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Girls like Chrissie made Vincent's work too easy. She was so happy and sweet that he could have gotten her pants off without resorting to slipping a few downers into her punch, but old habits died hard, and moreover, Vincent had gotten girls home only to be told no once the kissing and groping started. When they said no at that point, things got ugly, and he didn't like to hit women. By that logic, Vincent was being kind by knocking her out with antidepressants.

Vincent had every reason to want to secure a girl like Chrissie. She was tall, athletic, fair in her bust and bottom, and very pretty in the face. Whenever she smiled (and more so when she laughed), she looked young, sweet, and completely innocent. It didn't hurt at all that she was a Flygon, one of the species of Pokemon which Vincent most wanted to slip his dick into.

"You are just such a nice guy, Vincent," she cooed, sipping her punch. Vincent watched her, smiling, nodding softly. He had his elbows on the table, hands clasped, chin on top of them, making him look a little like a villain. She liked that kind of naughty look on a guy. She also liked that his species, an armor-plated Lairon with a slim body and an exceedingly handsome face, was something she had never seen before. Then again, there were so many other Pokemon in the world that even with her international studies, she had only seen a fraction of all the different types.

"Hey, you know, this punch is really good! You wanna try some?" Chrissie asked, jabbing the plastic cup at him. It sloshed, and a few droplets splashed out onto the bare table, settling into the grooves left by amorous couples carving their names and knife games. It was one of dozens of similarly-scarred tables; the club was scummy by design.

"Oh, no - as much as I'd like to," Vincent chuckled, holding up his right hand. A plastic bracelet marked him as a designated driver.

She giggled, but had another slug of her drink. "Awww! No fun. That's cool, though." She sipped it now, and uttered, "Being responsible, I mean. That's good."

"Sometimes you have to be mindful," the Lairon said, smiling thinly and wondering how she hadn't noticed the bitter taste of five Xanax in one cup of punch. The audacity of the maneuver amused Vincent to no end, and it was one for the date-rape scrapbook later on for sure; the time he'd drugged a girl who was too dumb to realize her punch had been filled with enough antidepressants for even the most angsty of teenagers.

Chrissie chattered about school abroad and the time she'd gotten mugged in Hoenn. Vincent listened politely, frowning and nodding sympathetically when called upon to do so. She finished her punch soon enough, and seemed to suck her lip as if something bad was lingering on her tongue. Vincent subtly leaned forward, waiting to see if she might grow ill, but she didn't. Everything was in the clear. "I don't think I, um, want anymore punch." She nervously giggled.

"Fair enough. It gets cloying, huh?"

"Yeah... I do want some water, though."

The Flygon tried to get up but, like an alcoholic at the end of a case of beer or a recent stroke victim, she clumsily stumbled back into her chair, making its feet screech on the floor. "Oh!" she cried, gripping the edges of the sturdy, bolted-down table. Again, she laughed nervously. "Oh... oh, um. I-I guess I can't hold my--, you know, what's it go like?"

"Can't hold your liquor," Vincent chirped. He stood up, towering above the girl, and for the first time she felt intimidated by him. However, the fear passed when he smiled and offered her his strong, but soft hands. "Here. Lemme help you up."

"Um... thank you," Chrissie murmured, before yawning wide. "Gosh, I'm so tired now. I gotta--, um. Um, crap. Can you help me outside? And, uh, help me get a cab?"

Oh, sweetie, you're making this way too easy, Vincent thought. His smile briefly reflected his cruel pleasure. "How about," he gently offered, "I just drop you off at home? I haven't had a drop to drink." Again, he indicated the chunky plastic bracelet.

Visibly uncomfortable with the idea but feeling more jelly-legged as the seconds ticked by, Chrissie simply nodded and murmured, "All right. Okay, Vin... Vinny?"

"Vincent," he corrected, "but Vinny works if you want." Or if you too stoned to say my whole name, he crudely thought.

The car ride didn't last long, even though Chrissie was insisting with mounting weakness that she lived at least an hour's drive from the club. She was so blitzed on the Xanax that when Vincent calmly told her he knew a quicker way, she bought it without much fuss - and so what if she didn't?

His neighbors saw him coming and going with so many obviously wasted girls that Vincent was never accosted for his sexual proclivities. He was charming and helpful around the apartment; who would ever believe such a nice, quiet young man was a rapist? Not Vincent's neighbors, that was for sure. Since he was certain that the Flygon would have touched her toes for him anyway, he didn't think it was really rape. It was never really rape, actually. The justifications for consent could be insane stretches of logic for him, but they worked well enough. Vincent never once suspected that he was actually a sociopath.

"This isn't--, woo, gosh, my head hurts... th-this isn't my place, I'm supposed to be at college, my dorm--, my friends, they're gonna..."

Chrissie's words were a mushy slur of syllables. Her eyes, pretty and red, were impossible to keep open and focused. She leaned heavily on Vincent, though she had previously been trying to pull away. She let herself be half led, half dragged into the elevator, and she actually passed out against the Lairon's narrow, plated body on the way up.

Vincent dropped her on the sofa and wasted no time. He knelt beside her and started to fondle and squeeze her beautiful young body. Her tits were small, barely a handful each, but perfectly perky. Her bottom was a little more well-fed. As he groped into her crotch, she awoke with a start and pawed stupidly at the couch cushions.

"Oh gosh, oh--, oh no," she mumbled, beginning to suck in quick breaths almost to the point of hyperventilation. "Oh, I gotta--, I gotta get home, oh no, oh no..."

The Lairon shushed her as palmed her delicate muff, able to feel some of its details through her shorts. She feebly closed her thighs and pawed at his arm, finding herself terrifyingly unable to affect him.

Appearing at least somewhat aware of her situation, she bleated, "Please. Ple-e-ease don't do this to me..."

Vincent shushed her again and pulled her shirt upward, baring small green breasts in a tight gray bra. Leaving her shirt bunched near her neck, he fondled her clothed tits and murmured, with his tail swishing in delight, "Fuck, you're incredibly sexy. So glad I didn't take any chances with you."

She gave up on talking, giving in to the urge to just cry. Her tongue was a warm, unfamiliar lump in her mouth. It felt swollen to her, like the time she'd bitten it four times in a row one unlucky day. Talking had been impossible then, as it seemed to be now, and she found herself thinking I'm never gonna drink again, ever, never, not in my whole life, never.

With the kind of skill which came from a lot of practice, Vincent reached behind the Flygon and unclasped her bra in one little tweak of his fingers. Her small boobs spilled free only to be cupped again in his palms. He licked over one, gave its nipple a soft suck, pinched it in his teeth. Chrissie whimpered an inarticulate plea.

Before Chrissie's dejected eyes, Vincent slipped out of his jeans and briefs. He didn't bother with his t-shirt - a black number with a white silkscreen of the serpentine Onyx in silhouette - and it struck her as odd somehow, so very strange that he wouldn't get completely naked to rape her. And oh yes, she understood that she was about to be raped. Chrissie was too chipper and fun to dare say a word of this to anybody afterward, and if her friends asked she would have sheepishly lied that Vincent had been a nice, fun guy and she had slept with him, but she couldn't imagine being seen as a rape victim. Even then and there, staring at the Lairon's black, uncircumcised cock, she distanced herself from the term. Her denials didn't keep her from weeping.

"Let me see that cute little pussy," Vincent cooed, his gray eyes gleaming in the moody glow of the corner lamp. He opened her fly, pulled down her shorts, but left her rose-colored panties on for the moment. Her legs moved in a kind of paddling motion, or as if she were pedaling an invisible bicycle, but there was no strength to her movements and the Lairon wondered if she was even truly aware of herself. He briefly wondered (distinct from worry - it was just a curious impulse) if he had given her too much Xanax; he wasn't actually sure what the symptoms of an overdose were, if any.

Even as that curiosity bounced around his head, Vincent reached into her panties, scooping his fingers into them from the front. The backs of his knuckles ground against her pussylips, coaxing a startled squeak out of the insectoid Pokemon. Her little cry made him smile. "Still with me?" he coolly asked, tugging her panties down. She performed her feeble kick again. One leg was way off to the side, but with the other, she managed to bump his chin using her knee. His teeth clacked together, causing him more surprise than pain, and he shrugged it off with a laugh.

"Watch the legs, you're not running a marathon, cutie," he tutted. She whined.

The panties came off, joining her bra and shorts in a pile. Licking his lips and as the pre dribbled from his cock, he stood up and grabbed her thighs. He pulled her to the edge of the couch, leaving her in an awkwardly-bent heap partially on and off the cushions, and he pressed his swollen erection against her cuntlips.

"No... no-o-o," the Flygon sobbed, all too cognizant of her situation. "Puh-leeze, no..."

Vincent was resolute; he was going to fuck her. Most of the time the girls didn't remember what had happened after so much medication anyway. He entered her, violating what he would later correctly speculate to be a virginal cunt with eager speed.

She squealed, clenching around him not at all in pleasure, but a failed attempt to shut him out. What had once been semi-articulated cries degenerated into malformed syllables and drooling. Her legs still kicked feebly, though now unable to do much more than wiggle in the deceptively strong Lairon's casual grasp. Her heretofore unused cunt didn't bleed, but only by some small miracle.

The Lairon groaned contentedly, tossing back his head to let out another, more earnest moan. He fucked her quickly, letting his hard hips crash into hers for a repetitive but arousing smack, smack, smack of his hide upon hers. Precum trickled into her, helping only slightly with the spitefully barren dryness of her pussy. Her box was nevertheless so tight that his foreskin was forcibly, and often painfully retracted with the bucks, but he wasn't about to stop after putting so much time and effort (and money; prescription drugs weren't cheap on the street) into getting her into his clutches.

Mild penile discomfort aside, Vincent was pleased. He watched her small breasts bounce and took special, cruel pleasure in the vapid but hurt quality of her blitzed face. She was muttering to him, begging in words she couldn't make her tongue speak, but the tone was there in all its plaintiveness. Vincent cooed to her, "It'll be over soon. This'll all be over before you know it. Just take it and I won't have to hurt you."

You already are, oh shit, you already are, Chrissie was dying to say. She wouldn't have said it even if her mouth weren't numb like the dentist always left it. That wasn't something girls who got (raped) talked into casual, kinky flings said to nice guys like Vincent. There was sound logic in what he was saying, wasn't there? He wasn't being threatening. He just wanted her to enjoy herself, or at least relax until the bad part was over. Then things would be okay. She closed her eyes, and she whimpered.

Consensual sex was all right, but having his way with a drugged woman was always the ticket to a fast, mighty climax for Vincent. He was breathing hard, his slim chest rising and falling in a noticeably shallow and rapid way as he bucked against the Flygon, getting her pussy accustomed to cock for better or worse. His balls, hanging free in their soft, fleshy hide, had begun to draw up into the crook of his thighs where they would be most warm and safe to deliver their payload. He shuddered, mumbling some lurid nothing to his victim.

Sudden as a gunshot and nearly as potent, the Lairon gnashed his teeth and shot the first of several ropes into Chrissie. He ground against her as he came, moving in a slow and tentative way to achieve that last, most sweet bit of pleasure before his cock became woefully oversensitive. Her snatch was wrapped around him like a second skin as he came, and she was especially tight as his member pulsed within her pink walls.

Chrissie, stoned stupid, first thought in an immature way that he had peed inside of her, but she realized with a tiny amount of relief that it was semen. That relief vanished under the weight of abrupt and sheer horror when she remembered what that meant for her, and she bleated with her numb tongue, "I'm not on birth control... I'm not--, oh no..."

The rapist picked up on some of what she was saying. He smiled thinly, letting his tail swish and slash in the air. "You should've thought of that before you decided to drink with horny guys at a club," he said in a tart and strangely maternal I-told-you-so-you-little-slut voice. "Guess that means it won't matter if I use you 'til I'm done, then..."

"No'h, please, don't do it, don't," Chrissie babbled, interjecting her words between sobs and sucks of snot. "Please..."

Vincent didn't listen to her then. He wasn't in the habit of having epiphanies. By the time he was through, he had squirted into the Flygon a grand total of three times. He took and dumped her unconscious body off outside of her college campus, carefully dressed but still oozing his semen. He found himself wondering on the drive back if she'd have a son or a daughter. It was only a curiosity.