Reassembling the night - Sex Stories

Reassembling the night

Ryan fluttered his eyes open but couldn't see, momentarily panicking the drink had finally sent him blind. He squeezed them shut, drew thumb and forefinger across his aching lids and off the bridge of his nose, clumps of sleep rolling with them. Counting to three, he tried again, relieved this time that his focus began to swim into view. Gooey shapes gradually gave way to harder lines and edges across the bed. He recoiled and tipped over the side into a tangled heap atop his discarded jeans. Groaning quietly, he reoriented and peeped over the rumpled sheets, praying it was a trick of his groggy conscience. It wasn't. Who the fuck was she ? Her tousled, dirty-blonde hair fell over face and shoulders, white sheets covering the rest. It hurt to blink, but he did it anyway, head pounding, mouth lined with silica gel. With whatever remaining brain cells weren't damaged beyond repair from the booze, he scraped every synapse in the hope of dredging a match; her name, how they'd met or, most importantly of all, whether anything had happened between them the night before. Anything at all. A venue, a glance, a fleeting touch, a drink. Nothing. His head just screamed at him to get more rest and take away the throbbing. Maddening thoughts tumbled and he tried to latch onto one, clutching ineffectually until he figured a proper look at her might kickstart his memory. Stealthily, he crawled back under the covers, slid across the double bed and lifted the sheets. Prominent shoulder ...

... blades on broad shoulders swept towards him, one sprawling breast partially visible under her weight. The smooth skin of her back tapered to a waist at least two dress sizes larger than the kind of girl he was used to. The alabaster surface of her voluptuous bottom curved beyond the horizon, full and meaty. He winced. Definitely not his regular fare. As the curves led deeper into the bed, a flash of colour caught his attention. He crept closer, drawing level with a tattoo on her left butt cheek of a single-stemmed red rose. Gingerly, he reached out to trace its form and shut his eyes, trying to recall if those eight centimetres of patterned skin meant anything to his subconscious. All it did was make his eyes sting behind the lids, willing him to sleep some more. The girl murmured in her slumber so he withdrew with no more than a glance at the deep crease where her bottom met chubby thighs. Allowing the sheets to cover her gently snoring frame once more, he stared at the ceiling. Was it some kind of joke? A trick played on him by his mates to take advantage of his inebriated state. Would they stoop so low as to pay some chunkster to sleep with him? He looked at her again, shivered and slid away, legs swinging out to sit on the edge of the bed, burying his head in his hands. His kidneys complained. Water. Need water. Across the room, his wooden chair was upended, papers from his desk strewn nearby. The place only looked vaguely lived-in due to his minimal tastes. Adjacent walls ...