Page 39 of Shameful Addictions

Now was her chance.

Charlotte stripped off her clothes faster than she ever had before, until she stood naked on the roadside, bared to the elements. The wind caressed her thighs, and the sun shone on her big breasts, turning her smooth skin golden.

A car appeared, approaching rapidly.

Charlotte threw herself back into the driver’s seat, her heart beating rapidly. She started driving again, picking up speed. Turning off the highway, the road type changed, going from a paved and maintained speedway to a bumpy mess. The vibration in her car ramped up as the wheels bounced, jostled all over.

Excited now, her plan in execution, Charlotte leaned forward so that her pussy rested firmly on the seat. Vibrations pulsed from her car and straight to her pussy, jiggling her labia and reaching straight to her core. A moan rolled from her throat, it felt so good. She couldn’t believe she had never done anything like this before. Breathless, she pushed her fingers back to her pussy and rubbed her outer lips. Little jolts of static rocked through her. Her hips bucked in spasm.

Charlotte moved her hand further down and ground her clit. Her juices ran, gathering hot in the palm of her hand. She arched her back, thrusting out her breasts, rubbing on herself.

The roar of another engine approaching barely reached her. Charlotte forced herself to focus on the road, though she could no longer gather the strength to remove her hand from her crotch. She drove on, rubbing her pussy, while a truck trundled on toward her.

Silently, she begged the driver not to pay attention to her.

As she should have learned by then, begging did nothing. The truck driver slowed down upon approaching her. A man in a cowboy hat leaned his head out the window and stared at her as they passed, ogling the naked, big-breasted, blonde-haired slut who was so horny she had to fuck herself while she drove. That, at least, was all he would see, all he would understand.

Charlotte pushed the encounter from her mind and focused on the task at hand, letting the car’s vibrations carry her deeper and deeper into sexual degradation.

Mamba’s home appeared from out of the woodland, a behemoth perversion of Victorian architecture with off-white with blue-black roofing, edged with spikes and pillars and spirals. It was an imposing den perfectly suited to a snake-like Mamba.

Charlotte parked out in front of his grotesque house. At least there were no other houses around, no neighbors who could gawk at her without her knowing. Holding her keys in her hand, since she had no pockets now in which to put them, she walked up to his front door and rang the bell.

The door opened in an instant, as if he had been standing on the other side awaiting her. She had never been so close to him before and was taken aback all over again about how imposing he was. She’d gotten so used to him sitting behind that desk, but now he was standing over her, looking at her with contempt down the bridge of his nose. He wore a shimmering black blazer over a thin white shirt that showed off his muscular body, and a belt studded with what could only be real emeralds.

Mamba moved, so swiftly she didn’t know what was happening until it was too late. He took her keys from her and put them in his pocket.

“Who are you?”

“Charlotte, sir.” This game she knew by now.

Mamba shook his head. “You’re mistaken. Charlotte is a pathetic bitch. Your name is Cuntflaps.”

She gasped and took a step back, feeling like he had slapped her. She twisted away from him, and then turned back, knowing she couldn’t leave. Her car was locked, and he had the key. She couldn’t even get her clothes back, much less drive away.

She turned back to face him, her head so low her chin almost touched her breasts. The initial shock of being called Cuntflaps faded, leaving her with a bit of clarity. “Charlotte is a pathetic bitch.” Not, “You’re a pathetic bitch.”

By calling her that name, was he telling her he approved of her more in her current state? If she went by Cuntflaps, would she be accepting his approval?

She had to try, no matter how terrible it felt.

“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry, sir. My name is Cuntflaps. I’m naked and wet, just like you asked. I hope… you like it.”

“Spread,” he instructed.

Charlotte spread her legs. Her juices, freed, ran down her inner thighs and almost all the way to her ankles. The warm wetness felt so good, pouring through her pussy like that, trickling over her, well, her cuntflaps.

Mamba reached to her and pushed two of his fingers into her slit. He brought them back out and smeared her own juices on her cheek. The musky scent of her own lust caught in her nostrils. “Good cunt. Come in.”

Charlotte followed him inside, leaving her pussy juices to dry on her cheek.

Inside, the house proved to be no less intimidating than the outside. Mamba led her through a vast and cavernous foyer to a massive living room almost the size of his executive office. Bronze pillars sprouted like trees from the floor, bursting up to connect with the ceiling. Huge plush couches sat on the real wooden flooring, around a black glass coffee table. Lights rimmed a recessed ceiling. At one end was a fireplace, casting an eerie play of light and shadow across half the room. The hairs on the back of Charlotte’s neck stood up. She felt, quite sharply, deeply, that this wasn’t a place where she belonged. There was a masculinity to the place, a lack of decorations that went beyond simply spartan. The absence was… threatening.

Nowhere to hide.

“Sit,” Mamba said, pointing at one of his massive couches. Other than the cushions that belonged there, the couch in question, and the others lacked comfort. Not a single throw pillow or quilt was in sight.

Charlotte sat.

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