"The Morning After"

(A flash story in 348 words.)

If she could just find her panties, she swore she'd never mix schnapps and tequila again. Shit shit shit! She could have sworn he'd tossed them into the corner, on the beanbag, but there was no sign of them.

She got down on all fours and peered under the bed. Dust motes, a stack of Playboy magazines, two socks and some Legos. No panties.

She sat back on her heels, a wave of dizziness causing her to put her hands to her head. She made a pact with herself to never drink again. Same pact she made last weekend. And the weekend before.

He moaned and she looked up. For a nutritionist, he had one fine body, and it was begging for her attention. At least one part of him was.

She inched onto the bed, careful of her still woozy head. She stopped when her face was directly over his crotch.

Her tongue flicked out and licked his cock. It was hard; as hard as it'd been earlier when she'd been bouncing on it.

Pursing her lips, a perfect oval, she lowered her head, taking the cock into her mouth. His pubic hair smelled of sex, hers and his, a musky cross between seawater and sweaty sheets. She laughed at the strange thought.

The man on the bed moaned and flexed his toes at the vibrations of her lips around his cock.

She started a steady rhythm, sucking inward as she moved up and down. One hand snaked around to play with his balls.

His hips started rocking, keeping a counterpoint to her mouth. He wouldn't last long - they never did in the early morning, caught between the Sandman and sunrise.

Before long come drenched her tongue, filled her mouth, slid down her throat. She licked the last of it off her lips and slid down the side of the bed, her bare ass on the cold, wood floor, panties forgotten.

*One hundred and fifty calories, total fat nine grams, cholesterol zero, protein two grams. Why couldn't sperm come with a label?* she thought, burping.


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