So you finally did it. Finally hit me with that text, the one I’ve been waiting for.

“Hey, you busy tonight? I wanna try smoking for real, and I don’t wanna do it with anyone but you.”

How could I say no?

Now you’re here, sinking into the cushions of my couch like you’ve done a hundred times before. You see me, your big, chill, 6'4" buddy, moving around my place. You see the massive shoulders that barely fit through the door, the arms thick as your waist, the chest like a fucking battering ram under my plain grey t-shirt. You see all that sheer, brutal size, and you just think… safe. You think it’s your personal shield. You poor, stupid fucking girl.

“Aight, you ready for this?” I ask, and my voice is that low, easy rumble you know. I flash you a grin, and you grin back, all nervous excitement.

I sit down at the coffee table, pulling out my tray. No fancy bullshit. Just a grinder, some papers, and a baggie of weed so loud, so fucking pungent, it smells like God’s own private garden. My huge, thick fingers, the ones you’ve seen wrap around a basketball like it’s a fucking orange, work with nimble precision. I grind the bud, tap it out, lick the paper, and roll a perfect, fat cone. Then another.

I hand the first one to you. “This one’s yours, baby girl. I’ll walk you through it.”

That little pet name slides out, easy as breathing. You don’t even flinch.

I put the second joint between my lips and light it, the tip glowing like a demon’s eye in the low light. Then I hold my lighter out for you. Your hands are shaking a little as you lean forward. Cute.

“Don’t sip it like a straw,” I instruct, my voice turning a little rougher around the edges. “Pull that shit. Inhale it deep. Let it fucking own your lungs for a second.”

You take your first real hit. And just like I knew you would, your body betrays you. You explode into a fit of coughing, smoke and spit clouding the air, tears springing to your eyes. You’re bent over, gasping, helpless.

And the friend is gone.

Before your coughing fit even subsides, I’m across the space between us. The couch dips hard under my weight. I pluck the joint from your fingers. My other hand snakes out, grabbing the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, forcing your head up. You flinch, your wide, glassy eyes staring up at me in shock. My face is inches from yours. That friendly grin is gone, replaced by a hungry, predatory smirk.

“Fucking pathetic,” I growl, the sound a raw vibration against your skin. “Can’t even handle a little smoke. Making a mess. Look at you.”

My thumb wipes a tear from your cheek, but it’s not a gentle gesture. It’s an act of ownership.

“You came here to get high, right?” I whisper, my voice dropping into a filthy, conspiratorial register. “You think this weed is the peak? Nah. This shit? This is just the appetizer. This is just the chemical that unzips your brain and lets all the dirty little thoughts out to play. It’s the stuff that makes your body loose and your morals… negotiable.”

My free hand slides down your chest, over your frantic, rabbiting heart, past your navel. I don’t stop until the heel of my palm is grinding into your mound, hard. You let out a choked whimper. You’re already soaked. I can feel the damp, desperate heat of you right through your jeans.

“There it is,” I hiss into your ear. “That’s the real drug. The reason you came over here tonight. You didn’t want to get high on some weed, you fucking slut. You wanted to get high on me.”

I shove you off the couch. You land on your knees on the rug, a soft, pathetic little thud. Your mind is a haze of weed and adrenaline, but your body knows a command when it hears one.

“Stay right there,” I order, standing up to my full, monstrous height. I am a titan of dark flesh looming over you. “Time for the main event.”

My hands go to the drawstring of my sweatpants. I pull it loose. The soft grey fabric slides down my tree-trunk thighs, pooling around my ankles.

And then you see him. Your god. Your new addiction.

He’s a fucking nightmare of a cock. A thick, brutally long, dark brown battering ram, corded with veins that throb with my pulse. He’s not just big, he’s a fucking weapon of flesh, heavy and menacing, swinging with a weight that promises to split you, to fill you, to break you and rebuild you. The head is a glistening helmet of deep purple, swollen and slick with a bead of clear pre-cum that catches the light.

The smell of the weed is gone. All you can smell now is him. Pure, raw, unfiltered man. The scent of absolute power.

I take a step forward, putting the tip of my cock right in front of your dumbstruck, parted lips.

“You took your first hit with your lungs, you little whore,” I command, my voice a gravelly engine of pure lust. “Now it’s time to get properly fucking high. Open that pretty mouth. Take a hit of your new favorite drug.”

  
Limits are gore, vore, scat and underage

[M4F] We're friends. Tonight, you're getting high for the first time... on my weed, and on my cock.