Chapter 1: The Whiskey Confession
The last of the guys stumbled out the door, their laughter fading into the humid night air. Ritchie clicked the lock and turned, leaning against the wood. The silence in the apartment was sudden, thick, broken only by the hum of the refrigerator and the rattle of the window unit.
Mae was still at the kitchen island, swirling the amber dregs of her whiskey in a lowball glass. The hem of her mini skirt was riding high on her thigh. Her crop top stretched tight across her chest with every slow breath.
“Another?” Ritchie’s voice was a low rumble. He didn’t wait for an answer, just picked up the bottle of Buffalo Trace and moved toward her. The scent of him – bourbon, cheap cigar smoke, and something purely, aggressively male – washed over her as he refilled her glass.
“Matt’s such a fucking child,” Mae sighed, the words slurring just slightly. She knocked back half the fresh pour, the burn a welcome distraction. “Four years. Four years, and he still asks me what I want to do for dinner. Like, have a thought. Have a fucking opinion. Plan something.”
“He’s comfortable.” Ritchie said it simply, his eyes not leaving hers. He took a sip from the bottle itself, his throat working. “Comfortable guys get lazy.”
“Tell me about it.” She laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “The sex is like… polite. It’s a fucking handshake. I’m twenty-two. I don’t want a handshake.”
Ritchie’s smile was a slow, knowing curve. He set the bottle down with a solid thunk. “Maybe you just need someone who knows how to handle you. Someone who isn’t afraid to take what he wants.”
Mae snorted, looking him up and down with exaggerated skepticism. “Please. And what would a tiny-dicked white boy like you know about handling anything?”
The air in the kitchen shifted. The playful banter evaporated, replaced by a voltage that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. Ritchie didn’t flinch. His gaze darkened, intensifying, pinning her to the stool.
“Tiny, huh?” he murmured. He took a step closer, invading her space. The heat from his body was immense. “Let’s settle this. A bet.”
“I’m listening.” Mae tried to keep her tone flippant, but her heart was hammering against her ribs.
“If I’m bigger than any ‘little Asian boy’ you’ve ever had,” he said, the phrase deliberately crude, “you get on your knees and put that sarcastic mouth to use. If I’m not… I give you five hundred bucks. Right now.”
It was stupid. Reckless. A line that, once crossed, would obliterate everything – her relationship, their friendship, her own self-respect. She knew it. She felt the danger of it, a bright, thrilling panic in her chest.
But the money was real. And the chance to shut his arrogant mouth forever? To win?
“You’re on, you arrogant asshole,” she breathed, a reckless grin spreading across her face.
Ritchie’s expression was predatorily calm. He didn’t move away. He simply undid his belt buckle, the clink obscenely loud in the quiet. He unbuttoned his jeans.
Mae’s bravado faltered. Her breath hitched. This was really happening. She slid off the stool, her knees hitting the cool hardwood floor. She looked up at him, a challenge still glinting in her eyes. “Let’s see it, then. Probably need a magnifying gl—”
The words died in her throat.
When he freed himself, her brain simply stopped processing for a full three seconds. It was thick, heavy, aggressively alive even semi-hard, and obscenely, impossibly long. A primal part of her mind whispered danger.
“Holy fuck,” she whispered, all sarcasm gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock.
Her hand rose, seemingly of its own volition. Her fingers touched him. The skin was hot, silken over an unyielding core. She tried to wrap her hand around his girth. Her fingertips didn’t meet her thumb. A shaky exhale escaped her. She cupped the heavy, tight weight of his balls, feeling them shift in her palm.
“Go on,” Ritchie said, his voice thick. He wasn’t smiling anymore. His face was all hard lines and focused hunger.
She leaned in, her mind screaming at her to stop, but her body was operating on a different, baser frequency. She opened her mouth, taking just the bulbous head past her lips. She tasted salt, skin, him. She could barely manage a third of his length before her jaw protested. She used her tongue, licking the sensitive ridge underneath his foreskin, exploring the slit. A low groan vibrated from his chest. The sound went straight to her core, sparking a wet, aching heat between her legs.
She worked him with her mouth and hands, a clumsy, desperate rhythm. He let her for a minute, then gently pushed her back. “Suck my balls, baby.”
She obeyed, lowering her head, taking one then the other into her mouth, lapping at the tight skin. He was everywhere, his scent, his taste, his low commands.
He pulled away. Then, with a casual dominance that made her flinch and then melt, he slapped the side of her cheek with his heavy cock. Once. Twice. Then a lighter tap on her forehead. It wasn’t painful. It was degrading. It was a claiming. A liquid fire pooled in her stomach.
“I can’t…” she panted, looking up at him, her eyes wide. “I need… I need you to fuck me. Please, Ritchie.”
He didn’t answer with words. He hooked his hands under her arms and lifted her onto the cold granite of the kitchen counter as if she weighed nothing. He pushed her skirt up, ripped her flimsy panties aside, and buried his face between her legs.
His tongue was relentless. It wasn’t the timid, polite licking she was used to. It was a rough, demanding exploration that mapped every fold, every hidden nerve. He fucked her with his tongue, then zeroed in on her clit, sucking it hard until she saw white stars behind her eyelids. The pressure built, a coil tightening beyond anything she’d ever felt.
“I’m gonna—oh my God, what’s—Ritchie!” she screamed, her back arching off the counter as a shockwave tore through her. A gush of hot release soaked his chin, the counter, her thighs. She trembled violently, gasping for air. She’d never squirted before. Didn’t know she could.
Before the last tremor subsided, he was flipping her over, pushing her chest down onto the cold stone. He spat, the wetness landing between her ass cheeks. His thumb pressed, circled, then pushed into her tight, virgin asshole. She cried out, a mix of pain and shocking pleasure.
“This is mine now, too,” he growled in her ear.
He guided his cock to her soaked pussy and drove into her in one brutal, filling stroke. She screamed again, the sheer size of him a delicious, splitting burn. He set a punishing pace, the sound of skin on skin, of their ragged breaths, filling the kitchen. One of his big hands wrapped around her throat from behind, squeezing just enough to cut off a sliver of air. The world narrowed to the pulse in her neck, the deep, stretching fullness inside her, and the raw, grunting sounds he made.
“Tell me,” he commanded, his grip tightening.
“It’s so big… your white cock… it’s fucking destroying me,” she choked out, the words spurring him on. “It’s so much bigger… oh God, I feel it in my stomach…”
He fucked her through another screaming orgasm, then another, until her legs gave out and she was just a quivering, mindless weight he held up by the hips. He pulled out, turned her onto her back, and jerked his cock over her, his strokes rough and final. Thick, hot stripes of cum painted her stomach, her breasts, her neck. She lay there, spent, marked, staring at the ceiling with glazed eyes.
He half-carried, half-dragged her to his bed. They collapsed in a heap of tangled, sticky limbs. Her phone, discarded on the floor, lit up silently.
Matt (12:47 AM): hey babe you still at Ritchie’s?
Matt (1:15 AM): everything ok?
Matt (1:52 AM): mae?
The screen glowed, unanswered, until it went dark.