#this is gross and perverse

[officalgeorgestaniel]

"hey look! if i recline the seat all they way, i fit!"

photo by Sam Bradley

[oarfishing]

yeah yeah fear and arousal is great but what about disgust and arousal. the feeling of familiarity and something completely foreign. revolting and intimate, monstrous and sweet, violating and loving, like a fever-induced nightmare where somehow the breathing down your neck does more than just make you sweat. hatred and attraction. it's foul and it's disgusting to feel something so uncanny and alien touch you in this way but you can't help but react to the exoticism of it, a union between some dead-eyed, shifting, pulsing thing and a tormented beauty unable to resist. is that your voice? in your head? are you even human? were you ever?

[feline-evil]

I want it known by the way that Myc can be killed any number of horrific ways and come back from the spore cloud he emits upon death. He makes a lil cloud like he's some sort of fucked up pikmin that's high on extremely out of date hallucinogenics

And also yes the t-shirt is the only thing he's wearing and yes that means his fetid spore-riddled cock is out at all times.

[loganremade]

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[leatherbookmark]

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[yeyinde]

caging a wolfdog

Simon Riley x Babysitter!Reader

18+ | groping. dubcon. infidelity. blue-collar Simon in a loveless marriage finds another way to entertain himself when his wife is too busy fucking her Pilates instructor to come home. victim blaming. future wife grooming. breeding. implied contraceptive tampering. spitting/spit kink. gross/mean Simon.

It's something to mend the gap between paying for college tuition, and surviving on more than air and the stale crackers they give out at the food bank. A job that takes up less space in your calendar than studying for finals or finishing up last-minute projects due before the end of the term.

And, in all honesty, the kid makes it easy.

Tommy doesn't fuss like most his age. He sits on the couch with his iPad perched on his knees, watching grown men scream in front of a camera for hours. Sometimes he stirs, asks for snacks. Something to drink. But mostly, he just scrolls YouTube Shorts, and puffs out peals of childish laughter at whatever he finds amusing.

It's the easiest job you'd ever had, really. He has no complaints about eating chicken nuggets and Kraft dinner on the nights when you stay later and have to cook something for him. Even when you try to make it healthier by chopping up celery with homemade ranch on the side, it barely makes him whine.

He eats. Scrolls. Pouts about his bath. Negotiates bedtime for ten more minutes with his iPad. And then he's sleeping by ten, hugging the device tight to his chest as a man hollers about Minecraft beneath him.

And that's the extent of it.

An easy job. An easy kid.

The problem, really, is his father.

And more specifically, the way he can't seem to stop touching you.

You're not sure why it happens, just that it does. Becomes some strange staple in this arrangement where you never leave his house without having his hands on you at some point.

But maybe the writing was always on the walls because even as he was showing you Tommy's bedroom, he folds himself over you, spine pressed against his chest, and murmurs in your ear about bedtimes and baths and all the things a babysitter is meant to hear—

But not with the hard, firm outline of their employers cock against their ass.

You should have said something then. Put your foot down. Rained hellfire and retribution over this man and his gross, foul perversions.

Should have done a lot of things, probably. But in the end, the span of his hand over your belly, so wide it threatened to swallow you up, kept you quiet. Docile as he shifted his hips—wife down the hall, flatly informing him she has a class tonight and probably won't be home, so don't bother waiting up, Simon—and rubbed his cock against you, grunting in your ear about how pretty you are. Such a sweet girl, too.

So good for his baby boy.

Keeping quiet seems to spur him on. Spreading the thick, heavy length of his body against your spine isn't enough to quench whatever sticky, awful desire brims in his chest. Insatiable now that he's had a little taste, he gorges himself on what he can get away with.

What you let him get away with.

(if you didn't want this, pretty thing, you'd have said so, wouldn't you? big, strong girl like you. you can 'andle yourself. but you ain't because you want this—)

Broad hands cupping your breasts as he leans over your shoulder and pretends to instruct you on how Tommy likes his lunches. Little more, he rasps, calloused fingers slipping under the band of your bra, and pinching your stiffening peaks between a too-big thumb and forefinger. The rough, dry graze of his scarred skin was some awful amalgamation of stinging, abrasive pain and pleasure. Likes his sandwiches cut up jus' like tha'—

Grabs a handful of your asscheek on the way out the door, pinching the flesh so hard, it aches when you sit down. Rutting into you like a beast when he comes home, and Tommy's already in bed. C'mon, he grunts, hefting you up from the couch. Gotta go an' check on 'im. But it's just an excuse to bend you over banister as you peer into Tommy's room, groaning as he shoves his clothed cock against the cleft of your ass.

Husks in your ear about how good you are for him. He and Tommy both. Such a good girl, ain't you?

It's strange. All of it. And maybe that's why you let it carry on. Continue even though you know he's married, and has a child. And—

He's odd. Intense. Weird.

Looms in the corners of the room sometimes, content to just watch you. Eyes dark, endlessly black. Fixed on every move you make. A wolf wearing a man's skin. A monster in faded blue jeans and black steel-toed boots.

Uncanny.

Scary.

Massive in a way that stole your breath the moment you laid eyes on him. A full body bloom of dread at the scale, the size, of him. Like staring at the face of a mountain, mind reeling over the incomprehensible height of it. Vertiginous. Dizzying.

Thinking about him always makes you feel a little bit sick. Lying on your back and staring up at the sky. Cosmic quasiness. Unease that trickles down from your ancestors and fills your pores with the bitter, acrid tang of fear.

But between the noxious, rolling worry—the unmistakable feeling of a starving man staring at you like you're nothing but a scrap of tender, fresh meat—is a heavy, sick sort of heat congealing in your belly.

It was easier, at first, to lie and say you stayed for the money. Broke college student with a sinkhole of debts already growing on the periphery, biding its time before it sucks you into an unfathomable, inescapable chasm. Bled dry. Used up. It'll crush you.

But this—

Simon works around your schedule. He's gone for most of the day—pulls twelve-hour shifts Monday to Saturday at the oilfield—and is fairly lenient when you have a test, sending Tommy to his uncle's instead. Staying the night is an unorthodox arrangement, you're sure, but it works itself out in the end. Being here to take Tommy to school before heading to your morning classes (the rest all available online), and then free to pick him up after and wait for Simon to come home eases the stress of a long commute to your dorm and then here, to the dorm and then back again. A small respite, sure.

And if he pushed, insistent, that you sleepover, well—

You can hide it behind a wall. Pretend he's just looking out for his son even if you have to lock the door in the spare bedroom at night, and wake up sometime to the sound of the knob rattling.

He lets you use his spare truck whenever you need it. There's always a pot of coffee waiting for you in the morning. He keeps a tidy house and a strict schedule, but money is always in your bank account or tucked into an envelope on the counter a day ahead of when you agreed he'd pay you.

But living on top of each other like this is almost unbearable.

You see more of Simon than you do your own family. Friends. Even his wife. A woman made of contradictions, it seems. Dutiful mother, but only when it matters—parent teacher conferences booked in advance, the darling starlet of his birthday party that passed—and you try to keep out of her way. Shame, maybe.

Do you know what Simon does to me when you're in the next room? Do you know what he says when you're bent into downward dog as your Pilates instructor fucks you on the matt?

Or just the knowledge that both of you, in your own way, are adulterers.

But having something in common with the woman who is more of a guest in her own home, her child's life, than you are is a sickening thought. So you squash it. Ignore it.

All of it—

His hands on you, rough and proprietary. The foul, dirty things he whispers in your ear—Tommy's been askin' for a baby brother, 'bout time we gave 'im one, don't you think? Spread your pretty pussy around my cock and keep ya nice an' plugged until it fuckin' takes—when no one is around. How these incidents keep getting progressively closer to his bedroom door, his marital bed, and one day, you think he might drag you in there and not let you out again until those promises he forced from your lips are fulfilled.

You bite your tongue. Taste blood between your teeth hours after he leaves for work, and curl into the couch as the minutes tick by until Simon's supposed to come home. Trying to distract yourself as much as you can, but there's no escape from it. From the way there was something different about him this morning. Something heady. He didn't touch you, but just quietly observed you with those strange, unfathomable eyes of his. Sinkholes wanting to swallow you down.

Hungry.

And when you asked him if he wanted breakfast, he'd just said, oh, I'll eat, birdie. You can bet on that, and then left out the door without another word.

It takes you until noon to unravel the knots in his expression, and what you find makes your heart jump like a trapped rabbit in a snare.

Possessiveness. Want. Hunger.

But most damning of all—

Anticipation.

In the room over, Tommy giggles, high and shrill, at a video. The noise jars you back into reality. A car drives down the lonely street. The timer on the oven dings. Tommy gurgles again, the sound pasted over a loud, pitchy shout that rankles down your spine. Slowly, achingly, you unfurl your body from the tense crouch you collapsed into, head thick. Underwater. In a fog. Thoughts dripping down the sides of your skull in a slow, syrupy crawl.

Your eyes dart to the clock. Three hours.

oh, I'll eat, birdie.

"Come on, Tommy," you warble out, gingerly moving towards the kitchen. Three hours. There's a buzzing inside your head that grows louder, more restless with every step. "The pizzas done."

On the fridge, a neon pink post-it note mocks you. PILATES TONIGHT AND DRINKS WITH THE GIRLS!!!! DON'T WAIT UP!!

Three hours.

You lick the blood off your teeth.

oh, I'll eat, birdie—

He doesn't bother cleaning up before he goes home.

Caked in grime, sweat, dust from the fields, crudeoil glued under his nails—a walking biohazard of filth, but he lumbers into his truck the moment he's finished, cock already thickening, straining against the harsh fabric of his jeans. Sticky on his thigh where it lays, twitching at the thought of his little birdie sucking his dirty fingers clean.

And you'll do it. He knows you will.

You've been so good for him, haven't you? Sweet little thing.

He scrapes the top of his tongue against his teeth, pulling up the taste of stale, bitter coffee. It's acrid, sour in his mouth. Swallowing around it, he grips the wheel tightly and sifts through the multitude of things he wants to do to you as he navigates the familiar path home. Muscle memory, but there's an emptiness in his belly. An itch under his skin. If fizzles, cracks; want and desire thick in his throat.

He's been thinking about this all day. You—laid out on his bed, fingers gripping the sheets tight as he folds you in half, kneecaps to your ears. Feet kicking out behind the heft of his shoulder. Bearing all his weight down on you. Crushing you.

Pumping you so full of his cock, his cum, that you whine afterwards—too empty, Mr Riley—and he has to stuff you full again just to shut you up.

Whiny little thing, he'll coo, nasty and mean as he fucks you again and again and again—

Another scrape. Tongue against teeth pulling over tastebuds. Sourness in the back of his throat. So bitter, so nauseating, he can't wait to make you swallow it down and beg for more as you try not to dry heave all over his dirty boots and onto the clean floor.

More, please, more even as you gag.

He's too hyperaware for the drive to pass in a blur—it's all startling present, each second ticking down in technicolour—but when he finally slows to crawl in front of his house, he has everything he wants to do to you laid out in a neat, concise list. Left you a defiled mess in his head, leaking cum and begging for more.

Anticipation is a maw in his gut that growls and snaps its jaws, too eager to sink inside the pretty thing that's been playing House in his mind. In his home.

He left it unfed for too long.

And now, it's time to eat.

You're not in the living room when he enters.

It's silent. The idling television paints the room in a pale, neon pink.

The clink of his keys, the thud of his boots, are the only sounds popcorning through the dim, quiet room. He casts his gaze towards the stairs to the left, sees light spilling out from Tommy's room down the hall. The nightlight burning away.

He shifts on the balls of his feet, hums something under his breath. A relic from a bygone era when the man Tommy was named after might have pulled him aside and said man, this isn't you.

Simon keeps his boots on as he trudges through the still, winter night of the house, eyes shifting past each corner, every crevasse. More muscle memory he can't shake. All filed away. Catalogued. Meticulously scoured as he shifts through the hall, pausing only to crack Tommy's door open and steal a glance of his son. Knows he won't be able to sleep without it.

He finds him tucked safe and sound in his bed. iPad on the floor connected to the charger. The screen is frozen with the image of some brightly coloured game that'll hold his interest for another day before it becomes yet another thing Simon packs away. More memories on shelves. Something to feel scraped out, hollowed, when he grows another inch and Simon starts to see more of Tommy in him than he can stomach.

The air stings his nostrils when he breathes in. The burn gives him time to shift around the potent ache of fatherly affection he never thought he'd feel back into the guarded lockbox he keeps it in whenever Tommy isn't in view. With it tucked back in, safe and sound, he lets the thrill of the pursuit fill him again.

Another hum. He peels away from the door.

"Hidin' on me, birdie?"

He knows you're here. Your boots are still drying by the front door. The air still clogged with your scent. He follows it like a bloodhound until he reaches his bedroom door where he finds you on the bed. Waiting. Uncertainty clinging to you like a second skin he can't wait to peel off, run his fingers through the bloody mess until you're raw and aching; shiny new toy stripped bare just for him.

Your mouth pops open. The inside a pretty ring of pink. He thinks about it, about sinking inside that soft little hole, making you gag around the thick of him as he feeds you his cock.

Clean it up f'me, birdie

But it's clear from the way you flit nervously on the comforter that he'll have to work you up to that.

Slow and steady. It's not his usual approach—he's in the habit of taking what he wants. Still. He slows. Glacial. Notches his shoulder against the doorframe, staring. Waiting. Waiting—

And finally:

A shift. You tense. "Mr Riley—"

"Take your clothes off."

Your throat shifts when you swallow. "Mr—"

If you didn't want it, he reasons, you wouldn't be in his bed. Waiting for him.

"Now, birdie."

There's that pause he expects. The hesitation as you stare, searchingly (pleadingly), at him, trying to take a measurement of just how serious he is about this. But he knows he gives nothing away. Just stares with streaks of dirt on his brow, washed down by thick trickles of sweat. Eyes lazy, lidded. Mouth flat. Even.

You demure after a moment. Hands falling shakily to the hem of your sweater, curling beneath the fabric. Gaze downcast, staring wide-eyed at the curve of your jean-clad knees. Bemused, maybe, that it got this far. That you let it get this far.

He doesn't give you time to think about it. Cocks his head to the side, puffs out an impatient breath. "Hurry up. Ain't got much time before my wife comes back."

It's a low blow. He feels it skim his knuckles, a sucker-punch.

You suck in a sharp breath. He wonders if you'll make things difficult now. Fight back. This isn't right. What you're doing to me isn't right. We should stop, Mr Riley—

Instead, you peel the sweater off.

It's artless. Clumsy. Each movement wracked with nerves, uncertainty. There's no coyness to the action. It's not even sexy, or coquettish; nothing about it is done to entice, to seduce. This is an action completed twice a day, every day. Routine. It's mundane, perfunctory.

And yet—

"Fuckin' hell, birdie—"

Something about the latent unwillingness of it all chokes the air from his lungs.

Cock thick in his trousers, throbbing like a wound, he steps into the bedroom, making his way towards you in nothing short of a prowl. It's been building up since you first appeared at his doorstep, eyes wide and bright and scooped Tommy up into your arms until he squealed with laughter.

"I got him," you chirped when he reached out reflexively, dancing artlessly out of the way of his snatching claws. "Don't worry. He's fine with me."

This is your fault, of course. For looking the way that you do. For burrowing under his skin like a parasite. A festering itch. Being close to you always felt like a toothache. Dry socket. Something that made his head split.

"On the bed, birdie," he grunts, hands falling to his belt with a urgency he hasn't felt since he was a clumsy, knobby-kneed teenager. "An' spread your legs f'me."

You give a startled gasp that makes his cock throb, and he groans low in his throat at the waxen look in your eye, the slight quiver to your lip. You look queasy—torn between disgust and fear, eyes slipping to the scarred hands that yank hard on his zipper, cup the bulge that splits through the spread seam, dirty fingers gripping himself tight—and he has to roll his head back to keep from snapping at you to roll over.

A noise does spill out—an impatient rumble gnashing between jagged teeth—when you sit there, bared from the waist up, and watch him with wide eyes. Making no move to show him that pretty pussy he cupped in his palm before. That soft, wet heat in his hand that felt too delicate, too sweet, to be touched with his dirty fingers. Something that rankled down his spine, buzzed in the back of his head when he pulled them free—stained, nails blackened with dirt, crude oil, and glistening in the low light of the kitchen.

He wants it again—on his cock this time. Wants to see that soft pussy get him all wet as he ruins it. As he peels back, sitting on his haunches, and takes in the awful mess he left you in. Poor cunt swollen and abused from from being forced to take the full, fat length of him as he bullies it inside over and over again; puffy lips all sticky with his cum. Sore and stretched and used. Raw after such a vicious pounding—

"Pants off, birdie," he bites out, yanking his jeans down beneath his aching balls. "Ain't gonna like what 'appens next if I 'ave to ask again—"

You give a startled gasp at the rough, callous growl hewing his words, and he wonders if anyone has ever spoken to you like this before. So demanding. With an edge of cruelty slithering out. Demeaning—

No. No one but him, he decides, stroking his cock as he watches you clumsily kick out of your pants, demurring in a faux show of bashfulness as your fingers skim the hem of your panties. The picture of coy shyness as you drop your chin to hide the wobble in your lower lip, the glistening wetness in your eyes as you grapple with indecision. Child's play of modesty.

A farce.

Just the mangled growl of your name is all it takes for those trembling fingers to inch into the hem of your panties, tugging them clumsily down your thighs.

He could come, he thinks, to just that. This. The bloom of fear etching across your brow, panties tangled against the knob of your knees. Unwilling to bend down and push them off the rest of the way. Scared to, maybe.

It buzzes in the back of his head. The idea of paralysing you with nothing more than a sharp bark and crook of his finger; your fear as delectable as that little sliver of skin he can see peaking out at him.

"ain't go' all night," he cuts in with only a quarter of the ice he uses on the field, and feels a deep thrum of satisfaction purr through his chest when you squeak, flinching at his rough, brassy tone.

Your panties fall to the floor in a rumpled pile between your feet, toes curling into the carpet as you try to close your knees as tightly together as you can get them to hide yourself from his heavy-lidded gaze. A last play at modesty. Gaze inward, nervous. A skittish little rabbit with nowhere else to run.

The way you stand before him on shaking knees, trembling like a leaf, makes him want to sink his teeth into you and shake. Little virginal offering to a rapacious god. A feast all for himself. He wants to chew you up. Eat you alive.

But he opts, instead, to bite his tongue until he tastes blood, and bark at you to get on the bed as it oozes between his teeth. Feels something animal split open inside his chest when your eyes widen as he steps into the room, a slow pursuit, a prowl, and has to bite down on the urge to give chase when you flinch, backing away from him quickly. Naked and scared. Running from him with a nervous tremor, but he doesn't miss the way you make, quietly, for his bed.

Eager. Obedient. Fleeing from him like a scared little animal unaware of just how enticing you are.

"Good girl, birdie."

It takes three fingers to open you up, but even that doesn't feel like it's enough.

Not when he knocks your knees apart, wedging his too big, too thick body between them (and then stares, and stares, and stares at your bare cunt, slick and sticky from his hand; flesh left swollen from the brutal spear of three thick, dirty fingers shoving inside—less of a stretch and more a carve: he carved you open) and spits.

You weren't expecting it. Nothing could have prepared you for the suddenness of this degrading act—the nasty, demeaning way he spits on your pussy, and huffs, amused, when the foamy mess slides down your swollen clit to pool between your folds. His finger chases it, rubbing it into your skin, pushing it into your hole.

Ain't got lube, he says, words bordering on a strange equinox of bluntly nonchalant and utterly caustic. Should be thankful m'doin' this much.

Thankful.

Your fingers curl into the sheets, and you try not look at his cock again when he grips himself tight in his big, dirty hand.

He's too big. Too fat. It makes you a little nauseous to stare at it, him—his cock. Marbled like a bruise. Thicker at the base. Veiny. The head is swollen. The tip is soaked in a thick, paste-like spill of precum, and for a horrible second, you almost thought he would make you lick it off.

(later fills the empty space in your head, and you try to mould yourself around the idea until you can decide whether or not the feeling that blooms in the pit of your belly is really dread.)

His hands were rough. Scarred. Dirty. Caked in oil. Stained. He didn't even bother to clean up before he lumbered onto the sheets behind you, one hand falling to grip his cock through his dusty pants, the other heavy on your neck, pushing you down into the mattress that reeks of fabric softener and stale cigarette smoke. Old sweat.

He doesn't need to tell you that she doesn't sleep in this bed anymore, but the idea of it prickles in the back of your head as he pushes you against the sheets and undoes his jeans with an ease that's more muscle memory than thought. Practiced.

You don't have the right to be jealous, but it hums through you like a sickness when you think of him doing this to her. His wife, you add, just to make it hurt. A knife in your gut that aches when you breathe—

"keep breathin', birdie," he grunts, spreading his fingers wide apart inside of you. "Don't get all tense on me now, or I'll have to start over."

You're not sure what that means, but you think you know better than to test his tenuous patience anymore than you have, and so you still. Go quiet. Breathe as he spears you deep, deeper still, and carves a space for that monstrous looking cock to fit—

where it belongs, he'd said, hunched over you like a nightmare in the daytime. All shadow and sinew. Stitched from broken daydreams of a brassy voice in your ear murmuring soon, birdie as his wife pretended to pack a lunch in the kitchen and he rubbed your nipple through your shirt before he slipped off to work.

But it's over too soon. His dirty, stained fingers slipping free from your aching, sopping cunt, leaving you empty—bereft—for a moment as he shuffles up the bed, splitting your knees wide apart to make room for the asburd width of him to fit.

An impossibility, really, but as Mr Riley—call me Simon—is wont to do, he makes it so. Wedges his wide thighs beneath yours until your hips tilt up in his lap, opening you wide. Obscenely so. And—

A grunt.

He stared. And stared. And stared.

Just looked at the split of your cunt sitting invitingly in his lap, wet and messy from his fingers, the cruel push of his palm against your clit. Swollen. Aching already—

"Want it, huh, birdie?"

The words I'm not so sure anymore hitch in the back of your throat, rearing up as he reaches between your legs to grip himself tight, too tight, until he turns a sickly shade of purple around the head that looks wider than anything you'd ever had inside of you before. But he doesn't give you a second to think before notching himself against you, giving a little push that forces the swollen head to sink inside of you—

Just the tip, really, and it already hurts. Stings like a papercut as he stretches your cunt around him, sharp and sudden.

"Too big—" you whimper, tossing your head to the side, breathing in the tang of fresh linen and musk as he grunts above you, pushing and pushing—

Something has to give.

It doesn't surprise you much when it ends up being you.

"Tha's it, birdie. Open up f'me."

It's not so much an opening as it is a siege. A conquest. And with him perched above you, heaving like bull and bathed in shadows that glue alone the mismatched asymmetry of his face, making him look less like a man and more like a figment, a statue—this Stygian being that swoops down and presses his palm against your throat, the other digging into the pillow beside your head, grunting—you feel ever bit of the battered receptacle he turns you into.

Forcing himself into you with a rough grunt, a brutal shove that—for one dizzying, awful moment—you swear you can feel inside your throat, taste on the back of your tongue. Choking on it. But then he's sinking in. Splitting you apart with brute force and that little bit of slick that you know must be stained pink—

"Good girl," he's grunting again, shoving another inch into a space much too small for him to fit. Savouring it. Relishing in the whimpers, the hiccups punched out of you with every flex of his hips. Eyes rolling a little, just a touch, when you feel something warm tickling your cheek and realise you're crying. Shush, birdie, he says, a quiet coo, but he looked delighted. Don't cry. Not yet—

another flex. two more inches. it feels like being speared open; flayed alive. it hurts. it hurts so much, you can't even begin to think through the pain, but he's huffing. groaning low in his throat as he adds:

"—'cause m'not even halfway in yet, pup."

The admission shocks you so much, you barely notice him spreading his knees beneath yours, squaring his stance, until it's too late.

"Wait—!"

If it weren't for his hand tightening around your throat before he speared the last several inches into you, you're sure the wail you might have let out would have woken Tommy. A good thing, you think, dazed, still soundlessly howling around the burning ache of him using his absurd weight to drive into you (balls deep, birdie, he grunts, and sounds so ridiculously proud, you nearly preen—), making you take every last inch. Selfishly carving more space for himself inside of you. Hollowing you out until his whole cock is drenched in your pink-stained slick—

"Makin' me all pretty, aren't you?" Huh, birdie? Nice and fuckin' pink.

A sob bubbles up beneath his palm, and he coos when he feels it, shushing you with a groan as he keeps an awful rhythm, flexing into you. Grinding deep. Carving and cutting and hollowing you out—

"Tha's it, pup," he grunts, eyes masting in leonine pleasure as he bucks into you without respite, taking his bliss from the burning stretch of your cunt. And stupidly, you think about preening. Smiling wide and big and lying to yourself about how bad you want this, him, even as the tears dribble down your chin.

Siphoned satisfaction, maybe. Or just the press of his fingers against that little thing inside of you that made you turn your cheek to his touches. Letting a married man shove his hands down your pants while you made breakfast for his kid and his wife called out to him from the next room about not waiting up for her too late.

Giving in.

That's what this feels like. A slow corrosion from the moment you knocked on his door and said you were here to help him with Tommy to now, buried under his bulk as he batters into your aching cunt, splitting you apart.

Sweat drips down his nape, pours off his face, and when it hits your skin, it feels like battery acid against your cheeks. But with his hand still lodged around your neck, there isn't much you can do except take it. Like his cock, his spit, his sweat. Let him ply you with all of it, every inch, until your body becomes accustomed to the ache.

"Fuckin' stranglin' me."

His cock hits something inside of you, and it isn't really pleasure that blooms in the pit of your belly, but something like a panacea. A wound that's soothed through touch.

Like a knife that hurts more coming out than it does stuffed inside.

But it' saws and it splits. Tears flesh. Rearranges your insides until you're wrapped tight around him, throbbing like bruise against the thick of his cock. A tight fuckin' fit, he says, and inches his fingers up to grab your cheeks. Squeezing until your mouth pops open, mewling at the deep, aching pain, and then he spits.

You don't need him to tell you what to do this time. You just close your mouth and swallow what he gives you, whimpering around the sudden ruck of his hips, a harsh jerk that slides his cockhead against the seal of your womb, dredging up a wave of pain that's soothed by the kiss of that fattened tip pressing against the sting once more. Soothed by touch. By the flood of endorphins.

Fitting, you suppose, since it feels a little bit like being eaten alive when he fucks you, grunting and snarling like a beast as he pounds into you, half-mad and starved, and you remember reading somewhere that people rarely experience any pain when they're bitten by a shark.

An oddly serene experience, out of body almost, as they're taken apart by razor-sharp teeth.

That's how you feel looking up at him, feeling the drip, drip, drip of his sweat splat on your cheeks. Warm, milky breath ghosting over your forehead. A barely there kiss when he bends down, growling into your hairline that he's gonna fill you up, pup; that Tommy's been begging for a little brother, 'asn't he? and ain't it time we gave 'im one?

You think no and don't. please don't, please, but your hands stayed curled into the duvet instead of reaching up to push him away. Knees dropping further apart as he bends down with a brassy grunt that you feel in your belly, between your hips, like molten lead. A pulsing flutter—sore muscles gripping tighter and tighter as he grunts again, and tells you to keep opening that pretty cunt up for him, birdie. Let him get even deeper.

The collar of his shirt dips low, unveiling a mass of moulted flesh suffused together in a pink ribbon array of crisscrossing scar tissue and burns. It's an odd time to notice that he hasn't bothered to undress, just shoved his jeans down his thighs and pulled his—monstrous, ugly—cock out, and forced it into you. But you do. And you feel it so acutely in your chest that even without his hand on your throat, you doubt you'd have been able to breathe. It just—

It says something, you think. Means something.

And maybe it hits you like a fist, too. A bludgeon to that little thing in the back of your head that keeps reminding you this isn't okay. That you're not supposed to be in this bed, with this man.

Marital vows, it says, all wrapped up in the scent of stale sweat and detergent. A whisper of Candy Kiss peppering the room when you arrive; a sweet sillage that tickles your nose whenever he leans down, cupping your breast in the palm of his hand. The flash of metal sitting snug on his thick ring finger. Cold and dry against your damp skin.

It crumbles under the sway of his big, thick body sawing away between your hips; turns to dust, dissolving into soot as the growls spilling out his chest tremble through your bones. The ring doesn't matter. It never did.

Not when he's decorating the space he hollowed out inside of you with these dizzying daydreams—weaving a damning tapestry with fingers bleeding from cuts made by the knife of his own artifice. Staining it red.

Pretty pink.

And eventually the ring warms between his hand and your heated skin until you can't tell the difference between metal and flesh.

(but in the smeared residuum of ash and rust, something stirs, asks if you ever really could at all—)

"Gonna make me a dad again, ain't you, pup?" Huh? He growls, rough and mean. Gonna have t'start callin' me daddy soon—

You're not sure when it started building, but the edge is suddenly there. Within reach. And he tells you in rasping groans that he feels it too. Gonna cum, biride, he says, and it sounds like a threat. A warning. It's a razor scraping against your nerves, pooling heat between your hips.

No, you think again, but your hips roll as much as they can with him bearing down above you, cradled between your slick, damp thighs—roughened up, chafed by the repeated scrape of denim. Eager for it. Hungry. Like you're starving.

And what did he say before? Oh, yeah—

Oh, I'll eat, birdie.

You feel that gnawing, gaping emptiness in your belly as he huffs, breath sticky and warm, glueing to your skin as he pants his desire over your flesh, inside your body. Pace stuttering on his next exhale, morphing into a choppy, clumsy grind—just the desperate, furious graze of his cockhead digging into that bruised, tender spot inside of you where pleasure and pain suture themselves together until one is almost indistinguishable from the other. Fear and desire warping around the edges until you're trembling from the urge to flee, but bearing your neck at the vicious spread of teeth gaping open above your caught jugular.

Simon presses his face against the side of yours, smearing sweat and spit over your heated, damp skin from where a cut in his upper lip leaves his teeth in a constant snarl, bared to the world in a vicious, brutal display of aggression, and the nudge of it against the softened, ripe apple of your cheek is what sends you over the edge before you're ready.

It's mean. A nasty, ugly climax that throbs more like a wound than a satisfying end; pulsing and spitting fire as you yowl into the bubble bulging along his ear, clawing at the duvet, and bringing your other hand up to twist into the wet fabric clinging to his broad back. Needing to hold on. To find purchase as he grunts into your skin with each brutal plunge of his hips, and then sinks his teeth into your pulse, drawing blood—

You're still clenching around him, throbbing like an infected wound, when he lifts his pinked up muzzle, bearing his crooked, bloodied teeth, and grunts with his release. Filling you with a burning, stinging heat. Painting the tapestry he hung on chiselled flesh. A home of his own making. The apex of your being is a crevasse for him to sink his desire inside until something grows.

Tommy wants a baby brother, he'd said, and as you knot your hand tighter around his sweaty shirt, you wonder if maybe you should have paid more attention to the pills you shoved into your mouth each morning, making sure they all looked exactly the same—

"Fuck, birdie," he snarls into your neck as he throbs inside of you, cock jerking until it lodges against the battered, bruised seal of your womb—soothing the ache, you think, giving a weak pulse, a little, desperate clench around him—grunting like this is all your fault.

And maybe it is. But he doesn't give you much of a choice when he ruts into you still in rolling, feverish humps that knock your teeth together each time you unhinge your jaw to tell him to stop.

(But you won't, of course—)

His hands are hot against your clammy skin, searing and rough as he pulls you back into his chest with a grunt, mumbling something about a cigarette as you pant into the sweat-slicked nook of his arm, trying to make sense of what happens next.

You should leave. And really—you're a little surprised he hadn't kicked you out already. Shoved you off of him, told you to pack your things. He'll call when he needs you next because with this burning desire of his sated, what else does he need you in bed for?

But he tightens his grip when you try to wiggle away from him with a salt-crusted, sleep-drenched noise of dissent.

He isn't done with you, he mumbles, pawing at the end table for the carton of cigarettes he left there this morning. Blue Zippo still tucked neatly inside.

It's something you'd noticed during the first week when you opened a drawer looking for Tommy's iPad charger and found his hidden stash—along with the rest. Little clues that piled up until the pieces fell, and you realised this was a strange, habitual thing of his where he needs to leave things lying around the house—a carton of cigarettes with a lighter; a duffle bag full of clothes for him and Tommy. Non-perishable food stuffed inside a rucksack. Cash. Knives. All within reach.

Most people live in their homes. Clothes in the drawers. Shoes on a rack or piled by the front food. Food in the cabinets. They carry their smokes with them or keep them in a convenient place for whenever they need them next. But Simon seems keen to uproot himself at a moment's notice. Bags within reach. Necessities all packed by the front door, ready to go. Each room has a satchel hidden somewhere. A carton of smokes. A lighter.

It means something, you're sure. Nestled between the layers of a restless, caged tiger circling its iron-barred domicile for the first chance at escape is a travesty written in spoiled ink. Chiselled into the bars, imprinted there like braille for you to run your fingers over until pockmarks make sense.

Like why Candy Kiss is left on the vanity, sitting atop a drawerful of untouched clothes. The smell of fresh linen. Pilates on a weekly basis. Don't wait up peppering the air; a soft echo cradled in the harsh snap of a door closing. Eyes barely blinking away from the flashing screen.

Or—why your clothes disappear each time you do the laundry. Lace panties and satin bras first—an almost banal perversion that barely made a gurn at. Then tights. Sweaters. Shirts. Jeans. All missing with a nonchalant shrug of a massive shoulder, and a stare that didn't much pin as it skewered. Flayed. A flat, even dunno, birdie. Maybe the ghost knicked it.

Tightly wound artifice you'll never make sense of beyond the bags and the cigarettes. The stares that make the hair on your neck stand on end—

"Fuckin' hell, pup," he grunts suddenly, pinching the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger as the other slides down your curved spine, grabbing a handful of your asscheek in his palm, giving a vicious, painful squeeze. "Can feel your little cunt leakin' all over my leg—"

He slips the filter between his teeth with an appreciative hum when you jerk, a mocking huff spilling out when you try to clamp your legs shut around the thick split of his hip wedged between them. You can feel it, too—the thick, sticky ooze of him leaking out of your sore cunt, smearing pink-tinged cum all over his jeans. He hadn't let you get up after rolling off of you—just barked at you to leave it. Keep it, birdie. Gotta take, don't it?

A barb you hadn't said anything to, opting to ignore that, like everything else he does. Did.

Will do because you can tell, even beneath all those hidden layers, that this isn't a one-time thing. No. This isn't just a man stuck in a bad marriage fucking the nanny because he can. It's deeper. Worse, somehow, than a gross older man with a fetish for younger women he can financially control. Another pervert slaking his lust on whatever artless little thing falls into his web.

No. No—

This is missing clothes stuffed inside bags kept around the house. Pills that leave a strange aftertaste on your tongue of something a shade too sweet—

You think about running. Slipping out of his hands, this bed that reeks of stale sweat and sex, putting on your clothes, and leaving this house. Burying yourself in debt again, schoolwork, and limping (with your tail between your aching thighs) back to your landlord. Never looking twice at an ad for a babysitter in your life.

—and maybe spend your whole life wondering why people mix wolves and dogs to create something that never truly feels at home in the patchwork skin it wears; pieces of ancestors it can't relate to;

But you don't.

(—you never do.)

You lie there and take it. Like the leers he aimed at you when you first showed up on his doorstep, reeking of financial desperation and swallowed down the litany of things he said to you under his breath with a wobbly grin and your eyes fixed on the tile, convincing yourself it would pass. That you were more than just a pretty face he couldn't wait to cover in his cum. A soft ass he wanted to sink his teeth into before getting his cock in there next. Tight little pussy he was so eager to break in. Pantin' like a bitch in heat, ain't you, pup? can hear you gaggin' for it a mile away—

Biting your lip so hard it bled. Blood between your teeth. Your hands curling into the coarse, starchy fabric of his work shirt when he leaned down, permanent snarl on his face from the manmade cleftlip, and reached down to grab a handful of it. Testin' the merchandise, he cooed, low and mean and ugly. Words wrapped up tight in barbed wire. Brassbound. Said nothing as he pinched your nipples through your shirt, or when he shoved his hand beneath the hem and groaned at how soft you were.

Dirty hands leaving stains all over your skin you couldn't see, but felt like a fresh, weeping tattoo. Pulsing with infection.

(Such a needy little thing he trusts with his son while his wife is gettin' railed by 'er Pilates instructor, huh? But that's fine, ain't it? Need another one, anyway. A better influence for Tommy. Someone who'll give him that little brother he's been buggin' for—)

And so, you slacken your jaw when he grunts, barking at you to open up. Say nothing when he drags his hand back up your body to grip your jaw tight in his palm, squeezing your cheeks until they pop open. Let him spit in your mouth, and swallow down the foul, stale tobacco taste of him on your tongue.

Nod, like an obedient little pup, when he says good, ain't it? and let him roll you onto your back again, wrenching your thighs apart so he can see for himself the mess he made. The one you let spill all over his jeans.

Good ones, too, he huffs, eyelids slicing over the jaded edge of obsidian into a derisive pantomime of a contented cat squinting to show affection. Half-mast in pleasure as he says he'll wear them again tomorrow an' let all the boys see what a mess you make of me—

His gaze drills into the wet, slick seam of your puffy, bruised cunt, grip tightening—vicious, possessive—until his blunt nails sink into your skin. Branding. Bruising. His fingers clench down until it almost feels like he'll break through muscle to touch bone, but just when it starts to really hurt, pushing past that strange equinoctial point where pleasure and pain wrap around each other on a razor's edge, he peels back with a grunt. Leans over you to spit in your mouth again, a wet, foamy glob that hits your bottom lip before it oozes into your mouth, tasting of stale smoke and bitter tobacco. A flavour that reeks of permanence, and smells of an incipient wolfpack—all animal musk and wildness brimming up against stale sweat, laundry detergent, cigarette smoke, and sex.

Cruel, almost, like the gurns etched into his face by the missing chunk of flesh on his upper lip. Snarled and deadly. Mocking in a certain light. Like a constant sneer. Derisive and dangerous.

But not nearly as terrifying when he lists forward, dropping down to catch your jaw in his hand, the other planting itself in musty pillow beside your head, caging you in, and says:

"—and now you're makin' me a daddy again, birdie."

There's a taste in the back of your throat that's much too sweet for the dirty, oil-stained fingers he slips between your slack lips, scratching over your tongue. It reminds you of a spoonful of sugar. Grape-flavoured medicine poured over the top. And you wonder how quickly the pills you have been taking would dissolve in water when you sprinkled the white granules down the drain.

Something else you won't mention even as this house he burrowed inside changes shape—clothes in drawers, bags in the closet; the lingering scent of Candy Kiss a spoiled, stale sillage hidden under the smell of newborn and warm milk. Crushed animal crackers and Nicorette. The sound of a gaping, newly formed maw yowling for attention clashing sharply against the exaggerated screams of a grown man howling about a video game on Tommy's iPad.

thanks for hiring me and don't worry, Mr Riley, I can manage him morphing into a new sound, a continual echo of welcome home, and she called again asking about custody, daddy.

Something that throbs like a fresh wound before knitting itself together again into a thin, pink line; skin all shiny and new. Pulsing with the echoes of everything you dipped your chin again, mumbling around the malformed words of please, and don't, and now,

don't stop, please don't stop

What else are you supposed to do, really, other than lettingnhim slake the remnants of his lust between your sore, slick-stained thighs until he grunts, coming inside of you again to the damning symphony of a creaking bed, heels against the floorboards, and the sizzle of a cigarette burning away in an ashtray.

"Wait—" swallowed down by a mangled mouth. A hooked, crooked nose slides along your sweaty cheek as he all but purrs in satisfaction.

All his, he says.

And you don't fight it even as the blood pools between your teeth because you knew that from the start.

[mrmilomoo]

Kinks I think Simon Ghost Riley has, but they progressively get freakier. Part 2.

18+ MDNI, TW: perversion, humiliation, perverted bullying

Part 1

Tits or ass?

Try pussy.

I’m being so serious. This man is actually so gross about it. Just a yucky pervert under that mask. Of course he loves and would has lick every inch of you, but he just can’t help but give his favorite girl (your pussy) special attention.

Sure, he’ll grope your tits and ass for a bit, but he’s already got his eyes on the prize and if there’s one thing Simon prides himself on, it’s efficiency. He’s the kind of guy to not even bother taking your top off before pulling your bottoms down and getting to work. This man will have you rocking the Winnie the Poo look as he goes down on you.

It’s almost like you’re living with an immature bully with the way he depants you at the most inconvenient times. One minute you’ll be fully clothed and peacefully stirring soup or some shit on the stove and the next minute your lounge shorts and panties will be pooled around your ankles and you’re trying to not fuck up your soup while the (rude) man knelt behind you is spreading your cheeks and burying his face in your cunt.

Speaking of bullying, if you’re wearing tight pants like leggings and he can see the outline of your panties thought them, there’s about a 50% chance he’ll succumb to his urge to give you a weggie. This increases to 80% if you’re wearing a thong, and 100% if you’re wearing a thong and you bend over in front of him. Leaves your pants on and just reaches in to pull your panties up tight till the flimsy cotton or lace is trapped between your folds and biting into your clit. Loves listening to you whimper and whine at him in that pathetic, high-pitched voice. Music to his ears… and cock.

He also loves when those thin, tight leggings of your’s give you a nice camel toe. Unless he’s actually trying to engage in a serious conversation with you. Then he hates those pants. How is he supposed to focus on what you’re saying when your pussy is practically staring him down?…

…What were you even arguing about?

Well, whatever it was, it’s going to have to wait. His “favorite girl” obviously needs some “special attention” and Simon Riley has his priorities. Perhaps not straight, but he certainly has them nonetheless.

[dmitriene]

cw: selling reader to close the debt, groping, kidnapping, dubcon, thoughts of impregnating.

being sold to outlaw könig, just so your daddy would be able to pay his debt to him, and since he had nothing but you, your dad got together to sell your pretty face to this terrible brute of a man, and your life was over about the moment when he brazenly picked you up in his arms and carried you to his horse with a satisfied squint of blue eyes.

you didn't understand why you had to answer for your father's debts, and even though könig ain't tried to harm you, he didn't react to the thick tears running down your cheeks and chin all the road that you were pressed against his chest, whimpering as he roughly squeezed at the softness of your body over your dress, cruel chuckle slipping from beneath the hood at his face.

könig didn't resell you to any other people, ain't even made a slave out of you, he gave you a clean, spacious room that belonged only to you in a house that wasn't bad, clean, looking like he didn't even live there, but instead of thanking him with your innocent eyes and chirping words, you had to run away from him, not knowing what awaits you.

the lingering perverse of his calloused touch on your body everytime he could grope you over your dress, nuzzle his face in your neck even through your shrieks and small kicks of your fists against his muscular chest, könig likes seeing you pick up a fight like a feisty kitten, not knowing that he's a predator there, and you're bounded to be with him.

to wipe puddles of blood on the floor almost everytime he comes back home by the night, stumbling through the doorway, to let him seat you on his beefy lap and press his face in your shoulder, palming at your body through almost translucent fabric of your nightie, doing a little job of hiding the softness of your curves, making his heavy, fattened erection poke in the swell of your ass.

but you wouldn't claw at him if he'd bury his thick cock in your weepy pussy, you can mewl that it's disgusting and he's gross all you want, while bouncing prettily on his fat cock, letting the ridge of his cockhead prod at the sweet, virgin spot in your cunt, your hole pulsing and oozing syrupy slick at every hump of his hips, hands holding onto his huge shoulders, as his rough palms swallow the fat of your asscheeks.

you should be grateful he kept you alive, hübsches lamm, and perhaps if he'll cream your pussy with his thick seed, sending you to sleep in your room with cum soaked panties, you'll be more docile, acting like you never been sold to könig, but belonged to him from the start.

his sweet little wifey, the one he would knock up as soon as possible, and then, you will be tied to him.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[butch-bonez]

tired of big sis always being the dominant one. i need more older sisters who are scared their lil sis is going to find out how incredibly down bad they are, that she whispers her sister's name in between stroking her cock, begging her to please let her cum every night before falling asleep. older sister who feels gross and predatory whenever she thinks about it longer than two seconds, who's deeply ashamed of her perverse attraction when in truth, her sister is so, so much worse.

little sis who, upon finding out immediately pins her sister against the nearest vertical surface, leaning into her ear and whispering that if she doesn't want mom and dad to find out, she'll need to do exactly as she says. shutting her up with a messy kiss before she even has a chance to reply, tongue practically down her sister's throat.

little sis who takes her time teasing her sister's hard-on through her jeans, her stifled whimpers turning into breathy moans as her sister's hand finally dips below the waistband, feeling the way her cock radiates heat and twitches between her fingers.

she absolutely melts in her sister's hand, the sheer absurdity and perversion of it all sends her spiraling over the edge. with a winded groan and half-formed pleas falling from her lips, little sister only grins and picks up the pace. it's not long before she cums with a gasp, shooting ropes all over her panties and sister's hand, cock still pulsating as she observes the mess she's made of them both. she attempts to mumble a half-coherent apology for finishing so quickly, but she's cut off before she has the chance.

"oh, don't apologize. i was only just getting started."

[chanelrolls]

kneel, caleb.

synopsis. your subordinate, caleb, has always been the ideal employee. but appearances deceive, don't they? there's no way your perfect junior is a massive perv... spoiler alert: he is.

content. afab!fem reader, office au, caleb pov, creepy & obsessive behavior, gaslighting, unsactioned spying, perverse actions, workplace malpractice, masturbation, p in v, oral (f!receiving), mouthspitting, desk sex, caleb is just an overall gross stalker, could be dubcon.

READ AT UR OWN RISK !

a/n. hi! just wanna give a heads-up that caleb might be a liiiittle ooc here since i wanted to try a powerplay dynamic between him and you, with caleb formerly being the bottom. basically, a pathetic yearning submissive!caleb :3 (but he'll dom in the end)

wc. 4k

The hum of the office printers and the soft taps of the keyboards were the routine background music to Caleb's workday. It was a monotonous cadence that had long since stopped to register in his head.

Today, though, those sounds felt like a mocking grate.

He sat at his desk, trying to silence the pounding of his heartbeat. His crisp khaki shirt clung to his broad shoulders down to his back from a sheen of sweat. Then, his fingers, usually so precise, trembled over the keyboard.

He had meant to print the latest client proposal for his superior, you, to review. Such a simple request, and yet, he had fucked up. In a catastrophic lapse of his usual meticulousness, a single, misplaced keystroke had sent his most lewd and explicit writings to the communal printer. Pages upon pages of detailed smut that featured him splitting you wide open on his cock. The printer that everyone, including his manager, used. Sheet by damning sheet were now spilling out for the entire world to see.

Fuck. How could I mix up the damn files? Why didn’t I double-check?

He berated himself internally for the slip up. Propelled into action by sheer panic, Caleb shot up from his chair. His typically measured stride broke into an uncharacteristic sprint, each urgent step towards the printer room amplifying the dread that clutched at his throat.

Throughout, his mind was ablaze with the potential fallout; the scandal would be career-ending, soul-crushing. His perfect professional image, the one he had so carefully constructed, was on the brink of shattering.

All because of a fucking misclick.

As he neared the doorway, time seemed to contort, stretching the seconds into lifetimes. His only hope was to snatch away the filth before any eyes, especially those of his superior, could take it in.

But as fate would have it, the universe conspired against him. Just as he was about to lunge for the papers, a silhouette appeared in the doorway.

You.

Oh, fuck me.

With no time to think and everything to lose, Caleb settled for a risky plan. His stride slowed, attempting nonchalance. "Ah, Y/n, just the person I was hoping to catch," he blurted out, his voice a strained mimicry of casualness.

"There's been a slight hiccup with the proposal I was printing for you. It seems the printer has pulled the wrong file from the queue." The lie was a gamble, a last-ditch effort to deflect from the horror of the situation. "I'll sort this out and bring the correct one to your office shortly. My apologies for the inconvenience."

His plea to the deities was silent, desperate: Take the bait. Please, for the love of God, take the fucking bait, don’t question it, and walk away.

There was just no plausible explanation for why he had multiple pages describing you as his pathetic cock sleeve, stupid cum rag, bitch in heat, and other similar obscene names.

Caleb refrained from allowing his eyes to dart towards the incriminating evidence hanging from the printer tray like a sordid tapestry, not wanting to draw further attention to it. Standing rigidly, every fibre of his being willed you to accept his words, to leave the room without a second glance. His future, his reputation, his very sanity hung in the balance, suspended by the slender thread of a hastily conjured lie.

You paused at the doorway, brow furrowing slightly as you take in Caleb's flustered state. His shirt was a bit rumpled, hair slightly disheveled, and his eyes had an oddly unusual stern look. It was a far cry from his usual put-together demeanor. You couldn't help but notice the way his gaze darted nervously to the printer and back to you.

Something's not right here.

"A hiccup?" you asked, arching an eyebrow. "I don't have time for printer malfunctions, Caleb. I need that proposal on my desk within the hour." Your voice came firm, a subtle undercurrent of warning beneath the professional tone.

Caleb swallowed hard, feeling the weight of your gaze like a physical pressure on his chest. Fuck, she's not buying it, he panicked internally.

"Of course, I apologize for the delay. I assure you, it will be resolved shortly," he replied, his voice strained. He was wracking his brain for a way to salvage this situation. He couldn't let you see the depravity spilling from the printer, the explicit details of his obsession with you splayed out for all to see.

Desperate, he took a step closer to you, his hand outstretched in a placating gesture. "Perhaps we could discuss the changes you wanted to the proposal in your office? I have a few...notes I jotted down earlier that I think you'll find useful," he said, his tone a careful balance of deference and subtle manipulation.

If I can just get her out of here, away from the printer and those fucking papers, I can contain this disaster.

You hesitated for a moment, eyes narrowing as you studied Caleb's face. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding something, that there was an undercurrent of desperation in his manner. But the mention of the changes you had requested gave you a pause. You did need the proposal, and if Caleb had the notes, then perhaps it was better to hear him out in the privacy of your office.

"Very well," you said finally, turning on your heel. "But make it quick, please. I have a meeting in thirty minutes that I can't miss."

As you walked out, Caleb felt a wave of relief wash over him. That was too fucking close. He turned to the printer, his hands shaking as he gathered up the incriminating pages, stuffing them into his briefcase. I can't let her see this, I can't let anyone see this, he repeated like a mantra.

You settle into the plush leather chair behind your desk. You watched as Caleb hurried in after you, his movements hurried and frazzled. He was acting even stranger than before, eyes darting around your office nervously.

He's up to something. But what?

"Alright, Caleb, let's see these notes you mentioned," you hold out your hand expectantly. You leaned forward, elbows on your desk, and fixed him with a penetrating stare.

Caleb swallowed hard. His mouth suddenly felt dry. Think, you fucking idiot, think. He berated himself. He couldn't show you the real notes, not with the depraved shit he'd written about you splashed all over them.

"Ah, yes, of course," he stammered, fumbling with his briefcase. In truth, he was buying time, trying to come up with a plausible lie.

I can't let her see those pages, I can't let her know how I've been fantasizing about her, he thought desperately. But I need to give her something to keep her off my trail.

In a moment of inspiration, he pulled out a sheet of paper, scrawling a few generic notes about the proposal. It was thin, but it would have to do.

"Here," he hands you the sheet. "I thought we could lead with the data analysis section, highlight the key insights that drive the strategy. And perhaps emphasize the cost-saving initiatives on the next page to frame the financial benefits..." He droned on, his voice taking on a professional cadence. But inside, his mind was becoming a whirlwind of panic and lust.

Even during such a moment, Caleb couldn't help himself but to trail his eyes down the perfect curve of your neckline, and then to the flawless skin of your cleavage that had let itself expose through a few undone buttons. I just want to bend her over this desk and fuck her until she screams. Show her who the real boss is. His gaze continued to rove over your form, before swallowing. He couldn't act on those urges, not now. Not ever. He had to keep up this charade, had to maintain the illusion of the perfect, dedicated employee.

Play it cool, Caleb, he told himself. Don't let her see how crazy you are about her.

You listened to his suggestions, expression inscrutable. You, again, felt like he was holding something back, that there was a hidden agenda behind his words. But the notes, flimsy as they were, could work.

You lean back in your chair. "Those are...adequate," you set the single sheet of notes down on the desk. "But I seem to recall you mentioning you had more than just this. Hand them over please." your tone left no room for argument, and you fixed him with a stare that dared him to disobey.

Caleb felt his stomach drop as you demanded the rest of the notes. Fuck, fuck, fuck. She's not letting this go.

He knew he should refuse and make up an excuse, anything to keep you from seeing the depraved writings that filled the rest of the pages. But the words stuck in his throat, and he found himself reaching into his briefcase once more, fingers brushing against the paper.

Maybe if I just give her a little taste, she'll be satisfied and wouldn't question further. Maybe she won't look too closely.

With a shaking hand, he passed some of the papers to you, his heart hammering against his ribs while you took it from him. He watched you flip open the cover and began to read.

At first, your expression remained impassive, eyes merely scanning the lines of neat lines of words. But as you turned another page, he saw a flicker of confusion cross your face.

You blushed.

Oh god.

Cute.

But, wait, fuck, she's seeing it, he thought, a wave of nausea rising in his throat. She's seeing all the filthy things I've written about her!

"Caleb...what're these?"

No.

Kill me.

"Did you write these...?" You breathed, holding up the paper with trembling fingers.

No, I didn't. Well, yes, I did. But, no.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He was frozen, paralyzed by the sheer, gut-wrenching terror of being exposed. He had crossed a line, and he knew there was no going back. His career, his reputation, everything he had worked so hard to build, was about to come crashing down around him.

I'm fucked, he thought, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. I'm so fucked.

Just as the tension between you reached a fever pitch, the office door suddenly swung open, and a co-worker pokes her head in. "Excuse me! I have that report you asked for," She announced, oblivious to the charged atmosphere. She breezed in, setting a folder on your desk. "Sorry for the interruption, but this is really urgent."

You blinked, startled by the interference. Then, you glanced at your watch, cursing under your breath when you realized the time.

"I have to go," you stood up from your desk, not sparing Caleb a glance. The papers were already slipped into one of the compartments of your worktable.

Caleb stood frozen as the two women exited the office, leaving him alone with his racing thoughts.

Later that night, as you sat in your dimly lit condo, unwinding from the stressful day, Caleb was hunched over his laptop in his own apartment. His fingers trembled as he clicked through the surveillance feed, and watched you.

He had installed a small camera inside the teddy bear he had gifted you months ago, a "joke" present that you had accepted with a polite smile and a strained laugh. At the time, he had told himself it was just a harmless prank, a way to make you smile. But deep down, he had known the truth - it was a way to invade your privacy, to make you his in a way that you could never know.

Now, as he watched you move around the room, the soft glow of the lamp casting shadows across your face, he felt a thrill of excitement and fear. You were so close, so real, and yet so utterly unaware of his presence.

He zoomed in, the image blurring slightly once he focused on your face, on the way your lips moved as you read a book, oblivious to his gaze.

Mine.

Caleb shuts his eyes for a second.

You aren't here for that, Caleb.

He still couldn't forget the look on his manager's face upon stumbling over the depraved fantasies he had long since kept hidden. He swore he saw a blush forming across your cheeks when you did. Did she like it? Could there have been a chance?

No, weirdo.

He had been told by you to talk in your office by tomorrow morning, and he didn't need any further explanation. Because he knows he's about to get reprimanded for what he had done. But watching you through the camera, fingers resting against the philtrum of his mouth, a flicker of hope sparked in his chest.

You wouldn't dare fire him. You needed him.

As Caleb watched, transfixed by the scene unfolding on his laptop screen, you suddenly paused in your reading. Caleb curiously leans back. You reached into the leather bag on your nightstand, your fingers rummaging around before emerging with a familiar-looking set of pages.

Oh.

Caleb's heart leapt into his throat as he recognized the documents, it was the very same set of perverse writings he had given you earlier that day, the ones you had left in your desk before being called away to the meeting. Somehow, you had taken them home with you, and now you were reading them in the privacy of your own bedroom.

Caleb studies your reactions. She must think I'm a sick, twisted freak.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, crossing your legs and biting your nails while you scanned the lines of his obsession. The expression on your face was hard to decipher, but it didn't show any hint of revulsion nor disgust. If anything, you looked quite... interested. And it made Caleb squint his eyes into a pair of half-lidded ones. Or could she be enjoying what I wrote for her?

He knew he shouldn't do this, especially when his career is already on the line. But he found it hard to resist when you're there.

You're there, sitting cross-legged on the bed while being confronted by the true depths of his desire. Showing the skin of your legs by wearing a pair of short shorts, showing that supple fucking skin he had been longing to touch.

Caleb reached down.

Your hair is so perfect, it falls on all the right places. Your neckline, one of his favorites, seemed to tease him a little more right now than usual. Not in a dramatic, romantic way, no. In a suffocating, painful way, as if his ribs constricted each time you tucked a strand behind your ear. Your lashes, long and curled like they belonged in oil paintings, cast shadows over your cheeks that Caleb studied too often. He knew the exact angle at which the light struck your skin to make it glow. He’d memorized it, hoarded it.

Caleb's breathing grew ragged palming himself through the rough fabric of his pants.

You weren't just beautiful. You were specific. A kind of cruel perfection stitched together from his glances, the curve of your shoulder in a nightgown, the slight press of your lips as you read. Hell, your voice, too. Your voice wasn’t just soft, it was a sound that haunted him long after meetings. It echoed inside him with maddening clarity.

She's mine. Caleb unbuckled his belt, adam's apple bobbing down out of guilt. Guilt and excitement. She doesn't know it yet, but she's mine.

With a strangled groan, he kept his eyes on you, stroking himself faster, stroking himself with urgent movements.

"Fuck," He sighs, rolling his head back. One hand squeezing the base of his cock, the other folded above his forehead. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, just like that..." It was so wrong. He knew he was gross for acting like this, but the indecency of it all only seemed to heighten his arousal.

Leaning forward, Caleb opens the first compartment of his table, grabbing something from the inside. He quickly pushes it back close, holding up the item in his hand before bringing it to his nose. Your red, laced panty.

Smells so fucking divine.

He takes his time sniffing it, eyes shut. How and where'd he get it? That's a different story. Right now, the focus lies on how Caleb brings the piece of fabric in the other hand he used for stroking, wrapping it around his shaft. And then, he jerks himself off with your panty.

Caleb moaned.

"Fuck me." He stares at you on his laptop screen through half-lidded, lust-filled eyes. You had already stopped reading, standing up to do your self-care routine that Caleb had gone used to by watching it every single night.

First, serum. And then, moisturizer. Then, face gel.

You dropped the tube on the floor, and you had to crouch down and bend over to reach for it when it rolled down your bed.

Caleb tensed. Shit.

He picked up the pace, grunting and moaning, a sheen of sweat forming in the pits of his clavicle, rolling down to wet the neckline of his shirt. "I'm gunna cum, baby—" And he did. He came hard, his body shuddering as he watched the juices spill out from the tip, shooting out to the laptop screen, to the keyboard, everywhere.

He lets his head finally fall back in a dramatic swing, chasing his breath.

Even as he masturbated to your panty every night, to you through the camera, he would never be able to satisfy himself entirely unless it's your pussy squeezing his dick.

Caleb sighed. Now that you've found out about the smut that he'd been compiling, he wonders how long would it take before you find out the categorized files in his USB drive, filled with pictures he'd taken and stolen of you without consent. How long would it take before you see the altar of your printed photographs across his wall, scribbled by a red marker of hearts. And to the lockbag of your hairstrands he'd find when he cleans your office.

There's no way you'd suspect him further. After all, Caleb had always been the model employee. Everybody in the corporate looked up to him, admired him.

There's no way he was actually a massive pervert who stalked you and obsessed with you to death.

Caleb felt like a man walking to his own execution as he crossed the threshold to your office. He adjusted his tie, then smoothed his shirt. His hands were sweating, so he wiped them down on his slacks before stepping in furthermore. And every step felt like a countdown to combustion.

There you were, a figure sculpted by dominance and grace. You didn't look up right away, just gestured toward the seat across your desk, as you slowly closed a folder in a deliberate manner.

Caleb sat frozen.

He could barely feel the chair under him, only the thundering echo of his heart in his ears. Somehow, the room felt too warm. No, maybe, it was you. The way you moved around the desk, unhurried, and impossibly close now.

He kept his eyes down.

Don’t look at her. Don’t make it worse. Don’t ruin this.

But his body betrayed him, as always. Every sense strained toward your presence- the soft scuff of your heels, the faintest trace of your perfume- it pulled at something in him that he had tried to suppress for months. No, years.

She knows.

God, she knows.

The fantasies, the language he used, the devotion pressed into every word of those wretched pages. You had seen it all. There was no salvaging his image now. Not the image he had so carefully constructed. The polished, respectful, reliable subordinate. The ideal employee who never overstepped, never strayed, who served you with silent loyalty.

Tch. As if you didn't jerk your cock off to her last night.

A fraud.

And yet, even as shame licked at the edges of his chest like fire, part of him thrilled in it. Because you knew, and you had read it. And you called him here.

"Did you enjoy writing them?" You finally spoke.

His throat tightened. "…Yes."

God, he hated himself for it, but he meant it. Every line was a prayer. Every fantasy was a cathedral built in your image. He’d written them in the quiet of the night, behind locked doors, whispering your name in a confession. And now, he sat like a sinner at your altar, awaiting judgment.

"Do you fantasize about me often, Caleb?" Your voice came quiet- careful not to pique any curious ears from outside your office- but it pierced right through him.

He looked up, and it was a mistake.

Because one look on your ravishing beauty was enough to make him feel his pulse throb in his neck, enough to give him the bold will to admit everything he had ever kept.

"I—" he tried, then paused. Of course, he couldn't lie. Not to you. "Yes."

Caleb dropped his gaze once more.

Say something. Apologize. Beg, Caleb!

But his mouth wouldn't open. His thoughts were nothing but swirled, messy, undignified: Touch me. Destroy me. Just don’t send me away.

What frightened him most wasn’t your punishment, but the possibility of your indifference. That you might turn cold, dismiss him, begin to look at him like he meant nothing.

He would rather burn than having to endure such a thing.

"I understand if I need to be...reassigned," he said at last, breaking through the silence like glass. "I’ll submit the request myself." But even as he said it, his chest screamed don’t go. Don’t let her push you away. Please.

Caleb didn’t move when you circled back to your desk and sat down slowly, with all the calm of someone entirely in control. You reached into your desk drawer.

Instantly, he recognized the sound of the papers before he saw it. Those cursed, damning papers. The one that held every word he'd bled onto the page in a haze of desire and delusion. You placed it neatly on the desk, right in front of you, then tapped it once with your finger.

"Read it."

What?

Caleb’s head snapped up, eyes wide. He blinked. "I’m sorry?"

Your gaze didn’t falter. “Out loud. All of it.”

Silence expanded like smoke. He couldn’t breathe.

The humiliation hit him first- a visceral, gut-wrenching kind. His entire body recoiled at the thought. Every word in that set was an exposure and a betrayal of all the control he tried so hard to keep. The fantasies weren’t gentle. They weren’t clean. They were obsessive and creepy and dirty.

But beneath that terror...

Oh god, he wanted to obey.

To surrender.

To give you everything you asked for, even this.

His hands moved slowly, hesitantly, before he took the set of pages. Caleb licked his lips. “I…”

Your voice cut through him like a blade. “Begin.”

He inhaled shakily. The words clung to his throat. "...'I don’t remember the last night I slept without h-her shadow on my ceiling. I think about her every morning before I put on this mask. The perfect subordinate. She doesn’t know I would burn this entire company down for five minutes alone with her in a room where I’m not beneath her title. Where I-I’m not just her assistant. But that’s just fantasy... isn’t it?'"

His voice cracked on the last line, hands gripping the paper tighter. Don’t stop. You can’t stop now. She asked for this.

“…‘I watched her pour coffee in the break room once, and my hands clenched so tight I left nail marks in my palm. Because I thought, uhm- what if she told me to... kneel? I would, without shame. I would even thank her for it.” He could feel his own face burning, chest tight with breathless exhilaration.

You still hadn’t interrupted. You were listening intently.

And that, somehow, was the most unbearable part.

Caleb swallowed again. “…‘S-Sometimes I pretend she’s already mine. In my head, I undo her buttons. One by one. I trace the hollow of her throat with the same precision I use to format her spreadsheets. I press my mouth to her skin and whisper everything I’ve never said aloud.’”

The words hung in the air, and Caleb's voice had stopped trembling. Rather, it had settled into a lower tone, as if he had crossed an invisible threshold and found himself oddly unafraid.

You sat back in your chair, as if reclining into a throne you’d claimed without effort. You let the silence stretch, then reached for it like a violinist would a bowstring. “Well,” you began, “That was almost poetic, Caleb. I wasn’t expecting you to be such a romantic.”

No response.

So you talked again. "But that was only the second page, wasn’t it?" You gently tapped your nails on the papers. "There are more. Many more, much more explicit and... less reverent."

Caleb's eyes finally lifted, cautiously, like the weight of them had to be managed.

Gone was the nervous boy you summoned into your office. Because in his place stood a man unraveling at his own pace.

"I wonder," you mused, tapping a finger to your chin, "were those written before or after the one where you wrote about bending me over my own desk with your belt around my wrists?"

To your surprise, Caleb didn't flinch.

Instead, he reached forward, closed the pages with a definitive sound, and slid it across your desk- never once breaking eye contact.

Fine. If you want more, I'll give you more.

Then he smiled.

But you won't come out of your office untouched.

Not the polite, warm smile he usually shows you when you walk past each other, no. It was something colder, sleek. Like the moment a knife catches light. "Would you like me to read that one too, Y/n?"

You arched a brow, mildly amused by the sudden shift. But you didn't speak. Not yet.

Caleb moved to stand up, a single deliberate action that suggested something had changed between the two of you. "I can recite it from memory," he says, "If you prefer."

It was your turn to swallow.

"I wrote those pages to survive you," Caleb lowered his lashes. "To avoid myself from doing something... irresponsible." and then, he stepped forward. "Now, you're asking me to read them and revisit every word. So if this is what you want, Y/n-" he rests both of his hands against your desk, leaning forward. "Then you don't get to act surprised if I stop playing the nice guy."

There was a long pause, and you didn't fill it.

But Caleb noticed the way your throat moved when you gulped, the way your hands began to clench themselves.

You were wavering.

And he, who had once trembled under the weight of your attention, now stood taller. Still bound by his shirt and tie, yes- but no longer leashed by fear. "I won’t read them."

Your eyes narrowed a fraction. "Excuse me?"

"I don’t need to," Caleb slowly began to circle your desk, approaching you closer, and it made you unconsciously back away. "The ones you’re thinking of… I know those by heart."

He had grown into his obsession.

Into yours, apparently.

This was utterly inappropriate and absurd. You knew better. And yet, you stared up at him like you were the one caught, like you were the one awaiting permission. And Caleb... Caleb merely looked down at you, head slightly tilted.

With a measured grace, Caleb dropped to one knee, eyes never leaving yours.

And you, to your own horror, didn't look away. Because you should've stood up, said his name in a warning. You should've reprimanded him in a professional way. Not whatever this is. But instead, you sat still.

Caleb's palms slid, languidly, up the length of your calves. He inhaled softly. God.

"I rememer writing about this one," His fingers paused just below your knees, and you could feel how long they were through your stockings. The sheer audacity of him, touching you with that same calm he used in reports and presentations, made you pick up your breathing. "You leaned back in this very chair, and you parted your legs. Just a bit. Enough to make me desperate and beg."

You stopped breathing.

"You watched me as I touched you," His index finger teased the hem of your thigh-high. "Slower than I wanted to. And when I couldn't take it anymore..." He smiled faintly, cruelly. "I took your skirt off, I took your panties off, and I took your virginity."

Then, he presses his lips against your knee, inhaling your scent once more. I want to fuck this woman already. God, please let me. He shuts his eyes, then slowly, made his way to the upper area of your thigh with his mouth.

You almost whimpered, fingers gripping tightly on the armrests of your chair.

"I went with eating you out. I licked your pussy, sucked your clit, and you moaned, Y/n, you grabbed my hair and-" Caleb opens his eyes, and looks up at you. "You came right into my mouth."

You grabbed his necktie and pulled him closer, which catches him off guard.

He stared at you, stunned- for once, without something ready to say. His chest rose and fell with the quiet force of someone whose fantasy had just collided, violently, with reality.

Caleb swallowed.

Nonetheless, his voice returned low, strained with a trembling thrill. "Do you want me to recreate it?"

You didn't respond.

So he reached out, his hands trembling slightly as they slid up your thighs, pushing your skirt up to reveal the lacy edge of your panties. He leaned in, burying his face against the soft fabric, inhaling deeply the scent of you, a heady mix of your natural aroma and the faint perfume of your lotion. Fuck.

Unable to resist any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly dragged them down your legs. As they fell to the floor, he tossed them aside carelessly.

You told yourself it's just this once, and though you knew that it's a weak attempt of justification, you repeated it inside your head. Just this once. Then you'll end this madness.

Caleb seemed to sense your hesitation, and he pressed his advantage, bruhing his lips against your bare folds in the lightest of kisses. The touch was electric, sending a jolt of sensation shooting up your spine. "Please," he breathed, his tongue darting out to trace the seam of your pussy lips, teasing the sensitive flesh. "Let me taste you."

Just this once, he thought, just this once and then I'll end this. I swear I will.

"Then do it," you commanded. "Show me what a devoted servant you are."

Oh.

Caleb didn't hesitate. He immediately buried his face between your thighs, his mouth covering your most intimate area as he began to eat you out with desperate hunger. His tongue delved between your folds, stroking and probing at the slick, heated flesh.

"Mmm, s'good-" he groaned into you, the vibrations of his voice sending shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your core. God, she tastes even better than I fucking imagined.

He sealed his lips around your clit and suckled hard, his tongue flicking rapidly over the sensitive bud. His hands gripped your thighs while at it, pulling you harder against his face as he feasted on you, his moans growing louder and more wanton by the second.

God, help me or I'm going to lose control.

Caleb's cock throbbed almost painfully in the confines of his pants, the intense taste of your arousal making him harder than he had ever been in his life. He ached to free himself, to stroke his aching flesh while he pleasured you, but he resisted the urge. This moment was about you, about worshipping your body and bringing you to the heights of ecstasy.

That's it, baby. Come for me.

When Caleb looked up at you, he looked like a boy lost in a dream, looking wholly out of place in his loosened tie and undone collar.

You had come into his mouth within a blink of an eye.

Thick vanilla streaks now clung to the corner of his mouth, a smear just beneath his bottom lip, the pale sheen catching the lights of your office.

His lips parted slightly, face flushed. He looked up at you like he wanted you to see how the haze within his eyes strayed farther from innocence. Like he knew exactly what he looked like, mess and all.

Your fingers reached out and brushed lightly against the corner of his mouth. One soft sweep. Then another, slow and deliberate, catching the trail that had slipped down toward his chin. Your thumb dragged across his lower lip last, then paused at the center.

Caleb didn't move.

He only exhaled shakily, lashes fluttering once as he stared into your beauty. His mouth stayed slightly open, as if daring you to go further. Then, in the heat of the moment, he rises up to gently grab your chin with all of his fingers. "Will you let me do anything to you?"

You nod, wordlessly.

"Open your mouth then." He whispers, and when you did, he spits into it. You shut your eyes, breath hitching. Caleb sighed at the sight of his own saliva pooling in your mouth, this time he's the one wiping away the drool with his thumb. "You're gonna be the death of me, woman."

It didn't take long before the two of you agreed on fucking in your office.

You're bent over your own worktable ridiculously, struggling to get a better grip on the edge while you could feel the cock of your subordinate incessantly piercing through the slit of your pussy. "Caleb, slow down-"

"I can't hear you." He slams it deep that it pounds against the flesh of your womb. The pleasure elicits a whiny moan out of you, and in response, Caleb behind you grabs your face to cover your mouth. Of course, you wouldn't want your co-workers hearing you. You wouldn't want them exposing a scandal between the manager and her own subordinate, right? "So goddamn tight."

Like she was made for my dick.

And then, he increases the pace.

Caleb lifts your ass up higher to angle himself better, before repetitively pounding you down the table with a mind of a machine that focused on an objective to cum in your sex.

He pulls out, and in again. Again, and again, and again, and again.

Faster, deeper, harder, he shuts his eyes and rolls his head back at the feeling of being squeezed by your very walls. Oh, he could get used to this sensation for decades. He could feel your body tensing, your walls fluttering around his pistoning cock while he fucked you with wild abandon. He knew you were close, because he could hear it in the desperate, keening cries that spilled from your lips with each brutal thrust.

With a sharp cry, your body convulsed beneath him, your pussy clenching down on him like a vice when you came undone. He felt your juices gushing around his shaft, soaking his cock and balls as you rode out the waves of the intense orgasm.

I can't stop.

But even as he felt you spasming around him, he didn't let up. He couldn't bring himself to stop the relentless assault on your pussy. He was driven by a primal need to keep you in a state of constant, mindless ecstasy, to make you forget about everything except the feeling of his cock splitting you open again and again.

I can't seem to stop.

Caleb hooked one of your legs over his elbow, the new angle allowing him to plunge even deeper into your still-quivering pussy. He could feel your slick walls fluttering around his pistoning shaft, trying in vain to adjust to the relentless invasion.

Fuck, I'm so deep inside her...

He could hear the obscene, wet sounds of your coupling filling the room, the slap of skin against skin and the squelch of your arousal with each brutal thrust. I'm going to fuck her hard like this everyday. He bit his lip, then opens his mouth to exhale desperately. So hard, and deep, that she can't look at another man without thinking of me.

He could feel his orgasm building to a crescendo, his balls drawing up tight as he slammed into you faster, the force of his thrusts shaking the desk beneath you. He could tell he was close just from the telltale tightening in his gut that signaled his impending release.

I'm going to cum.

With one final, savage thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you. I'm cumming in this perfect fucking cunt. His cock pulsed and throbbed as he exploded inside you. He could feel his hot seed gushing forth that painted your insides with thick, virile ropes of his essence. "Take that all."

Caleb collapsed against you for a moment, his sweat-slicked chest heaving as he struggled to catch his breath. He could feel the aftershocks of his intense orgasm still rippling through him.

You weren't sure anymore if you could resist seeing this man each day.

You feel his fingers tucking the wet strands of your hair behind your ear, before placing a kiss on your temple. "You think we're done already?" He chuckles deeply, rising back up and grabbing your hips. "I'm still about to fuck you against that window."

And after that, in the elevator. Then, in my car. And then, in the public restroom. All of those, in one day.

[devotedsweetheart]

・❥ IT'S JUST A DREAM...

▶︎ •၊၊||၊|။||||။‌‌‌‌‌၊|• 0:10

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ rundown :: caleb comes back from a mission while reader is sleeping. unable to control himself, he decides he doesnt want to wait until you're awake.

WARNINGS :: NSFW! 18+, porn with no plot, somnophilia, softdom!caleb, sub!reader

a/n :: bit of a gross fic i've concocted but hey, we don't kink shame around here!!

he shouldnt be doing this.

god, he really shouldnt be doing this.

he cant help it. the way you looked so cute and vulnerable laying sound asleep, basically inviting him in with the position you were in. laying on your back, arms placed on your stomach, one leg straight out and the other bent in; giving perfect access to your core.

caleb stands still; too scared by his thoughts to do so little as move. maybe if i just touch her once, it'll be like i wasnt even there... she won't notice.. fuck- he's convinced himself that he's perverted, that he's sick in the head. and perhaps he is, perhaps he's just like the twisted creeps on the internet, but that doesn't stop him. he's been away from the warm embrace of your cunt for way too long, his self control is too slim to worry about if you're conscious or not.

dropping his bags right where he was, he marches over toward you with great quietness. he stops right before he touches the bed, looking over you like a predator to his prey, imaging what exactly he wants to do to you thats so subtle that you wont wake up to it. after a moment of thinking, he decides he'll only take your panties off to jerk off to, then he'll go to bed with you. and thats exactly what he does.

with gentle yet shaky hands, he bends down and proceeds to attempt to rip your underwear off without really touching you, occasionally having to adjust the growing buldge in his pants. he manages to tear them halfway before he feels you move, beginning to change your sleep position to one that is on your back. he freezes completely and immediately removes his hand from your body, immobile with fear.

all he can do is stare at your ass while you're turned over. he physically cannot wait any longer as he brings an arm down to the bed to lift himself up, face directly on your butt. he's moving on autopilot at this point, unbuttoning his jeans with haste precision while inhaling your sweet scent; every exhale comes a moan as quiet as he can make it.

once his cock is finally out of his trousers, it's already twitching against the bed. caleb has no shame anymore; grinding his hips on your sheets and taking in your backsides aroma while whimpering into you. he has zero power over what he does, all he can do is think with his dick, mumbling small "ohfuckohfuck"s into your undies, bringing himself closer and closer to the edge. he's truly just a mess with his out-of-place hair and rolled back eyes, all for you.

everything was going swell until you slowly began to regain consciousness, somewhere in between awake and asleep. "c-caleb?" you whispered into the night, feeling for his hair. "caleb is that you? what're you.."

but instead of stopping his movements, he only speeds them up, egged on by the sound of your voice. "shhhshshh baby.. it's just a dream.. go back to sleep for me..." he mumbles back to you, grabbing your arm and using his other hand to grope at your asscheek. you let out a soft moan thats really only a sigh, and thats what sends him over the edge.

white hot spurts of cum cover your blanket and bedsheets as he snuggles his head closer into you in an attempt to quiet himself. "o-..ohmy fuck pips i-.." he murmurs, eyes remaining shut while his grip on you tightens.

after he's done working himself. he leans back to look at the mess he's made. drool strings from your panties to his lips, orgasm bright prominent on the covers, red marks on your wrist, underwear halfway ripped. he couldn't be more perverse.. truly.

only for you, though. ;)

[archivedblog16]

Lust is not about consent or art. It’s a perverse desire that controls you, like sex addiction you can’t stop yourself. Lust is TAKING, whether it sex, revenge or money, you COVET. Lust and gluttony go hand in hand, gluttony is unquenched LUST, lust is a constant GLUTTONY. Ozzie and Bee could’ve had a fun dynamic but instead they get into white girl middle school fights with mammon and tell him to suck a dick, and that no one wants to fuck him and get gross out when he eats. Why is every character in HB/HH just white girls in middle school?

Mammon, Bee, and Ozzie would be such a powerhouse group not only because of their high status but each of their sin corresponds with each other. You are so right Anon, majority of the characters (who are adults in their 30s or older) do unironically act like middle school teenagers.

In hindsight that scene was dumb. Yeah, we get Ozzie isn’t like Valentino and wants there to be consent but his succubi(s) (especially Verosika) make him look dumb. Verosika and her posse literally sexually assault Moxxie in Spring Broken.

[pretty-little-mind33]

Tangerine x stripper fem!reader

Mini-series summary: When Tangerine opened an underground strip-club to cover for his murder-for-hire business operation, he wasn't expecting to become so easily distracted by one girl in particular.

Chapter summary: You can handle yourself, you've been doing it alone for years, but you can't deny it feels nice when someone else cares for you for a change. (3.6k)

Warnings: sleazy gross rich men, strip clubs, violence, drugs, alcohol, sex work, sexual harassment

BAD FOR BUSINESS MASTERLIST

In the late afternoon, the loud, lively, self-named 'gentleman's club' feels eerily empty. The jazz music plays so quietly that the only real sound is the faint clinking of the glasses as Lennie, the bartender, polishes them.

Tangerine usually never arrives this early, but Leo had conveniently asked him to finish up the paperwork so here he is, walking up the stairs and into his office, which conveniently overlooks the main stage from up in the glassed mezzanine.

His hair is damp from the rain as he rests his umbrella near the door. The classical music from his earbuds drowns out the jazz from the lounge and he holds in a yawn, taming his curls with his hand as he strolls to his desk. He touches the array of papers Leo has left him for him. 

Tangerine's eyebrows pinch in disapproval. He drops his phone on the desk, draping his suit jacket on the back of his chair and sinking down, resting his hand on the wood. He drums his fingers, his mind wandering as the music lulls him. He can feel a headache coming on and he pulls out the earbuds, texting Lemon from his phone. 

T : Are you working tonight? 

L : Ya. Are you? 

T : I'm here early. Leo didn't fucking finish his paperwork and now I have to clean up after that arsehole. 

L : Dickhead.

T : Bloody motherfucker. 

L : Such a Diesel.

Tangerine rolls his eyes playfully, turning his phone over and grabbing his reading glasses to begin on the paperwork. Some fucked up jobs they've been needing to deal with. That and keeping up with the finances to keep this hellhole open.

Investors aren't exactly happy. They want more girls, they want more sex. Tangerine groans. He's starting to regret this. Opening this business. However, when he thinks of the girls, his regret dwindles. It doesn't matter that the establishment is a cover, he pays them well. He's fair and he knows they need it.

If he listens to Leo and closes this place down then where are they supposed to go? Tangerine knows men, especially men that actually work in this business, and he doesn't want his girls to fall into their hands. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing his eyes as he brings the papers in front of him. 

Fuck this, he thinks.

Hours pass and the music from below begins to grow louder. He rests his glasses on his desk and stands, stretching his arms. He strolls to the glass and peers down at the floor. The dim lights have been turned on and Lemon and the other bodyguards are preparing for the night. Tangerine hums, walks around to his desk again, and continues to work for a little while longer. Soon, his mind wanders to the girls again and he opens the computer, searching the schedule for tonight. 

When he finds your name, he can't help the way his lips curve and his stomach twists. He closes the tab. He feels like a love-sick schoolboy, a perverse one at that, he shouldn't like you as much as he does, but how could he not? 

You're the sweetest girl here. 

Another few hours pass and Tangerine is concentrating on sending important emails. He's sick of planning these heists, these kills, it makes his head hurt. Lemon would say he's burned out, and that he needs a vacation, but he refuses to listen to his brother. 

He refuses to listen to his brother on a lot of things.  

It's the sound of your song that pulls his attention away from his computer. That smooth sensual tune you always dance to and he sits up immediately. He looks at the clock over his door. 2 am already? Tangerine stands and makes his way over to the glass, his breath hitching when he sees you on stage.

You're dressed in lacy white lingerie. A small pair of angel wings adorn your back, the strings attaching them wrapping sensually around your torso. Your hair is curled and you're wearing a small golden halo. It's your usual outfit, but you look absolutely stunning. 

Tangerine feels just as perverted as the men watching you and his cheeks heat up. He looks at the audience and recognizes some of the usual. Some old 'work' colleagues or wealthy aristocrats. Powerful men. Dangerous men. His jaw clenches. This is why he insisted on so many bodyguards all around. Men that this place attracts are accustomed to having whatever they want, whenever they want it.

Already, these girls are being displayed on a golden platter for them, but Tangerine would be damned if these men tried to push their luck. This place has rules. Strict ones he put in place when he realized Leo wasn't caring. That's why he'd been coming around more often, to make sure that arsehole wasn't being abusive. He tells himself that's the only reason.   

His eyes wander back to you. He knows you're almost finished with your routine. Tangerine has it memorized by now. Involuntarily, he feels his trousers tighten around his crotch as he continues to watch the way you dance.

When you tilt your head upwards a little, holding yourself up by the pole, you lock eyes and Tangerine's entire stomach flips. He stays very still, his expression neutral and dismissive. You smile, keeping your eyes on his as you finish the dance and blow a kiss into the crowd.

Fuck. He needs a fucking smoke. 

Tangerine makes his way down the stairs and into the lounge. He's assaulted by the smell of alcohol and drugs, as well as the familiar stench of sex the moment he enters the room. He fumbles with his cigarette pack in his pocket and pops a cigarette in his mouth. 

"Oi," Lemon's voice interrupts his thoughts from near the entrance door, which is slightly ajar. He's talking to another bodyguard, Wayne, and the latter nods his head at Tangerine. "How's work, bruv?"

Tangerine comes over and blows the smoke outside from the open door. He leans against the wall and looks into the room, keeping an eye out. You've gone backstage. "It's a fuckin' pain in my arse," is all he says and Lemon pats him on the shoulder. 

"I'be been tellin' ya Leo is a diesel." 

Tangerine sends him a dark look. "Shut up about that already, would ya? You're gettin' on my fuckin' tits." 

Lemon only rolls his eyes with a small chuckle and continues his discussion with Wayne. The jazz music continues, now hurting Tangerine's ears as his annoyance only seems to grow. 

He prays a drink will dull his incoming headache.

He flicks the burnt out cigarette into the trash can near the exit and walks to the bar. All the girls he crosses, the ones that aren't already entertaining some snobby dickhead, send him warm smiles. He returns them. 

"Whiskey. Neat," Tangerine says to Lennie, leaning against the bar.

"'Course, boss," Lennie nods, preparing his usual. 

Tangerine looks to the side, catching a glimpse of you a few tables over. You're perched on some older man's lap, your thighs straddling his hips. The man's hands wander from your waist upwards as he whispers something into the shell of your ear, looking towards one of the multiple rooms.

Tangerine's expression sours as his head continues to throb. However, his heart slowly calms when you shake your head and push the man away from you, while still entertaining him. 

Lennie sets the whiskey next to Tangerine's hand and looks over. "Prick has been harassing her to go into one of the rooms all night," he says, his tone tense, "I told Trevor to keep an extra eye on him when he's around her. He'll intervene if things get handsy." 

Tangerine nods, turning to his drink. He knows Trevor has it handled in case things escalate and he knows you do too. You're no stranger to standing up for yourself, after all, he's seen you slap your fair share of men, but still his stomach twists. He'd rather you not deal with assholes like that. "Appreciate it," he says gruffly from behind his glass as he drinks his whiskey and the music continues to pound his ears.

He shuts his eyes a moment, enjoying the burning on his tongue as it grounds him. Only the sound of your voice shatters the momentary calm as his eyes snap open. 

* * *

"Don't touch me!" you shout, not afraid to raise your volume as you stand up from the man's lap. His hand stays firmly planted on your hips, the heat from his pudgy fingers making your stomach churn. He'd ripped the delicate lace of your top, the fabric now hanging onto your stomach and exposing more of the skin of your breast than was already shown. You're flustered as you try and push his hand away again. 

"Stop. I said no."

The man only grins, his yellowish teeth showing. "Whores can't say no," he snickers and your eyes round. You glance at the bodyguard, Trevor, who's already approaching because of your initial shout and the stranger stands, advancing on you. This time his hand clenches around your wrist, pulling you into his chest as he gropes your ass with his other hand.

Without hesitation, you swing your arm, hand balled into a fist, and hit him square in the jaw. The man gasps and drops his hold on you as blood trickles down his chin. Your ring had split the bastard's lip.

Your expression darkens and in anger, you swing your arm again, not entirely satisfied with the damage you'd caused, only to feel someone delicately hold their hand under your elbow and pull you into them. You tense, relaxing when you smell that familiar expensive cologne. 

"Shh, angel, you're okay," Your boss's voice is hoarse and low in your ear as he holds you close. The lounge has come to a halt, all members watching the scene now as Trevor grabs the man's arm, twisting it harshly behind his back. 

"What the fuck?! The slut hit me!" The man shouts as he fights against Trevor.

Your anger spikes again when you hear him call you that but Tangerine's hand on your cheek calms you. He turns your head away and his thumb is rough on your skin. When you look up you realize he isn't looking at you. He's looking at the man, his eyebrows scrunched in an emotion you can't quite read.

Swiftly, he presses a fluttering kiss to your hairline, almost imperceptible to others, before he walks over to the man. 

Trevor holds him still and you hold your breath, unsure what Tangerine is planning. 

"I'm the owner," Tangerine tells him calmly, looking down at the older man. He's hiding a smirk at how much blood you'd managed to draw from him. "What seems to be the issue?"

The man sniffs, spitting out some blood where you had nicked his lip towards you, "Your whores seem to think they have more authority than they should. I'd nip that in the bud if I were you," he hisses with such contempt you feel even more exposed than you already are.

Tangerine looks at you, his jaw clenching. "I see," he whispers, his blue eyes roaming your figure. He smiles at you and then turns and punches the man so hard in the nose that there is a loud crack. You gasp, covering your mouth as the room erupts into loud gasps. Tangerine stands still as Trevor keeps the man up, his broken nose is now gushing blood. 

Tangerine steps forward and fists his hand in the man's collar, keeping him up. His tone is even as he glares at him. "If I were you I'd think twice before touching one of my girls like that—or any girl for that matter."

His eyes narrow and then he chuckles darkly. His tone is mocking when he says, "Now, why don' ya get the fuck out of my establishment before I really lose my temper. Yeah? Good. Trevor, show this wanker out, would ya? Thanks."

Tangerine drops the man, not even looking at him as Trevor drags him out. The lounge is deadly silent now, everyone simply watching him. You're holding your breath, unsure what to do or say. 

"Show's over," Tangerine exclaims sternly. He turns to look at you but before he can, one of your friends shrieks and interrupts the moment. 

"Hon! Are you okay?" Anette runs up to you in her burgundy heels. Her Texan accent rolls off her tongue like honey and her long auburn hair falls over her shoulders. She's your favorite coworker, and one of your best friends, so you relax when her fingers gently pull up your torn top to cover you. It's ruined.

"Oh, darling," she whispers, knowing how it feels to receive too much attention from the customers here.

She hurries you backstage, ignoring the commotion around you both as she rubs your shoulders. You turn to Annette. "Did you see how hard he punched him?" you ask, your eyes wide. Annette nods, biting her cheek. 

"I did. The boss is good like that," she says as she sits you at your vanity, grabbing a sewing kit from her drawer to quickly fix your top. Annette begins to fix your top. She's clumsy with her movements.  You nod, staring at your shaken-up reflection; your hair is a mess and your previously picture-perfect appearance looks messy. Tangerine's cologne lingers on your skin your hairline tingles from where he'd kissed you and your stomach twists. 

He'd protected you. 

Suddenly, you hear a sharp knock on the dressing room door.

"Yeah?" Annette calls, removing the needle from her mouth as she continues to sew. You wince when she almost pricks your shoulder. 

"May I come in?"

You and Annette freeze at the voice behind the door and her green eyes widen. "It's the boss," she mouths. You nod, standing up and grabbing one your jumper and pulling it on. You don't have any more desire to be so exposed after what has happened. 

"Yeah," Annette says. There is a pause and then the door unclicks.

Once it opens, Tangerine stands in the doorway, arms crossed, and he looks a little awkward being outside the dressing room. He sees Annette and then you and his expression softens. "I'd like to offer to drive you home," he tells you, sounding completely serious and professional. "I understand you may be shaken up because of what happened and I don't want you to stay here in those circumstances. It wouldn't be right." 

You fiddle with the hem of the jumper, unsure if you should accept his offer. You don't feel like going out there again and dealing with more disgusting men, but you need the money. You don't speak, your gaze stuck on his as you contemplate your choices but Tangerine remains patient.

Annette, on the other hand, doesn't, so she pushes your shoulder, prompting an answer from you. You stumble forward and the words just fall from your lips.

"I'd like that, if you don't mind," you say, ignoring any nerves around him. Tangerine, while your boss, has always been kind to you. He's a real gentleman. 

Tangerine hums, very obviously suppressing a smirk while his eyes remain neutral. "I don't mind. I'll wait outside whilst you gather your things. No rush." You nod and he turns on his heels. Once he's shut the door, Annette squeals. 

"Oh my goodness," she says as you gather your belongings into your bag. You take your clothes, folding them over your arm. 

"What?" you whisper, hiding behind the curtain to change. Your cheeks feel warmer. 

"He has the hots for you!" Annette practically swoons, falling into the chair and drumming her nails on the vanity. You pull up your jeans, adjusting your jumper, and roll your eyes at her words. 

"Bullshit," you laugh, "he's just being nice." 

"He's taking time from his work to drive you home," Annette says, "C'mon, he totally does!"

You pin your hair up, shaking your head. You stuff the accessories of your skimpy costume into your bag and throw it over your shoulder. Slipping on your sneakers, you pull aside the curtains. Annette is smirking.

"Don't you have work to do?" You deadpan, crossing your arms. 

Annette raises her arms in surrender, standing up and pulling up her stockings. She pulls her skirt higher, exposing the sparkling garter hugging her upper thigh. She winks, walking over and kissing your cheek, pushing some loose strands of hair behind your ear.

"If you end up fucking the boss, I'll need all the details," she whispers and pulls away, holding up her hands, her palms touching, as she slowly drags them apart and grins. 

You push down her hands, embarrassed. "Stop it." 

"It's really a damn shame you can't see the way he looks at you when you aren't looking," she hums, adding one last tease, and then leaves the room through the back exit and into the lounge. 

You exit in the opposite direction, walking into the hall and then opening the heavy door to the outside. The cold night air is harsh on your skin and you startle when you see Tangerine leaning against the brick wall, blowing warm air from his nose as he exhales. 

"Ready?" he asks, his voice thick. 

You nod, clutching the strap of your bag tighter. You follow him through the parking lot in silence, hearing only the sound of your sneakers and his shoes on the pavement. "Thank you for doing this," you say, catching up to him. He slows his strides and looks over at you, his expression still unreadable.

"No need," he says and stuffs his hands in his trousers, "I'm sorry that man laid his hands on ya. Trevor or Wayne should have seen it and intervened sooner, otherwise what do I pay them for—" he pauses, shaking his head, "And I should have intervened sooner."

You shake your head. "It's really okay."

"No, it isn't," he says sternly and opens the passenger door to his car. It's an older vintage black car. It's in such pristine condition you're almost afraid to sit on the leather seat. Tangerine waits patiently as you buckle in and then he walks over to the driver's side. He turns to you, his sharp blue eyes looking into yours. Your breath catches in your throat. 

He's incredibly handsome, in a rather dangerous way. 

"It won't happen again, angel," he promises, the name rolling from his tongue. You remember when you'd first started working for him; he'd nicknamed you angel and then it just stuck. However, it always sounded different from his lips.

You nod, smiling at him a little as he puts the car in gear and drives onto the road. The radio plays as ambient music and you hum along, resting your chin on your palm as you look out the window. You only live twenty minutes away from the club, but that usually means an hour and a half of public transport so you're really grateful.

"Tangerine?" you suddenly pipe up, turning to him. His eyes are trained on the road. He hums. "Could I have more shifts?"

Tangerine's hands tighten around the steering wheel. "Why on earth would you want more shifts?" he asks roughly, not really thinking of anything more than that more shifts would mean more filthy men possibly trying to touch you. Hurt you.

Your voice is small when you explain, "Well, I do need the money. I'm trying to finish uni and it's expensive."

Guilt washes over him when he hears your reasoning. Of course. He pays you well, he knows this, he's a fair boss but there is only so much he can do and his business partner, Leo, isn't as generous. 

"Oh," he says, frowning. After a pause he says, "I'll see what I can do."

You nod, holding your hands together in your lap as your knees touch. You feel a little awkward and you add, "I'm sorry to ask—"

Tangerine's laugh interrupts you and he looks over for a moment, a smile curling his lips. "There's no need for that, I understand—and you can relax," he says and moves his hand as if to touch your knee, only ultimately deciding against it and resting it on the gear shift instead. "You have no reason to be nervous around me. In here, I'm not your boss," he pauses. 

You let out a breath, hiding a smile as you bite the inside of your cheek. You want to ask what that makes him if he's not your boss, but you don't.

You're unaware he wants to ask the same thing. 

Once he's parked in front of your apartment complex, Tangerine insists he walk you to your door. You turn to him, smiling. "Thanks for doing this," you say in a whisper, once again being captured by the intensity of his blue eyes. Your chest rises and your gaze dances across his features.

Your chest tightens and you act on instinct, the memories you've had with him over the years flashing in your mind; the small and yet significant conversations, the shared glances from across the room when you'd be dancing, the handwritten note on your birthday only you would receive, and of course the fleeting brushes of your hands—

Annette's previous words ring in your ears.

You kiss his cheek quickly, cheeks warm as you pull away. Tangerine looks surprised, his eyes widening as his cheek tingles. You've left a lipstick smudge and you panic, raising your thumb to wipe it away. You make a small squeak, only smearing the lipstick around and then you hurry into your apartment, closing the door behind you. 

You slam your back against your door, mouthing a scream into your hand. You curse yourself, unaware that just behind your door Tangerine is grinning like a lovesick fool, his fingers resting against the mark you'd left on him.

[justhereforsubsevika]

Part 2 to this.............sort of

this is so gross guys

panty sniffing (SHUSH OKAY), fleshlight grinding, caught sevika, needy sevika, oral fixation sevika, masochism, sadism (established relationship so implied consent!), scissoring, bigclit!sevika, orgasm denial, overstim, squirting........yupyup

... Sub sevika YIPPEE how long has it been since i wrote a proper sub sevi fic guys like 100 years?

THE DIALOGUE MAY BE A BIT CRINGE IM SORRY 😞☝️

Sevika was still needy even after being so humiliated in her meeting, her mouth aching to be filled, her pussy throbbing against her lacy thong. She was hating herself as she dug through the washing basket, trying to find the pair of panties she'd made you ruin the day before. Sevika was groaning as she sifted through the laundry, cheering when she found your messy panties. She looked around the room, as though there was a camera crew waiting at any moment to catch her in her pathetic state, surveying her surroundings to ensure her perverse nature was to be kept a strict secret.

"Fuck sake, seriously whats wrong with me," she murmured, snatching up the fleshlight from the floor, crawling onto the bed. Sevika sunk back into the blankets and pillows, taking time to suck on her fingers, fucking into her own mouth, pretending you were there with her. Her clothes were quickly discarded, leaving her in nothing but a black-lace garter that cut into her meaty thigh and a matching thong. "Mmph, fuck baby.." she grunted, wishing so desperately that you were the one pulling and pinching at her hardened nipples, that you were slapping her breasts, her pussy, for being so filthy.

She deeply inhaled against the crotch of your panties, eyes rolling back, mouth quivering. "Baby, if only you knew what you did to me," she groaned aloud, nuzzling her rounded nose into your mess and wriggling out of her own underwear.

Her tongue lolled against the fabric, Sevika moaning at your taste, pressing her hand flat against her face so she could inhale your scent deeper. She wrapped her lips around the material, sucking at your sticky panties, other hand guiding the fleshlight against her pussy.

She grinded against it, sliding her messy pussy against the ridges, biting down on your panties to muffle her moans. "F-fuck," she stammered, lapping at your underwear and whining desperately at your taste, your scent. Tensing her forearm, she wound her hips against the plastic pussy, focusing her grinding on her clit, crying out when she found a good spot to whine on.

She heard the door to the bedroom open swiftly and she shut her legs, pulling your panties out her mouth, trying to shove them under the pillow. It was too late. You'd seen them, the flashy pink unable to be hidden against the grey sheets. She bit her lip and blushed hard as you leant against the doorframe.

"My my. What do we have here?" You teased, watching her face flush even deeper, her legs trembling. Her garter wrapped tightly around her thigh, her panties carelessly pooled round her ankle, evidence of what she'd been up to coating the replica of your pussy that she clutched in her hand.

"Someone was feeling desperate, weren't they?" You say darkly. As you approach her, she turns her head away from you, bottom lip trapped between her teeth in a pathetic display of shame and embarrassment. You kiss her neck and she sighs, body relaxing as you trace your fingers over her nipples.

"Hurt me.." she groans, pushing her chest up toward you, spreading her legs to give you access to her needy cunt. You giggle at the invitation, harshly groping at her breast before firmly slapping it, making her groan and lurch forward. She grips the sheets either side of her, looking up at you, eyes pleading. Her muscles flex from her intense grip. You love seeing her like this: all muscle, all desperation.

You slap at her again, watching as her breast bounces from your firm hand, revelling in the choked moans she lets out, her eyes welling with tears. They prickle at her tearducts, blurring her vision. You give her another harsh grab, squeezing the skin surrounding her large nipples in your palms. She bucks her hips up, needing your attention on her pussy. You give it to her in the form of a hard spank. Her legs threaten to shut, spasming wildly, but she tenses them. Her whole body is in flex, every muscle fighting to keep herself still. You cant help but moan at the sight of her, as if she's carved from stone, every indent perfect, every muscle peppered with intricate scarring. She's beautiful.

"So desperate for me aren't you, Sevi?" You rasp, placing another slap directly over her entrance. Her mess strings from her pussy to your palm. She nods, looking at you puppy-dog eyed, lip still trapped between her teeth. "Need you so bad, got caught at work today," she admits. You make a mental note of that, because that's hot to you in your dom state but entirely concerning for your day-to-day. Either way, knowing your girl was so fucking needy that she'd endanger her job made your pussy drip.

"Oh yeah? What were you doing, princess?" You tease, taking off your clothes painfully slow, stopping routinely to slap her pussy, keeping her desperate.

"I..." she trails off, embarrassment warming her whole body. You pout at her, mocking her sudden shyness, like she's not all spread out for you, like her pussy isn't wetting the sheets below her.

"Tell me." The demand coaxes the admission out of her, and you laugh. You laugh breathlessly at how fucking pathetic she must've looked, tongue - fucking her toy out of sheer boredom, her slutty mouth so aching to be filled that she threw all caution to the wind. She cries a little now, feeling so humiliated. "Fuck are you crying for, princess?"

You slap her harshly across the face, grabbing her up and watching as her eyes become heavy lidded. She sinks deeper into her subspace, her pussy tingling from the pain you inflict upon her. "Feel so dirty," she chokes, your knee sliding between her legs. She instinctively grinds on it, eyes rolling back as tears stream down her cheeks. "You are though, aren't you?" You sit yourself between her legs, groaning at the feeling of your pussies against each other. "Filthy girl." You whisper it, watching as her face changes at the title. Her eyebrows clench together, her nostrils flare, her mouth hangs open, her eyes tightly shut.

You push your middle finger into her mouth, her lips tightening around you, tongue tracing your fingertip. She grips your wrist to keep you steady, pulling her mouth backwards and forwards as she worships your finger. "Need that mouth filled, huh baby?" you tease, Sevika nodding, little "mhm"s whining their way out of her mouth. You force another finger into her, further down her throat, Sevika's eyes fluttering back at the feeling of her mouth being so stuffed up. She bucks into you, whines her hips against yours.

Sevika is right on the edge, you can feel it, you can see it all over her face. Her pussys gushing out wetness against you, her fat clit pulsing intensely each time you rub against it. You know she's sensitive anyway, the sheer size of her clit making pleasure triple. You know she's close.

"Mm-mmph ah, hah, baby I'm gonna- I'm gonna cum, can i... Shit, baby, c-can I cum?"

You smile to yourself at her begging, knowing she's right there, knowing she couldn't hold it if she tried.

"No. You don't cum til i do." You hiss the words out as you rut your hips against her faster, her body straining to no avail.

Every vein in her body ripples through her skin, her teeth near-breaking, strained noises escaping her through fettered breath. She cums, tears again rolling down her face, chanting apologies as she bucks up against you. "Im sorry, sorry, FUCK-'M SORRY-" she screams it, her chest heaving, her muscles twitching and spasming as she still attempts to fight her body.

You cant help but groan at the sight of Sevika gripping the sheets beside her, her toes clawing at the bed to keep herself down. She moans uncontrollably, babbling cute little "im sorry"s. You slip much more easily against her, her large clit slipping in and out if your entrance as you roll your hips, practically fucking into you. "Oh, Sevi," you coo, forcing your fingers back down her throat. The sounds she makes are primal, her body acting on instinct. She's so pussy drunk, fucked dumb as you use her.

She gags on your fingers, saliva dripping down her chin. "Such a messy little b-bitch," you stammer, feeling your stomach tightening as you ride her. She bites lightly around your digits, throwing her head back. Sweat droplets gather along her clavicle, along her forehead, sticking her blunt hair to her skin.

"Mm, Sevi baby, gonna cum, cum on that pretty pussy, fuck," you sigh out, grabbing harshly at her breast to keep yourself up. She nods and squirms away from your fingers, mouth gapping and closing. Much to your dismay, you slow down to let her speak.

"C-cani-cu-cum," she stutters out the words, slurring, eyes squeezing open. Her pupils are so wide her eyes are practically black. You pout at her and regain your pace, Sevika mewling, covering up her face with her fist.

You tut, but your mind goes blank when she hits an angle where her clit is fucking into you, your clit rubbing over her rough hair. You're both as dumb as eachother as you cum simultaneously, your throats both closed up, the only sounds in the room the wet clapping of your bodies.

You climb off her when you hear her start to whine like a dog, rubbing at her swollen pussy with two fingers, opening your mouth and moaning when you sit your pussy over her ankle.

She squirts, screaming so loud you're offended none of the neighbours have turned up in concern.

Finally, you let her rest. You come up to cuddle into her side, watching her cautiously. Her chest heaves, eyes dropped shut, mouth open. Her sharp canines show through and you can't help but giggle at the fact she is the person who begs to cum, cries when she cums without permission. Its so sweet to see such a pretty butch come completely undone as soon as you sit your pussy on her.

You guys this is still not as good as the 3 paragraphs i lost, but I'll just have to accept that

[innerfare]

Gross - Law 

Summary: A short drabble in which Captain Law is down bad for a member of his crew who has a bad habit of chewing on pens.

Pairing: Trafalgar Law x Reader

Genre: Fluff

CW: SFW // None, just the tiniest bit suggestive

Word Count: 668

———

Law didn’t normally pay much attention to the pen he grabbed, but since you had joined the crew, he found himself searching for the ones you used. He could always tell which pens you had used because you had a horrible habit of chewing on the end when you were concentrating. 

When he found one, the end chewed up like an animal had gotten to it, he scrunched up his nose in disgust- not at the pen, but at himself. 

Had he really been reduced to this? 

He regretted asking you to join the crew, but the only thing worse than having you on his crew was not having you on his crew. The smell of your fruity shampoo, the sound of your laugh, the way you got so excited that you bounced a bit when you talked to him about the research you were conducting on bioluminescent algae in the Grand Line. Oh, and the fact that you sometimes touched him. 

He could count on one hand the number of times you had touched him. The first was the time you squeeze past him in the hall and placed your hand on his back as you did. The second was the time you sat next to each other at dinner and your legs were pressed together. The third was the time you asked him to hand you a microscope slide in the laboratory and your fingers brushed; sure, you’d been wearing rubber gloves, but it still counted. And when he reached under your shirt to get your heartbeat during checkups… well, he was harboring guilt over the thoughts that entered his mind when he was supposed to be administering medical care. 

And then there was your habit of chewing on writing implements. 

He gritted his teeth and stared down at the pen. The first time he’d used yours, it had been an accident. He’d been in the middle of taking some notes on a medical journal and looked down to find the end all chewed up. After that, he had been on a crusade to figure out which member of his crew had such a disgusting habit, but as soon as he discovered you were the one responsible, he had changed his tune. 

Standing there with the pen in his hand, he ran his thumb over the tip, imagining it was your lips, wondering what it would feel like to dip his thumb into your mouth.  

“Hey, Captain.” 

Law nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, dropping the pen on the floor with a clatter. His eyes widened a fraction of an inch when he saw you in the doorway. 

Your brows shot up when he dropped the pen. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” You entered the room and bent down in front of him to retrieve the pen. 

Law looked down at you and held his breath. When you slowly rose to your feet once more, looking up at him with those innocent doe eyes, he thought he might go into cardiac arrest. 

“I’ll buy you some new pens.” 

“Huh?” 

You blinked. “New pens. Since I ruined this one.” You looked sheepish. “It’s a bad habit, I know. I’m trying to stop, but…” 

“It’s… fine.” Law wracked his brain for something else to say, but the organ had short circuited as soon as you entered the room. And then he caught a whiff of your fruity shampoo. He tried to swallow the lump in his throat but to no avail. 

“Okay, we’ll…” You shifted from foot to foot and cleared your throat. “I’ll see you at dinner, I guess.” With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving Law alone with the scent of your shampoo. 

As soon as you were gone, he let out the longest sigh of his life. He pinched the bridge of his nose, a crease forming between his brows. “Gross,” he told himself, sickened by his perverse desire to grasp the pen you’d chewed on. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[dilftaroooo]

Being perverted strikes naturally within Gojo, so when the idea of being a step brother comes to mind during sex he can’t help but act upon the roleplay. You think he’s gross for it, but his questionable passion for it keeps you engaged (oddly enough).

☆word count: 6.3k+

★tags/tw(18+): dark content + stepc*st roleplay + foot f*tish + toe sucking (f!recieving) + dubcon (because reader is unsure at first) + reader is college-aged/gojo is 28 + squirting + age gap + vanilla sex + pubic hairs + scent kink + implied ass eating + hesitancy + reader is afab using she/her pronouns + mentioned latex kink + use of 'satoru-nii' + established relationship + gojo is a lil' mean + and sassy + lots of kissing + nipple play + creampie + getting caught having s*x + exploring kinks + praise kink + pet names + skull fucking + gag reflex + snot + we're talkin' 'big beefy whore with black compression shirt' gojo here + reader is a bit inexperienced + questions of certain kinks.

☆a/n: hey alexa, play 'poundtown by sexyy red' ayyye come suck a bitch's toooes. enjoy y'all, this shit nasty af.

You’re not a kink shamer.

You understand the sexual thrills of getting off to something that turns one on to the point of fulfilled ecstasy–weighted breaths and skin coated with a sheen of sweat from the unorthodox fantasies that provoke the human mind and manipulate the human body, keeping them bound to the shackles of pleasure as their perversion engulfs them whole. It feels beautiful–ethereal, dare you say, and you get that. Who wouldn’t want to feel blissfully satisfied just by mere thought alone? 

Now, exclusive of the deranged fetishes involving children, scat, or whatever fucked up shit out there that's befitting for a lowlife, you would say that you're a pretty open-minded individual. Always tolerating the naughty anecdotes told by your friends’ concerning their past hookups, distinctively remembering the giggles you all shared when reciting one of the stories from a particular friend that had them clad in a latex suit, lips decorated with ruby red, and three-inched heels coming into contact with the cheek of their previous partner as they squirmed in shameless arousal.

‘It was pathetic to see, but I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t get me going…’ And that mutuality between both parties is what makes it even more fun. They both get a kick out of something they enjoyed, so what’s to hate about it?

You’re not a kink shamer–not at all.

You and your boyfriend of a year and four months, Satoru Gojo, always carried the qualities of a couple depicted in unrealistic romance movies: the nuzzle of the nose that tickled your cheek before delving in for a peck, the surprise hugs he’d startle you with as you prepared an early morning breakfast, as well as the intertwined fingers while you both make your way to his favorite bakery (his kisses are even more sugared after scarfing down the kikufuku he’d order no more than a minute ago).

You always felt like the princess to his prince, stumbling over your gown to keep up with his hurried footsteps as you both venture through the gracious evergreen of a mythical forest. You have no time to remove the pastel violet and pink petals slotting themselves in your locks since your hand remains occupied with Satoru’s, moving exquisitely to the melodic song of the nightingales. It was a dream from a childhood storybook.

Moreover, what was revealed in public was, undoubtedly, the same in the comfort of your bedroom, living at your university’s on-campus apartment that you shared with two indifferent roommates. He would frequently stop by after work to spoil you with his affection. Always asking how your day was and whether or not you finished your assignments.

He was a tad bit older than you–twenty-eight and going, but you didn’t mind the age gap, it gives you all the more reason to tease him for his ‘old’ age, to which he responds with a pout and furrowed eyebrows, ‘Oh, how mean! Who would’ve ever thought that my darling angel could be such a devil…?!’ He’d say with faux anguish. He knows you’re only playing around–such the jokester.

Though, he couldn’t say the same for you in bed. Protected by the warmth of your sheets, you relished at how accustomed your body and soul were to his heartfelt transactions, vanilla-flavored sex, so sweet and tasteful on your tongue as he kissed you with want. Tongues twirling a sensual dance as your lips combine in rhythmic harmony. You also loved it when he coos in your ear, reminding you of how you’re so good to him before wrapping his lips around puffy areolas in a way that makes you writhe.

He’s so gentle with you. Handling a fine china cabinet with the utmost care, he makes sure he touches you in ways that wouldn’t break your fragile body. And when your nude skin presses against his as a result of his thrusts to your core, he reminds himself to get you moaning in his ear and get your hands gripping against the muscular curvature of his back.

It feels good. It always feels good. So, why does a part of you feel…bored?

The love is there, you won’t question that. When you come, you feel as though you’re one with the stars. And above all, he praises you. It’s nothing new, but in this context, you like to be his ‘pretty girl’ whenever the tip of his nose pushes against your wet clit. So, why do you feel like something is missing? You don’t know.

You haven’t been in many relationships. The last one you remember was in high school, dating a boy who only loved you out of teenage fever, and you shamefully admit that you reciprocated his confession. You were both young and unknowing of what the aspects of ‘love’ really meant. You never went past the boundary of hand-holding and cheek-kissing, so it remained stagnant until the moment you both broke up.

None of it was mutual, however. You can recall how distraught you were as you bawled in your mother’s arms, asking her what you did wrong while she soothed you with maternal pets to the crown of your head. That being said, it’s safe to say that you really don’t know what’s missing from you and your boyfriend’s intercourse–like, really.

But, thankfully, Satoru makes up for what you lack, telling you not to fret since he knows a lot and letting you know how much he’s been wanting to get to this point of intimacy with you–wanting to whisk his girlfriend away from the comfort zone that you’ve grown so attached to.

Satoru is without exception, enthusiastic to portray more during times of intercourse, yearning to teach you more than just the fluffy, domestic sex you both indulge in. It’s lovely and all, bleh bleh, whatever, Satoru gets it, but, man, what he wouldn’t do to see you on your knees, between his sinewy thighs parted for your form as he hovers above you, your head tilted upwards to take in his thick shaft through wet lips.

He’d make sure his red, throbbing tip hits the back of your throat so he can hear that sickening gag scurry out your mouth paired with the sloppy froth of your saliva slapping against his heavy balls with each quick thrust. He’d be too occupied to find the snot dribbling from your nose revolting because you’d be taking him in so deep.

That’s forever been his little fantasy–that amongst the vast amount of others. And to try each and every one of them with you would be a delight.

After you confessed to Satoru, you couldn’t help but notice how peculiar his ministrations started to get. It was gradual–starting with spanks on your ass to eating said ass. You’ll even bring up the time he used your feet to get off. It caught you off guard, you’d admit.

That day he had you pliable–on your knees with the left apple of your cheek flushed in the pillow beneath you and arms resting idly on your sides as you allowed your enthralled boyfriend to take the lead.

You assumed he was just gonna spit on your already-soaked pussy before massaging your puffy clit in the teasing, clockwise motions he likes to test you with, cock oozing with leakage before languidly gliding upwards to push in-between your cunt lips, but what you didn’t assume he’d do was trace his slimy precum against the soft skin of your toes to then rub his tip across your soles.

You tried to retract your feet away from him (toes wiggling in the process which had them accidentally graze across his balls. You could’ve sworn you heard him hiss) and protest his weird behavior but Satoru was already three steps ahead, firmly gripping both feet and nearly squishing them together if it wasn’t for the thick base of his cock preventing them from touching.

Each thrust he made ached with raw fervor and fuck him from being incapable of suppressing his passion because he couldn’t help but look down and see your cute pussy pucker and asshole twitch. What a sight for sore, cerulean eyes. Just as sore as your ass after he slapped it with an ever-so-firm hand, silently thanking his calluses for the rough impact.

He found it adorable how your shimmering entrance craved for insertion, winking rhythmically at him as though it’s saying, ‘Please fill me up, ‘toru! ‘M so lonely without you…’ (he chuckles to himself at the personification when done in a high-pitched tone).

But your pussy always gets his attention. You have another hole too, ya’ know–one that sits right above it, unused and virginal. Just imagine his excitement as he leans forward, cock still buried at the innermost part of your feet, to take a closer look. He’d smile at your coyness when you felt his hot breath blow on your skin, unsure of his next move.

In this new position, he can trace the faint smell of sweat emerging from you, and God, does that turn him on. More than it already does. So of course he had to steal a taste, trailing a fat strip of saliva against the rim, you squeal at the warm and wet feel of his tongue touching a place it had never been before,

“S-Satoru…what the fuck!” You jolted before moving from your position, migrating to any spot as long as it's far from your lover. You’ll never forget the sleazy look on Satoru’s face as both corners of his rosy lips tilt upwards for a cocky grin–yuck.

It grossed you the fuck out.

Not in a way that antagonizes your boyfriend, you love him too dearly to feel as such, but in a way that questions his morals. Why on earth would someone like Satoru want to be minimized to using the bottom of your soles for pleasure or savor the briny taste of sweat that builds up around the tight ring of your ass? I-I mean, you excrete from there, for God’s sake! That’s gross, especially in a place where the sun doesn’t shine.

You understand that he likes doing it, but why? How could something so perverse and dirty get him hard so quickly? Where’s his shame? His humiliation? His guilt? Were they not present whenever he sneaks a lick at your toes?

Perhaps you are trying to understand–who wouldn’t want to indulge in their lover’s feet, to caress the tough surface of their heels, and lead up their toes, to draw soft lines against them with plush lips as their medium before dipping them inside the wet cavern of their mouth and sucking the small digits before swirling their tongue and–ugh!–no! No, no, no, that’s sick! How can one do such a thing with ease? You can’t possibly imagine that.

But you’re not a kink shamer…right?

Your question remains unanswered, though, as you’re interrupted by Satoru’s moistened kisses trailing down the curve of your neck. You must’ve been in your daze for quite some time considering that the camisole top and loose shorts you lounge in took their positions on your bedroom floor. 

“Come back to me, baby.” You hear your boyfriend murmur and you deliberately oblige by running your digits through the white sea of his mane, wild and free as your fingers feather against his roots. He hums with love before leaving a kiss that's sloppier than the previous one. It starts with your usual routine, with soft and tenderhearted sex.

He pecks at your clavicle and you whimper in return as silvery lashes tickle the most sensitive areas of your skin. The passionate atmosphere continues to flow within the four walls of your room–containing your moans and your kisses and your touches, reverberating them in your heated figures while filling you both with distinct pleasure. It was good so far.

“Have any ideas in mind for tonight, sweetheart?” His voice is muffled as he joyfully sucks at the skin between the valley of your breasts, teeth clasping over the hot flesh to induce a mark darker than what your skin tone provides. You hold onto the fabric of his black shirt, soundlessly wondering why he is still garbed in unbreathable polyester while you remain bare save from your panties.

Lolling your head to the side in thought, you dwell on his question. Should you have something in mind? This isn’t the same as getting asked where to eat for dinner, per se. And owning to your inexperience with sex and fetishes, you’re incapable of bringing anything to the table in this sense.

You open your jaw, mouth filled with saliva due to the raunchy actions performed by your boyfriend onto your supple body, ready to speak your retort as you lick your chapped lips in preparation, but, Satoru knows you better than you know yourself.

“Yeah, I know you don’t,” It’s like he was born to study you. Your eyes travel to his person again, orbs resting upon Satoru’s scalp as you wait for him to finish. “Nothing in that gorgeous head of yours. It’s okay, though. I don’t blame you. I know an amateur like you wouldn’t have anything planned.” 

As might be expected, your brow raises at his comments slightly glazed with a patronizing drip, it’s gotten your attention, all right, as you turn your head to glare down at him. He’s sucking on your nipples this time and you forge a jerk but don’t falter, perked up by this newfound attitude from your loving partner.

“Oh?” You start and it carries the same uppity weight as his tone. “And I suppose you have it all figured out?”

He nods right after gazing up at you with arctic globes saturated with a heavy rush of sincerity and you can already feel the dreamy sigh materializing in your throat but never emerging. Satoru immediately sniffed out the indignance behind your words like a trained bloodhound. He rises from his spot upon your heaving chest to travel his way to the swoll of your chin, apologizing with a quaint kiss. 

“I do,” His smile is affectionate. “You know I always do, sunshine.” You gasp once something hard nudges against your squishy thighs before poking the outermost part of your panties.

“-Always think of something for that little cunt.” It isn’t long before it's cast to the side for clear access to your glimmering slit, doused in slick because your boyfriend had a remarkable way of handling you. He didn’t miss the embarrassed mewl of his name when he used filthy words.

He also didn’t miss the pull of air you took in as his thick finger swept up your bodily remnants, coating the fingertips of his middle and ring finger. You voluntarily buck your feeble hips in desire for him to push through your entrance but you know he wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. “You know, it gets me going when we do stuff like this when others aren’t around–when we do something so forbidden.” 

What–?

“Forbidden…?” Each syllable muddles your tongue as you ponder on its meaning: something that typically isn’t allowed or accepted–you’re not unaware, it’s a simple word, but is that the word he meant to say? “Why would it be forbidden? You’re my boyfriend, are you not?” Unless there’s something you’re unknowing of.

Perhaps he has a wife that he kept hidden in the shadows of his past. What if one wife turned into several wives? Maybe he’s a bloodthirsty murderer, ready to indulge in his next killing after getting you to trust his charming blue eyes and pink-liped smile. You don’t exactly know what the forbidden aspect of it all that he’s keeping from telling you-

You hear him ‘tsk’ and you assume it was meant to be taken seriously but it seems covered in mockery.

“Hah, Boyfriend? Have you no shame?” And he chuckles deep and grimy. “Don’t act like don’t know, dear.” You honestly don’t. “What would our parents think if they saw you, my sweet, little sister, grinding her greedy pussy against her older brother’s fingers?”

Oh.

Oh God.

Gritting your teeth for an evident cringe, you hurriedly toss your head to the side to break eye contact (how did he even manage to hold it for that long despite what he just said?!). There’s no way he’s doing this. Out of all kinks…

“For the love- Satoru. Stop, that’s fucking-” A sharp whine halts your sentence, stressed to the point of exaggeration. You don’t bother looking back up at him, already imagining his brows creasing with complaint at your disgusted remark.

“Ehh, what happened to ‘Satoru-nii’?” You almost would’ve forgotten the fingers sketching light circles on your sensitive button, going in for a pinch before tapping it aimlessly due to its slippery surface.

You clench your thighs together but Satoru’s heaping form prevents you from doing so. He’s a big mass of muscle reminiscent of a bull–broad shoulders along with thickened veins peeking through tough skin in the forms of streams, carrying the pulsing blood flow of adrenaline and transporting through each significant section of the body to energize his raging carnality.

“Are my fingers dwindling your vocabulary already? I just started using this pussy, sugar plum.”

A part of you wanted to believe he was joking–trolling like he usually does on literally every occasion. He knows how acquiescent you were in situations like these. So easily obedient to follow his golden rule when clinging to his hip, taking full advantage of your attributes to get you to do the perverted shit that spoiled his brain to corruption.

Of course, there’d be times when you’d retaliate, shouting out a brief ‘no’ before leaving the conversation unfinished, but it’s okay because he can butter you up to your good side. Use his words and his hands to do the convincing. Satoru has attributes of his own too.

But gazing into his eyes and seeing how aquatic blue dissolves into crimson red, only driven by lust, tells you he’s serious.

You look off to the side once more because staring at your nightstand is more soothing than staring at your deviant boyfriend. Out of all kinks, why this one?

“I don’t,” You close your eyes in an attempt to rid yourself free from his piercing glare. “I have no clue what you’re talking about.” You weren’t about to do this. You weren’t about to play into his wicked fantasies of being a relative of any sort. That doesn’t sound appealing at all.

“Don’t be like that, babe.” He mutters softly as if other people were in the room, prying with open ears to catch whatever dialogue is being transmitted between the two of you. A fingertip taunts at your sloppy entrance, just barely shoving past its tight grip. Sexual anticipation surged through your core at his ministration (his giggles at your hopelessness didn’t help you any). “You won’t know unless you try. Come on, do it for me?”

He’s too cute to refuse when your peripherals pick up his bottom lip raising upwards for a pout and feather-like lashes fluttering over glossy, blue orbs. Practically, begging you to follow through with this look alone–if only he wasn’t so handsome and used his charm against you in every way possible. God damn it-

“You’re sick, you know that?”

���Then you’re my antidote.”

You exhale in defeat since you unfortunately realize there’s no way out of this. Satoru’s too adamant to get you to play along with him, it’s insane. Turning your head to fully face him, which feels like the one-millionth time you’ve done so, you look him in the eye before aiming at the button of his nose, upturned and perky. Mentally getting ready to produce the God-forsaken words you are about to utter.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” You start and the way Satoru’s face lights up like a kid on Christmas irks you. 

You still feel mortification swirl in your skull like second nature. Your cheeks feel hot and it hurts–were you really about to do this?

Satoru was still teasing you to no end. Teasing that doubtlessly wet pussy with expertise. He was killing you by not giving you what you craved, only remaining on the surface as he waited for your verdict. Just one more push, one more shove and you’ll get there.

“And why is that?” He inquires.

Your bottom lip quivers with hesitation before an erotic groan escapes you. He’s so close to putting them inside. “Because you’re-” You pause to wait for a sliver of courage to finish your sentence. You’re not sure if you can-

“...I’m?” He continues.

You both catch on to the shaky breaths you’re letting out, two separate bodies feeling two separate emotions, one agitated and the other electrified.

“You’re my,” You tense but Satoru loosens. “-my b-brother.” He’s the Cheshire cat as of now. You wail once two fingers invade your thirsty hole, entering with a mushy squelch.

“And what is it that we’re doing, huh? What is it that we’re doing that would be so revolting to the public eye, hm? Tell me.” Can he stop pushing you already, for crying out loud?

“You fingering my, my,”

“You got it, keep going.”

“...fingering my p-pussy.”

Satoru cherishes your hesitance and rewards you, his obedient puppy. 

Digits curl upwards in search of that sensitive g-spot resting amongst your gushy insides. If applied enough pleasure, he’d be able to see how your back arches off your cotton sheets. Your mouth opens for a silent scream as the force of his fingers supports the buildup of liquid passion, pounding the area in addition to his palm rubbing your stiff clit the deeper he goes.

“There you go, my sweet girl, my gorgeous, little sister.” He fingers you harder and sucks at your erect nipples–when did they get so hard? As a matter of fact, when did your body feel so hot and needy? As though you’re deprived of something. 

Your boyfriend sucks at your tit before biting the small nub, grazing his teeth along sensitive skin for a chomp, causing your hands to fly to his head and grip the fur of his undercut, all while wincing in pain. He retracts his head with your nipple still in his mouth, giving it a stern tug like an elastic rubber band. You would have cursed him out if it wasn’t for the fingers still beating at your nether regions.

“Ah, S-Satoru!” He bites harder and you remember his request from earlier. “Satoru-nii.”

As if you hear a winner's buzzer, he hums in approval and releases before gorging his lips around the other one, gently guzzling it this time, skillfully whirling his wet appendage around the nub in combination with hungry sucks. He unloosens with an obnoxious, wet pop!

“M’so glad your mom married my dad. If it wasn’t for that, I wouldn’t be able to take care of my little sister’s pussy like how I’m doing now. Wouldn’t that be so sad?!” He inquires gleefully. “I’d be so miserable–jerking myself off to meaningless porn when I could be stuffing my big dick deep inside your aching cunt. Hearing you moan out how much you love your older brother for making you squirt your sticky juices all over me. You even got your hairs trimmed in the way you know I love.”

The sound of fabric grinding against fabric fills your ears as he maneuvers his head to reach down to your pelvis, stuffing his nose on top of the shortened pubes, his mouth hangs dangerously over your clitoris.

He takes in a deep breath like he’s smelling the fresh air of healthy trees and freshly cut grass, basking in your heady scent while feeling his cock go rigid in the plush of your mattress. 

Too aroused to feel embarrassed, you buck your hips so you can finally get his mouth on your itching button and he finally compels, switching between sucking in your clitoral hood and tonguing your labia. Satoru moves his fingers faster in hopes of provoking your climax. He knows your proximity by noting the way your thighs tremble and toes spread across your sheets.

You finally get to the stage you’ve been craving since the beginning of this session. Releasing your fluids onto your awaiting boyfriend, the grip at the nape of his neck more powerful than before, you squeal a brief ‘Satoru-nii!’ as he proceeds to lap at your overstimulated pussy. He’s now sparkling with your juices. Satoru sits up on his knees after wrapping his buff arm around the width of your shoulders to hoist you up and get you closer to his thighs, your figure remains seated as you process what he wants you to do–he wants you to suck him off.

So you lean your sweat-stained face over his clothed member and unwrap it like a Christmas present you’d save for last because it's so big. His cock springs up rudely and smacks at his now naked abdomen (when did he take off his shirt?) with a loud clap. His abs are so detailed and his pecks puff out in pride while he looks down on you, like his little servant.

He controls the length of his cock with a stern hand and traces ivory white lipstick over the plump of your mouth, a hazy web of precum connecting to your upper lip.

“Wrap those beautiful lips over my cock, darling angel. You know it makes me happy to see you stuffed full with my dick, no matter the hole.” He cheeses when he hears a quick scoff come out of you.

You listen anyhow, swallowing the tip of your big brother’s rod, hallowing your cheeks like a skeleton to circling your tongue around its rosy circumference. You feel your remaining cum dribble onto your bed when you hear him make a guttural moan from above. Clenching his ass cheeks as fingers place themselves on top of your head like an armrest, laying idly as of now.

“Oh shit, baby, yeah, just like that. Keep sucking me off juuust like that.” He bucks his hips impatiently once you decide to devour him up to the mid-base, continuing the actions of sucking in your cheeks to tighten around his cock. “Fuck!” He mewls before chuckling humorlessly.

He stares down and you look up. Your eyelids roll back til they’re just below your brow ridge to catch sight of azure undertones. You were just about to wonder why he was tittering until pressure made its way to both sides of your head. When his pearly white smirk twinkled under dim lighting, that's when you knew-

“Hmphh,” The noise was pitiful when subdued by the heavy weight of Satoru’s cock.

“Hold still, pretty girl.” He coos before pushing his hips back and applying the same manner to your head as he controlled you effortlessly and then thrusting forward and forcing your head to do the same. His balls slap on impact with your chin when he buries himself deep into the hot cavern of your throat, you have your nostrils planted on the silvery wisps of his pubes, reeking of potent masculinity. He leaves you in that position, powerless as he ignores the smacks to his meaty thighs.

“Hold it,” He warns. His voice is pitched below the Earth’s surface. “Gotta teach you how to please big bro properly.” You fight hard as his tip keeps irritating the thing that hangs at the back of your throat, trying to oppose your body from naturally activating your gag reflex but it ends up being fruitless. Your throat convulses as it bulges with his cock print and you cough out an ugly sound. Your vision blurs once you feel your eyes start to water up. You want him to move back already!

“Good.” It’s like he heard your thoughts because he finally retracts from his perfect spot lodged in your gullet. His swollen tip tickles the surface of your lips as you gasp several breaths of air. Just what was he thinking? You could’ve puked!

“What the hell was- mmph!” Halted by another intrusion of his cock burying itself in the pits of your throat, you muffle out a sound of surprise. You couldn’t believe it.

Satoru starts, “Less talking from you, sunshine. I wanna hear you slobber on my dick. Think you can do that for me?” He quickens up the pace of his thrust, going at the speed of someone walking. You gag disgustingly at each thrust and you can feel snot starting to leisurely slip from your nose (just what he wanted to see).

“That’s a messy girl, my messy sister. Got you, hah, so worked up you even got snot dripping from your nose and your spit running down my balls. Oh, you don’t know how much I longed for this.” He resumes his praises and tips back his head for a howl, feeling himself approaching his end as he hears you glurg, glurg, glurg on his veiny member.

“Oh shit, shiiit…!” Suddenly, you’re abruptly pushed off of him, freeing your esophagus from the restraint. Your back lands on the bed with a thud, your landing protected by your doughy comforter. Satoru stands motionless as he recovers from edging himself to oblivion. Biting his lip, his cock twitches up and down before it gradually remains unmoving.

You don’t even remember it happening, but you’re already restricted underneath Satoru’s panting body, thighs folded backward for a mating press, squeezing your squishy tits together, and feet perched on top of his shoulders. He takes his infamous spot between your legs, his overworked hands, decorated in calluses and scars, cuff around the underside of your knees.

He gifts you a heated kiss on your lips. “‘Toru-nii-” You say while struggling to keep up with his tongue. He breaks away from you and the string of saliva snaps into two.

“I hear you, baby, want me inside you already, I know, hear you loud ‘n’ clear.” His tip finds your entrance and it's sopping wet tenfold. He’s never seen you so needy in his life. He pushes in slowly and smoothly. Relishing your moans as he delves within you inch by inch, his thick cock stretching you out deliciously. You squirm in lascivious desire each time he enters you.

“I know, sugar, I know…” He soothes you upon hearing your sobs go up an octave. His head rests at the empty spot next to your neck and his hair tickles the crevice. “Almost there.”

As soon as he sinks deep in your warm cunt, he pecks your cheek with a softness that resembles duck feathers in a pillow before plummeting into you. A pornographic squelch resounds through your room.

“Hnn, T-Toru-nii is, so deep, ah, in my pussy!” You yelp. He’s so glad you’re still following his gross footsteps. So dazed by his cock hitting every ridge nestled within you.

“Yes, that’s right, little sis. And you’re gonna be a good girl and take it for me, right?”

You give a nod, “Yes, I will. I always will. Just f-for you.”

“Mmm, that’s right. That’s what I like to hear.” 

He inclines his torso backward, finding his attention on the feet placed at each side of his shoulders, more specifically, the one to his left as he grabs your ankle with ease, stroking the bone and putting your pedicured toe between wanting lips, your french tips hitting the roof of his mouth while lapping at your salty skin.

His pelvis hammers into you at a steady rate in combination with the gushes emerging from both sexes, it's so damn loud, you’re quite sure your Resident Assistant will come banging at your door frantically, telling you to lower it down because of the noise complaints that lead to your room.

You giggle, not just at the thought but at how much it tickles to feel Satoru’s tongue swirl around each toe.

“Satoru, that tickles.” You quip and the aforementioned man stares at you with knowing lids, purposely tasting your soles which have you trying to take your foot away, but the position you’re in makes it impossible.  

You feel as though hours go by as your older brother pushes on with fucking you silly and having a makeout session with your foot. His v-line collides with your poor pussy on every steady beat and you can’t help but let your earlier accusations fall from your mind like slippery soap.

The revulsion, the distaste, the discomfort–all of which were confined in a silk-woven case, trapped and compacted hitherto its evolution of approval. Although tentativeness plagues its cycle, the result remains beauteous as a cherry red butterfly protrudes through the rotten surface of the cocoon. The successful escapee finally swarms the sky with a setting sun.

It feels good. You feel good. Your pussy feels good as your step brother pounds it with intent–with purpose. You wiggle like a fearful worm ready to be eaten once the need to release creeps up slowly.

“My little sister always manages to feel so good. This pussy is just gripping me so fucking tightly and-” He stops abruptly and so do your moans as you hear your front door creak open.

The sound of jiggling keys and the chaotic trembling of plastic bags alert both your ears as you hear the door slam shut accompanied by a relieved sigh. You glance at the digital clock on your nightstand–‘10:35 PM’. One of your roommates is back from work. Coming home to rest easy from their enervating shift, she wants nothing more than to take a scalding hot shower, laze in her bed, and listen to nothing but silence as she drifts off to sleep.

But before those temptations come into play, she first wants to check up on you to see if you’re still in your room. Walking up sluggishly to your door, she raises a hand to prepare a few knocks while you and Satoru both stare wide-eyed at the shadow that occupies the crevice beneath your bedroom door–still like Michelangelo's statues.

“Hey, (Name), you in there?” The pause is long as you look up to Satoru and see his gaping mouth transform into a smirk before turning your attention to the door.

“Uh, yeah, I’m here. What’s up?” You ask, slightly hoping that your answer will satisfy her queries on your safety before retreating to her room.

“After work, I took a quick trip to the store for some wings and frozen pizza if you’d like some. Even got honey-barbeque-” You smile at her gentle antics. She remembered your favorite flavor.

“Oh, thanks, I really appreciate th-oh!” You’re stopped once Satoru resumes pounding your sloppy pussy. You cover your mouth in an attempt to conceal your yap but a strong hand grabs both wrists to cuff them above your head.

“Keep talkin', sis. Can’t leave mom pondering, now can we?” He whispered with precaution. That devious little-

“H-Hey? Are you okay?” The squishy slaps of both Satoru’s precum and your wet fluids compose a cacophonic symphony. Shit, if he keeps going, you’ll- 

“Yeah, m-mhm. I-I’m, fuuuck, fine.” Satoru grins maniacally above you his hot breath pasts your cheek and into your ear. The tip of his cock abuses your cervix as he compacts you tightly under giant muscle, arms littered with bulging purple and blue veins as he keeps you steady. His pubes tickle your clit whenever his hips kissed yours. Both breaths were getting heavy.

“Are you sure, you sound…sick.” Her words were laced with worry as she stood there, unmoving. “Do you need for me to come in?”

Satoru finds her naivety hilarious but decides it's time to break the barrier. He does so by raising his hips to an exaggerated extent before hammering back into you, the sound much louder than before as clapping fills the atmosphere. He guarantees your roommate will pick it up. Which she does.

“Wait, are you-” She gasps when she hears your sobbing moans echo in her ears. “Oh my God.” You’re too fucked stupid to give a reply when she blurts out an embarrassed ‘sorry!’ before taking hurried footsteps away from your door.

“Guess we scared her off, huh?” Knowing damn well he was the one who only made the effort to let your roommate know you were being pounded to oblivion. “Think she’s gonna tell everyone about this? Tell everyone how her son and daughter ruin the family name because we were caught fucking each other in your room?” He’s quick to pick up in your roleplay.

“Hnngh, I don’t know, ‘Toru.”

“I’m quite sure she will. What do you say, sweet girl, how about we both give a real reason to soil the family name and let me come in this pussy?” His thrusts start to stutter with each filthy word–cream drips from your cunt and down to the tight rim of your ass. Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you groan quietly.

“Answer me now, sweetheart, or Satoru-nii is gonna-”

“Yes, Satoru, fuck. Please come inside me, please, ‘don’t care about anyone in this family but you! Come inside me, Satoru-nii!”

With that being said, he fulfills your wish by giving you one, big thrust and stilling his cock deep in his little sister’s pussy to pump his hot seed in increments. Whimpering loudly as he does so. His face contorts in the cutest grimace that you wish you could smooch. You heavily breathe in unison until he pulls out of you (fingering his remaining cum back into your fluttering hole).

He kisses your cheek, then your forehead, and lastly your lips before saying, “You did so well for me.”

And it’s after this session that have you thinking–‘perhaps you do get it’.