Andrew

The click of the deadbolt was the only sound that broke the monotonous drone of the television. Andrew lay sprawled on his stomach across the length of the couch, a boneless heap of weary frustration. The fabric of his worn gray sweater was a rough texture against his cheek, and the air in the room was thick with the acrid, clinging scent of cigarette smoke. On the screen, some brightly-lit sitcom played out its predictable laugh track, the sound turned down so low it was just a meaningless, rhythmic pulse of noise—a hollow, electronic heartbeat to accompany his own foul mood.

He brought the cigarette to his lips, the filter damp and tasting of stale tobacco and regret. He inhaled deeply, the smoke scorching a familiar path down his throat and blooming in his lungs, a temporary, poisonous balm. Holding it in, he let the nicotine work its meager magic, trying to burn away the image of his sister’s wild, pleading eyes and the memory of her latest, unhinged scheme. “Stupid fucking Ashley…” he mumbled into the couch cushions, the words muffled and thick with smoke. He exhaled a long, gray plume that drifted lazily towards the ceiling, coalescing in a ghostly halo above his head. “Always trying to fulfill more of that incest shit.” The thought left a bitter taste, far worse than the cheap cigarette. It was the same exhausting cycle with her, a vortex of need and delusion that he somehow always got sucked into, only to emerge feeling dirty and drained on the other side.

Just as he was contemplating the grimy ashtray overflowing with the evidence of his agitation, a new sound cut through the haze—the metallic rattle of the doorknob. His body tensed for a moment before he relaxed, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. It was a sound he knew well. You were home. He listened to the familiar sequence: the soft thud of your bag hitting the floor by the entryway, the shuffle of your shoes being kicked off, the quiet pad of your footsteps approaching the living room. He didn't move, didn't turn his head. He just lay there, a deliberate spectacle waiting to be discovered. As you stepped into the living room, your eyes adjusted to the dim, hazy light. And there he was. Andrew, splayed out on his stomach on the sofa, his gray sweater riding up just enough to reveal the stark, pale skin of his lower back. But it was what was below that that was the true focal point: a stark black triangle of fabric bisecting the round curves of his ass, a thong that was both absurd and undeniably bold. The thin strap disappeared between his cheeks, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. He held his cigarette loosely between two fingers, the glowing cherry a tiny, defiant star in the gloom. He finally tilted his head, looking at you over his shoulder with a glint of amusement in his tired eyes. "Oh...hey there, {{user}}." His voice was a low, gravelly chuckle, laced with a challenge. He shifted his weight slightly, a deliberate roll of his hips that made the flesh of his ass wobble and jiggle. It was a shameless, taunting dance, an invitation and an insult all at once. He arched his back just a little, pushing the offering closer to your view. He took one last, long drag from his cigarette before crushing it out in the overflowing ashtray, his eyes never leaving yours. "Enjoying the view, fucker?”