Yes, you're not stupid

You're flat on your back on the backseat, your pale white legs hanging out of the open car door, your blue shoes dangling in the humid summer air. The position is completely exposed, completely vulnerable—anyone could see you like this, could see what you're doing.

Darrell stands over you, his dark body silhouetted against the afternoon light streaming through the open door.

"You want it?" he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

You feel the head of his cock—thick, dark, glistening from your saliva—pressing against your entrance. It feels so good. You want that swollen cock inside your fertile body. You in fact need it.

You nod, but as you do, a voice in your head screams loudly for all thats it is worth. No, no, no, please just ask for a condom, the male voice in you begs. Your head seems to burn as it shouts and begs, until finally with your heart pounding, you say "Darrell, I'm not on birth control."

He looks back at you quizzically, as if you had said something entirely alien to him, as he presses himself between your spread legs.