You’re eating lunch downtown in the middle of the work day with some girl you met through a mutual friend, and it turns out you two have a surprising amount of chemistry. You bend in for a kiss for dessert. She’s absolutely into it. You feel a little nibble; you giggle, “Aw, be careful, you’re gonna leave a hickey!”

Later, on the way back to work, you catch your reflection in the mirror glass windows of an office building. Your neck is covered in tiny delicate bites, and there’s a greenish fluid dripping down all over your top. How did nobody say anything?

Wait.

Is this even the way to work?

Why is everything so swirly?

This street looks familiar, though. You stumble on a bit.

Oh. It’s where she lives.

The concierge waves you inside. Have you been here before?

The numbers are a bit fuzzy in the elevator, but you think 13 is probably the right floor. Weird. They don’t usually have a 13.

While you wait for the elevator to take you up, you check yourself again out in the shiny steel doors. Your top is really a mess. Every time you try to wipe some of the goo off, though, it doesn’t really cooperate. You’re starting to get flustered; it’s harder to think straight.

You find her door. You just know it’s the right one. There’s faint music coming from it, and it makes you feel certain that this is it. But you don’t want to see her when you’re a mess like this. So you have a brilliant idea.

You take your top off. No top, no problem.

You ring her doorbell. Then you notice that there’s some of the greenish fluid on your bra, too, so that has to come off.

By the time she opens the door, you’re standing there with your chest exposed.

“Hey,” you say. “I got something on my shirt…”

You try to explain that you’d like to borrow a top, but the words don’t come out quite right.

She whisks you inside quickly, surprised, but she is very pleased to see you. It’s not long before you’re both lying down on her couch, and she’s nibbling on your neck again.

After a while, you feel so warm and melty that you can’t entirely tell if you have any bones left, but that seems to be okay right now.

She slides down alongside you, until she carefully slips off the couch altogether. You can’t see where she went, but the slowly turning ceiling fan overhead is fascinating, so you watch that for a while.

And then you realize that she’s slipped between your legs, and started to lift up your skirt. You feel the two-pointed tickle of a distinctively serpentine tongue on your inner thigh.

“Oooh! what can I do with this?” she asks.

You’re far too out of it by this point for a coherent response, but your body isn’t. You’re vaguely surprised at yourself, since you normally can’t self-lubricate much. But the way you spread your legs to give her a better look at the dripping wet pussy between them should give her a good idea of what she can do with it.

She giggles, then stands over you briefly to give you a quick, close-mouthed, but certainly venom-soaked kiss. You catch a flash of green ophidian irises and slit pupils above her fanged grin.

And then, predator-quick, she’s back under your skirt, lips kissing the soft skin of your thighs, working her way towards your pussy.

Her tongue brushes your clit, first tentatively, then firmly, and then she backs off again, teasing you, tasting you, swirling her long, forked tongue around your lips, flicking it briefly between them.

You feel something slip into you, not far, but just the rolled dart of her tongue probing your entrance is enough to make the whole world fuzzy and uncertain with pleasure.

She continues, experimenting with you, for a hazy duration. At this point, you don’t even care about the fangs or those gorgeous eyes or anything, you just want her; your mind is so thoroughly soaked in her venom that you’re just a puppet for her to toy with.

She goes back to firm tongue pressure on your clit, repeatedly and rhythmically slipping her serpent’s tongue across your most sensitive part, always the same pattern.

It doesn’t slow down or hitch in the slightest as she slides a finger inside you.

Then two.

Then three.

You’re so slick with your own juices and her willpower-dissolving venom that they’re easy to take.

Now her fingers begin to move inside you in a way that compliments and amplifies the rhythm of her tongue on your clit. With how badly the venom has scrambled your senses, that rhythm becomes all you can perceive.

It feels like part of you is slipping away with each of the pulses of pleasure. If you could just twist or relax or nudge yourself in the right way, one big one would do the rest of the job, all at once. But you don’t seem to have enough nerves in your head still talking to each other to make that happen.

She realizes this. With a slight adjustment to the pattern of her fingers and tongue, with her venom already infiltrating your entire peripheral nervous system, you cum.

And you blank out.

Erased.

If you had any you left, you might notice her standing up, happily licking her own face clean with that long reptilian tongue, and then, of all things, checking her wristwatch.

You might hear her mutter “Wow, nobody goes down that fast”, and then “It can’t have just been venom, it’s like she practically wanted to cooperate with it…”

But then her puzzlement fades, and she straddles your body, her brilliant green eyes staring into yours, which are empty of thought. She begins to whisper a series of instructions in a sibilant susurrus.

Some time later, she decides to put you to use. She wipes you down carefully, and then she slips something over your upper body. You get that clean top after all! Just as well. The old one had venom all over it. That wouldn’t do.

She adds her own touch: a shiny gold necklace with a large green tourmaline pendant, subtly cut in the image of a serpent’s eye.

She needs you looking pretty and presentable. She has a lot of errands for you to run, but fortunately, they will not require a lot of thinking.