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rdmartin592 · 1 day ago

Note

I know you’re working on Hoodoo Apprentice but I was wondering if you could give us a quick little filthy scene with Stack and one of his girls in The Blackline? I’m anxious to know how he gets down because I know it’s a time!

Thanks! 😊

Mirabel

Still have to introduce her but she’s been mentioned in Sanctified Heat. Been at The Blackline for a year.

Initiation – 1928

The sheets on Mirabel’s cot are still warm from her bath. Her skin glows with oil and lavender water, her curls damp at the ends, falling soft around her face. She’s in the slip they gave her—thin, pale pink satin, nothing underneath. It clings to her like a second skin, and her nipples are visible through the fabric, hard from nerves or the chill in the air. Probably both.

The shared room is dim, one of the other girls already snoring softly in her bunk.

Mirabel is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet bare, fingers worrying the hem of her slip when the door creaks open.

Cordelia steps in—tall, dark, striking in a black robe trimmed with lace, a cigarette held between two long fingers. Her gold tooth glints when she smirks.

“He’s ready.”

Mirabel looks up. Her breath catches.

She knows who he is.

“Stack?”

Cordelia raises a brow, amused.

“Ain’t but one man in this house you go to first, baby. You want to work here, you go through him. You understand?”

Mirabel nods. She stands, heart pounding in her chest.

Cordelia looks her over, slow and sharp, then steps closer. She reaches out and gently pulls one of the straps of Mirabel’s slip up higher, smoothing the fabric over her shoulder.

“Don’t talk unless he tells you to. Don’t rush. Let him take what he wants.”

A pause. A small smirk.

“And if he says dance? Baby…you dance.”

The hallway is quiet as Cordelia leads her down the back corridor. The wallpaper is faded. One of the sconces flickers. At the end of the hall is a door most girls only walk through once—their first time.

Cordelia knocks once.

Then opens it.

“She’s here.”

She gives Mirabel a light tap on the ass and murmurs:

“Good luck, baby.”

Then she closes the door behind her.

The room is warm. Smells like cedarwood, smoke, sweat, and old leather. It’s dimly lit—just one lamp on a side table casting shadows across the space.

At the center of the room is a worn leather chair, wide and deep, and in it, Stack is stretched out—legs spread, cigar in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other.

His shirt is half-open. His slacks are loose at the waist. His chain catches the light against his chest.

He doesn’t move when she steps in.

Just looks at her.

Up. Down. Lingers.

“Come here.”

Mirabel walks slow, bare feet soundless on the rug. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She doesn’t speak.

“Close the door behind you.”

She obeys.

Click.

He exhales a lazy breath of smoke, then nods toward the empty space in front of him.

“Stand right there. Let me look at you.”

She steps into the light. He takes his time.

“Turn around.”

She does. Slowly.

“Mmm.” A sip of whiskey, “That slip was made for a body like yours. How’s it feel?”

“Soft,” she whispers.

“Speak up.”

“Soft, sir.”

“You nervous?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Means you know this ain’t no game.”

He leans forward, sets his cigar in the tray, and his glass on the table beside him.

“You want to work for me, Belle?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then come give me a reason.” He spreads his legs wider, “Crawl.”

Mirabel sinks to her knees.

The rug is rough beneath them. Her hands hover for a moment, unsure—and that hesitation doesn’t go unnoticed.

Stack leans back in the chair, arms draped over the sides, watching her with the same slow hunger as a man sizing up meat at the butcher.

“You scared, Belle?”

Her voice is soft, but honest.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Means you’ll listen.”

He nods once toward the space between his knees.

“Now dance for me. Strip real slow. I wanna see what I’m payin’ for.”

She swallows hard, her hands beginning to rise to the straps of her slip. Her breathing is shallow. Her fingers tremble.

“Look at me while you do it.”

She lifts her eyes.

And undresses.

Her fingertips skim the delicate satin of her slip, slowly pulling the straps down from her shoulders—first one, then the other. The fabric glides over her skin, pooling at her waist, revealing the soft swell of her breasts. Her nipples are already peaked, dark and tight, the room cool against her oiled skin.

She pauses, chest bare, waiting for instruction.

“Keep goin’.”

She stands slowly—knees creaking, body shak —and lets the slip fall the rest of the way. It pools at her ankles in a whisper.

She steps out of it.

Now she’s fully naked, standing in front of him, arms twitching with the instinct to cover herself.

He stops her with a word.

“No.”

His gaze drags over her slowly. Her small, soft stomach. The dip of her waist. The curve of her hips and thighs. Her pussy is smooth and bare, glistening just faintly — whether from nerves or heat, he doesn’t care.

“You ever danced for a man before?”

“No, sir.”

“You ever undressed for a man before?”

“Just once.”

“Wasn’t like this, was it?”

She shakes her head, lips parted, breath shaky.

“Did he make you feel wanted?”

“No, sir.”

Stack sits forward slowly, letting his hand fall to his lap, gripping his dick lazily as he strokes it.

“I do. And you ain’t even touched me yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then make me want it more.”

She starts to move—awkward at first. Her hands run down her sides, across her belly, over the gentle curve of her thighs. Her hips sway, but it’s hesitant, shy.

He watches her like she’s performing on stage, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

“Slower. Touch your tits. Roll them for me.”

She obeys, cupping her breasts, massaging them gently, fingers flicking her nipples. Her breath catches.

“Look at that,” he spoke, “She touchin’ herself already.”

She moans under her breath—not because she’s told to, but because she feels it now. The heat. The eyes on her. The power of being told what to do and doing it right.

“Now get back on your knees.”

She sinks again, this time bare, her thighs trembling, her pussy glistening in the low light. She crawls the last few inches until she’s between his knees.

Stack’s dick is hard now—thick, dark, the head slick and angry. He strokes it once, slow, then leans back and grins.

“Now show me how much you wanna work here.”

She parts her lips and—ready, obedient, already wrecked from the way he looked at her. She leans in instinctively with her mouth open, tongue peeking out but, Stack just lets out a low chuckle, deep in his chest.

“Easy, Belle. You don’t get to taste me just yet.”

Her breath hitches. She freezes.

“Nah. You gotta earn that.”

He grips the base of his dick and slaps it gently across her cheek—wet, heavy, and slow.

Smack.

She gasps, lashes fluttering.

Smack. Smack.

The tip glides across her lips—smearing pre-cum across her mouth, her chin, the soft curve of her jaw.

“Look at you. Already droolin’. That mouth even ready for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s see.”

He drags the head across her cheek again, then taps it on her tongue when she sticks it out—just barely letting it rest there before pulling back.

“Nah. Keep them hands behind your back.”

She quickly folds her hands behind her, spine straightening, offering herself completely. Her knees shift slightly on the rug, and her thighs press together, slick with need.

“You ever been slapped in the face with dick before, Belle?”

“No, sir.”

“Mmm. Shame. Pretty face like this was made for it.”

He slaps her again, firmer this time—the sound wet and obscene. Her breath shudders, tears gathering in the corners of her eyes from the sting and the heat.

“You feel that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s it feel like?”

“Like…I belong on my knees.”

“You do.”

Another slow, dragging slap across her face.

“You ever been told you got a face made for suckin’?”

“N-no, sir.”

“You do. Gonna fuck your mouth so deep you forget your name.”

He leans forward slightly, his hand threading into her curls, tilting her head up.

“Open.”

She does.

“Wider.”

She stretches her jaw, obedient, tongue out, drool already slicking her lips.

He rubs the head of his dick against her tongue, slow and deliberate, dragging it across the wet surface and smearing precum on her taste buds. Then he slaps it once more against her lips.

“Say please.”

“Please, sir. Please let me suck it.”

“Why?”

“Because I need it. Because I want to serve you.”

“Say it nastier.”

“I wanna suck your dick, sir. I want it in my throat. I want it to ruin my face.”

Stack groans low.

“You ask real pretty.”

He grips her by the hair, lines himself up with her mouth, and with a slow, brutal thrust, slides deep past her lips—into her throat—beginning her real initiation.

Stack sinks his dick into Mirabel’s mouth, slow but unrelenting—thick, heavy, the stretch making her eyes flutter and her throat clench. She gags on the first real thrust, and her hands twitch behind her back.

“There it is,” he mutters, jaw tight, “Can’t even take half before you start chokin’. Thought you said you was ready.”

Mirabel whimpers, throat flexing around him, spit spilling from the corners of her mouth.

“You said you wanted to serve me, Belle. Said you wanted this dick down your throat. That still true?”

She moans, nodding with her mouth full, but the moment she starts to gag again, he pulls out, letting his dick fall wet and heavy against her cheek.

Smack.

“Tsk. You ain’t ready yet.”

She gasps for air, spit trailing down her chin. Her tongue chases the head of his dick instinctively, but he leans back just slightly, denying her.

“No, no. You too greedy. Mouth ain’t trained yet.”

He licks his thumb, then reaches down and drags it along her bottom lip.

“Gotta see what I’m workin’ with.”

Then he slips two fingers into her mouth.

She opens wide, obedient, lips closing around them like it’s second nature. He slides in slow—then deeper— until they press the back of her tongue.

“There we go…yeah, suck on ’em. Like it’s me.”

She moans around them.

“Mmhm. That’s how you suck dick, Belle? Like you hungry? You starvin’?”

He pushes deeper.

She gags.

“There she go,” he chuckles, eyes gleaming, “Throat tight. You ain’t even halfway trained and already fallin’ apart.”

He pulls his fingers out just enough for her to breathe —then pushes them right back in.

“Let’s test that reflex, see how much cryin’ you do before you learn to take me proper.”

She chokes again, tears starting to well and roll down her cheeks—but she doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

He sees it.

And he grins.

“That’s my girl. You wanna be trained, huh?”

“Mmhmm,” she moans around his fingers.

“You wanna be a good little throat for me. A wet hole to come home to.”

She nods.

“Yeah. I’m gonna make you gag until your makeup run. Gonna stuff this pretty face full every night ’til it’s second nature.”

He pulls his fingers free—wet, glistening—and smears the spit across her cheek, then down to her neck, trailing slow over her chest.

“We ain’t even got started yet, Belle.”

He leans in, voice low, filthy.

“Next time I fuck your throat, you better not gag. You better thank me.”

The room is thick with tension and scent—sex, sweat, wood smoke, and the faint perfume of lavender still clinging to Mirabel’s skin.

In the corner, a gramophone crackles softly as Billie Holiday sings “You’re My Thrill.”

The sultry voice drips like honey through the air, sweet and low:

You’re my thrill…

You do something to me…

You send chills right through me…

Mirabel kneels back in front of him—bare, flushed, glassy-eyed, face slick with tears and spit, her mouth red and swollen, wide open in readiness.

Stack strokes himself slow, towering over her in that deep leather chair like a king watching a servant beg to be used.

“Now that’s the face I like,” he drawls, “Wrecked and willin’. You ready to behave now, Belle?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, breathless.

“Good. Don’t fuckin’ gag this time. Open that pretty hole.”

She parts her lips without hesitation. Stack stands, dick thick and veined in his fist, and steps closer, letting the head of it rest on her tongue before sliding in slow inch by inch until her lips are stretched tight around the shaft.

“There you go,” he groans, “Yeah. Wrap that throat around me. I want you to feel every fuckin’ inch.”

She does.

He thrusts shallow at first—slow, gliding strokes, dragging the head across her tongue, savoring the way her lips flutter with each pass. He watches her—fixated —one hand cupping the back of her head, the other resting on the arm of the chair, his body tense with restraint.

“You hear that, Belle?” he pants, “That’s what obedience sounds like. Wet. Sloppy. Beautiful.”

The sound is obscene—slurp, suck, choke, gasp—and still, Billie’s voice curls through the room like smoke.

You’re my thrill…

Then Stack grips her hair tighter, hips flexing.

“Now breathe through it, Belle. Don’t run.”

And just like that—he starts to fuck her throat.

Hard.

His hips slap against her mouth with each thrust, the head of his dick punching the back of her throat. Spit flies, pooling at the corners of her mouth and dripping down her chin. Her nose runs. Her eyes water. She whimpers.

“Uh-huh,” Stack growls, “Cry on it. That’s it. Let it break you.”

She chokes, gags—but holds still, obedient, her knees planted firm, her throat working around him.

“Fuck. Just like that. Throat tight as a fist,” he grunts, “You were made for this. You know that?”

He pulls her forward, burying his cock deep, holding her nose to his pelvis.

She chokes loud, body jerking.

“Take it.”

She gurgles, hands twitching, tears running down her cheeks—but she doesn’t move away. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t quit.

Stack lets out a ragged moan and thrusts even harder, rutting into her mouth like she’s just a toy, groaning every time her throat clenches.

“You like bein’ my fuckhole, Belle?”

“Mmhmm,” she moans around him, eyes fluttering.

“Say it.”

He pulls out just enough for her to gasp:

“I love it. I wanna be your fuckhole. I wanna make you cum, sir—please, please, use me—”

“Oh, I’m gonna.”

He drives back in—one hand on the back of her head, the other gripping the chair—and fucks her mouth mercilessly, chasing his release with gritted teeth and ragged breath.

“This what every bitch here gotta learn, Belle. How to take me. How to thank me when I give it.”

Her face is a mess—red, wet, sobbing with need—and she nods as he drills into her, her body swaying from the force of it.

Then suddenly, he snarls through his teeth:

“Fuck, Belle—I’m gonna come—open wide—take every drop—don’t spill a fuckin’ drop.”

He yanks her down and buries himself to the root, his dick twitching deep in her throat as he pours into her, groaning long and low, hips jerking. She swallows instinctively, gagging around the sheer amount, but she doesn’t pull away.

She takes it.

All of it.

When he finally pulls out, his dick glistens, her lips bruised, mouth open, cum glistening on her tongue and chin. She blinks up at him, eyes glassy, chest heaving.

He smirks down at her, sweat at his brow.

“Yeah. You ready now.”

Mirabel stays on her knees, trembling—face ruined, chest rising and falling in quick, ragged pulls. Stack’s cum is still warm in her mouth, a salty taste thick on her tongue, with stray droplets clinging to her chin and the underside of her jaw.

Stack doesn’t move for a moment. Just looks down at her with a lazy, satisfied curl in his lip—the kind of grin that says this one’s mine now.

Then he sighs.

“C’mere, Belle.”

She blinks, still dazed, but shuffles forward. Her knees ache. Her throat’s sore. Her body’s soft and compliant now, like everything she had has been poured out of her.

Stack reaches down, grabs her by the waist, and lifts her effortlessly into his lap. Her bare thighs straddle his pants, his dick softening against her belly, still slick with spit and satisfaction.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush.

Just holds her.

One hand runs slow along her spine, palm splayed wide across her back, warm and grounding. The other reaches to the side table and grabs a cloth from a folded pile nearby—they always keep them in the initiation room.

He wets it from a little silver bowl and starts wiping her face.

Gently.

He wipes her chin. Her lips. The corner of her eyes. Her neck.

“You took that like a good girl,” he murmurs. “Didn’t tap out. Didn’t flinch. You let me use you.”

She rests her cheek against his shoulder, weak but glowing inside.

“Thank you, sir,” she whispers.

He chuckles.

“Don’t thank me yet. That was just your first

A soft knock taps at the door.

Stack doesn’t answer—just says, flat and calm:

“It’s open.”

The door creaks, and Cordelia steps in—barefoot, in a silky black robe with her curls pinned up, lips glossed and expression unreadable. Her eyes fall on Mirabel curled up in Stack’s lap — still naked, still trembling, her thighs sticky and pink from exertion.

Cordelia gives her a once-over, lips curling slightly.

“She took it?”

“Mmhm,” Stack replies, still rubbing Mirabel’s hip with a lazy hand, “Did good.”

Cordelia walks in fully now, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She approaches slowly, kneeling down beside the chair and running her fingers lightly through Mirabel’s curls.

“Hey baby,” she murmurs, “You alright?”

Mirabel nods.

“You sore?”

Another small nod.

Cordelia smiles and leans in, whispering:

“Good. Means you did it right.”

Mirabel lets out a breath—half relief, half release.

Cordelia kisses her temple, then says softly:

“He’ll call for you again tomorrow night.”

Mirabel’s eyes flicker open.

“Tomorrow?”

“Mmhmm,” Cordelia says, pulling her curls back gently to smooth the sweat from her neck, “Second part of your initiation. First night’s about takin’ him. Next night’s about learnin’ how to please him.”

Stack grins, still stroking.

“Gon’ teach her how to ride proper.”

Cordelia smirks and whispers to Mirabel:

“Better soak your thighs in cold water, baby. You gon’ need ’em.”

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