“Am I wasting my time?” Anne throws that out over the top of her wineglass.

“In a cosmic sense?” You gesture vaguely with your fork. “Well, I guess we all are, in a way…”

“No, I mean ‘am I wasting my time with you, right now’?”

You shrink as she leans forward. Her smile is wide and vivacious. Hazel eyes seem to nailgun you to the seat.

“Arthur, can I be honest? I let you take me out to dinner because I felt bad for you.”

Her smile opens up to reveal a firing squad of blinding white teeth. An earring dangles, sharding away light from the candles. Her dining cravat is loosened at the throat: an ocean of pale cleavage swells from the gap. She is a constellation of cold and terrible brightness.

You are frozen by her glints and sparkles. A deer caught, not just in one set of approaching headlights, but an entire eight-lane highway of them.

“I thought I’d give the shy boy on the set a chance. Become someone else’s Cinderella story.”

Anne rests a hand on her wineglass. Her fingernails drum an impatient tinkatinkatinka—

“…Even after you showed up for our date wearing that…” Her hand snaps dismissively at your clothing, and you wilt, not even knowing what she just gestured at. “…I decided to reserve judgment. I thought that maybe you’d turn out to be charming and witty and a good conversationalist. That we’d start talking and be off to the races.”

She laughs.

“But when we started talking, boy howdy, off to the races we were NOT! The track was closed, the bookies arrested, and the horses shot. That’s how not off to the races we were. That was the most vagina-drying conversation I have ever had.”

“I enjoyed it,” you mumble.

“I didn’t ask if you enjoyed it. Let’s recap, shall we? First, you asked about my day. It’s fine. Then, you asked if I come here often. Yes, I do: lots of men ask me on dates and I am often taken here. Then, you asked what I’ll be having. Excuse me? Are you a waiter? Are you taking my order? You might as well, for all the good you’re doing. Then you sit in silence for ten minutes. And then…” Her shoulders rise and fall and her eyes smolder, and oh fucking hell, you think she’s serious… “And then you ask if I’m having a good day. You already asked. I already answered. Did you forget? Do you know a fourth question?”

Her smile cuts the words even deeper. This celestial creature hasn’t stopped smiling once through your dinner date. You thought that meant she was happy, and her remarks—which have become increasingly barbed and increasingly directed your way—were just jokes.

You’re starting to suspect that she means every cruel thing she says through her lovely, toothy smile.

“Sorry, Miss Hathaway.”

She snorts. “‘Miss Hathaway’? Have you ever been on a date before? Have you ever spoken to a girl before?”

“Sorry, Anne.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “Stop saying ‘sorry’ or I will break this wineglass over your head and facefuck you with the broken shards.”

Your stomach plunges into a vast, cold space beneath your body. This is a dream. There’s that, at least. No matter how bad this gets, it’s not real. Your back crawls with cold dripping sweat. Patches of your shirt cling to gooseflesh, itching maddeningly. You want to run from here. Run and run.

She rests her elbows on the table, knits the fingers of one hand into the other, and tilts her head at the top.

“So basically,” Anne sneers, “this has been a shit date and I want to get out of here to beat the traffic. You get one final chance to impress me. Go.”

“How?” You ask, frozen by her predator’s stare. “How should I impress you?”

“For fuck’s sake…” She sighs. “I don’t know…tell me about yourself. What’s your degree in?”

“I don’t have one.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What are you studying?”

“I’m not in school.”

“Where do you work, then?”

“I don’t have a job.”

“If you don’t have a job and don’t go to school, what do you do all day?” Your stock ticker price is falling by the second in her face.

“I play sports.”

“Oh, you’re an athlete!” A glimmer of hope appears in her brown eyes. “Football? Soccer?”

“Pokémon. Sorry, I meant esports.”

“That game with the cartoon rats?” She frowns in disgust. “My brother was into that once. Then he turned twelve.”

“It’s not just a kid’s game.” You bristle. “At my Elo it’s very competitive. You need to memorize speed tiers and common damage rolls and—”

“Yes, this is fascinating!” She squeals and claps her hands. “Explain Pokemon to me for hours and hours!”

“Well, I usually build teams around an Iron Valiant lead and Alomomola pivot. Fairy type has good matchups against most of the current meta. If there’s a poison counter-lead I switch into Great Tusk and….”

“Shut up, abortion fodder.” Her smile has vanished at some point. Teeth are still bared. You cannot discern any humor or kindness at all in their shine.

You swallow with a dry click. She didn’t say that. You dreamed it. She didn’t say that.

You shrink back beneath her stare, feeling two inches tall—just a cockroach to be stepped on.

The idea of Anne Hathaway stepping on you is…captivating.

From the moment you saw her in the restaurant, you started falling apart. Her physicality hit you like a wall. The room seemed to tunnel toward her, like a dolly zoom trick in a movie. She wears a slanted off-the-shoulder jacket that’s almost shrink-wrapped to her obscenely thick body, fitting her curves so tightly you can see the outlines of her balconette bra. Her skirt is ruched at the hip and cascades down to mid-thigh in asymmetrical folds. Her face is pale and angular and foxlike. Beautiful, if fierce. Lips made to kiss. Teeth made to bite.

But at the moment her eyes lifted, found yours, and she smiled in recognition….it was a Cinderella story. She believed in you, and you believed in you.

Not anymore. The stroke of midnight has come very fast.

“Quick question!” Anne smiles wickedly, leaning into your space. Taking it over. “Am I making you nervous?”

“What? N—no!”

“Really? Because you seem afraid. Are you afraid, Arthur?”

“Uh, I’m fine…” You stare down at your silverware, which distort your reflection like funhouse mirrors. Dinner knife. Entree fork. Soup spoon. You contemplate which would hurt the least if stabbed through your superior orbital fissure. “It’s just…you’re, er, really pretty. It’s a lot, you know…” You hunt around for something to say.

“You want me for my body.” She huffs in disdain. “Good to know.”

“No! Not at all!”

“I’m ugly? That’s what you’re saying?” She crosses her arms over her chest. Her breasts surge out still further.

You wave a fork desperately. “No, I mean, I mean, you’re, er, pretty in a way that, uh, communicates something. Something deep! You’ve got that girl next door ‘I’m pretty but don’t know I’m pretty’ thing.”

She rolls her eyes.

“I’ve been the cover of Vogue eight times, retard. Of course I know I’m pretty. Do you have anything to say that’s not trite and stupid?”

The arrival of a waiter saves you from further embarrassment.

“Excuse me…” He crosses your field of view, stepping between you and Anne. You briefly glimpse a puffy, alcohol-fucked face, and red, sensual lips. A playboy who is decades removed from boyhood. Then he leans down to talk to Anne.

She looks annoyed by his presence at her shoulder. He whispers in her ear. She whispers back. Her brown eyes flash dangerously, drifting from his face to yours. A tense conversation follows. You cannot hear a word of it. Anne’s gaze slides down his body, and her expression becomes thoughtful. Smile lines appear in the corners of her mouth. She briefly bites her lip. His sensual lips curl in a smile, he says something brief, and Anne makes a small, shocked sound behind a cupped mouth. She appears flustered as he stands up and walks back to service.

“What did he say?” You wonder if something was wrong with her food.

Anne is fanning herself. Her face is flushed; her eyes Bambi-wide and excited. “He asked if my meal was satisfactory, asked if I’d been shown the wine menu, and told me to meet him in the parking lot after his shift. He wants to use my hair as a handle.”

“Th—That’s disgusting!” You splutter indignantly. “How dare he!”

“Exactly! How dare he?” Anne’s breath roughens—her large breasts swell and heave, triggering little earthquakes of flesh in her neckline.

“Let’s complain!” You ball your fists, and half rise out of your seat. “We can get him fired! He can’t just treat you like a piece of—”

“I gave him my number. Big dick confidence. I know it when I see it. Sit back down, Arthur. You’re embarrassing.”

“Oh.” You sit.

She giggles again, casting eager glances at the service doorway he disappeared behind.

“Oooh…” she giggles, hardly able to believe her own nerve. “You know what? I’m going to do it. Oh my God, I’m going to fuck him after this. In the parking lot, under the stars. You’ll watch, won’t you, Arthur?”

You’ll watch.

Rage and horror combust within you. Anguish rises up like a scream, like wind scouring a hollow tunnel. Horrifying, hate-drenched, suffocating visions of violence slam against your retina with each kick of your pulse, a craquelure of blood.

Cuckolded on your first date.

“But…but…” You whimper.

She speaks calmly and brusquely. “Arthur…I’ll come down to brass tacks…as a date, this was an utter failure. You have no style, charm, or prospects. I am profoundly unaroused by your presence. I do not know what the future holds for you, but I know this much—”

She rests a slender leaf of a hand on top of yours. It is perfectly still.

“—you will never make a woman cum.”

You slump in defeat.

Anne continues. “The kindest way it can end—kindest for your sake, Arthur!—is for it to not be a date but something else. A pause for reflection. A moment of realization. Do you think you can do that, Arthur? Do you feel yourself getting close to the truth?”

What’s she talking about? What truth? Tears fill your eyes. Emotions boil and tumble in your mind. You stand up, shuddering in disgust. This is a disaster, and you just want to get as far away as possible from Ground Zero.

“I’m leaving!” You wanted to sound determined and forceful. You’re shocked by the mewling weepy dribble that just left your mouth. “I…AM…LEAVING! Goodnight, Anne!”

Her eyes narrow. A hand whips out, catching your wrist.

She smashes it down against the table, holding you in place.

Another clicks for attention in front of your face. The snapping sound is sudden and horrible—the noise a hanged man’s neck makes as it breaks.

“First of all, address me as ‘Miss Hathaway’. I’ve decided I like it. It seems truthful to the power dynamics of our relationship, going forward. Because we are in a relationship now, Arthur. Perhaps not the one you expected, but the one you need.”

You try to speak. She reaches and pinches your lips shut.

“Second…” Her voice subsides to a thin, bloodless dulcet. “You can’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Arthur, I haven’t given you permission.”

The idea that you need her permission is like the idea of her stepping on your face—once the suggestion is planted, you can’t think of anything except it. It’s a cosmic key, slid into a lock and finding tumblers. It is simply the truth.

Of course you need permission to leave!

Every decision you’ve made in this date has backfired on you, and you don’t even understand how. You’re not ready for this. Your education was never completed. You need someone to tell you what to do.

“Obey me and grow,” she says coolly, quietly. “In fact, it’s easier if I can just own you. Then I can sculpt you into the young man you need to be.”

Ownership. You shudder. Part of you revolts. Another, bigger part of you quashes that revolt.

You nod. Fine. You own me.

“Wisely chosen,” Anne smirks, flexing fingers into a sharp, appraising steeple. “You’re not doing me a favor by submitting. I’m doing you a favor by allowing it. Remember that. Always remember.”

Her fingers click again.

“And stand up.”

She beckons you to lean in to her neck, like the waiter did—the one she’ll be fucking after this.

You are slow, so she sneers, and grabs you by your lapel, and hauls you into her. With unexpected strength, she wraps you close to her body. For a second, you are in the crook of her swanlike neck, inhaling her scent, bathed in the warmth of her fervid flesh. Large breasts pillow, distorting against the shape of your shoulder. Her presence is overwhelming. You could sink into her like quicksand.

Panic and shame twists within you as you wriggle in her grasp.

Despite jerking off before the date, you get an erection as she grips you tighter and tighter. It tents your slacks, throbbing like an Excedrin headache. Raw meaty lust for her sweet perfumed body swells in a storm, a crescendo, a storm that fills your mind with its howl. You cannot help but dream of her.

“Pitiful.” Anne’s gleefully sadistic stare slides in a curve down your face, snapping across to your lap. Your bulge throbs. Her eyes widen. She grins even wider, and her fingers tighten to claws.

“What an absolute loser.”

She twists her body around, letting her cleavage press against you. Still more flesh gushes and gasps out of her neckline.

“Is humiliation your thing, huh Arthur? Insults? Being told you’re worthless and inadequate? Because—” she leans in. A cold swirl of a shudder courses through you, her touch electric. “—I like doing that to you. You’ve failed to entertain me. So now you become entertainment. In the movies, there’s a saying: either tell a joke or be the joke. You are the joke.”

She slaps you.

Her hand strikes your face. The impact of her palm flings echoes down some hollow trench inside you.

She hit me You think through a choking fog of lust. She hit me. I think I love it.

Another slap lands. Another. Left then right then left.

“You are not a man.” Anne says over your broken gasps and sobs. “You. Are. A. Worm.”

She draws back her hand a fourth time, makes you flinch before it like a dog, and then drops the hand. She laughs a poison laugh.

She puckers her lips forward, and spits in your face. Hawwwkk-ptooohh! Through the sound of blood thundering, you hear her voice weaving like a prison shiv between ribs.

“Did you enjoy that, Arthur? You sad, dickless shit? Did the little worm get his little thrill?”

She places her hand on you again, but not to strike a blow. She is sensitive and tender.

“Come. Let me hug it better.”

Your racing heartbeat slams against the unyielding curve of her palm. It presses in, cold and obdurate, forcing your weeping shuddering face back into the silken rondure of her neck. The maternal affect is undercut by her voice, which is bright and full of mean-girl giggles. Nails become claws, dig pain into skin, then relax.

“I’m being a bitch to you…and you don’t have the courage to resist. Or the strength to leave. Think what you want to think. I’ve proven what you are.”

This is ridiculous. Absurd. The restaurant is full of people, and they’re all watching her hurt and degrade you and nobody’s even looking up from their shitty four-bean salads to help you, and your dick is just getting harder and harder and harder.

She’s panting and flushed, a ball of heat. Beneath dress and balconette, her nipples throb with arousal, feeling like hot pebbles. She loves this.

All I want is to make Anne the happiest woman in the world. The thought that you are succeeding brings solace to you.

A hand slides from your face down your sweaty neck, and down to your slacks. She grasps your bulge, and squeezes until you nearly scream.

“You owe me pleasure, fuckboy,” she hisses, digging nails into your scrotum. “And hurting you is the only way I’ll get it. Come. Bathroom.

---

With her gladiator sandals clacking and her big ass tick-tocking, Anne escorts you into the bathroom.

The male bathroom.

“There’s nothing wrong with being a doormat, Arthur…” she murmurs. You follow behind her, broken and humbled. She seems to have grown six inches in the past hour.

“The world needs doormats. Men who hand over paychecks and do home repairs and don’t ask questions when there’s another man’s cologne on their wife’s neck. I think it’s excellent if boys like you discover this essential truth about their nature.”

A security guard steps aside, allowing her through. His roving eye settles mistrustfully on you, as though you’re the one who shouldn’t be in the men’s bathroom.

People like Anne break rules and go unpunished. People like you get in trouble no matter how obedient you are.

So it goes.

“You’re not special, by the way. I have many doormats.” She takes out her phone, and opens a folder called VR. It is full of names. She adds yours.

“VR stands for ‘vibrator rechargers’. Boys who satisfy my sexual needs by bringing me a charging cable. I have guys like you in every town, Arthur. Losers who tried to be men. It’s sad. I hate to see it! They’re disappointments. I want to show them that there’s nothing wrong with being a disappointment.”

Anne kicks open the door, and strides into the dark. Her sandals clack differently on public restroom vinyl. She flicks on a switch. Dark erupts to light.

Anne screws up her pretty nose at the debauchery.

The urinals are a cattle wallow. Piss is splattered everywhere. A thick, raunchy stench pervades the moist, humid air—a thousand male glands razored open and bled dry. The urinal cakes have pubic hairs matted into them.

She snaps her fingers. Click. “Stand at the urinal, and drop your pants.”

“What?” You’ve never pissed at a urinal before. You like the privacy of a stall—mainly, the fact that nobody can see your penis.

She slaps you. Hard.

Her strikes in the dining room were playful. This one is an Exocet strike.

You recoil from the blow. Her white hand has smashed pain into your cheek that just lingers and festers like a burn, screaming like acid.

As your head rings, she gets in your face and screams. “Drop your pants, right now, or I will STOP. BEING. SO. NICE.”

Blood fills your ears in the aftermath of the slap. Blushing, shuddering and fragile as porcelain and about to cry, you unlatch your belt and let your pants fall.

flump

“What a disgusting worm of a boy…” Anne murmurs, biting her lip in consideration.

She glances up and down.

“Miserable. Inadequate. I want to stamp RETURN TO SENDER on your gormless face and shove you straight back up your mother’s birth canal.”

You look down, seeing your body as she sees it—pale and mushy, just a slab of runny goo that lacks any hint of muscularity. You’re both scrawny and fat at the same time somehow.

Your hands shoot out, covering your crotch. You feel your cock shrinking, trying to hide. Anne gestures for you to remove your hand. You gaze into her eyes, seeking mercy, seeking pity, finding neither.

“Show me,” she snarls from the side. In the corner of one eye, you see her smile—a hard slash of pink.Breath courses down the curve of your neck. “I want you on display, piggy boy. Like a trussed hog. Show me.”

Your hands drop to your sides.

Your penis is tiny and pink and quivering. It seems to be sheltering beneath the hairless fold of your pubis.

Her pretty lips curl. Amusement, bought with your body like it’s a credit card. “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur…does your body produce any testosterone whatsoever?”

A caress of your cock becomes a grip. She begins jerking it, making it swell.

Your glans and frenulum are parted by her fingers. She gathers a drop of precum, and smears it over your glans. Lubrication for the rubbery soft organ.

“Anne…” you whimper, shuddering. Sweat pours down your back. “We have to stop. What if someone comes in and sees us?”

“Do you want that? Maybe having a man in here would make your dick hard?”

“N—no.”

You quiver as she yanks your cock. It lengthens in her precum-slippery fist. The raw, sexless jerking becomes hot, becomes pleasure, becomes a furnace that immolates you. You are racing to an orgasm.

As her hand deftly jerks you hard, she removes a ruler from her clutch purse.

She jabs it harder than necessary against your pubic bone. You gasp, as she measures the pink shaft trembling erect next to the steel ruler.

“Four inches and seven eighths…four inches and fifteen-sixteenths. So close to the big five! Will it get bigger, Arthur?”

Pump…pump…glurp… her fist makes a wet, meaty, schlorping sound as it squelches over your boy-cock

“Guess not. Oh well, what can ya do!”

You moan. Performance anxiety is headfucking you, and your penis begins collapsing.

She strokes and pumps, tugging your organ with cow-milking efficiency. She giggles as your tiny cock flops and jiggles in her hand, flexing momentarily with blood only to deflate a second later.

Even half flaccid, you are so close to orgasm that she pulls you over the finish line.

Jerk, twist, and a knifeblade of pleasure slices inward.

“Anne, please, I think I’m about to…”

Your fleshy, distended ballsack draws up sharply. A high keening cry slides out of your lungs. Your hips begin hammering against the softness of her hand.

“Anne, I’m gonna…I’m gonna…”

Your hips roll, heaving like a ship in stormy waters. A thick wad of boyspunk bubbles up through you, rolling through, spitting out into the air.

“You’re m-making me cum! I’M CUMMING, ANNE! I’M CUMMING!”

Anne giggles as cum-ropes fly, going flap and splat against the burnished urinal. Thick yellow strands splatter and slide like molten graffiti.

“Your seed was made to be spurted down a drain,” she smirks, watching your load mingle with the urine of a hundred men. “It’s never going in a cunt. Tell you that.”

Just then, the bathroom door swings open at your backs. Your blood freezes as two men step in. No, three. They differ in skin color and height but they have identical high-top fades and Members Only jackets.

Laughing and bantering, they stride toward the urinals…and catch sight of a woman, holding a man’s penis.

They freeze.

You freeze.

Anne doesn’t.

“Sorry!” She titters. “This is my son.”

They gawp at her.

“It’s a bit embarrassing, but…” Anne gives your tiny cock an affectionate slap. “He has trouble when he goes wee-wee. He’s nineteen but a bit late in his development. I have to help him in the bathroom.”

You shiver, knees knocking together as sweat rolls down your legs. Your tiny penis shrinks to the size of a thimble, nearly vanishing from sight. A final transparent drop of fluid goes plop on the dirty floor.

The first man snickers. The second stares at you with contempt. The third with horror.

Anne pinches your face, and makes an awful coochie-coo voice. “My widdle Arthur gets so scawwed when big boys with big pee pees stand next to him. He needs his mommy to come in and comfort him! Don’t you, Arthur?”

You nod. “Yes.”

Her eyes narrow fiercely. Sell it properly, you shit.

“Thank you, Mom,” you say. “Thank you for helping me pee.”

Your voice is robotic but utterly confident and Anne smiles. The men just look disgusted. “The dude’s nineteen and can’t take a piss?” One of them says, unzipping. “Pathetic.”

One of the men stares at Anne’s famous face.

“Hey, lady, you kind of look like—”

She nods as she buttons up your slacks. “Anne Hathaway. I know. Everyone says I look like her. Pretty easy cross to bear—I work with a guy who looks like Moff Tarkin. Can you imagine that? We’d better get going, hadn’t we, Arthur?”

You’ve never felt so humiliated as she walks you out of the bathroom.

Or so free.

It’s wonderful to be a failure, because now you’re free of expectations. A burden you’ve carried for so long that it has become one with your flesh is now suddenly and beautifully gone.

You want to weep.

“This part of our date has concluded,” Anne smirks cruelly as you re-enter the dining area of the restaurant. “I hope you have learned something about yourself.”

You nod. You have.

“And I hope you will repay this knowledge by paying the tab tonight. And on other, subsequent nights. And by chaperoning me places. And watching me fuck other men and women. And maybe doing chores around my mansion.”

You nod meekly, submissively. Like a good boy.

You cannot say it feels good, to grovel and cower in this woman’s shadow. But at least it’s something you can do. It’s something you know you will not fail at.

When you admit you’ve lost, you’re free to stop playing the game. And if it’s a game you would never win…well, you’ve lost anyway, so who cares?

You try to thank Anne for this psychological insight.

“Anne, I have to say that—”

A raised hand stops your words. “Miss Hathaway.”

“Miss Hath—”

She silences you with a finger on your lips. “Our relationship doesn’t involve you talking. Speak when spoken to.”

She clicks her fingers under your nose, like you’re a dog.

“Shut up, pay the bill, then meet me out by my car.”

---

It’s late at night.

A CLOSED sign glows in the restaurant window. The neon tubing washes you in a hellish red light that provides no warmth as you kneel on the cold gravel of the parking lot.

Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! “Oh my god, oh my god, deeper, deeper, DEEPER!”

Anne’s convertible top is down. Her legs twist like snakes in the backseat, pale and beautiful under light like spilled blood. Your heart thuds in your ears as you watch them kick and thrash, jerking and tightening in primal ecstasy as a red glow illuminates their dulcet curves.

One foot has an Eleanor Anukam gladiator sandal.

The other is bare, its sandal catapulted into her Lexus’s front seat by the spasms of her third orgasm.

Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK! Plap-plap-squorrshh!!! “Oooh fuck, you’re so deep in me, baby! Fuck me harder! Harder!”

The waiter’s thick erection flexes, buried in her cunt.

He grunts on top of her, heaving his hips downward, sinking his long thick shaft into her slurping fuckbox. Anne throws her legs wide open as he plunges in, gaping her wide open. With an obscene and wet squelch that rolls like thunder across the parking lot, her cuntal lips split and filled with his maleness.

Plap-plap-squorrshh!!! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK! “Ohmygod, I’m gonna cum again, baby! Your big dick is making me cum!”

With a sucking SPLURRRCCCCHHH, the waiter tugs his cock six inches back.

There is now a mere three inches still inside her fleshy cunt.

Anne brays a moan. You watch her engorged pussy lips cling to his obscene organ like a mouth as it draws back, ready to be slammed home.

Glossy strands of squirt cling and slide down the barrel of his dripping shaft as he tugs it out to the glans, like a mouth reluctant to break an ardent kiss.

Her engorged labia quivers in excitement, ready to be ploughed apart by this superior alpha male.

“PUT IT BACK IIIIIINNNNN!” Anne howls, her thick thighs flexing in quick stabs of muscle.

The cock smashes down, hilting itself in her squeezing suctioning twat. Wet squelching sounds scorch the air, obscenely loud, churning the parking lot with their descant of filth.

His cock is utterly vast. Thicker than your wrist. Nearly the length of your forearm.

How can you compete with that man?

The answer is numbing as Novocaine. Prosaic as Panadol.

Doesn’t matter. You won’t ever have to.

Your worthless penis is going nowhere near her sacred flower. That much has been made clear to you. She will fuck handymen and delivery boys and prison inmates. You are a castrato guarding the sultan’s harem. She will never ever fuck you.

Anne has made it clear that the bullying, hateful handjob she inflicted on you in the bathroom is the first and last orgasm you will ever receive from her body. Your cock may as well shrivel off and fall in the trash now.

The waiter grunts, piking his hips forward and slamming her guts. Anne throws her arms and legs wide open, then kinks them back around his viciously fucking body. He plants his face into her big, wobbling breasts, licking sweat from them with his tongue. She claws at his broad back with both hands, feet kicking against his ass, as if trying to propel him even deeper into her slurping engorged cunt. Gripping each other tight, they kiss savagely and triumphantly as they fuck.

The waiter hammers long steady swings into her cunt, slamming her box with flat plosive squelches. Pussy juice sprays out of her squelching quim. A viscous gooey river of vaginal fluid is flowing across the upholstery as he pounds his muscular pelvis against her crotch. Anne squeezes her legs, her moans building to a crescendo.

His muscular pelvis crashes into her, jolting the seat, jolting Anne—jolting you somehow, even though you’re kneeling uselessly beside the car. She gasps and cries out, overwhelmed by the enormous prick coring out her dripping molten depths.

He thrusts and squeezes his maleness down into her slick depths. You hear his bulbous cock-knob surging down her cunt-tube, bathed in her squirt and secretions. Vaginal gloop bubbles from her snatch like lava.

“Fucking bitch,” he says, spitting in her face. His hand grips a quivering titmound, squeezing with orange-juicing tightness. She caws out and shudders, face flushed with arousal.

He pumps away, tearing her in half with his cock. You watch in horror as his massive erection saws in and out of her clenching, squirting fuck-tube. Glossy strands of girlcum spill and swing from his balls, which slap and bounce off her asscheeks, throwing moisture through the air. It keeps speckling your face. You cannot wipe it off. You lack the arm capacity.

BAM! CLAP! SLURP! SQUIIIINNCHHHH!

You kneel. Watching and learning, with your hands behind your back.

You have been instructed to not masturbate while you watch. This exhibit is very much look-but-don’t-touch.

When she glanced over her stud’s shoulder and noticed you violating this instruction, she ordered your hands flex-cuffed behind your back.

You have been a bad boy, and you must be punished for your sins.

Your cheeks burn with shame and excitement. You shift weight, gravel cutting mystic runes of pain into each kneecap. You have no choice but to watch the fucking go on and on. All night, maybe.

She’s right. You are pathetic. You are inadequate. You are useless. You fuck up the simplest things.

You accept this knowledge for what it is: a gift.

Before the fucking started, Anne compared his cock with yours. Aww, how sad.

More accurately, she laid them side by side, and had you compare them.

The waiter has a thick, meaty hose of flesh, a grotesquely marbled slab of fuckmeat that pulses like a Lovecraftian horror, scrawled with an armature of bulging, twisting, rippling veins. His cock would be considered a lethal weapon in several states.

And next to this formidable engine of love is…your own.

A small pink stalk, meek and inoffensive.

She made you hold the ruler, and measure the difference between your cocks. She made you state how many inches longer he was, how many inches thicker.

She made you yell these two numbers out across the parking lot, even though it was still full of cars.

With soul-sickened horror, you watch that near forearm-sized shaft split apart her moist twat with lewd, meaty plunges.

The sight of his massive shaft sent her into a sexual frenzy. She sucked him off, gripping his prick with both hands as she kneeled—you remember how his cock’s urethra bulged, spraying his copious load into her mouth. It overflowed, running down the crevice between her bare breasts.

She spat out his load onto the gravel—PTOOOH!—and he grabbed her by her luscious hips, and flung her into the back of her Lexus. He tore her panties off, and fucked his throbbing meat all the way down, pumping his pulsating dick into her.

“Does he have to watch?” he growled at one point, twisting his head around.

“Yes!” Anne criss-crossed her shapely ankles over his back and pinning him against her cervix. “I’m doing it for his own good!”

And so he shrugged and slammed deep, fucking away hard, his savage erection whipping glistening strands as it carved in and out of her sloppy, gurgling pussy.

Schlurp-glorp-glup-plooshhh! Bloorp-glug-glug-GLUUUCKK! Plap-plap-squorrshh!!!

“Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum!” Anne cries, her pretty legs contracting.

Anne screams under his fucking hips, orgasming whorishly. Her pubococcygeus and iliococcygeus spasm, clenching his penis in rapid pulses.

GLOOOORRRRPPPPP! SCHLOOOOOORRRRKKKKK! BLOOOOORRRRPPPPSHHHHH! SLUUUUUURRRRKKKK-GAKKK! Schlooooorrrrppp-hissss! SSSSSLLLLUUUURRRRPPPPSHHH!
He releases a brutal deep grunt, buries his face in her chest, and pumps away at her until he orgasms too.

The waiter’s genitals pitch downward, and convulse inside her pussy sheath.

His gigantic ballsack starts twitching and throbbing. You hear soul-sickening squelches and spurts and vomiting noises as he plants his gigantic cumshot inside your unattainable Hollywood princess.

Helplessly, you watch him blast load after load. His bloated scrotum presses tight against her snow-white ass, twitching, flushing itself empty, discharging every dribble of his sperm into her beautiful, cock-defiled body.

SCHLOOOOORRRRRKKKKK-GLUUUUURRRRPPP-SQUUUEEELLLCHHH-SPLUUUURRRRTTTT-PLAAAAPPPP!

Their squirting, splattering genitals grind together until his cum overflows her. You watch toothpaste-thick sperm swell up at the union of their orgasm-pulsing fuckmeat, fountaining out a brief, heavy arc across the car seat. Vile ballslop splatters in chunky curds, slopped out by rutting sex organs.

They pause. Pant. His cock is still inside her, throbbing with metronomic indifference. It jerks, slithering wetly in her gripping box.

Anne writhes in rapturous pleasure, locked together at hip, impaled on his nine-inch spear. Her breath pants like fire in the cold air.

A few seconds, then fucking resumes. A huge slick cock thunders in and out. In. Out. In. Out. Its oceanic rhythm merges with the blood skipping in your ear drums.

Anne screams under his sledgehammer hips. Orgasm after orgasm breaks her refined face.

You kneel, broken, shattered, abysmal. Wretched. Listening to the fleshy churn of a cock fucking her in places you never could, to places you cannot imagine. A lowly sinner, crucified on her screams. The night seems endless. Is endless. In a very real sense, everything after this will just be this glorious, wretched night, continued and continued and continued.

Anne Hathaway took you on a dinner date. You were the food.