I bring myself back to that night, when that impudent man was kissing her, my Anastasia. I'm glad I didn't come out of those bushes when I first saw him coming on to her. He tipped back her head and leaned in...
Her eyes were beautiful; terrified, and then blank. Her face was a work of art. And then he started teasing her, trying to get her horny as well as drunk. Well, I can certainly appreciate that impulse. It's worked well enough for me.
I imagine not intervening, the scene playing out to its natural conclusion. Her standing, pliant and resigned, as he strips her clothing from her, heedless of the bar door not far away. He'd take her off to the side of the building, a little away from the crowd, but still close enough that they could be seen at any time. She'd make a cursory effort to fend him off—“no, not here”—before giving in to the inevitable.
He'd keep paying attention to her pussy, rub her clit a bit, get her turned on. Make out with her, maybe, if he's into that. And then, when she's all hot and bothered, he'd strip himself and get to it.
I imagine the look on her face when she realizes he has no intention of using a condom. Imagine her hushed protest, his hand over her mouth, her terror. Maybe he'd stuff her own panties into her mouth as a gag. The taste of her own wetness would only turn her on more. Secretly she's always wanted this, sex without responsibility. This is why she got herself drunk; this is why she came outside despite him hitting on her earlier. This is her purpose. This is who she is.
He thrusts into her, his eyes falling shut in pleasure. She's tight and wet, dripping wet; she's never been so excited in her life. A small moan escapes her, and she goes limp. After a moment, she continues to struggle, but the token resistance only succeeds in turning him on more. He establishes a rhythm, fucking her into the wall of the alley. He fingers her clit with one hand, using the other for balance.
She makes a particularly concerted effort to escape, and almost manages to get away. “Oh, no, you don't,” he hisses and grabs her arm, yanking her bodily back into the alley. “You're staying right here until I'm done with you.” He goes back to fucking her, but without the hand on her clit.
She whines, and looks dejected, and struggles half-heartedly for a bit, but he doesn't take the bait. Finally she can't handle it anymore, and she reaches down to rub herself. He grins and smacks her ass, and she shudders around him.
He's nearing climax. His thrusts come out of time, and his breath is labored. Still rubbing herself, she makes one last effort to push him away—“please don't, please pull out before you—”
But it's too late. He collapses against the wall as he cums, shooting hot semen into her in bursts, clasping her body to him as if to thrust his sperm even more deeply inside. “Fuck, you're good,” he mutters into her ear.
Her eyes are closed now, and she's still masturbating furiously. He pulls out of her pussy and inserts a finger, then two, stroking her tenderly. Her whole body arches as her orgasm hits. “Oh, God!” she half-screams, squirting all over his hand, a tortured look on her face. “Oh, God, God, God...”
He keeps up the stroking all through the aftershocks. And eventually it's over, and she opens her eyes.
“How dare you...”
But she knows it's fruitless to complain. Not when he just gave her the best orgasm of her life. And by the grin on his face, he knows it too.
“Next time, you know, you could just ask.”
He holds her eyes for a long moment, until she turns, ashamed, and flees naked down the alley. Tears start in her eyes as his cum drips down her legs, but she never looks back.
The next morning, in my arms but unable to meet my eyes, she stutters out an explanation to me; that night, she screams “no” as my hand comes down—
Outside the fantasy, my hand shivers on my cock, drawing out my orgasm. As the last waves of pleasure fade, I let out a sigh. She is mine now in name as well as in fact, Anastasia Grey. Still, it couldn't hurt to remind her of that.