“Alright,” I say eventually, trying to sound like we just wrapped up a gym session and not the dirtiest, best fuck I’ve had in years.
I pull out, grab his sweats, and haul them up over his creampied, leaking ass. When I reach to fix his front, I have to wrestle his dick down into his boxers. His throbbing piece of meat is purple and desperate, begging for a release he isn’t getting today. I shove it away, tie his drawstrings for him, and then deal with my own shit.
I tuck away my softening cock. Wipe a hand over my face. Watch himwake up.
“You’re still driving, by the way.”
7 Loads
Miles
When you’re this fried, time stops being a straight line.
It’s more like—okay, so. It’s like when you’re downloading a massive file and the progress bar just sits there at 47% for a while, and you don’t know if it’s frozen or justreeeallyslow.
That’s what tonight is. 47%.
I’ve been camped in this corner for—Uh. I don’t know, a minute. The stack of thermodynamics textbooks jabbing my spine is actually pretty comfortable. Someone put on a playlist that’s half hyperpop and half ambient drone. It should be a total trash fire, but it kinda works. I’ve been analyzing that for—a minute?
I’m also hard.
That started—man, I don’t even know. It might’ve been the playlist. It might’ve been the couple going at it lazy-slow over by the couch. I checked them out like fifteen minutes ago and they were still at it. Might’ve been that.
Or it might’ve been that I started thinking about my doll, which I do sometimes. Which I’ve been doing more and more these days. Daydreaming about using him on that couch again. Or slipping it in slow while he’s asleep. Or shoving my cock in his mouth every time I see him putting something in it. Or sucking those delicious nips.
I’ve been fixating on that hard.
No, more like—yeah.
That’s probably why I pitched a tent.
I look around, trying to kill the boner.
At this point of the night, our department parties usually look like a trap house. There’s a girl on a beanbag who checked out before I even sat down. There’s a guy near the door who fell asleep holding his solo cup. He hasn’t spilled it yet, which is genuinely impressive. I’ve been watching it tilt for a while and it never goes. The couple is still going. A few people are on the floor, too high to move. Somebody cracked a window at some point, and the air is this weird mix of cold outside and warm inside, smelling like drugs and alcohol and—what the fuck, candle wax?
Well, it smells like a 2 AM life choice, I guess.
I lean my head back against the textbooks.
And then Kit’s right in front of me.
I blink.
He’s crouched down, forearms braced on his knees, looking at me with that steady look he has. Hair’s messed up, jacket on. He looks real. He looksvery real.
I process this slowly, the way you process things at 47%.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say back.
He looks at my eyes. “How bad?”
“I’m good.”
“Dude,every time—”
“I’mgood.”
