chubbyatlslut.bsky.social
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Atlanta Nights
Episode 1: The Club:

The bass hit my ribs like a second heartbeat, and there he was—gold chain low, sweat shining on skin like he’d been baptized in whatever the DJ was serving. He caught me looking and didn’t look away. That smile said, Come here, and my knees said, We already left.
Reposted
They on that Demon time 😈
This is my first time posting a story online. Please be kind to a new writer.
I grinned, tugging him by the chain. “Follow the DJ.”

The door clicked shut behind us, the city exhaled, and the night got louder.

— end of Episode 1 —
He stepped inside, looked around like he was taking inventory of a future memory, then turned and pressed me to the wall with a kiss that said he had opinions on both condoms and pancakes.

“Bedroom?” he asked, already walking me backward.
“Tomorrow,” I echoed, tasting the word. It felt less like a promise and more like an inevitability.

The car turned down my street. My pulse climbed the stairs before we did.

“Welcome to my bad decisions,” I said, unlocking my door.
I texted my group chat a peach and a lock emoji. The replies came fast and disrespectful. I smiled into the window. Marcus watched me like he wanted in on the joke and possibly the group chat.

“Tomorrow,” he said, reading my face, “you can tell me why your friends are rude.”
Outside, the skyline glowed like a crown over too many choices. Inside the car, the choices were simple and already made. TJ let himself lean back and be carried toward the version of the night he’d wanted the second a gold chain started swinging in his direction.
He looked at me like he liked my face better when it was wrecked. “Your place?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said, swallowing the last of my nerves. “I’ve got condoms. And pancakes.” “Blessings upon your household,” he said solemnly, then his hand slid higher and the driver turned up the radio like mercy.
The car pulled up. We got in the back like a pair of saints who knew what penance felt like. The driver adjusted the mirror. I adjusted my halo.

Marcus rested his hand on my thigh, thumb tracing lazy circles, not quite innocent. The city slid by in neon smears.
He ordered the car. While we waited, he kissed me again—slower now, deeper, a thank-you and a threat. Somewhere a siren made a suggestion and a street preacher told us we didn’t have to live like this. Marcus kissed me like we did.
“You driving?” he asked.

“Lyft,” I said. “I never trust myself after two drinks or one good mistake.”

“That makes me the second?” He grinned.

“Potentially the best.”
He fed me water like a gentleman building a sin pyramid. When the lights coughed bright, that ugly warning that night was closing, he tugged my hand and we slid outside into air that tasted like rain.
We danced again, because you can’t just leave after that. His hands stayed on me like he’d earned rent. Mine learned him—shoulder, waist, the groove of his spine.
The club reabsorbed them, but they carried a new gravity, orbiting each other across the dance floor like they’d made a pact with the humidity. Atlanta did that—it introduced you to a stranger and dared you to pretend you’d never met.
“I believe in breakfast for dinner,” I said. “And second rounds.”

“Then let me take you home,” he said, and it didn’t sound like a question, but it didn’t feel like a command. It felt like a plan I’d already agreed to.
Back in the hallway, the bass welcomed us like nothing happened, which felt rude. He leaned into my ear again, voice gone honey-slow. “You free after this?”

“Define free.”

He smiled. “Not cuffed. Not complicated. Not allergic to pancakes at 4 a.m.”
We cleaned up with too-thin paper towels and a laugh that felt like we’d already gotten in trouble and planned to do it again. He tucked himself in, shrugged, and checked the mirror. I fixed my hair, which had opinions.
We cleaned up with too-thin paper towels and a laugh that felt like we’d already gotten in trouble and planned to do it again. He tucked himself in, shrugged, and checked the mirror. I fixed my hair, which had opinions.
I set a rhythm that made his head knock the stall. He laughed breathless. “You’re gonna have me leaving Yelp reviews for bathrooms.”

I worked him with my mouth and hand, slow then fast, petty then generous. When his breath hitched, I eased off to the base and looked up. “You good?”
I unbuckled him, let his pants hang disrespectfully pretty on his thighs. He was heavy in my hand, warm and pulsing. When I took him into my mouth, he moaned, fingers sliding into my hair—not pushing, just holding, like he’d waited for this particular angle all week.