Hangover

New Year's Eve left me wrecked. Champagne on the tongue, her red dress slipping off one shoulder, that soft blonde hair brushing my face at midnight. Kisses tasted sweet then—hotter later behind a locked door. Morning came and she was gone. Only a faint scent on the pillow, her lace bra still hooked on the lamp. I reach down, half-hard already, fingers sliding into the damp heat between my thighs. One hand works slow circles over slick skin while the other brings the cold glass dildo from the nightstand. I press it in, inch by inch, muscles tightening around the rigid length. The cool intrusion makes me gasp, thighs trembling. Then the cigar—thick, smooth—slides alongside, stretching me wider. Two shafts inside at once, glass and tobacco, one chill, one warm from my grip. I rock my hips, fucking myself with both, breathing ragged, sweat beading on my collarbone. Each thrust sends sharp sparks up my spine. I grind down harder, clit throbbing under my thumb, until the ache breaks and my body clamps tight around everything filling me. The room stays quiet except for my breathing and the soft, wet sound of my own pleasure.