Bels

You’re at a house party, but you’re way too stoned to remember who the host is. You think it might be the brother of whatever girl Ross is shagging at the moment or something along those lines, but it hardly matters — you and Matty would have shown up regardless of who was hosting. Your boyfriend’s never needed an excuse to attend a good party, and you’ve never needed an excuse to spend a Friday night getting fucked up with him.

Besides, the steady thrum of house music had faded into the background long ago, replaced by the gentle splashing sounds of a backyard pool. It was really only a matter of time before you and Matty found yourselves out here, far away from the noise and the relentless mess of bodies and heat trapped inside. Whoever’s house this is, they’re rich enough to have a deck and a pool, which is something that you two are taking full advantage of. The space provides much-needed privacy and, as it turns out, doubles as a perfect smoking spot.

At least, you two had come out here with the intention of smoking. But that only lasted about ten minutes — just long enough for you both to get a little spacey — before you decided that making out was a far better way to pass the time.

The spliff sits off to the side, having burned out long ago. Matty’s sprawled across one of the poolside loungers, hands gripping your waist as you straddle him. Your own hands have found their way to his jaw, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him deeply. Everything’s gone hazy, thanks to the weed, and sensations blend together as you lose yourself in his lips and tongue.

Matty’s warm and pliant under your fingertips, all soft skin and eager touches. The two of you are in no rush, basking in the laziness of the moment. Matty kisses like he’s trying to melt into you, as though tasting your lips is infinitely more important to him than getting air into his lungs. Your boyfriend’s always been needy, but something about tonight has him extra hungry for you. 

You can’t help but giggle as Matty’s large hands suddenly tug you forward, pulling your hips flush with his own. He grinds against you lazily, just enough for you to feel his growing hard-on through his jeans and the way his fingers tighten against your skin as he grinds against your clothed core.

“Matty.” You pull away from the kiss, though you don’t go very far — his breath is still warm on your cheek. “We’re at a party.”

He laughs at your words, looking at you with a lopsided smirk that tells you all you need to know. 

“Never stopped us before,” he counters, as though he’s confused about why you’re choosing now to be worried about public decency. “S’just us, love. Might as well feel good, yeah?” 

He’s not wrong. And you would have told him as much, if it wasn’t for the fact that Matty’s lips immediately press into the spot on the side of your neck that drives you crazy, and you swear you feel his teeth drag along your earlobe as he rolls his hips against yours once more. The sensation makes your eyes flutter shut, and your head tilt back, which Matty takes as an invitation to start sucking a mark into the newly exposed skin. You whine softly, hands dropping down to hold onto his shoulders. It’s partially to keep him in place, but it’s mostly so that you have an anchor — you feel as though you could float away at any second if you’re not careful.

The next time Matty grinds against you, you respond, rolling your hips experimentally. You gasp into the cool night air as the seam of your boyfriend’s jeans catches against your clit deliciously, making your toes curl in your shoes.

“Oh fuck.” Matty’s voice comes in the form of a broken whine against your neck. “Do that again.” 

So, you do, beginning to rock your hips against his in a slow, steady rhythm. Each time you move in his lap, you can feel the bulge in his jeans steadily pressing against your pussy, making your brain swim with pleasure. You don’t think this really counts as making out anymore, not with the two of you basically dry humping, but it feels so good you can’t bring yourself to care, and any concerns of public decency fade away into the back vault of your brain, long forgotten. 

The weed heightens everything, making you even more sensitive. Every drag of clothing against your skin and every press of Matty’s lips against your own makes you feel like you’re on fire in the best way. Judging by the soft little groans slipping past Matty’s lips and the way he’s grabbing you like he’s afraid of you slipping away, he’s on a similar plane of existence and enjoying every second of it. 

“Just like that, baby, fuckin’ hell,” Matty pants against your lips, breathless. “Feels s’good. Wish we weren’t stuck here so I could fuck you properly.” 

His words make you clench around nothing and quicken your movements. You’re essentially dry-fucking him now, mimicking exactly how you’d ride him if you weren’t stuck at this party.

“Later,” you promise, and Matty’s lips curl into a tiger-like grin against your own, before whatever comeback he was going to say gets cut off by a deep throaty noise.

You feel it before you see it. Matty twitches beneath you, thigh muscles becoming taut and rigid. His fingers tighten around your ass with a bruising desperation, keeping you pressed against him and providing him with the friction he’s chasing. 

A second later, you watch your boyfriend’s lips part, and his head falls back, hitting the hard plastic of the lounge chair with far too much force to be comfortable. It’s a sight you know well… and a sight that tells you exactly what just happened.

You stare at him for a few beats, watching as his chest rises and falls almost hypnotically. Matty’s eyes are glazed and unfocused as he basks in the high of his release. He’s gone.

“Did you just..?”

Matty doesn’t need to reply — you already know the answer. Even with the faint glow of a deck lantern serving as your only source of light, you can see that your boyfriend’s face is bright red. Curiously, you reach down between your two bodies and watch as Matty jumps when your hand brushes against his crotch. He whines again, suddenly overstimulated, and you slowly remove your hand, not wanting to make things worse for him.

You’re flattered, honestly, though you’re not sure if you’re just that hot or if the weed is just that good… probably a combination of both. Either way, the result is the same — your boyfriend just came in his pants like he was back in secondary school. 

“Oh God…” Matty finally groans, embarrassed. He’s doing everything but meeting your gaze, all that brazen teenage sexuality long gone, crushed by the weight of his own mortification. “‘M sorry, I don’t know what happened, must’ve been… fuck.” 

He tries to cover his face with his hands, but is quickly intercepted by you leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his nose, which, of course, only causes Matty to grow even redder.

“It’s cute.”

“S’not,” he protests. “It’s embarrassing. Haven’t done that shit in ages.” 

“You mean… I’m not your first?” you ask, scandalized. “Matthew. I thought we had something special.”

“Oh… shut up.” 

No matter how disgruntled he sounds, your boyfriend can’t entirely hide the small smile that he’s trying so hard to fight off. You laugh again, reaching up to cup his cheek. His skin feels electrified beneath your touch.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say softly. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and then we can head home.”

Never mind the fact that neither of you is in any state to drive – you’re sure there’s someone at this party who would be willing to give the two of you a ride. (Ideally, Ross, if you can pull him off of that brunette for long enough.)

But to your surprise, Matty shakes his head and timidly gestures down to the wet patch on the front of his dark jeans. It’s small, barely noticeable unless you’re really looking for it, but it’s clearly enough for him to be worried.

“You’re fine, baby,” you reassure him. “Everyone’s too pissed to notice. Unless they’re already looking down there, which they’d better not be.” You furrow your brows in a mock display of anger, hoping it will make him grin. He does, albeit ever so slightly. “‘Cause otherwise they’ll have me to answer to.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Matty rolls his eyes, throwing his head back dramatically. “At least let me make it up to you when we get home.” 

“And what exactly does that entail?”

“Mm…” He pauses, as though he doesn’t already know exactly what he’s going to say. “Let me tongue-fuck you ‘til you’re begging f’me to stop?” 

“Jesus Christ, Matty.” Your boyfriend has a way with words that you don’t think you’ll ever fully get used to, no matter how long the two of you are together. You clear your throat, now painfully aware of the warm flush spreading across your own face. “Okay, yeah. Sure. You can do that.”