Buffy Beaten update

Buffy stumbled home. She thought her Slayer healing was taking care of her inebriation, but she still felt lightheaded, a little crumbly, a tad sick—all sorts of things. But carefree. Unafraid. Maybe this was how normal people felt. Cordelia hadn’t minded waking up with her pants around her thighs, and Xander hadn’t minded taking her home… Willow had even tried to get another bottle sent their way, but of course it was impossible when their IDs all gave away their age. Cordelia had said she had a fake ID, but she’d passed out again before bringing it out, having barely awoken enough to pull her pants up, and Buffy didn’t see where she could be keeping much of anything in her abbreviated ensemble. But maybe she’d ask Cordelia where to get a fake ID and they could do this again, for real this time. Not on accident. She’d had fun.

She picked up the pace, moving through the dark night without fear of tripping over something. That had lost its importance. She had too much to think, or not think about while there was nothing to be thought of, and not thinking was so important that a fall was insignificant in comparison. What was going to happen—was Buffy the Vampire Slayer going to break her neck falling off a curb?

With a blink, she found herself in front of her home, and the sight provoked a wheezy laugh in Buffy. Imagine! She’d gotten all the way home with no demons, no monsters, not so much as a catcall. Wouldn’t Spike and Drusilla shit themselves if they knew that, while she was drunk off her ass, no one in all of Sunnydale had so much as looked at her funny. So much for the Hellmouth! Maybe the damn thing had just closed itself up. Why shouldn’t it? Nice people got cancer all the time, war heroes had heart attacks, so why shouldn’t Hell have to shut down a wing or two? Maybe people were just being nicer these days. Maybe the Catholic Church had started singing more hymns.

Laughing and shaking her head, Buffy got her keys to work and propelled herself through the front door, then championed all her willpower to force the door closed again. She struggled with the lock before giving it up. Leave it open! Who was going to fuck with her? She was the Slayer. Anyone who came into her house might as well be doing laps in holy water!

Buffy trudged up the stairs, worked her way down the hall, and threw open the door to her room, only to freeze. The lights were off, but an array of candles were lit on the nightstand, and they made the naked bodies on her bed glow brilliantly red, so real and tactile that Buffy felt like she could reach out and touch them. But it wasn’t their nakedness that arrested Buffy, it was their positions, and she held herself in the open doorway, hidden by the lovers’ fixation on each other, as she tried to make sense of the insane lewdness in front of her.

There was Conrad, stripped naked, stretched out on his back on top of Buffy’s own bed, while Joyce knelt at its foot, between his dangling legs. Her smoothly rounded ass faced Buffy, naked, and both of her hands encircled the huge, rigidly erect cock that Buffy had been trying to forget ever since she’d first seen it. Once, Buffy never would’ve believed a man’s prick could be so big; now, she couldn’t believe how Joyce was lovingly caressing it, fetishizing each inch with longing and admiration. She leaned over it, her long hair hanging down to Conrad’s thighs, while her fingers felt out the member’s every throb and pulse. Joyce was laughing, pinching her moist lips together, and breathing in the musk of the oversized cock as her face got closer and closer to it.

“I didn’t know a man’s thing could be so beautiful,” Joyce breathed, and Buffy was helpless not to examine Conrad’s manhood as well. The thick knob was a majestic purple in the light of the candles, that narrow slit at the tip opening and closing as Joyce’s hand stroked the fat shaft.

Groaning, Conrad came up onto his elbows, coolly watching as Joyce serviced his cock. Joyce met his eyes. Her jaw dropped. Then Buffy realized what was happening. Conrad was informing her he wanted Joyce’s small mouth wrapped around his massive erection.

It was wrong for Buffy to spy on her mother like this—of course it was wrong—but with the gin weakening her judgment, Buffy could only think that she needed to know the nature of Joyce and Conrad’s relationship. Was it as happy as it seemed, or was he forcing her into something she didn’t want? As impossible as it seemed that Joyce was anything but overwhelmingly happy to serve Conrad, Buffy still needed to be sure. A part of her wanted Conrad to try something untoward, just so she could finally smack that smug, big-dicked look off his face.

But the gin didn’t just weaken her resolve. It gave voice to all the subconscious urges that usually remained silent. As much as Buffy tried to ignore them, she was becoming aroused, watching as Joyce gave this man a handjob. She wanted to see what a blowjob looked like, to experience some of the wanton pleasure she knew Joyce was getting. More unfairness, that her mother had a sexy, hard-fucking boyfriend and she had nothing but an occasional longing look from Xander. Wasn’t she entitled to at least look at the hot sex that she should be getting during America’s teen sex crisis?

Joyce mewled with high-pitched need as she got closer and closer to Conrad’s jutting prick, leaning over it until her full breasts were just above his cockhead. She lowered herself down, letting her cleavage slide over his cock so it was between her breasts, then Joyce squeezed her tits together, trapping his erection inside her softly firm breasts. She stroked it inside the warm valley that her tits had formed, his thick purple cockhead appearing and disappearing as her breasts ran up and down Conrad’s length. In the reddish light of the candles, the sex act looked like some pagan ritual Joyce was performing, with Conrad’s manhood the idol she was in submission to.

Conrad’s smile was fixed on his face as he watched Joyce’s soft breasts massage his cock, their softness jostled by its aroused throbbing. He pitched his hips upward, pushing his cockhead so far through Joyce’s cleavage that his glans hit her on the chin. Joyce fell back, giggling with how he’d teased her, then her moist red lips made an O. She bent downward so that as Conrad fucked his way through her tits, she flicked her pink little tongue down to lap at his engorged knob.

For an instant, the perverse scene stretched and wobbled before Buffy’s eyes, as if her intoxication had just hit her all over again. She felt faint. It was insane. Right in front of her, on her own damn bed, she was seeing her mother participate in crude perversions of the kind she never would’ve thought Joyce capable… the sexy, slutty acts that would have Buffy grounded for a month if Joyce thought she’d even heard of them. She should’ve left—Buffy couldn’t imagine what would happen if Joyce knew she was watching. But nothing could make her stop watching Joyce and Conrad. She’d never seen anything so depraved in all her time as Slayer, and she wanted to see more of it. She wanted it to excite her even more than it already had.

Conrad’s massive erection was getting even bigger with Joyce’s tongue added to the mix. She let her breasts fall away from it and instead ran her tongue all over its blood-gorged length, stopping only when she came to the very top of it, where she could lick away every drop of the precum that dribbled out of the tip. It was as if she were cajoling the tasty droplets out of him, performing some arcane ritual with her warmly glistening saliva all over his member just so she could get more of his addictive semen.

Conrad groaned and flexed, letting loose an amused laugh as Joyce earned another taste of his cum and enjoyed it greedily. Joyce was losing herself in her greed, and her hunger, but with pure devotion to her lover, she withdrew her tongue and bent down to Conrad’s chiseled stomach, kissing the lines of muscle that crested his belly in outright supplication before returning to his cock. Then, she took his thick cockhead between her ovalled lips, slipping all of it slowly into the warmth of first her mouth, then her throat. She sucked and licked at the engorged flesh as though it were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted. And, gradually, Buffy’s mother took a little more of Conrad’s challenging thickness into her mouth, down her throat. She wrapped her right hand around the girthy base, pumping furiously on the portion of his shaft that her stretching mouth could not possibly take in. Then, Joyce did something that Buffy couldn’t believe possible even after all the magic she’d seen with her own two eyes.

Moaning with raw need, Joyce brought herself down to the base of Conrad’s prick, taking nearly all of his fat cock down her throat. Her cheeks bulged grotesquely, then hollowed as she sucked furiously on him. Then she lifted her head up his length, leaving his manhood blood-red in its engorgement. Rhythmically, she pitched back down and came back up, her well-spread lips rolling in and out as she sawed back and forth on his erection. There was no more of his length for her to fondle. She reached instead to his huge, hairy balls, massaging them with the same sexual frenzy that drove her faster and faster along his shaft.

Buffy’s heart pounded so hard that she could hear it thundering in her ears. Unconsciously, she squeezed her legs together, as if to keep in the thrumming in her sex that was going every bit as hard as her racing heart. Taxed by the effort, her legs started to tremble, and she sank down to her knees, both taking her weight off of them and better hiding herself from Joyce and her lover.

Just in time, too. As she sunk from view, another man stepped into view. He must’ve been in the room the whole time, but hidden from Buffy’s sight. He, too, was completely naked, grinning as he walked up to Conrad and Joyce. Jutting from his groin was a firm cock that looked even bigger than the one stretching Joyce’s throat. Buffy was aware of her panties, wet and warm, as they clung to her sex.