A/N: Um, so. Holy shit. Guess who's making a comeback to the South Park fandom today?
This little gem has been sitting on my Google Drive since like, the end of last year-something I started randomly, on a random thought, on some random day, that grew into a story that's about fifty pages in length and still growing. So...here I am again.
Bear with me: this is literally one of the most sex-filled stories I've ever written. If you're not in it for porn, best you skip the first, oh, five or six chapters or so. Like, there's plot, this is no way a PWP, but there is sex aplenty here, folks-with angst! Huzzah!
I'm quite proud of this one, so I hope you enjoy it!
When she was sixteen, Wendy had sex with Eric Cartman.
The word around school was something awful: that he bribed her into it, he conned her, that she was drunk and he wasn't as drunk and one thing lead to another. They whispered for weeks about it; a few people even said he forced her. Kyle Broflovski said that there was no way Wendy walked into that house on her own free will. But the word of mouth, from anyone that you asked, was that she did it because he had something over her—and for those who knew Wendy Testaburger, it made sense. For those who also knew Eric Cartman, it made even more sense: his obsession over Wendy had been an item since the first day of ninth grade, when she banished her baggy jeans forever and underneath lay a rather excellent pair of legs.
But the truth was, it was never about what he had or didn't have over her. Two years later, Wendy has never, not once, tried to dispel the rumors, because the fact of the matter was, when she was sixteen, Cartman had come up to her and challenged her—you're disgusting she'd snapped, to which he dangled the bait that he knew would forever win her over:
Prove me wrong.
The proposition was that he could make her come first, if they ever fucked (here, he'd made sure to stress the if.) And Wendy was well aware it was a trap, in spite of her initial fury and embarrassment, but she didn't care. The minute he said it, she saw his desire for her in his eyes, burning so strongly that she immediately knew she would win. Because she didn't reciprocate it. Because she was a sexual creature, sure, but not in the way he was. Not in a way that she viewed sex as a competition to be won—as a weapon.
And he knew that, too, of course. Just like he knew her pride in that moment would hinder her from realizing that that, in and of itself, was the real trap.
So she had said yes. No strings attached, no bribery involved.
Cartman's house was almost always empty, so they met up there. Under normal circumstances, she would have never said yes, but she had been going through a rough patch with then-longtime boyfriend Stan—another thing Cartman was well aware of—and had been feeling exceptionally destructive lately. And going to Cartman's house by herself, on a weekend, was no different. It felt like walking into her own grave. Or cuffing her own hands behind her back.
It made her feel vulnerable, the way silence wrapped around the entire house, and that she was alone with Eric Cartman.
He was vulnerable, too, but for different reasons—arguably worse reasons than her. He sat on his bed, watching her, aware he was about to surrender himself to her, though she saw in his face almost immediately that this wasn't about winning for him. Not like it was for her. It was about getting in her bed with him, what he'd been trying to do for two years. So right away, she'd lost a little there.
She might have been getting into bed with him, but it wouldn't be sex. It would be him masturbating using her body. It would be a one-sided connection, him trying to satisfy his desire of her that would never be satiated.
His kisses were just this side of forceful; he was messy about it, rushed and she almost didn't open her lips to him. But his tongue was demanding and she knew too much resistance would signify she thought she would lose, so she parted her lips and his tongue sent the first bolt down her body. She felt herself shiver. Dangerous territory, but she valiantly pushed through it.
Then he moved.
This startled her. She was lying down, beneath him, a position he'd put her in, and he was headed for the apex of her legs. "Cartman," she began.
He didn't respond. His hands were clumsy, fumbling. They undid her jeans so quickly that she almost couldn't react, pulled them down around her ass like a curtain dropped. The exposure was shocking.
It also sent a second surge of electricity between her legs, and she didn't like that one bit.
"No," she said. And so he stopped.
If anyone really understood what had happened between them that day, they would have understood that Cartman did not coerce, force, con, or trick her into any of it. She was just as cognizant, aware, and willing as he was.
"No," she said shakily. "You—that wasn't part of the deal, Cartman."
His eyes watched hers. "Sex was part of the deal."
He left it hanging, making her face heat. A slip in her composure.
"It's just…" She searched for words that wouldn't make her look weak, but he cut her off, enjoying the crack in her armor far too much.
"Afraid you'll lose?"
He knew that she wouldn't refuse. He knew. He was figuring it out as he went along, while she was doing the opposite. A big mistake.
At first, she was pleased when her body reacted null to his tongue. He hadn't even taken her panties off, nearly pushed them aside, his eagerness evident even with how he tried to hold himself steady. She laid still utterly convinced his attempts to unravel her would be in vain. She was hardly wet and her thighs were unmoving around his head.
He sensed this, and promptly changed tact.
She didn't know what was happening at first, until she felt him slip two fingers inside of her and how he did so with no resistance. It was then that she realized she was wet enough for him to do it—much wetter than before—and that while her mind was so stubborn in accepting that maybe his tongue felt good, her body wasn't. Her thighs had fallen more slack, and her heart was pounding a bit harder as her skin heated. In a moment of panic—that this was actually starting to feel good—she nearly pushed him away, but caught herself the moment his eyes looked up at her.
Letting him continue was bad, but stopping him would have been so much worse. A sure sign that she was beginning to crack.
Unfortunately, it was too late to disguise what her body was telling him. His fingers were buried inside of her, up to three now, and she couldn't stop the jolt her hips released when she felt him stroking the sweet spot deep inside of her—as if he'd known it was there all along. By now, his tongue had slowed to long, leisurely licks over her velvety skin, because he knew just by how she was soaking around his fingers that he didn't need to pick her apart anymore. She would do it for him.
And she did.
It wouldn't have been as bad if she hadn't, just moments before her orgasm, let it into her mind that she liked it. She wouldn't have felt that deep, burning shame pulsing at her core if she hadn't given in. If she'd held out—if she'd come still thinking that he was awful, that what he was doing was horrible—maybe she could have been okay. Maybe she could have convinced herself that she'd won after all, because she couldn't help what her body did, but she could help what was in her mind. And, a few seconds before her hips lifted off the bed and she let out a small, shuddering cry, she thought to herself that this actually felt amazing.
And maybe—maybe she did win after all. Because even after she came, he didn't stop. He kissed and licked around her swollen clit until her labored breathing lifted again into feathery moans, and he went at it again, maybe six more times, slipping her out of her panties so she was fully naked from the waist down. But it's not like she told him not to. It's not like she ever pushed him away. She just lay there, crying out every single time, and it was clear by the third or fourth time that neither could remember how they'd even wound up here.
After six times, or about an hour and a half, he sat up, undid his jeans, and sank himself into her while she was still coming down—and it startled her, frankly, so much that she shouted out Wait, and not even because she meant it. Not because she even, God forbid, wanted him to stop. It was virtually a reflex, her verbal confusion after being rudely brought back into reality.
Cartman had hovered over her, staring down at her. He didn't pull out of her, but he didn't move, either. He was almost frozen, and they looked at one another for a long while.
"I lost," was the first thing she whispered.
He swallowed. "So?"
Her breath caught. His voice was thin and husky, and it was very obvious to her then how much he was holding himself back. She could feel his cock inside of her, twitching, and how he was trembling.
She had lost but—maybe, so had he.
"Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly, and she hated that question. She hated anything she couldn't answer. Like why she'd let it get this far when all she'd had to do earlier was push him the hell away.
Or said no entirely, to this whole ordeal.
"No," she said. "I don't know."
"Does it…" He hesitated. It was kind of rare and bizarre to see Eric Cartman second guess himself; with him hovering over her, face flushed, his cock buried to the hilt inside of her, he barely looked like the boy she'd known since preschool. "Does it feel good?"
She bit her lip. If she was honest with herself, just once, then yes. It did. She was drenched and swollen from her six orgasms, but with him filling her, she felt wonderful. Warm.
"Yes," she admitted.
At that, he smiled, genuinely pleased. Then, he began to cant his hips, rolling them with sharp, expert thrusts right along her front wall, and it went from being wonderful to sort of incredible, having her see stars after she'd been so wrung out before.
"But I lost," she gasped out. Nevertheless, she clutched his arms.
He looked down at her, and his face spoke volumes: does it matter?
It didn't.
And so. Six orgasms went from seven, and Wendy Testaburger lost that day.
He never let her forget it.