The darkness in my room is a physical thing, a heavy, velvet blanket that smothers the faint light trying to bleed in from the street. It’s the hour before the dawn, the deepest point of the night when the world holds its breath, waiting for the sun to remind it how to exist. My own breath is slow, even, a steady rhythm that matches the lazy thump of my heart against my ribs. I’m floating, adrift in that vast, weightless ocean between deep sleep and the sharp-edged shore of waking. It’s a place I know well, a liminal space where thoughts are just shapes without form, where memories bleed into fantasies, and the line between what is and what could be dissolves like sugar in hot water.

And then… there’s something else.

A warmth. Not the familiar, trapped heat of my own body under the sheets, but something different. Something specific. A focused point of heat that’s blooming low on my belly, spreading out in slow, lazy circles like a drop of ink in water. It’s pleasant. Comforting. I sink deeper into it, letting it pull me under, my mind content to label it as just another phantom sensation of a dream half-remembered. A trick of the sleeping mind.

But it doesn’t stop. The warmth intensifies, becoming a wet heat that makes my own breath get trapped in my throat. It’s a feeling I know, one my body recognizes with an instinctual clarity long before my sluggish brain can put a name to it. A mouth. There’s a mouth on me.

My body reacts before my conscious mind does. A slow, deep throb starts in my groin, a heavy, languid pulse of blood that thickens me, makes me heavy against my own thigh. The sensation is so vivid, so real, it’s jarring. Dreams are usually hazy things, built of muted colors and muffled sounds. This… this is high-definition. This is Technicolor and surround sound. I can feel the texture of a tongue, soft and slick, tracing the sensitive skin just below my navel. I can feel the soft puff of breath against my skin, a warm, moist exhalation that raises goosebumps across my stomach and chest.

My eyes remain closed, sealed shut by the weight of sleep and the sheer, overwhelming pleasure of what’s happening. I try to grasp it, to analyze it, to pull it apart and see how it’s made. Is this a dream? It has to be. Shai’s not here. She’s next door, probably tangled in her own sheets, maybe even dreaming herself. The thought of her, of her mouth, of her hands, sends another jolt through me, and the wet heat on my skin seems to respond, growing bolder, more insistent.

The tongue moves lower, tracing a slow, deliberate path through the trail of hair that leads down from my navel. Every flick, every swirl, is a question my body is answering without my permission. My muscles tighten, my abs contracting as the pleasure coils tighter, hotter, in my belly. My hands, which were lying slack at my sides, clench into fists, the sheets twisting in my grip. I’m fighting it, trying to hold onto the floaty, peaceful oblivion of sleep, but my body is betraying me. It’s waking up, piece by piece, drawn into the light by the most insistent siren call I’ve ever known.

The scent hits me then, cutting through the haze of my own sleepy musk. It’s faint at first, a whisper on the air, but it’s there. Something floral. Lavende, maybe, but richer, deeper. It’s the scent of Shai’s shampoo, the one that smells like night-blooming flowers and summer rain. It clings to her hair, her skin, her clothes. It’s a scent I’ve memorized, a scent I’ve inhaled from the borrowed t-shirt she left on my patio chair once, a scent I’ve caught on the breeze when she’s working in her yard.

Now, it’s here. In my room. In my bed.

My heart kicks against my ribs, a frantic, heavy drumbeat that drowns out the slow, sensual rhythm of the mouth on my skin. This is more than a dream. This is a hallucination. A fever dream born of too many nights watching her, too many days wanting her, too many hours spent imagining what this would feel like. My mind is playing tricks on me, pulling from my deepest, most guarded desires to create this perfect, torturous fantasy.

The mouth moves lower still, bypassing the waistband of my briefs to press hot, open-mouthed kisses against the hard, straining length of me trapped beneath the thin cotton. A soft, breathy moan vibrates against me, a sound that’s so uniquely Shai it makes my whole body tense. It’s a small sound, a quiet thing, but it’s the key that unlocks the last of my resistance. The illusion shatters. The dream dissolves.

And the reality, whatever it is, becomes terrifyingly, thrillingly real.

My eyes flutter open, but the room is still dark, the pre-dawn gloom making it hard to see. I can make out the shape of my dresser, the darker rectangle of my closet door, the faint glow of the streetlamp through my blinds. And between my legs, a shape. A silhouette. A head of dark, tightly coiled hair, a vision I’ve had a thousand times in my mind, but never, ever thought I’d see in reality.

My breath catches in my throat, a sharp, painful gasp. I should say something. I should move. I should do something to confirm whether this is real or if I’m finally losing my mind. But I can’t. I’m paralyzed, caught between the impossible beauty of the moment and the sheer, mind-bending terror of it all.

The mouth moves again, lips pressing against the damp fabric of my briefs, right over the head of my dick. The heat is unbearable, the pressure exquisite. My hips jerk, a small, involuntary movement that I can’t control. A low moan escapes through my clenched teeth as I bite my lip, a mix of pleasure and disbelief.

Is this real?

The question echoes in the sudden, roaring silence of my mind. I reach down, my hand moving slowly, as if through water, my fingers trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation. I have to know. I have to touch her, to feel the solid, real weight of her, to confirm that she’s actually here, that this isn’t just the most vivid, most cruel dream my mind has ever conjured.

My fingers brush against the soft, thick texture of her hair, and my heart beats faster, harder. It’s real. She’s real. And she’s here. In my bed. With her mouth on me.

The pleasure builds, a slow, relentless tide that’s pulling me under, drowning me in sensation. My mind is a chaotic mess of questions, of confusion, of a disbelief so profound it’s almost painful. How did she get in? Why is she here? But none of it matters. Not right now. All that matters is the feel of her, the scent of her, the sound of her soft moans as she continues to worship me with a devotion that’s both humbling and electrifying.

I’m no longer drifting. I’m no longer floating. I’m anchored. I’m present. And I’m at her mercy.

My fingers are still tangled in the soft, dense coils of her hair, the reality of her presence a solid, grounding weight against the phantom landscape of my dream. The pre-dawn light is starting to win its war against the darkness, bleeding a soft, hazy grey into the room. It’s just enough to see, just enough to turn the silhouette between my legs into a person. A woman. Shai.

I can see the gentle curve of her back as she’s bent over between my legs, the smooth, deep-brown expanse of her shoulders, and the way her head is bowed in a posture of pure reverence. She’s not just a shape anymore. She’s flesh and blood, warm and real, and the sight of her there, in my bed, doing what she’s doing, sends lightning straight through my chest. It’s possessiveness, a caveman urge to grab her, to flip her over, to sink into her so deep that the only name she remembers is mine, and only mine. It’s pride, a fierce, swelling heat in my gut that she chose this. Chose me. It’s a desire so sharp, so potent, it feels like a physical blow.

She lifts her head slightly, her dark eyes finding mine in the dim light. There’s no fear in them, no hesitation. Just a deep, dark, hungry knowing. She sees me watching her, and she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even flinch. Instead, her hands move, her fingers hooking into the waistband of my briefs. The cotton is already damp with my own pre-cum and her saliva, a testament to the slow, patient torture she’s been inflicting on me.

Her movements are slow, deliberate. She’s not in a hurry. She’s savoring this, savoring me. She peels the fabric down, inch by agonizing inch, her knuckles brushing against my hips, her eyes never leaving mine. The cool air of the room hits my skin first, a fleeting contrast to the inferno of her mouth. And then I’m free.

My dick springs up, missing her face by inches. It’s a thick, heavy thing, a deep, dark chocolate that stands straight up, a rigid, demanding spear of flesh that’s straining toward the ceiling, toward her. The head is already leaking, a single, clear bead of fluid welling up at the slit before trickling slowly down the shaft.

Shai lets out a soft, breathy sound, a little hum of appreciation that’s almost a moan. It’s a sound of want, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard. She looks at my dick like it’s a masterpiece, like it’s the answer to a prayer she didn’t even know she was praying. Her eyes trace the length of me, from the thick, pulsing root to the weeping head, her gaze filled with a mixture of awe and hunger that makes my whole body ache.

And then she touches me.

Not with her mouth. With her hand. Her fingers are soft, her touch light, almost tentative. She wraps them around the base of me, her thumb and forefinger barely meeting. She can’t get her whole hand around me, and the sight of her small hand struggling to encompass my girth sends another surge of pride through me. She holds me like I’m something precious, something holy; her touch is the opposite of what I'm feeling to the raw, animalistic need coursing through my veins.

She strokes me once, a slow, tight pull from base to tip, her thumb smearing the pre-cum around the head, spreading the slickness. A moan slips past my lips, my hips jerking upward, seeking more of her touch, more of her.

“Shit, Shai,” I grind out, my voice a low, rough growl that’s barely recognizable as my own.

She doesn’t answer. She just leans in, her dark, curly hair falling forward to curtain her face, creating a small, intimate space just for us. I feel the hot puff of her breath against my sensitive head, a teasing promise of what’s to come. And then her tongue is on me.

It’s a soft, wet flick, a quick, teasing taste that makes my whole body tense. She’s swirling it around the head, tracing the ridge, dipping into the slit to lap up the fluid there. The sensation is exquisite, a sharp, intense pleasure that’s almost too much to bear. My hands tighten in her hair, my fingers digging into her scalp, holding her in place, a silent, desperate plea for more.

She takes her time, exploring me with a methodical, obsessive attention that’s both maddening and incredible. She’s learning me, memorizing every ridge, every vein, every sensitive spot that makes me gasp and curse under my breath. She kisses her way down the shaft, her lips soft and wet, her tongue tracing the thick, pulsing vein that runs along the underside. She’s worshiping me, and I’m letting her. I’m letting her take control, letting her set the pace, letting her do whatever the fuck she wants to me.

And I’ve never felt more powerful in my life.

The decision to just let go, to stop questioning and just feel, is a liberating one. My hips begin to move, a slow, subtle rocking motion that pushes me deeper into her mouth, that meets her halfway. My hands are no longer just tangled in her hair; they’re guiding her, directing her, showing her what I want, what I need.

I can feel the shift in her, the way her body responds to my taking control. She moans around me, the vibration a deep, resonant hum that travels straight up my spine and makes my balls draw up tight. She takes me deeper then, her lips stretching wide to accommodate my girth, her tongue working me with a renewed urgency. She’s not just exploring anymore. She’s devouring.

The pleasure is building and building, a relentless force that’s threatening to pull me under. I can feel the strain in my stomach, the heat spreading through my veins, the familiar, delicious ache that signals my own impending release. I’m close. So fucking close.

But I don’t want it to end. Not yet. I want to stay in this moment forever, in this hazy, grey world where the only thing that matters is the feel of her mouth on me, the taste of her on my tongue, the sound of her name on my lips.

“Look at me,” I command, my voice a low, dominant growl.

She lifts her head, her eyes dark and dazed, her lips swollen and slick with my cum. She looks so beautiful.

“Who does this dick belong to?” I ask, the words a rough, possessive rumble.

She blinks, a slow, lazy smile spreading across her face. “Me,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath that’s music to my ears. “It belongs to me.”

And then she goes back down, taking me deeper than before, her mouth a hot, wet, perfect heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. And I let her. I let her do it all.

The world narrows to the space between my thighs. The grey light of dawn, the familiar shapes of my room, the lingering scent of her shampoo, it all fades into a distant, irrelevant hum. There is only this. Only the wet, perfect heat of her mouth, the sight of her dark head bobbing in my lap, the feeling of her hands and tongue working in a perfect, devastating harmony.

She takes me deeper, her lips a tight, slick seal around my shaft, her tongue a flat, wet pressure against the sensitive underside. I watch, mesmerized, as she slowly, deliberately swallows me down. There’s no hesitation, no gag reflex, just a slow, steady descent that feels like it’s pulling my soul out through my dick. When her nose finally brushes against the skin of my pelvis when I’m buried so deep I can feel the tight, convulsive clench of her throat around me, my toes curl. It’s an involuntary reaction, a full-body spasm of pleasure that starts in my toes and shoots straight up my spine.

“Fuck,” I groan, the word a broken sound that’s ripped from my throat. “Shit, Shai… just like that.”

She doesn’t move for a moment, just holds me there, her throat working around me, her hands coming up to rest on my thighs. And then she does something that makes my eyes roll back in my head. She starts to massage my balls. Her touch is gentle, almost reverent, her fingers rolling the heavy, sensitive sac in a slow, rhythmic motion that’s in perfect sync with the tight, clenching pulses of her throat.

The dual sensation is almost too much. The wet, constricting heat of her throat, the soft, insistent pressure of her hands on my balls—it’s a one-two punch of pleasure that threatens to shatter me into a million pieces. My hips jerk upward, a desperate, instinctual thrust that pushes me even deeper, that seeks to merge with her, to disappear into her completely.

She pulls back then, a slow, torturous retreat that leaves me feeling empty, aching for her return. Her lips are swollen, slick with a mixture of her saliva and my pre-cum, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at my dick, at the thick, heavy length of it glistening in the dim light, and a slow, lazy smile spreads across her face.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” she whispers, her voice a husky, breathless rasp. “I could look at this dick all day.”

The praise, coming from her, hits me like a physical touch. It’s a validation, a confirmation of the desire I’ve been trying so hard to keep in check. It’s a surrender, a willing admission of the power I hold over her, even as she’s the one on her knees.

“You’re the one who’s beautiful,” I manage to say, my voice a low, gravelly rumble. “Look at you. On your knees for me. Taking this dick like it was made for you.”

She moans, a low, throaty sound that’s pure music. “It was,” she says, her eyes locking with mine. “It was made for me.”

And then she goes back down.

This time, it’s slower. More deliberate. The wet sounds of her mouth fill the room, a slick, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick that’s the only sound that matters. It’s a nasty, beautiful sound, a testament to her skill, to her desire, to the raw, primal nature of what we’re doing. I can feel the saliva dripping down my shaft, pooling on my balls, a messy, decadent reminder of her hunger.

“You like that?” she asks, pulling off just long enough to whisper the words against my sensitive head. “You like the way I suck your dick?”

“Fuck yes,” I growl, my hands tightening in her hair, my hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that meets her halfway. “You suck it like you love it.”

“I do,” she breathes, her tongue flicking out to lap at the slit, to taste the fluid that’s still leaking from me. “I love the way you taste. I love the way you feel in my mouth. I love the way you look at me when I’m on my knees for you.”

Her words are a dirty, delicious litany, a string of praises that stokes the fire in my soul, that makes the pleasure hotter. She’s giving as good as she’s getting, her words a mirror to my own, a shared language of desire and need.

“You take it so good,” I praise, my voice a low, dominant growl. “Such a good girl, taking all this dick. Look at you.”

She moans around me, the vibration a deep, resonant hum that travels straight up my body. She takes me deep again, her lips stretched wide around my girth, her throat constricting around me in a way that makes my whole body tense. And again, my toes curl. It’s a reflex, a physical manifestation of the pleasure that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

She notices, of course. She notices everything. She pulls back, a slow, teasing retreat, and looks up at me, her eyes dark and knowing.

“You like that, don’t you?” she whispers, her hand stroking my slick, wet shaft. “You like it when I take it all the way down.”

“Yes,” I breathe, my voice a ragged, desperate gasp.

“Good,” she says, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.

And then she goes back down, taking me all the way to the root in one slow, smooth motion.

I’m close. So fucking close. My body is preparing for release, my muscles tightening, my breath catching in my throat. But I don’t want it to end. Not yet. I want to stay in this moment forever.

“Not yet,” I manage to say, my voice a low, guttural command. “Slow down, baby. Not yet.”

She pulls back, her lips swollen and slick, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at me, a question in her eyes, a silent plea for permission.

“I wanna make you cum,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath. “I wanna taste you.”

“Not yet,” I repeat, my voice a low, dominant growl. “I’m not done with you yet. I’m not done with this mouth.”

She smiles, a slow, lazy, understanding smile. She knows what I want. She knows what I need. And she’s more than happy to give it to me.

She goes back down, her movements slow, her mouth a hot, wet heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. And let her worship me. I let her praise me. I let her take control.

Something in me snaps. It’s not a violent break, but a clean, decisive snap, like a wire finally giving way under too much tension. The slow, reverent worship, the shared praises, the gentle exploration, it’s all been a prelude. A beautiful overture. But the main act is calling, and it’s not a gentle ballad. It’s a fucking symphony of need.

My hands, which have been resting in her hair, tighten, my fingers tangling in the thick, soft coils, gripping her scalp with a firm pressure. It’s not a warning. It’s a command. Her eyes flick up to mine, and in the dim light, I see a spark of understanding, of anticipation. She knows what’s coming. She’s been waiting for it.

“Enough of that slow shit,” I growl, my voice a low, gravelly rumble that’s pure command. “Time to take this dick like you mean it.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. The slow, deliberate rhythm of her mouth dissolves into a faster, filthier tempo. Her head bobs up and down, a frantic, desperate motion that’s all about speed and pressure. Her lips are a tight, slick seal, her tongue a frantic, swirling vortex of sensation. The wet sounds of her mouth change, too. The slow, rhythmic schlick-schlick-schlick is replaced by a messier, more urgent gawk-gawk-gawk, a nasty, beautiful symphony of her hunger.

My hips take on a life of their own, thrusting upward in a slow, powerful rhythm that meets her halfway. I’m not just letting her suck my dick anymore. I’m fucking her throat. Each upward thrust is a deliberate, powerful movement, a deep, penetrating stroke that pushes me deeper, that forces her to take more of me, to accommodate my size, to surrender to the raw power of my need.

“Look at you,” I grit out, my voice a rough, guttural praise that’s laced with filth. “Taking this dick like a fucking pro.”

She moans around me. She’s trying to talk, to respond, but her mouth is too full, too busy. The sounds she makes are a series of muffled, choked-off moans and whimpers, a desperate, incoherent sounds of pleasure that’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.

“Yeah, you like that, don’t you?” I continue, my words a string of dirty, explicit praises that are designed to push her, to break her, to make her mine. “You like it when I fuck this throat? When I use this mouth for my pleasure?”

She nods, her head bobbing up and down in a frantic, desperate motion that’s a clear, unequivocal yes. She’s taking it, all of it, and the sight of her, the feel of her, the sound of her, is almost enough to send me over the edge.

But I’m not done with her yet.

I tighten my grip on her hair, and I pull her head down, forcing her to take me deeper, to bury her nose in my pelvis, to feel the full, overwhelming weight of me. She gags, a soft, wet, choked sound that’s followed by a desperate, hungry moan.

“Fuck,” I groan, my hips bucking upward, a desperate, instinctual thrust that pushes me even deeper, that seeks to merge with her, to disappear into her completely. “Take it. Take all of it.”

She does. She takes it all, her lips stretched wide around my girth, her tongue stretched out of her mouth, her throat a tight, constricting heaven that’s determined to undo me, to own me, to make me hers. I’m fucking her throat now, my hips moving in a powerful, relentless rhythm, my hands holding her head in place, fucking her mouth the same way I fucked her in her backyard. Raw.

And through it all, I’m still worshiping her. I’m still adoring her. My praises are a constant, a steady stream of filth and affection that’s designed to build her up, to make her feel as powerful as she’s making me feel.

“Look at you, taking this dick so good,” I praise, my voice a low, dominant growl. “Such a good girl, letting me fuck this throat.”

She moans around me, an unequivocal response. She’s lost in it, lost in the pleasure, lost in the act. And I’m right there with her.

I slow my hips, my thrusts becoming less frantic, more deliberate. I’m still fucking her throat, but now it’s a slow, deep, powerful rhythm that’s designed to draw out the pleasure, to savor every moment, every sensation.

“Not yet,” I command, my voice a low, guttural growl. “Not yet, baby. I’m not done with you yet.”

She pulls back, her lips swollen and slick, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. She looks at me, a question in her eyes, a silent plea for permission.

“I wanna make you cum,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath. “I wanna taste you.”

“Soon,” I promised.

The word "soon" hangs in the air between us, a promise. I see it in her eyes, the flicker of anticipation, the hungry need to see me fall apart, to taste the evidence of her power. I’ve been holding back, teetering on the edge for what feels like an eternity, but the sight of her, so eager and willing, is the final push I need to let go.

“Alright, baby,” I breathe, my voice a low, rough growl that’s filled with resignation and anticipation. “You want it? You want this nut? Then take it. Take all of it.”

Her eyes light up, a dark, hungry fire burning in their depths. She doesn’t need any more encouragement. She dives back down, her mouth a hot, wet vortex of sensation that’s determined to pull me under, to drag me over the edge.

This is it. The moment of no return.

The pleasure that’s been building with heavy need finally snaps. It’s a violent, explosive release that rips through me with the force of a hurricane. My whole body tenses, my muscles locking up as I feel the power of my nut shoot through my body.

My back arches, a deep, painful curve that lifts my hips off the bed. My hands leave her hair and tighten around her head, holding her in place as I pour myself into her mouth. My hips buck, a series of powerful thrusts that push me deeper.

“Fuck! Fuck, Shai, I’m cumming!” I roar, the words a guttural, primal cry that’s ripped from my throat.

It’s a sound of surrender, a sound of release, a sound of a man who’s finally giving in to the overwhelming pleasure that’s been threatening to consume him.

She takes it all. Every last drop. Her mouth is a tight, slick seal around my dick, her throat a convulsing, swallowing heaven that milks me for all I’m worth. I can feel the hot, thick spurts of my cum pulsing out of me, a never-ending flood of release that’s both a relief and a revelation.

The taste of me is on her tongue. She swallows it all, her throat working in a series of convulsive swallows that leave me in awe.

The sound of my moans fills the room, a deep, resonant rumble that’s of release and relief. It’s the sound of a man who’s finally found home.

And then it’s over.

The pleasure subsides, leaving me a spent, shaking mess. My body goes limp, my muscles relaxing, my breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps. I collapse back against the bed, my eyes closed, my mind a blank, hazy void.

I feel her pull back, a slow, gentle retreat that leaves me feeling empty, aching for her touch. I feel her move, a soft, rustling sound that’s followed by the warmth of her body as she settles beside me.

I open my eyes, and she’s there. Her face is close to mine, her eyes dark and dazed with a pleasure that mirrors my own. Her lips are swollen and slick, her cheeks flushed with a rosy glow. She’s beautiful.

She leans in, her lips finding mine in a soft, gentle kiss. It’s a slow, tender exploration, a sharing of tastes, a mixing of essences. I can taste myself on her lips, a salty, bitter reminder of what we just did, of what we just shared.

“You’re amazing,” I whisper.

She smiles, a slow, lazy, understanding smile. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she whispers, her voice a soft, husky breath that’s music to my ears.

We lie there for a long time, a tangled, sweaty, sated mess, my body still humming with the aftermath of my release. The world outside my room slowly comes back into focus: the distant hum of traffic, the faint glow of the sun as it starts to rise, the soft, rhythmic sound of our breathing.

Not a slow, gentle drift back to reality, but a violent, sudden kick, like I’ve been shoved off a cliff in the middle of a deep, peaceful sleep. My eyes fly open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The world is a confusing, disorienting blur of grey light and familiar shadows. I’m in my bed. Alone.

The dream shatters like glass, the beautiful, perfect reality I was just existing in dissolving into a million sharp, painful pieces. Shai’s face, her mouth, her hands—they’re all gone. Vanished. The warmth of her body, the scent of her hair, the sound of her moans—they’re all just echoes, fading fast, leaving behind a cold, empty silence.

I’m breathing hard, my chest rising and falling with a frantic, desperate rhythm. My body is still humming with the aftermath of the orgasm, a lingering, phantom pleasure that’s both a comfort and a cruel tease. I can still feel her mouth on me, the wet, perfect heat of it, the tight, constricting pull of her throat. I can still feel her hands on me, the soft, insistent pressure of her fingers on my balls. I can still taste her on my lips, a faint, ghostly trace of her essence.

It was so real. So fucking real.

I reach down, my hand moving with a desperate, frantic urgency, a need to confirm the reality of the situation, to separate the dream from the truth. My fingers brush against the fabric of my briefs, and I feel it. The wetness.

It’s not the warm, wet heat of her mouth. It’s a cool, sticky dampness that’s seeping through the thin cotton of my boxers, a tell-tale sign of my own body’s betrayal. I came. In my sleep. From a dream.

The realization hits me like a sharp, painful punch to the gut. It wasn’t real. None of it was real. Shai wasn’t here. She didn’t sneak into my room. She didn’t worship me with her throat, didn’t praise me with her words, didn’t make me cum with a skill and a hunger that left me breathless and shaking.

It was all just a dream. A fantasy. A wish.

A wave of frustration washes over me, a hot, bitter tide of anger and disappointment that’s so intense it makes me want to scream. I want to punch something, to break something. I want to tear the world apart, to rip a hole in the fabric of reality and pull her through, to make my dream a reality, to make her mine.

But I can’t. I’m just a man, alone in his bed, with a sticky mess in his briefs and a hole in his heart.

I lie there for a long time, the frustration slowly giving way to a deep, aching longing. I want her. I want her so bad it hurts. I want to feel her skin against mine, to taste her lips, to hear her moan my name. I want to bury myself inside her again, to lose myself in her.

The dream was a taste, a tantalizing, torturous glimpse of what could be. And now that I’ve had it, I can’t go back. I can’t go back to just watching her from my side of the fence, to just nodding at her in the morning, to just exchanging brief, meaningless conversations over the fence. I can’t go back to pretending that I don’t want her, that I don’t need her, that I don’t dream about her every single night.

The decision is a slow, quiet resolution that settles deep in my soul. I’m going to make it happen. I’m going to make my dream a reality. I’m going to cross that fence again. I’m going to take what’s mine.

I sit up, the sticky, uncomfortable dampness of my briefs a constant, irritating reminder of my own powerlessness. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, my feet hitting the cool, hard wood of the floor. I’m done with this. Done with the longing, done with the frustration, done with the fantasies.

I’m going to have her again. And I’m going to have her soon.

You were in the middle of a dream. A handsome cop by the name of Kevin Atwater had taken you back to his lair and fucked you ten ways from Sunday. Kevin lit a fire under your skin, to the point that you never wanted to wake up.

A deep pull in your belly wrestled for attention. Oh, oh that felt good. You moaned and wasn't sure if that was in the dream or wakefulness. You did not want to wake up to your empty, cold bed with laundry calling your name and mugs in the sink.

Dream Kevin moaned and it echoed in your ears. What was going on? You roused from sleep reluctantly, suckling between your legs finally registering. You barely had time to open your eyes and see Kevin making out with your pussy with his eyes closed, like he was feasting in Valhalla.

At your movement, he glanced up and caught your eyes, giving you a wink before he returned his lips to your pussy. His tongue to your clit. Your hands flew to either side of you, gripping his sheets in a vice grip as an orgasm tore through you.

Surely, he wrangled every single one out of you by now. Surely, there couldn't be one more. But the man was too determined to keep going, moaning as fresh slick coated his beard. His wet hair slid across your thighs, dragging ragged giggles from you. The fog of the dream competed with each swipe of his tongue.

Kevin moaned, suckled, and devoured your pussy. You twitched with every slide, every lick. "Kev-plea-" you begged but it fell on deaf ears.

Tears pricked your eyes as your back bowed, your lungs burning from screaming through a potent orgasm. The type to make you question what defines life. Kevin brought you there effortlessly, endlessly. You came down with a keening whine while your body jerked and twisted.

Kevin's large hands held your thighs open, easily keeping his plate where he wanted it. "Good morning, gorgeous. See what you coulda had yesterday?"

He placed gentle kisses to your thighs, leaving giant wet spots against your skin. You shivered from the lewdness of it all. "I'm pretty sure I died," you murmured, sleep calling to you again.

Kevin chuckled, burying his nose in your pussy and taking a deep breath. His nose tickled your clit and you jerked away. You were too damn sensitive. Kevin took mercy on you, kissing up your body, leaving a trail of your essence all over your body.

This man was insane. Had to be. Was it possible to be addicted to cumming? Because as sensitive as you were, looking into Kevin's beautiful eyes and that sexy grin of his, you wanted to give him every single orgasm you possessed.

He stopped when he got to your titties, taking a moment to kiss each swell of your breasts. He teased one nipple between his teeth, the sharp tug responding with a twitch of your clit. You ran your hands over his body, kneading, pinching, and caressing. He was real. He was here. He was currently making you so damn horny, you were about to eat him alive.

He switched his attention to the other nipple, his hands coming up to pin you to the mattress. He smirked, returning to sucking on your nipples the same way he sucked on your clit.

"Kevin, please," you whispered. "Too much."

"Shh, I'm just saying hi to my girls. That's all," he said, flicking his tongue against your nipple.

Your teeth chattered and then he moved back to your left titty, teeth grazing your nipple. You arched but he settled his weight on top, careful not to crush you. "I want your whole weight on me," you said.

He smiled and dropped more of his weight on you. You sighed from the feeling of being crushed by him, his heavy body covering you and making you feel protected and safe. It was over for you. There was no more fight left in you. Why fight against this?

Who cared if was quick? Who cared if it was this intense? This connection had to mean something. It didn't happen by accident. You thanked your lucky stars to find a unicorn like him. Someone to match you in all the ways it mattered.

Kevin released your wrists and moved his kisses up, landing on your neck. You rubbed against him like a cat, moving your leg to trap him in place. You lived here now.

"You gon' let me go?" He nipped at your neck, making you hiss with pleasure and pain. You felt like you sucked on a live wire. Everywhere he touched was sensitive. Everywhere he didn't touch felt his phantom touch, like it was only a matter of time before he touched there too.

"Nope," you said, popping the 'P' and grinned at him.

"Good. I got plans for you," he said, finally bringing those sexy pink lips to yours. You tasted yourself on his lips, smelled yourself in his beard. It made your pussy clench painfully. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.

"Mhhm. How would you feel about getting some sun? I can drive you home, you can change, we can take a walk, get some breakfast, come back so I can do nasty things to ya," he said, ticking off each activity with a kiss to your lips. With everything he rattled off, it sounded heavenly.

"Oh yeah, I'ma need that. I keep a spare bag of clothes in my car," you said.

"Oh, you come prepared?" He grinned and kissed you, his kisses lazy and slow. Yep, you definitely lived here now.

"I stay ready so I ain't gotta get ready. I never know where I'll be or when I'll need spare clothes," you corrected, not wanting him to get a big head.

"Okay, if that makes you feel better," he said.

"Shut up!" You giggled. Kevin took that personally, as he started to hunt for ticklish spots. You giggled and slapped his hands away, screaming for mercy. When you sobered, you snuggled further into him, feeling all dainty and cute in his huge presence.

"Then let's get a move on, beautiful," he said. He offered to grab your go bag from your car and you told him where to find your keys. He dressed in sweats and a tank, earning a growl from you, and he chuckled. He made quick work of grabbing your bag and dropping it in the bathroom.

He shed his clothes as he walked into the room, revealing his delicious chest and the curly hair on his belly. He grinned while he approached, dropping a kiss to your lips before he helped you out of his bed.

Once inside the bathroom, he turned on the shower and you dug through your bag for a spare shower bonnet. This bag had saved you in so many ways, it was hard to count. Bad period days, ripped pants, that time you spilled ketchup on your shirt.

You worked with Kevin on a compromise for the best temperature and then he climbed in, letting the water cascade down his hair and face. You stepped in after, the steam enveloping you.

"You are so damn beautiful," Kevin sighed, looking at you like you hung the moon. Fuck, you would never get sick of this.

"Even with this bonnet," you said with a shy grin.

"Especially with the bonnet," he promised.

You talked about nothing and everything, switching between politics, the state of the world's education, and the questionable quality of DC movies. All the while, you and Kevin lathered up washcloths and took turns washing each other.

Though it wasn't sexual in nature, Kevin couldn't help lingering around your titties, kneading the cloth and squeezing your titty with it. He bit his lip at your moan and the ways your eyes fluttered closed. You got your revenge though, wrapping the cloth around his dick.

The cloth couldn't hide that long dick of his, but you made soapy progress, stroking him and paying attention to how it pleased him. Kevin was a vocal lover, moaning in places you did well and coaching you in others.

It was wild to discuss Scream movies and how the first one was the best and only one that mattered while stroking someone's dick, but there you were. Comfortable as hell, present with a wonderful man.

You stroked harder, pulling him down for a scorching kiss that made your knees weak. Kevin moaned into your mouth and hissed with a curse under his breath as he climaxed all over your belly.

It took great effort for Kevin to open his eyes. When he did, you gave him a saucy wink and washed his cum off of your belly. His overwhelming soap filled his shower making you drown in just him.

He grinned. "Alright, I'ma get you back for that," he said. He turned the water off and helped you out of the tub, grabbing a towel to dry you off. He enveloped you in his arms, his body heat doing more work than the towel.

"Ain't nobody shook," you teased, grabbing another towel from the sink and drying him off.

You worked down to his legs, leaning into a squat that put you eye level with his dick at half mast. You looked up at him through your eyelashes, leaning out to plant a kiss on the tip of his dick.

His dick jumped and you leaned back with a giggle. You had yet to give him a blow job and you briefly wondered if you could fit all of that in your mouth. Kevin groaned and took a deep breath. "Don't get hurt, nah," he said.

You grinned. You really ought to stop. He unleashed some inner animal inside of you that just wanted him to live inside you. But technically, you only met the man Friday night so you had to chill. A smidgen.

Kevin helped you stand and looked at you like you were the first ray of sun after a long night. How could you not get carried away when he looked at you like that? Made you feel desired with just a crinkle in his eyes.

You quickly got dressed in a fresh pair of panties, navy leggings, and an olive green shirt. Kevin threw on black sweats with a matching shirt, his gold chain peeking out from beneath. Such a casual outfit and you were ready to tear it off and hop back on him.

"I know where your nasty ass mind is," he said as he held the front door open for you. You trailed your hand down his stomach as you passed and felt his belly clench beneath your fingers.

You grazed his dick and he growled low in his throat. "I'm just passing by," you said sweetly.

Kevin locked up and then took your hand, walking with you outside into the crisp late spring air. He told you about a coffee shop a few blocks down and you told him to lead the way.

Kevin kept pace with you and you were glad for the sweet gesture. Because with his lumbering gait, you'd be out of breath before you reached the end of the corner. You talked about nothing as he stayed on the street side of the sidewalk, blocking most of the wind.

"Have you ever considered moving to a different unit?" You took a deep breath of fresh air. He was right, some sun was needed.

Kevin shook his head. "Nah, I like where I'm at. Them's my folks, you know?"

You nodded. "Claire tells me about some of the wild stories she hears from Jay. I can't even imagine everything you go through."

Kevin shrugged and made a noncommittal sound. He could downplay it all he wanted, but it was still a big deal. "It's hard, that's for sure. I just wanna help. Feels like folks don't help anymore," he said.

You looked around at the surrounding houses, the way it all seemed so undisturbed. When you were younger, you couldn't toss a rock without kids playing out in the front yards. Without retirees sitting out on the porch, watching babies play in a kiddie pool in the summer.

"Yeah, you can say that again. Do you plan on being a cop for a long time?"

"Yeah, as long as they let me. Would that bother you?" Kevin glanced at you.

You took a moment to think it over. It did make you nervous to an extent. There was so much turmoil and hate out in the world. Claire was right, at any point someone could take him out.

Your chest squeezed at the thought of Kevin not being in the world. You'd known him a short time and yet it was like you'd known him forever.

You spent so long compiling the perfect checklist, building the perfect man in your mind. He had to be kind, he had to be gentle, he had to be nasty, and he had to be loyal. When confronted with such a perfect man, your mind searched for reasons not to. Afraid that it was too good to be true, that you truly did find the right man for you.

But, he was a cop, he could be shot or maimed horribly. He could be gunned down by a fellow cop who only sees a threat. He could have a weird habit like picking his teeth with his fingers.

"I want to try," you told him. "I can't say it doesn't bother me. But I know that I want to explore this."

Kevin licked his lips and gave you a sweet grin. "I like that. I want to explore this with you too," he said.

Approaching a local coffee shop, Kevin opened the door for you. You got in line, going over your different tastes in coffee. Kevin was a typical cop. He just liked it black and hot. You teased him about it while you ordered and got a blueberry muffin to go with. Kevin grabbed a breakfast sandwich and you grabbed a table towards the back, eating and talking through a small breakfast.

Kevin kept the conversation lively, talking about the happier side to being a cop. The many people he got to save by being there in the nick of time. He gushed about his siblings and you absolutely melted at the pride and love in his eyes. It made your pussy ache listening to how he stepped up so you shoved that thought out of your mind.

The morning sun turned into early afternoon and the light played off of Kevin's angles. He talked with his whole body, weaving tales as if you were really there with him. Your mind drifted though, distracted by his open face. His long eyelashes were enchanting, his lips plump and juicy while he licked them often. Oh, that bastard. He had to be doing it on purpose.

It was easy to get lost in the conversation, the flow moving so seamlessly that the coffee shop filled up and the sound didn't register at all. It didn't matter what other folks had going on. You just wanted to listen to him.

You told your own stories about work and family, different events you attended with Jay and Claire. You told him about your last vacation to Thailand and how seeing the ruins were your favorite part.

The way he listened made you feel actually heard. He asked questions where he needed and invited you to keep sharing. You never had so much damn fun sitting and talking. Eventually though, the coffee shop got too packed and it was time to head back to his place.

Back to reality.

Neither one of you brought up the subject of returning back to your normal lives. You had to get back to work and chores and trying to relax without guilt. He had to go back to being on call, ready to spring into action at any moment. The bubble would burst and yeah, you were worried that this was just a sex haze.

You hoped that wasn't the case. It didn't feel like it was, but hey, people did stranger things after a few…dozens of orgasms. Dozens. This man trained your body from the very first handshake.

The walk to his place was more somber. He held your hand and held you close, but there were no words to be said. Back at his place, you settled headed for his couch. He pulled you back, giving you a sexy grin.

"I believe there's a policy in place, beautiful," he said.

You giggled. "Oh, you can't be serious," you said.

"There are punishments for breaking the law. Do we want to play that game?" He gave you a devilish grin, begging you to disobey him.

You shivered. But the memory of his first punishment was too fresh in your mind. You couldn't survive another round of watching him cum without it in you or on you. Fuck. He turned you into a sex fiend. Shamelessly too.

You opted to be good, wanting him more than you wanted to be a minx. For now. You stripped out of your clothes, getting butterball naked while he watched with hungry elevator eyes. You felt so sexy in his presence.

"Hm, hm, hm," he muttered, biting his lip as the last of the clothes hit the floor. He took your hand and led you to the living room, sitting down on the couch and pulling you into his lap.

"It's going to be real painful going home after this," you said, wanting to rip the band-aid off. The suspense was killing you and before you went any further, you wanted to lay it all out there.

He sighed in agreement and settled into the sofa, widening his legs so that you could sit comfortably. His hands gripped your hips, rubbing his fingers in circles on your skin. "Why does it feel so damn hard? We're going to see each other again," he said.

The certainty in his tone sent shivers down your spine. Especially in that deep voice of his. You smiled at him. "That's what's frying me!"

You squeezed his arms, needing to feel him. It was insane. But at least you both were feeling it.

"It's not forever. Just for a few days when our schedules align," he said. "And you'll stay until the morning."

"Oh, I will, huh?" You giggled.

Kevin bounced you on his knee making your titties bounce with. He bit his lip and did it again and you giggled harder, gripping his forearms so you wouldn't go flying off. His hands still held you in place, not budging at all in his capable hands.

"You will. I want to wake up to that pretty face again," he said. "With my morning snack."

Your pussy clenched even as you laughed and rolled your eyes. You literally could not with him. "I can definitely get used to that."

"So, we're going to enjoy the rest of tonight. Just you and me," he said.

"I'd really like that," you said, leaning over to kiss him. He moaned and deepened the kiss, his tongue peeking out to duel with yours. He sucked on your bottom lip and then continued to kiss, his hands coming up to cup the back of your head. He pulled you every which way he wanted you to go. You were able to feel all of him, hear his breathy moans, and get lost in the kiss.

Kevin slowly broke away, grinning as you tried to steal one more. He winked at your confused pout and stood up with you in his arms. He carried you to his room, turning on the light as he went.

He deposited you on his bed and he stripped in front of you, never breaking eye contact as he did so. You looked your fill, moaning at every new piece of skin he revealed. He kept his body in shape, his muscles flexing as he moved. He grinned at you and then climbed onto the bed, pulling you beneath him.

He dropped his weight on you and you sighed in pure bliss. It was a struggle to get a full breath and you sighed again, never being able to describe the relief you felt. You greedily clung onto him, wrapping your legs around his waist.

You made out, continuing your earlier dance. Kevin's fingers traveled down your body, bringing goosebumps with it. He reached between you, rubbing your clit and you jerked, moaning into his mouth.

The break gave you both a chance to catch your breath, but his fingers worked overtime. You were wet from the moment he told you to get out of your clothes, but with his fingers working a steady beat, making your legs shake in the most delicious way, the orgasm snuck up on you and you convulsed, screaming his name as the wave rode you.

"That's right, beautiful," he moaned, moving his fingers to slide into your pussy. You clenched around two..no, three of his fingers stretching you, and playing with your G-spot like it was his personal stress relief toy.

Your hands clawed at him, trying to escape and get away. The downside to being crushed by his weight was that he effectively pinned you to the matress and prevented escape. Your body twitched and jerked as another orgasm ripped through, snatching every one of your senses.

As you came down, your body rebooted and came back online. First came your hearing, as you heard Kevin whisper filthy shit in your ear. "I'm going to fill this pussy up. Every last fuckin' drop I got," he said.

He ended his words with a kiss to your neck. Next came feeling, as his lips traveled to the spot beneath your ear, causing your thighs to tingle. Kevin pulled his fingers free of your pussy, bringing them to your lips. You opened your mouth, tasting your essence on his thick fingers.

"Clean it up, baby," he said. He pulled his fingers out and kissed you. His dick throbbed against your ass.

"Fill me up, Kev, please," you moaned. You needed him connected to you, as close as he could possibly get.

"Flip the fuck over," he grunted. He backed off of you and you gulped in fresh pulls of air. He got to his knees with renewed energy, pulling you into the position he wanted without waiting for you to comply.

You laid nearly flat on the bed with your knees putting you at a certain angle. Kevin laid behind you, lining himself up. Without a word, he thrust inside you to the hilt.

"Oh fuck!" You cried out, the sudden fullness sending your mind straight to outer space.

Kevin leaned down until his chest was on your back, his thighs pressed to the back of yours, and a possessive hand around your right hip. He kissed your ear and began to thrust, each deep stroke like a crack of thunder in the quiet room.

There was nothing but your mingled, panicked breaths echoing in the room. The smell of sex and sweat a powerful aphrodisiac. "Oh fuck, Kevin," you moaned into the bed.

"That's it, right there. Fuck you feel so good. Fuckin' made for this dick. This my pussy from now on," he moaned, his thrusts still rocking into you, pounding you into the bed as if you were a nail in the wall.

"Oh, yes, Daddy," you moaned. You never called a man that in your life. And yet Kevin earned the title. And then some. You clenched around his dick, your walls shaking from how easily you gushed for him.

"That's it, baby. Give me what Daddy deserve. Bounce on that dick. Bounce on that dick, baby," he moaned, his dick throbbing inside you.

"Shit, I'm finna—" You screamed as your orgasm rushed through you, more intense than any he's given you the past few days. Your nails dug into his covers, gripping on for dear life.

Kevin stroked a few more times, like his body was moving faster than he could keep up with. He hissed in your ear and moaned as he climaxed, filling your pussy with his cum.

"That's it. That's it, milk it out of me," he said as you bounced on it, squeezing your pussy to capture every drop.

He collapsed on top of you, his panting breaths rivaling your own. Your pussy throbbed in time with his dick, in sync in ways you didn't even know was possible. Kevin softened and gently pulled out of you, a rush of his cum leaking out of you.

Kevin sat back on his haunches and pulled your asscheeks apart to watch him slide down your pussy lips.

"So fuckin' perfect," he whispered in awe.

You yawned and Kevin chuckled, kissing both sides of your ass. He nipped one of them and you hissed at the sharp sting. He chuckled and then got off of the bed to grab a warm washcloth. You groaned while he cleaned you up and he cooed, telling you he was almost done.

You must've fallen asleep because the next thing you knew, the lights were off and Kevin was in bed. When you stirred, he pulled you into him so that he enveloped you completely. His body heat rolled off of him in waves and you shivered with a deep moan, snuggling closer. You wanted to live in the cuddle.

You layed your head on Kevin's arm, feeling so safe and secure and right. You just knew that this was the start to something grounbreaking. Men like him didn't come around often. And no, he wasn't truly perfect. There were bound to be things that irritated you.

But you had all the time in the world to explore him. And explore every drop of pleasure he wrung from you. You were a limp spaghetti noodle in his hands. Nothing but putty for him to mold and squeeze and play with.

"Prepare to be sick of me," he whispered in your ear, his breath fanning across your cheeks.

You giggled sleepily, lalaland calling your name. "You stuck with me at this point," you said.

He kissed your ear. "Wouldn't have it any other way."

The end.

A/N: I know! I know. But it's not goodbye to Kevin forever. He will pop up in a new series so stay tuned!

The Secret Kevin Atwater Files | Part 1 | Part 2

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currently, you were both in bed, eyes trained on the tv in front of you that was playing game of thrones.

suguru was sitting shirtless and pretty as ever, with his hair thrown sloppily into a claw clip, and his glasses sitting low in the bridge of his nose.

he would make commentary every once in a while, sometimes even going as far as looking over at you, and waiting for a response he knew he wasn’t gonna get—and each time it chipped away at the imaginary wall you had built up between your bodies.

“he’s probably gonna die because of that, but him saying ‘your brother or your lover?’ was cool as fuck. i hope they spare him, though. he’s one of your favorites, yeah?”

he glanced over at you, lips curling into a small smile.

you were latched onto one of the plush throw pillows with nothing but a big t-shirt covering your naked form. your attention appeared to be on the show, but truthfully, you were too distracted by a certain need to be paying any attention.

three days of silent treatment meant three days of zero physical touch—something that has never happened since suguru first became yours.

you knew he was waiting for you to give in—waiting for you to nuzzle up to him with fat tears in your eyes, and trembling lips just waiting to utter an apology.

“how long do you plan on keeping this little game up for? starting to hurt my feelings a little bit now,” he chuckled, resting a tatted hand on the center of his chest.

finally, you looked over at him from under your lashes, and let out a long, drawn out sigh.

you couldn’t deny how delicious he looked, even under the very dim light from his bedside lamp. still, you remained silent.

“really? nothing?”

more silence.

he was a little defeated, but never fear, he had a plan. a plan that would surely get you out of this bratty funk you were in.

his nostrils flared slightly in a sigh, but his smile never once faltered. “mm, okay then. m’gonna go wash my face real quick, so hang tight.”

and with that he was getting up, and exiting the room.

you whined quietly, your face flopping into the pillow as you kicked your feet in frustration. he hated your stubbornness, but trust that you hated it even more . . sometimes.

two minutes passed . . and then five . . and then ten—and you only grew more restless as the dreaded minutes ticked by.

and then you heard something. a sound you recognized all too well.

you couldn’t be sure though, so you sat up pin straight, your heart hammering rapidly against your ribcage. it wasn’t nervousness you were feeling—no, no. that tightening feeling you had in your lower belly would best be described as excitement.

a few seconds passed, and then you heard the sound again . . and again.

at this point it was very clear what was going on.

your touch starved boyfriend was trying to lure you, his even more touch starved lady, into his arms with that seven inch problem between his thick thighs.

and unfortunately it was working.

you cursed internally at yourself as the hardwood creaked beneath your pedicured feet louder than ever, but suguru’s breathy moans seemed to be drowning out the sound. it seemed like the closer you got, the more noisy and drawn out they became. very suspicious, and very weird.

finally, you reached the door to the bathroom, and if it wasn’t apparent what was going on in there before, it certainly was now.

you could hear everything.

every hitched breath, the way his hand worked ridiculously fast pumping at his dick, his whiningggg.

you could picture him now; backed up against the sink with his head tilted back, n’ his eyes squeezed shut in annoyance because he hated masturbating when he could be getting the real thing instead.

“fuck, ( ❤︎⁠ ).”

a whine of your own bubbled in the back of your throat at the lewd mention of your name. he wanted it so bad, and you did too . . so what was really stopping you?

suguru didn’t even jump when the door opened, his body only slumping more into the sink. he looked so pretty with his baby hairs dusting over his pink cheeks, and his dick looked even prettier gripped between his tatted fingers. in his other hand was his phone, with none other than a video of you playing over on a loop.

he almost wanted to laugh when he looked over, and saw how ridiculous you looked just standing there and ogling with your arms glued to your side.

“you need something?” he huffed out, pink tongue swiping against bottom lip.

his lips.

oh, how you missed those soft lips of his.

when he was met with nothing but even more silence, his eyes narrowed at you. “you really gonna keep this shit up? wasn’t bothering me before, but now—”

you lips parted in a gasp when he yanked you over by your shirt, your front now pressing snugly against his bare one, “now it’s really starting to hurt my feelings.”

you couldn’t find it in you to look him in the eye, too embarrassed at how flustered you became. when his nose trailed over the apple of your cheek, you shuddered.

“do you enjoy hurting my feelings?” he muttered, tongue poking out to lick over the shell of your ear.

his ears perked up when he heard your breath hitch. the quiet noise had his cock twitching pathetically against his stomach.

“baby—”

suguru was interrupted by your lips smushing into his with a light whine. first, he was surprised, but as the initial shocked melted away, so did he! his body practically entangled with yours; one arm wrapping around your waist, while the other cradled your jaw carefully. his thigh wasted no time slotting between your own, pushing nice n’ snug against your panty clad cunt.

“please touch me,” he panted against your lips, eyebrows scrunching together in pure want,

when your lips detached, he had half a mind to chase after you, but after seeing your current task, he stayed put, his chest heaving up and down rapidly.

with one hand, you were shoving your panties down your legs—although it was quite the challenge with his thigh placed firmly between your legs. he enjoyed to watch you struggle a bit, but only because of how much of a brat you’ve been.

when your hand wrapped around his cock, and placed it between the plush of your thighs, he could’ve started crying right then and there.

“that’s soft,” he slurred out, eyes gone hooded at how nice you felt. his hips pushed forward only slightly, allowing the slicked base his cock to rub lewdly at your clit.

your lips turned into a deep frown—not because you weren’t enjoying it, but because you were trying so hard not to make a sound. so, you went back to kissing him, your hand haphazardly snatching the claw clip from his hair, and allowing his silky locs to fall over his shoulders.

“mm, baby,” he moaned into your mouth, his tongue lolling out so you could suck on it. he could feel the way your pussy dripped syrupy slick from the kiss, and it was driving him crazy.

he swallowed up the small moan you let out from him cupping the cusp of your ass, his hips drawing back before pushing forward once more.

you both stayed like that for a moment, getting so lost in the kiss that you didn’t even realize how sloppy suguru’s movements had actually become.

and then his tip caught onto your entrance.

“o-oh!”

the way your boyfriend looked at you was nothing short of how a predator looked at its prey. his pupils were completely blown out, not even showing a sliver of his familiar brown irises.

“oh, you liked that? you wanna fuck me, ( ❤︎ )? wanna—wanna use me up?” his hips pulled back n’ pushed forward a final time, his tip gently pushing past your slicked entrance.

his hands stayed glued to your ass, keeping you steady against him. “just say something—anything, and you can do whatever you want to me. i’d kiss your fuckin’ feet right now if you asked,” he groaned, pressing his slightly sweaty forehead against your own.

it was quiet for a few seconds, and just when he thought all hope was lost—

“put me through the bed, babe . . please.”

suguru, a normally composed and strong willed person was anything but after those words left your mouth. in fact he felt pretty inhuman as he carried you off to the room, and did exactly as you requested.

“yes, yes, yes, yes—fuck me, fuck me, fuck—” his words were laced with nothing but lust and pure yearning as he fucked you like a madman, and even then he still managed to remain soft with you.

he didn’t grip your body roughly, or slap any of the shea butter coated skin—instead he just caressed it, and maybe squeezed softly if he was feeling frisky. this gentle behavior unfortunately didn’t apply to his cock, and it was times like this when you kinda believed him when he would say it had a mind of its own.

he was fucking you like it was his last night on earth, like after you two were through, you’d fade into nothingness instead of falling asleep in his arms.

“god, i love you so much. i’m so sorry about the fight the other day—ngh! i’m an ass, a-and you were right. you’re always so right, my smart. fuckin’. girl.”

your back arched off the mattress as you came with a weak cry, your thighs trembling violently in overstimulation. suguru continued his mean strokes with a deadly look in his eyes—a look that made you think he was going to devour you whole.

“you forgive me yet? or do you need some more persuading—mm, fuck.” his head tilted back, hips circling as his cock nudged entirely too deep inside of you.

“o-oh fuck! i forgive you, baby, i forgive you! jus’ pull out a little okay?”

that was the first full sentence you’ve said to him in three days, and god did it have him ready to bust a nut.

with a groan, he slung your legs over his broad shoulders, and pulled out only justtt a little bit before beginning a steady rhythm. his body hunched over yours like a dog in a rut, and all you could do was relax, and let him melt into you.

“you like it when i fuck you like this? yeah? k-keep talking so i can fill you up,” he all but growled, his tongue now tracing over your kiss bitten bottom lip.

“y-yes . . feels so good, sugu.”

he winced when you pulled at his hair, his hips stuttering only a little before picking up speed again.

unbeknownst to you both—your poor bed was suffering greatly from his brutal thrusts just as much as you were, and after a few more, you finally heard a deafening crack!

the bed tipped over to the right, but did suguru care? girl . . . please.

“hah—i always hated those ugly bedposts anyway,” he breathily chuckled while scooping you up in his strong arms. he didn’t mean to be so rough when he pushed you up against the wall, but it didn’t even matter anyways because you liked the roughness of it all.

“mm, yeah they were pretty ugly weren’t they?” you giggled against his lips, full on cockdrunk at this point.

suguru smiled right along with you, his eyebrows pulling together in pleasure as his orgasm approached quicker and quicker.

the way he kissed you was boarder line suffocating. you couldn’t pull away for even a second to catch your breath, for his lips would chase after yours every single time.

“i can’t b-breathe you big brute,” you huffed, shoving the dark haired mans face in the crook of your neck.

he chuckled, tongue darting out to lick over the sweaty skin. “good. the only thing you should be breathing in is me. now cum with me.”

four mind numbing thrusts later, and you were both cumming together loud, and extremely whiny. suguru kept his face snug in your neck, his hips aggressively humping into yours.

your walls quivered around him, sending multiple signals to your brain that you were too spent, and in dire need of a break.

“shit, we broke the bed,” he sighed, his grip loosening on you only a bit. when you brought a hand up to scratch at his scalp, he made a purr like noise.

“guess its the couch for us tonight,” you laughed breathily, nosing at the side of his face so softly, he almost thought he was imagining things.

“just promise me one things,” his head removed itself from your neck, eyes locking immediately onto yours, “if you love—don’t ever do that shit again. i was playing it cool, but it was torture not speaking to you.”

The second they walked through the door of their apartment, the shift was immediate. The laid-back, cool Erik who had navigated airports and foreign cities with ease was gone. In his place was a new creature, a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound barnacle named Erik.

He was attached to her. Literally. As she tried to drop her bags by the couch, he wrapped his arms around her from behind, burying his face in her neck and inhaling like she was his personal oxygen tank.

“Erik, I gotta pee,” she giggled, trying to squirm away.

“Hold it,” he mumbled against her skin, his arms tightening. “I’m tryna recharge.”

This was the side of him he’d warned her about. The possessive, clingy side that came out when he’d finally been inside her. The man who wanted to live in her skin 24/7. She’d thought he was exaggerating. She was wrong.

The next hour was a cat-and-mouse game of epic proportions. Syn would try to do something simple, like unpack or get a glass of water, and Erik would materialize out of nowhere, his hands roaming, his lips finding her skin.

She managed to escape to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. She took one long, refreshing sip, and when she turned around, he was leaning against the doorway, blocking her exit. He had that look in his eye. The look.

“You’re not serious,” she said, backing away slowly.

“I told you,” he said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “I can’t help it. I need to be inside you.”

“Erik, I’m still sticky from the plane! I need a shower!”

“We can shower later.”

She squeaked and bolted, ducking under his arm and sprinting down the hallway. He was right behind her, his laughter a deep, booming sound that echoed through the apartment. She made it to the bedroom and tried to slam the door, but he was too fast. He caught it, his hand flat against the wood, and pushed his way in.

“You can’t run from this,” he growled, his eyes dancing with mischief.

“It’s been, like, twelve hours!” she shrieked, laughing as she scrambled onto the bed, putting the mattress between them. “Give a girl a break!”

He crawled onto the bed, stalking her like a panther. “No breaks,” he said, his voice a low, playful rumble. “You started this. You unleashed the beast.”

She was giggling so hard she could barely breathe, her sides aching. He finally caught her, his arms wrapping around her waist and pulling her down onto the bed. He hovered over her, his weight a welcome, familiar presence.

“You’re a menace,” she whispered, her eyes sparkling with amusement and love.

“You’re my menace,” he corrected, his voice softening. He leaned down and kissed her, a deep, possessive kiss that was full of laughter and love. “And I’m never letting you go.”

The first sound is breathing. Not hers.

Little puffs of air, warm and wet against her shoulder blade, followed by a sticky hand slapping down on her chest like he owns her heartbeat.

“Up, Mama,” Messiah mumbles, voice thick with sleep and snot, “Cartoo?”

Malaya doesn’t open her eyes right away. Her back hurts. Not sharp pain—just that deep, stretched ache that comes from sleeping on her side too long with a toddler pressed to her spine. The kind of ache that says you made it through another day, now do it again.

Messiah shifts beside her, his couls wild, matted, and damp from sweat. His tiny sock is halfway off. He kicks once, like he’s dreaming of something fast, then kicks again on purpose, hard enough to jar her ribs.

“I’m up,” she groans, voice cracked, “Damn, boy.”

She doesn’t curse in front of him often, but it slips sometimes in the early hours, when her bones are heavier than her body and her soul feels like it got folded in the wrong drawer. The bedroom is dim, a single strip of light cutting in through the crooked blinds. Her sheets are half off the mattress, tangled around one of her legs. The baby monitor on the nightstand blinks blue even though Messiah’s already beside her. On the floor by the closet door is a pair of leggings, a half-folded towel, and the old tripod she kicks out of sight with her heel.

They start slow. She sits up with him in her lap, lets him rub his face against her stretched T-shirt like it’s a napkin, lets him drool a little on the neckline. Her T-shirt smells like yesterday. Baby wipes, cocoa butter, and the faintest trace of strawberry lube.

He climbs down with a grunt and waddles toward the bedroom door, “Snack!” he says. A declaration.

Malaya rolls her shoulders, feels the stretch pop down her spine. Her belly—still soft and full under the fabric—shifts slightly with the motion. She tugs down her T-shirt. Doesn’t bother with a bra. She rarely does unless she’s heading to work or logging in.

The hallway outside her room creaks as Messiah darts toward the kitchen, Jurassic Park socks sliding. She follows behind, bare feet padding over the plush carpet that covers the real floors beneath—cheap laminate hiding older scars.

The duplex is quiet, but it’s not still.

The living room has toys everywhere, plastic food in the play kitchen, a blanket crumpled on the couch from when she passed out watching Bluey alone. One of Messiah’s juice cups rolls across the floor when she nudges it with her toe. In the corner, by the window, her plant is dying. The leaves are yellow at the tips. She waters it anyway. Out of habit. Or hope. The kitchen’s narrow, with cabinets painted the wrong shade of white and fake-new appliances that buzz louder than they should. The stove clock is flashing 12:00. She hasn’t fixed it since the last outage. There’s a small pantry beside the fridge, barely enough space for snacks and ramen and the box of wipes she keeps hidden from visitors.

“Cheerios?” she asks, already reaching.

Messiah nods like a king.

She pours a handful into a bowl, no milk. He eats standing up on the couch, balancing one foot on the cushion like a little rebel.

She leans on the counter, arms crossed, eyes on the small strip of sun now widening across the floor. Her stomach growls. She ignores it. Her head hurts. She swallows that too. Outside, the city’s already moving—sirens, tires, the deep rumble of bass from someone’s too-loud car speaker. Inside, it’s just her and him and the weight and the stretch.

Messiah crunches dry Cheerios from the couch while cartoons mumble in the background, and Malaya steps into the narrow hallway, barefoot. Her duplex is small, but it holds her. Two bedrooms, one bath, and a little more space than the rent should allow. Landlord slapped some vinyl flooring in the kitchen and called it “newly remodeled.” The carpet’s fresh too, though she can still feel the unevenness of the floor beneath it. Messiah’s dinosaurs and action figures are lined up along the hallway wall, like they’re guarding something ancient. Her bedroom door sticks a little when she pushes it open.

Inside, it smells like sleep and yesterday’s body oil. The blinds are uneven, casting warped shadows over the dresser where her worn makeup bag sits untouched. Clothes are everywhere. Not messy—just lived in. A hoodie draped over the headboard. Her favorite pair of leggings folded wrong at the foot of the bed. Her work bag slumped against the side of the laundry basket, zipper half-open, badge peeking out like it’s tired too.

She peeks in on Messiah’s room. It’s chaos. Blankets on the floor. Toddler bed messy. A book open to the wrong page. A half-naked stuffed Mickey Mouse wedged under a tiny chair. It smells like powder, juice, and the lavender spray she mists at bedtime. She’ll clean later. Or not. She never pretends for nobody.

“Messiah,” she calls gently, “Potty time. Come on, baby.”

He shuffles down the hall, chubby legs moving fast, and plops onto his training seat in the bathroom like he owns it.

“I poo poo,” he announces. Confident. Serious.

Malaya exhales a soft laugh and steps out of her T-shirt, then peels down her panties. The c-section scar pulls faintly when she bends. Her reflection in the mirror is blurred from the steam already building up. She avoids looking too long.

The shower is fast. Has to be. Water costs and Messiah gets antsy if she’s gone too long. She pins her long Marley twists up into a high, loose bun. Some strands fall free anyway—new growth coils acting as baby hair tight against her damp forehead. She turns the water on hot, tests it with her hand, then steps in slow. A low hiss slips through her teeth as it hits her skin.

Her body isn’t the same as before. Softer now. Heavy in new places. Her stretch marks shimmer like whispers in the steam—silver along her belly and hips. She scrubs her arms in hard, fast circles, suds slipping down to her elbows. Over her inner bicep, she moves slower—right where her ink reads: What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

Her hands move down. Across full breasts. Beneath them. Over her soft belly. Down thicker thighs. She cleans between her legs carefully—rinsing, pressing. There’s a deep, dull ache inside. She doesn’t linger on it.

Just something she lives with now.

She turns off the water before she’s ready.

The mirror’s fogged. Her face swims behind it. She wipes the glass with her palm but doesn’t look long. She’s got thirty minutes before they’re late. Messiah’s still babbling to himself on the potty. She dries off fast—body still dripping—pulls on a soft T-shirt with a cracked graphic print and thick socks. Her nipples poke through the fabric, but she doesn’t have time to care. She scoops Messiah up, wipes him down at the bathroom sink, wrangles him into a onesie with dinosaurs on it, then moves like clockwork.

She grabs:

Scrubs (grey today, slightly faded)

Her badge and lanyard (Parkside Outpatient— Midtown Campus)

Messiah’s bag with snacks, wipes, cracked tablet, and extra socks

Her work bag with her charger and the cheap deodorant she keeps forgetting to replace

Messiah’s starting to fuss, arms flailing as she zips his jacket.

“I don like it, mommy.” he whines.

“I know, baby. Just a little longer,” she whispers.

Her hands are full. Her throat feels tight. She presses her forehead against the front door for just one second before unlocking it.

Just one second.

Then she exhales and opens it to the world.

Her car is loyal. Ugly, but loyal.

A dusty gray 2015 Nissan Altima with a dented driver’s side door and a cracked back taillight covered in red tape. The radio only plays two stations without static. The air conditioner groans before it works. She keeps one of Messiah’s pacifiers on the dash like a totem. Dice hanging from the rear view mirror. The inside smells like apple juice and exhaustion—baby wipes, old fries, and whatever Black ice air freshener is losing its grip on the rearview.

The engine clicks when it starts. She waits, then reverses slow. Hollowell Parkway is already alive—school buses, mopeds, folks walking in neon uniforms toward the MARTA stop. Messiah kicks his feet in the backseat, half-asleep again, holding his stuffed Elmo like it might get snatched. The daycare is a small brick building tucked between a rundown convenience store and an old church that’s been boarded up for two years. A colorful sign above the door reads: Bright Futures Learning Center with faded cartoon animals dancing around the letters. The front windows are decorated with construction paper cutouts of autumn leaves.

Miss Tonya opens the door before Malaya can knock. She’s wearing a t-shirt with “Unbothered & Booked” printed across the chest and leopard print leggings. Her locs are pulled up in a pineapple. She’s got that voice that’s soft enough for toddlers and sharp enough for parents who test her.

“Morning, Mama,” she says, holding the door open.

“Morning,” Malaya spoke softly, lifting Messiah from the car seat. He clings to her neck.

Miss Tonya lowers her tone just enough, lYou got that payment?”

Malaya doesn’t answer right away. Just reaches for her wallet with one hand while shifting Messiah’s weight to her hip.

It’s all crumpled bills and quarters—cobbled together from tips, change, a ten from Tamra, and what she was supposed to save for groceries. She pulls out $150 and hands it over.

“That’s the rest from two weeks ago,” Malaya says, her voice quiet, “I’ll have the next one on time.”

Miss Tonya eyes the bills, then nods slowly, “Alright. I know you tryna keep up. But we tight this month, okay?”

“I know. Thank you.”

“You know I love that baby. Just…don’t make me chase you again.”

Malaya nods again, stiff. Swallows hard.

She kisses Messiah’s cheek before handing him off. He doesn’t cry, but he looks back once as Miss Tonya carries him inside. The door closes with a soft chime. Malaya just stands there for a second. Watching the sun rise behind the building like it might burn something clean.

Then she turns and gets back in the car.

Parkside Outpatient Clinic sits just off a busy Midtown intersection, wedged between a Walgreens and a dentist office with busted blinds. The building’s flat beige exterior does nothing to hide the tension inside. The moment Malaya walks through the glass front doors, the smell hits: antiseptic, old carpet, microwave popcorn from the break room, and a little sweat from patients who’ve been waiting too long.

It’s always bright in here. Too bright. Lights that make you look sick, even when you’re not. Reception sits in a U-shaped desk straight ahead. Behind it, the clinic opens into a long hallway with numbered exam rooms on both sides. There’s a small nurse’s station in the back with a fridge for samples and a clock that ticks too loud. Posters on the wall tell people to cough into their elbows and schedule flu shots nobody wants.

Malaya’s station is halfway down the hall, next to a filing cabinet that never shuts right. She has a drawer with her name on it, a chipped plastic label from a label maker that barely stuck. Inside: pens, gloves, a phone charger, and a half-used bottle of ibuprofen. She clocks in on a mounted tablet near the break room. The screen is greasy.

Patients are already piling in—coughing, complaining, slamming clipboards on the counter. One man with a limp is shouting about how long he’s waited. A woman with three kids and no appointment is pretending not to hear the staff asking for her insurance.

Malaya smiles like she means it.

Her boss, Miss Denby, walks past in nude flats and a too-tight blazer. Doesn’t say good morning. Just nods like a queen barely recognizing her court.

Malaya’s head starts to pound before 9AM.

She checks vitals, processes urine samples, logs notes into the system that always crashes mid-entry. She eats her granola bar while standing. Takes two sips of cold coffee from her tumbler before it disappears. Someone always needs something. At 10:42, she follows a coworker—Nisha—out the side door for a smoke break. Malaya doesn’t smoke, but she needs the air. 

Nisha lights up with the speed of a woman on edge, “Girl, you hear they tryna bring in some temp for front desk? Said we ‘undermanned.’ I said, ‘Bitch, we been undermanned.’”

Malaya chuckles, dry, “They gon’ pay her more than us, too.”

“Mmhm. Watch. Bet she can’t even spell phlebotomy.”

They stand in silence for a moment. The sun is warm on their forearms. The trash bins smell like old gauze and last week’s pot luck.

“You alright?” Nisha finally asks.

Malaya shrugs, “I’m breathing.”

“Let me know if you need help hiding a body.”

“Bet.”

She almost smiles. Almost. Then she tucks her badge back into her scrub pocket and heads inside.

The last four hours drag like wet laundry.

A man yells about his refill. A little boy throws up graham crackers on the waiting room floor. One of the nurses is crying quietly in the break room, pretending she’s just tired. Phones ring. The printer jams. Malaya’s feet ache. She walks the same hallway over and over. Exam room three. Back to station. Lab fridge. Front desk. Repeat. The armpits of her scrubs are damp. Her ponytail’s slipping, twists growing heavy. There’s a cramp starting behind her right eye, and she knows it’s the kind of headache that’ll outlast the sun.

At 2:08 PM, she gets a text.

Twan 🙄: u good? what time am I getting him?

Her jaw tightens. She replies quick, thumbs moving faster than her breath:

Malya: 5:30 at the latest. I paid the daycare fee u were supposed to handle. $150. You owe me.

Read. No response.

Of course.

She slides the phone into her pocket, breathing slow, swallowing back the heat bubbling under her tongue. That was grocery money. Gone. She’s tired of chasing men for things they should be doing without a prompt.

At 3:14, the notification hits. Just a soft buzz against her thigh. Her phone screen lights up under her badge.

[You have a new message.] 

Could I get a pic? Sent 200 for it. Just the top.

No name. No real context. But she knows exactly where it came from. Malaya doesn’t hesitate. Just grabs her phone, slips down the hall, and turns into the staff bathroom. Locks the door. 

She’s got two minutes.

The mirror hums under the fluorescent lights. The floor is cold tile. The soap dispenser’s busted. She sets her phone on the paper towel dispenser and rolls her shoulders back.

Then she peels her scrub top up and over. Her breasts fall naturally, full, wide-set, and soft with weight. The kind that don’t sit up on their own anymore, not since breastfeeding. Not since motherhood changed her body. Silver stretch marks lace along the sides like lightning beneath her dark skin. Her nipples are thick and dark, resting low, one slightly more sensitive than the other.

She cups them in both hands for a second. Lifts them gently. Tilts toward the light.

No face. Just chest. Just flesh. Just survival dressed up as seduction. She angles the camera. Clicks. The photo looks raw. Real. She doesn’t edit it. Doesn’t need to.

Upload. Done.

She breathes out.

Back on go the scrubs. She fixes her shirt, smooths the fabric, splashes water on her neck. One more look in the mirror—her eyes are tired, lips chapped, but her posture is solid. Stronger than most would guess.

She steps out like nothing happened.

Clock-out time hits at 5:37. She doesn’t stay a minute longer.

The city is dipped in honey light by the time she pulls out of the clinic lot. That slow, golden hour where the streets look soft even when they’re loud. People walking fast, leaning into their hunger or fatigue. Car horns echo. Somebody’s blasting trap gospel from their window. Malaya rolls hers down an inch to feel the air and doesn’t even notice when her eyes get glassy.

Her phone vibrates in the cupholder again.

Still no reply from Twan.

She lets the red light hold her in place, then taps into her private Instagram account. The one with less than 100 followers, no posts since last year. Her profile picture is blurry now, pixelated from too many crops and re-uploads. But it’s there. Him, too.

The last post still pinned.

A blanket in the grass. Messiah in her lap, cheeks shiny with drool and sunlight. Malaya looking off to the side, not quite smiling. No makeup. Curls pulled back tight. Tank top strap slipping off her shoulder.

The caption just said: “Everything I do.”

She remembers that day. The way Twan took the picture like he was doing her a favor. Like he wasn’t already texting some other girl ten minutes later. Like he hadn’t already decided he wasn’t staying.

She scrolls down and there it is—Keisha’s reel.

“It’s glow-up season, sis. Soft life only. If it don’t spoil you, it don’t deserve you.”

The music behind it is bass-heavy and fake happy. Malaya watches in silence, thumb hovering over the heart. She doesn’t press it. Just tosses the phone onto the passenger seat like it burned her.

Twan’s voice leaks into her head like rot water.

“I got you, Ma. I promise.”

“You stressin’ too much. Just sing, baby. Let me handle the rest.”

“You think I don’t care? Damn, why you always like this?”

She remembers the studio. Not the real kind, just a backroom with foam on the walls and a mic that didn’t work half the time. She remembers him standing behind her, hands on her hips while she tried to record. How she never finished a single track. How she wanted to sing, but all she did was swallow silence.

The car turns onto her street. Her duplex rises ahead like a tired sigh. She parks, engine ticking as it cools, and rests her head against the steering wheel for a second. She catches her reflection in the rearview—her twists loose around her face, her eyes heavy, lips dry.

That damn tattoo on her inner arm peeks out from her sleeve as she reaches for her bag.

What doesn’t kill you breaks you soft.

It was supposed to be strength. A reminder. But today it just feels like surrender.

Inside the house, the air is warm and quiet. Her dying plant looks a little deader. The lights stay off as she moves through the living room. She pulls off her shoes with one foot, lets them thud. Her scrubs feel glued to her skin. Her body is begging to collapse.

She hears her mother in her chest.

“You wanted to be grown. So be grown.”

“Always caught up in your feelings, girl. That’s your problem.”

The words cling to her ribs like grease. She opens the fridge. Stares. Closes it again. She exhales through her nose. Rubs her hands over her face. Then she moves. Messiah will be home soon and  tonight, the camera’s little blue light will blink again.

The knock is too light for a stranger.

Two quick taps, then silence.

Malaya opens the door with one hand still on the deadbolt. Messiah’s giggles burst through before she even sees him. He’s in Twan’s arms, gripping a juice pouch and sticky with sleep. Her son—all thick curls and cheeks and Velcro sneakers—reaches for her instantly.

“Ma-maaa,” he says, dragging the sound out like a song. Malaya softens without meaning to, arms already out. Twan passes him over too fast, like an item—not a child. Messiah’s bag hits the floor with a dull thud. His stuffed Elmo falls out, face-first.

“You good?” Twan says.

Malaya doesn’t answer. Her hand moves to support Messiah’s bottom, the other stroking the back of his head. His skin is warm, his breath sugary with whatever snack he was eating. She leans into him. Smells his hair.

Then looks past Twan.

His car is still running, headlights dim. In the passenger seat: her. The girlfriend. Baby hair gelled down, long lashes, scrolling her phone like this is a pit stop. She doesn’t look up.

Malaya’s voice dips low, “You owe me a hundred and fifty dollars.”

Twan blinks like he didn’t hear her, “What?”

“For daycare. You said you had it. You didn’t. I paid it. You owe me.”

Twan shifts his weight. Breathes in slow through his nose, “Damn, Malaya. You always—”

“Don’t,” she snaps, quiet but sharp, “Don’t start.”

He reaches into his pocket, exaggerated, like digging through gold. Pulls out crumpled bills and counts with a sigh.

“Eighty. That’s all I got till Friday.”

She stares at the cash. Doesn’t reach for it. Messiah squirms against her chest, tugging at her hoodie string. Her jaw clenches.

“Take it or not, damn,” Twan mutters, pushing the money toward her.

She snatches it. Not out of anger out of necessity. Their fingers don’t touch.

“I shouldn’t have to chase you,” she says, barely a whisper.

“And I’m here now,” he shrugs, “That count for something.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

She doesn’t look at the girl in the car. Doesn’t check if she’s listening. Doesn’t care. She just closes the door in his face. Not loud. Not petty. Just…final. Messiah hums against her chest, his thumb now in his mouth.

She presses her lips to his forehead, “Let’s get you a bath, baby.”

Bath Time

Messiah is perched on his little potty like royalty, cracked tablet in front of him playing some bright, chaotic YouTube Kids video about talking trucks and friendship. His chubby legs swing as he watches, juice-stained cheeks glowing in the dim hallway light.

Malaya doesn’t rush the bath. She never does. She crouches in the bathroom, legs already sore from the day, and turns the water on low. Checks the temperature twice with her fingers. Pulls the sweet almond bubble bath from under the sink, even though it’s halfway empty and not on sale anymore. She pours extra. Always does. The lights are dimmed, she screwed in a soft purple bulb a few months ago. It calms him. Makes the bubbles glow like clouds at dusk.

She arranges the toys.

The little slide suction-cupped to the tub wall.

Three plastic dinosaurs. 

Marvel superhero’s.

His yellow boat.

A cup he insists is for “water magic”.

And a rubber duck with a bite mark in the tail.

“Okay, baby,” she says softly, “Let’s wash the day off.”

Messiah comes running, butt-naked and wobbly, tablet still playing in the distance. He climbs in without hesitation, squealing at the warmth. Water sloshes. Bubbles rise. He starts throwing the duck like it’s in battle. Malaya kneels beside the tub, rolling up her sleeves. Her bones pop. Her knees ache.

But her heart…her heart swells. She takes the soft washcloth and begins gently scrubbing him—behind the ears, under his arms, between the little rolls on his legs. He splashes, cackles, yells “Mama look!” every few seconds. Her hoodie gets soaked. Her arms drip.

And still, she smiles. Through it all.

She watches him, really watches.

That goofy grin. Those long lashes. His coils, soft from the water. His little hands trying to pour one cup into another and missing completely.

Tears prick her eyes. It hits all at once. That swelling, stinging, proud ache. Because she made this boy. She’s raising him. Alone. And some days, it still doesn’t feel like enough. She blinks fast. Doesn’t let the tears fall.

Just whispers, “I love you, Messiah,” into the steam.

He doesn’t hear her. But that’s okay.

She lets him play for a few more minutes, then drains the water, lifting him gently into a towel—the one with the little bear ears. He’s still giggling, legs kicking as she carries him to the bedroom. She lays him down on the bed and rubs him down with cocoa butter, slow and sure. The scent fills the room—warm, sweet, nostalgic.

“Feet up,” she says, and he obeys, still watching her with bright eyes.

She slips on his Buzz Lightyear jammies, then the tiny slippers he insists make him “go faster.” He dashes off to his play area, crawling into the tent full of pillows and action figures like he’s on a mission.

Malaya exhales, heading for the kitchen. Dinner is what she always makes when she’s too tired to think but still wants him to smile. Baby carrots. Dino nuggets. Kraft mac and cheese with a little extra butter. She sets up his high chair in front of the TV, slides in the tray, and turns on Trolls. His plate is colorful and warm, and he eats with his fingers, humming between bites. She sits nearby with her own plate—leftover shrimp and broccoli, barely warm, eaten with a plastic fork because the others are in the sink. She watches him. She chews slowly. Doesn’t taste much.

For two full hours, she is only his.

They color. They stack blocks. They scream along to the Trolls songs. He falls twice. She kisses both elbows.

At 8:45, it’s time.

She scoops him up, already blinking heavy. They brush teeth, fight over the toothpaste, and finally settle with a hug that smells like cocoa butter and toddler sweat. She turns on his nightlight, the one with the little rotating stars. Tucks him in. Kisses both cheeks. Pulls the blanket up just right.

“Love you, stinka,” she whispers.

“Wuv you too,” he mumbles, eyes already shut.

She shuts the door halfway, then turns on the baby monitor. Blue light hums quietly in the hallway. She stands there for a moment. Just breathing. Then moves toward the closet.

The Mask Comes On

“No face. Just fire.”

The house is quiet. Not peaceful…just quiet.

Messiah is down, his soft breathing caught on the baby monitor’s faint static. Nightlight on. Stars rotating on the ceiling. His Mickey Mouse tucked into the crook of one arm. He had fallen asleep mid-sentence. She’d kissed his forehead, turned out the light, and shut the door with a whisper behind her teeth.

Now she moves like shadow.

Light off in the hallway. The small squeak of the closet door and the rhythm of her breath. She pulls the basket from the back corner—not Messiah’s toy basket, not the laundry one—the one with the handles wrapped in satin ribbon and the faintest hint of strawberry lube clinging to the lining.

Her cam gear is inside.

She lays each piece out on her bed like tools in a sacred ritual. Phone. Ring light. Tripod. Mic. Clip adapter. Oil. Her robe. Next, she wipes down her camera lens. Always. Doesn’t matter if she did it yesterday. The screen has to reflect clean. No prints, no grease. No traces of the real woman who held her baby thirty minutes ago and whispered lullabies. She undresses in silence. Hoodie first. Sports bra. Then the leggings that peel away like second skin, still warm from Messiah’s hug.

Her body is real.

Not porn-perfect, not Instagram-polished. Full. Heavy in places. Her stomach bears the stretch of motherhood— the soft belly with skin that doesn’t lie. Her navel pulled slightly lower now. A map of silver-gold streaks curves along her hips and the underside of her breasts, shimmering faintly under the ring light.

She oils her thighs. Slow. Not for pleasure. For the sheen. For the way the light dances over her dark skin, turns softness into spectacle. She rubs the oil down her legs, across her lower belly, lets a small moan slip—not arousal, just the relief of warm hands meeting sore flesh. Her breasts are next. She lifts one in her palm, squeezes gently. Full. Weighted. Her nipples darker now. Fuller. A little sensitive. She wears the bralette—the faded burgundy one. No padding, just lift from memory. Then the black thong with the rip on the side. She tugs it so the tear’s out of frame.

Over that, her robe. Black, silky, cheap, but drapes like money on camera. She doesn’t tie it. No perfume. Just the cocoa butter from earlier, mixing now with vanilla scented body oil. She glosses her lips—clear, thick, high shine. Checks the angle. Adjusts the mic. Pulls her twists up into a messy bun. Slips on clear strap heels. Her toes curl inside them. Not for them. For her. For balance. For the click when she stands and turns.

She turns on her VPN. Opens ObsidianPlay.

Logs in as LaceyBlaze69.

The screen flashes. “No face. Just fire.”

She exhales. Checks the angle again. Face cropped, always. Just collarbone down. A tease of jawline if she leans in too close.

Chatroom open. Room fills slow.

Camera0ff logs in within sixty seconds. 1,000 tokens drop. No message. No request. Just that sterile username sitting quiet like it always does. Watching.

Her breath hitches.

She clicks “go live.”

The screen floods with hearts, requests, messages she won’t read until they tip. She leans into the mic, lets her gloss catch the light, then whispers:

“Hey baby. Miss me?” Her voice is syrup. Low and breathy. Barely real.

Tips roll in. Thigh oil. 175 tokens.

Close-up bounce. 400 tokens.

Finger suck. 100 tokens.

“Ride for me?” 300 more.

“Do it slow.” “Say you need it.”

She smiles soft. Doesn’t break eye contact with the lens. Which is to say—she never really makes it in the first place. She turns. Straddles her riding pillow. Slides her hips slow, deliberate, until the bralette slips just enough to expose the top curve of one breast. She lets it. Doesn’t fix it.

More tokens. More noise.

She adds more oil. Lets it drip down the slope of her chest, across her belly, gliding over her stretch marks like a second skin. She lifts her breasts in her palms, squeezes them together. Lets her fingers roll over her nipples until they shine.

Another tip comes in. POV request.

She presses record.

No face. Just moans.

Fakes a climax at 47 minutes in. Loud enough to make them believe it. Quiet enough to hear her baby monitor if it changes pitch. Her thighs tremble. Not from pleasure. From holding the pose.

When it’s done, she clicks “end stream.” Tips: $638.

Not the best. But good enough to sleep on. She pulls the hoodie over her head. Wipes the oil from her chest. Sits on the bed, lets her feet breathe, then glances toward the hallway, the faint hum of Messiah’s nightlight still glowing through the crack under his door. She lies down sideways. One arm under the pillow. Eyes open.

She doesn’t cry. Not tonight. But her lips part, just barely. And the words slip out like breath.

“We still here.”

Twice. Always twice. She closes her eyes. Baby monitor steady. Phone screen dark. Oil still drying on her thighs.

LaceyBlaze is gone.

Malaya’s just a mama again.

Her Balance, Her Body

Time: 10:24 PM.

She was already exhausted before the day began.

Malaya had woken to Messiah’s whimpering cries from the bassinet beside her bed, her back stiff from sleeping half-curled with one arm draped over him like a shield. Her phone buzzed before her feet even hit the floor, a low battery warning and a string of unread texts from a co-worker asking to switch shifts. She ignored it. She scooped Messiah into her arms, kissed the warmth of his cheeks, and started the morning.

Bath. Oil. Pull-ups. Socks he kept kicking off. Feeding him oatmeal with mashed banana, wiping more from his chin than what made it in his mouth. He cried when she put him down to wash the bottles from the night before, and again when she tried to put on eyeliner with him on her hip. By the time she slid his diaper bag over one shoulder and balanced her lukewarm coffee in the other hand, she was already five minutes behind.

She dropped him off at the daycare off Hollowell, gave Miss Tonya a tight-lipped smile when she asked how things were going, and rushed out before the baby could start crying again. The only thing worse than the sound of it was leaving while it echoed behind her.

She made it to work just in time. Her badge didn’t scan the first time, and her manager raised an eyebrow when she clocked in two minutes before cut-off. The outpatient clinic was short-staffed again. She spent the entire day standing—prepping rooms, taking vitals, holding back a migraine while the phone rang, rang, rang. No time to eat. No time to breathe. She answered patient questions with a tight smile and a throat that burned from swallowing what she really wanted to say.

Her phone buzzed again at lunch. Miss Tonya. 

Need someone to pick up Messiah. You said his daddy would come today. He ain’t show.

Malaya stood in the alley behind the clinic, one hand clutching her phone, the other fisting the fabric of her hoodie. She called Twan. No answer. Called again. Straight to voicemail. She texted him once.

Don’t play with me. Come get your son. 

Then she called her mother.

That turned into a fight. Her mama picked up with a tone already steeped in judgment, talking about how tired she was, how she wasn’t the one that laid up with a no-good boy and made a baby. Malaya begged through clenched teeth, promised it wouldn’t take long, promised to send a little money from her next check. Her mother still sighed. Still made her feel like she was seventeen and stupid. But she went.

By the time Malaya picked up Messiah and got home, she was running on fumes. He wouldn’t settle down. He wanted to be held. He wanted to be rocked. He cried when she sat him down to change her shirt. She fed him applesauce and soft chicken with one hand while scrolling her bank app with the other. Overdraft. Her heart dropped low and heavy in her chest. Rent was due next week. Her phone bill was past due. The streaming platform would take their cut in the morning.

The only thing she could think of to eat was ramen. She gave Messiah his bath first, wrapped him in the softest towel they owned, kissed the curve of his damp forehead. She whispered soft nothings to calm him, slow him down. He giggled when she kissed his belly, and for a moment, she smiled too. But the heaviness didn’t leave. It sank deeper. She held him until he dozed. Slid him into his toddler bed with the quiet care of a thief. She closed the bedroom door partway, leaving the baby monitor screen angled toward the living room.

She ate her ramen standing up in the kitchen. No music. No TV. Just the crunch of the seasoning packet against the bowl’s edge and the echo of the microwave beeping long after the food was out. She cried halfway through. Not the kind that shook her shoulders or made her gasp. Just slow, hot tears running down both cheeks as she stood there, slurping noodles, tasting salt that didn’t come from the broth.

It was already 10:17.

Seven minutes later, she sat on the living room floor and pulled off her hoodie. Left it in a pile beside the book-stack she used as a camera stand. She peeled off her leggings, rolling them down to mid-thigh. Her tank top clung to her body, nipple outlines showing through the worn cotton. Her stomach wasn’t flat anymore. Her thighs had small stretch marks. She didn’t hide them.

She reached over and opened the laptop. The soft hum of it booting up was the only sound in the room. The hallway light buzzed faintly through the open door, washing just enough glow across her skin to be visible in shadows. The living room had been cleaned earlier—sort of. Messiah’s toys were pushed to the side. His water bottle rested on the coffee table beside a crumpled burp cloth.

She didn’t fix her hair. Her twists were hanging down her back heavy and dull. No gloss. No lashes. No perfume. She didn’t turn on the ring light. There was no soundtrack tonight. Just the low hum of the TV. A faint chirp from the dead battery in the smoke detector. The rhythmic click of her mouse. She stared at the login screen of ObsidianPlay for longer than she meant to.

It was a choice. Every time. And every time it felt like giving herself away one frame at a time.

She clicked the button.

LIVE.

The feed opened in silence. Her face wasn’t visible. Just the low-angle view of her thighs parted slightly on the floor, her stomach rising and falling with every slow breath. She shifted, sighing softly. No music. No smile. No show. The screen filled with viewers faster than usual. Notifications pinged silently on the side. She didn’t acknowledge them. Didn’t wave. Didn’t ask how anyone’s night was.

She just let them watch.

Her hands moved slow. She didn’t spread herself wide or arch her back in some performance-ready pose. She rubbed soft, absent circles over the fabric of her panties, then slid them down one leg at a time. Her breaths were audible now. Shaky. Tired. Real. She leaned back slightly, legs bent, her heels pressed into the carpet. Her head tipped back. Her fingers moved again—slower now, slower than any clip she’d ever sold. Her other hand reached up, held the hem of her tank to her chest. Her nipples were stiff against the fabric, her lips slightly parted.

Comments poured in, but she didn’t read them. Her eyes barely opened.

“Yeah,” she said, so quietly the mic barely caught it, “Right there.”

Her voice cracked just a little.

There was no moaning tonight. No over-the-top gasp. Just breath. Her body rocked gently, thighs twitching from effort. Her brows pinched at one point. She came without warning—low, quiet, like a tremble passing through her. She exhaled, shivering a little, and then she stilled. She didn’t thank the tippers. Didn’t flash a smile. She sat there for a while, still breathing hard, eyes locked on the baby monitor screen in the corner. And then her face turned, just slightly, toward the lens. For one fleeting second, she let them see the pain that came after.

She shifts her weight on the carpet and reaches just out of frame, fingers curling around silicone still cool from the air. She brings it back into view slowly, not teasing, not presenting it like a prize. Just honest. She doesn’t look at the screen when she settles it between her thighs. Her lips part as she guides it against herself, her free hand bracing on the floor. The first press makes her flinch. She exhales through her nose, steadying. There’s no rush. No theatrics. Just the slow push as she sinks down, inch by inch, her brows knitting together while her body adjusts.

Her hips roll once, experimentally. Then again.

She’s not fully gone yet. Her mind is still on rent. On the number she saw in her bank app. On the way her mother sighed like Malaya was a burden she never put down. But her body responds anyway. Her thighs tense. Her shoulders drop a fraction.

She starts moving with more intention.

Not fast. Just deliberate. Her tank rides up slightly with the motion, exposing the soft stretch of her stomach. The toy glides easier now, slick with her warmth. She presses her lips together, a quiet sound catching in her throat when it finally starts to feel good in that slow, sinking way that makes everything else blur.

Then the notification hits.

A large one.

Her eyes flick to the screen before she can stop herself.

Camera0ff tipped.

The number makes her inhale sharply. Her hips stutter. Her grip tightens. Something shifts in her chest, not joy exactly, but relief mixed with pressure. She sits up straighter. Rolls her shoulders back. Gives more than she was giving before.

“Okay,” she breathes, barely audible.

She rides it now. Still restrained, still tired, but present. Her movements grow steadier. Her thighs lift and fall. Her hand slides to her chest, fingers brushing beneath the hem of her tank. Her nipple presses against the fabric, dark and obvious now.

Her breathing deepens. Her eyes close.

She comes again quietly. No cry. Just a sharp exhale and a tremor that moves through her whole body. She stills with the toy seated deep, her head bowing forward as she rides out the sensation. When she lifts it, thick slick clings and stretches before breaking. It drips down the length, catching the dim light from the hallway.

She watches it for a second.

Calculating.

She swallows, then looks toward the screen.

“Y’all want me to,” she starts, stops, clears her throat, “Want me to clean it?”

The chat explodes.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation. She leans forward and wraps her mouth around it, slow and deliberate, lips slicking over what she just left behind. Her cheeks hollow slightly. Her tongue traces. She keeps her eyes down, lashes casting shadows on her face. It’s intimate in a way that feels almost too much. When she pulls it free, she doesn’t wipe her mouth.

Instead, she shifts position.

She sets the toy aside and spreads herself open with both hands, silent. No smile. No commentary. Just showing. Her folds glisten. Wet, messy, honest. She lifts one leg high, knee bent, opening herself further. The angle changes everything. Her tank slips again, revealing the curve of her breast, the edge of her nipple peeking out fully now.

She stays like that.

Breathing.

The chat goes wild.

Another tip hits.

Camera0ff again.

Her lips part in something close to a smile this time, though it doesn’t reach her eyes. She glances once at the baby monitor, then back toward the lens, holding the pose just a few seconds longer. Then she lowers her leg, reaches forward, and ends the stream without a word.

She clicked end stream.

And the screen went black

$700. 

She stares at the screen a moment longer than she needs to, index finger resting on the corner of the trackpad. Her thighs are still sticky with drying oil, her tank top clinging to her back where the sweat gathered. The light from the TV fades as she clicks it off, and the room dips into shadows. The baby monitor hums. Messiah turns over in his sleep. A rustle. A sigh. Then stillness.

Malaya exhales.

She doesn’t cry tonight. She doesn’t smile either. Just drags the oversized hoodie over her head, its hem brushing against her thighs. It smells like cocoa butter and detergent. Safe. Quiet. Not sexy.She wipes the toy down in silence, the towel already stained from the last few shows. She puts everything away like she’s locking up the register. Phone in hand. Screens closed. Earnings saved. She crawls into bed sideways. One knee bent. One hand beneath the pillow. The hoodie slips slightly at the neck, exposing the damp slope between her shoulder and chest. Her fingers scroll out of habit. Nothing to see. No one to talk to.

But then—the a message appears.

One new DM.

From a name she doesn’t recognize.

GodbodyAnon.

No icon. No bio. No posts. Just a message.

You always look tired after the ride. I’d take care of you if you let me.

Her thumb freezes above the glass. Something about the message stills her. Not the words, but the weight behind them. It doesn’t read like a demand. It reads like… observation.

She clicks the profile.

New account. No followers. No comments. Just silence and that single message. Not even a token trail. He’s either smart or watching from a distance. Possibly both.

Her first instinct is to block him. A man noticing her fatigue isn’t always kindness. Sometimes it’s just strategy. A soft angle to slip in before the hard push. But something holds her there.

She rereads it.

You always look tired after the ride...

Ride. Not show. Not bounce. Not “stream.” Ride. Like he was really watching. Her stomach tightens. Not fear. Not desire. Something more complicated. Something that coils near the ribs and stretches under the skin like memory.

She taps her nails against the glass. Types.

You new?

Waits. A full minute passes.

Not really. Just never had something to say until now.

She shifts on the bed. The baby monitor clicks once, then settles. Her legs are bare beneath the hoodie, toes flexing against the sheet. She tells herself this is curiosity. Not need. Not attention-seeking. Not loneliness.

Just curiosity.

You talk like you know me.

Another pause. Then:

You looked beautiful tonight. But your shoulders dropped when you thought nobody noticed. That’s what made me write.

She stares at the message. Her throat tightens.

She types, then deletes. Types again.

I’m not really the fantasy tonight. That’s what made it better.

He doesn’t ask for anything. No photos. No tip menu tease. Just stillness.

Then another message.

You ever let someone rub that oil in for you?

She clenches her legs together. The robe beneath her shifts. Her body remembers how long it’s been since hands touched her with care instead of cost. Since someone asked without expecting a transaction in return.

You don’t even know my name.

I don’t need it. I see you.

The lamp on the nightstand flickers low. Her chest rises once, slow. Then again. She looks at the monitor. Messiah is still. Peaceful. The one pure thing she’s managed to protect.

She shouldn’t keep typing.

She does anyway.

Don’t catch feelings over fantasy, baby. It’s dangerous in here.

He doesn’t respond right away. And that  somehow feels worse than if he had. She leaves the thread open. No block. No warning. Just a flick of her thumb, a glance at the time, and the quiet breath she holds too long before she lets it go. In the dark, across town, Smoke watches the screen light up. He doesn’t type again tonight. He lets her linger.Malaya pulled her hoodie to her chin, closes her eyes without realizing she never locked her heart back up.

She doesn’t know who GodbodyAnon is.

Saturday Morning —8:12 AM

Messiah’s soft whine was what woke her. Not a cry, not a scream, just the slow, rising sound of his discomfort. Malaya stirred before she opened her eyes, hand instinctively reaching across the sheets for her phone. The screen glowed. Almost 8:15. The sun was already pressing light into the corners of the room, filtered through crooked blinds and dust in the air. She sat up slow, blinking the crust from her eyes. Her body ached— not sharply, but in that dull, mother-worn way that clung after days of doing too much with too little.

“Hey, baby,” she said quietly, voice still cracked from sleep. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and padded to his bed. 

Messiah kicked his feet at the sight of her. One sock missing. Pull up full. She kissed his forehead and lifted him into her arms, holding him against her chest as she moved into the kitchen. The floor creaked under her heel. There was no rush today. No badge to clip. No scrubs to wear. No clock to race. She changed him on the couch, humming something low as he babbled broken words at her. After, she set him gently into the high chair and snapped the tray in place.

She had $650 in her account. It wasn’t enough, not for everything, but she pulled out her phone while the water boiled for grits and she prepped the eggs and bacon. She’d push it towards rent anyway. Left herself with $42 and change. She’d get the rest on Friday. They ate together, him clapping his hands when the spoon danced in front of his mouth, her smiling soft between yawns and bites of toast.

It was their ritual.

Saturdays were slower.

Quieter.

After wiping his mouth and setting the dish in the sink, Malaya glanced toward the front door.

Something felt…she didn’t know. Just felt.

She opened it to check the mail, barefoot on the step in her oversized tee. The morning was cool, but not cold. Dew still clung to the railing.

That’s when she saw them.

Boxes.

A stack of them.

Three piled neatly, two others just off to the side, like the driver had run out of balance. Her name was printed on each label. Correct apartment number.

No mistake.

Malaya blinked. Looked up the street, then back down. Nobody was around. She gathered them slowly, carrying two at a time. Had to nudge one inside with her foot. Her chest was tight with curiosity. She hadn’t ordered anything. She slid a knife from the drawer and sliced through the first box.

A new cam stand. Adjustable. With a ring light mount and USB adaptor. The kind she bookmarked months ago but never bought.

Her brows lifted.

The second box had a sleek tablet. For kids. Protective case. Preloaded with learning games. She swallowed. The sound stuck in her throat.

Third box: LED lighting strips. New webcam. Velvet throw blanket. Microphone with a pop filter.

The fourth was smaller. Labeled discreetly. She opened it in her bedroom.

The air changed.

Inside was a Bluetooth toy, still in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Remote-enabled. Retail price burned into her memory from all the nights she window-shopped it. Two cute plugs in pastel pink. One with a gem at the base. Another with a rose-shaped tip. There was a note card tucked between tissue paper. No words. Just a barcode. Underneath that was a small glass bottle of perfume. Soft, powdery, with notes of honey and sandalwood. It smelled expensive. A new lip gloss. High shine. Nude brown.

And finally…

Lingerie.

Wine-colored lace, sheer with delicate embroidery. Her size. Malaya sat on the edge of her bed and stared at it all. Her hands were shaking a little. She reached for her phone, opened the tracking app she used to monitor wishlist deliveries.

MoTh3rL0ad88

All of them. Every single one. Whoever they were, they’d spent good money. On things she needed. On things she wanted but would never admit out loud.

Not just for the camera. For her.

Malaya blinked hard, the sting behind her eyes catching her by surprise. She turned away from the boxes and glanced at the monitor. Messiah was still in his high chair, gumming his spoon, humming to himself. She pressed her palms to her thighs then back to her chest then over her lips.

She smiled. Just a little.

She stood slowly, still half-dazed. The boxes were open now, contents spread across her bed like a strange altar, one of softness and pleasure, of being seen in ways she hadn’t felt in months.

Her phone buzzed in her palm.

Venmo.

She hadn’t even remembered checking it lately. Wasn’t expecting much. A few tips here and there. Maybe a stray twenty if someone had been generous during the last show. She opened the app without thinking.

And froze.

$2,175.42

Her heart stopped. She stared. Closed the app. Opened it again. Still there. Still real.

Messiah let out a squeal from the kitchen, banging his spoon like a little drum. She turned and looked at him, stunned. He burst into a giggle—that full-body kind that made his curls bounce and his nose scrunch.

Malaya laughed too, hand pressed to her chest like she needed to catch her breath.

“You see this, baby?!” she called, walking back to him with the phone raised, “You see this?”

Messiah just slapped his tray, beaming.

She glanced down at the payment note. It was split across three transactions. Anonymous tip amounts. No cute messages. No emojis. Just a username:

MoTh3rL0ad88

Her brows furrowed. She’d never seen that one before. Sounded like some old man. Some sugar daddy behind a burner account. Probably watched her show in silence. Probably the type to jerk off slow in a recliner while calling her “baby girl” in his head. Still, she didn’t care. She was grateful. More than that, she was lit up inside. The kind of lit that felt like fresh oxygen after being underwater too long.

Rent was covered now. Groceries too.

She could even stop at Marshalls, get Messiah a few new onesies, maybe that paw patrol blanket he pointed to last time. Malaya scooped him out of the chair and held him close, kissing the side of his head.

“Somebody lookin’ out for us,” she whispered, “Somebody out there…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. Just closed her eyes and let the moment settle.

8:42 AM–Smoke’s House, West End, ATL

Silence. Darkness. That’s the way he liked it, dim and disciplined, still holding the scent of eucalyptus from the cold steam that hissed under his bathroom door earlier. Fog lingered in the mirror, but not on his skin. His muscles glistened faintly, the sharp lines of his back twitching each time he flexed his grip around the mug.

He was shirtless now, black durag tied clean and flat, a soft knot resting at the nape of his neck. Black joggers hung low on his hips, waistband folding as he sat deep into the black leather sunken couch, one leg stretched long across it, the other braced against the floor.

His place was all restraint and ritual. Nothing cluttered. Nothing soft except the weight of the silence. The living room was curated in Smoke’s image—sharp, sensual, unbothered. Framed black-and-white photography along the wall, most too dark to read unless you studied them. The biggest one? A nude Black woman, faceless, her back turned to the camera, spine like a soft blade beneath skin. Strong. Still. Private.

The vinyl in the corner hadn’t been touched this morning. But the D’Angelo record stayed propped against the turntable like a holy book left open. He didn’t need the needle to move to hear the rhythm. He sipped his coffee slowly. No cream. No sugar. Mug heavy in his hand, warm against his rings. Silver kissed ceramic every time he drank. His other hand held a book—“Black Skin, White Masks.” Worn spine. Pages dog-eared, underlined, annotated.

Smoke always read with a pencil tucked behind his ear.

He underlined the sentence.

Not only must the black man be black; he must be black in relation to the white man.

But his mind slipped.

A flicker from the phone on the end table.

Small screen. New alert.

Malaya had received the packages. Safely. Untampered.

He’d set it up that way—each delivery scanned and tagged with tiny RFID slips. The moment she brought them inside and tore the tape, he knew. No interference. No porch pirates. No missing pieces.

He took another slow sip.

And for a few seconds…just let himself see her.

Not the curated, filtered LaceyBlaze69 version.

But her. The girl who sighed when her feet hurt. Who rubbed her shoulder after holding her son too long. Who still wore cheap slippers from Family Dollar with the fur curling off the edge. She didn’t even like doing cam shows every night.

He could tell.

He’d watched enough to know what her real moans sounded like…and which ones were forced out just to hit a tip goal. She didn’t even smile half the time anymore.

And still—she did it.

Did it tired. Did it hungry. Did it lonely. Trying to be everything at once: woman, mother, provider, soft and strong in a world that didn’t know how to handle either.

That was what got him. Not the show. Not the flash of thighs or spit on toys. The ache she tried to bury. The softness she never got to show.

“Im see everything you try to hide, and that’s what I want to touch.”m

That was how his obsession worked. Not loud. Not entitled. It bloomed in the quiet. In the in-between. He lifted his phone and pulled up the secured tracker connected to the final package. The one he packed himself. The one that hadn’t been opened yet. It sat in her apartment still sealed—he’d chosen every piece inside like a man sculpting the shape of a confession.

 A Bluetooth toy, sleek and glossy black. Still warm from where it rested inside its molded case. Remote-enabled.

Two butt plugs in pastel pink. One tipped with a jeweled base. One shaped like a rose bloom.

 A small bottle of perfume—powdered, faintly sweet, with notes of honey and sandalwood. A scent meant for the back of her knees. Her pulse points. Her sheets.

 A nude gloss with high shine. Kissable.

 And the centerpiece…lingerie. Wine-colored lace. Sheer. Floral embroidery at the cups. Scalloped trim. Backless. Cut to reveal. Her size. Perfectly matched. He’d studied her frame for months to get it right.

Smoke’s jaw tensed. She hadn’t opened it yet.

He liked that.

That it was still waiting.

Like him.

She’d put it on one day. Even if just for herself. Maybe while she fed her son, or cleaned her living room, or lay back and caught her breath before logging on. She’d tug those straps over her thighs. Adjust the bust. Smell that perfume drift off her collarbone.

And she’d feel it. The weight of being wanted. By someone she didn’t even know…was already in love with her bruises. He flipped the page in his book, but didn’t read it. His mind was already on the next move. The next name. The next message. Her next breath.

The closet light flicked on low—motion sensor.

Soft glow washed over neatly arranged black slacks, pressed tees, two rows of designer sneakers boxed like inventory, and the upper shelf with his locked case: cash, crypto, watches, weapons. That day’s mood dictated what went on the body. Today?

All black.

Smoke pulled a fitted thermal over his head. Fabric whispered against his skin. Muscles flexed, tensed, relaxed. He didn’t rush. He never rushed.

That was the secret to control. Don’t move fast. Move smart.

He fastened his dark wash jeans. 

Gold chain, hung low against his chest. Faint scorpion ink peeked from his fade as he leaned in to lace up his sneakers—minimal, quiet. Like him.

But his mind was loud.

Malaya.

The name dropped in again like it always did—uninvited, unshaken loose. He gritted his teeth and reached for his watch.

Been a year since he last fucked. Drier than he’d ever been in his life. Not cause he couldn’t. Cause he didn’t want to waste the nut. Most women felt like noise now. Clingy. Clout-thirsty. Chaotic. They wanted the myth of him, not the man. Wanted the dick, not the damage. And he was too old, too sharp, too damn obsessed to let his body become someone else’s vanity project.

He didn’t chase women. He tracked purpose.

But her?

That damn girl with the soft voice and slow eyes. That postpartum belly she never tried to hide. That pussy he hadn’t even touched but knew—knew—would wreck him. That voice that made his breath hold.

LaceyBlaze69.

She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or maybe she did. Maybe that’s what made it worse.

He’d watched. Too long. In the dark. Quiet. Hand gripped firm, jaw clenched, breath tight. Not even dirty strokes.  Hungry ones. The kind where he imagined her thighs shaking against his chest. The kind where he whispered her username like a psalm against his wrist. Where he stayed hard after, breathing deep, like he’d been starved and fed too little.

He stared at himself in the mirror now. Cold. Focused.

But his mouth twitched.

He’d played out whole scenarios. How he might show up at her door after dropping that package. How he’d stand quiet, all black, eyes low, voice deeper than need.

“Let me in.”

Or maybe he’d wait. Make her come to him. Watch her from the car, memorize the way her hands moved with her kid, the way her tank tops didn’t hide a damn thing. Wait for the day she looked into the dark and felt him watching.

He had plans, he just hadn’t picked one.

Yet.

Smoke stepped back into the hallway. Sunlight crept past the edges of the velvet curtains—thick, gold-dusted things that barely let the world in. A single sliver of light caught the back of his neck. Warmed the skin between his shoulder blades.

That spot had been on his mind for weeks. Right between the blades. The only place he hadn’t inked yet.

Hidden. Centered. Weighted.

He didn’t know the design. But he’d been feeling it. Like an itch beneath the skin. Like something needed saying that only pain and permanence could spell out.

Sol would know. She always did. She read bodies like prayers. Inked truths you didn’t say aloud.

Smoke rolled his neck, felt the tension there.

You didn’t stumble on The Parlor. You were led.

Down a tight brick alley behind a shuttered Black bookstore in West End, past rusted fire escapes and faded murals still bleeding protest. One door. No sign. Just peeling red paint, a black veil curtain behind cracked glass, and an old knocker shaped like a serpent swallowing its own tail.

Smoke rapped three times.

Waited.

The door cracked open. Not wide. Just enough for the scent to curl out—vetiver, tobacco, isopropyl, melted wax. Then Shay pulled it wider and stepped aside.

“You late,” she said, like always.

Shay was Sol’s wife, tall and sarcastic, with golden-brown skin and arms covered in black ink roses. She had a tiny blade tattooed under one eye and wore cropped denim with a black bra top. A septum ring. Chrome stiletto nails. Every part of her said don’t ask dumb shit.

Smoke grunted, stepping inside, “I brought it,” he said, lifting the brown paper bag.

She took it without breaking stride—12-year Japanese whisky. No label. She sniffed it once and nodded.

“Always coming through. She’s ready if you wanna go back.” 

The shop was dim, as always.

No overhead fluorescents. No harsh light. Just one stained-glass lamp over the back station and the flicker of candlelight tucked in corners. Walls were charcoal, but you could see hints of something older beneath—red wallpaper curled at the seams like shed skin. Wax bottles lined the shelves, each dripped like it bled. A massive alligator skull sat near the register, jaw parted just enough to hold crumpled bills.

The only sound was The Internet’s “Get Away” playing low. Vinyl. Needle hiss. Nothing digital.

Sol was already in the back, barefoot.

Black linen jumpsuit. Hair wrapped in a dark cloth, but the thick black locs still trailed down her spine, bone beads swaying like wind chimes in a crypt. She stood with her back to him, laying out fresh needle packs with surgical calm.

Smoke’s jaw relaxed. He stepped close.

She turned—slowly, fluidly—and offered him a quiet look. Hazel-green eyes, ringed in darkness. Her gaze moved over his face. Down to his chest.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. She let him. This was their ritual. No words. Just silence and inking.  He stepped past her to the chair. Unzipped his hoodie. Peeled off his thermal. Bare from the waist up.

“Where?” she finally asked. Her voice was low. Raspy. Like wind on burnt sugar.

“Back,” he said, pointing, “Center. Just below the neck. No bigger than your palm.”

Sol nodded once. No more questions.

She began to prep.

No music back here. Just the soft squeak of gloves and the buzzing flicker of her antique lamp. Her station was spotless—everything covered in silk cloth until needed. She wiped down the chair, then cleaned his skin with a chilled antiseptic. Smoke didn’t flinch, but his breath slowed. That was Sol’s magic.

She picked up the stencil l—her design. One she’d drawn without asking. A hollow triangle, clean and minimal. Beneath it, three thin stacked lines. Like a personal cipher. Sacred geometry meets encryption. Symbol of control, of unity. Of power kept hidden. She placed the stencil between his shoulder blades. Pressed firm. Peeled. He sat still, elbows on knees, spine bowed just enough.

Sol moved around him silently, checking angles. Then she dipped her machine in black ink. Adjusted her grip.

The needle began to buzz.

Smoke exhaled.

He didn’t speak. He never did during the first line. Sol’s hand was steady. She worked in slow, deliberate strokes—never rushed. Her own breath matched his. Her nose ring caught the overhead light once when she leaned in. Her foot tapped once against the creaking floor. Outside, the world didn’t exist but inside, there was just needle and nerve. Skin and scripture.

Smoke didn’t flinch. He didn’t need to see it. He knew what it meant. This tattoo was for no one’s eyes but his own. Hidden like the rest of him. Shielded behind silence and obsession and layered control. A triangle for sight, mind, and discipline. Three stacked lines for everything he never says out loud. A new mark, placed by the only person he trusted to ink him.

Sol wiped the fresh line and pressed down gently.

Smoke closed his eyes.

And the work continued.

1:12 PM – Saturday Afternoon, Marshalls

The sun had warmed the day just enough to feel like a soft kind of forgiveness. Not too hot, not too loud just quiet and easy. Malaya pulled the sleeves of her loose top down over her wrists and adjusted the strap of her purse across her chest as she pushed the cart inside. High-waisted jeans hugged her waist, hugging the stretch she used to hide with longer shirts. Her top hung off one shoulder like a shrug, breezy and effortless, while her twists were tucked into a tidy bun she’d thrown up before leaving the house. She didn’t have on much, just lip balm, a little brow pencil but she still felt good. Not because she looked like somebody, but because she didn’t have to rush. Messiah was perched in the child seat of the cart, legs kicking in his little velcro sneakers, pointing excitedly every few seconds.

“Dat!”

“Wassat, mommy?”

“More!”

She laughed, shaking her head as she wheeled the cart down the baby aisle first. He reached for a stuffed Sonic The Hedgehog. She let him hold it.

“You gon’ name him or naw?” she asked, He babbled something back and stuffed the Sonic teddy in his mouth.

They moved slowly. Malaya let herself enjoy it. She picked up a few more little toddler tops, some little sneakers, a book with flaps and mirrors. Messiah slapped the pages as she flipped through.

They lingered by the home goods section next. A throw blanket she didn’t need but couldn’t resist. A new shower caddy. Cinnamon-scented candles she’d never light but liked to sniff anyway. She let Messiah help pick out a new bath towel. He chose the one with blue sharks. She smiled and dropped it in the cart. By the time they reached the beauty section, he was slouched, thumb in his mouth, eyes drooping.

“Stay up,” she whispered with a grin, “We got two more aisles, then we hittin’ Chick-fil-A.”

He perked up at that, making a sleepy noise of agreement. Malaya scanned the shelves for new makeup sponges, a fresh brow pencil, a deep berry gloss that reminded her of a show she did months ago. She reached for a travel-sized lotion that smelled like clean cotton and added it to her basket. Then she spotted a small carry-on travel bag in muted olive. Sleek. Understated. Hers was raggedy. This one had gold zippers. She ran her fingers across it, then set it gently in the cart. It wasn’t for a trip. Not yet, but maybe one day. At checkout, the total didn’t make her flinch. She tapped her card without hesitation and grabbed Messiah’s little juice pouch from her purse while they bagged up the items. As they stepped into the parking lot, the wind picked up just a little. Messiah squinted against the sun, still clutching his new stuffed animal and other toys. 

“Say bye-bye, Marshalls,” Malaya said playfully.

“Buh-byyyye,” Messiah echoed, waving his fat fingers at the automatic doors.

She loaded him into the back seat, buckled him in, then leaned into the trunk to fit the bags. For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t calculating what had to be returned. She wasn’t worried if she’d have to dip into her backup fund, or hold off on groceries to make rent. For once, the world was still, just her and Messiah and a full backseat of things that didn’t have to be begged for.

She climbed into the driver’s seat, adjusted the mirror, and smiled.

“Chick-fil-A,” she said out loud, tapping the wheel, “Then home.”

From the back seat, Messiah clapped his Sonic stuffed animal’s hands together.

The line inside Chick-fil-A was long enough to make her rethink the stop, but Messiah had spotted the cow through the window and lost his little mind with excitement. Malaya sighed, pushed open the glass door with her hip, and maneuvered the stroller inside, her purse tugging on one shoulder. Messiah kicked his light-up Buzz sneakers, a sticky straw wrapper clinging to his pants from the car ride. He was humming his little tune, clutching his tablet to his chest like it was a shield, though it had been dead for the last fifteen minutes.

She was tired but trying. That was the rhythm of her life. Every small joy scraped from the edge of exhaustion. She bounced a little on her feet, trying to keep Messiah occupied as they waited for their order. He was giggling now, asking for sauce he wouldn’t eat and poking his fingers into the cupholder on the stroller. The man behind the counter called her number, and she leaned over to grab the bags when a voice stopped her.

“Malaya?”

She turned. At first, her mind scrambled, searching for something familiar. Then it clicked.

“Jordan?” she blinked.

He laughed, stepping forward, and it hit her all at once same smile, same skin that always looked warm no matter the season, but grown now. Grown in a way that made her heart stutter for just a second. His face was broader, beard filled in, and he carried himself with a quiet, settled ease. Not flashy. Just…content. His hair styled in a tapered curly fro with a clean hairline. and his black hoodie pulled snug over strong shoulders. Still had that soft anime nerd sweetness in his light brown, expressive eyes, though.

“Damn,” he said, flashing a grin, “I wasn’t sure that was you.”

She laughed, shifting the tray onto the stroller and adjusting the strap of her purse, “Yeah. It’s been a minute.”

“At least ten years, right? Since high school?”

“Something like that,” she nodded, “You still in the city?”

“For now. Just came back from visiting my mama. She’s still in the same house, yelling at the same neighbors.”

Malaya chuckled, then motioned to the stroller, “This is Messiah.”

Jordan crouched slightly, offering the little boy a wave, “What’s up, young king?”

Messiah blinked up at him, shy, then leaned back with a small smile. Malaya reached down and tugged the napkin over his lap.

Jordan straightened again, looking her over in a way that was gentle, not greedy. “You look…good,” he said carefully, “I mean, I always knew you’d grow into something special, but—yeah. You look happy.”

“Do I?” she asked, not bitter, just amused.

He tilted his head, “You got that mom tired look, but otherwise…good.” 

She smiled, soft and private, “Thanks. You got kids?”

“One. A boy. Shiloh. He’s four,” he said, pulling his phone out and flipping it around to show her a lockscreen photo. A little boy with big eyes and wild curls grinned up at the camera, popsicle in hand.

Malaya tilted her head, admiring the photo, “He’s adorable. Got those big ‘I get away with everything’ eyes.”

Jordan chuckled, “Yeah, he gets that from me. The trouble too.”

She laughed—warm, full. The kind that caught her off guard, that made her feel like herself again for just a breath.

Jordan rubbed the back of his neck, his grin softening. “It’s wild seeing you here. I mean… I’ve thought about you before. Like, damn…I wonder what Malaya’s up to these days.”

She didn’t jump to fill the silence, just smiled a little. Then said, “Working hard. Dealing with this little guy. It’s hard but…he’s my heart and soul.”

Jordan’s eyes dropped to Messiah, who was now trying to eat a fry and hum at the same time, “He got your smile.”

Malaya looked at her son and nodded, “Mm. That he does. His good-for-nothing daddy took over the rest. But at least he got my chocolate skin.”

Jordan chuckled, gaze lingering on her a second longer than necessary, “Sho’ nuff.”

She nodded, folding the straw wrapper in her hand. She hadn’t had a real conversation with a man in weeks that wasn’t wrapped in DMs or veiled requests for more. This was…different. Familiar in a way.

“Look,” he said, stepping a little closer, “I don’t wanna hold you up, but…if you ever feel like catching up—just talking or whatever—can I get your number?”

She hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to. But because everything in her life required calculation now. Every new connection could cost her peace. But he wasn’t a stranger. He was Jordan. The boy who used to doodle on his sneakers and wear Naruto shirts. He used to sit behind her in chem and pass her his extra pencils when she always forgot hers. He wasn’t flirting heavy. He wasn’t pressing. He just looked like somebody she used to trust.

So she pulled out her phone, handed it over.

He typed in his number and texted himself.

“Alright. I’ll let you go feed your boy,” he said, smiling again, “Don’t be a stranger.”

She nodded, then watched him leave—hoodie half-zipped, jeans cuffed, walking like he had nowhere to be but still meant to be there. Messiah tapped the stroller,  impatient. She gave him a nugget. Her phone buzzed. She looked down.

[New Message from: Jordan — 404-xxx-xxxx]

For the record…your smile’s still the same.

She shook her head, half-grinning, then took a sip of her lemonade. Messiah crunched into his nugget, ketchup on his cheek. 

5:41 PM – Saturday Evening Malaya’s Apartment, East Point

The front door clicked shut behind her, a soft thud of tired satisfaction. Malaya pressed her back to it for a second, exhaled slow through her nose, then hoisted the shopping bags up one more time and made her way inside. Messiah was still chattering about fries. “Fry fry fry fry fry,” he sang from the crook of her arm, legs kicking with toddler glee.

“You lucky you cute,” she muttered under her breath with a smirk, stepping around the scattered sneakers near the door, “Always get a toy and fries outta me.”

She set the bags down on the couch first, then carried Messiah to his high chair—an old hand-me-down from a cousin but still sturdy. She snapped him in, kissed the top of his head, and got him a plastic bowl filled with cut-up nuggets, apple slices, and half of her Chick-fil-A fries.

“Mickey?” she asked, already reaching for the remote.

“Mih-mouse,” he nodded, wide-eyed. “Mihhh-key!”

She flipped to the channel, and like clockwork, the intro music filled the apartment. Messiah’s eyes lit up. His feet swung back and forth in rhythm, hands sticky with juice from the apples. Malaya grabbed her bag and slipped into the small kitchen just off the living room. She poured herself a little sweet tea, popped the lid off her salad, and sat at the corner table, their “dining area” pressed into the far wall of the living room, right by the heater vent. The table was wobbly. She balanced her plate with one hand and grabbed her phone with the other.

Jordan had already texted.

Jordan: Made it home yet?

She smiled and bit into her salad.

Malaya: Just sat down to eat. Mickey Mouse on blast lol. 

Jordan: Classic. That was Shiloh’s favorite too when he was little. It still is 😂 He acts like it’s brand new every time.

Malaya: That’s how you know he happy. Repeats are for the soul.

She paused, fork halfway to her mouth, thinking about how easy the messages felt. No pressure. Just back-and-forth. He didn’t flirt heavy — not yet. Just smooth, friendly… lowkey sweet. She glanced at Messiah, who now had fries in his lap, ketchup on his cheek, and was giggling at Goofy trying to hula hoop.

She took another bite and typed slowly.

Malaya: You ever come back to the old neighborhood?

Jordan: Sometimes. Moms moved though, so it’s rare. You still in East Point?

Malaya: Yeah. Been here a few years now.

Jordan: You ever go out?

She hesitated.

Her phone buzzed again before she could decide how to answer.

Jordan: I mean like for fresh air. Farmer’s market, music, whatever. Not tryna put you on the spot lol 😂.

That made her laugh, soft and soundless. She took a sip of tea, letting it cool the bite of vinaigrette on her tongue.

Malaya: I try. Depends on the day.

Messiah made a sound like “ta-da!” and flung his cup off the tray. It rolled under the table. 

Malaya set her phone down and stood up, grabbing a baby wipe and scooping him out, “You a whole mess, man-man,” she whispered, holding him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and leaned his head on her shoulder. She checked his pull-up, clean enough, and wiped his hands and face. Once he was wriggling again, she let him loose inside his playpen, a square of padded foam tiles and bright plastic toys. He crawled over to his musical drum set and started banging with glee.

Finally, finally, she could breathe.

She waited until Messiah was settled in his playpen, blocks scattered around him, Mickey Mouse still chattering softly in the background. Once she was sure he was content, Malaya stood and padded down the short hallway to her bedroom.

The door stayed cracked. Always.

The box sat exactly where she’d left it earlier, tucked against the foot of the bed like it belonged there. Plain brown. No branding. No drama. Just weight.

She sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled it into her lap. This time, she opened it slower. Inside, cushioned in smooth black tissue paper, was the Bluetooth toy. Still sealed in its high-end packaging. Glossy black. Sleek. The kind of design that looked more like modern art than something meant to disappear inside a body. Her breath caught when she saw it. Beneath it were two plugs in soft pastel pink. One capped with a small gem that caught the light. The other shaped like a rosebud, delicate and intentional. She touched the edge of the packaging with the tip of her finger, then pulled her hand back like it might burn.

There was a small card tucked between the layers of tissue. No message. No handwriting. Just a barcode printed clean and centered. Below that sat a small glass bottle of perfume. Heavy for its size. She uncapped it and inhaled without thinking. Honey and sandalwood bloomed warm against her senses. Powdery. Deep. The kind of scent that lingered close to the skin instead of announcing itself. A new lip gloss followed. Nude brown. High shine. She rolled the tube between her palms, imagining how it would look under low light.

And then the lingerie.

Wine-colored lace. Sheer, with delicate embroidery that traced curves like it already knew her body. Her size. Exactly. She lifted it carefully, letting it drape between her hands, the fabric catching on her fingertips.

Malaya sat there for a long moment, surrounded by the quiet hum of the apartment and the distant sound of her son laughing at something on the TV.

Her hands were shaking now.

She reached for her phone and opened the tracking app she used for her wishlist. Scrolled past the item list. Past the delivery confirmations.

There it was.

MoTh3rL0ad88.

Every item. Every purchase.

Grateful. Overwhelmed. A little afraid of how seen she felt.

She stared at the name, lips parted slightly, chest rising and falling as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs. She didn’t know who he was. Hadn't seen the name pop up in the chat before. Didn’t know why he’d done this. Didn’t know what he expected, if anything at all. She set the lingerie back in the box carefully, closed the lid, and rested her palm on top. But if she where being honest with herself, she knew what most men wanted. The ones who tipped big, who watched every night without blinking. A taste. A touch. A chance to fuck the girl behind the glass. Didn’t matter how soft their messages sounded,  eventually, they all circled the same flame. But she didn’t do meet-ups. Never had. Never would. That line stayed thick and final, no matter how badly rent pressed against her spine.

From the living room, Messiah let out another happy shriek, banging two toys together like cymbals.

Malaya smiled despite herself.

She wiped her hands on her jeans, stood, and went back to him.

11:19 PM — Malaya’s Apartment

 Messiah is asleep, the baby monitor steady on the dresser, screen dimmed but close enough that she can glance and know he’s still breathing, still safe. That knowledge settles her shoulders before anything else does.

Malaya pours herself a small glass of wine and lets it warm her chest. Not enough to make her sloppy. Just enough to loosen the tight coil she carries through the day. She locks the bedroom door, pulls the blackout curtains closed, and pins the black satin sheet to the wall behind her. The fabric catches the low light and gleams faintly, like it’s already wet.

She switches on the purple LED. The room changes. Not brighter. Thicker. Intimate. Private in a way that feels almost conspiratorial. She steps out of her clothes slowly. Not for the camera yet. Just for herself. Oil goes on first, warmed between her palms. She works it into her thighs, over the soft swell of her hips, across her stomach where skin still bears the quiet evidence of carrying a life. The oil turns her dark skin luminous, highlights catching on the curves she used to try to hide. Tonight she does not hide a thing.

The lingerie comes next. The wine-colored lace from the box. She slides it up her legs, the fabric gliding easily, crotchless and unapologetic. It fits her like it was designed with her body in mind. The plug goes in after, pink and smooth, gem cool against her fingers before it disappears inside her. She exhales, slow, steady, grounding herself in the feeling. A quiet fullness. A reminder that she is still capable of wanting.

Clear strap heels click against the floor as she steps into them. She fastens the anklet, settles the velvet choker at her throat, and lets her twists hang loose down her back. Her lips get one pass of nude-brown gloss. Nothing else. Her face stays out of frame anyway.

She sets the camera low, angled up. Thighs first. Stomach. The curve of her ass when she turns. She presses the suction dildo into place, adjusts the riding pillow beneath her, and brings the wand close enough that she can feel its promise without turning it on yet.

Music hums low in the background. Kut Klose slipping into the room like a secret. SZA after that. Brent Faiyaz. A rhythm that makes her hips move even before she tells them to.

She goes live.

The chat fills slowly. Names she knows. Names she pretends not to know. Tokens start to trickle in, soft chimes that barely register compared to the pulse in her body.

Camera0ff appears without announcement. No greeting. No words. Just there.

Her breath stutters anyway.

She doesn’t look at the chat when he’s in the room. Never does. But her body reacts like it knows. Her thighs spread wider. Her hand goes back to the oil, slicking more over her skin, letting it drip between her legs, letting it catch the light as it slides.

Another thousand tokens drops. Exact. Clean.

She rolls her hips forward and sinks down onto the dildo, slow enough that it makes her gasp. Not loud. Just honest. The plug shifts inside her, presses where she needs it, and her head tips back out of frame. She rides like she has nowhere else to be. Like she has all the time in the world.

DIYDemon23 pops into the chat, tipping with a familiar rhythm. A request scrolls by about tightening bolts, about hands and effort and sweat. She smiles to herself and shifts her weight, pretending to brace against something invisible, thighs flexing, body moving like she’s working at a problem that requires concentration. The tips follow. Predictable. Comfortable.

JustForTheTaste sends a small tip and a message about oil, about how sticky she looks. She drags her palms over her breasts, slow squeeze, letting the lace darken as it absorbs the shine. She says nothing, just breathes into the mic, lets the sound do the work.

NothinButNecks asks for her mouth. She leans closer to the camera, just enough that her collarbone and throat fill the frame. Glossy lips part. She tilts her head, exposing the long line of her neck, fingers tracing where a mouth might go. The tip lands heavier this time. She hums softly, low in her chest.

BILLS4U arrives like a storm. Big numbers. Heavy drops. A message flashes asking her to ignore him, to use him, to let the money talk while she rides. She obliges without comment. Turns her back to the chat, focuses on the mirror angled just enough to show the arch of her spine, the way her ass moves as she picks up speed.

She straddled the clear dildo in reverse, knees spread wide on the plush throw she kept laid out for nights like this. The soft LED lights glowed low behind her, catching on the slick sheen across her thighs. She wasn’t in a talking mood. No teasing. No tip menu. Just riding. Just fucking. Just giving them a show.

She’d started slow—rocking her hips like she was warming up for something deeper. Her fat pussy wrapped the toy with a wet sound that filled the mic even without her saying a word. A pastel pink plug winked between her cheeks every time she lifted, then dropped again with a bounce. She was oiled up to the shine, body glowing like she’d been dipped in desire. Breasts jiggling with every roll, Her mouth parted. No words. Just little sounds. Soft, breathy gasps that got sharper when the toy hit the right spot inside.

And it did.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Her rhythm got filthier. Not rushed. But filthy. Like she was sinking into it. Like her body took over and she was nothing but hips and thighs and wetness now. The suction toy beneath her pulled at her clit in slow pulses—one hand anchored on the floor, the other sliding up to squeeze a breast, fingers slick with her own mess.

Tokens fell in steady. But then it hit.

+1,000

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Camera0ff has tipped 1,000 tokens

Somewhere out there, he was watching her just like this—still, quiet, obsessed. She fucked the dildo harder. She arched, bracing herself as she pushed down until the toy disappeared all the way into her soaked cunt. Cream spilled down the base, thick and glistening. Her cheeks bounced with every slap of her hips against the toy.

Her pussy sounded so wet the audio glitched.

Squish. Squish. Squish.

The suction toy buzzed louder now. She spread her knees more, back bowed, bouncing in tighter circles. The plug kept her open. Made her more sensitive. Kept her needy. Her thighs were shaking, ass jiggling with every stroke. It was the kind of show that made the chat explode.

But she didn’t give them anything back.

No name drops.

No thank yous.

No dirty talk.

Just fucking.

She grabbed the toy beneath her and held it in deeper, grinding down slow while her fingers found her clit and rubbed in tight, messy circles. Her breathing got ragged. Her back flexed. Her pussy spasmed around the toy, dripping so much now the mess had soaked into the pillow beneath her.

And still, she didn’t cum.

She paused. Caught herself. Stayed right on the edge and let her body throb with it. Her eyes fluttered closed, head falling forward as she rocked again. This time slow. Deep. Her plug shifted with every grind, making her hips stutter and her mouth fall open again in a silent moan.

She wanted to give it to them. She almost did.

Across town, Smoke sat still.

Shirtless. Durag pulled low. Joggers tented. One hand slow inside the waistband, the other gripping the glass of dark liquor he hadn’t sipped since she started.

He didn’t blink.

Not once.

Her pussy looked unreal—glistening and stretched around that dildo like it was made just for her. Cream laced the toy, the base, her thighs. Her ass looked tight and soft, plug shimmering pink between her cheeks. He adjusted in the chair but didn’t stroke. Just watched. Obsession thick in his chest. Jaw clenched.

The camera shook for a moment when she switched angles—reversed herself just enough to show her spread pussy from the back. Lips swollen. Messy. Pushed apart by the fat toy buried inside her.

He exhaled through his nose, finally taking a sip of his drink.

She was everything.

Everything.

She slowed her ride with a trembling gasp, thighs slick, cunt clenching around the last thrust before she lifted off the dildo with a wet pop. The sound was loud. Filthy. The mic picked up everything—drip, squish, her breath catching as she settled back onto her heels, hair stuck to the sides of her face. The clear toy was soaked. Glazed. Cream coating the shaft and pooling at the base. She brought it to her mouth without a word. Just a look.

Eyes half-lidded. Lips parted.

She sucked the mess off slow at first, letting the tip glide across her tongue like a treat. Her lips wrapped around it, mouth hollowing as she cleaned herself from base to head, then deeper—until her gag reflex hit and she choked just enough to make spit bubble at the corners of her mouth. Her fingers gripped tighter. She pushed again, tried to take more, gagging louder now. Saliva dripped down to her tits, joining the streaks of sweat and oil.

She laughed. Low. Nasty. Smirk curling on her lips as she pulled it free and licked up the side, tongue flat. He couldn’t see her eyes but he just knew she looked dead into the camera. Like she knew what it was doing to him. She tossed the dildo aside with a little flick of her wrist and leaned back, planting both palms behind her. Spreading her legs.

That pussy was still creamy. Still twitching. Lips fat, glistening, parted just enough to tease the view of her clit. She grabbed the dildo again, slapping it between her folds a few times—sharp, juicy smacks that echoed. Each one louder than the last. Her pussy drooled on contact. The chat went wild.

slap slap slap

Wet strings of arousal stretched from her to the toy with every tap. Then she reached for the hot pink wand. It buzzed to life in her hand.

And that was all it took.

She brought it to her clit like she was desperate now. No teasing. No buildup. Just need. The vibrator met her with a sharp jolt and her hips jumped, knees knocking together before she spread them again—wider this time. She let the camera see everything. Her pussy wide open. Cream still leaking. Her clit twitching under the wand.

She started to moan. Short, broken sounds that spilled out whether she meant to or not. Her head rolled back. One hand slipped to her tit, squeezing while the other held the wand steady. The closer she got, the sloppier her movements became. She bucked into the toy now. Back arching. Thighs trembling.

Smoke leaned forward in his chair, jaw clenched.

His dick was rock hard. Veins bulging. Head pushing up against the cotton of his joggers like it wanted to tear clean through. That thick, long piece of him lay heavy across his thigh, twitching once when she started moaning louder. His hand slid back beneath the waistband, slow. Grip tight. He didn’t stroke yet. Just palmed it. Felt how big he’d gotten.

He couldn’t look away.

The screen showed every slick detail. That pussy—fat and stretched, still pulsing from the toy, twitching under the wand. The sound of her moaning. The buzz of the vibrator. The sticky slap of her mess dripping onto the pillow.

God, he wanted her under him. Wanted to slide that plug back in, hold her hips down, and make her scream into the mattress. He tilted the glass of liquor without drinking it, annoyed now. Not at her.

At the wand. That wasn’t the one he sent.

She hadn’t used the Bluetooth vibe he gave her. The one he could control. The one that let him tease her from across the city with a tap on his phone. She chose her own tonight.

He took a breath. Shook it off. Let the irritation melt into obsession again. Because she was close. She was fucking close.

Her legs were shaking. Wide open. Toes curled. Ankles flexed hard as her thighs trembled with the effort of staying upright, staying present—but her body was gone now. Gone to pleasure. Gone to that buzzing wand pressed tight to her clit.

The wand was soaked. Her pussy was messier than ever. Every pass across her clit made her hips jolt, made her eyes roll, made her breath catch in ragged little sobs of sound. She was close—so close it was crawling up her spine, clamping around her like a fist.

And then she started talking.

“Y-you’re making my pussy cum…fuck…you’re making my pussy cum…”

Her voice broke on it. Again.

“You’re making my pussy cum—”

The chant left her lips in breathless repetition. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she needed to say it to get there.

“It’s right on my clit…fuck…it’s right on my clit… feels so good…”

Her head tilted, lips trembling, bottom one caught between her teeth like she was holding on to her last bit of control. But her eyes—those eyes looked gone.

“Keep tipping me,” she gasped, barely able to say it through the moans, “if you wanna see this phat pussy squirt.”

The chat exploded.

+1000

+500

+1000—Camera0ff

She moaned louder. Back arched. Hips rolled. Her pussy flexed hard around nothing. Just twitching in the open air, on full display. Her cream had already soaked the pillow. Her clit looked swollen, shiny, almost trembling under the wand.

Smoke’s jaw locked tight. His hand was finally moving now—gripping his dick through his joggers as it jumped in his palm. That big, fat length twitched every time she said pussy. Every time she moaned through another wave. Every time she begged for tips like the whole room wasn’t watching her come undone.

And then she came.

Hard.

Her whole body jerked. A strangled moan punched out of her chest. Her legs tried to close, but she held them open with sheer will, forcing them wide as her orgasm tore through her.

She squirted. Once. Then again. A messy gush soaked the wand and sprayed down her inner thighs, making her cry out louder. Her hips bucked into it, chasing more, chasing the tail end of it while her voice got high and tight and shaky—

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck—”

She nearly dropped the wand. Managed to hold it just long enough for one final pulse, one last desperate moan as her cunt clenched hard, leaking and twitching. And then she collapsed back, chest heaving. Body twitching in the aftershocks. Her pussy was a mess. Raw and creamy and wide open.

Smoke let out a sound between a groan and a growl.

He needed her.

Bad.

The kind of need that made his throat tight and his balls ache. His dick strained so hard against his joggers it hurt. He sat there, eyes burning into the screen like he could brand her with his stare alone.

She hadn’t said his name once.

But that pussy? That pussy was his.

She giggled.

Not shy. Not sweet. That giggle had drip to it.

She was still sprawled out, legs wide, pussy glistening and open, a fucking mess between her thighs. Her body trembled just slightly from the comedown, but she didn’t close. Didn’t hide. She spread herself wider. Fingers at the lips, pulling her pussy open for the camera—fat, raw, creamy pink, glistening under the studio lights. The chat exploded.

I’d tongue fuck that til you passed out.

Bet you taste like fruit. 👅 

On my knees already, Queen 😍

Let me slide in raw. Cream for me just like that.

Why it look that juicy tho?!

I’d ruin it slow, you don’t even know 😮‍💨

Line after line. Filth pouring in from hard, horny men who couldn’t keep their hands off their dicks. They were ready to worship. Ready to pay. Ready to beg.

She lifted one leg high. Planted her foot flat. And started grinding slow—tiny rolls of her hips that made her still-leaking pussy glisten even more as DVSN came through the speakers soft in the background. A low, moaning R&B groove that matched the wet circles she rode on air. She licked her lips, tilted her head, smiled like she already knew how every single one of them would nut thinking about this later.

Then her voice came through, low and slick, “I’m about to log off now…but I’m accepting private chats from top tier members only.” She sucked her bottom lip. Let it pop back out, “If I’m feelin’ the vibes…might be down to talk dirty. Don’t be dry, though. Come correct.”

She blew a kiss.

Gave the camera one last spread. Pussy still twitching faintly, clit still swollen, thighs wet.

“Goodnight, freaks.”

And ended the stream.

The screen went black.

Across the city, Smoke sat in silence.

Still shirtless. Still hard.

That thick dick lay heavy in his hand, pulsing in his palm, fat at the tip and leaking. He hadn’t even finished. Couldn’t. Not yet. Not when his mind was stuck on her. That pussy. That fucking smirk.

He sat there for a beat.

Thinking.

He had never messaged her for dirty talk. Not directly. Not from Camera0ff. He kept that account quiet. Sterile. Eyes only.

But now?

He reached for his phone.

Opened a different profile. One he hadn’t used in weeks.

@YungCipher 🕶️

Verified. Still active. He cracked his neck. Wiped his hand on his thigh. Typed slow.

And started the private chat.

You said come correct. So let’s talk. I’ve been watchin’. You been fuckin’ up my sleep.

Now I want your attention. Just for me.

No music, no chat chimes. Just the soft whir of her mini fan and the sound of her own breath, still unsteady, still thick with the rhythm of what she just gave them. Her thighs were parted, one knee cocked up, the other draped low, toes touching the floor like an afterthought. Cream glistened on her inner thighs—slick, messy, the kind of mess that lingered when the show ended but the need didn’t.

Malaya shifted slow, lazy, her silk robe clinging wet to the curve of her hip where her body had gotten too warm, too sticky. The robe was barely tied, a soft sage green thing she always reached for post-show when she wanted to feel pretty. Luxurious. She liked how it looked against her skin, the way the sheen picked up the low light of her desk lamp and kissed her curves. Her nipples poked through the thin fabric—fat, round, still stiff, still aching. Her pussy? Still creamy. Still throbbing. Still open.

She kept the cam room up in the background just in case someone sent a late tip or left a filthy review, but her eyes were on her DMs. Waiting. Thirsty in more ways than one. That creamy POV she just did? Slurpy, moaning, talking dirty into the cam like she could feel every inch of the dick she was pretending to ride? She knew it went crazy. Knew it had ‘em gripping themselves, leaking, moaning back. She knew how they got. How they begged. How they paid.

She was just about to close the app when the message pinged.

💬 Yung Cipher: What’s good, mamas? Down to chat wit’ me? I’ll make it worth your while, I promise.

Malaya blinked at the name.

She knew that username.

YungCipher.

Didn’t show up often. Only during certain shows. The ones where her pussy was on full display—glossy, slow strokes, cream gliding down toys. That was when he’d appear. Never right away. Always late. He’d drop in, say something filthy in the chat—short, bold, blunt—and vanish just as quick, usually leaving behind a clean tip with no message.

She’d never paid him much mind. Until now.

Now he was DMing.

She sat up a little, adjusting her robe, tucking one leg underneath herself as she stared at the message again.

Something about it…felt different. Not desperate. Not thirsty. Just…smooth. Intentional.

She smiled slow, fingertips grazing her lips.

💬 Malaya: Well hey there, stranger. Sure, we can chat. We’ll see if it’s worth my time 😘”

She sent it and waited.

Curious. Tempted.

Still a little creamy.

Still thumping.

Just like he liked it. 

Malaya sat up a little straighter, the tension in her belly returning like heat blooming under her skin. Her heart tapped quick against her ribs. She saw it—bottom right corner.

💬 Yung Cipher: Still creamy, huh?

Her lips parted. She bit the lower one. The robe slid open just enough for a sticky string to stretch between her lips, creamy and slow. She shivered.

She clicked it with her thumb, pulse fluttering like a moth trapped behind her breastbone.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…figured you were watchin’. Took you long enough, nasty.

She hovered, waiting, still gently rocking in her chair like her body didn’t know the show was over yet. Her legs squeezed together without her permission. That text had her sitting up—robe sliding further off one shoulder, nipples dragging against silk, heat flashing behind her knees. Something about the way he said it. So casual. So knowing. Like he wasn’t guessing—he knew she was still creamy. Like he was still watching her now. She leaned her elbow on the desk, fingers brushing her lower lip as she stared at the screen. There was a new message.

💬 Yung Cipher: I seen how you creamed all on that toy. Shit was glossy. Fat, too.

Her breath caught. Her thighs twitched. Not even a full minute passed before another came in—

💬 Yung Cipher: You still dripping?

She didn’t type right away. She adjusted the camera even though the stream was off, instinctual. Turned the chair slightly so she could spread her legs again. The robe slipped open completely. She looked down. Cream still there. Puffy, parted lips glistening, folds sticky, twitching like they missed the toy already. It was obscene the way she was still open. Still needy. She sucked her fingers clean out of habit, then typed with her other hand.

💬 Malaya: Still dripping, baby. Wanna taste?

She giggled to herself, but it wasn’t sweet. It was thick with lust. With the type of hunger that curled up in the belly and wouldn’t let go.

The dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.

Her pussy throbbed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Nah. I wanna see it. Real close. Name your price. How much for a picture of that fat, creamy pussy? 

Malaya’s mouth fell open just slightly. She sat there, robe wide, pussy glistening, heart thudding. This wasn’t just tipping tokens in the chat anymore. This was direct. Intentional. A transaction of desire so specific it made her whole body hum. Her breath left her slow—like steam—and she tilted her hips in the chair without thinking, letting the air touch her.

She stared at the screen. Thought about the angles. Thought about how it would feel to send it. Thought about how bad he wanted it. Her fingers danced across the keyboard.

💬 Malaya: Depends…you want just the pussy? Or you want my fingers in it too?

She bit her lip.

💬 Malaya: $100 for the pic. $150 if I dip two fingers and show you what creamy really look like.

And then she waited. Dripping. Throbbing. Waiting for his answer like she’d already spent the money. Like her body wanted to be sold tonight.

The silence was syrupy.

Then—ding.

💬 Yung Cipher: $150. With two fingers. Slow. Creamy like you said.

The cash came through seconds later.

Cha-ching.

That PayNote alert hit her like a slap to the ass.

💸 Payment received: $150 from Yung Cipher

Malaya blinked, then grinned slow, teeth catching the inside of her cheek. Her nipples tightened again, responding before her brain even caught up. Her pussy gave a greedy twitch like it knew it had been purchased. Like it was proud. She clicked off the desk lamp. Let the screen glow light her.

Phone in hand now. Knees wide. Camera angle just right. She clicked to video mode. Took a deep breath and looked down.

Fat. Creamy. Puffy. Still leaking.

The lips were thick and plush, a dark rose shade flushed with blood, the inner folds glossy with wetness. Her slit still pulsed slightly—sensitive from her earlier release but greedy for more. The cream had pooled, coating her folds in milky white gloss. Her clit peeked out, shiny and swollen, practically begging for breath. She slid her fingers down once. Just to prep.

They came up glistening. Her breath hitched.

“F-fuck,” she whispered to herself.

The filth of it had her smiling. Wicked and pretty. She leaned back further. Raised her phone. Started the slow glide of her middle and ring fingers between her folds—just like he asked.

Two fingers. Slow.

She let the tips part her. Cream stretched in globs. Wet noises loud even without the mic. Her pussy opened like it missed being filled. Her fingers sank in just a little, just enough for the shot. Cream eased out, coating her fingers, dripping back onto her palm. It was a mess.

She snapped the pic.

Previewed it.

Her thick, wet pussy glistening under the glow of the screen. Fingers dipped and shining. A perfect strand of cream gliding across her middle knuckle like icing.

She sent it.

📷 Attachment sent: “malaya_creamy2fingers.jpg”

Then followed with a message:

💬 Malaya: You sure you don’t wanna upgrade to video? I’m still warm, baby. Still wet.

She hit send.

Her heart beat fast. Her robe slipped further. Her free hand drifted to her thigh again.

Another ping.

She didn’t even flinch—just licked her lips and leaned in. Eyes glowing in the light of the screen, the air around her humid with heat and musk and money.

💬 Yung Cipher:

“Nah.”

“I want that video.”

“Show me what them fingers do. Slow. Messy. Talk to me while you stroke it.”

Another notification hit.

💸 Payment received: $400 from Yung Cipher

With note: “Make me cum, mama.”

Malaya moaned under her breath, just at the message.

There was something about this one.

Yung Cipher wasn’t like the others. Didn’t fumble. Didn’t hesitate. His money came correct, his words came low and nasty, and his intent sliced through the screen like a hand at her throat. Malaya was slick just reading him.

She adjusted her camera.

Set her phone on the tripod, angled low—real low. The frame just showed the curve of her thighs, the dip of her hips, and the dripping heaven between. No face. Just raw, ruined, pussy.

She pressed record.

The first thing the camera caught? Her fingers spreading herself open.

Lips parted, folds swollen and glistening, clit hard and standing like it knew it was being watched. Her cream was thicker now—milky, wet, coating her entrance in glossy white where she’d clenched and released too many times tonight already.

She brought two fingers back to her opening. Eased in. A low moan slipped out her throat. Sticky. Sloppy. The sound of wet pussy filled the room. Her other hand lifted the bottom of the robe so her stomach and tits were visible too, jiggling slightly with every pump of her fingers.

Then came her voice. Sultry. Soft. Soaked in heat. 

“You see that, baby? That mess right there? That’s your fault…”

She pulled her fingers out. Cream spilled. She pushed them back in, slower this time. Grinding in circles. Her hips rolled with the motion, her clit twitching from proximity alone.

“These fingers just fillin’ in for you. I been creamy all night. Drippin’ down my ass. You wanted messy, daddy? Mmmph…fuck…you got messy.”

She whimpered as her fingers curved inside. Hit the spot just right. Her stomach jumped. She kept stroking, kept talking, her voice lowering to a hush.

“This pussy loud, huh? Sloppy for you. You like watchin’ it stretch? Creamy little fuckhole just soakin’ for you…”

Her pace picked up. Her body rocked. She was close. Too close. And she didn’t care. Back arched, thighs trembling, her other hand lifted to pinch her own nipple through the robe. Her clit screamed for contact, but she kept edging, kept fucking herself for him. The sound of her fingers was obscene. Messy. Wet.

And through it all, her voice purred, “Gon’ let daddy watch me cum…gon’ let him see all this cream…you ready?”

She moaned long, sharp—hips locking as the orgasm finally hit. A wave of cream spilled past her fingers, dripping down her ass and onto the towel beneath. Her pussy pulsed around her hand, still creamy, still fluttering.

She cut the video at the peak of the twitch.

Previewed it. No edits. Just pure filth.

She sent it.

📹 Attachment sent: “malaya_creampour_slowstroke.mp4”

Then—

💬 Malaya: You cum yet, baby? Or you need me to watch you too?”

She leaned back. Grinning. Sticky. Spent. Soaked in money and wetness.

The message preview flashed before she could even catch her breath.

📹 New Video from Yung Cipher

No caption. No words. Just a timestamp and a fire emoji.

Malaya’s pussy clenched on nothing. Her body still pulsed from her own release, the creamy mess between her thighs sticking to the inside of her robe now, still hot, still fresh. Her nipple throbbed from how hard she’d pinched it. She was soaked. Boneless. Breathless.

But her thumb moved fast. She tapped the video open.

First frame? A thick, dark dick filling the screen—heavy, glistening, jumping. Her mouth dropped open. She almost choked on a gasp. The tip was swollen, flushed dark, glistening with a pearl of cum pushing from the slit. The shaft twitched like it had its own heartbeat. Veins thick. Base wet. The whole thing dripping. It wasn’t even moving, not yet. Just standing proud like it knew it had her attention.

Then, slow stroke. Just the fingers—gripping the base, gliding up with a fist full of cum coating the length.

“Mmmf—fuck…”

His voice was low. Raspy. Almost growled. He wasn’t talking to the phone. He was talking to her. The strokes got faster, wet sounds sticky and deep. Cum leaked in thick globs. His breathing got ragged. He grunted once. Then twice.

Then came the deep moan, “Unnnhhh—fuck. That’s all you, baby girl…”

Another thick pulse shot from the tip—cum oozing, gliding down in slow strings over his knuckles. The dick twitched violently once, then twice. And then he spoke—low, deliberate, like he needed her to feel it. 

“This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.”

Video cut. Ended there. Like a slap.

Malaya just sat there—open, wet, unable to move. The cream between her legs warmed again like her body was responding. Like it wanted round two without permission.

Her thighs pressed together. She whined out loud—soft, helpless. She messaged back, trembling fingers on the keys.

💬 Malaya: I need to taste it next time. For real.

The cursor blinked. Her lips parted.

She added one more.

💬 Malaya: You always gonna call me that? Miss Pretty Pussy?

And she waited. Heart still pounding. Whole body humming like he touched her without even being here.

Then it came.

💬 Yung Cipher: Yeah. I’m always gon’ call you that. ‘Cause that pussy too pretty to go by anything else.

Her breath caught. She was already smirking, heart skipping, body tilting toward the screen like he was speaking in her ear.

The next message hit harder.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon as I get you? I’m pullin’ those thighs open wide and buryin’ my whole face in it. I’ma suck that creamy clit till your knees give out. Talk all that nasty shit in my ear while I’m tongue deep.

Malaya’s lips parted. She inhaled sharp.

Fingers dipped. Just barely.

💬 Malaya: I’m gon’ cry. I already know I am. You eat pussy like you got a vendetta, huh?

The dots danced again.

💬 Yung Cipher: I eat pussy like I’m tryna survive it. Like the messier it get, the longer I live. I want it in my beard, on my tongue, runnin’ down my neck.

💬 Yung Cipher: You moanin’? I’ma keep suckin’. You twitchin’? I’ma keep lickin’. You creamin’? I’ma spit on it and fuckin’ slurp.

Malaya whimpered, rocking in her seat again.

💬 Malaya: Shiiit…I’m wet all over again. This chair got a stain now. And my thighs sticky, daddy. Sticky and shakin’.

He responded quick.

💬 Yung Cipher: Good. Keep that pussy sloppy for me. Next time? I ain’t talkin’. I’m spreadin’ you out like a meal. Tongue in your hole while I thumb your clit.”

💬 Yung Cipher: And after I eat? I’m liftin’ that pretty ass up and slidin’ in raw. No condom. No mercy. Just thick dick stretchin’ you slow…till I bottom out.”

Her pussy jumped.

💬 Malaya:I can’t even lie…I’m clenching. You got my whole body thumpin’. And I want it raw. Wanna feel every inch. Feel that nut fill me up when you cum.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ cum inside, Miss Pretty Pussy. Slow strokes. Moaning in it. You callin’ out my name. You gon’ squirt or cry or both?

💬 Yung Cipher: And when I pull out? I’ma rub that cream into your pussy lips like lotion. Then flip you over and do it again.

Malaya could barely sit still. Her fingers were back in her pussy, slow. Wet. Curling.

But she wanted more.

💬 Malaya: Say it again. Say what you gon’ do when you finally get this pussy.

And just like that—

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m gon’ fuck you like I paid for it. Like I own it. Like nobody else ever had it but me. Gon’ make you my nasty little throat and cumhole.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that, mama? Ready to get used like the nasty lil wet thing you are?

Her hand was moving faster now.

💬 Malaya: I been ready. You wanna own me? Claim me? Say it, daddy. Say that pussy yours.

The response was instant.

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s mine. That fat, creamy pussy? That mouth that moan my name? Them legs that shake soon as I talk nasty? All that—mine.

Malaya moaned. Low. Raw. Shameless. She came again with her phone in her hand, his words still glowing on the screen, her body soaked and owned in every way but physical. Her skin was damp with sweat, thighs spread again, the air slick with sex and steam. She couldn’t stop replaying that damn video—his dick, thick and twitching, that fat tip leaking just for her. That low grunt. That final line.

This what you do to me, Miss Pretty Pussy.

It haunted her in the best way. And now, was still typing.

The dots danced.

Her body responded like it belonged to those three dots. She sucked in a breath and waited.

Then—

💬 Yung Cipher: That lil creamy pussy keep talkin’ to me, huh? Beggin’ for my tongue like it missed me. Let me tell you what I’m really gon’ do.

Her pussy clenched. She rubbed herself slow, fingers sliding through her own cream like syrup. Legs trembling. Chest heaving.

💬 Yung Cipher: First? I’ma have you laid back, ankles damn near by your ears. Make you hold ‘em. That way I can see all of it—pussy lips spread, hole twitchin’, cream waitin’.

She whined. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Then I’ma spit on it. Real thick. Let it drip right into your hole. Then I’m lickin’ it up. Long slow tongue from back to front.

💬 Yung Cipher: I ain’t rushin’. I’ma kiss every part of it. Left lip. Right lip. Suck on your folds like they my bottom lip. 

Malaya’s toes curled. She had three fingers inside now. Eyes fluttering. Pussy soaked.

💬 Malaya: I’m leaking. Fuck, I’m leaking just reading this. I wanna feel that tongue in me so bad.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ feel it. I’ma tongue-fuck that creamy hole until your hips lift off the bed. Gon’ make you cream in my mouth. You ever scream through a nut, baby? Gon’ have you doin’ that.

Malaya gripped her phone, knuckles tight. She could barely type.

💬 Malaya: I’ma be cryin’. Shakin’. Legs gon’ give out. You eatin’ pussy like you tryna steal my soul.

He didn’t stop.

💬 Yung Cipher: Exactly. I’ma trap your soul in my throat. Then suck that lil clit like I own it. Two fingers inside you, tongue flickin’ your clit…until you cum all in my beard.

Malaya’s legs spasmed.

She was panting. Whining. Her other hand was pinching her nipple raw now.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma talk shit with your pussy in my mouth. Let the sound of me slurpin echo while you cry. Then I’ma look up at you, face soaked, and say…

He paused. Malaya’s whole body paused with him.

💬 Yung Cipher:…You taste like heaven, Miss Pretty Pussy.

Malaya snapped. 

She cried out, back arching, pussy squirting in a sudden gush against her own palm. Her robe was soaked. Her desk chair dripping. She shook through the release, biting her lip hard to keep from screaming. She collapsed, trembling.

Phone buzzed again.

💬 Yung Cipher: You cummin’ right now, huh? Creamin’ off my words alone.

She barely managed to type. 

💬 Malaya: Yes. Daddy. You own me now. 

💬 Yung Cipher: Send me a voice note. Let me hear how wet you are. And moan for me while you do it.

Malaya bit her lip hard. She felt the throb again. That heavy ache in her pussy that never seemed to go away when he typed like this. That ache that whispered Obey him. That ache that had her already reaching for her phone before she even replied.

Her fingers were shaking. Not from nerves. From need. She slid two fingers back inside.

Schlllk.

The sound was loud—messy, wet, slick. She knew he’d want to hear that. She cranked the phone volume low, just to test, and the squelch echoed off her walls like sex in surround sound.

She hit record. Didn’t speak at first. Just moaned.bSoft at first. Breathless. Then deeper.

“Mmmm…fuck…you hear that?” Schlick-schlick—wet fingers plunging into cream again, “It’s so wet, daddy…so messy…so loud…You got my pussy screamin’. All this mess? Just from your voice…” moaning again, whimpering on the tail end of a gasp, “You got me creamin’ like you already here…wish your tongue was in it while I talk like this…wish I could ride your face ‘til you couldn’t breathe…”

She ended it with a sharp little cry—raw and soaked in lust.

📤 Voice Note Sent: 0:46

She didn’t even wait. Sent another message right after.

💬 Malaya: You hear how wet you got me? Tell me what that did to you…

She was trembling. Phone in one hand. Fingers in the other. Still not satisfied. Still craving.

He listened to it four times.

The voice note.

Every breath. Every wet sound. Every moan shaped like his name even if she didn’t say it.

She was soaked. Squelching. Fuckin’ creamy. Her pussy was singin’ for him. And it made his dick twitch so hard it jumped in his palm. He’d already pulled his sweats down, fist gripped around the base, head swollen and leaking just from the sound of her.

He sat back, legs wide, stroking slow. Deep. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen, her moans still echoing in his head. Still hearing. 

“All this mess? Just from your voice…”

He let out a low breath, thumb teasing his slit to collect the drop of precum gliding down. His jaw was locked. Eyes half-shut. That same picture of her messy pussy flashing behind his lids. That creamy, pulsing, needy little cunt.

He hit record. His voice came out low. Rough. Deep like smoke caught in his throat.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl,” he released a slight groan as his fist moves slow over his shaft—wet strokes, audible, “Listen to that…that’s you. That’s yo nasty lil voice got me strokin’ like this…” shhk, shhk, shhk—his rhythm steady, thick, wet, You want this nut, don’t you? Wanna feel it warm inside that pretty pussy…” he grunts—low, chesty, sharp, “Fuuuck… yo voice got me ready to explode. Soon as get you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop. Cream in my mouth while I talk shit between licks…” his fist speeds up—slap of skin now louder, “That moan? That lil cry you made at the end? That shit made me cum, Malaya…” He sucked in a final sharp breath, then a raw, heavy groan as his nut hits—long and thick, Unnnghh…fuck… look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

📤 Voice Note Sent: 1:02

He exhaled. Chest still rising, hand slick with cum, dick twitching in the aftershocks.

And he waited.

Knowing she’d listen to that with her fingers already back inside her.

She pressed play with a trembling thumb. Held the phone to her ear like it was sacred. His voice—thick, husky, dripping with control—slid into her like a wet tongue. His words weren’t rushed. They were paced. Drawled out. Like every syllable was chosen to own her.

“You got my dick hard as fuck, girl…”

Her knees buckled.

She wasn’t even standing. Just curled up, naked in her desk chair, but her knees buckled. She whimpered before the rest of it even landed. That low breath. That stroke. That wet shhk, shhk, shhk of his grip on his cock? It had her cunt clenching like it missed something it never even had. His voice was everywhere. In her ear. In her chest. In her pussy.

And then—

“Soon as I see you? I’m pullin’ them thighs apart and eatin’ every drop.”

Her lips parted in a soundless moan, fingers already sliding through her folds again, hot and swollen and dripping from just hearing him grunt.

She closed her eyes. Listened harder.

“That moan? That lil cry you made at the end?”

She bit her bottom lip so hard it almost bled. That moment? She’d been convulsing. Creaming. And he heard it. Claimed it. Owned it like he had a hand around her throat.

And then came the final blow—

“Look what you did to me…you got this dick throbbin’, Miss Pretty Pussy…”

Her whole soul short-circuited. No name. No pretense. Just that title. That possession. Miss Pretty Pussy.

She whispered it to herself, “Miss Pretty Pussy…” like it was a spell.

And the dam broke.

Her fingers plunged deep, palm grinding her clit, thighs shaking as she sobbed through her next orgasm—loud, uncontrollable, mouth open wide with no shame. She came so hard it made her dizzy. Body locking. Toes curling. Pussy gushing. She slumped back, dripping down her own thighs. A full mess now. Nails trembling, she finally lifted the phone again, vision blurry.

She typed.

💬 Malaya: I came so hard just now I saw fuckin’ stars. You talk to me like that again I might squirt all over my chair. You always this nasty, daddy?”

Then another.

💬 Malaya: Say more. Please. Miss Pretty Pussy want you in her ear again…

She didn’t even try to hide it anymore.

He had her.

Completely.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy been a good girl. You made that pussy cum just for me. Your biggest fan. You got the prettiest moans and the creamiest pussy. But that throat? We gon’ have to work on that, baby. You can’t take dick down your throat?

Malaya’s breath caught mid-exhale. Her fingers twitched where they rested. That switch in tone. From praise to challenge. From sweet to sharp. He wanted more. He wanted all of her. And her throat? That was next. She stared at the message, heart racing. Her pussy gave another slow throb, pulsing at the idea of him gripping her jaw, nudging the tip of his dick against her tongue with that same voice in her ear. She could almost hear it now

“Open up, Miss Pretty Pussy. Show me what that throat can do.”

Her body ached at the thought. She typed, thumbs moving slower than usual, like her hands were shaking again.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I can take it…just gotta hold my head and guide me. Show me how you want it…”

She added a second one.

💬 Malaya: You want me sloppy, daddy? Make this throat your toy?

The messages had been filth before. Obsession dressed up in dirty talk. Sweet ruin painted over hunger. But now? Now the words came in darker.

Tighter.

Like the leash had finally been pulled.

💬 Yung Cipher:  Don’t send no voice notes. Don’t moan. Don’t beg. Just listen.

Malaya froze. The command dropped like weight in her lap—heavy, absolute. It wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t flirty. Her breath caught, fingers stilled, spine straightening like her body knew better than to move without his say-so. Her skin prickled. Her mouth parted. She could feel him in the room with her, even though he wasn’t.

And then the next message hit.

💬 Yung Cipher: Miss Pretty Pussy don’t make no rules. You do what I say. And when I get my hands on you? You ain’t askin’ me what I want. You givin’ it.

Her thighs clenched. That deep ache returned.

💬 Yung Cipher: That throat gon’ learn today. You ain’t never had dick like mine. I ain’t fuckin’ your mouth to be gentle. I’m stretchin’ that throat ‘til you tear up. Until you got spit runnin’ down your chin and your lashes blinkin’ fast like you can’t breathe.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m holdin’ your head still. Lookin’ down while I slide in slow…feelin’ your gag all around me. Then I’ma fuck it. Deep. Fast. Dirty. With your hands tied so you don’t run.

Malaya moaned, her hips rolling into the empty air.

He kept going.

💬 Yung Cipher: When I nut? I’m not warnin’ you. I’m shootin’ it straight down your fuckin’ throat and holdin’ you there. And you gon’ swallow every drop.

Her whole body tensed. She was dizzy. She typed with shaking fingers, eyes glassy, cunt throbbing with no mercy.

💬 Malaya: Yes daddy. Please teach me. Please take it. I want your nut in my throat so bad I could cry.”

💬 Malaya: This mouth yours. This pussy yours. Do whatever you want to me.”

She hit send. Then collapsed back into the chair, overwhelmed, wrecked, completely owned.

And then he told her. Not asked. Not invited.

💬 Yung Cipher: Here’s how I’ma break you in.

She exhaled sharp.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ come to me dressed how I like. Not what you wanna wear. No panties. No bra. Just somethin’ soft and short enough for me to pull up quick. The second you walk through my door, I’m puttin’ you on your knees. Not speakin’. Not thinkin’. Just kneelin’.

She was whimpering.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma walk slow ‘round you. Let you feel it. The weight of what’s about to happen. The way you already soaked just from bein’ near me. Then I’m liftin’ you up by your throat. Bend you over the first surface I see. Couch, table, fuckin’ floor. It won’t matter.”

💬 Yung Cipher: I’m spittin’ on that pussy. Smackin’ it. Watchin’ it jump. Spreadin’ you wide just to see how messy you got for me. Then I’m slidin’ in slow…deep… until you scream.

Malaya’s mouth was open. Her fingers clenched the sheets. Her robe had slipped completely off now. She was bare, breathless, and throbbing.

He wasn’t done.

💬 Yung Cipher: You gon’ take it all. Every inch. Every nut. You gon’ leak down your thighs, legs shakin’, beggin’ me not to stop. And I won’t.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’ma fuck you stupid. Until you can’t remember what day it is. Until your eyes roll and your mouth can’t say nothin’ but ‘daddy.’ That’s how I break you.

💬 Yung Cipher: You ready for that?

Her reply came broken, typed in bursts between breathless moans and soaked sheets.

💬 Malaya: I want it. I want all of it. Please break me, daddy. Make me forget my fuckin’ name.

Because that’s what he did. He didn’t flirt. He rewired.

Her screen lit up again.

💬 Yung Cipher: Soon. That’s if you ain’t scared to meet up. 

She still felt soaked. Still ached between her legs. Still had cream sticky on her thighs and a flutter in her chest just from the way he said “soon.” But that sentence? That word—meet—it landed different. Malaya’s body leaned in, but her mind pulled back. She’d never done meetups. That was a rule she never broke. No matter how fine they looked. No matter how much they tipped. No matter how nasty the chat got. She sat there for a beat, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Still wanting. Still tempted. But…

She typed slowly.

💬 Malaya: Mmm…I don’t do meetups, baby. Sorry. Just not my thing. Hope that doesn’t disappoint you. ❤️

She hit send.

Her heart ticked fast behind her ribs. It wasn’t from fear, but from the tension. That line between control and consent. Between fantasy and reality.

He didn’t reply right away.

She sat in that silence, wondering if it had ruined the mood. Wondering if he’d vanish like most do when they can’t have her.

But then…

💬 Yung Cipher: It’s cool, baby. No pressure. I respect that. 

Another ping.

💬 Yung Cipher: Just know I’m here whenever you change your mind. ‘Cause I’d love to show you. Real slow. Real deep. Real good.

💬 Yung Cipher: I’d take my time. Give you exactly what you need.

💬 Yung Cipher: I promise to be your favorite big dick.

Her whole body shivered.

Not from fear. But from the smoothness. The patience. The promise. He didn’t push. Just laid the offer out like a silk sheet and stepped back. And somehow…that made her want him more.

She replied without thinking.

💬 Malaya: You damn sure tryna make it hard to forget you. Favorite? That’s a big promise.

The car drops her a half step past the entrance like the driver doesn’t want to block the curb too long. Zariah steps out into a slice of low overhead light and the door shuts behind her with an expensive thud. The building doesn’t announce itself. There was no line, no loud music spilling out. Just a matte black door and a man who looks like he’s part of the wall until you meet his eyes. 

Zariah gives her name. The man checks if once, then again without looking like he’s checking anything at all, and opens the door. 

Inside, things felt warmer. Thicker. Not quite music, more like a pulse under everything. Velvet seatings. Dark wood. People who speak in half-voices and don’t repeat themselves. 

Zariah pauses just inside, long enough to take it in. It was just a breath, nothing obvious. Her shoulders settle into their usual line, chin level, eyes forward. Zariah belongs in rooms. That part is muscle memory. 

A hand touches her elbow lightly, her spine goes rigid. 

“Saint-James.” 

Zariah turns. Malik. He’s familiar enough to ease the first second of it. Zariah’s seen him at fittings, at a campaign wrap, once backstage where he talked too smoothly to be anyone’s assistant. Tonight, he looked sharper, but same smile though. Same confidence that assumes a yes before it’s given. 

“You made it,” he says. 

“Mm.” A small nod. “For a minute.” 

Malik steps in beside her, hazel eyes boring into hers, not blocking, just aligning. 

“Come on. I’ll show you around.” 

Zariah lets him guide the direction not the movement. There’s a difference. He knows people here. That’s useful. He speaks in low tones as they move, greeting without stopping, names traded like small coins. When he introduces Zariah, his hand rests at the small of her back for a second too long, then lifts. 

“This is Zariah. Saint-James.” 

Heads turn. Not many. Enough. 

She offers the version of a smile that doesn’t invite questions. 

“Hi.” 

A woman in a silk slip dress made by some foreign designer studies her, then softens, “I know your face.” 

Zariah dips her chin once. “That happens.” 

A glass appears in her hand without her asking. She doesn’t drink it yet. She holds it, lets the cool settle into her palm. Malik leans in to say something near her ear. His breath brushes too close. Zariah tilts her head just enough to hear without giving him the rest of the space. 

“Good room,” he says. “Keep your face around.”

“Mm.” She takes a small step forward, easing the distance. “I’m not staying long, Malik.” 

They drift to a cluster near the bar. Four men, maybe five. Conversation tight. Phrases that loop around meaning instead of landing on it. Numbers, but not spoken like numbers. Zariah listens without looking like she’s listening. That’s a skill she learned early. One of them glances at her, then at Malik. A beat. A question that never becomes a question. 

Malik answers it anyway.

“She’s good,” he says, easy. “She with me.” 

One of the men drags their eyes over Zariah.

“This you, Malik? Whatever happened to that French model you had on your arm during fashion week?” 

“You know that was all business,” Malik leans into Zariah, placing his hand on her lower back. “This is Zariah Saint James. She’s gonna be the new face taking over the fashion industry. Ain’t that right, baby?” 

Hums of approval circulated.

Zariah stills. Not a freeze. A correction. She turns her head, just enough to catch his eye. Her voice stays light, even.

“I came by myself, actually.”

It lands clean. No edge. No apology. 

A couple of the men look away first. Malik’s smile doesn’t falter, but it tightens at the corners. 

“Yeah,” he says, like he meant it that way. “For a minute.” 

“For a minute,” she repeats, and lifts the glass to her lips without drinking. 

Zariah notices the details in the room now. How people stand angles instead of square. How no one laughs too loud. How eyes track movement without turning heads. This isn’t a creative room. Not really. It wears the shape as a disguise but the weight under it is something else. 

Malik introduces her again, this time to a man in a dark suit with a watch that probably costs more than what Zariah is worth. Older. White. The man’s gaze rests on her a fraction longer than it needs to. 

“Pleasure,” he says. 

Zariah meets it, steady. “Mm.” 

He smiles like that answer told him something. 

Malik’s hand returns to her waist, guiding her half a step closer to the circle as if to anchor the introduction. She lets it sit there for a second, then shifts her weight, a small turn of her hips that leaves his hand with nowhere natural to land. It falls away. 

“I’m gonna grab something,” she says, already moving. 

Stay,” Malik whispers, soft enough that it could pass for a suggestion. 

Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I’ll be right back.” 

At the bar, she can breath better. She sets the glass down untouched and rests her fingertips on the smooth marble of the bar top. Her reflection glides along the surface, broken by light. Zariah smoothes the line of her dress at her hip, more to ground herself than to adjust anything. 

Her phone buzzed once. Zariah glanced at it. A text from a stylist about a call time tomorrow. She types back a quick answer, then locks the screen. Behind her, the private lounge continues like it didn’t notice her stepping away. 

Malik returns, closer than before. Zariah stiffens.

“You good?”

“I’m fine.” Zariah keeps her gaze on the bar, then turns to Malik. “I’m heading out in a second.” 

“Already?” Malik smiles, but there’s something under it now. “You just got here.” 

“I said a minute.”

Malik leans in again, voice low. “Don’t do that, Zariah. It’s a good look for you to be seen here. I called some connects. Got you on the list…”

Zariah holds his gaze. 

“I’ve been seen.”

There was a pause. Malik’s eyes search her face like he’s trying to decide how far to push. It was making Zariah feel uncomfortable. 

“Come meet one more person,” he says. “Then you can go.” 

Zariah considers it. Quick. The room presses at the edges of her awareness. 

“One,” she says. 

Malik nods like he won something. They cross the floor again. This time, the path feels longer. Or maybe she’s more aware of it. The man Malik wants her to meet stands near a corner where the ambiance is softer. He looks up as they approach, already informed. 

“Saint James,” Malik says. Like he’s placing a piece on a board. “Told you.” 

The man’s eyes take her in without apology. Dark. Unreadable. A face so chiseled it could only be described as a plastic surgeon’s work. 

“I’ve seen you. That shoot with Alberto Rodriguez. Stunning. Versace.”

“Thank you.” Her tone stays even.

“I’m Westley.” He smiles. “You’re in the right room.”

Zariah meets that without returning it, “I’m in the room I walked into.” 

Malik laughs under his breath like she said something charming. The man doesn’t laugh. 

For a second, no one speaks.

“…well. It’s nice to finally meet you, Saint James. Hopefully the next time we meet, It’s us working together.”

Zariah lets it sit. Then, she inclines her head, gives Westley a faint smile, small and final.

“I’m heading out.”

Malik’s hand ghosts at her back again, then stops when she doesn’t slow. “I’ll walk you.”

“No, you’re good.” Zariah turns slightly, enough to keep it polite, not enough to invite him to follow. “I got it.”

Zadiah moves toward the door with the same pace she walked in with. Composed. The man at the door opens it before she reaches for the handle. 

Outside, Zariah exhales, a real one this time, and steps onto the curb. For a second, she stands there, looking back at the black door like it might explain itself if she gave it long enough. 

It doesn’t. 

Zariah pulls her phone out to call her driver, thumb hovering over the screen. Then, she stills. 

A small thought crosses her mind. 

I should’ve said something.

The ride back felt longer than it should have. Zariah sits angled toward the window, city lights dragging across the glass in streaks of gold and white. Her phone sat in her lap, the screen dark. She picked it up once, unlocked it, then locked it again without doing anything. Her reflection stared back at her faintly in the window. Same face. Same poise. But there was something tighter around her eyes now. 

She exhales and leans back. 

By the time the car pulls up, most of the lights in the surrounding units are off. Her driver tells her goodnight. Zariah answers without thinking and steps out, her heels landing soft against pavement. Inside, the elevator ride was short. Too short. She watches the LED numbers climb, arms folded loosely, thumb brushing over her wrist. Not nervous. Just…aware. 

The elevator doors open. The hallway leading into the hall of her apartment building is dim, lined with soft recess lighting along the ceiling. Her steps are steady and cloaked by the hand-tuffted carpet runner in dark green as she walks to her door. Zariah reaches into her bag, pulls out her keys, and unlocks it. 

The door opens with a hiss. 

And the first thing she notices is the light. It’s already on. It wasn’t every light, but enough. The living room. The kitchen. 

He’s here. 

Smoke is sitting on one end of her sectional, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. No TV. No phone. Just him. And that was enough to make her pause. 

He looked up when she stepped in. Zariah pauses just past the foyer for half a second. Then, she sits her bag down on the coffee table. 

“When did you get here?” She asked, proceeding to take off her heels like everything is normal. 

Smoke doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay locked on her. 

Then—

“Where you come from?”

Flat. No extra weight in the words. That’s what makes it land hard. Zariah slips her other shoe off, placing them beneath the coffee table. 

“Out.” 

A beat

“With who?”

Zariah straightens, smoothing her dress down at her hips before turning to face him. 

“Some people from work.” 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t break. 

“What people?” 

Zariah tilts her head slightly, studying him now. 

“Why you askin’ like that?” 

Smoke leans back just enough to rest against the sectional, but his eyes remained glued to her like he was seeing past the guard she was trying to obtain.

“Answer the question.”

Zariah’s jaw sets for a second. 

“I told you. Work people.”

Silence. It stretched just enough to be felt. 

Then—

“You was at that lounge on Mercer.” 

It wasn’t a question. Zariah’s eyes flicker once. She wasn’t surprised. Just confirmation that she knew he would be keeping an eye on her location. 

She folds her arms loosely. 

“…Yeah.”

“Who took you there?”

“My driver dropped me off. I went by myself.”

Smoke’s gaze sharpens just a fraction. 

“Don’t do that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “I just told you—”

“Who brought you in?”

His voice doesn’t rise. It just tightens. Zariah exhales through her nose.

“A creative I know. Malik was there.”

Smoke leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees again. 

“Malik.” 

Smoke repeats it like he’s placing it somewhere. Then, he looks back at Zariah. 

“And you thought that was somewhere you should be.” 

There was no question in it. Zariah shifts her weight onto one leg. 

“I’ve been in places like that before.” 

“No,” Smoke says, cutting through it. “You haven’t.”

That hit. Zariah’s arms drop from where they were closed. Her posture straightens. 

“You don’t know every place I’ve been,” Zariah replies, voice firmer now. 

“I know that one.” 

Zariah studies him, eyes narrowing slightly. “You actin’ like I walked into something crazy, Smoke.” 

He holds her gaze. “You did.” 

Zariah’s lips press together. For a second, she looks like she might push back harder. 

“I was fine,” she says instead.

Smoke’s expression doesn’t change. “No, Z. You wasn’t.”

Short. Final. 

Zariah’s breath catches slightly, more from the certainty than the words themselves. She looks away for a second, then back at him. 

“I handled myself. Like I always do.” 

The corner of Smoke’s mouth twitched. Enough to part his full lips and reveal silver slugs. He watched her with a slight squint of his eyes. Because he knew. He always knew. 

“I’m sure you think you did, baby.”

That stung more than anything  else he’d said. 

Her chin lifts just a touch, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

Silence again. This time more overbearing. Smoke leans forward more, closing some of the space between them without standing. 

“Look at me.”  

Zariah’s eyes snap back to his. She holds it. 

“I am.” 

Then, Smoke asks, calm and direct. “He put his hands on you?” 

Zariah stills. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides. 

“It wasn’t like that.” 

That’s not an answer. 

Smoke’s gaze doesn’t waver. 

“Did he touch you.” 

Zariah exhales. “…Yeah.” 

Another pause. 

“Where.” 

Her jaw tightens. 

“At my back. My waist. He was just—guiding me.” 

Smoke nods once, slow. “Guiding you.” 

He repeats it, but it wasn’t like he agrees. 

Zariah shifts her weight again. “I moved. I corrected it.”

“I know you did.” 

That catches her off guard. Her brows lift slightly. 

“You know?” 

“I know how you move.” His tone hasn’t changed, but something underneath it has. “And you still stayed.” 

There it is. 

Zariah’s shoulders drop just a fraction. 

“I was trying to leave without making it a thing.” 

Smoke sits back again, dragging a hand over his face once before letting it fall.

“You already was a thing the second you walked in there.” 

Zariah’s gaze softens, just a little. She looks at him for a long second, then speaks quieter. 

“I didn’t know it was like that. That he…that it was more than making connections. Helping my career.”

Smoke watches her. And for the first time, something shifts in his expression. Edged with something else. A softness rarely seen.

“I know you didn’t, Z. That’s the problem.” 

Zariah exhales, slow. Her shoulders ease. She steps a little closer now, enough to close some of the distance. 

“I hear you.”

It’s quieter than anything she’s said so far. Real. Smoke holds her gaze a moment longer. Then, he leans back against the sofa, one hand resting on his jaw.

“Next time,” he says, voice steady, “you tell me where you goin’.” 

Zariah nods once. “…Okay.”

She means it, but she looks away right after she says it, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like the conversation might loosen if she doesn’t hold it. 

It doesn’t. 

The sofa creaks as Smoke Stands. He steps toward her, closing the space she left between them. Zariah’s shoulders tighten just a fraction as he stops in front of her. 

“Don’t look away.” 

Smoke’s voice stays low and firm. Her eyes lift back to his, slow and steady. Smoke studies her for a second. Then, his hand comes up, fingers settling under her chin, thumb along the side of her jaw. 

“Look at me when I’m talkin’ to you.” 

Zariah’s breath shifts. She doesn’t pull away. 

“Mkay,” she replies with a soft voice. 

“You walked into a space where nobody in there is who they say they are,” he says. “Not to you.” 

Zariah watches him, listening.

“…That wasn’t no industry lounge,” Smoke continues. “That’s a place people use to meet when they don’t want nothin’ traced back to ‘em. Deals get made in there that don’t got nothin’ to do with clothes or cameras.”

Zariah’s brows pull together slightly. “I didn’t hear anything like that.”

“You wasn’t supposed to,” he answers, just as even. “That’s the point.” 

Zariah’s lips part, then press together again. Smoke’s thumb shifts against her jaw, grounding her attention back to him. 

“And that nigga, Malik?” Smoke goes on. “He ain’t no creative you just ‘know’. He move with people who use faces like yours to get in rooms easier. To make things look clean.”

Zariah’s posture straightens. She exhales. 

“He didn’t do anything to me. I wouldn’t have let it get that far, Smoke. I had it under control,” she says, a little firmer. “And I didn’t even expect to see him tonight. A friend of mine put in a word. I…I just…I figured it was just some exclusive party for A listers and I could—I could walk in there and—”

“I didn’t say he did anything.” Smoke cut her off. “I said he put you somewhere you shouldn’t have been. And that friend? I wouldn’t be surprised if they a part of it. So you need to cut them off.” 

Zariah’s gaze flickers, then steadies again. 

Smoke leans in just slightly, enough to make sure she’s locked in with him. 

“I’m in this enough to know how that goes,” he says. “I seen how fast it turns. You walk in thinkin’ it’s one thing, and next thing you know you tied to somethin’ you don’t even understand yet.”

Zariah swallows lightly. Smoke’s eyes stay on hers. 

“And I don’t play about what’s mine.” 

There’s no rise to his voice. No dramatics. Just fact. Zariah feels that one’s it sits heavy on her chest. Her fingers curl slightly at her sides, but she doesn’t break eye contact. Smoke lets that hang for a second before continuing. 

“So listen to me,” he says. His hand drops from her chin, but his presence doesn’t pull back. “When you go somewhere, you let me know first.” 

Clear.

“You don’t just show up anywhere off impulse. I don’t care who invited you.” 

Zariah nods, lips scrunched up. “Okay.” 

“If you walk into a spot and somethin’ feel off,” he continues, “you don’t stand there tryin’ to figure it out. You leave.” 

Zariah’s lips part slight like she’s about to speak but she lets him finish. 

“You call me,” he says. “I’ll come get you. I don’t care where you at.”

Certainty. 

“And if somebody put their hands on you,” Smoke adds, voice still low, “or make you feel any type of way…”

He paused, enough to let Zariah know he’s dead ass serious. 

“You tell me. And I’ll handle it. My way.” 

Zariah’s breath slows. “I will.” 

Smoke studies her, making sure. 

“Say it again.” 

Zariah’s eyes stay on his. “I’ll tell you.” 

Smoke hums, then he nods his head before leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her cheek, and ending with her lips. A soft peck that stirs her. Zariah breaks the kiss, exhales, then she looks at him. 

“I didn’t know—”

“I know, baby girl. Just…listen to me, okay? You know this shit triggers me when you go off doin’ shit that make me worried. I’m serious, Z. Don’t do this shit again.” 

She purses her lips, but ultimately gives him another kiss, falling into his big embrace that swallows her.

Correction. 

Weeks pass. At first, Zariah tells herself Smoke is just being attentive. Protective. Present. 

After the lounge incident, Smoke starts rearranging his life around hers in ways that don’t announce themselves immediately. It begins small enough to almost feel thoughtful. He starts picking her up from late shoots instead of sending a driver. He waits outside fittings in black SUVs with the engine running while she changes out of couture and campaign makeup under bright studio lights. When she lands in another city for a show, he’s already there before she reaches baggage claim, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, eyes scanning the terminal before they settle on her. 

Smoke never makes a scene. Never acts possessive in public. That’s what makes it harder to argue with. To everyone around her, Smoke looks dependable. Solid. The type of man women brag about having.production assistants smile when he takes garment bags from their hands. Publicists relax when he quietly checks exits and entrances before an event. Designers greet him like they trust him instinctively, even when they don’t know why. 

And Zariah hates that part a little because he’s so good at it. Too good at it. 

Her world keeps moving at full speed while his begins orbiting around it with frightening precision. Editorial spreads in Paris. Beauty campaigns in New York. Fashion week dinners packed with actors, athletes, stylists, investors, people who speak in air kisses and coded conversations. Zariah is everywhere lately. Her face is in windows three stories high. Magazine covers. Digital campaigns looping across giant screens downtown. And somehow, Smoke is always there now too. 

Not beside her. Near her. Outside the room. At the car. 

Watching. 

Waiting. 

The first few times, Zariah lets it go. She tells herself it’s temporary. That he’s going to go back to work doing what he does that’s so top secret and get bored of all the glitz and glam. That he’s trying to make a point after what happened with Malik and the lounge. But the weeks stretch and instead of easing up, Smoke becomes more involved. 

More structured. 

He starts asking for schedules in advance. What event. Which hotel. Who invited her. Who’s attending. What time she expects to leave. 

Not interrogations. 

Expectations. 

And that’s what starts irritating her. Because Zariah has spent her entire adult life moving independently through spaces exactly like these. She built her career on instincts, timing, reading energy, staying graceful under pressure. Men in fashion flirt. Men in entertainment hover. Wealthy people invite you places with hidden motives attached to every smile. She learned how to survive that years ago. So when Smoke starts appearing downstairs before she even calls for a car, something in her begins pushing back automatically. 

She stops texting updates as quickly. Leaves details out. Answers questions vaguely. 

“Just work.”

“A dinner.” 

“Somewhere in SoHo.” 

Nothing technically disrespectful. But it was enough for Smoke to notice she’s testing the edges of what he said in that apartment weeks ago. And Smoke noticed everything. Especially patterns. Especially when someone starts moving different on purpose. 

The irritation builds on both sides slowly, layered beneath long workdays and late nights. And the worst part is she can’t tell where protection ends and control begins anymore. 

Zariah’s up early, wrapped in a robe, hair slicked back into a bun, glass skin and fuzzy Louis Vuitton slippers on her pedicured feet. She’s standing at the kitchen counter with her phone propped against a glass of hot water with lemon and ginger. A call time gets pushed. A fitting added. A dinner penciled in. Her voice stays even, professional, the version of her that never slips. 

“Yeah, I can make that,” she says. “Send me the address.” 

She doesn’t mention it to Smoke. Not when she hangs up. Not when she toasts her sourdough bread to add slices avocado and sliced smoked salmon. Not when she walks past the living room where Smoke is sitting, reading. 

He glances up when she crosses. Zariah doesn’t stop. 

“I got a dinner tonight,” she says like it’s an afterthought. “Brand people.” 

Smoke nods, “what time?”

“Eight.” 

“Where.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water. 

“I’ll text it.”

Smoke studies her for a second longer than usual. Then, nods again. 

“Aight.” 

And Zariah doesn’t text it. Not at eight. Not at nine. She’s already dressed and out the door by the time the reminder crosses her mind, heels clicking down the hallway, phone buzzing in her hand with another message that isn’t his. 

When she comes back, Smoke’s in the same spot. That’s the first thing she notices. Not the fact that he’s there. The fact that he hasn’t moved much.

Zariah steps in, sets her bag down, slips her heels off. 

“You been sittin’ there all day?” Zariah asks, light, like she’s asking about the weather. 

Smoke’s eyes lift to her. “Where you just come from, Zariah.” 

Zariah walks past him, heading toward the kitchen. That little fancy plate of French food wasn’t enough to settle her hunger. She considers ordering in some Pho from her favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

“I told you,” she says. “Dinner.” 

“With who.”

Zariah opens the fridge, bends over, little cocktail dress rising up, almost revealing no panties. She scans it like she’s actually looking for something. 

“People from the brand.” 

Smoke doesn’t say anything right away. But his jaw ticks. Zariah pulls out a bottle of water, shuts the fridge, leans against the counter. 

“You ask a lot of questions,” she says, taking a sip.

There’s a small edge to it. A sassy little tone that reeks of an attitude that needs to be checked. 

Smoke watches her unblinking. 

“I asked you where, Zariah.” 

She shrugs one shoulder. “It was in the city.”

That’s it. That’s all she gives him. And she knows it. Something stills in Smoke. He’s locked. Smoke sets his phone down on the table beside him. Slow. Then, he stands. Zariah watches him this time. She doesn’t look away. Smoke walks toward her, closing space like an imposing shadow. Zariah straightens a little as he stops in front of her. She braces her hand on the counter behind her. Smoke’s eyes narrow slightly, orbs darkened with frustration. 

“You ain’t text me nothin’.” 

Zariah takes a sip of her water, avoiding his eyes as if the vase across from her on the dining room table was more interesting. 

“I was busy.” 

Smoke tilts his head. “I told you, Z. You go somewhere, you let me know.” 

Zariah lifts her gaze, chin lifting slightly. Defiantly. 

“And I heard you.” 

There it is. That fucking tone. 

Dismissal.

Smoke’s gaze tightens just a fraction. “But you ain’t do it.” 

Zariah shrugs, “I got there, everything was fine. It wasn’t a big deal.” 

Smoke stepped in closer to where she was nearly pressed between his solid frame and the countertop behind her. Her breathing shifted but she checked it as best as she could. 

“It was to me.” 

Zariah rolls her eyes. She pushes off the counter, standing fully now. 

“You can’t expect me to check in every time I step outside, Smoke,” she argues. “That’s not how I move and you know that.” 

More edge now. More bite. Zariah knows she’s pushing. Smoke watches her for a long second. Then, he exhales once through his nose. 

“You think that’s what it is.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Zariah folds her arms. “I think you’re doing too much.” 

The silence was heavy. 

Then. “Say that again.” 

Zariah holds his gaze. Doesn’t flinch. 

“I said you’re doing too much.”

Smoke’s haha comes up, firm fingers gripping her jaw, turning her face just enough so she can’t angle away. 

“Don’t do that.” Smoke said, low. Controlled yet deep.

“I’m just sayin—”

“NO,” Smoke cuts in, sharper. “You talkin’ like what I said don’t matter. And that’s a problem for me.” 

Zariah’s eyes flash. “That’s not what I—”

“That’s exactly what you doin’.” Smoke’s grip tightens. “You hear me them weeks ago. Loud and clear.” 

Zariah’s chest rises and falls a little quicker now. 

“I did.” 

“But you moved like you didn’t.” 

There’s no way around that. Zariah looks at him, really looks this time. There’s something building in her too. It wasn’t fear. It was friction. 

“I’m not one of your operations,” she says. “You don’t get to run me like that.” 

Smoke scuffs. “Aight.” 

He releases her jaw. Steps back half a step, and that almost feels worse. 

“You right,” Smoke says. And it’s too calm. “I don’t run you.” 

Zariah’s shoulders ease slightly. But only for a second. 

“Which means,” Smoke continued, “you make your own decisions.” 

Zariah watches Smoks cautiously now. 

“And you deal with whatever come with ‘em. You don’t call me. You don’t tell me where you at. You don’t move how I told you to move—”

Smoke pauses. Not long. 

“You on your own with that.” 

Zariah’s brows pull together. “That’s not what I—”

“You wanted independence,” he says, cutting in, still calm. “I’m givin’ it to you.” 

Zariah studies him. 

This isn’t him trick to control her. This is him stepping back. And that doesn’t feel how she thought it would. 

“You serious?” She asks. 

Smoke nods. “I don’t chase grown decisions, ma. But don’t stand in my face and act like what I said ain’t carry weight.”

Zariah exhales. She folds her arms and juts that hip out. Lip poked. She looks at Smoke for a long second. Then, softer, but still holding onto herself: 

“That’s not what I was tryin’ to do.” 

Smoke cuts his eyes at her. Then, he walks off. Leaving Zariah fuming. 

Zariah spends the rest of the evening like she lives alone. That’s the first thing that gets under Smoke’s skin. 

Just…dismissal. 

She moved through the luxury apartment with that polished calm of hers, never quite looking at him, never quite acknowledging the weight sitting in the space between them. She replies to texts on the sofa with one knee tucked under her, laughing softly at something on her screen, walks past him like he’s furniture. 

Smoke says her name once. 

Zariah hears it. He knows she hears it because her shoulders tighten for half a second. But, she keeps on walking. That does more than attitude ever could because now she’s choosing it. And one trigger of Smoke’s, one thing that really ticks him off—being ignored. He watched her enter her bedroom. Smoke sits there another few seconds, jaw working once. 

Then, he stands. No rush to it. He rolls his shoulders once, loosening the tension sitting there. Smoke reaches for the watch on his wrist and sets it on the side table. Neatly. That alone would tell her everything if she saw it. Smoke never tosses things. When he starts setting items aside with care, he’s making room for discipline. He walks to the kitchen, pours a glass of water, drinks half, sets it down. Runs both palms over his face, then drags one hand across the back of his neck. 

Collecting himself. Not cooling off. Centering. 

By the time he reaches the bedroom, the bathroom door is cracked open from the steam, he pushes the door open wider and steps inside. Zariah is standing in front of her vanity, fingers hooking the thin straps of her sleek black cocktail dress. She tugs one strap down her shoulder, exposing smooth dark skin inch by inch, the fabric whispering at her elbows while she twists to face the mirror, grabbing her hair to pile it high, pinning it loose but secure with a claw clip. 

Smoke leans against the frame, hoody heavy against the door jamb, arms crossed over his chest, fitted black tee stretching across his pecs. His eyes track every peel of fabric like he owns the view. Tension crackles thick from the kitchen standoff earlier, her defiance still simmering hot under her skin. 

She sees him in the mirror, and now she’s taking off her strapless lace bra and matching thong. Completely naked and glowing like her body was slathered in liquid gold. That little performance almost makes him smile.

Almost. 

“You done?” Smoke asks. 

Her voice stays light. “With what?” 

“With this act you tryna put on to piss me off.” 

Zariah grabs a plum-colored silk robe from a wall mounted hook, hiding that beautiful body. 

“I’m getting ready to shower. Then I’m going to bed. I have a busy schedule tomorrow, Smoke.” 

Smoke closes the bedroom door. The click of the latch is small but it lands. Zariah’s fingers pause over the tie of her robe. Only for a second. Then, she resumes, adjusting the front of her robe like nothing changed. Smoke walks up until he’s directly behind her, watching her reflection instead of her directly. 

“You been real busy not seein’ me tonight.” 

Zariah shrugs one shoulder. 

“I’ve been minding my business.”

“That so.” 

“You got something to say,” she says, voice even, “say it.”

“I did.” His tone is lower now. “You ignored it.” 

Her chin lifts a little in the mirror. 

“Maybe I was tired of hearing it.” 

Smoke’s hand comes to the robe knot at her waist, fingers brushing the bow but not pulling it loose. Zariah finally turns them, eyes lifting to meet his. 

There’s a challenge there. Smoke matches that, boring his eyes into hers like he was asking her telepathically ‘you really wanna take it there, baby girl?’. His gaze dropped briefly to the robe that barely hugged her frame, the one she loved to put on after her showers. The one she wore whenever her skin was slicked with body oil so it could mold to her body in ways that had Smoke dickin’ her down to put her to bed properly. 

“You been pokin’ at me all night.” 

Zariah folds her arms over her chest. 

“Maybe you’re easy to poke.” 

That earns a quiet breath through his nose. And he wasn’t amused. 

He steps closer until there’s no way for her to forget he’s there. The heat of him reaches her before contact does. Her spine straightens automatically. Smoke notices. His hand slides to her jaw, thumb settling near her chin, guiding her face up. 

“Wrong answer.” 

Zariah’s lips part.

She means to say something slick. He sees it forming.

But the words stall when his other hand reaches down,  tugs the robe knot loose in one pull, then lets it fall open on its own. He takes a small step back, eyes downcast to admire her. Take in the view like she was modeling nudity for his eyes only. Robe parted wide and framing that long, elegant frame without hiding a damn thing. 5’10 of slim-thick lines hit different up close. Her long torso stretched down to a waist he could circle with both hands and still have room, dipping into hips that curved fuller from the side, that rich brown skin glowing warm.

Her chest rose steady with each breath, full and natural, nipples tightening just from the air or maybe his stare, elegant shape softening the sharp edges of her shoulders and collarbones. He clocked the subtle give in her stomach, toned thighs long from runway miles pressed together slight, calves flexing strong as she held runway poise even now. 

Smoke’s eyes never leave hers.

“That attitude you got,” he says quietly. “I’m ‘bout done with it.”

“You ain’t my bodyguard no more, Smoke,” Zariah snaps, voice laced brat-sharp. “Stop actin’ like you run shit. I do what I want.” 

Smoke chuckles low, rumble deep from his chest rolling out gravel-thick, his hand shoots out to snag her wrist before she grabs the front of her robe, pulling her half-turn into him, cedar scent faint mixing with her floral perfume. 

“Yeah, but who you come runnin’ to when you needed help? Who handled things to make shit easier for you? Roughed niggas up that got too close? Would kill anybody that so much as try you?” Smoke drawls slow, southern thick, free hand palming the front of his joggers where his thick bulge thickens obvious. “Yeah, but you was feenin’ for this dick. We wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for you beggin’ me to fuck you in that dressing room. Remember? Or you forgot just like you forgot who the fuck I am. And when I say somethin’, you do as you told.” 

Smoke’s eyes never left yer face, unblinking and coal-dark, jaw set under stubble. 

Zariah yanks her wrist free, twisting away but stays close, turning full to shove her palm flat against his chest, pushing half-hearted, his pecs unyielding under her spore as fingers. Zariah leans in, chin high, lips curling into a smirk. 

“And wasn’t you the one that couldn’t wait to fuck me?” She fires back, hip cocked. “Ain’t never had a bitch like me in yo’ life. Soon as you got a taste, you obsessed, right? That’s why you still actin’ like a good little soldier. Now who’s in control now, big bad Smoke?” Her voice pitches taunt, one hand sliding down to trail the ridge of his abs where his tee clings, nails scraping light to test the flex. 

Zariah walks off, brushing past him. Smoke snorts  breath. 

“Control? Lil’ girl, you testin’ ropes right now.” Smoke growls. His large Pam clamps her hip, yanking her flush from behind, his hard dick against her ass. His beard grazes her cheek as his head dips. “That dressin’ room…you hiked that dress, spread your legs wide, pussy was drippin’ and beggin’ for my tongue first. Then you rode this dick cryin’ daddy til you squirted all on this dick. Obsessed? Yeah…I ain’t got a reason to deny shit. But you hooked, baby girl. Chasin’ this nut every night since.” Smoke’s fingers trail up the arch of her spine, his other hand cupping her ass cheek. 

Zariah gasps sharp, twisting her hips, bucking against him, but eventually she breaks the hold. 

“Hooked? Please. You stalkin’ my every move like a lost puppy.” She spits, laughing brittle, backing toward the bathroom door. “Body guard days over, but you still guarding this pussy like it’s yours. And I’m glad you know exactly how obsessed you are.” Her eyes flash, lips parting to rest her tongue at the corner of her mouth. 

Smoke steps forward, hands shooting out to brace the doorframe over her head, caving her without touch. 

“Mine? Damn right. Till you prove otherwise.” He rumbles. “Go ‘head, shower off that dinner, but don’t think slamming doors gon’ end this talk.” His eyes rake over her body, dick tenting the front of his joggers. Zariah places her palm flat against his chest before giving him a final shove to the ripple of muscle, the door swinging hard bang latch catching. The shower turned on beyond the door and as much as Smoke wanted to open that door, he waited. Waited until he heard that shower shut off.

Zariah is standing at the vanity in nothing but a towel, lotion bottle in hand, acting deeply interested in the label. She bends to reach for her toner in the cabinet beneath the sink. The bathroom door opens, the humidity in the bathroom turning the air chill. The fog on the glass began to disappear. The way she knows exactly where he is behind her without turning around. She just wants him to know she can ignore it. 

Zariah rises slowly, and sets her toner on the sink with careful precision. 

Still won’t turn. 

Zariah swallows. Her arms start to cross over herself instinctive. Smoke catches both her wrists and lowers them back at her sides. 

“No.” 

Zariah looks at him now, fully. Some of the bravado thinning at the edges. Because she knows this version of him. The one who gets calmer the more serious he is. He releases her wrists only after they stay where he put them. Then, he steps back half a pace and gestures toward the counter. 

Smoke steps behind her, broad hand spreading over the back of her neck for one steady second, claiming her attention. 

"Good," he says.

The steam from her shower clings to the air, thick and warm, fogging the mirror above the sink in faint swirls. Zariah stands there naked, skin dewy, water droplets tracing slow paths down her shoulders and the curve of her back. The towel lies discarded on the floor by her feet, leaving her fully exposed. Smoke’s hand lingers at her neck a beat longer, thumb pressing firm against her pulse, anchoring her in place. The heat of his palm seeps into her, carrying that familiar cedar scent that always seems to cut through everything else. Smoke's chest brushes her back as he closes the space. Zariah can feel the expansion of his black tee against her shoulder blades when he draws a controlled breath.

"Hands on the sink," he tells her, voice low and even. 

Zariah does not move right away. Her chin lifts a fraction, eyes flicking to his reflection in the mirror, holding his gaze there. Bold still, testing. 

“For what?” she asks, tone carrying that edge she knows gets under his skin, words clipped. 

Smoke doesn’t rise to it. His free hand slides down her side, large fingers splaying over her hip, gripping just enough. The veins in his forearm stand out as his muscles flex. 

“You know why,” he says. “All that mouth. Ignoring calls. Acting like rules don’t stick. Time to fix it.”

Zariah exhales through parted lips, a subtle shift, but her hands stay at her sides. Her posture remains upright, feet planted on the cool tile. Inside, she feels the pull, the way his presence makes the steam feel heavier, but she pushes back one more time.

 “I was busy. You act like I owe you every second.”

Smoke's grip tightens on her hip, thumb digging into the soft flesh there. He leans in closer, lips near her ear, breath warm against the damp shell. 

“Busy playin' games. Poking. Now I’ma show you. But that’s what you wanted, right?” His other hand lifts from her neck, trails down her spine, ending at the swell of her ass. He cups one cheek fully, squeezing hard enough to make her shift her weight.

"Hands. Sink. Now."

This time, her body responds before her mouth does. Palms flat on the cool porcelain edge, fingers splaying wide. She arches her back slightly without meaning to, ass pushing out toward him, skin prickling under the humid air. Her eyes stay on his in the mirror, defiant spark still there, but her breathing picks up, chest rising faster.

“That's better. So, you do as you told then?” he says, stepping fully behind her now. His feet plant wide on the tile, knees bracketing her legs as he positions himself. One hand stays on her hip, holding her steady. The other rears back, large palm open, veins bulging along his wrist.

The first smack lands solid across her right cheek, skin meeting skin with a sharp crack that echoes off the tiled walls. Her ass jiggles from the impact, flesh purpling instantly under his handprint. Zariah's fingers curl against the sink, a hiss escaping her teeth, but she bites down on anything louder.

 “That all?” she throws back, voice tight, trying to keep the bold front.

Smoke sees it. The way her thighs tense, pussy lips glistening between her legs from more than just the shower. He knows she’s wet, knows the defiance is her last push before she settles. His dick barely had room to grow in his joggers, that thick length pressing against the seam as he watched her in the mirror. 

“Keep talkin',” he warns, hand coming down again, harder this time, left cheek taking the full weight of his swing. The slap rings out wet in the steam, her ass bouncing, a fresh mark blooming dark against her skin.

Zariah gasps, knees buckling a touch, but his grip on her hip keeps her upright. Heat spreads across her backside, stinging deep. 

“Fuck,” she breathes, eyes narrowing at him in the glass. “You mad at me daddy?”

Smoke doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he delivers three quick spanks in succession, alternating cheeks, each one heavier than the last. Palm cracks against flesh, her ass rippling with every strike, turning hot and swollen under his assault. Her pussy clenches visibly, slickness dripping down her inner thigh, betraying how much she needs this correction. Smoke's free hand slides between her thighs from behind, thick fingers parting her folds roughly, middle finger plunging into her soaked pussy without warning.

“This what you wanted?” Smoke growls low, pumping in and out once, twice, feeling her walls grip him tight. She moans despite herself, hips bucking back. But he pulls out just as quick, smearing her juices over her ass before landing another brutal smack right where her cheek meets thigh.

Zariah's head drops forward a second, elbows locking on the sink, but she lifts it back up, meeting his eyes again. 

“Keep goin' then,” she challenges, voice breathier now, the bold cracking at the edges.

Smoke's chest rumbles with a low sound, approval mixed with hunger. That big dick throbs, straining as he tugs his joggers down with one hand, freeing the curved shaft and wide tip. Pre-cum beads at his slit, heavy length slapping against her bruised ass. But he ain’t done punishing her yet. Smoke grabs a fistful of her wet hair, pulling her head back gently but firm, forcing her to arch deeper. 

“Count 'em,” he orders.

His hand cracks down again, full force, the loudest yet. Her ass quivers, marked deep purple, heat radiating. 

“One,” she grits out, pussy aching empty.

Another on the other side, palm stinging his own skin from the velocity. “Two.”

Smoke spreads her cheeks with his thumbs, exposing her tight asshole and dripping slit, then spanks right across both, the impact jarring her whole body. 

“Three,” she moans, thighs shaking. Teeth chattering. 

Smoke leans over her, his dense midsection pressing into her back, shirt damp from the steam and her skin. His beard scraping her shoulder as he bites down lightly there, marking her while his hand rains down five more measured strikes, each one pushing her closer to breaking that last wall. Her counts come faster, voice turning needy, ass on fire, pussy clenching around nothing as viscous arousal slicks her legs. By the tenth, she is panting, body trembling in his hold, bold facade shattered into raw want.

 P-Please,” Zariah whispers finally, not begging wildly but settling, hands gripping the sink.

Smoke pauses, rubbing his palm over the abused flesh, soothing the burn while his tip nudges her entrance, thick head parting her lips. 

“Good girl,” he says, voice thick with possession. 

Then he thrusts in deep, stretching her pussy wide around his girth, filling her completely. His hips snap forward once, deep and punishing, fat dick buried to the hilt in her dripping pussy, stretching her walls tight around his thickness. 

When he eased that fat length inside her it opened her pussy with a slow burn, the girth demanding space as it sank deep. The curve to the right caught along her slick walls, dragging firm pressure against the sensitive ridge there with each inch that followed. Long and solid, bottoming out steady, filling her to the limit while her body adjusted around the thickness pulsing hot and full. Every shift would send that curve nudging the same spot over and over, building a tight coil low in her belly that made her thighs tremble without her meaning to. Zariah's breath catches sharp, body jolting against the sink, but Smoke pulls out slow, leaving her clenching empty, creamy slick coating his shaft. Not done yet. Her ass still needs more work, cheeks blazing hot under his palm prints.

Smoke's hand cracks down again, heavy and mean, right across both bruised globes. The slap echoes wet in the bathroom, her flesh rippling, thighs quivering from the sting. Zariah whimpers low, knees buckling inward, but his grip on her hip locks her straight.

“I don’t know why the fuck you act like you tough, baby,” Smoke growls, voice thick with that Mississippi drawl, low and gravel-rough, breath hot on her neck. His free hand fists her wet hair tighter, yanking her head back so her eyes lock on his in the fogged mirror. Dark brown gaze bores into hers, heavy-lidded and unblinking. “Why the fuck you keep actin’ up? Huh?”

Another smack lands harder, palm flattening her left cheek, sending fire blooming deep. Zariah’s legs shake harder, pussy leaking fresh wetness down her inner thighs, mixing with shower droplets on the tile. Zariah bites her full lip, trying to hold the sound, but a needy whine slips out anyway, body arching despite the burn.

“Why? Answer the fuckin’ question,” Smoke demands, leaning his solid chest heavier against her back, tee clinging damp to his thick torso. The weight of him pins her forward, broad shoulders eclipsing her reflection. His cream-coated dickthrobs hot against her thigh, pre-cum smearing her skin, but he holds off, rubbing her sore ass roughly with his rough palm, veins popping along his forearm whenever he would grip the flesh with his fingers. 

Zariah exhales shaky through parted lips, fingers digging into the sink edge, porcelain cool under her palms. That bold edge frays, but she pushes one last time, voice breathy and tight. “I heard you...just didn’t think…”

Crack. His hand swings full force, spanking the spot where ass meets thigh, jolting her whole frame. Her pussy clenches hard, clit twitching, inner lips trembling from the impact, visible drip falling to the floor. Her legs trembled bad now, barely holding her up.

“Didn’t think what? That I mean what I say?” Smoke presses closer, beard scraping her shoulder as he leans in to kiss the spot where his teeth was minutes ago, soothing it. He spanks again, rapid fire—three in a row, alternating sides, each crack louder, her ass swelling fuller, hot to the touch. 

“You went out there actin’ like my words ain’t shit. Ignorin’ calls. Playin’ like you run this. Nah, baby. That stops now.”

Zariah’s whimper turns into a gasp, body softening under the onslaught, shoulders dropping a fraction. She feels his control sink in deep, the dense gravity of his frame making the steam thicker, her vanilla-musk scent mixing with his cedar smoke. 

“Y-Yeah... I hear you,” she admits quieter, chin lifting less defiant, eyes holding his with that flicker—irritation yielding to the weight.

Smoke pauses, large hand soothing over the fiery flesh, squeezing possessive. But his voice stays mean, drawl dragging slow.

 “Too late for that hearin’ shit. You gonna learn tonight.” That dick nudges her slit again, thick head parting her soaked folds, teasing that creamy entry without giving it what it wants. One more spank, brutal across the fullest part of her right cheek, making her cry out soft, hips bucking back involuntary.

“Count the rest. And don’t make me ask twice.”

Her voice comes steady now, reined in, body present under him. “E-Eleven.”

Smoke’s hand lifts off her throbbing ass cheek, fingers digging into the heated flesh one last time before shoving her shoulders down firm. Enough with the slaps. Time to shut that mouth up proper. Her knees hit the wet tile with a soft smack, water slick under her shins. Zariah’s dark eyes lift to his, breath still ragged from the burn, but she don't hesitate. Her body shifts smoothly, settling low, full tits swaying as she balances on her heels.

Smoke steps up close, black tee clinging to his broad chest, sweat and shower mist beading on his deep brown skin. One thick hand wraps the base of his dick, pulling it free from where it hung thick and heavy between his muscular thighs. Almost as thick as her forearm, easy nine inches stretching out straight at first, then curving wicked at the tip like it know exactly where to hit deep. Girth thick around, veins bulging ropey along the dark shaft, skin a rich chocolate shade fading near the fat, flared head that's glossy with pre-cum leaking steady. Heavy balls swing low underneath, plump and full, hanging loose in that wrinkled sac, dark and musky from the heat. Whole thing pulses alive in his grip, smelling of clean soap mixed with his natural cedar-earth scent up close.

“See this dick right here, baby? You wanna talk back, runnin’ yo’ mouth like you run shit? Get this dick in that throat,” Smoke growls low, drawl dragging thick and mean, free hand tangling rough in her wet curls. He yanks her face forward, smearing the leaking head across her plump lips, leaving a shiny trail. “Suck big daddy’s dick. Put that mouth to work since you actin’ all tough. Throat it deep, show me you learned somethin’ tonight.”

Zariah parts her lips wide, tongue flicking out to lap the salty bead from his slit before she stretches her jaw open. Head disappears first, her cheeks hollowing as she sucks hard around the ridge, pulling him in inch by girthy inch. Those full Saliva spills quick, dripping down her chin. She trained for this, months of him working her down slow at first, gagging her till she took every curve without choking. Now she slides forward steady, throat relaxing open, feeling that bend nudge the back of her mouth then slip past her tonsils smooth.

The soft flesh of her lips stretches wide and presses flush against his shaft as she sinks lower, creating a tight seal that drags with each slow pull. Wet suction fills the quiet with each bob of her head, the sound thick and wet as her mouth works to take more. Heat and pressure builds around Smoke from the way her lips clamp and slide, her tongue pushing up from below while her throat opens to pull him deeper with every descent.

Zariah’s face pulls tight around that thick girth filling her mouth, her cheeks drawing inward in deep hollows that frame the shaft with sharp definition as she sinks lower. She maintains a steady rhythm of long, controlled pulls, her tongue pressing firm and flat underneath while her throat opens to swallow more with each descent, creating a constant wet drag and suction that tightens on the upstroke. Her jaw works visibly with the effort, lips sealed flush and sliding in a smooth, milking motion that builds pressure without pause.

Smoke groans deep in his chest, hips bucking shallow to feed her more. “Yeah, that's it, fuckin' swallow this big dick. You know how I like it, don't play. Deeper, baby, choke on it if you gotta, but don’t stop.” His voice rumbles harsh, hand guiding her head, thick fingers pressing her nose toward his trimmed pubes. His fat nuts slap light against her chin as she bobs, throat bulging visible with his length buried fully. Zariah gags once soft, eyes watering, but pushes through, humming low around him, tongue pressing flat underneath to stroke the bulging vein.

Smoke watches her work in the mirror, heavy-lidded eyes narrowing mean. “Look at you, all that fire earlier, now you slurpin' dick like a good lil’ girl. Shoulda did this from jump, keep that ass in line and yo’ throat full. Mmm, suck harder, baby. Drain these nuts dry.” His grip tightens in her hair, fucking her face, pulling out to the tip with a wet pop before slamming back in, curve hitting her gag reflex perfect every thrust. Her hands brace his thick thighs, nails digging into the dense muscle, feeling him flex under her palms as drool strings from her stretched lips.

Zariah’s pussy aches empty between her spread knees, thighs slick with her own drip mixing on the floor, but she focuses, hollowing her cheeks tighter, swallowing around his girth to milk him. Her nose buries in his coarse hairs finally, balls snug against her chin, holding him deep till her lungs burn. She pulls off gasping, strings of spit connecting her mouth to his shining shaft, then dives back, faster, head twisting side to side for friction.

“That’s my girl, train that throat right. You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I bust down yo’ neck,” Smoke grunts, free hand cupping her jaw rough, thumb smearing spit back in. His heavy balls draw up tight, dick twitching hard in her sucking mouth, but he holds off, drawing it out mean. “Keep goin’. Earn that forgiveness, baby.”

Zariah’s right hand wraps around the base of his thick dick, fingers barely meeting around the girth as she strokes up slow, twisting at the swollen head slick with her spit. She sucks deeper on the pull back, lips sealed tight around his veiny shaft, tongue swirling under the curve that presses her cheek out. Her left hand steadies on his heavy thigh, nails scraping light into the dense muscle as she bobs faster, throat opening wide to take him balls-deep again, humming vibrations along his length.

Smoke's eyes narrow sharp, watching her work from above. His big palm cracks down quick on her stroking hand, slapping it off his dick with a wet smack. 

“Nah, baby. Hands where I can see ‘em. Up behind yo head or on them thighs. This mouth mine now.”' He grabs a fistful of her wet curls tighter, yanking her head back just enough to pop his dick free, strings of saliva stretching long before snapping. Then he thrusts forward, burying every curving inch straight down her throat in one push, balls smacking her chin heavy.

Zariah gasps around the invasion, eyes watering, but puts her hands in her lap. Her throat bulges with his girth, the  bend lodging deep, cutting off her air till black spots dance. He don't let up—hips snap forward, fucking her face, pulling out to the flared head where she gasps ragged, then slamming back in, pubes grinding her nose.

“Fuckin’ tired of yo games, Zariah. All this bullshit you pullin’,” he growls low, thick and gravelly, voice echoing off the tile. Smoke picks up meaner, dick pistoning her mouth, heavy balls swinging to slap her jaw each thrust. “Back when I was yo’ bodyguard, dealin' with yo’ spoiled, uptight, prissy ass barkin' orders left and right. Actin’ like you own the world, snappin’ at me like I'm one of yo’ lil' errand boys. Had to bite my tongue, watchin' you strut ‘round thinkin’ you untouchable.”

Zariah’s knees spread wider on the slick floor, thighs quivering as drool pours down her chin, soaking her tits glossy. She gags hard on a deep plunge, throat convulsing around his pulsing shaft, but holds the position, hands laced tight in her lap, fingers twitching to grip something. That wet ass pussy throbbed neglected, juices trailing down to puddle under her.

Smoke grunts deep, free hand bracing the sink edge, muscles flexing in his thick arm as he rams harder, curve dragging her tonsils raw. “And now? Now you on this dick, slurpin’ like you starved, and still think you run shit? Nah, baby girl. I run it. Always did. Just lettin’ you play pretend till I remind this lil’ ass who in charge.” He yanks her hair sharper, holding her nose-deep, balls snug on her chin, grinding slow circles to stretch her throat wider. “Feel that? Feel daddy ownin' this mouth? You gon’ take every inch till I say stop. No more actin’ brand new.”

Zariah’s chest heaves desperate around the blockage, tears streaking her cheeks mixing with spit, but her eyes stay locked up at him, defiant spark fading to raw submission. She swallows around his girth, milking the veiny underside, tongue pressing frantic when he pulls back for air. Her hands stay put, obedient, elbows trembling from the strain as he resumes pounding, wet gurgles filling the humid air, his heavy balls tightening with each brutal thrust.

Smoke abruptly snaps his hips back, dick leaving her throat. Zariah sucked in a lung full of air, sniffling, teary eyes cloudy as she looked up at her daddy with a bite of her bottom lip. She’d sucked a few dicks in her twenty-nine years of living but she would have never thought a nine inch, veiny monster would fit down her throat. Normally, she would pat herself on the back, but right now, Smoke was pissed off. Her reward would come later. Right now, she’s a throat to fuck and nothing more. Her eyes went hazy from staring at his hard dick bobbing and twitching in her face, glossy and dripping with saliva. She knew he was close because his tip was a deep purple and it flared so wide it left the corners of lips raw. The map of veins along his shaft bulged in size, and his nut sack sat full and loaded with cum. 

“Open up.” Smoke commands.

Zariah does as she’s told, eager for more. That big dick slid in smooth and full, making her eyes roll. 

Smoke's hips jackhammer faster now, thick dick plunging her throat raw brutal snaps, the curve battering her tonsils. His balls draw up tight, slapping her chin wet and relentless, his breath turning into ragged grunts as the pressure coils low in his gut. Sweat beads down his solid chest, tee clinging damp to the full slabs of pecs heaving with each drive. He feels her throat spasm greedy around his girth, milking him closer to the edge.

“Eyes up here, Zariah. Look at me while I feed this throat,” he snarls, free hand clamping her jaw firm, thumb digging into the hinge to force her gaze up. Watery brown eyes meet his dark, heavy-lidded stare, hers wide and pleading, his burning with ownership. “Hands in yo’ lap. Fingers laced. Don't move ‘em.”

Zariah shifts quickly on her knees, pulling her elbows in to drop her hands to her thighs, palms up and fingers interlocking obediently in her lap like a proper slut. Her thighs quake wider apart on the tile, pussy clenching empty and dripping strings of arousal to the floor. Her jaw slackens under his grip, relaxing loose as he demands, lips stretched obscene around his pistoning shaft, drool bubbling out the corners to sheet down her neck and pool between her heaving tits.

“Good girl. There you go, relax that jaw. Let daddy bust,” Smoke growls deep, gravel scraping rough, pace turning erratic, hips stuttering as his dick swells thicker in her gullet. His balls contract hard, and he slams balls-deep one final time, grinding his pubes flush to her nose, holding  as ropes of hot cum erupt straight down her throat. Pulse after thick pulse floods her, warm, slightly salty jets coating her esophagus, forcing her to gulp convulsively around the buried length.

He don't budge an inch, big hand locked on her curls, the other on her jaw, keeping her pinned nose-deep while she swallows every drop—no spill, no waste. Her throat works visible under the skin, bulging swallows pulling his load down greedy, chest fluttering desperate for air around the blockage. Her eyes remain locked on his, tears carving clean tracks through the spit mask on her face, but that defiant spark's gone fully, replaced with raw, owned surrender shining back.

Smoke holds till the last twitch fades, dick softening just enough in the wet heat, then eases out slow, dragging the sensitive underside over her lolling tongue. Strings of cum-mixed saliva cling thick, snapping as the flared head pops free. She coughs hoarse, sucking air in big whoops, hands twitching in her lap but staying put, lips puffy and glossy. He strokes her cheek with his thumb, smearing the mess, voice dropping low and satisfied. 

“Every drop. That's how you take what’s yours. Don’t forget who run this shit.”

Smoke’s thick fingers loosen from her curls, sliding down to hook under her arms with that unyielding grip, hauling her up off the tile slow and steady. Her knees wobble jelly-soft, thighs slick from her own dripping need, but he steadies her full against his sweat-damp shirt, broad chest rising firm under her cheek. His big hand cups her elbow, the other spans low on her back, guiding her bare feet over the bathmat and out the steamy bathroom door.

He snags a clean washcloth from the sink edge first, soaking it under hot tap water till steam curls off, then presses it gentle but thorough to her chin, wiping away the glossy streaks of spit and tears. His thumb traces her swollen lips, the cloth dragging over puffy cheeks and her jaw, leaving her skin flushed warm and bare. 

“There. Clean slate, baby girl,” he rumbles low, voice that quiet thunder rolling deep from his chest.

The king bed dominated the dim space, sheets rumpled from earlier. He sinks onto the edge, thighs spreading wide like tree trunks, then tugs her forward to drape her naked body across his lap face-down. Ass up high, cheeks still blooming hot from the spanking, pussy lips peeking swollen and slick between spread thighs. His weight shifts the mattress deep, one massive palm flattening broad on her lower back to anchor her still, the other dipping into the jar of balm on the nightstand. A cool, thick shea and aloe mix he keeps stocked for nights like this.

His fingers dig in generously, spreading the cream in firm circles over her left cheek first, kneading the stinging heat away, thumb pressing into the tender underside where it meets thigh. Smoke switches to the right after a while, palms gliding slick, parting the globes slightly to smooth the balm down the cleft, grazing her puckered hole and dipping low enough to tease her soaked folds without mercy. 

“You know why that ass got lit up, Zariah,” he starts, tone even, dangerously calm wrapping each word like barbed wire, dragging vowels long and weighted. “Pushin’ me like that, testin' boundaries when I done told you how it's gone be. Mouth runnin’ reckless, darin’ me to snap. I spank you again and again if you keep triggerin’ this fire. Don’t make me prove it twice more tonight.”

His hand keeps working, the balm sinking in as her skin drinks it greedy, cooling the fire to a throb. Smoke’s palm cups one cheek full, squeezing soft, then leans down to press open-mouth kisses along the curve—lips dragging hot and wet, tongue flicking out to taste the salted balm on fevered flesh. Peck after peck trails inward, nipping the fullest swell before soothing with flat laps.

“Mmm,” he draws back, biting his bottom lip, her slick sticking to his goatee, “pussy puffy from me popping that ass,” Smoke takes two fingers, tapping her pussy lips, labia peeking through like petals. “I know you love it when daddy turns you out like a fuck doll…pussy leakin’ for it. But safety first, always. Top of my list. You play brat, defy what I say to keep you whole, that shit upsets me deep. I’d kill anybody—end ‘em slow—who so much as touches a hair on your head. Bleed ‘em dry for less.”

Smoke’s voice stays level, no rise, just that steel edge slicing through, breath ghosting her skin between kisses, one hand landing square on the sit-spot welt. Smoke pauses, hand stilling to pat her ass possessive, waiting till her breath evens soft against the sheets.

“Now, you know what I want you to do. Say it clear.”

Zariah shifts slightly across his lap, thighs clenching, posture holding upright even prone, spine straight, hands smoothing the bedspread once to ground herself. Her voice comes soft, that self-possessed edge threading through.

“…I’ll listen to what daddy says.”

“Good girl, keep goin’.”

Smoke’s palm resumes stroking the balm in, fingers parting her cheeks wider for a deep kiss right above where her puckered hole sat, his tongue circling lazy.

“…I—I’ll stop being m–mean to daddy…and understand t–that he’s trying to protect m–me, not control me,” her full lips press thin a beat, exhale parting them tense, brown eyes flicking back over her shoulder to hold his gaze steady. Even though her body couldn’t stop shaking.

“Mm. That’s my girl,” another peck lower, between the under cuff of her ass where her thighs met, “finish it.”

“H–He wants me to continue t–to be independent…but understand that m–my man w–wants and needs to step up. To provide, protect, a–and spoil me. To create a life for me w–where I can continue to be t–the phenomenal women that I am. The beautiful woman t–that I am. The sexy woman that I am.”

Her words came out even in some ways and shaky in others. No plea. Only quiet dominance and echoing his, her body relaxing fuller into his lap as the balm soaked deep. Smoke nods once, satisfaction etching his heavy-lidded stare. He gave his girl a final kiss planted firm on her tailbone, one large, calloused hand sliding up her slick spine to tangle light in her hair, tugging her head back gently for more eye contact.

“That’s my girl. Good job. Now…rest that ass here while daddy thinks up how to spoil you next.”

Smoke positions Zariah on her stomach across their bed. He spreads her thighs wide from behind and lifts her hips into the right tilt. Smoke dips his head and admires her pussy lips sitting in the shape of a heart below her ass that glistened from the balm. His tongue moves in slow strokes from the base of her pussy upward, gathering every bit of wetness. He seals his lips around the folds and sucks them clean with steady pulls before pressing soft kisses along the slick skin. His tongue dips inside to lick deeper then returns to lap and suck without rushing, working through the mess until only his mouth leaves her glistening.

Zariah’s body rocks with small shifts under his hold. “Yes daddy." Her voice comes thick. “Thank you daddy.” She pushes back a fraction as his suction holds on her clit. “I love it when you eat my pussy.”

Smoke keeps his pace while his voice rumbles low against her. “Stay open for me. Let daddy clean every drop. You taste so good when I take my time like this.” He kisses her tender entrance then sucks again, tongue circling slow. “That’s it. Give it all to me.”

Zariah shifts her hips back in a slow roll, pressing her soaked folds against Smoke's mouth. He meets each motion by sealing his lips around her clit and sucking with firm, steady pressure, drawing the swollen bud between his lips in a gentle pull before releasing. Her thighs tremble under his grip as she rocks again, grinding back for more contact.

"Oooo," she breathes out, the sound stretching long. “Fuck. Yes.” The words slip free between moans while her body keeps moving, seeking that same suction each time she pushes her pussy toward him.

Smoke's tongue works in skillful laps, flattening broad against her entrance before dragging upward to circle her clit again. His voice stays low and even, vibrating right against her skin.

 “That’s right, keep bringing it back  like that. Let me suck on this pretty pussy. You feel how wet you stay for me?” Smoke proves her opening with the tip of his tongue to catch some of that wetness. “I can taste every bit of it, so sweet and thick on my tongue. Gon’ fuck you so deep after this, stretch you open slow with every inch until you can't think straight. This pussy gon' take it all, and I'ma give it to you proper.”

Snoke sucks with more pressure on her clit as she rocks back once more, holding the pull for a beat longer before easing off to lick through her folds. “Tastes so damn good, baby. Can't get enough of how you drip down my chin.”

Zariah’s voice comes out husky between her moans. “You love this pussy, baby?”

Smoke answers without lifting his mouth, the words rumbling straight into her. “Daddy love this pussy. Best fuckin’ pussy I ever had.”

Zariah’s voice lifts soft and questioning as she rocks back once more. “Daddy?”

Smoke answers with a low hum that vibrates against her folds, the sound deep and steady while his tongue continues its work.

Zariah pushes again, her words coming clearer now. “Daddy I wanna watch you eat my pussy.”

In one smooth motion Smoke flips her onto her back, his hands guiding her body with controlled strength. He pulls the black tee over his head and drops it aside, leaving him fully naked as he settles between her open thighs. Zariah spreads wider for him, and he eases down to keep his mouth on her, licking and sucking with focused attention. She grinds her pussy into his mouth, hips rolling to meet each pull of his lips. Smoke gently pushes her thighs open further, holding them apart so he can slurp directly on her clit with wet, smacking sounds. He stays right there, working that spot alone because it builds her up fast. Her body tenses and then releases in a sudden rush as she squirts, the warm fluid spilling over his tongue and chin while he keeps sucking through every pulse.

Smoke stays locked between her thighs, refusing to ease up. His tongue drags in long, wet strokes that feel heavy and thick against her folds, each one landing with pressure that makes her hips twitch. Zariah’s pussy quivers under the attention, the sensitive skin pulsing and tightening as he circles her clit again and again. He holds her legs open wider with firm hands, keeping her spread so nothing interrupts the steady motion of his mouth. The wet sounds grow louder with every lick, and he focuses right there, building the heat until her body starts to tighten once more. She grinds down into him, chasing the sensation as the pressure coils deep inside. His tongue works without pause, thick and insistent, pushing her straight toward the edge until she breaks again, fluid spilling over his lips while he keeps sucking through the pulses.

Smoke stays locked in place, his mouth sealed over her pussy as he sucks deeper, pulling her swollen clit between his lips with steady pressure. His tongue follows in thick, wet drags that lap up every fresh trickle of her arousal, working in firm circles that make her thighs shake in the air. Zariah keeps her legs spread wide, knees bent and feet towards the ceiling, giving him full access while her hips roll in small, desperate circles against his face.

Her body reacts in waves. The muscles in her lower belly tighten and release with each pull of his mouth, sending ripples across her frame. Her rich brown skin glistens with sweat, the soft curve of her waist flexing as her back arches off the bed. Her breasts rise and fall faster, nipples tight and dark against the air. Inside, her walls pulse and flutter around nothing, clenching with every lick that drags from her entrance up to her clit. More slick heat spills out, coating his tongue and dripping down his chin as he swallows it down without pause.

“Uhuh, yeah baby.” Smoke rumbles against her, voice low and thick with command. “Keep those legs open. Let me feel you gettin' close. I want every drop this time. Right in my fucking mouth. Feed me.” His words vibrate through her core, pushing the tension higher. Smoke sucks again, lips sealed tight while his tongue flicks quick and firm right on that sensitive spot, building the pressure until her moans turn ragged.

Zariah’s hands fist the sheets. Her pussy quivers harder now, the inner walls squeezing in quick spasms that grow stronger with each pass of his tongue. The heat coils low in her belly, spreading outward until her toes curl and her breath hitches in short gasps. "Haah—Fuck," a sharp inhale caught in her throat, then she breathes out, the word breaking on a moan as another rush of wetness floods his mouth. Her hips jerk upward, chasing the sensation while her thighs tremble around his shoulders.

Smoke doesn't let up. He slides two fingers inside her, curling them against that spongy spot while his mouth keeps working her clit in wet, insistent pulls. “I know you feel it buildin’. Don't hold back on me. You gon’ give it all, you hear me?” His free hand presses her thigh wider, keeping her open as her body winds tighter. Her stomach flutters visibly, the muscles jumping under her skin. Her pussy clenches around his fingers, gripping and releasing in a steady climb toward the edge.

"I'll be your good girl—” Zariah gasps, voice cracking as the pressure peaks. Her whole frame locks up for a beat, then shatters. A hot rush pours from her, squirting in pulsing waves straight into his mouth. Smoke groans low and drinks it down, tongue still moving through the contractions that ripple through her walls. Her orgasm rolls on, body shaking as fresh slick spills over his lips and chin, her moans filling the room while he holds her through every last spasm.

Smoke lingers between her thighs after the last tremors fade, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses against her slick folds. Each one lands soft, his lips brushing over the swollen heat while his tongue gives the lightest flick to catch the lingering taste. 

“That’s a good girl," he whispers low against her, the words vibrating through her sensitive skin. “Took every bit of it just like I said. Look at you, still shakin’ for me.” His praise comes steady and warm, laced with that deep southern drawl that settles right into her bones.

Zariah’s breath hitches in the aftermath, her body still sprawled open on the sheets. Her rich brown skin gleams from the vanilla oil, a fine sheen of sweat tracing the narrow dip of her waist and the soft flare of her hips. Her breasts rise and fall in quick, shallow pulls, nipples drawn tight from the rush that just tore through her. Inside, her walls continue to flutter in small, involuntary pulses, the aftershocks making her thighs twitch around his shoulders even as she keeps them parted for him.

Smoke trails those kisses upward, dragging his mouth across the smooth plane of her lower belly. Each press of his lips leaves a ticklish, wet mark that cools against her heated skin, moving higher with unhurried purpose. His hands slide along her sides, palms broad as they frame her ribcage. When he reaches her chest, he pauses at one peaked nipple, drawing it between his lips with a firm, wet pull. His tongue circles the tight bud then strokes while he sucks, the pressure sending fresh sparks straight down to her still-throbbing core.

Zariah arches into the contact, a broken moan slipping free as her fingers thread into the sheets again. The pull at her nipple feels sharper now, heightened by how raw everything still feels below. Her other breast settles against his cheek when he shifts to give it the same attention, sucking deep while his tongue works in lazy, insistent laps. 

“So damn responsive,” Smoke rumbles between pulls, voice thick with approval. “Every part of you knows who it belong to.”

Zariah’s legs ease wider on instinct, the earlier tension melting into a loose, pliant sprawl. The muscles along her stomach quiver visibly under his path, and her hips give a small, involuntary roll upward as if chasing more of the contact even though he's moved on. Smoke keeps his mouth latched, alternating between gentle suction and firmer draws that make her back bow off the bed, her full lips parting around another shaky exhale.

Smoke stays latched on her nipple, drawing it deep into his mouth with sucks that make her whole chest tighten. His tongue works in firm circles, pressing and flicking against the stiff peak while his teeth graze just enough to send sharp little jolts straight through her. Zariah’s rich brown skin flushes darker across her breasts, the full weight of them rising and falling with every breath as he switches sides, sucking the other nipple just as hard, his broad hand cupping the first one to keep the wet heat from fading.

Her pussy responds fast, slick folds parting on their own as fresh wetness slips out in a steady drip that trails down toward the sheets. The sensation builds low and insistent, her clit twitching in time with each strong suck, the tiny bud swelling and pulsing without any direct touch. Her slim-thick thighs part wider on the bed, hips rolling in small, helpless circles as the throbbing between her legs grows heavier, matching the pull of his mouth.

Zariah’s long legs tremble as another rush of heat floods her core. She can feel it clearly now, the way her pussy clenches around nothing, dripping steadily while her clit jumps and aches for friction. Smoke doesn’t let up, his lips sealed tight around her nipple, sucking with that deep, focused technique hat leaves her gasping. His free hand slides down her side, palm broad against the curve of her waist, holding her steady as her back arches higher off the mattress.

“Look at that,” he says low, voice rough against her skin between pulls. “Your body tellin’ on you. Drippin’ all over just from this.” He drags his tongue across the sensitive tip one more time, then seals his mouth around it again, sucking harder until her clit twitches visibly with the next wave of wetness sliding free.

Zariah’s breath comes in short, shaky pulls, her full lips parted, eyes half-lidded as the pressure builds. Every strong draw from his mouth sends fresh heat straight down, making her pussy clench and release, more slick gathering and spilling out in warm trails. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, the empty ache growing sharper with each passing second. She rolls her hips again, seeking something, anything, but Smoke keeps her pinned with his weight and his mouth, focused entirely on working her nipples until the dripping and twitching leaves her shaking.

When he could see that pussy weeping the way he needed it to, Smoke releases her nipple with a slow drag of his lips, the wet pull leaving a shiny trail across her deep brown areolas. He rises over her, his thick frame blotting out the light above the bed as he lowers his mouth to hers. The kiss lands heavy and unhurried, his tongue pushing past her parted lips to stroke deep, carrying the taste of her own sex. Zariah meets him without hesitation, her full lips pressing back while her breath hitches against his. Her hands slide up his arms, fingers curling around the dense muscle there as the kiss stretches on, turning hotter with each slow pass of his tongue.

Her body stays open beneath him, thighs spread wide on the sheets. The steady drip from her pussy continues, warm slick sliding down the curve of her ass and soaking into the sheets right along with the puddle she made from squirting. Her clit keeps twitching, swollen and sensitive, each pulse sending fresh heat through her core. Zariah rolls her hips upward, seeking the press of his weight, the hard length of him brushing her inner thigh as he settles closer. Smoke's hand moves to cradle the back of her neck, holding her still while the kiss turns rougher, his teeth catching her bottom lip for a brief tug before his tongue claims her mouth again.

His hand lingers tangled in her curls, thumb stroking the nape of her neck in lazy circles 

“Spoil you proper now,” Smoke rumbles that reminder, voice vibrating through her bones. His big palms slide down her sides, gripping her hips firm to flip her upright in one smooth hoist, straddling his thighs now, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. That heavy and rigid, curved dick all thick-veined and standing tall from those low-hanging balls, say wedged between her pussy lips, tip glossy from pre-cum beading thick.

Zariah braces her hands on his full chest, fingers splaying over his pecs, feeling the dense muscle shift under her palms as he breathes deep. Glossy brown eyes lock on his heavy-lidded stare, lips parting on a soft exhale, posture straight even perched like this, thighs flexing to lift her hips. Zariah sinks down slowly, pussy lips parting wide around his girth, swallowing the flared head first with a wet stretch, inner walls clenching greedily as inches disappear inside. Halfway down, she pauses, breath hitching, hands smoothing over his pecs to steady herself. 

Smoke’s arms snake around her, one thick forearm banding her lower back, the other spanning shoulder blades, yanking her flush against him. Chest mashes to chest, her nipples dragging hard points over his skin, his beard scraping her jaw as he nuzzles close. “

“Ride daddy, baby girl,” Smoke growls low in her ear, hips snapping up suddenly, thrust punching deep, balls slapping her ass with a meaty smack. Zariah gasps, spine arching but Smoke holds her locked, pumping from below relentlessly now. Each buck rolls his pelvis up hard, curved dick spearing her g-spot dead-on, grinding the base against her swollen clit with every bury.

Thighs like steel pistons flex under her, driving up fast then slow, varying the rhythm to make her chase it, his arms crushing her closer, one hand fisting her ass cheek to spread her wider, fingers teasing her hole while he rails her pussy. Sweat slicks their skin, her juices coat his shaft glossy, dripping down to soak his balls. 

“Feel that? Daddy fillin’ you full, protectin’ this pussy ‘cus it's mine. Phenomenal woman takin’ every inch.” His voice stays that dangerous calm, breath tickling her neck between grunts, lips sucking marks along her collarbone.

Zariah rocks with him, hips circling intentional, walls fluttering tight around his length. Her voice was soft, edged with that self-possession. 

 “Yes, daddy...feels so good.” No begging, just owning the ride, thighs quivering as tension builds. He ramps it harder, arms vise-tight, fucking up into her like a machine, wet slaps echoing loud, her ass bouncing on his thighs, pussy creaming thick down his dick. 

Zariah’s moans spill out breathy at first, soft exhales pitching higher with each deep punch,,starting as hushed mmh's from deep in her throat, lips parting wider to let ahh's drag long and throaty, vibrating against where her mouth presses open near his collarbone. Tension coils her core tighter, breaths coming measured but ragged now, moans layering into nngh-ahh-mmh, each one punched out precisely by his upward drives, voice never cracking loud but husky-thick with need, edges fraying just enough to feel raw.

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah breathes into his neck, her hips working bolder, starting to throw it down now, lifting high to slam her ass back onto his thighs with snaps and deep grinds, pussy gripping his girth on every drop. “You fuck me so good. Fuck this pussy. Fuck me with that big dick.” Her thighs flex hard, bucking wilder to meet his thrusts, wet hole sucking him deeper, creamy froth building at the base where her pussy lips stretch taut around his veined curve. “Fuck, I love this big dick.” Her voice stays in that self-possessed tone, edged needy, no shrieks or pleas because she was owning every word as she grinds down, clit dragging his pelvis, walls pulsing greedy. 

Smoke’s grip tightens, one forearm locked across her lower back to mash her tits flush to his chest, the other palm cupping her ass full, fingers digging into the balm-slick cheek to yank her harder onto each buck. His toned hips piston up relentless, thick thighs bulging under her weight, curved length spearing her depths over and over. Those heavy balls swinging up to tap her perineum with heavy thwacks. 

“Fuck yes, baby girl, throw that pussy on daddy's dick like you ownin’ it, good girl, get your dick,” Smoke rumbles low in her ear, thick and commanding. “Look at you ridin’ this big Mississippi meat, creamin’ all over my balls. Feel how deep I'm feedin’ this wet hole? Huh? Stretchin’ you wide, hittin’ that spot ain’t I’m?” Smoke thrusts up and holds, tapping Zariah on the rump as she shakes all over. “All that boss shit disappear when I give you dick. You safe wit’ me, act like it.” 

Smoke rolls his pelvis on the upthrusts, grinding the fat base against her clit, varying the pace from slow deep grinds to three fast snaps, making her chase the friction. Sweat beads on his chest, his beard rasping her jaw as he turns her face to capture her lips in a messy suck, tongue thrusting in time with his hips. “Keep talkin’ to me, bad girl. Tell daddy how this dick rearrangin’ that tight pussy. You takin’ it perfect.” Smoke’s thumb teases her back entrance light, pressing the puckered ring while he rails her pussy, arms crushing her immobile against him, and Zariah was owning it even as she bucks wild.

Her pace picks up frantic, hips slamming down to swallow him balls-deep every time, pussy squelching loud around his girth, juices dripping warm down his sack to soak the sheets. Her moans turn into throaty-soft pleas now.

“Ahh-nngh-yes!” blending with his grunts, body trembling. Smoke feels her tighten vise-like, knows she's close, but holds back his own load, hips snapping sharper to drag it out.

Zariah’s walls clamp down vise-tight around his thick length, that deep coil snapping loose as the orgasm rips through her, body seizing rigid in his iron hold, thighs locking hard against his hips, back arching sharp but pinned flush by his forearm across her back. Her pussy floods him in hot gushes, creamy release squirting thick around his pistoning shaft, soaking his heavy balls and dripping messy down to the sheets below. Zariah can’t buck anymore, stuck impaled balls-deep on his curved girth, every ridge dragging her fluttering walls as Smoke keeps snapping up relentless, his hips rolling precisely to grind that swollen spot inside her over and over, forcing wave after wave to crash harder.

Moans pour from her throat uncontrolled, delicate but fractured, starting as a long, drawn out ‘ahhhh’ vibrating deep in her chest, pitching into sharp ‘nngh-nngh’ gasps punched out by each thrust, lips trembling open against his neck where her face buries hot and slick with sweat. They layer ragged, breathy exhales fraying at the edges ‘mmh-ahh-mmh’ blending into a throaty hum that shakes her frame, her voice husky-thick and edged raw, never shrill but owning the depth of it, body quaking helpless as she creams all over his big dick.

Smoke doesn't let up, thick arms crushing her immobile against him, his biceps bulging under her sliding palms, one hand palming her ass cheek deep to spread her wider, fingers splayed to feel her hole pulse and leak around him. His pelvis snaps up in deep strokes, curved head battering that g-spot without mercy, balls wet against her perineum through her flood. That thick length gleamed with her juices and he just kept fucking her pussy straight through the peak. Smoke turns her face to lock eyes with him, his heavy-lidded gaze burning steady into hers, full lips parting on a low grunt.

“Yeah, cum on this dick, baby girl, keep cummin’ on this dick.” Smoke growls thick in her ear. “Pretty pussy grippin’ me so tight, squirtin’ all over daddy’s balls. Stuck right here takin’ every inch while I hit that spot. Keep cummin’ for me, baby, flood this big dick, bad girl. You own this nut, pussy milkin’ me deep.” He varies the drives—three short punches to her depths, then a slow grind circling her clit with his base, drawing out the spasms, her walls sucking greedily even as she trembles locked.

Zariah’s body jerks in aftershocks, pussy clenching around him, more cream bubbling out to coat his veined length shiny, her thighs quivering helpless. All Zariah can do is moan throaty into his collarbone, ‘ahh-nngh-yes’ spilling fractured as he rails her sensitive hole. He feels his own sack tighten heavy, but holds it back, hips powering through her mess to chase every drop from her. He’d continue to edge himself as long as he gives his bad bitch plenty of orgasms. 

Smoke eases out of her spasming pussy with a wet pop, Zariah’s cream clinging thick in strings to his veined shaft, glossy from tip to base where her squirt and cream mixed in slick trails down his heavy balls. Smoke wastes no time and flips her over rough but steady, large hands gripping her hips to yank her ass high at the bed's edge, face pressed flat into the rumpled sheets, knees spread wide under his direction. One palm presses firm between her shoulder blades, forcing that deep arch in her spine until her spine hollows out perfectly, ass cheeks parting naturally from the stretch, lower back dipping sharp.

Her pussy blooms open in that position, lips puffy and flushed dark from the pounding, inner folds glistening raw and swollen, stuck slightly agape from his girth, unable to close full after the stretch. Cream leaks steady from that stretched, creamy hole, thick white rivulets bubbling out slow to trail down her inner thighs, mixing with squirt sheen that soaks the sheets beneath her knees. Above it, her pretty asshole winks in the cool air, the tight ring pulsing faint with each aftershock clench from her pussy below, pink-brown rim flexing open a fraction before snapping shut, begging subtle under the exposure.

Smoke stands planted at the edge, bare feet firm on the floor, thick thighs framing her as he lines up, messy dick heavy in his fist, curved length slapping once against her leaking slit to smear her own juices back over her clit. Then, he sinks in, crown breaching her folds with a squelch, inch after girthy inch parting her walls until his pelvis meets her ass full, balls nestling heavy against her clit. Slow strokes start, pulling back to the tip so her pussy lips drag reluctant along his ridges, then driving deep again, his hips rolling weighted to bottom out each time, grinding her depths before he withdraws again. 

“Zari…you daddy’s little bratty girl, huh?” Smoke rumbles low, thick and edged mean, one hand sinking deep into her left ass cheek, fingers digging to spread her wider. He watched his curved dick emerge shiny-coated in fresh cream, veins pulsing as her hole grips and tugs. “You piss me off just so I can fuck you like this? Bend you over and drill this good pussy deep?” Smoke popped her ass. “See how sweet you get when you finally let go?” 

“Yes, daddy,” Zariah gasps throaty into the mattress, voice husky-fractured from the stretch, ass pushing back instinctively to meet his plunge, her walls fluttering around the slow invasion. “Yes, sir, I do—want this dick so bad.”

Smoke grunts his approval, other hand claiming a full handful of her right cheek—palms rough and veined, overflowing with soft flesh, kneading hard as he pulls her onto him deeper, pace still controlled but forceful, balls tapping her clit wet on each burial. Her leaky mess coated him fresh, pussy slurping audible around the drag. 

“That’s right. Act up so daddy give you some dick, stretch this bratty hole wide. Piss me off on purpose, gettin’ that arch just right for me too. You love bein’ face down, ass up, leakin’ all over my balls while I stroke it slow like this? Huh?”

“Mmm-yes sir,” Zariah moans soft-edged, body rocking forward with each deep seat, tits dragging along the sheets, back holding that arch under his palm's pressure, thighs quaking faint as the slow grind builds the pressure anew.

 “Love it daddy, love pissin’ you off for this—fuck me deep, please sir.”

Smoke’s grip tightens on her ass, spreading her cheeks farther to stare down at the sight, thick dick disappearing into her gripping pussy, lips hugging tight on the outstroke, cream frothing at the base where her hole milks him greedy. He picks up a fraction, strokes still deep but adding a twist at the end to nudge her g-spot, heavy balls swinging to smack her clit. Sweat beads his sculpted chest, biceps flexing as he holds her steady, heavy-lidded eyes tracing the messy union.

Each withdraw dragged her puffy lips outward, clinging to his veined length before he fed it back in full, pelvis slapping her ass cheeks with a meaty thud that echoed off the walls. His large hands overflow with her flesh, thumbs digging into the crease where thigh meets cheek to pry her wider, exposing the way her hole stretches taut around his girth, inner walls visible in flashes of pink and slick as cream bubbles fresh at the seam. Her asshole keeps up its subtle pulse above, ring contracting in time with her pussy's greedy squeezes, a faint sheen of her own leak trickling down to gloss it further.

Zariah twists her neck, cheek lifting off the damp sheets, eyes glassy and desperate locking onto his over her shoulder, those lips he loved so much parted on heavy breaths, kinky hair spilling wild across her back. 

“Daddy–yyy,” she pleads raw, voice cracking high as one of her hands snakes down between her spread thighs, thumb finding her swollen clit to rub frantic circles, chasing the building coil. “Please sir, harder—gimme more dick, I need it deep.” Her hips buck back insistent against his controlled pace, ass jiggling faint in his grip, pussy slurping louder on the next plunge as her walls clamp down fluttering.

“Not yet, brat,” he growls thick, voice rolling low, free hand sliding up her spine to press her chest flatter, keeping that arch locked while his hips roll weighted, grinding the curve of his dick against her front wall on every bury. “You gon’ beg pretty for daddy first. Tell me how bad this pussy want it—how you act up just to get stretched like this, leakin’ all over me, nasty girl.” He watches her fingers blur faster on her clit, the way her thighs start quaking harder. “You feel how hard you holdin’ onto me? That stress been sittin’ in your body all damn week. Use me then, go ‘head.” 

“Daddy, yes, I'm your bratty girl, piss you off for this dick every time,” Zariah whines, head turning full to hold his gaze, eyes pleading wide while her fingers grind her clit ruthlessly, body rocking violently now between his strokes and her own touch. Her eyes go cross eyed as she gushes fresh around him, walls rippling wild as the pressure crests, her back bowing deeper under his palm, ass pressing back to take him to the hilt. “Daddy, daddy—I'm squirting, oh fuck sir, it's comin’—don't stop, talk me through it please!”

Smoke leans forward slightly, chest brushing her back as one hand releases her cheek to tangle in her hair, yanking her head back gently but firm to keep those eyes on him, the other palm smacking her ass once sharp to jolt her higher. His strokes stay slow but deepen, twisting at the base to nudge her g-spot while her fingers strum. 

“Good girl, there you do, baby girl, let it go for daddy. Feel that pussy squeezin’ me tight? You squirtin’ all over this dick, you can't help it. Push back on it, rub that clit harder—gimme that mess. You like bein’ handled, huh?”

“Yes—”

“That’s my baby right there.” 

His voice stays gravel-rough, guiding her edge with words as her body seizes, thighs locking, toes curling into the mattress, a sharp cry ripping from her throat.

Her squirt hits explosive, clear jets pulsing out around his buried length to spray his pelvis and thighs, puddling hot on the sheets below as her pussy convulses violently, clenching him in waves that force more cream to froth at the base. She stares back at him wild-eyed, mouth slack on gasps, fingers slowing sloppy through the aftershocks while he holds steady inside her, hips grinding minimal to prolong the clench, watching her leak mix with the spray in rivulets down her legs.

 “Good girl, just like that—daddy got you, keep cummin’ good tonight. There you go, let all that pressure out. Ain’t nobody gon’ take care of you like me. Daddy got you. Been a mean bitch for so long ain’t nobody fuck you stupid til I cam around,” Smoke pops her on the left cheek. “Quit actin’ tough and come get this comfort. Say, yes sir.” 

“Y–yes, sir.” 

 “Now we gettin’ to the good part. I’ma move when you ready, but when I do, you gon’ feel every stroke. You with me? Say it.”

Zariah exhales, “I’m with you, daddy.” She grips the sheets. 

“Talk to me, Zari. Words. You ready or daddy gotta give you a break?” 

Zariah sucks in air and lets it out meditating slow. 

“I’m ready, sir.” 

Smoke's grip shifts lightning-quick from her hair to her shoulders, thick fingers clamping down over the knobs of bone there, palms splaying wide across her upper back to yank her torso up off the soaked sheets, forcing that spine into a brutal arch. Her head snaps upright, chin tucking toward her chest while her eyes glaze over fucked-out, pupils blown wide staring dead ahead at the headboard, mouth hanging slack on drooling whimpers, tongue lolling faint as spit beads at the corner. The new angle spears his dick straight down into her core, her ass cheeks spreading obscene on his pelvis with every hilt, pussy lips puffing out bloated and raw around the veined stretch, cream and squirt foaming thick at the root to splatter his heavy balls on the upstroke.

Smoke rears back tall behind her, knees digging wider into the mattress for leverage, broad shoulders rolling fluid as his dense core tightens, abs flexing solid under sweat-slick brown skin that gleams. Those rounded delts bunch heavy, veins popping along his forearms as he hauls her back onto him harder, his hips snapping forward with punishing force now, no more tease, full throttle wrecking. Each thrust lands weighted and final, his pelvis crashing her ass with claps that ripple flesh outward in waves, her cheeks clapping back against his thighs while her entire frame jolts forward violently, tits swinging beneath her to smack her ribs. The bed frame groans protest under the onslaught, pure power uncoiling from that grounded stance, thighs thick and corded pumping relentlessly.

Zariah’s body's a live wire in the pound, pussy walls seizing erratic around his plunging length, clenching desperate to hold him but fluttering loose on the withdraw, gushing fresh squirt in erratic sprays that arc down her quaking thighs to puddle wider on the sheets. Every bury shoves her forward an inch before his shoulder grip reels her back, her ass meat compressing flat against him then bouncing rebound, ripples traveling up her spine to make her curls lash wild. Her thighs attempt to lock rigid then spasm open, toes scrabbling, curling into the mattress as her belly sucks in hollow, ribs heaving under sweat-sheened skin, fucked-out stare fixed unblinking ahead, lashes fluttering half-mast while tears streak silent from the corners, jaw slack wider on guttural cries that pitch higher with each rip through her depths.

“That little mean streak disappear fast when I touch you right. You been wantin’ this all day. Nah, stay right there I wanna watch you take it—look at my girl—take this dick tearin’ you open,” he rasps, drawl thickening hot over the wet slaps, one hand sliding from shoulder to tangle back in her hair—yanking her head higher to deepen the arch while the other digs  into her shoulder, pinning her steady for the ram. His chest heaves, heavy breaths fanning her neck as he leans over partial, hips pistoning machine-like, balls swinging to batter her clit, smearing her mess back up her folds. 

“Feel daddy rearrangin’ your guts? You soaked the whole damn bed beggin’ for it—now wet this dick up  again while I pound you stupid. Arch that back deeper, push this ass on me—gimme that grip, baby. You gon’ relax for me or keep fightin’ me, baby?”

Zariah chokes out a keen, body betraying full surrender—hips grinding back frantic despite the overwhelm, pussy convulsing in fresh spasms that squeeze him vise-tight, walls undulating a massage along every vein as another squirt builds from the core. Her arms buckle, elbows to the sheets, fingers clawing fabric while her tits drag heavy across the damp cotton, nipples scraping raw. Her entire frame shudders electric with the force, ass lifting instinctively to meet his slams even as her vision blurs white-hot ahead. Sweat rivers down her cleavage, pooling in her navel before dripping off to mix with the flood below, thighs slick and trembling spread wide around his pistoning thighs.

Smoke grunts approval low, pace ratcheting inhuman, thrusts blurring to a frenzy that shakes her teeth, his solid midsection slapping her ass endless while those large hands anchor her, veins throbbing prominent down his forearms from the haul. Sweat beads thick on his brow, trickling into the heavy stubble framing his jaw that’s set hard, dark eyes locked on the destruction between her legs, watching her hole gape briefly on pulls before swallowing him balls-deep again. 

“FUCK, just like that—pussy talkin’ back to daddy, on every stroke.” His voice coaches steady through the chaos, drawl wrapping command around her haze as her body hurtles toward shatter again, the room thick with their slap-echo and her broken pleas. “Breathe through it. You can handle it. This what happen when you act like you don't need me tellin' you what to do. Next time you think about steppin’ out of line, you remember how this dick feel stretchin’ you open and makin’ you cum so hard you can't even talk.” 

Smoke yanks free with a wet pop that leaves her hole gaping, pink inner walls fluttering visible, clenching air desperate around nothing while thick strands of her cream stretch and snap between his retreating length and her wrecked folds. Frothy white coats his dick heavy from root to tip, balls glossy-slick swinging low and heavy beneath, veins pulsing prominent along his curved shaft.

 “Flip over, clean this dick spotless, baby,” Smoke orders, cutting sharp through her haze as one large hand strokes himself base-up lazy, smearing her mess while the other pats her ass firm to roll her.

Zariah twists compliant on trembling limbs, spine sinking into the drenched mattress as she sprawls supine, hair fanning wild across the pillow, belly quivering faint under the aftershocks. Her thighs splay wide, knees bending hooks toward her shoulders to bare everything, pussy on full display. Lips swollen fat and parted like it wanted to stay just like that from now on, flushed deep around the edges from the tear-up, inner pink glistening obscene under a sheen of her own squirt that drips lazy from her stretched entrance. Her clit hood peeled back partial, pearl throbbing exposed and raw, folds puffy-ridged from friction with cream beading fresh in the creases, entire slit pulsing like a heartbeat begging refill.

Smoke kneels up tall between her legs, knees bracketing her hips as he feeds his dick forward, tip bumping her lips expectant. Zariah cranes her neck, tongue darting out to lap broad from balls upward, tracing the heavy seam salty with her tang before sucking one orb full into her mouth, cheeks hollowing while her hand cups the other, rolling it. Up the shaft next, flat laps cleaning veins groove by groove, swirling the flared head to hollow her cheeks around it vacuum-tight, sucking her cream off audible with slurps that echo wet, spit mixing fresh to dribble down her chin as she moans low vibrations against him. His free hand dives between her thighs unhurried, palm cupping her mound full before thick fingers part those bloated lips wider, middle and ring sliding through the slick valley, parting her petals to expose that clenching core.

Feels like firework sparks when he rubs. Thick fingers coarse-knuckled dragging pressure perfect over her clit first, circling the hood lazy to make it twitch and swell fatter under the pad of his thumb joining in, then dipping lower to trace entrance rim where her walls suck greedy at the intrusion. That sweet pussy yields butter-soft inside, hot velvet clamping instant on the shallow probes, gushing syrupy response that coats his digits knuckle-deep. Each pass through her folds sends jolts electric up her spine. Zariah’s thighs jerked, spread while her hips buck faint to chase. Her outer lips drag sensitive along his palm skin, inner ridges fluttering as he massaged with his fingertips that scoop cream back up to smear her clit renewed, building that coil tight again with every glide.

Zariah polishes him thoroughly, tongue polishing the underside ridge before popping off clean with a gasp. Her hand wrapped around the base firm now to stroke with a upward twist, the skin gliding smooth over the cleaned glans while her gaze locks with his from below. Sultry heat simmers there, lids heavy-lidded fuck-drunk but sharp with desire, full lips curving wicked as teeth catch the bottom one, dragging slowly, holding his stare unblinking, challenge wrapped in surrender. Smoke groans deep, torso folding forward lean as his mouth crashes hers hungry—tongue thrusting his claim deep to tangle hers messy, tasting her own flavor shared while fingers keep working her pussy, two now plunging knuckle-deep to curl and hook against that front wall.

The kiss breaks on her whine, his beard rasping her chin, then his lips trail fire down her throat, nipping her collarbone before his palms scoop under her breasts heavy, thumbs flicking her chocolate nipples side-to-side to make them diamond-hard. Smoke kneads them, fingers sinking deep into the yielding flesh to shape and bounce them palm-to-palm, mouth latching hot over one peak to suck with a vacuum pull while his teeth graze faintly. His tongue lashes flat on her areolas before nibbling gently. Her strokes quicken on his dick, thumb swiping pre cum at his slit.

Smoke releases her nipple with a wet smack, lips glossy from the pull as his gaze lifts heavy to lock hers, dark eyes boring deep, one thumb still circling the slick peak lazy while the other hand squeezes her other titty, flesh spilling between fingers. 

“Good girl, Zariah,” Smoke rumbles faintly, voice dipping low like thunder. “Daddy proud of you…takin’ this dick so deep, stretchin’ that pussy perfect. Handlin’ yo’ punishment like a champ too, ass sore but you stayed right there, took every lick without runnin’.That's my baby.”

Zariah gasps sharp, hand tightening its stroke on his girthy dick, twisting from base to tip with precum and spit slicking the glide. Her eyes fluttered half-shut before snapping back to him.

 “Yes,” she breathes out needy, hips rolling faint into his stalled fingers still buried knuckle-deep in her folds.

Smoke chuckles low, free hand sliding up her thigh to anchor as he pulls his fingers free with a squelch, strings of her arousal snapping clear. 

“Mmm, yeah…and that's why daddy spoil you rotten. Fuck you good whenever you crave it, eat that sweet pussy till you flood my face. You mine to treat right.” His mouth brushes her earlobe feather-light, beard scraping her chin.  

“Yes, baby, you always know what I need,” Zariah moans velvety, arching her back to press her titties fuller into his palm, legs parting wider. “I love how you treat me. I'm your princess.” Her lips part on a whine, gaze sultry, locked.

Smoke nods slow approval, torso unfolding tall as he nudges her knees wider, settling heavy between her thighs, dick bobbing thick upright against her mound, tip nudging her clit. Zariah’s body's pliant now, limbs loose-jointed from the haze, so he hooks his elbows under her knees easy, folding her double with her thighs pinned to her chest, calves framing his shoulders tight. That pussy blooms upward obscenely, outer lips mashed flat from how spread open she is, inner folds splayed wide and quivering, entrance winking creamy-pink around the void, clit mashed prominent and pulsing under the weight of his dick resting heavy along her slit. Cream pools fresh in the crease, dripping backward to lube her puckered hole. 

Smoke notches his tip at her entrance, eyes never breaking hers, heavy-lidded stare pinning her soul-deep and thrusts in one long stroke, dick disappearing inch-by-thick-inch till his balls nestle snugly against her upturned ass, stretch burning visible in the way her walls bulge around all that girth. 

“Damn, princess, pussy grippin' daddy tight like I ain’t fucked you open,” Smoke praises, drawl stretching vowels lazy as his hips draw back on a slow drag, veins dragging friction along the inner ridges of her walls before snapping forward to bury fully again, pelvis slapping her ass with an audible wet sound. His Stroke pulls half-out next, her inner lips clinging reluctant to the retreat, then he plunges renewed, hitting that bottom with a grind that mashes her clit under his pubic bone. “You know who this belong to. Don't you? Say it for me.”

“Daddy’s pussy…daddy’s pussy.” Zariah whines. 

“I see you. See how you holdin'm’ on. How you lettin’ me own this. You doin’ so good for me, Zari. Real good, baby.” 

Zariah’s folded frame shudders, tits squished between her thighs as her walls clamp on the invasion, sparks exploding core-deep from the deep hits that kiss her cervix. Each thrust sends ripples through her puffy, pussy lips, cream frothing white at the seal where he bottoms out, her breaths punching out on the reentries while her eyes stay fused to his, wide and glassy with the lock, lips mouthing silent pleas. 

“All this dick, baby, take it all—daddy got you,” Smoke coos, pace building like a piston now, balls swinging tap-tap against her tailbone with every deep drive, his gaze unwavering intensely as he watches every twitch, every flutter, every jerk, every silent scream, every shake. 

Smoke's stare sharpen like a predator, jaw clenching, eyes narrowing to slits while his hands clamp on the backs of her thighs, thumbs digging meaty divots to pin her folded frame immobile. He snaps his hips downward piston-hard, big dick plummeting into her splayed pussy with a wet schlap that echoes off the walls, balls slapping her ass crack heavy before the recoil yanks him half-out only to hammer back in, burying full.

No words now, just breath hissing through his teeth, chest heaving as he tunnels, each drop stroke burying to the hilt, dick dragging brutal against her clamping walls that suck reluctantly at the retreat. His pace ratchets machine-steady, bedframe groaning under and the mattress dipping deep where his toes anchored. Sweat beads his temple and trails down, dripping onto her upturned tits that jiggle chaotic with every impact, nipples peaked tight from the frenzy.

Zariah's moans rip free raw, high-pitched keens fracturing into throaty wails that bounce off the ceiling, back arching futile against the fold as her thighs quake trapped in his hold. Her manicured acrylic nails rake fire-trails down his bulging biceps, carving pink welts into the sweat-slick skin that flexes corded under the gouge. Her calves locked rigid around his shoulders while her toes splay then curl tight, soles cramping from the building blaze. That battered pussy convulses wildly around his invading girth, cream gushing frothier at the seal with every plunge, inner muscles fluttering desperately to milk on those veins pulsing hot inside her. That curve hitting spots that make her dizzy. That tip kissing the back of her pussy, making her stomach clench. 

Tension coils her belly taut, breaths punching erratic as sparks ignite white-hot, walls seizing brutally on the next drop that kisses her spot, and she shatters. Squirt erupts forceful, clear jets arcing from her spasming slit to splatter his abs, soaking the shaft still lodged halfway as her pussy clamps and ejects, flooding the crease between her ass cheeks in hot rivulets that puddle onto the sheets, dampening it dark beneath her. Zariah’s body bucks helplessly in Smoke’s fold, eyes rolling on a scream that shreds hoarse while her nails dig crescent moons into his forearms.

Smoke grunts low once, chest rumbling the sound, before yanking free with an obscene squelch, dick springing upright glossy and throbbing, veins livid against the slick sheen of her release coating every inch from balls to tip. He unfolds her legs, thighs blooming wide as gravity settles her limp, then shoulders between them rough—head dipping low to seal his full lips hot over her quivering pussy. That thick tongue plunges flat and broad through her splayed folds, lapping the gush pooled in her entrance like a glutton, tongue flicking up to swirl her clit hood and those lips start sucking the pulsing nub vacuum-tight. Smoke smacked his lips wet, devouring every drop. His thick fingers splay her lips wider, exposing the pink inner clench still fluttering post-squirt, and he tongues deep inside to scoop the cream hollowing her out, beard scraping thighs raw as nose buries into her mound drag her scent full lungs.

Zariah stared down at him dumbfounded. She didn’t have the capacity to form words. He was eating her pussy up and even her twitching didn’t stop him from overstimulating her. 

Her vision blurred as aftershocks ripple through her, body slack against the soaked sheets, chest rising and falling shallow while her pussy throbs exposed, folds. Moans spill lazy from her throat, fracturing into his name drawn long and needy

“Smoke...Smoke…” her hips canting, rolling her slick pussy against his locked mouth, grinding her clit over his probing tongue that flicks non-stop like a propeller. Her thighs clamp his ears, heels digging into his back to pull him tighter into her drenched heat, cream smearing into his beard thick as she chases the friction through the daze, palming the top of his low cut ceasar with the deep waves.

Smoke’s growl vibrates low against her pussy before he lifts, his face slick-shined, eyes burning dark into hers, jaw set granite

“Gon’ nut so deep in this pussy, lock it down tight.” No pause, Smoke surges up fluid, knees bracketing her hips, one hand fisting the base of his dick slick-heavy to notch his tip bluntly at her fluttering hole, then he slams home in a single thrust, burying balls-deep with a meaty thwack that jolts her tits.

Silence is only broken by skin-slaps wet,  his powerful hips snapping, pulling that dick to drag slow, veins bulging against her pussy grip before dropping to grind deep with a roll of his hips. His pace builds, thighs flexing like steel under sweat rivers carving paths down his obliques, abs clenching ridge-defined with every plunge that stretches her walls around that curved dick invading her pussy. The headboard thumped the wall with dull thuds while his heavy balls swung to slap her ass cheeks spread wide, drawing creamy froth at the seal to drip down her crack.

Zariah’s moans pitch frantically while her hands claw his shoulders, gouging fresh welts into the flexing traps. Her Legs hook his waist and she locks her ankles to pull him deeper, pussy clenching, ridges pulsing hot inside, and her words tumbled desperate to coach him through. 

“This yo’ pussy, Smoke—cum in yo’ pussy, big daddy...fill this pussy up, give it all...show me who this pussy belong to. Tear it up, big daddy…stretch me out…ahhh–nnghhh–big ass dick…oh…big dick—yes, right there, right there, don’t stop, stroke it—yessss.” Her voice cracks husky, hips bucking in a counter-rhythm. 

Smoke’s groan shreds guttural, throat raw cords straining as his eyes bore into hers unblinking, heavy-lidded slits flaring wide with the lock. His muscles are cable-tight across his shoulders, biceps ballooning veins livid under her rake, traps bunching while his quads quake to brace the final drives. That big dick swells thicker mid-thrust, tip flaring to kiss her depths, and he erupts—balls drawing up tight, contracting, pulsing thick-hot ropes to flood her clenching channel and paint her walls white. His thrusts stutter shallow, grinding his thick seed deeper, damn near churning it to froth with her cream, that veiny beast jerking erratic against the flutter, that pussy milking every drop while an overflow seeps slow down her ass. His groan drags endless, chest heaving bellows against her neck, forehead dropping to hers sweat-slick as the last pulse fades, his body a heavy drape over her pinned frame. 

Smoke eases his thick, curved dick out of Zariah's soaked pussy inch by inch, letting her feel every ridge and stretch as he pulls free. The wet slide leaves her entrance fluttering, slick with their mixed fluids. He stays close, one broad hand resting on the curve of her hip while he watches her body settle.

“You took all that dick so good for me, baby. Real good. My pretty girl handled every inch. See? Ain’t gotta fight me all the time. C’mere, pretty girl.”

Smoke leans down and presses his lips to her forehead, then again just above her brow, then once more near her hairline. Three kisses that linger each time.

“Stay right there. Don’t move.”

Smoke stands, his heavy frame casting a shadow over her sprawled form. Zariah lies on her side like a goddess, long legs slightly parted, rich brown skin glowing with sweat and satisfaction, full lips curved in a lazy smile from being fucked so thoroughly. Her narrow waist and soft hips look even more inviting in the afterglow. Smoke steps away toward the bathroom first, turning on the jacuzzi tub so warm water starts filling with steady jets. The sound of bubbles fills the space. He then leaves the room entirely to head for the kitchen. 

On his way out. He glances back at her again. 

“Stay right there. I'll be back to get you in a minute.”

About ten minutes goes by and Zariah’s phone rings while she’s still sprawled on the bed, freshly fucked and glowing. She reaches for it lazily, answering with that professional tone she keeps for work. 

“Hey, it’s Z. Ellie…hey. Yeah, I’m here. What’s going on?”

Ellie, her publicist starts rattling off a packed schedule—more shoots, events, back-to-back bookings for the next month. Zariah listens, nodding along even though no one can see her, her voice calm and composed.

Smoke walks back into the room carrying the tray with her herbal tea and water. He sets it down, eyes locking on her. That look says everything without a word. He steps closer, takes the phone right out of her hand, and brings it to his ear.

“Ellie, right? Listen, she gon’ need a week off. Clear the next seven days—yes, a week. Y’all can make it happen.” His voice is final. He hangs up before the publicist can reply.

Zariah sits up a little, mouth opening to protest. “Smoke—”

He leans in and kisses her, slow and with tongue, cutting off whatever she was about to say. When he pulls back, his hand cups her jaw, thumb brushing her full lower lip.

“You gon’ need some rest and relaxation. I plan to fuck you and eat that pussy in every room of this place. You hear me?”

Zariah stares at him, that familiar tension flickering between them—her independence brushing up against his weight. Smoke doesn’t move. He just waits, eyes steady on hers. Slowly, she melts, no need to fight him when truthfully she could use a little break. And seven full days of back-to-back sex with her big, bad, man? Hell yeah. 

“Say it. Yes, daddy.”

Zariah exhales, shoulders softening the way they do when she chooses to meet him. Her voice comes out quiet but clear. 

“Damn baby, why didn’t you tell me you had all this good pussy?”

Cameron mumbled against your bare leg that were currently hiked over his broad shoulder, his voice dripping with admiration a lot sweeter than the way he was fucking you.

The question was rhetorical but emphasised just how much he was enjoying being inside of you.

Goosebumps broke all over the surface of your flushed and damp skin, choking on a whiny moan as your cunt tightly squeezed and pulsated around him. The throbbing sent a shiver down the length of his spine and settled in his bones. A flurry of chopped sobs poured from your mouth as your climax began to climb. You were so close. And he could feel it all.

You would have tried to answer his question but in truth - you didn’t know how to.

The two of you met during freshman in college - sharing the same physiotherapy classes and the two of you instantly clicked. When he first approached you - you couldn’t believe that he’d even talk to you. When you first arrived on campus, his name was uttered in every corner. He was the person to know because of his projected career. You had wanted to keep away from him - you didn’t like attention being drawn to you at all but Cameron just had to be enrolled on your course.

Even worse, he came to sit next to you.

You stilled at just making eye contact with him. Low sitting blue eyes, dimples deep as he smiled, rosy lips begging for attention and from his seated position alone you could tell that he was tall. He made sure that you couldn’t ignore him and you hated that fell for his charm, hook, line and sinker.

The attraction was shared and the chemistry intensified with each interaction but nothing ever came off it.

Football. Girlfriends. Endorsements. A great rookie career - all of it got in the way.

So friendship is what you settled for and you were grateful just to be a part of his journey.

Unfortunately for you, he was relentless. The friendship status did not matter to him at all and Cameron steadily flirted with you like the devil of temptation resided in his flesh. Always hanging around, giving you his undivided attention when you were close. Treating you just on the edges of a girlfriend, yet always teasing the word ‘friend’ in front of you. You always let it wash over you because being close to him in any capacity was worth it.

That attraction however, could not be denied and could not be hidden. And he’d picked up on it and he played with it - he played with you. He enjoyed teasing you. Kissing you on the neck, hands on your lower waist as he moved past you, hugs that lingered. Girlfriends be damned - you were the apple of his eye even if you denied what you were to him.

So that was how you found yourself in his penthouse - on a supposed regular night in with your best friend on his days off. So how you ended up in your current predicament was unbeknownst to you.

A movie, typical gossip, a game of tease.

From there all it took was a kiss.

A soft brush of your lips when he leaned down above you, whispering teasingly against your lips, fingers underneath your chin before gripping your jaw so that you couldn’t shift your eye contact away from him. So that he could see all of that want dripping out of your eyes.

“Do it.” You dared him.

And it was no surprise that he listened.

You had been so determined not to fall into his orbit and now you were on your back, sweating out your hairstyle, tank top ripped and panties pulled to the side as he manhandled you in every way. Your pussy stretched out and creaming around the thickest dick you’ve ever had in your life as you moaned in bliss. Fuck, you loved every second of it.

Cameron’s thrusts were deliciously brutal, his hips snapped into yours as your legs hang over his shoulders. He fucked you like you were a bitch in heat and you sounded just like one. Your mouth dropped open as your cries and whines could not be contained, sounding real pretty for him.

He breathed heavily through his nose at the sight your cream coating the length of his dick. Cam wedged his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and gripped tight. He used your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper.

The heat of the bedroom was making you delirious as much as the way his fat mushroom tip was pushing against your softest spots. You were so loud and Cameron drank all of your sounds by shushing you with rough kisses.

The wet clapping emitting from where your bodies connected was getting so loud, Cameron had to look down. His loud moan barely registered through the fog clouding your senses.

“You’re sooo fucking wet baby. Gushing all that good shit all over me, fuuuccckkk.”

You were looking up at him, doe eyed, a soft crease pinching in-between your eyebrows with your teeth biting onto your bottom lip as you tried to control it. He was hitting all of your good spots and it was so intense, it sat like a weight on your chest.

Then, Cameron pushed your legs back so that your knees were touching your ears and he moved to hover directly above you. He used his upper body to contort you into the perfect position for him - ready for his taking and you were in awe with how it left you feeling. The weight of pleasure sinking into your bones, deeper and deeper.

“O-oooh!” You gasped as you pulled on the sheets underneath your fingertips.

His beautiful, blue eyes never left your face as he watched your pretty face surrender into the pleasure he was delivering. Your eyebrows drew together tighter, as if you were about to cry, your lips forming into an ‘o’ form as he slowed down his strokes, letting you enjoy the feel of him. Inch by inch.

Soft curves and hard muscles colliding into each other. Naked,skin on skin - still, felt like there was a barrier between the two of you. The thought slamming into you, nothing will ever be enough, you will always want more. Cameron groaned as he felt the pain of your nails breaking into the skin of his back as you unintentionally brought him closer.

You were begging for him without words and that caused him to smirk in satisfaction. Cameron couldn’t believe you had been keeping this type of connection away from him. The type of connection that quenched your thirst but left you famished for more.

He was brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling fingers tracing his bottom lip, tugging it free from his teeth. He placed a tender kiss on the inside pad of your thumb before his eyes drew back to where your bodies connected. The sight of it caused all of his blood to soar down to his aching dick.

Slathered all over his base was milky white. It built up generously and it accumulated so much the flapping wetness caused his eyes to roll to the back of his head. He couldn’t believe you’d ever get this wet.

“Yeahhh mamas, I can’t believe she’s this wet for me …”

Cameron doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slammed back in, the wetness drawing a delicious drag with drag. He threw his head back as a deep groan left him. The sound was so primal it sent nasty shivers down your spine and settled in your pelvis.

But you didn’t move your hand away from his pelvis as he was folding you even deeper. In fact, Cameron, lowered his upper body until he was completely folded over yours. His pelvis ground against your clit, his trimmed hair brushing your clit - hard.

Cameron was wild in his lust.

He sucked bruising kisses into your neck, his tongue trailed hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It was all consuming, overwhelming. His long tongue flattened against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth which made you lightheaded.

Blood rushed to your ears as he ground his hips up again, hammering away at that spot inside you but not enough to make you cross eyed and your hand pressed on his abdomen.

Cameron kept his eyes on as you gasped desperately. Your eyes closed as he nipped at your bottom lip which caused you to sigh softly. His tongue darted out and soothed the sting of your bite before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed, “Move that hand, baby.”

You didn’t move your hand but he did it for you. He grabbed your wrist and trapped it above your head as he drilled into you. Your mind was mush the more he thrusted into you so you didn’t even try to think straight. Cameron was so caught up in the moment - not just from the heat of your pussy but how tight and how creamy you were.

Letting out a string of swears, Cameron captured them by bringing your mouth into another overwhelming kiss. His cock aching whilst he swallowed your wails as you twitched and ached around him.

Until you couldn’t take it anymore. Cam gave another harsh yet hard roll of his hips into your swollen opening while he was battering at that tender spot inside of you and then … you were coming.

And fuck! You were coming, hard. Your nails clawed at Cam’s rigged muscles as a swarm of stars completely eclipsed your vision whilst your body went into shock with wave after wave of vicious pleasure.

Your wails were so loud, you struggled to recognise your voice. But Cameron had a clear view to the ecstasy flooding your face he pumped his hips forward, pushing himself deeper into your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.

“That’s it, babygirl … I love the way you’re cumming all over me…”

Tears spilled from your eyes and you were close to passing out when Cam dropped his head into your chest and took one of your swollen nipples into his mouth, his thrusts slowing down in tempo as he shot his cum deep inside of your heat with a muffled groan.

He filled you up to the brim and then popped out your nipple out of his mouth with a satisfied sigh.

The both of you were riddled with tiredness, thighs were killing you, and your body was trembling like a leaf but a grin had etched onto your lips regardless as Cameron placed calming kisses everywhere his lips could touch.

He slowly pulled out, warm yet concerned eyes checking over you for any sign of discomfort as you basked in the glow of the aftermath. Your eyes closed as you sank into the softness of the blankets beneath you. You left his kisses on your cheeks in the tender way that you’d grown accustomed to.

“You okay sweet girl? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, baby. I’m good.” You shook your head as you hummed in satisfaction. You felt him shift away from the bed, leaving you in your peaceful lonesome until you felt him wipe you down gently with a wet towel. You heard a thud as he tossed to rag onto on the floor when he was done.

You felt the bed dip beside you before Cameron slipped up behind you. Your hands reached behind you and brought him closer with a soft hum. You had crossed that line in your friendship and you couldn’t process what it meant for the future for the both of you. But you’d bask in whatever this moment meant for you.

Cameron nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. “We’ll never just be friends after this.” He mumbled.

He was right about that. Nothing would ever be the same.

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐇 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝐃𝐑𝐘 𝐇𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝘭𝘦𝘸𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘵𝘰𝘯

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐆𝐀𝐏 𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇 𝐑𝐈𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆:

𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍:

Chiron pov

The thunder rattles my windows right before the knocks come. Three sharp, desperate raps against my door—too precise to be random, too frantic to be friendly. I don't need to look through the peephole. Don't need to ask who's standing on the other side, getting soaked to the bone in this Miami storm.

It's Arin. Again.

I push myself up from the couch, joints cracking like old wood. The glow from the streetlights outside paints my small apartment in shades of gold and shadow. Seven times in three years, she's shown up like this, heart shattered, looking for me to piece it back together. I keep count because somebody needs to.

The chain slides free with a metallic whisper. Door opens, and there she is—makeup running down her face in black rivers, hair plastered to her skin, dress clinging to curves I pretend not to notice. She's shivering, but not just from the rain.

"Chiron—" Her voice cracks, and that's all it takes.

She collapses against me, all her weight, all her pain, all her history of making the wrong choices and coming to the right man to fix it. My arms wrap around her automatically, muscle memory from too many nights just like this one. She fits against me like she was designed to be there, like every part of my body was made to accommodate hers.

"Come on," I murmur into her hair, smelling rain and coconut shampoo and the faint scent of another man's cologne that makes my jaw tighten. "Let's get you inside."

I guide her to the couch, the same couch she's cried on six times before. The blanket I keep folded on the back is already waiting, soft fleece, dark blue, big enough to swallow her whole. She sinks into the cushions as I drape it over her shoulders.

"Tea?" I ask, already moving toward the kitchen.

She just nods, pulling the blanket tighter around herself like armor.

While the water heats, I watch her through the doorway. Curled up small, making herself disappear. That's what she does, makes herself small for men who don't deserve the space she takes up. Men who break her because she's too good, too real, too everything they can't handle.

But tonight something's different in me. Beneath the usual concern, there's something sharp and angry twisting in my gut. Something that's been building for three years, seven heartbreaks, countless tears I've wiped from her cheeks while imagining my hands around some motherfucker's throat.

The kettle screams, and I pour the water, watching steam fog up my kitchen window. Outside, lightning splits the sky, illuminating the rain-slicked streets of Miami.

When I bring the mug to her, our fingers brush. She flinches like she always does, like my touch surprises her even after all these years. Like she doesn't know that every time she's near, my whole body hums with a want I've learned to silence.

"Thank you," she whispers, wrapping both hands around the ceramic like it's the only warm thing in her world.

If she only knew.

I sit beside her, not touching but close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin. Close enough to catch the scent of her tears mixing with the rain.

"What happened this time?" I ask, voice steady as always.

She takes a shaky breath, and I brace myself for another story about another man who wasn't enough for her. Another tale of disappointment I'll have to swallow down along with my own feelings.

But tonight—tonight something's gotta give. I can feel it in the way my chest tightens when she looks at me with those big, broken eyes. In the way my hands form fists, I have to consciously relax.

Tonight might be the night I finally say all the things I've been holding back for three years.

Tonight might be the night I break, too.

She takes a sip of tea, her hands trembling so bad I can see the liquid ripple in the mug. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything she's not saying yet.

"He cheated," she finally whispers, staring into the depths of her cup like she might find answers there. "With his ex. The one he swore was just a friend."

I nod. Don't say shit. Just listen to the rain hitting my window and the story I've heard too many times before.

"Said he wasn't ready for something serious," she continues, voice cracking. "That I was moving too fast. After six months. After I met his mama, after I—"

She breaks off, tears welling up again. I watch them fall, watch them trace paths through the makeup already smeared across her cheeks. My grip on my own mug tightens, knuckles turning white as I imagine this motherfucker's face. Imagined myself pressing it against concrete until he understood what it meant to break something precious.

"He told me I was too much," she whispers, and that's when something inside me snaps. "Too emotional, too... everything."

Usually, this is where I'd step in. Where I'd tell her she's perfect just like she is. That any man who can't handle all of her doesn't deserve any of her. That she's fire, and some people just get burned because they're not meant to stand that close.

But tonight? Tonight the words won't come.

The silence stretches longer than normal. Longer than she's used to from me. She finally looks up, really looks at me, and I see the moment she notices something's off.

"You good?" she asks, wiping at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "You're quiet even for you."

I set my mug down on the coffee table. The ceramic scrapes against the wood, loud in the quiet room. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and look her dead in the eye.

"Why you always come here, Arin? Really."

Her brows draw together in confusion. "What you mean? You're my best friend."

The words hang between us. Best friend. The title I've worn like a second skin for years. The shield I've hidden behind. The excuse I've used to stay close while pretending I don't want to be closer.

"Best friends don't use each other as emotional band-aids."

Her mouth opens slightly. Closes again. Like she's processing words in a language she doesn't understand.

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, but I hear the defensiveness creeping into her voice. The edge that always appears when someone challenges her narrative.

"It means you show up here broken every time some nigga disappoints you. And I fix it. I listen, I comfort, I piece you back together just enough for you to go find the next one to break you all over again."

I stand up, pacing the small space between my couch and kitchen. Years of words I've swallowed down are rising up like bile.

"You cycle through men like they're disposable, but I'm permanent. I'm the constant. The one who's always here, always waiting, always picking up the pieces."

"Chiron, don't—" she starts, but I cut her off.

"No. Tonight we're gonna be real. You come here when you're hurting, but you don't come here when you're happy. You don't call me when things are good. You don't share the joy, just the pain."

I stop in front of her, standing over her small form curled on my couch. She looks up at me, eyes wide, and for the first time tonight, I see something other than hurt in them. I see fear.

"How long I'm supposed to do this, Arin? How long I'm supposed to be your emotional cleanup crew while you're out there giving pieces of yourself to men who don't deserve the time of day?"

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy and sharp. The rain pounds against my windows like it's trying to break in, like it's trying to match the storm brewing in my living room.

She doesn't have an answer. Just stares up at me with those big brown eyes that have been my undoing since we were fifteen years old.

And I realize with sudden clarity that tonight—tonight everything changes. Whether we want it to or not.

"Don't do this tonight," she says, voice shaky but firm. "Not when I'm hurting."

I let out a bitter laugh, turning away from her to pace the small space between my couch and the kitchen. The floorboards creak under my weight, a rhythm matching the thunder outside.

"That's the problem. It's always about when you're hurting." I stop at the window, watching lightning illuminate the rain-slicked streets below. "Never about when I'm hurting. Never about what this does to me."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, but I hear the defensiveness in her voice. The way she always gets when someone pushes back, when someone challenges her version of reality.

I turn back to face her, really face her, and let all the years of frustration finally surface.

"I watched you cry over Marcus in eleventh grade. Remember him? The football player who swore he loved you right up until he got that scholarship to FSU. Then I watched you cry over Darius in college, the poetry major who fucked you and then told you he wasn't ready for anything serious. Then that nigga from the club last year—what was his name? Andre? The one who had a whole girlfriend on the other side of town."

Her eyes widen with each name I drop, each memory I drag out into the light between us.

"You see me as safe," I continue, voice rising with each word. "As reliable. As the one who'll never leave. The one who'll always pick up the phone at 2 AM. The one who'll always have a warm blanket and a cup of tea ready."

I step closer, looming over her where she sits curled on my couch.

"But you never see me. Not really."

The weight of my words finally lands. I see it in her eyes, the moment the fog clears, the moment she starts to understand. Her mouth opens slightly, but no words come out. Just a small, shaky breath.

"How long I'm supposed to watch somebody else have what I want?" My voice cracks on the last word, and I hate myself for it. Hate that she can hear the vulnerability beneath the anger.

"What... what do you want?" she whispers, but I can tell she already knows. Can tell she's finally connecting the dots I've laid out for years without ever speaking them aloud.

I drop down to my knees in front of her, bringing myself to her level. My hands find her knees, gripping them through the blanket.

"You," I say, voice raw with years of unspoken truth. "I want you, Arin. Not just when you're broken. Not just when you need someone to fix you. I want all of it—the good days and bad days, the laughter and tears, the arguments and making up."

Her hands come up to cover mine, and I feel the tremor running through them.

"I want to wake up beside you. I want to cook you breakfast. I want to argue about what movie to watch and make up five minutes later. I want everything you've been giving to men who don't deserve the dirt on your shoes."

Tears fill her eyes again, but these are different. Not the tears of a broken heart, but the tears of understanding. The tears of someone finally seeing what's been right in front of them all along.

"Chiron..." she starts, but I shake my head.

"No. Let me finish." I take a deep breath, gathering the courage to say the words I've been holding back for years. "I've loved you since we were fifteen. Since that day Tommy Miller pushed you in the hallway, and I wanted to beat his ass so bad my hands were shaking, but instead I just helped you up and walked you to class."

She giggles, "You remember that?"

"Remember it?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Arin, I remember everything. Every conversation, every touch, every look you've ever given me. I remember the dress you wore to prom, the way your eyes lit up when you got accepted to FIU, how you bite your lip when you're embarrassed."

I lean closer, until our faces are just inches apart.

"I've been standing right here this whole time. While you've been looking everywhere else."

The silence that follows is heavier than any words. The storm outside rages on, but in this moment, there's only the sound of our breathing, the sound of years of unspoken truths finally being spoken.

And in her eyes, I see it—the dawning realization of everything she's missed, everything she's overlooked, everything she's about to lose or gain depending on what happens next.

Silence fills the room except for the rain against my window. Each drop hits the glass like a clock counting down the seconds until everything changes between us.

Arin processes my words, her eyes going wide with understanding first, then guilt, then something else I can't quite read. Something that looks suspiciously like fear.

"I didn't know," she whispers, and the words hang between us, fragile as glass.

I let out a bitter laugh, pulling back slightly. "Course you didn't. You weren't looking."

Her face changes then. The guilt recedes, replaced by something defensive, something familiar. The mask she puts on when she's about to build walls.

"Wait a minute," she says, pulling her knees up to her chest, creating distance between us. "You're acting like you've been some kind of saint all these years. Like you've just been waiting patiently while I... what? Broke your heart?"

Her voice rises with each word. "What about all the women you've had through here? What about that girl with the purple hair last spring? Or the one with the tattoos I met at that party? You don't get to stand there and act like I'm the only one who's been living my life."

I should've expected this. Should've known she'd fight back with the only weapons she has left—my own history thrown back at me.

"They were nothing," I say, voice low. "Distractions."

"Distractions?" she scoffs. "Looked like more than distractions to me. Looked like you were moving on just fine without me."

I shake my head, running a hand over my face. The exhaustion hits me suddenly, years of pretending, years of watching, years of wanting.

"None of them stuck," I admit, voice raw with honesty. "They knew. Every last one of them knew I wasn't really theirs."

"What are you talking about?" she asks, but I can see the cracks forming in her defense.

"They knew I was in love with someone else. That I was just using them to fuck. To pass the time until... until you came back again."

The admission hangs in the air, brutal and unfiltered. Her eyes widen, the anger draining away to be replaced by something softer, something more vulnerable.

"Chiron..." she starts, but I cut her off.

"No. Let's be real about this. I've never brought a woman here twice. Never spent the night with any of them. Never introduced them as anything more than what they were—temporary fixes for a permanent ache."

Her hand reaches out then, fingers brushing against mine. The touch is different this time. Not the casual contact of friendship, but something charged with intention. Something that sends electricity up my arm and straight to my gut.

We both feel it. I see it in her eyes, the moment she acknowledges what's passing between us. The moment she stops fighting and starts feeling.

I meet her gaze, letting her see everything I've been hiding for years. All the want, all the need, all the love I've never been able to give to anyone else.

"Remember that first day in biology when you helped me with that dissection, and you had guts all over your hands but didn't even flinch."

A small laugh escapes her lips, but there are tears in her eyes. "I remember that. You were so quiet, I thought you hated me."

"I didn't hate you," I say, my thumb stroking the back of her hand. "I was terrified of you."

"Terrified?" she asks, but she's leaning closer now, the distance between us shrinking with each word.

"Yeah. Terrified of what you'd do to me if you ever really looked at me the way I was looking at you."

The rain pounds against my windows, but inside, there's only the sound of our breathing, the sound of years of unspoken truth finally being spoken.

And in her eyes, I see it. The moment she stops seeing me as her best friend and starts seeing me as something more.

The space between us shrinks until there's barely any air left to breathe. Her eyes are locked on mine, wide and dark with understanding. I can see the pulse beating in her neck, rapid and unsteady. Mine's doing the same damn thing.

Every cell in my body is screaming at me to close the distance. To finally taste what I've been starving for since we were fifteen. But another part of me, the part that's been her friend through breakups and breakdowns, the part that's held her while she cried over other men, is screaming just as loud to stop. To remember what's at stake.

Years of friendship versus years of wanting. It's a war inside me, and I'm about to lose either way.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and that's it. That's the moment I break.

I lean in slowly, giving her time to pull away. Time to remember all the reasons this might be a mistake. Time to stop this before it goes too far.

She doesn't move. Just watches me coming closer like she's been waiting for this moment too.

Our lips meet, and it's not gentle. It's not rough either. It's desperate. Years of unspoken words poured into a single kiss. All the times I wanted to touch her but didn't. All the times she looked right through me when I was standing right in front of her. All the nights I lay awake wondering what if.

Her mouth opens under mine, and I taste the tea she was drinking, the tears she's been crying, the truth she's finally seeing. My hand moves from her knee to her waist, pulling her closer until there's no space left between us. Her hands cradle the sides of my face, holding on tight like she's afraid I might disappear.

This isn't like any kiss I've had before, not with any of the women I used to pass the time with. This is different. This is everything.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing heavy. Foreheads touching, eyes closed, neither of us willing to break the spell. The rain still pounds against my windows, but it sounds distant now. Muted by the pounding of my own heart in my ears.

"Chiron," she whispers, and the way she says my name, like it's something new, something she's just discovered, makes my whole body ache with want.

I open my eyes to find her already looking at me. And in her gaze, I see it all. The realization that this changes everything. The understanding that there's no going back to how things were before.

"Best friends don't kiss like that," I murmur, thumb stroking her cheek.

A small smile plays at her lips. "No, they don't."

I don't lead her to the bedroom. This started on my couch, and this is where it'll end. Where it'll begin. This space is ours, has always been ours. The place she's cried, the place she's laughed, the place I've imagined her a thousand different ways.

My hands find the hem of her damp dress, fingers brushing against the warm skin of her thighs. I look at her, really look at her, asking permission without speaking. She nods, a slight dip of her chin that means everything.

I peel the fabric upward slowly, revealing inch after inch of golden brown skin I've only ever imagined. Her stomach is soft, rounded, perfect. Her breasts spilling from her bra. I trace the curve of her waist with my thumbs, memorizing the geography of her body like I've been waiting for this moment forever.

"You're beautiful," I murmur, and the words feel inadequate. Insufficient.

Her hands find the hem of my t-shirt, tugging upward. I help her pull it over my head, tossing it somewhere behind us. Her palms flatten against my chest, exploring the planes of muscle there like she's mapping new territory. Like she's fully seeing me for the first time.

The clasp of her bra gives way under my fingers. Her breasts tipped with dark nipples that tighten as I watch. I lower my head, taking one into my mouth, swirling my tongue around her nipples until soft moans are escaping her lips.

"Chiron," she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips like that—raw and wanting—makes my dick hard.

I worship her with my hands, my mouth, learning every curve, every sensitive spot that makes her gasp and tremble. Her thighs part for me, revealing nothing but her chocolate, glistening, cream factory. I slide between her legs, settling between her thighs.

Her pussy is a fucking masterpiece. Thick, dark lips already parted, showing off that pretty little clit  begging for my mouth. She's dripping for me, juices glistening in the dim light from my window. I can smell her, that sharp, musky scent that's all Arin, all woman, all mine for the taking.

I run a finger through her slit, collecting her wetness before bringing it to my lips. Tasting her. Salty-sweet and addictive. I've imagined this taste a thousand times, but my imagination didn't do it justice.

"Fuck," I groan, looking up at her. "Look at this pretty pussy."

I dip my head, needing a taste. My tongue against her clit, circling slowly before sucking it into my mouth. Her hands tangling in my hair as I work her with my mouth as she rides my face.

"Chiron," she pants, grinding against my face. "Please."

I slide two fingers inside her. She's tight—fucking tight—and wet as hell, gripping my fingers.

I look up at her, at the woman I've loved for more than half my life, spread open before me. Her eyes are dark with desire, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath.

"Please," she whispers, and that's all I need to hear.

I free myself from my shorts, kicking them off before settling back over her. Her hand finds me, wrapping around my length, and I hiss at the contact. Her touch is tentative at first, then confident as she strokes me from base to tip.

"Look at me," I command, and her eyes meet mine. "I want to see you when I'm inside you."

I position myself at her entrance, pausing for just a moment. This is the point of no return.

She nods again, that slight dip of her chin, and I push forward slowly, sinking into her heat inch by inch. The feeling—fuck, the feeling of her around me, is like nothing I've ever experienced. Not like any of the meaningless fucks I've had to pass the time. This is different. This, this is home, my home.

"Chiron," she gasps as I fill her, and I have to still for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation of her.

I start moving slowly at first. Long, deep strokes that make her nails dig into my shoulders. Our eyes stay locked, saying everything our voices don't. I watch every flicker of pleasure cross her face, memorizing the way her mouth falls open, the way her brow furrows in concentration.

But fuck, she's so wet. So damn wet that each stroke is a battle against my own body. The way her pussy grips me, the sloppy sounds of our bodies meeting—it's almost too much. I have to pause, balls-deep inside her, just to breathe. To keep from embarrassing myself and busting too early.

"Chiron?" she whispers, and I can hear the question in her voice. The wonder.

"Just... give me a second," I grit out, forehead pressed against hers. "You feel too fucking good."

A small smile plays at her lips. "That's a bad thing?"

"Worst thing," I groan, but I'm already moving again. Trying to find a rhythm that won't make me lose my damn mind.

Each stroke is a stutter of control. A fight against the urge to let go. I've wanted this for so long, imagined it so many times, but nothing prepared me for the reality of her. The heat of her, the tight grip of her around me, the way she looks at me like I'm the only man who's ever touched her.

"Harder," she begs, and I'm happy to oblige.

My pace quickens, strokes becoming more forceful, more demanding. The sound of skin against skin fills the room, mingling with our heavy breathing and the rain still pounding against my windows. Her hips rise to meet mine, taking me deeper with each thrust.

"Like that," she pants, "God, Chi, just like that."

I shift my angle slightly, hitting that spot inside her that makes her cry out. Her breasts pressed against my chest as I drove into her again and again.

That's when I change it up. I hook one arm under her knee, lifting her leg higher, spreading her wider. I shift to one knee.

"Fuck, Chi," she gasps, and I can tell she's never been fucked like this before. Never had someone angle her body just right to reach that place inside her that makes her whole damn body tremble.

Every stroke, I'm watching her face, cataloging every reaction, every gasp, every shudder. Like I'm studying for a final exam, and her pleasure is the only subject that matters.

Her hands grip my shoulders, nails digging in just enough to hurt, just enough to feel good. I like the pain. Like knowing I'm marking her as much as she's marking me.

"Look at me," I command again, and her eyes snap open, hazy with pleasure. "I wanna see you when you come."

I'm grinding into her now, my pelvic bone rubbing against her clit with each deep thrust. I can feel the way her pussy starts to flutter around me, her breathing becomes more ragged, and the way she starts chanting my name like a prayer.

"Chiron, Chiron, Chiron," she pants, and I can feel her getting close. So fucking close.

I shift my weight, driving into her harder, deeper, faster. The couch springs groan beneath us, the sound of our bodies meeting filling the room. I'm chasing her release as much as my own, determined to feel her come apart around me before I let myself go.

That's when I feel it, that first tell-tale clench of her pussy around me, the way her body tenses. She's there. Right on the edge.

And I'm gonna push her over.

I slip a hand between us, finding her clit with my thumb. Nipping at her earlobe. "Wanna feel you come on my dick."

That's when I feel it, the clench of her pussy around me, the way her body starts to tense up.

"That's it, baby," I murmur against her neck, "Let go for me. I got you."

I can feel her fighting it, trying to hold back.

"No, don't fight it," I coax, slowing my pace just enough to drive her crazy. "Come on. Give it to me. Wanna feel you come all over my dick."

Her eyes fly open, wide and wild. "Chi, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," I cut her off. "Let me have it. All these years, you been giving pieces of yourself to other motherfuckers. This one's mine."

That's what it does. My words, my claim, the truth of what we're doing right here, right now. Her body shatters. A cry escapes her lips as she cums over and over, making her tremble and shake.

"Fuck, Arin," I groan, watching her face transform with pleasure. "That's it. That's my girl."

The sight of her coming undone beneath me, the feel of her pulsing around me—that's what pushes me over the edge. That familiar heat building at the base of my spine, the tightening in my balls.

"Gotta pull out," I grit out, but she wraps her legs around my waist, holding me in place.

"No," she pants, eyes locked on mine. "Inside me. Please, Chi."

"Arin—"

"I want it," she insists, pulling me closer. "Want all of you."

That's it. That's my undoing. That's the thread snapping. Years of wanting, of watching, of waiting—it all comes crashing down in one blinding moment. I barely have the presence of mind to yank myself out. The first hot rope of my cum strips across her stomach, a thick, milky white against her deep chocolate skin. The second splashes higher, catching her breast. I'm shaking, groaning her name against the sweat-slick skin of her neck as my body empties itself, painting her with everything I've held back for half my life. 

My arms give out, and I collapse against her, dead weight, both of us panting into the sudden quiet. The only sounds are our ragged breaths and the rain still hammering against the window like it's trying to beat its way in.

I lift my head, just enough to look. To see the evidence of my claim all over her. My cum glistening on her skin. My thumb smears through it, a slow, possessive circle on her belly. Her eyes flutter open, hazy and sated, and she watches me watch my mess on her.

No regrets. No shame. Just the raw, beautiful truth of it.

The air in the bar drops ten degrees. Sukuna marches over, his boots heavy on the floorboards. He shoves the booth away from the wall with one hand, glaring at you the entire time, his fingers flying over the internal wiring and the interface.

About ten minutes later, the monitor flickers to life with a triumphant hum.

“Go take your stupid pictures, princess,” he bites out as you beam, making his eye twitch. He swears it never used to do that before he met you.

The group cycles through, pairs of friends giggling as the “Smart Pose”—a bizarre, experimental feature from the early 2000s—scans their faces and projects red wireframe outlines of suggested poses.

Eventually, the bar grows louder, the drinks flowing faster. Then only the two of you remain at the booth while everyone else is getting sloshed and laughing inside.

“I’m not taking a photo with you,” you click your tongue, though you step inside the cramped, velvet-curtained space anyway.

Not because you wanted to but he's like a damn bodyguard behind you, ushering you inside with his solid front pressed to your back, his heat engulfing you, tingles spreading over your bare skin.

“Afraid the camera will catch your bad side? Don't worry, you're only ugly on the inside,” he retorts in a dry, unconvincing tone, crowding into the booth.

His sheer bulk forces you against the other end, your thighs brushing against his denim-clad legs.

A cocktail of heady mint, smoked cherry and something woodsy swirls in the air. You want to take a deep breath of it but refrain since it's coming from him. It's borderline suffocating, choking you and making your stomach churn for the wrong reasons—making you want to throw up, not lean into him.

Sukuna's jaw clenches as his knees bumps yours, and the smell of your perfume—something floral but edged with a musky base—fills the tiny space.

The screen flashes: SCANNING SUBJECTS.

A green beam bounces up and down as the machine whips, analyzing the two of you squashed together and clearly wanting to be anywhere else.

Ink cuts down the sides of his face in harsh lines, his scowl more severe thanks to it as he stares into the camera, boredom etched on his face and weighing you down as you see it on the grainy screen. You're not much better, insolence set in your features, made sharper by your makeup and arched brow, daring him to talk shit.

Then, the pose appears. It isn't a hug or a high-five or one of those you'd see in your parents’ old photos from their youth.

No, this can't be right. You squint, wondering if you need a new prescription of contact lenses even though these are only three months old.

As you stare longer, the outline coalesces like pieces of a puzzle the further you lean back.

The red wireframe depicts an outline of a side profile of a man kneeling, his head buried between a woman's spread thighs as her hand is in his hair.

The silence is deafening as the words “ASSUME THE POSITION” blink back at you both on the screen in bold red.

Sukuna recovers first, full lips that are usually thinned and downturned curling with a slow, predatory grin. “Well. You were so insistent I fix it. I guess we have to follow the instructions. Logic dictates it, right, Professor?”

Cutting him a withering glower when he uses your work title, your jaw ticks as you roll your tongue in your cheek, watching his scarlet gaze track the movement then drag back to yours, molten and dark.

“Fat chance, Ryomen,” you scoff, your breath hitching as his smirk widens and you stand up, exiting the booth. “In your dreams.”

Moments later, after an agonizing game of eye tag and cocked brows, the “fat chance” comment is a memory lost to the sound of a locking door in the back hallway’s single-occupancy bathroom.

This was inevitable, really. A couple of years too late if you asked any of your friends. Ever since you were roped into this group, Sukuna and you would clash in a smothering exchange of insults, nasty looks and incomprehensible muttering. A boiling point was bound to be reached with how you both bubbled and rattled with each and every interaction recently. It was overflowing.

Despite the hostility that makes others squirm, it's no secret that you two want to fuck. Violently, at that. Some even think it would be cathartic.

The opportunity never seems to arise though with your revolving door of crappy boyfriends and his roster of flings who make it painfully obvious that they want to be more.

Fret not though, because as of a couple of months ago, you'd sworn off dating and he called it quits with his not-so-girlfriend, you both using the sore spot of your love lives as new jabs for each other.

Can it really be called animosity when the smart remarks are merely appetizers to the main course of you eye fucking each other across the room all night?

Probably not.

Ever the blunt one, Satoru has always said you two would be on much better terms if you fucked it out. No one ever listens to his ridiculous advice.

Well, until tonight—

The light is a flickering, sickly white. Sukuna drops to his knees and sits back on his calves, hauling you toward him with a burly arm around your waist. You yelp, heels clicking in panic as you almost tumble but he holds you steady with a mean chuckle.

“Been a while?”

“Fuck off, no,” you snap.

His hands are huge, his calloused palms dragging against the sides of your skirt as he bunches the fabric up to your hips, cool air caressing your skin.

“You always have something to say,” he grits out, his voice thrumming against your stomach as he tugs off your lace panties and tosses them toward the sink. “Say something now.”

“You're an asshole,” you breathe, your fingers knotting into his thick, coral hair as he pries your legs apart, draping one over his broad shoulder.

Humming, his crimson eyes peer up at you as you brace a hand on his shoulder for leverage. “And this asshole is about to lick your neglected pussy in a bar restroom.”

Diving in, his tongue is a blunt, debilitating weapon, mimicking the way you use words to cut him down—precise, overwhelming, and utterly dominating. The hot, wet muscle swipes upward, catching your puffy clit between his teeth, a sharp nip that makes your back arch and your head thud against the tiled wall.

A startled cry rips from your throat at the sudden lick, his eagerness causing your brain to stutter.

“Keep it down,” he warns against your skin, his teeth grazing your inner thigh, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your clit. “Don’t want your loud voice alerting the whole bar, do we?”

“No,” you agree in a meek voice that would piss you off under any other circumstances.

He knows it too, a mischievous gleam in his eyes as he smiles. “Good.”

The scent of him—cedarwood, expensive tobacco, and whiskey—fills your lungs. He's greedy, devouring mouthfuls of your swollen pussy with the enthusiasm of a cannibal, groaning into your cunt.

“Fuck, your pussy's so sweet. If only you were too.”

His cock kicks in his jeans as his fingers find your fluttering hole, pushing through the puddle of slick there, two of them sliding inside with a wet squelch that echoes in the small space, stretching you with a delicious burn while his mouth sucks and smacks loudly between your quivering thighs.

“Ryo,” your gasp is punctuated by your fingers tangling in his hair and tugging, hips bucking against his face, drenching his tanned skin and tattoos in your slippery arousal, his head bobbing with each frantic grind.

“Fat chance, Ryomen,” he mocks in an exaggerated impression of you, his voice muffled against your sopping pussy that clicks with the words he mutters.

Drawing back for a second, his chin glistening, his pupils blown with a terrifying, obsessive hunger. “Tell me again how I don't know what I'm doing.”

The fucker doesn't offer you the chance to answer when his lips capture your clit again, pulling the bundle of nerves taut and rolling it like it's a lollipop. Your knees wobble and almost give out then and there.

A broken, whiny keen pours spills from you as he buries his face back into you, nosing at your flickering nub. His tongue pushes inside you with a lewd slurp then curls back to lash at your nub in long, dragging licks, his thumbs pinning your thighs open so you can't escape the overwhelming sensation.

He's trying to eat you, you're sure of it and you're presenting yourself on a silver platter as you feed him more of your aching cunt, feverish to get more of it inside his mouth. And he's tasting every bit of the friction that had been building between you for years.

It's tarty and sweet with hints of something metallic like the blood he's fantasized of drawing from your plump lips when he gets to kiss you and sink his teeth into them.

Every nerve ending in your body slides to your clit as he wraps his lips around it and suckles harshly, a glob of arousal seeping out of you and your stomach dropping.

The grit of the bathroom tiles, the hum of the pipes, and the merciless assault of his mouth is all your scrambled thoughts can string together, incoherent noises and nonsensical words pouring from your mouth as he pants like a dog.

Sukuna responds to each one even though you're a hundred percent sure neither of you understand whatever the fuck you're drunkenly babbling about as your hips roll against his swirling tongue and ride his thick, long pumping fingers.

When you finally come, your orgasm punching you in the chest as you cry out, muffling your scream into your shoulder, he doesn't stop. He drinks you in, swallowing your cries and your cum, holding you steady until your tremors subside into a dull, buzzing ache.

Sukuna stays there for a moment, his forehead resting against your soft tummy, breathing heavily.

He pulls away slowly, biting down on your doughy thighs and licking over the bruising indents of his teeth with a content sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand, looking up at you with a look of pure, smug triumph.

“There,” Sukuna whispers, his voice a dark caress as he rises to his dizzingly towering height, dotting a kiss to your damp temple. “Can't have the last word now, can you?”

You think he's going to wash his face and leave but a finger taps your cheek and you look up through half-lidded eyes to find him gazing down the line of his nose at you.

Pointing to his face, he ducks. “Clean up your mess, big mouth.”

Stomach flipping, you comply, cupping his face and licking at his skin. The pool of heat in your belly coils again, clit pounding as you taste yourself on his damp flesh and he groans a low, drawn out sound when your tongue laps a flat stripe up his cheek before he turns and kisses you stupid.

Sticky and wet is what you are when you join your friends once more as if nothing was amiss, using the excuse that you were touching up your makeup. Sukuna doesn't bother making up a story and no one questions him.

The man must've worked up an appetite after making you come on his mouth until you tapped out because his gaze is boring into yours as he takes a big bite of his burger. Desire pricks at your abused clit as arousal sloshes in your stomach once again.

You don't have to wonder if he eats other things like that because you fucking know he does. It's an Olympic sport trying to avoid his piercing eyes and ogling his bulging forearms and the ink crawling up his tawny skin.

His knee does press insistently against yours under the table now though and Suguru's serpent-like eyes bounce between you two now and then but he says nothing.

Later, the pink-haired bastard will demand that you let him drive you home since you're “too drunk” and it's on his way anyway. You'll refuse but relent when he flashes you a knowing look.

Then he'll make you apologise for being a difficult brat by eating you out for hours until you're blabbering sorry's and begging him to fuck you on his cock.

note: i know y'all know that art trend on tiktok hehe. art by mizuart_bolillo on x <3

You drive into the elementary school parking lot and spot his G wagon right away. He smirks halfway out the window as you pull up alongside him, window to window without having to get out. His eyes look you over lazily, as he tries to hide the fact that you look good - you always do these days.  

“Hey sexy, heard they upgraded your whip. Must really be putting these criminals through it” he flirts. It’s just Rio being Rio.

“Christopher” you greet him with much less charm shutting your car off and removing your seatbelt. You adjust your mirrors to be aware of your surroundings and take your gun off your hip locking it in the glovebox.

“I don’t know why you want to work a job where you need that. You should be put up somewhere, out the way” he continues full of shit. He’s handsome, charismatic and your chemistry is unmatched. You send an exasperated eye roll off in his direction and he chuckles. His smile disarms you.

“I mean baby if work is that stressful we can park in a back street and get it in” he proposes, his one track mind fully tuned in.

“Glad you’re enjoying yourself Christopher” you smile pleasantly ignoring his advances. “If I quit, who's gonna keep you out of jail?” You ask him. “Your partners are courting informants. Their operation is pretty much compromised. You need to untangle yourself from them fast” you share and he nods looking pensive. You check your mirrors again and see kids running through soccer drills. When you turn back to Rio he’s already watching you.

“Can you do me a solid? Kick up a fuss somewhere else? Make a big stink?” He asks.

“You know I can't, I'm just passing along information. You helped me so I’m returning the favour” you remind him.

“How fast do I need to be untangled?”

“Expeditiously. Is that a problem?” You ask.

“It’s no problem, mama. You know I’m always ready.” He says sitting up straight.

You nod, “good, if I hear anything else I’ll let you know.”

“Preciate it” he nods. You get out your work phone and look through your urgent emails that have been sorted by your assistant.

“Where are you coming from all dolled up?” He pries.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” You smile without looking over at him.

“Lunch at the new restaurant Elsie’s. You kept it light with a chicken Cesar so you probably really wasn’t feeling the guy” he says forcing you to turn. This time his head is against the back of his seat as he looks through his dash instead of at you. Pleased with his reconnaissance. “You don’t have to do all that Mama. He won’t know what to do with you. You know those squares like to throw fits when you dump them. Don’t make me have to kill him” he says, maintaining his aura of nonchalance. His eyes meet yours for a moment effectively communicating that he’s not playing. But your world isn't his. He has bigger fish to fry.

“I don’t need to be babysat, I can handle myself and I know what I need better than anyone else” you assert and he scoffs. You hear a shrill whistle and see the kids lining up in front of the coach and start the car. You watch the kids run off the line and hit the button to open your trunk. Your son comes barrelling down the hill tossing his soccer bag into the trunk.

“Hi mom!” He shouts.

“Hi baby” you smile as he runs over to his father’s trunk getting his school bag and another one.

“Bye dad, see you next week” he says walking between your two cars as Rio gets out to hug him tight. You catch a hint of his cologne. The woodsy, leather smell with hints of bourbon used to drive you wild.

“Bye, kid. Love you, listen to your mom alright. Do all your homework and don’t try to cheat her on bed time. Don’t make her call me.” Christopher says being stern. 

“Ok” your son tells his father as Christopher takes the bags, tossing them in the trunk for his boy before getting to the passenger door. Your son hops in right beside you.

“Mom, you look gorgeous.” he gushes.

“She had a date,” Rio says, blowing up your spot.

“We’ll talk when we get home say goodbye to your father” you tell your son as you shift gears into drive.

“Bye dad” he says sitting back,

“Bye Sonnie” Rio says and you turn to watch the perfect mix of the both of you fasten his seatbelt. Sonnie smiles at you through the rearview mirror as you pull out of the parking spot. You smile back as he connects his phone to the car.

“How was practise?” You ask him.

“Good, dad has a new house.” he says.

“Does he?” You ask, having missed the memo.

“Don’t get upset, we didn't stay there yet. I just got to see my room - it’s huge and so is the yard.” Sonnie says and the excitement in his voice makes you happy. Reality gnaws at your nerves, you hope to God that Rio is being smart and not doing anything to jeopardise his freedom. A huge house means his earnings have to be legit.

“That’ll be good for your soccer drills” you smile being positive for Sonnie.

“Right, dad thought of that. He thought of everything”  Sonnie says.

“Well I’m happy for him” You smile.

“There’s space for you too, and my brothers and sisters” Sonnie continues as you stop at a red light. You turn to the back seat with a raised brow. You know good and well your problem of a baby father was not just flirting with a baby on the way.

“Does your dad have– don't answer that” you stop not wanting him in the middle of the mess that had started the day you met his father. A smart woman would have never spoken to the criminal that pulled her out of a warehouse before it went up in smoke, again. The gun to your head should have been enough to terrify you more than his eyes and raspy voice intrigued you. It was the first time you went into the station and lied about what happened. Several comrades were down, internal affairs later discovered that they were all dirty cops, making the masked man a vigilante.

The next time you saw his face it was without the obstruction of a ski mask. It was after a girls night gone wrong. One of those nights where friendship implodes because someone’s drinking too much, and the other person's too thirsty. You were at the quiet bar in need of a respite from the girl drama. You were two whisky sours in when he pulled up a chair and smiled to tell you you looked better outside of your work uniform. You took in his features for the first time, eyes lingering on the bird tattoo on his neck, a poor choice for a criminal. Or was he? You still weren’t sure. He smirked at the recognition in your eyes and then his lingered on your lips. There were a hundred questions on the tip of your tongue and none of them made it out.

“You know how to play pool? I win, I get to take you out” he said before you could respond.

“I’m fine thanks” You responded nursing your drink.

He’d worn you down eventually though. The next time you saw him after leaving the bar that night was on a detective's wall a few months later. Misguided loyalty had you back at his bar. You were seated for no more than twenty minutes before he appeared at your side. You ended up following him to a back room where you told him what you saw at the police station. It was how your relationship persisted for the next nine months. Favor for favor until one night he finally taught you how to play pool.

You shake your head pulling yourself out of the trip down memory lane.

Brothers and sisters.

Sonnie’s words replay on a loop in your head. You didn’t know what to call your relationship with Rio. It’d been years since you’d had sex. The flirting never died though, neither did his requests for family. But there was always another woman that piqued his neverending curiosity. Always some opportunity that jeopardised your career and his freedom. He’d never come outright to confirm or deny his illegal dealings but where there’s smoke there's fire. You know better than to think he’s fully innocent with all the times something about him has floated through the station. You manage to push the thought of him shacking up with someone else to the back of your head as you prepare dinner, help Sonnie with his homework and then put him to bed.

You’re sitting on the front step when Christopher’s car rolls onto the boulevard parking in front of your house. He hops out and meets you on your porch. You don’t speak heading inside. He follows silently as you cross from the front of your home into the back for more privacy from prying eyes.

“Whats wrong?” he asks, sitting on the picnic table. You look up at him with folded arms. “You know I’ma handle it, what is it Ma?” he asks, sitting forward. 

“You’re moving?” you ask.

“That’s what you’re mad about? It’s closer to his school. I can be around more” he says and it all sounds like a nightmare. 

“You and his brothers and sisters?” you ask and he jolts noticeably before his posture stiffens, his signature smirk slides into place – a spark in his eye follows. He’s the cat that got the creme; you're the rat in the trap. You try to calculate your misstep as his smirk grows into a smile. He can’t help himself, he's so tickled. He’s in a checkmate and you don’t know where you’ve made a misstep.

“Me and my children” he nods with unnecessary cruelty. 

“Sonnie thinks I’ll be staying there too, please don’t sell him dreams” you sigh and he shakes his head.

“You said we could get back together when I’m a hundred percent out. I’ll be there by the time the house is finished. Then you can sell this one or put it up for rent and get your back blown out most nights. Don’t worry, our bedroom has soundproofing - I know how you like to get loud” he says and you scoff taking a step back.

Your brain short circuits before rebooting and you look up at quite possibly the most delusionally insufferable man on the planet. He grins before having a laugh at your expense. You fold your arms too stunned to speak.

“Be for real Christopher, I’ll be more mad about you lying to me than you telling me you’re having a baby” you sigh. He steps down from the bench so your arms are touching his chest. He takes a finger tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his.

“My dick hasn’t been in you so you can't be pregnant. Lets go upstairs to practise” he says his voice low, seductive and raspy. You shake your head and push him away, resisting the electricity his proximity and bedroom voice sends through your body.

“We both know if Sonnie went to your place talking about brothers and sisters you wouldn't be so civil - stalker.” you state changing the subject.

“When our son talks about brothers and sisters he’s talking about our kids. Stop playing with me.” he says with nonchalance. You search his eyes for a lie and find none.

“Mom?” You hear and rush inside.

“Sonnie?” You ask, seeing him in his PJ’s.

“Dad?” he asks, looking behind you. You turn to see Rio coming in and turn to Sonnie lighting up with hope. You regret calling Rio instantly.

“I went to sleep in your bed with you and you weren't there mom” Sonnie says turning his attention back to you. “What are you doing in the backyard dad?” Sonnie questions.

“It’s spring, I forgot to check the deck to make sure the skunks don’t try to nest again.” Rio says lying so effortlessly, it’s scary. “We’re all clear buddy and you're too big to be climbing in your mama’s bed” Rio says, stepping around you to pick Sonnie up. It’s ridiculous because at eight, Sonnies are more than half of his fathers size, but you watch as your boy smiles dangling as his father takes him up to his room.

“Can dad read me a bedtime story?” Sonnie asks.

“Since he’s here” you sigh, refilling your carafe and bringing it up to the lonely primary bedroom. You rest it on the bedside table and head into the bathroom with all of your necessities. With Rio under your roof you lock the door knowing he has no boundaries and take your shower, then do the skincare that’s aided your genes at maintaining a youthful face in spite of a stressful job and personal life.

You step out lotioning your hands and see Rio sitting at the bench on the foot of your bed. You half expected it. He stares and you let him, it’s not something he’s witnessed in years. The intimacy of being in your space, seeing you undone, vulnerable and ready to sleep without him.

“I’ll walk you out” you say slipping your feet into your house shoes.

He nods, smiling. “You still use the oil I used to rub on your stomach when you were pregnant and after?” he asks. You nod instead of telling him that the stress from work and coparenting schedules have you stress eating your way into a few more tiger stripes.

“Stop objectifying me Christopher” you say knowing his eyes are glued to your figure as you descend the stairs ahead of him. You stand at the door and he takes his sweet time.

“End whatever you have going on with the square. Our house will be move in ready in two months.” he says.

“Goodnight” you say, opening the door.

He steps out the house turning before you can shut the door on him. His head dips to kiss you goodnight and he stops millimetres away from your face. You look at him and see he’s looking upstairs. You turn and the whites of your son's eyes grow in the dark as he scrambles back into his bedroom shutting the door.

“He’s bad just like his daddy” you groan as Rio laughs.

“Don’t do my boy like that” Rio says and you smile, shaking your head.

“Nite” You sigh.

“Night mama, now that cat’s out the bag I’ll be by with the blueprints so you can design the layout of your closet and pick the colours for our bedroom” he says walking down the driveway and to his car.

You shake your head shutting the door out of your depths with Sonnie and his pappy.

_________

Did you know you were waiting for your son to get into your car? Or was that a nice surprise? I never did baby daddy Rio and a bunch of you asked. So here it is 😉