Stacy wakes up on the couch

"Huh, wha..." she groggily spat out as she regained consciousness. The bright TV was blurred and her ears were ringing. As she sat up, she rubbed her eyes, trying to figure out where she was, and what had happened. All she remembered before passing out was pretending not to look at "Mack's stupid... Mack!? What the hell are you doing, you fucking weirdo?" she exclaimed, backing up to the other side of the couch in suprise. She was sleeping right next to him! Her feet were almost touching him, for goodness sake.

"Hey you, you're finally awake. Heh," he chuckled, swirling around his drink like an expensive wine glass. Stacy couldn't quite understand why, but she felt it somehow, that Mack wasn't at fault for whatever it was that happened to her. Still, she had to make sure he wasn't hiding anything, or did anything while she was asleep. "Listen here you disgus... ting..." She didn't continue her berating, not for any reason or because of anything, she just... stopped. It was like she didn't want to call him the names she always did. She grabbed a couch pillow, but she didn't even feel like tossing it at him.

She thought of what she usually did to him, and to all the other outcasts she encountered throught her day, and it felt... wrong somehow. As though there was something missing, somthing else from that she wanted to happen, something that never did happen. The usual satisfaction she got from teasing and mocking people, the kind she usually felt when she reminisced those times, was replaced with a hollow feeling of... guilt, maybe? It certainly wasn't something she was used to feeling.

"What's wrong Stacy, feeling a little sleepy still? Guilty? Lost in thought?" Mack looked over at her with a smug expression on his face. "Pull it together, loser~." He made sure to enunciate 'loser' as though it would have some kind of effect, and to Stacy's suprise, it did. Her breathing hitched a little and she felt her cheeks flush. "What did you just call me, you... you..." She tried to sputter out a response, but once again, she couldn't bring herself to call him names.

Mack, however, had no such problems. "Awww, is poor pathetic Stacy-Wacey still tuckered out," he chortled in a mockingly concerned tone. "Come on nerd. Moron. Idiot. Say something, you annoying bitch." He was relentless in his delivery of his insults. His aggressiveness only seemed to make it worse when each crude remark felt like it was seeping directly into her core. Not in a bad way, like she often intended for her victims, but in a way that felt good. Too good.

Each and every remark shot though her, aiming directly to her cunt. She held the pillow between her legs and her chest, clutching it as tight as she could. She had to bite her lip because she wasn't sure she could stop herself from moaning. Her blush got an even deeper shade of red and her thighs clenched together. Her breathing got deep and she shivered in pleasure at Mack calling her a bitch.

Deep within her, next to a slowing rising fire of arousal, was a radiating joy, like a wish had just been granted. It was then it finally clicked.