Earn the weed

His degrading was only making this worse, but turning your new body on so much that when he pulls you to your feet by your hair, you're already aching for whatever comes next, and he sees it in your eyes, that hunger you can't hide, and he smiles that cruel, knowing smile as he pushes you back against the wall, his body pressing into yours, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of your dress as he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear, "But tonight, fat tits" he slaps one of them," I want more than just that pretty mouth," and the words send a jolt through you, equal parts terror and anticipation, because you know what he means, you've known since you walked through his door that this was where it was heading, and he doesn't wait for your answer, his hand sliding down your body, fingers finding the hem of your knickers and hiking them to the side , his thumb pressing against you through your underwear, feeling the wetness there, and he chuckles darkly, "Yeah, you're ready for me, aren't you? ," and you hate how right he is, hate the way your hips tilt into his touch, the way your breath catches as he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and pulls them down your thighs, leaving you exposed and trembling.

He steps back, a lazy smirk spreading across his face as he settles back into the couch, leaning back against the cushions with an air of ownership, his cock standing rigid and slick from your mouth, and he pats his thigh once, a command more than an invitation, "Come on bitch, sit," he says, his voice low and rough, and you hesitate for just a heartbeat, your body trembling with the weight of what you're about to do, but the pull is too strong, the ache between your legs unbearable, and you move toward him on unsteady legs, lowering yourself down, feeling the heat of his skin against your inner thighs as you hover for a moment before sinking onto him, the stretch of him filling you making you gasp, your hands bracing on his chest as he grips your hips, guiding you down until he's buried to the hilt, and he groans, a low, satisfied sound, his head falling back as he lets you adjust to the fullness of him inside you, "That's it," he breathes, "take it all, you know you want to."

You couldn't believe how incredible this felt, as he held your fat folds and made you start to ride, his hands gripping your hips with bruising force, guiding your rhythm, forcing you to take him deeper with each slow, deliberate rock of your body, and the sensation was overwhelming, a pleasure so sharp and consuming it drowned out every shred of dignity you had left, your head falling back, a moan escaping your lips before you could stop it, and he laughed, that cruel, knowing sound, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your waist as he watched you fall apart on top of him, "That's it, let everyone hear what a whore you are," he hissed, and you hated the way his words made you clench around him, hated the way your body moved faster, desperate for more, as he reached up and wrapped a hand around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your vision swim, pulling you down into the dark, blissful surrender you had been fighting since the moment you walked through his door.

You couldn't help but feel shame, yesterday you were a skinny dude in his 20s, now a fat married woman in her 40s riding a bbc, and the dissonance of it all made your head spin as you bounced on his lap, your heavy breasts jiggling obscenely with each downward thrust, your thighs spreading wide to accommodate his girth, this body pretty much moving with a mind of its own, the soft roll of your belly pressing against his abs, the way your hair fell in tangled waves around your face as you surrendered to the rhythm he set, and somewhere in the depths of your mind, the man you used to be screamed in protest, but the woman you were now just moaned louder, grinding down harder, letting the pleasure consume the last remnants of who you had been before Darren had claimed you.

And as you rode him, your hips growing more frantic, Darren leaned forward, his lips brushing your ear, and his voice was a low, mocking whisper against your skin, "You know, I bet your husband's sitting at home right now, maybe watching TV, maybe thinking about what a good wife he has, how lucky he is," and he punctuated the words with a sharp upward thrust that made you gasp, "while you're here, on my cock, dripping all over me like a bitch in heat," and the shame of it, the sheer, obscene betrayal, crashed over you even as your body clenched around him, betraying you further, and he laughed softly, feeling it, his hand tightening in your hair as he pulled your head back, forcing you to look at him, "Tell me, fat tits do you think he'd still love you if he could see you now? If he knew how much you love being a whore for me?" and the question hung in the air, unanswerable, as you continued to move, your mind a storm of guilt and pleasure, unable to stop, unwilling to stop, because the truth of it was written in every desperate roll of your hips.

And you feel it building, that telltale tightening in his body, the way his breath catches and his grip on your hips turns bruising as he drives up into you with renewed urgency, his head falling back against the couch cushions as a low growl rumbles in his chest, "Fuck, I'm gonna cum bitch" he grunts, his voice strained and ragged, and he looks up at you through heavy-lidded eyes, that cruel smirk still playing at the corners of his mouth, "You earned that weed, fat tits," he rasps, and the words send a shiver through you, a perverse sense of accomplishment flooding your veins as he bucks beneath you, his hands sliding up to grip your heavy breasts, thumbs circling your nipples as he groans your borrowed name, Amber, the first time you'd even heard it, the sound of it wrong on his lips but somehow right in this moment, and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, spilling into you with a guttural moan that seems to shake the very air around you, his body shuddering beneath yours as he holds you tight against him, forcing you to take every last drop, and when he finally stills, his chest heaving, he looks up at you with that lazy, satisfied grin, reaching over to the coffee table to grab a small baggie, tossing it onto your lap, "There you go, whore," he murmurs, "payment for services rendered."

You dismount him with trembling legs, the sudden emptiness making you feel hollow and used, and as you stand there naked and dripping, he scoops the baggie of weed and chucks it at you.

"Get out, fat tits," he says, already reaching for his phone, not even bothering to look at you, " I got another client, till next time," and the words hang in the air like a promise, a threat, a lifeline all at once, and you find yourself scrambling for your clothes, pulling them on with shaking hands, the man inside you screaming to run, to never come back, but the woman you are now, the woman who just rode him like her life depended on it, knows with a sickening certainty that you will be back, that you'll be counting the hours until he calls, because the shame and the pleasure have tangled themselves into something you can no longer untangle, and as you stumble out into the night, the baggie clutched in your sweaty palm, you already feel the absence of him like a withdrawal, a craving that no amount of weed will ever satisfy.

And the cold air hits you like a slap, cutting through the fog of heat and shame, and you freeze on the pavement outside his building, your hand still clutching the baggie, as it all comes crashing down on you,what you just did, what you let him do, what you wanted him to do, and you feel it then, a slow, warm trickle sliding down your inner thigh, his cum, still leaking from you, a physical brand of your betrayal, and you stand there, trembling, the man you used to be screaming obscenities in your head while the woman you are now presses her thighs together, not to stop the flow, but to savor the last remnants of his heat, and a sob catches in your throat, half shame, half something far more terrifying, because even as you wipe at the wetness with a shaking hand, you're already imagining the next time, already craving the weight of his contempt, and you know, with a clarity that cuts deeper than the cold, that you've crossed a line you can never uncross, that this borrowed body has claimed you completely, and that the man named Darren now owns a piece of your soul you'll never get back.