#wallows

The soft click of the lock echoes down the empty dorm hallway as Clay pulls the door open with a lopsided grin, the kind that makes his dimples pop and his blue eyes crinkle at the corners. He’s wearing that faded Alien Killer Robot hoodie you love the one that smells like his cedarwood cologne and the faint trace of the library books he’s always buried in and his hair is a little messy from the wind outside.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, voice low and warm, stepping aside with an exaggerated bow. “Your palace awaits.”

You roll your eyes but can’t fight the smile as you slip past him, your shoulder brushing his chest. The room smells like pizza boxes, vanilla candle, and that unmistakable skunky hint of the good stuff. His roommate’s out for the weekend some frat formal so it’s just the two of you, eight months of stolen kisses and late-night study sessions finally boiling over into a full night of nothing but us.

Clay shuts the door with a soft *thud*, flicking the lock like it’s a reflex now. He turns, leaning back against the wood, watching you drop your backpack by his desk. “Got the goods?” you ask, arching a brow.

He smirks, pushing off the door and crossing the room in three easy strides. From the top drawer of his dresser, he pulls out a mason jar the mason jar packed tight with frosty nugs that glisten under the fairy lights strung above his bed. Next comes the bong: swirled glass, tall and proud, already half-filled with ice-cold water. He sets it on the desk like it’s fine china.

“Only the best for my girl,” he says, voice teasing but his hands steady as he grinds a fat bud between his fingers. The scent hits you immediately piney, sweet, lethal. You plop down on his unmade bed, kicking off your shoes, and he joins you cross-legged, bong between you like a ritual.

He packs the bowl with practiced ease, flicking the lighter until the cherry glows red. Takes the first hit smooth, deep, holds it then exhales a thick cloud that curls toward the ceiling. His eyes are already a little glassy when he passes it to you.

“Your turn, baby,” he says, voice husky from the smoke. “Let’s get fucked up.”

You take the bong, lips wrapping around the mouthpiece where his just were, and pull. The water bubbles, the hit burns sweet down your throat, and when you exhale, you lean forward, blowing the smoke slow and deliberate into his parted lips.

Shotgun-style.

Clay groans, low and wrecked, his hand already sliding to the back of your neck. “Fuck, you’re trouble.”

You grin, high already buzzing behind your eyes. “You have no idea”

The second hit rolls through you like warm honey, thick and slow. You pass the bong back to Clay, watching the way his throat bobs when he inhales, the cherry flaring orange against his lips. He coughs once just a little, then laughs at himself, head tipping back against the wall. The fairy lights catch in his hair, turning the messy curls gold.

You’re both cross-legged on his bed now, knees touching, the bong abandoned on the nightstand because who needs it when the high’s already here? The room tilts gently, like you’re on a boat, and everything feels soft around the edges.

Clay turns to you, eyes bloodshot and glassy, pupils blown wide. He reaches out, slow as hell, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger on your cheek.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice raspy from the smoke. “You’re so goddamn beautiful right now.”

You snort, because duh, you’re high and your eyes are probably red as cherries, but the way he’s looking at you like you hung the moon makes your chest tight.

“Shut up,” you mumble, but you’re grinning, leaning into his palm. “You’re just stoned.”

“No, no, listen.” He scoots closer, knees knocking yours. “Your eyes… they’re all shiny and red and—” He giggles, actually giggles, then slaps a hand over his mouth like he’s shocked at himself. “Holy shit, did I just giggle?”

You lose it. Full-on cackling, falling sideways into his pillows. He follows, flopping down beside you, both of you staring up at the ceiling like it’s the Sistine Chapel.

“I love when you laugh,” he says, turning his head to watch you. “Sounds like… like that one song. The one with the bells. You know the one.”

You don’t. But you nod anyway, because everything he says feels like poetry right now.

He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand. His hoodie’s ridden up a little, showing a strip of skin above his sweatpants. You poke it. He squeaks.

“Ticklish,” you declare, like you’ve made a scientific discovery.

“Am not,” he lies, then grabs your wrist when you go for it again. Pulls you closer until your foreheads touch. His breath smells like weed and spearmint gum.

“I’m serious, though,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheek. “You’re the prettiest when you’re high. All soft and glowy. Like… like a fucking angel.”

You roll your eyes so hard you see stars. “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” he says, and then because he’s Clay and he’s high he presses a sloppy, giggly kiss to your nose. Then your cheek. Then your lips, missing the first time and landing on your chin instead.

You both crack up again, tangled in the sheets, red-eyed and breathless and so stupidly in love it hurts.

“Eight months,” he says suddenly, tracing your jaw with his finger. “Eight months of this. You. Me. Us.”

You swallow, the high making everything feel huge. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice drops, soft and reverent. “Best eight months of my life.”

And then he kisses you for real this time, slow and deep, tasting like smoke and him, and you think maybe you’ll never come down.

The giggles have melted into something slower, heavier, the kind of high where every touch feels like electricity and every breath syncs up. You’re both sprawled sideways across Clay’s bed now, fairy lights flickering like fireflies above, the room spinning just enough to make the ceiling look like a kaleidoscope. His hoodie’s half-zipped, your shirt’s ridden up, and there’s a lazy tangle of limbs your leg hooked over his hip, his fingers tracing mindless circles on the bare skin of your lower back.

You’re floating, eyes half-lidded, lips tingling from the last shotgun kiss. The weed’s got you both loose, stupid, honest. Clay’s staring at you like you’re a goddamn miracle, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“Fuck,” you whisper, voice thick, “bet sucking your dick while I’m this high would feel like a fucking edible.”

He chokes on air, eyes going comically wide, then bursts into that dorky laugh head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Jesus Christ, babe.”

You grin, wicked and slow, propping yourself up on one elbow. Your hair falls over his chest as you lean in, lips ghosting his ear. “I’m serious I love giving head when I’m stoned. Everything’s… heightened. The taste, the stretch, the way you’d throb against my tongue—”

Clay groans, loud and wrecked, hand flying to cover his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

“Nah,” you murmur, nipping his earlobe. “Just wanna make you feel good.” You pull back just enough to see his flushed cheeks, the way his chest rises fast under that hoodie. “Love it. Love the weight of a cock in my mouth, the way it pulses when you’re close. And when I’m high? Fuck, it’s like… euphoric. Like I’m high off you.”

He’s staring now, lips parted, pupils blown so wide his eyes are nearly black. You shift, straddling his thighs slow, hands sliding up his chest.

“And getting eaten out while I’m baked?” You bite your lip, voice dropping to a filthy purr. “God. The way your tongue would feel, all warm and wet and sloppy I’d come so fucking hard I’d see stars.”

Clay’s hands grip your hips like he’s anchoring himself to earth. His voice cracks when he speaks, raw and shaky. “I’ve… never done that.”

You blink. “Wait. Never?”

He shakes his head, cheeks flaming redder than the cherry earlier. “Never had a girl… y’know. Go down on me.” He swallows hard, eyes flicking away. “And I’ve never… eaten anyone out. Like. At all.”

The confession hangs between you, heavy and intimate, the high stripping away every filter. You cup his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones, forcing him to meet your gaze.

“Hey,” you whisper, soft but filthy. “That’s okay. That’s hot, actually.” You lean down, kissing him slow tongue sliding against his, tasting smoke and want. “Means I get to be your first.”

He whimpers into your mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily. You grin against his lips, grinding down just enough to feel him *hard* beneath you.

“Wanna teach you,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his curls. “Wanna feel your mouth on me, all sloppy and eager. Wanna wrap my lips around you and swallow every drop while you’re still buzzing.”

Clay’s head falls back against the pillow, a broken “fuck” slipping out as his hands slide under your shirt, palms hot against your skin.

“Promise?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

You nod, slow and deliberate, already sinking lower. “Cross my heart, baby. Gonna ruin you for anyone else.”

And when you kiss him again, it’s not gentle it’s hungry, a promise of every dirty, passionate thing to come.

“Off,” you murmur against his mouth, tugging at the drawstring. He lifts his hips obediently, helping you shimmy the sweats down his thighs. The boxers come next slow, teasing, your fingers brushing the V of his hips until the fabric catches on his knees.

And then… there it is. Soft. Not even a little hard. Just… there. Nestled against his thigh, all pink and cute and completely limp.

You blink. Then you *burst* out laughing.

Clay freezes, eyes wide, face going tomato-red. “What—babe—”

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, collapsing forward onto his chest, your forehead pressed to his collarbone as giggles rack your body. “It’s so tiny and cute—I’ve never seen it soft!”

He groans, covering his face with both hands. “You’re the worst.”

“No, no, no—” You’re crying now, tears of laughter, trying to catch your breath. “It’s like… like a little sleepy snail! I’ve only ever seen it in nudes or on FaceTime or when I jerk you off and it’s always angry and veiny and demanding—”

“Stop naming it,” he whines, but he’s laughing too, shoulders shaking under you.

You sit up, wiping your eyes, still giggling as you gently wrap your fingers around him soft, warm, velvety. He twitches immediately, like he’s waking up.

“Look at you,” you coo, voice syrupy and dazed, thumb brushing the tip. “All sleepy and shy. Never seen you like this before.”

Clay peeks through his fingers, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “You’re high as fuck.”

“We’re high as fuck,” you correct, leaning down to press a kiss to his hipbone. Another to the base of his cock soft, sweet, reverent. “And I’m obsessed. It’s so cute. Like a little button.”

He snorts, then moans softly as you give a gentle squeeze. Blood rushes south almost instantly he’s half-hard now, thickening in your hand, but still lazy, like it’s taking its time.

“Tickles,” he mumbles, hips shifting.

You grin, wicked and fond, and start stroking slow teasing. Up and down, thumb circling the head, watching it swell and stretch and wake up under your touch. Every twitch makes you giggle again.

“See?” you whisper, voice slurred with smoke and affection. “Told you it’d be like an edible. Look at it growing.”

Clay’s head falls back, a breathless laugh escaping as his hand finds your hair. “You’re gonna kill me with kindness.”

“Or with my mouth,” you promise, and then because you’re both too high to care you lean down and press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip.

He jerks, a broken sound catching in his throat.

Game on.

You settle between his thighs like you were born there, knees sinking into the mattress, the fairy lights haloing your hair. Clay’s propped up on his elbows now, hoodie rucked up to his chest, sweatpants tangled around one ankle. His cock is fully awake thick, flushed, a bead of precome already pearling at the slit.

You wrap your fingers around the base, slow and reverent, feeling the heat, the pulse, the weight of him for the first time without a screen or a rushed handjob in the dark.

“Eyes on me, Jensen,” you murmur, voice low and syrupy, high still buzzing behind your eyelids. You tilt your head, letting your hair spill over one shoulder, and lock your gaze with his.

Clay’s breath hitches. His pupils are blown wide, lips parted, chest rising fast. “Fuck,” he whispers, like a prayer.

You start slow torturously slow. Lean in, tongue flat, and drag it from the base all the way up the underside, tracing the thick vein that runs along the bottom. He shudders, a full-body twitch, hips jerking like he’s trying not to thrust. You hum, pleased, and swirl your tongue around the head once, twice wet, messy circles that make him glisten. The taste of him hits you like a drug: salt and skin and Clay, clean but musky, the way only he smells after a long day.

You pull back just enough to let a thick string of spit connect your bottom lip to his tip. You play with it push it with your tongue, let it drip down his shaft, then chase it with your mouth. Open wide, take him in slow, lips stretching around the crown, cheeks hollowing as you sink down an inch. Two. Three.

His hand flies to your hair not pushing, just holding, fingers trembling. “Jesus—”

You gag the first time he hits the back of your throat loud*, wet, obscene. Your eyes water instantly, but you don’t break eye contact. You pull off with a gasp, spit shining on your chin, then dive back in deeper this time, throat relaxing, taking him until your nose brushes the faint trail of hair below his navel. Another gag, softer, but you swallow around him, the constriction making him whine.

“Fuck, baby—your throat—”

You hum around him, the vibration making his thighs tense. Pull back slow, tongue pressed flat against the underside, then pop off with a filthy sound. You kiss the tip soft, sweet then lick a stripe up the side, swirling around the frenulum until he’s leaking steadily. You gather the precome on your tongue, show it to him glistening before swallowing with a moan.

“Love how you taste,” you rasp, voice wrecked. “Love how you fill my mouth.”

You take him again deeper, faster this time, bobbing slow but sloppy. Spit drips down your chin, onto his balls, and you cup them, rolling them gently, thumb pressing just behind. Every time you gag, you push through it, throat fluttering around him, eyes locked on his even as tears streak your cheeks. You pull off to breathe, then kiss every inch shaft, head, the sensitive spot just under the crown leaving wet, open-mouthed marks.

You spit on him messy, deliberate watch it slide down, then lick it back up in one long, filthy stripe. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t reach, twisting at the head, thumb smearing the slick. You take him to the root again, nose buried, throat spasming, and hold count to five before pulling off with a gasp, strings of spit connecting you like a lifeline.

Clay’s a mess. Head thrown back, neck corded, hips stuttering. “I’m—fuck—gonna—”

You pull off just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip. “Not yet,” you whisper, then dive back in suction tight, tongue swirling, hand pumping in time. You gag again hard but you love it, the burn, the stretch, the way he’s falling apart under your mouth.

You don’t stop. You can’t. You’re high on him, on the power, on the way his eyes never leave yours pleading, wrecked, yours.

Clay’s entire body is a live wire, every muscle locked and trembling under your palms. His thighs clamp around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go. His fingers are knotted so deep in your hair that the pull stings in the best way, grounding you both. His cock is throbbing against your tongue hot, heavy, the veins pulsing in frantic rhythm with his racing heart.

“Baby—please—I’m—” His voice cracks, raw and desperate, hips jerking in tiny, aborted thrusts he’s fighting to control.

You take him deeper one last, filthy glide until your lips seal around the base, nose buried in the soft curls at his pelvis, throat fluttering around the intrusion. You gag loud, wet, glorious the sound vibrating through his shaft, and that’s what breaks him.

Clay shatters.

His spine bows off the mattress like he’s been electrocuted, a guttural “FUCK—” ripping from his chest in a voice you’ve never heard primal, animal, ruined.

His cock swells impossibly thicker against your tongue, then erupts the first jet hitting the back of your throat so hard you choke, but you swallow reflexively, greedy, throat working around him in rhythmic pulses.

Another spurt hotter, thicker floods your mouth, coating your tongue, sliding down your esophagus in heavy waves. You pull back just an inch to breathe, but he’s still coming endless ropes of cum painting the roof of your mouth, dripping over your bottom lip, leaking from the corners even as you gulp it down. You moan around him, the vibration making his thighs quake, and you keep sucking gentle now, coaxing every last drop with soft, wet pulls.

His orgasm is violent. Full-body convulsions, hips stuttering in sharp, helpless thrusts, abs clenched so tight you can see every ridge under his hoodie.

His breath comes in broken sobs “oh god, oh fuck, baby—” tears pricking at the corners of his eyes from the intensity. His cock jerks with every aftershock, twitching against your tongue like it’s got a mind of its own, and you milk him through it, tongue pressed flat, lips sealed, swallowing every pulse until he’s whimpering, oversensitive and shaking.

When the last spurt finally fades weak, trembling you pull off slow, lips dragging up his shaft, tongue swirling the head to catch the final bead of cum. You sit back on your heels, chest heaving, spit and semen shining on your chin, dripping onto your collarbone in thick, pearly strands. Your jaw aches, throat raw, but you’re buzzing high on him, on the power, on the way he’s wrecked.

Clay’s a catastrophe. Hoodie shoved up to his ribs, abs still fluttering with aftershocks, cock softening against his stomach in a glistening mess of spit and cum. His face is flushed crimson, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, eyes glassy and unfocused, lips swollen from biting them. He’s still twitching everywhere thighs jumping, fingers spasming in the sheets.

You open your mouth. Show him. Your tongue is drenched a thick, creamy pool of his cum coating every inch, pooling in the center, dripping toward the back of your throat in slow, viscous strands. You tilt your head back slightly, letting him see it glisten under the fairy lights, then close your lips and swallow with a slow, deliberate gulp that makes your throat bob. You open again empty, clean, just a sheen of saliva and the faint taste of him and stick your tongue out like a trophy.

“Every. Fucking. Drop,” you rasp, voice hoarse, destroyed, hungry. A string of spit-cum mix still connects your bottom lip to your chin; you swipe it with your thumb, suck it clean, and moan.

Clay whines a high, broken sound that cracks in the middle and his hand flies to your wrist, yanking you up with surprising strength.

You straddle his chest, thighs slick with your own arousal, and he sees it: the way your pupils are blown wide, lips swollen and red, the soaked patch darkening your panties where they press against his skin. Your clit is throbbing so hard you can feel it pulsing, and when you grind down once just once you both groan.

“Jesus Christ” he breathes, voice shattered, hands sliding up your thighs to grip your ass. “You’re fuck—you’re dripping. I can feel you.”

You smirk, wicked and wrecked, leaning down until your lips brush his ear. “Your turn to taste me, Jensen. Gonna sit on your face and drown you in it.”

His cock twitches against his stomach, already trying to rally, and you laugh low, filthy, promising.

You lean down, forehead to forehead, breath mingling. “Okay, baby,” you whisper, voice raspy from the throat-fuck you just gave him. “Gonna teach you how to eat pussy like a god.”

He swallows hard, nodding so fast his curls bounce. “Tell me. Everything.”

You sit up, peeling your shirt off slow, letting it drop to the floor. Your bra follows, nipples hard and begging, but you leave the panties, soaked and clinging, for now. You cup his face, thumb brushing his bottom lip.

“First rule,” you say, voice low and filthy. “Slow. You don’t dive in like it’s a race. You tease. Start with kisses, everywhere but my clit. Inner thighs, the crease where my leg meets my hip, the lips, outside the panties at first. Make me ache for your tongue.”

Clay’s hands slide up your thighs, reverent. “Like… this?” He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the damp cotton over your mound, breath hot through the fabric.

You moan, hips rolling. “Fuck, yes. Exactly. Now, when you pull them off, slow. Watch how wet I am for you. Spread me open with your thumbs, look at every fold, every inch. Tell me how pretty I am.”

He groans, already doing it in his head. “You’re gonna be glistening.”

“Exactly.” You grind down once, just to feel him shudder. “Then, lick. Flat tongue, long strokes from my entrance to my clit. Don’t suck yet. Just taste. Get me sloppy. Use your spit, mix it with my wetness. Make it messy.”

Clay’s eyes flutter. “Messy. Got it.”

“When I start squirming,” you continue, voice dropping, “focus. Circle my clit, slow at first, then faster. Light pressure. Flick it. Suck it, gentle, then harder. Slide a finger in, crook it up, find that spot, fuck, right there, rub it in time with your tongue.”

He’s breathing hard now, hands gripping your ass. “And if I, if I wanna make you come?”

You smirk, wicked. “Two fingers. Fast. Tongue on my clit, relentless. Don’t stop when I get loud. Don’t stop when I shake. Push me over. And when I come, keep going, soft, until I push you away.”

Clay’s voice cracks. “I, fuck, I wanna do it right now.”

You lean down, kiss him slow, tasting yourself on his lips already.

“One thing,” he murmurs against your mouth, shy but firm. “Can you… lie back instead of sitting on my face? I wanna see you. Wanna spread you open and learn. Don’t wanna miss a thing.”

Your heart flips. You nod, sliding off him, lying back against his pillows. Legs already spreading, panties clinging, you crook a finger.

“Come here, Jensen. Class is in session.”

You’re flat on your back now, head sunk into Clay’s pillow that smells like his shampoo and weed and him. The fairy lights paint gold across your skin, your chest rising fast, nipples tight from the cool air and the anticipation. Your thighs fall open like an invitation, panties drenched, the wet patch dark and obscene against the pale cotton.

Clay kneels between your legs, hoodie finally gone, bare chest flushed and glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. His eyes are huge, reverent, like he’s staring at something holy. He scoots closer, hands sliding up your calves, over your knees, until his palms settle on the soft insides of your thighs.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice shaky. “You’re shaking already.”

You are. Tiny tremors, thighs quivering under his touch. “Your fault,” you rasp, voice wrecked. “Now kiss me.”

He starts slow, just like you told him.

First kiss: the crease where your thigh meets your hip, soft and open-mouthed, lips dragging slow. His breath is hot, stuttering against your skin. Second kiss: higher, closer to the edge of your panties, tongue peeking out to taste the salt of your skin. He nuzzles, nose brushing the damp fabric, and you whine, hips lifting off the bed.

“Clay—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips vibrating against your thigh. “Told you. Teasing”

He kisses the other side now symmetrical, deliberate. Inner thigh, soft bites, gentle sucks that leave faint pink marks. His hands spread you wider, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin, and then finally he presses his mouth to the soaked cotton right over your pussy.

You gasp, back arching.

He doesn’t lick yet. Just kisses. Soft, closed-mouth presses over your clit, then lower, along your lips, the fabric clinging to every fold. His breath soaks through, warm and humid, and you can feel your pulse throbbing against his lips.

“So wet,” he whispers, awed, lips moving against you. “Can taste you through it.”

You fist the sheets, thighs trembling harder. “Off,” you beg, voice cracking. “Take them off.”

He hooks his fingers in the waistband, slow, so slow, peeling the panties down your hips, over your thighs, letting the cool air hit your slick skin. The fabric sticks, then peels away with a wet sound, and he groans when he sees you glistening, swollen, dripping.

But he doesn’t dive in.

He kisses the bare skin where the panties were. The tops of your thighs, the sensitive crease, the outer lips everywhere but where you need him. His stubble scrapes, soft and rough, and you’re whimpering now, hips rolling, trying to chase his mouth.

“Clay—please—”

He looks up, eyes dark, lips shiny with you already. “Told you. Slow.”

Then he kisses your clit soft, barely there through the air, a ghost of contact that makes you sob.

He’s learning. And you’re ruined.

Clay’s face is buried between your thighs like he’s starving and you’re the last meal on earth. No fingers just his mouth, his tongue, his everything. The weed’s got you both floating, giggly, feral. Every lick is sloppy, every breath a moan, every sound obscene.

He starts hungry. Tongue flat, dragging from your asshole to your clit in one long, wet stripe no finesse, just need. Spit and slick pour down his chin, dripping onto the sheets in thick, filthy strands. He laps at you like a dog loud, messy, tongue flapping side to side, catching every fold, every drop. His nose bumps your clit when he dips lower, snuffling, snorting your wetness like he’s high off your scent.

You scream half-laugh, half-moan hips bucking up into his face. “Clay—fuck—slow down—”

He giggles into your pussy, the vibration making you shriek. “Can’t—taste so good—” Another lick, sloppier, tongue curling inside you, fucking your hole with wet, clumsy thrusts. He pulls back to breathe, spit stringing from his lips to your clit, then dives back in suction tight, cheeks hollowing, sucking your clit like a straw.

“Jesus—” You fist his hair, yanking, and he whines, high-pitched and wrecked. His tongue flattens, shaking his head side to side, slapping your clit with wet smacks. Spit flies, splattering your thighs, your stomach, his cheeks. He’s drowning in you chin glistening, stubble soaked, eyes crossed and glassy from the high.

You giggle can’t help it when he snorts again, nose buried, tongue flicking wild. “You’re—fuck—you’re snuffling me—”

“Mmmph,” he mumbles, mouth full, then sucks your clit hard. Your laugh turns into a sob, thighs clamping around his ears. He growls actually growls and shakes his face, tongue slurping, lips smacking, spit bubbling at the corners of his mouth.

“Circle—circle it—” you gasp, grinding up. He tries tongue swirling, clumsy, too fast, then too slow but fuck, the pressure’s perfect. He finds a rhythm: lick, suck, flick, slurp. His whole face is buried, nose grinding your clit when he tongue-fucks your hole, sloppy, wet, noisy.

You’re close. Thighs shaking, hips bucking, breath hitching in sharp, giggly sobs. “Don’t stop—fuck—gonna come—”

He doubles down. Tongue relentless, slapping, sucking, lapping. Spit everywhere dripping down your ass, pooling under your hips, soaking the sheets. He moans like he’s the one coming, high and desperate, and when you gush a hot, wet flood against his tongue he drinks it, slurping, gulping, giggling when it overflows his mouth.

Your orgasm rips through you: walls clenching around nothing, clit pulsing against his tongue, a scream that’s half-laugh, half-sob. You ride his face hard, wild hips grinding, thighs crushing his head. He keeps going: tongue soft now, lapping gently, slurping the mess, giggling when you twitch oversensitive.

When you finally push his forehead, he pulls back gasping, face destroyed: lips swollen, chin dripping, eyes crossed and dazed. Spit and slick string from his mouth to your pussy, and he licks his lips slow, grinning like an idiot.

“Taste like… candy,” he slurs, voice wrecked, then giggles again when you yank him up for a filthy, cum-soaked kiss.

You’re both shaking, high, ruined. And you haven’t even fucked yet.

You’re both sprawled sideways across the bed now, limbs tangled, sheets soaked, the air thick with sex and weed. Clay’s face is still glistening your slick shining on his chin, his lips swollen and red, curls plastered to his forehead. You’re panting, thighs trembling, pussy throbbing from the orgasm that just wrecked you. His cock is hard again, flushed and leaking against his stomach, twitching every time you shift.

He’s staring at you like you’re a goddess, eyes glassy, high as fuck, a dopey grin splitting his face.

“Fuck,” he rasps, voice hoarse from moaning into your pussy. “I could do that forever.”

You laugh breathless, wrecked and roll onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “You’re a natural, Jensen. A sloppy, giggly, perfect natural.”

He blushew, then bites his lip, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then lower. His cock jerks when you lick your lips still tasting him, still tasting you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, scooting closer, hand sliding up your thigh. “What if… what if we…” He swallows, cheeks flaming. “What if we 69?”

You freeze, then grin, wicked and slow. “You wanna suck my clit while I choke on your dick?”

He groans, head falling back, hips twitching. “Fuck, when you say it like that—”

You sit up, already moving, straddling his chest backwards. “Yes. Let’s ruin each other.”

He whines high, desperate and grabs your hips, yanking you back until your pussy hovers over his face. You lean down, ass in the air, mouth watering at the sight of his cock thick, veiny, dripping.

“Together,” you breathe, then lick the tip, slow and filthy.

Clay bucks, then dives in tongue slurping your clit, messy, hungry. You moan around his cock, taking him deep, and the room fills with wet, sloppy sounds sucking, lapping, gagging, giggling.

You’re both lost. High, filthy, perfect.

You’re backwards on him now, knees on either side of his head, ass in the air, pussy dripping onto his chin. Clay’s hands grip your hips like he’s afraid you’ll float away, thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your ass. His cock throbs in front of your face thick, veiny, leaking and you’re drooling for it. The fairy lights flicker, the room spins, the high sings in your veins.

“Ready?” you murmur, voice slurred with lust and weed.

He giggles* high, dorky and slaps your ass lightly. “Fuck yes.”

You dive at the same time.

Your mouth wraps around his cock hot, salty, perfect lips stretching, tongue swirling the head, sucking hard. Clay bucks, a choked “shit—” muffled as he buries his face in your pussy. His tongue laps sloppy, wild from your clit to your hole and back, slurping like he’s dying of thirst. Spit drips, mixes, drowns you both.

You giggle around his dick vibration making him whine then gag when he thrusts up, hitting the back of your throat. You pull off with a pop, spit stringing from your lips to his tip, and laugh, breathless.

“Easy, tiger—”

He giggles into your folds, tongue flicking your clit so fast it’s slap-slap-slap. “Can’t help it—taste like candy—”

You moan, then swallow him again deeper, wetter, throat fluttering. Your hand pumps what your mouth can’t take, twisting at the base, thumb smearing precome. Clay growls actually growls and sucks your clit hard, lips sealed, tongue swirling inside the suction.

“Fuck—Clay—” You grind back, ass bouncing on his face, pussy smothering him. He moans muffled, desperate slurping* louder, nose grinding your clit when his tongue fucks inside you.

You giggle again high, stupid when he snorts, trying to breathe. “You okay down there?”

“Mmmph—love it—” He slaps your ass again, then spreads you wider, tongue lapping your asshole filthy, unexpected making you shriek and laugh and moan all at once.

“Dirty boy—”

You retaliate deepthroat him, nose to his pelvis, gagging loud and wet. He bucks wild, hips fucking your mouth, and you hum, swallow, milk him with your throat. Spit pours down his balls, and you cup them, rolling, squeezing.

Clay’s losing it. His tongue attacks your clit slap, flick, suck, swirl no rhythm, just chaos. Spit bubbles at the corners of his mouth, drips down his neck. You’re both soaked: sweat, spit, slick, cum.

You giggle when he hiccups actually hiccups from laughing into your pussy. “Stoned hiccups—”

“Shut up—” He sucks your clit harder, and you scream around his cock, gagging again.

You’re close. He’s close. The high makes everything huge, intense, hilarious.

“Come with me—” you gasp, pulling off to stroke him fast, tongue flicking the slit.

He whines, slurping your clit relentless, tongue shaking side to side. “Fuck—gonna—”

You dive back down suction tight, throat open and he erupts. Hot, thick ropes flood your mouth, pulse after pulse, and you swallow greedy, messy some leaking down your chin.

At the same second, you shatter. Pussy clenching, clit pulsing against his tongue, a gush of slick drowning his face. You scream around his cock muffled, wrecked hips grinding, riding his mouth through every wave.

You both keep going: sucking, lapping, giggling through the aftershocks, oversensitive and ruined. When you finally collapse sideways, tangled, soaked you’re laughing so hard you’re crying, his cum on your lips, your slick on his cheeks.

“Best high ever,” he gasps, pulling you into a sloppy, cum-soaked kiss.