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Fall from Grace

(Captain John Price x F!Reader)

CW: Slight angst. Inexperienced (but not virgin) reader. Smut (oral, f!receiving; PiV, unprotected). 18+ only.

Word Count: 7324

AN: This was requested by an anonymous person!

It’s part of Captain Price’s job to know his soldiers. He has their dossiers memorized, of course, but he also learns them intimately through their work together. How could he not? War reveals the true core of a person, their real character, but the mundane moments add color. The long helicopter rides, the long plane rides. The long stretches of time sitting, waiting for intel, waiting for orders.

It's boring. His soldiers talk to fill the quiet and pass the time. They joke and tease each other, discuss football matches and rugby scores. Sometimes, when it’s dark outside, in the quiet hours before dawn, they talk in low voices and share secrets, fears, worries.

Captain Price overhears much of it.

He overhears Gaz talk about his girl back in London, how terrified he is to lose her. How he worries that he’ll never be good enough for her.

He overhears Ghost’s low rumble as he talks about his family and the loss of them. How losing his brother Tommy and his nephew Joseph broke some part of him that will never heal.

He overhears Soap—convivial Soap—talk about his passel of siblings and how they’ve all married and found careers and started to have children. How he feels left behind, out of sync with his own family. How he doesn’t want to go home on leave, sometimes, because he feels so out of step with where he came from.

What Captain Price overhears from you is less deep for a long while. You’re a cipher. He has the bare facts of your dossier, but when it’s the small hours of the night and everyone is restless, you don’t open up the way the men do. You rarely let your guard down.

It shouldn’t affect Price, but it does. Is it a benign sort of misogyny that makes him want to protect you more than he does Gaz or Ghost or Soap? Or is it the fact that he sees how hard you try, how you keep your walls up even when everyone else is sharing their darkest secrets? Is it because he worries that you think he’s judging you, that when you catch him watching you, you see judgement there?

So for a long while, Price overhears little from you. He hears inconsequential things. Music you like, your favorite brand of beer. A memory from your childhood that makes the guys laugh.

But there is a night where it changes.

The 141 is on a plane back to base. The latest mission was a success, a new terrorist group quashed before it could get off the ground. Price sits in the back of the plane and gets a head start on his paperwork while you and the guys sit around a four-seat table and play a no-stakes game of poker for little chits of torn notebook paper.

Everyone has leave coming up, so the evening’s talk is brighter. There’s more laughter, more gentle shoving and ribbing as Gaz throws down winning cards and sweeps the pile of chits in front of him.

And when the chatter turns to sex, Captain Price bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He’s reminded that these soldiers, his men, are little more than boys sometimes.

It starts with Gaz waxing poetic about his girl, and Soap makes it bawdy by saying Gaz will spend his leave horizontal and return to base dehydrated and exhausted. Gaz chucks him on the shoulder but Price can see the pleased grin on the man’s face: of course he’s going to spend a lot of his leave in bed with his girl.

Then it shifts to Soap and his handful of reliable hook-ups. He says he has a bevy of women, all Scottish and feisty, and that earns him a chuck from you, a hard little punch to his bicep and you tell him to behave himself.

“Ach, don’t be jealous, hen,” Soap whines, rubbing his arm. “I could clear some room in the schedule for ye if ye want to join me in Inverness.”

“That’s a lot of travel for, what? Two minutes of disappointment?”

Soap lays his palm over his heart, mimes being wounded, and he says something in reply but Price misses it because Gaz and Ghost are laughing too loudly.

And that’s how Price learns about you. The flight turns into rapid-fire questions, talk, and rejoinders about sex. You mostly stay silent, but you take little zings—mostly at Soap—but each time Price glances over at you, your face has a taut quality that he’s only seen on the battlefield.

Interesting.

If he thought it’d be something for him to mull over later, he’s wrong. Halfway through the flight, Gaz brings up the topic of favorite positions, and when Soap asks you what your favorite position is, you snort and say, “on my right side, curled up with my pillow, alone. Asleep. White noise machine set on ‘rainstorm.’”

That makes Price laugh, but he covers it smoothly with a cough, keeps his head bent over his paperwork.

But the guys are like sharks, and your sarcastic non-answer is like chum in the water. And you’re good—smart, resilient—but you’re also their captive audience, and they wear you down.

An hour into their three-on-one interrogation, the truth comes out: you are fairly inexperienced at sex.

“Virgin?” asks Gaz.

“No.”

“How many times—” starts Soap, but you cut him with a glare that even he won’t challenge.

“Were you assaulted?” Ghost asks in his soft rumble, and that makes you go soft too, your glare shifting from Soap to gazing at the hulking man in his skull mask.

“No, Si.” Your voice is low, and Price watches as you lay a gentle hand on Ghost’s forearm. “I’m lucky. Never that.”

Ghost pats your hand with his own. “Just saying, love. If you were, and you knew the guy’s name, I’d make him a grease stain before the week is out.”

(And this is part of why being a captain is such a burden: the quiet little exchange between you and Ghost makes a hot flare of love burn in his chest, how the two of you are like a brother and sister to each other. The purest form of found family.)

But then Soap breaks the moment. “Just not into it then?”

You shrug. “Guess not.”

“Why?” Gaz asks it, and he sounds genuinely curious.

Another shrug. “It’s hard to have a relationship in our line of work.”

“Ah,” Soap says. He leans back in his seat, crosses his arms over his chest. “Makes sense now. You need to be in love with someone before you’ll sleep with ‘em.”

“Not necessarily.” You reach out and gather the playing cards, the poker game long abandoned. Price watches from under the brim of his hat as you fiddle with the cards, stacking them up, squaring the edges, shuffling them idly.

“Then what?” Soap prods, and you sigh.

“I dunno. It’s just…a lot of work, you know? You gotta vet a guy even if he’s a one-night stand, and you have to play it cool but not too cool, and you have to be friendly but not too friendly. You have to shower and shave and smell nice but not put on too much perfume, and you have to dress just right and wear uncomfortable lingerie and pinching shoes. I did all that shit when I was in my twenties, and the handful of times I finally got a guy on the line and reeled him in? It wasn’t worth the effort. All that work and stress for what? A few minutes of nothing. A few minutes of bad kissing where the guy slobbers on me worse than a Saint Bernard, awful beer breath too. And while he’s jamming his tongue down my throat, he’s groping me like someone drowning and grabbing at a life preserver. Then what? Then the main event, and all that effort is a waste because he doesn’t notice the nice lingerie at all, he doesn’t notice that I smell nice and shaved and moisturized because he’s lying on top of me like some paradoxical corpse slash jackhammer because he’s weirdly positioned and barely touching me, not looking at me, just dead eyes fixed off into space, but he’s also, what, thrusting for half a minute before he’s done? And then it’s ‘thanks, love, great shag,’ and he’s rolling off of me, getting dressed again and out the door, and the entire affair took less time than it takes to bake a frozen pizza. I mean, what’s the point?”

A deadly silence falls over the group. The only sound is the thrum of the plane’s engines, and you look up from where you’re fiddling with the cards to find everyone staring at you. Your eyes dart over to where Price is staring at you too, and you make a face and duck your head.

“Jesus, hen,” Soap breathes out.

“I’m sorry,” Gaz adds.

You chuckle weakly. “For what?”

“On behalf of men, I guess?”

Ghost, at least…sweet Ghost and his brotherly love for you…he pats your hand and says quietly, “well, you always smell nice, love, and I always notice.”

-----

Price doesn’t do anything.

Leave starts and you disappear, off to someplace on your list of places to visit. Who knows with you? You love the world, all parts of it, so it’s just as likely that you’re in a jungle in Costa Rica as you would be in Tokyo.

Leave ends and the team reassembles. There’s a mission in the mountains of a country teetering into civil war. There’s a mission for intel. There’s an extraction mission. There’s a mission to take down a warlord in a lithium-rich country, and there’s a close call there. A bullet grazes you, cuts a burning line along your hip, and seeing you bloodstained and limping pulls Price up short.

He shouldn’t care the way he does. He cares about all of his soldiers, loves everyone, but he’d be lying if you weren’t different. The love he holds for the men is paternal: Soap and Ghost and Gaz are the sons he never had.

You? His love for you is more complicated. There’s a whiff of paternalism, a protectiveness that he knows you’d chafe at if you knew. There’s admiration, of course. But there’s also a deep vein of romantic love that threads between you and Price, and if you don’t know it, it’s only because Price has a good poker face and hides his feelings so well.

By the time you’re shot, everyone has earned another leave. Ghost, Gaz, and Soap all disappear for a month. Price could go to his empty house in the countryside, but he usually just stays on base anyway.

You?

The night before leave starts, there’s a knock on his office door, and when he calls out, you poke your head in.

“Have a moment, sir?”

He nods, gestures at the chair in front of his desk, and he winces internally at how you limp a bit, your stitches obviously pulling. You settle in your seat and he nods at you to start.

“I thought I might stay here for leave,” you say. “I’m not really in any shape to travel, and I’d be close to medical if anything goes bad with my wound.”

He says nothing, so you add, with less certainty, “would that be alright, sir?”

Price clears his throat. “Of course.”

Of course it’s okay that you stay on base for leave. With him. With few other people around.

-----

But he does nothing during your month together. How could he? He’s your superior. It would be wildly inappropriate to knock on your door some evening and confess his feelings for you.

One small concession: he orders you to call him ‘John’ while you’re on leave. No Captain, no ‘sir.’ He wants you at ease, relaxed, healing. You still wake up early, he notices. You train on a modified program as you heal. You keep your room painfully neat, hospital corners on your bed, boots polished and tucked in your foot locker.

But you do relax. You go off base and have a pint alone in a pub, come back slightly looser with your smiles. His name rolls easier off your tongue when you have some alcohol in you.

You lie on the couch in the rec room and read giant novels. You doze off to tennis on the television, and Price aches as he watches you sleep. You look so young this way; the years and stress slough off of you in slumber.

There is one night he cajoles you into joining him out for dinner off base. There’s a steakhouse nearby, and Price is craving a steak and a whiskey and a good cigar, and he’s craving your company. You agree, and the weeks on leave have softened you towards him. Maybe you see him as John now and not just Captain Price, and the conversation over steak flows so evenly that any casual observer might think it a date between an established couple.

But he does nothing more. Not this time.

-----

Leave ends. Another mission. Another. Intel-gathering, coup-ending. They intercept a dirty bomb for sale in a Morocco marketplace. They break up a human trafficking ring. They support Kor-tac in a mission.

Another leave. You’re healed now, but when Gaz asks where you’re going, you shrug and say nowhere.

“I didn’t plan anything,” you admit, and Price watches you on the sly. You explain that New York City was next on your list of places, but you are tired of cities, tired of the crush of people and always wondering where the next threat was. You tell Gaz, as Price eavesdrops, that you really just wanted a quiet month in the country but hadn’t the time to research anywhere or book anything—

He has to wait for Gaz to leave, which gives him a moment to despair that it’s a bad idea. It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but even with a moment to stop himself, Price can’t stop himself. He pulls you aside once you’re alone and the words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“I have a place in the Lake District,” he says. “Quiet, in Rosgill. I’m going myself, but it’s a big place for just me. Too big, really. You could join, if you want.”

It’s a terrible idea, the worst idea, but it must mean something that you only think on it for a beat before you smile at him and accept his offer with your genuine thanks.

-----

On the trip to his home, he explains it to you, and he hates how he sounds like an estate agent selling you on the charms of the place.

“It’s an old seventeenth century blacksmith forge that’s been converted into a home. Quiet. One side overlooks the eastern fells.”

He explains how he bought it when he was young with the windfall of his father’s modest estate when the old man died from a heart attack.

He doesn’t explain that it had been his dream as a young man to share it with someone, and as that dream had steadily died off, so too has the planned renovations. The place is half-restored—mostly the house proper—but his plans for the outbuildings and grounds have been abandoned. He had planned a copse of trees, a raised garden bed for vegetables and herbs, a small greenhouse. What was the point of sinking money into a place that never saw any use?

You laugh quietly, then say that you don’t even have a home, that you have a small storage unit in Reading for the handful of things you can’t bear to give up.

“I appreciate your hospitality, Captain,” you say.

He tuts, reminds you to call him by his first name. “There’s no Captain Price in Rosgill. Just John.”

-----

It takes less than a week to fall into a comfortable domestic rhythm with you. John wonders at it: he had a girlfriend in his late twenties who had moved in for a year, and the two of them never reached even a fraction of the ease you and he reach within days.

It doesn’t mean it’s not torture. The house has two bathrooms and a WC, but you end up sharing a bathroom because it’s the only one on the second floor, situated between both of your bedrooms. It’s torture to shower after you, when everything is damp and faintly scented with your soap. It’s torture to see your toiletry bag sitting on the edge of the sink, and of course he snoops. Takes in the tube of lip balm, your brand of toothpaste, a bottle of paracetamol. He sees a little ornate glass bottle of perfume, and he uncaps it, smells it. It makes him remember the conversation on the plane, your rant about your disappointing experiences with sex, all the effort you put in to look nice and smell nice.

Which makes the rest torture too. You calling him John. You stretched out on a chaise in the conservatory that overlooks the fells. You making him a simple, hearty dinner—who knew you could cook?—then calling him to table, your name in his mouth, your hands passing him a plate with chicken and roasted vegetables, your smile as he pours you another glass of wine. You passing him in the hallway at night in your sleepwear, the soft-looking pajama pants and oversized t-shirt that strains around your breasts. You meeting his eye, smiling at him, saying “g’night, John.”

Then the torture of your bedroom door clicking shut behind you, with John on the other side of it.

-----

It’s the meteor shower that changes it. The Perseids, and John’s home has a big conservatory with a wall of windows that overlooks the night sky. He mentions them to you that morning, suggests it might be nice to stay up and watch them together, maybe open a bottle of Lagavulin to mark the occasion.

It’s also Soap that changes it. You and John make dinner together—just a spag bol—and your phone chimes as you’re sitting to eat. You swipe at the lock screen, read the message, and snort.

“Soap,” you say, and you hold up the screen to John even though he can’t read the tiny print. “Says he had a cancellation with one of his standby ladies and can work me into his rotation if I can get to Inverness in an hour.”

John chuckles, shakes his head. “Want me to put him on KP duty when we get back?”

“A few extra laps on his runs wouldn’t hurt. Wearing full kit, for the weight.”

The thread of conversation could die off, but it’s an opening, and John takes it. He clears his throat, spins a forkful of spaghetti on his plate, then offers, “I’m sorry you’ve had such a rough go of it. Romantically, I mean.”

You shrug. “It’s fine.”

“For what it’s worth, I’ve not had the easiest time of it lately.”

It earns him another snort, and you cock an eyebrow at him, pull an incredulous face. “I don’t buy it.”

He’s not lying. His twenties, he was a wolf on the prowl. Broke plenty of hearts, had his own broken in turn. He had a few girlfriends, one who moved in for a bit, then moved out after a terrific row, never to return. He always had the fixed idea that he’d meet someone by his mid-thirties, take an early retirement by his mid-forties, and have a family waiting for him by then.

But as his mid-thirties receded, he found the prospect of dating a bleak affair. Some women were too young, too immature. The generational differences in sex and love were too steep to overcome. Some wanted a sugar daddy. Some wanted to be taken care of with no care extending back in his direction. Other women were older, closer to his age, but saddled with ex-husbands, children bitter from divorce, a cynicism that John couldn’t overcome.

He doesn’t tell you any of that. Instead, he volleys it back at you, retorts with a gentle smile that he doesn’t buy that you hadn’t had a single satisfying experience in your life.

You sigh, shrug again. “Ah, well. I guess I can’t blame the men entirely. Who’s to say I wasn’t the problem? Maybe I’m a terrible kisser.”

“Doubtful.”

“Just outrageous amounts of tongue.”

John laughs, and you grin at him, add, “garlic breath, too. Got too bitey halfway through a make-out session. Made the guy bleed. Now he has a scar on his lip and he tells all the blokes down at the pub about the crazy girl he took out once who bit him.”

John puts down his fork and takes a drink of wine. He smiles around the rim of his glass. “None of that can be true.”

“Didn’t know how to move during sex, so I elbowed him hard and broke his nose. Touched him in a weird spot in an attempt to be sexy and creeped him out.”

He laughs again. “What’s considered a weird spot?”

“Maybe I, I dunno…rubbed his elbows in a seductive way. Touched him between his toes in the hopes of turning him on. Maybe no one ever told me that that there’s no erogenous zone in the space between toes.”

His laughter grows at the mental image you’re painting; tears creep out of the corners of his eyes. “That’s how I know you’re lying,” he manages to reply. “Because most men would find any type of touch from a woman sexy.”

You cock an eyebrow at that and take a sip of your own wine. “Duly noted, John. If I ever make a move on you, I’m coming for your toes.”

“Prepare to be awestruck then, sweetness: I have feet like a fucking hobbit.”

Your first response is to laugh at him, but he notes the way you take in the pet name, the little shine you get in your eyes. The conversation dies off, shifts to other topics, but the rest of dinner holds a charge in the air, and both of you can feel it.

-----

After you share clean-up duties in the kitchen, you make your way to the conservatory. It’s just a fancy word for ‘living room,’ but it holds no television: just a bookcase, a fireplace, and a few chaise lounges and couches for taking in the view. John used to envision lazy weekends in here with a family: a wife and kids, maybe, settled around a board game. A dog curled up by the fire.

He also used to envision something like this: sharing an intimate moment with a woman here. His ex hated the house, hated how remote it was. She liked London and the bustle of cities, but you are a better fit. You settle on the chaise, curl up on your side like a cat, and you sip at the cut-glass tumbler of whiskey when he hands it to you. John settles on the floor right near you, and the two of you chat while you wait for the meteor shower to start.

You don’t talk about much of consequence. It’s a rambling conversation, tinged by the alcohol but not impaired by it. The evening holds a dreamy quality, like it’s not quite real, like if John raises his voice above a low rumble he might pop the ambiance like a soap bubble.

When the first streak of white shoots across the sky, you both fall silent. John turns away from you and faces the windows, and you both watch quietly. Once in a while you sigh, a pleased little exhale, and the spell deepens. Weaves of magic seem to tighten around the two of you with each brilliant falling star.

John leans his head back and rests it against the chaise, but he bumps into some part of you. He mutters a sorry, and you whisper back no worries, but a beat later he feels your hand on the top of his head. Tentative. Shy. A question in the touch, and he answers it by leaning into you more. You push your fingers into his hair, and he honest-to-god has to bite his fucking tongue at the moan that threatens to tear out of his throat at the feeling of you touching him.

He turns his head and finds you watching him, not the meteor shower. He knows he cannot go a single step further without putting it all out in the open, addressing it immediately.

“You know I’m your commanding officer,” he says softly. “Not here, but when we get back. And I’m not stupid. I know some part of you still thinks of me as your captain even here, just like some part of me still thinks of you as my charge.”

You nod. Say nothing. Look at him expectantly.

“What I mean is, this leave will end and we’ll have to go back. We have to be able to compartmentalize it. And I need to know that you want this completely free and clear. That there’s no part of you that feels you have to do this, because I know there’s a power imbalance, but…” He trails off, doesn’t want to admit it out loud.

“But what, John?” you prod, and he takes a breath, finally says it.

“I know there’s a power imbalance here, and I know I should be strong enough—should be your captain, I mean—and stop this before it starts. But I can’t. I don’t want to.”

You don’t laugh at him, and you don’t pout at his words. You nod seriously. You say you understand, that it’s complicated. You promise that you will try to compartmentalize it.

“It’s just me and you right now,” you say, softly. “Just two people. Not boss and employee or captain and soldier. I don’t feel pressured or feel any power imbalance. And John? I don’t want you to stop it before it starts. Truly.”

This must be what falling from grace feels like. Some small part of John despairs at this breach of trust, even if you assure him it isn’t so: he’s your captain, he’s worked so hard to always keep clear lines between him and his soldiers. He needs to be able to send people he cares about, people he loves, into situations where death is more likely than staying alive. He needs to be able to leaf through your dossier and not blink at the section where you’ve listed out your final wishes in the event of death. He needs to be able to leave you behind if it threatens the mission or the 141, and he’s always been able to do that before but the moment you lean forward and kiss him—your hand cupping the curve of his face, drawing him to you eagerly—he knows he’ll never be able to do any of that again.

He's failed as a commander, and a small part of him despairs, but the larger part rejoices at the feeling of your lips on his, your hands on him. His eyes shut, and you both completely forget the meteor shower as you fall from grace together.

-----

You make out in stages: the eagerness cedes to a near-shyness, then melts into a level of comfort as you get used to each other. John knows now that you oversold your inability to kiss—you’re eager, then you’re shy, but you’re pretty damned good at it after all, and if those other assholes you’ve slept with didn’t think so, then that’s on them.

He eventually makes his way up to the chaise to sit beside you, and then he guides you into his lap. He has you straddle him, and when his palm gently grasps your cheek to lead you back to kiss him, he feels how flushed you are under his hand.

“You okay?”

You nod against his hold. “Yes,” you reply, but you perch yourself back in his lap, closer to his knees, and he can feel how you’re holding your weight off of him.

“We can take this slow. There’s no rush. We can stop here.”

“I know.” A beat, and you add, “I’m good, John, really.”

“Then c’mere, love. Settle in.”

When you don’t move, he puts his hands on your hips and draws you down and in, pulls the delicious weight of you right where he wants you most. Right on top of him. His growing erection presses against your clothed core, and your breasts brush against his chest. He slides one hand around to your ass and grips the swell of you, kneads at your flesh, but the other hand slides up to cup the nape of your neck. To hold you steady as he kisses you more forcefully.

John tries to strike the perfect balance between gentle and still leading you. He presses his tongue against the seam of your mouth, urges you to open yourself to him, and you obey. He licks against your mouth, tastes the smoky peat of the whiskey on you, and the sensation of his tongue against yours makes you rock in his lap. He feels the pressure of you brushing against his cock, and it draws dual moans from each of you.

He breaks the kiss, catches his breath. “Sweetness, what do you want? What do you like?” He wants to make you moan like that again and again, wants you to breathe out his name or scream it or both. He wants your eyes to shine up at him like they did at dinner when he used that sweet nickname on you the first time.

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

He knows what it must take for you to admit that. He remembers your rant on the plane, the disappointment in your past dealings with lovers. It makes his chest ache at how lonely you must have been, how separate you must have felt from others.

He loosens his hold on your neck. He slides his palm around to cup your face, and he brushes his thumb over the curve of your cheek.

“Then how about we find out together?”

You answer him by turning your head into his palm and kissing him there, a sweet gesture, and that ache in his chest blooms stronger.

-----

It’s awkward at first, and John can’t figure out why.

He manages to get you out of your shirt and shorts, manages to unhook your bra and strip himself until you’re both nearly naked and stretched out together over the chaise. You let him lead, but you aren’t exactly eager. You are passive to an almost uncomfortable degree, and there’s something off—

“Is this okay?” he murmurs against your skin. You’re so warm under his lips, soft, and he is going so slowly, but you’re hardly moving and you’re saying even less. Your earlier touches—your hand in his hair, cupping his face—have disappeared entirely.

Yet when he asks his question, you whisper back that it’s wonderful.

It takes another moment before he realizes part of what’s wrong: you’re holding your breath. You’re barely breathing, and once he locks in on that, everything else falls into place. You’re not precisely rigid underneath him, but you’re tense, your muscles taut to the point of trembling. And your hands lie by your side. Not touching him at all.

He pauses, then makes his way back up to where your face is. In the faint light from the windows, he can make out a tension in your expression too. Something else too. Not dread, maybe, but maybe a lighter version of that. Trepidation.

John kisses you lightly on your mouth. “How are you doing, sweetness?”

“Good.” You smile at him, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Great, really.”

“You sure?”

You nod.

He brushes his lips over your cheekbone, to the edge of your jaw near your ear. “Not nervous at all?”

“Maybe a little.”

You’re hedging. Lightly lying to him. Your nervousness fills the room like the incoming tide, and John susses it out gently, teases it from you bit by bit. It’s not difficult to guess the source of your nerves.

“Thinking about past encounters, maybe?”

You huff softly near his ear. “Hard not to.” You hesitate, then add, “it was always so bad.”

“And you think you were the reason it was so bad?”

Another huff, and your voice is tinged with embarrassment. “I’m the constant factor each time, John.”

It occurs to him that you’ve likely missed all of the experimenting that many people get when they are younger. All the goofy, awkward moments in sex, when a person figures out what they like or don’t like, what they love and what they hate. You’ve probably been left with a handful of one night stands where you got no feedback, never had a chance to understand what felt good to you, and now are paralyzed to the point of doing nothing.

John resets the moment. He strokes the side of your face, then leans down and kisses you. Slow, gentle. No rushing. The barest brush of his tongue against yours, just enough until he feels you relax a bit underneath him.

As much as he wants to compartmentalize it, John knows from working with you that you’re eager for feedback. You’re eager to learn, and you never take constructive criticism badly.

“Let me help you,” he says now. “Okay?”

You gaze up at him, and if your body is tense as a strung wire, your eyes are full of trust. “Okay.”

“First thing, sweetness. You have to breathe for me. You’re holding your breath, and it’s making you tense.”

Sure enough, your tight, shallow breathing evens out and deepens. And sure enough, he feels your body relax a bit more. He kisses you as a reward, then gives you more advice that you take readily.

“You can move your body. Make yourself comfortable.”

“I want to feel your hands on me. I want you to touch me too. I’m yours.”

“You need to talk to me. Tell me what feels good. Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good.”

As he instructs you, he eases back into it. Kisses your mouth, kisses his way over your face and neck, spends long moments at your bared breasts. It’s the first test, but you breathe as he mouths at your tender skin, as he suckles against your hardened peaks. And you move underneath him, arching your chest to give him better access.

A beat later, he feels your hands—still tentative, but warm, soft—touching him. Stroking his shoulders, his arms. Running your fingertips through his hair.

He’ll find out later, days later, that you had only been working off of previous feedback from those terrible one night stands. The guy who told you that you were breathing too loudly, the guy who told you to lie still. One baffling guy who told you not to touch him, to keep your hands to yourself as he fucked you.

But now? This is a good start to finally getting to what you like. To finding out together.

What you don’t like: anything remotely like tickling. He skates his fingertips too lightly over your sides, down the curve of your waist, and you jerk away from him like you’ve been burned. You apologize a second later, but John laughs, which makes you laugh too. It dispels some more of your nervousness, and when he tries the move against with more pressure—down your sides, over your waist—you like that far better.

You also don’t like it when he pauses at the scar on your hip. It’s still a lurid red, and it pulls him up short for a moment. Dampens his own mood. It reminds him at how close you were to really being hurt, even killed. You don’t like it when he bends his head to kiss the ridge of scar tissue, and he doesn’t push it. Instead, he shifts his head and kisses your stomach where the edge of your panties is, and you like that a whole lot more.

What you like: everything else. Every other thing he gives you, everything he does to you. You like it when he eases your panties off you. You groan when he buries his face between your thighs, and you gasp when he kisses you there, when he drags his tongue over the slick seam of your cunt. You like it very much when he laps at your arousal, when he lays plush kisses to your swollen clit, when he slides a finger inside you and a second finger and when he slides them along your inner wall until he finds the spot that makes you jerk underneath him, whine out his name, reach down and tug at his hair.

You like it when he makes you come with his mouth, and you like it when he makes his way back up your trembling body, when he spreads your legs wider to fit him. When he pushes into you in a slow, steady thrust, so soon after your orgasm that he feels the tiny aftershocks as he seats himself inside you for the first time. You gasp at the sensation, you breathe out a “god, John,” but when he opens his mouth to ask if you’re okay, you grab his head and kiss him so hard you steal his breath from him.

And you especially like it when he coaxes another orgasm from you, his thrusts strong and steady, deep. When you bend one leg alongside him, he reaches down and hikes it higher over his hip. It allows him to push deeper inside you, that extra fraction making you cock-dumb, because you’re so far gone you forget to be nervous. You forget to lie still, to keep your hands to yourself, to hold your breath.

You arch up and meet him thrust for thrust. You wrap one arm around his broad shoulders but the other hand reaches down and grips the meat of his ass, urges him on. You breathe; you pant in his ear, and sometimes it’s just your hot breath, but just as often it’s you talking, babbling, begging him to fuck you, to please don’t stop, to keep going, to never stop fucking you.

And you like it when he does as you say. He doesn’t stop, and you come again, but then you whine out that it’s too much. It probably is: you’ve gone from disappointing interludes with absolute bell-ends, and now you’re an overstimulated mess underneath him. You’re not openly crying but tears leak out of the corners of your eyes and streak down your face. Your lips are slightly chapped and swollen, and you look stunned.

“Want me to stop?” he asks. He kisses one damp cheek, then the other, and he can taste the salt from your tears. “Too much?”

“Uh-huh.” It comes out slurred.

“Need you to use your words, sweetness.”

“I don’t think…” You blink, and you lose a bit of your stunned quality. “I don’t think I can again.”

“Oh, I think you could.” Another kiss, this one open-mouthed on your pulse point. He presses his teeth there, sucks lightly against your skin. “I think you have one more.”

“John—”

“Gotta make up for lost time.”

“I can’t.” You whine, but it ends in a moan as he bites you harder at where your shoulder meets your neck. “Too much. It’s too much.”

“You’re doing so well, though. You don’t have one more? Not even for me?” He laves the flat of his tongue over where his teeth have left dimpled marks, then he blows over the wet line, makes you shudder underneath him.

“John,” you reply, but it holds less of a warning than before. There’s surrender in your tone.

“Love feeling this sweet pussy coming around me,” he growls in your ear. “Fucking soaking my cock, sweetness.”

The dirty talk makes you clench down on him, and he smiles to himself. He draws back, sinks back into you. He goes slow, and you whine that it’s too much, but you like this too because you hold him tighter. You press back against him each time he seats himself in you, his hips settled against yours. He goes slow, so slow, sinks into you as deep as he can, barely pulls out before he’s pushing back inside. You’re swollen, fevered where he’s joined to you. You’re so fucking wet that he feels your arousal soaking the coarse hair at the base of him, dripping down your thighs, likely soaking the chaise.

He's proud that he’s been able to forestall his own pleasure, but his restraint has frayed. How could it not? The whole moment had been sold as for you, to make you feel good, to make sex not the scary specter it has been for most of your adult life, but John can’t remember the last time he had sex where he felt so connected to his partner.

Maybe he never has. He can’t conjure up a moment from his past when he felt so flayed alive, his heart visible and beating as he joined with another person. He can’t remember ever reveling so deeply in his partner’s pleasure. He can’t remember anyone else’s touch or voice in his ear or breath panting underneath him making him feel so whole.

But you like it when he finally comes too. He pulls another orgasm from you, less intense but longer—you tremble for longer, and your cunt twitches against him—and it sets him over the edge. He groans in your ear that he’s close too, asks where he should…but your hand on his ass pulls him deeper into you, and if the gesture wasn’t clear, you whisper that you want him to come inside you, you want to feel him, and he does. His pleasure breaks around him, shatters him, and he growls your name as he fills you, and you answer by whispering his name back, over and over.

-----

If you never had a satisfying sexual experience before, John can guess that you never had the post-sex moments either. The come-down, the cuddling, the falling asleep together.

He gives that to you now too, but it’s not altruistic at all: he wants it too. He selfishly wants it. He leaves you on the chaise to get a washcloth, a glass of water, and he helps you clean up. He helps you recover, but then he leads you to the deep couch on the other side of the room and has you lie down. He lies down beside you—it’s a tight fit, but he holds you safe between the broad planes of his body and the back of the couch, and he covers you both with a light blanket.

“Thank you,” you tell him, and it’s plaintive. It makes that ache in his chest flare back, so he kisses you gently, replies, “don’t ever thank for me this.”

It doesn’t take long for you both to fall asleep: you go first, the slack weight of you pleasant against his body, the deep and even breathing, the little grumble as you shift. He’s not far behind you, but he has a moment or two where the earlier thread of despair pushes to the forefront of his mind.

He might just be John right now, and you’re just you, but soon enough you’ll be soldier and captain again. How will it ever work, now that you’ve fallen from grace together?

#kinktober2024 #clear the inbox 2024 #tropes and tales #captain john price #captain price #captain john price x reader #captain john price imagine #captain john price x you #john price #john price x reader #john price x your #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #cod

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tradgedyinwaves · 3 days

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Poly141! x fat!reader

tw: self fat shaming, social anxiety, drinking, mention of male appendages at the end

This late Friday night found you where it always did. Alone after watching all of your pretty, skinny friends filter out into the crowd. The plush of your ass settled over the edges of the stool and you're grateful the bar is pretty dark, easier to hide. A glass of whiskey is being nursed in your hands while your eyes take in the crowd, effectively also checking on your friends.

As your eyes rove over, they settle on the back table, tucked into the corner and surrounded by four larger than normal men.

The one with the mohawk is the loudest by far, his boisterous Scottish brogue filtering over the sounds of the crowd. He's got a hand wrapped around a half finished bottle of beer while he loudly recounts a story that makes all of them groan like they've heard it a million times.

The dark skinned one had to be the prettiest man you'd ever seen. His long fingers danced along the side of a glass of what looked to be rum and coke. His chuckle made his shoulders shake, shaking his head at his comrade.

The one with the thick mustache was laughing along with the Scot's story, butting in with his own interjections when he had something to add. His meaty paw held a glass of bourbon while the other gestured a bit wildly with a lit cigar.

The one with the mask though. He had an almost full glass of whiskey in front of him, arms crossed over his chest as he scoffed at the Scot's story. He had been there and he knew that wasn't quite how it went. His eyes trailed from his buddies at the table, doing another sweep of the room. The fifth one you've watched him do tonight.

This time is different. His eyes meet your and you duck your head, avoiding the eye contact. You'd known (the way someone with social anxiety knows) that people would think you weird, making eye contact with strangers. It immediately signals your fight or flight response, settling on flight even though you weren't in any danger.

When you glanced back up, he was looking back at his friends, but you didn't know he'd smiled softly and was now bringing the rest of his tables' attention to you.

In your new panic, you paid your tab and headed out the door. So when Ghost finally got the others to look your way, your seat was empty and the bell was chiming over the door.

"You sure she was there, LT?" Soap asked, clapping the other man on the shoulder.

"Was right there, on the end. Prettiest bird I ever saw," Ghost grunted, his mask wrinkling with his nose.

"Thass m'friend yer talkin bout," a pretty blond slurred at them as she hung on to a frat boy type that was more interested in running his hands all over her body. "Come 'ere e'ry Friday, woo!" She was herded off by her cohort, giggling as they headed for the door. "Guess we'll be here next Friday too then."

You walked home in the chilly night, anger and resentment flooding through your veins. They'd never give you a chance, not with all the pretty girls that were in that bar. You'd always been looked over for girls more beautiful or thinner than you. What was the line they always fed you? 'I love your personality, but you're just not...my type.'

Suffice it to say, the four men would head back to their shared flat, fisting their cocks to just Ghost's description of you and fiending for the next Friday to come.

I promise I'm working on the Touch Fivesome. There's a lot of details and functionality that I'm trying to figure out.

I couldn't get this out of my head. Inspired by another post along a similar vein. I can't remember who it was now, but it's been festering.

Update: I found the inspiration. :3 @devil-in-hiding

-> Part Two

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blingblong55 · 3 days

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Breed Me- John Price NSFW

Based on a request: For Kinktober, would you be willing to write Price x F!Reader with the breeding kink prompt? I love your work! ---- F!Reader, MDNI, smut, 18+, established!relationship, P-in-V, unprotected!sex, breeding!kink, husband!Price, oral!sex ----

After arriving back home from yet another mission, your husband walks into your shared bedroom. Once his eyes were set on you, he sighed. Fuck did he miss you. He gets on the bed and all he can do is hold you from behind. You are his haven. His lips find your neck and he begins to place small and tender kisses on your soft skin. You smile and scoot closer to him and he groans. He sighs, and his hand finds its way to your stomach as he slowly grinds himself against you.

You turn around and smile. He looks at you with a smirk, his eyes dark with lust as he meets your gaze. He slips a hand down to grope your ass, pulling you flush against his hard body. "I want to see you round with my child, want to feel you heavy with my seed," his voice is deep and still as seductive as the first time you heard him. You knew he wanted kids, wanted as many as you did so maybe tonight he could start with the first child.

"Please, let me try. Let me love you, worship you, until you're dripping with my cum." He says in a whisper. His lips trailing to your shoulder. He smiles softly at your words, his heart swelling with love for you. He turns his head to capture your lips in another deep, passionate kiss. His hand slides up your sides, cupping your breasts and giving them a gentle squeeze. He breaks the kiss and starts trailing his lips down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point. He sucks on the skin there, marking you as his. His hands moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly pushing it up and over your head, tossing it aside. He takes a moment to admire your breast, his eyes darkening with lust as he takes in the sight of your body.

He leans down, taking your breast into his mouth and sucking gently, his hand coming up to pinch and roll the other between his fingers. He lavishes your breasts with attention, his tongue swirling around your nipple before moving to the other one to give it the same treatment. His other hand slides down your stomach, dipping into your panties to cup your folds. He grows at the feeling of your wet heat, his fingers sliding through your folds teasingly. "Fuck, you're so wet for me. I'm going to fuck you so good, fill you up just right," he groans. Your moans fill the room and he groans at the sound of your moan.

He leans down, taking one into his mouth and sucking gently, his hand coming up to pinch and roll the other between his fingers. He lavishes your breasts with attention, his tongue swirling around your nipple before moving to the other one to give it the same treatment. His other hand slides down your stomach, dipping into your panties to cup your folds. He grows at the feeling of your wet heat, his fingers sliding through your folds teasingly.

He starts to lap at your pussy, his tongue delving between your folds to taste your sweet nectar. He groans at the taste of you, his tongue swirling around your clit before sucking it into his mouth. He brings his fingers up to your entrance, slowly pushing two fingers inside your tight heat, pumping them in and out in a steady rhythm. "Fuck, you taste so good, love. I could eat this pretty pussy all day. But right now, I need to be inside you. I need to feel your tight cunt squeezing my cock as I fill you up with my seed. I'm going to fuck you so hard, so deep, that you'll be feeling me for days. You're mine, Y/N. All mine. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

He stands up, quickly removing his clothes until he's standing before you, naked and hard. He strokes his thick, veiny cock, giving it a few pumps as he lines himself up with your entrance. He leans over you, his hands gripping your hips as he slowly pushes forward, his cock stretching you open as he sinks into your tight heat inch by inch. He groans at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, your pussy clenching down on his cock like a vice.

He doesn't stop until he's buried to the hilt inside you, his pelvis pressed against your ass. He pauses momentarily, giving you time to adjust to his size as he nuzzles into your neck, placing soft kisses along your skin. "Fuck, you feel incredible, love. So tight and wet and perfect. Like you were made just for me," he groans, his voice rough with desire. He starts to move, then pulls out slowly before slamming back in, setting a deep, powerful rhythm. He pounds into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the kitchen along with your moans and his grunts. He angles his hips, making sure to hit that special spot inside you with every thrust, determined to make you see stars.

His hand snakes down between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing in tight circles, adding to the pleasure coursing through you. He can feel his orgasm building, his balls tightening as he gets closer and closer to the edge. But he holds back, determined to make you come first, to feel your pussy clenching around him as you scream his name. He redoubles his efforts, fucking into you harder, and faster, his fingers rubbing your clit with increased fervour. "Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel you come apart on my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me, milk me for every last drop. Come on, baby, give it to me. Let go and come all over my cock like the good girl you are."

Your eyes roll back from the stimulation, "John~" you whimper. He groans as he feels your pussy clench around him, your juices coating his cock as you come undone beneath him. He continues to thrust through your orgasm, prolonging your pleasure as he chases his own. His hips snap forward, driving into you harder, deeper, his cock throbbing inside your fluttering walls. He buries his face in your neck, biting down on your shoulder as he finally lets go, his cock pulsing as he shoots his hot, thick cum deep inside you. He grinds against you, making sure every last drop is seated inside your womb, filling you up just like he promised. He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the counter as he catches his breath.

He peppers your neck and face with soft kisses, murmuring words of love and praise against your skin. "That's it, love. You took my cock so well, milked me dry. Fuck, I can feel my cum painting your insides. The thought of you round with my baby, your tits swollen with milk…fuck, it's the hottest thing I've ever imagined. I'll fuck you day and night until my seed takes until you're heavy with my child. You're mine, Y/N. All mine. And I'm going to love you, worship you, for the rest of our lives. I promise you that." He rolls his hips, his softening cock still buried inside you, unwilling to separate from you just yet. He holds you close, savouring the feeling of being inside you, of being one with you. He knows he'll have to pull out eventually, but for now, he wants to stay connected to you, to bask in the afterglow of your lovemaking.

Tags: @liyanahelena @ghostslillady @juneonhoth @Simonssweetgirl @nellsbobells @coralwitchdreamland @nobodys-coffee @sae1kie @anonymuslydumb @goldenmclaren @moonsua1 @frazie99 @saoirse06 @alxexhearts @baldwinhearts @tiredmetalenthusiast @jinxxangel13 @strangepuppynightmare @enarien @luvecarson @nellsbobells @ikohniik @strawberrychita @queen-ilmaree @Llelannie @Macnches2 @bbyfimmie @avidreadee123 @talooolaaloolla @skelletonwitch @bittermajesties @1234beeandpuppycat @sparky–bunny @honestlyhiswife @who-can-appease-me @ghostwifeyy @konigssultwithghost @pinkblossomsworld @kaoyamamegami @the_royal_bee @beansproutmafia @soapybutt17 @asianbutnotjapanese @a-goose-with-a-knife @foxface013 @born4biriyani @thegreyjoyed @mychemichalimalance @marshiely @iruzias @sleepyycatt @noodlezz-bedo @trinthealternate @vampsquerade @azkza @VampyTheGoth

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ink-n-shadow · 3 days

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[ THIGHRIDING ] 𝜗𝜚 ink's kinktober 2k24 - day 1

𝜗𝜚 pairing: john price x gn!reader 𝜗𝜚 cw: smut (minors—DNI), thighriding, subtle dom/sub dynamics, brief dirty talk, use of 'pet' as a petname (but no explicit pet play), fingers in mouths

john knows as soon as you clamber up into his lap with just one of his raggedy t-shirts on and nothing else that you're up to something. sure, you play it off by sleepily nuzzling your nose into the crook of his neck, but john can feel the sticky heat emanating from between your thighs.

“thought ya didn’t wanna watch footy w'me, sweetheart,” john mumbles lowly into your hair and presses a gentle kiss behind your ear, body relaxing comfortably into the leather of his recliner as the weight of your body comes to rest completely against him.

a snorted laugh leaves his chest at the breathy jumble of words you offer in response, one hand coming up to curl around your waist at the way your hips wiggle side to side to wedge one of his thick thighs directly between yours. once you settled yourself down on his thigh, that's when he noticed the sticky mess that waited for him between your thighs—'course you weren't wearin' underwear.

john bounces his leg up in a feigned attempt to sit up straighter in the recliner, smirking at the choked mewl that leaves your lips and shushing you with a hand cradling the back of your head.

“easy, pet. just relax fer me. c’mon—sit down on my thigh,” john croons sweetly in your ear, using the hand he has perched on your hip to ease your hips back down until your bare arousal is flush against the warm, hairy skin of his thick thigh. “take what ya need, sweetheart.”

which leads to you rutting eagerly against the pudgy corded muscle branching up john's thigh, hiding your teary face into the crook of his neck to avoid the humiliation crawling up your spine. sure, hiding away in the crook of john's neck let you avoid his the condescending cock of his brow and the mocking pout he gives you, but it doesn't do anything to stop the absolute filth from pouring out of his mouth. it doesn't stop his hands from slithering up your oversized t-shirt, the calloused tips of his fingers immediately finding your peaked nipples and groping the flesh there.

"if ya needed me t' fuck ya, could've just asked me, y'know?" john mutters with a few clicks of his tongue as he uses one hand to push the hem of your shirt up and over your head, exposing more of your now naked skin and giving him more places to sink his teeth and nails into. “all y’had to do was say please—would’ve filled you up ‘til you were leakin’.”

and when you're a blubbering mess in the crook of his neck, warbling out broken apologies and begging for john to just go ahead and fuck his cock into you, he’s hushing you by shoving his middle and ring finger between your teeth, nestling them at the back of your tongue. he uses the other hand to grip at the flesh of your asscheek, pinching and dimpling the fat between his fingers in an attempt to get your hips to move quicker.

“shhh, shhh—y’ made your choice now, pet,” john explains to you slowly so your melting brain might be able to comprehend. “keep goin’, then. m’not gonna play with ya ‘til yer cummin’ all over me.”

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konigsblog · 12 hours

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OCTOBER 3RD — KIDNAPPER!PRICE. What did you expect, Birdie? Now, you'll be used relentlessly and tortured by a depraved sicko, because of your stupidity. (KIDNAPPING)

2024 KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. (DAY 3)

TW: NON-CON.

Price knew better. As your Captain, it's mandatory for him to remain professional between his colleagues and teammates, for your conversations to remain appropriate. Especially with the power dynamic between you two, where he had full and final authority over your actions and behaviour.

He'd been in that line of work for decades, with more experience under his belt than you. Long enough where he should've known better to keep his grimey hands off of you. But, he couldn't help himself from the vulnerable and exposed sight of you changing after a long, agonising, and failed mission, one that left you aching and sore all over. He couldn't pry his depraved gaze off of you, the explicit and sexual urges inside of his ill and sick mind only worsening. He'd watch you, spar with you just to excuse his touchy-feely behaviour, the way his thick and calloused fingers reached and roamed places they definitely shouldn't for an old sicko like himself.

And after a couple of drinks and a cigar shared between you both, you found yourself barely able to stand up straight, with your head feeling heavy and your vision becoming blurry and spotty. You could barely string a coherent sentence together, let alone consent to the filthy and perverted things that your Captain was doing to your hol. You wept pathetically through mumbled pleas, your voice cracking and breaking with each demanding, eager thrust to your rear. His touch left your skin feeling raw and sensitive, his hold becoming painfully firm and tight around your plush hips. He'd huff your sweet scent, dragging his warm tongue along your bare and supple neck, chuckling lowly at the horrified and repulsed reaction he'd earn.

“What did you expect, Birdie? You know I can’t keep my hands off this tight body, not an old gross pervert like me.” He huffed out gutturally between low and huffed growls and pained grunts at your throbbing tight hole around his meaty length, his brunette beard scratching against your skin gently when he pressed a sloppy and greedy kiss to your trembling lips.

He'd hump your slick, creamy cunt ‘til your legs would give out, submitting to your superior through exhaustion and weakness, hoping to be spared a slither of mercy. He'd continue until you were numb from the agony, broken down to appeal to Price — submissive and obedient, just what your Captain deserves.

#orla speaks #cod x reader #captain john price #captain price #captain john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain johnathan price #cod price #cod john price #john price

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novemberheart · 3 days

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{overview} Just because your pack is back together doesn’t mean things are back to normal

{warnings} fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, poly141, cursing, mentions of being scared, smoking, short chapter

Chapter 30 <- Chapter 31 -> Chapter 32

“Hi, Ms. Garrick,” you greeted. You heard her chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“Well hello, lovely,” she greeted back. You smiled at the similarities between their pet names for you. She had gotten your number from John after Kyles accident. She called you leaving the kindest message in your inbox.

Hello, Sweetheart. Now you don't know me, but my name is Rosalind Garrick, Kyle’s mother. But don't think that just because you don't know me, I know nothing about you. You’re all Kyle talks about anymore and I’m just so happy he's finally able to get some peace amongst his chaos. I know how hard this all must be for you so if you ever need anyone to talk to please reach out to me. As far as I'm concerned you’re a part of our pack and we want to make sure you are taken care of.

Alright, sweetheart. Talk to you soon.

Since then you've called her every few days, mostly to give her updates about Kyle.

“How’s our beta doing?” she asked.

“He’s been doing good. Started to get up and walk with crutches. He's stubborn and restless,” you grumbled. As if on cue, the beta trudged out of his room, heading towards the kitchen.

“That’s the man I know,” she chuckled.

“Hey, mum,” Kyle greeted from the kitchen. You bounded over, hoisting yourself up onto the counter.

“The next time you all go on leave I want you to come home,” She pressed. You grinned wickedly, agreeing before the words had even reached Kyle’s ears. “I’ve only met Johnny. Now it’s a crime I haven't met your alphas yet, and I'm not going to let you get away with me not meeting your omega. In-person,” she added.

“Sounds right to me,” you agreed. That's why she loved you.

“You’ll love the city. Did Kyle tell you about all the museums? I know you love those.”

Kyle did tell her about you.

“We can work that out,” Kyle agreed. He did want to go home, and he desperately wanted to share that part of himself with you. You and Ms. Garrick both squealed excitedly.

“Can I talk to you about something?” you asked. He stiffened immediately, his mind jumping to the worst.

Had he hurt you again?

Your hands smoothed over his shoulder, your bottom resting against his knee. His relax was instantaneous. He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours.

“I was wondering if I could get a job?” you said slowly. It wasn't slow enough with the way the wheels in his mind were turning.

“Why? Something you need? It’s my job”-

“No, nothing like that. It’s more social than anything.” you interjected. “I’ll be with Anais and Jane. It’s at a new bakery a little off base. It's just a few hours on Fridays and the weekend,” you explained.

He wanted to shut it down. You were social enough. Before Kyle was hurt you had activities nearly every day. Sometimes it felt like you did more in a day than they did.

Yet the look in your eyes halted him. You had forgiven him- he could feel it. The last thing he wanted to do was disappoint you after just making up.

“Alright,” he agreed. You gasped softly, a wide grin spreading over your face. It made him happy despite the feeling of something wrong clawing at him.

“Thank you!” you cheered, your lips colliding with his cheek.

“One of us will take you to work the first week. Then you girls can commute together. And you are never to go off on your own, you understand?” he urged. You hummed against his cheek. “And I need to meet your boss- and anyone else who’s working there,” he added, between your attacks.

You were just about to head to your room, when a strong arm wrapped around your middle. You recognized a familiar tattoo.

“Tavy,” you giggled. He said nothing, heading to his room.

“Seems like you've forgotten it’s my night, bonbon,” he teased, tossing you on his bed. He crawled over you, making you flush.

“I could never forget,” you lied, blinking up at him. He smirked down at you, completely still for a moment before pressing rapid-fire kisses against your cheek.

You squealed as his hands tickled up and down your sides.

“Mac, no!” you gasped out. “I was just getting tired,” you whined against him. He paused, his smirk pressing against yours.

“Alright, peaches,” he agreed. He wrapped an arm tightly around you, purring softly as you buried your face in his chest. Cinnamon mixed with some of your vanilla lotion he had stolen.

“Simon comes home tomorrow,” you sighed happily. Johnny hummed, a pleased rumble leaving his throat. “I thought you and John would be gone longer,” you yawned.

“So did we,” he yawned back. He said nothing more on the topic, yet you didn't expect him to.

When you woke up you were no longer trapped between him and the bed, but him and another body. Leather with an undertone of black licorice. There was more smoke in his scent than you were used to. He must have been smoking a lot. A purr vibrated through you, making his chestnut eyes flutter open.

“What’re you purring about?” Simon groaned, pushing the two of you closer to Johnny. He was playing dumb. You could feel the curl of his lips against the back of your head.

“You’re back,” you said weakly, your throat hoarse with sleep.

“I’m back,” he affirmed. His hand found your stomach rubbing small circles in an attempt to lull you back to sleep. He wasn't ready to get up yet. He had just gotten home an hour ago and the last thing he wanted to do was pull himself away from the warmth of this bed. “Go back to sleep, pup,” he urged. You didn't need much more convincing, your eyes practically sewing themselves shut.

“Welcome home,” Johnny grumbled, with half-lidded eyes.

“Thanks, pup,” Simon mumbled, his fingers digging into the Scots side, pulling all of you closer once more. That wasn't usual for Simon, needing to have his pack this close, especially after a mission. Something must’ve happened.

“You alright?” Johnny drawled, unburying his face from your neck. Simon hummed in assurance.

“Fine, mutt,” he soothed. “Get some sleep,” he pressed, his fingers racking up and down Johnny’s lower back.

The next time Simon woke he had a fever. It was hot enough to make you and Johnny wake up in a sweat. Johnny quickly grabbed you, plopping you on the couch next to Kyle- assuming you may have triggered a rut for Simon like you had for John.

“What’s happening?” John groaned, uncurling himself from Kyle on the couch.

“Fever,” you responded. Kyle's hand pressed against your forehead. “Simon,” you clarified, moving to stand so you could peek into Johnny’s room. “I don't think it’s a rut Johnny,” you mumbled.

“I’m fine,” Simon groaned. He peeled off his sweatshirt, flopping back down against the mattress. His wide chest rose and fell irregularly. You approached your hand resting on his stomach. His body seemed to relax slightly, and you decided to take the chance and curl up against him. His heartbeat was fast- too fast.

“I’m calling a doctor,” John pressed, gently maneuvering Kyle off of him. Simon flipped the two of you over, making you gasp. Johnny flung forward his hand gripping the alpha’s shoulder.

“Not gonna do anything, pup,” he mumbled, his heart squeezing at the sound that escaped you. “Need to feel ya,” he mumbled, just low enough for you to hear. His hand crept under your shirt resting against the soft skin of your back.

He couldn't explain it. It started two weeks ago, a light burning sensation under his skin, and an almost sour feeling in his mouth. It felt like he was going through withdrawals. He was shaky, his heart skipping beats. He went through two packs of cigarettes in a day and still no relief. Wasn't till he met you at the hospital after Kyle’s accident did he start to put it together. Yet it only got worse being around you.

He growled against your neck, clenching his jaw so hard his teeth creaked.

“Doctor’ll be here in fifteen,” John spoke, his shoulder taking up the doorway. “How long have you felt this way?” John pressed.

“Couple weeks,” he growled. A pang shot through his skull, he steadied himself over you, taking a deep breath. It only made it worse, yet he couldn't pull himself away. Johnny leaned against the desk causing it to creak, the sound sending Simon on high alert. You whined at the snarl that left him. “Sorry,” he apologized instantly.

“Sweetheart, how about we wait on the couch till the doctor gets here?” John offered, beginning to move towards the two of you. He didn't like the way Simon was acting. The sound that came out of Simon was deadly, making it known he disagreed with Johns suggestion. John released a sound of his own.

You were scared.

It didn't help when Simon's hand reached behind him, grabbing at John's shirt.

“What the hell?” Johnny growled. Johnny sprung into action, his arms reaching under Simons pulling him to the floor.

“Get out!” John commanded. You didn't need to be told twice, throwing yourself off the bed, curling up behind Kyle. Kyle held you with both arms, not caring about the uncomfortable stretch of his shoulder.

“Up we go,” Kyle pressed, grabbing his crutch and leading you into your room. He locked the door behind the both of you, cradling you against him as you shook.

You could hear them.

Cursing. The sound of someone being slammed against the wall. Growling. Shouting. Things breaking.

The smell of angry alpha began to seep under the door.

“Kyle,” you whimpered. He shushed you softly, his lips pressed against your hairline.

It suddenly went quiet.

Hi friends! See you in three days for chapter 32! 🧡🙌🏻

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lyeofhell · 2 days

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Short n’ Sweet 🌤️ fem!reader x John Price

╰┈ .𖥔 ݁ ˖ thinking about torturing (teasing) John with some Sabrina Carpenter, MDNI/18+ only, breeding kink lol

mmmmm I’m thinkin about your handsome handyman returning home from deployment in late summer, immediately throwing himself into every home project and ticking off all the boxes on your honey-do list. and while you spend the day cleaning inside, blasting music and dancing about your house - John busies himself with an oil change to your car.

thinkin about twirling your hips as you fold laundry, the carpeted floor buzzing beneath your feet from the thumping bass and you are getting into it, flipping your hair as you unapologetically and very loudly sing about espresso.

thinkin about how you’re too distracted by the music to hear the slam of a car hood, or the familiar steps of heavy boots, or the opening of your front door.

thinkin about John leaning against the doorway, thick arms crossed with a satisfied and eye-crinkling grin as he admires your oblivious form. and it’s not till you hit em with a couple body rolls on the beat that you turn around, damn near jumping out of your skin and whipping him with a kitchen towel when his presence scares you half to death.

John just laughs, reaches out to you in apology and when he finds purchase on your plush hips he mutters something low against your temple like, “don’t stop on my account.”

and part of you wants to push him away but it’s so hard, it’s so hard when he’s like this - his sunkissed, burly chest on full display, sheened with dampened curls while his sweat-drenched shirt is likely discarded somewhere on your front lawn. you run your hands up his pecs to grip the back of his neck and god he smells, he smells like oil and sweat and hard work and John and it’s stupid how intoxicating it is. and he just grips you harder, pulls you close till you feel his belt buckle against your abdomen and you're finding it harder to ignore how low his jeans are hanging on his hips.

thinkin about how he starts to kiss you, dipping his head down to start off soft and slow but he grows hungrier by the second, and that’s when one of his hands comes up to grip the back of your neck, maneuvering your head so you can take his tongue as far as he wants. but before he can get you lying on the sofa, you perk up at the sound of Bed Chem, giggling as you try to get out of his firm hold. you beg and you plead, telling him “I love this song!” and “dance with me!” - and he just shakes his head and smiles, loosening his grip to give his pretty girl a twirl.

thinkin about dancing around him, grinding on his side and poking his nose at

“Who’s the cute guy with the wide, blue eyes and the big bad mm? Like”

until he's pulling your back to his chest, pressing and grinding his crotch against your ass and sweetly kissing your fingers. you make a move to grab his hands, placing your own on top and running them over your chest and down your body when you sing

“How you talk so sweet when you’re doin bad things, that’s Bed Chem”

and when his head dips back down to mouth at your neck you almost let him get what he wants, until you hear that familiar acoustic strumming, and knowing John? oh, you’re already giggling to yourself as you work your way out of his grip again.

thinkin about torturing the absolute hell out of him. twisting in his embrace to innocently interlock your fingers and sway from side to side, occasionally leaning up on your tippy toes to kiss his nose. despite your constant singing he doesn't seem to be paying all that much attention to the lyrics, until...

"One of me is cute, but two though? Give it to me, baby"

a look of neutral shock stills his face and you cannot help but laugh. in his startled state you take advantage of him, letting go of his hands to skip around the room and dance like you've had one too many. at some point he starts grinning from ear to ear, watching you like a hawk and slowly stalking your way as you arch your back and shake your ass, or drop to your knees and crawl on the ground...and it's not till you look him dead in the eye and dramatically sing

"Adore me, hold me and explore me, mark your territory, tell me I'm the only, only, only, only one"

that he jumps over the couch to snatch you up; you scream in delight, jumping to your feet and running around the coffee table to avoid his hands and your voice shakes with laughter as you try to get the rest out

"Adore me, hold me and explore me, I'm so fuckin' horny, tell m—"

"Had enough of this," John growls through his amusement and bounds through the living room, boots echoing right behind you until his fingers grip your waist roughly and you squeal, happily squirming and giggling in his sweaty grip.

John is panting as he chuckles, and like an animal he takes you down to the floor with a growl - maneuvering you under him and he’s just got you caged there, his thick, healthy form the only thing in your line of sight. beneath the weight of his body you writhe, and as he grabs both of your roaming wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head, his other hand slinks downwards, down down past your tits and your waist and smooths over the sweet, soft pudge of your tummy. his lips press to the corner of your open mouth and he keeps going further, rough fingertips slithering underneath your waistband and that’s when his voice is low - that familiar gravel giving rise to goosebumps on your skin while his breath warms your lips.

“Oh I’ll hold you to it, sweetheart.”

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maurythehormonemonster · 1 day

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Kinktober day two. Deepthroating - John Price // (gn! reader)

CW: spit (in mouth), cum swallowing

This was supposed to be uniforms and it did not pan out!! Anywho! Hope you enjoy! (It's also way longer than originally intended but once I start yapping it's hard to stop)

Maury’s masterlist

Bringing lunch to John on base one day because he forgot it at home, even though you reminded him sleepily before he left the house.

You smiled as you greeted the familiar receptionist, telling her how your idiot left his lunch on the counter. She giggled, understanding completely and sent you off into the direction of the training field.

As you entered the large space, there he was. All tall and handsome (as always) in his military fatigues, his hands resting in the pockets of his jacket while he shouted at the new recruits. Something about it was… Intense to say the least. The way his eyebrows knitted together and how his lips curled into a sneer as he yelled something or other at the young men and women. His muscles were visible even through his jacket, you could practically see his veins bulging from the annoyance.

Your footsteps were quiet on the floor as you approached him, placing a hand on his back. “John, honey.”

He stiffened under the unwelcome touch, ready to go off. Today was not his day. He opened his mouth to yell before he heard your sweet voice. “Jesus, darling-“ He huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can’t sneak up on me like that, I was about to lose it.” There was no malice behind his tone, just irritation at having to deal with these poor sods all day.

Your hand ran up and down his spine soothingly. “Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to bring you the lunch you forgot.” You smiled, holding out the bag. “I suppose you’re busy though, I can leave it in your office if you’d prefer.”

John shook his head, hooking an arm around your back before barking at one of the men. “You. Go get Lieutenant Riley. Tell him I had something to attend to.” You watched the recruit all but run out of the room. Jesus Christ, he scared them badly. He patted your backside, tilting his head towards the door. “Never too busy for you.”

Hand in hand you retreated to his office together. You watched as his hips swayed in his infamous brown pants, subconsciously squeezing his hand tighter.

He groaned as he sat down in his chair, rolling up the sleeves of his long sleeve shirt. You watched as he crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles threatening to rip through his shirt. “We’re doomed if those are the only recruits we have.” You couldn’t help but laugh at his words, rounding his desk to stand in front of him. “All they need is a bit of discipline.” You shrugged, running one of your hands through his hair. “Or a bullet in the shoulder.” He snorted, leaning into your touch.

You stepped closer, seating yourself on top of him, your legs straddling his own. His hands rested on your hips and he buried his face in your chest. “Got to retire.” He mumbled, inhaling your scent. You only rolled your eyes in response, wrapping your arms around his neck. He said that every time he had to deal with the youngins.

You nudged his chin up before leaning forward and pressing a kiss to his lips. He closed his eyes and his hands tightened on you, pulling you closer. He was stressed and you knew exactly what would help him.

He pulled away after a few moments, looking up at you with a raised eyebrow. “What’s got you so needy, hm?” He mused, rubbing circles on your hips.

“You just look so bloody good in that outfit, Captain.” He let out an involuntary groan at your words, putting his head into the crook of your neck. You knew what would get him riled up, and calling him Captain was definitely one of them.

“God, darling.” He whispered, pressing kisses to your shoulder. A few simple words from you had him straining in his pants already.

You hummed, grabbing his hair at the base and tugging it so he would look at you. “Tell me what you want from me, Captain.” Accentuating your words by grinding down on his clothed bulge.

His gaze darkened and his hands moved from your hips to your ass, giving you a sharp slap. “Get on your knees.” He growled and you obeyed, whimpering at the sting before sinking off of his lap and onto your knees in between his legs.

You knew he was angry, and this was the perfect stress relief. Your hands ran up his thighs and to his belt, looking up at him for permission to which he only shifted in his seat and nodded.

You didn’t need to be told twice, you unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants and briefs just enough for his cock to pop out, bobbing against his stomach. You practically drooled, even though you saw it all the time your reaction never changed.

His calloused hand gripped your hair and tugged you closer, one of his hands wrapping around his base as he brought his leaking tip to your lips, smearing his precum over them. “Get on with it.” He ordered, the way he sounded, sent a wave of heat to your core.

You opened your mouth and took his tip into your mouth, moaning at the way he tasted. His hand tightened in your hair as you began to bob up and down, tongue swirling around his length.

He waited until you got comfortable before tugging you off and bringing his hand to your chin. “Open.” He watched as you opened your mouth, leaning forwards and spitting on your tongue.

“You’re going to take all of me, understood?” You nodded, taking a deep breath in, and without a second thought he tugged you back onto his cock, shoving your head all the way down to his coarse hair. You gagged around him, hollowing out your cheeks.

The vibrations made John throw his head back, squeezing his eyes shut as he began to use your hair as leverage to push you up and down his thick cock. “That’s it, just like that, darling.” He chuffed, looking down at you.

Tears piled up in your lash line from the way he held you at his base, thrusting up into your throat.

One of your hands moved off his thigh and into your own underwear, needing release just as much as him. You screwed your eyes shut as you began touching yourself, moaning around him loudly as drool and tears ran from your face, staining his pants.

Your moans didn’t help at all in him trying not to cum straight away. He threw his head back, cursing under his breath as he moved your head. “Fuck, ‘m goin’ to cum, love.” He groaned, his hips stuttering. “And you’re going to swallow it, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question more than it was a demand.

You nodded as best you could with the limited movement you had. Your own hand picking up its speed as you tried to bring yourself to your own orgasm.

His thrusts became sloppy as he pushed your head all the way back down, his warm seed spilling directly down your throat.

That made your own legs quiver, cumming into your underwear with a choked moan. Your brain melted away afterwards, even after he pulled you off of him and you started to catch your breath. His hand brushed against your face and you looked up at him through half lidded eyes.

He ran his thumb over your cheek, wiping away your tears. “Did so good for me.” His voice was softer now, no longer laced with the frustration it once held. He pulled you back onto his lap, holding you to his chest as you finally came back down to earth. You tucked your head into his shoulder, enjoying the feeling of him holding you.

“Maybe I should forget my lunch more often.”

#need his dick NOW #call of duty #john price #captain price #cod mw2 #call of duty smut #john price smut #john price x reader #john price cod #john price x you #task force 141 #price cod #cod mwii #captain john price #cod x reader #cod smut #kinktober

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quillcraftconquer · 3 days

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(I was thinking of this earlier and it made me laugh so I had to post)

Task Force 141 and their ailments

John Price- Tinnitus. Cannot hear. Is constantly yelling “WOT?”. Refuses to wear ear protection at the range.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick- Honestly, I think Gaz is the healthiest member. It’s probably something he can’t control like low blood sugar, has to carry around a little snack for it.

John “Soap” MacTavish- Being a demolitions expert I think Soap would be all about the “eyes and ears” protection. He’s probably got sciatica pain like a mf though, always hunched over something.

Simon “Ghost” Riley- Slipping rib syndrome. If you’ve ever had it, you know how bad that shit hurts. Probably lays in bed for the first 15 minutes of the day just contemplating being alive.

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bunnys-kisses · 2 days

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retired!price needed a mission. he had been in the military since the day he could enlist, he was molded by the structure of it all. early riser and late evenings, whisky and cigars. the feeling of a gun in his hands was second nature. debriefings and helicopter rides. that was his life, that was what he was good at. one mission after another, even when his body wanted to quit, he mentally couldn't.

now, at the age of forty-seven, he was retired. he had no mission, no objective. it made him almost pace around his flat. that was until you moved in next door.

you gave price purpose, even if you didn't mean to. there was something about you that captivated him. you pulled him in like a siren's song. price could imagine himself curled up next to you in the evenings, listening to your quiet breathing as you fell asleep. breakfast in the mornings and dinner in the evenings. falling asleep in front of the television. the problem was, you were painfully younger than him. still an adult. you had just graduated university, but still younger than him. that and you had a boyfriend. price couldn't care to remember his name, he had to go. now.

price hated seeing his hands all over you. your boyfriend, it felt so juvenile for a woman as amazing as you. you needed a man, not a boy. price thought you shouldn't be waiting around for him to finish (fail) med school. you needed a real man, someone who'll provide. and price could provide for you in spades. "does the boyfriend help with any of the finances?" price asked as he helped you bring your groceries inside one afternoon. you looked at him with a curious expression and replied, "no." and price just smiled as he patted you on the shoulder, "well, he isn't much of a man then? if he can't take care of his girl." the smile was friendly and it slowly coaxed you into his arms. but not before price took care of your boyfriend. he remembered when you came to his apartment in tears because they found a body near the river. wrapped in plastic and with no suspects in custody, price lingered when the police talked to you. and then reassured you when the police left.

after that price knew that he had to take better care of you. you were hurting, you needed price. so while you were out, price let himself in and got to work. it wasn't hard to replicate your key, he had swiped the spare from the bowl by the door when he came to visit you one day, only for the key to returned the next afternoon. a few cameras installed around the apartment to keep you safe. this was about your safety. price couldn't have you getting hurt, not when your boyfriend went and got himself killed! (you worried his killer was still out there). "do you ever feel like someone's watching?" you asked over morning tea before you went to work. price was leaned back on the couch enjoying his own cup with his other hand on your thigh. price replied, "sometimes, but it might be anxiety overactin' in your brain. maybe you need to take a vacation." "hmm, maybe." price liked his mission now, to protect you. keep you safe from whatever or whoever killed your boyfriend. did he have mob connections, were you in danger? it was alright, price could protect you. but it would be hard to when he lived so far away from you. why don't you move in? it wasn't like he was using the spare bedroom. but the spare bedroom wasn't used for long, soon you found comfort in price's bed. you had become a little more paranoid, there were still no leads on your boyfriend's murder case, but price was a comforting presence.

even his smell managed to calm your mind. you often wore an article of his clothing out to feel protected. it was even better when those clothes were on the hefty, strong, hairy body of your friend. price preferred the term husband when referring to him. but you'd get there eventually. it was easier to catch a wife with honey than vinegar, so he'd let you play those cute games. the will they-won't they as if price hadn't killed your boyfriend to get with you. you were made for him, every atom in your being was meant for price. you were his mission! his sanity! he needed to keep you safe, so don't blame him when he slipped an air tag in your work bag and another in your weekend purse. he always knew where you were, you just thought it was luck when he perfectly had dinner ready for as soon as you came home. the home cooked meals made you much more agreeable with price. the savoury sauces, meats and vegetables. all to add a little more fat to your hips, price liked his women soft. easy to take care of but with enough chub to carry a healthy baby. he knew your hips were wide and your chest was big. you had the body of a goddess that price yearned to worship. to fuck.

so while, price had never believed in god. rather he believed that it was better to stay out of religion given what he had done in his past. but when his worn, calloused hands gripped your soft hips and sank himself into your pussy. it was heaven. the skies opened up and the angels sang their choir. price already imagined the ring on your finger and the baby at your hips. out of this flat and into a bigger home outside the city. price would provide, as he always did. when his cock nudged against your gummy walls, it only egged his fantasy on further. your pathetic boyfriend didn't know what he had, but price did. so that was why your boyfriend had to get out of the picture. price knew every inch of skin better than he did. he knew every curve and mole. the scar on your side from an childhood accident to your stretchmarks at your hips. a divine being was what you were and when price fucked you it was a religious experience. your moans were music to price's ears and you made him yearn for you more. it was a taste of heaven that would drive a mortal man insane. his hairy stomach up against you as he fucked you with heavy strokes. he was so much bigger compared to you. he could bruise you, crush you, if he so desired. but the only bruising would be at your cervix, but don't worry price will soften the pain with his cum. the bed creaked under the both of you. he made promises that the would kill you safe from anything that could harm you. he was a man, not a boy, exactly what you needed. he'll take care of everything, just keep loving him. being with him. and you, with squeaky moans, promised that you'd love him. that made something in price's bed click and he fucked you without much hold-back. when he finished inside of you, he planted a kiss on your lips, a passion that would only be matched when you got married.

"my baby girl." he said softly as he rubbed your back afterwards.

price found that your anxiety lessened as time went by. planning a wedding with a baby on the way kept your brain occupied. there was nothing to worry about, love. no one would hurt a hair on your head. price's mission would forever be you. you and the babies. a proper price family. just don't look in his safe. you might not like what you find. in particular the pistol with the missing bullet. <3

#bunny drabbles #cw: dark themes #reader insert #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #john price cod #captain john price #john price #captain price x reader #captain price #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty smut #dark fic #call of duty x reader #call of duty x you #call of duty x y/n #reader insert smut #retired!price #price mw2

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tame-the-lion-writes · 2 days

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I’m surprised that no one’s brought it up yet in asks but cat!reader definitely chases lasers

I say this bc I imagined Soap and Gaz messing around w one and pointing it at Ghost’s face

“What the—“

And he gets absolutely BODIED by cat reader’s entire weight

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the-californicationist · 3 days

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Cali's Kinktober: Day 01

post cibum - "after a meal" - Kinktober Masterlist TF141 x f!reader Kinks > wet/messy, food play, objectification Full tags on AO3 - MDNI - Read at your own risk.

Your new job as a professional nyotaimori model pays all the bills and then some, but tonight, you are serving a group of soldiers who want more than just the novelty of eating fancy sushi rolls off of a naked woman. After they’ve had their fill of the nigiri and the rolls, they want you for dessert.

“That’s fine, sir. We can do a seven o’clock tonight. Have you had a chance to choose your selections from the menu?”

You strained your ears as you listened to your maître d' consult with a customer over the phone. You were prepping in the adjoining room, going through your normal routine, but the growling, Manchester accent coming through the speaker was making it difficult to focus.

“Yeah, give us a full spread. The works. No barriers.”

It must be a big party, you thought. The full spread option included a large array of sushi and sashimi. Asking for no barriers was quite adventurous, and you felt your skin flush with excitement.

“Yes, sir. And would you like your artist bound or unbound?”

“Mm,” he thought for a minute, and you tried to send telepathic messages to the gruff stranger, “Let’s have ‘er tied down.”

Yes, you celebrated, already imagining the feel of the ropes crossing over the big, wooden table and pinning you to it, forcing you to stay in place all night long.

“And will you be including the sake option?”

“Yeah, sure. Johnny’s a bloody lush.”

Your heart began to race just imagining what sort of night you were in for. The sake option meant needing to shave your sensitive pussy completely bare, so you added that step to your process. Being a food model wasn’t something anyone seemed to take seriously, but you felt like a true artist, and you wanted your guests to have an unforgettable experience when they came to dine with you… on you.

“Alright, sir, that’s –”

“And we want the additional package. I’ll pay extra. Whatever it costs. Just put it on the tab.”

“Yes, sir. Would you like A, B, or C?”

The additional package? How did he know about that? You’d never performed for this man before – you would not have been able to forget that voice – and only your regulars knew about your secret options.

“A and B, but keep her mouth open, yeah? In case she gets hungry…”

His dark laugh made your blood burn in your veins. Your add-on package meant that he wanted to fill your holes while you lay on the table for him. Option A was for a large glass dildo in your pussy, warmed and heavy, option B was for a bulbous anal plug made of the same body-safe glass, and option C was for a rubber ball-gag in your mouth. But, he wanted to have access to you there, and that made you almost see stars when you thought about the implications. What did your mystery Manc have planned for you?

“Yes, sir. Do you know how many will be in your party tonight?”

“Four. The one with the mohawk is the birthday boy.”

“Thank you, sir. I will add that to the notes. Any allergies?”

“No.”

“And the name for the party?”

“Riley.”

“Thank you. See you later.”

When she hung up the phone, you listened to her boots clack against the marble floor as she came into your dressing room,

“Hey babes, here’s your ticket for tonight. Table of four. Bunch of soldiers. Sure you’re up for it?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, not feeling as confident as you sounded, “Just make sure to keep their drinks coming. They tip more when they’re drunk.”

You winked at her and she laughed, closing the door behind her to let you finish grooming and cleansing your body.

Each swipe of your razor was another tantalizing part of your ritual. Once you were fully shaved, you cleaned your skin with special antibacterial soap before applying neutral oils that wouldn’t affect the taste of the food. No perfume, no deodorant. Those were the standards. You weren’t allowed to talk, or to move if you were bound by the tight ropes that pinned you to the table, and you were simply there to be a beautiful platter for the immaculately-made sushi.

At more traditional restaurants, your position was revered, and guests were forbidden from interacting with you directly. You’d worked at a number of venues that hosted nyotaimori events, all with varying levels of standards and rules, but this one paid the most. This place allowed their guests to do almost anything they wanted, and those high risk situations added to the excitement and to your bank account. However, you’d never felt safer. There were cameras, guards, and highly trained staff all over the premises, and if you ever needed to press your emergency button, you could do so. You wore your panic ring at all times, and you’d used it effectively once or twice; it worked like a dream.

But, you had to admit, it wasn’t just the money that kept you coming back here. You liked the clients. You liked feeling their hands and mouths eating off of your warm body. You enjoyed the more adventurous customers who wanted to taste you and touch you after they were done with their food. It was exhilarating, and you loved being at their mercy.

Just before your call time, your attendant brought you your glass dildo and anal plug from the back. They had been sanitized, and you used a little lube to insert the familiar, rigid shape into your pussy. You felt yourself already wet from anticipation, and although the glass phallus was thick and heavy, you took it with a satisfying ease.

The anal plug was another story. You used much more lube and began to play with your hole with your fingers before you committed to pressing it through your tight rim. The pressure from the fat dildo in your cunt made it even harder to accept, but after a few deep breaths, you felt your body relax and allow the round bulb to sit inside of your ass, pushing against all of the sensitive nerve endings inside of your stretched hole.

You washed your hands thoroughly and cleansed your skin again, just to be sure. Eventually, you finished with your prep and walked through the hallways to lay on your long black table. It was a chabudai, a short table where guests would sit on mats on the floor, and the dining room where you served was dimly lit, very minimally decorated, and had instrumental music playing softly through the speakers. You looked up into the corner and saw the camera light go from red to green. It was showtime.

Your attendant returned to perform your shibari. You were laying on your back, and she tied your wrists to your thighs, making sure to position your thumb so that you could press your panic ring easily. Then, she began to lay the ropes over your ribs, framing your breasts, using the ties to make them stand perky and proud on your chest. Finally, she fed the bindings under the table and fastened them down. You were stuck. You could bend your knees and twist your body, but that was about it.

“All good, ma’am?” She asked.

You nodded,

“Yes, thank you. All good.”

“Alright. I’ll tell chef.”

She left you alone, and you tried your best to focus on your breathing. The dildo was nudging a very sensitive spot inside of you, and you pulsed against it, attempting to find some relief. But, you were just making it worse. Your clenching muscles were allowing it to thrust against you, and no amount of wiggling was going to grant you any reprieve. So, you stopped. You shut off your mind as much as you could, listening to the music and imagining an infinite, empty expanse in your head.

The door clicked open and the sushi chef came in with his two other servers. They set to work, laying slabs of salmon and octopus sashimi across your breasts in a spiral pattern, using delicate roe to dust the inner circle over your hard nipples, making it look like the pollen-covered pistil of a flower, the fish serving as your beautiful petals.

A row of maki trailed their way down your belly and each arm. More sashimi were laid on all the places where a roll wouldn’t sit, and one of the chef’s assistants began to place thinly-sliced mango across your neck like a choker. Your legs were covered in sushi and more fruit, and finally, right in the join of your legs, you balanced a bowl with a single lotus flower inside.

The door cracked again, and your attendant poked her head in,

“Chef, your party is here. Should we send them in?”

The chef nodded, and everyone left the room. But, this time, the silence was deafening rather than zen. Your heart was pounding. You couldn’t wait to see and hear and feel what these four guests had in store for you.

Finally, the door opened, and you heard their jovial laughter and talking.

“Cannae believe you got a reservation, LT! Been dyin’ to try this for the longest.”

“I know, Johnny,” you recognized that deep, Manchester accent, “Won’t shut up about it.”

Johnny finally came into view. He peered down at you with a uniquely boyish wonder, staring at your face and your body like a kid at Christmas, eager to unwrap his presents. His friends surrounded him on both sides. You guessed that the wry blond was Simon, your vocal crush. You didn’t know the other two, but they were just as nice to look at. One of them was enormous, over-muscled with a bit of a belly, and an odd beard. The other was like a professional athlete, chiseled and masculine, with big brown eyes and dark, smooth skin.

“Sure is a pretty plate, huh, lads?” The beard spoke with a growling, gravely Scouse accent. He was a smoker, that was for sure.

“Fittest table I’ve ever seen,” the athlete smiled, his full lips revealing sharp, blinding teeth.

“Please, have a seat, gentlemen,” your attendant put on her best sexy customer-service voice, “First round is on the house.”

“Oh, shit,” Johnny laughed.

He and his friends ordered an absurd amount of alcohol, and then you were left alone with your party.

“Think we can get started?” Johnny asked, “Is that alright with you, bonnie?”

You watched out of the corner of your eye as the bearded one hit him lazily on the arm with the back of his hand,

“She isn’t supposed to speak, MacTavish. Didn’t you fuckin’ listen, or is all the blood that’s meant to be in your brain stuck in your prick?”

“Here, Captain,” the athlete called the bearded one over, “Try this.”

You felt the soft wood of your restaurant’s polished chopsticks graze the side of your breast as he lifted a slab of salmon off of your skin.

The captain grabbed the fish with his fingers clumsily, but he slurped it down, groaning with pleasure,

“Mm, that’s not bad, Gaz.”

Johnny reached out to you, his hands steady and sure,

“Lemme try…”

You felt his warm thumb graze over the top of your nipple, pushing some of the fresh roe onto a cut of octopus, and as he curled the fish, he let it drag over the same spot he touched, purposefully teasing you.

Once they started, they didn’t want to stop. Their hands were roaming all over you, picking up food and feasting on what you had to offer.

“Look here,” Gaz commented, letting his fingers swipe up the side of your ribs, gathering up dark sauce and licking it off of his knuckle.

“Oh, tha’ looks tasty,” Johnny smiled, leaning his head down and using his tongue to lick up the rest of the flavor, taking great pains to get as close to the side of your breast as he dared.

They were getting braver, but you could tell they still weren’t sure what they were allowed to do.

Before long, your attendant was back, ready to get more drinks and appetizers for your men, and you listened to them politely dismiss her, too focused on their task at hand: uncovering you from your delicate morsels of sushi.

“Mm,” Simon grunted, “Not bad, hm?”

“It’s proper tasty,” the captain agreed.

“I’m so glad to hear you’re enjoying yourselves,” your attendant encouraged them, “Could I interest you in a sake presentation?”

“Wha’s tha?” Johnny asked with his mouth full, excited to know more.

“Your artist has more than one talent, gentlemen,” she smiled coyly down at you, kneeling beside the table, carefully removing the bowl from where it was so carefully perched on your pussy.

The whole room stood still as your smooth, oiled vulva was revealed. Your attendant leaned over you, pouring warm sake into the divot between your closed legs and your mons, filling the space with drink. She made sure the men were looking at her with rapt attention, and she bent to suck the alcohol from your body, her mouth sucking right below your clit, slurping up the delicious sake until it was almost gone.

“Creepin’ Jesus,” Johnny said under his breath, “Can I do one, lass?”

“Yes, sir,” she smiled, “Of course! You can do anything you like.”

“Anything…”

Johnny’s eyes watched as she filled the crevice between your legs again, letting the sparkling fluid pool and ripple against your skin. Then, when she was done with her pour, he bent to drink from you, putting his mouth exactly where hers had been, gulping and swallowing the sweet brew, his eyes fixed on your pretty pussy until you were empty. Then, he stole a lick, shoving his tongue between your lips to tease your clit, testing the limits of what was allowed, trying to find the boundary.

“I’ll leave the bottle, yes?” Your attendant asked, leaving it on the table without waiting for an answer.

“Thanks, love,” the captain smiled, watching his friend hovering over your wet quim as Johnny considered going back between your legs for seconds.

“Go on, then, Sergeant,” Simon encouraged him, “For what I fuckin’ paid, you better enjoy it.”

That was the only permission the mohawked birthday boy needed. He sank his hot mouth down onto your pussy and began to suckle at your clit like it was part of his meal. He laved his tongue inside of your swollen lips, licking you in rhythmic, rolling thrusts.

You tried your best to control your reactions, but there was only so much you could do to contain your pleasure. Gaz noticed when your eyes rolled back in your head, your lashes fluttering closed as you tried to breathe through the feeling.

“Delicious, aren’t ya, babe?”

He bent his head to your breast, feasting on the two pieces of sashimi that were left behind, using his tongue to pull them into his mouth. You could feel the warmth of his full lips on your skin as he ate from you, and every little touch was electrified by Johnny’s feast between your legs.

As Gaz chewed on his bite, he used his thick finger to scoop up the fresh roe that remained on the peak of your nipple. Then, he bent over you, smiling like a demon,

“Open up.”

You obeyed, and you melted into your submission. The hard, unflinching stare from those big brown eyes was enough to crush your will to dust. You felt your skin flush across your whole body as you surrendered to him, as if allowing him to control you made you even more sensitive to the touching, licking, kissing, and groping that was happening to you.

He slipped his finger past your lips, placing the roe carefully on your tongue. You felt the tiny eggs spill into your lips like beads. Just when you were about to swallow them, he grabbed your chin in his hand sharply, his face turning darkly serious,

“Hey, open, I said. There’s a good girl. Stick that pretty tongue out for me. Say ahh, pretty girl.”

You did as you were told, and to your shock, he bent his mouth over yours and spit into your throat. You could feel the bubbling drool pooling in your cheeks and sliding to the back of your tongue, but there was nothing you could do about it. His lips turned up into that same dirty smirk as he said,

“Swallow.”

You took the roe into your mouth and swallowed it along with his saliva, the salt of the fish eggs mixing with the salt and alcoholic tinge in his spit. He must’ve been drinking at the bar before his party sat down at your table because the herbal scent of gin was unmistakable.

He pet your cheek with the back of his hand, praising you with his touch, watching your face twist with pleasure as Johnny became almost uncontrollable between your legs. The mohawked man was sucking so hard on your clit that the slurping sounds from his mouth were filling the room.

Gaz bent to kiss you, and you kissed him back. The softness of his lips lulled you into an even deeper sub state, and you felt like you were melting. Suddenly, he forced his tongue into your mouth and wrapped a huge palm around your jaw, holding you in place as he began to slide his slippery muscle in and out of your cheeks. It was as if he was fucking your throat with his tongue, and your mind fed you an imaginary scene of how his cock might feel in its place.

When he pulled away, you felt Johnny stop his kisses as well, and your body writhed without your consent, desperate to feel them tasting you again.

“This is the best fuckin’ birthday I’ve ever had,” Johnny smiled, wiping a hand across his shining mouth.

The man who’d made the booking, Simon, sat beside his friend and pointed between your legs,

“Pour us one, Johnny.”

“Aye. Here ya go, lads. Slàinte mhath.”

You watched as he poured sake into the divot between your legs again, but he over-indulged. He began to pour it across your belly as well, letting it pool in your belly button and settle in the dip of your sternum.

The captain was the first to take a sip. He lapped at the pool of sake that splattered across your mons and lips like a hound, aiming to taste you more than he was the alcohol. Then, he followed Johnny’s trail, dragging his hot tongue along the swell of your tummy, aiming for the well of spirits in your belly button. He hovered over it when he found it, and as he leaned down to drink from you, you could feel the tickle of his mustache, making you squirm.

His filthy, gravelly chuckle made your blood run cold. It seemed that he enjoyed forcing your body to respond to his touch.

“Ticklish, love?” He returned to your lower belly, letting the bristles of his beard tease you until your breathing became ragged, your lungs trying to suck in, doing your best to pull away from him and yet not being able to escape.

Your tormentor shoved Gaz around the table so that he could tease your breast with his bearded mouth, and Gaz followed suit, both of them fighting for the puddle of sake between your breasts before suckling on your tight nipples. They had such different agendas. Where Gaz seemed to suck because he wanted to see you squirming from pleasure, the captain seemed hell-bent on keeping you from it.

You could feel him biting into your delicate flesh with his sharp teeth, causing just enough pain to pull you out of your relaxed, pleasure-induced haze. Then, when he could see your eyes flash with just a hint of apprehension, he would retreat, rewarding your responsiveness with a long, deep suck or hungry, flat licks with his tongue, a barely-there smile twisting across his cheeks as he did.

You felt something brush against your leg, and Simon was using a napkin from the table to wipe the rest of the food off of your legs, not giving a shit about the hundreds of pounds worth of sushi being gathered up in the cloth. Dinner, apparently, was over.

Your mind raced. This was far and beyond the bravest party you’d ever served before. They worked on you as a team, giving each other silent feedback, and when Simon finally bent to drink from between your legs, your mind was throbbing from the overstimulation.

You weren’t supposed to, but you began to let long, cracking moans escape from your throat. Anything you did to hold them back was just making them worse, and your voice only seemed to spur these men to double down on their efforts.

Simon did not eat you like Johnny did. His Scottish companion ate you out like you were the food, but the Manc was more like his captain. He wanted to see where your buttons were, and when he found them, he began to press them just like a lad playing with a shiny new toy.

His tongue found the body of your clit and swirled around it, avoiding the searing head, swollen and sensitive to the point of discomfort. Instead, he pushed the tip of his tongue just below it, lifting it up, making the hood stretch just enough to apply its pressure.

You bucked your hips, the sake that rested in your thighs sloshing out, ignored by your new master. He didn’t give you a smug grin like his bearded boss. In fact, you could barely tell what emotion he was feeling. It wasn’t until you met his gaze that you noticed the fire behind his eyes.

Only then did he begin to drink from you, emptying the alcohol from your body, letting his tongue venture down into the crevice of your thighs and licking between them as if they were your cunt. He had gone deep enough to feel the edge of your dildo, and when he found it, he turned to the others, getting their attention,

“Had them do something special for Johnny. Wanna see your surprise?”

Johnny had been busy sharing a nipple with Gaz, leaving hungry little hickies across your skin. But, when Simon called him over, he seemed all too eager to return between your legs.

“Aye,” he smiled rakishly, “Gonnae spoil me, Si.”

All four men shifted to the foot of the table, their eyes wide and focused on you like hyenas with a wounded gazelle, selfish and ready for their next taste of you.

Simon took your legs and lifted them up, bending your thighs at the hip, showing the others how two fat, glass dildos were shoved deep inside of your holes.

“Oh, bonnie…” Johnny reached forward, grabbing the dildo stuck in your pussy gently between his fingers and giving it just the slightest twist, “For me? Such a good lass, innit she?”

Simon reached down below Johnny’s hand and began to tug at the anal plug. The resistance was driving you mad. You tried to relax, but he was not waiting on you, and the pressure began to build and build until finally, your muscle relented and you felt the heavy bulb slip wetly out of your asshole, soaking in lube.

“Bloody hell,” Gaz murmured, not wasting any time, sticking a long finger into the gaping hole left behind by the plug, testing the stretch of your ass with his strong hands.

Simon pressed it back in, forcing Gaz away, slowly fucking the heavy toy back into you, letting it sink inside of your body with a sloppy pop, pushing on it just a little harder than he needed to so that it would feel like it was thrusting inside of you.

Then, Johnny did the same with the dildo in your swollen pussy. He didn’t pull it all the way out, choosing instead to fuck you with it, shoving it into your hole with wet, slicking sounds, marvelling at the sight.

You were so drunk from the pleasure that you hadn’t noticed their captain sneaking around to the head of the table. He startled you, grabbing you beneath your arms and yanking you and your ropes up, strong enough to move you even though you were tied down. He had pulled you far enough that your head hung off the edge, and you found yourself staring at his black slacks, amazed at the thickness of his thighs. Then, you watched him roll down his zipper, stroking his cock until it gleamed with his precome.

You felt his other hand supporting the back of your head, holding you at just the angle he wanted. Then, he purred his command to you,

“Let me in, pretty girl.”

You allowed your muscles to weaken, opening you mouth wide, unsure if you could pry your mouth open enough for his girth to fit inside of you. He chuckled in that same, devilish way, slapping his sticky head against your lips twice before feeding his head into your cheeks, settling at the back of your throat, letting you gag and cough around him all you wanted and doing fuck-all about it.

Between your legs, you felt the dildo slip out of your pussy, replaced with eager fingers and a tongue. Now that you had the captain’s thick cock to block your noises, you let yourself whine against him like a gag, moaning and crying out from the overwhelming feeling of being used.

“Oh, fuck. That’s it, lads,” he grunted, “Make her scream for me.”

Both of his hands were cradling your head as he fucked your throat, guiding his fat dick in and out of you like a piston. You breathed when you could, but it was only just enough, and you felt yourself going light-headed.

A mouth found your nipple again, and a hand rolled itself beside your clit, making frantic circles from above. Then, below your thighs, a round prodding cockhead pressed its way into your lubricated walls, making your dildo seem like nothing more than a thick finger or two. You were being well-stretched, and your body flooded your cunt with wetness to try and ease his way, doing everything it could to make it easier for whoever it was to fit his prick into your warm body.

He rested your ankles against his neck, and your bare feet scraped the side of his head. Buzzed hair. It was the birthday boy afterall.

“Mmmph, fuckin’ hell, bonnie. Too tight. Too goddamn tight. Fuck…”

As he pumped himself into you, his movements made free and fast by the lube and your dripping cunt, your whole body began to jerk across the table. These men weren’t just large; they were stronger than you could’ve ever imagined, and you felt like you were nothing more than a mere toy to them.

The fingers teasing your clit were sending your mind into a panicked orgasm, and your whole body convulsed as you let yourself tumble into the swirling madness of your bliss, your eyes wrenched shut and flashes of rainbow light dancing across them as you came violently.

Apparently, that was enough to send the captain over his edge because as you were trapped in the throes of your orgasm, he shoved himself all the way inside of you and began to pulse hot shots of his come into your belly. You were desperate for air, but there was nothing you could do. They were in control of you, and you were ashamed by how much you enjoyed being at their mercy.

“Ohhh, Cap’n. She loves tha’, dontcha, lass?”

“Knew she would,” the captain slipped out of your throat, smiling down at you as you gasped wetly for a breath, “Filthy little slag.”

You watched as he shifted to the side of you, his thighs leaving your line of sight, being immediately replaced by a pair of dark jeans. You knew it was Gaz when his wide thumb reached down to wipe the drool and come from your lips, lovingly cleaning up after his captain’s mess.

“Being so good for us. Still hungry, baby?”

You couldn’t answer him, but he didn’t care. He tugged his long, curved rod out of his pants and let his balls rest on your mouth. You started to suckle on one of them, taking it into your mouth and letting it roll between your lips.

“Yeah, she is. Mmff-fuck, tha’s it.”

Gaz lifted your head up with his hand to help you reach, stroking his huge shaft with the other, jerking off as you did your best to pleasure him, trying to be careful with his sensitive sack.

Johnny’s thrusts became frantic. Simon and his captain were taking turns pouring sake across your belly and sucking it off of you, and you were dizzy from the feeling of being fucked with your heavy plug inside of you. When you began to come again, it hit you slowly, building and building in waves, making you tremble from the suffocating joy of it.

You cried out, and your mouth was open wide in a silent oh. Gaz took the chance to feed you his cockhead, giving you something to scream around. You felt Johnny pause deep inside of you, his cock nestled as close to your womb as he could get, and he began to fill you with his come, shamelessly bending himself over you to fit his rod down to its root in your wetness.

“Christ, bonnie! Come for me. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Hnngh…”

He slid himself out of you, but almost immediately, someone filled your empty hole with your dildo, keeping his load sealed safe inside.

Gaz was still jerking his cock as he rested his tip inside your mouth, and you could feel him shuddering above you, his fingers twisted and tugging at the base of your scalp.

“Suck on me harder. Yesss,” he groaned, “Just like that… mmfgh. Good… girl…”

You felt him throbbing, pulsing, and ready to come. Then, just when you were ready to taste him, he pulled out and painted your mouth, chin, and neck white with his seed. There was so much of it, and whatever your tongue could reach, you licked it up, sucking him clean when he let you have the tip one more time before he smeared the remnants of his dripping cream across your cheek.

Suddenly, Gaz’s hands returned to the back of your head and lifted it up. At the same time, another man yanked your whole body back down the table, making the wood creak from the stress. Now, you could see what was happening to you.

Simon was holding your thighs, playing with your pussy, making sure your dildo was nice and snug. Then, he removed your anal plug again, twisting it out with a steady tug. When you made a whimpering cry, he looked up at you, and you saw that same light in his gaze, a hunger unlike that of his other friends. Something uncanny and secret about his message that you failed to decode.

He began to pry open your asshole with his fingers, exploring just past the rim. First, it was just one, but then it was two. They twisted, curling inside of you, plunging deeper and deeper and testing how pliant you were. Your plug was pretty large, so you weren’t usually concerned about a man’s cock being a challenge. But, the way he was preparing your hole made your whole body tense with anticipation, worried about what was going to happen to you.

You watched him rest your heels on his shoulder, just like his friend had done, and his tattooed hand held your thighs as the other placed his swollen head at the rim of your asshole, teasing it, barely even touching you.

You thought he would plunge inside, but he never did. He just kept painting little warm circles around you, pressing on the outside yet never allowing himself to slip into your ass.

“Mngh…” You whined, twisting your hips as much as you could, begging for it.

“What’s that? Speak up, love. Can’t hear ya.”

You looked at him with pleading eyes, knowing you weren’t allowed to break your ceremonial rule but desperate just the same. He let himself smile softly down at you, planting his head at your hole and using the weight of his cock to rest it there.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Tell me you want it. It’ll be our little secret.”

His friends were kneeling around you, spent but still groping your body, licking and kissing you lazily, enjoying watching Simon torment you.

“She doesnae wanna break the rules, Si. Good lass tha’ she is,” Johnny cooed, letting his fingers rest on either side of your clit, drawing deep ovals and watching your face twist in desperation.

“Let him hear it, love. We won’t tell,” the captain whispered in your ear, using his fingers to slide Gaz’s come from your chin into your mouth, making you taste his salty seed. He kept his fingers inside of your lips, pushing them all the way to the back of your throat, letting you suck on them, “Tha’s right. Our perfect little slut.”

Your mind went blank, and all you could focus on was the feeling of relief that would come to you if you just broke your rule…

The captain removed his hand, returning to your tits to suck on them and pinch your nipples. Then, Simon pressed forward just a little more, giving you his head before immediately taking it away, leaving you hollow.

“... please…” You whispered, your voice so shallow and small.

“What? Cannae hear you, bonnie,” the Scot smiled, moving his hand faster between your pussy lips.

“I think I heard something, did you?” Gaz joked, raising his eyebrows at Simon, smacking your ass cheek with the palm of his hand.

“Say it,” Simon growled.

His team was all smiles, but he was dead on. You locked eyes with him and said it again.

“Please.”

“Fuck,” Simon’s eyes rolled back in his head, the whites peeking through his long lashes, and he sank himself deep into your asshole in one punishing thrust.

He was as thick as your plug, but he was so much longer, and you had never felt so stretched out in your whole life. As he began to fuck you, he wrapped his hand around the dildo in your pussy, covered in come and lube, and he fucked you in time with his own prick, making it seem like he was in both places at once.

“You ready for more?” Simon asked you breathlessly, checking in with you.

You nodded, fuck-drunk but just as submissive as ever. Whatever he asked for, you were ready to give it to him.

When he saw your shallow nods, he began to fuck you at an incredible pace. Your whole body was shuddering every time he slammed himself forward, and the strength of his thrusts was making you feel like his cock was even bigger than you thought, your poor asshole stretched past the point of comfort.

“She’s takin’ it so good, Si,” Johnny sighed, watching your face go slack as his friend railed himself into you.

You weren’t even moaning. You were barely breathing. Your mind only had one goal: making you come and come and come.

“Spread her legs,” Simon commanded his team.

You heard the schnick of a knife’s blade being unsheathed, and then the ropes around your ankles were sliced away. Gaz and Johnny pulled your knees up to your chest, forcing you open for him like a book.

Johnny bent down over your pussy and spat onto your slit, smearing it with his fingers. Then, he slapped you gently a few times, increasing the pain each time his hand came down until you were literally screaming from it. But, it didn’t hurt. It just made you come even harder. The pleasure was muting the pain to an incredible degree. You wanted him to give you more, but you were too far gone to ask.

The captain was kissing your mouth, using his hands to feed you come again, and you couldn’t even kiss him back. Your body was frozen, your muscles tight and stuck in a loop of pleasure. You were coming in cyclical waves, unsure of where one started or ended, just suspended in blissful torment, sucking in breaths when your lungs allowed you to.

Then, Simon’s movements stuttered, and he slowed, sinking into you as deep as he could fit before pulling out in one swift movement and jerking his cock right in front of your swollen, punished pussy.

He slid the dildo out of you, leaving you feeling empty to the point of grief, and you watched as he hovered at your entrance, shooting his load into your already-filled cunt. Rope after rope of milky come seared its way into you, messy but accurate. Then, he replaced the dildo and sat back on his heels, out of breath.

His friends let your legs back down, and they all moved away from you, leaving little kisses on your body as they retreated.

Once they recovered, they had one more shot of sake together, and Johnny poured one into your mouth.

“There ya go, bonnie. Job well done, aye? This birthday party willnae be topped anytime soon.”

You swallowed the shot, tasting just not the alcohol but the remnants of Gaz’s come as well when it slid down your throat in tandem.

“Don’t worry, pretty girl,” the captain said, “You don’t have to say your goodbyes yet.”

Simon peered down at you over his shoulder,

“Riverbend street, apartment six, right?”

Your eyes went wide. How did he know where you lived?

But, before you could ask him, they let themselves out, leaving you stunned, full of their come, and thrilled about what you would find when you finally made it home tonight.

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