You’re alone in my apartment, lying on my bed, a little worn out. It’s after midnight. You’re in Brooklyn for the weekend and staying with me. You’ve just gotten back from a Tinder date that was fulfilling yet left you wanting more. I’m not there yet. I’m in a cab headed towards Greenpoint holding hands with a woman who I just met a few hours ago at a queer sex party in Manhattan. She’s shorter than me with long dark curly hair, delightful tits and ass, and a perfect pussy. We’ve already made each other come once with our hands and mouths, in a bathroom in the Manhattan penthouse, ignoring the knocks of others who had to pee because sorry, my clit was throbbing. I asked her if she wanted to get out of there and come home with me to meet you, and she said yes. I text you that I’ll be back in 30 and I’m bringing someone with me. Even though you just came an hour ago when your hot eager Tinder date sucked your dick, the thought of another woman and me crawling into bed with you gets you hard again, and you’re no longer tired. You start to touch yourself — but don’t let yourself come because you trust that we’ll take care of that. Lost in anticipation with your hand on your cock, you’re slightly startled when the door to my apartment opens, and we get there earlier than you expected.