/lit/ - Literature

"To hell with women, anyway. to hell with you, Brett Ashley."

Said into the drunken void of the room, before dropping into the chair like a fish took off the hock.

He felt like his shirt: crumple, dirty, and devoid of any responsibility that was somehow related to the state of unanimation, unbeing that made it even hard to hate himself.

The hand went under the fabric looking for a dome of a nipple. The other palm caressed the neck of the bottle just the way it would do with his cock in a minute.

"Steven" the name escaped from his lips like the teeth that separated the moment he started to play with the bell of his dick were cell locking mechanism. OP imagined the folds of a gentle skin heading into the center of Steve's anus. Now they seamed like a highways of his new destination.