*Hank was being a responsible dad, letting his teen sons throw house parties in the basement. Then, one night, one of their scantily clad schoolgirl classmates stumbled drunk outside his office door.*
———————
Hank didn’t want to be just another suburban parent imposing rules that were blind to the inevitabilities of kids, much less to teens. He figured himself practical in all things, and that included the realities of teenagers. Teens would experiment—they’d drink, they’d try some drugs, they’d have some sex. Although it might make his sons roll their eyes to hear him say it, he wasn’t a teenager that long ago. He remembers all those urges and how poorly his schoolmates’ parents handled them.
So he decided to make a deal with his sons.
“You can throw a party here. Keep it to the basement and the guest rooms off the basement. I don’t know about any alcohol, and I don’t know about any drugs. But there will be no drugs other than pot, and anyone who drinks gives up their car keys and spends the night. Do not let anyone get too drunk. And you will clean it up to spotless in the morning. Understand?”
His sons agreed. And, now that his eldest was a senior, they’d been throwing parties around once a month. They’d kept their end of the bargain, too. Even when someone puked, the boys scrubbed it away and shampooed the carpets. But there had been little puking, and not once had someone been dangerously sick to Hank’s knowledge.
Hank’s deal seemed to have made him popular with his sons and their friends, who seemed to regard him with the envied awe of the “cool parent.” But it did not make him popular with the other parents, and that included his wife. He only heard about other parents’ rumblings secondhand from his wife; no one had the balls to confront him. But his wife, who did not prize practical realities over handed-down norms, had been giving him a cold shoulder and quite an earful.
“Why do they have to drink? They’re kids, Henry!” She was exasperated each time she knew a party was coming. And she let Hank know it.
“They’re going to drink anyway. This way they’re safe. We know where they are.” He was tired of this conversation. It went the same way every time. She ranted, he fired off the same cool talking points, and that was that.
But that wasn’t that; his wife’s cold-shouldering extended into the bedroom. They’d been married a while, to be sure, but they used to fuck at least a couple times a week still. Now, it had been a good two months.
Save for his party policy, it’s not like Hank gave his wife much to complain about. He did his fair share of chores around the house. And, while time comes for us all, but—for lack of a better phrase—Hank kept it tight. He ran most mornings and kept his weight routines in the home gym downstairs. His wife appreciated his appearance; even in her withdrawn funks, she eyed up his arms, his shoulders, and most certainly the impressive bulge in his boxer briefs. She even seemed titillated by the extra grey in his beard. Nevertheless, she always had a headache or was just “too tired” to have sex.
If this was the price of being a responsible parent, Hank thought, then so be it. Stubborn as Hank was, he held conviction in the correctness of giving his sons and their friends a safer way to do what they’d do anyway.
———————
So another Saturday party had rolled around, and Hank found himself in the home office, embraced by only his ergonomic desk chair. Hank’s wife was at her sister’s place a few towns over (again), so it wasn’t like they could have their own date night. With nothing else to do, and not tired enough to go to bed early, Hank turned his time to his career. Normally he’d review his more junior colleagues’ work product early on Monday morning, but he had the time. And, with the sound construction of the house, he could only barely hear the thump of the party music beneath him.
Work was good for Hank. It gave him solvable tasks. He couldn’t solve his wife, and he couldn’t solve the outlet his libido needed. Jerking off only went so far. So work it was.
———————
It was the clunking sound outside his office that pulled Hank from professional concentration, and it was the female-voiced “Oh shit. Oh no,” that ensured Hank would investigate. He rose from the chair and opened his home office door.
There, kneeling in front of him, was a girl he’d seen before. One of his sons’ schoolmates, no doubt. Young, pretty, probably one of the prettier girls in the grade. Not that he’d given her much thought before. But he’d never seen her dressed so revealingly. Her thin, pink tank top left most of her cleavage on display. This was true from any angle, most likely, but from above her, he could practically see her nipples. Her jean shorts seemed just as risqué with the amount of thigh exposed. And they were juicy thighs. The sort he appreciated on a woman.
She looked up at him, her pupils dilated. “I’m so sorry! I just wanted some seltzer.” She sounded meek and weary, and Hank noticed some puffiness in her face. She’d been crying. On the floor, leaking into the Turkish rug, was a fallen LaCroix can, burbling its contents into the mostly-red fibers.
Hank took a moment to respond. His eyes jumped between her face, the spilled can, and her tits. Then back to her face. Her lips were pink. Glossy. Her irises almost sparkled.
“It’s fine. Come on, we’ll get some paper towels and clean it up.” He reached for her forearm to help her up, but as soon as she started to her bare feet, she slipped and fell on her bottom with a thud. Now Hank could see just how small those jean shorts were. If she were wearing any panties smaller than a g-string, he would’ve seen it at her crotch. The denim just barely kept her decent.
She started crying. “I’m so dizzy. I’m sorry. I need to lay down. I think someone put something in my drink.”Her arms were behind her for support. It was like she was puffing her tits out. He heard her words, but their import was dulled by the sight of her. She seemed ok, he thought. Not obviously drugged. Just drunk and afraid.
This time, Hank reached for her with both hands and pulled her up. Whether it was the gym or their relative size differences, he was easily able to get her to her bare feet. Her toenails were painted pink, the same pink as her tank top. The polish was just barely starting to chip.
Hank didn’t bring her to an upstairs guest room. He brought her instead to the leather couch in his office. It was the closest surface she could lay on comfortably, he reasoned. And his office door was heavy. He closed it behind them.
“Lay down here. On your side.” He told her, looming over her. She lowered herself, stumbled, and ended up with her ass nestled into the corner of the couch and the armrest. She drew her long legs up into a seated fetal pose, knees crooked, and looked up at him.
“Please don’t tell my parents. Please.” She sounded terrified. Hank sighed.
“I won’t. How much did you have to drink?”
“I don’t know. My friends kept bringing them to me. And now I’m so dizzy and I feel out of it and I just want it to stop!”
“Have you ever had this much to drink before?”
She paused. “I don’t think so.”
Hank walked to his office bar cart and poured a glass of water from the ewer. He brought it to her. She raised it to her mouth, with trembling hands, and began to drink. Hank cradled the base of the glass with one of his hands, not wanting a repeat of the hallway incident. When she had finished most of its contents, he took the glass from her and set it down on his desk.
“You’ll be fine soon.” He sat down next to her on the couch. From this position, looking towards her, he could see how her jean shorts were baggy at the waist, how her rounded ass jutted out. Waist too small for shorts that fit her ass. Hank swallowed.
He faced forward so he wasn’t looking at her. “I remember the first time I got too drunk at a party,” he said. “The room was spinning so much I thought I’d been placed in NASA training. But it went away. My head hurt like I’d been smacked with a bat the next day, but I was fine. You’ll be fine, too.”
He turned to her. She looked at him, her lower lip trembling. Still so glossy. The sort of lips any man would want his cock between. He hated thinking about her this way.
“O-ok,” she chimed. She seemed so small. Her shoulders looked biteable. Hank felt his cock stirring in his shorts.
So he stood up and put the throw blanket from the back of the couch over her. “Just rest now.”
She nodded, slinked her body into the corner of the couch, and closed her eyes.
“Jesus,” Hank murmured. He went to his bar cart and poured himself a tumbler of scotch. More than he usually poured these days. He took a full swig, letting the warm, sweet burn of the stuff warm him.
———————
Hank watched her there on his couch. He couldn’t stop looking at her. He hadn’t moved an inch in his office chair, and he was on his third scotch. He just stared at her.
The blanket had fallen below her tits as she sat there, breathing just loudly enough to hear the soft rush of her airflow. Those full, perky tits barely moved in her flimsy pink top.
Hank was grateful he only had sons. Is this what girls wore these days, he wondered. Her tiny top looked like pajamas. It was practically translucent. He could clearly see her hard nipples poking against it.
And it made his dick hard. Here he was, a grown man, sitting in his desk chair, gazing at some pretty teen, half-passed out and dressed like a whore.
Whore. His mind seized on that word. It was just clothes, and he was a feminist, he thought. She should wear what she wants free of judgments. But—and maybe it was the scotch talking—didn’t she know what clothes like this did to men? To libidinous teen boys? How it put her on display like a prize at auction? Poor judgment, coming to get drunk at some party dressed in and outfit that might as well have screamed for attention to her perky chest and her nipples.
And what must her ass have looked like from behind! Those shorts just barely covered her. He remembered looking down the back of her waistband, how rounded her ass looked. Did she come here looking to get bent over? He knew that teens had sex. That’s why he relegated his sons’ parties to the basement and to the adjoining guest rooms. He even made his sons keep condoms there. “I don’t want to know,” he told them when he gave them the condom boxes. But it had been a general notion to him.
Now, he’d trained in on the specifics of this hot piece of ass, baring her tits, getting on her hands and knees, and beckoning some lucky schoolboy to take her for a ride.
Hank licked his lips. He wanted to peel that pink top down her shoulders, down her chest. He wanted to expose her puckered nipples. To taste them, to feel their suppleness on his tongue as he suctioned her tits, to gnaw them between his teeth as she moaned. Like a slut. They always moan like sluts when you suck on their tits just right.
These thoughts had his cock painfully hard. He had only been wearing gym shorts, which made it easy to rub the length of his dick while he ogled her tits, her shoulders, her waist. Her curves popped out from her body. Like she was made for anything he’d want to do with her.
Hank hadn’t felt like this in years. This rising, lupine feeling. The sexual need to devour. He needed to have her. To feel those glistening, pink lips around his cock. He bet she sucked a mean dick, looked great taking a load of cum to her face and tits.
Hank reached into his waistband and pushed his shorts down, allowing his rock-hard dick to spring free. He was already dripping precum, which made it easy for his hand to start gliding up and down his circumcised length. She was right there. So vulnerable. A vulnerable whore.
Vulnerable whore. He loved the sound of that. Her taut body was on display for him. Whether she really had been drugged or whether she was just too drunk, she had no fight in her.
He rolled his chair over to the couch. Still stroking his dick, Hank leaned in and smelled her neck. She smelled sweet. Like fruity shampoo and pretty, drunk bitch. No part of his brain provided commentary this time.
Pretty, drunk bitch. Fuck, the scent and sight of her made him need her. Vulnerable whore. She deserved whatever happened to her. And he saved her! Brought her here. It was only right he got to claim his prize.
He reached out and loosely clasped his fingers around her neck, still tugging up and down on the turgid length of his cock. He felt her pulse. How warm she was. She was still asleep. Her breathing hadn’t changed at all.He rubbed down her neck, her collarbone. His palm found her tits. His cock spewed even more precum as he clasped her right breast, then her left. Each was big enough to fill up his hand. And they sat up so proudly on her body.
He squeezed his hand and drew it back from her so that his fingertips converged around her left nipple. He pinched it. It was so hard.
“Mmff,” she moaned. Hank froze for a moment, but she showed no signs of waking. Hank sneered at his helpless little plaything.
“You pretty slut,” he muttered, now pinching her right nipple as he worked dick in his other hand. “You should know better. Don’t your parents teach you anything? That’s ok. I’ll teach you.” He reached up for her shoulder strap and moved it down her arm. Then the other. Hank was going to see those tits.
He scooped her breasts out of her top. They were beautiful. He bore his teeth in an eager smile at the sight. Not like her top left much to the imagination, but he loved her pretty, puckered nipples. Her bare titflesh felt so warm, soft, and vital under his palm.
Hank retracted his hand from the girl’s body and wetted the fingertips with his dribbling precum. He reached back for her, working his cockjuices into her nipples. He was marking her. She was his prize. He found her, and he got to do what he wanted with her.
It felt so good to stroke his dick while molesting her like this. He wondered how many other men had felt her up when she was passed out and helpless. Teasing lightweight like her . . . he couldn’t have been the first. But she was his now.
Hank leaned into her neck as he felt her up. He kissed her neck and nibbled on her. Yeah, this is what I need, he thought. His teeth grazed her flesh as he squeezed her precum-tagged tits and pumped his dick.
“That’s Daddy’s good girl,” he whispered. “Just sleep it off. Daddy will take care of you.” Hank allowed his teeth to sink into the crook where her neck met her shoulder.
“Oooh,” she moaned. Hank froze. Had he woken her? So what if you have, said a voice in his head. She’s a dumb, drunk schoolgirl. She appeared still to be asleep, but no matter what, Hank knew, she won’t remember a fucking thing.He kissed her again as he palmed and squeezed her luscious teen jugs. “Oh mmm,” she moaned, again. This time, she seemed to tilt her head away from him. As if to expose her neck. As if to let the wolf feed on the supple doe.
And feed Hank would.
“You tasty slut,” Hank growled between bites. He moved his hand, the one not tugging on his thick cock, down to the inlet curve of her waist to clutch her flared hip. “So sweet.” His hand snaked into her waistband and found her ass. It was so round. So soft.
Lower and lower his hand went as he sucked her shoulder. He spread her. His fingertip grazed her asshole. The slight ridge.
“Ooh,” she groaned. Hank leered. She likes that, he thought. So he teased her little puckered hole. Gently, much more gently than he bit her, and certainly far more gently than he was beating off his dick. “Mmff yes,” she muttered.
She wasn’t just a lightweight pricktease, Hank thought. She was an anal-loving whore. He needed to know how much she enjoyed it.
He reached his hand around, never taking it out of her shorts, never letting up on his own cock. She felt too good. Her bare hips. Her thighs. He gave her thigh a squeeze. So thick for such a young thing. He loved that.
His fingertips found her pussy. It was hairless. The whore shaves, he thought. Dirty whore. Just as he thought, she was drenched. He hadn’t even poked into her cuntlips, but just from rubbing up and down her slit, he could feel how much was gushing out of her.
Hank yanked his hand from her shorts and brought it to his mouth, tasting her sweet pussy. He had always loved eating his wife out, not to mention all of the girlfriends who had come before her. But this girl was something else. The floral-syrupy musk of her had his cock on the brink.
He needed to feel more.
Hank’s hand dove back to her jean shorts. This time he undid the front button to allow himself easier access to her body. He inched his fingers down, over her slit, to her drooling opening. He dipped his index finger inside, slowly, gently, wanting to savor the feeling of her pussy swallowing his digit.
“Yesss,” she half-whispered, half-moaned. She liked it. His pretty prey liked this. Emboldened, and now edging his big dick in his other hand, Hank sunk his finger in deeper, crooking his upturned finger to rub her as the sticky-soft pussyflesh welcomed his assault. Then, with a second, Hank sank in again.
Once more drawing his hand back from her body, Hank admired how much sticky girljuice was webbed between his fingers. He grabbed her tits, one then the other, rubbing in her sweet gush.
“Daddy’s wanted these tits all night,” he muttered, before leaning back into her to suck those sweet, full breasts.
It was heaven. He raked his tits around her nipples, enjoying how the turgid, slightly rippled flesh felt on his tongue. The taste of her body, the taste of her pussy. It was too good.
His fingers found her pussy again. He pumped two in and out of her, like he’d done on his dates years ago when he wanted to prove to them he knew a woman’s body. He was so close to cumming in his hand as he sucked her tits. He wanted her to cum, too. To know she should always come to him. He withdrew his face from her so he could watch hers twist in the inevitable orgasm he was bringing her towards. He wanted the sweetness of her in his eyes as he shot his load.
“Oh fuuuck.” Her eyes were still gentle-closed. He watched her tits jiggle as his fingers worked her pussy. He was so close. And he felt her silky cuntwalls contracting on his fingers. He knew she was close, too.
Then her eyes popped open. Hank froze. His dick twitched.Her head turned side to side and she looked around the room. “Where-what,” she breathed. Then she looked up at him. Slowly, he saw her gaze shift down his left arm to where it was between her legs. As if she didn’t believe it, she lightly squeezed her thighs. He felt her soft thighflesh squish around his hand. She looked back up at him.
“Were you a-touchin’ me,” she slurred. He was looming over her, like a wave that could crash down at any moment.
But Hank was on autopilot. “Oh, honey,” he hissed, we’re going to do more than just some touching.” He pulled his fingers out of her pussy, making her grunt, and hooked his fingers on her waistband, beginning to draw them down and off her body.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/v0p24q/i_think_someone_put_something_in_my_drink_part_1
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