“Is it my turn?” I asked, trying to focus through the haze that my first two drinks had spread across the world.
You smirked. “Lost track? You’re not buzzed already, are you?”
I rolled my eyes in answer, unable to collect my thoughts fast enough for a convincing denial. it had hit me a little faster than I expected, but then again, I didn’t drink often. It’s just that we hadn’t seen each other in years, and you were so charming and fun and the evening had been such a blur of laughter that I’d gone along with it when you suggested we try a drinking game your friends had played in college. It had been a bit of a joke at first, but somehow, it had led to the two of us sitting on your couch with a bottle of tequila and two shot glasses between us. The game was called Polygraph.
“Okay,” I said, pulling the word out longer as I thought. “Have you ever— no, wait, hold on. How many pets do you have?”
It was a strategic question, one I was fairly sure I knew the answer to.
“Three,” you said nonchalantly.
It wasn’t the answer I’d expected, so I made a dramatic buzzer sound, then blushed at the childishness of the instinct. Hopefully you would consider it cute instead. “I’m calling it,” I announced. “Lie.”
“Not a lie.” You pushed the bottle toward me with a grin. “Take a shot.”
“But you said you only had the two dogs!” I protested.
“I do only have two dogs,” you said. “I also have a cat.” I gave you an indignant look. You laughed. “Okay. Take your shot so I can ask my question.”
I poured one. I felt your eyes on my lips as I tipped it into my mouth, and I could have sworn I even saw you eyeing my throat as I swallowed. I winced at the burn of it going down. “Go ahead,” I coughed.
You considered me for a moment. I felt small under your gaze in a way that surprised me with its allure. Flustered, I broke away to take a drink of water.
“What do you hope happens tonight?”
It caught me off guard—I didn’t know what to say. My head spun with the shots and your hungry eyes, and I became vaguely aware that something was tugging at me to give the right answer, whatever I said, the answer you wanted to hear. But I couldn’t. Of course I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I took another drink of water with a shaky hand.
“I’m hoping I have a good time with an old friend,” I finally managed. You raised an eyebrow.
“Lie?” I balked at the accusation.
“Lie,” you repeated firmly. You leaned forward and gripped my chin, making me gasp, softly, at the sudden closeness. “You don’t want a friend tonight. Do you?”
I shook my head almost without realizing, entranced by your gaze. Your thumb brushed my lips and I felt them parting instinctively, just barely, just enough for you to slip your thumb into my mouth. You pressed it in deeper, to the back of my throat, then eased it out again, and as you pulled your hand away I felt a protest rise up. I opened my mouth, than forced myself to shut it. It was bad enough that I’d just let myself suck your finger, there was no way I would beg you to let me do it again. No way. But I felt my thoughts twisting away like smoke as the third shot made its way into my bloodstream, sped along by my racing heart.
“I thought so,” you said. You flicked the cap off the bottle and lifted it to pour me another.
“I…” I started. You shushed me with a grin and lifted the little glass to my lips.
“You have to drink for getting caught in that lie,” you coaxed, which sounded reasonable to me, so I let you pour the drink down my throat. With some distaste, I swallowed.
“Good,” you almost purred. “Now come here.” You held out two fingers. I met your eyes. Apprehension and desire warred in the pit of my stomach, and slowly, I leaned forward and opened my mouth. You slid your fingers across my tongue, then pulled them out. In. Out. You sped up. You were finger-fucking my mouth, I realized with a burst of heat in my cheeks and between my legs. I clenched them tightly together, trying to be subtle, hoping you wouldn’t notice.
Or was I hoping you would? I couldn’t remember which it was.
You finally pulled your fingers free to grip my chin again, spreading my own spit across my face as you did so. “I think,” you said, tilting my face so that our eyes met again, “that this is a waste of your pretty mouth.”
“Hm?” I said stupidly, preoccupied by missing the weight of your fingers on my tongue.
“Get on your knees,” you said, cutting to the chase, and I was grateful for the direct instruction. I scrambled to the ground and settled in a kneel, watching your fingers as they unbuttoned your pants. I licked my lips eagerly as you pulled down the zipper.
“By the way,” you said with a smirk, “I should confess something. I don’t have a cat.”
Then your hand was on the back of my head and my mind melted into bliss.
