Hustle

It's strange being home again. Three months we've been at college, but it feels like years. And now we're back - different, but the same - and my half-dozen boys do not want the night to end.

So, as I stand to go, I'm not surprised when they swipe my car key right out of my hand. The six of them are quick, sneaky, work as a team. I watch, helpless, as the keyring arcs across the room, is passed hand to hand, and, predictably, ends up down someone's pants.

When we were kids, that was the end of the chase. An unbreachable border, that waistband, between a girl and her male friends. A fail-safe.

But they don't know how three months have changed me.

The counterpoint to their jump and jive, the foil to their fancy footwork, I walk slowly toward him. I sense their collective gulp as they realize the game has changed.

The room is silent. I feel like I’m in a dream.

I draw close, reach out, unbutton, unzip. He holds still as my fingers slide inside, search for my quarry, brush against him accidentally, then deliberately. He’s hard. His breath hitches. As I grab the key with one hand, the other hand wraps around his cock and strokes him once, twice. He’s trembling. I lean forward and, in a movement so daring I wonder at myself later, take him into my mouth, suck mercilessly. Swallow.

Game over.

This time I make it to the door.

[written for Alison Tyler's "key" contest]