1. The Hangout


    Date: 11/3/2015, Categories: Fantasy, Consensual Sex, First Time, Job/Place-of-work, Male/Female, Oral Sex, Author: wantsomefun, Rating: 89.1, Source: sexstories.com

    cigarette pack. “Can you hide this in your boot again?” I stuffed the box in my sock and pulled the leg of my jeans down over it. “I put it on the left side so I can get it out when I’m driving.” “Do I look okay?” She turned slowly so I could inspect her. Frayed, acid-washed, hip-hugger bell bottom jeans dragged on the floor and were tight in all the right places. Her bleached linen top hung loose, hemmed a few inches above her navel. Her wild dark hair was sprinkled with glitter and pulled back from her face into a carved and painted wooden clip behind her head. She wore a short, thin rawhide cord strung with brightly colored ceramic beads on her throat. “I made the jewelry myself.” “Sexy! Guys are going to notice you tonight.” “Oh, please,” she smirked. “What time do you have to be home?” “My parents gave up on a curfew after high school. As long as I’m quiet when I come in, it’s cool. They know I’m with you, they know you don’t drink, so they think I’ll stay out of trouble.” “Shit!” she laughed. “My folks think you’re the good influence on me. They think I’d never smoke pot around a nice boy like you, so they don’t care when I get home either.” We said our farewells to her mom and dad and got in my car. I fished the box out of my sock and handed it to her. “Wanna fire one up?” “Not now,” she said. “I pulled one joint apart to look at it and re-rolled it. Didn’t smoke any, just poked around. My room still smelled like grass in the morning. A friend had some at college that ...
    smelled just as strong – not treated or anything, just super potent. If this shit is like that, you don’t want to smoke it and drive. We can park at The Hangout and walk down to the tracks. No one will see us.” We picked our way through the debris beyond the parking lot and down to the railroad bed. There was enough illumination from the security lights for us to see. She opened the cigarette box. “I brought both joints. Think we’ll get high?” I lit a match, and she inhaled. “Oh, wow! Shit!” she coughed, blowing out a cloud of smoke. She passed the number to me. We quickly decided to save the other joint for later. “How far did we walk?” she mumbled when we were done. “Dunno. Hundred yards, maybe.” “Damn. Guess we should see if we can make it back.” It was a lot of effort to walk to my car and hide the cigarette box under some junk on the backseat floor. We shambled to the newly-built club entrance. “There you two are!” the owner exclaimed. He marked the backs of our hands with two different stamps. Then, he appraised us in the light of the entryway and laughed. “You’re destroyed, aren’t you? That fuckin’ shit’s wicked.” “You were right about one being enough,” Martha admitted. “I fuckin’ warned you!” he cackled. “That should keep you going for a while. Now listen – you guys don’t pay for anything. The one fuckin’ hand stamp gets you in and out free all night. The other is for sodas and munchies. Show your stamp at the snack bar. They’ll give you whatever the fuck you want. ...
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