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teal-fiend · 3 months

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Party Trick

A uni student pred goes to a party. The group Find out he’s a pred. They want to see it for themselves.

Content: intoxication, fatal vore, pred pov, digestion, willing prey

—

It was a late night, I was in my dorm, rewriting notes under the yellow light of my desk lamp. I copied my scrawlings from the lecture in perfect, even strokes.

I finished the page, and took a sip of coffee that had gone cold. I felt a hungry growl from my stomach. I’d gotten distracted by my work and neglected to have dinner. I lit a cigarette. Another distraction from hunger.

As I was drifting off in thought, indulging in the cheap satisfaction of a nicotine high, the phone rang. It was an odd hour to call, still I answered it.

“Rowan speaking” “Ro,” I heard laughter in the background, “where are you?”

Alice had invited me to her party, I’d completely forgotten about it, too busy with my studying.

“I’m at home.”

“Get your scrawny ass over here now!” She shouted over the ambiance of the party.

I thought I’d done enough work for the night, and I did want to go. “Alright,” I said loudly. She said something incoherent and then hung up.

I didn’t want to arrive sober, especially since I was already late, so I took a few long swigs from the bottle of whisky I kept in my room, then I put it in my satchel bag, along with my cigs.

I felt a wave of light nausea and dizziness after the alcohol settled in my empty stomach. I hoped they had food at the party, because otherwise I’d be in for a rough night.

I checked myself in the mirror before heading out. There were dark circles under my eyes, behind my tawny glasses. And my hair was deranged. I smoothed it down, I adjusted my collar, and smoothed down my dress shirt as well.

I arrived at Alice’s not twenty minutes later, I fumbled with the gate’s lock, and watched my step as I ascended the stairs.

Alice greeted me, leaning against the doorframe, “Rowan’s here!” She exclaimed, drunk, happy, willing to share that with me. A few other party guests cheered when she said this, partially excited to see me, but mostly wanting something to cheer about.

I entered the house, the windows were foggy from the warmth of the bodies inside, drinking, talking, there was a stereo playing. Alice had a pole in her living room, and a tall boy was swinging around on it like a gymnast, even still with a bottle of gin glued to his hand.

I drank too, and was offered someone’s weed pipe, which I took a few introspective puffs from. I was still hungry, my drunkenness was less energetic like the rest of them, and more forlorn. The weed kicked in and I was content to feel sorry for myself.

I found myself on a leather couch, in a conversation, but not able to pay much attention to it. The party was winding down, I was nestled in, we all were, in something of a circle.

They were trying to get my attention.

“Rowan,” a blonde girl, who’s name I couldn’t remember asked, “is it true?” “Is what?” I asked dully.

A boy, Peter, who was sitting next to me answered, “that you’re a predator?”

I did not expect that question. “Uh, yeah,”

Alice asked, “what does it mean?”

“It means he eats people.”

“I haven’t done it in a while,” I said, and it was true, “I don’t even know if I still can.” Less true, but it seemed like the right thing to say.

“Why do you do it?” “I get hungry sometimes,” I explain, “It’s just something I can do, I guess,”

“Are you hungry now?” Peter asked.

“How did you learn how to do it?” Said someone else

My stomach made a protracted, implicatory growl. Its timing got the attention of everyone in the circle.

“You are hungry,” the blonde girl said, mystified.

“You should consume someone here… that would be fucking crazy.”

I laughed self consciously.

“Wait, should we actually?” Alice asked, with genuine interest.

I felt a nervousness in my chest that was compounded by the pot. This could be a possibility... Everyone was drunk, high, and eager to see something they hadn’t seen before. My mouth watered at the realisation; the suggestion of a meal. I swallowed quickly.

“Maybe,” I said slowly, I didn’t want to seem too eager, But I’d never before eaten prey while high, and the idea was growing on me.

“Okay, if we did, who would it be?”

No one volunteered, and I was let down, and a little embarrassed.

But then Peter said, “I would,”

Everyone hyped him up for that, and I felt my heart flutter concerningly. I hoped it wasn’t arrhythmia (it’s happened before).

Peter. I had never looked at him that way before. He usually wore glasses, but he wasn’t tonight. He was a good student, but not driven, not obsessive like me. I had never once considered him as my prey, but in the moment it was starting to make a lot of sense.

I had that thing that happens sometimes when you’re high, the time distortion, when you suddenly remember everything you did at once. Probably the weed making things seem more significant than they were, but I began to believe that everything I had done today was leading up to this moment.

I watched him curiously. His soft brown hair might give me trouble, but his clear (if not alcohol flushed), smooth skin… He had an edible vibe to him. He wouldn’t be too demanding on my stomach.

And he had a healthy, organic aroma. Like he’d showered recently, but wasn’t wearing cologne.

Alice giggled.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“Dude,” another guy chimed in, “you’re looking at him like he’s a ribeye or something,”

My face flushed. Peter grinned.

“Damn, okay,” Alice said, “do it then”

Peter turned to me. My predatory side was more than eager to have him, but I couldn’t help but wonder what my professor would think of me, eating one of my fellow students.

But then his hands were in my mouth, and I remembered how hungry I was. I hadn’t eaten in hours, I’d studied hard all day, the marijuana didn’t help with the cravings either. He tasted incredible, the vibrancy I was able to experience, no meal I’ve had sober could compare even remotely.

Still I knew people were watching, so I tried to be cool about it. The prey dropped into my stomach and the reward chemicals in my brain made my body feel like butter. I fell apart.

The blonde girl felt my stomach through my dress shirt, which was riding up since my stomach had become engorged. She noticed how my belt was digging into my gut, so she undid it for me.

The group cooed at me, gathering around, marvelling at the sight in front of them. The other guy, a redhead, I didn’t remember his name either, he unbuttoned my shirt in order to get a clear look at me.

I closed my eyes and leaned back, offering my belly up for their inspection. Their many hands were on me, driven by morbid curiosity, pressing gently, tentatively testing my boundaries.

When the prey, Peter, started moving under my skin they gasped in surprise and fascination.

When I had my first prey, I was as interested in the visuals as they were. It was so strange to see my body change so much to accommodate my meal, and watching it squirm, pressing out against my own skin, it used to engross me. But now I was more intent on the sensations happening where I couldn’t see. Inside my stomach, I felt the prey at every point of contact on my internals. The friction caused by his wriggling invigorated my stomach. I swore I could feel the acids and enzymes being squeezed out with every press.

What’s more the prodding and patting that my audience was doing from the outside… I was being stimulated from every direction. It was almost too much. I kept my eyes closed.

I stretched languidly, smirking in content. I basked in the attention which was itself perhaps more enjoyable than the satisfaction of the meal. I relished in their enthrallment, these prey doting on my predatory body, witnessing me annihilating one of their species. It was a dark, existential event for them to indulge in, but by the way they kneaded into my belly, they seemed to be enjoying it more than I was.

We were all high off our shit - I can’t imagine how Peter was doing in there, enveloped in a vacuum sealed, warm bag of flesh which teethed at him, unrelentingly. And then his friends on the outside, poking at him with almost scientific inquisition, playing with him like highschoolers at a frog dissection.

And for Alice and the two others, I was reminded of this psychedelic festival I was told about, where they had sensory boxes, filled with sand, or slime, any interesting texture that a tripped out party-goer could appreciate. I’d imagine my belly was having that effect on them; it was warm, doughy in places, but firm. It moved like it was alive, shifting unfathomably beneath their hands.

Wait, does that mean I’m the sensory container? The thought made me feel strange.

Despite being stoned out of my mind, my digestive system went forward with its treacherous work. I heard a noise that sounded like someone was washing the dishes, and draining the sink. I wondered how the hell someone got a sink into the living room, when I realised the sound was coming from my stomach. The blonde girl pressed her head against my gut, and the others took their turn as well, listening to my drunken body digest our friend.

I heard a door open, and footsteps coming towards us. Whoever it was said “what the fuck is going on in here?” Before promptly leaving. I thought that was the funniest shit ever, and I tried (unsuccessfully) to stifle a laugh.

It was contagious, we all lost our shit for a minute. Laughing uncontrollably at the situation.

The ginger guy said, “ah man, Peter,” talking to my stomach.

Alice pushed with her shoulder on my lower belly, pushing it up further to my chest - my breath hitched - before releasing the hold, hearing it slosh as it settled back into position.

“Your tummy’s really heavy,” she sighed.

“What were you trying to do?” I asked, suppressing a belch due to the disturbance of my stomach contents.

“Move you onto the couch again.”

“I can get up on my own.” I couldn’t. I was pinned down and too inebriated to find any strength or balance.

“You’re so sleepy,” the guy said.

“Aw, sleepy Rowan,” the other girl sympathised.

It wasn’t so much sleepiness, but I couldn’t even begin to explain it to them. My conversational skills were not so finely tuned at the present moment.

The three of them got stuck into the task of covering me with blankets, quilts, and pillows from around the home. I was draped in what I think were hand towels as well, which confused me, but they were doing their best.

I was strangely comfortable under the pile which was stacked atop me.

All the lights in the house were turned off, and I thought they left me alone, but I felt at least one, maybe 2 bodies next to me, or maybe I was imagining things.

As I fell into unconsciousness, I couldn't help but wonder if I was going to regret it in the morning.

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slamminslamminmcgill · 1 year

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Practicar - Lalo Salamanca/FTM Reader (NSFW!)

when you bought weed from tuco, one of his guys said something rude to you in spanish. one thing he said sticks with you, so you ask lalo about it when you get home. he tells you what it means, and decides to teach you some more of the language while smoking up.

tags/warnings: intoxication (weed and poppers), homophobic/transphobic slurs, degradation/humiliation, hair-pulling, rough oral sex, vaginal sex, squirting, pussy slapping

anatomical terms: chest, cunt, pussy, dick, t-dick, chocho, pija

words: 7,979 (we smoke CRACK!!!!!!!!!!!!)

ao3 link

author's notes: in which i am a dumb stoner with a lalo shaped brain tumor <3 no soy un hablante nativo pero estoy aprendiendo. la escritura es como yo practico. ¡por favor corríjanme si encuentran algunos errores! :3

“This is ridiculous. Are you guys seriously not gonna tell me what it means? It can’t be THAT bad.”

You groaned. You were in the backseat of the car as Marco and Leonel drove you home, dead silent, as usual. All you wanted to do was buy weed, but Lalo won’t let you unless it’s from the family. He doesn’t trust any other source. Okay, that’s fair, plus it’d be kinda rude to buy from his competition, right? So, you had to buy from Tuco. Sure, not a problem. The twins picked you up and gave you a ride over. Great. You were a little annoyed that Lalo didn’t even want you driving there by yourself, but whatever. Everything’s fine. Once you got the weed from Tuco, one of his guys said something stupid about you in Spanish, and Tuco snapped and started beating the shit out of him. You caught most of it, since Lalo had been teaching you the language, but there was one phrase that mystified you. It sounded like a slang term, and Lalo hadn’t taught you many colloquialisms yet. You had asked what he said, but no one would tell you. Tuco was too busy giving him impromptu plastic surgery; none of the other guys in the room would dare speak up; and Marco and Leonel dragged you out of there once the guy’s teeth started flying through the air.

It seemed like everyone in the Salamanca family treated you like a child, like you were a helpless little thing who couldn’t possibly protect himself. Shit, even Lalo was guilty of it, too. He didn’t even trust you to make the drive alone; he asked the twins to pick you up. It was infuriating. You seethed the entire ride back to his place.

When you got there, you stormed inside, pissed off, releasing a cloud of noxious vibes into the house. Lalo was there to greet you, and he sniffed it out immediately. “Dios mío, conejito, ¿qué pasó? (My god, bunny, what happened?) You look like you’re about to rip someone’s head off! Tuco didn’t give you any trouble did h-?”

You shot him straight, interrupting him mid-sentence, not even saying hello, “What’s a chichifo travelo?” you barked at him and crossed your arms over your chest.

Lalo’s concern bled into pure confusion, and then, for some reason, cheerfulness. He burst out laughing. A deep, rich belly laugh that had him doubling over and slapping his thigh. What? What the hell? What was so funny? “Oh! Oh my god, sorry, just. Just give me a second, woo!”

You groaned. “Can you just tell me what it means?”

Lalo’s laughter fizzled out, and he managed to compose himself. He stood upright, looked back down at you. “Well, chichifo is kinda like a… gigolo? Is that how you say it in English? It’s basically a male prostitute, y’know. And then, travelo…” His eyes trailed down to your chest, a few buttons of your shirt undone, and he sighed. He patted you on the shoulder, and gave you a somber expression. “...travelo is basically ‘tranny’.”

The lightbulb turned on. “Ohhh…” you replied, the flames of your burning rage subdued now that you had an answer. You uncrossed your arms and rested your hands on your hips. “Yeah, okay, that makes sense.”

Lalo furrowed his brow and took his hand off your shoulder. “Makes sense? What happened? Nobody called you that, did they?” He gave you a look of empathy and concern that masked the fury brewing inside him.

You shrugged. “One of Tuco’s guys did, I guess. When I got there, Marco and Leonel took me inside and waited with me. While I was talking to Tuco, one of his guys said something like…” You paused to recall what he said as best as you could. “‘¿De… ¿De verdad? ¿Esta es la pareja nueva de Lalo? ¿Este chichifo travelo? (Really? This is Lalo’s new partner? This tranny hooker?)’ I didn’t hear all of it, but I figured it was some bullshit since Tuco started wailing on him and-”

“Stop.” Now, Lalo was the one to cut you off, his cold voice slicing through your dialogue like a steel blade, “Someone called you that? In front of the family?”

“Yeah,” You replied nonchalantly. “Tuco took care of it. He knocked the guy onto the floor and fucked him up pretty badly. The twins grabbed me and led me outside after that. No one would tell me what it means.”

Lalo frowned, “They probably wanted me to be the one to explain it to you, chiquito. No one should have to hear that. Is everyone else still there?”

“The twins aren’t. They took me home.” You pondered for a second. “But I think Tuco is. I doubt the other guy is still breathing though.” You nervously tried to laugh it off.

But Lalo wasn’t laughing. “Alright then,” He patted your shoulders before moving with determination to get something out of a cabinet. ”Ven conmigo. Vamos a ver Tuco y el pendejo que te ha dicho esa mierda a tí. (Come with me. We’re going to see Tuco and the asshole who said that shit to you.)” He turned around, holding a loaded pistol with a silencer on it. Why?! Why?! Why?! Who the fuck just has that locked, loaded, and ready to go, just chilling in the living room cabinet like it’s a cheap airport knickknack?! Apparently, your boyfriend did, and since you lived here too, technically you did by extension.

You jumped when you saw the gun. “¡¿Q-Qué?! (What?!)” You asked, your brain flipping through pages of an English-Spanish dictionary as fast as it could, “No… no tienes que hacer eso. De verdad. Estoy bien. (You… You don’t have to do that. Really. I’m fine.)” You gave him an insecure smile, a sheepish grin that you hoped said: For the love of God, man, let it go. It’s not that deep.

Lalo wasn’t budging. He opened the front door, and turned to you, casually waving you outside with a 9mm handgun like an extension of his hand. “Ven. Conmigo. (Come. With me.)”

Thankfully, the whims of fate saved you from yet another aggravating car ride. Two in the same day was more than enough. Lalo’s phone started ringing, right on cue. He took it out of his pocket and squinted to read the name.

“Is that Tuco?” you asked. He nodded in your direction, and touched the silencer to his own lips. Be quiet. You understood.

Lalo flipped the phone open and laughed, as if this was the most normal conversation you could have with your cousin. “¡Tuco! ¿Qué chingados pasaba hoy? ¿Uno de tus vatos le llamaba mi chico un chichifo travelo? (Tuco! What the fuck happened today? One of your guys called my boy a tranny whore?)”

He let Tuco speak for a moment before continuing. You couldn’t hear anything coherent from the outside, but it sure was loud. “Primo, primo, cálmate. Cálmate. No puedo entenderte cuando dices tan fuerte. Toma un respiro profundamente y dime que pasaba. (Cousin, cousin, calm down. Calm down. I can’t understand you when you talk so loud. Take a deep breath and tell me what happened.)”

Lalo stopped talking, and the sound on the other line was much quieter. You couldn’t hear anything besides Lalo now. “Sí, sí, yo sé que él dijo eso. ¿Había algo más? (Yeah, yeah, I know he said that. Was there anything else?)” Silence. “¿Me llamó un maricón? ¿De verdad? Ha! Te le ocupaste, ¿cierto? (He called me a faggot? Really? Ha! You took care of him, right?)” Silence again. “¿No está respirando? ¿Estás seguro? Bien, bien hecho, pero déjame terminarlo la próxima vez. (He’s not breathing? Are you sure? Good, good job, but let me finish him off next time.)” Silence once more. “Sí, por supuesto, yo diré tío. Él va a estar muy orgulloso de tí. ¡Bien! Entonces, nos hablaremos tarde, ¿cierto? Bien. ¡Chao! (Yeah, of course, I’ll tell Uncle. He’s going to be very proud of you. Alright! Well, we’ll talk later, yeah? Okay. Bye!)”

He flipped his phone shut and stood still for a moment. Then another. Then another. Until he shrugged, and went to put the gun away. You sighed in relief, letting the air permeate your lungs and your body relax once again. Once the cabinet was closed, Lalo approached you to cup your face in his hands and kiss your forehead.

“Perdóname, chiquito. (Forgive me, baby boy.) You were right. I should have listened. I just can’t bear to let anything happen to you. No one can say such horrific things to you and come away with his life. I wanted to make things right. Do you understand? ¿Me comprendes?” Lalo did that a lot. He would say something in English and repeat it in Spanish, a signal to answer him in kind.

“Sí. Te comprendo (I understand you).” You sighed, nudged him off you, and switched back to English. “It’s just… aggravating that you don’t trust me. I can handle myself just fine, y’know.”

Lalo simpered. “I do trust you, nene (baby). I just don’t trust everyone else. I need to keep my baby boy safe, yeah?” He could see you pouting, so he knew he had to change the topic. “So! How’d it go otherwise? ¿Conseguiste que tú necesitabas de Tuco? (Did you get what you needed from Tuco?)”

Having to translate made you forget what you were upset about. Your response took a moment to buffer, and you perked up when it finished loading.. “...¡Sí! Sí, yo hice. Acá. (Yes! Yes, I did. Here.)” You pulled a ziplock bag full of weed out of your pocket, and excitedly showed it to Lalo. “Mirálo. (Look at this.)”

Lalo examined the bag, first by appearance. Large nugs, dark green with flecks of orange and purple, blooming flowers, no big stems. Looked alright. He cracked open the bag and sniffed it. A dank, earthy, almost musty smell wafted through the air. It was fresh. Smelled alright. He took a nug in between his fingers and squeezed it, snapping it apart easily. Felt alright. Yep, Salamanca product. Not that he had any doubts, mind you. He was just doing quality control. A businessman, through and through.

“That’s the good stuff.” Lalo said as he put the torn nug back in the bag and zipped it shut. “Tuco did you right. How much he charge you?”

You took the bag back. “He said I was getting the ‘family discount’, so $100 for the ounce. He weighed it in front of me, don’t worry. Plus, he said he’ll give me some for free next time. I guess that’s the ‘sorry I practically killed a man in front of you’ discount.”

Lalo smiled. “That's a pretty good deal, even with the family discount. And free drugs? Now that's just a win-win.” He patted your back. “So I take it you'll be buying off him in the future?”

You couldn’t hide your excitement. “Yeah man! Shit, dude, if I wasn't already sleeping with you, I definitely would for a hookup like this!”

He chuckled and laid his hands on your hips, pulling you in closer. “You have no shame, huh?”

There was some truth to that statement. “None. And you love it.” You giggled and booped his nose.

“Maybe I do, chico,” He booped yours back, “Y’know, I should really teach you more slang. You gotta be able to fire back if someone talks to you like that, right?”

“Do I?” You teased, hugging him closer to you and putting on your best faux-innocent tone. “Can’t I just have you take care of it? You gotta keep your baby boy safe, don’t you?”

Lalo snickered, eager to play along. “Oh? What happened to being able to handle yourself? Do you need your man to take care of you?”

“Hmm…” You pretended to think about it while you rubbed his back. “Maybe I do, chico.” You made sure to punctuate that last word, knowing it’d set him off.

And it did. “Oh, you’re bad. Using my words against me? Debes estar castigado por eso, ¿estás de acuerdo? (You should be punished for that, don’t you think?)”

You giggled and nodded. The word “castigado” was escaping you right now, but you figured you’d press your luck and agree nonetheless.

Lalo clocked you, because of course he did. His bullshit detector was in perfect working order. “You don’t know what I said, do you?” You didn’t need to answer; he could see it in your face. He pried your arms off his back and pinned them to your sides. “That’s why I gotta teach you. C’mon, it’ll be fun I promise.” He let you go and pointed at your bag of weed. “Podemos fumar esa mota mientras hacemos, ¿sí? (We can smoke that weed while we do it, yeah?)”

“Mota?” You tilted your head. “Is that weed?”

“Good boy! That’s right!” He ruffled your hair and you squeaked. Sometimes, being babied and talked down to felt nice, from him, at least. “Entonces, te necesito sentarte en el sofá. Vayas. (Now, I need you to get on the couch. Go.)" He tapped your head as encouragement.

Once you translated your assignment, you walked over to the couch and plopped down. “Want me to pack us a bowl?”

“I was hoping you would.” Lalo sat down next to you and pulled the coffee table closer.

On the table, you had a grinder, rolling tray, and bong ready to go. You opened the bag and let the odor dissipate into the air. Then, you picked a couple nugs out of the bag and ground them up before dumping the weed on the tray. Once it was ground up, you went to grab the bong, but stopped. Apparently, it’d been a while since you’d changed the water. It was almost brown and had chunks floating in it. Plus, the actual bong itself was stained. “Oh, shit,” You turned to Lalo, “I should probably clean it, huh?”

Lalo grabbed your hand to stop you. “Nah, don’t worry about it. It'll be just fine until next time. I

actually like it the way it is. Just the right amount of filth to prove how much it gets used.”

You snorted. He walked right into this one. “Just like me, huh?”

He groaned, but with a smile. “Ugh, I knew you'd make that joke. But honestly, I can't disagree.” He let go of your hand and squeezed your thigh. “Just like you.”

You leaned over to kiss his cheek and went back to packing the bowl, his hand still on your thigh. “Got a lighter?” you asked once you were done.

Lalo grinned. “¿Sabes cómo preguntarme en español? (Do you know how to ask me in Spanish?)”

You weren’t sure, but you’d sure as hell try. “Tienes un… (Do you have a…) fuck… ¿Cómo se dice (How do you say) ‘lighter’?”

“Encendedor.” Lalo replied and took a fancy silver zippo out of his pocket, bougie as always. You went to grab it but he yanked it back. “Ah! Not until you ask for it correctly.”

You sighed, clearly fed up with his teasing, or maybe you just really wanted to smoke. Nevertheless, you did what he wanted. He watched the gears in your head turn. “Puedo… ¿Puedo usar tu encendedor? (Can I borrow your lighter?)”

“Bien hecho, chiquito! (Good job, baby boy!)” Lalo pulled you in for a hug and petted your hair again. “¡Tan inteligente! Claro que sí, tú puedes. (So smart! Of course, you can.)” When he was done patronizing you, he handed you the lighter.

You took the lighter in your hand and his lips in yours, but only for a second. There was weed to be smoked. Your lips then went to the mouthpiece of the bong. There was something about it, all the preparation that went into it, it was like a choreographed dance. A flick of the lighter, a singe of the flower, and a deep breath in, a really deep breath. The smoke would build; the water would bubble. You’d pull away and wait, just a moment, before you let it all out, blowing out a cloud of pure smoke, like a dragon doing a half-assed job of burning down the village and terrorizing the townspeople. You didn’t cough. How sexy of you. You glanced over at Lalo and wiggled your eyebrows, a kind of What do you think of that?, before you passed it over to him.

He laughed and said “You are too much, conejito.” before lighting up himself.

You laid back against the couch and crossed your arms behind your head. “Hm… conejito. What’s that mean?” You hummed.

Lalo blew the smoke out and coughed slightly. You giggled. Pussy. He cleared his throat to answer you. “It means bunny. Why? Do you not like it? I can call you something else.” He passed the bong to you.

“No, I like it. Was just wondering.” You answered before taking another hit, a big one too. This time you coughed when you let it out. Hubris. Maybe Lalo wasn’t a pussy. “What’d you wanna teach me anyway? Some more slurs?” You took another hit and passed it to him, the two of you establishing a good rhythm as you rehearsed your choreography. Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“If you want, I can. You know travelo, yeah? That’s yours.” He pointed at your chest, with the hand that was holding the lighter. “Both of us can say maricón. That’s how you say faggot.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Oh, yeah,” You nodded. “I thought I heard the guy say that about you.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Yeah, apparently he did. No big deal. I’ve heard it so many times now. I’m sorry you had to hear it, though.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“I’m fine, trust me. ‘S not like I haven’t heard it in English before anyway.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Well, either language, some pendejo says that to you, you tell me, alright?” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Pendejo? What’s that, asshole?” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“More or less, yeah. Literal definition is pubic hair.” Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Ha! That’s funny. You just call people pubes? I like that.” Flick, singe, pull, out… Why was nothing coming out? Did you two burn through a bowl that quickly? You poked the ash into the center of the bowl and tried to light it. No dice. “Aw, boo.” You pouted and set the bong and lighter back on the table. Well, now that you weren’t smoking, you could take a moment to feel yourself getting high. You snuggled up close to Lalo, resting your head on his chest. He always smelled so fucking nice.

Lalo wrapped his arm around you and pulled you in tighter. “Relax, baby. We’ll smoke some more in a bit. Gives us more freedom to talk, eh?”

“Mmm… okay…” You hummed, though honestly, you weren’t sure you had the brain power to talk much right now. You dragged your fingers along his chest before honking one of his pecs. You giggled. “Hehehe… titty… how do you say that in Spanish?”

Lalo snorted. “Oh, wow, you’re cute when you’re high. ‘Titty’ is teta. Is that what you wanna know? You wanna know all the naughty words? Dirty boy.”

Another loopy laugh from you. “Niño sucio (Dirty boy).” You rolled onto your stomach and slid down, resting your head in his lap. You were staring right at his bulge. He was only slightly hard, but mouthwateringly so. Weed told you to touch him, so you palmed his shaft through his jeans, hoping to pump him up in more ways than one. For some godforsaken reason, weed was also showing you Spanish vocabulary flash cards. “¿Y este aquí? (And this here?)”

Lalo snickered and brushed your hair out of your face, making sure he had your undivided attention. “Verga.”

“Verga.” You echoed, licking your lips as they curled around the word. They were a bit dry from smoking. Oh well, you’d find a way to wet them. Weed was working wonders for you, a better wingman than most had been. You giggled yet again as you rubbed him. “Entonces… se puede… se puede decir… (So… you could… you could say…)” You darkened the color of your voice to a sultry hue. “‘Dame tu verga.’ ¿sí? Se puede decir ‘Qui-... Quiero tu verga, Lalito,’ ¿verdad? (“Give me your cock,” yeah? You could say “I want… I want your cock, Lalito,” right?)

Lalo chuckled. Even with your stuttering, even with your clouded mind, he loved hearing you so hot and bothered for him. Plus, he loved that you gave him the Spanish diminutive. “¿Lalito, eh? Me gusta eso. Y sí, tienes razón. Muy bien. (Lalito, eh? I like that. And yes, you’re right. Very good.)” He sighed and petted your hair, making you scooch further into his lap. “Me encanta cuando hablas español. Suenas tan lindo. (I love it when you speak Spanish. You sound so cute.)”

He was getting harder; you could feel it. You cupped your hand and stroked him through the denim, looking up at him with the most sickly sweet eyes you could give. Saying nothing, just doing. After a while, you couldn’t help but laugh, a goofy smile to match. “You’re pretty…”

Lalo laughed too, feeling a little buzzed himself. Just a little, nowhere near your level. He had quite the tolerance. “Oh, am I now? You’re quite the looker yourself.” He reached his arm out to grab your ass. “¿Sabes qué es esto? ¿Sabes qué se llama? (You know what this is? You know what it’s called?)”

You put your finger to your lips to think. Your brain was working as fast as a dialup router in Bumfuck, Wyoming during the Clinton administration. Lightspeed. Probably 4 years later when you had your answer, you seeked Lalo’s approval. “¿Culo? (Ass?)”

“Sí, es verdad. Bien hecho. ¿Cómo sabías eso? (Yes, that’s right. Good job. How did you know that?)” Lalo gave you a firm spank, the sharp sting diffused by your pants blocking the shot. “Chico travieso. No te enseñé eso. (Naughty boy. I didn’t teach you that.)”

“Hey! Did you just call me a tranny? I know that one!” You shouted at him in a mirthful tone, showing that your anger was in jest.

Lalo scoffed. “Travieso, not travelo. It means naughty. And it’s true. Eres un chiquito travieso (You are a naughty little boy).” He spanked you again, harder this time, making you yelp. “And so what if I called you a tranny? You like it when I call you names, don’t you?”

You whined and buried your face in his lap, not wanting to bear your shame to him. “Mm… Maybe…”

Lalo wheezed and tousled your hair again. You could feel his dick twitch as he did. “I knew it! I know you so well. I told you you’re a naughty boy! I bet there’s a lot of names you’d like me to call you. I can teach you some fun ones in Spanish, too. Isn’t that right, ¿putito? ¿Sabes qué eso significa? (...little whore? You know what that means?)”

You were lucky that his clothes muffled whatever pathetic noise you just made. You didn’t take your face out of his lap, not wanting to let him see you blush. He could play you like a fiddle, and you weren’t sure whether you hated it or loved it. “...Sí.” you mumbled into his leg.

Lalo patted your head. “Entonces, dímelo. (So tell me.)”

You stood corrected. He wasn’t playing you like a fiddle; that was almost too plebeian. He was playing you like a world-class soloist performing Sibelius’s Violin Concerto in D minor on their 10 million dollar Stradivarius, a master of his craft. You answered barely above a whisper, “Little bitch…”

“I’m sorry, what was that?” He tugged your hair, pulling your face out into the open, into his line of fire. “Look at me, and say it again. What does it mean? What did I call you?”

Your lip trembled as you replied. “Little bitch…”

“That’s right! Good boy!” He praised you by tugging on your hair again, just how you like it, just how to make you sing for him. “It means more than just bitch, though. Little whore, little slut, it’s very useful. It suits you.” He released you from his grip, letting your head fall back down into his lap.

Maybe it was the weed, maybe it was his words, but something pushed you. You went right back to teasing his cock through his pants, running your tongue across the scratchy fabric, open-mouth kisses on his bulge. You wanted it. You wanted it bad, but you didn’t have the words to ask. Well, in English, that is. Weed gave you the answer in Spanish. You gave him the saddest puppy dog eyes. “¿Lo puedo? (Can I?)”

Lalo gave you a proud smile, happy to see you embracing the language, but he needed more than that. “¿Puedes hacer qué, muñequito? (Can you do what, doll?)”

Weed could only do so much. You still had to figure out what the hell you were actually asking for. “Quiero… quiero usar mi boca… en tu… en tu verga. Quiero usar mi boca en tu verga. ¿Lo puedo, Lalito? (I want… I want to use my mouth… on your… on your cock. I want to use my mouth on your cock. Can I, Lalito?)”

Lalo chuckled warmly. You were adorable. “¿Quieres chupar mi verga? Si quieres, debes decirlo primero. Dime ‘Quiero chupar tu verga, Lalito,’ y dilo fuerte. Quiero oírte decirlo. (You want to suck my cock? If you want it, you have to say it first. Say “I want to suck your cock, Lalito,” and say it loud. I want to hear you say it.)”

Like he said earlier, you have no shame, so you had no problem doing exactly what he asked you, and then some. “Quiero chupar tu verga, Lalito. Dámelo. Dámelo, por favor. (I want to suck your cock, Lalito. Give it to me. Give it to me, please.)”

“My, my, aren’t you eager!” Lalo stroked your cheek. “But, just so you know, it’s dámela, in this case. Verga is feminine. Ironic isn’t it?”

“Really?” You giggled, easily distracted from what you were begging for just moments ago. “So then is ‘pussy’ masculine? I can roll with that.”

“Sometimes, yeah.” Lalo responded, “In Spain, they call it a coño, and here you can say chocho. There’s also chocha, panocha, we got a lot of words for it.”

“So what do you call mine?” You asked with a cheeky grin.

Lalo returned the teasing energy and played along, but only to let you know who was in control here. His deep voice rumbled in his chest. “Do a good job and I’ll tell you.” He tapped your cheek. “C’mon. You said you wanted it, right?”

You’d momentarily forgotten how horny you were thanks to his distraction. You scrambled to undo his gaudy belt, tugging it through his jeans and tossing it onto the floor. Clumsy fingers patted around to find his fly, and eventually found what they were looking for. You undid the button, the zipper, and ineloquently dug your hand in, snickering as you grabbed his cock and pulled it out.

“Hehehe…” Amused with the situation you found yourself in, you fluttered your tongue across the tip, back and forth, making sure to keep his eye contact as you gave him nothing more than a facsimile of pleasure. You felt like messing with him, just a little bit. Weed was always a trickster.

Lalo raised an eyebrow. “That’s all you got? Okay,” He sighed, and leaned over you towards the paraphernalia on the table. He put a few nugs in the grinder and started to twist. “If all you’re gonna do is bore me like that, I might as well have some fun of my own.” He emptied the contents of the grinder onto the tray and started to pack a bowl. You stopped moving your tongue and tilted your head up at him, silently begging like a dog eyeing up his owner’s lunch. “No. Not until I think you’ve earned it. Get to work.” He chided.

You did as you were told and began to service him properly. Your tongue moved with purpose, mapping out his most sensitive spots. His slit, so you could coax more precum out. Underneath his foreskin and around his head, you knew he was sensitive there. Down his length so you could coat him in as much spit as you’d need. You were just warming him up for now, but nevertheless, you gave it your all.

Lalo was unphased, smoking the bong without a care in the world as you debased yourself for him. Business as usual. Your partnered dance was now a solo, and one of the steps had changed: flick, singe, pull, out, repeat. He whistled as he blew the smoke out. “There we go! That’s more like it. Ya realmente pareces como un putito. Te queda bien. ¿Estás de acuerdo? (You really look like a little slut now. It suits you. Don’t you agree?)” He took another hit and blew the smoke down into your face. “¿Entonces? Respóndeme. Respóndeme en español, te chico sucio. (Well? Answer me. Answer me in Spanish, you dirty boy.)”

You withdrew your tongue to answer him, your voice breathy and weak. “Sí… me gusta… me gusta esto… (Yes… I like… I like this…)”

“¿Qué te gusta? ¿Te gusta chupar verga como el maricón patético que tú eres? (What do you like? You like sucking cock like the pathetic faggot you are?)”

You moaned a non-verbal answer and took him back into your mouth, relaxing your throat and welcoming him inside. You let him take over all five of your senses. Sight: you’d glance up at him to make sure he was satisfied. Sound: the click of the lighter, the bubbling of the bong, the exhale of the smoke, the soft sighs and grunts of a job well done. Scent: you huffed in his aftershave and musk as your tongue touched his balls. Touch: the weight on your tongue, the calloused fingers brushing your hair out of your face. Taste: that one was obvious. Suddenly, a sour scent sliced through these simultaneous sensations. It smelled like pool chlorine on a hot summer day, but you were inside. Inside and on a couch in the living room. What the hell could that possibly be? Your eyelids snapped open and you stared up at Lalo, who was holding a small bottle up to his face, bong nowhere in sight.

Lalo poked one of his nostrils shut and snorted whatever was in the bottle. The contents shot up his nose and his face crinkled up instantly. He gasped and screwed the bottle shut before putting it back in his shirt pocket. “Mierda, está bien… (Shit, that’s good…)” He rolled his shoulders back as his head lulled to the side. “Ah… Acá… (Here…)” His fingers knotted in your hair, using it as a makeshift handle for your head, pulling you up and down his cock. “Déjame ayudarte… (Let me help you…)”

In helping you, he was really helping himself. There was nothing helpful about his hold on you. He used your mouth as a hole, a mere toy for him to get himself off. His hips jerked up into you to bury himself even deeper. He pushed you all the way down, until your nose touched his stomach, and you gagged. You spat up more saliva around his cock, making him groan in pleasure. He took you off so you could breathe, after you were done coughing up spit and precum, that is. You panted heavily while Lalo reached over you again, praising you as he did, “Oh, that’s a good boy…” Out of nowhere, you felt cold glass touch your lips.

Lalo was holding the bong up to you, a reward for your efforts. “C’mon, take a hit. You’ve earned it.”

You puckered your lips around the mouthpiece, and nodded, a signal that you were ready. He lit the fuse, and thus, the dance was partnered again. When you were done with your turn, you blew the smoke out and pointed at his shirt pocket. “What's that?” you asked.

“Oh, this?” Lalo set the bong and lighter back on the table and pulled the small bottle out of his pocket. He brought it down so you could see the label. You squinted to read the fine print. What the fuck? Nail polish remover? He’s a cartel boss. He can get all the drugs he could ever want, so why on earth would he be huffing that?, you thought. He must have sensed your confusion, so he explained himself before you could ask. “Amyl nitrite. It’s an aphrodisiac. The label’s just for legal purposes. Can’t say what it’s really for without the feds getting involved, y’know? You sniff it and it gives you a quick rush. Makes things feel pretty intense for the next minute or so. You wanna try it?”

Your eyes went from the label to Lalo, and then back to the label. You weren’t sure about this, but if Lalo did it, it was probably safe. You shrugged and went to grab it, but Lalo pulled it back.

“Hey, hey! Easy there! I’ll tell you when.” He put the bottle back in his pocket and ruffled your hair once more. “It’s a short burst so we gotta make it count, alright? Now,” He yanked your hair again, pulling your head up from his lap and sitting you up. “Let’s make it count.”

He caught you in a kiss faster than you could process. He was hungry, tongue invading your mouth, biting your lip, teeth clashing. You were too stoned to react in turn. All you could do is let him take what he wanted, and what he wanted was you. All of you. He broke the kiss to pull your shirt off and toss it on the floor. His large hands palmed your chest as he growled in your ear.

“Tan hermoso. No tienes idea de todos las cosas malas que yo quiero hacer a tí. (So gorgeous. You have no idea of all the bad things I want to do to you.)” Lalo pinched your nipples and tugged them out, making you howl in bittersweet pleasure. “Me vuelves pinche loco. (You drive me fucking crazy.)” He let go of your nipples and reached for the bong again, your body swaying left and right without his hands to support you. “Ándale, puto, hazlo otra vez. Dale una otra fumada. Quiero volverte agradable y tonto para mí. (Come on, slut, do it again. Take another hit. I want you to get nice and silly for me.)”

Dazed and confused, you weren’t entirely sure what he just asked you, but context clues were a big help. You barely had the brainpower to keep yourself upright, let alone go against him. Lips on the mouthpiece, flame on the flower, smoke in the lungs, and then smoke in the air.

“Buen chico. ¿Cómo te sientes? (Good boy. How do you feel?)” He asked. You answered with a ditzy smile and a nod. “Bien, bien. ¿Quieres continuar? (Good, good. You want to keep going?)” Another nod. Lalo chuckled and gave you a gentle kiss. “Yo sé que querrías. Chico sucio. (I knew that you would. Dirty boy.) He pushed you onto your back, and you melted into the couch cushions. You hummed contentedly, mesmerized by the plush fabric. You raised an arm to caress the back of the couch. It was just so soft. Did it always feel this nice? Wait… was the room colder now? Two firm hands grabbed your legs and pulled them apart, which posed another question…

Where were your pants?

Lalo must have slipped them off while you were conducting field research on furniture upholstery. He smirked up at you between your legs, his mouth hovering over your pussy. “Entonces, quisiste saber que yo llame este? (So, you wanted to know what I call this?)”

“Ah… y-yes, Lalo…” You whined, not even bothering to translate anymore.

That wasn’t gonna fly. Lalo frowned, and gave your cunt a harsh spank. You yelped and your hips thrust upwards. It was a pleasant sting, sure, but why? You couldn’t figure out what you had done wrong. “Wha…?! What’d I do- oh!” Another slap stopped you short.

The gentle tone you heard was a stark contrast to the searing pain you felt fizzle away. “En español, querido. Tienes que practicar conmigo. Eso es porque estamos haciendo esto. (In Spanish, sweetheart. You have to practice with me. That’s why we’re doing this.)” He gave you a second to process that. With how spaced out you were, he could’ve given you an hour and it may not have been enough. “Ya, me quieres decirte que yo llame este aquí? (Now, you want me to tell you what I call this here?)” He traced a finger up and down your slit. You were already soaked, because of course you were.

You whimpered and answered with a mediocre translation of your thoughts. “S-Sí… ¿Qué… ¿Qué es? (Y-Yes… What… What is it?)”

Lalo’s eyes held such reverence for you. You were just too cute for your own good. “Hm… Vamos a ver… (Let’s see…)” He pondered, “Eres un caso especial. Entonces, creo que yo llamaría este… (You’re a special case. So, I think I would call this…)”

His thumb flicked over your t-dick and your lower half jolted in response. “Una pija. Sí, tiene sentido para tí. Y este… (A dick. Yeah, that makes sense for you. And this…)”

He slid two fingers inside you and pressed them up into your g-spot, and pressed his thumb on your dick simultaneously. The sound that came out of you was nothing short of desperate. He laughed. “Creo que ‘chocho’ te quede. (I think ‘cunt’ suits you.)”

He twirled and rubbed his fingers inside and against you as he kept talking about your body. “Si eres algo especial, de verdad. Me encanta tu chocho, ¿sabes eso? Como apretado se siente, como mojado se vuelve cuando lo toco. Me encanta todo. No puedo esperar que llene tí. (You really are something special. I love your cunt, do you know that? How tight it feels, how wet it gets when I touch it. I love it all. I can’t wait to fill you up.)”

Your head was empty. The only thought occupying it was the fact that your hole wasn’t empty. Lalo knew just how to work you; he knew exactly what to do to make you beg, and you did instinctively. “Lalo… Lalo… Lalo, please… please fuck me… Ah!”

He had pulled his hand away from you and brought it down hard against your sensitive skin. “Te dije no inglés. (I told you no English.)” He got up onto his knees and grabbed your hips, lining himself up with your entrance. “¿Sabes que decir ‘fuck’ en español? (Do you know how to say fuck in Spanish?)”

You shook your head.

Lalo leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Follar,” and then pushed inside of you.

You cried out and wrapped your limbs around him, clinging onto him as if you were scared to let him go. Your hole did the same, pulsating around his fat cock.

Lalo sighed and caressed your cheek. “Oh, te siento tan bien. (You feel so good.) I gotta get you high more often!” He laughed. Wait, what? That was English! He saw the indignation in your face, and quickly counteracted it. “What? I can speak English, if I want. You can’t. Tú tienes que aprender español. Yo no debo. (You have to learn Spanish. I do not.) Now…” He fished that bottle out of his pocket, unscrewed the cap, and pressed one of his nostrils shut. “Close one nostril like this, put the bottle up to the open one, and sniff as hard as you can. You may feel some of the liquid shoot up, but that’s okay. It’s gonna feel great, I promise. Let me show you.” He snorted the popper himself and groaned before handing it to you, “Okay… okay… now you. Give it back when you’re done.”

Your hands fumbled the bottle momentarily, but you got it into position. One nostril shut, the other open, and sniff. Easy enough. You followed the steps: press, place, huff. A burst of liquid flooded your sinuses. You winced and handed the bottle back to Lalo, who screwed it shut and put it back in his pocket. He groaned and started to pound into you.

You’d never imagined that huffing “nail polish remover” would be so pleasurable, so psychedelic. It felt like your head was a balloon, gradually inflating but never popping. You heard your heartbeat in your ears. You could feel the couch breathing underneath you. Your cunt was on fire, and Lalo was pumping gasoline inside it, making you burn that much hotter.

Most of the sounds you made were incoherent gibberish, but there was one word in particular that you both heard loud and clear, its syllables syncing to its namesake’s hips. “La-lo! La-lo! La-lo!” Some more words crossed your mind and infiltrated the atmosphere. You tried like hell to make sure none of them were English. “Lalo! Lalo! ¡Más! ¡Da… ¡Dame más! F-Fo-oh! ¡F-Fóllame, Lalito! ¡Fóllame! (More! Give… Gimme more! F-Fuck me, Lalito! Fuck me!)” So far, so good.

Lalo groaned as he fucked you into the couch. “Ah, así es mi putito lindo. ¿Te gusta? No te preocupes, no debes decirme. Yo sé que te gusta. Justo relájate y disfrútalo. (Ah, there’s my cute little slut. You like that? Don’t worry, you don’t have to tell me. I know you like it. Just relax and enjoy it.)” He pinched your dick and stroked it in time with his thrusts. “Sabes, me alegra que seas un travelo. Me encanta que naciste con un chocho. Sientes mucho mejor que otros hombres. Es como que tú has hecho para estar follado. (You know, I’m so happy that you’re a tranny. I love that you were born with a cunt. You feel so much better than other men. It’s like you were made to get fucked.)”

You had no idea what the fuck he was talking about, but it definitely sounded nice. Then again, anything would sound nice in that rich, sexy tone of his. For all you knew, he could be reciting his grocery list. This bitch could make the produce aisle sound like a hedonistic paradise. Whatever. Logistics didn’t matter. What did matter was how close your orgasm was. You’d say you were losing control, but that implied you had some control of the situation to begin with.

All you could do was moan and drag your nails down his back. Rather than worry about what words you didn’t know, you focused on the ones you did, of which there were very few. “Lalo! Lalo! Lalo! Oh! Oh my… Ah! I mean…! ¡D-Dios mío! ¡Dios mío!” Nice recovery. That got a hearty laugh from him.

Okay, good. You could do this. You could figure this out. What was “to come” again? Right, venir, okay. Now what? You couldn’t just say venir. You gotta preface that with something. You were drawing a blank, and it made you panic. You were running out of time, and you knew better than to finish without permission. Weed was not helping anymore, and the poppers were long gone from your system, not that they would’ve contributed much either. Fuck it. You tried. “¡Venir! ¡Venir! (Come! Come!)”

Lalo thought that was the cutest thing he’d ever seen. It was adorable watching you so dumb and cockdrunk that you could barely speak. He didn’t let up, but he lent you a helping hand, or rather, he flicked on the lightbulb in your brain. “¿Te vas a venir? ¿Estás cerca? (You’re gonna cum? Are you close?)”

And it all became so clear. “¡Sí! ¡Sí, eso! ¡Voy a venir, Lalito! ¡Lalito! ¿Lo… ¿Lo puedo? (Yes! Yes, that! I’m gonna cum, Lalito! Lalito! Can… Can I?)”

Lalo smiled, pressed a kiss to your forehead, and jerked you even harder than you thought possible. “Hazlo. Hazlo y dime gracias después. (Do it. Do it and say thank you after.)”

Whatever the hell después meant was not a concern right now. You understood the rest of the sentence. “¡Gracias! ¡Gracia-ah! ¡Gracias, Lalito! Lalitooo~!” You pulled him against you and into a kiss. You moaned into his mouth as you came, flooding the space between you two and staining the couch at least a little bit.

Lalo broke the kiss and took his hand off your dick so he could stroke your hair. He wasn’t far behind. “Bien… Bien hecho. Buen chico. Oh, hiciste tan bueno. Estoy muy orgulloso de tí…” He grabbed hold of your waist, pulling you back into him and digging as deep as he could go. He growled hungrily. “Voy a venir también. ¿A dónde lo quieres? (I’m gonna cum too. Where do you want it?)”

Your orgasm had delivered yet another high that fried your brain and left you dumb. Translating was a fucking ordeal, even moreso than before. You were staring up at him with your eyes red and glazed over, and your tongue hanging out of your mouth and drooling. Where… it… you want? Where do you want it? In… Inside, right? Shit, how do you say inside again? At least this time you could think of some other words instead. “En… ¡En mi chocho! ¡En mi chocho! (In… In my cunt! In my cunt!)”

“¿Lo quieres dentro? (You want it inside?)”

“¡Sí! ¡Dentro! ¡Hazlo dentro! (Yes! Inside! Do it inside!)”

Lalo laughed, warm and sweet, and smooched you on the lips. “Don’t gotta tell me twice!” Before you could gripe about him teasing you with English again, he slammed his hips into you hard, grunting and hissing as he filled you up. And you felt full. You could feel it seeping out of you before he even pulled out. If you had more than four brain cells left, you’d worry about how you were going to clean the cushions later. But you didn’t, so you didn’t.

You both panted like you’d just run a marathon, and you were sweating like sinners in church. Although you were alike in condition, your post-nut reactions were much different. You were staring up at the ceiling, brainless and boneless, blending into the bodily fluids left onto the couch. Lalo grabbed the bong and lit the bowl again, tapping you on the cheek when he blew the smoke out. “You want some? We probably got one good hit left in there. You can speak English again, by the way.”

Of course, he was giving you permission, not stating a fact. You were too fucked up (quite literally) to speak at all right now, but not too fucked to forget the dance. Flick, singe, pull, out, pass.

“Alright, nice! And good job!” Lalo took the bong from you and placed it back on the table. “You’re getting better with Spanish. I think we gotta practice more often though, right?”

You nodded. It was all you could do.

Lalo grinned. He was so, so proud. “Yeah, alright. We’ll do this again sometime. But, I got one more thing left to teach you.” He pressed his forehead to yours, and stared right into your eyes.

“Te amo. (I love you.)”

There was no need to translate. You knew it; you said it back; and you meant it.

#bcs #better call saul #bcs x reader #better call saul x reader #better call saul smut #better call saul imagine #bcs smut #bcs imagine #lalo salamanca #lalo salamanca smut #lalo salamanca imagine #lalo salamanca x reader #intox tw #intox kink #lalo salamanca x ftm reader #ftm intox #intox ftm #ftm reader

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cheeseburgersinparadise · 10 months

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Nooo don't take me to the bar and load me up with bear and wings and pizza I'd be such an overstuffed belching mess, embarrassing myself in public to your delight before meekly requesting drive thru and finishing it before you even bring me home, that'd be terrible haha

oh gosh, I would never do something like that but if I did ~

I’ll make sure your glass was never empty, ordering pitchers for the table but knowing that I expect you to drink most of it. I’ll order you greasy bar food and when you think you’ve had enough, another plate would come out for you.

You’ll tell me you’re full but the alcohol would give you a second wind, allowing you to keep eating everything I put in front of you.

You’ll eventually beg me to go home so you can get out of your tight pants, trying not to make a scene in public with your bloated gut as your shirt rides up.

But even when we get in the car and your pants are unbuttoned and you’re hiccuping and burping and moaning about how full you are, the sight of a fast food sign piques your interest and soon you’re asking me to stop at the drive through with a gleam in your eyes but an innocent smile on your face.

Of course I can’t say no to you, baby. You’ll always have whatever you want, and I know you’ll always finish it all.

#chzburger answers #!!!!!!#yes yes thank u #intox tw #intox kink

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puppy-b1tes · 9 months

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I’m going on a nightout at a gay bar in a few days and all I can think about is having a few too many to drink and stumbling into a toilet stall with a hot trans girl. Making out all messy, we’re barely able to stay upright. We don’t even make time to fully take clothes off, she just unzips and pulls out her cock. I sink to my knees and suck her off while rubbing my tcock through my jeans. Then she pulls me back up and shoves my trousers down, lining up and easing her cock into me. We fuck like that, me clinging to her while she ruts into me. When someone walks in, she covers my mouth to shut me up so we don’t get caught. I can feel her cock throbbing inside me as she fights to keep herself still and quiet. As soon as they leave, desperately starts fucking me again, sucking my neck as I whimper and whine. She rubs my cock until I cum around her, and she follows not long after. We stay entangled for a while, panting, and she kisses me. We clean up and go back to our respective groups, and my friends all tease me when an extra drink shows up for me.

#t4t nsft #trans nsft #t4t kink #nsft concept #ftm nsft #intox #intox tw #nsft fantasy #feeling so very t4t rn #anyway tgirls hit me up 👉👈 Come get some boypussy

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butch-with-a-deep-voice · 4 months

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HRT and the Mental Changes of Arousal AKA How Horny "Feels"

Alright folks we need to have a conversation about how much your libido changes with transition and hormones because that was NOT talked about with the informed consent program I went through, and it honestly should have been. How I feel aroused now is so drastically different than beforehand, in both subtle and obtuse ways, and it is FASCINATING. This post is mainly going to focus on how libido and arousal mentally feel, but I have anecdotal observations on the mechanical changes if there is interest in that. Strap in, this post is gonna be a long one.

I would like to preface that this comes from my own personal experiences as a trans feminine person. If your experiences as a trans person are different, please by all means I would love to hear your input. I have been on HRT for over half a decade, and have had an orchiectomy (in layman's terms I've been fixed), so my adrenal glands do produce a classically female level of testosterone and I no longer need to be on T-blockers. I'm also demisexual, so my experience with sexuality as a baseline is a little different than most.

As someone who works great in communicating via metaphor/simile, I will provide a detailed simile for both testosterone libido, and estrogen libido. I also want to say I prefer estrogen tenfold. I pick it every single day. While I've met other trans people who disagree, my own experiences with testosterone vs. estrogen fueled libidos will fully bias the similes.

Testosterone Libido: The best way I can describe what testosterone fueled libido felt like is once you hit puberty, you have a monkey strapped to your back. Some people's monkeys are better behaved, others more belligerent. Some are more easily "calmed down", while some are more easy to excite. But at the end of the day, it's still a monkey strapped to your back.

What I mean by that is that you are always going to be aware of a goddamn monkey strapped to your back. Sometimes the little guy is silent. Maybe it's having a nap, or it's awake but contented to just quietly "look around". Every now and then it stirs, maybe someone's butt looked nice in a pair of jeans, and you're like "right, monkey..." Honestly I got so fucking annoyed with that monkey just always being there whether I wanted it or not. It's never not there.

But, then the monkey really wants something. I don't know if you've ever seen a monkey really wanting something on video, but they can get pretty demanding really fast. That monkey that's been piggy backing you starts vocalizing in your ear, screeching even. Hitting you. Pulling your hair. I WANT A FUCKING BANANA HUMAN, GIVE IT TO ME. It gets aggressively loud, often times shockingly fast. It will go from napping to throwing a tantrum in less than a minute sometimes. And all you can do is either ride it out and hope to whatever deity you pray to it calms down, or eventually give it what it wants. Hopefully you're home, and you can quickly get one out so to speak. But until then, how on earth are you supposed to be able to get ANYTHING done when there's a monkey screeching away in your ear and slamming on you.

I'm very fortunate to have been raised by a father who taught me how to ignore that monkey. How to respectfully build a resilience to it's tantrums. But, it was always there still. That monkey made me feel so shameful. I hated how often my libido was always a reminder of how aggressive being horny could feel. How blinding it had the potential to get. Often times satisfying it wasn't even pleasurable. It was so often just "oh my god fine would you please just shut the fuck up?" My relationship with my sexuality was often unhealthy as a result of this experience with arousal.

One thing I will give testosterone over estrogen though? That monkey can only get so loud. There is a "cap" for how aroused I could get with my testosterone-fueled libido. I have yet to find the cap for estrogen.

Estrogen Libido: Libido and arousal now, with a body fueled by estrogen and minimal amounts of testosterone is akin to a fine wine. It is wholly and fully intoxicating. What do I mean by that? Well, let's take an evening of drinking a fine wine that you have theoretically unlimited supply of, and you have a somewhat standard constitution.

With a single glass, you can continue to be normal. You may not even notice more than a pleasant mildly "fuzzy" feeling, and your thought patterns being influenced ever so slightly. Hell, you may not even notice those. Most around you wouldn't even guess that you've partaken. Assuming you pace yourself properly, you can "float" in that pleasant not-even-tipsy state for quite some time. That's the thing with estrogen I found. You can float in the various stages all day if you want to. "Ride the wave" as a number of my sex-positive friends have called it. There's no monkey forcing you to drink more. You can just enjoy a pleasant buzz all day (and I often have).

Let's say you have more wine though. I like to call the next stage silly arousal. You've had two glasses, maybe three depending on your tolerance. You start feeling more... unraveled. You can still think, hold a conversation, act more or less normally. But people who are more tuned in can start to tell you've had a drink. You feel friendlier, sometimes that fuzzy feeling has gotten more full bodied, your eyes linger in certain areas when looking at people longer than you'd like to admit. "Have their lips always looked that kissable?" or "Wow their waist looks really nice in that top." But you still feel like a normal person. You wouldn't say you're Horny with a capital "H", just... pleasantly activated. I will fully admit on days where I don't have to fully be a responsible adult I have floated in this stage all day long before. It's a delicious feeling to sit in.

But what if we indulge further? Usually by this point you are drinking with inebriation being a goal, whether that is a fully conscious or unconscious choice. Beforehand the other two stages can be reached over a classic "wine with dinner" situation. Light flirtation, a mildly steamy romance novel, hell maybe even scrolling through here. Now though you've had a bottle of wine, you're properly tipsy. This is where the metaphor of arousal being an inebriant comes into full swing. For me at least, it is a very full bodied feeling (that's a whole other tangent for the mechanical affects of HRT and sex life). Your judgment, thought patterns, and decision making start being heavily influenced by your mental state. Some with more willpower/constitution are still able to get by around others, you're just "acting funny". Others are so obvious when they drink it's like blood in the water for those who know what to look for. This is the stage where if I want to not make poor choices, I stop drinking so to speak. I put my hand over my proverbial glass if someone offers to pour another. I even leave the party if I have to. Why? Because just like alcohol, the jump from this stage to the next is both subtle and pervasive in how fast it hits you.

We are drinking to get drunk now. Just like the threshold between tipsy and drunk, because of how clouded you already were the transition will really sneak up on you. I get TINGLY all over from it, with sensations all over my body becoming electric. You start saying things that you would never say day-to-day. You stop being able to hide how much you've had. Heavily flirting, getting touchy, biting your lip. You can't really think of anything else outside of just how intoxicated you are. If you're someone who is particularly... self-lubricating you're fully making a wet patch in your clothing. You are DRUNK and holy shit is it amazing. Why would anyone want to not want to feel like this? Not want to healthily engage in this every day if they could? Arousal feels so fucking good with estrogen. You feel amazing, you feel confident, and you are willing to make some truly stupid decisions that you may regret because they feel good in that moment. For me at least, I would say this is roughly the area where that testosterone libido monkey can't get much louder. If arousal could be tracked on a bar graph, testosterone capped somewhere around here for me. Estrogen though...

Just like any night of drinking, you can keep going. You can be drunk, and still keep drinking (only difference here is you aren't going to be completely battering your liver doing so). Just like alcohol, this is where I think anecdotal experiences will begin to vary wildly person to person. As such I will talk about what it's like for me. I won't usually reach this stage and beyond it without the help of another person or heavily engaging in smut/pornography. This is a headspace I'm actively trying to push into. Usually by engaging in intentional denial of the act of sex/climax in some form or another while still "drinking".

Pushing beyond "drunk" arousal starts getting irresistibly pervasive, affecting just about EVERYTHING. I feel quite legitimately high off of it at times. Speech pattern gets warped beyond belief, sometimes outright going non-verbal. The slightest touch can be pleasurable. My vision will warp if it gets intense enough (and interestingly warps differently depending on domme space, sub space, or simply "feral" horny). It sometimes even gets so warped I've been known to "Etch-a-Sketch" shake my head in a futile attempt to clear it up. Being neurodivergent, stims start creeping out of the woodwork uncontrollably, I assume because of nervous system overload. My body will fully begin to "betray me" so to speak. Squirming in my seat, drooling to fully obscene degrees, muscles in my abdomen fluttering because even a stray thought caused enough arousal to engage them. If it's allowed to go long enough I will fully begin to growl or whimper passively under my breath, depending on the type of horny.

All of these are just a handful of examples as to just how utterly intoxicating arousal and libido are now with estrogen. The truly startling part of it is I have yet to find the cap to it. I've yet to go fully down that rabbit hole. Part of me is a little scared to if I'm honest. When you get to this stage and onward, your mental state is frighteningly pliable. That level of "inebriation" has fully created new kinks that I'd not had before (or at the very least were buried so deep they weren't something worth digging up). If you or your partner is someone who can reach this level of intoxicated arousal, please please please handle it with care because being ripped out of it is ROUGH on your nervous system. (ie, sub-drop and domme-drop). There are some true horror stories out there for how intense it can be. But if you can engage it safely and healthily, holy shit is it the best. I legitimately prefer it over actual chemical inebriants (although my intox kink would say otherwise).

So, this all being said, I do want to reiterate that these are simply my experiences with how much arousal and libido changed with hormone replacement therapy. Everyone's bodies will react differently, and if you've also experienced a drastic shift with HRT, and it's different to mine I would love to hear. I also have a lot of points I'd love to make on the more physical aspects, from the viscosity of self lubricants, to the fact that I can now orgasm multiple times with no "get sleepy after cumming" endorphin response. If there's interest I'd be happy to get into those.

Thanks for reading!

#trans #transgender #trans femme #sex education #trans hrt #hrt #hormones #sex positive #queer #lgbtqia+#lgbtqia #lesbian #nonbinary #butch #sapphic #bite me #intox tw #intox

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