The Adventures of BFF!Bill and tiger

The drunken romp attempt

It was one of those drunken ideas that seemed amazing at the time. You knew you definitely weren't walking in a straight line, but you were still coherent enough to be feeling good, uninhibited, buzzing with drunken bravado and the promise of phenomenal pleasure.

You would have been fine, would have had a great night with the girls, if the conversation hadn't turned to sex. But it always turned to sex and more than a few drinks in, talking about the incredible pleasure you had been on the receiving end of lately had you squirming, shifting uncomfortably, raising your heart rate just a little. A few more tequila shots, and the conversation had you so pent up that you cleared your throat, standing up too quickly and wobbling forward.

"Ladies, I uh....I gotta go," you leaned on the table for support, your knees far more unsteady than you thought, "I gotta go do...a thing."

"Does that thing have a name?" One of them asked.

"He does," you slurred, "And I'll be screaming it in about 25 minutes. You'll hear it."

With an exaggerated wink, you stumbled to the exit and threw your arm in the air for a cab. Climbing in, you cracked the window and bit your cheek to keep from feeling sick as the car sped away.

When it pulled up in front of Bill's apartment, you threw a few notes at the driver and climbed out. Fluffing your hair and tugging your shirt down a little, you stumbled through the front door of his building and climbed on all fours to his front door. Straightening, you whacked your knuckles on it, and leaned seductively against the door frame. When he didn't answer after a minute, you knocked again, more forcefully.

You heard the lock slide before the door opened slowly. Bill stood there in just his boxers, his eyes still half closed with sleep, his hair mussed. He looked at you, confused.

"Tiger?" His voice was gravelly and deep, and your gaze swept over him.

He was nearly as tall as the doorframe, his head almost reaching the top, his hair floppy and sticking up. His slender neck, his collar bones which protruded much less these days since he had started working out, giving way to his toned chest and long torso. Your eyes stopped at his hips, his boxers slung low enough—he had probably just thrown them on when you knocked—that you saw nearly his entire v-line, carved and defined. You licked your lips, biting back a moan.

"Are you okay?" He asked.

"Hey baby," you hoped it came out sexier than it sounded to your ears, but without wasting another minute, you pounced. Hooking an arm around his neck, you tugged him down and forcefully held his lips to yours, backing him up into the hallway and kicking the door shut behind you. You wrapped one leg around his, trying to hitch it to his waist, as your other hand reached between you and palmed him, stroking him through his boxers.

"Tiger, Jesus Christ," he muttered against your lips, trying to pull away but you had a firm grip in his hair. Reaching up for your hand, he managed to pry it away from his neck and he pulled out of your reach.

He dodged your hands when you kept trying to grab for him, keeping you at a distance. But you were drunk, uncoordinated, even more unpredictable than usual. He was groggy and slow, and you managed to swat his wrists away and plant your hands firmly on his chest. With a shove, his back hit the wall and you pounced again, smashing your lips to his and forcing your tongue into his mouth.

"Fuck kid, you taste like a whiskey factory," he said as he wrenched his face away.

"Let's see how you taste," you groaned and dropped to your knees. Before he could stop you, you ran your mouth along the outline that you could see through his boxers, licking his tip through the material. His breath hitched, a hand finding its way into your hair.