Cowritten with reddit user thedevilisadyke.
Content warnings: Daddy kink, heavy cannabis consumption, humiliation, light choking, language like dumb slut, pathetic, whore, bitch, and good boy
Don't like Daddy/boy lesbian stuff? Don't read!
"Fuck, I can't believe we're so broke we can't buy weed for two more days," I groan.
"At least we still have weed."
"What are we smoking?" I ask.
"Sweet, sweet, Blue Dream," you answer.
"How much do we have left?"
"Like, a gram."
"Fuck, dude. We need the ice bong to make this shit last."
"You're right."
You get up to retrieve the bong, filling the base with cold water and the stem with ice cubes. I get to work on grinding the weed. My fingers grow slightly tacky with resin and the scent of skunky pine starts drifting into the air as the grinder tears the flower.
"If you didn't have a little bitch grinder, we could at least save some of the kief," you rib me, tapping the bong slightly on the table to settle the ice cubes. "I mean, who uses a two piece anymore?"
"Shut up, dude," I mutter, unscrewing the top half of the grinder. "Just gimme the bong."
You pass the bong to me and start searching for a lighter. You just bought a five-pack of Bics with goofy prints last month, but somehow we're already down to the last one.
I pack the bowl carefully over the grinder, trying to preserve any bits of weed that might fall away. This bowl piece is pretty big; we can get, maybe, another bowl out of this gram. Two, if I pack it really loose... but then we risk snapping some of it into the downstem.
You're coming to the same realization, biting the inside of your cheek as you eye what remains in the grinder. "So, how are we gonna do this? Cornering the bowl as much as possible?"
I grimace. "I mean, makes the most sense, I guess."
You move to take the first careful hit, but I say, "Wait." And I wonder if I'm going to regret what I say next. "Maybe we should... shotgun each other? Make the most of it?"
You lock eyes with me for just a second, and then shrug. "Yeah, whatever. Why waste an exhale, right?"
"Right," I agree quickly, relieved that it didn't make it weird.
Your thumb ring clicks against the flint as you spark the lighter. I watch the smoke fill the base of the bong -- slowly at first, then it spirals and thickens around the ice. You clear the hit, turn to me, and lean into my space.
You pull just short, though, at the last second, and blow a small ring of smoke into my face.
Smug bastard, I think. I want to laugh or say "fuck you" or something, but I'm too eager to get my mouth on yours -- I mean, too eager to shotgun your hit. I close the distance and your warm mouth is on mine and I'm inhaling slow and deep, trying to take it all in.
And then -- I need to cough. Fuck. I pull away from your mouth and exhale as much of the hit as I can before the cough hits me. I'm overtaken by my coughing fit, my sensitive lungs trying to expel all of the smoke, and I rasp a shaky inhale before coughing some more.
You laugh, reaching for the water bottle opposite the bong. "Dude. You're a little bitch."
"Fuck... you... dude..." I say between coughs.
"Fuck me? Maybe," you shrug. "If you beg for it."
A jolt of electricity strikes through my spine and lands in my gut. You have no idea how badly I want that -- to fuck you, to beg to fuck you.
I keep coughing -- my excuse to not reply to you.
You roll your eyes as my coughing fit continues, but your jaw's tight. You set the water bottle between my spread thighs and nudge the bong toward me with the lighter. "Hurry up and recover, or I'm taking your turn," you joke, setting the lighter down.
I concentrate on breathing, in and out, until my lungs clear and I can inhale without another cough. My body buzzes with the high of the hit, the oxygen deprivation of my coughing fit, and the proximity of you. I lick my lips, thinking of your mouth on mine again.
I should say something to fill the silence, but I can't think of anything to say, so I just move to take my hit off the bong. It's markedly smaller than yours, but I clear the hit and lean into the couch, my eyes falling on your soft lips.
Your mouth meets mine, and you inhale the smoke almost greedily. The hit's gone quicker than I'd like, and I go to pull away.
Your hand on the back of my neck stops me; you pull the last wisps of smoke from my mouth, and your teeth tug my lower lip a little as you withdraw.
"Wasn't finished," you tell me, a scarce two inches from my face, eyelids heavy with the hit.
And then you grab the bong from the table and push the scant remaining green in the bowl towards the center with the bottom edge of the lighter.
"Try to take this one without coughing your lungs out, bro," you add, raising an eyebrow at me as you lean toward the mouthpiece of the bong.
"Fuck you, bro," I retort, and you've already started your hit so you can't hit me back with your sarcasm or your innuendos. But you have a point. I have to concentrate on relaxing my lungs and not fucking this one up.
This time, the bubbling sound of you clearing the hit sets off a spark in my gut. My heart flutters in my ribcage like a tiny bird, and my breath comes fast. Shit. I have to keep it together.
You lean into me, and I close the gap, letting our mouths fit together like puzzle pieces. Before I get lost in the sensation, I remind myself to breathe, to inhale -- Hello, this isn't a kiss, this is a shotgun, what the fuck are you doing? I take the hit from you for as long as I can stand it. I pull away regretfully, already missing the sensation of your soft lips brushing mine.
I exhale smoothly this time, with a couple of small coughs at the tail end.
"Not bad," you approve, your voice a little hoarse. And then you qualify it, like a son of a bitch: "Like, eight out of ten."
You ash the bowl, hands moving a little more quickly than they really need to -- or else time's slowing around the smoke settling behind my eyes. I know we're stretching out the last of this gram now, and so do you, but you pack the bowl anyway. Just enough for a single snap.
"Think you can finish this off, or do you wanna leave it to the big boys?" you ask, tapping the lighter on the edge of the bowl piece. You're not looking me in the eyes, though; you're staring at my mouth. The tension pulls taut for a moment, like hemp rope wrapping and pulling around the stem of a piece. The fibers of time and space tighten; you lean towards me, just a few degrees.
You set the lighter down between us and wait.
I want to take the hit. It's a matter of dignity. Of butch pride. But I'm looking at it and I know my own lungs and I know I can't take the damn hit. Fuck.
"Whatever. You take it, dude."
You shrug, retrieving the bong and the lighter. "Watch and learn." Dick.
You snap the hit, a rush of smoke surging up to meet your lips as you inhale. The crackle of the burning weed is so loud in the dead silence of the room. When you lean into me to exhale the smoke, you grip my jaw -- just lightly. Just a bit. Just enough to direct the path of the smoke down into my mouth.
I could whimper. I don't. I look at your dark eyes and your lips and then your mouth is on mine and my body is on fire and I'm forgetting to breathe again, forgetting what this is meant to be. Finally, I breathe in the smoke from your lips, going slow, drawing the moment out as long as I can. When I pull away to exhale, you don't let go of my jaw. You lock eyes with me and we both exhale, the smoke circling around us in a cloud. My heart pounds.
You pull back firmly, with purpose, and the suddenness of your withdrawal is dizzying. I watch, jaw a little slack, as you ash the bowl again and scoop the absolute last of our weed into the bowl. There's an edge of urgency to your movement as you spark the lighter a final time, and I don't understand why you're so eager to torch the last of a gram we were supposed to be saving.
Not until you climb into my lap and pull me into you by the shirt collar.
Smoke spills from your lips to mine, and I feel one of your hands move back to my jaw; your thumb moves slowly, so slowly, down my jawline as you exhale into my mouth.
I breathe in deeply, taking all of it, all of you. I don't know where to put my hands so I put them in your hair, pulling you into me, letting this hit drag on until I run out of oxygen and have to pull away.
"Seems... pretty gay, Pat," you murmur in my ear. Before I can respond, your teeth are grazing my neck, then nipping at my earlobe. "Pretty fucking dykey." Your voice is gritty, harsh with smoke and lust. "If I didn't, like, know better..." Your hand trails back down from my jaw, hooks into my shirt collar and tugs. "I'd think you were trying to kiss me or something."
I can't see your face, but I can hear the smirk.
Fire is licking at me from the inside. My heart is going a million miles a minute. I have no comeback. I have no fucking comeback for you. All I can do is tug on your hair, bring your face back to mine, and drag my mouth to yours.
You pull me into you, chasing my lips and then my tongue in what the buzz in my brain tells me must be slow motion. My hands tighten in your hair momentarily, and you groan into my mouth. Our kiss hardens; your teeth tug my lower lip again, sharper this time, and the hand not gripping me by the collar hooks into my belt loop.
I feel the tug on my belt loop in my cunt, and I moan a little into your kiss. I want your hands on other parts of me, I realize, and I want to ask for it but I don't. Instead I let go of your hair with one hand and let it drift down to your throat -- not really choking, per se, but holding you there while tongues and teeth mix with your soft lips and the smell of your cologne -- earthy, woodsy, dark.
My little moan spurs you on and you release your grip on my belt loop just to tease a hand slowly over my hip, then over the waistband of my jeans. A couple of your fingers tease just an inch or two under the denim, and you roll your hips into mine.
"I meant what I said earlier," you tell me, pulling back for just a moment.
Either my high or the heat in my blood keeps me from understanding until you clarify:
"If you want me, you're gonna have to beg for it, prettyboy."
"Fuck," I curse. "Call me that again."
