“Your cock,” she said, slowly bringing her hand to it and letting her fingers nest in the short pubic hair, and it wasn’t an insult or a jab, but merely a reflection as she finished her words: “gets so small when you’re not fucking.”

The television was on, but the volume was off, and the lights were off, so the room was lit with the flashbangs of commercials, scene changes, and random washes of green and blue. The sweat had cooled and the sheets now soaked us back. In all honesty, these were signs I should have gotten up, dressed, and made my way home.

“Yeah,” I said, acknowledging my limp and shrunken cock. I wasn’t offended or joking, but answered with the same tone as hers: “I’m a grow-er not a show-er.”

She left her hand on me and her fingers made the smallest of motions, and that was enough. I grew and it was soon that I was stiffer and fuller, and she noted the size difference.

“Travel-size,” she said, holding her index finger and thumb apart. “And fun-size,” she stretched them apart as wide as she could, but this play— this light-hearted and tender moment— was much too much for me to bear and I put my hand on her head, grabbed a fistful of her short brown hair, and roughly brought her mouth to my cock— it must have tasted salty with drying traces of my cum and her pussy— and the talking stopped because she knew what I wanted her to do.