Emma. Eighteen and a virgin. Not a popular girl. Pretty, but nervous and shy. Bookish. Awkward. Valedictorian. In love. Stupid teenage love. In lust. Obsessed. What a cliche. The worst is that she knows it. She sees herself clearly, while also feeling it. The need. The want. The puppy love. How sad. How pathetic. Falling for the football player.
Freddy Anderson. Football player. Popular. Not stupid, but not exactly smart. Handsome to a point of pain. Pretty to a point of perfection. A man to be sculpted by the greats of elder years. How many teenage girls had left their virginity behind for him? Because he smiled at them? How many adult women had considered if a night with him might be worth the jail time? He was everything she wanted. Everything she shouldn’t want. What a cliche, Emma knew. What a cliche.
Yet she allowed it to happen. Allowed herself to one of those other silly girls with him. Another stupid virgin talked out of her panties by his pretty blue eyes. His dimples. His grin. How could she not? How could anyone not? Face with knowing that he wanted you? Melting before his interest.
A late night, alone with him in his house, his parents out, tutoring him. Allegedly tutoring, since it tended to mean her doing his homework while he surfed the web on his phone, occasionally responding to her trying to show him some math problem. Eager just to have his attention for the few moments. Like a pathetic, horny, puppy. So eager. So excited. For just a look from him. To just be noticed by him for a moment. He was a weakness. A stupid teen girl crack in her logical heart.
Valedictorian. Accepted to Harvard. Too smart to spread her legs for some pretty jock. Smart enough to understand that her feelings for him were just hormones. Chemical compounds dating back to who knew how many species ago telling her small female body to want to mate with the impressive male specimen. Smart enough to understand it was lust. Too smart to love him. Too smart to give in. Too smart to be tricked by pretty words and a pretty face.
But she did. She was. Eagerly. Pathetically excited. Drunk on knowing that she was the object of his desire. Her logic turning off as his attention, his full attention, his interest, turned to her.
That night. So close to graduation. For whatever reason, he decided he would have her. A fantasy. A dream.
His hand on the small of her back. Electric sparks running up her spine. His face moving closer and closer to hers. Because he wanted her. He wanted her!
His mouth kissing her for a moment before moving to her neck. Her shoulders. Her breasts. She hadn’t even tried to stop him as he lifted her shirt off, as he quickly unsnapped her bra with one hand. Her mind noting how much practice he must have at it. How many bras had it taken him to learn that trick?
His whispers in her ears. Lies. Beautiful lies. Emma, smart enough to know that they were lies. But her stupid girl brain believing them. Wanting so badly to believe them. Wanting so badly for them to be true.
Her on his arm at prom. Everyone’s eyes on her. The nerdiest girl in school conquering the sexiest jock. The jealousy they would have. And she would have him. All to herself.
Then his fingers were working their way into her pants. Past her panties. No nervous fumbling. No pathetic attempts to pleasure. A man who know his art. Who knew just what to do. Just where to touch. His fingers finding her wet and wanting. He had done this so many times. So so many times.
That was the worst of it. Because she knew that even had he fumbled, had he failed to bring her pleasure, had he taken her selfishly, only worrying about his own pleasure, she still would have loved it. She still would have spent night after night for years, touching herself to the memory of it. Glorying in being with him just for that short time. Being wanted by him so badly. To have been so close to the sun.
No, it was so much worse. He was not some fumbling boy. Not some selfish lover. He knew just how to touch. How to pleasure. His fingers expertly sliding against her, working her to the edge of orgasm and quickly past it. Her holding him tight, hand tightening in his hair as she cried out in pleasure. Thanked him like a puppy. Moaning his name.
He whispered how good she felt. How good it felt to make her cum. How pretty she was. How sexy. How smart. He knew just want to say to a girl like her. How much he liked touching her. Feeling her. How he’d take her out next weekend. They could go to the lake and have a picnic and make out by the water.
She had eagerly held his cock. A first. Stroked it and felt how strange a penis felt. How odd for it to be soft and hard. To grow. And while she had no true frame of reference for penis size, had never seen an adult man’s dick in real life, what she had seen online told her that he was large, porn level large. And his rigid girth felt so perfect in her hands. She stroked and stroked it as he worked her pants off. Staring at him as she touched him, touched a cock for the first time in her life.
For so long Emma’s cynical mind had tried to tell her that he would be an awful lover. That she was lusting after, obsessing over, a jock who was so pretty, who got laid so easily, that he’d be terrible in bed. That he wouldn’t need to learn to be good in bed. That he would be pathetic. Have a tiny cock. Prematurely ejaculate. All the stereotypes the unpopular try to tell themselves about the popular. But she was so wrong. So amazingly, wonderfully, wrong.
And the whole time, those pretty, amazing, impossible lies dripped from his mouth. Prom. Dating. Parties. Joining the popular kids.
Her eyes where wide with worship, with excitement, with disbelief. Why had this Adonis chosen her? How could such a specimen find her worthy of his lust? She had eagerly spread her legs as he laid her onto the carpet of his father’s study. Feeling shame suddenly at her hairy bush, trying to cover it with a hand. She was sure that his normal lovers. The cheerleaders. The popular girls. They must have perfect pretty vaginas. Always expertly shaved. Why hadn’t she shaved? She never shaved. Never thought about needing to shave.
He didn’t seem to care though, to wrapped in his own lust. With a swift movement, he was inside her and even though some small part of her mind was screaming that he wasn’t using a condom, she didn’t stop him. Didn’t want to stop him. This wasn’t how she had ever imagined losing her virginity on the floor while she was being paid to tutor, but she didn’t stop him. She didn’t want to stop him. She had never, NEVER, felt pleasure like the sensation of his cock. HIS cock. Pressing against her. HER! Pushing into her, easily, with how aroused she was.
And there was pain. Yes. Logically, her mind, always spinning, registered that her virgin hymen was being torn. Logically she knew, that his whispers, his beautiful whispers, his promises; Emma knew, deep down, that they were lies. But she wanted to believe them so bad. She wanted that fantasy so bad. And the pleasure. The pleasure. His long, slow, methodical strokes. His massive cock filling her to a point that she thought she must tear. Pushing all the way in and then slowly out, so large it felt like each stroke would never end. Pleasure like she had never felt. Pleasure that she hadn’t dreamed of.
How good she felt, he whispered. How amazing she was, he whispered. How much he wanted her, he whispered.
He was her first. He was her only. But she was his what? 10th? 20th? 50th? He was not selfish. He was not fast. He slowly, methodically, pushed his length into her and slowly, agonizingly, pulled it out. He was kissing her. He was whispering such beautiful dreams. The pain was there, but overwhelmed by the pleasure. By the excitement. The image of her on his arm as her friends and the judgey bitch popular girls mouth’s hung open. His cock, FUCKING her. Pleasuring her.
She came. Not once. But twice. As he slowly fucked her. As he groaned in his own pleasure. Another notch in his bed post. Another cherry taken. The second time, she came as his mouth was on her breast. As his right hand squeezed her ass, his finger sliding towards her rear. The pleasure too great to tell him to stop. The experience to amazing to worry that she didn’t like his finger pushing into her ass. The joy of hearing him starting to cum, of hearing him moaning her name, of knowing that she made this perfect specimen of man cum, too much to bear.
She would suffer any indignity for this, for him. For that moment. Just that moment. Her third orgasm fading as he squeezed her tight, as he thrust so deeply into her, as he filled her with his seed. Everything faded. Everything was joy. Everything was perfect. She could have died complete.
It would be the moment she focused on for the next year. The moment she focused on during the awkward cleanup when he pulled out of her, his semen dripping onto the floor and he became aloof. The moment she focused on during her lonely trek to the pharmacy for plan B the next morning. The moment she focused on when he took fucking head cheerleader Kylie to prom. The moment she focused on after the burning humiliation of trying to get him to fuck her again during the next tutoring session and he rejected her.
The moment she’d focus on through her entire freshman year. The moment she focused on when she touched herself at night. In her bed. In her dorm. The moment she focused on as she started her research. The small strange parts of the web. The moment she focused on as she planned how to make him hers.
The moment she focused on as she ignored dating. Ignored the Harvard boys who wanted her. Because that was the thing. Emma was a mousey nerd yes. But a pretty one. At a school like Harvard, she had so many options. Boys with more money than brains. Boys who would shape the future of America, maybe the world. Boys who respected her and would help her reach new heights. Boys who just wanted a pretty smart wife and would have given her a life of easy luxury as arm candy. She didn’t want those boys. She wanted her man.
It was only, ever, Freddy in her mind. On her lips. In her heart.
****************************
A year and a few months later.
A smart woman is dangerous. A smart woman with an open mind, is even more so. One who isn’t afraid to reach for the impossible. A woman like Emma.
The Halloween party was too perfect to resist. She knew from his Facebook, that his frat was throwing the party. From google, that the car drive would take four hours. So, she turned in her assignments early. Told her professors about the family emergency. A week off. How could anyone complain given her exemplary record, her course work finished early. So many small town geniuses find that they are big fish in a big pond when they get to college. But not her, everyone could tell, she was in a big pond now yes, but she was an even bigger fish than anyone had realized.
A big enough fish to find those strange parts of the internet. The parts no one should find. Rumors. Legends. Impossible things. Magic. A spell. A spell to put on him. A mind that could pick it apart. Test it.
How did Emma know it was real? It is hard for mere folk as us to understand. Her brain too powerful. Her understanding to keen. Separating fact, from fiction. Urban legend, from ancient lore.
Words memorized. Ingredients found. A costume chosen. A witch. A sexy witch. A slutty witch. With a year of YouTube tutorials to teach her to be pretty. No, she was always pretty. A year of tutorials to teach her how to show it off. How to slut it up. How to alter the costume to make her chest pop. How to do her make up to highlight each feature. How to lick her lips. How to make her eyes flutter. How to make any man fall for her.
Hearts were broken over that year, as she practiced. As she learned. A good scientist through and through. Experiment. Learn. Revise. Experiment. Not the spell though. That was for him. Just for him. He would be hers!
The drive was passed in practice. Imagining how it might happen. Which words to say. How she would slip the tincture into his drink. What steps she might have to take to get him to drink it. To make him drink it. How it would be afterwards.
As she approached the frat house, the party was already in swing. Some old part of her. Some geek part of her. Unpopular. Afraid. Without confidence. Whispered to her. That they would send her home. They wouldn’t let her in. They would see through her disguise. The sexy witch. The lusty lass. They would see the timid geek beneath. But of course they didn’t. She had always been sexy, always been hot. Just never ready, never confident enough to show it. To so brazenly display it. But now in her costume she felt it, felt the eyes, felt the confidence. Her slutty witch outfit, breasts practically popping out, cleavage on display. Skirt so short she couldn’t bend over.
They let her in. They cheered. They rushed to bring her snacks. Punch. Booze. Rushed to impress her. Rushed to flirt. Rushed to make her notice them. It made her feel a sense of power. But they never stood a chance, for she had eyes only for him.
He was, of course, without any real understanding of the irony, dressed as a football player. Some part of her noticed it, some part of her scoffed, mocked him, but most of her was too breathless to notice. Most of her felt that same excitement. Same desire. Same love. Same pain. Same lust. When she saw him it all hit her again. Felt the hurt of him lieing to her. Felt the pleasure of imagining being on his arm, all the other women in awe. His eyes filled with love. For her. For her. He would be hers!
He didn’t recognize her. She told herself it was the make up. The outfit. That a year had passed since he had last seen her. Since he had taken her virginity. But she knew. She understood. Deep down she realized that he didn’t recognize her because that was how little she had rated to him. The biggest moment of her life was just a quick fuck for him. Blowing off some energy. That was what a small part of his life Emma was. Had been. Still was. Just some chick he had fucked one night when he was horny and there was no one else nearby.
It didn’t matter. Emma brought him a drink. THE DRINK. Tincture poured in. Boys don’t know. Boys aren’t trained on the dangers of taking drinks from strangers. Silly, really. She wondered, if back when witches were a thing to be feared, if men had been more careful? Her eyes wide, her smile wider, as he drank of it. Drank the tincture down.
The tincture was a mixture of twelve herbs she had plucked by hand. Muddled into mash. Mixed with the tears of a prostitute and water from a first snow. Then, to make it hers, to make her his object of love, a drop of her own sexual fluid. A finger sliding inside her pussy. Horny and ready, imagining his devotion, his love. Then, her finger, slick with herself. Slick with her desire. Slick with her power, she had stirred the brew. Making it. Marking it. Ready to drip drip drip into his drink.
And as he drank he made a face at the taste. The tincture had been pungent. But his eyes took on a momentary glaze as he, as if on auto pilot, raised the beer to his lips and drained it, the magic already working. Then he was turning towards her, pulled on a string, his eyes gaining focus. Focus on her. Opening wide. Shocked. Excited. As if seeing her for the first time. Amazed at the goddess before him.
There was no question. She had put a spell on him, and now, he was hers. She didn’t care if he wanted her or not. She deserved him. Had earned him. Had suffered the humiliation of believing he liked her and being rejected. Had suffered the humiliation of being lied to, knowing he was lieing, but believing in her stupid teen girl heart that maybe he wasn’t. That she would be the special one he chose. That it didn’t matter any more. Because he was hers. She had made him choose her.
And then, and then, he only had eyes for her. The other women. The other slutty girls. All ignored now. His smile only shown for her. He recognized her. Complimented her. How hot she was. Had she always been so hot? How sorry he was for how he had treated her. How he had done her wrong. How he would make it up to her.
How. He. Loved. Her.
And then they were upstairs. His room she guessed. It smelled of boys locker room. But she didn’t care. He was hers. He was hers!
He was kissing her. Really kissing her. Not like the other time, when his kisses had been rushing to get to her neck. Her breasts. Now he was drinking her in. One kiss at a time. Luxuriating in being able to kiss such a goddess. She felt his worship. His lust.
The flavor of the tincture so strong on his lips. His breath. Foul, but what should she care. It had worked. Now his kisses where hers. His lips where hers. His lust was hers. His love was hers.
Emma was going to make him wait though. Having this power now. To make him small like he had made her. To make him the whining eager puppy. Not letting him just take her like last time. Not overpowered by his presence. She kept pushing his hands back as he tried to touch. Tried to grab. Tried to conquer that which he wanted. That which he loved. She straddled him and drank of his lips. His tongue. Made him wait, made him kiss and kiss and kiss as he whined. As she pleasured in his lips on hers. As she ground her crotch against him, dry humped his hard cock through his pants. As he wanted. Wanted HER! Knowing she was his world. Knowing he was now hers.
Eventually, after she had ground again and again against his large cock, straining in his pants, her own lust got the better of her. She let him pull off the tiny witches dress. She let him put his hands on her breasts. Let him slide his fingers across her flesh and moaned as his thumbs slid across her erect nipples. He kissed her, as he touched, with a passion to suggest he might die, might die if he not taste her mouth. His hips thrusting slowly up, pushing the erection against her. She made him wait again, but not as long, luxuriated in the pleasure of his hands. His skin. On her breasts, on her nipples. Pleasure.
He whispered sweet things to her. About her beauty. About how amazing and sexy she was. About how sorry he was that he hadn’t taken her to prom. About how he would make it, and so many other things, up to her. How they should go back home together for thanksgiving and show off to everyone what a great match they were. He would tell anyone who asked that no woman stood up to her. How he loved her. How she was so pretty. So sexy. So smart. He didn’t deserve her.
She smiled, realizing that he had earned a reward. That she had teased him long enough. Though really, she had earned it. Had lusted after it. Had imagined taking him in her mouth for more than a year. Such a vile thing that she wanted so badly to try. To experience, with him, with that cock. So, she whispered to him, that it was his treat. For being a good boy. For understanding how amazing she was and he had smiled like a little boy. An excited puppy. So eager for her touch. So eager for her love.
She gave him his treat. Slid down, wearing nothing but her panties, pulling his pants off. His boxers off. Not even caring at his boy stink. His man smell. Too full of himself to have bathed properly. Too full of himself to even consider the olfactory senses of whatever stupid co-ed he might talk into bed at the party. Her mind whispering, that she was that stupid co-ed.
It didn’t matter. He was hers now. She could fix that in the future, she would make him bathe. Himself and that cock. That amazing cock. Rigid. For her. Wanting. For her. She had never done it before. Oral. Never touched a man’s cock besides his, the night she had rubbed him. But she wanted to so badly. Wanted to know what it felt like in her mouth. Wanted to experience it.
She started with her tongue. Starting where his balls met the shaft, slowly licking her way up, he shuddered in pleasure. Moaned with ecstasy. My queen, he said, as her tongue slid across its head. My goddess, he said, as she tried, and failed, to take him deep, not even getting halfway down his length. My love, he said, as she stroked him in rhythm with her mouth. Longer. Deeper. Her spit lubricating her hand. His words slowly becoming inaudible moans as she worked him.
It was right to have him like this. Right to taste his cock. Right to stroke the pleasure out of him. He was hers. He cried out and his body went rigid, her mouth suddenly filling with a salty, somewhat bitter, phlegmy fluid.
It was disgusting. It was amazing. She had done this to him. She had brought him this pleasure. On her first try. She swallowed, her excitement mixing withe the queasy sense of what she was putting into her stomach. A treat for him, but she sort of liked it. The strange juxtaposition of pleasure and revulsion. Of giving pleasure to someone you love. He deserved it and maybe, if he earned it, she may even do it again. One day. A reward. Something for him to earn. Something for her to look forward to making him earn.
Emma didn’t even consider the tincture. Didn’t even consider what traces of it, taken from his lips, his tongue, might still be in his mouth. How it might mix with the drops of his sexual fluids. She was too heady with her excitement. To great with her power over him. Too overwhelmed by her desire. By what treats she might deserve. What treats she would demand of him.
Thank you. He said. Over and over and over. Kissing her. Not caring that his semen was still on her lips. Not caring one bit in his need to thank her. To worship her. She was pulling on him and he was gently pushing her onto her back. As he pulled her underwear off. As his eyes widened at the sight of her cunt. Shaved bare for him. Shaved ready for him. Wet. Open. Wanting. His mouth slack in stupefied awe. His mouth brimming with words of beauty. Of respect. Of reverence. For her. For her sex.
He knelt. He bowed. He worshiped. He brought his mouth to her, licking at the alter. Another first and better than she could imagine. Better than her fingers. Better than the little vibrator she nervously kept under her bed and only used when her roommate was in the shower.
She hadn’t forgotten his skill with his fingers, with his cock, but she was still surprised that he knew how to do this so well. That he knew just how to slide his tongue. How to cup his lips and pull her clitoris in. That he could match his tongue sliding across her so well to his fingers sliding inside her. Finding that special spot. Finding the spot with his fingers that made her entire body pulse. A spot she had found, and abused, with him in her minds eye, so many times. But it didn’t compare to this, to his fingers. To his mouth.
He ate. He worshiped. He licked.
It was magic. In that moment, as the first of many orgasms hit, as he didn’t slow his tongue, slow his muttered devotions to her, she understood that her childish lust, her childish love, had transcended. Had become actual love. That she loved him. Deeply. Forever. That she wanted him in every way. Wanted to give him everything he sought. That she would be his, happily, as much as he was hers. That she would die if she couldn’t be with him.
She had known he wasn’t a greedy lover. But now, with the taste of his semen and the tincture lingering in her mouth, she laid there for longer than she could count. As he coaxed orgasm, after orgasm, after orgasm out of her. His mouth not stopping, his breath ragged enough that she feared he wasn’t getting enough air. But she let him go and go as her mind fuzzed into pure pleasure. Into darkness. Into fantasies of their life together. Of marriage and children. She whispered words of love. She whispered words of praise. Of worship.
Because he was hers. Because she was his. Her mind filling with the images. How they would invite everyone from high school to the wedding. How they would look on with envy at her. How they would go back to whatever boy they had and fuck, imagining it was her man on top of them. Wishing they could be as blessed as she to have the most perfect man ever.
She realized, that he wouldn’t stop unless she made him. That she needed him inside her. His entire being was focused on her pleasure. But, she couldn’t wait. He deserved it too, the pleasure. He deserved everything and more. This was the appetizer. She had glanced, seen, noticed between his legs, how many orgasms ago? How hard he was. Waiting patiently. How ready he had been. A bead of precum on his cock. This was it. This would seal them together. Forever.
She wanted it worse than she had wanted anything. Wanted it so badly that it was starting to hurt. And from the strain on his face, he felt the same. He needed her. He was hers. She was his. They needed to consummate their love. To glorify their love in front of god by doing what their bodies had been designed to do.
She pulled him onto her, her hand reaching between them, finding his stiff cock, angling it, again without any protection, not caring. Just needing it inside her. Needing it. Needing. And he was fucking her. Thrusting. Grunting. Not whispering now but nearly shouting.
He yelled. He moaned. He cried. I love you. You are my world. I will give you my everything.
And Emma back. She moaned. She cried. She yelled. Fuck me. I love you. Fuck me. Fill me. Everything of me is yours.
It wasn’t like the first time. When he had been slow, careful, showing off his cocksmanship in making her cum before he did. This time was primal. Brutal. Raw. His ass bouncing in the air as he slammed into her. Fast. Hard. Pain but the most perfect pain. Her words turning into nothing but a scream of pleasure. Of feeling split open by his cock and the brutal force of his taking her, but in the best possible way.
His orgasm set her off or her orgasm set him off. Either way. They were both crying, almost in tears, as he filled her, cumming deep inside her, cumming together. Whispering and crying that they loved each other. That they were beautiful. That they were perfect.
Hours passed. They fucked. They fucked. They fucked.
She road on top of his cock as he pleasured her breasts. Screaming out as his hands slid on her increasingly tender flesh.
She sucked the fluids from his cock as he called her his queen. Swallowing yet another load of his semen, his reward and hers, as he praised her.
He ate from her sloppy abused cunt as she called him her god. Licked her to orgasms, his fingers in her ass. She still didn’t like it, but that made it better. A gift to him.
He took her from behind, pulling at her hair as she promised him her life. Her soul. Not even caring when someone in the hall shouted for them to shut up. Pounded on his door.
She explored his body, her fingers sliding into places he had never imagined letting a person touch. Her fingers sliding into him the way she had let him slide his into hers. Glorying in it. Find that he had his own spot, deep inside his ass, that made his body flare in pleasure. Pressing on it while stroking him as he promised her that he couldn’t live without her.
She let him slide that massive cock into her ass, so large, crying in pain, as he fucked her. Hating how it felt, but loving that he wanted it. Loving that she was giving him a part of her that she didn’t want to give. Loving him. The pain was worth his pleasure.
Hours passed. Time passed. Days? There was only sex. Only fuck. Only skin. Only whispers and cries of devotion. Ignoring the door. Ignoring the phone. Ignoring everything that wasn’t their love. That wasn’t their devotion.
Even as they grew week. There was no time to eat. No time to drink. No time to sleep. Barely taking time to piss into empty bottles of booze and leaving them in the corner.
There was just sex. There was just orgasms. There was just love. There was just promises of the future.
He was hers.
She was his.
Their was just love. Phsyical, emotional, spiritual.
And they both knew that the pain of being separated would kill them. Which was why they didn’t answer the door. Which is why they continued, week with hunger, to try to fuck, as the police broke it down. To save them. Pull them apart. As they screamed. As they begged. As the cried.
Because he was hers.
And she, was his.
Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/q8ry28/because_youre_mine_mfmind_controlerotic_horror
This deserves more upvotes! 💜