Chapter 10: Morning Debts
The first sensation was the dull throb behind his eyes, a familiar percussion of last night’s whiskey. The second was the memory, arriving not in a flood but in sharp, disorienting flashes. Katy’s hands. The ceiling haze. A feeling of release so profound it felt like falling. Then, nothing.
Garrett pushed himself up, the sheets sticking to his skin. He was in his own bed, naked. He looked down at his body—her body—the curve of breasts under the thin blanket. A hot flush crept up his neck. She’d… she’d done that. Twice. And he’d just passed out.
He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, the fabric feeling alien against unfamiliar skin. He needed water. He needed to see her.
The door to her room—his room—was ajar. He pushed it open softly. The room was dark, blinds still drawn, smelling of sleep and something muskier. Katy was a lump under the covers, her short, messy blonde hair just visible on the pillow. His hair.
Then he saw it. On the nightstand, next to a half-empty glass of water, was the pocket pussy. It wasn’t just sitting there; it was a mess, glistening faintly in the slivered light, utterly spent. She’d used it. After everything last night, she’d come back in here and…
A pang of guilt, sharp and acidic, twisted in his gut. She’d given him three shattering orgasms, wrung him out until he was empty, and he’d offered nothing in return but dead weight. The imbalance was a physical weight on his chest. Sucking a dick, even his own… his stomach lurched at the thought. He couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But he could do something. A handjob. It was simple. Transactional, almost. A way to settle the debt.
He took a step closer, the floorboard creaking under his foot.
The lump in the bed stirred. Katy’s head turned, and his own blue eyes, heavy with sleep, blinked open. They focused on him, widening slightly. There was no smile.
“Hey,” she mumbled, her voice rough with sleep, deeper than he was used to hearing it from the outside.
“Hey,” Garrett replied, his voice unnaturally high in the quiet room. He gestured weakly toward the living room. “I, uh… remembered stuff. From last night.”
Katy pushed herself up on one elbow, the sheet pooling around his waist. Her gaze was unnervingly direct. “Yeah? What stuff?”
“Enough.” He shuffled his feet, feeling like a kid caught sneaking in past curfew. “I wanted to… say thanks. I guess.”
Her eyes narrowed a fraction. She followed his glance to the nightstand, to the undeniable evidence of her own frustration. A faint, unreadable smirk touched her lips. “Thanks,” she repeated, flatly.
“I just…” He took a breath, stepping closer to the bed. “I feel like it’s unbalanced. You’ve… done stuff. For me. I should… return the favor.”
Katy was silent for a long moment, just watching him. The air in the room felt thick, charged. “Okay,” she said finally, her tone neutral. She shifted, leaning back against the headboard, making space. An invitation. Or a challenge.
Garrett sat on the edge of the mattress, the springs groaning under the unfamiliar distribution of his weight. This was weirder than he’d anticipated. He was about to touch his own penis. But it wasn’t his. It was attached to Katy, who was watching him with a cool, analytical expression he’d never seen on his own face before.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and pushed the sheet down. His own erection, familiar and yet utterly foreign, sprung free. He wrapped his fingers around it. The skin was softer than he expected, the warmth a startling intimacy.
Garrett adjusted his grip, trying to mimic what he knew felt good. He focused on the mechanics, the slide of skin, the rhythm he’d perfected over a lifetime. But the disconnect was overwhelming. He was performing a task on a body part that used to be his, while his cousin, wearing his face, observed him with detached curiosity.
He was performing a task on a body part that used to be his, while his cousin, wearing his face, observed him with detached curiosity. His new hands, so much smaller and softer, struggled to find a comfortable grip. The sheer size of his own erection in this unfamiliar grasp was a jarring, almost intimidating revelation.
“You’re thinking too hard,” Katy murmured, her voice a low rumble in his chest.
He forced himself to focus, his slender fingers tracing the prominent vein he knew so well from the other side. The motion was clumsy at first, all awkward twists and uncertain pressure. He fell into a slow, tentative rhythm, his mind a frantic buzz of disconnected thought and sensation.
A sharp, sudden intake of breath from Katy broke his concentration. Her head tipped back against the headboard, his own eyes sliding shut. That small, involuntary sound was a spark in the dim room. The clinical detachment he’d been clinging to began to dissolve, replaced by a flicker of something else.
He watched, fascinated, as a flush spread across his former chest. His own strong hands clenched and unclenched on the rumpled sheets. The mechanical up-and-down motion gradually became something more intentional, more searching. He experimented with pressure, with speed, learning what made her breath catch and what made her hips give a minute, unconscious thrust.
“There?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
“Yeah,” she breathed out, the word thick and strained. “Just like that.”
Time lost its shape, measured only in the steady, slick sound of his hand and her deepening breaths. The initial weirdness didn't vanish, but it mutated, blending with a dawning, perverse sense of power. He was the one drawing these reactions from her, from the body that should be his. He was causing this.
He was causing this. The thought was a distant, detached thing, separate from the slick rhythm of his hand, the heat of skin that was both alien and intimately familiar. Every twitch, every hissed breath from Katy was a direct result of his touch, a feedback loop that was warp-ing his sense of self. He watched, mesmerized, as a bead of moisture formed at the tip, a sight he’d seen a thousand times but never from this angle, never as something he had drawn forth.
Katy’s head was thrown back, the tendons in his neck standing taut. Her breathing was ragged, shallow pants. “Don’t… stop,” she gritted out, the command low and guttural.
Garrett’s own heart hammered in his chest, a frantic bird against his ribs. His wrist was beginning to ache, the muscles in his forearm burning with the unfamiliar strain. The sheer size of it in his small hand was a constant, shocking reminder of the divide between them. He focused on the rhythm, on the way her hips began to match his pace, a slow, rolling thrust into his encircling fingers.
A low groan ripped from Katy’s throat, a sound Garrett had never heard himself make. It was raw, stripped of any restraint. Her eyes snapped open, locking onto his. The blue was almost black, pupils blown wide with a need that was terrifying in its intensity. “Garrett,” she breathed, his name a plea and a curse.
He could feel it building, a tension coiling deep within the body beneath his hand, a familiar pressure he knew was on the verge of release. His own body responded, a sympathetic thrum between his legs, a confusing echo of the pleasure he was administering.
“I’m close,” Katy gasped, her voice cracking. Her hands fisted in the sheets. “So close.”
But just as the wave was about to crest, her body suddenly stiffened. She squeezed her eyes shut, a pained grimace twisting his features. The rocking of her hips slowed, then stilled. The tension didn't break; it hardened, held hostage by sheer force of will.
Garrett’s hand stilled. “What’s wrong?”
Katy let out a shuddering breath, slowly relaxing back against the headboard. She looked spent, but unsatisfied. A strange, calculating light replaced the raw hunger in her eyes. “It’s hard,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “So damn hard not to just… finish.”
He pulled his hand away, wiping it awkwardly on the sheet. The absence of contact felt abrupt, leaving a chill in the charged air. “Why would you stop?”
She looked at him, her gaze sharp. “Because this is just… scratching an itch. It’s not enough.” She gestured vaguely between them, a flick of her wrist that encompassed the entire fucked-up situation. “If I ever want to really…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “…reclaim what’s mine, we need to go further. Deeper.”
Garrett’s stomach tightened. He knew what ‘further’ meant. The memory of her mouth on him, the dizzying completion, flashed in his mind. The thought of reversing it, of putting his lips where her hand had been, made a cold sweat break out on his skin.
Katy saw the panic on his face. She sat up straighter, leaning forward. The movement was predatory. “Garrett,” she said, her voice dropping to a coaxing whisper. “Look at me. Look at it.” She nodded down toward his own erection, still flushed and urgent between them. “It’s yours. You’ve touched it a thousand times. It’s no different than… than sucking on your own fingers after a meal. It’s just… cleaning up. Taking what’s already yours.”
The logic was insane, perverse, and yet it slithered into his mind, finding purchase. He stared at the part of himself that was now a part of her. His own fingers. A meal. The metaphors were weak, but the need in her eyes was overpowering.
“Please,” she begged, the word soft and desperate. Her hand, his old hand, cupped his cheek. The touch was startlingly gentle. “Just try. For me. For us to get back.”
He could feel the pulse throbbing at the base of her dick, a rhythm that echoed the frantic beat in his own chest. The line between self and other blurred until it was nothing but a shimmering haze of heat and desire.
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered his head.