mineyrella

[mineyrella]

[mineyrella]

Yes I would still love the Lee tang smut!!

Convenience Store Guy

Summary: Confronting your coworker about the weird messages you've received doesn't go as planned.

Warnings: Language, Dark Themes, Stalking, Threats, Slight!DeadDove, Gaslighting, Convenience store era cus that was the best, Unstable Tang, Smut 18+ (Minors DNI) Rough Sex, Choking, Degradation Kink, Kinda Virgin!Tang, Dom!Tang

Stalking is bad. If someone is Stalking you, 100% don't do what y/n does, please.

The more he spoke to you, the more he found it increasingly difficult to act like a good person.

“And guess what else?” The chill in your voice has nothing to do with the oppressive winter weather.

“You're pregnant.” your co-worker says.

You laugh and he laughs because you laugh.

It took a certain level of skill, Lee Tang likes to admit - being able to time exactly when you’d crane your neck back, letting your complaints reach the artificial fluorescents while he lowered his incriminating eyes to your cleavage.

“Remember that unknown number I told you about? The one that kept sending all the weird messages?” Tang hums, bopping his head as he slyly adjusts the front of his jeans, obscured by the counter.

“Shit, don't tell me you got another one,'' As the words leave his mouth, you're already handing your phone to him.

“This was sent to me last night,” You say, swinging your head away from the cash register and towards the wide windows displaying the night beyond. Anyone out there could be the person terrorising you. Anyone could be out to get you.

The text simply and succinctly read:

Wear the same colour tomorrow.

And while Lee Tang attempted to feign uncomfortable ignorance (as one might when your coworker tells you she might be getting stalked), he couldn't help but notice that you were, in fact wearing the same colour. Bright yellow.

For some inexplicable reason… you listened.

“What were you wearing?”

He already knew.

“Is that important?” You step aside, making way for the final customer to be rung up. All the while, Tang nurses an even bigger boner than before.

He did not… exactly intend for his moves to get so bold but texting you and having you listen to hus demands… the demands of a stranger… the whole thing is something akin to shooting pure heroin straight into a fresh vein.

Perhaps you weren't so innocent in the exchange.

“That's not important,” You say quietly before swinging your head towards him again, “I thought we should focus on the very real fact that I might have a stalker?”

“Maybe you should respond to the poor guy and see what he has to say- that'll be ₩5000,” While Tang entertains his customer, you immediately grab your phone before stuffing it into your back pocket. The convenience store buzzes with the exit of the final customer.

“Because entertaining a stalker is exactly what they tell us to do,” you accompany your sentence with a small eye roll.

“We don't know if it's a stalker.” Tang didn't like that term. He'd much rather prefer ‘walking you home from a distance,’

“All this guy has done so far is send a couple weird messages.”

Not a stalker. Not a stalker. Not a stalker.

“Why don't you just block him?”

You'd think by the self gratification in this voice that Tang solved world hunger. You let him dwell in his ignorance, partly because you were afraid to dissect how deep this iceberg went.

You were afraid to admit that you had already blocked the Private number… twice.

Initially you had hoped the messages were the effects of some virus, but they kept getting worse by the second.

[17:59] Just wanted to know if you've had a nice day? :)

[20:22] My cat’s sick. Idk what's wrong with her.

[20:23] I don't have a cat lol

[22:23] Where'd you get your cat?

[01:00] I love talking to you

[01:05] You're so fucking hot

[02:03] I love you

You were afraid to admit that you waited for his message at the end of every long monotonous day.

While you wrestle will all sorts of the moral implications that came with enabling you stalker, Tang couldn't take his eyes off your dress.

Had you really worn the dress for him?

Tang couldn't suspend disbelief even for a millisecond to imagine a world in which that was possible. When he sent that message, he obviously didn't expect a response.

He always believed he was nothing but a fragment of furniture in the workings of your life.

The convenience store guy you occasional spoke to.

Everything began to feel more and more brighter in your presence. The clinical musk that hung in the convenient store began to smell more and more like jasmine and time seemed to grow wings and take off whenever you swung by, chatting his ear off about your latest inconvenience.

One moment you were an irritation, the next Tang found himself seated at his desk, surrounded by a halo of used tissues while habitually scouting out porn where the campy lead actress resembled you more and more. He found it concerningly easy to get off when your eyes, your smile and those beautiful fucking tits were clouding his mind eye.

It was around this time when he started walking you home.

For a while, a vaguely heavy silence sits in between you two. Tang, with his head bowed, chooses to ruminate in an emotion very new and complex to him…guilt.

He is completely unaware that you're watching him, until you sigh loudly. “You know… you could at least try to sound convincing,” your words cause his neck to snap up and he watches with wide eyes as you round the counter, dragging your finger against the cold surface.

“I think I'd find it way more endearing if you don't try to lie to me, Tang.” You're walking closer and closer and he feels like his entire mental state has imploded on itself.

“Fuck, I'm going mental,” he screws his eyes shut and pats his cheeks rather hard. When he opens them, youre still there. His breathing picks up as your warmth penetrates the radius surrounding his flustered, agitated body and Tang immediately sends a worried gaze up to the CCTV nestled in the corner above.

“Some girls respond better to just being asked out.”

A billion lies try to flash across his mind's eye. Anything that might get him out of this situation unscathed. He comes up empty. Eventually, all Lee Tang is capable of, is a droop in his shoulders as he asks, “Are you going to call the cops?”

You don't respond immediately. Choosing, instead, slide your finger over his on the counter. Your warm hands encircling his had the power to knock the very life out of him.

“I should call the cops,” you state very gravely,” you look up at him with a grim sort of fascination.

Lee Tang has mentally checked out. His droopy, ringed eyes are stationed on your lips alone.

“You really should.” He says, before bending down ever so slowly as if to bridge the gap between both of your lips.

“You're sick, you know that? You had me fearing for my fucking life,” You're whispering. Why are you whispering?

“Don't say shit like that,” he whispers back.

“Why?”

Almost before he can talk himself out of it, Lee Tang grabs ahold of your hand, the one stationed on his own and he presses your palm directly onto his bulge. His eyes nearly roll back at the warmth of your small little hand alone and you watch, absolutely mesmerised as he begins to rub your palm up and down and up and down.

“Wait-”

“No.” He states, before motioning to bend down and kiss you, but before he can, you stop him with a hand against his chest.

There it was. That all too familiar pang of rejection. That nauseating, acidic feeling that ate away at his insides.

It made him want to hurt you.

How dare you try to stop him?

How dare you bring him this far, only to take it all away?

How dare you?

“Wait.”

“What?” Your eyes widen at the slightly louder quality in his tone. Sensing that you might have disrupted something that was well on its way to blossoming, you're quick to try and appease his nerves. You watch the conflict in his eyes dissipate and when you step closer towards him, your front pressed against his as you whisper in his ear, “Not here,” before spinning around, in the direction of the break room. It takes a moment for his brain to process your words, but when they do, he's ambling his way onwards, away from CCTV.

The very second he shuts the door to the break room, he's charging at you in a quick, frantic gait.

You're only allowed to feel nervous for a total of 5 seconds before he's pushing you against the wall, forcing his tongue down your throat as if it were his first kiss. His movements are jilted and frantic and so incredibly messy. If it were anyone else you might have been disgusted by his haste only proves to be contagious. You can feel it rubbing off on you with the way you mewl against his mouth, shoving your fingers into his mop of dark, unkempt hair.

“You're so perfect to me, F-Fuck,” he whispers in between kisses. He never strayed too far. Your lips stayed connected by a line of saliva. You were both absolutely wrecked.

“So, long…” he whispers, before shoving his hand over your boobs and squeezing, “I've thought about this for so fucking long. I've jerked off to you for so fucking long- I just-” He breathes out, before flattening his thumb against your pebbled, clothed nipples, “I've always fucking wanted you,”

“How long?”

“Since I saw you,” he whispers before dipping his head in between the crook of your neck. Instead of splaying lazy kisses there, you gasp at the sound of him completely inhaling you. “F-Fuck…” he whispers before pulling back, enough to fiddle with his belt, “I need to fuck you,” he simply and succinctly says before bringing his other hand up to your collar. “You're not gonna go anywhere, yeah?” As he asks this, he curls his fingers around your throat, alluding to the real and very daunting fact that he wouldn't allow you to go, even if you wanted to…

“I'm not going anywhere,” you attempt to coax him yet again but he still keeps a firm grip around your throat as he slides, quite sloppily into your slippery cunt. Now his eyes roll back and he exhales the biggest groan he's ever let out. “I already know I'm not gonna fucking last,” with his free hand he swipes his fingers across your clit, stimulating you to the highest level as you whine and mewl into the air.

“So long,” he continues muttering as he ruts into you, “ s-so fucking long… s-so tight. You're too tight-”

You're caught in the throes of the pleasure of being fucked so throughly and so roughly that you completely miss his question.

“Hey?” He says all too quietly while slapping continuously at the side of your cheek as if trying to bring you back down to earth, “You're such a slut you didn't even hear what I asked you?”

You manage to shake your head.

“I asked if you were a virgin.”

You stilled at the question, sensing that you were walking on dangerous ground. Which, you were realising is a norm around this guy. While you were thinking you had to choose your words correctly, Tang dips his head in between your neck and shoulder once more.

“Doesn't matter,” He ruts against you, feeling himself get closer and closer as his grip on your neck becomes tight.

“I'll kill him-” and for some inexplicable reason you cum at that very moment. Your moans reach the dusty ceiling and you fall apart against him so absolutely.

“You're gonna make m-me-” He's already cumming inside you, all while completely cutting off the air to your lungs. He watches you through his spell of pleasure as you claw at his hand and it only makes him cum harder.

“F-Fuck,” he whispers when he empties the last of his seed inside your weeping cunt. You gasp for all the air you were deprived of and he watches with morbid curiosity as life flows back into your eyes.

“That was way better than porn.” Now that he had you, he didn't plan on ever letting you go.

[mineyrella]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐇𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐌𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐞

Farleigh Start x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hating Farleigh had never stopped him from using you

Content Warnings: Language, Fwb, Forbidden Relationship, Unedited, Dark Fic, Dark Humor, Coarse Jokes, Jealousy, Possessiveness, Smoking, Weaponizing!Ollie, Smut (+18), Minors DNI, Slight CNC, Breeding, Neediness, Exhibition Kink, Grinding, Extreme Degradation, Humiliation Kink, Praise Kink, Hate Sex, Hair Pulling, Rough sex, Messy Sex, Spitting, Orgasm Control, Dirty Talk, Choking

He'd definitely bully me if he was real, and I'd be in love with him

"It's not like we're actually going to eat anything. Mother only insists we all make use of the furniture," Venetia's rambling is incessant as she walks briskly into the dining hall. You know her irritation is the by-product of the undiagnosed anxiety that comes with being forced into an uncomfortable Dior slip on such short notice.

In all fairness, you weren't doing so well either. The dress you are currently wearing is just as suffocating and Venetia's Saint Laurent heels dig into your bone. Your outfit is a velvety, laced up nightmare.

A torture chamber.

You wholeheartedly wanted to crawl into your own bed and forget about everyone and everything. In fact, the only thing keeping you mildly excited for dinner with The Henrys happens to be-

"Gentlemen!" You exclaim, before cleverly adding, "And you've brought Farleigh with you."

You all congregate at the left side of the dinner table, while the Henrys and The Henrys wives all mill about the dinner party. There are'nt any rules to things like this. It's all so self explantory.

What was not all too self explantory was your seating positions. Venetia forces you to sit in between herself and a very vexed Farleigh.

"How interesting," Farleigh barely addresses you in his tired monotonous lilt, "You're almost, nearly, just about, decently dressed." You bristle as you lower your behind to your chair, all while Farleigh shoots you a tight-lipped smile.

"Wow!" Your words drip with sarcasm, promptly halting Farleigh from flirting with the man to his immediate left - one of the Henrys closeted sons, no doubt. "That almost, nearly, just about sounded like a compliment!" You exclaim before leaning over beside him in a daring display of confidence. You place your hand tentatively on his thigh before whispering, "Am I going to have to use my rape whistle?"

Farleigh's scoff sends a string of lightning shooting down your spine.

"You're such a slut, I think you'd enjoy probably enjoy it." His breath is hot against your cheek and would be considered vile.

It should be vile.

Why can't you bring yourself to find Farleigh as vile?

With his elbows lowered underneath the table like a good little gentleman, Farleigh lets his fingers crawl tentatively over your thigh.

The games are on.

Your heart is beating at a million miles an hour with your mind reeling at not only Farleigh's large warm palm finding its home on your ample thigh but his words.

They are in complete contrast to everything you two have experienced together thus far on your stay in Saltburn.

As his fingers inch their way towards your inner thigh you're absolutely breathless. All you can think about is your escapade in the pool the evening before.

Both Catton siblings had been immersed in a very Catton argument, leaving you and Farleigh to your own devices on the banks of the stone pool.

With both your arms leaning over the ledge of the pool and Farleigh pressed to your side, no one could barely tell that Farleigh already had two digits dipped inside your weeping cunt. His hand moved slowly and deftly, so as not to cause too much of a stir in the water and give you two away. And he did it all while leaning his free hand out of the pool, cradling his copy of Jane Eyre with his eyes glued on the pages.

"F-Fuck Farleigh, can I cum?" He sighed at your agitated state.

"Not until I'm finished with Chapter 18." He mumbled almost distractedly, as if your needy voice was something akin to a pesky fly interrupting his reading.

Chapter 18, as you'd probably guessed, had never ended.

His cousins were back from their argument and his fingers left your cunt just as quickly. You had both went back to pretending to hate each other and you were left to 'rub one out' in the safety of your room like some hormonal teenager.

You truly are furious with him.

"What's this I'm hearing about a rape whistle?" Felix pipes up from the other side of Farleigh, equally dressed up all spiffy for the Henry's "You didn't rape anyone, did you?"

Farleigh's response is more of a hiss, "Of course I didn't-"

"Surely there must be more savory topics of discussion at the dinner table other than rape?" Comes the quick mediation of Elsbeth, who sits at the head of the table, clutching her string of expensive pearls as if they weilded the power to rid her of all these insolent little kids.

"Of course there is," you exclaim before turning your head to smile at the presence beside Ventia, nestled quietly in his seat like a little pauper.

Farleigh's manicured fingernails sink half moons into the skin of your thigh, peeking up from the slit of your dress as you lean away from him and say, "You must be Oliver! It's a relief to see another commoner around here." It was so undeniably petty to weaponize Farleigh's greatest foe, but the vexation of not being made to cum the night before still hangs heavily on your shoulder. And at the end of the day, you really just were a petty bitch.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ollie!" Slightly leaning over Venetia, the boy looks pale. As if he was biting down on his words. God, his tongue must be riddled in scars.

"Pleasure to meet you." Oliver cooly mirrors the warm and inviting smile stretched across your face.

"Don't lean over me," Venetia mumbles, "I'm not a child."

Meanwhile, Farleigh scoffs once again. While he injects himself in your conversation, his hands move swiftly to cup your vagina, nearly raking a gasp out of your throat in the process. "She won't sleep with you, mate." his brown eyes are trained on Oliver's. "She's a slut but not that big of a slut."

The extreme degradation laced in Farleigh's voice is enough to have you nearly moan out in front of all your friends, their family, and all the bloody Henrys.

Farleigh knew exactly which buttons to push to have you melting catastrophically against his fingers. He knew what words could have you slipping into subspace and he knew how to get your cunt weeping.

"Jesus Christ, could we not do this right now?" Venetia asks, staring pointedly at her cousin, and not at the sight of your legs parting to further accomdate his lazy rubbing against your cunt.

"I'm sorry, Cousin," Farleigh replies, "but it's not my fault your best friend is a raging bitch."

A breathless chuckle escapes your clenched teeth, "I-I'm not a-"

"Yeah, I am so completely done with this conversation," Venitia says, before strangling the stem of her wine glass and chugging it down as if it was nothing but water.

You turn back to hiss into Farleigh's ear, "You're such an a-asshole-"

"Say that again but don't sound like you're on the verge of squirting on my fingers in the middle of dinner." His grin is shadowed by the dimness of crystal chandlier and all the little candles posted along the table. "This is what you get for being a bitch," he says, socasually it makes you break your resolve by shifting in your seat, to better grind your cunt against his fingers, even for a mere second.

It's almost enough to make you cum right then and there.

"Oh-ho!" He aims a guffaw at the sky, "You really are a needy little slut-"

"This dress is shit," you suddenly push yourself out of your chair, creating the minimal noise of wood scraping against the floors. Most eyes are on you and Farleigh slyly removes his hands from in between your thigh. He leans over the table, bringing his fingers to his lips before spreading them over his gums like you would cocaine.

"I have to go change." You say to Venetia, before promptly (and very rudely) bowing out of the dinner.

A few seconds later, you hear Farleigh mumble something about needing a smoke and your heart rattles wildly in its cage. His footsteps are brisk behind yours, and you can feel his eyes sinking into your figure.

While your feet carry you to your destination and you let your brain catch on, you're already sneaking into Farleigh's room.

"Ah! Trespasser!" He exclaims excitedly behind you, with his hands stuffed in his pocket.

"You're so fucking annoying!" Your complains barely escape your throat before he's attacking you in a sloppy, open mouth kiss. He steals the air right out of your lungs, until he's breathing for the both of you. Farleigh slips out of his Abercrombie suit blazer, discarding the material as if it truly meant nothing to him.

His hands are everywhere, with special interests in your breasts compressed tightly by the uncomfortable stitching of your dress.

"This dress..." you mumble distractedly.

"Fuck this dress." He says, and you wholeheartedly agree. Perhaps it was desperate of you to turn in haste. Lifting the ends of your hair to present the zipper to him.

"You look fucking ravenous." He admits in a grave whisper, with his lips grazing the side of your neck, "I wanna fucking eat you." He says, "I wanna be inside you."

"You have such a dirty mouth, Farleigh," the groan that escapes his throat as he zips down your dress lets you know that you may have found your way in.

As the dress spills around your heeled feet, followed by your lacey underwear, Farleigh reattaches his full lips to the skin of your back. "What did you say?" His voice is like the rough gravel encircling Saltburn and you let your eyes roll to the back of your head as you arch backwards against him. His hardness presses against your ass and your fingers weave their way into his curls.

"I said youre a dirty boy, Farleigh." He ruts against you, almost as a second thought. "A dirty fucking boy,"

"Fuck," his hands dig into your hips, rubbing you against him. All as he pleases. "Fucking, fuck. I'm not gonna cum like this-" He says suddenly before spinning you back around.

It is few and sparse moments when you're reminded just how much taller Farleigh is than you and eventide it happens, the wind is knocked out of you. Farleigh advances on you like a literal predator until you're forced to fall backwards on his bed.

He barely undoes the bowtie, and only a few buttons go loose enough to showcase the beautiful expanse of his chest.

"You're absolutely soaked aren't you?" He asks, hovering on the bed above you.

"I need to cum, Farleigh, please-" You knew it was the only way to get what you wanted. You had unashamedly resorted to begging for a man who hooked his nails into your hair, forcing you to sit upright as he parted your legs.

"Look at you," he whispers before cackling maniacally. "You're so stupidly wet, you filthy fucking girl-"

"O-oh fuck, Fuck Farleigh," Your try by all means to grind your cunt into the mattress but is doesn't happen.

"When are you going to learn that I own your orgasms?" He whispers, with his other hand furiously undoing the belt of his fitted pants. "You don't cum until I say. You don't touch yourself until I say. You don't even fucking think about cumming until I say-"

"You're such a big little baby," you spit back, "A big needy, little b-"

You're once again pushed backwards and Farleigh's mounting you with his leaking cock locked tight in his fist.

You automatically lift your legs to present your cunt to him and he groans at the sight.

"I'm going to cum inside of you." He promises.

"I want you too."

Farleigh's eyes are heavy as he slides himself inside you. He looks down at you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him. A treasure trove.

"Fuck- I need you to carry on talking." Farleigh says before shutting his eyes tightly. "Fuck you feel so good-"

"You're doing so well, baby," his hips rut inside you, accidentally pushing his cock in way too deep, way too fast and you both hiss and moan. "Such a good boy," you say with your hair finding his own curls, "You're being such a good fucking boy, Farleigh-"

"Open your mouth," you comply robotically. Farleigh places his hands on the underside of your chin before tipping your head backwards. His chains dangle above you as you stick your tongue out and he spits directly into your mouth. "Such a slut," he says, "Such a filthy fucking good girl." His words have you grinding your cunt against his cock until soon, you're both on the precipice of cumming.

"F-Fuck-"

"Such a good girl," he whispers, with his breath ghosting yoir face and the sound of skin slapping against skin only grows louder and louder. "S-So fucking good-" He whispers over and over again until your cunt clenches around his cock, promting Farleigh's orgasm with a quickness.

His cum spilling inside you has you slipping unceremoniously into your own orgasm and Farleigh wails in both the pleasure of your cunt milking him dry, or your fingers still pulling his hair like crazy.

"Fuck!" He exclaims before slumping on the bed beside you, "Get your fingers out of my hair, you psycho-"

"You love it, though," there's a teasing lilt in your voice, and all Farleigh does is scoff before patting down the pockets of his pants.

"You give me endless reasons to smoke," he says, before tipping his head back, unknwongly leaning into your embrace as your fingers coil through his soft curls.

"You'd smoke anyway."

[mineyrella]

[mineyrella]

I want to read Art Donaldson as a Dom🤲🏽

I’m on my knees praying to the gods (every amazing fic author) and pleading to y’all

[mineyrella]

just..one..lick.

[mineyrella]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

taglist: @gracelynnx @tacobacoyeet @blastzachilles @cha11engers @magicalmiserybore @newrochellechallenger2019 @coolgrl111 @artspats @peachyparkerr @stanart4clearskin @misswrldd @kaalxpsia @downtwngrl @s0ftcobra @strfallz @dazedandconfusedlvr @turnerrst @m4lodr4ma @artdonaldsonmalewife @challengersism @elsieblogs @artstennisracket

[mineyrella]

CONSOLATION PRIZE

summary: he loses a match. you push his buttons. one stop on the side of the road turns into something way dirtier than either of you meant. you talk too much. he shuts you up. it’s messy, mean, and you shouldn’t love it this much. but you do. and he knows it. but you’re both a little too into it.

pairings: patrick zweig x reader

warnings: 11.7k words. mature themes. graphic, unhinged smut. porn without plot. semi-public setting (car). foreplay (fingering, deepthroating/face-fucking). spit play. rough sex. unprotected piv. impact play (breast and ass slapping). light choking. degradation kink (verbal and physical). objectification. d/s undertones. misogynistic/sexist dirty talk. overstimulation. cum play. dubcon-adjacent tone. voyeurism mention. threesome fantasy mention. read responsibly.

note: omg hi. so this was supposed to be like… a quick 1-3k smut fic. like just a “he’s pissed bcs he lost + you’re pushy = sex in a car” situation. but then... i kept writing. and writing. and apparently faint out somewhere around the throatfucking and woke up 11.7k words later with absolutely no plot and the most disgusting shit possible. no thoughts just patrick losing a match and treating your body like a stress toy <3 so… sorry? you’re welcome? thank you? idk. enjoy. don’t look me in the eye. love u sm. 🫶🏻💌

He's cocky, sure, but he's also prideful. That's the Patrick you know. Sometimes (most of the time, honestly), it's so annoying. Today is one of those times. He storms off before the final point is even announced, the man doesn’t wait for the handshake (his ego is too big to do such a thing), doesn’t nod at the crowd, or even look back again at the crowd (too scared, maybe, at the disappointment), grabs his bag like he wants to rip the strap clean off, and disappears down the tunnel. No, you don’t call after him. Not right away. You know how this works. He’s doing that thing again as if he walks as if he’s untouchable. Hell, he's masking all that nonchalant bullshit like losing doesn’t touch him, but the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek says otherwise.

Because he lost. Again.

The third tournament this month. Who fuck does that? This third time, coming off the court with his pride hanging out like an open wound. He feels embarrassed, of course. You can see the look he gave the net as it betrayed him. He's acting like the universe giving him this shitty career.

And it’s not just the match. It’s the headlines. Fucking news that always reached his parents regardless they distance themselves from him. Yet he feels they are so close to cutting him off. He always remembers the comparison. God. God. God. He feels pathetic. But of course, he remembers it. The name everyone keeps bringing up even when no one says it out loud to him. Art. Undefeated. Effortless. Golden-boy Art, who somehow wins everything without ever looking like he’s trying. The perfect one. Patrick has to cut himself for his wins. And when he loses? They call him second best with a fucking smile.

“Pat,” you call, jogging to catch up. “Hey. Wait up.”

He doesn’t. He doesn't stop. He just continues walking.

You're behind him and press harder to get something. A reaction. “Can you talk to me? Just say something.”

Nothing. He keeps walking, faster. Fucking asshole.

“Seriously? Are you gonna pretend I’m not here now?”

He stops. Suddenly, so you didn't expect that which caused you to nearly crash into his back.

And he stands there, still like a statue, shoulders square, like he’s deciding whether to say something or snap at you instead. His fists are clenched around the bag strap, knuckles white. Your guess? He's probably biting his cheek or his teeth grinding together.

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning around. His voice is low. Cold. “Not right now.”

And it’s not the volume that pisses you off. It’s the way he means it.

He moves again. Unlock the car. Throwing his bag into the trunk like it personally offended him. He doesn't even care if it will mess up his already fucked up of a racket. You hesitate at first but then get in too. Because fuck that, if he thinks you’re gonna leave him alone right now? Then he’s dumber than whoever just beat him in straight sets.

He drives like he’s chasing something. As if speeding tickets don’t exist. Like he doesn't care if he’ll get pulled up from that. Like he can escape from the part of his brain that keeps telling him he’s slipping, slipping, slipping.

You keep quiet. But you’re not going to let it go. She hates it when he's like this as much as she wants to understand him. Not when his jaw is that tight. Not when his hands look like they’re trying not to punch the steering wheel. Not when he looks like he wants to drive straight to a tree or building, just simply crash the car.

He pulls off somewhere random. Some lot. Trees. Nowhere. Not that you could recognize it, not really.

Puts the car in park. He's just quiet. You are quiet too, but you are thinking of the right time to poke at things because he doesn't even look at you. Doesn’t move.

And you say it anyway.

“Where are we even going?”

Nothing. Prick.

“Why won’t you talk to me? You can’t just...”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps, finally turning his head, but not all the way. You just look at him and your face softens. “Jesus, can you just not right now? Just shut up. Don't add, okay?”

His words hit like someone shoots your body. You freeze and your hand withdraws from hovering near his arm because you feel like you’re the one who crossed the line.

“I’m just trying to...” Your words didn't finish and you flinch while speaking. You're still not recovering from his words. He hears it. He regrets it, maybe. You won't just know that because he doesn’t say sorry.

You know what this is. You always do. You have known him for years already. The silence, the snapping, the way he can’t meet your eyes. It’s not about the match. Not the lost. (Okay, maybe it's about that)

But really? It's more about the weight. The pressure. The fact that Patrick Zweig used to mean something. Hell, he was too eager to make something. To be something. Just be. Now? Every time he loses, someone brings up him. And of course... you. You’re the only one who doesn’t want to see him like this.

“To what?” he snaps, finally looking at you. Just a flash, his jaw tight, something behind his eyes you couldn't figure out what he was feeling. “Fix it? Tell me it’s not that bad?”

You stare and almost glare at him, but you don't. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” he bites. “You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you clap back, louder than you mean to. “I’m trying here, Patrick. I showed up. Supported you. I followed you. I gave a shit.”

He laughs as if he's mocking the words that just came out of your mouth. “Yeah? Thought maybe you just missed the drama. Yeah... yeah, that's it, right? Thought maybe it reminded you of him.”

And there it is.

You blink. Something burns low in your chest. God. He's so petty even though you didn't do anything wrong.

“Really?” you say, voice more sharp now. “That’s what you’re gonna do? Mention him in this conversation because you can’t handle losing?” Classic.

“I handle it fine,” he snapped, jaw flexing. He takes a deep breath. Tick, tick, tick. He's surely trying to calm himself... to avoid saying something he'll regret.

“You stormed off the court like a toddler and now you’re picking a fight with me because Art exists?”

His knuckles tighten on the wheel. Almost turning white.

“Maybe go ask him how he handles losing,” Patrick mutters, too casual to be casual. But that's him, always casual.

“Oh wait. He wouldn’t know.”

You feel it like a slap. Hard and accurate.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. Why would he when he's bitching around and he only has you right now?

“Is that what this is about?” you say, voice laced with disbelief. “Art?”

The way his jaw clenches and eyebrow twitch is the answer for you.

“God, Pat.”

“You know what?” you started but not really saying anything yet, eyes locked on his face. “I am here with you but you are making me wish I did go to his matches instead of yours,” you say, arms crossed. “At least I know that he didn’t throw a tantrum every time things didn’t go his way.”

Patrick laughs, it's sharp and humorless. “Yeah? At least he didn’t fuck you either. Guess he saw through the act.”

You let out a laugh, bitter and loud. “Says the guy who only texts when his career is getting shitty. What’s the matter, Pat? Need a consolation trophy in my pussy to feel like a winner? To feel something?”

His mouth almost hung low but he didn't do it. “Right, because you’re just so hard to get. Yeah? But you are the one who showed up tonight like you were waiting for a consolation prize.”

You lean in, smiling with your teeth, almost gritting them together. “And you drove me here like you couldn’t stand the thought of going home alone without a trophy in your hands.”

His head turns toward you, slow, eyes hot and burning. “You think I brought you because I needed you?”

“I think you brought me,” you whisper, inching closer, just enough, “because I’m the only one who still pretends you’re not living in his shadow. That you are not just... An old double partner.”

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn't know if he wants to throw you out of the car or strangle you. Just leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours. His voice drops low.

“Then why are you still here?”

You hold your breath.

His mouth curls into a smirk.

“Guess you like being with the loser, huh?”

You don’t even think at this point. Your head snaps toward him so fast the seatbelt almost chokes you.

“What?”

Patrick’s still staring straight ahead, mouth all tight like he’s chewing gum. His jaw flexes. Shrugs, like it’s not a loaded question. “That’s me, right? The loser. Second best. Hell, I’m not even the second-best at all. Not golden boy. Not the one winning trophies.”

You lean in slowly. Real slow before you chuckle at his statement. God. So pathetic. This isn't the Patrick you know. “You wanna cry about it, Pat?”

His head whips toward you. And then his mouth is on yours. Angry. Kissing you, and shutting you up. Like he’s trying to punish you for being there. For not forgetting about him. For being the proof he lost again.

It’s all teeth. It's not gentle. Not like the kiss you share with your partners. He kisses you like he wants to take your oxygen. His tongue forces into your mouth, so desperate. You grab his shirt and yank him closer until your seat belt cuts across and touches his neck.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn't want to. Doesn’t even flinch. Just pulls it off you, one-handed, yanks the buckle so hard the metal clicks and flies behind you. Then he’s holding your waist, dragging you across the console needily and he made it easy like the gear shift doesn’t exist. You’re in his lap now, back hitting the steering wheel, hips pressed down against the bulge in his shorts. Hard. So fucking hard. You don't even know what made him horny. You can feel it twitch, and it just makes you grind lower, pressing your ass more against him.

He groans close to your cheek, low, ragged, filthy. Then, he said... “Open your mouth.”

You do. You open it while looking at him, waiting for what he'll do. And he fucking spits in it. Thick and hot, tongue still pushing against yours, licking back into your mouth like he’s trying to taste your mouth while it's open.

You moan and squirm. Louder than you should.

And then he bites your lip. Not playful, he's being mean. You feel the sting, the wet pain, and it just makes you need more. You shove your fingers into his hair, wrap your fingers around the soft curls before you yank it hard, and kiss him like you want to split his mouth open and eat him whole.

His hands are everywhere, gripping your ass like he’s trying to make it open, fingers digging in the fabric of your skirt, grinding you down over his cock. Make sure the clothes rub against each other. The friction is fucking obscene. Cotton and sweat and heat. You’re already soaked (not that he knows that… but does he?) and he hasn’t even gotten under your clothes.

He pulls back, breath wrecked, lips shiny and red. “Is that how he kissed you?” he pants before brushing his thumb on your lower lip. “Does Art make you moan like that?”

You laugh. Spiteful. Sarcastic. Taunting him. “Art never fucking kissed me.”

Patrick grins. “Good.” Then he sucks your tongue into his mouth so deep you choke on it as if it’s a form of cannibalism, spit leaking down your chin as he grabs your jaw and tilts your head just to go deeper.

You bite his upper lip back. He groans into your mouth.

One of his hands slips under your shirt, dragging rough palms up your stomach and just feeling your skin. He’s grabbing your tit through your bra as he owns it. Palming it. Groping it. Squeezing it. The other’s already down the back of your waistband, squeezing bare skin, dragging you down onto his cock like he’s gonna fuck you through the fabric.

“Keep grinding like that,” he breathes, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s stopping himself. “And I’m gonna come in my shorts like a fucking teenager.” Yeah. Well… he doesn’t like cumming before you. He likes cumming deep inside you.

You smile before you giggle. “Maybe that’s all losers are good for, huh?”

He scoffs like he’s gonna kill you and yanks your shirt down. He doesn’t even bother taking it off, just stretches the collar until it’s stretched, until your bra’s on full display, and then pulls that down too. Don’t even hesitate. So graphic. So obscene. Your tits spill out like he’s been thinking about this since you opened your mouth and asked if he’s okay. You don’t get time to gloat before his mouth is on you. He’s sucking around the nipple, biting it before licking the flesh circularly, and tugging at your nipple like it said something smart.

“Fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasp, nails in his hair, but you don’t push him off. You tilt your chest up instead, wanting him to have more access. You’re a liar like that.

He drags his teeth over your tit, bites down, such a mean asshole, then pulls back to breathe against your slick skin. “You’d know.”

His hand slips under your skirt like it’s nothing. His whole palm is hot and rough on your bare ass, dragging you down on his lap hard enough that your thighs burn against him. His cock’s already thick under you, pressed up against your thong, and he grinds you down like he’s punishing you with it. The only barriers are your skirt and shorts.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he mutters, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “You were dying for it.”

“You���re the one who pulled over like a fucking maniac,” you snap, grinding down on him with no messily, no rhythm like you are playing with him. His hands jerk on your waist like he’s about to shove you off, but he doesn’t. “Middle of fucking nowhere, throwing your little post-match tantrum like a fucking kid. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it with how close you are. “You wouldn’t shut the hell up,” he stated, squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Nagging me like it will change anything.”

You laugh in his face, mean and loud. He’s a fucking loser. “Oh, I’m so sorry for asking how it feels to get your ass handed to you. Again.”

“You were brooding like a little bitch,” you add, voice all fake sympathy, lips pouting, dragging your nails down his shoulder. “Like you wanted me to crawl on top of you and fix it.”

He glares at you, nostrils flaring. “You climbed on top of me like you were desperate.”

“No. You put me in your lap,” you snap back, eyes narrow. “You let me sit here. Didn’t even hesitate, pathetic.”

“You kissed me,” he says as if it will offend you. It doesn’t. His hands flexing like he’s ready to throw you through the fucking windshield.

You lean in close, lips brushing his jaw just to mess with him. “You bit me first. Like a goddamn dog.”

His mouth crashes into yours before he speaks again, biting your lower lip, pulling until you gasp. “You moaned.”

“And you fucking whimpered,” you spat, licking the blood off your lip like it’s his fault. “Little bitch noises, right into my mouth. Like a fucking virgin.”

His eyes glare at you, furious, and you’re smug enough to let it rile him. “You came to a full stop on a goddamn dirt road,” you whisper against his cheek before grazing your teeth against it, “tell me again who started this.”

Because if he wants to pretend this wasn’t inevitable. You’ll remind him that every inch of you pressed up against him says otherwise.

“You’re fucking impossible,” he hisses, the heel of his hand pressing bruisingly into your lower back as he rolls your hips down back and forth, harder against the thick bulge in his shorts. “Think you’re so smart, huh? Mouthy little brat in my lap.”

You smile. “And yet you’re still letting me grind all over you. Who’s pathetic here?”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl. “Bet if someone drove by right now, you’d keep going. Wouldn’t even stop. You’d ride me just to prove a point.”

The words crack through you like a paper cut. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might save you. His mouth finds your neck, hot and wet and disgusting. He’s leaving teeth marks and spit all over your skin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mutters into the crook of your jaw, sucking the skin enough to make you gasp. “Put on a show. Pretend you’re not fucking soaking while you grind that needy little pussy on my cock like you’re starving.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and he laughs like he’s just won something.

He grins. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

And then his hand moves with certainty. Under your skirt. Thong pulled to the side before you felt two fingers shoved inside you in one fluid thrust, knuckles deep like he was proving a point. No warning. Just the thick press of his fingers curling slow and deliberate inside you while his palm grinds against your clit, pressing it hard so you can feel it. Your hips jerk, grinding against his palm, and take a deep breath. He watches your reaction like it’s gospel.

“Fuck,” you whimper, already breaking.

He chuckles low in his chest, he sounds so smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You clutch at his shoulders like you’re pulling yourself together, but end up grinding helplessly down on his hand as your thighs tremble around his thighs, but he stays exactly where he is, fingers buried inside the velvet and smooth part of you.

“Not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazy circles in your clit just to hear you gasp. “All that attitude, and now look at you. Fucked up. Just from this.”

You twist, trying to move, to chase friction, the pleasure, but he tightens his grip on your hip, stilling you the way he likes.

“Nuh-uh.” His voice drops lower, hot against your ear. “You want more? Say it.” Prick. Brat. Asshole.

You glare at him through wet lashes, mouth shaking, but he’s already thrusting his fingers again. In a slow, steady rhythm, you are sure he’s playing with you with the way he’s curling up and dragging out like he’s trying to fuck the truth out of you.

“Say who started this,” he demands, ordering it. Not up for a discussion, each word punctuated by a deliberate pump of his fingers. “Say it was you.”

You shake your head, back arching against the steering wheel despite yourself. “No. F-fuck. You started this.”

He pulls his hand back just enough to make you whine (fingers still inside but only the tip. His nails still hidden inside. That deep only), eyes glinting. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s your cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been waiting all day. Like you couldn’t fucking wait to get wrecked.”

“God, Patrick,” you pant, hips twitching.

He sinks them back in, rougher this time, adding pressure with his palm grinding against you until you cry out. “Yeah, that’s it. Be honest. Tell me who made you this wet. Who you were thinking about while you ran that smart little mouth.”

You try to twist away from the words, but he doesn’t let you. He’s so nasty with his words it makes you shy. He presses in closer, crowding your space, fucking you deeper with just his fingers until your head tips back and your jaw falls open.

“You started it,” he breathes, his voice ragged, the lie tasting sweeter every time he says it. “You’re gonna say it was you.”

“I-” You can’t even form a sentence. Not when he’s doing this to you. He’s playing you. You can’t do anything except take it. Well, it’s not like you are not enjoying this. You are very much so. His rhythm is sloppy now, just… he’s just pulling, pushing, in, out, just messy, just the goal to make you cum, relentless, every thrust landing with intention.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Or I stop.”

“Me,” you gasp, finally breaking. “Fuck- it was me.”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah. That sounds more like you.”

But then he pulls his fingers out, completely. You almost sob at the loss, hips stuttering, so fucking close you’re shaking.

And he just stares at you while he licks them clean, slow, and taunting, eyes locked on yours the entire time. Showing how slick his fingers are.

“You’re fucking evil,” you gasp, wrecked and frustrated.

He grins, mouth slick with your juices. “And you still want it.”

You didn’t say anything else but your hand jerks at his waistband, breath heavy, but he leans forward instead, reaches down, and yanks the lever by his seat, slamming the backrest flat in one rough motion. The whole chair jolts down with a loud, mechanical thud. You flinch.

“Back,” he mutters, eyes on you, voice low and impatient. “Get in the fucking back.”

You don’t argue. You’re too far gone for that. You climb between the seats, knees scraping the leather, your thighs slick and flushed, your skirt bunched so high it barely covers your ass as you crawl. And he’s already looking at it. You stumble into the narrow backseat and drop into it, panting, legs sprawled.

He follows immediately, bracing one hand on the center console to launch himself after you, the other grabbing at the seat as he moves. His knee knocks into yours as he lands behind you.

Then, without fully sitting down, he reaches forward again, grabs the driver seat back, yanks it upright, and slams it all the way forward toward the steering wheel to make space. The footwell clears. His weight follows fast.

You’re crammed into the back together now, the whole car hot and unsteady, breath clouding the windows. It's all fog at this point. You can feel his chest brushing your legs, his fingers already digging into your thighs like he doesn’t care who sees. Like he’s about to tear you apart.

“Fuck y-” The words barely leave your mouth. You feel him grab you by the back of your neck and shove you down between his legs like muscle memory. This is just how things go. Him deciding what he wants. Like he’s done it so many times in this shitty, beat-up car that it still remembers the shape of your knees.

You don’t even fight it. Just hit the floorboards with your palms and breathe through your nose, your skirt already riding up, the air thick with sweat and engine heat, and the slick reminder of every other time he’s used you like this. Desperate and mean and barely pulling the car over in time. You scoff and glare at him.

“You like being a brat?” he asks, voice low, hand wrapped around your jaw as he owns it. He tilts it and makes you look up at him. “Brats get fucking punished.”

Then he pulls down his shorts and lets them hang open. One shove of his fist and his cock is out. It’s hard, flushed, leaking at the tip like he’s already halfway gone. Your eyes locked at it before you feel him slap it against your mouth once, twice… and you can’t count.

“Open.”

You hesitate but you do. Tentative at first, licking the head, tasting salt. You look up at him. He groans, all breathless and low, hand twitching against your jaw. You wrap your fingers around the base and trace the thick underside, just to feel him jump in your grip. That cocky fucking twitch.

He braces one arm against the window, the other tangling in your hair. When you take him in, slow and steady, he gasps like you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his nerves.

“God. Just like that. Pretty little slut.” His voice cracks as you ease down more. Your hand wrapped around at the end. He watches you with his mouth parted, sweat gathering on his brow. Lights through the window hit him just right: fucked up, beautiful, and too far gone to be careful now.

“Fuck, so warm,” he mutters like a prayer. Both hands dig into your scalp, gripping hard, holding you steady as he starts to thrust, which makes you let your hand that’s wrapped around him.

He moves slowly at first. Testing how far you’ll take him. But you manage to do it. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping into your face as you fight to keep your throat relaxed. Trying to swallow him. But you gag a little (which is expected because he’s big) and he groans, head dropping back against the backrest. Doesn’t stop. He’s just fucking your throat, the tip touching and entering the spongy part of your mouth. Doesn’t fucking slow down. He knows you like it like this.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as spit drips from your lips, pooling down your chin. It’s so unhinged. You’re a mess. He’s a mess. His pace goes brutal and filthy, just how it usually is. Each thrust dragging out a choked whimper, all “glrk, guhk, slrp” and spit as your throat clenches helplessly around him

“That’s it. Fucking take it. Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. His hand wrapped around her hair while the other was on her cheek, caressing it. “Can’t even talk back with my cock in your mouth.”

You hum around him just to make him lose it with the vibrations of your mouth and you feel his hips stutter.

He fucks your throat like it's muscle memory. Like it’s the only thing his cock knows how to do. Maybe it’s the only thing he’s good at. The fucking. His hand’s a vice in your hair, the back of your skull shoved tight to his hips while your nose mashes into the sweaty skin of his pelvis, and he’s already breathing like he’s on the edge.

Your throat spasms when he buries himself too deep, and the sound that rips out of you is wet and brutal. A full gag that bubbles thickly in your mouth. “Ghhhkk- glk, glk, hhggghk- fuck- shhlck-”

It’s sloppy. Filthy. The kind of noise, the sound you hear when you are drowning someone and they are seeking air. Thick strands of drool hang from your chin to your chest.

“That fucking sound,” he mutters, hips jerking. “You’re so wet it’s disgusting. Listen to that shit- like your throat’s begging to be used.”

You try to look up through your lashes. It’s just a flicker at first, blurry and half-lidded with tears threatening to spill. Your mouth’s stuffed, lips stretched wide and shiny like it has lipgloss, spit dripping down to your chin and you’re still trying to look pretty for him. Yeah, you do. Your eyelashes batting as if you’re making beautiful eyes at the moment. Still keeping eye contact, even as you gag wetly around him that echoes like porn.

His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Holy fuck- look at you,” he growls. “You know what you look like right now?”

You blink up at him, lashes stuck together from tears. Lips almost pout around his cock. He slows his thrusts just a bit, enough to watch his cock disappear into your mouth, glazed in spit, then drag back out with a thick, stringy schlump that stretches between your lips and his tip.

“You look like you want this. Like you need to be gagged on cock just to think straight.”

You make another choked sound, not even sure if it’s a moan or a gasp, and he laughs under his breath.

“Fuck, don’t stop looking at me. Keep those eyes on mine.”

And you do. Even when the tears spill. Even when spitting floods your mouth and slides down your chest. Even when the only thing you can hear is that lewd, slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of your throat and the ragged, needy sounds coming from his mouth, right above you.

You’ve been here before. More than you like. Well, maybe you’ve been doing it for two years already. Your knees digging into the floor of his shitty car, mouth ruined, pride nonexistent. You should’ve known he’d drag you back the second you opened that mouth of yours and pissed him off. He hates it. He has these tendencies to fuck his frustrations out on you when you are with him. He always fucks you like this when you test him.

“Does he make you get on your knees like this?” Patrick grits out, his voice sharp with jealousy, hand tightening as he rocks his hips forward again. He’s shoving you straight back onto his cock so hard your nose slams into him. It made you gagged. Almost vomit. “Fucking Art. Huh? Does he grab your hair and use your throat till your eyes are watering?”

You nod your head just to piss him off. And then… you gag again, hard. It hurts. Your throat closes up around him and it just makes him groan. Your tears are falling freely now, stinging hot down your cheeks. He watches every twitch of your face, every sputter, every clench of your lips as you try to breathe around the thick weight of him.

“Didn’t think so,” he pants, almost close to the pleasure. “Bet he couldn’t even handle it. Probably too fucking soft. Probably apologizes when he cums in your throat.”

Patrick spits the words out as they offend him. Like the idea of anyone else even trying to take your mouth like this makes him insane. It’s not been a thing between him and Art. But it’s somehow always like this. They have almost similar tastes.

He pulls out just far enough to let you suck in a gasp, and then he slams back in deep.

He doesn’t give you a second to think or breathe or flinch. Just keeps your face glued to his cock like it’s some kind of religious fucking ritual like he’s offering communion and your mouth is the altar. Like both of you are trying to repent from your sins. He’s got one hand twisted in your hair so tight that made your scalp almost screams, the other braced hard against the fogged window for leverage, and he’s fucking your throat like he means to leave bruises. Which is possible. He’s the cause of your delayed dental appointments. Like he wants to make sure no one else ever even tries to put their cock in that mouth without thinking of him first.

“You looked at him like you wanted it,” Patrick grits out, jaw clenched, voice a rasp scraped raw with jealousy. “Like you’d let him touch you. Let him see this.”

He thrusts forward with that. Hard and shoving himself so deep you choke on instinct, and you do. The tip of his cock punching the back of your throat, your nose smushed into the heat of his pelvis, drowning in the sweat and musk of him. You gag, and gag again, eyes watering instantly, but he holds you there. Fucking holds you there. Because, of course, he does. You’re gagging like your body’s rejecting it and he’s moaning like it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt.

“Bet he wouldn’t even know what to do with you,” Patrick mutters, half to himself, half to the swirl of hate in his brain that’s driving every thrust. “Bet he’d fall apart before your mouth even opened.”

You whimper. It comes out strangled and wet, broken by how deep he is. Your throat’s fluttering, clenching, trying to accommodate him and failing, and it’s disgusting how good it must feel for him. Your mouth is a tight, twitching mess of spit and slick noises, strings of drool sliding down your chin and soaking your shirt. You’re on your knees in the backseat like you’re built for this. Like you never learned anything else.

And he’s fucking losing it.

You feel it. Every shudder in his thighs, every hitch in his breath, the way his cock jerks and twitches against your tongue like it’s already coming before he even says a word.

Your fingers pressed weakly at his thigh, tapping. Pleading for a second, for air, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your hair just tightens, dragging you in closer until your nose touches his pelvis again.

“Fucking swallow,” he pants, voice shredded and shaking, and then he’s coming, spilling hot and sudden down your throat while you’re still choking on him, unable to breathe, spit and slick and cum all sliding into one unbearable mess.

He doesn’t let you pull back until he’s milked every last twitch of it until you’ve swallowed or drooled it all down your chin, and even then he stays in your mouth a second longer than he should. Just to feel your mouth get more hot and wet with his cum.

It’s hot and thick and there’s so fucking much of it, you don’t even have time to prep your throat. You choke on it, trying to breathe through your nose and failing, sputtering around the flood of it while he holds you down, and forces your face into him like he wants you drowned in him. You managed to swallow it slowly, and it still leaked out, smeared messily across your lips, and your chin.

When he finally let's go, you crumple back on your heels, dizzy and soaked, coughing around the taste of him. There’s spit and cum all over your mouth. On your cheeks. In your hair. You don’t even wipe it. Just blink up at him with your jaw slack and your throat raw, chest heaving like you’ve been fucking waterboarded.

Patrick stares. Still hard. Still panting. Not even pretending to be done.

He wipes your chin like it’s his fucking trophy, thumb dragging through spit and cum, and whatever else is glistening there like he’s about to frame it. You’re still kneeling on the backseat floor, mouth parted, lips shiny, his dick out and wet and heavy on his thigh like it’s not even close to being done.

“Get on your back,” he says, voice gone low and mean. “You think I’m letting you off with just that?”

You drag yourself up, sore knees creaking, brain fogged, makeup smudged to hell, tits still shoved up from where he yanked your shirt down. The bra’s hanging on for dear life, cups pushed under your boobs, straps sliding down your arms. You start crawling beside him, trying to lie back across the small seat like some desperate little porno angel, but when your hand tugs at your skirt, instinctively trying to pull it off, he stops you.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps. “Clothes stay on.”

And then he says it again, slower. Voice thick. “Clothes. Stay. On.”

He’s already hovering and grabbing for your back, unclasping your bra like it’s nothing, and your tits spill out now. Soft and flushed. He hasn't even touched it yet. Just stare at it. Patrick has always been a boob guy and he has no shame in staring at it. He always does, making sure that you know he’s looking. Watch the way they bounce a little as you shift, nipples hard from the cold, from the car’s shitty AC still running like a bitch, from the way you’re halfway naked but not really. It’s messy. It’s slutty. It’s perfect for him.

You start to lie back, just half. Not laying back. Almost sitting up, but not really. Vice versa. Just rest your back against the backrest and the door. Your chest falls open, and that’s when he just… freezes. His eyes flick from your face to your chest, as something clicks.

“Actually,” he mutters. “No.”

You pause, chest heaving, tits showing, skirt bunched, bra undone, and useless around your ribs.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice gone dark and almost annoyed, like he’s pissed he didn’t think of it sooner. “Get on top. Right fucking now.”

You blink. A beat. Then he grins.

“I wanna see those tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

And that’s it. His shorts are already shoved much low, waistband tucked under his balls, dick still glossy from your mouth. He shifts back against the seat, spreading his legs wider, and watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You climb up to his lap with your skirt still hitched up, your panties soaked, and your tits hanging out, and you swear he groans the second you straddle him. He almost shoves his face between your cleavage. His hands grab your hips and you can feel the way his cock presses up against your soaked little thong, hot and twitchy and so ready.

You barely settle into his lap and he’s already got both hands under your skirt, thumbs hooking the thin band of your thong and yanking it to the side like it’s in his way. It’s so sticky and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want it off. He continues holding it on the side as if it’s offensive that it’s even still there. But he doesn’t even take it off. Just pulls it, elastic digging into your thigh while his cock twitches under you, already rubbing against the mess you made of yourself.

He drags the tip through your slit like he’s lining up for a test drive, slow and deliberate, head sliding through your folds and parting you open like he’s opening a path just for his cock. He does it again. And again. His cock catches right at your entrance, then glides up through the slick until the head taps your clit. He rubs it there, tip keeps poking against your clit.

You’re breathing hard. Fucked out and needy and barely keeping your eyes open. He’s just letting your eyes close because he knows it’s a sign of pleasure. It’s a win for him to know you like it. He’s just watching. Watching the way your pussy splits around him, pussy lips swallowing his cock like it wants him inside but he won’t give it to you, yet. Just keeps sliding between them, and making a fucking mess of you. Your thighs are sticky, your cunt glossed up from how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he mutters, one hand holding your hip down, while the other is guiding his cock like he’s lining it up just to tease himself with it. “Look at that. You see this shit?”

And you do. You bite your lip. You glance down, dizzy, and there it is. His dick slides between your pussy lips like he’s trying to wedge himself inside but keeps pulling back last second, tip kissing your clit with every movement, your whole cunt flexing like it’s starving for it. He watches it like he’s hypnotized. Watches it sandwich between you, thick and shiny.

He’s not pretending anymore. Not even close. This isn’t about you, hasn’t been from the second he dragged you into the backseat with his tournament shirt still clinging to his sweaty body and his shorts shoved low, cock hard and leaking, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. You’re just something warm and wet for him to rut against. Something to sink into. Something to fuck himself stupid with and forget the match he lost.

You’re straddling him like a perfect little pillow princess. Which you are most of the time. Your thong shoved to the side, skirt yanked down to your waist, tits bouncing right in his face, and he’s using you. Just treating you as something he can use to get off. One hand locked around your hip to keep you flush to his lap, the other gripping the base of his cock like he might fall apart if he lets go. He’s sliding it through your soaked folds, rutting between them like your pussy’s pocket just made to jerk him off. He’s doing it like he’s pillow-humping like what girls do. His tip catches your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust, painting you slick and pulsing.

“Jesus- fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back before leaning forward again like he has to look. Can’t help but look. It’s just satisfying to watch. “You feel that? That’s how desperate I am. Lost one fuckin’ match and now I’m using your sloppy cunt to jerk myself off like a goddamn perv.”

Then he spits on you. Don't warn you. Just pull back slightly and let a thick glob of spit fall right onto your cunt. It lands partially on your thong. Already soaked and sticking and the rest drips right onto your folds, sliding down and mixing with the mess you’re leaking all over him. It makes you gush more and you help to rut your hips for a few times. Just a few times.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rubbing his cockhead through the spit and slicked mess, pressing hard into your clit until your thighs twitch. “You see that? Shit’s everywhere. Look at your pussy.”

He does it again. Another string of spit-dropping. This one lands right on your clit and he laughs, mean and breathless, before smearing it in with the fat head of his cock like he’s painting with your body. Your pussy pulsing with every brush of his cockhead to brush his spit on your pussy.

“Could make myself cum just like this,” he mutters. Which is true. He could just watch it. Fuck it. Just rub and ruts his dick and he will squirm and cums on it. But right now he’s just fucking through your folds with lazy, greedy thrusts. “Don’t even have to put it in. Just need your pussy messy and open and dripping so I can hump it like a loser with a cumrag. Just like this. Just like- fuck- this.”

He grips your waist tighter, rutting harder, dirtier. Whole cock sliding between your lips, swollen and wet, clit getting bumped every time like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Your thighs are shaking. You’re dizzy from how fucking gross it is. From how much he’s getting off on it. His breath is ragged, sweat slicking his chest, whole body tensed like he’s right there. Right on the edge.

And then he takes a deep breath.

He carries you up before he sinks you like he’s slotting a piece into place.

No warning. Just one drag of your cunt over the flushed head of his cock, and he’s inside. All the way. Buried. Stretched. Stuffed. The kind of full that should be illegal. You feel so stretched around his cock. You won’t lie and say it doesn’t because he has a big cock. He’s the biggest you had. It always made you crawl back to him.

Your gasp gets swallowed by the groan he lets out, head thrown back like it’s killing him not to move. His hands flex hard around your hips, holding you there like he’s scared to lift you because he might cum right on the spot.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at your tits bouncing, your shirt shoved down, bra mangled, your skirt hiked up, his spit dripping down your cunt like you’re the best mistake he’s ever made.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice gone distant and high. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You do. God, you do. You feel it everywhere. In your gut. Like he’s in you and through you. Like he’s marking you. Like you’ll never be the same again.

Then he grips your waist and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Like he needs you higher. Like he can’t take one more second of this not being enough. Your thighs fumble for balance, hands sliding over his shoulders, and you look at him. Your slick cunt hovering right above his cock again, and he’s looking up at you like you’re his favorite brand of drug and he’s about to OD.

“Gonna fuckin’ use you,” he mutters, low and reverent like it’s a promise or a prayer. “Like you’re my fleshlight. My sloppy little fucktoy. That's what you want, baby? Want me to wreck you after losing like a pathetic fuck?”

And then he sinks you again.

Just one filthy, desperate snap of his hips upward as he drags you down, slow like he wants to feel every inch of your walls give, how every clench, twitch, squeeze, and flutter. Like he wants to memorize it as if he never had been inside of your pussy before.

You choke on a gasp. Your thighs tremble. He moans. His head tipped back, throat showing like he’s high off it. Like he’s smoking weed.

“Jesus- fuck, look at that,” he breathes, keeping you halfway down, cock buried just enough to stretch you but not enough to satisfy. “Tight as fuck. Wet like you need this. Like you wanted me to lose so I’d fuck you stupid.”

He looks down at where you’re joined, where your cunt’s stretched around the thick of him, already dripping. Already fluttering. Then he groans again, and spits. Exactly where you’re connected. He watches it hit your folds and smear between the mess of slick precum and desperation.

“You see that? You’re dripping down my balls and you’re not even on. Just gonna keep you here, warm and stupid and drooling around me.”

You make a sound, somewhere between a whimper and begging, but he ignores it. Lifts you just an inch. Then slams you down the rest of the way. He’s ball deep of you.

Your cunt swallows him. Keeping him deeper. Doesn’t want to let him go. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches and your mouth opens and hangs. He groans, grinding up like he wants to stay there, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing like he’s right on the edge.

“Fuck. Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Gonna jerk off with your body ‘til I can’t see straight.”

He grabs your tits. Greedy, rough, thumbing your spit-glossed nipples and thrusts again. Sharp and hard while his thumb continues to move and trace the soft buds against him. Controlled only by the need to ruin you.

“You hear that?” he pants. “That wet squelch? That’s your pussy. That’s you making noise for me, baby. You fuckin’ love being used.”

His hips stutter. Getting off on how wet you sound, so he thrusts again. Then again. And again. Every drag of his cock against your walls knocked something loose in your brain. Your legs are shaking, your eyes unfocused, every nerve lit up and screaming for more.

You try to help. Try to move. With just one bounce, your thighs twitch like they’re gonna carry you, and you lift an inch off him like your body still thinks it has a say in this.

But he snaps.

“Uh-uh,” he bites, hands locking around your hips, dragging you back down with a slap on your ass. “No. I’m doing it. I’m putting you on my cock like a sleeve.”

You moan, loud, helpless, and filthy, and your pussy flutters around him like it’s begging for punishment. He feels it. Groans like it hit his spine.

“Ohhh. You like that, huh?” he stated with a smirk. “Gettin’ used like a fucktoy in your little skirt?”

Another groan. He pulls your hips down and fucks up even harder.

“Pussy like this,” he mutters, “was made to get ruined. To sit on dick and not think too hard. Just bounce like a good little toy.”

You try to breathe. Try to speak. You get out something like “Can’t- ” but he cuts you off.

“Yes, you can. You’re fucking perfect. You’re takin’ me like you want it to break you.”

Then he slaps your ass, loud, sharp, before grabbing it like he owns it. He grips it, opening your ass cheeks a little too. He grinds your ass backward and forward before he continues to thrust up to your pussy.

“You know what you are right now?” he pants. “You’re a fucking cumrag with a heartbeat. And I’m not gonna stop ‘til I fill you up so good it leaks down your thighs.”

Your cunt flutters again. It made your cunt beat. Your body is betraying you completely.

“Tell me you like it,” he growls his mouth by your ear, hips jackhammering now. “Tell me you like being my fuckdoll.”

You try. You do. But all you manage is a choked-out moan, trembling against him, gasping like he’s taking your voice too.

“Fucking perv,” you whimper, shaking.

He grins. Big and mean and hungry.

“Uh-huh. Keep callin’ me that while I ruin you.”

Then he tilts his head and spits again, right where your bodies meet. Watch it mix with the rest of your slick like it’s a masterpiece he made with his cock.

“You better milk me dry,” he pants. “I wanna be leaking out of you ‘til you can’t walk.”

He doesn’t even let you move anymore after the little stunt you pulled.

Just grabs your waist, hooks his fingers under your thigh, lifts you, and starts fucking you. Using you like he’d use his hand like your pussy’s just a better, wetter hole to jerk off into.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dragging you down onto him again. “You’re gonna let me come like this? Just stuffed full of my cock, not even touching yourself?”

You whimper. Helpless from the way he’s handling you, shoving you down onto his lap again and again. You could pull back. Could stop. But you don’t. Not when he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Not when his dick feels so good. Maybe that’s such a slut behavior, but he’s a good fuck. It’s a rare breed.

“Jesus,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulder. “You’re using me like a fleshlight, Patrick-”

He just laughs. It sounds low and bitter and lets you bounce once on your own before grabbing your hips again and slamming you back down. “Don’t flatter yourself. Fleshlight doesn’t talk back.”

Your tits are already out. The shirt is shoved down, bra unclasped, and caught somewhere under the fabric, so he doesn’t bother pretending anymore. Just grabs one in his hand and squeezes like it’s a stress ball, fingers digging into the soft flesh. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches it hard. Enjoying how sensitive it is.

You cry out, legs shaking.

“What? You didn’t think I’d play with these too?” he pants, leaning forward to mouth at the same one he just abused. “What are they here for, then?”

He sucks your nipple deep into his mouth. He sucks on it like he’s searching for milk. As if you’re his mommy. His tongue is wet and hot and insistent while his other hand slaps the opposite tit, not hard enough to bruise, but loud enough to make you jolt.

“You’re sick,” you breathe, half-moan, half-accusation.

He pulls back just to sneer, lips wet with spit. “You say that like your pussy’s not gripping me.”

Then he yanks your skirt all the way up and groans, audibly, when he sees it. How your slick cunt’s dragging up and down his cock, swallowing him in and leaking all over him. The side of his dick’s still brushing your thong, pulled to the side but useless, just clinging to him, soaked and riding the length every time he thrusts up.

“Fuck. Fuck, look at that,” he pants, shifting under you so he can shove you down harder. “That’s what you needed, huh? Skirt up, panties twisted, cock so deep you’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

You shudder, half-ruined already, and let him use you. Let him take it out on you.

“What?” you manage, voice hoarse. “Worried I’d let Art do this to me?”

He snaps.

The next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Don’t,” he growls, grabbing both tits in his hands and dragging you forward, squeezing like he wants to bruise them. “Don’t say his name while I’m inside you. Not when your fucking cunt’s this wet for me.”

You smile, barely, just enough to piss him off.

“H-hit a nerve?”

He slaps your tit again, then grabs the same one and pulls your nipple between his fingers, stretching it until you gasp.

“Call me a sick fuck again,” he pants. “C’mon. I know you want to.”

“You are,” you choke, even as you grind down against him. “You’re a fucking freak, Patrick. You don’t even care if I come- you’re just jerking off inside me like some sick fuck,”

“Damn right, I am.”

He groans. He leans his head back and watches the way your pussy sucks him in, dripping around him and grinding against the edge of your thong like it’s part of the kink. He can’t stop touching you. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass. One hand spreads you open so he can watch the mess he’s making.

“You don’t need to come,” he mutters, voice almost gone. “You just need to stay still and take it. That’s all I want.”

And he means it.

His cock is buried in your cunt like he’s trying to hollow you out and leave himself there.

Like he’s trying to win something.

Or prove that someone else never could.

Then slowly, obsessively, he spreads your folds apart with two fingers. Index and middle in a neat little V, right above where his cock’s already plunging into you, again and again and again. “Your pussy is just screaming to get bred,” he stated.

He’s not trying to open you more, you’re already stretched, already taking him, but he does it anyway. Just so he can watch. Like it’s some fantasy he has discovered from porn he watched. Or something.

Watch your clit pulse and twitch with every thrust. Watch how it swells, flushed, spit-slick, needy, even though he said you’re not allowed to come.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Look at her.”

His voice is cracked and too low, like he’s speaking directly to your cunt now instead of you. His fingers hold your lips apart like it’s instinct, just to keep the view unobstructed.

“You see that?” he pants, more to himself. “She’s beating. Fuck- every time I move.”

You gasp, half choked because it’s true. Your clit’s twitching like it has its pulse, every muscle in your lower body seizing up around the rhythm of his cock. You can feel the way it twitches too. Clear sign you are so horny. You can feel the friction of his skin brushing past it again and again, swollen and slippery, overstimulated and raw.

And then he says it.

“I should film this.”

Your eyes snap wide. Heart beating fast. You look at him as if he betrayed you. But somehow you are turned on. But his gaze stays down, trained between your thighs like he’s hypnotized.

“I won’t,” he adds, reassuring you. “But fuck, I should. Just to remember how you look right now. All red and messy and bouncing on my cock like this.”

His thrusts pick up again like the thought alone turned him on more.

“Bet Art’s never seen you like this.”

That name cuts sharp. You don't know if he's just saying his name is making him get off it or what. You breathe in too fast, chest jolting because of course he brings that up now, when you’re weak and wrecked and letting him drag your panties to the side just to fuck you through a skirt like it’s nothing.

But all he does is smile.

He keeps holding you open. Keep watching.

Keeps using you like he wants to memorize the exact sound you make when your clit twitches under his spit, and your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to keep him in forever.

Your eyes flutter, lashes wet from tears, mouth parted like you want to say something, but can't. Oh God, you want to say something sharp, maybe mean, but all that comes out is a wrecked little sound. Your legs twitch around his hips, hips shuddering every time his cock drags past your clit again.

And when he says it? The “I should film this,” it you almost flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, voice half-broken, half-breathless. “Actually fucking sick.”

He just grins, fingers holding your folds apart, still watching like he’s trying to memorize every twitch.

“You love it,” he says simply. “Don’t lie.”

You shake your head, barely, but your cunt clenches, tight and involuntary, around the length of him still pumping in and out. It just feels so good. So good. The way your pussy reacts to him says otherwise.

His thumb smears spit against your clit again, rough and greedy. Not to tease. Not to make you come. Just to feel the way it jumps beneath him. Just want to watch the reaction of it to his spit.

“You’re twitching like a whore,” he mutters. “Like she’s the one begging me to record it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you hiss, but your voice is a mess now, slurred with heat and wet and some fucked up part of you that likes being seen this way. Used this way. He's the only one who can do that to you. He's the only man you let do this to you.

Patrick groans, rolling his hips up harder, dragging the fabric of your thong against the base of his cock again just to feel it grind. Just to add pleasure you are giving to him. Just to make it better for him.

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me send him a clip. Just a flash. Just enough to see how sweet you look when you’re getting fucked like a toy. Or maybe a voice record.”

Your body jerks, from the thrust, from the filth, from the idea of it, and you try to shake your head, but it’s weak. Feeble. Like your brain’s just steam now. He's putting this idea into your mind that you won't even consider before. Because making a film or video of it? It's just so porn behavior.

He smiles.

“Oh, you would,” he breathes, rutting up slow, deep, his cock dragging filthy inside you. “I could pull out right now, zoom in on that twitchy little hole all red and sloppy and gaping, and you’d let me send it.”

“N-No,” you whisper, but your hips twitch forward again, and your pussy clenches like it’s protesting the lie. You are clenching him hard just to punish him a little.

He groans, laughs, even. He lets go of your throat just to slap your tit again, harder, rougher, before palming it like he owns the weight of it. You always like the way he gropes you. So filthy. It's like he owns you. That you're just some toy for him.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you’d let me. Tell me you’d let me show him what a real fuck looks like.”

You shake, nails digging into his shoulders, jaw trembling. You are refusing to say it because it feels so humiliating.

“Fuck… Pat, that’s-”

“Say it.”

Your voice breaks. Come out breathless and shame is nowhere to be found.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

He groans, so deep it sounds like pain.

“Fuck- fuck.”

He spreads your slit again with his fingers, holding your folds open like he’s staging a show. Just for him. His cock glistens, soaked, the side still brushing against your thong where it’s bunched and useless.

“You see that?” he rasps, voice shredded. “She’s trained. This slutty little hole’s learned to open up just for me.”

You can’t even talk anymore. You just gasp and jolt and soft, choked sounds as his cock ruts in deep and slow and mean. He's playing with you, teasing you knowing that you are so close.

“I don’t even have to prep you anymore,” he grits, rocking up harder now, watching your clit twitch like it’s got a heartbeat. (Well maybe it has) “Just shove it in and you take it. Like you were made for this.”

You moan. Wrecked, desperate, and he smiles, pulling out just enough to watch your cunt pulse around nothing. It clenches so quick at the emptiness and you almost protest as you look at him with disbelief.

“Could take a still of this,” he mutters, thumb swiping over your clit again. “Send it with a voice note. Just you moaning his name while I stretch you open.”

Your body jolts.

“Bet he’d cry,” Pat laughs, breathless and cruel. “Bet he’d nut in his hand and hate himself for it.”

“Pat- fuck-f-fuck,” you choke, shaking.

He kisses your throat. Peppering your neck with kisses and licking it. Before he drags his cock back in, all the way, til his hips slap your ass and your yelps.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me what your pussy does when it sees me.”

“It- it opens,” you sob. “It opens up for you. O-only you.”

“Yeah, it does,” he hisses, rutting harder making sure he thrust in until it touches your ass. “Because I want it to be only mine. Not his. Never his.”

And he slaps your tit again, then your ass, driving his cock so deep it feels like he’s trying to rearrange you from the inside.

You feel so close.

The sound of slick skin. Of spit and ruin. Of a girl whose body was already chosen for her.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

Pat groans, loud and broken like the words physically hit him. It's something he doesn't know that will turn him on. Imagine: him showing how he fucks you to Art and the three of you are friends. Well. Kinda. But there's tension between the three of you. The only explored is what's between you and Patrick.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering up into you. “Fuck- you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He slams in deep, balls-deep, mean, messy. He lets go of your tit just to grab your ass and spread you wider like he’s imagining it now. Like he’s seeing it.

“What if we fucked you together,” he pants. “Both of us… at once. His cock right next to mine, stretching this pussy wide open.” Fuck and he's talking about double penetration right now. Sick. Sick. Sick.

You whimper, cunt twitching violently around him. You look up at him as if you are begging him to do it.

“You’d let us ruin you, huh?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Let us fight over this hole. See who can split you deeper.”

You can barely breathe, let alone speak, your body trembling as his fantasy hits too close to the truth you don’t want to admit. Because it's always been like this. You think you might like both of them.

He laughs. Low, filthy.

He grins, sharp, dark, sick with your moans spilling into his mouth like confessions.

“You’d thank us, wouldn’t you?” he breathes, fucking up into you harder. Deeper. Thrusting as if he's proving some point. “On your knees, cock in your mouth, pussy drooling around mine- saying please like you need it.”

You let out a breathy, mocking laugh, even as your hips stutter from the force of him. You shake your head like you are telling him he's unbelievable.

“Wouldn’t even need to ask,” you pant, teeth bared. “Both of you will make me take it, right? Stretch me out like I’m just some hole to share.”

He groans. His thrusts falter for a beat like he didn’t expect you to say it back, but then he snarls, grabbing your hips and dragging you down onto him.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You want it. You wanna be fucked so full you can’t move. Wanna get pinned down and passed around like a little shared slut.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, voice syrup-slick and mean.

“You think he’d moan louder than you?” you whisper, taunting him. “Think he’d last longer while I cry on your cocks?”

His hand snaps down to your thighs, spreading you wider. He watches his cock disappear inside you like he’s hypnotized. He flicks his thumb over your clit and rubs it.

“Look at that,” he hisses. “You’re fucking soaked. All it took was the thought of us using you together.”

You smirk, but it falters, just a bit.

“D-don’t stop,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Say it. Say how you’d split me open.” She's saying those words for encouragement. For him to tell her his sick fantasies.

And he does.

“Both of us,” he pants, his thrusts slowing. “Stretching this tight little hole till you can’t even close your legs. You wouldn’t be able to think.” Yeah. It sounds like something he'll do.

Your head drops against his neck. “Fuck- fuck. I’d feel everything,” you whisper. “Feel both of you inside, pushing up so deep I forget who’s who.” The thought makes you gush more. Imagine being so cock drunk that you can't remember who are the cock thrusting in or pulling back since they're working in rhythm.

He lets out a broken sound, almost feral.

“You like that?” he hisses. “Like getting filled till you’re leaking down your thighs? Filmed. Shared. Fucked till you can’t talk.”

You shudder.

“I’d… I’d let you,” you stammer, losing composure. You hold tightly against his shoulders and you take a deep breath and clench around him. “Let you send it to him. Let you ruin me together.”

He spits down, hot and wet, right onto your clit, then rubs it with fast, filthy circles. He looks at you as he does this like he doesn't need to look down to know he's touching it directly. He just knows. Like he already memorizes it.

“Gonna cum for me?” he says. “Gonna cum just thinking about two cocks splitting your pussy wide open?”

You try to hold it, jaw locked, but the words pour out of you: “Yes,” you cry. “Fuck- yes, I’m gonna- gonna cum, I’m gonna- ”

And it hits you like a brick wall, hard, wet. Your legs lock up around his waist, hips stuttering helplessly, as your body clenches tight around him.

“Pat- ” you gasp, high and wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming-”

“Fuck- that’s it,” he snarls, still grinding into you. Fucking you through it. “Cum on it. Squeeze me. Show me what this pussy does when it gets talked down to.”

You sob through it, whole body shaking, cunt pulsing around him, slick gushing messily down your thighs.

“God,” you whimper, dazed. “You’re so- fucking sick-”

“Yeah?” he pants, nuzzling your cheek, fingers still teasing your overstimulated clit. “And you’re fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, with a hand still firm around your waist and the other sliding down to your thigh, he lifts you- just barely. Enough to feel the slow, obscene drag of his softening cock inside your fucked out cunt. Enough to watch your folds stretch and cling as he draws back.

Then he lowers you again, slow like he’s trying to sink you into him all over again.

You shiver, hips twitching from oversensitivity, voice caught in your throat as he does it again.

Up. Down. His eyes locked between your bodies the whole time.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

And fuck- he’s right to look.

You’re leaking around him, thick and hot. The creamy ring near the base of his cock grows messier with every slow pump of your hips, your slick mixing with his cum and sliding down your thighs in fat, ruined drops.

He does it again. And again.

Just uses your weight like a toy in his hands, dragging you over his cock, letting your hole suck and squeeze him even though he’s already softening, already emptied inside you.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs. “Still fucking twitching. Can’t even hold it in.”

You whimper, dazed and overstimulated.

“Pat,” you breathe, not even sure what you’re asking. “Too much-”

“Just one more,” he says, lifting you again to watch his cum spill out in slow, gooey trails. “Let me see what I did to you.”

And then he moans, quiet, low, like the sight alone is enough to make him hard all over again.

Then, he slows. Pauses. And without warning, pulls out all the way.

You cry out, hips jolting from the sudden emptiness, but he’s not done admiring. Not yet.

He holds you open, one hand spreading your puffy folds, the other guiding your body back until your legs fall wider, and watches. Watch as their shared cum spills out of your hole in slow, glossy drips. Down your slit. Over your ruined panties. Sliding down the backs of your thighs until it starts to cool.

Patrick groans, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and wet. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You’re still dazed, panting. Soaked. But you manage to breathe out a wrecked laugh. “You proud of yourself?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, that familiar filth curling back into his tone. “Maybe next time,” he whispers, voice low and gleaming, “we really need to try it. Me and Art. Two cocks. One perfect little hole.”

You shiver. Your pussy clenches.

And all you can do is smile, drunk on him, on this, on the sick little fantasies he’s never gonna stop pulling out of you, and whisper back:

“… you are going to kill him.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[mineyrella]

i love ur preacher’s daughter x dodge! thinking about them doing everything *but* actual sex cause it’s “not a sin” that way

warnings: smut, 18+, f!receiving oral, handjob, everything but fucking tbh, mentions of religious guilt, reader watches him touch himself, a little bit of manipulation...

notes: not proofread i’m nauseous and horny ab cowboys so here x

Dodge knew what he was getting into when he started dating you. That sweet girl that blushes and sputters when he suggests anything more than a kiss. Even a peck on the mouth had your cheeks hot to the touch and eyes averted at the start of your relationship.

But you're getting there. Or rather... he's getting there. Slowly but surely, you're growing more receptive to his subtle demands for more. You stop protesting when his tongue slips into your mouth, or his hand slides a little too far up your skirt. No more making excuses to go when your goodnight kiss in his truck gets a little too heated.

He takes it as his sign to push a little further. As far as your daddy knows, you're at Bible study with your friends. Not sitting with your knees planted on either side of Dodge, his tongue exploring the warm cavern of your mouth as his hands massage up and down the back of your thighs under your dress. There's a movie playing from his TV—Pride and Prejudice borrowed from his sister, because you dubbed the rest of the DVD sets under his bed 'too inappropriate.' Bless your poor little heart.

It's clearly long forgotten. The pair of you are more focused on swallowing each other's soft moans to care about the quartet playing behind you. And then, suddenly, you feel a finger glide over the front of your white underwear, and you jolt forward, forehead bumping against his.

"D-Dodge—"

He hardly flinches at the collision, smiling so innocently at you that you're almost convinced it never happened. "What?"

"You can't—" You take a moment to collect yourself. Swallow thickly. "Too much."

"Why?" His head tilts.

"Because it's a sin," you reply, as if he's stupid. "You can't touch me there. The... the good Lord's watchin'!"

"He watches everything else we do. Why's this any different?"

He has to swallow back a laugh when he watches the way your brows pinch together as you think that through. Logic is very hard to come by when his hand is still resting on the inside of your thigh.

"Well, it's almost—" You pause, lowering your voice to a hushed whisper, "—sex."

Dodge smiles. How cute.

"It's not sex, sweetheart," he says, mimicking your hushed tone. His other hand moves up to pet the back of your head as if to console you. "Don't count unless there's penetration."

You eye him warily. "What do you mean?"

"Well, what's the Bible say about it? No sex without intention to procreate 'n' all that bullshit?" He ignores your pout at the way you call the teachings bullshit. "Can't even be sex if my cock—"

"Dodge."

"What else am I supposed to call it?"

"Just don't say it at all!"

He sighs. Starts over again. "What I'm tryin' to say is that a little bit of touching ain't a sin. No penetration. Not even like our..." He pauses to search for the most appropriate word he can think of. "Parts... will be touchin'."

You frown a little, mulling that over in your head. Well, it makes sense to a certain extent. Besides, if touching in any capacity is a sin, you're already going straight to Hell for how many times he's had a calloused hand cupping your breast or squeezing your ass. It still just seems like a little much though...

"But the sin is lust, not the actual— oh—"

His fingers brush over you again, and the innocent smile from earlier isn't so innocent anymore when you meet his eyes. "Stop worryin' your pretty little head, darlin'. I promise you it's not a sin. Right hand up to God." Funny, considering his right hand is currently the one snuck under your dress and touching your clothed cunt.

You try again. "But Dodge—"

"But what?" He says, fingers dragging back and forth against you in a way that has your thighs pressing together instinctively. "You don't trust me?"

You shake your head. "No, no, I trust you."

He hums. "So, what, you don't want it? Is that it?"

The truth is, you do want it. He's hardly doing more than lazily rubbing you through your panties and there's already an unfamiliar stirring in your gut. Like the build-up of something that could be absolutely explosive. The Big Bang, your brain traitorously supplies. Now you feel even worse. You've never even tried to touch yourself before—considered it, sure, but any time your hand ended up toying with the inseam of your sleep shorts it was quick to retract. You've had to apologise to the picture of Mary overlooking your bed a few times for the almost-slips.

"... No," you lie, straight through your teeth.

But he laughs. He's no idiot. He can see the way your gaze is fixed on his forehead rather than his eyes. Can feel the way your thighs clench tighter with each drag of his fingers, your cunt pulsing a little too eagerly for someone who doesn't want this. "No?" He repeats mockingly. His mouth moves to hover right by your ear, and you shiver at the warm puff of air against it. "Then why are you so wet?"

"Well, that's... that's natural!" You insist weakly.

"Is it?" He muses. "You always walk around with your panties damper than a horse's back on a summer's day?"

You wither under the amused look he gives you. You know he's just being an ass now. But there's a glint in his eyes—not quite mischief, something a little darker than that. Something that makes any thoughts of the fiery depths turn to mush.

"... Promise it's not a sin?" You ask tentatively.

Dodge offers you the pinky of his other hand, and the one between your legs stills for just a moment. Your lip catches between your teeth, indenting the soft flesh as you weigh up the truth behind his words. Deep down, a part of you knows that he's just bullshitting you to get his way. You could be about to commit the most heinous sin imaginable and he wouldn't give two shits.

... But then his hand starts back up again, and before you know it, your pinky is looped through his.

It doesn't take long before your dress is hitched up and you're on your back, hair spilling over his pillow. Your panties are discarded somewhere on the floor, a leg hooked over his shoulder as his mouth laps at your sensitive parts. What started as kitten licks and gentle circles of his fingers quickly turned into something else.

Now you feel as if he's trying to devour you.

"S’that good, sweetheart? Feel nice?"

"Nggghh, yeah. Oh my goodness—"

There's been a few times where he's been tempted to slip a finger in. Ease you open, feel the way you tighten around his digits when you climax for the first time. But he'd said no penetration, and Dodge has a feeling you'd be on his ass about semantics. He'll work you up to that eventually, he's sure of it.

So he sticks to working you over with his mouth. Eagerly lapping up the sweet juices your cunt provides him with every time his thumb flicks over your clit just right, his other hand threaded through one of your own. Thumb reassuringly rubbing over the back of your knuckles despite the faster pace his other hand is taking.

And despite the fact his mouth is mostly occupied, he doesn’t stop talking you through it the entire time. "Just like that, angel. Keep makin’ those pretty sounds for me. Y’sound so sweet. Taste so sweet."

Or he tuts. "Keep your legs open. That’s it, uh huh. That’s my girl."

A groan this time. "Fuck, can’t believe I waited so long to do this. S’heavenly, baby."

Neither of you even notice the credits of the movie rolling. All you can hear is your own keening moans and the lewd sound of his tongue lapping at your pussy. The feeling is foreign, unfamiliar, but the peak of ecstasy you're approaching has you thinking life in eternal Hell might not be so bad if this is what you get to experience down there.

That thought is quickly cut off when your orgasm crashes over you. Sudden, overwhelming, your back arching up off the bed as your entire body jolts with pleasure. You swear you black out for a minute, and he takes great pleasure in the way your lashes flutter and your eyes roll back.

The greatest part of all is the cry you let out. "Yes, Dodge, God, yes, yes, yes!" It's blasphemous, the way you worship both him and the Lord in one breath.

He works you through it diligently. Not a drop goes to waste, and he's still moaning against you when your own whimpers die down. When he's fully sated and some of the trembling in your body has subsided, a firm kiss is placed against your inner thigh before he rises back up your body to tuck your hair behind your ear.

All you can manage is a dopey smile, and he grins crookedly. "Worth it?"

"I think so," you say breathlessly.

When you drop to your knees by your bed that night, Rosary beads threaded through your fingers and head bowed, you apologise profusely. But you haven't been smote down yet, maybe you'll be okay.

... Maybe.

It becomes a bit of a routine after that. Whether it's in his truck with your leg hitched up on the dashboard or when he has the house alone, Dodge just can't get enough of eating you out. And every time, you go back to pretending it never happened. You're still daddy's little angel.

There's a pleasant buzz running through your body as Dodge tugs your underwear back up for you, looking just as smug as ever. Dimpled smile, chin still slick with your wetness, as he eases your skirt back down for you. One would think it'd get less intense over time... but God, he has your toes curling and legs trembling each time his mouth descends on your cunt.

"Y'know," he starts, sitting up on his knees and giving your dishevelled state an approving once-over. "I think I might go a lil' insane if I don't get some attention of my own."

It's enough to give you pause. Fair enough—he's spent the last few weeks nestled between your folds and never once asked you to return the favour. But you've never touched a man like that before.

He catches your hesitation. Reaches out to thumb at your cheek, gaze softening a little. "Ain't gotta do nothing, sweetheart. But the blue balls are killin' me."

Blue balls. You almost roll your eyes. "So... what, then?" You ask, shifting to sit up as your fingers curling into the soft fabric in your lap.

He doesn't reply right away. Tilts his head, gauges your expression. "Can I show you? Won't take much. You ain't gotta touch me or nothin'."

Don't even have to touch him... you cast a cursory glance to his door, even though there's nobody home. Your lip is already bitten raw from stifling sounds all evening, but you're back to biting at it.

"Okay."

"Okay?" His eyes light up. He leans forward, a hand braced on your knee. "You sure?"

"Doesn't count if there's no penetration," you parrot the words he told you weeks ago. He smiles. "And... you said I don't have to do anything, right? Bit of watchin' can't hurt."

"Just lookin'," he affirms. For now, anyways.

His hand leaves your thigh to undo the buckle of his jeans, and your eyes follow the movement. There's a lump in your throat and you know you're going to be repenting for this one tonight. Maybe it's time to find some other church to confess at. Certainly not your father's, but you need to get this off your chest somewhere.

His jeans are pulled open, the tension easing off the bulge that seems to be straining there every time he gets his mouth on you. It doesn't take much for his cock to be freed, jeans and boxers down just enough to put him on display.

You swallow. You're definitely going to Hell.

You've seen pictures of them in passing. Dicks, cocks, penises. Whatever vile name the youth has come up with these days. The kind of pictures shared between a few girls at a sleepover, or a cock shown during a movie your father wouldn't approve of you watching. You've never been close enough to see one like this, though. Aching and leaking under the weight of your darkened eyes.

He takes note of your expression. The lust mixing with guilt.

"A little different in person, huh? No camera lenses?" He teases.

"Dodge, shut up. Just... just get on with it, please."

He rolls his eyes but obliges. Can't have you suddenly changing your mind because he gets a bit too cheeky. A firm hand wraps around him, and he begins to stroke himself. Slowly at first, watching the way your lips are parted and the breaths you take seem sharper. The quick rise and fall of your chest doesn't go unnoticed to him.

Feels real fuckin' good to be watched, though. Each jerk of his palm smears pre-cum down his throbbing length, the slick slide obscenely loud in the quiet of his bedroom. A low moan escapes him. Rough, completely unrestrained, so loud it almost makes you jump.

Your gaze snaps up to his face to watch the way his brow pinches with pleasure. You've never seen him like this—is this how you look when he's between your legs? The thought makes you flush. God. He's pretty like this, head tilted back and eyes half-lidded as he watches you absorb every second of his pleasure like it's your own. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. Breath-taking, staggering, perfect—

Sacrilege. Blasphemous. Impious.

You swallow thickly, but you can't take your eyes away.

"You, uh, sure you don't wanna get in on this?" He asks, his voice rough in a way you've never heard before. You find your thighs clenching again as you look back down to the filthy way he's started to fuck up into his fist.

"Dodge."

"What?" He asks innocently, a breathy note to his words. "I'll let you in, sweetheart. Just a little touch. Wouldn't have to do nothin'. Let me do all the heavy-liftin', eh?"

You shouldn't. You've done enough sinning for a lifetime over the last few weeks. Cried yourself to sleep a few times, too. And yet you go against every value that's been instilled with you for years to just touch.

A tentative little brush of your fingers against the underside. It's careful, hesitant and soft. His breath grows ragged. "That ain't so bad, is it?"

You shake your head. "And the... the white stuff. That's a good thing, right?"

"Real good," he laughs. He can feel himself tensing up; you aren't doing much to help, not physically, but with the pressure of his own hand and the way your eyes are on him... Lord, he won't be lasting much longer.

There's a pretty pink flush to his cheeks now. Eyelashes fluttering with each heavy breath, and the way his neck is exposed is giving you the strangest desire to lean in and kiss it. Bruise it, even. Your eyes avert guiltily, hand back in the safety of your lap.

"No, no, no. C'mon. Eyes on me."

"I can't, this is—"

"Please," he rasps. The hint of desperation catches you by surprise. "Want you to see it happen."

Heavenly father, please forgive me. Your eyes are on him again, watching the way his hips lift off the bed. It creaks with each movement, each glide of his hand down his cock. And that little flicker of scrupulosity in your eyes is what sends him over the edge.

"Fuck, yeah, I'm gonna— ah, ah, ah—" His cock pulses, white ropes coating his hand and the hem of his shirt. Face contorted in pleasure, eyes screwed shut as he makes a sound you've never heard from him before.

A whine.

You shuffle back a little—disgusted or intrigued by the sight of the cum spilling out of him, you aren't sure. But you're completely enraptured by the look on his face and the gasps that escape his parted lips. The only sound in the room for a few moments is his heavy breathing as he strokes lazily through the last of his orgasm, pleasure still buzzing faintly through him.

And when your eyes finally meet, you both laugh. Dodge's is hoarse. Yours is a little tentative. And then your sides are shaking and eyes twinkling. God, you can't believe that just happened.

"That's never happening again," you tell him. He grins, like he knows you're lying.

You are. You do it again. And again, until you're bold enough to be the one doing the stroking. It's only a matter of time before his little no penetration excuse goes out the window.

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[mineyrella]

Hello,

Please, I kindly ask you not to ignore this message. Your support, even just sharing, could truly help my family. We recently shared our story of escaping Gaza and the painful journey to reunite as a family.

It has been devastating and overwhelming. We're doing everything we can, but we can't do it alone. Getting our story seen could truly change our lives. Every share, repost, or donation brings us one step closer to safety and to each other.

If you can take a moment to support us or spread the word, it would mean more than we can express.

Thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And we're truly sorry if this message feels out of place, we're just holding onto hope.

@mohamedandhisfamily

❤️🙏🏽

[mineyrella]

Brrrrr

ye hao in ‘heat stroke’ photographed by wintam for gq china june 2024

[mineyrella]

I’m about to myself

[mineyrella]

I’m so depressed oh my god. I had my first interview for the first time in my life and it’s some sort of pyramid scheme. I swear…I’m so tired. Tired of everything

[mineyrella]

Barbie (2023) dir. Greta Gerwig

[mineyrella]

Try this out please it made me cry and feel better all in one

if you’re having a bad day, type your worries into a star right here and watch them silently float away. everything’s fine, you’re gonna be okay.  (◕‿◕✿)

[mineyrella]

[mineyrella]

I don’t want a job.

I don’t to participate with humanity

Paradise Kiss - Ai Yazawa