NAUGHTYCUBS
Tuesday Nights at His Place
Tuesdays became a habit. His sweater, his couch, his rules. I stopped pretending it was casual on the third week.
Tuesday is an unromantic day, which is why it worked. I showed up at eight with nothing to prove. He was thirty-eight, stocky, a sweater that had outlived three apartments. I was twenty-six and trying not to call it a standing date.
We watched half a movie. Then he said, “Come here,” and the movie became furniture. I went. He pulled me into his lap and kissed me like Tuesdays were the point of the week. His hands found the soft of me and stayed. I have a cub's body. He treated it like a preference, not a compromise.
On the couch he got me out of my jeans and sucked me until I warned him. He pulled off, smiling. “Bedroom. I want the rest.” He opened me with patience that felt like a luxury. When he pushed in I grabbed the sweater he had not fully taken off. He fucked me slow, then harder when I asked, the headboard keeping time. I came untouched, surprised. He followed, buried, swearing into my neck.
Week three I brought a toothbrush. He put it in the cup without comment. Tuesday stopped being a day and became a room I knew how to enter in the dark.