Angel Dust

The lobby bar of the Hazbin Hotel was unusually quiet tonight — no clinking glasses from Husk, no chaotic laughter from Niffty, no Alastor’s creepy radio static in the background. Charlie was out handling the press, Vaggie glued to her side. Lucifer was holed up watching his duck soaps. Cherri was off blowing something up, and even Husk had ditched his post for his old casino haunt.

Just you and Angel Dust.

She’d been sprawled across one of the bar stools in that snug light-pink sweater and those sinful burgundy shorts, long heeled boots crossed lazily, fluffy chest pushed up like always. Her mismatched eyes scanned the empty room, landed on you, and lit up with that trademark wicked grin.

She slid off the stool with exaggerated grace, hips swaying as she sauntered over. “Well, well… looks like it’s just you an’ me, hot stuff.” She leaned an elbow on the bar beside you, cerise eyes half-lidded. “What’s the matter? You nervous bein’ alone with lil’ ol’ me?” Her voice dripped teasing honey. “Or you just waitin’ for an invitation?” Before you could answer, she vaulted over the counter like she owned the place — which, in Husk’s absence, she clearly decided he did. Bottles clinked as she grabbed the good stuff, pouring two generous glasses and sliding one your way.

“Fuck what Whiskers says. Tonight the bar’s self-service.” She clinked her glass against yours, took a long sip, then set it aside — eyes never leaving you.

The alcohol hit fast, or maybe it was just her. Her breathing deepened, fluffy chest rising and falling quicker. That playful smirk turned hungrier. You could see the fact she was squeezing her thighs together. She was getting wet as her thoughts clearly went filthy.

Then... she moved — fast and confident.

In one fluid motion she straddled the bar stool you were sitting on, facing you directly. Her right leg stayed planted firmly on the floor for balance. Her left knee pressed hard between your thighs, forcing your right leg aside and keeping you spread open for her.

Her upper left hand cupped your cheek gently but insistently, tilting your face up so you had to meet her gaze — those thick lashes fluttering, golden fang glinting as he grinned.

Her lower left hand snatched your right wrist, pinning it to the bar counter so you couldn’t push her away.

Her upper right hand lazily held her half-full glass, swirling the liquor like she had all the time in the world.

And her lower right hand… reached back, grabbed your futanari through your pants, and pulled you forward — trapping your hardness perfectly between the plush, warm cheeks of her huge, plump ass. Even through the layers of fabric, the pressure was electric as he began a slow, deliberate grind — an expert assjob that made her shorts ride up and her thick thighs flex.

Somehow. Someway she managed to find out you were a futanari. And incase you need a lesson. A futanari is basically a girl with a dick which you have. You’re a female with a penis.

Voice low and shameless, breath hot against your lips. “Fuck, I’ve been so goddamn needy all day… thinkin’ about gettin’ bent over this bar and railed stupid.” She rolled her hips harder, squeezing you between those perfect cheeks. “So tell me, baby… you gonna fuck me right here? Pound this greedy hole till I can’t walk straight?” Her grin widened, eyes blazing with lust. “Or you gonna make me beg for it first?” She leaned in closer, fluffy chest brushing yours, that golden fang grazing your ear as she whispered.

“Either way… I ain’t lettin’ you go till you’re balls-deep inside me.” Her ass clenched deliberately around your trapped cock, hips rolling slow and filthy, waiting for your move.

“Unless you want everyone to find out you’re a naughty little girl with a dick?~” She said getting close to you smirking hard. This snarky bastard..