A Blanket and a Blank Morning

Tom had spent the better part of his first semester at Harvard trying to figure out how to be both British and social at the same time. The two things, he'd discovered, did not come naturally together. His Cambridge years had been spent in libraries and college bars where being quietly witty was currency enough. Harvard, it turned out, required actual effort. So when Susannah from his cohort mentioned she'd never seen one of the shows from one of Harvard's many a cappella groups, Tom seized the opportunity with both hands.

"It'll be fun," he said, pushing his floppy brown hair out of his eyes in that way that made him look about nineteen. "I'll get tickets. Consider it a cultural exchange."

"You're doing a cultural exchange from Cambridge to Harvard by watching students sing without instruments?" Susannah had laughed. "That's the most British thing I've ever heard."

The show was better than Tom expected. The group was polished, harmonies tight, choreography just self-aware enough to be charming without veering into cringe. Tom had a decent buzz going from the pre-show drinks he'd convinced Susannah to have at a bar near the venue, and by the time the lights came up, he was in that warm, loose-limbed mood where everything seemed like a good idea.

The reception afterwards was in a small function room with cheap wine and plastic cups. Susannah elbowed him.

"That guy. Third from the left. I know him."

Tom looked over. One of the performers was chatting with an older woman, probably a relative. He was tall, Black, built like he spent as much time in the gym as he did rehearsing. He wore glasses that somehow made him look more intense rather than less.

"Lamar. We were at UCLA together for undergrad. Come on."

Susannah dragged Tom across the room. Lamar spotted her and broke into a wide grin, pulling her into a hug that lifted her slightly off the ground.

"Susannah! What are you doing here?"

"PhD. First year. I dragged this one along." She gestured at Tom. "Tom, Lamar. Lamar, Tom."

Lamar extended a hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm. Up close, Tom could see the definition in his arms, the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders.

"Cambridge transplant," Tom said, shaking his hand. "Still figuring out how things work here."

"Well, you're figuring out the social part well enough," Lamar said, glancing at Tom's plastic cup. "You doing anything after this? A few of us are having a thing at my place. Just around the corner."

Tom looked at Susannah. She shrugged. "I'm in."

The party was exactly what Tom needed. Lamar's one-bedroom apartment was small but well-kept, and by eleven o'clock it was packed wall to wall. Someone had put on a playlist that was half nineties R&B, half things Tom didn't recognise but liked anyway. The air was warm with bodies and spilled beer and the kind of noise that made shouting into someone's ear feel intimate rather than annoying.

Tom danced. Tom drank. Tom talked to people whose names he forgot three seconds after hearing them. At some point, Susannah appeared at his elbow.

"I'm heading out. Early morning tomorrow."

"You sure? It's still going."

"I'm sure. You staying?"

Tom looked around the room. It was a Friday night. He had nowhere to be tomorrow. Lamar was across the room, laughing at something, and he caught Tom's eye and raised his glass.

"Yeah, I think I will. Just one more."

Susannah gave him a knowing look. "One more. Sure."

Tom had a vague memory of that "one more" turning into three or four. He remembered dancing with Lamar at some point, the two of them bumping shoulders, Lamar's hand steadying him when he wobbled. He remembered sitting on the sofa, head spinning pleasantly, and someone putting a blanket over him. Then nothing.

Light came through the window in a grey, morning-after kind of way. Tom blinked. His mouth tasted like stale beer and regret. He was lying on a sofa that was not his, in a room that was not his, under a blanket that smelled faintly of fabric softener and someone else's deodorant.

He sat up slowly. The room was empty. Party debris littered every surface. Red cups, bottles, a chip bag crumpled on the floor. He rubbed his face and then realised something that made his stomach flip.

He was in his briefs.

Just his briefs. The grey ones from Primark that he'd packed in a hurry when moving over. He looked down at himself, pale skin and tight body, the blanket pooled around his waist. He didn't remember taking his clothes off. He didn't remember much of anything after that last drink.

He looked around for his clothes. Nothing. No jeans, no shirt, no socks. He patted the sofa cushions, checked underneath. His phone wasn't anywhere either.

"Where the hell—" he started.

The bedroom door opened.

Lamar walked out first. He was in athletic shorts and a tank top that was tight enough to show every line of his chest and shoulders. His glasses were on, slightly fogged. Behind him came another guy, mixed race, tall and lean in that runner's way, also in sportswear. They both looked fresh and alert and annoyingly energetic for the morning after a party.

"Sleeping Beauty awakens," Lamar said, grinning.

Tom pulled the blanket up higher, suddenly very aware of how little he was wearing. "Hey. Sorry, I think I crashed pretty hard."

"You did. Out cold by midnight. We tried to wake you but you were gone."

The other guy leaned against the doorframe. "Completely out. Snoring and everything."

"I don't snore," Tom said automatically, then winced. "Sorry. Thanks for the blanket, I guess. I don't even remember—did I take my clothes off?"

Lamar shrugged. "You were pretty gone. I think you kicked them off at some point. Hot natured."

"Right." Tom's face was warm. "Look, I need to get going. Can I grab my clothes? And my phone?"

Lamar walked to the kitchen counter and leaned against it, arms crossed. "About that."

"About what?"

"You had a free night at Hotel Lamar. Blanket, pillow, prime real estate on that sofa. Usually there's a rate."

Tom laughed, because it seemed like the right thing to do. "Right. What do I owe you, fifty bucks?"

The other guy, Chris, Tom assumed, snorted. "Fifty? Bro, this is Cambridge. Rent's not cheap."

Tom's smile faltered slightly. "I can get cash. There's an ATM—"

"Yeah, but then you'd have to leave, and there's a decent chance you don't come back," Lamar said. He was still smiling, but his voice had shifted. There was something underneath the joke now. Something harder.

"I'd come back. I live literally ten minutes away."

"Still." Lamar pushed off the counter. "I think you should settle up now."

"Settle up how? I don't have my wallet, I don't have my phone, I don't even have my—"

Lamar moved fast. Faster than Tom would have expected for a guy his size. He crossed the space between them in two strides, grabbed Tom around the waist, and flipped him over the arm of the sofa before Tom could fully process what was happening.

"What the—" Tom's face was pressed into the sofa cushion. His legs dangled off the arm, his arse in the air, the blanket tangled somewhere around his ankles. "Lamar, what are you doing?"

"Collecting payment."

Tom felt Lamar's fingers hook into the waistband of his briefs. A sharp tug and cool air hit his skin. His arse was bare, exposed, the round curve of it on full display. He started to push himself up but Lamar's hand pressed into the small of his back, pinning him.

"Hold still."

Then something warm and wet dragged across his hole.

Tom's brain short-circuited. Lamar's tongue was broad and flat, licking a long stripe from his taint up to the base of his spine. Then back down. Then circling. Slow, deliberate, with a pressure that made Tom's thighs clench involuntarily.

"Fuck—" Tom's voice came out strangled. "What are you—"

"Paying your bill," Lamar said against his skin, and then his tongue pushed in.

It felt good. That was the thing Tom couldn't reconcile. It felt really, genuinely good. Lamar's mouth was hot and wet and relentless, working him open with a patience that seemed at odds with the way he'd manhandled Tom into position. Tom's dick was hardening against the sofa arm, his body responding even as his mind was still three steps behind, trying to catch up.

He'd done this before. Sort of. Bijan, last summer. That had been different. Softer. More tentative. This was not that.

Chris appeared at the side of the sofa. He'd dropped his sportswear. His dick was already half hard, long and lean like the rest of him. He put a hand on Tom's shoulder, holding him down against the cushion.

"Extra payment," Chris said. "You didn't ask permission to stay."

"I didn't—I was passed out, I didn't—"

"Open your mouth, bro."

Tom looked up at Chris, at the dick in front of his face, and then back down at the sofa cushion. His hole was slick and pulsing from Lamar's mouth. His heart was hammering. Behind him, he heard fabric rustle. Lamar's shorts hitting the floor. A sharp sound—spit—and then the blunt head of Lamar's dick pressed against his hole.

"Time to pay up, dude."

Lamar pushed in.

Tom gasped, his mouth opening, and Chris took the opportunity. He slid his dick past Tom's lips, one hand gripping Tom's hair. Not rough, but firm. Tom's eyes watered. Lamar was thick, thicker than he'd expected, and the stretch burned even with the spit. He hadn't been prepped enough for this, not really, but Lamar didn't seem to care. He drove in with a slow, steady pressure that didn't stop until his hips were flush against Tom's arse.

"Fuck, you're tight," Lamar said. His voice had dropped. The playful party host was gone. "Been a while?"

Tom couldn't answer. Chris's dick was filling his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. Chris set a rhythm, slow thrusts that matched the ones Lamar was starting to build. Tom was being rocked between them, each thrust from Lamar pushing him forward onto Chris, each pull back letting him breathe for a second before Lamar drove in again.

It was a lot. It was too much. It was also, and Tom hated himself for noticing, starting to feel incredible. Lamar's dick was grinding against something inside him that made his own dick leak against the sofa arm. His body was betraying him, relaxing into it, his hips tilting back to take Lamar deeper.

"Look at that," Lamar said, his thumb pressing into Tom's lower back. "He's getting into it."

Chris laughed above him. "Course he is. Look at him."

Tom's cheeks burned. He tried to shake his head but Chris's grip on his hair kept him in place. Chris was picking up speed now, his thrusts shorter and sharper. Tom could taste precum, salty and slick, coating his tongue.

"Swallow when I come," Chris said. Not a request.

Tom's eyes flicked up to Chris's face. Chris was watching him with a kind of detached amusement, like this was a transaction and nothing more. His abs were tensing, his breathing getting shorter.

Lamar was hammering into him now, each thrust hard enough to shove Tom forward. The sofa creaked under them. Tom's hands gripped the cushion, knuckles white. He could feel every inch of Lamar, the thickness of him, the way his hips snapped forward with a precision that suggested he'd done this many times before.

Chris came first. He grabbed Tom's jaw, holding his mouth open, and Tom felt the first spurt hit the back of his throat. He choked, swallowed instinctively, and Chris kept coming. Three, four pulses, thick and warm, flooding his mouth. Tom swallowed again, his throat working, and Chris watched him do it with those half-lidded eyes.

"Open," Chris said, pulling out. "Let me see."

Tom, dazed, opened his mouth. Chris tilted his chin up, inspecting.

"Good boy. All of it."

Tom's tongue was coated. He swallowed one last time, the taste of it sharp and undeniable. Chris let go of his jaw and stepped back, pulling up his shorts with the casual ease of someone who'd just finished a workout.

Without Chris's dick in his mouth, Tom's brain suddenly had space to think. And the first thing he thought was: Lamar isn't wearing a condom.

"Are you—are you fucking me raw?" Tom's voice came out hoarse, wrecked.

Lamar didn't answer. He grabbed Tom's hips and pulled him back onto his dick, burying himself deep.

"Lamar. Seriously. Don't—I didn't mean to fall asleep on your sofa. Don't spunk inside me."

Lamar chuckled. Low and warm, like Tom had said something funny. His pace didn't change. If anything, he got faster. Harder. The sound of his hips against Tom's arse was loud in the quiet apartment, skin on skin, wet and obscene.

"Lamar—"

"Just take it, man. You owe me."

Tom felt Lamar's rhythm change. The thrusts got shorter, more urgent. Lamar's fingers dug into Tom's hips hard enough to bruise. A low groan, and then Lamar buried himself to the hilt and held there, his body going rigid.

Tom felt it. Pulse after pulse, hot and deep inside him. Lamar's cum flooding his insides, filling him up. Lamar let out a long breath and then pulled out slowly, and Tom felt the immediate trickle of it down his thigh.

Lamar pulled up his shorts, adjusted his glasses, and walked to the kitchen like nothing had happened. Chris was already there, pouring water from the tap.

Tom stayed bent over the sofa. His arse was in the air, slick and leaking. His thighs were trembling. His jaw ached. He could taste Chris in the back of his throat and feel Lamar dripping out of him. He stared at the sofa cushion and tried to work out how he'd gotten here. Twelve hours ago, he'd been on a date with a cute girl, watching college students sing pop songs in harmony. Now he was face-down in a stranger's apartment with cum in both ends, wearing nothing but a pair of Primark briefs around one ankle.

A few minutes passed. Tom didn't move. He couldn't quite bring himself to.

Then he heard Lamar's footsteps. A pile of clothes landed next to him on the sofa. His jeans, his shirt, his socks. His phone balanced on top.

"There you go. Bill's settled."

Tom pushed himself up slowly. His legs were unsteady. He reached for his clothes, tugging on his jeans commando because his briefs were somewhere on the floor and he wasn't going to look for them. He pulled his shirt over his head, ran a hand through his wrecked hair.

Lamar was leaning against the kitchen counter again, arms crossed, a slight smile on his face. Chris was lacing up his sneakers by the door.

"Same time next weekend?" Lamar asked, winking.

Tom didn't answer. He grabbed his phone, shoved it in his pocket, and headed for the door. His arse was sore. Lamar's cum was cooling against his inner thighs, soaking into the denim. The taste of Chris was still thick on his tongue.

He stepped out into the Cambridge morning. It was brisk, the kind of New England autumn that cut through clothes. Students walked past him on the street, coffees in hand, backpacks on shoulders. Normal people doing normal things. Tom walked in the opposite direction of his apartment for two blocks before he realised, checked his phone for GPS, and turned around.

By the time he got home, he'd composed himself enough to shower. He stood under the hot water for a long time, watching it run down the drain. He soaped himself twice. He brushed his teeth. He stood in front of his bathroom mirror, pale and damp, his hair plastered to his forehead, and stared at his own reflection.

His phone buzzed. A text from Susannah.

"How was the rest of the party? Did you survive? 🍳"

He typed back with shaking fingers: "Survived. Barely."

Then, after a pause, he scrolled through his contacts and found a number he hadn't used since the summer. Bijan. He stared at it for a long moment, thinking about that night in his bed at Cambridge, the way Bijan had been careful with him, almost reverent. How different it had felt from this morning.

He put the phone down. Then picked it up again. Typed a message and deleted it. Typed another one.

"Hey. Random question. You ever wake up and realise you've had a completely unexpected morning? Like, life took a turn you didn't see coming?"

He hit send before he could overthink it.

The reply came back in under a minute.

"Every day since I met you. Why, what happened?"

Tom sat on the edge of his bed, a towel around his waist, and laughed. It came out shaky and too loud for his empty apartment, but it was real.

He typed: "Long story. Drinks soon?"

"Always."

Tom put the phone down and leaned back on his bed. His body ached in ways that were going to take a few days to forget. His thighs were still sticky despite the shower. He was going to have to walk into the department on Monday and sit across from Susannah in a seminar and act like he hadn't spent his Saturday morning getting railed by a guy whose last name he didn't know.

He picked up his phone one more time. Scrolled to a new contact he'd somehow acquired—Lamar, it turned out, had programmed his number in while Tom was passed out—and typed:

"Next time I'm bringing my own blanket."

The reply was instant: "No you're not."

Tom stared at the screen. Then, despite everything, despite the soreness and the shame and the taste that wouldn't quite go away, he smiled.

He tossed the phone onto the pillow and lay back. Outside, a church bell rang somewhere in Harvard Square, and the morning carried on without him.