Only the most obvious

His hands are everywhere—sliding up your sides, gripping your waist, squeezing your ass. His mouth is hot and demanding on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, claiming you. You try to pull back, try to catch your breath, but he follows you, pressing you harder against the wall, his body a solid weight pinning you in place.

"Darrell—" you gasp, but the word is swallowed by another kiss, deeper this time, more aggressive.

His hips grind against yours in a steady rhythm, and you can feel the hard ridge of his cock through his jeans, pressing right against your clit through the thin fabric of your shorts. The friction is maddening, sending jolts of pleasure through your body with every thrust.

Stop, you tell yourself. You need to stop this.

But your hips are already moving, shifting to give him better access, grinding back against him despite every rational thought screaming at you to push him away. Your body has its own agenda, and it's winning.

"That's it," Darrell murmurs against your mouth, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Grind that pussy on me. Show me how bad you want it."

You moan—a ****, needy sound that makes your face burn with shame. Your nails dig into his shoulders, not to push him away but to pull him closer, to anchor yourself as the pleasure builds.

What am I doing? you think frantically. What the fuck am I doing?

But you already know the answer. You're giving in. You're letting this happen.

His hands slide under your tank top, rough palms against your bare skin, and you shiver at the contact. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and hungry.

"Take it off," he says, his voice low and commanding.

You hesitate for just a second—one brief moment where your mind tries to reassert control—but then his hands are tugging at the hem of your shirt, and you're lifting your arms, helping him pull it over your head.

The cool air hits your skin, and you're suddenly very aware of how exposed you are, standing there in just your bra and shorts. Darrell's eyes rake over you, lingering on your chest, and you feel your nipples harden under his gaze.

"Fuck," he mutters, reaching behind you to unhook your bra with practiced ease. "Look at you."

The bra falls away, and you instinctively move to cover yourself, but Darrell catches your wrists, pinning them against the wall above your head.

"Don't," he says, his eyes locked on your breasts. "Let me see."

You're breathing hard now, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and you can see the way his gaze follows the movement. Your breasts are small but firm, your nipples pale pink and already hard, and the way he's looking at them—like he wants to devour them—makes your pussy clench.

He releases your wrists and lowers his head, and then his mouth is on your breast, hot and wet, his tongue circling your nipple before he sucks it into his mouth.

"Oh god," you gasp, your hands flying to his head, cradling it against your chest.

The sensation is overwhelming—his mouth sucking hard, his tongue flicking over the sensitive peak, his teeth grazing just enough to make you whimper. You look down and see him there, this old ebony skinned man with his mouth on your pale breast, and the image is so obscene, so wrong, that it makes you even wetter.

He's old enough to be my father, you think, but the thought only makes you hotter.

He switches to your other breast, giving it the same attention, and you moan louder, your fingers gripping his head, holding him in place. Your hips are still moving, grinding against nothing now, seeking friction that isn't there.

"Please," you hear yourself whimper, though you're not even sure what you're begging for.

Darrell pulls back, your nipples are left wet and swollen, and he reaches down to unzip his jeans. The sound of the zipper is loud in the quiet apartment, and your heart pounds as he pulls his cock out.

It's already hard—thick and dark and impossibly big—and when he presses it against you, you feel the heat of it even through your skirt. He grinds against you again, and now there's nothing between you but two thin layers of fabric, and you can feel every ridge, every vein.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "That's what you're gonna get."

Your breath catches. The reality of what's about to happen hits you all at once—the size of him, the fact that pregnancy will cause you to remain a woman, the danger you're in—and panic flares in your chest. Why were you so stupid to think that laying low with the man who fucked you in an adult movie theater wouldn't result in you being fucked at his house.

"Wait—" you start, pressing your hands against his chest, trying to push him back.

But he doesn't move. He's too strong, too solid, and your attempt to resist is pathetic, half-hearted at best. Your body is still betraying you, still grinding against him even as your mind screams at you to stop.

"Wait for what?" Darrell asks, his voice amused. He reaches down and guides his cock between your thighs, pressing it up against your pussy through your skirt and panties.

The contact makes you gasp—the thick shaft pressing directly against your labia, separated only by the damp fabric of your underwear. You can feel how wet you are, how the cloth is clinging to you, and you know he can feel it too.

"Darrell, I—" you try again, but the words die in your throat as he grinds against you, the friction on your clit making your legs shake.

I'm in danger, you think desperately. I need to stop this.

But your arousal is too high, too overwhelming. Your body won't obey you. Instead of pushing him away, your hands are gripping his shoulders again, your hips tilting to give him better access.

Darrell's mouth finds your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin, and his voice is low and mocking when he speaks.

"You know you want this," he murmurs against your throat. "You know you want to get fucked by a nigger like me. Want to make daddy all mad 'cause you're a slut."

The words hit you like a slap—crude and degrading and so fucking wrong—but they also make you clench, make you wetter, and you hate yourself for it.

"No," you gasp, shaking your head. "I'm not—I don't—"

"You don't what?" he interrupts, pulling back to look at you. His eyes are dark and knowing, and there's a smirk on his lips. "You ain't a slut? Then why were you so turned on getting manhandled in front of all those people out there?"

Your face burns. "I wasn't—"

"Bullshit," he says, grinding his cock harder against your pussy. "If you didn't want it, you would've stopped me. But you didn't. You let me slap your ass in front of everybody. Let me put my hands all over you while they watched."

You try to deny it, try to form words, but he's right and you know it. You didn't stop him. You didn't even try.

"You wanted them to see," Darrell continues, his voice dropping lower, more seductive. "Wanted them imagining what it'd be like to fuck you. Wanted them thinking about this tight little white pussy."

"No," you whimper, but even as you say it, you know it's a lie.

"Admit it," he says, his hand sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing hard. "Admit you wanted them to watch. Wanted them to know you're mine."

You open your mouth to deny it again, but then he grinds against you just right, his cock pressing hard against your clit, and the pleasure is so intense that you can't speak, can't think, can't do anything but moan.

And then he's sinking to his knees in front of you.

Your eyes widen as you watch him, your breath coming in short gasps. He looks up at you with that same knowing smirk, and then his hands are on your thighs, sliding up under your skirt.

"Darrell—" you start, but he's already hooking his fingers into the waistband of your skirt, tugging them down.

You don't stop him. You should, but you don't.

The shorts fall to your ankles, and you step out of them automatically, leaving you in just your skirt and panties. Darrell pushes your skirt up, bunching it around your waist, and you can feel the cool air on your exposed thighs.

His fingers trace the edge of your panties—white cotton, now visibly soaked—and he lets out a low whistle.

"Damn," he mutters. "You're fucking dripping."

Your face burns with shame, but you can't deny it. You can feel how wet you are, feel the way your arousal has soaked through the fabric.

He hooks his fingers into your panties and pulls them aside, exposing your pussy to his gaze. You're completely bare and the way he's looking at you makes you want to cover yourself.

But you don't. You just stand there, trembling, as he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out. It's hot and wet and so fucking good, sliding through your folds, circling your clit. Your legs nearly give out, and you have to brace yourself against the wall to stay upright.

"Oh god," you moan, your head falling back against the wall.

Darrell's hands grip your thighs, holding you in place as his tongue works you over. He licks and sucks, his mouth covering your entire pussy, and the pleasure is so intense it's almost painful.

Your hands find his head, fingers tangling in his hair, and you're not sure if you're trying to push him away or pull him closer. Your hips are moving on their own, grinding against his face, chasing the sensation.

This is so wrong, you think, but the thought is distant, drowned out by the overwhelming pleasure.

He focuses on your clit, sucking it into his mouth, and your legs start to shake. You're moaning constantly now, unable to stop the sounds spilling from your lips. Your whole body feels like it's on fire, every nerve ending alight with sensation.

And then he stops.

You gasp, looking down at him in confusion and desperation. He's still kneeling between your legs, his mouth wet with your arousal, and he's looking up at you with that same mocking expression.

"You want me to keep going?" he asks, his voice casual.

"Yes," you whimper, your hips jerking forward, seeking his mouth.

"Then admit it," he says. "Admit you were turned on getting groped in front of all those people. Admit you're a slut."

"I'm not—" you start, but he cuts you off by leaning in and sucking hard on your clit.

The pleasure is instant and overwhelming, making you cry out, your fingers tightening in his hair. But just as quickly, he pulls back again, leaving you trembling and ****.

"Admit it," he repeats.

"Darrell, please—" you beg, but he just watches you, waiting.

He leans in again, his tongue flicking over your clit in quick, teasing strokes, and you nearly sob with relief. But then he stops again, and you actually whimper at the loss.

"Say it," he commands.

You're shaking now, your whole body trembling with need. You need him to keep going. You need to come. You'll say anything, do anything, if he'll just—

"I was turned on," you gasp, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I was turned on when you—when you touched me in front of them. When you showed them I was yours."

Darrell's grin is triumphant. "That's my girl."

And then his mouth is on you again, and this time he doesn't stop.

His tongue works your clit with relentless precision, and your hands grip his head, holding him in place as you grind against his face. The pleasure builds rapidly, coiling tight in your belly, and you're moaning so loud you're sure the whole building can hear you.

But you don't care. All that matters is this—his mouth on you, the pleasure consuming you, the way your body is finally getting what it needs.

Your legs are shaking so hard you can barely stand, and you lean heavily against the wall, using it to support your weight as Darrell devours you. His hands grip your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth, and you can feel his tongue everywhere—licking, sucking, fucking into you.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," you chant, your eyes squeezed shut, your whole world narrowed down to the sensation of his mouth on your pussy.

And then you're coming, your orgasm crashing over you with devastating ****. You cry out, your body convulsing, your fingers digging into his scalp as wave after wave of pleasure rolls through you.

Darrell doesn't stop, doesn't let up, his tongue working you through it until you're sobbing, oversensitive and shaking.

Finally, he pulls back, and you slump against the wall, your legs barely able to hold you up. You're gasping for breath, your whole body trembling, and when you look down at him, you see your arousal glistening on his lips and chin.

He stands slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the look in his eyes makes your stomach flip.