Rose🥀

“So, that’s smoking weed and getting drunk? Why can’t we do that at home?” You’d all but whined.

“Because it’s boring going to the same hangouts every night, Y/N. And out here? We don’t have to worry about cops n’ shit.” Your best-friend’s boyfriend had spoken from the front, fingers resting idly on the leather steering wheel of his 2015 Range Rover.

You loathed that car with a passion. It rubbed you the wrong way.

“Aren’t there park rangers out here though?” Was your retort.

“Get off it, Y/N. Chill the fuck out and pull that stick out of your ass, and quit acting like the good girl.”

“She doesn’t act.” Your best-friend had smirked.

“Fuck you both! All this is going to end up being is one big fat fucking cliche.” You crossed your arms and laced on some hefty sarcasm. “Trying to scare each other. Fucking in the woods, all that good shit. That’s crap that teenagers do, not grown ass adults like we’re supposed to be. Or... some of us.”

“Who the hell are you gonna fuck, babe? When was your last date again...?” Your bestie’s boyfriend had cackled at his own statement.

“Yeah, whatever.” You let yourself remain silent, not taking the bait. You just needed to get through these next two days and you could go back to reading fanfiction, masturbating your irritation out, and ignoring all social invites ever again.

Everyone worked together to set the three tents up, your other close friends texting before the signal went a little static that they would be in later on in the evening with more food and liquor. You didn’t care to make yourself aware of what your bestfriend was currently doing in her tent, so you made yourself a deal to at least try a solo hike. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any damned rattlesnakes. Gripping your sunglasses, you peel open your friend’s discarded off brand handbag, stealing her pack of Marlboro Reds.

The party scene might not be entirely for you, but that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy some good ol’ enriching nicotine when you desire it. You light up as you take the trail you came into, pocketing the lighter and smoke pack in your jeans, head tilting to catch the crisp summer breeze that carries in the scent of a promising surprise : rain. You’re elated, already relaxing with your walk.

The sun quickly becomes overcast, the tall treetops swaying a melodic pre-show performance. This is something you can appreciate. A crackling thunder quivers in the mountains, encasing you into a bewilderment. It’s loud and it’s coming. Caught up, you comedically fall off your path and run smack dab into a water pump, dropping your cherry onto the ground.

“Fuck me...” You grip the warm metal handle, allowing yourself a palmful to douse your face cool.

“Those things result in forest fires. It’s one of the leading causes in our planet’s fucked up climate. People like you just continue to contribute to it by shitting all over the earth.” Sounds an Australian - tacked voice, smothered in a delicious depth.

Your anger is on the back burner the moment you see the face that goes with his voice. Tall, clean shaven, sharp jawline, short, slicked back, chocolate brown hair, muscular form fitted by a leather belt, tight green khakis, then there’s that see through white tee below the top layer. A gold name tag catches the light against one of the breast pockets. Stan Vogel. The drool is probably imminent, and that means you have to say something.

“Who are you? Smokey-the-fucking-Bear?” You snap, trying to keep your cool. This man is someone you couldn’t have imagined in your wildest panty - dripping fantasies.

He looks incredulous for a moment, but then it’s gone, leaving in place a very cocky devilish sneer.

“I’m the person that makes sure you’re kept safe.” He puts a chained emphasis on the last word, pushing past you and climbing a stair case that you are now embarrassingly aware is in front of your face - attached to a huge cabin. A streak of lighting crackles across the valley, Stan outstretching his large hand for you to take.

“Come on then. You’re a bit far from your campsite. You’ll never make it in time before you get soaked.”

You take his fingers in a lace - up, a smacking ache attaching itself directly to your cunt.

Fuck me, I thought park rangers were fat and balding?

Stan leads you up the wooden staircase and into a door. That California wind picks up the storm to the forefront and brings in gusting winds, shrouding you in that earthy, wet scent, Stan’s softly spicy aftershave hints prickling through in a welcomed addition. The cabin is large and covered in typical furnished items. It’s nothing you haven’t seen on documentaries or the news. You perch yourself on the leather couch, awaiting his proud presence.

He comes to settle eye level to you, still watching you on observation. You can’t take this silence, not even as the rain patters the windows in a veering violence.

“How did you know where my tent was?” You’re curious, a little paranoid.

He almost giggles, shaking his head. “I saw you and your mates come in. Fucking hate that car you’re driving too.”

“Isn’t it ridiculous? I don’t like it for some odd reason.” You share in a bite-back, more comfortable now.

“Storm’s really pickin’ up out there. Looks like you’re stuck with me for a while.” He moves with a cat-like ease to the window, those digits prying the curtain away to see the rain drops.

Your heart beat begins a full speed ahead gallop, breath getting lodged in broken pieces in your throat. You have to move, have to walk this fucking tingling frustration off. You head to the window that is opposite his, busying yourself by watching outside too. That doesn’t last long, a warmth drafting itself in a drape across your back. You feel as if you’re dreaming.

Your legs are like jello limbs, unmovable and cloudy soft. Stan cages you in, gently prying you in a turn by your wrists. He’s fucking tall, towering your frame. A trembling gasp escapes you, and Stan steps back a little. You mewl in outward disappointment, shocking yourself.

“Look, I don’t want to scare you, so tell me to hit the stairs if you don’t want this. But you’re literally squirming here, and that says to me that you either want to get the hell out of this station, or you want me to unbuckle my belt and fuck you against this wall.” He raises a brow, his forearm pressing into the space above you.

You close your eyes, on fire in a drenched need to be taken and fucked until you can’t walk and there isn’t an inch of your ass that isn’t bruised or bleeding.

Why the fuck not? I deserve this.

Your fingertips pinch his name tag. “Okay, Stan. Show me a good time.”

He scoops a strong arm underneath your knees, bending you into a drag that lands you bent over the couch. You’re struggling to breathe that it sounds like you’re panting, akin to some wild beast. That authoritative figure is draping himself across your back, easing his firm hands into your blouse, caressing up and down your spine, coaxing a line of goosebumps underneath your bra’s band.

“Can I take your pants off...” He breaks to seek out your name, making you punch out a laugh.

“It’s Y/N.”

“Pretty name.” He coos, heeding your nod and discarding your jeans in a pile on the wood floor.

“Beautiful ass.” He palms it in strokes, then smacks a cheek so hard that you yelp.

“It’s such a shame that I have to beat it for almost destroying an acre of wooded land.” Another feral hit. “If I didn’t keep any order around here, then what would happen?”

You don’t answer right away, causing Stan to be displeased. He snarls into his next motion, exclaiming a series of heavy-handed hits across both cheeks. There’s no choice but to take what he gives you, your panties ruined and soaked, that uncomfortable wetness making itself known each time you move. You’re shaking and whimpering, quivering to a charging cry by the time his punishment resigns.

“Get up.” He wraps your hair around his fist, shoving you in a clumsy stumble into the cabin wall. “I’m the law around here, Y/N. You gonna respect that? You gonna take me?” His hot mouth takes your answer captive, teeth sinking into your bottom lip and pulling until you feel the skin shred.

“Fuck, Stan. Yeah... yeah-“ He grips your cunt roughly, ending your answer, his fingers rubbing your clit through sopping fabric. He hums against your mouth, his cock straining roughly in those khakis.

You’re buzzing, melting into a lava pit that is buried inside of you. There’s a desperation that plows down rationality (as if that’s been here so far...), and you’re ripping his uniform off his chest to get a good eye full of that white t-shirt. You lick your lips appreciatively, helping him work your panties off your body, his shirt parading through the air along with the other garments. It’s like a race against time after his khakis are all that remain. You’re lifting your right leg to slot around his hips, trying to work briskly to help him untangle the leather clasp and shove down his green pants and boxers.

His cock is thick. Really fucking big and ready to pound your limits to hell and back. He keeps you pinned to the wall, pupils slicing through his beautiful eyes to convey his carnal aggression. He licks his own hand several times over, then motions for you to spit in it. You don’t take your eyes off him as he jerks his cock to get it wetter for you.

You indulge in grasping his hand, fascinated as he lifts your arms to be pinned above your head. He keeps his hand in yours - pressed, present. His eyes seek yours and that’s all it takes. He’s parting your sticky folds and edging himself inside in a wide stretching sheath. It’s so damned hot and slippery, painful and fanning flames inside, that tears prick the corners of your vision.

“You’re a tight girl... Fuck. You won’t be able to walk when you leave my cabin.” He moans.

“Then you better get to work.” You tug him for another kiss, his hips working to help his vigorous thrusts, slamming your ass into the wall each time.

There’s a thunderstorm beyond these walls, but the crude sound of Stan fucking you into them - that’s the loudest thing that exists. It hurts so bad that you enjoy it all the more, your nails scratching his back to claim and mark. Your pussy is throbbing and tightening around him, coating him in each venture. You can’t stop yourself once that tightening in your abdomen begins its steady peak. Your skin flushes in dusts of red and pink, your cheeks scorching.

“You’re coming already?” He’s sassy and losing his steady pumps.

You don’t speak, it’s not within your capabilities right at this instance. Stan makes you meet his gaze, wondering, moving torturously slow. You can hear his dick sloshing your arousal around, driving you mad.

“Do it. Cover my fucking cock.” He orders, giving sporadic rubs over your clit, hurtling you up and down the canyon you two have built here.

It all spills out of you and you scream his name, eyesight dotting swimming with shapes, body going slack into Stan. He fucks his hips into you more steadily, dipping to hold, and then you’re filled with his warm cum. You cradle his neck’s nape, sliding into the floor in a mess. Stan kisses your lips, brushing your sweaty hair off your perspiration stamped temple.

“I’ve never fucked someone randomly before.” He chortles, smiling at you with a brightness.

You ease into his side in a perfect fit, enjoying the rain and sated bones in your sore body. “Is it something I did to make you do that?”

He purses his mouth, nosing your neck, smashing his nose over yours. “What can I say, baby, you bring out the feral side of me.”

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