a bowstring pulled to its breaking point.
Just before the point of no return, I pulled back, spitting him out of my mouth with a wet, final sound. A raw, desperate noise caught in his throat, a cry of agonizing anticipation. But this wasn't just for him.
I needed to feel something, too. Something more than just service.
I moved quickly, crawling onto him, my knees bracketing his hips. I positioned myself above him, and without ceremony, I sank down, piercing myself upon him in one decisive, breathtaking motion. A gasp was torn from me, half pain, half triumph.
"Yeah, that's it," he started, his voice ragged, but I didn't want his commentary. I didn't want his gratitude or his encouragement. This was my rhythm, my need.
I slapped a free hand over his mouth, silencing him. The sound was sharper than I intended, but it served its purpose. His eyes, wide and dark, stared up at me, but he didn't fight it. He understood. This was no time for words. It was a time for feeling. And as I began to rock myself on him, setting a fierce, steady pace, the only sounds were our ragged breathing and the slick, skin-on-skin proof that we were, for this moment at least, alive.
I never got fully there, but this was enough, I thought, just as he let out an almost primal scream of release and collapsed under me, a dead weight of spent energy. The performance was over. For him, at least.