The shack he calls home is run-down but livable. The cushions of the couch are sunk in, the carpet stained, there's a patch of paint peeling on the far wall and the coffee table is worn. There's rings of white from hot mugs all over it and it's scratched to shit. Old hunting magazines hang precariously on the corner where he pushed them out of the way earlier, a cold bottle of beer sits sweating next to them.
He reaches out and takes a swig, eyeing the package that lays in the middle. It's just a brown box, plain and unassuming, except for the fact that he thinks he knows what it is. It's rectangle in shape, a little shorter than his forearm. It's not particularly heavy, but whatever's inside shifts around when handled.
The delivery guy that had knocked at his screen door this morning threw him for a bit of a loop. He hadn't remembered ordering anything in particular.
Until he had.
It was just a stupid drunken thought. Which was the only time he really allowed himself to think about such things but regardless, he had been drunk. Drunk Daryl had thought it was the best idea ever. If he just got it over with, if he knew what it was actually like, he wouldn't want it. Right? So a quick trip on the internet, a PayPal account connected to his bank card and bam. Mission accomplished. Just a week or two to wait and he'd have this whole thing dealt with. No more thoughts, dreams or furious masturbation sessions he refused to acknowledge.
So when he figured out what it was the delivery guy was getting him to sign for, he had promptly turned into a tomato. He tried to hide it behind his bangs and hoped the younger man hadn't seen.
Glenn, as his name tag read, hadn't seemed to notice his sudden realization. He had however seemed a little weirded out when he tried his damnedest to get the exchange over with as soon as possible. Mainly without the delivery guy realizing what he was holding.
Silicone sculpture. Personal lubricant. As if calling it a sculpture would stop people from figuring it out. Fucksakes.
The declaration of contents sticker on the front of the box mocks him from the coffee table. For once he's grateful Merle managed to get himself locked up. He'd never let him live this down. Drunk people shouldn't have access to the internet.
He finishes off his beer and thinks about tossing the damn thing straight into the garbage. But what if someone sees? Which is a stupid thought, it's just a brown box. Even if the damn garbage bag broke open in the middle of the street nobody would figure it out.
He eyes the box before shaking his head with a scoff and making his way into the kitchen. He goes to grab another beer when a bottle of whiskey on the countertop catches his eye. Damn stuff got him into this problem, chances are it won't get him out of it either. Still, he picks it up and tips it back. It burns on the way down but he's used to it.
Eventually he ends up back in the living room, the bottle tucked into his side. The more he drinks the more he thinks about it. Does it hurt? There wouldn't be so many gay guys if it hurt right? Not that he's gay. Cause he's not, Merle would kill him if he was. Which ain't the only reason he's not. Gay that is. He's not a faggot. He's just, curious.
What's it feel like? If it doesn't hurt, it still can't feel good, right? It probably just feels weird, something that big.
He props the whiskey down by his foot after a hefty swallow.
Then he's leaning forward and grabbing the box, tearing the tape off and it's open before he even figures out what he's doing. There's purple tissue paper that he lets fall to the floor, a eight ounce bottle of lube and a black silk bag at the bottom.
He lays the lube on the table and picks the silk bag up in slightly shaky hands. It's soft and smooth and what lies beneath feels distinctly phallic.
The first thing he thinks when he finally builds up the nerve to take it out, is it's pink. Not a soft pink or a pastel pink, but a in your face candy pink. The thing is nearly fluorescent. It's got a wicked curve with overlapping platelets, like large scales on the underside and a pointed head. The base is flared and designed like a suction cup.
Fucking hell. What kinda freaky shit is his drunk self into?
This probably isn't a good idea. What happens if it does hurt? What if it gets stuck? His dick doesn't seem to care much. He can already feel the swell starting behind his zipper.
He licks his lips and weighs the silicone in his hand. It flexes in his palm as he pushes his thumb into the centre of the length. It's solid but with a slightly squishy give. It's smooth and a little cold at first but it warms in his grasp.
He leaves it on the couch next to him and flicks open his belt. Pulls his shirt over his head and shimmies his jeans down his legs and kicks it off at his feet. Is he really gonna do this?
He reaches forward for the lube. The bright pink phallus rolls into his thigh as he settles back into the couch. He palms at his harden length and twists off the black cap of the bottle, pulls off the seal underneath and twists it back on. It's cold as he drizzles it over his flushed cock making him hiss between his teeth. It's good though. It warms quick as he slicks it over his length and groans.
He works himself for a while, eyeing the toy next to him. When he starts to get too close he backs off and sighs, gripping himself by the base.
He's tried a finger before. Once. Maybe twice and maybe two, but nothing that big.
He shifts and lays back, his head on the arm rest. It's easy to slick up his fingers and drop his hand down between his legs. Past his throbbing cock and into the crack of his ass. He swirls his middle finger at his entrance and pushes just past the tight ring of muscle. It's weird. Same as it was the first few times. It's after, once he's worked it deeper, worked another finger in next to it that it gets a little better. There's the feeling of being stretched, of being full.
He's never pushed for three before, but if he's thinking about even attempting taking that thing, he's gotta work himself open, right? Like that's a thing your supposed to do? You can't just shove big ass things up your ass without some kinda preparation, or he's pretty sure you can't.
The third one burns the tiniest bit even with added lube. The candy pink fantasy cock next to him is about six inches in length. It starts off a pointed head but it gets thicker with each ridge on the way down. At the flared bottom it's as thick as the base of his own dick or more.
He works his fingers deeper and try's to spread them wider.
At some point he slips them out and picks up the offending object. He's pushed as much lube as he can into himself and still he slicks the toy. He spreads his legs wide, one up against the back of the couch the other braced on the edge of the coffee table next to him. His cocks only half hard, but dammit he's gotten this far, he's damn well doing this.
The pointed tip slides past without much trouble. It's smooth and it goes in almost too quick, causing the first ridge to push up behind it. It burns a little but it's not so bad. It's like adding an extra finger. He lets out a breathe he didn't realize he was holding and inches it in a little further. Taking the first ridge isn't so hard. It stretches him but it's, good?
He pushes it further, slowly rocking it into himself bit by bit. It's a lot. It's way more then a few fingers and it's almost too much. Each ridge takes a second to force past, but he makes it down halfway before hitting something that makes him see stars.
He jolts and his cock twitches against his stomach, hardening by the second. He rocks down against the silicone experimentally. The point hits that spot again and fuck it's good. His other hand grasps at his length, palm twisting up around the head and down again. He's rocking down onto the thick length inside him, pushing and working it slowly deeper.
It's good. It's so fucking good.
He gets lost in the pulsing heat of pleasure and rides it. Pushing back and thrusting forward into his fist. Until the hand holding the flared base starts to cramp and he whines in frustration, head rolling back into the armrest.
He pulls the toy out ridge by ridge and that in itself leaves him groaning. He sends the magazines flying with a shove and smacks it base first onto the end of the coffee table. It stands up right listing to one side. He grabs the lube slicks it up and straddles it. One hand guilds it back into him, the other white knuckle grips the edge of the table.
He works it back into him. Slowly sinking down onto the last ridge, bare ass flush with the table beneath him. His cock is flushed and dripping, bobbing straight out in front of him, precum leaking onto the floor below. He lifts himself up and sinks back down again.
He ends up with both hands braced on the table behind him, back bowed and head thrown back. He plunges himself down on it over and over, felling each ridge grind over his insides. His legs are shaking with the force of an oncoming orgasm and he rides it fast and hard. Bounces on the silicone inside him, the coffee table creaking beneath his weight. He can feel it, with each burst of pleasure up his spine. He rides faster and harder and he's definitely glad Merle's not anywhere near home cause he's practically sobbing.
There's something perversely erotic about doing this out here in the middle of the living room. Sure the windows covered by cheap plain curtains, and even if they weren't the house is out on its own. Just an empty dirt road that eventually leads to the main road to head into town. Nobody comes out this way cause there's nothing to come out here for. He's lucky the delivery guy even found it in the first place.
There's no real risk of getting caught, but the thought that there could be, is surprisingly what finishes him off.
He cums with an erratic pump of his hips. Watches his cock bounce in front of him and pulse pearly white all over the place. A shot up his chest, one off to the side and dripping spots across his thighs. He drops down, unable to hold himself up. The toy still inside him grinding deep with a roll of his hips, leaving him breathless. He rocks on it a moment, whining high and needy.
It's through the post-orgasm haze he hears it, his breath catching in his throat.
There's a creek from the floor boards.
Mild confusion morphs to absolute horror as he turns towards the doorway and his eyes meet Merle's.
Merle himself is speechless. Eyes wide and mouth open. He looks down at Daryl's cum covered body and still half hard cock. Looks back up to his face. Turns to look down the hall and back at him again. "Tha' fuck ya' doin?!"
Yeah. Drunk Daryl's not allowed on the internet anymore.