#csspats

[cannedsoupsucks]

Where can I find Shell? I need a referral

Dumb question, is shell a friend of pats or is she a client?

This is the opposite of a dumb question, you beauty.

(For those of you coming late to class, Shell is the receptionist in GTTT that gives Preciosa the insider information to apply for Pats' services.)

She was the instigator to all this madness and has been marginally mentioned here and there. Your curiosity about her is warranted. 

You wanna know more? So does our girl.

Truth or Dare: Anything I Want (GTTT PATS)

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

Warnings: smut under the cut

(gif by hoberynmartell)

“Truth or dare.” You’re already sitting up against the headboard, oiled, heavy-limbed, heavy-lidded. 

Milking the anticipation, he makes you wait while he pulls his shirt up and over his head, pulls down his underwear to reveal that–as usual–he’s ready to go.

He’s had a week to puzzle this out, figures he’s pegged you wrong, that you might intentionally make the dares harder than the truth to entice him there. Like a game of rock-paper-scissors, he’s tried to predict the obvious choice and if you’d expect that, and then maybe he should surprise you and try to choose beyond that expectation…

But why? Why overthink and try to best you? Why shouldn’t he be giving you exactly what you want? Isn’t this a game where you both could win? That might be more fun.

And this way, by your own rules, all he has to do is answer a question and he can request anything in return, give up a tiny bit of control in exchange for whatever he wants. He’s perused the menu ahead of time and come to the table hungry with his order; hasn’t been able to forget the warm wrap of your mouth since the hotel room and he feels himself swelling with the thought…

Crawling up on the bed between your legs and pressing his hard length against your soft flesh, he offers a low, “Truth.��

You came prepared. “Tell me about Shell.”

What.

He’s suddenly locked in place, completely shocked to stillness, all but his brow which collapses painfully downward. Shell? His contact? The woman who referred you to him? His eyes question yours, not quite understanding where you’re going with this or what you already know. Have you been talking to her? Why would this information be important to you? He thought you might ask him more about his personal life, his childhood, his love life, his feelings–

This is somewhat alarming. 

But then he sees it. The patience as your eyes wander his face. He feels it as you reach up easily to move a curl away from his forehead, your knuckles grazing his cheek as they return to rest at your heart. The request isn’t malicious. Or playful. Or born of jealousy. Just patient curiosity.

And what’s more, it’s open-ended. He could tell you about her love of garlic and bowling. Or he could tell you how she believes in karma and is constantly doing favors for people to balance all the shady deals she makes. But he thinks he knows what you’re asking. Well…except…

“That isn’t a question.” It comes out more playful than he meant it to be.

You don’t adjust the wording. You simply roll your hips the tiniest amount to slide yourself along him, and he breathes in sharply, sits back on his heels and takes your feet in his lap to massage them while he speaks.

“Anything I want?” He asks, making sure you both know the terms of the agreement.

A little nod. A teasing smile. “Anything.”

“Okay.” How much does he want to reveal? Where to begin? “She’s a friend,” he concedes, working his thumbs lightly into the arch of one foot, stopping at a reflex point to let you breathe. “What exactly do you want to know?”

“How do you know her?”

“She was the receptionist at my old clinic.”

“And you just…recruited her to find clients for you?”

This rips an involuntary chuckle out of him. “Me? Recruit Shell? More like the other way around.” Moving on to your toes, he can’t harness the smile pushing at his cheek. “Nobody bosses Shell around. She’s her own beast.”

“So this was all her idea?”

His steady gaze floats to yours as he continues to work at your joints, softly, slowly, knowing the soporific effect it can have, especially when paired with his purr. He wants you relaxed. Pliant. “That’s right. If you like what I’m doing here, you have Shell to thank.”

As you close your eyes and sigh into his touch, he admits to himself that you’re not the one that owes Shell some gratitude. She knew what she was doing when she sent you his way. Somehow knew you would wake him up, challenge him, knew better than him that you’re exactly his type…

“Will you tell me how it came about, Patricio?” 

Your whisper is intimate, pretty, your mouth curling around the words, licking at his name. This is like standing on the edge of a dropoff, one he knows is there but can’t really see. How many steps can he take before he teeters off the edge? Has he become numb to the feeling of danger? Is this worth the risk?

He could make it worth the risk.

He could pull you over that boundary with him.

He picks up the dice and enters the game.

“I’ve answered your question. If you want more, I’ll tell you more, but I’d like to cash in first, if you trust me.”

It’s not quite trepidation radiating off you as your eyes meet his and your breath comes quicker. Not exactly. More like…

…thrill.

“Okay.” You swallow. Lick your pretty lips meant so recently to be his ultimate goal. 

But he’s not going there tonight. Oh no. If you’re asking for vulnerability, he’s going to show it to you. Given true carte blanche, now he knows what he really, really wants.

And it’s not what he wants to do to you.

Reaching over to the side table and opening a drawer, he brings out a number of items, handing you a latex glove. “We’re gonna go slow with this, okay?”

Your eyes glance over the toys–the lube, the dildo, the harness–and the troubled expression on your face confirms that he’s truly found a button you never thought he’d push. “You look nervous. You said anything I wanted. This is your game, remember?”

“Yeah...I…I just…don’t know how…”

He chuckles softly as he slips the harness around your feet, up your calves, over your thighs, “That’s okay. I’ve done this before. I’ve got you. Up.” He pulls you gently to your knees on the bed, urging a wide stance and guides your hands to his broad shoulders for stability…and you need it. The inside of the harness has a little something for you and you gasp as he inserts it, and again as it settles against and within you when he fastens the buckle. “That’s good. I think you’re going to enjoy this. Glove goes on your dominant hand.”

Once he’s got the dildo attached to the front of the harness and squeezes a generous amount of lube into your gloved palm, he instructs you to play. “Go on. Stroke yourself. Get it lubed up.”

Damn, you’re pretty. Kneeling on the bed, fucking your hand, just a little self-conscious, the coyness is intriguing and he finds himself solidifying. The dildo isn’t big, just enough to be pleasurable and hit the right spot, but it suits you somehow, matches your stature, matches your ability to fit him so well.

“Okay, Preciosa,” he presses a gentle kiss against your mouth, “Breathe. You’re going to do great. I trust you.”

You follow direction gloriously. The gentle easing of his opening. The slow insertion. Oh, fuck. Reading his body and knowing when to push and when to pull, when to sustain and when to glide. He can hear your little pants back there, knows the tug and press of the harness nub is doing its work on you, can feel its effect transmitted through the dildo inside him, knows when you’re close. Even without seeing those pretty parted lips, knows it so, so well.

You’re being so careful with him, so tender, but not overly so. Your confidence comes out in your steady, smooth pace, knowing he won’t let you fail. After a while your hands move from his hips, exploring his back, his thighs, reaching forward to slowly, desperately claw at his hair.

Fuck.

He reaches back around him. Takes your hand and pulls you forward on top of him. Wraps it around himself and covers it with his own. Moving back against you to take control of the depth and pace, he takes the burden from you. As you find your own climax, he uses your fist to chase his own, violently spilling, forcing out a strained growl of holy swears. His breath hitches as you come, a sharp surprise as you sink your teeth into his shoulder, not painfully, hardly deep enough to leave a mark, but enough for him to understand that this won’t be the last time you fuck him.

A knot within him slackens. Giving in is easier than he expected.

“Good. You did so good. Breathe.”

While he cleans you and prepares the room for your nap, he’s generous with your reward. You’ve earned it.

“Shell. Shell’s one of the few people I really trust.”

_______________

Back when he worked at a regular massage clinic, Shell had been the main receptionist for a while. She was always good for a joke or a bit of sass. Sometimes after closing she might stay and help clean up his treatment room in exchange for his help with a bad knot or sore shoulder. She preferred another therapist for her regular sessions, but would always come to him if there was a concentrated spot, anything that could be treated quickly without taking off her clothes.

They started going out to drinks after work once a week–nothing like what you’re thinking–just bullshitting, her about her wife and him about his ex. She’d tried to set him up a few times. Shell was good at guessing his type. But nothing stuck. He’d recently been through therapy for sex addiction but wasn’t so hot to tie himself down to one person again.

She’d found out that he was good with computers and technology and asked him to develop a website front for her, allowing her to sell pot brownies and other light medicinally-centered recreational goodies, online but off the radar. Nothing truly shocking, but not all of it completely legal. Easy enough.

The incident that happened–the one that caused him to leave his practice–Shell was the only one who knew the truth and covered for him. She left that clinic shortly after and found another, primarily so she wouldn’t have to answer questions. It was her way of protecting him.

They still met for drinks now and then. Her side hustle was doing well. But his life…well, that was a bit of a wreck for a while. It was at one of these happy hours that she proposed a scheme. Instead of trying and failing to control his addiction, he could just meet it head on and get his fix. She could earn commission off good referrals and be a second contact for his own safety. But really, he could have something of a practice again, one that was unique and fulfilling. One that could scratch all of his itches at once...

________________

“...and that’s why I’m able to be here to take care of you like this.”

He watches your chest rise and fall, listens to the soft cycle of your breath. You’re just at the turning point. There’s a new facet about you that he can’t quite define, the fact that you stepped over the edge with him so willingly, fell without a single scratch, so resilient, like a fucking diamond… something preciosa...

He really should take Shell out for a drink. For a dozen.

While you sleep, he stands naked in his kitchen, waiting for the water on the stove to boil so he can sanitize the toys. There’s something in him that is slowly relaxing, slowly unwinding, slowly letting go. Your game is dangerous, yes. But when will he get another chance like this? 

Why not... play?

He’s still in control of his own boundaries, and he can call a stop to it at any time. Why not be patient and see where you intend for this to go? If it’s what you want and he gets this much enjoyment out of it, then he’d be a fool not to let you hold the dice. Right?

It’s not a great strategy but it’s better than no strategy.  And he knows you’ll honor it.

After all, you do take direction very, very well.

___

___

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cannedsoupsucks]

Wow! I love the set up of the story. It's got it all. Intrigue, deception, love, and uncertainty. I can't wait to learn more about the long con, if they pull it off, and the effect it has on them.

And the smut... excellent

The Long Con - Part One:

Pedro & Kim 

A/N: Hahahahahaha I am laughing because I’m terrified. This literally came out of nowhere, demanded to be written, and now that it is I am extremely fucking anxious about it but here it is anyway. This is 110% a self-indulgent story about liars and cheats that I hope you enjoy. Writing smut is so not my thing, but I am trying to push my boundaries and who better to do that with than the lothario across the road? 

*Based on the character Pedro Across the Street from the Apple TV show Calls- this is not RPF. 

Warnings: Language, infidelity, sexual content, alcohol consumption, criminal activity 

Word Count: 5.1k 

Summary: There are three weeks left until you and your partner Gabe kick off the last in what has been almost a decade worth of successful schemes, and the two of you are ironing out a few final details as you prepare your aliases for the longest con you’ve ever attempted. But what once seemed like a simple, manageable job suddenly has you questioning everything that got you this far. 

– – – – 

“Pedro?” You wrinkled your nose as you said the name, licked your lips to taste the strangeness of it. 

He nodded, his eyes shifting down to track the motion of your tongue before flicking back up to meet your gaze. “Yeah.” Tilting his head to the right, he arched one eyebrow. Oh, you fucker. You felt your stomach lift and flip like it always did when he pulled that expression, like you were on a rollercoaster and one look from him could send you looping and speeding through the air. “You think it fits?” 

Keep reading

[cannedsoupsucks]

So tender and soft. There is so much more to their relationship than just caregiver/client. I wonder if she thinks he treats all his clients like this or does she have any inkling that she's special?

When I read this I thought about how wonderful it would be to be cared for like that while grieving a loss ❤️

I just found your PATS series and I am loving it!

I was wondering how a session might go with PATS after the reader has been sick and had to skip a session or two until they were better. Does he help them out with any remaining body aches?

Thanks, friend!!! Glad you’re having a good time! <3

I assume by this ask that maybe you were ill at the time and I’m sorry to hear that. But yes. He loves a good challenge and he’s set on making his clients feel good and relaxed. I’m sure he would. 

In fact...

Truth or Dare: This is Enough for Now (GTTT PATS)

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

Warnings: smut intimacy under the cut

It’s not the news he wants to see on the portal chat.

–I won’t be able to make it again this week

You’ve missed the last two sessions due to illness, which means it’s been three weeks since you’ve been on his table. Three weeks since your-skin-against-his. Three weeks to think about his choice in the game. And what he was going to ask you to do as his reward. 

At first he thought to take advantage of the break. Let himself simmer down. Didn’t work. If nothing, it just keeps you at a low boil in the back of his mind.

His groan of frustration isn’t directed at you. It’s selfish want coursing through his veins. He misses you–plain and simple–and he fucking knows it.

–I’m sorry to hear that. Still feeling under the weather?

–I’m doing better just residual achiness 

–You’re no longer contagious?

–No

–If you want, we could just do a regular massage, relieve some of that ache.

–That sounds glorious. I’d love that. But i’m still weak enough that the effort of getting there is going to knock me over. If only you made house calls

He watches the light on his portal blink for a few seconds, knows full well that he’s about to fling himself recklessly over another line. But there’s a loophole here to exploit, a brilliant little gift you’ve given him. He shelves his preference for the week, sacrificing truth for the only other choice–

–Dare.

–?

–Dare.

–I don’t understand

–Preciosa. It’s Thursday. There’s something you want, and I’m choosing dare.

Your light blinks for a few seconds. But you pick up the thread quickly enough.

–I dare you to make a house call

–Is your billing address your home address?

–Yes

–Leave the door unlocked. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be there in 20.

He makes it in 15.

________________

He leaves his shoes inside your door next to a sealed cardboard box, the kind you pack belongings in. Perhaps you’ve elected to take that job after all. But a quick look around your tidy-but-cozy living room doesn’t reveal any others. Maybe you’d only gotten so far before you got sick. Or there are more elsewhere.

As he moves through the space on his search for your bedroom, he finds your home aesthetically pleasing, not quite what he expected and yet fitting. He’s learning some things about you. Full bookshelves. A few interesting art pieces. He can certainly guess your favorite colors. It’s an entirely new space but surprisingly, he doesn’t feel like a stranger interloping; it’s comfortable here. 

It smells like you.

The bedroom isn’t difficult to find, and he leans against the doorframe for a moment.

Looks like you fell asleep waiting for him, tucked into a little ball on top of the covers. You sleep…differently here. He can’t put words to it, only that your energy is not what he’s used to. Less…held. There’s a blanket on the end of the bed he uses to cover you, leaving his small bag of toys and massage oils on your bedside table before making a necessary investigation of your bathroom.

Good sized tub, clean. Plenty of towels. Drugstore pain medication on the counter, looks like you’re still needing that. Okay. On to the kitchen.

On his way back through the hall he finds another bedroom, empty except for a cleared, abandoned office desk. Looks like it hasn’t been cleaned for a while; coffee rings make a mandala on one section, dust and grit outlining the ghosts of items past, the varnish worn where hands had rested at a keyboard. Tracks in the carpet underneath only highlight the absence of a chair.

He saw your laptop and files out on the dining table where it looks like you’ve set up a place to work from home. This isn’t your desk. It never was.

He’s well aware of your divorce. What was it Shell said? Something about the guy and a neighbor woman…

Fucking idiot.

He wonders for a moment where the ex is and if you still have any contact with him. How much or little you’ve moved on…

In the kitchen he finds the glasses on his first try, chooses one from the cabinet and moves to the refrigerator to see if you prefer filtered water. But before he opens the door,  familiar writing catches his eye. His writing. His latest assessment sheet is magnetically clipped to the fridge as well as….

A neatly folded sheet of hotel stationary with your name scrawled on it. 

The note he left for you in the hotel room.

“Hello?” Your voice calls out from down the hall, ripping him back into focus.

“Hey. I’m just getting you some water. Tap okay?”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

As the glass fills, he eyes the note. He’s not exactly sure how he feels that you kept it. That you have it somewhere where you can see it daily. He thinks… He wants…

He takes a deep breath. Steles himself for the revelation.

He wants to take care of you.

“You have a nice place.” Setting the glass on your bedside table, he sits on the edge of your bed as you smile gratefully up at him. “Very well-kept.”

“Thank you. Just don’t look at my bookshelves. I haven’t dusted in ages and you’ll be able to tell how few books I’ve read lately…”

This wins a chuckle. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay. Tired. Little achy. This bug just took a lot out of me.”

“I see you have painkillers. When was the last time you took some?”

“Yesterday.”

Delicately lifting one of your hands, he starts in on a palm massage, rubbing firm, slow circles as you instinctively take a deep breath and let your eyes softly close. “Well. Maybe we start there. I’m going to run a bath. While we wait for it to fill and for the pill to take effect, I’ll work on you here. Then we’ll move to the bathroom, okay?”

“Okay.”

It doesn’t take long for him to return with the pill bottle, to lift off your shirt and oil his hands while you take a dose.

“I want you to sit up and hug your knees. Chin down.”

The only sound is the distant rush of water as he climbs up on the bed behind you, warming the oil by running his palms over your shoulders. Then he begins to work you like a column of clay, shaping his Venus, thumbs riding the canals on either side of your spine, finding the soft curves of your arms, the sides of your breasts, down through your hips, pressing you into the form of you. He loves the strength of his own hands, their ability to (judging by your moans) push the ache down and out of your muscle. Wrapping his fingers around your arms and sliding them all the way down to the wrist, he releases your hands from around your knees and signals you to lean back into him, putting a hand to your forehead to ease you to his shoulder. Then he reaches around to work the muscles of your thighs, your hips, watching your soft expression in his periphery–the way your heavy eyelids fight to stay open and follow his hands on you–the rise of your breasts as you breathe for him. 

He leans into you when you roll your neck to press your forehead to his cheek...

He doesn’t need to tell you anymore. You give into him, fit against him, instinctively breathe and hold when he wants you to now. You’ve come so far since that first session when he worked so hard to get you to trust him…and you’d worked so hard to just let go…

But still, with you here and his mouth at your ear, he won’t drop his encouragement, especially when you hold and then sigh so pretty for him, “That’s nice. Good. Starting to feel better?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Good,” kissing the crook of your neck, letting his lips linger a bit before pulling away, he rocks you forward. “Let’s get you into that bath. I’m going to do some point work on you.”

At the tub, he gently helps you step over the rim, lowers you down into the liquid warmth, and slips a folded towel behind your head before standing to strip down.

“I’m going to need you to make room for me between your legs.”

Even though your eyes are closed and you can’t see it, he mirrors your soft smile with his own, carefully stepping into the tub and slowly kneeling down, careful not to allow it to overflow. Here, he starts with your feet, pushing into pressure points, flexing and rotating your ankle joints, working up to the back of the calves and holding the drainage point there. “Breathe.” Moving one of your legs across him, he presses two fingers up into the hip joint, watching for the twitch in your brow. There it is. “Tender here?” You nod. “Normal after you’ve been in bed a while. We’ll take care of that.” Small circles, steady pressure, strong fingers, eyes on your face until it smooths out and your tendon relaxes. He’s got you.

This is what he loves to see; you, tranquil, giving over to him, trusting him to do what’s best for you. It’s not only you at your most beautiful, it’s a reflection on himself. It means he’s never hurt you. Never let you down. That he makes you feel good. 

This is what he needs.

It’s time for a change.

He’s up and motioning you to slide forward a little so he can fit in behind you, get in to work the sacrum points at the base of your spine under the warm water, finding the little divots and working his thumbs in small circles until your flesh melts under his palms, tender, supple, giving in. Then the shoulder joints. The base of the skull. Pinpoint and zero in. Reactive pressure. Sustained attention. Reading you. His hands know where to go, understanding what needs to be done, knowing every inch of your musculature. Assessing that all is in working order and he’s made a full sweep of the main points before he pulls you back into his chest and just comes to rest.

“How do you feel?”

“Perfect. I could sleep here for a week.”

“Bed’s probably the better choice. After after a glass of water. You wanna do that now?”

“A few more minutes here?”

“Okay.”

He leans back and lets the breath take him, takes your weight onto him, looking down through his lashes at his bronze legs framing your own in the tub, listening to the errant drip of the faucet or the sucking swallow of the overflow drain whenever you both breathe in air and bring enough mass to displace some water.

“Thank you for coming,.” you hum, your back vibrating pleasantly against his torso.

“Least I could do, considering you’ve missed two sessions this month, figured this might make up for it.” The tinkle of the water off his hand takes over as he brings it up to stroke your shoulder. “Besides. If you’re moving, I might as well get you into as many sessions as possible before you go.”

“I’m not going.”

It takes all his concentration not to let his hand stop or alter in its slow trace over your skin. “No?”

“No. I dropped down to a part-time position that allows me to work from home. I’ll just have to find something else to supplement, I guess.”

“I see. I thought I saw a moving box by your door.”

Your breath hitches. “That’s…I found…some of my ex’s things. I was going to take them and drop them at his apartment. Keep losing the nerve.”

“Mmm. Been there.”

That’s… Shit. He didn’t mean to say that. Two words too much information. 

But enough to sound like encouragement to you, apparently.

“At least he moved out of the neighborhood,” you drone. Flat. Controlled. Measured. “He and Angie across the alley…I wish she’d left her husband and gone with him. But they stayed married and worked through it and now she gives me dirty looks as if it’s my fault… It wasn’t. I know it wasn’t. If it wasn’t her, it would have been someone else… Not like it was the first time…. It doesn’t matter. I deserved better and I know that now.”

Is it the closeness? The warm water and your warm bodies together? Your weight on him, pinning him down? No. It’s this… quiet, unvarnished truth you’ve just trusted him with. Being in your home. Stillness.

It’s the stillness together.

In his room he’s usually working his hands over you, working his body over yours–through yours. Stillness is for your sleeping, for his retreating, he does not come to stillness with clients.

Yet suddenly, he too could sleep here for a week. Wants to just let it all bleed out into the warm water. And he’s going around the hallways in his mind, manually shutting off all the alarms.

“If it’s okay, Preciosa, I’m not going to fuck you tonight. I want you to rest and get yourself back in working order.”

“That’s fine,” you sigh, running a hand along his knee. “I probably wouldn’t be any good to you right now.”

He’s not sure how to answer that as you lay on his chest and softly breathe. As your fingers circle his knee and gradually come to a stop. As he inhales the scent of your hair. 

This is plenty good for him. This is just enough. Just for tonight.

___

___

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cannedsoupsucks]

I have a couple of theories about why he wrote: “Ask for what you want. Demand what you need to feel good. Keep at it until you get what you deserve.”

1) to make sure she don't settle and.... 2) he knows that the other guy can't deliver and that will cause her to ditch the guy sooner than later.

Honestly I think PATS is so good that she'll never find another man that will measure up. Especially since he does things with/to her that he doesn't do with any other client.

Just wanted to tell you that I have been thinking about your PATS aaalllllll morning. 🥰🥵

I’m wondering how he would react if/when reader dates a new man? If her new boyfriend maybe doesn’t treat her as well as PATS thinks she should be treated? If after 3 dates she finally decides that her new man isn’t quite what she wants?

Oh, Claire. Welcome to my life. You're lucky you only think about him in the morning because this dude haunts me all the damn time.

Thank you for this ask, btw, because I wonder this too. It's uh... it's an interesting answer. Complicated. Lemme explain....

PATS's Reaction to a Less Than Desirable Match for You

FANDOM: Calls - Apple TV (PATS is a character from ep. 3. “Pedro Across the Street.” This is not RPF.)

Warnings: smut under the cut

He sits down at his dining table with a simple pasta dish in the early evening on Thursday, logging into the portal on his laptop to make a few notes on a departing client. He approves some payments, checks over a new recommendation from Shell—quickly denied, no underlying issues, too eager—when he notices there are two updates on your profile for review.

New STD test results, negative like usual.

Interesting. You weren’t due to upload one for another month yet.

But then he sees the other update notification.

Sexual partners since last appointment:

1.

He lays down his fork. And stares at the number.

___

By the time you show up for your session he’s had his time to think, to assess, to walk his stomach back up to its rightful place.

That night he pulls sounds out of you that you didn’t even know you could make. He sets a new record for times he’s made your thighs tremble. When you walk out to your car, you’re practically lighting your own way.

___

Your profile doesn’t change that week. The number in that field stays.

It’s really none of his business.

___

On the following Thursday, he’s wrapped around you from behind, rolling your top down and off your arms, both of you shirtless, his skin burning against your own as he drags his nose along the ridge of your ear and asks, “Is there anything you want to take off the table tonight?”

“What do you mean?”

His hands hook over your hipbones, fingers sliding forward through your panties into a V. “Looks like you have a new partner. If that’s getting serious, we can pull back for a while.”

“No,” you breathe, “I don’t think so. He—“ you gasp as he digs in with his hands and slowly grinds himself against you from behind “—he's nice, but he doesn’t…do some things and—“ before hooking his thumbs in and running your panties down your legs, stopping to run a stubbled cheek over the back of a knee, making you shiver, “—and I just need…”

“Mmm,” he hums an acknowledgement then brings you to the table, laying you out and completely unhinging you, not wasting any time, hands going in and working out all the tension from the most obvious source first, making your whole body tense and then melt before casually digging into your muscles.

Once he’s finally working on your back and pulling unfettered moans out of you, he chuckles, praises, encourages you to keep being vocal. “Well, you’ve gotten pretty good at asking for what you want here. Do you do that with him?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Good.” Truly, fairly, if you’re doing that, using the tools with that guy you’ve sharpened here with him, then this might actually be worth it. Maybe he can get you to tell him about it. That could be fun. A very specific part of him is definitely starting to tell him this could be a lot of fun. “And what does he say when you ask for what you really want?”

“Uhh…” you breathe out. Take your time. Answer quietly. “Usually just, ‘I’m not interested in that.’ I mean, he's nice about it, but he's.... He's nice about it.”

It’s like a record scratch to his drive and he does his best to keep his hands moving over your body without interruption as the ire rises in his gut. With a practiced, steady voice he breathes, “Well. Let’s see if we can fill in some of those gaps, okay?”

You’ve hardly made yourself comfortable on the bed before he’s over you, crowding you, already hard against you, his voice in your ear. “Tell me what you want tonight. Anything you need, it’s yours. You deserve it.”

There's no hesitation here. You know you can ask him to put his mouth on you, and he does. To use his hands, and he does. You ask him to be rough, to bring you to the edge and back down, to take you with extreme gentleness, whatever you want he does. And he makes sure to do it well. You are the center of his world for one hour and by god, he makes you well aware.

While you sleep, does he do some digging? Take a look at social media? See if he can find anything out? Of course he does. Nothing that isn’t out there for the world to see. Maybe it's not the most professional move. But he still goes looking. This guy you’re seeing looks good on paper. Maybe he pulls down a good salary or plays bass in a really great band. Maybe he’s well-liked, lots of friends, supports good causes.

But he doesn’t fuck you right.

This is a problem.

For you. It’s a problem for you.

He scribbles on your form. “Ask for what you want. Demand what you need to feel good. Keep at it until you get what you deserve.”

___

Another Thursday, another bowl of pasta, he sits down to make assessments.

There’s another update on your file.

Sexual partners since last appointment:

0.

He digs into his dinner. Best fucking pasta he’s ever had.

[cannedsoupsucks]

I'm ready to book my appointment and insurance be dammed, he's worth paying out of pocket! I'll also prepay for some extra therapy for mom induced stress.

firstofficerwiggles has made think about some of the ways that massage therapist PATS could help me through some stuff. Like when I have a migraine or when my anxiety won't respond to treatment or I need a break from the stress of having my mother living with me. (I love her but she's making me crazy) Thank you for this titillating version of PATS.

Oh, yeah, he's good for a lot of stress relief. I'm glad you enjoy what I'm laying down. <3 <3 <3

Migraines are heavy on the massage and trigger point therapy. These are full-body manipulations...and by that, I mean he'd get up on the table with you and use his own body to support you in stretches, bend you into postures, smooth you into curves, and hod you against himself, warming you into twists that allow your muscles to loosen so joints can crack a little and relieve pressure. For hour two, he's going to just sit up against the headboard, blindfold you with a cooling pack and lean you back against himself and just touch, just use his hands to make you feel relaxed and beautiful, and guide you in breathing.

For anxiety, he'll cover you with a soft blanket. For the massage he's going to take you away from your thoughts, reaching his warm oiled hands under the blanket and going soothingly piece by piece. He starts with one foot and asks you a gentle question about yourself or something you like talking about, asking you to keep your voice low. Then the other foot and another question. Then each calf. Each thigh. One question per body part as he moves up to your head, and as you answer, he gives vocal confirmation that he hears you, his low, sincere "mmm"s and "mmhmm"s rumbling and warming through you. Then he's going to touch you on the table, while he smooths your brow with the other hand, bending low over your ear to softly tell you what he liked about the things you've told him, totally validate your thoughts, make you understand that your mind is an okay place to be. Hour two is whatever you want...he will do anything you tell him to do in the moment. Harder, softer, this leg here, your mouth there, any toy you want, torture him, overstimulate him, tell him to praise you, he actually says "yes" out loud to every suggestion, he wants to hand you the keys and make you understand that here in this bed, you can feel free to have total and unfiltered control if you want it--that he welcomes it--and at any time you're done with control you can give it back and he can drive the rest of the way. The only thing he gets to dictate is telling you to breathe, preciosa.

If you just need a break from your mom, you can book an extra appointment. He'll relax you and rail you hard enough to take your mind off of it for a few hours and send you home with prescription for isolation time or long solitary walks or whatever you need to get a break now and then and just concentrate on breathing and relaxing and being in the moment without interruption. And if Mom is offended? *shrug* Your therapist's orders, not your fault.

[cannedsoupsucks]

This part stood out to me and made me giggle

No need to leave things marinating tonight. Looks like he’s cooking alone. And he’s starving.

PATS, good luck trying to keep it transactional and maintaining emotional distance. You're in trouble friend!

Hi there! I’ve seen that you take PATS prompts and I love what you’re writing, so if it’s okay I’d like to drop two here <3

- you’ve had an exhausting week, not getting enough sleep and when you wake up, you notice that Pedro hasn’t woken you up after the last hour but instead has let you sleep uninterrupted until the next morning (might fit with the one coming back from holiday and him also *maybe* having missed you)

- some time after the divorce, your friend convinced you to go out and try dating again (and you didn’t know how to mention Pedro’s services, so you couldn’t really say no to her). you’ve tried and even though you didn’t know whether you wanted to see the date again, they ghosted you and that’s always a weird feeling. how does Pedro deal with you trying the dating scene and then that?

Thank you so much!!! I'm glad you're enjoying it!

These are some great questions, and you're not alone in wondering about them!!!

You'd only sleep past the timer if he decided not to wake you up, and he'd have his reasons for that. Sleeping Past the Timer After an Emotional Week

PATS may not handle you getting back into the dating scene so well, especially if it's not working out for you. Not that he'd admit it to himself though... PATS’s Reaction to a Less Than Desirable Match for You