𝐸𝑚 🫐🤍

It happened again: his shift ran late, and he found himself creeping into the house past ten, tired as ever, and popping open a whisky bottle while lingering in the kitchen.

He chugged the small glass back, rubbing his hands over his face, glancing at the front foyer. His eyebrows furrowed when he saw your white sneakers kicked off by the door again–you were with his son, somewhere in the house, doing something.

Now he lies wide awake in his empty bed, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the noise that makes him want to blow his head off: your soft moans, little whines and whimpers, and the occasional grunt from his son that has him grimacing.

“I’d rather you do it in the house, safe… than elsewhere,” he had told his son, urging him to have sex in the safety of his bedroom, as opposed to elsewhere the two of you might tangle yourself up in.

He quickly realized that this was a poor decision–he couldn’t blame the two of you, assuming his dad was off working, the house to yourselves, but now he has to lie there in a painful silence, listening to your moans.

“What…” you mumble softly as your boyfriend rolls off you, and your eyebrows furrow when your head turns to look at him; he’s on his side now, reaching for his phone.

“What?” he mumbles, looking over his shoulder at his girlfriend, still on her back, completely unfinished. 

“I’m… I didn’t… I didn’t… you know,” you tell him, a warmth creeping up on your cheeks as you look over at him, and he scoffs, like it isn’t that important. You’re humiliated.

“I did, though,” he shrugs and rolls on his back too, tucking his body beneath the covers, his phone propped in his lap. “Couldn’t last any longer, sorry, baby,” he mumbles, looking at the glowing screen.

“This is like… the fourth time,” you complain, your eyebrows stitching in frustration. “You finish in less than a minute, and then tell me that you can’t make me cum because you’re too tired,” you explain, glaring at him. 

“Yeah, well, maybe you shouldn’t feel so good,” he smiles, looking over at you, expecting you to take it as a compliment. You have a blank face.

“Doesn’t feel good for me,” you mumble, finally pulling up the blankets too, covering up your bare chest shyly. 

“Come on, babe,” he groans, putting his phone face down onto the bed. “I’ve been stressed lately… you know, and… it helps.”

You’ve never rolled your eyes harder at a statement, and you scoff, rolling onto your side and away from him. He’s never checked in on you–if you’re fucking stressed and need to finish or whatever the hell excuse that is. “Okay,” you mumble softly and look at the clock, groaning to yourself, eyes shutting.

And now his dad stands in the kitchen at nine o’clock in the morning, yawning, grabbing some coffee, watching the way you descend from the stairs, a sleepy smile on your face.

“Mornin’,” he mumbles, pouring a glass of coffee for himself, and you give him a shy nod.

“Good morning,” you smile, rubbing your eyes with the heels of your hands, and he leans against the counter, holding the mug.

“You two sleep well?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, bringing the bitter drink to his lips.

“Uhm… mhm,” you nod shyly, pausing in front of the island in the centre of the kitchen, leaning against it. It’s almost as if he knows–he does.

“He gonna be awake soon?” he asks you, his mouth still around the mug.

“I don’t think so… he was out when I got out of bed,” you explain with a shrug, and he nods in understanding, turning around.

He doesn’t look like your boyfriend, and you tell yourself it’s unfortunate, while also beating yourself up for even thinking something like that. He’s tall and broad, his muscles straining against his white shirt, his sweatpants low on his hips, his forearms thick. You sigh quietly to yourself, wondering if your boyfriend inherited the can’t make a woman cum trait. Your cheeks burn red when the stupid thought slips in. 

“Can make you breakfast, darlin’,” he offers, still turned around, strong hands fixing up something.

“What–no, no, thank you, it’s okay,” you quickly shake your head, your eyes gazing at the back of his head, and he glances over at you, smiling.

“You sure? Not even toast with some butter, honey?” he offers again, reaching for the bread. “Wouldn’t be a trouble, making myself some, too,” he reassures, and you bite your lip, sliding into the stool against the island.

“Okay… yes, please,” you give in and nod, and he carefully pulls out four pieces of bread, popping them into the toaster, two pieces at a time. 

“You two doing anything today?” he asks, turning back away, patiently waiting for the toast to be done. “Beautiful day out,” he nods, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Uhm… no, I don’t think so,” you shake your head, resting your elbows against the island. “There’s some… video game, or something coming out, and he wants to buy it–all of his friends are playing it today,” you laugh, knowing you’ll be sitting on his bed, just watching.

“And you like that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows, and you’re not sure if it’s a test to see how much you like this man’s son.

“I don’t mind,” you shrug, looking away and out of the window; blue skies and a warm sun, a breeze slipping in through the window. You’re going to spend your whole day upstairs. 

“Don’t mind, or don’t like it?” he asks again, turning around when the two pieces pop out, and he’s reaching for the butter and honey. “Just cause he’s my son doesn’t mean everything he does is good in my eyes,” he adds on, using a knife to swipe on the butter.

“I know,” you nod, sitting up a bit more when he slides the pieces of toast in front of you. “But… there isn’t really anything to do anyway,” you lift a piece of toast, taking a bite.

“Nothing to do? Mid-July?” he scoffs, the other two pieces going in, and he leans on his forearms against the island. “Swimming down at the lake? Farmer’s market? A movie, even,” he explains further, his eyes looking into yours.

“I mean, I guess,” you laugh a little, putting the piece of toast down. “We don’t do… date stuff, like I don’t really need dates, and dinner, and stuff,” you shrug, and he’s amused at how this kid he raised turned out to be such a piece of shit. 

“Is he your boyfriend or your friend?” he suddenly presses, and you’re licking the honey residue on your lips, and he’s watching the swipe of your tongue.

He can’t help it; you’re sitting there, sleepy eyes looking at him, wearing nothing but a sweet nightgown, soft skin, and soft hands, and his son doesn’t know how to deal with any of that. It’s infuriating. 

“Boyfriend,” you say quietly, staring at the crumbs on your plate. “We do dating stuff at home,” you explain, and you watch him roll his eyes.

“Yeah? Like what?” he asks as the toast pops up, and he’s turning back around to pull it out. “I’m listening,” he taunts, and you’re biting your lip, watching his biceps when he puts butter on his toast. It’s so simple, but you’re staring.

“Like… you know,” you laugh again, and he’s smiling too, turning around with his own plate.

He stares at you now, watching you take another bite–yeah, he knows what you mean: lazy, boring sex, where you lie there, and your boyfriend basically uses you as a hole, and you take it because he’s the first boyfriend you’ve ever had and you don’t know any better. He could show you what it’s supposed to feel like; that’s all that’s going through his head. 

“Mmm,” he nods in acknowledgement, watching his jaw when he chews the bread, and you tilt your head to the side. He briefly wipes his mouth, glancing at the window; warm and sunny.

“Why don’t you get your bathing suit on?” he abruptly asks, and you quickly remember, yeah, there’s a swimming pool in the backyard, and your boyfriend never lets you use it for some reason.

“Uhm…” you mumble and shake your head a little, not knowing how your boyfriend would feel if he walked down and saw his dad with his girlfriend outside, and she’s wearing a bikini. 

“He won’t be up until noon,” he says, and you know he’s right; most of the time he sleeps in way past noon, leaving you bored and alone. You smile, carefully moving out of the stool.

“Okay,” you give in, and quickly disappear from the kitchen and back upstairs into your boyfriend’s bedroom. He’s still asleep, groaning when you crack open the door.

Digging through your overnight bag, you find your bathing suit and scowl at the look of it. You were going to wear this with your boyfriend, alone, hidden away in the lake he promised you he’d take you to; it was a little skimpy, and it was supposed to be–it was for your boyfriend; you didn’t want to wear something dorky. It’s all you have. 

The white, loose straps slide over your bare body, and you’re trying your best not to wake your sleeping boyfriend. You look down and swallow hard, noticing how little coverage there really is, then grab your towel from your bag and head back downstairs.

He’s already out by the pool, lounging in a chair; legs propped up on the small table before him, a mug in one hand, and his book in the other. His eyes lift when the screendoor opens, and you step outside, towel modestly wrapped around you, even though in seconds it’ll be draped over a chair. He smiles. 

You slip off the towel and instantly feel the summer heat on your arms and legs, a consistent warmth brushing along your skin. You can’t believe your boyfriend wanted to spend the day in his bedroom, rotting in front of a desk, playing video games. 

“Sweetheart,” his dad interrupts your thoughts, and you turn your head, your bare feet standing halfway on the steps. “Too sunny for you not to be wearing sunscreen,” he scolds lightly, shifting to the edge of the chair, closing his book and placing it on the table with the mug.

“I… I didn’t bring any,” you shake your head and stare at him, and he clicks his tongue.

“That’s fine,” he nods as he stands to his feet, reaching forward–right there, a bottle sitting on the table- and he waves you over to him. “Don’t want you to burn.”

When you approach him, he just gestures for you to turn around, and you swallow hard, no longer facing him. It’s cold when the cream hits your skin, and he’s applying it to your back for you, strong hands moving over your back and shoulders, one hand tucking your hair to keep it out of the sticky mess. 

“It’s cold, yeah?” he jokes, and gently pats your hip, and you turn around. “I know it’s hard to get your back,” he explains, and hands you the bottle so you can do the rest; your legs and stomach–he knows that would be a little too invasive, but you wouldn’t protest.

You hesitantly sit down beside him, using your hands to rub the cream onto your legs and thighs, trying to ignore the fact he’s watching you; hands roaming across the skin, your bikini strap slipping down your shoulder, and he bites back a groan, settling back into the chair again. 

“The water’s warm,” he comments when you stand to your feet, and his eyes immediately roam over you, focusing on the bottoms hugging you, framing you.

You look over your shoulder, and he’s crossing a leg over the other, his heels resting on the table again, and he’s holding his mug. He smiles at you, and you smile back, finally dipping into the water.

It’s beyond refreshing, and you sigh in relief when you’re waist deep. The summer heat immediately disappears as you sink lower and lower, just until your head is visible, and he’s watching, eyes peeking from his book. You’re smiling, gliding through the water and into the deep end, quickly dipping your head under.

When you come up, he’s already looking at you, nodding. Your hair is soaking wet, draping over your body, and he breathes in heavier, adjusting his hips. He’s mad just looking at you–you’re his son’s; that’s who you belong to, and it pains him. 

You swim to the edge after a bit, resting your chin on your forearms that cross over the concrete, the majority of your body still submerged, and he notices, putting the book down in his lap. He quirks his eyebrow, tilting his head, and you give him a grin.

“What?” he calls over to you, and you can only smile at him, and he’s tempted to walk over.

“Nothing,” you shake your head, and he’s setting the book down, standing up. You gulp, watching him saunter over, slow strides to the edge of the pool.

He stands there, hovering right over you, and you stare up at him, head completely tipped back. Your head slides up, shielding the sun, and he’s looking over his shoulder, gesturing for you to get out.

“He’ll be up soon, sweetheart,” he tells you, resting his hands on his hips now, and you sigh, swimming backwards. He smiles at the childish reaction and walks over towards the pool stairs, not getting in.

You slowly swim towards him, and he’s reaching out, offering his hand, and you take it, slowly coming out of the water. He glances down, watching the droplets drip down your body, and you shiver, covering your arms from the summer breeze. 

“Atta girl,” he mumbles when you get out, reaching over to grab your towel and carefully placing it over your shoulders for you. He pats your back gently, eyes focused on your damp lashes and flushed cheeks.

He carefully guides you back inside, his hand on your upper back against the towel, and you freeze the minute you step into the kitchen; your boyfriend sits there, hunched over the dining table, shoving a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. He looks up and over at you, grinning–that stupid fucking grin.

“You guys didn’t even wait for me.” he shakes his head, and you feel his dad quickly pull away like he was caught doing something. “I would’ve joined you, or some shit,” he says through a mouthful, and his dad is rolling his eyes.

“Kid, we don’t have all day,” his dad chimes in, lightly pressing his thumb in your lower back. “You’re dripping everywhere,” he mumbles into your ear, and you’re staring at your boyfriend who is focused on the bowl of milk.

Right. Your hair is wet from the pool, and the pool water is on the tile.

“Sorry–sorry,” you shake your head, and he smiles, patting your back now, ushering you to get changed upstairs.

“Don’t apologize, sweetheart,” he drawls out, and you begin to walk towards the staircase, being careful not to slip.

He looks between his son and you; this beautiful girl, all wet, sun-kissed skin, and he sits there, mouth full of cereal, ignoring his half-naked girlfriend running upstairs. Maybe he’s that much of a fucking pervert for staring at you–he shakes the thought off as a moral dilemma, sighing and heading to the kitchen. 

You return after just a few minutes; hair still damp, but a white dress is thrown on, and your boyfriend’s dad notices before he does. He grinds his teeth, watching his son not even bothering to look up from his cellphone.

“Kid,” his dad calls out, and he quickly lifts his head, finally noticing you.

“You look hot,” your boyfriend nods, setting his phone onto the table, and you bite your lip shyly, looking over your shoulder for a second; those darker eyes are looking at you from the kitchen, and he’d use more than ‘hot’ to describe how you look right now.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, and he lifts his hand, taking yours and pulling you a little closer. He’s still at the table, and you’re awkwardly standing by the chair. 

“My buddies are gonna be on in like thirty minutes,” he tells you, looking up at you from the chair. “Wanna…” he mumbles so his dad won’t hear, but he does, and pretends like he’s focused on refilling his coffee.

“I… just got dressed,” you whisper, shaking your head a little, already knowing how the sex would be.

“Yeah? And you look hot,” he grins, taking his hand from you, and shamelessly smacking the side of your hip, and you shift a little, shaking your head again.

“Not right now,” you mumble, and he sighs, leaning back into the chair.

His dad is listening to this entire kitchen despite the fact he’s in front of the sink, currently focused on scrubbing down a plate, though his ears are on both of you: your light banter, his son begging his girlfriend for sex, and she’s expecting the absolute worst. He wants to go in there and take you away, wants to show you how it’s supposed to be. He can only grit his teeth. 

“Fine,” he says, standing up, lifting his hands like he's guilty. “You can watch me game for six hours… without any sex later,” he whispers the last part, and you step aside, eyebrows furrowed.

“Come on,” you grumble when he turns his back on you, already leaving to log onto some stupid video game. “I’m dressed!” you want to stomp your foot like a petulant child, but he’s already heading up the stairs, his bedroom shutting. 

“You okay, kid?” his dad suddenly chimes in, and you look up and over into the kitchen. “Can take you somewhere if that’s what you’re worried about,” he offers, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Just… I don’t know, I thought he’d take me somewhere if I looked pretty,” you tell him, laughing at how stupid it sounds, and his gut twists at that stupid sentence.

“You do look pretty,” he says casually, tipping his head back to finish off the last drops of the coffee. “Where’d you wanna go?” he asks, putting his hands into his sweatpants pockets and slowly walking over to you.

“I don’t know,” you shake your head, looking away, not even knowing where you’d go–you weren’t used to being taken anywhere, especially with any man.

“Mmm…” he hums, trying to think of where he’d take a young thing like you. “Can take you down to the diner, for lunch,” he offers, and you immediately beam at the idea.

“Really? I mean–we don’t have to; he’ll probably take me later, or something,” you quickly intervene, not wanting to cause any trouble, but he’s nodding towards the front door. 

“Get your shoes on, I’ll be ready,” he tells you, quickly turning away, giving you little time even to protest. 

Sitting on the bench in the front hall is when it hits; you’re going out for lunch with your boyfriend’s dad; meanwhile, your boyfriend is in his bedroom, gaming, oblivious to what’s happening. You smile to yourself at the thought, leaning over, tying the laces of your white tennis shoes.

“You ready, kid?” that deep voice says, and you quickly look up; he threw on some casual clothes–just jeans and a basic T-shirt, not bothering to shave off his five o’clock shadow before heading back down, and you nod.

He opens the front door and lets you out first, fumbling with the keys to his car, letting you climb into the passenger seat. He quickly joins you, and reversing out of the driveway, heads downtown where the little diner is located. You awkwardly shift against the leather seats, not really knowing what to talk about, what to say, or how to act. He’s intimidating.

You glance over, and he’s lighting a cigarette, having it propped in his mouth, his free hand holding the Zippo lighter to it, and you watch him. He looks over at you, raising his brows. 

“I didn’t know you…” You laugh a little, and he laughs out a breath of smoke.

“I shouldn’t,” he denies, holding the wheel with the same hand that holds his cigarette. “Plenty of things we shouldn’t do but still do,” he shrugs, and you can tell it has a double meaning. You look out of the window. 

The diner is busy, and it makes sense; a Saturday afternoon, and you hop out of the car when he parks, and he does it effortlessly–not the parking, the way he takes hold of your hand, squeezing it, keeping you close to his side. It’s a protective gesture, maybe not even romantic. 

You look up at him, and he’s focused on heading to the front doors, quickly opening it for you.

“You want a booth, sweetheart?” he asks you while you wait for a hostess, and you nod. That’s the first thing he asks when the middle-aged woman approaches the two of you, holding two menus, grinning, red lipstick on her teeth. 

“Father-daughter date?” she asks, a twang in her voice, and you look down at the table when you slide into the booth.

“Daughter, almost, yeah,” he nods, settling in the booth in front of you, taking a menu. 

She takes out her notepad. “Sweet. What can I get y’all to drink?”

“Just… water, please, that’s fine,” you speak up first, and she’s immediately jotting down the order.

“Just a coffee, black,” he grins at the waitress, and she’s off, heading into the back to grab the drinks.

This is what you were nervous about–how awkward it suddenly is. He sits there, rubbing his scruff in thought, staring at his son’s daughter, and your head is bowed slightly, gazing at the table. 

“You doing anything tonight at least?” he speaks up, resting his forearms on the table, his hands collapsed together. “Movie? Dinner?”

You shake your head. “No… he’s gonna be doing something silly,” you shrug, looking up at him.

He sighs and leans back into the booth, adjusting his hips, licking his lips. You watch in awe, blinking slowly, and you hate the light you’re seeing him in; beyond your boyfriend’s dad.

“I’ll make a movie night happen,” he reassures, looking back to you. “Just at home, don’t worry, sweetheart,” he promises, his eyes glancing at the waitress as she places down the drinks.

You can’t even protest against the idea again; he’s already ordering for himself- just a burger and fries–and you order waffles, feeling relieved that they were still serving breakfast, and he smirks at your choice. Somehow he knew.

“Going back to college in September?” he asks, holding the fresh coffee to his lips.

You take a sip of your water. “Yeah.” 

“He tells me you’re a smart girl,” he quips, putting down the mug, and you blush.

“Yeah… right,” you say sarcastically, biting your lip.

“No… no, I believe him,” he reassures, running his tongue against his teeth. “I can just tell, you know? Smart thing you are,” he says, and you hate the way your thighs squeeze together.

He breathes through his nose, a heavy huff, like he knows you’re almost squirming in the booth. And then comes the second thought: your moans and whines, how sickeningly sweet they were, and how he wishes he could be the one to coax them out of you. To make you finish.

“Waffles for the girl,” a woman’s voice suddenly breaks the silence, sliding the plate towards you. “And a burger for dad… enjoy,” she nods, quickly leaving the two of you alone. 

“Dad,” you repeat quietly, laughing under your breath, your eyes gazing at the mess of waffles.

“Father-in-law, if things keep going well,” he says, almost taunting, hanging the horrid idea over your head, and your heart drops at the idea of marriage, marrying that boy who doesn’t know shit about you, shit about anything that matters.

“Yeah, my father-in-law,” you mumble sarcastically, and he picks up on it, nudging your ankle with his boot. He does it so smoothly that anyone would call you crazy if you pointed it out, but it was intentional, and you know it. 

Lunch is quiet, and you don’t mind it, not at all. You occasionally glance up at him, and he’s usually already looking at you, watching your lips covered in syrup, your teeth, the way you bite, the way you chew, the way each part of your body moves. He grinds his teeth.

“You all full yet?” he asks, putting down his burger, and the words make you laugh, even with your mouthful of syrup and chocolate chip pancakes.

“Yeah… I’m full,” you mumble, placing down your fork. “Stuffed, even,” you continue with a laugh, and you see the muscles in his jaws clench. You’re not sure if there’s a play on words going on, but you feel a warmth in your stomach.

“Yeah, you finished?” he responds, and you can tell he’s not talking about breakfast food and sweet waffles. He’s talking about last night, and you blink, shifting against the booth, and he pokes his cheek with his tongue.

“I usually never finish,” you shake your head, looking back up at him, slightly gesturing to the plate with a little bit of food left. 

He knows what you mean. You both do. 

“Maybe you can finish this time,” he says back to you, looking at the scraps. “Finish for me?”

The tension is cut when the waitress is sliding the bill onto the table,e and you snap your head to look at her, like she might have a clue as to what that subtle conversation was about. She’s waiting as he takes the bill, fishing into his pocket for his wallet, and throwing a few bills onto the table.

“You ready to go?” he checks when the waitress wanders off, and you’re still stuck on the whole conversation about finishing and not finishing, but you nod, shifting out of the booth. 

He puts his hand on your back as you’re leaving, guiding you out of the place, his hand fingers lightly curling into the cotton of your dress. He gazes down, only being able to admire how you look right now: hair the slightest bit damp from the pool, legs shiny and warm, your eyes hitting the sun just right–all he can think about is his son, and how selfish he is. 

The drive back home is quiet, and you’re always finding yourself looking at him; hands on the wheel, no wedding ring on his finger–you’ve heard your boyfriend complain about it, the divorce, how messy it was, and how his dad never managed to remarry, nor find a woman to date.

You shift in the leather seat, letting your legs part slightly. Your lips go into a thin line, hoping he’d notice. He does. 

He looks away from the road and over at your legs, the gap between where your thighs part, the hem of your dress bunching up. It doesn’t help that the windows are down and the summer breeze catches it, letting it drift up a bit further. You look at him, and he’s looking at you too. It’s silent, just quiet blinking and the distant sound of the radio.

A large hand reaches over, swiftly, and it’s quick; just a gentle pat on your bare thigh, barely a big deal if you told your friends about it, but it’s him, and it’s his look, and he flashes that grin.

“Glad you had fun today,” he mumbles, taking his hand away and resting it back on the steering wheel, and you just stare, cheeks warm. You’re not even sure if your boyfriend touches your thighs like that.

When you walk into the house with him, it’s quiet, just the occasional shouts from upstairs–your boyfriend playing a video game, oblivious to the fact that his girlfriend and father just went out together and secretly talked about his inability to have good sex. He didn’t even check, didn’t even care. 

“I think… I’m gonna go see him,” you mumble to his dad as he shuts the front door, and he looks at you, nodding in understanding. You can’t just do this all day.

His hand catches your cheek, a gentle touch, and you wish you could call it parental, but it’s not. His thumb rubs your cheek, and he’s staring at you, and you’re frozen. Nothing is platonic about it, not a single part of it, and you swallow hard.

“I’ll be down here if you need anything,” he reassures, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “Anything, okay?” he confirms, his head leaning down a bit, getting to your height, and you nod.

He watches you disappear up the stairs, and he wants to slap himself across the face when he catches himself trying to see if your dress accidentally slips up when you hit a step. He wants to bunch it up, put you on the counter, and show you that his son is nothing but a product of the man he isn’t. 

It’s painfully boring sitting on your boyfriend’s bed, staring at him, his head turned to you as his hand moves across his mouse, clicking at his keyboard. You sigh and tip your head back against the headboard, waiting for when he’ll give you any ounce of attention. You’re wondering how he can be so neglectful when you’re sitting there in a small dress, your thighs parted in a way so he can see your underwear–you just want attention, anything. 

The next time he looks back is when there’s a knock on his bedroom door, and his dad peeks his head in, looking at the scene: his son at his computer desk, you on the bed, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. 

“There’s a movie playing downstairs,” he cuts in, and he watches his son scoff, looking back at his game. “You two can go down and watch if you’d like,” he offers, and he looks over at you.

“Not right now,” your boyfriend mumbles, quickly shaking his head. “I have like four other matches after this one,” he adds, looking back at you. “Babe, you can watch if you want.”

His dad looks at you, and you give him a little nod. He gives you a discreet gesture; just two fingers beckoning you to leave his son’s room, and you look at your boyfriend, slowly crawling out of his bed filled with messy sheets and laundry that needs to be hung up. You smile to yourself when you enter the hallway, alone with his dad. 

“Saved you, didn’t I?” he asks, his voice quiet, and you laugh a little.

“Mhm, been doing that for hours,” you mumble, looking down at the hardwood, but his hooked index finger catches your chin, forcing you to look up.

“You don’t deserve that, you know?” he tells you, his eyes darkening with his words. “You're young, and pretty… and smart and nice, and you have a lot going for you, sweetheart,” he says, keeping his voice low. 

You stare up at him with parted lips, covered in gloss from when you were trying to impress your boyfriend. He notices, and doesn’t hesitate to wipe the corner of your mouth where the gloss gathers, letting the glitter stick to his thumb.

“Okay,” you mumble quietly, and he slides his hand down to your shoulder.

The two of you slowly walk down the staircase and into the living room. The television is flicked on, and a movie quietly hums, and you’re sure it’s just there for decoration, but you don’t mind at all. You take a seat on the couch, and it groans when he sits beside you, leaving little room between the two of you. 

“You want something to eat?” he offers, and looks at you, swiftly putting his arm around your shoulder, and you lean into him just a bit.

“Still full from the waffles,” you nod, laughing, and he swipes his thumb over the sleeve of your dress.

“Still?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

You nod again. “Mhm, really full.”

A silence stretches again, and he’s just looking at the side of your face: your nose, your cheeks, your lips, the way your hair is tucked behind your ear, and he wants to lean in and kiss that jawline until you’re whining and withering beneath him. He looks back at the television.

“Brutal kid,” he comments when there’s a scream from upstairs, and you’re assuming your boyfriend just lost a round of whatever video game he’s playing.

“He’s… just passionate,” you defend, still feeling like it’s your job to make your boyfriend seem better than he is.

“Not at much,” he ticks his head, lifting his whisky glass that rested on the side table to his lips. “Right?” he asks for your input, and you hesitantly nod.

“Yeah…” you mumble, and you shift your hips against the couch, and he notices.

“Doesn’t treat you right,” he adds on, shaking his head in distaste.

“He doesn’t,” you admit, and he sighs, sliding his hand from your shoulder and down to your waist, squeezing lightly. You’re trying to act like this is normal.

“Poor girl,” he says quietly as he turns his head again, and you do it at the same time; you’re both just looking at each other in the dimly lit room.

You make a silent agreement; your lips part and his do too, and suddenly, you’re kissing. 

His lips are warm and soft, whisky and cigarettes lingering, and your mouth immediately parts, inviting his tongue in, and he doesn’t hesitate to slip in past yours. You whine into it, and he realizes just how deprived you really are.

It’s a clash of your cotton candy lip gloss and his rough lips, and he’s taking advantage of his hand position. It’s sliding up your dress, and it’s reaching, gripping your bare thighs, pulling you further into the suide of him, and he’s groaning, and your eyes flutter beneath your closed lids. His hands are experienced, careful, his hand finding its way right between your thighs.

“Hey… hey,” you mumble, pulling back, and his hand halts at the front of your underwear. “M’nervous… really scared,” you whisper, feeling his saliva on your lips.

“Don’t be, baby,” he whispers, bypassing your lips and putting his own on the corner of your jaw, where he’d been eyeing earlier. “Gonna make you feel good… promise, kid,” he tells you, and you nod.

His hand lightly cups your core through your underwear, and you realize you’ve never had somebody focus on just a single part of you; you’re always the one giving a hand job, or on your knees, and right now this man’s thumb is working just against you, getting nothing out of it except your reaction. That’s all he wants.

You gasp, and your head tips back, feeling the friction of the cotton against your sensitive skin. You whimper, and he lightly squeezes it, and it’s something you’ve never experienced. It’s warm and rough, his palm. 

“See? Making you feel good,” he whispers into your ear, his nose nudging against it, and you nod, letting your hips almost grind into it, a needy gesture he smiles at.

“Mhm…” you agree, and he pulls away, gripping your hips and guiding you to sit against his thigh. You’re easy to move, especially when he’s strong, and you can feel the muscles through his shirt when you rest your hand on his bicep.

You’re back to kissing; all sloppy and hungry, clearly a result of your boyfriend avoiding any real intimacy. This is what it feels like actually to kiss a man, and the thought makes you guilty, but you know it’s right. 

“Grind your hips for me,” he whispers into the kiss, and you start rocking them, right against his thigh. His hands find your hips, helping you and guiding your movements. “Good girl.” 

You moan into his mouth at the feeling, the pressure and the friction, the constant stimulation right where you need it. It feels better than any sex you’ve had, and this is just with his damn thigh. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling back, and he looks up at you; head tipped back, neck extended. 

You keep grinding and grinding, moving against his thick thigh, and he’s watching your eyes flutter, and your features contort, all from the pleasure. It’s amusing, knowing his son can’t do this–it’s a sick thought, sour when he almost says it.

“Thank you… thank you,” you whine, and his eyes light up at the way you’re thanking him. You were that desperate, and he’s reliving it, just by letting you ride his thigh. 

“Oh, baby,” he coos quietly, lifting a hand to push your hair back. “Don’t thank me, nothing to be thankful for,” he whispers, brushing your hair back again.

“But… I am… I am,” you whine again, panting, and he can see your hips moving quickly, chasing a high you never seem to reach.

“Need dad to help?” he whispers, and you whimper at the way he’s speaking; low and slow, slick with them, calling himself dad–he’s supposed to be your father-in-law, if things keep going well, right?

“Please… help me,” you ask, and he almost feels bad at how neglected you are, and just how easy you’re melting and begging. He nods. 

“I got you, baby,” he mumbles softly, and he maneuvers you again.

His hands grab at your thighs, and he guides you onto the couch, your back pressing against the leather cushions. He’s between your thighs, working up your dress, looking between your legs now, gazing at the underwear he wanted a peek at; the white fabric is translucent.

“You’re making a mess, sweetheart,” he whispers, and you lift your hips in protest, your head tipping back. He feels his heart breaking–you are so desperate. 

“I know–I know,” you nod quickly, groaning, and he’s just watching in awe. He’s never seen anything like it before, such sexual frustration.

“Dad’s got you,” he reminds, reaching down to tug down your underwear, letting it fall down your thighs and past your knees. He doesn’t toss it aside, though. 

“Need you to be quiet, yeah? Okay, darlin’?” he says, and he does it; he makes you put your underwear in your mouth, gagging it, forcing you to whine into them instead of getting caught. 

You muffle something into the damp fabric, and it’s an unbelievable sight; your hair fanning behind your head, eyes glossy and wide, and your mouth filled with your underwear. It’s out of every sick fantasy he’s ever had of you.

He’s working on his belt now, unbuckling it, letting his jeans and boxers sag–he has to be somewhat discreet, can’t just throw them on the floor. He leans forward, a hand on your thigh, and the other one stroking himself; your eyes widen at the sight, just how long and hard he is.

He notices the look on your face, and his ego boosts. He’s big, bigger than anyone else.

“Yeah, I know,” he almost chuckles, stroking himself, letting his tip run through your folds and your head immediately tips back. “I’ll make it fit, baby,” he promises, nudging in just the head.

Somehow, that’s the best feeling you’ve had in a while; that sting, that stretch you’re not used to, and he’s already groaning himself, not expecting you to be so tight. You are, and he knows this is going to be harder than he thought. 

“Feelin’ so good already,” he praises, pushing in just a bit deeper, and then finally sliding in further. You’re so wet, it doesn’t take any effort for him to glide right in; it’s almost embarrassing.

“There we go… there we go, sweetheart,” he groans out, his head tipping back when you clench around him. It feels so good; he doesn’t know how to articulate words right now–you can’t; your mouth is stuffed. 

He starts slow, long thrusts, pulling out and diving right back in. It’s deep and slow, and he can hear the little whines from behind the cotton underwear, the way your eyes almost roll back each time he goes in fully, and you’re convinced he’s hitting your cervix.

“Never felt this, huh,” he jokes, and you shake your head, gripping the side of the couch cushion. “Never been fucked properly,” he adds, shaking his head with you.

He’s almost running off anger now; the thought of his son being so fucked stupid, so god damn careless, that his dad has to take over and show his girlfriend what it’s supposed to be like. He hates the thought, but it’s pushing him to thrust harder, to grip your thighs tighter, to go deeper and deeper. He can tell you’re enjoying, the blissed-out look bleeding into your features.

It’s the most foreign feeling ever; the sudden tightness in your stomach, the knot, the heat building and building and you’ve never felt this from pure sex. There’s always a hand at play, a thumb working against your clit, some fucking object doing the work, but it’s just him, just his cock making you feel this way. You’re drunk on the thought. 

“Gonna make you cum, baby, all over me,” he promises, grunting louder when he feels you clench, your walls tightening. “First time… yeah? First time being fucked and cumming from it?” 

You whine, head lulling back, but you’re nodding, almost crying at how good it feels to finally feel this way. To feel good. He’s swelling with pride.

“Feeling me all deep in your tummy, aren’t you?” he asks, and you groan, knowing he’s in your guts right now. “Mhm… gonna feel me tomorrow, eatin’ breakfast beside him,” he taunts, his words sharp and almost a threat.

You don’t care that he doesn’t have a condom on, that there’s zero protection–you just want him to fill you, to stuff you, to treat you like you’re supposed to be treated.

“He’s fucking clueless,” he eggs on, and you’re squirming now, trying not to cum. “Clueless m’fucking your brains out, right below him,” he grunts, and he feels you clench and clench, a pulse, and you’re cumming. For the first time.

His own jaw goes slack when he feels the rush, the warmth, the way your back arches and twists in defiance, like you’re fighting against your body. Your cheeks are flushed, and you’re sweating, forehead glistening, and he can only watch it happen between you. 

It doesn’t take long for him to catch up, and he’s cumming too, filling you up, just like you wanted him to; deep and warm, a strong feeling right in the centre of your abdomen, this constant pressure, reminding you how hard he just fucked you, and how hard he came. It’s the risk, how bad this is, how desperate both of you are, and he’s shameless.

“You’re so full… stuffed to the brim, m’promise,” he mumbles, his eyes closed as he pants, not pulling out, refusing to. “Filled with me… just, so full,” he adds on, like he’s drunk on the feeling too.

You’re still lying there, underwear in your mouth, swearing to God you can feel tears brimming at your eyes from just how overwhelmed you are. It feels good, just resting there, feeling more full than your boyfriend has ever made you.