Ryan fluttered his eyes open but couldn't see, momentarily panicking the drink had finally sent him blind. He squeezed them shut, drew thumb and forefinger across his aching lids and off the bridge of his nose, clumps of sleep rolling with them. Counting to three, he tried again, relieved this time that his focus began to swim into view. Gooey shapes gradually gave way to harder lines and edges across the bed. He recoiled and tipped over the side into a tangled heap atop his discarded jeans. Groaning quietly, he reoriented and peeped over the rumpled sheets, praying it was a trick of his groggy conscience.

It wasn't. Who the fuck was she?

Her tousled, dirty-blonde hair fell over face and shoulders, white sheets covering the rest. It hurt to blink, but he did it anyway, head pounding, mouth lined with silica gel. With whatever remaining brain cells weren't damaged beyond repair from the booze, he scraped every synapse in the hope of dredging a match; her name, how they'd met or, most importantly of all, whether anything had happened between them the night before. Anything at all. A venue, a glance, a fleeting touch, a drink.

Nothing. His head just screamed at him to get more rest and take away the throbbing. Maddening thoughts tumbled and he tried to latch onto one, clutching ineffectually until he figured a proper look at her might kickstart his memory.

Stealthily, he crawled back under the covers, slid across the double bed and lifted the sheets. Prominent shoulder blades on broad shoulders swept towards him, one sprawling breast partially visible under her weight. The smooth skin of her back tapered to a waist at least two dress sizes larger than the kind of girl he was used to. The alabaster surface of her voluptuous bottom curved beyond the horizon, full and meaty. He winced. Definitely not his regular fare.

As the curves led deeper into the bed, a flash of colour caught his attention. He crept closer, drawing level with a tattoo on her left butt cheek of a single-stemmed red rose. Gingerly, he reached out to trace its form and shut his eyes, trying to recall if those eight centimetres of patterned skin meant anything to his subconscious. All it did was make his eyes sting behind the lids, willing him to sleep some more. The girl murmured in her slumber so he withdrew with no more than a glance at the deep crease where her bottom met chubby thighs.

Allowing the sheets to cover her gently snoring frame once more, he stared at the ceiling. Was it some kind of joke? A trick played on him by his mates to take advantage of his inebriated state. Would they stoop so low as to pay some chunkster to sleep with him? He looked at her again, shivered and slid away, legs swinging out to sit on the edge of the bed, burying his head in his hands. His kidneys complained.

Water. Need water.

Across the room, his wooden chair was upended, papers from his desk strewn nearby. The place only looked vaguely lived-in due to his minimal tastes. Adjacent walls sported posters of the bar of soap from Fight Club, and a tasteful nude partially clad in a towel. Photo frames flanked bookshelves lined with the likes of Harlan Coben, Andy McNab, Philip K. Dick, and a smattering of textbooks with dog-eared post-its sprouting from worn edges.

The only other sign of life was his Japanese peace lily on the stand in the corner, away from the direct morning sunlight that streamed in from the East window. The plant helped oxygenate the room apparently, but the primary reason he had it, besides it being difficult to kill, was because Simon Pegg's character had one in Hot Fuzz. Having something to regularly nurse other than a hangover not only added to his allure, as if he was in touch with his inner self, it was also a great ice-breaker.

His eyes tracked from the spray bottle of distilled water, following the trail of clothes that led from the doorway in a circuitous path to the bathroom, then to the bed. He shuddered again at the thoughts of what might have been. Fucking alcohol. His best friend and worst nightmare.

An overwhelming urge to urinate overcame him so he padded naked across the room, having to woozily stop twice en-route to prevent himself careening into first the wardrobe, then the door frame.

The en-suite hadn't fared much better than the bedroom. Dribbling tap. Soaked bathmat scrunched up on the toilet seat. A previously white bath towel streaked with orange, piled on the floor. He swept off the bathmat, kicking it and the towel into a corner pending some plan for them, and took a long, satisfying leak before washing his hands. Barely recognized the guy staring back at him from the mirror and ran damp fingers through medium-brown hair in a futile attempt to tame the sticking up parts. Bloodshot eyes stared back where brown used to reign. He knew it was the result of too many nights like the last, but just couldn't stop. Or wouldn't. Deep down he knew, as his mother loved to opine, that burning the candle at both ends would do him no good, but he loved the city too much. The pace. The bars. The women. Especially the women.

So many drinks, so many girls.

It wasn't so much the sex he adored, it was the screams and taste as he delivered what they all craved, yet were too often conditioned to deny. He loved the loud ones. Those unafraid to let go. He'd noticed a marked improvement in attitude towards sex recently – probably had that God-awful Fifty Shades to thank for that – but while there was still breath in his body and wood in his pecker, Ryan wanted to ride the wave of sexual empowerment the likes of which hadn't been felt since the burning of bras some three decades before he was born.

He didn't have any specific blueprint for what made the perfect woman, beyond being sexy and trim, with little make-up. A primary criterion was being dirty in bed; the dirtier the better, and he was refining his technique at spotting the signs so he could improve the odds. Age played a big part. The closer they were to thirty, the more chance they knew what they wanted so sex became a collaborative experience. He revelled in the connectedness and energy delivered by a woman in charge, especially when she was horny and knew how to channel that incredible sexual tension to their mutual benefit.

The married ones he talked into bed were even better. Highly-strung career-driven bitches that needed to let off steam, or those neglected by workaholic husbands, both types were often flattered by the attention of a younger model. He made them feel like they still had it; sex appeal they thought had begun to wane or had long-since evaporated. Such specimens broadly fell into two camps. First the "nurturers" who justified cheating by rationalising they were passing on their knowledge. The type of woman who would openly masturbate in front of him, so he might learn how she liked to be touched. And secondly those who had given up hope, resigned to a diet of idealistic trash fiction, having almost forgotten what it was like to be really fucked. Above all, he loved the realism the married woman offered. No pretence, no fake tan, no false nails, no clumpy eyelashes. He provided a necessary service, bringing her back from the self-inflicted scrap heap. Helped her feel alive, comfortable in her body, despite it not being her vision of perfection.

But there was also a quality he enjoyed about the youngsters like the girl currently in his bed. Having just taken fledgling steps into the world of work, such creatures were easily corruptible, their willingness to experiment meaning he could coerce them into wholly debauch acts by simply implying they were missing out compared with their peers. At twenty-three himself, his brash, confident "older man" persona was a significant draw. To such impressionable minds with Facebook bragging rights as currency, he was their Sensei, their Mr-long-term-forever, their shot at mind-blowing happiness and cult status among her circle of friends. And he loved demonstrating the benefit of his experience in their tight little pussies, eager mouths and pert bottoms before discarding them.

No matter the specifics, there was something they all shared: contorted pleasure screwed up on pretty features as he brought them to Big O. That was the best part. It was what he did, what he lived for, and always tried to catch every drop as they ground against him, drowning in their beautiful, wet, irrational sin.

Ryan splashed water on his face and fumbled for the hand towel. Filled a tumbler and gulped noisily, then drained two more before returning to the bedroom.

Perching on the bed again he traced the room, re-enacting the trajectory of clothes in bullet time the way CSI staff might. The hallway was the epicentre, the first sign of desperation, her top a crumpled purple rag on the floor, his chequered shirt not far behind. By the bathroom door, her short black skirt lay discarded, his socks flung the other side of the room. He already knew the whereabouts of his jeans, but couldn't account for his underwear.

Her scarlet bra had hit the floor halfway to the bed, meaning she'd approached practically naked from the side of the room he was facing. Squinting, he could just about make out the size from the worn label. 34E, maybe F. Certainly not a small girl. He pictured her standing there, breasts heaving, eyeing his nakedness with a mischievous glint in her eye while her fingers traced down muffiny overhang to the waistband. The figure-eight of her black panties completed the trail a few feet from the bedside and told him all he needed to know.

He imagined her advancing in her Stay Puft birthday suit. Perhaps he'd been sitting right in this spot, waiting. Maybe she pushed him back, clambered onto the bed and sank onto his hard prick, riding him while those floppy tits swung above his face and her cries rang out in sync with him biting her nipples. Most girls loved a bit of rough in the heat of the moment.

Or had he indulged in the taste of her first? She could have crawled forward on her knees, settled over his face and lowered herself to his waiting mouth and tongue. Ryan licked his upper lip and inhaled, seeking validation. None came, though he knew it didn't necessarily rule anything out.

Again his gaze fell on her underwear, wishing it would trigger a memory. He stooped for the knickers and sat back upright, running the delicate lace through his fingertips as if reading panty Braille. No flashes of recognition sprang forth. He rotated the garment until the stained crotch was upright, a pair of silvery trails alluding to her state of arousal. He delicately touched one of the glimmering tracks, finding it tacky against the pad of his finger and immediately felt the familiar surge in his veins.

Furtively checking over his shoulder to confirm she was still resting, he returned to the knickers and brought the fabric to his face, inhaling deeply. The sharp tang of female arousal stung the back of his nasal passage and his cock thickened appreciatively. He sniffed again, longer, stopping at key spots along the surface. As he roamed the gusset like a perverted anteater, various strengths of smell invaded his nostrils, from faint traces of urine and sweat, through deliciously pungent pussy juice, to the exotic aroma of her big butt. It excited him more than he'd care to admit. Though he adored the filthiness of the taboo act, he'd only indulged with one other chubby girl – Summer was her name – and she'd been only too willing to give it up after he'd eaten her delightfully shaved pussy to a dripping orgasm. The muffled sounds of her begging for more into the pillow and images of her upturned cheeks rippling as he pounded into her tight, virgin arsehole flashed through his mind. It had been on someone else's bed at a house party, which was pretty depraved in itself. How could he remember that and not what happened last night? Stupid memory.

He returned to the underwear in his hands, hoping that more of the smell of the mystery girl might patch the craters in his brain. He drank her musky scent and, with heart thumping loud and fast, dared to lick the crotch to release more. He traced the sticky lines of girl come, sniffing deeply, closing his eyes as the fruit of her folds drifted into his brain, his dick fully hardening. A hazy image of recollection began to form and he tried to latch onto it.

"Hi," she croaked behind him.

Ryan jumped, dropped the panties and turned towards her, keeping his erection hidden. She brought a hand to her face and swept away locks of hair to reveal pale, blue-grey eyes, thin nose and a wide mouth. Early twenties, tops.

"Morning," he said cheerily, desperately wracking his brain for her name. It had an 'M' in it, he was sure. Mary? Amanda? Amber? "How do you feel?"

"Sore."

"Head?"

She blushed. "Yes, head."

"Can I get you anything?"

"A recorded message that says 'Don't drink again' every time I open my purse."

He concurred, making a face. "Good night though, yeah?"

She faltered a fraction. "Yes. Dancing. Drinking. Coming back here…" She tailed off.

Ryan studied her features. "You too, huh?"

She lowered her eyes and nodded. "What the hell were we drinking?"

"Brain eraser fluid, it seems. Sorry, but it even deleted your name."

"Classy. Imogen."

"Of course. Imogen."

She tugged the sheets around herself and sat up, grimaced and clutched her head. The covers fell, her breasts spilling over the top as she scrabbled to retain her dignity, eventually giving up with a shrug. "Killer hangover."

"Yeah."

She sat still for a long moment, eyes crossing and uncrossing as she battled her brain, focusing on what she could see of Ryan's crotch before looking away. "So… did we…?"

Ryan wondered whether to lie. Thought better of it. "I honestly don't know."

She laughed. "A right pair we are! This is like that film The Hangover. You seen it?"

"Yeah. Except there isn't a tiger in the bathroom. I checked."

"That's one thing."

They sat in silence. Ryan's phone gave a muted low battery bleep and he fished for it to stick it on charge, but froze, frowning at the display. Imogen asked him what was up.

"There's a picture of my dick here. I don't do selfies. At least, not as a rule."

It was definitely his though, albeit from a strange angle. He flipped back through the gallery, finding most blurred. A shot of Imogen curled up on the floor, naked and laughing. A few photos of her in various states of undress. A couple of her covered in lather in his shower. Imogen shuffled over, their thighs touching through the thin sheets as Ryan scrolled back further, revealing a club with flashing lights and exposed brick interior walls.

In unison they said, "Mint." Ryan's spirits lifted, clinging to the hope that his phone might finally become a worthwhile investigative tool instead of simply being shit.

Photos of drinks were next. Shot glasses in beer; the bar staff; him dancing with some girls that were more his usual scale, Imogen in the background of some of the candids. The set concluded with Ryan's mates leering for the camera, middle fingers up with drinks in hand. Work hard, play hard. The familiar start to yet another Friday night.

"Not much to go on. Looks like I was drinking PanzerMeister though."

"What the hell's that?"

"It's like a Jägerbomb, but instead of RedBull, the shots are dropped in lager. Think it's three parts JägerMeister and one part Schnapps over Becks. Pretty heavy duty. Explains a lot."

He scrolled back and forth, frowning and shaking his head. "Does your phone give anything away?"

"I'd have to find it first."

"Gimme your number."

She furrowed her brow and reeled it off after a little trial and error. From the hallway, they heard a muffled rendition of Daft Punk's Get Lucky. Ryan rose to fetch it and brought her clutch bag back, amused at her hurriedly looking away from ogling his flared organ.

Settling next to her warmth, they scrolled backwards through the gallery revealing a similar story from her perspective. She had evidently photographed Ryan as he performed a drunken striptease. There were some selfies of her wearing just a bra and panties in his bathroom, more photos of Mint Warehouse, her girlfriends drinking, having fun. She was sipping some orange cocktail in most of them. "Aha," she pinched the screen to zoom in. "Tequila sunrise. Sends me crazy loopy, and accounts for the memory loss. It just-" she lapsed into thought, finishing with, "-fucks me up."

Imogen dropped her phone back in the bag. "Can I use the loo?"

She scrambled from under the covers without waiting for an answer, bounding a little unsteadily to her feet and using the wall for support. He watched her jiggling as she made her way across the room. Though she was undeniably a few pounds overweight, there was some sort of carefree confidence in the way she carried her well-rounded body, from subtle midriff bulge out to her glorious peach, that made Ryan suddenly want to race after her, grab fistfuls of rump, peel her globes apart and go to town on her dark star. He'd seen some arses in his time, but he was confident that Imogen's was now one he'd recall when alone with nothing but his thoughts for company. Maybe he'd been too picky all these years.

At the doorway, she cast a look over her shoulder then disappeared. Ryan grabbed his cock and pumped it a few times, feeling the blood surge in. Had he fucked her? And if so, where? Here on the bed? Over by the desk? Against the wall? On the floor? In the shower? Had he pushed her young frame onto all fours and split her delightful rear as she screamed for it? Annoyingly, nothing concrete from the night before popped into his brain, just fractured flashes too fast for him to decipher.

The sound of her tinkling against the porcelain filtered into the room and he swept back the sheets. Ran his hands over where she'd been lying, then bent to smell the area. No evidence of sex, just traces of her floral perfume.

As he smoothed the sheets back, Imogen gave a little squeal from the bathroom. "Oh God my hair." She reappeared in the doorway. "You didn't tell me Meryl Streep had lent me hers."

Sitting propped up on the bed, Ryan's eyes were drawn to the centre of her body where an untamed nest of light-brown hair sprouted, disappearing into the deep vee between her legs. It still fascinated him that very few blondes had the same colour hair there. "Yeah, I can see the resemblance."

She tutted and shook her head. "One track mind," but Ryan noticed her once again glance down at his cock.

"Says you. I can cover up if you're vegetarian."

Imogen laughed. "Omnivore all the way."

"An om-nom-nom-nivore, I'll bet."

She flashed him a mischievous grin before disappearing into the bathroom.

Ryan imagined her kneeling, looking up at him with those big blue eyes bulging, lips split around his fat tool, slurping his meat as he grabbed her head and made her take more. He jacked his shaft at the imagery. Started working out how to manipulate her to make that happen, but his hangover got in the way. Figured he'd have to wing it.

Her voice again echoed from the bathroom. "Oh. My. God. I'm so sorry."

"What?"

She came back to the door, hanging onto the frame for support. "I think I was sick and mopped it up with your towel."

"Ahh, the orange."

"Yes, the orange. Want me to wash it?"

Ryan dismissed her with a wave. "I'll sort it later. Or burn it."

"You don't mind?"

"I always let strange girls yack on my towels. Adds to the allure."

"Don't! You sure about this?"

He nodded as she turned and he watched her tattoo wiggle away from him once more. "Nice ink, by the way," he called after her. "What's the story with that?"

"My middle name."

"You middle name's 'flower'? Bit unusual."

Her laugh echoed off the bathroom tiles. "Rose."

"Is that so you can remember your name when you drink too much?"

"Something like that."

"And how's that working out for you?"

"Not so good. Maybe I need to go full Memento."

Imogen Rose returned and slithered under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. "Hey, Becky might remember something."

"Becky?"

"My bestie. She never drinks as hard as me."

"So call Becky the bestie. The suspense is killing."

Imogen grabbed her phone, scrolled, tapped and put it to her ear. The mechanical purr of the ringing tone spilled into the room, shortly followed by the cheery voice of Becky, tinny yet clearly audible in the comparative silence of the room. "Hey Immy, where the fuck are you, biatch?"

Ryan rolled his eyes and mouthed, "Immy?"

Imogen shoved him. "Hey Becks. Lost you last night. I know we were at Mint early on. Having memory trouble after that."

"We hooked up with the IT crowd who plied us with drinks. A lot of drinks. I think Fran copped off with one of them, but she wouldn’t spill. And one of the guys was totally into Zara, but she wasn't interested and he was too pissed to notice. Pretty funny actually."

"Brown hair, brown eyes, about six-one and a big-" she fleetingly dropped her eyes to his crotch again, "-ego?"

"Yeah, that's him. Started after Saffie when Zara escaped. He's a player."

Imogen giggled at Ryan's mock hurt face. "Uh Becks, he's here."

"No fucking way."

"Way."

"At your place?"

"His."

"Jee-zus girl. You don't half pick 'em. Was he any good?"

"Careful. Don't want his head to swell any more."

"Oh, he's… there."

Ryan called out, "Hi Becky."

Imogen held the phone out between them, its speaker vibrating, "Ummm, hi. Hope you're gonna take good care of her."

"So do I."

Imogen shoved him again. "Becks?"

"Yeah."

"Can you fill in any more blanks?"

"Nothing I've not already told you. I'll ask around and text what I find."

"Thanks."

"We still on for retail therapy later?"

"Defo."

"OK. See you there. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I always do everything you wouldn't do. Square."

"Slut."

Imogen gave a throaty laugh, hair playing over her shoulders. "See ya."

She cut the connection and dropped the phone. "So, Mr. Player. You sharking after my mates?"

"I plead amnesia."

"Convenient. Guess I'm the consolation prize after all the little fish got away."

Was that a dig at her size? "It's not like that."

"How do you know?"

"Becky has me wrong," he lied.

"Becky's rarely wrong. If she says you're a player, you're a player."

"Anything I can do to clear my name? Prove I'm a… whatever the hell the opposite of a player is."

She eyed him. Face, chest, biceps, face, in that order. "Make me breakfast in bed and we'll see."

"Cereal? Toast? Eggs?"

"How about eggs on toast. Scrambled."

"Coffee?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"Milk and sugar?"

"Yes, and two."

"Done."

Ryan slid off the bed and padded across the room with a slightly accentuated swagger, knowing without looking that she'd be watching his arse leave.

He hadn't realised he was ravenous until he set about breakfast, whisking a double batch of eggs and milk, salt, pepper and a dash of Cayenne for a little kick. While the eggs were firming in the pan he stuck the toast on and filled the cafetière. The strong aroma wafted past his nostrils and he salivated. In his world there were two things he never bought: part-worn tyres and cheap coffee.

As he was waiting for the coffee to develop, he poked his head into the bedroom and asked if she wanted some fruit. "I've got bananas, pears, apples and Peruvian nipple fruit."

"Peruvian whatnow?"

"No idea, just made it up in your honour."

"A pear's fine, thanks."

The toast popped up and he buttered it thickly. She looked like that kind of girl. Plunging the coffee made him think of Imogen's butt again and the array of nasty things he'd love to do to it. Or perhaps had already done to it. Come on memory. He shook his head and carried the tray in, waiting for her to prop a pillow behind herself and shuffle into a sitting posture. Her tits swung invitingly and it wasn't until she cleared her throat that he realised he was staring. Imogen seemed amused. "You like puppies?"

"As much as you like mixed grill." He passed the tray over and went back to fetch his, climbing into bed beside her.

Imogen complimented him on the repast and Ryan used the mealtime to learn more about his bedmate. Her love of dance music. Her job as a fashion writer. Her cat, Blinky, so-called because it out-stared her at the rescue centre. Her desert island list that, bizarrely, included a solar-powered bagel maker. And her best sex to date. She spoke candidly about her experiences, which Ryan knew was a good sign, yet at other times gave guarded answers. She was a bit of an enigma, which drew him in. By the end of the meal he had her pretty well profiled. Maybe 70%. Not confident enough that he'd jeopardise the hard work by doing anything rash just yet. Nice and slow. Loosen her up.

Music. Yes, music.

Leaning across to the bedside table, he Bluetoothed his phone to the amp, selected an album and adjusted the volume as Lashed Euphoria drummed from the speakers across the room. She nodded her head to the beat and handed him her tray, plucking the pear from it, biting down. It dribbled onto her breasts and she slurped at the bitten part of the fruit, giggling. "Ooopsh."

"This is where I make a jape about a juicy pear, right?"

Imogen rolled her eyes, scooped up her boob and lapped the juice from it. Ryan raised an eyebrow, mesmerised by the dark, crinkled cap and firm, pink teat nestled among the expanse of brilliant white. "You're just showing off because men can't reach theirs."

"You ever tried?"

"No."

"Try."

"No."

"Spoilsport." She jiggled her breasts and made a show of running her tongue over a nipple, coating it with saliva. "Soldier boy approves, I see."

He looked down at his dick, standing semi-proud. "I'd defy any man not to be turned on."

"In stark contrast to last night," she added, taking another bite and freezing. Their eyes met. "Jutht a minute." She finished her mouthful before continuing. "I remember now. Hah, yeah. I was standing over there squeezing these and you couldn’t get it up."

"Bullshit."

"No, I swear. You were too pissed up. Said something about if I was so desperate for wood I should… wait, hand me your phone."

Imogen scrolled through the gallery again with a clean knuckle and started laughing.

"What?"

She giggled. "See this one. What does that look like?"

"It's blurred."

"Yeah, but look closer."

Ryan studied the screen. As he did so, Imogen twisted the display slightly off-axis. His eyes widened. "You never… is that…?" they both looked over at the upturned chair and burst out laughing. "The chair leg got more action than I did?"

She scrolled to the shot of her writhing on the floor. "Not for long. This one's less than a minute later. They studied the pictures in order, turning the device to see if the orientation gave any clues, fighting its attempts at automatically spinning the display to keep the image the right way up. "See this," she stabbed the top-left corner of the photo of Ryan's member. "Isn't that the plant?"

Ryan looked closer. "Could be."

"Right, if it is then I couldn't have been in front of you because the leaves are upside-down. Assuming I knew which way up to hold the camera."

"So you'd have to be…" Ryan slid from the bed and moved his phone to mimic where the shot must have been taken. He scratched his head. "Which means…" he snapped his fingers. "Wait, yes. You were rolling around on the floor so I handed you my phone and gave you a piggy back to the bed."

"A-ha. Check us out. Right pair of detectives."

Ryan sat back on the bed and swiped his phone. "So what do you think of this one, Scully?"

She took the device and twisted it left, then right. "I dunno, Mulder. Could be alien."

He liked her. She was bubbly in more ways than one. Perhaps that was the spark that made him take her home. Or maybe, as she'd suggested, all the smaller fish had swum away and she was the beached remains.

They shortly gave up the phone forensics and Ryan made some more coffee. Imogen wrapped her short fingers around the mug and inhaled the steam, nodding gently to the beat. "So, can we conclude that nothing happened last night?"

Ryan exhaled in defeat. "Seems like the booze increased the urge and decreased the performance."

She nodded and sipped. "Damn good coffee. Did I mention that?"

"You did. But thanks."

They sat in silence on the bed, almost touching, finishing the drinks and letting the music drive away more brain cobwebs. She sighed and handed him the empty cup. "Well I feel vaguely human again, thanks. Roadworks in my head still, but I'm going to have to make a move. Shopping with Becks and all that."

Ryan hid his disappointment. Toyed with the idea of just outright asking for sex in a jokey fashion or making a quip about 'shopping over bonking' to see where it led. While she wasn't shy and would probably go for it, she was still exhibiting a few confusing signals that Ryan couldn't quite reconcile. He wondered if maybe the hangover was clouding his abilities, so played safe. "Need a hand with your clothes?"

"Think I've got it, thanks."

He lifted the sheets and she slid from between them, meandering first to the bathroom to wash and attempt to fix her hair, then around the room collecting her belongings. He watched her dress, item by item. Stained knickers. Push-up bra. Short skirt. Scoopneck top. Wedge heels. Quite a package. He scooted from bed and offered his fleece jacket, holding it out. If the encounter was a washout and she was leaving, he at least needed an excuse for her to come back. When she slid her arms in, he tenderly brushed the skin of her neck and swept her hair out over the collar, smoothing it down and stepping back to admire her. "There are worse outfits to perform the walk of shame in."

She giggled. "Not much shame in this case."

Ryan sighed, standing there awkwardly, suddenly aware of his nakedness in comparison. "Nobody else has to know."

"Worried about your reputation, player?" He stuck his tongue out at her and she ran her hand through her hair. It got caught in a knot and she shrugged. "Guess this is goodbye."

He nodded again. Leant to kiss her and their lips touched briefly before she spun and he found himself mesmerised at her arse wiggling away from him. She called back, "Thanks for breakfast. I'll see if Becks will reconsider her judgement. You're the nicest guy I never fucked."

She reached for the handle and opened the door.

"Wait!" Fuck it. In for a penny.

Casually, she tossed him a look over her shoulder, pausing at the sight of him standing there ogling her with an obvious boner. Tore her eyes from his midriff as Ryan took a step towards her. Then another. "Wouldn't it be better to do the walk of shame properly?"

As he approached, step by measured step, her eyes dropped once more to his cock, bobbing in front of him at almost full mast. "Mmmmm, would be a shame to waste that." She bit her lip. "Especially now you've gone to all the trouble of making it hard." Her mouth turned up at the corners. "And I don't have to meet Becks 'til half twelve."

"Would she object if you were late?" He took another step.

"Absolutely."

"Would she ask why?"

"Absolutely."

One more step, then another, quicker than the last, want building exponentially inside him. "Then shouldn't we make sure you two have something big to talk about?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Her hand fell from the door handle and she turned as his final two paces brought them within a foot of one another. He kept moving, pushing her back, slamming the front door shut with her body as his lips met hers, hands raking her damp hair. The kiss was forceful, passionate, leaving them gasping when they came up for air. Her eyes shone. He went in for another kiss laced with toothpaste and coffee. This time she ran her hands down his sides, circled his firm, naked rear, then trailed her nails up his torso, gripping the back of his head and crushing their lips together. Ryan slid his hands to her shoulders and pushed the coat he'd given her to the floor, still French kissing her madly, their wet tongues duelling.

Pulling away, he caught her arm, dragged her two paces along the corridor, turned her ninety degrees and hustled her into the kitchen ahead of him. They didn’t stop moving until reaching the counter top where he bent her forward over the sink, the mixer tap an inch from her cleavage. His hands snaked up her long legs and over her excuse for a skirt, kneading the full flesh of her soft bum. It excited him. He'd tried a few chubby girls before and concluded they gave it up too easily, probably to make up for all the sex they thought they were missing compared with the supermodels. He preferred a challenge. A woman with whom he could spar, slightly out of reach so when he finally broke through her defences and got her in bed, the conquest meant something.

But none of that mattered with Imogen. Hell, none of that mattered to Imogen. In that instant he congratulated himself on his intimate knowledge of his specialist subject. He'd been analysing her as soon as his brain had allowed. The way she moved, the things she said, the way she reacted to his subtle challenges: it all leaked information that he'd absorbed and profiled. It was almost second nature. During breakfast he'd tested her, figured her weaknesses, her strengths, her desires, and could play to each of them.

The final 30% clicked into place. She wasn't to be treated as a conquest or she'd see right through him. She was airy, fun, casual, offering herself willingly, no strings attached, needing to be taken somewhere new and fresh and exciting, out of her comfort zone to appease her darker side. Just enough so he wasn't considered boring; another in her long line of also-rans. She was ripe for a little experimentation and would love being out of control.

He'd missed out the night before and damn well wasn't going to make the same mistake twice.

Flipping up her skirt, he gripped the waistband of her panties, yanking them down to her knees and freeing her bountiful globes amid her sharp intake of breath. Crouching, Ryan smiled at the rose jiggling in front of his face, raised his hand and spanked her left cheek squarely over the tat, watching the flesh deform and return to shape. Imogen squeaked but, tellingly, didn't complain or reach back to rub the spot he'd marked. She stayed put, bent over the sink staring at the lazy Saturday unfolding outside while Ryan smacked her other cheek hard. She didn't whimper as much. Was probably expecting it. That would never do.

He dug his fingers in, lifted each meaty orb and let them swing back together, the thick waft of her arousal enveloping him. Despite the extra weight, she had good muscle tone. He thwacked her again. Ran his fingers down over the delightful crease at the top of her legs, between her thighs, insistently parting her. The panties at her knees stretched tight, a few threads snapping as she took a quarter step wider.

The sudden intrusion of his fingers sawing along the cleft of her hairy slit made her gasp, droplets indicating her readiness despite the rocket-propelled warm-up time. In truth, the last ninety minutes had been warm-up and she'd barely realised. Ryan smiled.

Standing, he aligned his throbbing cock with her entrance, reached for a fistful of hair and yanked her head back as he sank inside. She cried out, pussy lips drawing him into her moistening sanctuary until she was fully impaled, adjusting to his girth. His dick swelled and he started to draw out, just halfway, before sliding in again to the hilt. Slowly and deliberately at first, the time between each stroke gradually shortened as opaque wetness oozed from her centre, clinging to the hairs like dew on a spider web.

He let go of the ponytail he'd fashioned and she rolled her head forward akin to a prize bull preparing for the charge. She rested her forearms on the worktop and pushed back against him rhythmically. Forcefully. He let her take this little bit of control. Enjoyed it immensely when his prey thought they had power. It made it so much sweeter when he took it away.

Sliding her top upwards at the back, he unsnapped the clasp of her bra and reached around her body to free her full breasts, lifting the bra so they spilled into the room. His fingers dug into the flesh and he kneaded them both, tweaking and pinching the hard nipples to her escalating cries of pleasure.

In her ear, he growled, "You like that huh?"

Imogen whimpered as he rolled her titflesh with his palms, using them to pull her body up against his. When upright, she tipped her head back against his body, her hair pooling over his shoulder as he pistoned against the front of her sopping pussy. She started to pant, grinding down and back with each deep stroke, the flesh of her bum deforming against his body as Ryan kept up the pace, squeezing her tits. He spanked both nipples, one after the other with three fingers of each hand, feeling her grind wildly against him. So he did it again, her cries of acceptance spurring him on.

He nuzzled against her neck, licking, kissing and biting the taut flesh, making the surface of her already flushed skin redder.

"Ohhhh bite me. Fuck me. Harder."

He did. Spanked her tits again for good measure, then crushed them against her body, loving the way they spilled over his hands before sliding one hand up to her throat, fingers encircling her neck. He didn't squeeze, just held her there, confident he'd read her right and this was the kind of act that would really get her off.

His instincts were proven correct and she bucked against him furiously. He snarled, "Oh you like that, you kinky bitch? Like being controlled?"

Imogen just whimpered breathlessly. Slammed back against him, the whimpers gradually turning to soft moans, her fires clearly raging inside. He hammered in and out of her ever more slippery channel, knowing she was close, wanting to give her more. He tightened his grip around her neck, just a little, the energy surging through his body so much he almost came.

The sound of her sopping channel being split and her guttural groans filled the room as he pushed her to the edge of orgasm. The groans first turned to a breathy series of one-word commands in time with Ryan's thrusts. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck." These shortly gave way to deep Ohs, finally gasping, "Oh coming. Coming. Yeah. Yeahh. Yeahhh. Yeahhhhhh."

She went stiff and stopped breathing as Ryan shoved his cock deep in her body and held it there, feeling her rippling and rolling along his length, and the pulse thundering through her jugular. It felt good, beyond his expectations. Imogen's void held for several long seconds until all the breath burst from her lungs and she panted loudly. Ryan started to pull out but she reached back and clamped her hands against his buttocks. "Stay." He obliged, letting her climax rumble away until she released him and he slipped from her body, still raging hard. He shoved against her butt, sliding his soaked erection into her deep cleft, feeling it glide over her arsehole and watching the glistening head pop out into the small of her back. He ground against her a handful of times, imagining how good it would feel to puncture her tight bum. He knew she'd take it, drunk with lust now she was warmed up and open to anything, however depraved. Especially while she was still drifting on the tail of her orgasm.

Aligning his cock with her puckered and now wet rosebud he pressed forward, feeling the head begin to split her. He released her neck, slid his hands down her voluptuous curves and planted his hands on her cheeks, widening them as he worked the tip inside her murky rear. Barely a centimetre in, he prepared for the natural resistance, pressing insistently to break her seal, dirty thoughts racing. A few more millimetres in, she snapped out of her reverie, twisted away from his grip and shook her head, sinking to her knees instead. As if to reinforce his profile she swiftly engulfed his length that had seconds earlier been probing her arse. Ryan groaned. She really was a dirty slut.

"Clean it."

She did, sliding almost the entire seven inches to the back of her throat, controlling the gag reflex like she'd done it a hundred times before and looking up at him obediently. So fucking sexy. He swelled inside her hot mouth and grabbed her head to pull her further. She shut her eyes as he filled her, allowing her to surface only when he yanked her face away, watching her gasp for air. Her fresh make-up had started to run from the corner of her eye, lips shiny with spit. Most girls would give up. Imogen instead opened her mouth just enough, and plunged back onto his rod, right to the base.

"Fuck Imogen, you're gonna make me come." She redoubled her efforts, rolling her head to wiggle the tip of his cock against the back of her throat, gagging slightly. He inhaled sharply. "I want your arse right now."

Pulling away roughly, eyes now streaming and thick strings of spit looping between their bodies, she breathed, "Another time. Come now."

She ran both hands across his slippery cock, encasing it in one fist and pumping, the other sliding to cup his balls, feeling him tighten. She fixed him a lust-filled stare. "I never finished my breakfast." Tipping her head back, she opened her mouth wide and poked out her tongue, jacking the tip of him against it. Their eyes stayed connected, the want in her eyes palpable as he felt his orgasm rising.

"Oh yeah, just like that." Her hand rapidly slid along the length of his glossy shaft and he felt her massaging his balls. There was no way he could resist. "Yesss. Gonna come. Ohhhh."

Thick white ribbons slashed her tongue and cheek, some firing to the back of her mouth as she made appreciative moans and bobbed to suck the pulsing tip. Ryan shut his eyes and let himself drift away in Imogen's warm mouth, wondering if she'd consider packing him in her desert island kit bag.

By the time he reopened them, she was gently sucking and nibbling him, slathering his come around the head and shaft of his softening length, sucking it back into her mouth and rolling it around for his visual benefit. Without even being asked, she sat back on her heels, licked her lips and swallowed, sliding her index finger laden with an errant drop of come into her mouth. "Mmmm breakfasty."

"Incredible."

Imogen beamed, stood, tucked her boobs away and began to pull her panties up.

Ryan put a hand on her arm, stopping her progress, pants mid-thigh. "We're not done here.”

“That was wonderful but I should be going.”

“You're going nowhere until you've had the orgasm of your life, young lady.”

“That wasn't it?”

“Not even close.”

"Oh."

He reached beyond her, alongside the sink and slid a knife from the utensil jar. Panic registered in her features for an instant but he put a finger to her lips and sank to his knees in front of her. He could smell her desire. Trailing the back of the blade down her thigh, he watched goose bumps appear on her porcelain skin before stretching the leg of her panties out and slicing through the fabric like it was tracing paper.

"Hey! They were my…"

He silenced her protest by trailing the glinting metal across her engorged labia to the other leg, effortlessly cutting the panties in the same manner and letting the garment drop to the floor, now useless for its original purpose. But perfect for what he had planned.

"I'll buy you some more," he whispered, scooping them up and holding them out for her on the tip of the blade. "Wipe yourself up."

She took the material, gingerly brought them to her matted pubes, just inches from him, and wiped her pussy clean. He snatched them from her, lifted them to his face and inhaled deeply, his eyes rolling back in the sockets at the delightful stench of a woman in heat. "Fuck, you smell divine. And I bet you taste even better. Tell me how you taste."

He proffered the panties to her again. "Go on. Taste yourself. Tell me what you think."

She reached out with a shaking hand and took the underwear. Brought them to her nose and sniffed.

"I didn't ask what you smelled like. How do you taste?"

He could see she was slightly uncomfortable, but there was also a flash behind her eyes. This was new to her and it was piquing her interest. She poked her tongue out, moved the crotch within range and gave a gentle lick.

"More," implored Ryan.

She did as instructed, started to get into it, lapping her fresh juices from the knickers.

"MORE!" he thundered, standing, throwing the knife onto the counter top, lunging for the material and pushing it into her mouth. He stuffed the flimsy garment fully in and watched her eyes. The perfect combination of fear and adulation. Triumphantly, Ryan grabbed her elbow again and marched her to the bedroom, shoving her onto the mattress.

"Face me and lift your skirt."

She flipped over obediently. He knelt on the bed, crawling forward, eyes locked on hers as she pulled up the hem, revealing his prize. Wet. Inviting. Red from the recent fucking. And all his.

"Open your legs."

Very slowly, almost demurely, she did as instructed to his considerable satisfaction. He was hungry for her but knew better than to dive right in. No, the way to really give her something to remember was to make her wait. Tease. Play. Delay. Let her dirty mind fill in the gaps. He knelt between her legs, swayed his head to one side, kissing her thigh and making her jump, then swung slowly across to the other. Eye contact was key, to show her how much it meant to be in his position. To give her a sense of power, build her up, make her feel revered before driving her to the highest plane she'd probably ever attained. That way she owed him. He had her number, so he'd call her one day. Or send her a filthy text. Demand that she show up at his door with tiny, tight-fitting clothes and no underwear. Play with her body, toy with her mind, give her a new pair of panties that he'd pick specially for the occasion, make her parade in them, jiggle in them, then shove her on the bed face first, yank them down and show her what a real butt fucking was.

Drifting his eyes up her curves, he delivered his best 'I want you' look, pleased at the flashes of need she exhibited despite not being able to speak. He brought his mouth within millimetres of her wetness, raising the tension, then veered away again, trailing kisses across and up womanly hips to her protruding belly, before blazing a path back down to end at her left knee.

Bringing his hands into play, he massaged her legs in long, slow strokes, and loved the reaction as his fingertips just brushed the wisps of her pubic hair prior to sliding all the way back down her supple flesh. With each languid caress, Imogen's writhing became a little more overt until it started to look like she was possessed. He held off a little longer, loved the tease, the little jolts of her belly as each touch coursed her body and she tried in vain to make his fingers touch her centre.

He bent to her pussy, nuzzled the fringes of her hair and inhaled deeply, eyes glazing over with lust at the heady aroma. At the next sweep of her glorious thighs he let his hands continue up the insides, rolled her furry lips apart and brought his mouth forward, connecting a soft kiss at the entrance to her womanhood. She bolted as if she'd been electrocuted and exhaled through her nose, almost a snort. He kissed her again, harder, snaked his tongue inside and brought his grool-laden tongue up to lap at her proud clitoris.

"Yethhhhhhh."

Ryan watched her dribbling around the makeshift gag and ran his tongue over her pearl, delighting at the muted encouragement, knowing full well this was only the beginning. He licked, lapped and nibbled, drew shapes, ducked and dived inside her, sending her ever higher on the orgasmic elevator, his own excitement soaring in unison. He loved watching a woman beside herself with lust, ratcheting the intensity of her pleading, wild stares.

When he deemed her ready, he brought his fingers up and slid them into her slippery channel. The response was every bit as good as he'd hoped. She groaned long and loud as he gently began to saw his fingers inside her, picking up speed moment by moment. He lapped her clit a few times for good measure and she jerked as he set off sparks inside her. She was going to owe him big time.

"Imogen."

"A-ha," she breathed.

"You're going to come again soon, but I need you to do me a favour. When you get close, you're going to feel like you need to pee. Don't worry, you won't. But when you get that feeling, I want you to let go and roll with it. Push if you have to. Just stay relaxed and enjoy it."

She nodded, fast.

"Good girl. And Imogen?" He paused, waiting for eye contact. "You might wanna hang onto something."

She stared down at him as if he'd asked her the diameter of Jupiter, saw he was deadly serious, looked back and stretched her arms up behind her head, grabbing the headboard. Her chest jutted skyward and strained against the thin fabric of her top.

Ryan steadied himself, sat up between her splayed thighs and pressed his fingers inside her, searching for the spot he knew would rock her world. Found it a couple of inches inside, crooked his fingers and cupped her sex to press his palm against her clit from the outside. He started making a beckoning motion against the front wall of her wet pussy.

Imogen gasped almost immediately as his fingertips walked over the spongy knot of nerve endings. He gradually picked up speed until his hand was threatening to cramp from the exertion. Her muffled cries turned to howls when he thrust his fingers towards the ceiling, crouched and hovered his mouth above the sucking and squishing sounds her pussy made. Her pubes were clumped together with the juices that drizzled freely from inside and if the fluttering of her eyelids and mouth forming an 'O' weren't enough of a signal, she arched her back, grinding her pussy up against Ryan's insistent fingering, growling through her panties. The wet sounds intensified, almost a vacuum forming inside her with each thrust, and Ryan prepared.

"That's it. You look so fucking sexy when you're about to come. I want to taste it all. Let go. Gimme every drop."

With a deliriously far-away look in her eye, Imogen began to chant a similar mantra to earlier. "Huck, huck, huck, huuuck, HUCK! Ohhhhh my hucking God, yeathhh, I’m coming… coming… oooooohhhhhh…"

And come she did as her wail disappeared into the material and her pussy erupted, releasing a short burst of clear liquid that splashed against Ryan's eager lips. He hungrily drank, convinced she would have squirted more if she hadn't tensed up as the contractions gripped her trembling body, but for a first timer she did admirably. Ryan's fingers dripped with the translucent honey that flowed from her reddened slit, a pool of it caught in his palm. He stooped to lap at it as a cat does milk, blood surging uncontrollably into his shaft. In stark contrast, Imogen exhaled loudly through the gag and went limp.

They stayed that way, locked, riding out her quivering orgasm until he knelt up. Her face was contorted in pleasure and Ryan studied it, delighted he had tasted her from the source. A small piece of severed waistband hung from her mouth and he inched his face forward, grabbed it between his teeth and pulled. The gag came away, dropping to her chest and he felt her breath on his face as he sought her lips, his open palm still against her throbbing centre. Her arms snaked around his neck and their kiss smouldered, passion rising as the smell of her orgasm encircled them. She moaned into his tongue darting in her mouth, laced with her come. He wiggled his fingers inside her again, slithered them out, a fresh coating of nectar glistening on their surface, then brought them up, broke the kiss and fed them to her. The earlier reticence at tasting herself gone, she lapped and sucked hungrily at the digits, horniness still evidently bubbling away in her veins.

After withdrawing, she breathed, "Thank you," and trailed her hands down his smooth chest, brushing the head of his erection, at full mast from the exquisite taste of her juices, wrapping her fingers delicately around it. Pumping the thick shaft, she licked her lips as Ryan watched her hand on his length. “Hmmm, where should we put this?" she mused. "I know where you'd like to put it. But how about… here for now?”

She manoeuvred him back a little way, shucked out of her top and pressed his cock to her tummy beneath her bra. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. "Hold my tits. Press them together."

Ryan did as commanded. Imogen guided him forward, threading his veined erection beneath the underwire of her bra and into the considerable cleft beyond. She put her hands around his and squeezed, causing the upper surface of her boobs to thrust out of the garment towards her face. The effect was tantalising and Ryan's mouth fell open. "Oh wow."

"You like that huh? Like having your cock trapped in my clothes? I like it too. Veeeeery slutty." She looked up at him and through gritted teeth demanded, "Now fuck my massive tits."

Ryan began to pump back and forth. Just as with her glorious bottom, his circumcised tip peeked from the top of the makeshift channel on the upstroke. She lifted her tits further and lowered her chin so his knob could press against her mouth. It dipped inside, making slurping sounds as the head became shiny. She spat into the valley for lubrication as he carried on gliding in and out of her gorgeous tits. "Don't tickle them," she chided. "Fuck them. Yeah, that's it. Harder."

Obligingly, Ryan picked up the pace and she cooed at the sight, squeezing the soft spheres together. She left his hands kneading the malleable flesh, occasionally tweaking her proud nipples beneath the bra as she reached for the discarded panties. Laying the garment across her exposed neckline, crotch side up, she again sought his eyes. "They're ruined anyway. You might as well come in them. You'd like that wouldn't you?"

Ryan nodded fast, beginning to lose control.

"Yeah, that's right. Come in my soiled panties. Titfuck me and shoot your spunk all over the material that was pressed against my hot, wet pussy all day yesterday. Come for me, player. And when you've done that maybe I'll suck your thick come from the crotch. Trace my tongue over the same lines yours did earlier." His eyes widened. "Yeah, I saw you sniffing and licking my dirty knickers this morning, you bad man. You've wanted me all day, haven't you?"

He nodded again. Rumbled. She reached for the garment, lifted the centre so his knob pressed against it. "I wanted you too. Can you feel my juices there? Can you see the sticky lines I made for you? Yes, last night those trails were for you. I wanted to fuck you so badly. To feel you splitting me in two."

She brought the material to her mouth and licked. "Mmmmm, I can see why you like it. I'm so tasty and can't wait for your come to mix with mine so I can eat it all. Come for me. Now. Come for me."

She laid the underwear back across her neck and dipped a little finger in the corner of her mouth, biting suggestively on it, coaxing him with her eyes alone, fluttering her eyelashes.

Ryan felt himself start to go weak as his body prepared to shoot.

"That's it, player. Hit the target."

He jammed his prick between her tits one more time and roared, a couple of streams of white lacing the underwear, the rest dribbling between her knockers as his actions decelerated and Imogen made appreciative sounds at the sight.

Slowing to a halt, he sat there panting, a thin sheen of sweat over his body, energised. He released her tits but left his cock softening between them as Imogen took the shredded panties and lifted the come-streaked crotch to her tongue, lapping the goo and making a show of swallowing it. "I could get used to this."

Ryan slithered from her doughy confines. She had that 'just fucked' glow and he grinned. "I guess Becky won't need to ask."

"Mmmm," she replied dreamily. "Wouldn't believe me if I told her. Glad we waited 'til this morning. That was just…"

Ryan smiled, stroked her hair and clambered off the bed, letting her rest and enjoy the aftermath of her orgasm as he tidied the room a little, then made her another coffee. She sat up, rearranged herself and he watched her sipping it, throat rippling beneath the red marks where his fingertips had dug. Dirty didn't do her justice. She was positively filthy and all the sweeter for it.

Ten minutes later she passed the mug back and sighed. "Well, that walk of shame isn't going to do itself."

He concurred and followed her, retrieving the jacket from the floor. Handing it to her was merely a formality. Ryan knew from her languid goodbye kiss and roaming hands she wouldn't need an excuse to beat a path to his door.

Besides, he owed her a pair of knickers.