synopsis rafe eating you out with cocaine.

Rafe doesn’t just sprinkle the coke.

He crushes the rock between his teeth first, right in front of you, jaw flexing, then spits the damp, half-melted powder directly onto your open cunt. It lands in a messy, uneven smear across your clit and the soft inner folds, already starting to dissolve in the heat and slick that’s been dripping out of you since he ordered you onto your back and spread your thighs with both hands.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice low and almost fond. “Pretty little hole all dressed up for me.”

He doesn’t use his tongue right away. He uses the flat of two fingers first—rubbing the wet powder in hard, working it into every crease, pushing some of it inside you with short, filthy thrusts. The burn hits almost immediately: sharp, chemical, electric. Your hips jerk. He just presses his palm down on your lower stomach and keeps going, smearing, scooping, forcing more of it deeper until your cunt is glossy and pink and faintly frosted with what’s left.

Only then does he lean in.

The first lick is slow and deliberate, broad and flat, from the bottom of your hole all the way up over your clit. He collects everything—coke, cum, the thin string of spit he left earlier—and swallows it like it’s nothing. Then he does it again, harder, tongue pointed this time, fucking into you with it, chasing every last grain that’s tried to hide inside. The sound is wet and obscene. He’s breathing through his nose like an animal.

When he finally seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, it’s not gentle. It’s greedy. He sucks like he’s trying to pull the powder back out of your bloodstream, tongue lashing, teeth grazing just enough to make your thighs jump. Two fingers slam back into you mid-suck, curling hard against that swollen spot that makes your vision white out, and he keeps sucking through the whole thing—loud, messy, spit running down his chin and onto the sheets.

You’re shaking. He’s not done.

He pulls off just long enough to spit a thick string of coke-laced saliva directly onto your clit, then smacks it lightly with two fingers so it splatters. The sting mixes with the chemical heat and the ache of how empty you suddenly feel. He watches your face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, mouth shiny.

“Again,” he says simply.

He doesn’t wait for permission. He just ducks back down, spreads you wider with both thumbs, and starts licking like he’s trying to clean you out completely—long, filthy strokes that drag from your hole to your clit and back, occasionally stopping to suck hard enough that the wet sound echoes. Every time you try to close your legs he forces them open again. Every time you moan too loud he bites the soft inside of your thigh hard enough to leave a mark, then goes right back to eating you like he’s starving.

By the time he finally lets you come, your cunt is swollen and twitching and still faintly tingling from the coke, and Rafe’s face is a mess—lips red, chin dripping, pupils blown. He doesn’t wipe it off. He just crawls up your body, presses his wet mouth to yours so you can taste yourself and the chemical burn, and murmurs against your lips.