A/N: Thank you guys for all of the positive feedback on this story, I'm forever grateful! This chapter's a long one, but it gets pretty raunchy pretty quickly (as I warned so long ago). Hope you enjoy!
If Eric Cartman was right about anything (and not that she'll ever admit it), it's that Wendy is, in fact, very horny these days.
She and Stan's breakup, which happened over the summer and was messy as hell, left Wendy with nobody to turn to but herself. Which was, at first, was fine. She fared okay for such a shitty time period, shrugging all what can you do-ly to her girlfriends' sympathetic pouts and high-pitched whines of "That suuuucks!" She didn't even really feel his absence at first. But she's only a teenage girl, and that was months ago, after all.
And. She misses the hell out of him.
Horniness aside, she's like, emotionally horny more than anything else. Sure, she's not get fucked as often (or at all, really) as she used to, but she also spends most of her time outside of school either studying or alone—and frankly, that's what "suuuucks" more than anything else. She'd held onto her pride this long, but, on Monday, after a weekend of her phone being dark and her hand being plunged down her panties every night, she knows it's a long shot, but she's as close to dying as she's ever been.
In AP Physics, after mustering up the courage, she turns her head. Bombshell.
"Hey, Stan."
He turns, surprised (with good reason) that she's spoken to him. Two and a half months in the same second period—they know who sits three seats down from them every morning. And they know damn well their dogged ignorance of each other is deliberate.
"Hey," he says uncertainly. Wendy's smile deepens.
By the end of the period, it's like they never fought, or broke up, or spent the entire summer pretending the other doesn't exist.
While it's not what she was originally going for, they leave class with plans for a study session at her house that night, and as they part ways to head to third period, she's euphoric, because how easy would it be if Stan liked her again—it looks like he never really stopped—and she rode the rainbow wave senior year with the lead quarterback as her boyfriend? Very.
Behind her, Eric Cartman says, "Really?"
She yelps in surprise. The roll of his eyes is audible, even before she turns around.
"What?"
"Really?" His nose is scrunched. "I kindly offer to take you to pound town and instead you hunt down your faggy ex? Lame."
"Shut up," she says, knowing it's like shooting a squirt gun at a tank. "Just because I want someone doesn't mean I want anyone."
"No, and the someone you want is pretty fucking clear now."
"Shut up," she says again.
"You're never gonna win, y'know. Not with Stan, at least. He spent all summer like, crying about how he thinks he might be gay on Skype."
He did? "No, he didn't."
Second eye roll. "Come on. Eight years and then he suddenly ditches all like 'I just need to fiiind myself'? Yeah, more like 'find myself some dick."
The bell rings then, but he's not finished. Not until the knife's plunged all the way into her flesh.
"Kinda sad that this is how bad you wanna avoid me."
Scaling their four-inch height different, she gets right up in his face. "Fuck you. Fuck you. You don't know anything about what I want or what I'm doing. And don't you ever pretend to know."
He just raises his eyebrow at her, and infuriated, she storms away.
Fuck him. Fuck him so hard.
Stan swings by around six, just like he promised.
The plan, of course, is to study. But Wendy's got other ideas. Stan seems to notice, too; when he opens the door, immediately his eyes widen and drink in the sight of her scant little camisole and tight-as-hell yoga leggings.
Wendy fluffs the ends of her hair and smiles.
"Thought we were just studying," he offers.
She goes for dumb coquettish, tilting her head (and knowing he'll never buy it). "We are."
Smirking, he still steps inside, and her heart sings.
Fifteen minutes later, with their textbooks still strewn open, he has her pinned against her couch from where they sit on the floor, kissing her madly with one hand tangled in her hair. It happened so naturally, from one minute of getting too close to examine a sample Physics problem to turning their heads and just melting into it. It was perfect. Simple and easy. It was right.
"Wendy," he breathes. She nods, pulling his hard, hot body against hers. Her legs spread, with him kneeling between them, and the solidness of him pressed against her quivering, needy core is enough to drive her mad.
The kissing gets intense, and holy shit, she's missed this so badly. Weeks upon weeks without a boy's touch, forgetting what it means to be intimate. It's heaven. She commits the shape of his mouth, the texture and taste of his tongue, the softness of his skin, all to memory, allowing herself to fall back into the rhythm.
He slips his fingers beneath her bra strap, and she sighs: permission granted.
The cold air is just being to nip around the sensitive skin of her breasts when he jerks back as if burned.
"What?" she gasps against his mouth. If he didn't turn away so fast, she would grab him and maintain their rhythm. Anything to keep him from stopping and satisfying the tiny part of her brain that clings to the possibility that Cartman's right.
And it looks like he is.
"Wendy," Stan sighs, "l-look...I know we have history, and I would, but…"
No. No.
He's never been redder as he blurts out, "I think I might be—more into guys, y'know? It's nothing against you—and it took a long time to figure out…" He sighs. "God, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have come over. I knew something like this would happen, and I've already hurt you."
"Yeah," she deadpans, not bothering to hitch up her flaccid bra strap. "You have."
"I'm sorry. I'm gonna go."
"Fine." She doesn't watch him leave.
A lot of things hurt in that moment: the unsatisfied pulse between her legs. The pain of humiliation. The fact that Eric Cartman was right. Her own desperation and foolishness.
She grabs her phone, intending to call someone. Maybe Bebe, or Red. Somebody she can vent to.
But there's one text.
Cartman: Did he run away crying yet?
Of. Course.
She clenches her fist so hard that she sees spots. Her nails press angrily into the soft skin of her hand.
Wendy: Not crying. But yeah
Cartman: Told you
Wendy: I need a favor
Cartman: Finally accepting my offer?
Wendy squeezes her eyes (and her legs) tightly shut. He's texted her back by the time she opens them back up.
Cartman: I know it looks attractive trying to get back together with an ex and all, but it's really just a mess
Cartman: Not that I'm speaking from a whole lot of experience but like. Ya know
Wendy: Gee thanks
Cartman: I wasn't kidding about him btw. He's queer af
"I fucking know you weren't," Wendy says aloud. She madly taps away a response.
Wendy: Stop talking about him. Okay?
Cartman: Lmfao sure
Cartman: Sooo...that favor
She calls him. He picks up after one ring, smile audible through the line.
"Yes?"
Deadpan, she forces out: "I'm naked in front of you, on my knees in only panties. I'm soaking wet, panting, and waiting for your cock. My hands are tied behind my back. What do you do?"
There's a stunned pause, before he lets out an incredulous laugh. "What the fuck? You want me to have phone sex with you?"
Her face burns hotter than it ever has. "Fucking yes. Okay? Stan blue-balled the fuck out of me and I need to get off."
"Ooh, and I'm the first person you call?" he teases. "Sexy."
"Eric Cartman, if you don't start filthy-ing up this phone call in the next five seconds, I will hang up on you."
He laughs again. "Yes, ma'am. Or..." His voice lowers. "Do you want me to call you ma'am?"
Her breath catches. "Yes."
"Oh shit. You like that, huh? Like that you're on your knees but you're still in control? How you're gonna tell me exactly how to fuck you with your filthy little hands tied behind your back?"
"Yes," she repeats, quieter.
"Well then, ma'am. I'm standing in front of you, naked, and I gotta say, my dick is so hard it's about to go on strike from seeing you on your knees. What would you like me to do with this before I explode?"
She slips her hands into her panties. "Let me taste it."
He pauses. His voice is just this side of husky. "Not even gonna say please?"
"Fuck no. I'm the one in control here. And I want it."
"How badly?"
"So badly I can feel my juices starting to slip down my leg." She dips her fingers into her pussy to the first knuckle, taking in a sharp breath. He seems to do the same. "Oh fuck, I want it. I'm so hot. I'm fucking shaking for it."
Another pause.
"Beg me," he whispers. "Ma'am."
"You paused," she says, also in a whisper. A smirk graces her face. "Were picturing it? Me fingering myself, dripping at the thought of sucking you?"
"Yeah," he croaks.
"What if I licked the head, just a little, just to taste the precum? What if I lay back and spread myself and you watched me finger myself until I started to scream? Is that good? Or would you like me to beg with my words? Because I can."
"N-no, fuck. No. Okay. Put my dick in your mouth."
"I do. Slowly. So you can see my tongue as I take all of you. Until you hit the back of my throat and I just keep going, that's how badly I want you in my mouth." She moans softly. "With the hand I'm not using to stroke you, I start to play with my tits."
"Fuck," he whispers.
"Just pinching and teasing each nipple, but oh my God, it's enough. It's so good, I'm moaning around your dick and I can barely think straight, my pussy is throbbing so hard. I might come without even fucking touching myself, it's so good."
"Even if you do, I'm still gonna make you scream. Fucking count on it, ma'am."
"Oh, I will. Do you like my mouth on your cock?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Do you want it inside of me? Buried completely and even then, you're still not deep enough?"
"Fuck yes," he says, on a slight whimper. It makes her head swim a little, her fingers reaching up to her swollen clit. Heat pools at her hips.
"Cartman, I..." She bites her lip. "I don't know if I'll last."
"I'll make you fucking last."
"No, I—I'm about to—in real life—"
"So soon?"
"Y-yeah," she moans, laughing, "I was pretty worked up."
Lowly, he says, "I love how sensitive you are." She shivers at that. "Let me hear you, ma'am."
Her hips buck up, her legs tensing in a way that's telltale. "I—okay—it's...I'm—"
"Say my name," he breathes. And she does—she screams it out, that's how hard she comes, her entire lower body quivering and jerking as she moans and whimpers and cries out into her phone. Cartman lets out a noise like he's in pain, desperate.
"Holy shit."
Panting, she grips her phone, her pussy still clenching with the last remainders of her orgasm. Cartman's breathing gets rough, and he suddenly lets out a huge breath that seems to mean he's come, too. All she can do is listen, shaking.
"W...Wendy," he says shakily. She closes her eyes. "That—"
"I gotta go," she whispers.
There's just the slightest of pauses. "Alright. Okay."
Weakly, she ends the call.
The next day, she doesn't even hesitate as she marches up to him behind the bleachers.
"You wanna fuck?" she says, cheeks red from the cold and embarrassment. "Fine. Let's fuck."
After a moment, Cartman puts out his cigarette and smiles.
Gotcha.
Wendy is not a virgin.
Back in sophomore year, on a very painful, very awkward April afternoon, she gave her virginity to Stan in his bed while his parents were out of town. It hurt more than it should have—primarily because he was a virgin, too, and just about as nervous as she was. Not to mention the blood stain wouldn't wash out and they had to buy new sheets. Not a fairytale moment.
After that, though, they had sex often, in every place imaginable, usually quickly and without shedding much clothing. For example, she'd had plenty of sex on counters with her ass freezing cold on the tile, but very seldom—in fact, she only recalls a few choice times—fully naked in his bed. Once he started football, sex became a kind of warm-up, composed of feverish kissing, a mad scramble of hands and hitched clothing, moans and choked gasps, and him groaning as he came inside of her. She didn't mind the speed. Even when she didn't come (which was often), just having someone close was heavenly.
The first time she has sex with Cartman makes the awkwardness of losing her virginity look like paradise: it's in the baseball storage shed when they should be in sixth period, in the freezing cold. It's even faster than sex with Stan was.
Except it is not sex with Stan.
When she and Stan fucked, she was rarely on top. This time, though, it's Eric who lays on his back as he hoists her ass up, fumbling with his zipper (she picked wisely in choosing a skirt this morning). His breathing is harsh and a little frayed, and she makes the mistake of comparing it to Stan's breath the first time they had sex.
It isn't until she sinks down onto him that she understands he's not a virgin.
His hips make expert, sharp, short little bucking motions up toward hers as they establish a rhythm, bringing his cock so it makes a forward rolling motion, right against her front wall—and her G spot. She whines in surprise when she feels his cock hit her against her most sensitive spot, and before long she's riding him excitedly, feeling pressure build at a rate it never has before. Her clit's on fire, and when she reaches to rub it, it's all of four seconds before she explodes, crying out as her orgasm clenches down on his cock and her body slackens.
"Fuck," he whispers, in the same way he did last night, coming a few short thrusts after. She has to hold her hands out to steady herself on the ground, and they both sit there for a minute, breathing hard.
Eventually, he croaks, "Let's do this tomorrow."
"After school," she pants. "I don't wanna miss anymore class."
He smirks. "Whatever you say."
Before Wendy knows it, three weeks have come and gone.
Her mother stops probing around after a few days, wondering where she is and why didn't she call and what's she been up to after school and Wendy, is there something you're not telling me—like any self-respecting parent of a teenage girl, she learned that Wendy's vague as hell "Just chilling" is as good of an answer as she's going to get.
And Wendy: she honestly hadn't expected it to become a big deal—a big enough deal that her parents asked about it. She's literally told no one about it, not even Bebe, and frankly never plans to. She's known Eric Cartman since she was four years old. One could even argue—horrifyingly—that she knows him very well. She knows what sleeping with him entails, because there's one thing she knows about Eric Cartman, it's that he's all but incapable of displaying human emotions. When he came to her with his little "proposition" all that time ago, she agreed expecting quickies and frantic, clothes-on sex—fifteen minute sessions, tops. And that is not what she gets.
At first, it is. The past three weeks are filled with a strange sort of euphoria, starting with after school sessions where they're alone, blindingly hot in the icy cold while the distant, echoing shouts of the baseball coach fill the background. Cartman takes his mother's car to school just so he can drive Wendy home, and she often finds herself in the passenger seat with the crux between her thighs still thrillingly wet from both his arousal and her own. The rides are silent except for the radio, while Wendy leans her head against the window and tries not to fall asleep.
Then it happens during the daylight hours.
After he fires off six texts to her during her third period, each increasingly more insistent until an all-caps "FUCK IT, MEET ME THE PLACE" arrives on her phone. She takes a twenty-five-minute bathroom break (one mumbled "on my period" and she's off the hook instantaneously) and spends the short rest of class coming down from her orgasm and avoiding the teacher's intermittent, disapproving glances.
It happens four more times, and it's pretty thrilling trying to get laid while the freshman Phys Ed class runs three laps past the shed. And, admittedly, Wendy doesn't really mind—that they could get caught at any moment, that this might not be a dirty little secret. If anything, it makes it more exciting, because Cartman's pretty goddamn thorough when it comes to making her, well...come. Best "quickies" ever, and she decides after two weeks of it that hey, maybe having sex with Eric Cartman isn't all that bad. He's still a giant dick and full of himself and thinks the stupidest shit is funny—but she doesn't hate herself completely.
Imagine her shock when he tries to kiss her.
Granted, sex without kissing isn't easy (as porn deceives people into thinking.) After school is fair game, but during school hours, Cartman's usually on top, just for the sake of time—plus she has a tendency to scream when she's on top, which works well in big empty houses, but like nails on a chalkboard when fourteen year olds are only a flimsy wooden wall away—and often, he'll be breathing hard and she'll have her arms around him and his face will just sort of be there, right next to or in front of hers. She never takes her clothes off when they fuck, either, so during those moments he'll just let his head drop down onto her chest, or shoulder, and admittedly it's pretty un-sexy having a faceful of wool when you're trying to get your freak on. And it absolutely startles her when, during one of these times, he moves toward her face and doesn't stop, and she lets out a terrified little squeak like he's stepped on her foot.
"What?" he breathes, still panting. His hips stop thrusting.
"Sorry," she whispers. A pair of kids are breathlessly chatting as they jog past the door.
He frowns. "You okay?"
"Yeah, it's just—" She doesn't know how to explain it other than You tried to kiss me and that freaks me out. "Sorry."
Still frowning, it takes him a while to get them both worked up again (she just doesn't bother going back to class), but eventually they both finish. They started doing doubles not long ago, and he's there after school, smoking, which means she has to face the awkward as fuck conversation about earlier. It's not like him, whether eight or eighteen, to let things go easily.
He opens with: "I've fucked that sweet ass in every position I can imagine."
She frowns, perplexed. "Okay?"
Long exhale. "Wendy. It's kinda weird that I've been inside you like, forty times but I have no idea what your tits look like."
She can't think of an answer he'll buy.
"Just saying."
"This is just physical." And she realizes, as she says it, that that's why there's no foreplay. Why they're always fully-clothed.
"And me groping you is, what, fucking spiritual?" He stubs his Camel. "Or, shit, I don't know—is kissing a mental exercise now?"
She fights the blood in her cheeks. "No. It just feels...too—"
His annoyance is clipped, like he's tired of her shit. "Am I gonna fall in love with you the instant I've had a titty in my mouth?"
"N-no—"
"Wendy," he sighs. "We're allowed to kiss. Promise, cross my heart, on my grandfather's grave, on my own goddamn life, it won't make us boyfriend and girlfriend, or even friends."
She throws a glance at the bleachers. As if someone's watching. "I don't know."
"Give it a trial run before you diss it, at least."
"Again, Cartman, I just don't know. Christ."
The irritation in his voice augments. "You can ride my dick for hours but you won't let me put my mouth on yours for six fucking seconds? The hell are your priorities at, ho?"
"You know what?" she snaps. "Do it. I know you're not gonna let up until you get your way—" The look she sends him is pointed. "—Believe me, I've had experience with it. So just fucking do it. Get it out of the way."
He doesn't respond. Not even a smartass remark.
He just leans in and kisses her.
Wendy closes her eyes. As much as she wants to hate this, it would still just be too awkward for her to stare at him. And the first moment of it, even with her eyes closed, it still works; that aching resistance in the back of her head convinces her that his mouth is hell on earth, the nastiest, most rank thing she's ever tasted, that this kiss will have her traumatized and chewing Lifesavers for months.
But then.
As it turns out, he's a hell of a kisser.
It goes on more than "six fucking seconds"—maybe a full minute, which ends with her arms around his neck and his hands at her waist, their bodies met in the middle in a heated seam where both of them quiver and burn even in the arctic winter cold. His mouth is slow on hers, his tongue even slower, and he's kissing her like he wants to devour her and like she's made of glass, all at the same time—and it's making her lose her fucking mind, because she's not sure which one she wants more. Maybe both. She can't even be sure; all she knows is, the tantalizing movement of his lips is making her blood pound and sizzle harder than it ever has.
He interrupts: "Holy shit."
She tries to breathe in response. Neither of them move. The air does not grow colder for either.
"Okay," she says finally, still breathless. "Okay. So I guess you can kiss me."
"Cool," he croaks, and dives for her mouth again.
Bebe: Chica. We NEED to hang out. Haven't see you in foevah! Hmu when you can, i'm free after school all week :)
"Oh," Wendy sighs aloud, opening up a new text. "Shit."
"What is it?" Cartman asks from the floor next to her.
"Bebe. She texted me like, yesterday." Hey, so sorry I didn't get back to you sooner! I'd love to go get a late lunch today or something. Wendy hits SEND. "Oh well."
He folds his arms behind his head as she sits up, and his eyes are very much watching her as hers are watching his when she looks over at him.
Stretched out on the floor, she can see: he's by no means skinny, but he's either grown into his body or lost weight from their elementary school years, still husky but with definite, actual muscle lying beneath (and she's felt it hands-on, many times.) And his eyes, she's noticed, are actually kind of nice. Amber. Like a sunset.
As she pulls on her jacket, Cartman sits up behind her and startles her as he pulls her in for a kiss. His mouth is warm and sweet in the blistering cold, the velvety texture of his tongue making her moan as she sinks against him.
Then she feels his hand, slipping beneath her shirt.
"Cartman," she murmurs.
"I wanna see these," he says softly, looking at her. His hand remains, and his fingers are tantalizingly cold on her stomach.
"I know," she says, "but…"
He kisses her again, this time nipping her lip the way he knows she likes. It makes her shudder.
"You saw them before," she whispers.
"I know—and I liked them a hell of a lot—but it was only in a bra."
She squeezes her eyes shut, because she knew it was only a matter of time before he went from pushing kissing her to pushing seeing her body.
They've sort of danced around it after he mentioned it, too caught up in the long makeout sessions and deep, dizzyingly long kisses they share for much of their time together. The more she kisses him, the more she likes it, and the wetter she feels it getting her until she can just work him into her without ever breaking from his lips. For her, kissing is an important part of the foreplay.
But.
"I wanna see your body," he says softly, and she'd be lying if she didn't admit she can hear the plea in his voice.
"It's just…" She fumbles for an excuse. "It's so cold in here."
"Oh," he breathes out—clearly relieved. Relieved that it's not him.
She laughs. "Yeah. I'd rather do it somewhere warmer, y'know?"
"No, I getcha."
"Yeah."
"How about my place?"
"Oh," she says, which makes him frown, because she doesn't really say it so much as she breathes it out. The way someone voices disappointment.
The last time she was at his house, he made her lose, seven glorious times in a row. And while it occurs to Wendy now that him making her come is kind of the point, the whole experience of being in his house with him—alone—has been tainted for her.
At the confused, disappointed look on his face, she back-peddles: "I mean. It's not that I would be against it."
"Okay. You busy after this?"
Shocked, she utters a small laugh. "Wait. You wanna go...today?"
He smirks. "Holy shit, you're dense for an Honors student."
"Shut up," she huffs, smacking his arm. He just rolls his eyes.
"Yes, today, ho. My mom literally doesn't give a shit, so you could stay the night, too, if you wanted."
"Oh," she says again, differently than before. "I kind of have…"
She flubs a bit. Is she really about to tell Eric Cartman that she can't because she has homework? Or a curfew? Or, sadly, parents that do somewhat give a shit?
"Two hours," she resolves. "Then I'm homeward bound."
"Three," he counters.
"Two."
"Two and a half?" She shakes her head, and he touches his chin, as if thinking. "Hard bargain. How about fourteen?"
"Cartman," she snips. He smiles so all of his teeth show. "Two hours."
"I'll take what I can get," he says, thumbing her lower lip so he can kiss her again.
Cartman's house is one of the many cookiecutter two-stories built back in the eighties, about three blocks away from her own.
The car in the driveway wasn't there the last time (the last time she was here, two years ago), but she knows it to be his mother's hybrid Honda Civic, the newer, midnight blue version of the red one he drives.
He pulls in beside it. "Weird," Wendy hears him mutter.
"What?"
"I didn't know she'd be home."
If Wendy didn't know better, she would say he sounds disappointed.
"We could just do this another time," she offers. "If you don't want her to know or anything."
He seems to consider it, but only for a moment before he shrugs. "Eh—nah. She probably won't care at all." He leans across her to open her door, pausing to kiss her quickly.
"I can open my own door," she huffs good-naturedly.
"Nope," he rhapsodizes. "What little she did raise me, Mom raised me to be a gentleman. And don't lay into me with any of that feminist bullshit, either."
She scoffs. "You, a gentleman?"
"Wendy." His smile is pure sugar, a finger trailing sensually up her bare thigh. "I'm not saying I'll throw you out of the car, but—"
She rolls her eyes, nonetheless sliding out.
Cartman's house has a habit of smelling unnaturally clean, almost sterile, like a hospital or a just-cleaned hotel room. From what Wendy understands, Liane has been a serial house cleaner since Cartman started high school; she had the same observation two years ago, too, upon first walking through the door.
"Hi, sweetie," his mother's voice carries from the kitchen.
Cartman glances at Wendy, before guiding her toward the open door. They'd have to pass the kitchen to reach the stairs, anyways.
"Mom," he says, pronouncing it in that peculiar accent of his. His mother looks up from where she stands at the counter, drinking coffee and reading a magazine. "This is my friend, Wendy."
Liane nods toward Wendy, who's head is still ringing from "friend." That Cartman could ever refer to her so...politely.
"Hello, darling," Liane says, and the smile she offers Wendy is more tired than friendly. She's exceptionally thin, even for a woman her age, and the relentless, feminine optimism that once occupied her personality is long dried up. With a bony, pale hand, she lifts a small plate. "Care for a cookie?"
"Oh, I'm alright, thank you."
Liane nods, dunking one into her cup of coffee. She goes back to her magazine, and flips a page.
Wendy is vaguely aware of Cartman's hand, which slips into hers as he guides her to the stairs. She's uncertain if these affectionate displays are for his mother's benefit or her own—and she's not deigned to ask.
His room isn't much different than it was that day two years ago, but it looks like a different world now. His bed is less a rectangular prison and more of a place to sit, and she actually notices the other pieces of furniture as she perches on the edge: his desk and impressive desktop setup, his dresser, the chest at the bed's foot, the hamper in the corner by the closet. She's much less defensive and armed, having a moment to look the room over.
It's extremely tidy, and smells refreshingly clean, like dryer sheets, or shampoo.
"My mom makes the bed." Unlike last time, he walks past where she's sitting and pulls his sweatshirt off over his head. His shirt hitches, exposing a strip of his back before he tugs it down.
She clears her throat. "Do you not want me to sit here?"
"Oh, hell no, do whatever you want." He turns back to her. "I just don't want you to think I'm some loser who actually...fucking makes his own bed or something."
She snorts. "Odd definition of loser."
He smiles—his real smile, not the nasty one that he musters after screwing someone over. It lights up his face.
She shudders a little at her observation. It's so strange being in an intimate setting with him; he seems like the last person to share any intimacy with someone—almost as if he's out of place, or she is.
He sits on the bed beside her, the mattress dipping to accommodate his weight. It's obvious by how needily he kisses her that he's holding himself back: he wants to see her body, but he doesn't want to be pushy. He wants to warm her up to it first.
And even his politeness is short-lived; two minutes into kissing and his hands are fumbling at the front of her shirt for the buttons, trying to sloppily pick them apart while keeping his lips firmly on hers. He's experienced, obviously, but only a boy. It makes her smile, then laugh, which has him pulling back.
"What?"
"I'll do it," she whispers, smirking. He raises an eyebrow at her, face dangerously teasing.
"Gonna give me a show?"
She scoffs. "Hardly." His eyes scratch and burn her as she reaches for the front of her blouse—letting her know that, whatever she does, it's going to be a striptease for him no matter what.
Her fingers fumble a little trying to get the buttons undone, and, admittedly, it feels a little like a curtain falling open as she slips her shirt off past her shoulders—in just her bra, she feels a pang of anxiety jolt through her, but she still determinedly undoes the clasp while his eyes watches the cups pucker and lift off of her breasts.
"Holy shit," he breathes when her bra is gone, on a heap on the floor. Wendy feels her cheeks warm, and she is definitely not the same girl she was two years ago as she feels a pang of shame at her breasts—Stan hardly saw them as is, and she's no Bebe, or even average, coming up to bat with a meager B-cup.
"I don't know," she says quietly, "it's—"
"No," he says, eyes looking into hers. "I like it. A lot."
She makes a face at him. "Well, of course."
"Jesus Christ—ego much?" he breathes, laughingly meeting her for another kiss. She slings her arms around his neck, thrilled by how the cotton of his shirt is soft and cool on her sensitive nipples, stiff with excitement even in his warm room.
He parts from her for a moment to reach behind his head and yank his shirt off. She gazes down at his body, surprised: he's still chubby, but much more defined than she would have expected, especially around his torso, shoulders, and biceps, which look cut with unexpected power. The Colorado winters are brutally cold, and she's never seen him in a tank top, and rare still in a T-shirt. Seeing what lies beneath is almost exciting to witness.
When she looks back into his eyes, his face is rife with subtle but definite fear.
"What?" she breathes.
"I don't know," he replies, then forces a quiet laugh. "Just hoping you didn't…"
Lord. She never thought she'd see the day when Eric Cartman was bashful.
"Don't worry," she says, even more shocked with herself that she tries to comfort him. "I like it, too."
He exhales and pulls her in for another kiss, their chests and stomachs gloriously touching. His skin is burning compared to the rest of the room, and he whispers out "Holy shit" yet again against her lips as their bodies move against each other.
Curious, and feeling rather bold, Wendy drops a hand to his lap and her hand curls around his pulsing length, rock-hard even beneath two layers of clothes. He wheezes out a gasp, clearly shocked, and she bites her lip.
"What the fuck?" he whispers, appearing thrilled. "Are you trying to get me to lose control?"
This surprises her. Her, making him lose control?
"No," she breathes. "But, hey, if you wanna…"
"Holy fuck. I just might. Driving me crazy over here."
"Not yet." She holds his gaze, slowly uncurling her hand from him. "Do it inside of me, okay?"
His eyes widen.
Without being prompted now, she starts undoing her jeans, energized by her unexpected and pretty powerful burst of desire to be naked. Before, there was a familiar language between them: (eventually) start kissing, grind on each other, fuck. But this is whole new territory. It makes her feel odd, exhilarated, and horny as hell, all at once. He lies back, presumably to watch, and again she shocks the pair of them when she straddles him and gets her zipper down.
When he looks at her, his eyes are questioning now, but she can't answer. All she knows is, she wants both of their clothes off. Now.
His hands come to rest on her thighs, gathering the denim, which he swiftly pulls down to expose the lacy tops of her panties—the sight of which makes him groan. She sits back so she can shimmy her pants down her legs until, at last, her hard work is rewarded with her jeans on the floor, and her body naked except for her thong.
Cartman had gotten up while she took her jeans off, working his own belt and pants off. But his eyes don't leave her, and she admires the evidence of his arousal through his boxers as he stands over the bed and drinks her in.
"That," he says quietly, "is fucking awesome."
She laughs. "What?"
"Oh God, I don't know—a hot girl is lying basically naked on my bed. Like, it's just pretty fucking great, Wendy. Don't know how else to describe it."
"Glad you like me," she says.
"I do," he replies, softly. He crawls onto the bed abruptly, lining himself over her with a knee between her legs. She whimpers when she feels him come to rest against her panties, over the increasingly wet spot at the crux of her thighs.
"I like you a lot," he whispers, and she moans as they kiss again. A single, excitingly thin layer of clothing separates them now.
He's trying to be gentle, trying to kiss her the way he always has, but it's as evident to her as it is to him that he's starting to lose composure as he brings his hips down onto hers, and she feels his cock through his underwear.
There's something almost erotic about how he's holding himself back—something sensual about his control. She surprises herself when she realizes how much she likes it.
After a short three minutes of kissing, he parts from her with a small gasp and works a wet, trembling line down her body, from the hollow of her throat, past her breasts—here, he spends quite a bit of time, and the shocked, overjoyed moans she utters border on cries—along her quivering stomach, and down between her equally shaky thighs. The whole thing would be painfully familiar, if not for the blazing path of kisses and licks he left along her skin—something he hadn't done here before. Something he's never done, ever.
She'll admit: she wouldn't have minded that sooner.
She's already well-acquainted with the talent of his mouth, both from the amazing way he just played with her breasts and her last experience in this room (and that's not something she wants to think about.) But she nevertheless sucks in a sharp breath when she feels the fabric of her panties move to the side, and the tip of his finger brushing along her aching clit as a result.
She looks down at the scene, startlingly arousing, his head between her thighs and his hand inches from the most sensitive part of her, holding her panties out of the way. Their eyes lock.
Then he lowers his head.
Wendy throws back her head with a cry, no regard for who can hear, and she immediately lifts her hips up to his face, legs slipping around his shoulders. He slowly licks, sucks, and nips her velvety flesh and she feels him tug her panties off, and she's completely naked on Eric Cartman's bed. And it's amazing.
Her moan is low and throaty as he slips one finger into her, then two, practically gliding past her folds and into her syrupy wetness. She can feel his hand shaking, if minutely, a small sign that he's just as turned on as she is.
His fingers curl inside of her, which she definitely isn't expecting—that he's experienced enough to know to do this—and she lets out a small, sweet cry when they find their goal. He hasn't even been at it five minutes and she already feels her thighs starting to quake, his fingers stroking that sweet spot inside of her and his tongue sending lightning bolts of pleasure throughout her.
A third finger. She almost doesn't notice, she's so soaked.
"Holy fuck," he breathes. His breath tingles on her swollen flesh.
"I'm gonna cum," she whimpers.
He chuckles, lapping at her clit with the slowest, longest drag of his tongue. She digs her fingers into his hair.
"And here I was thinking that call was just an isolated incident."
"Fuck you," she whispers.
"You're about to."
"Yes," she breathes, bucking her hips suddenly. She's dreadfully, almost achingly close. "Gonna ride the shit of you so you can feel just how fucking drenched you've made me. I might drip all over the sheets."
He moans, breathless, and her back and hips arch off the bed beautifully as she cums hard enough to see stars.
She feels him slip out from underneath her, her spent legs back on the bed, and she's dazed and so very content as she catches sight of him taking his boxers off. His dick looks even harder than before, a bead of precum at the slit. The sight pleases her immensely.
He kneels between her legs, but she sits up, grabbing onto his arms. He looks at her questioningly.
Not taking her eyes off of him, she bends down and licks the precum off of his tip.
Eric utters a soft, shocked sounds. She feels his cock twitch against her tongue.
"Oh my God. Wendy—"
She takes him down, all at once, to the back of her throat.
The words die rather beautifully in his throat as he falls somewhat slack, letting out stuttering gasps. His hips brokenly rut against her face.
She doesn't bother changing her position, lying so she's on her stomach and sucking him off with deep, long bobs of her head. She keeps her tongue along the underside of his dick as she goes down, and slowly raises it as she comes up, running it along the head with every stroke. The result is him moaning, maybe even as loud as she had been, which re-excites the wetness between her legs where she's already soaking wet.
"Wendy," he chokes out, "please—"
"Please?" she murmurs against his tip, licking away the evidence of his arousal. His breath rushes out unevenly.
"I need to be inside of you like, right fucking now."
She giggles, but doesn't stop, deep-throating him even faster now. She hollows out as her cheeks and takes him as deep as she can, fluttering her throat around his tip.
"Oh my God," he cries, thrusting in time with the motion of her head. "I'm gonna fucking cum if you don't stop."
"Oooh," she breathes, and mischievously meets his eye. "So soon?"
"Ma'am," he grits out, "I would appreciate if you would stop giving me the best head of my goddamn life so I can destroy your pussy. Thank you."
"No."
Abruptly, he grabs her, to which she squeals in delight as he throws her down and climbs on top of her. She's still laughing, even as he lines himself up with her entrance, and he sends a look down at her with one eyebrow raised.
"Something funny?"
"Yes—you." She crooks her hips so some of her wetness trails along his shaft.
He squeezes his eyes shut, hissing. "Ohhh, fuck you."
"Please," she whispers. That makes him smile again.
It also makes him push into her with one fluid thrust.
She gasps at the magnificent stretch of him inside of her. He's hot as he fills her, hot and full, and she throws her back against the pillow with a moan.
"I thought I was gonna be on top," she says, whimpering.
"Oh, fuck yeah—you wanna?"
Biting her lip, she nods.
He rolls over so she lies on top of him, making his cock slide into her even deeper, and they both groan at that. She sits up to fully straddle him, not even wasting a second to start riding him like her life depends on it. The bed is shaking obviously and violently, smacking the wall, but she just doesn't care, can't even bring herself to care.
Cartman is watching her with hot, hungry eyes.
He can't hold it for long, though, his head falling back. Beneath her, to her great delight, she feels his hips buck up in rhythm with hers, the rolling motion quickening her insides again. It makes her tremble, already spent from her first orgasm and sweating from riding him so hard. But she's too far gone to feel tired or want to rest, her entire body and being focused on this.
"Are you close?" he asks, breathless.
"Yes," she cries, practically crying it out helplessly.
"G-good. Me, too." He palms her clit, still sensitive from his tongue, but her body still bows as lightning shoots to her core.
They both last another five minutes before each comes down in a series of short, breathless gasps and moans, their skin sweaty and slick as they meet each other in the middle. Wendy lies down on top of him after it's done, panting, thinking that she can't possibly take anymore of something so intense.
They fuck three more times after that.
And Wendy stays more than two hours.