Desperation Meets Wicked Hunger 💗

Wicked Bargains

A tale of desperation twisting into forbidden fire, where a simple scrape ignites cravings long buried. Jump to Chapter 2 | Jump to Chapter 3 | Jump to Chapter 4 | Jump to Chapter 5 | Jump to Chapter 6

Chapter 1: Storm-Soaked Collision

Rain lashed the windshield like angry fingers as Lana gripped the steering wheel tighter. The old Subaru rattled through the storm, wipers slapping futilely against the downpour. It was Thursday afternoon, and she’d bolted from the house after another blowout with Derek. He’d snapped about the overdrawn account again, his voice flat as he scrolled job sites on his laptop. Freelance coding gigs weren’t cutting it anymore; the rent in San Diego’s outskirts gnawed at them like a persistent ache.

Lana, once a sharp-eyed marketing coordinator with dreams of her own agency, now scraped by with virtual assistant gigs. Her dark curls frizzed in the humidity, framing a face still pretty at 34—full lips, hazel eyes that could spark or simmer. But stress had carved faint lines around her mouth, and her curves, once flaunted in tight jeans, now hid under a loose sundress soaked at the hem.

She pulled into the strip mall lot behind the discount grocer, hunting bargains to stretch their last $92. Thunder grumbled overhead. Spotting a slot near the service door—her old coworker perk from the boutique next door—she swung in sharp. Too sharp. The corner of her bumper kissed the gleaming fender of a massive black Escalade reversing out.

Metal scraped metal. A jolt. Heart slamming, Lana cursed under her breath. “Shit.” She killed the engine and stepped out into the deluge, dress clinging to her thighs, bare feet slapping puddles—no time for shoes in her rush.

The Escalade door swung wide. Out stepped Marcus, a mountain of a man, easily 6’6″, shoulders like forged iron under a drenched white tee that molded to his tattooed chest. Cornrows slicked back, scar slicing his left cheek, eyes dark and unyielding. He owned the vape lounge two doors down—whispers said more, underground dealings in the shadows of legit shops. The air thickened with his scent even through the rain: musk, cologne sharp as citrus, undercut by something primal.

“You blind, woman?” His voice boomed low, gravel over silk, as he loomed over her dented Subaru.

Lana’s stomach knotted. “I… it was an accident. Rain’s pouring. We can exchange info.” But her voice wavered. No insurance. Derek had let it lapse months back.

Marcus circled her car, rain sheeting off his broad back. He yanked her door open, rifled the glovebox—registration to Lana and Derek Hayes. “This rust bucket? Repairs’ll eat your savings.” He snapped photos with his phone, the flash cutting the gray.

“Please,” she stammered, arms crossed over wet fabric turning sheer. Nipples peaked against the chill. “We’re broke. Cost of living’s crushing us. Let me pay in installments?”

His gaze raked her—legs glistening, dress translucent, outlining full breasts, the dark patch of her trimmed bush beneath. A wicked smirk curled his lips. “Installments, huh? What’s a fine piece like you offering?” 🔥

She flushed, heat battling the cold rain. Backed against her car, she felt small, exposed. Marcus stepped closer, heat radiating like a furnace. “Got $200 here.” He peeled bills from a thick wad. “Covers your fuckup. But you gotta earn it.”

Lana’s mind raced. Grocery run for a week, maybe meds for Derek’s migraines. One act, forgotten. But his eyes held hunger, not just cash. “What… kind?”

“Right here. My lap. Your mouth. Quick and dirty.” He nodded to his SUV.

Her pulse thundered. Married 12 years, faithful despite Derek’s fading spark—sex vanilla, rote. This brute? Taboo pulsed low in her belly, a treacherous warmth. “I’m no whore.”

“Then pay the shop. Or this.” He tapped the scrape, now glaring under rain streaks.

Defeat settled heavy. She nodded, throat dry.

Inside his Escalade, leather seats vast and warm, smelling of leather polish and faint weed. Marcus shoved the passenger seat back, unzipped with casual menace. His cock sprang free—thick, veined, half-hard already, darker than midnight, head flared like a promise of ruin. Bigger than Derek’s by half, easily 10 inches uncoiled.

Lana’s breath hitched. “God.” She leaned over awkwardly, car rocking faintly. The rain drummed a frantic rhythm.

“Open up, mama.” His hand tangled in her wet curls, guiding. She parted lips, tongue tentative on the salty crown. He groaned deep, hips twitching. As she sucked, hollowing cheeks, it swelled monstrous in her mouth—stretching jaws, hitting throat. Gagging reflex kicked; she pulled back, saliva stringing.

“Deeper,” he growled, pinching her nipple through wet cloth. Electric jolt shot to her core. Her pussy clenched, traitorous slick gathering.

She worked him sloppy—lips gliding, tongue swirling veins pulsing hot. His free hand delved under her dress, finding no panties (laundry day). Fingers traced her folds, parting swollen lips. “Wet already? Wicked little secret, ain’t you?”

First “wicked”—natural narration.

She whimpered around his girth, hips bucking into his touch. Thunder crashed as his thick digit plunged in, curling against that spot. The stretch burned sweet; she rode it shame-faced, car windows fogging frantic.

Marcus thumbed her clit, relentless. Pressure built, coiling tight. She shattered—orgasm ripping silent screams muffled on his shaft. He followed, flooding her throat with ropes thick and bitter-sweet, forcing swallows.

Panting, she sat up, wiping mouth. He tossed the cash, another $100 “tip.” “Number. We’ll settle more later.”

Lana fled to her car, soaked in rain and sin, groceries forgotten that day.

Chapter 2: Echoes of Surrender

Back home, the apartment reeked of damp and microwave dinners—stale rice, faint mildew from leaks Derek swore to fix. She showered scalding, scrubbing his taste, but the ache lingered. Her pussy throbbed, nipples sore from his pinch. Mirror reflection: flushed cheeks, swollen lips. Wicked guilt twisted—what kind of wife came twice on a stranger’s fingers?

Derek shuffled in late, oblivious, pecking her cheek. “Rough day?” His eyes skimmed her towel-wrap, no spark.

“Fine.” Dinner heated, conversation skimmed bills, his failed interviews. In bed, she turned away, body alive with replay—Marcus’s musk invading dreams, his cock a phantom weight on her tongue.

Friday blurred into calls, voice hoarse pitching webinars. Phone buzzed at noon. Unknown number.

“Miss me, Lana?” Marcus’s rumble sent shivers.

“How—”

“Saw your pics. Cute family shots. Hubby know his girl’s a natural cocksucker?”

Threat implicit. Heart iced. “What now?”

“My shop. 6pm. More scratches to settle.” Click.

Panic warred desire. She could ghost, fight. But $300 burned hole in her wallet; Derek thrilled at “bonus gig,” clueless.

Vape lounge hummed—neon haze, bass thumping hip-hop, young crowd puffing clouds sweet as candy. Marcus in back booth, king-like, two lackeys nodding. He pulled her into dim stockroom, door clicking shut. Air thick with vanilla vape, rubber seals, his sweat.

“Strip to waist.” Command, not request.

Hands trembling, she peeled dress down, bra following. Full C-cups spilled free, rosy nipples pebbled. He palmed them heavy, rolling peaks till she gasped. “Beautiful. On knees.”

She sank, concrete biting knees. His cock freed again, beastly hard. She devoured willingly this time—sucking deep, gagging voluntary, hands stroking shaft veined like ropes. His groans fueled her, pussy dripping down thighs.

“Fuck my face,” she mumbled, surprising self. Wicked hunger clawed free.

He obliged, hips snapping, balls slapping chin. Fingers fisted hair. Then flipped her, bent over crates. Dress hiked, ass bared. “Spread.”

Cool air kissed slick folds. Marcus knelt, tongue lashing—broad strokes devouring nectar, spearing her heat. Clit sucked hard; she bucked, crying out. Orgasm crashed, legs quaking.

Straightening, he mounted—blunt head nudging entry. “Beg.”

“Please… fuck me.” Voice broke.

He thrust savage, splitting her wide. Inch after burning inch, walls clamping futile. Balls-deep, he railed—pounding wet slaps echoing, breasts swinging. She clawed crates, pleasure-pain blurring.

“Scream it. Whose slut?”

“Yours! Marcus’s!” Climax tore her, milking him. He roared, flooding deep, hot pulses claiming.

After, he wiped her down gentle, another wad cash. “Tomorrow. Hotel. Bring toys.”

She drove home boneless, cum leaking, soul fractured yet soaring. 💋

Chapter 3: Neighbor’s Shadow

Saturday sun mocked her turmoil. Derek golfed with buddies—rare escape. Lana paced, vibrator humming frantic in shower, replaying Marcus’s invasions. Knocking rattled her from fog—Riley next door, bubbly redhead, 30, yoga instructor curves lethal in leggings.

“Girl, you look wrecked. Spill.” Riley invaded kitchen, pouring cheap wine, her green eyes probing.

Lana cracked—car scrape, cash deal, mouth on stranger’s massive black cock. Riley’s jaw dropped, then wicked grin lit her freckled face. “Holy shit, Lana. That massive? Pics?”

Blushing, phone passed. Riley zoomed. “Damn, thug hot. And you swallowed? My man’s a limp pencil—haven’t creamed in months.”

Confession flowed—second round, now pussy-stuffed. Riley squirmed, thighs clenching. “Wicked envy. Show me how wet it gets you.”

Emboldened, Lana hiked robe. Riley’s fingers explored—dipping slick warmth, circling clit. “Fuck, soaked.” Tongues met sloppy, Riley’s smaller tits pressing. Fingers plunged mutual, gasps filling kitchen till both quaked in tandem bliss.

“Join tomorrow?” Lana whispered, shame thrilling.

Riley nipped her ear. “Hell yes. Black gangster dick? Wicked dreams fulfilled.”

But phone buzzed—Marcus. Hotel address. “Solo first.”

Riley left giggling, promising discretion. Lana prepped toys, heart pounding wicked anticipation.

Chapter 4: Hotel Inferno

Motel off highway reeked of chlorine and regret—neon “Vacancy” buzzing. Room 12: king bed rumpled, mirrors everywhere. Marcus waited shirtless, jeans low, bulge obscene. Bag of toys spilled: cuffs, plugs, vibe monstrous.

“Strip. Hands behind.” She obeyed nude, shivering on carpet rough under soles. Cuffs clicked wrists. He circled, slapping ass sharp—red blooms stinging sweet.

Bent over bed, mirror view: her flushed face, his dark length slapping thighs. Plug first—cold lube, taper forcing ring, fullness aching. Then vibe buried deep, buzzing low.

“On back. Legs wide.” Mirrors multiplied her exposure—pink folds parted, toys gleaming. His mouth feasted—sucking clit, twisting toys. She writhed, chains rattling, orgasms chaining.

Cock replaced vibe, pounding plugged ass clenching pussy around him. Sweat-slick skin slapped, moans raw. “Cum on this dick, white slut.”

She did, vision white. He pulled out, hosing tits, ropes pearling skin.

Uncuffed, aftercare tender—kisses trailing, water sipped. “Bring friend next. Wicked party.”

Exhausted, sated, she drove home, body marked inside out.

Chapter 5: Shared Wickedness

Sunday dusk. Text to Riley: “Now. His shop back.” Derek thought girls’ night.

Vape lounge closed early. Stockroom transformed—mattresses, lights dim. Marcus with two crew: Jamal, lean dreads; Ty, muscled bald. All hung like threats.

Riley arrived bold—tiny dress, no bra. Eyes widened at trio. “Fuck me.”

Marcus grinned wicked. “Both mouths busy.”

Lana stripped first, kneeling. Shared cocks—hers Marcus, Riley Jamal. Slurping symphony, gagging harmonious. Ty stroked Lana’s ass, fingers probing.

Swapped, bent double. Marcus railed Lana doggy, Ty throat-fucking. Riley mirrored on Jamal. Air choked moans, musk, pussy squelch.

Riley crawled over, tongues tangling mid-fuck. Girls 69’d atop mattresses, cocks plunging alternate holes. Orgasms cascaded—Lana’s gushing on Riley’s face, hers grinding clit.

Gangbang blurred: double penetration Lana—Marcus pussy, Jamal ass. Plugged impossibly full, screaming ecstasy. Riley airtight, blissed vacant.

Seed coated them—mouths, cunts, asses dripping. Huddled after, bodies entwined, laughter soft. Cash scattered generous.

Chapter 6: Fractured Bonds, New Flames

Monday blurred normalcy. Derek sensed shift—Lana’s glow, distant eyes. Sex revived: her riding fierce, wicked visions fueling. He came confused, questioning.

Neighbor chats deepened—Riley addicted, plotting returns. Marcus texted regulars: “shop nights.”

Lana wrestled guilt, thrill. Marriage cracked, but passion reborn brutal. Wicked bargains sealed fates—bills paid, bodies liberated.

She parked groceries guilt-free, fridge stocked. Rain pattered gentle now. Inside, Derek waited. Truth simmered, unspoken. For now, heat sufficed.

Yet nights called—Marcus’s realm, endless hunger. Balance teetered, wicked gravity pulling deeper.

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