I've lived with my Dad since my died when I was 7. He's a drunk and has been ever since I can remember.
The taxi driver tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to some old rock song as we pulled up, the meter clicking off with a finality that matched the hour. My phone screen glared 2:30 AM in brutal white digits, casting sharp shadows across my thigh as I fumbled for cash in the dim backseat light.
The taxi's door groaned louder than I expected when I pushed it open, its protest echoing down the quiet suburban street. House lights blazed through every downstairs window, throwing elongated rectangles of yellow across the dew-slick grass.
The front door was unlocked, classic Dad, and it swung open with a whisper of air that carried the humid musk of beer and something earthier beneath. The hum of conversation hit me first, that low-frequency drone of drunk men trying to sound sober, punctuated by the occasional glass clink or chair scrape. I recognized Uncle Rick’s laugh before I even saw him, he was my Dad's best friend not really an uncle, that wheezy chuckle that always ended in a cough.
Dad's left foot dangled off the sofa at an angle that looked medically concerning, his sock half-peeled off like a banana skin. One arm was flung dramatically over his face as if he'd been dramatically slain mid-thought, which, knowing Dad, was probably something like "I should go to bed" right before the fifth beer vetoed that idea. The coffee table in front of him hosted an obstacle course of bottles: two empties on their sides like felled soldiers, one half-full with a cigarette butt floating in it (gross), and a sweating glass of something amber that had left a sticky ring on the wood.
Uncle Rick noticed me first from his perch on the armchair, his eyebrows doing that exaggerated lift he always did when surprised. "Well look what the cat didn't drag in!" His voice was syrup-thick with drink, but the grin was genuine. The other two guys, Dave from the auto shop and some silver-haired dude I didn't recognize, turned in unison, their movements synced like a shitty boyband choreography. Dave raised his bottle in greeting, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"He been on the whisky again?" I enquire, toeing one of the empty bottles with my shoe. It rolled lazily toward the coffee table leg with a hollow clink.
I could feel their eyes on my cleavage, that unmistakable prickle of attention crawling across my skin like static. Uncle Rick's gaze flickered down just once, quick, guilty, before snapping back up to my face with forced nonchalance. Dave wasn't even trying to hide it, his bloodshot eyes lingering a beat too long on the sliver of skin exposed by my leaning forward to pick up one of the fallen bottles. The silver-haired stranger was worse, his stare lingering with the lazy entitlement of someone who thought youth was communal property.
"Can you help me get him to bed? Don't want him there all night," I said, nudging Dad's shoulder with my knee. His arm flopped off his face like a dead fish, revealing a line of drool connecting his stubble to the sofa fabric.
Dave and the stranger shot out of their chairs, "I'm Jason," the stranger said, holding out his hand like he was offering me a business card instead of a drunken introduction. His palm was damp when I shook it, fingers lingering just a half-second too long against my wrist.
They hauled Dad up with me leading the way up the stairs, his arms slung over Dave and Jason's shoulders, his socked feet dragging twin trails in the carpet pile. I was three steps ahead, but not far enough to miss the way Jason's posture angled slightly downward, his neck craned just enough to be plausible deniability. The staircase was narrow, forcing them to move in awkward tandem, their shoulders bumping against the wallpaper with dull thuds that made Dad groan something unintelligible into Jason's collar.
"Watch his head," I said as we rounded the landing, not turning around. The bathroom light was on, casting a trapezoid of brightness across the hallway that illuminated the scuff marks on Dad's bedroom door, the ones from when he'd tried to move a dresser by himself last summer. Behind me, Dave muttered "Christ, he's heavy" while Jason exhaled through his nose in a way that sounded like he was holding back commentary. Or laughter.
They dumped Dad onto the mattress with all the grace of a sack of potatoes, his limbs splaying out in four different directions. Jason actually chuckled when Dad's head bounced twice, that same nasal exhale he'd done on the stairs, only louder now, while Dave just wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, looking relieved to be done with it. I climbed onto the bed, one knee sinking into the memory foam as I yanked the duvet from where it was tangled near the footboard. The movement made my skirt ride up further, the hem barely covering what it needed to, and I caught Jason's gaze darting downward before he pretended to adjust Dad's collar with sudden, exaggerated focus.
"Alright, let's let him sleep it off," I said, smoothing the covers over Dad's chest. His snores were already gaining momentum, that familiar chainsaw rhythm that meant he'd be out cold until noon. I shifted to climb off the bed and felt the mattress dip under Jason's weight as he leaned in to "help" tuck the blanket around Dad's shoulders, his forearm brushing against my thigh as he reached across me, warm and deliberate.
Jason's forearm lingered against my thigh a heartbeat longer than necessary, his fingers "accidentally" grazing the hem of my skirt as he pulled back with a slow, deliberate smile. "I think you both deserve another drink for that," I said. The way his eyes flicked to my lips made my stomach tighten, not entirely unpleasantly, but with the wary thrill of spotting a predator who hadn't decided whether to pounce yet.
"I'll be down in a minute, just going to get changed," I said, stepping around Jason's outstretched arm with deliberate nonchalance, letting my hip brush against his just enough to register the contact. The bedroom door clicked shut behind me, muffling Dave's muttered joke about Dad's snoring already rattling the windows. My own room smelled faintly of vanilla body spray and yesterday's jeans, the familiar chaos of half-dried nail polish bottles and dog-eared paperbacks anchoring me back into my own skin after the charged tension downstairs.
The bedroom door clicked shut with finality, sealing me in the soft glow of my bedside lamp. My fingers shook slightly as I peeled off the skirt, the fabric sticking stubbornly to my thighs where sweat had gathered in the humid cab ride home. The bra came next, its underwire finally releasing its vise-grip on my ribs with an almost audible sigh. I balled the discarded clothes together and tossed them toward the wicker laundry basket, they arced through the air like a comet of fabric, landing half-in, half-out with one bra strap dangling over the edge like a surrender flag.
The pj shorts went on first, threadbare cotton with fading princess' printed on them, a relic from high school that I refused to retire. They settled around my hips with the comfort of a thousand lazy Sundays. The loose top followed, smelling faintly of lavender fabric softener where it billowed around my torso. I caught my reflection in the vanity mirror as I knotted my hair into a messy bun: wide-eyed, flushed, the collar bones peeking above the neckline looking oddly vulnerable without their usual armor of jewelry and tan.
The memory hit me as I tugged the loose top over my head, Dad's voice, slurry with disapproval after one too many beers last summer, slurring "Christ, Gem's, put some damn clothes on" when I'd walked through the living room in these shorts that barely covered my arse. Never mind that he'd parade around in boxers with his gut hanging out. The hypocrisy curled in my stomach like spoiled milk as I pulled the princess-print shorts higher on my hips, fingers lingering over the frayed hem.
The stairs creaked underfoot louder than I remembered, each groan of the old wood feeling like an announcement. Halfway down, my bare toes caught on a splintered edge, Dad had been meaning to sand that spot for years, and I gripped the banister just as the living room came into view through the archway. The scene had shifted in my absence: Dave was sprawled in Dad's recliner now, boots kicked off and socks displaying a hole at one big toe, while Jason leaned against the kitchen counter with a fresh beer dangling between his fingers. Only Uncle Rick remained where I'd left him, though he'd traded his whiskey glass for the remote, absently flicking through late-night infomercials.
Jason's fingers curled around the neck of another bottle, the condensation dripping onto his wrist as he twisted it open with practiced ease. "Thirsty?" he asked, holding it out toward me with a tilt of his head that made his silver hair catch the overhead light. The bottle glistened like something illicit in the low glow, droplets sliding down the glass in slow, meandering paths.
"Thanks," I said as I took the bottle, feeling his eyes on my breasts like twin brands through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt. The cold glass against my palm was almost welcome, distracting from the heat prickling up my neck under Jason's unsubtle gaze. I tipped the bottle back just enough to wet my lips, the beer bitter and lukewarm, watching his throat work as he mirrored the motion with his own drink.
Jason's chuckle was low and deliberate as he set his beer down on the counter with a soft clink. "You look just like your mother," he said, eyes tracing the slope of my nose in a way that felt uncomfortably intimate. "Definitely got your looks from her, not your dad." He laughed then, a sound like gravel shifting in a tin can, and raised his bottle toward Uncle Rick for confirmation.
"Definitely," said Uncle Rick as he left his chair and headed over to us, his gait uneven but deliberate, like a sailor adjusting to land after months at sea. He stopped just a little too close, the whisky on his breath mixing with the faded scent of his Old Spice, that same bottle he'd been using since I was twelve. His fingers tapped against his thigh, left hand, index and middle finger, the way they always did when he was thinking too hard about something he shouldn't say.
"Stop it," I blushed, pushing my chest out just a little and twirling my hair with my free hand as Jason's gaze lingered. The words came out half-laugh, half-warning, the beer bottle cold against my palm as I used it to gesture between us like a tiny barrier. His smile widened at the edges, the kind of look that said he knew exactly what effect he was having, and exactly how far he could push before I'd actually mean that "stop."
Jason sidled up closer, his shoulder pressing against mine with deliberate casualness as he took another swig from his beer. The kitchen counter dug into my lower back as I instinctively leaned away, but he just followed the movement, closing the gap again. "I'm serious," he said, his voice dropping into that faux-confidential tone drunk men use to pretend they're being profound. "Your mother was a very sexy lady, just like you." His gaze dragged down my front like sticky fingers. "Although," he chuckled, the sound thick with alcohol and something darker, "your breasts are definitely bigger."
The flush burned hotter when Uncle Rick nodded along, his gaze flicking down my body with a familiarity that made my skin prickle. "Ain't that the truth," he chuckled, rubbing his stubble with the back of his hand, that same gesture he always did when Dad told crude jokes at barbecues. Except now the joke was my body, and the punchline was the way Jason's knuckles brushed my hip as he reached for the counter behind me.
Jason's hand moved before I could register the intention, not a tentative brush or drunken stumble, but a firm, deliberate grasp that cupped my right cheek through the thin cotton shorts, fingers pressing into soft flesh with possessive certainty. The sudden contact made me gasp, beer sloshing over my fingers as his grip pulled me backward into the solid heat of his body. His pelvis ground against me through layers of fabric, unmistakably hard, and the breath left my lungs in a shocked exhale.
Jason's breath hit my lips first, hot and sour with beer, the kind of air that makes you taste cigarettes even when they're not being smoked. His mouth covered mine before I could turn my head, insistent and wet, his tongue pushing past my teeth like he'd already decided what belonged to him. I tasted whisky, something cheap and bitter, the kind Dad only broke out when he wanted to forget things. His free hand tangled in my hair, pulling just enough to tilt my head back, and for half a second I froze, caught between the instinct to knee him in the groin and the dizzying realization that Uncle Rick was watching with a grin.
I returned the kiss, not because I wanted to, but because my body moved before my brain could catch up, some primal reflex kicking in like a deer freezing in headlights. Jason's groan vibrated against my lips, triumphant and sloppy, as his fingers dug harder into my cheek. Then Uncle Rick's palm slapped against my other cheek, rough and sudden, the sound sharp enough to make Jason break the kiss with a wet smack.
Uncle Rick's lips hit mine with a wet, whisky-laced urgency, his free hand cupping my breast through the thin cotton of my sleep shirt like he was weighing fruit at the market. The calluses on his palm scraped against my nipple as his fingers kneaded, and the sharp contrast of textures, rough skin against soft flesh, made me gasp into his mouth. Jason chuckled beside us, his breath hot on my neck as he leaned in to murmur, "See? Told you she likes it," his fingers tightening possessively on my hipbone.
Jason's teeth scraped against my earlobe as he chuckled, his breath reeking of stale beer and spearmint gum. "Relax, princess," he murmured, the hand on my hip sliding around to press against my lower back, pushing me flush against Uncle Rick's chest. My beer bottle slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum with a dull thud, no shatter, just amber liquid pooling around our feet like an accusation.
The kitchen light flickered overhead as Dave's voice cut through the humid air like a dull blade. "What's happening here?" he slurred, leaning against the doorframe with the exaggerated care of someone who'd lost count of drinks hours ago. His fingers left smudges on the peeling paint as he steadied himself, eyes struggling to focus on where Jason's hand was still kneading the flesh of my ass through my shorts, Uncle Rick's tongue halfway down my throat.
Jason's fingers hooked into the waistband of my shorts before I could react, yanking them down in one rough motion. The cotton scraped against my thighs as they pooled around my ankles, right in the spilled beer that was still spreading across the linoleum.
Uncle Rick's hands fisted in the fabric of my sleep shirt before I could process what was happening, the sudden upward yank forcing my arms over my head like a surrender. The cotton caught briefly under my chin, the lavender scent of laundry detergent flooding my nostrils before cool air hit my bare skin. The shirt came off with a whisper of static, and just like that, I was naked except for the princess shorts tangled around my ankles, the spilled beer soaking into their hem.
Uncle Rick's arms hooked under my thighs with surprising strength, lifting me like I weighed nothing more than one of Dad's discarded beer cans. My legs locked around his waist on instinct, the sudden motion making the kitchen lights blur overhead into streaks of yellow. His mouth never left mine, the kiss turning messier as we moved, teeth clicking together when he stepped over the threshold into the living room. The television's blue glow painted jagged stripes across his face, catching the sweat beading along his hairline as he carried me past Dave's slack-jawed stare.
The backs of my knees hit the coffee table's edge just as Uncle Rick set me down, his hands sliding up my ribs with the casual ownership of someone adjusting a lampshade. My bare feet touched sticky carpet, someone had spilled something sweet and never cleaned it, before his palms pressed into my shoulders with deliberate force. The descent was slow at first, then sudden, my kneecaps meeting the sticky carpet. The discarded beer bottles formed a lopsided semi-circle around me, their labels peeling like sunburnt skin.
Jason appeared to my left, his silhouette cutting through the television's flickering glow. He unbuttoned his jeans with one hand while the other tangled in my hair, guiding my face toward his crotch with the same absent confidence of a man adjusting a car radio. "You were made for this," he murmured, thumb tracing the seam of my lips as the zipper parted with a metallic purr. The scent of sweat and cheap detergent hit me first, then the musk of unwashed skin as his boxers slid down.
Dave's shadow loomed to my right, his breathing uneven as he fumbled with his belt. "Fuckin' hell," he slurred, the buckle jingling like loose change. His fingers brushed my cheek, calloused, trembling, before jerking back as if burned. "We shouldn't..." The protest died when Jason shot him a look, the kind that made the air between them crackle like a downed power line.
Jason's fingers tightened in my hair as he nudged my lips apart with his other hand, his thumb pressing down on my tongue with the weight of a command. The metallic taste of his belt buckle lingered as I gagged reflexively, my nails digging into my own thighs hard enough to leave half-moon indents. From upstairs, Dad's snores seemed to get louder, like he was disapproving.
Jason's cock hit the back of my throat with a suddenness that made my eyes water, the salty-bitter taste flooding my mouth before I could catch my breath. His grip on my hair tightened, guiding me into a rhythm that was more demand than request, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin against skin. To my right, Dave's belt buckle finally gave way with a metallic clatter, his jeans pooling around his ankles as he stepped closer, his erection bobbing inches from my face. The scent of him, musky and thick, mixed with Jason's, creating a heady cocktail that made my stomach churn even as my body responded against my will.
Uncle Rick's knees hit the carpet behind me with a dull thud, his calloused hands sliding around my hips like they'd mapped this territory before. His fingers parted me with the familiarity of someone unlocking their own front door, the rough pads of his thumbs finding my clit with startling precision. "I've been dreaming of this for years," he breathed against my neck, his whiskey-laced voice cracking on the word 'years' like a teenage boy's. His teeth scraped the tendon below my ear as his middle finger pushed inside without preamble, the sudden stretch making me gasp around Jason's cock.
The moment I let Jason's cock slip from my lips with an obscene pop, the sudden rush of air tasted strangely sweet compared to the bitter musk still coating my tongue. My neck cracked as I turned toward Dave, his erection bobbing inches from my face like a metronome keeping time with Jason's ragged breathing behind me. The first thing I noticed was the bead of pre-cum glistening at Dave's tip, translucent and trembling, before my lips parted and took him in with one smooth motion.
Dave's groan punched through the room like a fist through drywall, loud enough to momentarily drown out the infomercial's canned laughter from the TV. His hands fluttered near my temples, unsure whether to touch or retreat, always the hesitant one, even drunk, until Jason reached over and forcibly pressed Dave's palm against the back of my head. "She wants it," Jason growled, his fingers interlacing with Dave's to push me deeper onto Dave's cock until my nose pressed into the coarse thatch of pubic hair. The scent was different here, less cologne and more honest sweat.
Uncle Rick's fingers pistoned inside me with the relentless rhythm of a man trying to start a stubborn lawnmower, his calloused knuckles scraping against tender flesh on every thrust. The roughness burned in a way that teetered between pleasure and pain, his thumb circling my clit with erratic pressure that left me gasping against Dave's cock. Each curl of his fingers hit something deep, sending jolts up my spine that made my toes curl in the sticky carpet fibers.
Uncle Rick's fingers twisted my nipple with practiced precision, just shy of painful, that perfect edge where pleasure and discomfort blurred into something electric. His calloused thumb rolled the bud in slow circles, the rough pad catching on sensitive skin every rotation, while his other hand worked deeper inside me, crooking against that spongy spot that made my thighs tremble. The dual sensation short-circuited my breathing; air hitched in my throat around Dave's cock as my hips jerked involuntarily backward onto Rick's fingers, seeking more pressure even as my mind recoiled.
The orgasm hit like a car crash, sudden, violent, and inevitable. One second Uncle Rick's thumb was circling my clit with drunken persistence, the next my vision whited out as my back arched hard enough to make Dave's cock slip from my lips with a wet gasp. The pleasure burned through me like spilled whisky, searing and shameful, my thighs clamping around Rick's wrist as waves of sensation pulsed outward from where his fingers still worked inside me.
Jason's laughter cut through the ringing in my ears, nasal and sharp. "Fuck, look at her," he slurred, his fingers tightening in my hair as my body kept convulsing against Rick's hand. My toes curled in the sticky carpet, the fibres clinging between them as aftershocks rolled through me. Rick's breath came hot against my neck, smelling of peanuts and regret, his fingers slowing but not stopping as he milked the last tremors from my body.
Rick's palm between my shoulder blades was a hot brand as he shoved me forward onto all fours, the sudden movement making the coffee table rattle against my knee. My palms hit the sticky carpet just as he yanked his jeans down past his hips. His cock slapped against my inner thigh first, startlingly warm and rigid, before he dragged it upward through my pussy with a grunt that sounded more like a laugh. The blunt head caught at my entrance, hesitating just long enough for me to feel the pulse of his heartbeat against me, then pushed in with a single, relentless thrust.
The stretch burned and the alcohol in my system did nothing to dull the sensation of his cock splitting me open. My fingers clawed at the carpet fibres, the rough texture biting into my skin as he bottomed out with a groan that vibrated through my spine. "Fucking hell," he panted, his hands locking around my hips like a cowboy settling onto a saddle. "Tighter than your mother ever was." His first pullout was slow, deliberate, letting me feel every ridge and vein, before slamming back in hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
Jason's knees hit the carpet with a muffled thud, his fingers tangled in my hair as he guided my mouth toward his cock with the same absent confidence of a man adjusting a car radio. My lips parted on instinct, not because I wanted to, but because my body moved before my brain could catch up, some primal reflex kicking in like a deer freezing in headlights.
His cock hit the back of my throat with a suddenness that made my eyes water, the salty-bitter taste flooding my mouth before I could catch my breath. His grip on my hair tightened, guiding me into a rhythm that was more demand than request, each thrust punctuated by the wet slap of skin against skin. From my periphery, I saw Dave hovering uncertainly, his erection bobbing inches from my face, his fingers twitching like he wanted to touch but didn't dare.
My fingers curled around Dave's cock before he could retreat, the skin hot and silky under my palm. His gasp was sharp, almost pained, as I began stroking him with slow, deliberate twists of my wrist, the same rhythm Rick was using to pound into me from behind. Dave's fingers twitched against my ribs before sinking into the soft flesh of my breasts, his nails biting crescents into skin still flushed from orgasm. "Fuck...Gemma..." he stammered, his voice cracking like a teenager's as his hips jerked forward into my fist.
Rick's rhythm stuttered first, that slight hitch in his breathing against the back of my neck, the way his fingers dug crescent moons into my hips like he was clinging to a cliff edge. Then his thrusts lost all pre-tense of control, devolving into something primal and uneven. The second orgasm hit me like a rogue wave, unexpected and overwhelming, my muscles clenching around him with such force it drew a ragged curse from his whisky-roughened throat.
Rick's release hit me with startling heat, a pulse that seemed to go on forever as he ground himself deep, his hips stuttering against my ass with each spurt. The sound he made was almost feral, a choked-off grunt that dissolved into ragged breathing against my sweat-slicked back. His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave bruises, the pressure the only anchor as my own climax rippled through me again in response, involuntary and shamefully intense.
Jason's cock twitched against my tongue as I sucked harder, my lips tightening around him in deliberate pulses that drew ragged curses from his lips. The taste of him, salt and musk and something vaguely metallic, flooded my mouth as Rick's softening cock slipped from me with a wet sound, his cum dripping down my thighs in warm, sticky rivulets.
Jason's fingers tangled in my hair as he pulled me off his cock with a wet pop that echoed louder than the infomercial still droning from the TV. His grip was insistent but not rough, guiding me backward onto the carpet with the same practiced ease as someone positioning a pillow. The fibres stuck to my sweat-damp back as he knelt between my spread legs, his calloused palms sliding up my inner thighs with a possessiveness that made my breath hitch.
Rick's zipper rasped upward somewhere behind me, the sound oddly intimate in the heavy silence broken only by Dave's shallow breathing. The scent of sex and spilled beer clung to the air as Jason's thumbs hooked into my knees, pushing my legs wider while his hips settled into the cradle of my pelvis with deliberate pressure. His cockhead dragged through my pussy, catching at my entrance with teasing persistence that made my hips lift involuntarily.
"Been waiting for this," Jason murmured, his voice thick with alcohol and something darker as he pushed forward in one slow, relentless thrust. The stretch burned differently than Rick's had, thicker, more insistent, and I gasped as my body adjusted around him, my fingers scrabbling at the carpet fibres for purchase. His groan vibrated through my pelvis when he bottomed out, his hips flush against mine, the wiry hair at his base scratching against oversensitive flesh.
Rick's shadow loomed over us as he buckled his belt with a sharp metallic click, his silhouette framed against the flickering television screen. His breathing was still ragged, his fingers trembling slightly as he adjusted himself through the denim, his gaze locked on where Jason's cock disappeared into me. "Christ," he exhaled, rubbing his stubble with the back of his hand.
Jason's kiss hit my lips with bruising force, his tongue plunging into my mouth before I could catch my breath. The stale taste of beer and spearmint gum flooded my senses as his hips snapped forward with a wet slap that echoed through the living room. His thrusts came hard and erratic, the rhythm of a man who'd waited too long and wouldn't last much longer, each one driving me deeper into the carpet fibres that scratched at my bare shoulders.
Rick's shadow moved behind Jason, his calloused fingers trailing down my outstretched leg before gripping my ankle with possessive certainty. He lifted my leg onto Jason's shoulder without asking, the sudden shift in angle making Jason groan against my lips. The new position let him sink impossibly deeper, his pubic bone grinding against my clit with each desperate thrust. My nails scrabbled at Jason's arms, leaving angry red tracks as my body arched against my will, pleasure and revulsion twisting together in my gut.
Jason's hips snapped forward with a force that moved the coffee table an inch, somewhere behind me, a glass hit the carpet. His fingers dug into my thighs hard enough to bruise, each thrust knocking the breath from my lungs in ragged bursts. The carpet burned my elbows raw with every backward slide, the friction a dull counterpoint to the searing stretch of him inside me.
His rhythm fractured first, the way his grip went slack-tight-slack on my hips like he was trying to hold on and let go at the same time. My climax hit a half-second later, a white-hot wire of pleasure yanked taut from my clit to my sternum, snapping suddenly as my muscles clamped around him in involuntary pulses. Jason's curse was muffled against my neck, his teeth scraping skin as his hips stuttered against mine, driving deep as his cock twitched inside me with each hot spurt.
The orgasm rolled through me in overlapping waves, each contraction milking him until my thighs trembled with the effort of holding myself upright. Jason's weight collapsed onto me, his sweat-slick chest sticking to my back as he gasped ragged breaths against my shoulder blade. His softening cock slipped from me with a wet sound, followed by the warm trickle of his release down my inner thigh.
I lay there, my body convulsing in tiny aftershocks, trying to calm down, trying to catch my breath. The carpet fibres stuck to my damp skin like burrs, each inhale carrying the mingled scents of sweat, spilled beer, and something darker, something metallic and shameful. My fingers twitched against the sticky floor, nails crusted with carpet fibres and something that might have been blood. From the television, an infomercial droned on about revolutionary kitchen knives, the cheerful pitchman's voice slicing through the humid air like a dull blade.
Dave's shadow loomed above me, his silhouette trembling against the flickering television light. One hand braced against the coffee table for balance while the other worked his cock in rough, jerky strokes that made his breath hitch every few seconds. His fingers glistened where they slid along his shaft, the rhythmic sound of skin on skin syncing with the infomercial's canned applause.
Dave's fingers tangled in my hair with surprising gentleness just as his hips bucked forward, his cockhead dragging wet streaks across my forehead before the first hot spurt hit my eyelid. The scent, musky and thick with pent-up desperation, flooded my nostrils as his release painted my cheekbones in erratic stripes. His breath came in ragged bursts above me, each exhale carrying the sour tang of cheap whisky as his thumb smeared a stray droplet across my lower lip. "Fuck...fuck..." he stammered, his voice cracking like a teenager's as his knees gave out, sending him crashing onto the sofa behind me with a muffled thud.
The cum cooled on my cheekbone first, turning tacky in the stale air-conditioning, each droplet tightening my skin like glue as it dried. The men's footsteps shuffled across the carpet in uneven patterns, Jason's heavy boots, Rick's drunken stumble, Dave's hesitant tread. Their voices blurred together into a low hum of exhaustion and satisfaction, punctuated by the clink of belt buckles and the rustle of denim being adjusted.
The first sensation was the cold, seeping up through my ribs, pressing into my hipbones like icy fingers. Daylight striped my vision in painful slats when I peeled my eyelids apart, the open curtains framing a sky too blue, too cheerful for what had happened. My tongue felt woolen, stuck to the roof of my mouth with stale spit and something bitter I couldn't name.
My fingers slipped twice on the coffee table's edge before I managed to pull myself up. A half-empty beer bottle rocked precariously as I brushed past it, sending amber liquid pooling around its base like piss on dirty snow. My legs shook with each step toward the kitchen, thighs sticking together with dried sweat and other fluids that made my gait awkward, uneven.
The fridge light buzzed to life with clinical brightness, illuminating takeout containers and a mostly-empty Brita pitcher. I chugged water straight from the tap, the cold shocking my throat raw, before spotting my phone face-down in a puddle of congealed ranch dressing by the microwave. The screen lit up with three missed calls from Rachel and seventeen unanswered texts—the last one read "U alive??" with a skull emoji. My thumbs left greasy smears as I typed "Yeah just passed out early" and hit send before the lie could register.
The fabric of my discarded pajamas clung to my fingers like wet paper towels as I scooped them off the kitchen floor. Upstairs, the fifth stair groaned under my weight, the same one that always betrayed my curfew violations, but tonight, the sound felt insignificant against the symphony of snores still rumbling from my Dads bedroom.
The bedroom door clicked shut behind me with a softness that felt obscene after what had happened downstairs. My fingers left smudges on the doorknob, beer, sweat, something else, as I turned the lock with trembling hands. The mechanism slid home with a sound like bones cracking.
My bed smelled like fabric softener and lavender spray from this morning, before, the scent cloying now, choking me as I crawled between sheets that suddenly felt too crisp, too clean. The pillowcase rasped against my cheekbone where Dave's cum had dried, the texture like sandpaper over raw skin. I curled onto my side, fetal position, knees drawn up so tight my joints ached, but the pressure couldn't stop the shaking.