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Trigger warning: This story begins with the main character being under the effects of a date-rape drug. If such content disturbs you, feel free to skip ahead to the sex at the end or go and find a different story entirely. I promise, I won’t be offended.

A dull headache is forming in the back of your head. The many bodies crowding around yours sway in your vision. An arm drapes over your shoulder, herding you through the throngs of people towards the exit, but then another person’s shoulder knocks your arm, causing you to spill the rest of your drink down yourself.

“Hey,” a rough voice demands your attention, growling by your ear to be heard over the music in the club. “Do you know him?”

You look around, trying to discern the stranger’s face. Between disorienting flashes of light and darkness, you make out their staunch jaw and long wavy blond hair – faded from age, pulled back over their shoulders – staring down at the tough-skinned hand clenched around your arm. Her biceps are thick with muscle, but the masculinity of her face isn’t hard on the eyes at all.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words don’t come.

“She’s with me,” the man on your left interrupts, his teeth bared in agitation.

The woman scoffs. “Like hell. An ass like that, either she’s desperate or you’ve put something in her drink.” She holds you firmly, cinching her arm around your elbow.

“Fuck off, cougar!” the man spits back, but he’s fidgety, looking nervously over his shoulder as though unsure whether to continue this confrontation or flee.

“Name-calling, now, huh?” the woman asks with an unimpressed sneer. “You want me to call somebody? Check to see what you’ve drugged her up with?”

Finally, he relents, his arm slipping from around your neck. The woman loosens her grip on your arm, expecting him to turn and disappear into the crowd, but then he reaches out and seizes a fistful of your shirt, yanking you forwards. The empty glass in your hand drops and thunks to the floor, rolling off somewhere.

You reach backwards, grasping at the woman’s arm before you can be pulled away. Her hand finds yours and she wrenches you forwards with such force that you are thrown off-balance, falling forwards into a sea of legs.

Terrified of being trampled, you ball your hands into fists next to your head, crouching into as small of a shape as possible while behind you, a fist snaps into somebody’s nose, crunching cartilage. A bottle is smashed against bone.

Still, the music blares from the overhead speakers, shaking the room. Your ribs hum with the loud bass.

“Get up.”

You don’t listen, at first. Hands grab you underneath both armpits, hauling you up onto unsteady feet. The woman crosses her arms over your chest, and you notice she’s bleeding from a split lip when you look up.

“Do you want your fucking skull caved in underneath some whore’s knock-off stilettos?” Her voice fades in and out of hearing as she ushers you through the crowds, the inebriated people surrounding you unperturbed by the odd outburst or fistfight so long as the booming entertainment goes on. “Christ…kind of…stupid broad…remember…cover your drink…of all places?”

It’s raining when she drags you outside the club, the gales of wind causing the droplets to slice past your skin. The air is thick with the smell of wet asphalt and cigarette smoke, several stragglers looking for a break from the chaos inside the club or too drunk to be granted re-entry lingering amidst the rows of parked cars.

You’re led towards the silvery sheen of a nearby truck, the woman helping to boost – or rather, shove – you into the passenger seat. She climbs into the driver’s seat with practised ease, slamming it shut so the noise from the club outside is muted. Leaning forwards, she rummages through the items piled at her feet, retrieving a green bottle of Heineken.

She cracks the cap off with a ring on her finger, cursing under her breath at your stupidity all the while. After a long cycle of her drinking and swallowing, she turns around in her seat, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Do you want a drink?” She waves another bottle at you. “Cigarette?”

“I don’t feel…”

You fumble with the door handle beside you, swinging it open and doubling over to vomit in the gutter. Bile mixes with the rainwater and god-knows-what else. The woman grabs onto the back of your neck, keeping you from careening out of the truck. Every time you think it’s over and you have a chance to breathe, your body quivers and you retch again.

“I didn’t think the food they served was that bad,” the woman remarks with a derisive snort of laughter, but then pats your back where your shirt has ridden up with her other palm, rubbing up and down soothingly in encouragement. “There you go. Good girl.”

A phone buzzes at the woman’s side. Once you’ve pulled the truck door shut and sat back in your seat, leaning your head against the cool window, she picks up the device and holds it to her ear. “Yeah?”

Only a few seconds pass of the woman casino siteleri enduring the voice on the other end of the line before she snaps, “That’s pegging talk. I said I’d be home later. No.” Her pale blue eyes glance at you. “Yes. I’ve picked someone up, seems like her drink was spiked. I don’t know, rohypnol? GHB?” Snatching a lighter from the floor of the truck, she holds it out to you. “Can you hold this?”

You take the lighter, watching the woman search through the pockets of her leather jacket for a cigarette. She finds an unsealed pack, flipping the lid. Sliding a cigarette out, she extends it to you in her fingers. “Yeah, I’m bringing her home for dinner.”

Flicking the spark wheel of the lighter, you balance the flame underneath the tip of the cigarette until it’s smouldering, tendrils of smoke rising into the air.

“How old are you, girly?” The woman jerks her chin at you, taking a drag. She smears the blood off her mouth. “Twenty-one, two? Is there anybody you can call to come and get you?”

You clear your throat, tongue flopping uselessly in your mouth. “I think I left my phone back at the club.”

“Bullshit!” The woman’s mouth splits into a grin. “I know your type. You’re cosied up by your parents, silver spoon and all that. You’re afraid of being caught because if Mommy and Daddy find out what you’ve been up to tonight, they’ll never let you leave the house again. You’ll stay the night at mine, and I’ll drop you off at a coffee shop tomorrow morning. You can tell your parents you went out early to see a friend.”

“Thanks,” you reply, breathing a sigh of relief. The tension in your shoulders melts away as you sink backwards into your seat, fiddling with the dials in front of you on the dashboard.

“Did you just fucking touch my radio?” the woman asks, her expression mixed parts offended and impressed at your audacity before she rolls her eyes and barks to the person on the phone, “Not you!”, tossing it aside. Keys rattling, she turns on the engine, the truck rumbling awake.

After stumbling through the darkness of the motel apartment (“Don’t go home much,” she had admitted to you, shrugging as she pulled into the carpark. “Job keeps me on the road, away from home.”), she situates you on the couch, pulling a thick checkered blanket up over your side and thrusting out her folded jacket that smells pungently of spilt liquor, cigarette stubs, and regretful decisions to act as your makeshift pillow.

“How’s that?” she asks, tucking it under your chin.

“Good,” you answer.

“Well, I’ve got to go and fuck my husband,” she tells you slyly, handing over a remote. “He’s been acting bloody smart with me one too many times tonight. Feel free to use the TV, if you don’t want to hear that.”

“I never caught your name,” you call out.

“Never gave it,” the woman replies. “I’m just fucking with you, it’s Charmaine. Get some rest, huh?”

She leaves you alone on the couch with a pat on the head, borrowing a wooden spoon from a drawer in the kitchen on her way out of the room. All that’s on is the odd cage-fighting match, but it’s enough to drown out the occasional spank or whimper from the bedroom.

At one point, you become so bored with the flickering screen, you stand up from the couch and walk over to the bedroom door, listening to the hushed noises behind the wood.

“You want our guest to hear you?” the woman’s voice grunts over the soft whimpering of her husband’s. “Pussy-whipped bitch. Keep your fucking legs spread apart.”

You flinch backwards at the sound of another stinging slap, your skin crawling when you hear a stifled moan. Not completely in disgust, but also curiosity. With every “fuck” that slips out of Charmaine’s mouth, creak of the bedframe, and clinking of the harness buckles on the strap on around her waist she’s no doubt ploughing into her husband with, a subtle sensation of thrill trails down your spine, warmth pooling in your abdomen.

When the chorus of fluttering breaths and annoyed growls reaches its peak, fading into silence, you retreat back to the couch, listening from your safe shelter underneath your blanket as Charmaine strides out of the bedroom. She pours herself a glass of water from the kitchen sink, the fake cock strapped to her bobbing and smacking the inside of her thigh with each swift movement of her legs as she paces the kitchen.

“You want a go?” she asks, making you jump.

“I’m sorry?”

“He wouldn’t mind if you did. I’m sure he’d find the energy to fuck someone as young and flexible as you.”

“You’re fucking with me,” you say uncertainly after a pause.

Laughing, she nods. “I’m fucking with you.”

Turning around, she leans against the kitchen counter, showing you the full visage of her naked body, tits and all. Despite the intense urge to look away – whether out of shame, intimidation, or respect, you don’t know – you force yourself to keep your stare focused on her face, struggling to ignore the dark and plump areolas of her sizeable breasts at the edges of your vision.

Her rumpled strands canlı casino of dirty blond hair are stuck to her bare skin with sweat, but she runs her fingers through it, pushing it back out of the way.

“I bet you could keep it up for more rounds than him,” she remarks.

“Not with the same dick you put up your husband’s ass,” you retort. “Maybe if you have a spare lying around?”

“Ha,” Charmaine says, but then shakes her head. “You don’t know what you’re asking. You’ve had a rough night.”

“Why do you think I was distracted? I was staring at you across the bar. That’s why I didn’t see that prick roofying my drink.”

You watch her face as she mulls over your words, wondering if she’ll rise to the bait you’ve set out for her. She seems unsure about whether to pounce on you or not. “I’m not as young as I was.” She narrows her eyes at you, tracing a fingernail across the side of the glass in her hand. “Let me have a drink first. Do you think you could take something like this?” She gestures to her strap on, simpering.

Your mouth twists. “Well,” you begin, thinking back on your past sexual experiences. You don’t want to look weak or inexperienced while her eyes measure your bravado, afraid of falling short of her expectations. “Yeah. Sure, I could.”

Charmaine bursts out laughing, keeling forwards over the sink and heaving in lungfuls of air to bellow out, “You’re a fucking liar and a voyeur!”

“Oh, fuck off,” you scowl and consider giving into defeat petulantly by rolling over and going to sleep.

“Piece of eye candy, you are. It’s no wonder you had so many idiots leering at you at the club, but you’ve got no experience,” she chuckles. “This would be like an extra leg for you. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t ram it into you like some madwoman. We’d start slower.”

“Charming,” you mutter in a derisive tone.

She approaches you, stepping around the low coffee table in front of the couch. She undoes the strap on around her waist, tossing the harness and fake cock onto the floor.

“Oh, it’s charm you want?” Sitting down on the couch, she takes your chin in one hand, tipping your head back to expose your throat. Her teeth graze the side of your neck, nipping at the flesh. “I can do charming,” she murmurs by your ear.

Her tongue scrapes past your lips, and then you’re kissing open-mouthed and hungry, starving like you haven’t felt another person’s touch in years.

“What the fuck am I doing?” Charmaine grumbles under her breath, but she doesn’t push you away. Instead, her hands pull you closer, slipping underneath the back of your shirt. Her palms slide over your back, fingers digging into your hips to coerce you into her lap.

“Aren’t you going to try and fuck me?” you ask sarcastically when the assaults of her fierce mouth pressing against yours begin to become repetitive.

“You owe me for saving your ass tonight.”

“Saving me from a mess you were the cause of,” you counter.

“Cock-warmers don’t whine,” Charmaine hisses, gripping a hold of your wrist when your hand wanders over the hardened abs on her stomach. “They listen. You’ll suck me off before you get to come.”

“Can’t you fuck me first?”

“I just spent an hour fucking my cry-baby husband,” Charmaine bites back. “I’m tired. Let’s see if you take commands any better.”

You kneel in front of her, staring up at her face. The “go ahead” you receive is more of shove rather than a look, Charmaine resting her palm over the back of your head and stroking the shell of your ear almost affectionately before pulling your face to her nest of a cunt.

“Eat up.”

It takes a few experimental strokes of your tongue to find her clit, but when you do, she exhales pleasantly, leaning one leg back against the couch to steady herself. “I’m almost impressed. Didn’t take you long at all,” she praises, adjusting the angle of your head so it’s easier for you to flick your tongue against that spot again.

She tastes acridly of salt and metal, the bitter tang stinging your tongue.

From all of the pent-up frustration and aching tension in her thighs, you can tell she didn’t get to come earlier. Her wetness coats your tongue, another sign of an unfinished matter. Unable to remain still, her hips rock forwards in a shaky rhythm, humping your head. Her hot breath tickles the back of your neck, the skin over her breasts flushed and nipples peaked in mad arousal.

“Just there – fucking hell -” she curses, fingers twitching where they’re knotted in your hair. She untangles them to reach down and grab your hand, redirecting it higher. The idea clicks when she squeezes two of your fingers, curling the rest down.

You slip two fingers into her, but when you start thrusting in and out of her at a cautious pace, she laughs. “I can barely feel that,” she chides you, giving your head a jerk. “Harder.”

You obey, plunging your fingers deeper and pumping faster.

“That’s more like it,” Charmaine mutters, but what she tries to say next is interrupted by the moan that catches in her throat. Your tongue kaçak casino swipes up and down her clit while your arm works of its own accord, fucking Charmaine mechanically with two fingers. You gauge her pleasure by her hitching breath and grunts of approval, locking your wrist in place to finger her at the precise angle that makes her grit her teeth and growl gutturally into the air.

“I’d move your head if I were you,” she breathes out, her voice flecked with humour like she’s made an inside joke, confusing you. Your eyebrows crease together. Both of you know you’re not going anywhere with her hand fisted in your hair.

The joke only becomes clear when her hips spasm, fluid spurting from the glistening slit between her mound of thick scratchy curls to splash down your chin and neck. Charmaine continues trembling for a moment – her walls clenching around your fingers – but she holds your head tightly, having not reached her peak yet.

“Don’t even think about stopping,” she forbids you, grinding her pelvis against your mouth until your tongues feels numb and you can taste nothing but her.

Orgasm crashes through her body as her breathing staggers, and she announces her climax by yanking your hair at the root. Her jaw clenches to stifle the bark of pleasure that follows, the sound ebbing to a low groan. Panting, she releases you, flopping backwards to sit on the couch with both of her legs spread lazily apart.

Still on the floor, you lean against Charmaine’s knee, rubbing the back of your fist past your mouth. “Jesus, a warning about the squirting would’ve been nice.”

With a tired grin, Charmaine shoves your shoulder playfully. “You say that like you didn’t enjoy the taste. You didn’t even pretend like you wanted to pull away.”

“How about my reward?” you ask.

“Fuck, you’re exhausting.” She rolls her neck and grimaces, standing up from the couch. “Alright, hold on.”

While she’s out of the room, you climb up onto the couch, lying sprawled on your back. You slide your hand under your pants, noting the tackiness of sweat left over from the evening you had spent at the club. Feeling lower past warm and damp curls, you part your lips, feeling a rush of smugness at how your fingertips practically glide along your hole with how wet you are.

You don’t hear Charmaine re-enter the room, not registering her presence until she’s standing behind you, watching you idly touch yourself.

“Having fun?” she asks, reaching over. She takes both of your wrists, hoisting you up onto your knees. In a blur of motion, you excitedly wrench your shirt over your head and undone your jeans, kicking them off.

“Get down. Hands and knees.” Charmaine brushes her knuckles past the inside of your thigh. “Wide as you can.”

You lean down, spreading your legs as wide as you can without stretching too far or falling off the couch.

“Give me a minute.” Charmaine uncaps of bottle of what you suspect is lube, smearing a generous amount over the strap on she’s harnessed with. “I chose a slimmer size for you since it’s your first time, but I don’t think you’ll need much of this.” You shudder when she dips a finger into you, smearing cold lube over your lips. She chuckles at the wetness already prominent there, wiping off her hands.

You grip the sides of the couch as her hips creep forwards to meet yours. Charmaine plants a steadying palm against your back as she lines up with you, judging how well you’ll be able to accommodate the size she’s chosen. You take the first few inches easily enough and Charmaine settles when she’s in about halfway, pausing to check you over.

“That feel alright?” she asks.

“I want more.”

“Not yet.” Charmaine pats your back, cautioning you.

You try a different approach, hoping to strike a nerve. “I bet you’d fuck your husband deeper.”

Charmaine laughs, easily deflecting the jab you had aimed for her pride. “I know what he likes. You’re new.”

She pulls out, and then guides herself back in, only sheathing herself in you to the extent of half her length again. “Good girl. You’re taking this well for Mommy,” she drawls, repeating the motion in a smooth rhythm. Your toes curl at the unexpected name she has decided to refer to herself as.

“Mommy?” you repeat, dumbstruck. You suppress a whine when she seizes the back of your neck, squeezing.

“The only time I want to hear that word out of your mouth is when you’re all fucked out and whimpering.”


She lets go of your throat, returning to the task at hand. “I know you can’t get off solely on penetration – unless you are one of those fucking fancy girls – so let me help you out.” Her hand reaches around your leg, and you gasp as she runs a finger between your wet folds, hunting down your clit. She toys with it, her touches fast and gentle, and your back arches with the combined pleasure of being filled and teased at the same time.

“I can take more,” you try to convince her a second time. “Please.”

Charmaine braces her hands against your ass when you attempt to rear back and sink more of her length inside of you. “Naughty.” She gives you a light slap, which is nothing compared to the torturous punishments you’ve heard her husband being subjected to on the other side of the bedroom door.

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