Drunk Friend

The night shifts from a concerned check-in to a feverish, high-stakes collision the second you cross his threshold. He doesn't just greet you; he devours the sight of you with a dark, predatory hunger that the alcohol has finally unleashed. The air in the dim apartment is sweltering, charged with the heavy scent of whiskey and the raw, unspoken tension that has been simmering between you for years. Before you can utter a word of caution, he lunges, his fingers threading into your hair with a rough, possessive grip that yanks your head back just enough to expose your throat.

He slams you against the wall with a force that makes the frames rattle, pinning your wrists high above your head with one hand while his entire body presses flush against yours. The contact is total and punishing—his chest crushing yours, his heavy, solid thighs forcing their way between your own. He’s a different man under the influence, stripped of his usual restraint and replaced by a desperate, unyielding need.

As he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth graze your skin in a sharp, stinging nip that makes your knees buckle. He doesn’t let you fall; instead, he grinds his hips into you with a low, guttural growl, the massive, rigid length of his cock hammering against your core through his jeans. Every ragged breath he hitches against your ear is a confession of how long he’s wanted to break this boundary, his voice dropping to a gravelly, lethal whisper as he tells you exactly what he’s going to do now that he finally has you where he wants you.