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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Hung Over (Bradley Stoke) (MF)
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{ASSM} Hung Over (Bradley Stoke) (MF)

Title: Hung Over
Author: Bradley Stoke
Keywords: MF
Short Summary: Clare is hung over the morning after.


[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]

For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www



Story: Hung Over (975 words)

Clare is confused. Where is she? Who is she with? What
has she done? She is hung over and with a man she can
barely recognize and not even sure what it is they may
have done together.



Hung Over
=========


Clare rolled to one side and her bare nipples brushed briefly
and sensuously against the hair of a naked man's chest. At
first she thought nothing of it and almost rolled back, to
face away as she normally did, but then she wondered.

Who was this man? And where was she?

She turned back with alarm and studied the figure sprawled
next to her, one arm and one leg free of the sheet that
covered him and a gently breathing mouth that faced
towards her. His short hair was ruffled and he had a small
ring through his nose.

Clare was still none the wiser.

She lay on her back and studied the ceiling and walls
around her. This was definitely not her flat. No way would
she have plastered it with so many pictures of semi-clad
women featured on night club posters. Nor would she have
dreamt of buying such a purely functional lampshade. And
all those CDs cluttering up the surfaces of the utilitarian
furniture!

This could only be a man's bedroom.

Clare squeezed her eyes tight. She was definitely feeling
ragged. She'd mixed too many drinks with too many drugs.
Although she didn't have that horrible nauseous feeling that
often accompanied the morning after, she wasn't feeling at
her best.

She remembered going to the night club. But she couldn't
remember the name of it. Even though she had queued up
for ages outside with Joanne, Phillippa and Louise. But
once inside, with the DJ caning the funky techno and hard
dance, it became one disconnected blur of recollections.
Most of her time, she was sure, was spent on the dance
floor, gyrating, swivelling, stomping and sweating under the
strobes, the E kicking in and the speed driving her faster
and more delirious. And didn't they snort some charlie
earlier in the evening?

That was cool!

And between the dancing, the four girls sat together by the
bar, swigging a few coolers and puffing at their ciggies.
And giggling and chortling and shouting and measuring up
the talent. Some good looking boys. But, be honest, after
enough E, let alone the alcopops, a boy had to be fucking
ugly not to look half-way decent.

And back on the floor, the four girls going their separate
ways. Phillippa with the shaven-headed guy with the weird
Maori tattoos. Louise and Joanne in a huddle with some
guys who insisted they'd met them once at the Zap Club in
Brighton.

Which was possible.

And Clare herself with the guy with the little goatee, the
funny beret and the cool tee-shirt he'd got at Glastonbury
that time. He was a fucking good dancer. And, as she soon
established, not a bad kisser either, as they manoeuvred
towards a pillar and got into some strenuous tongue-play.

So, was the bloke she was with the same guy?

She turned her head back to look at him.

No fucking way!

So how had she managed to hitch up with him?

And then it came back to her, fragments of memory
coalescing bit by bit into a coherent picture.

It was when Clare was leaving. She had no idea what had
happened to her three friends. They'd been with her and
some boys and some other girls they'd met when they
collected their coats from the cloakroom. But somehow
outside, it was so confusing. Taxis everywhere. People
sponging ciggies. Bouncers standing with their arms folded
outside the club.

"You want this taxi?" asked a guy, as one drew up to the
kerb.

And Clare looked him up and down. Fuck! He was better
than nothing, she must have thought. If she'd thought much
about anything at all. And anyway she was still out of it.

"Yeah! Why not?"

"Where're you going?" he asked as they sat together on the
back seat.

"Coffee on offer?" Clare slurred.

"Yeah, right!" he said, quite clearly as beyond clear thought
as she was.

And then back, somehow, and here there was a total blank,
to this flat somewhere in the city. Or not so complete a
blank. She remembered his tongue in her mouth, his hands
on her breasts and her hand on his trousers. Just making
sure!

Then in his flat. No coffee, mind you. Just a frantic fumble
as her clothes and his slid away and the two were on top of
each other. There was sweat. There were some helpful
poppers. There was a bit of tongue-play below as Clare
toked on a joint he'd skinned up and he burrowed his head
between her legs, his tongue twiddling on the little clit ring
she'd bought in Ibiza.

And then, but thankfully not straight away, the inevitable
fucking.

But was it good?

Probably.

And did she take precautions?

Well, the pill would handle the obvious worry, but she
remembered guiltily, and cursed herself, nothing to guard
herself the other concerns. Shit! After that Chlamydia and
that bout of gonorrhoea hadn't she learnt anything?

Obviously not!

Shit! Another month probing around with a mirror. Perhaps
another visit to the clinic. Another month when she'd have
to confess to Paul that she'd done what she shouldn't have
done.

Clare sighed deeply.

"Wassup?" asked the guy beside her.

Clare smiled. Should she ask him whether he had caught
anything? As if he'd tell her if he had!

"Fine," she replied.

And then she noticed that despite his hangover, which
bleared his eyes and left his mouth drooping in a moronic
way, like most men he was blessed with a morning stiffy.

She placed a hand on his erect penis and gently squeezed it
between her forefinger and thumb.

"Fine," she repeated. "Bit hung over. But nothing that this
can't cure!"

Fuck it! If she was going to the clinic again, she might as
well make sure it was for something she could remember.





For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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