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Schadenfreude

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After she comes like she's never come before (maybe she hasn't - Chuck wasn't sober enough to be taking notes in their little limo romp), Blair falls asleep against him, her panties and plaid Ralph Lauren tights still pushed down around her delicate knees.

Surprisingly, Chuck just lets her, and idly examines his fingers, all wet from her pussy.

Yes. She got so fucking wet for him, and he didn't even have to do more than grope her ass and tits. His fingertips glisten in the watery late afternoon light streaming in through the cracked curtains. He smells them, and then slowly sucks around them one by one - middle, index.

Chuck Bass hates the taste of pussy. He always has. There's just something about pussy that goes wrong on his tongue. Of course, every girl is different. Some girls smell so musky, like unclean mutts, especially if they're hairy. He never goes down on chicks that don't at least shave. Some girls - most girls - get that taken care of, but it's only rare he'll go down on one and see it through. Sometimes he can smell the perfume they've applied between their knees, getting mangled and heavy with sweat and body heat, and combined with that, the taste of pussy can be downright rank to him.

This is Blair, though.

She tastes like salt and warm bath water and her soft, soft skin. Chuck licks his fingers clean down to the knuckle, then looks at her.

She's in her school uniform, a string of pearls hanging over her tits, which are rising in tiny swells with her breaths under that crisp white shirt. Her eyes are closed, her lips slightly parted. He already kissed, licked, and smeared all the gloss off of them. She pushed her uniform skirt back down to cover herself, but didn't pull her panties back up.

He's hard in his pants, but he can wait a bit.

Usually he doesn't. Usually he wouldn't. This is his suite. You're not willing, you're gone. The party keeps going without you. But it's worth it, letting Blair think she's in charge of all this for now, that she's getting what she wants. Nathaniel Archibald's ill-used toy is Chuck's to play with. Chuck gives his wood some lazy adjustment in his school khakis and tugs over his idling laptop to check his messages, his stocks, GossipGirl.net.

Then he watches porn with the sound on low.

Chuck's pretty into anal creampies. Right now, anyway.

He's pretty much been a connoisseur since sixth grade, into it like some people are into wines or art, and he likes the amateur stuff best. The sex tapes recorded in the 80s in motel rooms, before condoms were the norm in porn, where ten guys in a row will be fucking some ugly housewife until she's basically overflowing with spunk. The stuff where the girl doesn't know she's being taped. The awkwardly-filmed double penetration, camcorder zooms ruining half the shots. The stuff where the chick will be taking a load and not even knowing it until it's too late and it's dripping out of her ass.

Call it schadenfreude.

As he watches slutty bitches getting reamed until their assholes are the size of pomegranates, he's aware of Blair breathing next to him, gentle and shallow, as if too big of a breath would hurt. Someday, he thinks, in order to please whatever pillar of society she ends up marrying - maybe Nate after all - Blair will have to do this. Take it up the ass and say she loves it to wrangle her husband's attentions and keep the sham marriage up for another four, five years. Then she'll sit as the chair of every committee, just like now, and though everyone will talk, no one - not even the esteemed Gossip Girl - will really know what she did.

Just like now.

There's a condom sitting between them that Chuck pulled out of his pocket before worming his way into Blair's panties. Whatever you want to say about Chuck, he plays it safe. God forbid any Chucklets are toddling around at his own eventual wedding. The learning curve was basically instant after doing Kati Whateverhernameis bare and then having to have private house calls from his doctor and having to say he had mono and having to abstain from pussy for, like, weeks.

But God, there's something so inexplicably sweet about being the one who had Blair Waldorf first.

Carefully, balancing it perfectly on the wide bedside dresser, Chuck sets aside his laptop.

Now he can't wait anymore; his dick's leaking into his boxers, making them feel sticky on his hip.

She doesn't wake at the sound of his belt clinking. His khakis come open with a flick of his fingers over the button and down the zip, and as he turns over to lean against Blair, she sighs in her sleep and turns over, too, like she's picking up on some social cue even in her sleep. No matter - he can do it this way.

Chuck presses his nose into her shoulder, feeling her bra strap against it, and reaches around her to stroke his hand up her naked thigh, pushing up her skirt slowly until he can touch her pussy again.

God, it's still all wet for him - all warm and slippery with her own juices. She's smooth around her bikini lines and has curls that are damp at the top and sticky-feeling from the last time he made her come.

Chuck lazes his fingers around, dipping them deeper between her thighs until his fingers feel coated with warmth, then finds her clit and starts rubbing it with a deliberate slowness. It's easy to find, easy to work. He's practically an expert on it by now.

When she wakes up, she's already halfway to coming again.

"Chuck," she breathes, and her body rattles against his like a frightened Chihuahua - or an angry rattlesnake - or a girl who fights it and yet wants it so hard her thighs start shaking.

"Good morning, Pussy Galore," Chuck purrs.

"Chuck - don't call me that, don't ever call me that," Blair hisses insistently.

"Tell me," Chuck says in a low, sociable way, ignoring her even as he draws slippery circles around her clit. "I'm simply curious. Was that your first orgasm? You know. The one I gave you, touching your sweet little pussy just like this..."

He can't see her blushing, but he knows she must be - she's like that, so fair-skinned. He can feel the way her back goes stiff and uncomfortable against his chest.

"D'you think you're in your own porn twenty-four-seven, or something? God, you're such an asshole, Chuck," she says, then gasps as he sinks his fingers into her suddenly.

"And you're still so tight," he says gleefully. "You may not be a virgin anymore, but you still feel like one."

There's this uncomfortable silence for a reply, except Chuck can hear the way Blair's breathing and hear himself finger-fucking her. She's even wetter than she was when she climbed on him and started kissing him like she was pissed off about something and it was her way of expressing it, or revenge, or what the fuck ever.

After a minute of that, Chuck pulls back and starts playing with her clit again; now it's swollen, and he knows she's in his sway.

"God, you're so wet," he tells her nastily. "You're the wettest little debutante I've ever felt, Blair. Nate wouldn't know what to do with you. He wouldn't know the first thing about how to fuck you."

Chuck half expects her to tell him to shut up again - to not ever speak to her about her beloved boyfriend like that, and weren't they best friends, and didn't she tell him to quit the porno talk? But she doesn't. She's tellingly speechless.

"You know it's true," Chuck whispers heatedly in her ear, smelling her sweet sea kelp shampoo and the bite of winter the snow's left on her hair. She sucks in a jaggy breath, and whether she knows it or not, her knees are awkwardly spreading in those ridiculous plaid tights to make room for him, to invite him in. "You know Nate could never make you come like I did. Like I'm going to again. I'm going to make you come, Blair - did you know that?"

But instead, he pulls away, and Blair moans in disappointment and annoyance.

"Chuck - you said --"

Chuck has to be amused by the way she suddenly can't seem to string together a single sentence, and meet her eyes as she looks over her shoulder at him. They're wide and even though her face is a horny pink, there's some kind of fear in them. Her hipbone sticks out like a haute couture model's.

"Don't fret, pet," says Chuck, and shoves down his loosened khakis and his Armanis with one hand. Blair's eyes go right to his dick, and she stares at it like she's never seen it before. Maybe she didn't get a good enough look in the limo. Fuck, has she even seen Nate's dick? Has she ever seen a dick that knows what the fuck it's doing? Chuck fists himself for her, giving himself a broad, slow stroke so she can see.

"God," she finally huffs, sounding irritated and overheated, her hair flopping in a bundle of curls against the pillow as she gives up the ghost. She glares at him. "I can't believe I'm doing this with you."

"It is unbelievable," agrees Chuck, reaching out his hand and guiding her by that hipbone until she lay on her side again. "I always thought you were a frigid bitch, but I can see I was mistaken." Then he snags the condom that's threatening to get lost in the pleats of Blair's skirt. "Just relax. I'm a man of my word."

Chuck unwraps the condom in a crinkle of foil --

Then suddenly hesitates as he looks at the ring of blue rubber.

He knows she hasn't been with anyone else. He knows she's clean. He could do her bare, leave her dripping.

After a few moments of deliberation, he gets over the urge, rolls the rubber on, and quickly tucks his body up against Blair's. With a sure hand, Chuck guides himself right to the wet little fold of her pussy, the protected knob of his dick rubbing against her skin. Blair lets out a gasp of surprise, and Chuck knows that even though he moved her into position, she hadn't been expecting him to actually fuck her from behind.

"I know you haven't done it like this," Chuck tells her, soothing and smug. "I know you wanted to climb up on my lap and ride me --"

"You're not going to fit," squeaks Blair, her hand grabbing at his thigh. He's sliding into her slowly, his dick pushing against heat of her and the slickness of her own come and opening her up around it.

"Just like you rode me in the limo," he finishes, and laughs in a huff behind her ear. "Oh, I'll fit. You're just - still so - virginal."

"Bullshit," grouses Blair. Chuck grabs her hip, bringing the two of them together in a forceful push, burying his cock all the way inside her with one abrupt push. She cries out, as if in warning, "Chuck!" But then it becomes, "...Oh my God."

His eyes are swimming slightly, like he's taken a hit of something, though he hasn't. God, his stomach is all pressed up against Blair Waldorf's rich, uptight little ass, his dick spreading her pussy open all over again, and she has no idea what she's in for. He can't even think what she'll say when she finds out - if she finds out. She's smart - even clever - but so naïve.

"Good girl," he mutters at her, taking a pause to let her feel him in her.

"This is so unromantic," she complains.

"It's fucking," returns Chuck, deadpan. "Did you think it was romantic when you were grinding on my dick in the limo?"

He pulls his hips back and thrusts himself back into her, easy and wet, and she petulantly refuses to let out the noise he can hear crowd in her throat. Not deterred by the pretensions, Chuck reaches around and plucks his fingers between her legs, giving her a tease that makes her body change against his, going from uncertain and stiff to willing, wanting, hot.

He fucks her steadily and strokes her off generously, listens to her get hotter and hotter with a rising desperation in her breaths until she makes some noise like he's hurting her and God, man, he can feel that all around his cock, her muscles pulsing and that heated push of juices all around him.

"You came again, Waldorf," he tells her, rubbing her prim little nose in it mercilessly. "Did you like it?"

"Oh my fucking God," Blair cries out. He can hear how ruined her voice is, how shaky she is with it, how hard she's grasping at straws to keep him away even though he's in her, all over her. "Will you just - shut up and finish?"

"What?" Chuck asks, as if confused. "You don't want me to make you come again?"

"You can't," she snaps immediately. "I can only do one."

The implications of this are fucking fascinating, and Chuck's immediately caught up in them, his imagination running wild. Is she telling the truth? Does she get herself off in her bedroom at home? Does she think one pitiful orgasm that barely gets her heart rate up when she's only half-aroused and thinking about Nathaniel fucking Archibald is it? Or has she ever fucking come before he fingered her into it thirty minutes ago? He just bets not - bets she's never really come like that before, anyway.

"Don't lie to me," he laughs, almost happily. "You've already come twice just from some stupid clit-twiddling."

"Not twice in a row!"

"Yeah, twice in a fucking row. Jesus Christ, do you not know anything?"

He gives her a rough, deep fuck of a thrust, effectively cutting off any arguments, and throws his weight onto her, pressing her abruptly into the mattress and probably crushing that pearl necklace between the mattress and her tits. His hand's still shoved between her legs, and he plants the other against the mattress for balance.

It's the most ungainly position, amusing in how it strips away Blair's inherent elegance, takes away her control; her skirt's in a twist over her back and it'll probably be wrinkled later, and her hair's all over the place, silky and mussed, the careful chignon already having fallen apart. She's wearing a hairbow in a dusky maroon that matches her tights.

"Don't you dare," she spits out, sounding deadly yet thick.

But Chuck knows what he's doing. He presses himself forward, thighs flexing awkwardly beneath the elastic cut of his underwear stretched around them, and digs himself at her with deliberation, pumping hard and low - and enjoys his victory as Blair Waldorf starts coming apart at her tightly-sewn seams underneath him.

"Oh my God - oh my God! Chuck!" she keeps howling, and he can't believe it's the same girl who refuses to take her underwear off during rowdy games of strip poker, no matter how fucking drunk she is.

He rides her tightly, her bare ass rubbing against him and making him sweat with a painful heat in his layers of shirts, and vaguely expects someone in the suite next door's calling down with a noise complaint just then.

By the time he fucks her into an oblivion - her third come of the afternoon, which seems to soil his bed sheets and makes his thrusts sound sopping and hot - he's well on his way, too.

"Say you came again," he orders her pridefully, because wasn't that a bet on his honor and skill? Taking that practiced control off his thrusts and instead digging his fingertips against her clit again (he can feel her hips moving with his thrusts, he's practically fucking her onto his fingers) and repeats in a near growl, "Say I made you come again!"

Blair, a mess in her own clothes and in his bed, rasps uncontrollably, "God - fine - you made me!"

"Say it," Chuck demands, "say it, Waldorf, say what I did, and maybe I'll do it again."

"You made me come," Blair gasps, lifting her dark head and spitting it out at the headboard in full cooperation, somewhat easily bribed.

"Yeah, you came again on my cock, didn't you? How many times did I make you come," he hisses, so close he can taste it in the back of his mouth like he's still got his fingers, slick from her pussy, in his mouth.

"Three times --"

Fuck, yes, she came that many times, and she's going to come again, he can feel it all around his dick as he pumps that sweet little cunt of hers --

Chuck's hips go stiff and his jerks crooked as he abruptly loses control, blowing it inside her, each wad of jizz caught awkwardly in the tip of the condom. His belly jerks along with his balls as he mashes right into her ass. Somewhere through the haze, he's jerking his fingers against her, desperate and rhythmless, and he's pretty sure she gets off on it. His dick's still twitching. It's harder to tell.

He rolls off to the side, collapsing there by Blair and peeling his slimy condom off. It lands with a wet-sounding plap in the nearby wastebasket.

When finally he looks over at her - his chest still pounding and swelling around his gasps for breath, his pants open around his knees - she looks murderous. Their eyes meet for a split second before she's rolling herself over and jerking up her panties.

"You're the most revolting person I have ever met," she spits. "How dare you just use me like that? What were you doing, molesting me in my sleep? It wouldn't be a first for you, would it?"

Up come the plaid tights and down goes the skirt.

"You know," Blair says, wiggling one foot into a bow-toed flat, then the other, "I don't know why I keep hanging out with you. I don't even like you, and you've definitely proven that I can't trust you."

"I'm sure the multiple orgasms have something to do with it," he says archly. She's pissed, and though her veneer of haughtiness is back in place, he can tell she's scrambling to rip back control of the situation - of herself. He watches her steadily as she flounces off the bed. "Don't you want one more for the road?"

"Fuck off, you rapist," she tosses over her shoulder, and slams the bedroom door behind her, creating a sudden silence in which he becomes overly aware of his heart beating in his chest.

"You know you love me," murmurs Chuck.

She'll be back, he thinks, lifting his fingers and smelling them deliberately. And when she is, he'll go down on her.