Punch Drunk Lust: A Cursed College Halloween Romp
Chapter 3
Humor Sex Story: Chapter 3 - Clark Griffin had three simple goals for tonight: survive wearing a twelve-dollar superhero suit with migrating foam abs, guard his mother’s heirloom crystal punch bowl, and avoid making eye contact with Tina Kowalski. Tina was the untouchable queen of high school Spanish—and was currently standing in his kitchen, dressed in a nurse costume that could cause heart failure. A filthy, laugh-out-loud college erotica novelette featuring the nerd-gets-the-smokin’-hot-girl and a cursed aphrodisiac.
Caution: This Humor Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Drunk/Drugged Demons Orgy
Tina’s hands slid up from his waist, grabbed the synthetic collar of his Captain Justice suit, and pulled him forward with a force that surprised him.
She tore at the cheap polyester, working it over the dense foam pads, and the sound that came out of her throat was neither quite a moan nor quite a growl.
“Okay,” Clark said, his voice cracking slightly, “okay.”
This wasn’t a surrender of his own choice—he wanted this so badly his teeth literally ached—but an acknowledgment that the brakes had officially failed. The line had been crossed somewhere between her first kiss at the banister and her hand finding him through the thin blue spandex on the upstairs landing.
Tina’s nails scraped through the velvety spandex, searching for the chest zipper.
“Where the hell is it?” she demanded.
“The collar, it’s on the collar. It’s a safety feature.”
She fumbled with the tab, her fingers hot and clumsy against his throat. The zipper caught, then snagged on the cheap nylon lining. Tina growled, a sound so primal and frustrated that Clark’s head spun.
“Let me—”
“No.”
She yanked harder, and the zipper gave way with a tearing rasp. The front of the suit sagged open, and cool air hit Clark’s bare chest. Tina didn’t waste time, just grabbed the edges of the suit and ripped them apart, exposing his pale skin inch by inch.
“There you are,” she whispered.
Clark’s chest rose and fell faster than he could control. Tina traced the line of his collarbone with her finger, then lower, over his chest. He’d never felt more visible in his life.
Her hands kept working, stripping the damaged suit off his shoulders. The synthetic fabric pooled at his elbows, trapping his arms. The foam pec pad she’d loosened earlier fell to the carpet.
“Better,” she said.
“The obliques are still attached,” he whispered. “They’re glued to my ribs.”
“I’ll get to them.”
She crouched, her hands following the path of the suit as she worked it down his torso, past his hips, past his thighs. Clark’s eyes closed involuntarily. The ceiling fan spun above them.
The suit bunched around his knees and shins, leaving him half-wrapped in a synthetic cocoon of justice. His boot covers were lost somewhere in the scramble. Tina stood back and looked at him, her dark hair wild, and her lipstick smeared at the edges of her mouth. The nurse’s dress was still zipped tightly to her chin.
“Your turn,” Clark said.
Her smile was slow and devastating as she reached for the collar of her white vinyl dress, found the zipper pull, and tugged. In the quiet, the sound of it descending filled the room. The cheap vinyl separated, revealing the pale skin of her throat, then the dark line of her collarbone, then the rising curves of her breasts. She wore nothing under it.
Clark’s mouth went bone-dry.
’Dear Lord! She could be a stripper with tits like that.’
She kicked off the white platform heels one at a time, then shrugged the vinyl dress off her shoulders. It slid down her hips, caught on the mesh of her fishnets for an agonizing moment, then dropped to the carpet like a discarded skin.
Tina stood before him in thigh-high black fishnets and absolutely nothing else.
“You’re staring,” she said.
“I’m a junkie, and you’re a 24-hour window display.”
She laughed and reached for him. Her hands found his forearms, pulling him backward until his knees hit the edge of the queen mattress, then spun him around. Clark sank onto the wrinkled sheet, letting her push him down onto his back, his legs still awkwardly tangled in the lower half of his Captain Justice suit.
Tina climbed onto him.
She straddled his stomach, warm and solid through the thin fishnet, and leaned forward until her hair brushed his face.
“I want to taste you,” she said.
Clark’s breath stuck in his throat. The tiny voice in his head still remembered the weird, metallic-tasting punch they’d both chugged downstairs and wondered if they were moving too fast, if this was the curse talking. But then her skin touched his, and all logic evaporated.
“I am absolutely not going to argue.”
She slid backward, off his stomach, down the length of his body, a deliberate descent that Clark’s imagination didn’t survive.
Tina’s fingers curled around the waistband of his underwear and pulled them far enough down so he popped free. Her tongue ran up and down his length to get him wet, and her lips surrounded his tip. The next thing he knew, she tried to swallow him whole.
Clark’s head came off the pillow as his hands shot out, gripping the sheets. His glasses slid down his nose, fogging instantly as his eyes rolled back into his head.
The ceiling fan rotated above him.
Tina wasn’t gentle; she was hungry and purposeful. Her hair fell across his thighs in a dark sweep that he could feel but barely process. His knuckles turned white as his grip tightened, and his hips did something entirely instinctual that he hadn’t explicitly instructed them to do.
“Tina,” he gasped.
She didn’t stop.
“Tina ... wait.”
She slowed, pulled back, and looked up at him, a question in her heavy-lidded, fever-bright eyes. Clark gathered enough breath to form actual words, desperate to anchor this to something real before the supernatural current swept them completely away.
“I want this to last,” he whispered. “I don’t want us to rush.”
Tina’s gaze searched his face, looking for any hesitation. Then her expression softened, a crack in the feverish intensity, and she leaned up. Her mouth found his, slower now, deliberate, her tongue tracing her lower lip with a patience that made his chest ache.
“Okay,” she said, her voice a low murmur, “we can take it slow.”
She crawled up his body, settling against the mattress beside him, and pulled him over. Clark shifted his weight, positioning himself between her thighs, his forearms braced on either side of her head. Her dark eyes looked up at him, wide and unfathomably deep.
The fishnets shimmered in the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds.
Clark dropped his head, found her mouth, and kissed her until she sighed. His hand moved down the curve of her waist, past the smooth skin below. Her breath caught as his fingers found her clit.
Tina’s head pressed back into the pillow.
“Yes.”
He lowered his mouth to her throat, her collarbone, and then her breast. Tina’s fingers tangled in his hair as she whispered something he couldn’t quite catch. But he recognized the shape of it, the raw permission, the wanting, so he moved lower.
She was incredibly warm against his tongue as it split her folds. He was nearly overwhelmed by the heady scent of her arousal.
Clark kept his eyes open because he wanted to see her, to verify with his own senses that this was real. That the girl he’d crushed on since sophomore year of high school was arching beneath him, her thighs trembling and her breath catching in her throat. Tina Kowalski, number one on a mental list he’d never told a living soul about. She was at the top of Girls I wished I’d fucked.
This was happening.
’If this happens, next on my list is Sydney Sweeney.’
A boy can dream.
Her hips lifted toward him, and her fingers tightened in his hair. The sound she made was different from the few others he’d gone down on, sounding deeper, more broken, and less controlled.
“Clark,” she said.
He doubled down.
Tina’s back arched off the mattress as it was her turn to squirm.
The sound she made wasn’t a scream, but something lower than that, something dragged up from a deeper place, the kind of sound that had everything to do with surrender.
Clark stayed where he was, feeling her pulse slow against his mouth, until her grip on his hair slackened. Her hand dropped to the back of his head, pulling him up slowly, guiding him back to her level.
Tina’s eyes were dark, soft, and open in a way he’d never seen on another human face. She was looking at him like he’d done something deeply meaningful by giving her the first orgasm of the night. He planned to give her more before he was done.
A slow, devastating smile spread across her mouth.
“Come on, big boy.”
Clark’s knees settled between hers. She was already reaching for him, her hand closing around his girth, guiding him toward her. Her gaze stayed locked on his as she ran the tip up and down between her folds to give him lubrication.
He moved forward and entered her slowly.
“If I’d known...” Tina hissed.
He pulled back and then rocked forward as more of his cock found its way into her depths, doing that four more times before he was all the way inside her.
Thud
The headboard kissed the wall, a soft, single compression of the cheap drywall. Clark went still.
Tina’s fingers tightened on his shoulders.
“Don’t you dare stop.”
He didn’t.
Clark moved again, slower this time, letting her adjust to him and feel her breath change. The headboard kissed the wall again, harder this time.
Tina’s eyes slid half-closed, and her mouth opened on a breath that was almost a word but wasn’t quite.
“Is this okay?” Clark asked, his protective instinct kicking in. “Do you want me to go gentler?”
“No,” she said, her voice fierce, “don’t be gentle. I want you to hurt the bed.”
“The bed has a warranty,” he muttered, “but okay.”
He hit the same angle, and her gasp rewarded him. The headboard knocked against the wall, first softly, then harder.
’Wait. How was he supposed to concentrate with this racket?’
To concentrate, Clark flattened one palm against the wall above the headboard, using it as a brace. The pressure traveled up his forearm into his shoulder, giving him leverage. It also let him keep driving into her without moving the headboard.
The bed frame rattled beneath them.
But through the thin drywall, Clark heard something else.
Muffled laughter from several people that sounded like they were right outside the bedroom door.
His rhythm faltered.
“What?” Tina said, her brow furrowing.
Clark tilted his head toward the wall. For a moment, he only heard the bedframe creaking and the muffled bass bleeding up from the floorboards below. Then there it was again: a voice, low and indistinct, but definitely on the other side of the plaster, coming from the upstairs hallway, which backed onto this wall.
Three heartbeats passed.
“Ignore it,” Tina whispered, her hands sliding down his back.
She reached up, grabbed his jaw in both hands, and turned his face back to hers. Her eyes locked onto his, steady and fierce.
“Fuck me, Clark, right now.”
He obeyed.
The rhythm picked up where it had left off, harder now, less measured. She matched him stroke for stroke, her sounds louder, as if daring the audience on the other side of the plaster to hear.
Clark lost track of himself.
The world had narrowed to this. He was vaguely aware of the walls, the door, the windows, but they were no longer real to him. The only reality was her, the soft, tight warmth of her beneath him, and the way her hands moved over his shoulders, pulling him deeper with a possessive, demanding motion. Tina’s hands were behind her head, gripping the wooden slats, her face turned to the ceiling.
Heat built. Her breathing became ragged.
“Yes, yes, yes.”
Clark’s rhythm sped beyond his control, his breath leaving him in unsteady bursts.
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