Have a taste of Ingo's drink

The cold seeping through your skin-tight bodysuit decides the matter. You press your lips to the rim of the clay pot and tip it back. Body-warmed liqueur spills into your mouth. It is sweet, but not so sweet that it can hide the sharp bite of the ****.

It's much stronger than the drinks you and your friends at Paisley have charmed from lads when you sneak out to the pub. Your mouth and throat are instantly warmed and as you swallow that warmth seeps into your belly and suffuses your entire body. You take another long sip and pass the pot back to Ingo. He stoppers it and tucks it back into his heavy wool cloak. Something about his smile is...why are you so tired?

Your limbs are suddenly very heavy and your eyes can hardly stay open. You feel a momentary flash of terror, but you are so sleepy you cannot keep awake at all. You slump against Ingo's shoulder, muttering something about needing to sleep. Darkness closes in around you. For a moment you are like a ghost, floating out of your body so that you can see yourself, head leaned against the shoulder of the filthy peasant. You watch yourself for some time. You watch Ingo slide a hand down to your bum and give it a squeeze, but you cannot feel it.

You are outraged that this filthy scoundrel would take advantage, but you can do nothing. It's as if you are watching a television show. You've heard of such things before. Astral projection. You never thought you posessed this talent.

You awaken back in your body some time later. The clarity of your astral projection, and your anger from before, is forgotten amid the woozy feeling of the ****. It is still dark and the cart is turning off the road into a barely-visible path.

"Where...," you struggle to lift your head and ask the question. "Where we going?"

"Road was washed out by the storm," Ingo says with a grin. "Go back to sleep, deary. I'll see you to safety."

You thank him dreamily and rest your cheek against his shoulder once more as sleep swallows you up again. When you next awaken the cart has stopped. You are surrounded by dense forest. Ahead of you is a tiny, ramshackle cabin, its shingles draped with moss. A burning lantern hangs beside the doorway. You squint and try to see it more clearly, but your vision is hazy and sleep beckons. Ingo appears at your side.

"The storm is too bad," he says and he lifts you out of the seat. Your head lolls back and your long, crimson locks dangle over his arm as he carries you towards the cabin. "We will stay the night here to avoid the rain and continue in the morning."

Funny, you think, as he carries you across the threshold and into the dark cabin, you can't hear any storm. He lays you down upon a musty bed. Ingo's warty face appears above you. His tongue, like a gray mollusc, runs over the decaying stumps of his teeth. You feel something tugging at you and dreamily look down. Ingo's fingers are fumbling with the clasps of your corset.

"What are...what are you doing?"

"You're all wet," says Ingo, releasing the last of the clasps. "I need to get you out of your clothes."

He lifts the corset aside. Your big, vinyl-clad tits shift. Ingo licks his lips and reaches for the pull-ring zipper at your throat, then withdraws his hand. He reaches into his cloak and drags out the clay pot full of soothing liqueur. He uncorks it and holds it to your lips.

"Have another drink, deary. It'll help you get to sleep."