The trap house always win

"Yeah, I'll swing by," Darrell says, his tone easy and casual. "Check it out for a bit."

Nelson's grin widens. "Bring Joan with you. Let her meet the crew properly."

"Nah, man," Darrell says, and there's something firm in his voice—possessive, protective even. "You stick to those Spanish girls you usually bring around."

Nelson laughs—a genuine, appreciative sound—and his eyes slide over you one more time. Slowly. Deliberately. Taking in your legs, your shorts, your chest, your flushed face. But this time there's something else in his gaze: respect. Acknowledgment. Like he's recognizing that you're off-limits, that Darrell has claimed you in a way that matters.

"Alright, alright," Nelson says, still grinning. "I hear you, man. She's all yours." He gives Darrell one last clap on the shoulder. "Catch you later, D. Nice meeting you, Joan."

"You too," you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nelson walks away, and Darrell's hand tightens on your hip. "Come on," he says, guiding you toward the stairs.

You walk together, his arm still around you, and you're acutely aware of all the eyes still watching.

And then you feel it.

His hand slides from your hip to your ass, squeezing once, and then his fingers slip beneath the hem of your skirt. You stiffen, your breath catching, but he doesn't stop. His fingers push past the thin fabric of your underwear, and suddenly you feel his touch—direct, invasive, impossible to ignore.

One finger circles your sphincter, pressing lightly, massaging the tight ring of muscle with slow, deliberate movements. Another hand—his other hand—slides around to your front, his fingers slipping between your legs, finding your vulva. He rubs you there, his fingers sliding through your wetness, circling your clit with practiced ease.

Oh my God.

Your face burns. You can feel the heat spreading from your cheeks down your neck, your entire body flushing with shame and arousal. You try to keep walking, try to act normal, but your legs feel weak, your knees threatening to buckle with every step.

And they're watching.

You can see them—men on the balconies, men in the parking lot—and you know they can tell. They can see your flushed face, the way your body is pressed against Darrell's, the way you're walking stiffly, awkwardly. They know what's happening. They know his hands are inside your clothes, touching you, violating you in public.

They can see,, you think desperately. They know what he's doing to me.

But Darrell doesn't care. He keeps walking, his fingers never stopping, circling and rubbing and pressing. His finger pushes slightly against your sphincter, not penetrating but threatening to, and you feel yourself clench involuntarily, your pussy getting wetter despite everything.

Stop it, you tell yourself. Stop getting turned on by this.

But you can't. Your body is responding, your hips shifting slightly to give him better access, your thighs spreading just a little wider. You're walking through an apartment complex full of men with Darrell's fingers inside your clothes, and you're wet.

A man on the second-floor balcony whistles as you pass, and you hear laughter from somewhere behind you. Your face burns hotter, your breath coming faster, and Darrell's fingers press harder, rubbing your clit in tight circles that make your knees weak.

"Almost there, baby," Darrell murmurs, his voice low and amused.

You reach the stairs—just a few steps up to the first-floor walkway—and you have to concentrate to climb them without stumbling. His fingers are still inside your shorts, still touching you, and every step makes them shift, pressing and rubbing in ways that make you gasp.

Finally—finally—you reach his door. Apartment 104. He pulls his hand out of your shorts, and you feel the sudden absence like a loss, your body aching for more even as your mind screams at you to get control of yourself.

Darrell unlocks the door and pushes it open, and the moment you step inside—the moment the door closes behind you—he's on you.

He pushes you hard against the wall, his body pinning yours, and his mouth crashes against yours. The kiss is aggressive, demanding, his tongue pushing past your lips before you can even process what's happening. You stiffen for just a second—surprised, caught off guard—but then you feel it.

His cock.

Hard and thick, pressing against you through his jeans. He grinds against you, his hips rolling, and the pressure against your pussy makes you moan into his mouth.

Oh God.

Your hands come up instinctively, gripping his shoulders, and you shift your hips—tilting them, spreading your legs slightly to give him better access. You're actively participating now, grinding back against him, feeling his hard length pressing against your clit through the layers of fabric between you.

He groans into your mouth, his hands gripping your ass, pulling you harder against him. The wall is rough against your back, the texture of the paint scratching through your thin tank top, but you don't care. All you care about is the feeling of his cock rubbing against you, the friction building, the heat pooling between your legs.

But you can't stop. Your body has taken over, your hips moving on their own, seeking more pressure, more friction. You moan again, louder this time, and Darrell's grip on your ass tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh.

"Fuck," he mutters against your mouth, his voice rough. "You're so fucking wet already, aren't you?"

You are. You can feel it—the wetness soaking through your underwear, making your shorts damp. You're dripping, and he knows it.

"Yes," you gasp, the word escaping before you can stop it. "Yes, I'm wet."

He laughs—a low, satisfied sound—and grinds harder against you, his cock pressing directly against your clit through your clothes. The sensation makes you cry out, your nails digging into his shoulders, your legs trembling.

This is insane, you think. I just met him. I don't even know him.

But your body doesn't care. Your body wants this. Needs this.

And as Darrell's mouth moves to your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his cock still grinding against you, you realize with a sinking, shameful certainty that you're not going to stop him.