Three Friends

Al eyes the swell of her full B-cups--he could have them, of course. She's all his. Instead he steps into her. His penis knocks her lightly in the face, and she ducks her head away in a token move but he's already reaching for her hair and he pulls her up with one hand while the other reaches beneath her chin. His insistent manhood pokes her in the forehead, in the eye. "Bre," he grunts thickly. Her nostrils twitch at his scent. He rocks his hips, trying to drag himself across her glistening lips. His fingers dig into her soft cheeks, working her jaw open. A combination of aim and random swing brings his glans into the moist cup her lips have made, and he bares his teeth (a few of which look sharper than before) as he pulls her face onto his groin, forcing her to slurp him in. All the way in, so that her throat spasms, then ouuuut slowly, in again with force, out... he fucks firmly around Heather's slippery tongue, and her kneeling doll-body sways with his motion. She coughs and gasps hot breath around his raping cock; her fingers writhe aimlessly in the air.

A minute or so of these wet fumblings is enough for Al--he jerks himself out of her mouth, and holds her staring, drooly face at invountary attention while he drops his pants one-handed. When he releases her it is only to hook his hands beneath her smooth armpits and haul her to her feet. He propels her backward to the nearest wall; she scrabbles for purchase on the thin carpet. Thump! her naked back strikes the hollow surface, and she squeaks. One of her shoes twists off as she finds her feet again. Her knees tangle in the ruin of her shirt.

He's crowding in close and there are her hands between them, not to fight him off, no, she is unfastening her pants. He ignores her effort. His chest crushes her arms to her belly, pushing up her boobs between them, and she struggles to see down through her own cleavage. His hands snake up behind her nude shoulders. Heather's face appears limp, but she releases a low growl as her master for the night clasps her body. With decisive force, he thrusts his knee between her black-clad thighs, and she relaxes her hands, allowing his approaching penis to glide through her fingers. She got far enough, anyway--the petals of her pants now arc outward, and only her thin, yellow panties separate her mons pubis from the cool air of the room.

Al stills his body, so that he can recreate his hands-free entry into a lower, more intimate portion of Heather. As their genitals align, so do their faces, and Heather looks at him sidelong, almost coquettishly. She licks her lips in preparation for the kiss. His mouth moves close; his cockhead nudges her pussy. But he slips his face past hers, and she can only brush her lips over his cheek. It's Heather who tugs the panties aside. The bulbed shaft pushes open her lower lips, gliding with only moderate difficulty into her lightly lubricated tunnel. Partway in, Al licks her neck with sudden heat, and Heather's mouth falls open. Her forearms drift outward, allowing him to nestle his hips in between them, close, closer, until he is tight against her pelvis, in her all the way. Her butt clenches firmly against the wall--she must support herself on awkwardly spread legs, tearing the shirt even further as it stretches between them. He begins to grind his hips hard into her; she breathes raggedly over the firm shoulder on which she rests. His lips and teeth nuzzle at the side of her neck... he rocks her up and down, lifting her partway onto her toes, gathering his own body ever closer. His motion speeds. The friction and pressure, all through her sensitive pussy, make Heather whimper.

It wasn't long--but he clamps her tight. His penis jumps in the sleeve of her vagina. At the same time his mouth stops nibbling and caressing her neck, and only bites, just where it was, gathering and capturing her flesh painfully. She twitches in his grasp, letting out little cries. Her hips periodically jolt down into his. But her upper body is trying to escape from the pain in her neck.

Needles pierce her skin. She begins to jerk more powerfully, but he won't let her go. His cock is becoming thicker inside her--its lower portion swells, stretching her sex organs around it. Her jaw works silently; her eyes are wide and staring. With each second he becomes more tightly plugged into her pussy, held deep within her by the tension in those muscles of hers that situate about the still-narrow base of his distorted shaft.

Meanwhile, his deadly-sharp teeth, so very long now, slide delicately into her, invisibly teasing through the side of Heather's carotid artery. Her intermittent struggle only aids their progress. The first rush of warm blood out their grooves and into his suckling mouth sends him into a controlled fit of groans and pelvic thrusts--he works hard to take her, to drink of her, without significantly changing his precious mouth-grip. Down below, though, there is no such danger, and her slick, stretched body kneads his swollen knot with every shudder, milking out the gentle spurts of his semen. Fluid enters her below, and leaves her above. She humps him, weeping. There is both pleasure and pain. She comes close to climaxing, and stays there, more or less.

This is the rhythm of the longest part of their fucking. It is a restless endeavor. Their hips twitch and strain; fluid drips onto Heather's shirt. Once in a while Al must shuffle his feet in again, to keep the connection maximally tight. He ignores the now-continuous quaking of Heather's thighs and calves, which still valiantly hold part of her weight in this unaccustomed position. Her arms are still trapped between his; her hands rest gently on his butt, just for somewhere to be. She doesn't really try to escape from his mouth anymore, though there is no sign that he will ever tire of draining her. Her healthy, young heart pumps powerfully for him, and he greedily accepts the stream of warm blood that gouts down his throat. Sometimes she breathes out a nervous, high-pitched sigh, and then he bounces her gently against the wall, as if to coax her into giving up a little more.

When he lets her neck slip free, she is almost insensible. Her head lolls back against the wall, and she regards him dazedly. Al looks... relaxed. Robust, even. He smiles at Heather.

"So pretty you are," he tells her. She blinks slowly, and swallows. He smiles more broadly--but his face is also tender, now. There is no blood on his lips.

"I will help you." He reaches down between their bodies, to where their engorged genitals are still clamped together. His fingers encircle her red clitoris, which is easily visible, pushed up as it is by the swollen thing inside her. And he squeezes it sharply, and works it about, grinding his fingers into every exposed inch of it.

"Ohhhhhhhhhnnnnnnhh," protests Heather. She makes a weak attempt to escape. Her legs begin to buckle, and Al nudges his knees more firmly beneath her so that his pelvis may hold all the weight. She is perhaps easier to hold than before, now that she's lost a pound or two.

"It is good," beams Al. His fingers work more briskly.

"Hahh hah haaanh oooooohhh," gurgles his captive lover. She fiercely squinches her eyes shut. Her freed palms beat lightly on the wall.

Al rubs faster still. Suddenly Heather's face contorts. She tenses her body with strength she doesn't have, once, twice, three times. Her head wavers atop her molested neck... and she collapses to the side, eyes rolled back.

Al lets her slide-sink onward to the floor. His partially softened penis slips out of her with a pop; it paints a trail of milky stuff across her lower belly. Now that he has completed his use of the girl's body, his face has gone slack again. Leaving Heather where she has crumpled, he walks pantsless to the center of the room and seats himself, facing the window. Man, woman, rooms below--all are quiet.

---

Heather twitches, and licks her dry lips. Her eyes drag open.

Al is still sitting cross-legged, watching the window. Does she see him? Does she think?

He doesn't react when she begins to crawl toward the door. Nor does Heather even look at him. Her disheveled outfit impedes her motion, but she drags her legs with mindless persistence, even when one happens to snare the other by the temporary loop of a sleeve. And her eyes fail to focus--she is out of herself still. Periodically she stops and holds herself up with quivering elbows, trying to rise higher. But she cannot.

Her diagonal path brings her within a few feet of Al. He spots her pathetic motion in his periphery, and turns his head. For a moment he only looks. But then he leans over a bit, and languidly pushes his fingertips under the very edge of her as-yet unmolested bra. The flesh there yields, and he hooks the garment easily. He doesn't even appear to be interested--he's just aimlessly keeping close what belongs to him. The gentle tug from her side is enough to confound Heather, who strains forward briefly and then collapses onto her chest.

Al sits for a moment with his arm stretched out. The shallow heartbeat of his prey kisses his fingers--and in his mouth, caught open mid-breath, the little fangs begin to slide out. It may be feeding time again.

Yes, here he comes. He wants the same position as before--she rolls over easily under his pull, baring her unguarded front to the hungry creature that mounts her. Al goes for her neck first, the same, strangely unbruised spot as before; he blows her hair aside and softly mouths the firm flesh. Belatedly, his penis begins to harden.

Heather's face shows her pain, as the fangs open a new set of holes in her well-used body. But she makes no sound, and her arms are too difficult to lift. When the blood begins to pump out of her, she gasps raggedly. By the time his penis squelches into her tired vagina, she has already passed out.

Their second mating proceeds without incident. Though Al's initial focus is on Heather's neck, his passionate suckling doesn't last long--either his hunger has subsided, or some signal in the girl's weakening cardiovascular rhythm warns him to cease. His fangs retract; now his long kiss on her neck is just a kiss. Down below, he takes her as before. Again the orgasm begins early and lasts long, very long, though only he is awake to enjoy it. Heather's privates stretch around him more easily this time.

---

Al quietly pulls out of Heather, and resumes his seated vigil.

---

---

Something thumps onto the outside of the window. It's like a big, black sack, or an animal--but now a human foot steps into view on the outer sill.

"Alin!" calls a man's boisterous voice from outside. The foot stutters forward. "Don't push!" cries the voice. The man steps carefully over, and another pair of legs arrives on the ledge from somewhere off to the side.

Fingers rattle on the window. "Aliiin, Alina!" call the two men, one affecting a falsetto. "Hail the conquerors!" They both sound British.

Al, wearing his pants now, rises from his seat and approaches the window--but not quickly enough, for two of the four feet begin to kick against the glass. "Aliiiiiiiin," howls somebody.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP," hollers a deeper voice that echoes through the floor. The men outside are startled into silence--but then they laugh uproariously, stamping their feet and slowing Al's work at the window (for the panes need to fold partly outward). They are still laughing as they finally clamber into the room.

{Please help me,} thinks Heather, who was awakened by the noise, and who has recognized the voice of her friend Claire's boyfriend. She must be above room 206. She lies peacefully on her back, trusting that big, friendly Steve will come to rescue her, not realizing that she didn't actually open her mouth.

The two newcomers gather around Al, who smiles in greeting. "Alina, my man, what's up!" says one, a tall fellow in a heavy leather jacket.

"Don't call me Alina," scolds Al. The other fellow jovially raises his hands and backs off, with a bounce in his step--and spies Heather. "Well well well, and maybe you aren't such a girly man after all, eh!" he smilingly declares.

"Ohh, that one's prettier than mine was by a long shot, Alin you lucky dog!" cries the other, a handsome redhead who promptly shucks his own tattered jacket and advances on the prone girl.

The tall man guffaws. "Better hope you've got some left in you girly, 'cause Red Rob is comin' to getcha!" he says. "Ohhh we don't need to see that Robbie!"

"Ahh I'll turn it the other way, you can mind your own business and look at her titties like a sensible man," retorts Rob. True to his word, he lowers his newly bare bottom to the floor beyond Heather, and jerks her over onto her side so that he's spooning her. After a brief bit of work he's got her bra off. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn't protest.

Alin seats himself complacently on the windowsill. "I am ready whenever," he says.

"Well you'd just better wait a bit for old Rob then I guess," replies the tall one with a bemused chuckle.

Rob has gotten Heather's pants down now. He fishes roughly around between her proud, lithe buttocks, and frowns. "Aw fuckin shit Alin, you didn't warm up her arsehole for me!"

"That is dirty," replies Alin. "And it does not go wet."

Rob has already sandwiched his penis between the smooth loaves of flesh; now his face suddenly turns thoughtful. "Yeh, I guess you can't make her lube up her arse if she hasn't got th'equipment for it, mesmerism or no," he muses. But his attention returns to his groin. "Well well, this here's what we do who hasn't got the magic mind-touch and all." He grits his teeth and drives his hips carefully against Heather; the other men watch the lazy shimmy of her breasts as her body accepts yet another intruder. No one pays attention to her face. But Heather is waking again, to sharp pain in her anus. Her pretty mouth makes a miserable O.

"Ahh, look at them fucking jiggle. I might have to take a taste of those," says the tall man under his breath.

Rob's penis-head relentlessly worms its way into the tight, muscular ring. Heather looks like she is giving birth. "OoooooooAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!" Her voice goes from moan to scream. Quickly Rob locks his upper arm about her neck and squeezes, stopping the blood-channels there. She thrashes; his shaft knifes in a little further. Once her oxygen-starved head has fallen limp, he releases her and resumes his fucking in earnest.

"Ohh... YEAH," he grunts to punctuate his thrust, most of the way in. "WHAT... a FUCK, ing CHOICE... uh... piece..." He trails off as his organ begins its slow, pulsing growth toward the outer limits of Heather's valiantly clutching bowel. His teeth slide forth, and his eyes darken. Suddenly he snarls and lunges for her bare neck, piercing skillfully into the deep, blood-rich artery on his first shot. Heather's breasts quiver. They look paler than before. Her long, strong legs splay knock-kneed and useless.

The tall man's own teeth have emerged, and he looks ready to act. "If you'll excuse me," he says to Alin, who only gazes blankly back at him. The man joins the pair on the floor, propping himself on one elbow before Heather's bare breasts. He glances at his friend and chuckles hoarsely. "I don't think Robbie's gettin' much," he says. "Good thing I already ate, myself..." Heather's upper breast mashes in his grip. He kneads it until his fingers frame a perfect ellipsoid of female flesh. "Fooking delicious," he groans, and dives into her chest. His teeth close around the pillowy bulge, piercing her there. Hardly any blood finds its way out the groove-tracks in his teeth--but his face shows rapturous pleasure nonetheless.

Heather's wavy hair swings luxuriously as the two men savage her. Pale and limp, she'd look just like a corpse, if she were only a bit stiffer. Maybe she is having the same effect on Rob as she did on Al, earlier--for he has released her overdrained neck. Of course his bulb of a penis still locks her to him by her still-tight anal ring, and he still coughs with pleasure at each jolt of their conjoined bodies. Meanwhile the other man sucks hard as he can at her breast, and mauls the one beneath it with his free hand. His hips rock unevenly in the air.

Al sits at the window, totally still. Before him, his own heavy loads of dick-juice ooze out from Heather's wrinkled folds, to pool grossly on the floor. But he only stares upward, toward the little sprinkler mechanism that juts out of the ceiling. The sight has made him scrunch his brow.

"AhhhhhhrAH!" snarls Rob as he jerks himself free of Heather's cum-soaked butthole. He's still somewhat swollen. "Okay gentlemen, I believe we should do as the man says." He rolls over with energy and fishes for his discarded pants, leaving Heather to flop onto her back. The tall man releases her as she falls.

"I do love these drunken tarts," he says in satisfaction.

"Aye," agrees Rob. "Almost like to take this one home with me. Although," he adds, "I guess it should be Al's choice, her being his first and all." But he doesn't address this suggestion to Al--maybe he expects no reaction.

Indeed, Al merely stands expectantly, and the others converge at the window.

"Oh," says the tall man when he spies Heather's shirt. He leans down and takes it. "Might be wise to destroy this."

Rob shrugs and climbs outside. Alin follows, and then the tall man. Each leaps forth into the night, and when the two startled students below look up, all they see is a fluttering shadow.

---

---

The bathroom door must be unlocked. She prays for it to be unlocked.

The handle blessedly turns. Trembling and sniffling, Heather enters the room, one ginger little step at a time. The floor seems to rock and she would love to lie back down and maybe never get up again. She would love to cry in someone's arms and hear them promise a hundred times that she will never feel this badly again. But there is nobody in this miserable place and she is so very thirsty, too thirsty for tears. She has to leap awkwardly out of the way of the door, when its overpressured hydraulic hinge wins the fight against her weakened arms. Then there's the sink and she cranks it all the way up and bends like an ostrich to slurp and slurp from it, while her knees struggle to hold her up.

She doesn't know what she should do next. A hundred stories jumble in her confused head--she is sick from food-poisoning and she should call the emergency number at the Health Center, she had a fight with her boyfriend and he beat her up and she should get somebody else's to beat him in return, she drank so much that beer came out her pussy somehow (this thought seems halfway reasonable to her now) and she'll die if she doesn't vomit it out immediately. Nothing makes sense. But there is the row of showers--and her crotch really is dripping, she's had to stuff toilet paper under herself--so off come the pants and into the warm spray she goes. The heat relieves her of the terrible chill she's been ignoring since she awakened in that open-windowed room with other, more distracting discomforts riddled all through her, and she sinks to the floor, suddenly heaving with what feels just like tears, though it's mostly only a torrent of shower water running down her face, standing in for what her tortured body can't presently produce.

---

Drying with paper towels, dressing.

When Heather finally peeks her haggard face into the stairwell, she is mildly shocked to see that the sun has risen. She cocks her head like a hare, listening for the sound of someone who might shame her. But no sound echoes up the brick column, and so she quietly enters, with her shoes in hand and one arm across her bra-clad chest, and tiptoes guiltily back down toward her home, the second floor.

She knows that nobody would ordinarily be up at this time, so she opens the big door somewhat confidently--and toward her is striding Denise with a small basket of laundry.