Stealth Control - Tinder Date
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I’m Janet, 25, usually the wallflower type, but tonight’s got me all fucked up. That Tinder date with Nerdy McNerdface, total catfish vibes. He was all glasses and awkward laughs, not my usual tall, dark, and fuckable type. Still, he was into me, like, really into me, and the dinner wasn’t half bad. We ordered some fancy Thai, and I slipped to the bathroom to fix my makeup. Came back, drinks were waiting, mine had this weird metallic tang, but I figured it was just shitty wine. Food was banging, though, and we actually had a laugh. He walked home, saying he lived five minutes away, and I hopped in an Uber, feeling… okay, I guess.
A couple minutes into the ride, this shiver rips down my spine, like someone cranked the AC to arctic. Weird, it’s not even cold. Then my hands shoot up and grab my tits, squeezing hard through my blouse. “I knew she was stacked under her clothes,” I mutter, and my brain’s like, what the hell, Janet? But I shrug it off, thinking I’m just hyping myself up, feeling sexy for once. My nipples are poking through my bra like little bullets, and I’m wet, so fucking wet my panties are sticking to my pussy. I’m rubbing my clit through my skirt right there in the Uber, thighs clenching, the leather seat squeaking under my ass. The driver’s probably getting a show, but I’m too horny to care.
I stumble out of the car, wobbling in my heels like I’ve never worn them before. “Shit, how do chicks walk in this?” I grumble, nearly eating pavement. My brain’s screaming too much wine, but I only had two glasses. Fumbling with my keys at the apartment door, I try every damn one, like I forgot which opens my own place. Long day, Janet, chill. I’m barely inside before I’m tearing off my clothes; blouse, skirt, bra, panties, all hitting the floor in a sweaty heap. The air smells like my perfume and the faint musk of my arousal. I’m naked, skin prickling, and I stagger to my bedroom, drawn to the full-length mirror like it’s calling my name.
There I am, legs spread wide, one hand kneading my left tit, the other jammed between my thighs, fingers roughly fucking my pussy. My reflection’s a slutty stranger, hair messy, cheeks flushed, pussy lips glistening like they’re begging for it. “Oh, fucking hell, this bitch is sensitive,” I groan, voice low and raw, not my usual soft whisper. My clit’s throbbing under my fingers, slick and swollen, and every thrust sends a jolt through me, like my cunt’s wired to explode. I’m not this rough, not this… feral. But my brain’s like, you’re just horny, girl, let it out. The room smells of my juices, tangy and thick, and my tit’s heavy in my hand, nipple hard as a pebble.
I’m panting, hips bucking, chasing an orgasm that feels too big for my body. This isn’t me, a tiny voice screams, but it’s drowned out by the wet squelch of my fingers and the mirror showing me loving every second.
I didn’t know that nerd slipped nanobots in my drink, that he’s in my head, feeling my pussy clench, tasting my sweat through my skin. He’s making me a whore, and I’m justifying every second, thinking it’s just me, finally cutting loose.
