Thread: Man Witch [Goody + Prince]

What a way to wake up. One minute, slumbering deeply, spread out, bare-ass naked in the tangle of sheets, warm and cozy, a supple, plush body right next to him. The next, there was a twisting fire in his guts, yanking him unceremoniously to full consciousness. The fact of the matter was, Quinn was a pro when it came to hangovers. Ever committed to living in the moment and having a good time, he didn't really hold back when drinking, especially if he found a new spirit that he particularly enjoyed. And he had developed a pretty good tolerance for such body abuses, rarely if ever drank under the table. As a gurgling groan bubbled from his throat in discomfitted agony, his mouth filling with nauseated saliva, Quinn expertly turned onto his side, reaching quick and low with a waving hand, searching out the chamber pot. There was already vomit rising in his esophagus, breath hissing rapidly from his nostrils in panic as he kept his lips clamped shut, haphazardly dragging the fine Naroah glass pot under his face. It was timed just right and he thought he had fricking nailed it as he opened his mouth, letting loose the flood of sick right into the big-bellied pot. But more kept coming, his shoulders shuddering with it, his already precarious leaning over the side of the bed, put to the test as he slid off the down-mattress, gravity grabbing hold of him, the rest of him too preoccupied with wretching to keep himself from falling to the ground. It was...a mess. Suddenly, he wasn't feeling so self-assured about his next morning expertise as he continued to heave, more bile and watery substance coming from him, splattering the floor, the pot sloshing dinner chunks from last night as he hit the ground with his shoulder, arms flailing out. He struggled like a dirty, disgusting, illness splashed fish, trying to sit up and failing as his stomach continued to pulse and contract violently. So, he just accepted his humiliation, mostly turning on his side as his body shuddered and dry heaved, just in case anything else came up, knowing, with the confidence of a drunkard, that it would eventually ease and leave him be. When it finally passed, Quinn lay panting on the stone ground, brows furrowed as the nausea hovered still, the trembling ache in his stomach muscles adding another layer to the twisting, burning pain in his guts. And still, he couldn't find himself hating the unfamiliar drink from the night before. If he'd known the featherblossom packed this kind of punch, he might have been more careful about finishing the bottle - but let's be honestly, likely not the chamber pot would have been placed closer, though. Hm. Wait, had he finished it? He couldn't remember. Groaning softly, grimacing over the death-awful taste in his mouth and the smell of bile, Quinn opened an eye and looked around for the discarded bottle. He found it on the rug near the wall, lazy in his aching nausea, still gagging softly deep in his throat, as he clutched the rug in hand, pulling the bottle by increments closer to him. There was barely a mouthful left in the bottom, but Quinn upended it into his mouth, gloriously shameless, laying in his own sick filth on the cold stone ground, still chasing the oblivion the sip of feather promised. The taste got a hum of pleasure from him, finally sitting up with a dragging grunt, sniffing as the trauma of his awful hangover subsided enough for him to at least push it to the back a little. Blinking, gasping, eyes red rimmed, he finally noticed that he wasn't alone. He'd assumed he was... Simply because such a violent episode of vomitting usually didn't go uncommented on by any bed mate still present. Besides, he vaguely remembered...uh...Amanda? Possibly. Anyway, he vaguely remembered that she had some sort of test this morning and likely wouldn't have stayed long enough for him to wake so. He couldn't help the huffed chuckle that came from him to think, Oh, shit. That might not go well. They did study fire last night together but not in a way that would be useful to her. At least not for a witches test. Instant regret lanced through him for laughing, his body shuddering over the pooling thickness in his gut, like something inside of him was just waiting to rebel again. Blinking and frowning at the mysterious pale beauty sitting on his bed, Quinn discarded the empty liquor bottle, scratching his naked thigh idly as he looked her over. With how prim and proper she was, practically covered up to her chin, Quinn didn't suspect that she was here to give him a good morning wakeup call. So, there was one person she most likely could be. You my new teacher? he asked, his nose crinkling in an uncertain grimace at her, wondering at his luck to have made as good a first impression as he had. Well, if she didn't hear about him, then she had to find out sometime who he really was. I uh...just tried feather for the first time, he offered lamely, the only self-consciousness he felt coming from the fact that he was splashed with vomit that hadn't made it into the chamber pot...and he'd rolled around in. Other than that, there wasn't much to be self-conscious over tall, broad-shouldered, with athletic, wiry muscles, he was built like a runner. What he lacked in bulk and mass, he made up for in slender abs and tight muscles on his thighs and arms. And his cock was nothing to sneeze at either. Even flaccid, he was a nice, thick 7 12, fully erect, curving a proud, solid 8. Another wave of destructive nausea, like aftershocks after an earthquake, hit him, pressing the side of his fist against his lips to stifle a gasped burp. Sorry...still hittin' me good... Can I meet up with you later? Last edited Mar 4, 2019