musingsofheaven - Tumblr blog

musingsofheaven · 2 days ago

Note

hii this is my first time requesting, but i was wondering if u could do tennis coach!art x reader?? maybe at first it’s just reader looking way too deeply into if there’s an undertone in his teachings, and then him subtly confirming as such

WILD CARD

summary: You came back to tennis because you thought you were ready. Ready to face the pressure, the legacy, the weight of your father’s name. But weren’t ready for Art. Your dad’s best friend. Your coach. Married. Twice your age. Maybe you shouldn’t have come back to the sport at all when you know what’s going to happen.

pairings: coach!art donaldson x zweig!reader

warnings: 11.4k words. mature themes. large age gap (20s x 40s). power imbalance (coach x student, best friend’s daughter). infidelity. unprotected p in v. internal ejaculation. breeding kink / pregnancy risk mention. cunnilingus (post-ejaculation). degradation & praise. mild choking / hand-over-mouth. forced proximity. alcohol mention. morally grey dynamic. power imbalance. rough sex / manhandling / impact play. internalized guilt & shame. read & consume responsibly.

note: hello to the anon who requested this!!! first off, thank u for trusting me with your first request 🥺 i’m so glad you dropped this in my inbox. you asked for coach art and um. i think i. went a little insane. decided the reader will be pat’s daughter. ik this probably isn’t what you were thinking when you requested this… but uh. i still hope you like it. and i hope other readers will too. <3 :)

You didn’t grow up normal. You always know that because of the constant reminders that you have a different privileged life. By seven, you’d already been to three Grand Slams, met Federer twice, and you could even string a racquet faster than most adults who claimed they’re tennis players. There weren’t playdates or sleepovers around you. Just airports, hotel rooms, courts, and your dad rewatching matches like TV shows while icing his knees. Life followed match seasons. You learned to keep score before you could memorize the multiplication table. Learned to stay silent on the courtside when you watch him. Learned charm from watching post-game interviews, a towel around his neck, lying through a grin. Because your dad wasn’t just any tennis player. Patrick Zweig. Loud. Marketable. Addicted to winning, but even more addicted to being adored.

Fans screamed. Brands chased. Headlines followed. To the world, he was the showman. He likes to perform. To you, he was the guy who taught you how to toss a ball right. The one who told you to lock your wrist, even when your grip was still awkward and small. And orbiting close was Art Donaldson- there before you were even born. Patrick's best friend. Same junior circuit, same tennis academy, same shitty motels and racquet brands. If Patrick was fire, Art was ice. Sharp. Clean. Precise. But they moved together. They always had. A good pair, what they say. It looks perfect and too addictive to watch their old tapes when they play doubles. Then came Tashi. Star. Ruthless. Smarter than anyone gave her credit for. Your dad dated her first. Back when they were still young and still thought nothing would get in the way. But it did. He wanted something deeper. She wanted the trophy. They split. She stuck around though. And years later, she married Art.

No one was surprised, but it changed things. Tashi didn’t fade out of the picture. She picked you up from school, told you to stop wasting talent, and fix your hair before matches. She wasn’t soft. But she showed up. That's what counted, right? You had them all Patrick, Art, and Tashi. Your dad. His best friend. His ex who married his best friend. A triangle no one spoke about, but everyone worked around. You never got the whole story about it. They never told you but you absorbed it, or at least guessed what happened. You can see it in long car rides and cut-off comments. In silence that’s thick enough to be the kind of truth you can see. You didn’t know if they were still in love or just too tired to stop circling each other. Now, you’re older and you know it’s history. And history doesn’t leave. It just sinks deeper.

Being Zweig means everyone thought you’d carry it. You had the bloodline, the coaching, the headlines waiting to be written. You were a prodigy. At least when you were young. For a while, it even felt good. But somewhere along the line, it got too much and got burned out. So you left it all behind. You didn’t want to be a legacy. You just wanted peace, but maybe you have to face the truth that’s been haunting you. Now you’re back. You don’t know what came into you to try again but after thinking about it for a long time, you told your dad you wanted to try again. Expected something soft to start with. Something like a club coach. Something casual. But Patrick had other plans. Well, he’s always extra and wants the best for you after all. “You’re starting next week,” he said, voice low and certain. “Art agreed to coach you.” No space to answer. No room for complaints.

And guess what? You’re here and twenty-two. Put the bag over your shoulder. Hair neat. Wearing a skirt that clings more than it should, but is appropriate for the sport. You look like every other rich girl who picked tennis for aesthetics, except you didn’t choose this. You were born into it. It’s basically in your genetics. The air smells like sweat and acrylic and nerves baked into the hard court. Smells like memory. Like pressure. Art’s across the baseline, tossing a ball lazily before catching it again. All black. No logo… which is new because he used to wear brand clothes, but that’s for the sponsorship... He’s really getting comfortable with retirement and coaching. He’s still moving like a man who could break someone just by standing still. He hasn’t looked at you. Or maybe he has and just didn’t care, that idea feels offensive considering he has known you for long…

The first thing he says is: “Tie your shoes tighter.” You’re still halfway across the court, laces clean, tucked in. He doesn’t glance up. Just point it out like he’s looking for faults he can see in you which is annoying. “They’re fine,” you say, though you glance down. “They’ll slip if you stop short,” he says. “You’ll lose your balance.” You crouch anyway, it’s better to do it than fight with his ass. Tighten them. Double-knot. Mostly to shut him up. When you stand, he finally looks. Eyes are drawn from your sneakers to your face. One nod then he turns. That’s it. No greeting. No welcome back. No anything! Jesus, is this what retirement do to him?

The session moves like that. Sharp and brutal. He doesn’t coddle, he doesn’t joke or lighten the mood. Makes you redo warmups all over again. Fixes your grip with just two fingers pressing your palm, light but certain. Says nothing when you miss. Barely reacts when you don’t. When you finally land a forehand clean, he just says, “Finally.” Like it’s the only thing you did right in this first coaching session. Your shirt sticks to your back. Your legs tremble. And still, nothing soft from him. No flicker of warmth. He stops a stray ball with his foot, balancing it there as he says, “You’re out of shape.” You look up, still panting. “It’s my first session.” He shrugs. “You’re not a teenager anymore.”

That’s it. No word of encouragement you want to hear since it's been years since you last held a racket. No smile… face so stoic it’s making you want to punch him in the nose Just a whistle and the soft clatter of balls dropping into a hopper. You leave soaked in sweat, but colder than when you walked in. This Art isn’t the one you knew. This one’s leaner. Closed off. Stripped clean of charm. And now he’s yours to tolerate. Coaching becomes a routine. Same time, same court, and same drills. He doesn’t miss a day. You've never seen him late. Doesn’t waste a single breath. Call you by your last name like you’re a stranger. It’s weird. You are not used to being referred to by your last name because they often use that to Patrick, not to you. Like he didn’t teach you to serve like him. Doesn’t flinch when you argue. Doesn’t soften when you push back. He just holds the line. Makes you meet him where he is. Every. Damn. Time.

Some moments slip through. Quick. You won’t even notice it if you are not just… too bothered by his coldness. But sometimes you can feel his palm pressed too low on your back during drills. The way he jerks his gaze after catching your legs when your towel falls. The slow drag of his thumb over your wrist- not quite intimate, maybe maybe just to steady you. Once, after the cooldown, he kneels to adjust your shoulders. Tells you to pull back. You do. He stays there a second too long. His eyes hold yours. Then he clears his throat and tells you to go home. That’s it. But it happens again. And again. You don’t ask about Tashi. You feel like he will just dismiss you if you ask anything. He doesn’t mention Patrick. Not once. Some days it feels like he’s trying not to look. Other days, it’s all he does. You tell yourself he’s just hands-on and focused. But you’ve seen him with other girls he’s coaching with. And there’s a distance he keeps. How he’s hard with his teachings but warmer to them. How quickly he moves on. How he corrects them but not in a way he does to you. God, it’s so different.

Near the end of one session, when the sun already dips low, your body is aching and damp through the waistband. You reach for your water bottle that rolled under the net so you bend without thinking. One knee over the cable, and your back curved low while your skirt is already snug and now bunched higher. You don’t fix it because you’re too tired, but it hits you, so you glance back. He’s there in the baseline. Clipboard down, his eyes locked on you. He doesn’t even blink. When you stand, he flicks his gaze to your face. “Focus next time.” You blink. “On what?” He just calls the next drill and ignores your question like it doesn’t even matter. That’s where it starts- the guessing. The heat in your stomach every time he steps in too close, and every time he stays too long. You tell yourself you’re imagining it. But it won’t stop. His jaw clenches when you stretch forward. His hands twitch when your breath catches. You see it all.

When he’s trying to keep it together, it’s where you push harder. Tighter skirts. Smaller tops. Move like it’s nothing. But you’re testing him. Every time your back arches a little more. Every time you drag a stretch out too long. After the third week, you stop pretending. You show up in a borderline short skirt. Shirt clinging. Laces tied slowly, hips tilted just enough. He trains you harder. Barking orders. Snapping. But the way he watches sticks. You kind of just want to give up and use it to your advantage. Your legs give out and you sprawl across the court. One knee up, the other stretched. Skirt hitched and shirt soaked and clinging to your chest. You cover your eyes from the sun. “I’m gonna die here,” you say. “Just leave me. Tell my father I trained hard.”

Steps approach you. It’s measured. He stands above your body with his arms crossed. His eyes hit your legs before snapping back to your face. “You need water and to stand up,” he says, voice rough. “I need a new coach,” you mutter. “One that lets me breathe.” He doesn’t answer. Just watch. You see it- the shift in his stance, the tension in his jaw, the way his hips angle. The way he’s hard under his sweats. Barely, but enough. You blink. “And I can’t. Too weak.” His voice drops. “You’re not weak.” You drag a hand over your thigh like you’re stretching. “Then come make me.” He turns quickly. Leaves without a word and leaves you there. You stay flat on the court, heart pounding under your ribs. You’re sure now he’s affected by you.

The next morning, you show up early. Hair neat. Gloss only. Skirt longer. The shirt is looser. Not too much skin. Even your towel is folded clean. You look like someone who means business. As expected, Art’s already there, silent, and stretching. He looks at your outfit. Eyes flick down and back to the clipboard. Says nothing. You don’t either. You change everything on purpose because Patrick told you he would come and Patrick being Patrick he arrives loud, sunglasses on, and with a coffee in hand. “There she is,” he says. “You'd better have a good forehand today. I brought a camera.” You smile sweetly. “Only the best for you.” He posts at the fence. You don’t even look his way.

The session starts. You’re clean and sharp. There’s no teasing or playing around either. When you bend, your knees stay tight. When you stretch, your back stays straight. You don’t slip. Not once. Not like yesterday. The one where Art’s grip on the stopwatch turned white-knuckled. You give nothing away today. And he says almost nothing back. A nod. One correction. No contact. But during breaks, you feel it. His eyes flicker. Linger. He’s tight, and tense. Patrick claps when you land a strong backhand. “That’s my girl,” he says. “Told you she still had it.” Art doesn’t glance over. “She’s putting the work in.” His grip on the hopper tightens. When the practice ends, you grab your towel and head for the bench. Behind you, your dad says, “She’s sharper than last time. Better.” Art doesn’t answer at first. Then, finally, “She’s focused.” He looks your way before turning to Patrick. “She always is.” Your dad chuckles. “Well- when she’s not being a pain in the ass.”

You don’t turn. Just drink your water and let your smile sit in the bottle. There’s a pause. Then: “You got plans tonight?” Art stays quiet. Then he glances at you. Quick and careful. Patrick goes on. “Got a bottle I’ve been saving. Come by. We can hang. Like old times.” Art nods once. “Yeah. Alright.” Patrick claps his shoulder. “Atta boy. You still drive that ugly car?” His answer is dry. “Yeah.” Patrick’s already looking at you. “She’ll ride with me. You know where the house is.” Art nods again. Quiet and he doesn’t look at you. You grab your bag and walk past him. Just close enough for your arm to brush his. “See you, Coach,” you say without making eye contact. There’s a pause. Then you hear it, whispering and it’s just for you. “Longer skirt suits you.” You don’t stop walking. Don’t turn around. But the grin that creeps up your face is anything but innocent.

You ride home with your dad. Art drives behind, headlights trailing through the dusk. No one says much and Patrick fills the quiet with stories from matches you’ve heard since childhood. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You smile when expected. All while trying not to think about your coach trailing behind, the same man who whispered about your skirt like it meant something. Like he’s not done watching. It’s been infecting your mind like a virus that you are going crazy and reading all the lines, you are not sure if it’s really there.

You don’t wear anything special when you get home. Just a loose shirt and baggy shorts- something soft, and something quiet. Clothes meant for someone upstairs scrolling, not someone sitting in the dark, and listening. It’s not that they’re keeping it quiet. So you can easily listen with the door cracked open. Music plays low from the kitchen. Classic rock, something your dad always picks when there’s company. You hear bottles shift glasses and a kind of laughter that means something’s already being remembered. You stay upstairs. But you know where they are. Seated in the living room. Your dad gets louder when he’s drinking- more carefree, reaching for stories that feel like him and easy to laugh at now.

“You remember that one match when we were… seventeen?” Patrick’s voice rides ahead of the story. “God. The one where you split your racket and didn’t have a backup? You were losing your mind.” Art answers calmly, his voice harder to catch but clear. “Yeah. You gave me yours. Wrong grip. My wrist hurt for three weeks.” No irritation about the detail. Patrick’s laughing, already pouring again. “You still beat me.” There’s the scrape of his glass across the table. “You double-faulted at match point.” Art doesn’t skip a beat. Just go with the truth. That’s how it’s always been. Patrick bounces, and Art grounds him. One so bright, the other holding it still.

Another pour and the chairs shift. Then: “Lily’s good?” The way your dad asks it sounds soft, but it stirs the air too much. He adds carefully, “Tashi too?” Like that makes it easier, but it doesn’t. Her name drops hard. Art answers simply. “They’re good.” Final. No room to open it, it’s like he’s closing it before he can talk about it. He’s not being cold. He’s just always known when to stop. When something isn’t his to explain. Patrick doesn’t push. He never really does with Art since he knows he can’t really make him talk when he doesn’t want to. Silence folds in and the music fills the space between them. Then, quieter, “Thanks for doing this. Coaching her. I know I kind of threw it on you.” Patrick sounds different now, more like a dad. Less like an athlete who plays tennis for a long time.

Art brushes it off too fast. “It’s fine.” But something sits underneath. Not anger. Just weight. Something you’re not supposed to hear. Patrick keeps going. “She listens to you.” The words carry something else. Something about how you haven’t been listening to him. Not really. Not lately. Art doesn’t answer fast before he says, “Not always.” Not a complaint. It almost sounds… being real. Like he knows you too well to be mad. Patrick laughs. “Well. That makes two of us.” Patrick says playfully even though there's truth behind it. He means it like he always has- he’d still pick you first. Even if you make it hard.

Your door was closed long enough before Art asked about Tashi and when they talked about you, that part’s theirs. You curl under the covers, stare at your phone. Skin is still warm. Your head is loud. You shift once. Again. Still too restless to sleep. Eventually, you do. At least for a little while. Then: 3:12 AM. Red glows on the clock. You sit up slowly. Shirt sticking in one place while your shorts are twisted and your eyes are gritty. You walk out of your room without even fixing anything because you’re in your home after all. But your steps remain quiet, avoiding the creaky stairs. You tell yourself you’re just getting water.

When you reach the kitchen the stove light’s still on. Soft yellow glow across the tile. You stop when you see him. Art stands by the sink. No shoes and messy hair. Same shirt from earlier with his gray sweats hanging low. His body tenses just a little when he sees you, like you weren’t expected- but not unwanted either. He lifts a glass partway, eyes on you. You blink. “You’re still here?” It comes out flat, not flirty, just tired and surprised. He doesn’t blink. “Your dad didn’t want me driving. Guest room.” Like it’s normal. This happens all the time. Maybe it does, he and your father are after all. You nod and move past. Fridge light spills out when you open it, and the light hits your legs. You get a glass and fill it with water. Drink it, and glance back when you push the door of the refrigerator with your foot.

He hasn’t moved. Still leaning with his arms crossed. Eyes heavy on your legs. Not hungry-looking eyes, but focused. Tension hums in the space between you. Same way it did earlier, on the court. You drink again before setting the bottle down. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say. It’s casual. But not empty. Nothing really is between you two anymore. He doesn’t reply and just watches. The shirt clings to your waist. Your thighs touch. He sees all of it. But he doesn’t move, he just shifts his weight against the counter, arms folded tighter. “Drink some water,” he says finally. “Then go back to bed.” His voice lands softly. Firm, but quiet. Like it’s a rule he doesn’t want to say twice.

You tilt your head before asking, “Coach’s orders?” It’s barely teasing. But it hits harder in the dark. He doesn’t laugh but his eyes are on you. A smirk flickers and dies quickly before you can tease him about it. He turns, like it’s safer not to stay in it. “Something like that.” The silence folds again. You don’t leave. Neither does he. You could feel the hem of your shirt touching your thighs, leaning back in the chair as your arms folded and head tilted like you’re waiting for something to happen. The light hit the curve of your hip, and right now, everything about you looks so soft and sleep-ready, but the air between you says otherwise and feels like glass. Neither of you moves. He just watches you stand there, legs showing and clothes too short, as if it’s still just a quiet night. You clear your throat, voice dipping low. “I thought you’d be asleep by now. Didn’t think whiskey kept you up.” The words try to sound casual, but they’re something to push him more. You know he’s not calm in his head, you can feel it. And when he finally answers, his tone stays the same like a mask. “It doesn’t.” The glass between the two of you lifts once. Like it’s breaking already. “You do.” With that, you finally confirmed what you’ve been overthinking about. Here’s the truth. It’s plain and heavy. You know he’s not joking when there’s no smile on his mouth. His fingers are tense around the rim. You don’t know what you were expecting. But it wasn’t that.

You stare. Try to laugh, to shift the mood, to push it away before it sets too deep. “Is that what this is now? A blame game?” Your sarcasm comes thin. Not convincing so he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just let the silence stretch until your body starts to buzz with it. Your knuckles press tighter into the counter. You don’t pull away. Can’t. His voice cuts through, simple. “No game.” It lands hard. Like an assurance. You swallow. Step forward, foot brushing the tile. Another step closes the space. His arms stay folded, jaw locked, but his chest doesn’t rise as much now. He’s holding himself still, like any movement might ruin it. The way he watches you now- there’s no pretending left. The kitchen’s too quiet. The light was too low and present. You both feel it.

You’re close enough to feel the heat off him. The edge of his breath. Still, he doesn’t move. Your voice drops, words sliding slowly. “I am surprised to you’re still here, honestly,” He looked straight into your eyes before saying, “Why?” His voice is tight, careful. You feel it in your ribs. A pause passes before you shrug once, loose. “Thought you’d leave. After all that.” Your eyes drop, catch the pulse at his throat. His mouth shifts, like he’s holding something in, and you know you’ve touched something. Then finally, “I don’t look at you because I’m supposed to. I look at you because I can’t fucking help it.” It punches through your chest. Not new. Not shocking. But it's true. And that makes it worse.

You don’t breathe. Don’t even blink. “Say it.” The words come quietly. You are not begging, not teasing- just a push. He stares. “Say what?” He knows. He wants you to say it anyway. Your body fills with tension. You don’t break the gaze. “That you’ve been thinking about it.” You wait. But he’s not doing anything to move or shake anything at all. “I think about a lot of things.” It’s too… generic. You know he’s being vague purposely. He’s dodging you. He’s slipping. You press in closer. “Bullshit.” His expression stays the same, it’s unreadable. But the silence is too loud and it’s cracking. “You think I am blind and don’t see it? The way you look at me. The way you- ” You stop. Breath caught. He cuts in fast. “Stop.” It’s not harsh, he’s not even raising his voice. He steps forward, knuckles brushing your hip. Close enough to touch. Still not touching.

You don’t back down, you hold your chin high. “Then tell me I’m wrong.” His eyes drop to your mouth, to the loose curve of your shirt. It’s the kind of look you’re not supposed to catch. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t pretend. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it. Not once.” His voice scrapes out of his throat. You lean into the fridge, mouth curling. “Even when I’m being good?” There’s no innocence left in the question. Only the urge for more. You want to know if it drove him crazier but holding back when you made it impossible. His gaze drags down. “Longer skirt suits you.” It sounds like a lie, it sounds like he meant to say that shorter skirts suit you because it looks like he’s been saying this in his head over and over ever since you started wearing unbearable short skirts.

Your smirk deepens. “What’s your excuse now? You can’t see my ass in this. I’ve got water. I’m not misbehaving.” He doesn’t take the bait. Doesn’t relax. His fingers dig into the counter like he’s holding himself in place. “I’m being careful.” That’s unbelievable to hear, considering his voice is strained and looks like it's cracking at the edge. So you just tilt your head before asking him, “Why?” You don’t expect him to answer. He always walks away before the moment breaks. But this time, he doesn’t. His eyes meet yours again, and what he says is so soft it barely lands. “Because your father is upstairs.”

He says it like it should matter. But it doesn’t. Not right now. “But you’re not.” You don’t say it to be smug. Just to name what’s true. His eyes shift, like he’s trying to ignore the fact that you’re right. “You don’t have to…” he starts, voice thin, when he feels your hand on him. You slide it higher and shut it down just to play with the moment. You shake your head, close enough now that you’re breathing in the same air. “I know. I want to.” The words land softly against his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt, right over the beat of his heart, fast, and it’s like he might get into cardiac arrest from just you holding him. He almost touches you, but he drops his hands before they land on you. It’s like he doesn’t trust himself. But you help him by putting it around your waist and it settles there. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he murmurs, but more likely he’s telling this to himself more than to you. His eyes tell you otherwise, like he doesn’t mean what he just said. Your mouth brushes his jaw. “You gonna stop me?” His grip tightens, hard at your sides. “No,” he says, voice cracking at the edge. “Not tonight.”

You don’t hesitate and your mouth finds him. It's not gentle. Nothing about it is. Lips moving messily and fast like a crash. Like both of you are making up for the tension between the two of you. His hands hold you down to stay at your place around your waist as he walks you until your back hits something, and his mouth moves into yours. His groan hits your tongue, sharp and low. He pulls you closer, hips pressing to yours, and everything burns hotter. He doesn’t pull far when the kiss breaks, just drops lower, mouth dragging against your neck, his breath thick and uneven. “Fuck,” he mutters, lips brushing your throat. “This is so fucking stupid.” But he doesn’t stop. You lean into it, nails dragging down his back, your body arching into his. “Then stop.” But you both know he won’t. He kisses harder, rough at your throat and collarbone, his stubble scratching, his hands slipping everywhere. You twist your grip in his shirt, anchoring him. The counter digs into your spine, but you don’t care. You want to feel it later. You want to remember.

Everything about the kiss turns hurried. Hands desperate. Breath tangled. His palm lay flat on your back when he slid his hand underneath your shirt, the sudden feeling of his warm hand made you twitch. The sound that escapes your mouth is soft and helpless. It pulls a grunt from him, and suddenly he’s shoving closer. One arm snakes around your back. The other slides down, gripping your thigh. You hook it around him. His mouth trails down, kissing too hard along your jaw. You claw at his shirt, yanking it up. He lets you, but he doesn't take it off. His skin’s hot beneath your palms, chest rising. You kiss him again- deeper, dirtier- and he dips his hand into your waistband. You jerk against him. Then- he freeze.

He doesn’t pull away fast. Just freezes. His forehead rests on your shoulder. You feel the change in his body. All that restraint returning. He breathes like he’s counting seconds. Then, slowly he pulls back enough to meet your eyes. “We can’t do it here.” His voice sounds rougher now, tight with control. “He’s upstairs.” You’re still panting. Still aching. “What?” you whisper. “Patrick,” he says. “The guest room is across from yours. The bathroom is in the same hall. If he wakes up” He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to. It’s already sitting between you like a wall. His hands stay where they are, not wandering now, just holding you in place. You feel the pull. The way he’s forcing himself still.

He steps back a little. His body’s still close. Still hot. But the air around him has changed. Like he’s holding himself together by one thin thread. You nod. Lift your eyes slowly. “Living room?” It’s all you can think of, but you say it anyway. He shakes his head. “Still too close.” You take another breath, trying to settle the buzz in your blood. “There’s another room.” You hadn’t planned to say it. It just falls out of your mouth. His eyes flick to yours. “Upstairs,” you say. “The attic. It’s mine.” He doesn’t say anything, but you see something shift. Like he remembers.

“My dad had it fixed up when I was sixteen,” you tell him. “I went through that whole thing. Didn’t wanna be around anyone. Slammed some doors. Cried. Begged for space.” You shrug, voice low. “So he gave me the attic. I begged him to soundproof it.” You pause as the memory floats up slowly. “Patrick used to make fun of me for it. He called it my cave. Said I was protesting against him.” You don’t know why you’re telling him. Maybe to calm yourself at this moment. Maybe just to show him it’s real. Art huffs, quiet, almost amused. “Said you locked yourself up there for a month.”

The way he says it makes something catch. His tone is different now. Warm at the edges. Familiar. You nod, a little breathless. “You remember.” He doesn’t look smug. Just tired. “’Cause he wouldn’t shut up about it.” You pause and don’t step back. Just lean in again, voice lower. “It’s still mine. Mattress on the floor. Thick blankets. Pillows. Books. My other laptop. The walls are thick. Nobody hears anything up there.” You’re not even bluffing. You still hide there sometimes when the house is too loud. When you need space because it’s yours.

He doesn’t speak, but you watch the decision move across his face. Your fingers lift, brushing his waistband. “It’s far,” you say, gentler. “Really far. No one will hear.” You’re not pushing. (Maybe a little) Just letting him know it’s okay to want this. His hand twitches at your waist. His breath picks up. And then- he takes your hand. His grip is tight, sure. “Show me,” he says. Just that. But everything’s in the way he says it. You don’t ask anything else. Just lead him upstairs.

Now you are inside of it with him. Naked. The attic is warm. Not hot. Not stifling. Just warm in the way that feels personal. Like the air up here has only ever known you. The mattress is too soft, thick, and bouncy, but sunken now with your and his weight. It’s surrounded by pillows that are now your lifeline to hold on to and where your body feels supported. The old lamp that has been here for years is glowing in the corner. It’s barely showing enough light to show the hand in front of your face. But it’s enough. Enough for him to see the slope of your back. The curve of your ass. The way you spread your knees deeper into the pillows like you’ve done this before- like you’ve done this for him.

He doesn’t say anything when he presses the head of his cock against your pussy. Don’t ask again if you’re sure. You already told him no one would hear. You already told him you wanted it. He just breathes once. It’s low and heavy, then pushes in slowly. Your face buries deeper into the bedding as his cock slides inside. Inch by inch. Thick. Deep. Steady. The stretch makes your hips twitch, thighs tensing as your cunt clenches down too fast. Too tight. You try to muffle the sound you make, but it slips out anyway- soft, broken. The way your body welcomes him, like it’s been waiting.

His hand lands firm on the back of your neck, not rough but it’s not sweet either. Just enough to keep you down. To remind you to stay quiet. To remind himself not to look at your face. Because he can’t. Not like this. Not while he’s inside you, buried to the hilt, hips flush with your ass and his hands digging into your skin. Not when you’re way younger than him while being this warm, this willing. Not when you’re still his best friend’s daughter. Not when he still has a wife. A kid. So he keeps your face in the pillows.

Your cunt squeezes around him again as he starts to move. Slow at first. Dragging his cock back just halfway, then driving it back in until your body jolts forward against the mattress. His hands keep holding your hip and gripping it. It’s tight enough to make a bruise. At this point, he doesn’t even care about being careful. Not when it already feels this good. Not when your pussy’s soaking his cock and taking every inch like you were made for it.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, voice low against your spine. “You’re so- fuck.” His jaw flexes tight when he says it, hips grinding deeper, like if he keeps saying it he’ll somehow get used to how good your pussy feels wrapped around him. But it doesn’t go away. It only gets worse. The guilt. They want. The way your cunt milks his cock with every roll of his hips like it knows exactly how to undo him. You hum into the sheets. Nothing too loud. Just enough to let him know you heard. That you like it. That’s okay.

He thrusts again, but it’s this time. Your ass bounces back against him with the force of it. His eyes locked on how it ripples. Definitely enjoying the sight of his cock disappearing inside your pussy again and again. The way it gets slicker when he pulls out and has this gushing sound when he thrusts again. The room stays quiet, except for the sounds you are making. There’s a soft creak of the floorboard underneath the mattress. The wet sound and the skin is slapping between your bodies every time he pushes back in. Thumb finds the line of your spine and he presses there. Then drags down between your cheeks, finds the place where you’re stretched open, fucked open, dripping.

“You shouldn’t feel this good,” he mutters. Like it’s your fault. Like you planned it. But the truth is it scares him how much he likes it. How good it is to let go. To let it happen. How easy you make it. Like all it takes is one whisper, one look, one night of letting himself forget. And here he is. Cock soaked. Conscience blown out. Still grinding into the tightest cunt he’s ever been inside. And maybe you did. Maybe that’s what kills him the most. The mattress dips under both your bodies as he leans in, his chest brushing your back. Blankets shift beneath your knees, the weight of his body locking you in place. His cock drives in deep again, and this time he doesn’t move right away. Just stays there. Buried. Breathing heavily against your skin. Then his hand covers your mouth. Not suddenly. Not harsh. Just firm. Quiet. Like he’s making sure- one more time- that you won’t make him stop.

“You said no one would hear,” he mutters through his teeth, his voice rough and low. “Then don’t fucking bite the pillow.” But he doesn’t say it like a warning. He says it like a beggar. Like the sound of you might undo him if he hears it raw. Like he needs control over something, anything, because he’s already losing it everywhere else. A noise escapes anyway. It’s not a scream. Not a moan. Just a muffled, breathy whimper that your body can’t help. “Mff- god- Art-” Your chest burns after it slips out. It’s embarrassing how you moan it when you weren’t supposed to say his name like that. You weren’t supposed to moan like that like there’s nothing to be guilty about this. But it’s too late to take it back and you can’t even help it. You’re full. Fucked. Gone.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, even though he’s still fucking into you, even though his cock’s buried all the way in and your cunt’s gripping him like it doesn’t want to let go. It breaks something in him when you say it like that. Like you mean it. Like you want him. Not just his cock. Him. And that’s the worst part. Because it makes him want to say yours back. “W-why not?” you breathe into his palm, voice thin and cracked. “Scared it’ll feel like it's really happening?”

You want to hear him say it. You want to know it’s not just sex. Not just stress. Not just a mistake he’ll regret in the morning. You want him to feel the way you do. Like it already is real. Like it’s been real. His hand lifts. Slide up your belly. Palms your chest with rough fingers. He squeezes until your breath catches, until your whole body goes hot again. His hips slow. Grind. Sink into you until you feel everything-every inch, every pulse, every part of him pressed inside you like he belongs there. “You want me to pretend that this- fuck- that you’re not Patrick’s daughter right now?” The question hit hard. It’s broken. Shaky. Like he wants you to lie. To say yes. To tell him this is nothing, that he doesn’t have to hate himself for how much he loves it.

Your answer is a whisper. “Maybe.” Maybe you want it. Maybe it will feel less guilty if both of you pretend. God, you are not even aware of what you are saying anymore. What you know is, you want him to stay. Or who he’s supposed to be. He snaps his hips forward. “Then shut the fuck up and take it.” And there’s no hesitation anymore. No holding back. Just heat and skin and the thick sound of your cunt sucking him back in every time he pulls out.

The next thrust is deeper. Then another. The rhythm starts to break apart. Messier now. Your knees spread wider into the blankets. His cock slams into you over and over, dragging wet sounds from your body, slick and fast and loud enough to make you wonder if the soundproofing will even hold. “Fuck,” he grits out, his voice close to your ear. “You don’t even feel sorry.” He says it like it’s disgusting. But his cock’s still inside you. Still hitting the spot that makes you clench. Still chasing the high of how wrong it is. “I’m not.” You say it because it’s true. You’re not. Not even a little. If anything, you wish you’d done it sooner.

“You fucking should be.” But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. His hand just drags your body back harder as he sinks into your cunt again like he wants to teach you a lesson you’ll feel tomorrow. He pulls you back with both hands, one still locked at your hip, the other wrapping under your body to keep you from sliding too far forward. You feel his breath at your neck, the sweat off his chest soaking into your back. The slap of his skin hitting yours echoes in your head. You can feel your pussy throb around him, feel the way he stutters when it does. The way his thrusts lose rhythm for a second before snapping back harder.

Your mouth opens. You try to say something. Maybe his name. Maybe more. But he’s already covering it again- his palm pressing over your lips, catching the moan before it can fill the room. The heat builds fast. The pressure. The warm feeling in your stomach. Your body starts to shake. He leans closer, voice gravel in your ear. “You’ve been wanting this since I got here.” He knows it now. Maybe he always knew. The way you looked at him. The way you let him talk to you. Like you didn’t care about the line. Like you wanted him to cross it. Your nod is desperate. Barely a nod at all. Just a twitch of your head against his hand. “And you’re not gonna cry about it tomorrow?” It’s not a question. He’s taunting the fuck out of you. He needs to know he’s not the only one who’s gonna lose something if this gets out.

You almost laugh. Almost choke. “Only if you stop.” You can’t tell if you mean it as a joke or a threat. Maybe both. But you say it because it’s the only way to keep him inside you. To keep this happening. That makes him groan. Real, loud, and unfiltered. His cock twitches deep inside you and he drives forward again. It’s rough, and deep enough that your body arches up without meaning to. His hand slides off your mouth again. Down between your thighs. Two fingers pressed to your clit. It’s wet and swollen. He’s rubbing circles that make your cunt squeeze tighter around him. “Gonna make you come like this,” he says. “Gonna make you come on my cock.” The words punch through his teeth. It’s like a promise he’s going to fulfill. Like something he’s needed to say since the first time you wore shorts that were too small.

Your head drops to the mattress, letting out a muffled moan and words, “A-ah- fucking d-do it.” You don’t care what it means anymore. Don’t care if he hates himself for it. You just want to come. You just want to feel it. And he does. He fucks you like he means it. Like he hates that he means it. Like he’s trying to make you pay for it- but also trying to make it last. The pace gets rougher. The pressure builds deeper. Your body shakes through it all. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters. “You’re not- fuck- you’re not mine.” The words sound like they’re tearing something out of him.

But his cock’s still inside you. Still fucking you like you are. “You are now,” you rasp, voice wrecked. “Right now… I’m yours.” You want to give him the excuse. Just this once. Just for tonight. And when he slams into you again, you know he heard you. The bed’s a disaster already. Pillows are half on the floor. Sheets twisted around your legs. Heat is trapped under the blankets where sweat sticks both your bodies together. It smells like sex- like slick and skin and the way his breath drags in heavy behind you.

He’s still inside. Still moving like he can’t stop. Like his cock’s too deep and your pussy’s too tight and there’s no version of the night where he pulls out and leaves this undone. Each thrust just pushes you more into the mattress, every pull of his cock from your pussy just soaks him down with more of your slick. Thighs trembling, arms weakening, but if you feel it’s not enough. “You think I don’t notice?” His voice hits low in your spine, palm planted between your shoulders as he drives in again. “You think I don’t fucking see the way you look at me during practice?” He’d been pretending for weeks that he didn’t see it. The way you sucked on that straw during water breaks, the way you stretched a second longer than needed. Like you weren’t doing it for him. Like he didn’t have to excuse himself to the locker room once or twice just to calm down.

Your ass pushes back instinctively. Just to be a brat. Just to bait him. His grip at your waist tightens, fingers bruising. “You wear those skirts. Bend over like it’s nothing. Like I’m not supposed to care.” His cock presses in harder. “You’ve been doing it on purpose.” He hated that you had that power over him. The second you walked in, all logic shut down. You wore innocence like a costume, and he kept falling for the act even when he knew better. Your laugh slips out slowly, a little breathless. “Still took you long enough.” You’d been pushing buttons for weeks. The eye contact, the half-smiles, the way you said Coach like it was dirty. You weren’t surprised he finally snapped. You were surprised it actually took him this long.

The sound he makes isn’t a groan- it’s something darker. His hips snap forward, cock slamming in deep enough to make your eyes flutter. The bed jolts under both of you. “Fucking brat,” he mutters. “You don’t even know what you’re asking for.” He wants to scare you with it. Wants to believe you don’t understand the weight of what you’re doing. But you do. And he’s the one drowning in it. “Don’t I?” You tilt your hips again, roll them up into his cock just to show him how easy it is to take it. “You’re the one still fucking me, Coach.” You say it to see the look on his face. To remind him he crossed the line first. You didn’t make him do this. He wanted to.

The word makes him stutter. You feel it. His whole body tenses, and his cock throbs hard inside you like it means something. Like he knows it should stop mattering, but it still does. “This is fucked up,” he says. You hum, lips curled against the pillow. “Then stop.” You’re calling his bluff. You already know he won’t. You already feel the way he keeps sinking deeper like he wants to lose himself in you. He doesn’t. He fucks in again, thick and hard. His breath breaks across your back, all heavy with guilt and sweat and the weight of everything he’s still pretending not to feel.

“You’re sick.” His jaw’s tight when he says it, voice caught somewhere between shame and hunger. Like he wants to punish you for what he can’t stop wanting. Your moan scrapes out high and wrecked. “You’re worse.” You mean it too. He’s the one still fucking you. The one whose wedding ring keeps catching against your skin when he grips your hips tightly. His pace falters. Just for a second. Enough for the guilt to slip in. His forehead presses against your shoulder blade, breath hot and shaky. “You’re older,” you pant. “You’re my coach. My dad’s best friend.” You drag each word out slowly but softly. Meant to mock. Meant to remind. But also true. And somehow that just makes it hotter.

His cock twitches again. You feel it pulse inside you. You smile wider. “And you’re still married.” You say it like it’s nothing. Like it’s not tearing something open in him every time you do. But you want it to hurt. Want him to feel what you feel every time he fucks you and pretends it’s the last time. That lands heavy. His next thrust is brutal, like he’s trying to fuck the words out of his own head. Your body jolts forward on the bed, tits pressed to the sheets, one hand catching yourself in the blankets. “You should hate me,” you whisper. “Should’ve walked out the second I opened my mouth.” You wonder if part of you does hate him. But you don’t want him to walk out. You never did. But he’s still here. Still deep inside. Still pounding your pussy like it’s the only place he belongs.

“I’m your student,” you say softly. “You’re supposed to be teaching me.” You say it with a smile this time. Like you know exactly what lesson you’re getting. And you like it. “I am,” he spits. “I’m teaching you what happens when you act like a fucking tease.” He grits it out like he’s trying to convince himself this is discipline. Like it’s not just him losing control. You cry out when he slams in again, fingers pressed hard against the back of your neck- not pushing, just keeping you there. Making you take it. “Keep fucking pushing back like that,” he mutters. “See what it gets you.” His voice roughens with each word, breath growing harsher against your spine. He’s close. You can feel it. “Gets me more,” you moan. “Gets me your cock.” You turn your face against the sheets, smiling into them. You like this game. You like breaking him open one thrust at a time.

His groan rips out raw and heavy. He grabs your hips tighter and starts fucking you rough again, wet and deep and so loud the slap of skin echoes across the walls. There’s no rhythm anymore. Just messy, and desperate thrusts. Like he’s punishing himself with it. He needs to feel how tight your pussy keeps squeezing around him. “Tell me you like it.” He says it low, almost like he’s asking for assurance. Like he needs to hear it. Like if you say it, it’ll justify everything he’s doing. “Want it,” you breathe. “Want you.” You mean it too. Even if it ruins you both. You want every inch. Every grunt. Every awful second of this. “Sick little thing.” He hisses it into your neck. But he doesn’t stop. If anything, he fucks you harder.

“Takes- n-nghh… o-one to fuck one.” You say it sweetly. Taunting. You want him fucked up. You want him messy. You want to be the one who did it. That shuts him up. Just for a second. You feel his whole body jerk, like the words hit where it hurts. And he still doesn’t stop. Your cunt tightens again and again, milking his cock, slick dripping down to your thighs. You push back, grind into him on purpose, clit brushing the sheets just enough to make you whimper. His hands are everywhere now. Waist. Ass. Thigh. Anywhere he can grab you. Like he’s trying to hold this moment together before it breaks apart.

He growls again. “You really- really think I haven’t seen- shit… you’ve b-been moving around me all week?” He hated himself for how much attention he gave you. The way he looked for you in every hallway. The way he noticed when you wore new earrings or changed your perfume. He told himself it was normal. But it never was. You moan into the pillow, not even trying to be quiet. “You wore that skirt on purpose.” He remembers every inch of it. How short it rode up when you bent over. How tightly it clung when you sat on his desk. He’d gone home hard for two nights straight after that. “You’re the one who made me stay after.” You never needed extra help. You just wanted him alone. Just wanted to see how long it’d take before he caved.

“Because you don’t fucking listen.” He bites the words out like they mean nothing, but you both know they do. He made you stay because you wanted him to. Because he couldn’t help himself. “I do now.” Your voice is soft, teasing. You’re dripping around him. You’ve never listened harder. His cock drags out slowly, then slams back in. Your moan shatters in your throat. “You like being bent over like this?” he pants. “Like a little slut I’m not even supposed to touch?” He wants you to say no. Wants to believe there’s still a line left to save. But there isn’t. “And you still do.” You laugh a little under your breath. Because it’s true. Because no matter what he says, he’s still fucking you.

He grabs your wrists and pins them down beside your head. His cock buries deeper than before. “You think I won’t stop?” His voice sounds wrecked now. Like he’s hanging by a thread. “You won’t.” You whisper it like a promise. You know him too well. “Think I won’t pull out and leave you dripping and empty?” He’s breathing hard. You feel his chest heaving behind you. “You’re still inside me.” You squeeze around him again. Just to prove your point. He grunts. His groan is thick and guttural. His mouth brushes your shoulder, voice hoarse. “You don’t even care that I’m old enough to be your-” He can’t finish it. His voice dies in his throat.

“You fuck better than anyone my age. That's what you wanna hear?” You twist your head just enough to look at him. You’re not smiling anymore. You’re serious. His cock twitches. You bite your lip, roll your hips again. The sheets are soaked. Your pussy’s leaking down his length. Your whole body feels used, overstimulated, and filthy in the best way. “You’re not even sorry,” he whispers again repeating what he said earlier, like he hates how true it is. You breathe out slowly, hips lifting again. “You are,” you say gently. Like it’s obvious. And it is. That one hits deep. His pace stutters, breath catching. His fingers curl into your waist again like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

“You’re getting off on this,” you murmur. “Fucking your friend’s kid. Getting off inside her.” Your voice is soft and breathy. Sweet enough to cut deep. He groans, rough and wrecked. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice breaks. You know it’s not from anger. But his hand presses to your mouth again. And you smile under it. “You’re more fucked up than me,” you whisper. “Because you’re the one still fucking me.” You want him to hear it. You want him to remember it every time he sees your dad’s name on his phone. He drives in again, cock thick and twitching, slick soaking your thighs. His hand slides down and circles your clit, fast and rough and desperate. Your legs start to shake.

“You wanted this,” he mutters. “You wanted to be fucked by your dad’s best friend.” His voice is low, breathless. Like he can’t believe he’s still saying it out loud. “Yeah. I wanted it.” Your voice catches. You’re so close. You want to come with him deep inside. “God- not even guilty.” His grip tightens. His thrusts turn wild. You turn your head against his palm and meet his eyes over your shoulder. “Neither are you.” Your voice is steady. True. You both know it. And he knows it. But it still continues. Didn’t even stop to catch a breath. Cock still deep inside your pussy and fucking you like this is his only chance. It’s wet and loud. The mattress beneath is creaking with every thrust he plunges inside you. The sheets are ruined, twisted under your belly, and your tits keep dragging across the fabric, raw from the friction. He’s bent over your back, skin slick against yours, breath hitting hot at your shoulder.

Then his hand slides up from your hip. Rough, steady. Tracing the line of your ribs like he’s mapping you by feel alone, until it comes up to your chest. He grabs your tits like he owns them- palming one hard, fingers sinking into the softness, squeezing until your back arches. The other hand finds your ass again, groping the curve with the same kind of greed, pulling you open so he can grind in even deeper. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice raw and cracked low in your ear. His hand moves underneath so he can grope the underside of your tit. Thumb flickering slowly on your nipple until you feel yourself getting wetter and gasping as you clench down on his cock. He stays still for a few seconds and groans like he’s realizing how tight your pussy is.

“You fucking grown, huh?” He didn’t even realize he said it out loud because it just did. He can’t even stop it halfway because he’s so deep into it, and he goes stiff right now behind you. But it’s too late. The silence stretches thick for half a second, and then your pussy clenches again. “Oh, you like that?” he breathes, cock twitching deep inside you. “Course you do. You’re not some little girl anymore. Big girl now. Can take this cock like it’s nothing.” Words are filled with something messier and filthier than guilt. His voice sounds louder and deeper. He can’t breathe evenly now like he’s aware how fucked he is right now, like he knows he shouldn’t do this but still did, but now? They’re uncontrollable, and spilling out faster than he even knows what’s happening.

His thrusting resumes and deeper this time. It’s like he’s punishing your body for making him this sick. His hand squeezes your tit again, rougher this time, like the words woke something up in him he can’t put back to sleep. His other palm grabs your ass tighter, fingertips leaving marks. “Bet those dumbass boys your age can’t even get it up right. Soft little fucks, don’t know what to do with a pussy like this. Bet they don’t fuck you like I do.” His hips grind into you deep, dragging slowly along your walls until the sound that leaves your throat is broken and high. “You waited for this, didn’t you? For someone to ruin you. Not a boy. A man.” He drags his teeth down the back of your shoulder. The growl that rumbles out of him isn’t just lust- it’s years of repressed hunger, buried under every smile he gave your dad at barbecues. Every moment he watched you grow into this and looked away. Now he’s not looking away anymore.

His cock drives back in harder now, rougher. Each thrust makes your tits bounce and jiggles and skin on skin making loud noises. While he’s bent down to your level, too, to press his forehead to your shoulder that's damp with sweat. Voice getting ragged in your ear. “That’s what you are now,” he pants. “Big fucking girl with a big fucking cunt. Tight. Wet. Made for cock like this.” The words tumble out like they’ve been sitting in his throat forever. Like he’s been biting down on them through the time he saw you bent over during coaching sessions, every time he caught your little safety shorts or panties underneath your skirt. He’s talking like a man who’s been sick for years and finally let the disease in.

He’s losing the pace, it’s sloppy now. Losing control. Every movement turns messier. Desperate. One hand keeps palming your tits, the other locked hard around your hip like he’s holding himself together with it. His whole body hunches over yours, and you feel the way he starts to tremble. “Shit- fuck- I haven’t felt pussy this tight in years,” he groans. “Not since- fuck- not since before my wife stopped letting me touch her. Before she got tired of me cumming too quickly.” His voice catches like the memory hurts. Not just the sex- but the way it ended. The way no one’s wanted him this badly in so long. You make him feel young again. Strong again. Like a man again.

That makes your pussy flutter again. He groans like he feels it. “Fuck,” he spits, breath shuddering. “Can’t fucking hold it. You’re- god, you’re too much.” His voice is starting to break, like he hates that it’s ending already. Like he wishes he could last longer, fuck you better, take his time- but you’re making it impossible. You’re taking everything he has, and it’s still not enough. You can feel him teetering. Right at the edge. Like if he cums now, there’s no going back. No pretending this didn’t mean something. His thrusts stutter. Hips jerk. Arms shake. And still- he hasn’t pulled out.

Didn’t ask. Didn’t think. No condom. No anything. Just raw cock inside raw pussy, filling you up like it’s the most natural fucking thing in the world. “You didn’t ask,” you whisper. “Didn’t ask if I’m on anything.” You smile a little. Not mean. Just knowing. You want him to panic. Want him to realize how far he’s let himself go. “I’m not,” you say Your voice stays soft, almost gentle- like it’s not the most fucked-up thing you’ve said tonight. Like it’s not exactly what he wants to hear. His whole body jerks. Cock twitches once. Twice. Then he fucking loses it.

He cums so hard it knocks the breath out of him, voice shattering in your ear as he grits out every curse he can grab at. Thick spurts fill your pussy, hot and endless, soaking the mess already leaking between your thighs. His arms wrap tight around your waist, chest pressed to your back like he’s trying to stay inside forever. “Oh, fuck- fuck- ” His hips bucked again, pushing deeper. “You weren’t- shit- you’re serious- ?” You’re not but his words break like his conscience is trying to crawl back in, but it’s too late. His cock is already flooding you. And it’s still twitching. You moan. Smile into the sheets. Arch your back just enough to press him deeper inside.

“You gonna knock me up, Coach?” It’s like some sick joke when you said it, but it lands intending to send the message. His body tightens and stiffens like he realizes how fucked up this is. The sound that tears from his throat isn’t human. He slams forward again, cock twitching hard like the idea did something sick to him. “Yeah? What do you want? Want this old cock to fill you up? Want me to fucking breed you?” His voice goes lower. But there’s no panic anymore. No guilt. Just lust. Just want. Just need. Just the sound of a man realizing how far you’ll let him go.

He continues thrusting even though he just finished inside of you. Like he’s trying to stuff the idea so deep it takes root. His hand slides down, fingers pressing roughly against your clit. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you? Let me cum inside you again and again until it sticks?” He says it like a promise. Like a threat. Like the idea of you bloated and dripping with his cum is the most beautiful thing he’s ever imagined. Your cunt clenches. The pressure behind your belly snaps. You cum around him, shaking all over, walls fluttering and soaking his cock as more slick spills out around the base. Your moans come fast, messy, buried in the sheets, and still not enough to hide how hard it hits.

He feels it. You know he does. “Fuck, baby- look at that. Look at what this pussy does to me,” he groans, fucking through the aftershocks like he’s trying to give you every last drop. His voice breaks at the edges. Wrecked. Ruined. Proud. “You like it,” you pant. “You liked cumming in your best friend’s daughter.” Your voice is sweet, like you didn’t say some sick, turning words. Tainted. The kind of thing that would make your father kill Art. That’s the point. “Liked it so much you’re still hard.” You grind your hips back once, slowly. Just to feel it. And you’re right- he is. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t have to. His cock twitches again. Like he could do it all over. And maybe he will. Maybe neither of you is done.

But then he pulls out. Slowly. It’s thick. Messy. Your pussy grips him on the way out, and he groans low as the tip drags against your walls one last time. The sound it makes- wet, sticky, obscene- sticks in the air between you. His hands spread your ass, and the second he sees it, he stills. You’re leaking. His cum. Your cum. Both already mixed and dripping down from your swollen, he likes your pussy is begging for his cock to stay inside. It slowly spills down to your thighs down to the mattress, pooling under your knees while you remain on all fours. He watches it for a second. Just breathe. Cock twitching, soaked and flushed, still heavy in his fist.

Then his thumb comes down. Presses against your folds, spreading you open wider so he can watch more of the mess ooze out. He drags two fingers through it, up to your clit, and starts rubbing. Lazy. Bare. Slow enough to feel everything. Your hips jerk from the sensitivity, a breathy noise slipping out of you when his touch circles again. He doesn’t stop. Just watches the way your cunt flinches under his fingers, watches it twitch and leak like you’re still coming. His voice comes out hoarse. “Still twitching. Still so fucking wet.”

He leans down without warning. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t speak. Just buries his face in the mess he made. Hot breath hits your folds first, then his mouth. He licks a slow, deep stripe through the cum still spilling out of you- starts low, right at the base where it’s dripping, and drags up until he’s flicking over your clit. His hands push your thighs apart and hold them down, fingers gripping tight while his tongue gathers every drop of slick and seed like it belongs to him. You gasp. Your legs shake. He groans into you, tongue fucking into the mess and pulling it out with every stroke. He’s loud. Wet. Shameless. His lips wrap around your clit and you cry out again, arching into the mattress as his chin grinds against your pussy.

He doesn’t stop. Looks like he needs it. Like he’s starving. Like this is what he came for. He keeps going until the taste of your slick is indistinguishable from the taste of his own cum. Until the only sound left in the room is your soft panting and the filthy, wet noises of his tongue moving through everything he left inside you. He pulls back with his mouth still slick, chin wet with everything he just licked out of you. Doesn’t wipe it. Doesn’t speak yet. Just stares between your legs like he’s still not done, like his brain hasn’t caught up to what the fuck his body just did. His breath stays shaky. His hands won’t let go of your thighs.

Then it hits. Head drops. Shoulders sag. His voice comes out low. Hoarse. And it’s not even to you- it’s like he’s talking to himself, horrified. “What the fuck is wrong with me?” He presses a palm to his face, but not before you see the way his jaw locks, the way his eyes flick toward the bedroom door like someone might walk in. Like your dad might’ve heard the way you screamed his name. “Fuck… your dad’s gonna kill me.” He curses under his breath, something quiet and mean, and it sits heavy between the two of you.

Then he looks back at you- eyes dragging up your ruined body, your cunt still leaking, your skin all flushed and wet and marked by him- and there’s something in his face that splits between guilt and something sicker. Something he can’t unfeel. “This is what your dad meant when he said you looked up to me?” He groans like it hurts to say it. Just thinking about what this means makes his chest cave in. You shift under him, slow, but he stops you with a grip on your thigh. Still looking at you. Still not done falling apart.

“You’re his daughter. His fucking daughter.” His voice cracks on it. Like the words cost him everything. Like he knows he can’t take back what he just did. His breath shakes. His hands shake. And then he leans in just enough to whisper it, softer than the rest. Almost a begging. “Promise me you won’t tell him.”

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