𝐓𝖍𝖊 𝐒𝖚𝖓 𝐖𝖎𝖑𝖑 𝐑𝖎𝖘𝖊.

Lion looks away as you push him against the wall. You quickly lock the front door of your shared apartment, then grab his face and turn his head back.

“Look at me,” you growl at him. “I can’t believe you would do that to me!”

“I’m so-rry-”

“You embarrassed me in front of all of our friends!” you shout. 

At the nice dinner you had gone out to with his manager and agent, Lion had mentioned offhandedly that his real dream was always to open a laundromat. You saw red, and before you could stop him from talking he alluded to retiring soon.

“I-I meant it though, I don’t wanna box an-anymore,” he whines, his eyes not facing you.

You dig your nails into his cheeks. 

“Fuck, ow! Why do you care s-so much?” he asks you, his voice wobbling with incoming tears.

“Why do I- are you fucking stupid, Lion?” 

You know exactly what to do. The same card you pull every time, the one that gets him to kiss your feet and beg for forgiveness.

You sniffle, storming away from him. 

“No, baby, d-don’t cry,” he urges you.

You hold your eyes wide open for a second, fanning air into them. You feel the sting of them drying up and the slow welling of water at the bottom. You blink, letting two small tears collect your mascara and drip little black lines down your cheeks. 

Lion watches you turn around and face him, feeling heat in his stomach when he sees your teary-eyed pout. This always happens. The moment you get sniffly or start to tear up, he feels dizzy. Something about you crying just makes him so horny. He’s desperate to stop your tears– or at least turn them into tears of pleasure. 

“I’m sorry,” he coos quickly, rushing over to try and hug you. 

You push him away, shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you,” you spit as you fake cry.

“I-I mean it! Please, baby-”

Your hand moves from his face to his forehead, pushing him down onto his knees.

“Prove it, Lion,” you huff out, blinking your eyes to let a fat tear fall onto his forehead. 

It streaks down the middle of his face, leaving a trail of black speckles in its path. 

“Wh- prove it?” he questions quietly. 

You feel his arms hugging around your legs, his cheek pressing to your bare thigh. Your eyes go wide at the press of his hardening cock against your shin. 

“You are such a sick little freak, Lion!” you accuse him, the tears flowing freely now. “You always do this! Every time I’m c-crying because you won’t listen to me I see you getting fucking hard-”

“No, no, it’s b-because you look so pretty! You look so pretty, baby, that’s why! I wouldn’t- I don’t-”

“Ugh! You’re such a liar!” you shout.

You really have to try not to smirk. He’s just so damn easy. 

He hugs your legs closer and you try to squirm away. Your heel grazes his cock in his trousers and he groans. 

“Lion,” you complain. “Move!”

“Please, please, I’m sorry,” he begs you. “I’m so sorry, baby, please,” he cries. “I-I’m drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight…”

He rocks his hips against your heeled foot, chanting apologies to the hem of your dress. He kisses the tops of your thighs as your dress rides up. Your false squirming continues, but you have to cover your face to hide your grin. 

Lion lets his legs spread wider, his hot breath fanning over your thighs. He continues to apologise, the words becoming more broken and desperate with every drag of his clothed cock over the straps of your heels. Your movement doesn’t help, sporadically pushing and sliding your foot against him. Your dress rides up– he’s been pushing it with his hands– so far that your lacy panties are on display. He kisses over your cunt, licking the fabric over your folds until it’s stuck to you with his spit and your want. 

“I’m sorry, baby, t-tell me you forgive me, say you forgive me, please, please,” he sobs, shaking on the floor below you.

“You’re so stupid,” you snarl at him. “You don’t even know how great of an athlete you are. You’re the best boxer I’ve ever seen, Lion-”

“Stop, stop, j-just say you forgive me,” he pleads, humping your leg faster now.

“Everyone else out there is a little boy playfighting and you’re like… you’re like a fucking tiger,” you gush, curling your hand in his hair. “You would give that up? For what? To wash other people’s clothes?”

“Please,” he whimpers, looking up at you with tears in his eyes. “I’m not quitting, I won’t quit, I promise.”

You lean down and tug on his hair.

“I forgive you.”

He gasps for air, jerking against you as he cums in his trousers, making a mess of his nice boxer briefs. He slumps against your leg and you feel his tears dripping down your thigh. 

“Get those in the machine, since you wanna do laundry so bad,” you snark, shoving him back with your hand on his forehead. 

Using brute force to try and break a man — or a horse — only served in making them angrier. It worked against the grain of the ego, challenging instead of appealing to it. The good Preacher had learned in his time that the best way to domesticate a wild animal was not by merely showing it who's boss. You gotta show him that you're the one who's gonna feed him... water him... That you're the one who's gonna take care of him, always and forever.

Frank Griffin's missionary work created more than just a gang of outlaws and gunslingers - it built a family. A real true blue group of strong, dependable men. Roy Goode had been a pet project of Frank's over the past ten years after the boy stumbled into his path by a mere act of God some idle Summer day; a young, broken thing who tried to steal from him and spat in his face when confronted about it. No boy should have to weather the seasons of life alone like that. No boy should ever be abandoned. So Frank took him under his wing, taught him everything he knew; or at least, everything he wanted Roy to know, because as charitable as Frank was he still struggled with his own demons. The kind that purposefully made people weaker than they ought to be so he could feel more powerful. So he could still be needed. He knew Roy like the back of his hand because it was those very same hands that molded him, careful and calculated, into somebody silent, capable, and obedient. Smart enough to look after himself but soft enough to still be desperate for the love and attention of a Pappy.

Things had been good, perfect even, up until they picked up the Devlin brothers a few months ago. Something about them rubbed Roy the wrong way. The same way a family dog might side-eye the new pair of kittens Mom and Dad brought home. That's how Frank saw it at least. Figured Roy was just jealous. The two boys were younger and in more need of Frank's undivided attention, still shaken up from the tragedy of their kin's massacre. But there was no good reason for Roy to be acting out the way he was. It was a few years too late to be brushed off as simple teenage angst, so it made the whole family look bad, or worse, it made Frank look bad. When Roy got in one of his moods it created a rift between him and the rest of the group. Chipped away at the trust Frank had worked so hard to build. And Roy knew it, too. Whenever it was happening they'd exchange a look in the midst of it. Roy would have his hand half way in the metaphorical cookie jar before flickering his eyes to Frank - not angry, bold, as if to ask, do you see me? Am I making an impact? And when the Preacher would give him that look, that stone-cold slate of paternal disappointment followed by the warning of a low and steady, "Roy..." - that's when the boy's hand would clutch in a fist around the forbidden fruit and eat it.

Tonight was on the tail end of one of those moods. It was a scene that had been played a thousand times over, the group's men tired, worn, and hungry for ale and a little bit of company. Daryl Devlin had a fresh black eye and a whore on his lap, spinning some story about how he got it protecting some woman's honor in a bar fight while his brother, Donnie, chats up another, pointing to the blood stain on his shirt like a badge of honor. Roy sat two tables away, brooding, knuckles still bruised from punching Daryl in the face earlier. It took a whole lot of gospel and sweet talk from Frank to convince him to go out that night, reminding him the Devlin boys were still learning, still struggling in their ways, and fighting with them only made matters worse. 'What if I fought you the day we met, hm? I had every right to. What then?' And just like always, Roy folded in the face of Frank's kindness. Just like he was raised to do.

At the same table sat Dyer and Amos, both slurring their words and at least four drinks in. The carousing of the group was mind-numbing. Loud, crude, and raucous; Roy sat in the eye of it all similarly to how he did in all their endeavors, more of a silent accomplice than a participant. He had a glass of water in front of him, sober and pensive, uninterested in both the men's conversation and the coquettish, provocative train of women that came by on their rounds in an attempt to lure one of them upstairs.

"Are'ya still over there poutin', boy?"

Amos' voice cut through Roy's train of thought like a bullet, pulling his eyes upward. He doesn't respond. The question was rhetorical, and Dyer took the opportunity to answer for him anyway.

"Whadd'ya expect, Amos? When was the last time you saw the kid smile?" His words come out in a drunken drawl, prompting Roy to turn his head away in an attempt to detach himself from the conversation.

"Ay - I know what'll make'm smile. Hey, sweetheart —"

That's when you're pulled into the whole ordeal, leaning against a wooden pillar by the brothel's front doors, one hand holding a burning cigarette and the other wrapped around your corseted waist in a display of abject boredom. You just started your shift and had taken your usual scouting position, annoyed to find it so close in proximity to the loudest, most abhorrent group of men in the joint. You had been successfully ignoring them up until then, scanning the perimeter for a wealthy man you could squeeze for all he's worth - but now you find your head turned to the scoundrels, thin brow raised in acknowledgement as the smoke of your cigarette drew upward.

The man that called for you waved his hand sloppily to invite you over. "C'mere a sec."

Ah, what the hell. A client was a client; a whore was a whore. You put out your cigarette and prowl toward them wearing a polite, sultry smile and a voice to boot. "Yes, gentleman?"

The larger one with the beard looks up at you with a filthy grin, which alone was enough to tell you this group is bad, bad news. He prods a thumb at the younger man seated across from him. "Our boy here's in need of some company."

You and Roy look at each other in unison. His eyes are wide - non-threatening - not in a startled or ogling way, but like he's trying to appear polite, or maybe they're just naturally that size. Boyish. His hand raises between you to deflect Dyer's claim, the same way one might do when a waitress comes asking if they want more coffee. "Ah - no, there's no need for that."

"—Sure there is." Amos rudely interjects, "Fuckin' look at 'em. He ain't felt the touch of a woman all his life, Miss. He's achin' for it. Just too shy to ask."

As the men chuckle amongst themselves, Roy breaks eye contact with you, clearly uncomfortable. Your smile grows from chaste to Cheshire in one smooth pull. "Is that right?" you purr as you move closer, long, feminine hands gliding along the back of Roy's chair. Call it predatory, but you knew a good potential customer when you saw one. Good, humble men like him were the easiest to persuade into the VIP rooms, the gentlest lovers, quick finishers, and big tippers. Helped that he was easy on the eyes, too; and if what his friends were saying was true, it gave you a sick, twisted kind of thrill to imagine being his first. You look down at him to see his eyes are looking anywhere but you, he's tense, itching to leave, itching to get himself out of this conversation. You can't help yourself, you swiftly move to sit yourself in his lap, amused by the way he almost jumps upon impact, raising his hands so they can't accidentally touch you. "You do look awfully sad..." you muse gently as you run fingertips across his stubbled jaw. "You want me to help you feel better?"

You watch as a creeping tinge of red bloomed up his neck to the back of his ears, warming them, betraying his composure. "I, uh—" At a loss, his eyes flicker to Frank like they always do - but his hand isn't anywhere near the cookie jar, it's about to be crushed by a fucking bear trap. This is when Frank would usually intervene, tell the men to ease off a little, leave the boy alone. But he doesn't say anything. The look he's wearing is one Roy had yet to find himself on the receiving end of until now. It's cold and unsympathetic. It's pushing a child into a river and forcing him to sink or swim. It holds a brutal kind of reality Roy desperately wanted to believe didn't exist. It was the look of someone who was tired of being disappointed and pushed to their limit. Tonight, Frank decided, he would show Roy who's boss.

Roy shifts beneath you, swallowing thickly as he tried to find his voice, but his words come out flustered. "I'm fine, Miss, thank you."

Thank you. Ugh. You could just melt.

Amos chuckles. "Aweh, c'mon, Roy! Look at'er! If you ain't havin' her I will."

You throw the disgusting outlaw a quick glare before turning your attention back to the bashful cowboy whose lap you'd made home in. Your bust, ample and upheld by your bejeweled corset, sat inches from his face, jiggling whenever one of you moved. Most men's eyes would be glued to it at this angle, or trying to bury their face into it. But not him.

"Such a gentleman..." you coo, raking your nails down the length of his chest. "Your Momma did well teachin' you manners... but didn't she ever tell you it's impolite to wear your hat when trying to court a lady?" Without missing a beat, your hand raised to pluck the cowboy's hat from his head and plant it atop your own. A playful gesture, though it serves to disarm him further, putting a spotlight on his handsome, blushing face, exposing him to the world, to the leering eyes of his comrades, no longer able to hide beneath the shadow of the rim.

The other men laugh, making Roy shrink into himself only slightly, chewing the inside of his cheek. The blush was nearing the apex of his cheeks now, deepening to a shameful shade of vermillion. You giggle and try to catch his eyes with yours. "What's your name, handsome?"

"Roy," he responds curtly. You don't take it personally, it's obviously out of discomfort and not malice. Besides, he reminds himself of his manners quickly enough when he asks, "Yours?"

You flash him another smile as you lean your upper half closer, lifting your neck to display a thick, glimmering necklace with a flat medallion hanging off it, not unlike a collar. "Says right here."

Roy's eyes instinctively shift to look at it, the lettering nothing more than alien curves and symbols that meant a whole lot of nothing when you didn't know how to read; a fact he wasn't readily willing to admit to a pretty stranger, so, after pretending to make sense of it, he gave a quick nod and looked away.

Knowing exactly what just happened, Dyer leans over the table with a sly grin to read the inscription for him. "Kitty," he announces. "Ain't that sweet. Bet you purr jus'like one."

"Mhmm," you hum, focus keeping on Roy, leaning in to brush the tip of your nose against his temple like a cat. "I'm soft like one too." Your words weren't meant for Dyer, instead succeeding in making Roy quite literally squirm in his seat. The thick, plentiful layers of your skirt add a significant cushion between your bodies, yet not enough to conceal the twitch of something thick, solid, and unmistakably masculine pressing into the underside of your thighs. Your lips part in realization, in excitement, and Roy's wide eyes suddenly look a lot wider as they cast themselves to the floor.

"I think that's enough, Miss—" he tells you as he leans back, one hand gripping the seat of the chair, an invitation for you to get off him. "I don'wanna take up anymore of your time." What almost sounds like panic seeps through his tone, the shameful realization that once you leave he has to find a way to hide the bulge in his pants from the rest of the group.

Sly, generous creature that you are, you take pity on the poor boy and cradle his face in your hands, leaning down to whisper sweetly in his ear. "Come with me upstairs, sweetheart. It's the only way to get 'em off your back. Promise we don't have to do nothin'." That of course, was a lie, but you wanted to believe you had the willpower to respect his boundaries.

He responded with a shaky breath, eyes searching the floor like it was gonna save him. You took that honor upon yourself, placing his hat back on his head in an act of courtesy as you jumped off his lap, careful to angle your silhouette so the men sitting closest to him wouldn't see just how much you managed to excite him, and by such an embarrassingly small amount of teasing at that. "C'mon, Cowboy," you chimed, tugging on his wrist like he was a dog on the other end of a leash. Griffin's boy's all hooted and hollered like a pack of hungry coyotes witnessing a fresh kill. Roy must've really wanted to get out of there because despite his dubious disposition, he decides to follow you, standing and positioning his clothes and arm to strategically shield his crotch. You wrap one arm around his waist and attach yourself to his hip, walking him toward the staircase that led to the private rooms.

"You, uh... don't gotta take me nowhere," he tells you as you reach the top floor. "I meant it when I said I don't wanna take up more of your time. I know you probably —" he stutters as the two of you nearly bump into another pair - the man boisterously drunk and his lady-caller pawing to remove his coat, giggling. "—have a long night ahead of you..." He trails off just as you arrive at a closed door. Your favorite suite. Your office, if you will. His footing stands sure as you reach to open it. "Jus' show me to a back door and I'll get outta your hair."

You open the door anyway and step inside, looking over your shoulder. "Ain't no back door to this place, I'm afraid. Better for you to hide out in here for a while. I told'ya we ain't gotta do anythin' you don't wanna."

Roy's brows crease. "Actually - you said we ain't gotta do nothin'". He corrects from the doorway.

"Did I? Well. Same thing, right?"

"... Right."

There's a long pause between you, you looking at him expectantly and him barely willing to meet your gaze. Then, you set your hand on your hip and cock your head to the side. "You waitin' on an invitation? Get in here." The question seems to startle or confuse him, you weren't sure which. He steps inside regardless, shutting the door behind him. He takes in the surroundings, a small, elegantly decorated room adorned with red, purple, and gold. The only piece of furniture was a bed pressed neatly against the farthest wall.

"Sit," you gesture, and like the agreeable boy he'd been all evening, Roy sits on the edge of the bed, rigid, hands folded in his lap. He seems less flustered now, but not anymore comfortable, especially as you take slow, steady steps closer, stopping only when your skirt was inches away from touching his knees. "Were your friends speakin' truths when they said you've never been with a woman?"

Roy readjusts. "They ain't my friends."

"Well, whatever they are."

"No. They're jus'tryin to get at me, is all."

"Did it work?"

He shook his head.

Your brow quirks. "Hm." Idly, your fingers lower to the long, puffy white fabric of your skirt, brushing against it, drawing circles, then slowly lifting it to expose the stocking-clad flesh of your shin and calves above your heels. "Did I get at'ya?" you ask through your lashes.

You watch as his eyes glaze over, unable to look away from your indecent exposure, jaw going slack, fingers twitching in his lap. He blinks more than he needs, stuttering, "N-no, ma'am."

A self satisfied smirk curls your lips before you let your skirt drop back into place and move to sit beside him. He shuffles an inch away instinctively. Politely. You split the difference by leaning closer, placing a hand on his thigh. "And if someone... wanted to get at'ya... how would they do that?"

Roy stiffened at the touch, both in body and manhood. He didn't know what to do with himself, where to put his hands, where to place his eyes. All he wanted was to was bolt. He suddenly hated Frank for not saving him from this. Not protecting him. That quickly snowballed into hating himself instead. A whole slew of thoughts ran through his head, none of them good, none of them confident. Like it or not he was floundering. "This, uh... I don't - ahem - have any money." Which was both true and not. While Roy had access to means, Frank didn't allow him to carry any money on his person. Another one of those control things. He hoped in this situation it would serve as a deterrent, or better yet, put an immediate stop to everything.

Your hand stays where it is, feeling the dense heat of his clothed thigh under your palm, just inches away from where you wanted to touch him most. Your tongue clicked against the roof of your mouth in disappointment. "That's a shame... Guess that means you won't get to see me naked, then."

He swallows, shifts again. Because now he's imagining it: what your body looks like without the restraining confines of your corset or bulk of your skirts. How your large, heavy breasts would naturally sit against your torso without all that extra support... drawing a line down soft, blemishless skin to the womanly curve of your hips...

"That's, uh... that's fine." He stammers as he presses his lips into a polite smile and tries to ignore how painfully tight the front of his pants feel now, bringing his knees together.

"Yeah... 'suppose it is... Cause I don't gotta take my clothes off to help you feel better." As you speak, your hand skillfully glides over the curve of his leg until your index finger touches the side of his erection, feeling it swell hotly beneath the thick fabric of his clothes. You hear him quietly suck in a breath as his eyes - those wide, innocent orbs - fill with fear and dart to where you were touching him. All signs start to point in the direction of yes, his friends were right, because what man would behave around a whore in such a way if he had been touched like this before?

"I know you said you've been with a woman..." you play along, stroking at the base of him as you spoke. "But what about kissin'?"

That stirs his attention from his stupor, and he looks up at you with a naive, confused look on his face. God, those big, stupid puppy dog eyes had you lusting after his flesh more than his wallet. "What about it?"

You tilt closer, eyes falling to his lips. "Y'know... have'ya ever kissed a girl?"

This time he feels less inclined to lie, maybe because it caught him so off guard. His answer is the quick flickering of his gaze from your eyes to your mouth. You take it as an invitation, as consent, and slowly lessen the distance between the two of you until your faces were inches apart. The heat radiating off him was palpable. He shrinks a little, inching away. You revel in his discomfort before carefully placing your lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss. The kind that young lovers experiment with or Europeans give their family members.

It sets Roy's skin ablaze. Surges all his blood, with the exception of that warming his neck and chest, South. He doesn't move, doesn't even look like he's breathing. Just a shocked, scared little thing that didn't know what to do with itself. So you cup his cheek with your hand and kiss him again, hold it for a little longer this time, briefly pull away, repeat. Much like his involvement with Griffin's gang, he's more of an accessory than a partaker. He's no longer trying to pull away but he had no idea what his role was in this. Not that you cared, you enjoyed leading the depth, sensuality, and pressure of the kiss, all increasing ever so gradually before you coax his mouth open by brazenly running your palm over his bulge, prompting him to part his lips with an unwitting, breathy gasp. You take full advantage and deepen the kiss further, molding the shapes of your mouths in a way that could only be described as lewd - more intentional, almost erotic. You pull away only to see the look on his face, completely undone and vulnerable, pupils blown wide and brows knitted in helpless need. It was a picture you wanted to burn into your memory forever.

Your free hand comes to remove his hat again, tossing it aside. The pad of your thumb pressed into the dimple at the corner of his mouth. "Did you like that?" Your voice is a whisper, dipping low and sultry. When his lips part to speak, your thumb follows the slope of his lower lip, distorting it some, swiping against the thin layer of saliva on the inside. You watch as he melts into it a little, his breath fanning over your hand as hips finally give in and lift ever so slightly, pressing himself into your hand. He gives a silent nod. It makes you giddy with lust. You give the outline of his cock a rewarding squeeze, making him stifle a groan.

"Open your mouth for me," you coax sweetly, loving the way he hesitates like he doesn't understand, like it makes him feel stupid. To demonstrate, you open your own mouth lazily; a small, open cavern, lolling your tongue over your bottom teeth with innocent eyes, instructing hotly over it. "Like this."

The sight of you with your mouth open like that - waiting, tongue soft and pink and welcoming - makes his cock jump. Makes him desperate for whatever it is you're about to give him. Roy mirrors the action hesitantly, lips parting, showing his tongue but not extending it as far as yours. You can't help but smile and give praise. "That's it... Good boy." Then you're inching closer, the hand on his cheek guiding him in until you're close enough to gently dip your tongue into his mouth, brushing it against his own, soft, placid and wet, luring it into submission. You give an exaggerated, pornographic moan; a show of your own excitement and an attempt to entice him further. As you deepen the kiss, you're giving more of your tongue, treating him soft and delicate, careful not to escalate things too quickly. You can taste his breath, hot and panting, surprised to find no trace of alcohol. The stroking of your hand is just as languid as your tongue.

After some time, you recede as lips return to the gentle, virginal motions, swapping between a kiss that's modest or obscenely French. He's clumsy but follows your lead, learning quickly. You start to steadily palm over his cock, increasing the pressure and friction but never in speed, swallowing every moan it drew out of him. He gives the occasional upward rock of his hips as you press your bodies - lips, tongues - closer, until your chest is pressing against his. When you pull away, you leave him panting with his mouth wet and stained from your lipstick.

"My," you coo teasingly, dragging the tip of your finger against a small wet spot on his pants, right where the head is. "Quite the growing boy, aren't you?"

He goes beet-red at that, completely flooded with shame and humiliation. It somehow sobers him, because he shifts away from you and wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "I should, uh —" before he can say leave, you dip your head where his ear and neck meet and give soft, open-mouthed kisses.

"What's wrong, baby?" you murmur against his flesh, palm kneading insistently at his cock. Firm, teasing drags. "Am I not a good kisser?"

"Fuck..." he groans, "No - I-I mean, that's not —"

"Or maybe I'm not pretty enough."

"W-what? I didn't —"

You giggle, giving a soft peck to his earlobe. "Are you sure you've done this before? Look how hard your cock is getting..." You tilt your head to peer down - and his eyes can't help but follow - the both of you taking in the sight of the prominent bulge under your small hand, just aching to be released from its confines. Every motion relentlessly grinds the coarse fabric across the sensitive skin of his shaft, smearing precum, rubbing up and down, up and down... giving it no place to go or no real relief. He readjusts again, spreads his legs a little as he watches you stroke him like he's watching something raw, wrong and filthy. You move your lips to whisper against his cheek, "So fuckin' cute. Do y'like kissin' me that much?"

You increase the pressure a little, and Roy's head drops back with the loudest moan he's given thus far, followed by a weak and broken, "Fuck." He's fully submerged in it now, head swimming with lust despite his embarrassment; the two melding together like a molten coil in his gut, wrenching his cock and emptying his mind.

You raise a brow, still expecting an answer. "Hm?"

Shame pricks at his skin. He doesn't want to admit it. The thought of being reduced to something so pathetic so easily mortified him beyond comprehension. But then you stroke him just right, and he whimpers, actually fucking whines like puppy forced to behave for a treat, and he melts in your hand all over again, confessing, "Y-yeah."

Another wicked smile spreads your lips. "C'mere." You turn his face to capture his lips in another slow, obscene kiss. His tongue is more involved this time, still docile but more eager to participate. You take advantage of this newfound confidence and tenderly wrap your lips around the tip, giving it a soft, loving suckle, prompting a low, baritone moan to rumble from his chest. You drink it down eagerly.

Hips stuttering, Roy suddenly tries to pull away to speak. "W-wait-" You shush him quietly before he can get his point across, swallowing his protests with your mouth, encouraging him with salacious little sounds of your own. His moans, whimpers, and words become stifled and muffled against your tongue, slowly rising in urgency and volume until they abruptly peak. His hips jolt upward in a seize, a strong hand shooting up to wrap around your wrist like a vice. But it was too late. He hit his peak in a shameful, violent crescent that spilled hotly in his briefs, coating his cock pulse after pulse with warm, thick cum. You feel it pool and spurt under your palm despite the fabric veneer, eyes and mouth widening in surprise as he soaks the front of his pants.

You've had men come prematurely before. Hell, it was almost a nightly occurrence. But this? This was something different. Roy embodied his shame in a way that didn't disgust or annoy you. His eyes were wider than ever, lips parted and kiss-swollen, completely speechless as he stared down in horror. "Shit, I — I'm sorry, I didn't mean to - it just, it just happened," he babbled, pushing your hand away from the mess as if it was going to sully you.

You respond with another gentle, maternal shushing. "Shh... It's okay, baby. I think it's sweet." And you do - you've never felt more desired in your life. It made you bite your lip and think of all the other unconventional ways you could make the boy come; and wondered which one would embarrass him the most. "Roy, look at me." You turn his face so his frantic, apologetic eyes are forced to meet yours. "It's okay. Really."

He appears unconvinced, almost like he's in physical pain. You figure maybe he might need a break. A chance to lick his wounds.

"I'll get you somethin' to clean up, okay?"

The concept alone humiliates him, but the alternative isn't any better, and he's breathless and disoriented so yields to your offer, head lowering. "Yeah, 'kay.. Sure."

You press one last kiss to his cheek and brush your thumb against his jaw, murmuring, "You did so good."

It pains you to stand and exit the room, eager to get back and spend the night tormenting your new plaything, finding all the ways that make him tick; maybe by milking him, or forcing him to stay still while you rode his cock like your own personal sextoy. Ah, you were getting ahead of yourself. You were so distracted you didn't notice the other person turning the corner in the powder room. Your bodies collide, and you look up to find yourself face to face with an old, bearded man with beady eyes and an affectless stare. Startled, you jump and take a step back. "Excuse me, sir—"

A wad of cash is placed in your hand before you can finish. You look down at it with a puzzled expression. It was at least a week's worth of your salary, maybe more. The man rests his hand on your shoulder.

"Appreciate your services, darlin'. I'll take it from here."

Dumbfounded, you watched as he walked into the very same room you came out of, expecting to hear some sort of ruckus, maybe a shattering lamp or two - to hear Roy call the man a pervert and beat the living shit out of him. Instead, you're met with an eerie silence. Through the small crack in the door you see Frank picking up Roy's hat from where you'd thrown it and place it back on his head like he was cleaning up somebody else's mess. Roy's lips are small and docile as he peered up at him, a helpless, juvenile sort of look pressed into his features. It was the same look he'd given you only without the clouding of lust. One in need of direction, that felt uncomfortable in its own skin.

You wondered what the story was there. About their relationship. Of all your years in the brothel you'd never seen anything quite like it. For once - in a sick twist of fate - you felt yourself on the other side of the looking glass, staring at a soft, beautiful creature sat in a brothel, all sex-glazed and reeking of sin; and you find yourself overcome with the overwhelming urge to rescue him and take him away from all of this.

But you knew better than to take in any ol' stray that ended up on your doorstep.

That would make you an idiot.

You didn’t remember how you ended up in this position.

Fully naked with your legs stacked on the shoulders of the priest’s own son as his tongue lapped at your glistening cunt.

Your fingers dug into the soft sheets of your bed, your lips wobbling as you tried so hard to keep quiet. His mouth was just too good—strangely good for a man who went around claiming he was celibate and devoted to God only. 

Your head was lying back against the pillows, staring up at your ceiling but ever so often drifting down to his face between the crevice of your thighs. He kept his gaze on you, intimidating and terrorizing. He knew what he did to you, and to not take full advantage of that would be a waste.

Ever since your last encounter with James Cook in the back of that church where he had you bent over some dirty table, defiling you with his fingers, you couldn’t stop thinking about how good it felt to disobey everything you were ever taught. Bless your dear parents, they really tried their hardest to keep you away from sin, but how could they have predicted the son of a priest would be the one to lead you away from a life of chastity?

So when you told them about wanting to invite him over for a proposed ‘bible study’, they were absolutely elated to hear that you wanted to further your relationship with the Lord. You never showed much interest in religion anyways, so they assumed it was James who had influenced you. Even when you told them that you were going to take him into your room, they didn’t bat a single eye. He was a pious man who could do no wrong, so what was there to fear when they had already instilled so much trust in him?

His fingers dug into the top of your thighs as he buried his mouth deeper, tongue bullying into your sensitive clit. His hair was messy from how hard you were gripping it before he forced your hand out of his hand, claiming he would stop right now if you didn’t keep still.

The idea of inviting him over came late one night as you were sending each other lewd images back and forth through text message. He would tell you what types of photos to take and what position he wanted you in, as if he was creating his own personal jerk off material. He especially liked photos of you in your nightgown, skirt lifted around your breasts and panties pulled to the side. Cook would send you photos of his cock in return, along with a description of how it probably wouldn’t fit inside you. It got you so pent up that without thinking, you asked him to come over and make it fit. He was at your doorstep the next day, heavy bible under his arm and his hard cock shoved up into his waistband.

“J-James—ough—s’too m-much!” you cried quietly, squeezing your thighs around his face.

He had been in between your legs for what felt like hours, when in reality it had only been 20 minutes and he’d already made you cum twice. He started out slow, giving you little kitten licks as a way to warm you up, but now he was being more aggressive, roughly lapping at your overstimulated clit.

You could feel yourself approaching a third orgasm, and your eyes kept drifting to the locked door of your room, praying internally that your parents wouldn’t come up looking for you two. Though, Cook was a master of manipulation. He could justify anything using his convincing tone, and it became something you admired about him.

Ignoring you, he pushed his tongue harder against you, making you buck your hips into him. 

“Oh fuck!” 

That good feeling was swirling back into that part of your body, and without warning, you were pushed over the edge. You pulled a pillow over your face as your body shook from the painfully pleasurable orgasm. Cook held onto your legs as he rode the wave, continuing to eat you out through the aftershocks, then finally pulling away.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as he looked down at the puffiness of your cunt, the way your clit still twitched without any stimulation. He could’ve went for hours, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew your parents were home, and that this was meant to be a ‘bible study’.

When you first took him up to your room, he followed very closely behind you. Close enough that he got a whiff of the perfume you put on, the one that he once told you at church was the smell of angels. He sat down on your freshly made bed while you gently closed and locked the door, then you walked over to stand in front of him, hands behind your back nervously.

“Like a lamb to the slaughta’” he grins, leaning back on his elbows.

“Don’t tease me” you mumbled in a pout.

“I’ll do whateva’ I like wiv’ ya.”

You say nothing, just staring down at the carpet you were standing upon.

Cook shifts off the bed to stand in front of you, his stature looming over yours like a dark cloud.

“I don’t ‘fink you know how long I’ve waited for this. For you to fully let me in” he tilts his head down to look at you.

“You make it hard not to” you reply quietly.

“Yeah? You can’t stand it, can ya?”

You shake your head no.

He leans closer to your ear. “Poor girl. Tryin’ so hard to be good. What’d you reckon your parents ‘fink if they knew their daughta’ was so desperate for the cock of a priests’ son?” 

His words make you shudder, but you couldn’t deny the pool of slick growing between your legs. 

“W-Well…what w-would they think if—” you try to make a comeback to put the blame on him but he stops you.

“Ah ah, don’t try’n fight it now. You know what you want, and I know what I want, so…” he grabs your wrist gently, placing your hand over top his bulge. “Why don’t we help each ova’ out?”

He sits back on his knees, watching you slowly move the pillow off your face. He was so handsome just sitting there, fully dressed, mouth covered in your cum. It made you angry just from thinking about how much you would let him do to you.

“Such a sweet pussy” he says lowly, as if drunk off the taste of you.

You whine and clench your legs shut in embarrassment. He opens them with his hands, putting your core back on display for him.

“‘Can’t hide now, babe. I’ve already seen every inch of ya.”

His words embarrass you further, but he was right. You had sent him so many nudes now that there really was no point in hiding.

“N-Need more, James” you sniffle, insinuating you needed him inside you, which was the whole reason you invited him over in the first place.

“I could listen to you beg for me cock foreva’” Cook smirks to himself quietly as he unbuckles his belt. 

You whine, pawing his thigh with the tips of your toes.

“Patience is a virtue, love” he says, and you roll your eyes at his audacity to speak on virtue.

He pulls his hardened cock out, and begins to slowly pump it through his fist in front of you with a sadistic smile adorned on his face. Naturally, you try to sit up so you could get closer to him, but he stops you when his other hand grabs your throat tightly and pushes you back down roughly. Cook stands on his knees, hovering over you. You breathing becomes shallow as you stare up at him, and as if he could smell your fear, he leans down to press a delicate kiss onto your lips. Then he pulled back, removing his hand from your throat and smirking at your dumbfounded expression.

“First kiss?” he teased.

You nodded slowly.

Cook just laughed. “Now ya really belong to me.”

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom. You watch as he rips it open and slides the thin, lubed material over his shaft. He takes both of your legs and pushes the backs of your thighs against his abdomen, encouraging you to rest your legs against his shoulders. Beneath the freshly pressed clothing and suits he wore, no one ever would’ve suspected just how muscular Cook was. You watched the way the muscles of his biceps bulged out when he would pick your legs up, or the way his abs were still visible despite the terrible lighting in his dick pics. Every little thought about him added to the abundance of slick between your legs.

“Will it hurt?” you mumble, eyes fluttering shut when you feel his tip bump against your clit.

“Yeah. ‘Might even bleed from it.”

“That feels sacrificial.”

“‘Cause it is.”

He looks down, head nestled between your calves as he slowly pushes in. The stretch of him burned, instantly feeling full of something foreign. You remembered how it felt to have his fingers inside you, nudging that sensitive spot over and over again. Cook groaned loudly when he bottomed out. He didn’t even care to be silent anymore. As he began to thrust, he laid more of his weight onto you, stretching out your hamstrings. The position was quite uncomfortable, but for some reason you trusted Cook. Besides, the angle he was hitting was beginning to feel close to heavenly.

“C-Christ, you’re fuckin’ tight. So t-tight for me” he groans, picking up the pace.

The sound of his hips snapping against your ass filled the room that once knew silence and prayers mumbled under the breath. You bit your lip just to cover your own sounds.

“O-Oh yes—right there, f-feels s’good right t-there, James!” you whimper quietly, completely engulfed in pleasure.

He was thrusting as fast as he could without triggering the creaking of your bed, and somewhere along the way, his cross necklace slipped out from under his shirt. It was quality gold, with an inscription on the back of his favourite verse.

‘Put to death the sinful, earthly things lurking within you. Colossians 3:5.’

It hung down in front of your face, swinging back and forth with every push of your bodies. You focused on it. You wondered why sex was considered such a deviance when it felt so fucking good.

Cook noticed his necklace had fallen, but he didn’t tuck it back in. Instead, he let you watch it, hypnotizing you while he pounded himself into your guts.

“Such a dirty g-girl. ‘Parents don’t even k-know they—agh f-fuck—raised a little cockslut.” Cook mumbles into your ear, nailing the degrading names into you as if he truly meant them.

You wanted to hit him. Tell him this was all his doing. But you didn’t, he was making you feel too good to talk back.

“Open up” he demands, and you do as he says.

He spits a fat glob of saliva onto your tongue. He growls at you to swallow it.

“So fuckin’ nasty” he laughs sadistically as he watches you swallow his spit. 

It should have been humiliating, because that’s what he was trying to do, but it just turned you on more. Cook could tell, and he loved that you were just as messed up as he was.

The pain from how thick he was slowly washed away, and was replaced by a euphoric sensation that crawled its way up from your core to the entirety of your body. Your breasts bounced in tandem with his thrusts, and Cook could barely keep his eyes off you. Every punch against your cervix had you whimpering, eyes rolling back and mouth lolling open. You kept moaning the words ‘oh my God’, and Cook found it hard to not use that to his advantage.

“Y-Yeah, I’m your f-fuckin’ God. ‘Keep c-clenchin’ me like that, a-and I promise you’ll go to heaven” he hisses through his teeth as you squeezed around him, too fucked out to even register his words.

Cook’s pace was beginning to falter, a tell-tale sign that his orgasm was coming, and he didn’t know how quiet he could stay when it happened. He could tell you were close just by the furrow in your brows, and the way you dragged out your moans. He lowered himself onto you, positioning himself in a plank-like position with his forearms beside your head and knees pushed further down the bed. Now, he was driving his cock into you deeper than he had been before, and you swore you could see stars in your vision.

“J-James! Fu-fuck! Gonna—mmphmm—c-cum so h-harddd” you gasped when his tip hit that spongey spot from a different angle, accelerating your orgasm.

“Gonna c-cum for ya God? Huh? Yeah, cum on God’s f-fuckin’ cock.”

You’re pushed over the edge almost immediately, squeezing your sweaty palm against your mouth as your orgasm ran through you, a mind numbing pleasure you wished would never end. One more clench around his cock had Cook groaning into the crook of your neck, his hips seizing with every half thrust he could deliver. He felt the warmth of his own seed as he filled his condom to the brim. Cook collapsed on top of you, with the melody of light whimpering and breathing permeating the room as you both rode out your releases.

You wrapped your clammy arms around his back, almost in a hug. Cook chuckled into your neck. This was all he wanted—needed—since that first day your family began attending his father’s church. You looked so delicate that day, clad in your pristine white Sunday dress and little black dress shoes. He wasn’t going to let you get away from him, not with how you looked at him across the pew, just begging to be bent over the bench and taken by something worse than a demon. And here you were, shaking and fluttering around him like his prayers had been answered.

As you watched Cook walk down the steps of your porch, the heavy and unopened bible still under his arm, your blissfully unaware parents came out from the living room.

“That was quite a long bible study. How was it?” your mother asked, pressing a gentle hand against the back of your shoulder as Cook’s figure disappeared down the road.

You smiled, still watching. 

“I’ve never felt closer to God.”

. ۶ৎ daredevil! lion could still be a working-class boxer, barely making enough money from small fights and whatever shifts stan manages to find for him. he takes a factory job because it is steady work, even though the conditions are awful and everyone knows the owners have been cutting corners for years.

. ۶ৎ the accident happens during an overnight shift. a chemical spill mixed with an electrical malfunction leaves several workers injured, and lion takes the worst of it after trying to pull somebody else out. his eyes are permanently damaged, but once the swelling and headaches begin to ease, he realizes the rest of his senses have changed in ways none of the doctors can explain.

. ۶ৎ now suddenly he can hear conversations through apartment walls, distinguish individual footsteps from several blocks away, and feel vibrations traveling through the pavement beneath his shoes. scents become overwhelming, food tastes unbearably strong, and even the brush of ordinary fabric against his skin can feel sharp enough to make him flinch.

. ۶ৎ it takes him months before he learns how to function without constantly feeling like the entire world is screaming at him. boxing helps more than anything else. even though he can no longer do matches, he loves going to the gym by himself.

. ۶ৎ the factory accident was never properly investigated. the owners pay off the right people, blame the workers, and reopen before lion has even been discharged from the hospital. while digging into them, lion discovers that the company is connected to the same criminal networks controlling the underground fights around town—loan sharks, traffickers,dealers, and low-level thugs who make their money by keeping working-class neighborhoods frightened and desperate.

. ۶ৎ so naturally, lion decides the most reasonable response is putting on black clothes, covering the upper half of his face with a homemade mask, and beating the absolute hell out of them after dark.

. ۶ৎ lion follows a no-killing rule for the most part. he believes there has to be a line separating him from the people he hunts, especially after watching how easily violence swallowed up the underground boxing world. he will break bones, dislocate shoulders, and beat somebody unconscious without losing sleep, but he refuses to deliberately take a life.

. ۶ৎ “for the most part” becomes important whenever somebody threatens stan or you. lion still tries to stop himself, but his restraint becomes noticeably thinner when the heartbeat he hears panicking belongs to someone he loves.

. ۶ৎ before you know his identity, you meet the masked vigilante several times without realizing he’s lion. he always seems to appear when you’re walking home late or when trouble begins near your building, although he insists it is only because he patrols the neighborhood regularly. really, he recognizes your heartbeat anywhere.

. ۶ৎ lion has spent so much time around you that the rhythm is permanently lodged inside his head. he knows how it sounds when you are calm, how it skips when you laugh, and how quickly it begins racing whenever you are afraid. even beneath traffic, sirens, shouting, and dozens of strangers, your heartbeat always rises above everything else.

. ۶ৎ you discover his identity after you’re caught in the middle of something connected to the underground fights. he hears your heartbeat from several streets away and reacts before they have the chance to touch you. once it’s over, he reaches for your face with shaking, bloodied hands. he’s so overwhelmed by the sound of your pulse hammering in terror that he forgets to disguise his voice.

. ۶ৎ he expects you to be angry about the secret. instead, you grab his face and ask whether any of the blood belongs to him, and lion nearly breaks right there.

. ۶ৎ he still tries to keep you out of his vigilante life, but that becomes nearly impossible once you know. you start keeping medical supplies hidden in your apartment and learn how to stitch his cuts while he sits shirtless on your bathroom counter, complaining that you’re pulling the thread too tightly.

. ۶ৎ sex with lion’s heightened senses means there’s genuinely no hiding anything from him. he hears the change in your breathing before you have even decided to make a move. he notices your heartbeat speeding up when he pulls off his shirt, catches the faint shift in your scent when arousal begins pooling between your thighs, and smiles like a smug bastard because your body has already confessed for you.

. ۶ৎ lion loves teasing you about every reaction, but the joke is that he’s just as affected. his sense of touch is so intense that even gentle contact can make his muscles jump : your nails scratching lightly over his scalp, your mouth brushing the sensitive skin below his ear, your fingertips tracing the scars along his ribs—it all hits him harder than he wants to admit.

. ۶ৎ he’s obsessed with going down on you. his heightened sense of taste makes it almost overwhelming, but lion has never known when to stop doing something that feels good. once he gets his mouth between your thighs, he stays there until his jaw aches and his chin is soaked.

. ۶ৎ he doesn’t need you to tell him when he finds the right spot. he hears it in your heartbeat and feels it in the way your muscles tighten beneath his hands. the second your pulse jumps, he presses his tongue harder, groaning into your cunt when your thighs squeeze around his head. he gets shamelessly messy with it. he licks through every bit of wetness he draws out of you, lips dragging around your clit before his tongue pushes lower, tasting you directly from the source. the smell, the heat, the slippery sound of his fingers fucking into you—it surrounds him so completely that he sometimes forgets he is supposed to let you breathe.

“lion, i already came,” you whine, pushing weakly at his forehead while his fingers continue curling inside you.

“know you did,” he mutters against your swollen clit, breathing hard as he listens to your pulse gradually slow. then he sucks you back into his mouth and adds, “wanna hear it happen again.”

. ۶ৎ he loves listening to you. loud moans are nice, obviously, but it’s the quieter noises that drive him insane—the wet hitch in your breath when his cock first stretches you open, the unconscious whimper you make whenever he bottoms out, the tiny tremor in your voice when you claim you can take more. he can hear just how wet you are around him. every slow thrust comes with a slick sound that his hearing catches far too clearly, and it makes him lose whatever restraint he thought he had. he’ll bury his face against your neck, panting into your skin while your cunt squelches around the full length of him.

. ۶ৎ his sensitivity makes edging him cruel. you can reduce him to a shaking mess just by stroking him slowly, keeping your grip light enough that he feels every ridge of your palm sliding over his cock. he hears the blood rushing through his own body, his heartbeat pounding behind his ribs, every slick pass of your hand amplified until his thighs begin trembling. lion tries to act tough about it for approximately thirty seconds. then his head drops back, his lips part, and he starts begging you to tighten your hand.

. ۶ৎ overstimulation happens constantly because he becomes fascinated by how your body changes after an orgasm. your heartbeat hammering, the sweat cooling along your skin, the way your cunt grows even wetter and more sensitive around him. he tells himself he only wants to feel it one more time, but one becomes two, then three, until you’re trembling and pleading with him to slow down.

. ۶ৎ lion has a quiet breeding kink that gets much less quiet when he’s overstimulated. he likes feeling you clench around him when he talks about filling you, likes hearing the sudden jump in your pulse when he pushes his cock as deep as it will go.

. ۶ৎ he stays pressed against you afterward because pulling out feels too intense immediately. his whole body remains sensitive, and every little flutter around his softening cock makes his hips twitch involuntarily.

. ۶ৎ lion can hear his cum shifting inside you when he finally moves… that particular discovery nearly always results in him pushing you onto your back again, spreading your thighs, and using two fingers to gather whatever has begun leaking out before slowly fucking it back into you.

. ۶ৎ after, he will deny needing the comfort, even while wrapping both arms around your waist and refusing to let you leave the bed.

“just makin’ sure you’re all right,” he mumbles, already half asleep with his cheek resting over your heart.

. ۶ৎ really, lion spends every night listening to an entire city breathe around him. being able to concentrate on yours is the closest thing he has ever found to silence.

© 2026 all rights reserved — flixpii.

*** Lion Kaminski was no longer a person. He was strength and agility and pain and instinct all jumbled together in the rough approximation of a human being. He didn't feel his cracked ribs or his bleeding lip or his swollen eye. He didn't hear the screaming crowd or Stan's barked instructions. He didn't smell the sweat, the blood, or the cheap chemicals of the ring.

He had no sense but the sense to fight. And so did his opponent.

They circled each other. Threw blows. Drew blood. Glared each other down. Waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

Both were weary and bloodied. On their last legs. Neither had any more chances of winning than the other. The odds were even.

It wasn't even about the huge cash prize anymore. Stan handled that stuff. He managed the fights. He spent the money. He got them in trouble, and then tried to get them out of it again. All Lion had to do was fight... and fight... and fight.

It was easy at this point. All he'd ever done was fight. There'd been a brief time when he hadn't, but it'd been so long ago.

The opponent lunged. Lion dodged, sweat raining off him. He swung. His fist collided with meat.

The opponent spun like a top.

Collapsed.

Spat out a loosened crown.

Didn't get up again.

Not when the ref counted to three. Not when he counted to five. Not when he counted to ten. He lay there, the tarp under him darkening with sweat and blood.

Lion remained on his feet, his entire body trembling like a live wire.

The bell clanged, louder than thunder.

His arm was raised over his head. The crowd roared. Stan climbed into the ring and pulled him in a bone-crushing embrace. Bestowed him with a million-watt smile.

"That's my boy!" Stan cheered, clapping him lightly on the face. "That's my Lion! We're rich, baby brother. Rich!"

For now. For the next month, maybe. And then, back to Dumpster diving. Back to diners. Back to squatting in a house that didn't belong to them or anybody else. Back to feeling like they were both living on borrowed time. Back to the pain of arthritis, which would return the moment the cash for over-the-counter meds evaporated. Back to the same old grind.

Lion gave Stan a wan, bloody smile.

*** You didn't like the look of him from the first.

Good-looking, you supposed: Blond, with a scruffy goatee, blue-eyed, and fit. Plenty of your friends and fellow ladies of the night would've loved to have him between their legs. In the right light, he might even look like Timothée Chalamet or Ryan Gosling.

But there was an air about him that immediately put you off. Arrogance mixed with desperation and grit. You'd seen it before. This was a guy who, in his mind, had never gotten his proper due. He was smart, capable, savvy, but the world refused to acknowledge it. Refused to hand him the opportunities he so obviously deserved. He was better than all this, of course he was. The fact that he was down in the mud with the rest of us was mere proof that the world was an heinously unfair.

As he approached, looking you over, Mr. Underappreciated smirked. "Hey there, pretty girl. Feel like beddin' a champion and doin' your good deed for the day?"

You snorted around your cigarette. "Way to make yourself sound like a prize and a charity case at the same time. Whichever you are, buddy, it's a hundred for a half-hour, two hundred for a full hour, and three hundred for the full night."

"Jesus, lady," Mr. Underappreciated gasped, "you don't come cheap."

Actually, you were somewhere in the middle as far as street prices went. And you didn't have a pimp, so you could keep the full amount to yourself. But the building you and other worker girls rented out rooms; it hardly gave them out for free. Not to mention the amenities and groceries.

You smirked. "Like the song goes: 'I got bills to pay, I got mouths to feed, there ain't nothin' in this world for free'."

Mr. Underappreciated chuckled. "Ya sing, too? Not bad. A lady of many talents."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." You gave him a wink, though you didn't smile. "If your wallet's light, I'll blow you for a fifty. Or, if you're into the sweeter stuff, I'll cuddle for a twenty." Though God knew he didn't look like the sort of man who knew how to appreciate a good cuddle.

Mr. Underappreciated laughed. "Oh, no, doll! It ain't for me—it's for my baby brother."

You arched a manicured brow. "Oh?"

"Yeah!" Mr. Underappreciated nodded. "Name's Lion Kaminski, the baddest boxer this side of the county. Beast from the Northeast. Maybe you've heard of him."

You hadn't. "So, he won a fight and I'm his reward."

"Hell yeah. He's earned it, too. The guy he beat sent three other dudes to the fuckin' hospital." Mr. Underappreciated puffed his chest out, looking down at you with nauseating superiority. One would think he'd won the fight, not his brother.

But okay. A boxer. At least he wouldn't have a belly that pressed down on you while he fucked you. He might even be hot enough to get you wet. You bought so much lube, the drug store owner knew you by name.

"Not just that." Mr. Underappreciated leaned in, like you were two old friends sharing a juicy secret. You finished off your cigarette, tossed it in the gutter, and got closer.

Despite yourself, you were a little bit interested now. You hadn't had any clients yet tonight, but last night's pickings had included an old golf pro with liver-spotted hands, a garbageman with lice, and an inebriated lawyer who'd just lost his job. A boxer still riding the high of a hard-won victory was a step up.

Cupping a hand around his mouth, Mr. Underappreciated whispered, "He's a virgin."

You blinked. "A... virgin?"

"Yep!" Mr. Underappreciated nodded excitedly. "Gets totally tongue-tied around the ladies, and besides, they always preferred me." He waggled his eyebrows. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "So, yeah! He's twenty-five now. 'Bout time he popped his cherry. And I think you're just his type. So..." he flashed you a smile that was as wide and insincere as a news anchorman's, "... what do ya say, sweetheart? Ready to be a champion's first?"

You considered it for a moment. "Four hundred bucks."

Mr. Underappreciated's jaw dropped. "Four?!"

"I'm taking his virginity," you reminded him. "That's a big deal. Give me that amount of cash, beforehand, and I'll make it a night he'll never forget. I'll be everything he wants a woman to be. If he wants it rough, I'll scratch him up like a cat and bite him 'til he bleeds. If he wants it gentle, I'll be softer than lambswool. I'll even kiss him on the lips, which I normally never do, so long as he brushes first."

Mr. Underappreciated scoffed, his plastic charm well and truly gone now. Men like him tended to change their tune once they didn't immediately get what they wanted. "The fuck you think you are? The Queen of Sheba?" He held up a hand in farewell, already stepping away. "Forget it. I'll get another girl."

You cackled then. A raucous, ugly sound that you'd never made before getting thrust in this life. A sound of mockery rather than joy.

Really, when was the last time you'd felt joy? Or even contentment?

You pushed the thought away. Joy had nothing to do with this. It was just business.

"You think you can find a better deal? By all means," you waved a hand at the other girls, "take your pick. But I know every single one of them personally, and while many of them are good friends of mine, and a lot of them will ask for less, I have to say it like it is: None of them can pop a cherry as well as me. You know what my mama used to say? You pay cheap, you get cheap. So," you raised your brows, "what's it gonna be?"

*** You'd wanted to do this in your room. Not only would've it saved you the trip back home once the job was done, but it would have given you that extra bit of control of the situation.

Mr. Underappreciated, a.k.a. Stan Kaminski, had insisted that you do it in some crappy motel room. He was even stingier than you'd thought, though you suspected he'd wanted to jab at you one last time. Remind you of what you were and what you did for a living. It would've been funny if it weren't so pathetic.

In the end, the two of you had compromised with a decent motel room. One three blocks from your home. One with AC, soft towels, and clean sheets. The wallpaper was a bit faded, but in a way that felt more charming and homey than pitiful and threadbare. You arrived first, burning a few scented candles and storing away snacks for later in the minifridge. You shed your clothes, revealing expensive lace lingerie barely covering a body you'd spent three hours beforehand bathing, shaving, and moisturizing. Your hair was washed, your breath still smelling of toothpaste and mouthwash.

No matter the job, no matter the john, no matter the fee, you didn't believe in half-measures.

There came a timid knock at the door.

You could feel your true self retreating, allowing your business persona to take hold. The men that came to you and your fellow worker girls didn't want a real woman. Some wanted a dommy mommy. Others wanted a submissive little flower. The details varied, but ultimately, it all boiled down to a fantasy. Stan wanted that for his little brother, and would've wanted the same for himself if you hadn't shown him your teeth in negotiations.

So. Showtime.

You positioned your body into that of a lounging cat, lying on your side and stretching your legs out. Letting the lamps' warm luminescence show off the body that'd been your livelihood, your sole card to play, for years. In a well-rehearsed tone, all smoky sweetness, you called out, "It's unlocked, baby."

The briefest of pauses, then the creaking of an opening door.

In stepped a lean, brown-haired man around your age, dressed in a threadbare red sweater and jeans scuffed from use rather than deliberate stylishness. He was unshaved; scruffy, even. Lean but thin. Brittle, even, the same way iron gets with time and overuse. The knobs of his shoulders were visible even through his sweater, and a cut just below his eye had barely started to heal. His hands were shaking, drawing your attention to them: The knuckles were scabby and red, the fingers crooked and bent.

Instantly, a rush of sympathy cut through your professionalism. You'd expected a Stan clone: Charming in a slimy sort of way, arrogant, fast-talking, and allergic to accountability. Instead, you found yourself in the presence of a man whose battered hands contrasted the shy gentleness in his eyes.

"Lion?" you inquired.

"Yeah," came the quiet huff of a reply, unaccompanied by eye contact.

Huh. Genes were weird.

"I thought so," you lied, sliding off the bed with the grace of a panther. "Name's (Y/n)." Acting more like a queen than a whore, you sauntered over to him. Smirked a bit when you saw him look you over in a quick, timid way. It was innocent, inexperienced. Almost boyish.

You'd had clients you'd tolerated and some you'd even reluctantly liked. But already, you found Lion cute. "Nice to meet you, champ," you cooed.

"I-I'm sorry," Lion's pretty eyes—large and gentle, the irises cornflower-blue around the pupils, darkening to lapis lazuli further out—lowered. He had the sort of long, dark lashes that some of your fellow worker girls would pay good money to get. "My brother sent me here. Said he got me a reward for winnin'. Said it was about time I became a real man off the ring, since I was already one on it. I..." He ran a trembling hand through his hair, still avoiding eye contact. "Do I... sit on the bed or...?" His voice was taut with anxiety.

He was willing to cooperate. Even willing to let you tell him what to do. You could just get on with it, go home, and maybe sneak in something from Netflix to close out the night.

Instead, you found yourself stepping closer. "Lion," you dropped the façade, if only briefly, "if you're not in the mood, if you just don't feel like it, it's fine. Just say so. Your brother may have paid, but it's your call."

Lion looked up at you with wide-eyed surprise. "I..." His throat clicked as he swallowed. "Stan said..." He trailed off, looking unsure. Almost scared at being given a decision.

With a brother like Stan, you figured it was a position that Lion hadn't often found himself in. Besides being the older brother, Stan probably thought he was smart enough to decide for both of them. 'Thought' being the key word.

You didn't say anything. Didn't move. You just watched Lion, open-faced and waiting and devoid of judgment.

Finally, after a few thoughtful beats, Lion gave his chapped lips a nervous lick. "I... I'd like to... see where this goes." He met your eyes, lightning-quick, before looking down again. "If that's okay."

He was so shy. So sweet. Like a fawn poking its head out of the underbrush for the very first time. You felt a slow smile spreading across your lips. A real one. The kind your clients rarely got.

"Of course it's okay." You stood aside, gestured to the room. "Go on. Make yourself at home."

Lion's shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. He sat on the bed at first, upright and nervous, like he expected to get back up at any moment. Then, after about a minute, he hesitantly toed out of his battered trainers. Glancing at you, as if for permission, he lay back on the bed. Trying to get comfortable but, you saw, not entirely sure how.

Lion fought for a living. Got beaten bloody for a couple hundred bucks at a time. He'd grown accustomed to being on edge, to always gearing up for the next grisly showdown. Of course he didn't know how to totally relax.

You decided that going slow was the best approach.

"How about a massage?" you asked as you sat on the edge of the bed. Wanting to give him space.

Lion fiddled with a loose strand on his sleeve. "Oh, uh, thanks, but Stan does that. For me. Y'know, to help keep me in shape."

You arched a brow. "Is Stan a chiropractor? A professional masseuse?"

"Uh, no."

"Well, I ain't either," you admitted, "but I took a couple of courses back in the day. Interested?"

Lion hummed, tapping his fingers against his thigh. "Uh... Sure. Why not?" He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than you. The same way one might talk oneself into getting on a rollercoaster.

"I promise," you crawled closer to him, "it's gonna feel nice."

"Do..." his cheeks were already crimsoning, "... do I gotta take my shirt off?"

You shrugged, giving him an easy smile. "If you want."

Lion pulled his sweater off with next to no shame. A result of years of boxing shirtless in front of crowds.

His upper half was a sight to behold: Lean and muscular, pale skin mottled with scars and healing bruises of every color. The knobs of his shoulders were even more visible without that protective layer of cloth, and his collarbone looked sharp enough to be used as a letter opener. A budded cross tattoo decorated his side, ink staining his ribs. Veins crawled down his arms, gathering on the back of his trembling hands.

He was beautiful. Strong, yet fragile.

Lion shifted uncomfortably under your gaze. "Can ya stop lookin' at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like I'm... I dunno, good-lookin' or somethin'."

"Well," you shrugged, "you are."

"Ah," he ducked his head, "yer just sayin' that."

"I'm really not," you replied.

"I look like somethin' that died and came back to life," Lion insisted, still staring down at his lap. "Frankenstein, or some shit."

"Frankenstein was the scientist, not the creature," you corrected, "and while I know you have no reason to believe me, considering what I am, all I can do is call it like I see it. And Lion, you're handsome. Banged up, sure, and probably in need of some extra meals, but handsome."

Lion raised his eyes, his shyness now countered by curiosity... and something else. "I..." He closed his mouth, muscles jumping in his jaw. "Thanks," he finally gritted out. Not angrily. Just thickly.

You nodded. "You're welcome."

He then lay on his stomach, arms dangling over the bed's edge like vines.

You straddled his lower back, hearing his breathing hitch. "This okay?"

He gave a quick, shaky nod. "Y-yeah, you're good."

"All right. Here it goes." You started at his shoulders, your thumbs digging into the firm muscle. Feeling the knots formed by tension and slowly loosening them. Working your way down his back, tracing his vertebrae, and kneading the scarred flesh.

You could feel the bones. The muscle. The sinew. Not to mention the goosebumps blooming everywhere you touched.

At first, Lion was as silent and still as a log. But as your hands continued their gentle ministrations, he softened. Sank into the mattress with a sigh. Let out little gasps and whimpers as you worked, letting you know exactly what you were doing to him.

You smiled, encouraged, and shifted your technique to match his noises. Kept going when he sighed and drew back when he whined. Dug deeper into the muscle when he gasped and patted the area tenderly when he keened with delight.

And when you twirled his little rattail around your fingers, you smiled at his muffled giggle.

Eventually, your arms were tired and Lion was a man-shaped pile of pudding on the bedspread. You leaned forward, kissed his hair, and then climbed off to lie beside him.

He turned his head. Facing you. Looking at you like you were some beautiful plant he'd never laid eyes on before.

You returned his gaze, trying to ignore the warmth in your chest. Your hands twitched, longing to touch his face. You ignored them. Even if you were sure how he'd take such contact, you didn't want to make this into something it wasn't.

For a minute, perhaps two, the two of you just stared at each other. Silently. Gently.

"Hi," he finally murmured.

You smiled. "Hi, yourself."

"Haven't felt like this in years." His mouth twitched. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"I... Er..." Lion paused. "Would it be okay if we... cuddled?"

Your heart melted. Beast from the Northeast, indeed. "If that's what you want."

"Well, yeah, but... do you want to, too?"

"Lion, sweetie, I'm a hooker. What I want isn't exactly a priority."

Lion raised his shoulder in a half-shrug. "Don't care. Wouldn't feel right if I didn't ask first."

You chuckled. "A boxer and a gentleman. Your parents did a lovely job at raising you."

Lion's face fell. "Our mom died when I was really young."

You stopped. "Oh, I'm... Lion, I'm so sorry." Shame left a bitter taste in your mouth. "And your father?"

"He didn't want us, so..." Lion drifted off. "Stan practically raised me."

Oh, God. It was a miracle Lion had turned out as well as he had.

You reached out, covering his hand with yours. "I'm sorry," you told him. "I can't imagine what that must've been like."

Lion's eyes gleamed. For a second, you thought he might cry. Instead, with a strength he must've normally reserved for the ring, he blinked them away. Turned his hand under yours, allowing your palms to touch. "Thanks." The word had been pried right out of him. Exhumed from a place he kept under lock and key.

You laced your fingers together. Tugged him closer. "Come here."

Lion came willingly, resting his head on your chest with a small but contented sigh. You wrapped your arms around him, one hand amid his shaggy locks and the other tracing patterns in his back. He embraced your middle, his arms strong but his grip gentle.

Lion inhaled through his nostrils. "Y'smell nice."

You were glad that he couldn't see you blush. "Thanks. You do, too." He smelled like cheap soap and the faintest whiff of lingering sweat. But you found it strangely pleasing.

Lion chuckled, burying his face in your chest. His thanks were muffled. When he emerged from his makeshift hiding place, he asked, "Tell me 'bout yourself?"

You snickered, both surprised and embarrassed. "You don't wanna hear about me."

"No, really, I do." He looked up at you. "If ya want, I mean."

You carded a hand through his hair, contemplating, as you held his gaze. Assessing him. Few before him had asked you such a thing. Even fewer had really cared to hear the answer.

But Lion? He looked utterly earnest. So much so, it was a little intimidating to behold. Stan loved to project the image of a smart, charismatic manager. A guy who had it all figured out. Lion projected nothing. He was simply himself, and didn't pretend to be anything else.

The edge of your mouth curved up. "I'll tell you about me," you proposed, "if you tell me about yourself after."

Lion grinned. "Deal."

And so you shared your stories amid burning candles and fading wallpaper.

You told Lion of your childhood, your hopes and dreams, and the series of seemingly innocuous events that'd eventually led you here. You told him things you'd never told anyone else. Not your colleagues, and certainly not your johns. And Lion listened. His eyes never glazed over. He never interrupted. He just let you talk, taking in every word, and held your hand. His grip was gentle, his skin warm and calloused. It touched you deeper than anything in your line of work ever had.

You wore no mask. Put on no act. You were simply yourself. It was as liberating as it was frightening.

Lion, in turn, told you his story in a low, resigned voice. Of his mother, what little he could remember of her. Of Stan raising him as best he could when money was tight and food was scarce. Of his dream of opening a dry cleaners. 'Kaminski Kleaners', he'd call it. Someplace nice and homey, so much humbler than Stanley's ceaseless daydreams of tailored suits and gold watches and big manors. He told you about the genesis of his boxing career. Of him quickly making a name for himself in certain circles, of him hoping to become a professional and finally rising out of the pit of destitution. Of Stan ruining it all by trying to bribe a ref. Of the underground fights that'd followed. Of losing their family home years ago and the parade of motels and foreclosed houses they'd lived in since. Of Ash, his dog, and just about the only bright spot in his day.

"She'd... she'd like you," Lion added shyly, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "She's got a good nose for people."

"So how does she not bite Stan all the time?" you asked, only half-joking. "Cujo-style?"

Lion chuckled. "Stan ain't bad. He's just... Stan." He shrugged. "Ain't perfect, far from it. But he ain't evil, either. I don't know what he said to ya, but all I can say is: Sorry."

"Don't be." You leaned forward, kissing the crown of his head. Lion stiffened at the touch before relaxing. "It's not your job to apologize for him."

"I know, but he ain't gonna apologize to ya, so I'll do it."

You gave a soft laugh. "You're very sweet."

Lion ducked his head. "Ah, stop."

"No, really." You cupped his chin, gently guiding his gaze back to yours. "I've only known you for, what, two hours? And I can tell you: You're sweet, and gentle, and you really didn't deserve such a crappy hand."

A dozen different emotions danced on Lion's face like shadows on a wall. Shock. Disbelief. Gratitude. Warmth. And something else you were too world-weary to try to name. "Same with you. You're really nice, and kind, and... and you deserved better. A lot better."

Every word caused you gentle pain. Lovingly dismantled the walls you'd built around yourself. Reached the authentic self within. Recognized its value even when you yourself struggled to see it.

You leaned in a little. Close enough for your breath to fan Lion's cheeks. "Lion," you whispered, "sweetheart, can I kiss you?"

Lion's pupils visibly dilated. "Fuck," he breathed. "Yeah. Yes. Please."

Smiling, you closed the gap between you.

Lion's lips were chapped, but warm and pliable. They moved softly against yours, with only the briefest of hesitations. As though he couldn't quite believe this was happening. You opened your eyes just a crack, too curious to do otherwise. His brows were upturned in earnest, his face etched in longing. The sight made your heart melt. Tilting your head slightly, you deepened the kiss just a bit. The little shudder you got for it went straight to your core.

Lion's lips parted around yours. Unable to resist, you licked into his mouth. Tentative at first, then more confidently when he moaned against you. His tongue found yours, hot and shy but willing. As your tongues danced, stoking the heat in both your bellies, he found your hand and held on.

You wove your fingers through his, careful not to apply too much pressure to the damaged digits.

Lion whispered your name when the kiss broke, your foreheads touching. "I... I never thought it... it'd be that nice."

"With a prostitute?" you asked, every syllable dripping with dry humor.

He shook his head. "No. Just... kissin'."

It took you a second to understand what he was saying. When you did, you thought your heart might burst. "Honey, never?"

Lion shook his head, an embarrassed little smile tugging at his kiss-reddened lips.

"Oh, Lion, you sweet little thing..." You cupped his cheeks, your thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the bruised skin there.

"Walter," he murmured.

You hummed questioningly, not pulling back or loosening your hold.

"My name's Walter," he clarified. "'Lion's just a name Stan picked out for me. Said all the greats got nicknames, and that I'm a wild animal in the ring."

You arched a brow. "Are you?"

Lion... Walter... shrugged. "I dunno. I... I'm just out to win. Or at least go down swingin'. Don't really think 'wild' enters the equation." He sighed, nuzzling your hands. His entire body slackened against yours. "Honestly, I... It's tirin', bein' Lion all the time. Bein' a fighter and nothin' else. Everybody likes Lion better. Even Stan. And why not? Lion's a fighter, a champ, and Walter's..." he shrugged, his look of dejection too complete to be faked. "I'm not even sure I know who Walter is. Not anymore."

You knew what he meant. Perhaps more than anybody else, you knew. "Let me ask you this," you whispered. "Are you Lion right now?"

Walter shook his head, his eyes big and wet. "I'm just me."

"Were you Lion at any point before now? Since you walked through the door, I mean."

Walter considered, then slowly shook his had again. "Didn't think about it."

"Well, then," you smiled, "I've only ever met Walter, even though I didn't know it until a minute ago. And you know what? I like Walter plenty." You really did, too. Job be damned.

Walter stared at you, visibly moved, before murmuring, "C'mere," and bringing your foreheads together. You gladly complied, wrapping your arms loosely around his strong shoulders.

You traded kisses for what simultaneously felt like hours and seconds, your lips gliding together with almost instinctual ease. You brought your hands to his face, lightly scratching his stubbly cheeks, while his hands timidly explored your body. He cosseted your ribs, caressed your stomach, and stroked your hips. You could feel the curiosity and budding desire deep within him, and it ignited your own.

You shifted in his grip... and felt his erection poking your thigh.

Walter abruptly broke the kiss. He looked away, flushing so badly he looked sunburned. "I... I'm sorry, I—"

You hushed him gently. "It's okay. That's good. It means I'm making you feel good."

Walter looked back at you. Searching for deception and finding none. Slowly, sheepishly, he nodded. "So good," he admitted breathily.

You pushed a few brown locks from his forehead and temples, tracing his ears. They were large and kind of squarish in shape. Adorable. "Do you want to go on?"

Walter's throat worked. "I'd like to," he replied, "but I don't know what I'm doin'. I'll just embarrass myself."

You moved your hand from his ears to his cheek. "Not with me, Walter. I'll show you what to do, hmm?"

Walter nodded, biting his lips. Looking at you with such open trust, it punched you right in the chest.

Pausing to kiss his forehead, you took his hand and guided it to your panties. Walter gasped but didn't pull away. Not even when you brought his hand under the lacy fabric.

"This," you explained, "is the key to a woman's pleasure." Gently, patiently, you showed him what to do with his fingers. How to rub your clit, how much pressure to apply, and where your entrance was. Bending his fingers, you brought two of them close enough for the tips to be sucked inside.

Walter gasped, pupils expanding, before plunging his fingers inside you. With your guidance, he brought his thumb to your clit and began to circle it.

He was a quick learner, and incredibly intuitive. You retracted your own hand, slipping it in his hair.

"Just like that," you encouraged, your forehead touching his temple. "Like that, Walter. God, you're perfect, baby..."

Walter whimpered at the praise, hiding his face in your neck even as he kept going. Picking up speed without having to be told, moving with the same decisiveness he must've employed in the ring. Then, entirely on his own, he began to kiss your neck. Quick but heated little pecks that poured gasoline over the fire growing within you.

"Y'feel so good," he breathed against your heated skin. "So wet. Fuck, you're a miracle. So glad I met you..."

Sentiment cutting through lust, you brought your lips together. He kissed you with a whine, his fingers still moving inside you. And when your hips began to jerk against those skilled digits, he made a strangled noise. "Wanna make ya feel good," he stated, sounding more than a little desperate. "Wanna make ya come. Please, baby, come for me."

You obliged, back arching and lips parted in a soft cry. Walter's pace faltered then, unsure whether to continue or not. Your hand found his, gently stopping him.

"Did I do good?" Walter asked, big-eyed and eager.

You kissed him softly. "You did perfect."

Walter preened, earning him a laugh from you even as your hand trailed down his chest. You stopped at the waistband of his jeans, even as you could see his bulge straining against the denim. "May I?"

Walter gulped. "Please."

You gave him a quick peck before sitting up, reluctantly disentangling yourself from his embrace, and unbuttoning his jeans. You peeled both them and the boxers underneath off him, tossing them to the floor and not caring where they landed.

Walter was now bare before you, bruised and beautiful. His cock was hard and leaking against his abdomen. Begging for attention. Looking to his face, you saw a mixture of excitement and nervousness.

You placed a gentle hand on his shin. "Do you trust me?"

Walter nodded without hesitation. "Yeah."

Another visit from the feels. Swallowing, you said, "Then let me take care of you, honey." You stripped down, joining him in his nakedness. Balancing the playing field. Hopefully making him feel less exposed, less vulnerable. Or at least, no more vulnerable than you.

Walter looked at you with something approaching adoration.

Settling between his legs, you lay on your stomach. Peppering the insides of his thighs with butterfly kisses. Walter gasped at each one, his legs twitching, but he didn't tell you to stop. Not even when you placed a gentle kiss on the crown of his cock.

You looked up at him, loving his wrecked expression. "Ready, sweetheart?"

Walter nodded eagerly, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Yes. Please."

"Well," you teased, "since you asked so nicely..." You swallowed his cock, taking half of him in one go. Walter bucked and cursed, his fists clawing at the sheets.

Smiling around your mouthful, you began to suck Walter off in earnest, fondling his balls with one hand and caressing his stomach with the other. Walter babbled and moaned, his hips twitching. When you glimpsed his face, your desire came back tenfold. His eyes were closed, his cheeks were redder than apples, and his wonderful lips were parted. A pure, delicious picture of debauchery.

He found your hand on his stomach and held onto it like a lifeline. You wove your fingers together.

His other hand hovered over your hair, then rested on your cheek instead. A sweet, tender gesture. You leaned into it as much as you could while still sucking him off.

"Wait," Walter choked out, "wait, I... I'm gonna come. I... I don't wanna yet. I wanna... wanna be inside ya. Please, baby."

You pulled off him, wiping your lips, and crawled up his body. Scattered more kisses along his skin as you ascended. When you were in reach, Walter cupped your face and kissed you with the desperation of a drowning man. "Wanna make ya feel good, like before," he reiterated, self-consciousness flashing across his face, "but I... I'm scared it'll be over too quick."

"That's not a bad thing," you assured him, rubbing your nose against his. "Finish as quickly or as slowly as you need. You already gave me one orgasm, which is more than I can say about a lot of my clients. Even if it's over fast, I just want to feel you."

And you really did. This wasn't a job to you anymore. It was something special. Sacred, even.

A first time for you as well as for Walter. Not in the act itself, but what it meant.

Walter once again gave you that look. The one of someone so unaccustomed to kindness, to understanding, any they received was borderline overwhelming. His eyes even welled up. Before they could spill over, though, he took the reins—if shyly.

"Lie down for me, please?"

You giggled. A girlish sound. A relic from a sweeter, more innocent time of your life. "Sure thing, baby." You were lying on your stomach when Walter placed his hand on your shoulder. "No," he said, "no, please, I... I wanna see you. See your face." God, what were you supposed to do with all this tenderness?

You turned over, lying on your back, and stared up at Walter. He towered over you, breathing heavily. A Roman statue, all lean muscle and sinewy power, his erection making a mess on his abs, his face made ragged by hunger. It should've made for an intimidating sight. Or at least, it would've, if not for the softness in those large blue eyes. For the gentleness he'd already demonstrated.

You reached out to him. "Make love to me, Walter. Please."

You'd never called it that before. Not with your clients. Not with anyone. Love had never been part of the equation. It was too volatile, too soft.

But oh, you were starting to get why artists dedicated so much of their work to it. Why people spent their whole lives searching for it. Why it'd been called the closest thing we had to magic.

Walter was careful as he climbed on top of you, planting his arms on either side of your head so that you wouldn't bear the brunt of his weight. But then, he stopped. Frowning pensively.

"What's wrong?" you asked. "If you've changed your mind, it's okay." It would've stung a bit, honestly, but you'd respect his choice nonetheless.

"No, no, I wanna, it's just..." Walter made a bashful noise. "I... don't know how to... how to put it in." He gave you an adorably beseeching look. "Help?"

You were tempted to laugh at just how cute he was, but you didn't want to embarrass him further. Instead, you cupped the base of his skull with one hand, bringing your foreheads together, and reached down with the other. You found his cock and gave it few pumps, making Walter shudder. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Your hand... That feels so much fuckin' better than mine..."

You chuckled. "I do try."

Walter kissed you with trembling lips. "I-I'm ready, baby. Please. Put me inside ya."

You kissed him back. "Right where you belong." You meant it as a tease—mostly—but Walter nodded, staring at you like nothing else existed. "Yeah," he murmured, "yeah. Where I belong."

You blushed. Kept your foreheads together as you guided him inside you. He pushed in slowly, letting out a moan so low and guttural it sounded more pained than pleasured.

You moaned alongside him, loving the stretch. The way he filled every crevice of you without ever hurting you. The way he made you feel whole. Complete.

He stayed like that for a moment. Panting. Eyes closed. Body trembling. But when he opened his eyes, he gave you a wide grin. "Wow."

You giggled. "I know." You caressed his cheek. "Are you all right?"

"Better than all right," Walter blinked. "Wait, should I be serious?" He tried to school his expression into neutrality. "Is me smilin' weird?"

"No," you shook your head, still stroking his cheek. "It should be fun, honey. Smile as much as you like."

Walter's smile returned, brighter than ever. "Okay. Good." He pressed his forehead a little harder against yours. Trying to be as close to you as possible. "You make me wanna smile."

You gave a small chortle, kissing him briefly but sweetly. "And you make me feel... Well," you trailed off, "... things I'd given up on."

Walter looked like he might break, right then and there. Instead, he began to pull out, slow and careful, before plunging back inside you. It didn't take him long to build up a steady rhythm, and even less for you to enjoy it. You wrapped your legs around his trim waist, encouraging him. The headboard began to gently tap against the wall in time with the sound of skin on skin. You moaned and sighed together, your foreheads never parting. Your hands wove into his hair, while his gripped your shoulders.

It was wonderful, but you wanted more. And, you sensed, so did Walter.

"Harder," you urged him. "I can handle it. I'm not gonna break. I wanna feel you lose control."

Walter's eyes widened. He let out a ragged gasp. Then, he gave you exactly what you'd asked for. His hips began snapping deeper, faster, but no less careful. One of his hands left your shoulder to tweak your nipple instead, making you cry out. In response, you began to roll your hips to meet his. To lightly scratch his back. To give his neck a few feather-light nibbles. All little sensations that added to his pleasure like spices in a stew.

"Fuck," Walter groaned, still rolling your nipple between his fingers, "y'feel so good, honey. Could do this forever. Never wanna stop."

"Then don't," you replied, directly in his ear, and snapped your hips especially hard to meet him halfway.

Walter groaned, buried his face in your neck, and kept pumping away like his life depended on it. You moved with him, using every trick you knew to amp his pleasure... and some you'd never used. You kissed his temple. You held him close. You whispered praises that you actually meant.

"So good... You feel so good, Walter... So perfect inside me."

Walter whined at the praise, his hips pistoning with a bit more force.

And then, without any prompting from you, his hand left your breast in favor of the point above where your bodies connected. His fingers found your clit. Remembered what you'd taught him.

You cried out, back arching, and clutched him with all you had. You felt it building within you, as bright and hot as wildfire. "Yes," you moaned, "yes! Yes, that's it." You kissed him hard. "That's it, sweetheart."

Walter panted against your skin, his entire body shaking even as he worked like a plough horse. "I-I'm close," he warned, his voice breaking, "I'm so fuckin' close... Fuck, (y/n), lemme... Please, lemme..."

"Me, too," you told him. Found his gaze and held it. "Together?"

Walter nodded, shattered and reverent. "Together." He quickened his pace on your clit. Pounded into you harder. Kissed you like the world was ending.

"Baby—oh God, I’m—" He came with a raw, helpless cry, spilling inside you in hot, pulsing waves that left you both shaking.

You came in the same breath, moaning as your second orgasm rushed through you like a sweet, red-hot fever. Back arching, head thrown back, legs tightening until the muscles in your calves cramped. It was easily the most intense climax you'd ever had with someone else, and innately you knew that Walter had ruined you for anybody else.

Then again, maybe you'd known that even earlier.

For a long moment, there was only the melody of you two panting. Your cooling bodies still tangled together. Your rapid heartbeats slowing down in almost perfect synchrony. Your hands joined without either of you remembering how it'd happened.

Walter stayed buried in you, nuzzling your neck not like a client but a lover. Your hand wove into his hair, gently working out a few knots. Played with his rattail again, eliciting another bubble of laughter from Walter. You laughed with him, holding him closer.

Then, Walter's stomach growled. Walter raised his head, as though surprised by his own hunger, and the two of you locked eyes. The next thing you knew, you were giggling like schoolchildren.

"Here," you pecked the tip of his nose before reluctantly leaving his embrace, "I'll get you a snack."

"But won't we get charged?" Walter asked.

"Nah," you replied as you walked over to the minifridge. "I brought these. I've been to places that's had the same damn snacks in their fridges and cupboards since the nineties. Better be safe than sorry." You opened the minifridge, paused, and looked back at him. "What do you like? I brought chips, popcorn, beef jerky, Oreos, pretzels..."

Walter shrugged. "Ah, I'll eat anythin'. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that."

You considered before selecting the beef jerky and two cans of Coke. Kicking the minifridge's door shut with your foot, you brought your offerings back to the bed. Walter thanked you with a smile and bit into the jerky. He hummed around his mouthful as you retreated to the bathroom to dampen a pair of hand-towels. "This is good!" he exclaimed through half-chewed jerky.

You chuckled as you returned to his side. One hand-towel was used to gently wipe his groin clean of your juices. The other, you used to clear the sweat from the rest of him, starting with his face and working down to his thighs. A ritual of aftercare you'd never performed before. "Well, of course. This is the good stuff. A bit pricier, harder to find, but worth every penny."

Walter swallowed, his cheeks colored by more than just exertion. "Thanks. Again."

You gave him a wink. "After a workout like that, I figured you could use the protein."

Walter looked down at the remaining jerky, then gave you half of it. "Please."

You giggled, accepting his offering and polishing it off in just a few bites. You hadn't even realized how hungry you'd been until the first piece had hit your tongue.

The two of you washed down your snack with some Coke. Then, Walter reached out to you. "Please come back? Miss ya already."

You chuckled even as you felt a similar yearning in your chest. "Say no more." This time, you were the one to settle on his chest. He held you close, nuzzling the crown of your head.

The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes, bellies full and bodies still buzzing with endorphins. You tapped your fingers against Walter's chest in sync with his heartbeat while he traced patterns on your back.

Eventually, you lifted your head and asked, "How do you feel?"

Walter looked at you with open, unabashed affection. "Everybody said it wouldn't be good," he admitted.

"Your first time?"

Walter nodded. "That after all that talk, all that buildup, all that waitin', all that fantasizin'... Real life couldn't compete." He tapped his forehead against yours. "But you were better than anythin' I could fantasize. You..." He swallowed. "Don't think I want anybody else."

Hearing him echo your feelings punched the air right out of your lungs. Even so, you tried to keep a level head. "That's just the afterglow, sweetie."

"No," he shook his head firmly. "It ain't. It's you. I..." he swallowed thickly. "I think I'm falling for ya."

You stared at him, your heartrate picking up all over again.

"Would ya wanna come do laundry with me?" he asked. "I-I've already found a place. Don't got enough for the rent yet, but I'm gettin' there. Been puttin' aside money for years. Money Stan don't know about, since he spends everythin' he gets. Not a lot. Just a ten here, a twenty there. But it adds up. And... and I'd really like ya there with me. I know it ain't a glamorous life, and I know we've only known each other for a few hours, and I got arthritis and I got memory problems and I ain't never had a girl before so I might get a buncha shit wrong, but... but..." He swallowed. "Fuck, I don't want things to end here."

You slowly shook your head. "Neither do I."

Walter looked at you with an almost frightful amount of hope. "So... You...?"

It was risky. It was borderline crazy. It was based on emotion rather than practicality. It was the sort of decision you'd have made when you were younger and more naïve, before the world beat it out of you.

It was also the easiest thing in the world to nod and say, "Yeah, Wally, let's do it."

Walter began to cry even as he laughed, pulling you in a bone-crushing hug that you gladly returned. His tears soaked into your skin, his grip almost painful. You ran your hand up and down his back, humming an old lullaby your mother used to sing to you.

Eventually, his sobs subsided, and after you'd dried his tears, you held each other. Tomorrow, you'd start making plans. After all, you had some money put aside, too. Not much of a nest egg, but something. Pooled with Walter's savings, it could probably at least cover the first few months' rent, as well as the safety deposit.

You imagined it. Kaminski Kleaners. The place would be small and humble, but well-kept, clean, and functional. The two of you would make sure every washing machine and dryer ran. He'd paint the walls. You'd bring in pictures and plants. The two of you would take turns running the front desk. The whole place would smell like laundry detergent and feel warm even in the dead of winter.

It wasn't what you'd imagined for yourself. Not when you were young and innocent, and certainly not when you'd fallen into this life. But now, as you lay in Walter's arms, you realized just what a perfect fit it was. Just like the man in bed with you.

Walter was dozing off. You were, too. You tucked your head under his chin, smiled when he held you tighter, and let sleep take you.

You knew he’d be here tonight. You planned for him to be here.

The night was still young but the impatience was settling in. It didn’t help that you were exhausted and he was taking his sweet ass time.

Your feet padded along the hardwood floors, eyes glancing every so often towards your back porch for any sign of him nearby. A sigh left your lips upon seeing no change, not even a feeling of change in the atmosphere.

Just when you started to turn back towards your bedroom, the air shifted. It was a heavy shift, the air stilling and sending a chill down your spine. Looking back at your porch door, there was no sight of him, but you could feel him somewhere out there. You stepped closer to the door, feeling a sense of unease crawl up your throat.

“Remmick…?” You called out softly, pressing your hand against the doorframe. A rustle came from your right along with an unintelligible whisper. “Remmick…” you called out a bit more irritated, already wary from the creeps.

“Find me.” His whisper sounded in your ear, as if he were right against it. You rolled your eyes at his antics, crossing your arms in an attempt to look annoyed rather than scared.

“It’s dark, I’m not coming out there.” Just like that, his presence vanished completely. You frowned, half wanting to go out there like he asked, the other half wanting to go to bed. “Christ.”

You pushed open the door and stepped out barefoot, the coarse wood beneath you creaking with every step. Your arms remained wrapped around yourself because of the chill, but also because you were still scared. The grass was slightly damp and the air smelled of mildew and heat, but the one scent that caught your nose was blood—that metallic tang was one you familiarized yourself with, and it only meant one thing.

“Peekaboo!” The whisper came with strong arms wrapping around you from behind, Remmick’s lips grazing the soft skin of your neck. You yelped from the shock of his sudden appearance and groaned when he lifted you off the ground.

“Idiot!” You kicked, brows furrowing once he turned you around. “Why’d you do that?”

His teeth, which were slightly pointed, glinted in the light of your porch lights when he grinned. He gave you a half-hearted shrug, “like t’ hear ya yelp.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head before walking back to your house, “I oughta leave you out ‘ere.”

He trailed after you with quiet footsteps, “no, no, no. I’ll be good.” You looked over your shoulder to see those wide eyes, full of fear at the thought of you leaving him alone tonight. Feeling a hint of satisfaction bubble in your chest, you stepped into your house, leaving him almost pawing at your screen door. “C’mon darlin’… don’t be like this.”

Remmick stood right outside your door, nose barely brushing the screen that separated you from him. His teeth were tucked over his bottom lip and his fingers twitched at his sides. You weren’t really mad, but it was nice to be the one in control this time.

“Be like what?” You tilted your head to the side. He audibly huffed and reached up as if he could grab you. “I thought I made myself clear when I told you I didn’t want to go out. I don’t like that spooky bullshit you pulled.”

“I know…” he frowned, opting to fumble with his suspenders to give his hands something else to do. “I was jus’ bein’ naughty. You know me.”

You hummed, not quite giving in yet. Remmick’s nails grew pointier with every moment he strained to hold back. He knew logically he couldn’t just lunge at you, not without your permission.

“Let me in, please?” You could see the drool slowly drip down from the corner of his mouth, “I swear. I’ll be good, I’ll listen.”

You crossed your arms and narrowed your eyes, “you promise?”

“I promise, over my undead body.” He pressed a sharp hand over his chest, red eyes boring into yours.

You shifted your stance and slid a hand behind you, “come in, Remmick.”

Just like you predicted, he threw the door open and lunged at you, baring his teeth as he reached for you with those sharp claws. But you were prepared. Right as you felt the rush of wind, your hand shot out from behind you and bestowed a rosary, a dainty little thing, but it did the trick.

Remmick cowered, shrinking back and glaring like you struck him. “The fuck was that for?”

“You said you’d be good,” you shrugged. Even though you knew he could overpower you—the rosary didn’t compare to the likes of him—he was playing along. “Now I’m not sure I want to play anymore.”

“No!” He reached out, wincing when you kept the rosary raised in front of you. He wiped the saliva off his chin with the sleeve of his shirt before looking at you through his lashes, “I’ll be so, so, so good now.”

“You keep saying that but won’t listen,” you sighed dramatically, “and to think I was going to give you a gift.”

“A what?” Remmick perked up immediately, brows shooting up. “A gift?”

“Well it is your birthday,” you hummed. Remmick had mentioned in a fleeting moment of his origins and that included his birthday, but he had never expected you to pick up on that, let alone remember it. You watched him soften gradually, not just in his gaze, but the sharp edges of his teeth and nails were starting to round out again. “But I suppose if you’re going to misbehave, then forget about it.

The room echoed with a loud thud as he dropped to his knees, his hands tentatively grasping at your thighs, the coolness of his skin seeping through your thin nightie. He pressed his face into your warm stomach, nuzzling you like an eager puppy. “Please.”

The sight of him like this made both lust and satisfaction fester in your gut. You gently lowered your non-rosary wielding hand into his hair—slightly tangled and damp with sweat. He let out a soft noise and nuzzled further into your stomach. You played with his hair for a moment, enjoying the gentle serenity compared to your usual animalistic passion. Remmick sighed and slid his hands up the backs of your thighs, just barely grazing your ass.

“Bad,” you muttered and brought the rosary down so it grazed his neck. He hissed and released his hold on you to swat at the crucifix. Remmick eventually gave up and sat back on his haunches, keeping his hands on his lap. You smiled down at him, ignoring the way his slacks tightened at the crotch. “I won’t ask again.”

“I’m sorry,” he grumbled, head bowed.

You sucked your teeth in annoyance, “I’ll drag you outside.”

His shoulders sagged with the deep breath he released, lifting his head to show you the remorse in his eyes. If he was faking it, you didn’t catch on. “I really am sorry. I’ll behave, really. Let me see my gift. Please, sweetheart.” His gaze followed you as you dropped down to his level, shivering when you leaned in to breathe against his neck.

“You can keep your hands to yourself, yes?” You watched his adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, giving you a barely there nod. “I’ll tie you up if you misbehave, you know I will.” He gave you a firmer nod and let his head graze your own, gaze flicking over to yours when you pulled away.

The rosary was soon discarded next to you, not completely, just close by in case you needed it. With free hands, you reached up to cup his face in your hands, thumbs grazing his rough stubble, skin marred with subtle scratches from possible feedings or scuffs. Remmick quickly melted in your palms, your warmth soothing his cooled exterior. Your lips soon met his, not giving him more than quick pecks and innocent presses. He chased your lips when you pulled away and whined in protest, but to his surprise, you bared your neck to him.

You watched as he blinked dumbly, his mouth gaping. From the moment your relationship was established, you stood firm on your request to not be bitten. Remmick had never pushed on your demand, even if he was rough with you, he’d never break that boundary.

“Well?” You smiled your sweetest smile, aimed right at his undead heart, and at the growing thickness in his pants. “Happy birthday, Rem.”

A gasp escaped you as he reached for you with outstretched hands, pulling you against him with a force that made you dizzy. He tucked his head into your neck and you felt the sharp points of his teeth slide into your skin. The pain was immediate—white-hot and setting you ablaze as his fangs slid deep into your throat. Your breath was taken, gasping for air to ease the lack of oxygen in your brain. But even with the rough handling, he tried to lessen the pain by stroking your hair and rubbing your hip.

Remmick drank hungrily, but not greedily. When your body began to feel limp and light, he released his tight grip on you and slid his teeth out the wound with a gentle pop. Your neck throbbed from the soreness but was soothed by his tongue lapping up the blood still pebbling from the wound. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders loosely to which he took as permission to gather you in his arms and walk you down to your bedroom.

He wrapped your legs around his waist along the way, mouth still sucking at the blood still spilling from your neck. You were dazed, that’s for sure, but the moment he stepped foot into your bedroom, you found your voice again.

“I’m still in charge,” you whispered weakly, cupping his face to pull him away from your neck momentarily. Remmick was just as dazed as you were, drunk on the taste of your blood, the crimson liquid smeared across his mouth and chin. His eyes matched yours—half-lidded and cloudy, full of hunger, animalistic and lustful. He let you down onto your feet when you released your hold around his waist, keeping a steady hand on your waist to ensure you didn’t tumble over. “Lie down,” you nodded to the bed.

Remmick practically jumped on, the fragile frame creaking obscenely beneath his weight. You stood there next to the bed, in your nightie stained with red, blood still fresh on your neck. To him, you looked like a beautiful, dark angel, sent to ruin him further than he already was. Remmick lay perfectly still as he awaited your next move, claws digging into his palms.

You reached up and dropped one of your nightie’s straps off your shoulder, and then the next until the thin fabric pooled at your feet. Remmick’s eyes darkened further at the sight of you clad in only your panties, and you didn’t miss the way his cock twitched in his slacks. Your feet stumbled as you approached the bed, shooting him a warning glance when he attempted to catch you.

He took your warning seriously this time. You’d just given him something so sacred and personal that he didn’t want to imagine what would happen if you were to pull away and punish him. Your hands braced themselves on the mattress, pushing yourself up onto the bed and swinging your leg over his lap, settling right over his bulge.

Remmick let out a deep groan that almost sounded like a growl, his hips twitching upwards to receive more of that friction that you so stubbornly refused to give. His nails dug into your sheets, no doubt piercing the fabric. Just to piss him off further, you curled your fingers around his waist and rolled your hips against his hard.

“Christ,” he groaned, throwing his head back into your pillows, “thought you were supposed to be giftin’ me.”

“I am, I just love to hear you beg.” You shrugged smugly, slightly quoting his words from earlier.

Remmick rolled his eyes and grumbled under his breath, “it’s my birthday. At least let me hold ya, woman.”

Your lips stretched into a wide grin, relishing in the way he whimpered when you ground down again. With a soft, surrendering sigh, you rubbed his chest. “I guess I should be nicer. You have been doing good…” You wanted to toy with his eagerness for a bit, just enough to keep him on his toes. You observed the way his eyes widened pleadingly, his claws retracting back and forth in your sheets, waiting for your ‘go’. “Still no touching.”

He sunk into the mattress with a defeated whine, throwing his arms over his eyes while his hips twitched up, making his arousal clear.

“At least fuck me,” he whispered hoarsely, tone evident that he was close to tears.

“Oh, trust me. I’m getting to it.” And you made swift progress on that promise. Your fingers swiftly unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his sweaty and pale skin. He lifted his arms to watch you perform, helping you shrug his suspenders and sleeves off his arms. His shirt was tossed onto the floor haphazardly and his chain glinted in your dim lamp light. He smirked smugly upon seeing your gawking, his teeth rubbing against his plush lower lip. “Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything!” He laughed, eyes glinting mischievously. He bit his lip to stifle his grin when you glared at him, but it wasn’t like he was breaking any rules, so there was no need to deprive him of anything.

You slid down his thighs to undo the zipper of his trousers. Remmick stared at your tits which jiggled with the movements you made. He swallowed the pooling saliva in his mouth when he saw the dried line of blood between them, wanting to bite the softness of your breast and suckle from there.

With little difficulty, you pulled down his pants and his cock sprung out angrily. The sticky tip of his tapped his lower stomach, coated in an obscene amount of precum, flushed red and twitching under your scrutiny. You shared an equal amount of thirst for him as he did you, so you did what he would, take.

Remmick choked on a moan when your lips enveloped his sensitive head, your tongue swirling the round tip and tasting the salty slick of his that made your mind blank. You wrapped a hand around the shaft and dropped your jaw to take a bit more of his girth, and because you were a tease, you grazed your teeth on the upwards pull. He hissed at the feeling, cock twitching hotly in the warmth of your mouth.

For a moment, you just licked around his length, barely bobbing your head. It took literally everything in him to not grab your head and fuck up into your mouth senselessly, you could tell by the way his hands hovered over your scalp. You peered up at him and the sight almost made him cum right there. It wasn’t often that you took his cock into your mouth, much preferring to have him inside your cunt, so seeing your mouth full of him? It was enough to bring a man to tears.

“Let me touch you,” he whispered hoarsely, whimpering when you gave a harsh suck. Slowly, you braced your hands on his thighs and gave him a silent look which only meant ‘yes.’ His large palms immediately clasped on either side of your head, holding you in place as his hips pistoned upwards.

You gagged as his cock hit the back of your throat over and over again, the heat between your legs unbearable now. Remmick growled deeply, throwing his head back as he continued to facefuck you harshly. The bed creaked rhythmically and your saliva bubbled around his shaft, creating a rim of sticky slick that dripped down to his heavy balls.

The soreness settled in while his speed was unrelenting. Breathing through your nose was futile since every time you breathed in, his pelvis met your nose, burying you in the hair that laid there. Still, you were just as turned on as he was, rutting uselessly against your mattress in an attempt to lessen the uncomfortable heat boiling in your core. Your actions didn’t go unnoticed by him.

“Yeah? Ya like it when I fuck yer mouth like this?” Remmick whined, holding your head still once his cock was buried in your throat. You gagged around it, eyes rolling back as you tried to pull off, but his strength was too much for you to overpower. He laughed gruffly, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood before resuming his cruel thrusts. “Fuck, look at ya.”

He lifted you off his cock to let you breathe, smirking at how you spat a glob of hot, sticky slobber onto his tip before gasping for air. The action scratched at your throat, burning the already raw flesh. Remmick’s thumb came down to wipe the slobber that gathered at your chin, only to push it back into your mouth. You sucked on his thumb and felt your cheeks burn when you tasted the salt and metallic tang. He pressed the pad of his thumb on your tongue before pulling it out and replacing it with his cock.

Tears rimmed your waterline as he resumed his pummeling. You slid a hand down to your panties which were completely soaked through and sticky and rubbed your clit over the fabric. The both of you moaned in unison, Remmick more so due to the vibrations from your moan. He licked at his own lips, arching his back as sweat dripped down his chest from the stain of pushing himself deeper and deeper between your lips.

Your fingers kept swirling over your clit, making a mess of the sheets beneath you. Remmick’s balls hit your chin with every thrust he gave, making you reach for them with your other hand. You pressed a thumb at the seam of his balls, rubbing and groping them while his hips stuttered.

“Shit, fuck, shit.” He swore under his breath, gritting his teeth. You looked up at him through teary eyes and didn’t expect him to pull out so quickly. You blinked blearily as he wrapped his hand around himself and jerked off so furiously, it looked like it hurt. He let out a loud groan just as the first string of cum sprayed across your face.

The hot webs sprayed everywhere—your cheek, almost in your eye, and of course, in your gaping mouth. Remmick moaned heavily, hand slowing down as he looked down at the thick globs of seed trailing down your cheeks.

His head dropped back into the pillows, letting go of his cock which to your surprise, was still rock hard. You pushed yourself up on weak arms and brushed a finger along the flushed skin. He whimpered quietly and his cock twitched from the sensitivity, but nevertheless, still solid.

Not wanting to overstimulate him, you straddled his thigh. Riding him would come soon, but for now, his thigh would do. Your slick-soaked panties met his muscular thigh and made his head lift slightly. He flexed his thigh once he caught on, drool dripping as you began to rock your hips.

You closed your eyes as the pressure finally gave you the pleasure you needed, throwing your head back as you dragged your clothed clit along the hard planes of his thigh. Remmick watched you darkly and brought his hands up to your hips to guide your movements, lifting his thigh a bit so it pressed hard into your clit. You whined out softly, throat still raw, and ground harder. One of his hands slid down to pull the soaked gusset to the side and pressed into your pussy to part your folds, making it so his thigh met your swollen nub completely.

“Remmick!” You gasped breathily, rutting against him pathetically. The coarseness of his leg hairs gave you an even greater pleasure that sent shivers through your entire body. The sight of you like this, covered in his seed and your own blood, made his length twitch helplessly against his stomach.

“Yeah, ya feel good?” He cooed, lifting himself into a sitting position to lick at the dried blood between your breasts. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders and the only response you could give was a feeble whimper before jerking your hips. “Yeah… jus’ like that. Good girl.”

He dragged his nose along your jaw, licking up the spend on your face before it could dry up. You moaned and felt yourself gush at the action. Remmick felt it too and quickly captured your lips in his, groaning as he tasted himself on your tongue. The kiss was messy, teeth clashing and nipping while tongues got sucked into each other’s mouths, and it was especially hard to tell if the sloshing was coming from the kiss or your pool of slick gathering on his thigh.

“Come ‘ere, get on my cock now.” He ushered you to straddle him properly, nails digging into the flesh on your ass. His fingers tugged your panties to the side once more before pressing down on his cock to rub it through your folds, groaning when it caught on your clit.

You leaned back just enough for the tip of his cock to press against your slit, sliding down onto it effortlessly due to all the slick your cunt produced. The sound of both your moans echoed through the small bedroom, the bedframe groaning beneath you. He wrapped a strong arm around your lower back, holding enough authority to keep you there, but still allowing you all the power you needed.

Regaining your mind, though it was still swimming with thoughts of him and his cock splitting you open, you cupped his face. His eyes softened just a tinge, looking so cute with his teeth aching to bite you again.

“Need it?” You purred, rubbing the tip of one of his fangs and grinning at the shiver it gave him. A palm grasped your ass and did nothing more than just squeeze—he knew his place right now.

“May I?” He whispered, eyes rolling back as you leaned down to lap up the thick saliva that slid out his mouth.

“Of course.”

His mouth met the other side of your neck this time, but just as before, quickly sinking his fangs into your skin with a sharp crunch. Your hips jerked forwards as the heat of your blood filled his mouth, flooding his senses with the feeling and taste of you.

You whimpered, unable to tell the difference between pleasure and pain. The pain didn’t matter so much once you started to move. With a small, curious effort, you rolled your hips back and forth—feeling the length of his cock slide further into your fleshy walls. Remmick groaned against your neck, sucking at the blood that kept spilling from his bite, and his hands urged you to keep moving.

With Remmick still feeding, you planted your knees into the mattress and used the leverage to lifted yourself up and down on his length. The feeling of him filling you was one you would never get enough of, you could feel it in your throat. The feeling stuck in your gut, an ache you’d never be able to get rid of no matter how much you fucked him.

You dragged a hand into his hair, tugging the sweaty curls back to look at him. His mouth was stained with your crimson, teeth shining as he grinned. You gave a particularly sharp flick of your hips and watched the way his brows furrowed in deep tension.

He brought his mouth back to your neck and licked over the wound to soothe the dull ache, pecking along the surrounding area while your movements began to speed up. His cock pulsed inside of you, hot and needy. You moaned weakly, too dazed and hoarse to make a noise louder than a whisper.

“Remmick,” you breathed, lifting yourself up and then dropping hard enough to knock the remaining breath out of you. The heat settled in your gut and you slammed yourself down to ease the burning. Remmick groaned beneath you and gripped your hips, lifting his own to meet your movements.

The slick between you two was sticky and wet, smearing along your ass and his thighs, each motion making a slick squelch. You leaned back on your hands and fucked yourself on his length, he helped by pulling you down, the angle deep enough to feel like it was in your chest.

“So fuckin’ sexy,” he groaned, reaching up to grope at your tits. Your nipple rubbed against his calloused palm, sending a shock of pleasure right to your pussy, fluttering around his cock. He took your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, rolling the pebbled nub to make your back arch.

“Yes, fuck.” You moaned, eyes rolling back. Your thighs started to burn and your hips grew sore from his grip, but you needed to finish, and you wanted him to finish inside. You placed a hand on the back of his neck, pulling yourself up to meet his lips, rolling your entire body against his while he continued to fondle your breast. “Just like that…”

“Yeah?” He whimpered against your cheek, moving you back and forth. “Gonna come? Gonna come jus’ for me?”

You nodded desperately, bouncing frantically. Every movement sounded lewd every lift of your hips pulled strings of arousal from you, sticking to both of you and creating a mess between both his and your legs. Remmick lowered his head to nip at your breasts, not piercing through your skin, but enough to make your pulse jump.

“Fuck,” you whined, tugging at his hair. “Rem- I’ll-”

He wrapped both arms around your lower back, locking you in place before planting his feet onto the bed to snap his hips up in a frenzy. You cried out hoarsely, nails digging into his shoulder while your head spun with ecstasy. His skin slapped against yours, a hollow sound which filled your ears.

There were no thoughts in your mind. All you could do was let out silent cries of pleasure and fall limp to his pounding. Remmick growled into the soft skin at your chest, gritting his sharp teeth into his own lip as to not hurt you by sinking them into your flesh.

Ecstasy was all that you could feel. Your orgasm was intense. You couldn’t hear your own cry over the sound of ringing in your ears growing more and more persistent. Your lower half grew numb with overstimulation and your walls spasmed erratically around his throbbing length. He followed soon after, fucking into you slowly to ride our both your orgasms. The warmth of his seed pumped into you, filling you with the thick liquid as well as a sense of home.

When you came to, Remmick’s groan was just fading away. His arms remained wrapped around you, but his grip had loosened since then. He nuzzled your cheek with a soft, tender touch.

“Y’okay?” He murmured into your hair before pressing his lips there. You could still feel his cock inside you, but was thankfully softening—you were far too gone to keep going.

“Yeah,” you whispered, smiling gently at him. He mirrored your expression—sated and tender, leaning in to kiss you with that same tenderness. His grip tightened around you a bit to pull you down with him, now lying down with you on top.

The sheets were wet and your bodies were sticky with sweat, spit, and cum. But you barely cared, too exhausted to get up to do anything about it. Remmick’s fingers trailed up and down your bare back, humming a soft Irish tune to coax you to rest.

Your breathing settled and you got used to the feeling of him still inside despite being soft. With a small nudge, you whispered, “happy birthday Rem.”

He huffed a laugh into your hair, stroking your shoulder. “Best birthday of my life.”

“Lion—fuck, right there,” you moan, already bouncing hard enough on his cock to make the apartment mattress squeal beneath you while he lies pinned under your weight, whining around every breath like he has forgotten how to take one quietly.

Every drop of your hips forces the thick length deep, while your cunt grips and drags, wet and greedy, coating him in the glossy mess you’ve already worked out of yourself.

His hands keep slipping along your thighs, damp palms searching for somewhere to hold even though you have already told him not to touch unless you put him where you want him. He tries anyway, fingers curling weakly near your hips as you lift yourself until only the swollen head remains inside you, stretching your entrance open around the glistening ridge, then drop back down and swallow him to the base.

The noise that tears from him is embarrassingly loud—halfway between a moan and a sob—and it carries far too clearly through the paper-thin walls.

“Jesus, Lion, shut up,” you mutter, though the sharp roll of your hips makes it obvious that you have no intention of helping him obey.

“I’m trying,” he manages, voice cracking as his head pushes deeper into the pillow. “You just—you feel so fucking-”

Another helpless whine spills out before he can finish, so you reach beside his shoulder, snatch up the damp panties you had kicked onto the bed earlier, and bunch them into your palm. The crotch is still warm and slick with your earlier arousal, the fabric darkened and heavy. Lion barely gets his watery eyes open before you press the fabric against his mouth.

Your panties disappear between his lips, the wet gusset settling over his tongue while you push two fingers against the center to make sure he cannot spit them out. The taste of your cunt floods his mouth; you watch his throat work as he sucks at it without being told. His eyes widen, then soften with something so openly grateful that it makes you laugh under your breath.

You draw your hand back and give his flushed cheek a light pat, watching him mouth helplessly around the fabric while your hips resume their punishing rhythm. Slick sounds fill the air every time you rise and fall, your cunt swallowing him with filthy, wet kisses.

“There,” you murmur, leaning forward until your palms flatten against his chest. “Much better. Toys aren’t supposed to make so much noise.”

Lion’s cock jumps inside you so hard that you feel it.

His muffled answer dissolves into a garbled moan, and his whole face burns red beneath the sweat gathering at his temples. He’s always been terrible at hiding how much he likes being spoken to this way. Call him pretty and he blushes; call him useful and he nearly comes; tell him that the only part of him you need is buried inside you, and he looks ready to thank you for the privilege.

You grind down slowly, letting your cunt drag along every inch of him before lifting again. Lion’s stomach tenses under your hands, muscles twitching each time your ass meets his thighs, though he still fights to stay motionless beneath you.

“You said I could use it as long as I wanted,” you remind him, rocking your hips in tight circles until his muffled whine turns shrill.

Lion shakes his head quickly, hair sticking to his damp forehead. His hands clench in the sheets, knuckles pale with the effort of keeping them there. When he tries to speak, your panties reduce the words to a wet, pleading mumble, but you understand him well enough.

“You want me to keep riding my cock?” you ask, emphasizing the claim while you squeeze around him. The deliberate clench milks a fresh throb out of him. “That what you’re trying to say?”

His eyes squeeze shut as he nods, tears already gathering along his lashes. You sit back and take him deeper, watching his face crumple when you begin bouncing again, faster this time, without giving him any chance to adjust.

The first tear slides toward his temple.

You catch it with your thumb before it disappears into his hair, smearing the wetness across his flushed skin while he stares up at you. There’s something pathetic in the way he looks when he cries beneath you, something soft and needy that makes you bear down harder just to watch another tear follow. Your clit grinds against the base of him on every drop, swollen and slick, sending sharp little sparks through your belly.

“Aww, Lion,” you croon, though your hand closes around his jaw firmly enough to keep his face turned toward you. “You’re crying, and I haven’t even decided whether you’ve earned the right to come.”

Lion bucks beneath you before he can stop himself. The sudden upward jerk drives him impossibly deeper, and for a second you feel the fat head of his cock kiss the entrance to your womb.

You halt immediately, seated fully on his cock, and the sudden stillness leaves him shaking. His nostrils flare around desperate breaths while his hips twitch beneath your weight, trying to chase friction without openly disobeying.

“What was that?”

He whimpers through the panties, tears spilling more freely when you tighten your thighs around his waist.

“You know better than to move my toy without permission,” you tell him, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “You’re acting like the body attached to my cock gets a say.”

Lion shakes his head again, frantic enough that the pillow rustles beneath him. He tries to apologize, though the words come out soaked and unintelligible. The sight of your panties darkening between his teeth, mixed with the wet shine on his lips and chin, makes heat twist low in your stomach.

You lift yourself slowly, letting him feel every inch leave you until his cock nearly slips free. The head catches at your entrance, shiny and flushed dark. Lion’s eyes go wide with alarm, and a broken little noise catches behind the gag.

“You’d hate that, wouldn’t you?” you ask, hovering just above him. “Getting left here hard and useless because you couldn’t behave.”

His response is immediate, a pleading shake of his head accompanied by another spill of tears. A string of your own wetness stretches from the head of his cock to your dripping entrance before it breaks.

You lower yourself again, only halfway, then rise before he can enjoy the fullness. The shallow thrusts make wet, filthy sounds as your cunt lips kiss and drag over the swollen head. Lion’s back arches from the mattress while his hands knot tighter in the sheets, every restrained movement making his arms tremble.

“Maybe I should find something else to ride,” you continue, teasing the head against your entrance. “Something that doesn’t whine. Something that can last longer without leaking inside me.”

Lion sobs around the panties, the sound so ruined that it nearly breaks your composure.

You sink onto him in one hard drop, taking him completely, and his muffled cry fills the room despite the fabric packed into his mouth.

His hips jerk once beneath you before he forces them still, though his cock throbs wildly inside your clenched walls. You feel the way your cunt stretches around the base of him, the stretch almost too much, the wet heat of him buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to crawl up into your belly.

“There,” you murmur, smiling down at the tears streaking his face. “There’s my dumb little toy.”

You ride him without mercy after that, palms braced against his chest while you use his cock exactly as promised. Lion can do little more than lie beneath you and endure it, his breathing ragged, his moans reduced to wet vibrations against your panties.

Every upward roll pulls a sticky sheen along his shaft; every downward thrust forces it back inside, the mess gathering where your bodies meet until it coats his groin and smears across the insides of your thighs.

His control starts failing visibly, legs twitching against the mattress, his abdomen pulling tight, and his eyes rolling shut no matter how often you tell him to look at you.

When you slap his cheek lightly, his gaze snaps back into focus with such eager obedience that your cunt clenches around him.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” you warn, leaning close enough that your breath brushes his wet face. “You’re going to keep it hard until I’m finished.”

Lion nods, though the desperate furrow in his brow gives away how impossible the order feels. He had promised stamina; he had sworn he could let you ride him through one orgasm, then another, and still stay ready whenever you climbed back into his lap. That confidence has disappeared completely, leaving only a trembling man beneath you who looks one cruel squeeze away from losing everything. You can feel the way his balls have drawn up tight against your ass, full and heavy and ready to spill.

Your muscles tighten around his cock while your hips grind down, and Lion’s eyes fly open. A muffled plea bursts against the panties, his entire body seizing as he fights the orgasm bearing down on him.

“You’re not going to waste my cum, are you?” you ask, dragging your thumb through the tears pooled beneath his eye. “You’re going to hold it until I tell you where I want it.”

He nods so hard that another sob catches in his throat.

“Good. Because I want it inside.”

Whatever remains of Lion’s composure breaks at the words. His cock jerks repeatedly while his hips stutter beneath your weight. You chase your own pleasure as his muffled whines turn frantic, then reach down and press your thumb against your clit. The swollen little nub is slick and hot under your touch, and every circle of your finger makes your cunt clamp harder around the cock currently trying to breed you.

“Come on,” you breathe, circling yourself while his tearful eyes stay fixed on your face. “Fill me up. Make your only useful part do its job.”

Lion comes with a strangled cry against your panties, his body arching hard enough to lift you with him. Warmth spills deep inside you in heavy pulses, rope after rope flooding the softest part of you, and you continue bouncing through every one, forcing his cum farther into your cunt while his cock twitches helplessly.

Tears run into his hair, his chest heaves beneath your hands, and his muffled noises turn high and broken when pleasure gives way to overstimulation. His cock keeps pulsing, still trying to empty itself even as you milk every last drop with the relentless squeeze of your walls.

Lion’s head thrashes weakly against the pillow while you use his softening control against him, grinding down until cum leaks around the base of his cock and streaks over his balls in thick, white trails. He makes a pitiful sound when you scoop some of the mess onto your fingers, then push it back against your swollen entrance without climbing off him. The excess is warm and sticky, mixed with your own slick, and you force it back inside so nothing goes to waste.

“Couldn’t even keep it where I put it.,” you murmur, spreading the slick warmth over yourself while his eyes follow every movement.

He whines as if ashamed, though his cock gives another interested twitch inside you. The soft length is still buried in the mess he made, and you can feel it starting to firm again as you keep moving.

The reaction makes you laugh. You pull the soaked panties from his mouth, leaving his lips swollen and glistening, and Lion immediately drags in a ragged breath. His first attempt to speak collapses into a hoarse moan when you roll your hips again.

“I can keep going,” he promises, voice ruined and watery. “Please, I-I can—I can still be good.”

You lean down and wipe one of his tears away with the cum-slick fingers that had just been between your thighs, smearing the mixture across his cheek before pressing them against his parted lips. The taste of both of you is thick on his tongue, and Lion sucks them clean without hesitation.

“That’s what you said the first time,” you remind him, sitting upright. “Try not to overestimate yourself twice, sweetheart. I’m not finished using you yet.”

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