BrainRotCentral

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of violence, smut, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral, simon is not a good or nice person (except to reader), reader also maybe isn't a good person who knows, reader has hair long enough to hold, curvy/plus-sized!reader, size difference, size kink, military inaccuracies, 18+

There is a special place in hell for men like Michael.

You can see her through the window by the door. Her big eyes are looking at where you are, paws against the glass. Her mouth opens, and she scratches at the window, and your bottom lip trembles as you set your hand down where she touches.

You could care less about the things you left inside. Your clothes, your bags, your shoes, even your fucking computer can stay behind, but not her. Your tabby cat is inside, sitting by the window, and Michael changed the fucking locks.

You bang on the door for an hour. You leave, come back, keep banging, but no one ever answers. You've never felt this desperate or uneasy, but every time you come back and see her by the window, you nearly lose all of your composure. It isn't fair. She doesn't belong to him. He can take years from you, take your money, take your sanity, but he won't take her. You'll come back every single day. You'll become a nuisance. You'll never let him relax. Until he gives her back to you, he will never know peace.

A single day passes before you decide it's time to take drastic measures.

The nearest military base is situated a good distance away, but not so far that you won't drive to its neighboring city. There's a small main road with a few local shops, including a few restaurants, a bookstore, a coffee shop, and the crown jewel—a pub.

It's just after supper time when you ring the bell above the door walking inside. On a Friday evening, it's lively, packed close with warmth and tall pints and plastic baskets full of chips and greasy fingerfoods.

There's a lot of military around here. You can tell by their haircuts and the way they chug their glasses; but you aren't looking for baby-faced rookies with too much pent-up aggression. You're looking for the meanest guy in the room, and that means someone with scars and someone who goes cloudy behind the eyes when you ask him how he's gotten back from where he's been.

That man is sitting at the far booth with his back to the wall. A place where he can have an eye on the rest of the room at all times. Big, gloved hand wrapped around a sweating glass, gaze focused on the foam of his beer as he pretends to listen to whatever the red-cheeked man across from him is laughing about.

You ask the bartender what they're drinking and order another round, picking up each glass and making your way towards their table. You'd be nervous if you weren't so determined. You stand awkwardly beside the table before his friend notices you there.

"Tha' fer us, bonnie?"

He juts his chin out at the drinks you're holding, and you set them down with a nervous smile.

"Yeah," you look between them. You fixate on the big guy, who barely squints at you over his drink, and you bite your lip. "I was hoping you had room for one more."

His friend cackles, "aye. Always fer a pretty face."

"Cute," you swallow. "But…I wasn't really talking to you."

The bigger one sits up at that. He leans back in the booth, rolling out his shoulders, and you hop up onto the seat next to him. His friend seems to get the message, picking up his new drink and tipping it towards you before taking a long drink of it and going to find a warm spot at the bar.

"Lookin' for advice or a fuck?"

"Neither," you say softly. "You're big, yeah? Are people…generally afraid of you?"

He laughs, and when he wipes at his masked face, you see a glimpse of a tattoo sleeve that adorns his massive left arm.

"Suppose."

"Great. How much for you to be my bodyguard for a few hours?"

He kisses his teeth under the mask, and then he turns his head to look down at you. His eyes are half-lidded, the skin looking a little greasy under the eye-black smudged there, but he's so calm and collected and amused. You've amused him; you're entertaining him. It's the most interesting thing that's happened to him all week, and you hope you're keeping his attention.

"Wot's tha' include?"

"It's gonna be illegal," you mumble, biting your bottom lip. "Just a little bit."

"Tha's my specialty, love."

"Not murder," you clarify, and he just shrugs. "Just…a little breaking and entering. Maybe some intimidation."

"'s Friday night, swee'eart, at least offer me somethin' fun."

"This isn't funny," you suck in a shaky breath. "It's…" You look down at the sticky pub table, swallowing again. You dig your nails into your own legs to keep your composure. "I need to get something back. Something that belongs to me. So it's not really…it's not really stealing."

A pregnant silence falls between you. You fail to keep the tears at your lash line back, and you quickly use the back of your hand to wipe your face gently. You think about your cat scratching for you on the other side of the window. You think about her sweet face; you think about Michael forgetting to feed her in the mornings as he usually did, and how he never changed the water filter in time even when you asked him to.

"'m Simon."

The low timbered voice breaks you out of your inner spiral. You look up at him again, and when you meet his eyes, you're finally able to let out a breath of relief. You don't know why, but there's something extremely soothing about sitting next to him. About being in his vicinity. He's so large and takes up so much space, but it's warm there, and he's not as mean as his outer layer might suggest. He's calm, and the way he presents himself tells you that it is not by luck that he's still sitting beside you.

You tell him your name, and his gloved hand touches under your chin.

"Olright, love. Lead the way."

Every time you have ever come back to this apartment, you have met the closed door with dread. A little fear. You feel none of that; not with the apparition at your back. You knock on the window beside the door, and like always, she appears. She meows on the other side, her eyes wet as she scratches and sniffs. You look over your shoulder at Simon who tilts his head to the side.

"This wot he stole?"

You look back at her on the other side of the window, shrugging.

"No," you say softly. "But it's all that matters."

The jiggling of metal brings your attention back to him. Simon is at the door, a multi-tool in one hand, and he's focused intently on working the doorknob until you hear the sound of a lock turn and then the door opens. The chain on the door jangles just as Simon opens it slightly, and you watch with rapt attention as he sticks his arm inside for just a few seconds, and then he swings the door open wide.

You push past him, reaching for the cat. She meows loudly, coming right to you, and you coo as you bend and pick her up from the floor. Loud purrs and sweet chirps follow as you hug her to your chest. You pet her little head, turning towards the living room. You used to keep her carrier behind the couch, and you find it as you go searching for it, exactly where you left it. You slip her inside and zip it up.

"What the fuck is this?"

You freeze, standing up straight and turning. You're caught, definitely—you knew he must have been home by the fact that the chain was latched, but you tried the nice way. You weren't going to get your cat back by being patient, not anymore.

"I'm just getting her, I'll…I was just leaving."

"Fuck no, you broke into my flat."

"Our flat," you snap back, putting the straps of the carrier over your shoulder. "And I'm leaving."

Michael looks like he's going to take a step towards you, but then he notices the dark shape in the corner of the room. He frowns a little, squinting.

"Who the bloody hell is that?"

You turn just in time to see Simon take a small step forward. The sudden movement seems to terrify Michael; he scrambles backwards into the kitchen counter, making the plates behind him fall off the counter and shatter onto the ground. He nearly trips over himself trying to get distance, and Simon seems to think it's very funny. He laughs, chest heaving, and he looks down at you as he gets closer.

"Flopping like a fuckin' fish, he is, in'he?"

Michael looks around frantically before he finds a pair of prongs. His hand shakes as he holds the pointy end towards Simon, spitting at him.

"Get the fuck out of my flat! T-The both of you!"

Simon's reaction tells you that maybe he has a few wires crossed in his head. He steps forward instead of away, laughing still, and you watch warily as he tilts his head to the side and nods his head towards Michael.

"Go on, then, mate," Simon taunts. "Try it."

Like a fool, Michael obliges. You flinch when Michael swings, but Simon tilts his body at just the right moment to dodge. He smacks Michael's arm, but he tries again—and like playing footie with a child, the weapon is now in Simon's hand, and then oh—

Michael's screaming as it pierces through his open palm.

He bleeds a lot less than you thought he might. Sadly, also, his blood is as red as yours. You thought he might be a little less pathetic at a moment like this. It is a gift, however, to see him bursting into tears as Simon grips the collar of his shirt and leans over him.

"Lot like you like to take things that aren't yers, tha' right?" Simon spits. "Like to punish and intimidate and fuckin' take, even if ya aren't owed."

"Please—please just get out, take her, fuckin' please!"

"Oi, wot's all this?" Simon snorts. "Now yer pissin' where you stand cause it got too real, eh? Got wot was comin' ta you? Reckon it's not like you thought. Reckon you thought she'd come hat in hand, beggin' for wot she deserves, but you wouldn't know good cunt even if it sat on yer face, yeah?"

"Please…"

"Simon—" You try, but he tsks, shaking his head.

"Nah, love, he's gonna learn," Simon murmurs. "Have you learned?"

"Yes," Michael squeaks, and you're not longer staring at the blood dripping on the hardwood, you're oogling at the giant man standing in what once was your kitchen that's starting to look more delicious by the second.

"Good," Simon breathes. "I know where ya lay yer head, mate. Know where ta come back if things aren't quiet on her end. You'd do well to remember tha'."

He releases Michael with a shove; Michael sinks to the floor, hands trembling, and Simon makes his way towards you to put a hand to your back and turn you around towards the front door.

"Need anythin' else?" Simon asks. You're too speechless to say anything, so all you do is shake your head. You clutch the carrier closer; she meows from inside the bag, and Simon nods his head towards outside so that you start moving. The door shuts behind you both, and then you're being led to his truck, ushered into the passenger seat, precious cargo on your lap as you breathe a huge sigh of relief.

The drive is quiet, but a comfortable quiet. You don't realize until a few streets over that you're smiling; a big, sparkling grin that's taking over your face, and when Simon rolls his truck to a stop at a red light, you lean over the center console and give his masked cheek a big, wet kiss of gratitude.

"Got a death wish or somethin'?" Simon turns to look at you, glaring from under the mask. It's so hard to be scared of him. He just put the fear of God into your terrible ex-boyfriend so you could get your precious cat back; he scared him shitless—literally—and he did it looking this good.

"Is that what a kiss gets me?" You ask. You slide your hand down his bicep, swallowing the drool when you feel just how solid and beefy he is under that hoodie. He fills it out too well. He must be so fucking handsome under that mask; there's no way he wears it for anonymity, he must be so hot, he wears it so he doesn't have to swat away all the boys and girls when they usually buzz around him like moths to light—

Maybe death is really this sweet. This good. Your cat is snoozing, safe and sound, in your bedroom with a full belly. The lights are on low; soft orange glows from well-placed lamps, giving the entire living room a warm feeling. There's a man on your couch with his belt unbuckled, mask halfway up his face as he pants because his cock is in your mouth, and he tastes like sweet, sweet victory.

"Ahh—fuck."

You nuzzle your nose up the length. He's so hard; you don't think a man has ever been this hard for you. He's leaking so pretty, dribbles down the length that you catch with the tip of your tongue, forcing him to hiss and spit and bite his knuckles. He keeps his hips still, but his hand around your hip squeezes the flesh there nice and tight, borderline bruising when you suck his tip a little too softly. You lick a stripe around the head before leaning back up towards him, and his hand around your hip curls against the back of your neck as you share a messy, wet kiss.

You twist your wrist, pumping his cock with a gentle glide of your palm, and he grits his teeth between kisses, touching his forehead to yours.

"Oll tha' for a cat, yeah?"

It is true. You did do it for her. But you did it for you, too.

"Not just the cat," you whisper, smoothing your thumb along the tip. He kisses you again, slower this time, and you groan into his mouth as you squeeze your thighs together. "Look at you…"

"Fuck—" Simon grunts, and his other hand finds the base of his cock, squeezing hard, and you giggle as he scrunches his nose. "Don't say shit like tha'."

You can't with his mouth on your cunt. He's laying flat on his back on the couch, legs too long to fit. Boots against your blanket, you'll whine to him about it later, but now both thighs are on either side of his head, and he's slurping with a hot tongue. You cup both sides of his head, dragging your hips, and while normally you'd think twice about dropping your weight on someone like this, the ease at which he hoisted you up his chest tells you Simon's a big, big boy—and he can handle whatever you give him.

"Gonna let me handle things from now on," Simon murmurs. He kisses the inside of your thigh, and you yelp when he smacks one side of your ass. He's waiting for an answer, and you took too long to give one.

"Y-Yeah," you breathe, leaning your head back. You feel yourself dripping between the legs, flooding his mouth, but he curls his tongue all the same. Uses two thumbs now as he hooks his arms around your thighs to pull the wet, sensitive skin back so he can drink what he's owed. He said he takes payment like this, getting his fill; he says he's never really satisfied until there's cum in his mouth and some in your cunt, and he's not gonna leave your flat before becoming familiar with those two, mutually non-exclusive events.

"Yeah, y'r pretty, olright," Simon laughs, but there's no more humor when he bounces you on his cock. Oh, he hurts a little. He told you he might, but then you're really there, knees on either side of him as you clutch onto the meat of his shoulders and hope to God he doesn't let you go. "Told you tha' you'd feel it, didn't I?"

"Yeah," you whisper, cupping that face of his, half-revealed to you, and you rub your thumbs down his scarred cheeks. Gorgeous, even with eyes that dead inside. "'s big."

"Don't—" He snarls, holding down your hips, shaking his head. "Wot did I say about sayin' shit like tha', eh?"

Life has spoiled you. Life is too good. Life is your pet curled up between your pillows and warm beneath the blankets, and life is fucking the sanity out of big, pudgy military men with blood under their fingernails and their breath stuck in their throat. You've rendered Simon to nothing but grunts and sputters. He's focused on keep the rhythm, arms clasped around your middle as he fucks up into you and pants into your neck. You reach for the back of the couch, digging your nails in, and all you can do is cry and take it as he keeps bringing you back down again and again and again.

The kiss you share is starved. You're so hungry, your hand slipping under the mask to cup the back of his head, and he draws your hips down and holds you there as he licks into your mouth and relishes in the pulsing of your cunt. This is what he fights for, maybe.

Not the glory. Not for the good of others. Not for Price and his self-guided moral compass, not for Laswell and her targets, not for revenge, not for blood, not to save the world. It's so he can come back here onto home soil and fuck a gorgeous girl without ever being interrupted by the sound of anything but her.

Her. You. Whatever she is, what you are, what you will eventually be—it manifests itself in the very room he's in, and he's got it between his teeth, and he won't be letting go for anything.

Nothing at all.

He's smoking a cigarette by the open window as she makes tea. He smiles, just barely, with teeth a little yellow when he sees you burn your hand a little as you pour the water into a misshapen mug.

"Olright?" He asks. The mugs shake a little as you bring them back into the room, precarious as you overfilled the mugs. He takes one from you and takes a long sip, flicking the cigarette out as he watches you get settled. You set your mug down on the coffee table, leaning forward to give him that same sweet, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Never better."

Belly full. Eyes bright. You are nothing like the woman that propositioned him just a few hours ago. A monotone, piss-drink evening, and then a scared, desperate girl asking him if he was willing to do something a little off the books.

Fucking finally. The world was just starting to get a little too dull.

It's the middle of the night when he hears the creak of a door. The sound of a little bell. You're laid out on your side, having just fallen asleep. The movie on the telly still plays, but Simon has turned the volume down. The light flickering from the screen is enough that he sees the cat trot into the room, eyes searching for you and seeing the two of you settled there.

She comes over slowly, sniffing the toes of Simon's boots, and then she closes her eyes as she rubs her face against his leg. Low purring, headbutts, and then she's putting a paw to his boot and looking up at him with the same big, wet eyes her mother has. Simon reaches down, scratching under her chin, and then she's curling up on his lap, little head next to yours as he leans back and takes it in. The sight for sore eyes. The thing that makes his medals and his stripes and all the money in the world look worthless—cheap.

You'd been strategic this morning, grabbing one of two pool shades. You weren't going anywhere, even if you needed to use the washroom and you were thirsting for something cold and icy. The ice would melt immediately in the dense heat but you wouldn't let it last long enough to get that far.

It's a dangerous sort of summer day, when the heat is a force of nature, pushing you. The idea of soaking up the sun and getting soused with drink is far too great a temptation. You didn't need to add in the beautiful man sitting across the pool in his own chair, the sun pouring down golden over his glistening brown skin. You'd spent the late morning eyeing him up behind your large sunglasses.

There's a mouth-watering bulk to his body; muscle taut under delicious fat. He looks like he eats his greens and then some. You'd cook him up big, hot suppers when it turns cool — gravy and sauces, buttery carbs, and perfect cuts of meat. He'd moan appreciatively, his mouth full of your cooking, eyes closed to absorb every morsel. You'd kiss the gravy off his beautiful mouth, lick butter from his teeth if you could. On a day like today, he'd come into your kitchen like a farmer, drenched in sweat and starving, ready to eat a huge plate of cold food, like a heavy potato salad and cold cuts sliced thin. You, in the kitchen, foot propped up on the other, smiling at him while he wolfs down your meals and chugs at his lemonade or iced tea, his throat working in earnest.

Your book, a pulpy paperback you'd grabbed from a gas station, is a wonderful cover for your ogling. You turn the pages to complete the theatrics of it all, but your body, saturated and buzzing with sugar-sweet liquor, is slowly transforming into a woman in heat.

Eventually, a younger family climbs out of the pool to go cool off in their air-conditioned room and eat some late lunch. A couple slips off, giggling, into their room.

You and the man are left alone, on opposite ends of the pool area, the hot-blue water stilling in between you. You sigh, laying the book face-down, and stand up. You grab the bottle of sunscreen, shake it, and squeeze a fat dollop into your palm. Rub both hands together slowly and then begin from your forearms, dark brown and radiant from sweat and sunscreen an hour ago, working the cream up into your shoulders. Throat tipped back, up to your ears, sending your dangling earrings swaying, and then down your neck, around to the nape. Another dollop, spread across the tops of your breasts where your bikini top is drawn together with string. Fingers splaying out under the string, lifting and shifting it, your breasts with it.

"Need a hand?"

You don't expect him to be English. Your fantasy burns into a new mirage of being in a small, rambling cottage, laying out cold ham and hard cheese; a ploughman's lunch for your sweating English farmer coming in from the croft. He smells like sheep's milk and stones and dirt, and you want him to wash up before he digs in. He'd take a clean rag, soak it under the cold running water, and wipe at his dirty throat, down to where his shirt opens at his chest.

"I'm doing just fine, thanks," you demur, smearing it across your tummy and tops of your thighs. If your thumbs drag at the bikini bottoms a little, so be it.

"You're missin' spots," he says leisurely, sprawling out in the lounger next to yours like a cat in a pool of sunshine, openly watching you behind his tinted sunglasses.

"Hm," you hum haughtily. Your fingernails are painted a cool cherry red, and you both watch as your fingers slide the lotion into the soft creases of your inner thighs where your flesh is plumpest. You wonder how hungry he really is. You're hot inside under his heavy gaze, but make no other sign of it.

Down to your toes, you work fastidiously, making a meal of it. When you glance over, you see that the man has gotten hard in his swim trunks, but his hands are laid out calmly on his thick, hairy thighs. Patiently waiting, for something.

As you finish, you stand back up and throw the bottle into his unsuspecting lap. He laughs abruptly in surprise, then hauls himself up. Instead of standing in front of him, you lie down on your own lounger.

He follows your cue, kneels down beside it, and puts some lotion in his big hands. You turn your face in the opposite direction of him, as coolly relaxed as ever. He huffs a short chuckle, and begins to drag his hands from the tops of your shoulders down your nape, across your shoulder blades.

"Undo them," you mutter boredly.

There's a slight hesitation, and then the strings at your neck and breastbone are released in sequence, his fingertips gliding across your skin.

More lotion, more drag, down your ribs to where the fat of your breast is plumped to the side. His hands are good, strong, sturdy. Every bit the farmer's hands holding his wife to fuck each night in their bed.

Down to your lower back, across the band of flesh above your bikini bottoms. He's not missing one single inch. You fight the squirm that your body wants to do, signalling the sites of interest for him to rove over. His hands massage and knead delightfully, and you sigh prettily into your towel.

Lower down now.

Cheekily, he undoes the side strings of your bottoms before you decide whether to tell him to or not. You inhale deeply, the anticipation suffusing through you like melted ice. One wayward finger of his will reveal that you've soaked your bikini bottoms.

He strokes over your ass, keeping the fabric mostly in place, and then, dreamily and hotly, his fingers tighten and shape your thighs, thumbs coming together as they encircle your flesh. The tips of his fingers are so close to your pussy, you hold your breath until he drags his hands up and off. Next thigh, same move. Back and forth until now you are twisting a little in your spot.

He makes a soft groaning sound, and then he moves on. He spends a longer time on your hamstrings, the damp underside of your knees, and the full curve of your calves. Ankles and feet to end.

You're wound tight and loosened all the same by the time he reties your bottoms and pats your ass firmly.

You fall asleep under the shade; wake up sometime later, the sun dipped low, casting its final beams on the motel room windows, hazy on the water. You're sweaty and overheated when you sit up, forgetting your top's still untied.

The pool area is empty. You dive into the water, which is unfortunately not cool enough to be refreshing anymore, but better than nothing. The sun disappears for good and you stay swimming, holding the heat at bay. You do some laps, then lay out on the shallow-end steps, listening to the rasping grasshoppers and buzz of cicadas. You have no desire to return to an empty motel room, alone and trapped in stale, recycled air.

"Got heatstroke, do ya?" The voice comes from above you. You open an eye to see the man standing so he's peering straight down at you. You can, almost, see up his shorts — different ones from earlier.

You shrug, picking at your nail. "Get me a drink then."

He wanders out of the pool area, comes back several minutes later with ice cold drinks for you both. He cracks them open and hands yours down to you, then sits down with his thick legs in the water.

You float back from him a little, taking a deep drink, using your big toes as your grounding force on the pool floor like some motel ballerina.

"Got a name?" He asks, a look on his face saying he doesn't really expect you to give one.

You do, but it's your middle name.

He gives you a big, earthy smile when he hears it. He leans back on his hands, elbows straight, legs lightly swishing. Watching you closely.

"So, where—"

"Can you hand me a smoke? From my bag." You point. He squints at you a little, then retrieves it. Sees your wet hands, lights it up for you. You toe your way to the edge of the pool and tilt your face all the way up.

He dutifully places the cigarette in between your lips, his gaze dark and low-lidded.

Then walks down into the pool, joining you.

You orbit one another like tentative lovers do, the string of teasing pulling and snapping tighter as your bodies circle, the radius getting smaller by tiny measures.

You drink and smoke, ignoring his questions about you until he gives up. He's getting restless. He begins to swim beneath the shadows and flickering neon from the motel sign, back and forth.

You idle between the shallow and deep end, watching him. Tracking him under the water until he resurfaces right in front of you. He looks delicious as he blinks off water, then rubs a hand down his face to disperse the rest. Shakes his hair a little. Then his arms are caging you in against the edge, his mouth lowering down to yours in increments.

His eyes are hot, dark with want, pinning you to the spot. Not waiting to hear your rebuttal.

You had none, anyway.

His lips are chlorine and beer and a smokiness you can't fully catch in your mouth. He plays with your mouth, teasing you open, his tongue meeting yours early. He's a pleasantly full mouth kisser, your heads tilting in tandem to accommodate one another, to find the groove of a good kiss. You're both making sounds up through your throats, a loop of noises that drive you both closer. His hand floats down into the water, and yanks the triangle cup of fabric down and away from your nipple.

His fingers are bold, tweaking and pinching while he mouths wetly at your neck, the spit and chlorine mixing. You gasp a little at the tug in your stomach from his fingers. "I wanna get my fingers inside you," he groans in your ear, sending a fizzy sensation through your body, anchoring in your pussy. "I wanna know how you taste." His hand curls against and cups you through the bikini bottom, and you push up against him tensely.

Logistics. Like sand poured over a fire.

You stare at him — figure it out.

He gropes your ass cheeks, head probably empty but scrambling for thought. "My room…my roommate's been passed out since dinner. Sleeps like a rock."

You raise your eyebrows. I know you don't think that's gonna fly.

He laughs a little, which actually resets you a little. "Trust me, I know how it sounds. But the man has slept through bombs going off—"

You stare.

He continues. "He drank himself into a dead mess at dinner and won't be up til at least 10 tomorrow, best guess. We—he's military, so he sleeps through anything."

You definitely don't want him in your room. There's no insidious reason for it; you just want to fuck the man and go back to your own, without needing to peel him off you and negotiate his exit. You'll be gone by the time the town's sweating tomorrow, anyway.

"Door stays unlocked."

He nods.

"No games."

He shakes his head.

He wraps you in a sun-warmed beach towel and leads you back to his motel room; he's on the second floor like you, although you don't tell him this.

By the time you've reached the stairs, his body is butting up against yours, his cock pressing into your hips and back before you can even climb properly. "Fuck sakes, woman," he mutters hoarsely.

You don't trust the iron balcony railing, but he does. He sits on it for a moment outside his door, grabs at your lush hips, pulling you closer into him. "C'mere. Let me just look at ya before we're in the dark," he groans. "You're so fuckin' hot."

You let him look, the beach towel yanked down a little so he can suck at the tops of your breasts, releasing small heated groans along the way. Your neck is the lightning rod and when he fastens on, with no pool water to dull the sensation, you feel your pussy tingle.

"What can you do to me in there?" You tease.

He closes his eyes in pain. "Tell me. Whatever you want. I'll eat you out. I'll eat that pussy so good for you. I'll let you do whatever you want to me." He's babbling now, a desperate thing in your palm.

You cup his cock through his shorts, sending his body into a jerk. "Fuck."

"Yes. Whatever I want."