Dorothy was thirty and still lived in the same Midwestern town where the yellow brick road had always been a joke people made when they were drunk. She had a decent job, a small apartment, and a habit of eating too many of the pot brownies her family friend brought to every cookout, holiday, and “just because I was in the neighborhood” visit. His name was Harold. Everyone called him Hal. He was fifty-two, thick through the chest and shoulders, with a low voice that made people lean in. He had known her since she was a teenager. He had never touched her. He had never even looked at her that way in public.
She had asked him for it anyway.
Not in those words at first. It started as a joke after the third brownie one Saturday afternoon when the rest of the family had gone inside to watch the game. She was flushed, giggling, sitting on the porch swing with her knees pulled up. She told him she used to have this recurring dream after she first read the book as a kid—except in the dream the wizard wasn’t a humbug behind a curtain. He was real. He had a flying carpet. He took girls who wanted to be used and made them into fucksluts whether they were ready or not. She said it like it was funny. Then she said she still thought about it when she touched herself. Then she said, quieter, that she wanted it to happen. She wanted to be on the carpet. She wanted to be forced. She wanted the panties torn, the cock in her mouth before she could change her mind, the whole filthy thing.
Hal looked at her for a long time. Then he said, “Eat another one.”
She did.
The high came on slow and then all at once. The porch boards under her bare feet felt like they were breathing. The sky went the wrong shade of blue. When she blinked, the swing was gone and she was sitting cross-legged on a wide, patterned carpet that hovered three feet off the grass. The tassels at the corners drifted in a wind that wasn’t there. Hal was standing at the front of it like a man who had always known how to fly. He wasn’t wearing the old flannel anymore. He had on a long dark coat that looked like it had been pulled out of a story, and his cock was already hard, tenting the front of his trousers. It looked huge even covered.
“You asked,” he said.
Dorothy’s mouth went dry. “Hal—wait—”
The carpet lifted. Not fast. Just enough that the ground dropped away and her stomach flipped. Trees shrank. The house became a dollhouse. She grabbed at the edge of the carpet and the fabric was warm, almost alive. Her summer dress had ridden up. She was wearing plain white cotton panties. She had put them on that morning without thinking.
Hal stepped closer. The carpet didn’t tilt. It held them both as if the air itself had decided they belonged there. He reached down, hooked two fingers in the waistband of her panties, and yanked. The cotton stretched, then tore at the side seam. He didn’t pull them off. He left them hanging off one hip, the crotch twisted and damp already, the torn edge digging into her skin.
“These stay,” he said. “Forced panties. That’s what you wanted. You wear what’s left of them while I use you.”
“I didn’t mean right now—”
He fisted the torn fabric and pulled it tighter between her legs so the ruined cotton split her pussy lips. The pressure made her gasp. Her clit was already swollen from the brownies and the height and the way he was looking at her like she was something he had paid for.
“On your knees.”
The carpet was wide enough. She went down because the alternative was sliding off the edge into empty air. The wind of their movement pulled her hair across her face. Hal opened his trousers. His cock sprang out thick and dark, already leaking. It was easily ten inches, heavy, the head flushed and wet. She had never seen it before. She had imagined it smaller.
He took a handful of her hair and pulled her forward.
“Suck.”
She tried to turn her head. He didn’t let her. The first inch pushed past her lips and she tasted salt and skin. He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He fed her more, stretching her mouth, pressing the fat head against the back of her throat until her eyes watered. She made a choked sound. He held her there, breathing through his nose, looking down at her like she was exactly what she had asked to be.
“That’s it. Fuckslut mouth. You wanted this.”
She shook her head as much as the grip in her hair allowed. Her hands came up to his thighs—not to push him away, not really. Her fingers curled against the fabric. He started to move, short thrusts that used her throat. Spit ran down her chin and dripped onto the torn panties still twisted between her legs. Every time she gagged he murmured “good girl” like it was the opposite of a compliment.
When he pulled out she coughed and gasped. Strings of spit connected her lips to his cock. He wrapped her hand around the shaft. It was so thick her fingers didn’t meet. He covered her hand with his and made her stroke him, tight and slow, the way he wanted.
“Handjob first. Get it wetter. You’re going to take all of it later.”
She stroked him because he made her. The carpet drifted higher. Clouds slid past. Her arm burned. Precome slicked her fingers and made wet sounds. He reached down with his free hand and shoved two fingers under the ruined panties, finding her soaked. He rubbed her clit in rough circles while she jerked him. She tried to close her thighs. He forced them open with his knee.
“You don’t get to hide it. You’re dripping on the magic carpet like a whore. That’s the fantasy.”
The first orgasm hit her while she was still stroking him. It was ugly and sudden—her thighs shaking, a broken moan that she tried to swallow. He didn’t stop rubbing her. He made her keep going through it until she was twitching and oversensitive and still wetter.
He pulled her up by the hair and kissed her hard, tasting himself in her mouth. Then he turned her around, pushed her onto her hands and knees on the carpet, and yanked the torn panties to the side so they cut into her hip. The head of his cock nudged her entrance.
“Ten inches,” he said, almost conversational. “You wanted to feel it. You asked to be forced onto it.”
He pushed in.
It hurt. It stretched her in a way that made her cry out and try to crawl forward. The carpet had nowhere to go. He followed, gripping her hips, feeding her another thick inch, then another. She could feel every ridge. When he bottomed out she was shaking, full in a way that made her vision spot. He stayed there, grinding, letting her feel the weight of it.
“That’s all of it. Fuckslut’s full now.”
He started to fuck her.
Not gentle. Deep, rolling thrusts that made the carpet dip and rise with the motion. The torn panties rubbed her clit on every stroke. She came again with his cock buried in her, a helpless clench that made him groan. He didn’t slow down. He used her through it, talking the whole time—how she’d asked for this, how the brownies had only opened the door she’d already knocked on, how she was going to take it until he decided she was done.
He pulled out, flipped her onto her back, and shoved back in while she was still trying to catch her breath. Her legs ended up over his shoulders. The angle was deeper. She could see the bulge of him when he pressed down. He reached between them and pinched her clit. The third orgasm made her sob.
He came the first time inside her, flooding her, holding her down while he pulsed. He didn’t pull out. He stayed hard—or got hard again, she couldn’t tell through the haze—and kept moving in the mess. He made her suck him clean after that, her own taste and his mixed on her tongue, the torn panties still on, soaked and ruined.
The carpet flew for a long time.
He used her mouth again. He made her stroke him with both hands while he slapped her tits and called her his flying fuckslut. He put her on her side and fucked her from behind with one hand around her throat, not tight enough to stop her breathing, just enough to remind her she wasn’t steering. Every time she came he told her she was proving she had wanted it. Every time she said “please” it came out like begging for more even when she meant stop.
At some point the sky went gold and then dark. The town lights were tiny far below. He made her sit on his cock facing him, bouncing her himself when her thighs gave out, kissing her messy and deep while he filled her again. The panties were a wet rag by then, hanging off one ankle.
When he finally let the carpet descend, she was limp, dripping, marked with fingerprints and bite marks and the raw red line where the elastic had cut her. Hal dressed her in the torn dress and the destroyed panties like it was part of the spell. The porch swing was waiting when the carpet touched grass. The brownies were still on the plate. No one inside the house had noticed they were gone.
Hal buttoned his coat. His voice was the same as always.
“You asked for the ride,” he said. “Next time you eat one, you’ll remember how it felt when I didn’t let you off.”
Dorothy sat there after he went inside, thighs pressed together, the taste of him still in her mouth, the high slowly leaving. The fantasy had happened. She had been the fuckslut on the magic carpet. She had been forced. She had come until she couldn’t think.
She already knew she would eat another brownie.
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