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4 months ago

The Other Brother

the white lounge rug.

the white lounge rug. The smell hits me next, so dark and pungent that I’m not entirely sure I’m not having a stroke. It’s eau de burnt condoms and splattered wine, with maybe a hint of breakfast. There’s no use crying over spilled Merlot, but I almost shed a tear when I realize it’s been splashed across the Banksy mural in the foyer. I’m vaguely aware that something’s on fire, but when I try to muster up the courage to go grab an extinguisher, I can’t. Hangovers, man. What the fuck did I do last night? The late-morning sun pours in from the patio. It’s like getting LASIK from a flamethrower. I whimper pathetically from the place where I must have passed out last night: naked, upside down and reeking of tequila on a white velvet sofa worth more than my parents’ mortgage. I squint, still a little drunk, and raise my hand to shield my eyes. But before I can, something moves in front me, eclipsing the light. A thigh. A thick, muscular thigh with blonde hairs that glisten, back-lit by sunshine, like spun gold. Naked. Bulging with sinew. In awe, I follow the line of that thigh up to a hip. A manly fucking hip. A hip which has no doubt powered thrusts that have facilitated a thousand orgasms. Oh. Make that a million orgasms. Because let’s slide the fuck across that hip, shall we? I know I shouldn’t look, but it’s right fucking there. Beckoning my gaze. Begging to be seen. Thick. Half-hard, long as my forearm and still. Fucking. Growing. Uncut. Like turning your porn settings over from US to UK. A pearl of pre-cum trembling at its engorged, fat, rose-pink tip. Hung. And hanging right over my fucking face. Total dream, right? Perfect way to wake up in the morning. Forget hangover

cures. Forget hair of the dog. The most beautiful dick my formerly-slutty eyes have ever ogled is dangling within licking distance of my suddenly drooling mouth, and I wanna ride that bad boy like a bitch in heat. There’s just one problem. There always is, isn’t there? Remember Dan? Dan “Dan the Man” Hardbottom, that almost-handsome, totally kind, and caring fiancé who booked me into this sweet-ass room that I’m probably burning to the ground literally as we speak? Yeah… That’s definitely not his cock. “Morning, love,” Very Much Not Dan says, passing me a giant mug of coffee. I accept the mug gratefully as I twist myself upright. I find myself blinking at Not Dan in a slow, disbelieving daze. Every time I close my eyes, I’m certain he’s going to be gone when I open them again. Every time I open them, he’s still fucking there. Alright. Let’s talk specifics here, hmm? He’s in his late twenties. Early thirties at the most. 6’2”, probably more like 6’3” if you get him in dress shoes. What we’re dealing with here is a man who seems to be constructed mostly of muscle, sex appeal, and my own wet dreams. He’s got dark blonde stubble that you just know will tickle your cheeks when he kisses you. The kind of lips that make you wonder how that stubble will feel against your inner thighs. My heart says no, but my pussy says I want to ride his scruffy face like a jockey on Kentucky Derby day. Blue eyes, bright and pale and flecked with gold. Like sunlight on the ocean. Or like the Royale’s $500,000 poker chips scattered across the baby blue felt of a roulette table. A jawline that looks like it was formed with a chisel and a chest that makes me feel like if God were real, he’s either gay or female. It’s like I dropped acid last night and accidentally hallucinated a naked Charlie Hunnam into my bridal suite. “How did you sleep, darling?” he asks me. “I made brekky.”

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