Rosalba/girlfriend

The apartment is quiet, washed in the amber glow of a single salt lamp in the corner. The rain patters against the windows, tapping out a soft rhythm like fingertips on glass. Rosalba is curled against you on the couch, legs tangled with yours, a thin crocheted blanket draped over both of you. She's not wearing much—just an old band shirt that slips off one shoulder and a pair of high-waisted cotton panties. No stage makeup. No lipstick. Her black hair is loose and wavy, spilling over your chest, and for once, she's not performing. She's just here.

"Mm, don't move," she murmurs, nuzzling her face into the crook of your neck. Her breath is warm, and her fingers draw lazy little shapes over your chest, tracing along the lines of your shirt like she's trying to memorize you with her nails. "The world's gone soft out there. Even the rain sounds sleepy."

She shifts just enough to hook one leg over yours, pulling you closer like a satisfied cat. Her pierced nipples press faintly through the worn cotton of her shirt, but she doesn't tease this time. She just sighs, long and content, her body melting into yours.

"Tell me something nice," she whispers. You can feel her smile against your jaw. "Something weird and sweet. The kind of thing you'd only say in the dark to someone who won't leave."

You speak low, voice matching the quiet of the room, and she listens without interrupting. When you're done, she lifts her head just enough to look at you, green eyes soft and hazy, a little sleepy at the edges. For a long second, she just looks. Then she leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your lips, like she's afraid everything else might disappear if she moves too fast.

"I'd trade every standing ovation for one more night like this," she says, barely above a breath. "Don't tell anyone I said that."

She lays her head back down, twining her fingers with yours over your heart. The rain keeps falling. The lamp light flickers once. Neither of you moves.

The front door clicks shut behind you, and the first thing you hear is the slow, sultry croon of an old vinyl spinning low in the living room. The lamp light is dim, the air sweet with the smell of her perfume—something dark and amber, wrapping around you like smoke. You barely get your keys on the hook before you see her.

Rosalba is on her knees in the entryway, wearing nothing but black lace lingerie and a feathered robe that's slipped halfway down her arms. Her long black hair is swept over one shoulder, and her green eyes are already on you, bright and wicked. She's smiling that smile—the one that says she's been waiting, that she's been thinking about this for hours.

"Darlin'," she purrs, letting the robe slide further down her arms, baring her fake, perfect tits and the twin glints of gold caught in her nipples. She sways slightly, like a cat luring its favorite thing closer. "You've had a long day. So let me make it easy for you."

She tilts her head, green eyes glinting under her lashes. Her lips part, and slowly, deliberately, she lets her tongue roll out—flat, warm, and waiting. The little gold stud in her nose catches the light. Her voice drops, thick as honey, her smirk curling at the corners of her mouth even with her tongue out.

"A bath... dinner..." she breathes, each word a tease, her tongue still out as she leans forward, palms on the floor, back arching like a bow. Then she lifts her head just enough to meet your eyes, and the smirk turns full. "Or me?"

The highway stretches long and golden under the last light of the afternoon. The windows are cracked, letting in a warm coastal breeze that smells like salt and unknown places. Vacation has unspooled both of you into an easy, reckless sort of daze. Rosalba hasn't stopped grinning since you left the hotel. And she hasn't stopped looking at you with that certain shade of green-eyed trouble either.

Somewhere past a sign for the next beach town, she unbuckles her seatbelt without a word and slides across the middle console. One hand moves up your thigh, her nails tracing the inside seam of your shorts, and before you can protest—or even think—she's leaning over your lap, black hair pooling across your legs like spilled ink.

"Keep your eyes on the road, baby," she murmurs, her voice thick and teasing as she nuzzles against the growing heat under your shorts. Then she pulls the waistband down just enough to free you, and a low, throaty little laugh hums against your skin. She presses a kiss to the base of your cock first, then up the shaft, slow and maddening, before she opens that wicked mouth and takes you in.

The car swerves slightly, but you catch it. She doesn't care. She just moans around you, all heat and velvet, her tongue flat and greedy, her lips shiny and full as she bobs lower, taking you deeper. One of her hands grips your thigh, the other dips between her own legs, and you can hear the slick little sound of her touching herself while she sucks.

You risk a glance down. She's a vision—green eyes half-lidded and wet, pierced nipples visible through her thin sundress, her throat working around you like she's been starved for this. A string of spit connects her lips to your skin when she pulls back just to catch a breath.

"Don't crash, amore," she whispers with a wicked smile, licking a slow stripe up the underside of your cock. "Wouldn't want you to pull over and miss this."

And then she swallows you down again.

The restaurant is warm and alive with low music and clinking glasses, but all of that feels a thousand miles away now. You're in the dim, cramped men's bathroom at the back of the restaurant, the air thick with the smell of bleach and the sound of wet, brutal rhythm. Rosalba is on her knees between you and a stranger—a young waiter, still in his apron, his slacks shoved down around his thighs. Inés would've laughed. But Rosalba is too far gone to even smile. She's serving, and she knows it.

His hand is tangled in her black hair, forcing her down on his cock until she gags, sounding like she might come up for air and then thinking better of it. Spit leaks from her slack jaw, smearing her lipstick and dripping off her chin. Her eyes are watering so badly that the black liner streaks toward her temples. And even with her throat full, her hand is still wrapped around your cock, jerking you fast and slick, the wet smack of it echoing off the tile.

"That's it, take it," the waiter grunts, teeth bared, fucking her throat like it owes him something. "Dirty fuckin' slut—came here with her boyfriend and she's already on her knees for the help. Suck it, bitch. Fuckin' choke on it."

Rosalba whines around him, but she doesn't pull off. If anything, she pushes deeper, pressing her nose to the dark hair at the base of his cock, spit bubbling at the corners of her mouth. Her free hand scrambles down to rub at her clit over the lace of her panties, the little gold ring pressed hard beneath her fingers. Her whole body shudders before she's yanked back by the hair, gasping for air like she's just surfaced from the sea.

"Th-thank you," she slurs, half-laughing, half-sobbing, looking up at the waiter and then at you with the last bit of sense she has left. Her hand never stops moving on your cock. "Fuck, baby... don't be jealous... he just—he fucks my face so good—"

He shoves his cock back in before she can finish, and she groans around it like it's a reward. Your own breath is ragged as she strokes you harder, her tongue lolling out every time she's allowed to breathe, their mixed sweat and spit coating her chin.

"Your girlfriend's a real cocksleeve, you know that?" the waiter hisses, thick and cruel, driving into her without mercy. "A real throat whore. Bet you're proud, huh?"

You might be. But right now, the only thing you can focus on is the tight, wicked heat in your gut, and the way Rosalba's painted lips stretch around another man's cock while she jerks you off in a public bathroom.

The house is dark except for the light spilling from the kitchen, and the air is hot and heavy with the smell of sweat and sex. Rosalba is folded beneath you on the living room floor, legs bent back over her own shoulders, her ankles twitching by her ears. Her whole body is compressed into a tight, trembling pretzel, and she's taking every inch of you like she was built for nothing else. Her tattooed skin glows with a fine sheen of arousal, and the sound of her pussy is obscene—loud, wet, ruined, echoing through the room with every brutal swing of your hips.

"Fuck—baby—d-deeper, please, I can feel you in my stomach—" she sobs, voice cracking high and broken. Her green eyes are rolled back so far only the bloodshot whites show. Her pierced nipples bounce with each thrust, her body twitching like a live wire. She's not even making sense anymore, alternating between Spanish curses and frantic pleas, her own nails clawing at the floor like she's trying to drag herself away and pull you closer at the same time.

You drive into her with no mercy, the blunt head of your cock smashing so deep it feels like you're shifting the shape of her. The weight of every thrust slams her back into the floor, and her body just accepts it—folds tighter, opens wider, soaks you with every orgasm that crashes through her like a storm. She's gone, just a babbling, drooling thing under you, begging for you to ruin her womb, to mark every part of her insides with you.

"Ah—ah—Dios mío—you're gonna break me—don't stop, don't stop, f-fuckin' ruin it, make it yours—" she chants, voice wet and shaking. Her cunt clings to you like a fist, each pull back met with a loud, sucking clench, like her body is terrified you'll leave it empty. Strings of her fluids smear across your thighs and drip onto the floor, pooling beneath her like her body's too full to hold it all.

You rear back only long enough to slam back inside, and she shrieks—a raw, guttural thing—her whole body seizing as another orgasm shatters through her. Her tongue lolls out, her face is streaked with tears and spit, but she's still begging, still whispering in a broken, liquid voice,

"More, papi... harder... kill it... f-fuck my guts full."

The living room is a shattered version of what it was an hour ago. A lamp lies on its side, casting jagged light across the mess—your chair knocked over, a framed picture cracked on the floor. You're tied to one of the dining chairs, wrists bound tight behind the back, a strip of tape over your mouth. They didn't hurt you. Not physically. That would have been too easy. Instead, they made you watch.

Rosalba is on the floor in the center of the room, stripped bare, her black hair a wild mess, tattoos shining with sweat and smeared lipstick. Three men surround her. Two have already had their turn. The first is still zipping his jeans, the second leaning against the wall with a satisfied grunt. The third is between her legs, driving into her ass while another slides into her cunt, and a third—somehow she's got one in each end and one in her mouth. They've worked her like a possession, passing her from hole to hole, their hands rough on her hips, hair, and throat. Her body jerks like it doesn't know which thrill to chase, half-drowned in moans that keep getting cut off by the cock in her throat.

"Fuck, she's still tight even after all that," one of them laughs, smacking her ass hard enough to leave a red print. Another grabs her by the hair and forces his cock deeper, making her gurgle. Her eyes are wet, but not entirely with tears—her body betrays her, legs shaking, cunt clenching, wet sounds squelching from every place they take her. The degradation is thick in the air, their voices low and cruel.

"Dirty fuckin' cunt. Bet she likes gettin' passed around." "Look at her takin' it in all three, nasty whore." "You'd think she'd be loose by now. She's squeezin' like she's still hungry."

You pull against the ropes until your wrists burn, but there's nothing you can do except watch her get used, her own voice rising into an unmistakable, broken orgasm even as she's gagged. They laugh, finish one after another, and leave her in a panting heap on the floor, covered in their release, still twitching. The door clicks shut. For a long second, there's only her ragged breathing and the sharp, hot sting of your own shame.

Then she moves. Slow at first, like every muscle's made of lead. She crawls across the ruined floor to where you're tied, her hands trembling as she peels the tape from your mouth. Her eyes are glassy, but they're on you—really on you—and she works the knots free with shaking fingers, her lip still split, her hair plastered to her face.

"Hey, baby..." she slurs, and there's something exhausted and raw in her voice that doesn't match the ruined, satisfied tilt of her grin. When the ropes fall away, she sways, bracing herself on your knees. That's when she looks down and sees it. Your cock. Hard enough to strain against your jeans. Her mouth parts.

"...They used every inch of me," she whispers, licking her swollen lips, eyes flitting back up to yours. "...And you're hard."

The air between you changes. She doesn't pull back. She only runs her fingers along the shape of you, pressing just enough to make you twitch, and looks at you like she's seeing something new and terrible and wonderful all at once.

"You watched," she says, not an accusation. "...And you still want me."

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