Labyrinth of Dreams

one big hand slides up, covers your mouth completely. palm warm, fingers splayed wide so your muffled whimpers vibrate right into his skin. he doesn’t squeeze, doesn’t hurt—just holds. keeps every needy little sound locked behind his hand while he starts fucking you in long, punishing strokes.

the wet slap of his hips meeting your ass fills the room. loud. obscene. you can feel how soaked you are, how your slick’s dripping down your thighs, coating his balls every time he bottoms out.

his other hand snakes between your bodies.

two fingers find your clit immediately: swollen, oversensitive, throbbing and he doesn’t tease you, just rubs firm, tight circles.

your man is mean.

your whole body jerks under him, back arching uselessly because there’s nowhere to go. he’s too heavy, too deep, too everywhere. the overstimulation hits like a freight train and you’re crying into his palm, tears slipping down your temples, thighs trying to snap shut but his knees keep you spread wide.

“there she is,” he breathes against your cheek. “that’s it. let it happen.”

he grinds in deep, pubic bone crushing right against your clit while his fingers keep working merciless little circles. your cunt clamps down so hard he groans—low, wrecked—and his rhythm stutters for half a second before he fucks you even harder.

“gonna cum again for me?” his voice is velvet dragged over gravel. “even though it’s too much? even though you’re shaking?”

you can only sob into his hand. nod frantically. thighs quivering, toes curling, whole body wound so tight you think you might break.

he presses his forehead to yours. eyes dark, pupils blown. watching every twitch of your face while he ruins you.

“good girl,” he whispers. “cum on my cock. soak me. make a fucking mess.”

his fingers speed up. relentless, and you do.

you shatter so hard your vision whites out, back bowing, cunt spasming violently around his length while you scream into his palm. he doesn’t stop fucking you through it—keeps that same brutal pace, drawing it out until you’re limp and twitching and drooling against his hand.

only then does he finally slow.

still buried to the hilt.

still heavy on top of you.

he lifts his palm just enough to let you gasp wet, shaky breaths.

then he kisses the corner of your mouth, soft and almost tender.

“you’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs. “not until i say so.”

and he rolls his hips again—just once. slow and deep.

making sure you feel every inch.

JINU

You’re a sweetheart.

The fact that you’ve never gone further than a kiss? That you don’t know what dicking someone down even means? For Jinu, that’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He delights in it. He lives for it. Not because he thinks less of you, not because he wants to tease (though god, he does), but because it feeds something primal in him. The thought that your first shiver, your first gasp, your first moan, every little milestone in intimacy, will be his doing.

You are innocent. Truly. Sweet as sugar. You’ve never kissed with tongue, never gone past a lingering peck, never even thought about sex without blushing into your sleeves. And you, pathetic, heart-on-sleeve creature that you are, love nothing more than curling up against Jinu. Always. Always cuddling into his chest, brushing kisses over his jaw, hugging him. You curl up against him on the couch with your head in his lap, kissing his palm absentmindedly, and he feels like he’s going to combust. You nuzzle into his neck when he’s reading something, kiss his temple before bed, and it fucks him. Because it never goes further. Never slips into what his dirty mind is screaming for.

The relationship is a little toxic, because Jinu is toxic. He can’t help it. He’s manipulative, territorial, selfish in a way only centuries of survival can breed. He’ll scold you for paying too much attention to the others. He’ll bribe you with food, gifts, touches. He’ll sulk when you deny him, pacing the room until you tug him down beside you and kiss his forehead, soothing him with your soft, steady voice. You always forgive too easily, and he uses that like a weapon. He’s an evil man who found himself addicted to a good thing.

But when you’re lying on top of him, chin propped on your folded arms against his chest, eyes bright with nothing but love, whispering “You’re so handsome, Jinu” he feels like he’s dying. Like maybe he never lived before this.

And when you press kiss after kiss after kiss to his lips, soft, innocent, chaste pecks that never turn into anything dirtier, he goes half-mad. He wants to corrupt you. To ruin you. To make you his in the darkest way. But you don’t give him that. You give him only sweetness. And it’s killing him.

He’ll spread out on the couch, robe loose(he will NOT let go of that fucking robe I swear man), and you’ll just… pad over, curl up against him, and tuck yourself under his arm without asking. You’ll put your head on his chest, nuzzle his neck, leave little soft kisses that never dip below sweet.

That’s it. That’s your idea of intimacy.

Jinu is filth. He’s the dirtiest dog on the planet. He looks at you and his mind is immediately in the gutter, always. Your lips brush his cheek and he’s imagining your mouth open under his. You hold his hand and he wants to pin your wrists to the mattress. You giggle against his shoulder and he wants to corrupt every innocent sound you make until it’s his name leaving your throat instead.

But he doesn’t get that. Not yet. Because you don’t even know.

One night, you’re curled up in his lap, straddling him because you’re clingy and love being close, your arms looped lazily around his neck. You kiss his lips, soft, sweet, like a little bird. Then you pull back, smile, and watch his pretty demon face.

And Jinu is dying. Because that wasn’t even a kiss, not in his book. Not the kind that involves teeth and tongue and a desperate pull of breath. It’s… innocent. Barely there.

He murmurs something.

“Hm?” you ask, blinking at him with those sweet, confused eyes.

“Nothing.” he lies, kissing your forehead.

You’ve told him before, shyly, fidgeting with your hands, that you’re… inexperienced. That you’ve never done anything beyond hugging and holding hands and maybe a peck or two in your life. And Jinu had laughed, not meanly, but like he couldn’t believe the universe handed him this kind of untouched sweetness.

And he loves it. Oh, he loves it.

Your innocence drives him insane. The way you’re so trusting, so pure in your affection. You drape yourself over him constantly, cuddle like a cat, press your lips to his jaw just to say “I love you” without words. You don’t even realize how suggestive it could be, not really. To you, it’s just… love. And to him, it’s torment. Delicious, endless torment.

Because Jinu is filthy, yes, but he’s also in love. He adores you in a way that unsettles him. He’ll let you climb into his bed every night just to curl against him like a blanket, kissing his shoulder until you fall asleep. He’ll stroke your hair and call you his little angel, his sweetheart, his baby, all while thinking things he can never say out loud because you’d probably blush yourself into a coma.

And the worst part? You’re so happy with it. With just kissing, hugging, and being close. You never push for more, because you don’t know there’s more. You just think that’s what dating is, cuddling up to your boyfriend, giving him soft kisses, telling him you love him.

And Jinu, the pervert, the manipulator, the filthy dog, sits there and takes it, because he’d rather starve on scraps from you than feast on anyone else.

When you fall asleep curled into him, cheek pressed against his chest, little hand clutching his robe, Jinu just stares at the ceiling. Smirking, sometimes. Groaning, often. But always with one hand stroking your hair, slow and gentle.

Changes started small. You sitting on his lap one night, curled up like always, your chin tucked into the crook of his neck. You kissed him, soft, sweet, like the thousand times before. But when you pulled away, he didn’t let you. His hand slid up the back of your head, kept you close, kept his mouth lingering over yours.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. And again.

You froze, not out of fear, but because you didn’t know this version of kissing. His tongue brushed your lip, testing, asking. And you, confused, innocent, a little flushed, let him. You followed his lead. Clumsy, uncertain, but trusting. Always trusting. What he did wasn’t enough to make it filthy, yet, but enough to have you pulling back breathless, touching your lips like, oh. That was different.

From there, things always escalated in little steps. Jinu never demanded. He didn’t have to. He’d kiss you deeper, linger longer, his hands brushing your sides, your waist, inching closer but never forcing. He’d guide your body, tilt your chin, place your hands where he wanted them.

And you… let him.

Because you loved him. Because he was patient. Because he made you feel safe even when his eyes were dark with something you couldn’t name.

The first time his hand brushed your chest, you squeaked, actually squeaked, and buried your face in his robe. Jinu only chuckled, low and pleased, stroking your hair. “Relax, baby. Just me. Only me.”

Weeks later, it was you. You were curled up in bed, kissing him lazily, your body buzzing from his touch. He pulled back, just barely, eyes searching yours, waiting for permission like he always did. And something inside you, some spark from all his patient teaching, made you grab his wrist and guide his hand higher. You pressed it against your breast yourself, looking away, shy, but certain.

“Here.” you whispered.

Jinu almost lost his mind. Squeezed once. But you only kissed him again.

The progress was slow, but relentless. First kisses, then deeper kisses. First brushes of his hand, then full touches. First his mouth against yours, then his mouth tracing lower, down your throat, across your collarbone, leaving trails of heat that had you arching without even realizing it.

And you let him teach you. Always. You’d watch his eyes, follow his lead, mimic his movements when he showed you how to kiss him back properly. Every time he praised you—that’s it, baby, just like that—your heart fluttered, and you wanted to try harder.

Jinu was patient, yes. But inside, he was feral. Every time you let him a little closer, every time you whimpered against his mouth or squirmed in his lap or guided his hand where you wanted him, it drove him insane. He’d bite back groans, press kisses into your hair, hide how much he wanted to throw you down and take everything at once. But he didn’t. Because you were his angel, his sweetheart, his untouched little love. And he was going to savor every single step. He knew what he was holding. A precious, naive little girlfriend who kissed his cheek, who thought climbing into his lap to cuddle was just… innocent closeness. He knew if he moved too fast, he’d scare you off, or worse, you’d look at him with those hurt, disappointed eyes, and he couldn’t survive that.

So he taught. Slowly. Patiently. Once you trusted deeper kisses and his hands on your cute tits, you loosened. You started climbing into his lap more. Sitting across his thighs, letting him hold your waist, sometimes even grinding against him by accident, just from the way you shifted when you got comfortable. And every time, he bit the inside of his cheek and told himself not to ruin it.

But you made it worse, because you started to copy him. If he licked into your mouth, you tried, clumsy and hesitant, but eager to please him. If he put his hands on your waist, you grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer. You learned. You soaked up his every move.

He taught you how to make out properly, patient every time you shied away. He taught you that kissing wasn’t just lips, it was neck, collarbones, shoulders. You learned that giggling while he kissed your jaw only made him hungrier. He let you explore him too, guided your hands over his chest, his arms, letting you feel how solid he was. He didn’t flinch when your hand lingered lower, just kissed you deeper for encouragement.

Always, always, he let you set the pace. If you wanted to stop at cuddling, he stopped. If you wanted to kiss until your lips were raw, he let you climb him like a tree. If you hesitantly touched him where you weren’t sure you were allowed, he praised you, whispered dirty encouragements that made you blush but never once made you feel unsafe.

For anyone else, Jinu would never—never—have been this patient. He’s greedy, filthy, the kind of man who likes getting what he wants the second he wants it. But for you? He’ll play the long game. He’ll put himself through absolute torture, blue-balled to hell, walking around with bruises on the inside of his lip from biting it so hard when you sit in his lap all innocent and warm. Because he loves it. He loves you. And the slow burn of teaching you, guiding you, watching you bloom under his hands is better than anything else he’s ever had.

You’re his sweet little angel, his virgin girlfriend, the one who doesn’t even know how cruel he could be if he wanted. And that innocence? It drives him feral.

One night, his hands were on you. He kissed you slow and deep, palms cupping your tits through your shirt, thumbs dragging across your nipples until you shivered against him. You broke the kiss, breathless, blinking up at him like you weren’t sure what just happened.

That was the first time anyone ever touched your nipples.

And you let him get back to it.

Your innocence wasn’t gone, it was just… shifting. Turning into something pliable in his hands. And Jinu reveled in it. The way you trusted him enough to let him push you further. The way you looked at him afterward, still sweet, still pure, even with your shirt tugged half-off your shoulder and his hand firmly over your chest.

One night, the kisses got heavier. You had been perched sideways across his thighs, your arm looped lazily around his shoulders, his palm heavy at your hip. He tilted you closer, lips hot and insistent on your throat, and something about it made your body move on its own. Your hips shifted, just slightly, a mindless adjustment for comfort, but then you felt it. The way your clit brushed against the firm muscle of his thigh.

You froze.

He felt the way you stiffened, and for a heartbeat you thought he’d call you out, tease you, ruin the moment. But Jinu only hummed against your neck, pressing another kiss there as though nothing had happened. His hand stayed steady at your hip, not pushing, not guiding. Just there.

You tried to ignore it. You shifted again, testing it, and the heat that shot through your body made your lips part on a sharp inhale. Jinu felt that too, but he didn’t move. Didn’t do anything except kiss you softer, like he was coaxing you, like he was saying without words, go on, sweetheart. I’m not stopping you.

So you tried again. Slowly. Carefully. Rocking your hips against him, small movements that made your pulse spike and your skin heat up until your whole body was buzzing. Your thighs clenched, your lips parted, and Jinu tilted his head just enough to catch your mouth again, swallowing the quiet little sound you couldn’t hold back.

You stopped almost immediately after, embarrassed, face hot with shame at what you’d been doing. “I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, trying to climb off his lap.

But Jinu caught you, gently pressing you back down, his hand warm and firm at your waist. “You don’t ever have to be shy with me. Whatever you want—take it. I’ll never stop you.”

That became a pattern. Not every time, not even most times, but sometimes when you kissed him long enough, you’d find yourself moving against his thigh. And each time you tried, he stayed steady beneath you, letting you guide everything, only murmuring things in your ear when you got too nervous. You never finished, not yet. You always got shy, hid your face in his chest, begged him to stop looking at you like that. And Jinu always listened. He’d tuck you into him, stroke your back, calm you down until your heartbeat wasn’t thundering anymore. But he never forgot the way you sounded. The way you trembled when you rocked against him.

The first time you let his hand slip under your pajama shorts, he almost stopped breathing. Not inside your underwear, not yet, that was too much. But just resting on the curve of your thigh, fingers brushing close enough to have you biting your lip. You held it there yourself, covering his hand with yours so he couldn’t move it away, even as you turned your face to the side in shame.

The first time you let him kiss down your body, slipping your shirt up to press his mouth to the soft skin of your stomach, you gasped so loud he almost laughed. But when you didn’t push him away, when you instead tangled your fingers in his hair and held him there nervously, he realized you were giving him another piece of yourself. And he took it slowly, kissing lower, always watching your face, teaching you that nothing about you could ever scare him away.

But the night you surprised him the most was when you asked to see his cock. You’d been sitting in his lap again, kissing until your lips were swollen, and suddenly you pulled back, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, not meeting his eyes. “C–can I…?”

Jinu understood immediately. His heart stuttered, but he forced himself to keep calm, stroking your hair. “Anything you want.” he murmured. “You don’t even need to ask.”

You swallowed hard, then moved shakily, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. Jinu helped, slow and careful, keeping his eyes on your face the whole time, watching your lips part as more and more skin was revealed. Until finally, you saw his cock, heavy against his thigh, thick and flushed in a way that made your breath catch.

You stared. For a long moment, you just stared.

Jinu chuckled softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Scared?”

You shook your head quickly, though your voice wobbled. “Just… it’s… a lot.”

And god, the way you said that. He almost lost his mind. But he held it together, biting back the filth he wanted to spill, because this wasn’t about him. This was about you.

“You can touch it if you want.” he said gently. “No pressure. Just look, if that’s all you’re comfortable with. I’ll never push you.” This was manipulative talk, by the way. We know he’s good at that.

You hesitated, then reached out, tentative fingers brushing against his length. He hissed at the contact, more from restraint than anything, but kept his grip steady on your waist. You touched him again, a little firmer this time, and your eyes flicked up to his like you were trying to gauge if you’d done it wrong. Jinu kissed you. Hard. Desperate.

You spent that night learning. You didn’t do much, not yet. Just touched, explored, asked questions in your soft little voice that nearly killed him with how innocent they were. “Does it hurt when it gets like this? Is it always so warm? Why’s it… twitching?”

And Jinu answered every single one. Patient, explaining in the simplest ways he could while his body burned with the effort of not grabbing your hand and showing you what you could do to him.

When you finally pulled your hand back, shy and overwhelmed, he kissed your forehead and tucked you against his chest, whispering over and over how proud he was of you. He didn’t even touch himself after you fell asleep. He just held you, hard and aching, and smiled at the ceiling. Because every time you let him in, every time you loosened a little more, it wasn’t just your body you were offering him. It was your trust. Your innocence. Your heart.

After that, he let you explore him like this more. Once, it started like usual, you in his lap, kissing until your lips tingled, until you’d gotten bold enough to push at the waistband of his sweatpants again. He always let you. Always leaned back a little, hands behind his head, letting you take the lead.

You tugged, careful, and he shifted just enough for the fabric to slip down his hips. His cock fell heavy against his thigh again, flushed and swollen, and you stared with that same wide-eyed awe you always did. Thick, flushed, veined, it looked almost unreal to you, too much and too beautiful all at once. He could’ve laughed, but he didn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he could feel something different buzzing in the air, humming under your skin.

Your lips parted. Your fingers hovered just above him. And then, in that tiny, shaky voice of yours: “…Does it always look like that? When… y’know, it’s hard?”

Jinu tilted his head. “Like what?”

You swallowed. “Like… so red. Like it hurts.”

He chuckled, low in his chest. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s supposed to be like that.”

You stared harder. “But it’s… so big. And… um. What’s…” You gestured vaguely, cheeks burning. “that stuff?”

Jinu glanced down lazily at the bead of precum glistening at the tip, then back up at you. “That’s me leaking. Happens when I get hard. Means I want you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. “What happens if—um—if you don’t… finish? Does it stay like that forever?”

That earned you a quiet laugh, the kind that made your stomach flip. “No, baby. It goes down. Eventually. Not fun, but it does.”

You went silent for a moment, nibbling at your lip, clearly working up courage. And then came the real breakthrough, the one that made his chest tighten. “So… what’s it like? When you… when you cum?”

Jinu didn’t answer immediately. He watched you instead, let the question hang there until you started to fidget like you regretted asking. “It’s release. Pressure gone. Feels good. Real good.”

You shivered, fascinated. Then, with a bravery that shocked even yourself, you whispered: “Can I… make you?”

Jinu froze. “You really mean it?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I… I want to try. Please.”

“…Alright then.” He adjusted, spread his thighs a little, his cock heavy and hard between them, and crooked a finger at you.

You moved, cautious, Your hands trembled when they brushed against him.

“Start slow.” he murmured, wrapping his hand lightly around yours, showing you how to hold him without squeezing too tight. “Good. Feel that? Veins, heat. That’s all me.”

You nodded, watching intently as your hand moved along his cock under his guidance. The weight of him, the way he pulsed faintly against your palm, it was mesmerizing.

“Don’t be shy.” he teased, voice rough. “You wanted to learn, so learn. Wrap your hand tighter. Yeah, like that.”

You obeyed, and his jaw clenched, a hiss slipping through his teeth. His free hand gripped the sheets, but his words stayed steady. “Now stroke. Up and down. Slow at first, like this.”

You followed every instruction, nervous but focused, watching the way his chest rose and fell faster, the way his eyes closed, sometimes flashed yellow when you got the rhythm right.

“It feels good?” you whispered, almost disbelieving.

“Mhm.” he agreed. “Up and down. That’s it. Steady rhythm. Don’t rush.”

You followed, obedient, your lips parted in concentration. It was clumsy, awkward at first, but Jinu didn’t care. He let out a slow breath, tilting his head back, not exaggerating his reactions. Just letting you see, letting you learn.

“Feel that?” he murmured after a while, voice rougher now. “The way it twitches when you squeeze right? That’s good. Means I like it.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, tightening your grip just slightly.

“Good girl. Keep going. Don’t be scared of it.”

Your hand moved a little smoother now, more confident with his encouragement. Your other hand hovered, unsure what to do, until Jinu caught it and placed it low on his thigh.

“Hold me there. Anchor yourself. Makes it easier.”

You obeyed, pressing into the firm muscle of his leg, and he groaned softly at the sight. You smiled shyly, spurred on, and kept moving your hand. His cock twitched in your grasp, leaking more at the tip, and you paused, startled. “It’s… dripping.”

He smirked, voice tight. “That’s a good thing. Keep going.”

You bit your lip, nodding, stroking him again. “Like this?”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “Exactly like that. Fuck, you’re a natural.”

Your cheeks burned at the praise, but you didn’t stop. You grew bolder, experimenting with pace, squeezing a little harder, watching the way his abs tightened every time you did something right. Jinu let you, correcting softly when needed, but mostly letting you explore.

“…Will it be soon?”

Jinu cracked a smile. “Eager?”

Your face went red. “No, I just—I wanted to know if I’m… doing it right.”

That made him laugh. “You’re doing perfect. And yeah… keep it up like that, and I’ll be there soon.”

You faltered, unsure. “And when it does…?”

“You’ll know.” he promised, stroking your cheek with a surprisingly gentle hand. “You’ll feel it. Just don’t stop until I tell you, alright?”

You nodded, determined, and focused on the movement of your hand. The room filled with his sounds, low groans, sharp inhales, muttered curses under his breath.

And then his voice broke, rough and unfiltered: “Fuck, baby, just like that. Don’t stop.”

The words made your heart race, but you didn’t stop. You squeezed, stroked faster, watching his entire body tense beneath you. His hand closed over yours, stroking with you, faster now, and his head tipped back as a groan tore from his chest.

“Fuck—there it is—don’t stop, baby, don’t—” You didn’t. You squeezed, you stroked, and you felt it, the twitch, the sudden heat, the cum spilling over your fingers as he came, pulsing in your hand.

You froze in shock, almost pulling back, but he caught your wrist with surprising gentleness, breathless but firm. “Don’t stop yet. Slow—yeah, that’s it. Ease me through it.”

You followed, shaky, until his body finally relaxed, his cock softening under your hand.

Only then did he let you go, laughing under his breath as he slumped back, utterly undone. He looked at you, your wide eyes, your sticky hand, your flushed cheeks, and smirked. “Not bad for your first try.”

You froze, staring at the mess, then back at him, unsure. “I… did it?”

“Mhm.”

When you ducked your face into his chest, embarrassed, he only laughed again, smug and affectionate, stroking your hair.

“Don’t hide from me now.” he teased. “You just gave me the best orgasm I’ve had in centuries. Least you can do is let me look at that pretty face.”

You groaned, mortified, but he held you close, kissing your temple. Jinu was many things, selfish, perverted, arrogant, but when it came to you, he was patient.

Then the next milestone came. It was like a week after you jerked him off for the first time. The two of you were tangled on his bed, nothing unusual about it. You curled against his side, nuzzled into his chest like you always did, soaking up the warmth he gave you.

Jinu kissed your hair, your temple, then your cheek. Sweet, easy. You tilted your head up for more, and soon his mouth was on yours, deeper, hotter.

Kissing him was always new. You never knew what you were doing, your lips too soft, your tongue hesitant, but he guided you. He always did. His hand on your jaw, his mouth coaxing yours open, his tongue slipping past your lips. You gasped softly, the way you always did, and he smiled against you.

But tonight, when you shifted to straddle his lap, expecting just more kissing, he stopped you with a hand on your waist.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

You blinked down at him. “Not… what do you mean?”

“You’ve been learning me. I think it’s time you learn you.”

Your cheeks heated immediately. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” He guided you gently back, pressing until you were lying on the sheets and he was leaning over you. “You’ve been so sweet letting me teach you. But you haven’t let yourself feel what I can give you.”

“…You want to?” you whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the dark.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “I want to. More than anything. But only if you let me.”

You chewed your lip, heart hammering in your chest. This was different. You knew it. Up until now it had been safe, playful, experimental. But this… Still, you nodded. Small, nervous. “…Okay.”

He kissed you again, slow, reassuring, then trailed lower, down your throat, your collarbone. His hand slipped under your shirt, tugging it upward. “I’ll go slow. You’ll like it. Trust me.”

You froze. This was… new. Too new. “I—I don’t know if—”

“You don’t have to know.” His voice softened, his lips brushing just above your sternum. “You just have to let me.”

Something in you cracked at that. You nodded, barely, and he smiled against your skin.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jinu’s voice was smooth, but softer than usual. A real question. A little manipulative.

You nodded immediately. “Yes.”

He kissed over your collarbone, slow enough to give you time to stop him. You didn’t. His hands slid under your shirt, up your ribs, and you let him pull it over your head, shivering under his gaze.

“Pretty.” he muttered, mostly to himself, before leaning down to kiss between your breasts, still in your bra.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair. It was new, so new, and you didn’t know what to expect. His hands slid down to your shorts, undoing them with quick fingers.

“Relax.” He kissed your stomach, teasingly gentle, as he worked the shorts down your thighs. “Nothing scary. Just me.”

You lifted your hips enough to let him pull them off. The air hit your panties, thin fabric damp already, and you wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Pretty girl.” Jinu murmured, fingers tracing the outline of your folds through the fabric. You shivered violently.

“Jinu—”

“Shh. Let me.”

And then he bent down, kissed you there. Right through the fabric. Your breath left you. It felt… different. Warm. Not bad, just shocking.

He chuckled at your reaction. “Sensitive, huh?” His teeth grazed your inner thigh before he sat back slightly. “Take these off for me.”

You hesitated, but his gaze held yours, firm and certain, and you found yourself obeying. Hooking trembling fingers into your panties, you slid them down, baring yourself to him for the first time.

He inhaled sharply. His eyes darkened. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous.”

You wanted to hide, to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently. And then, without further warning, he lowered himself and licked. The shock of it ripped a gasp from your throat. Your hips jolted up before you could stop them. His tongue was hot, wet, sliding over you in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

“Jinu—oh my god—”

He hummed against you, smug, then did it again, slower, flatter. The sound you made was strangled, desperate, and he grinned into your skin. Yeah. That’s it. That’s what he wanted to hear. The first drag of his tongue against your clit made you gasp out loud, hips jerking. It was electric, too much, too intense.

He looked up briefly, smirking against you. “That good already?”

You couldn’t answer, not with your breath catching and your thighs trembling around his head. He didn’t tease further, he went back to it, licking slow strokes that had you writhing in seconds. His tongue circled, teased, then flicked directly against your clit. You cried out, grabbing for the sheets, your body jerking.

Sensitive. Good.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The sensation was so foreign, so overwhelming you didn’t know how to process it. You writhed, whining, gasping, and he just held you steady, his hands firm on your thighs as his mouth worked you.

It was overwhelming. Too good. Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut, small noises spilling from your lips no matter how hard you tried to hold them in.

Jinu hummed against you. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

You wanted to tell him to stop talking, that it was too much, but then his mouth wrapped around your clit and sucked, and your words dissolved into a desperate moan.

Your hands scrambled for something to hold, finally tangling in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He groaned into you at that, like your desperation spurred him on, and slid his tongue deeper.

That’s when you felt it, his finger, pressing lightly at your entrance. You froze, hips jerking, panic fluttering.

“Shh.” he murmured against you, soothing. “Just my finger. I’ll go slow. Trust me.”

You whimpered, torn between fear and aching need, but you nodded, just barely.

And he kept his promise. He circled first, wetting you with his tongue until you were slick and ready, before gently easing one finger inside. The stretch was strange, foreign, and you gasped, eyes flying open.

“Breathe.” he instructed, voice low. “In… and out. Good girl.”

You did, shaky but obedient, and slowly the discomfort melted into something else. Something warmer. Deeper. His mouth returned to your clit, licking and sucking in lazy patterns, while his finger curled inside you.

It was nothing like the cautious rubbing you’d done on his thigh, nothing like fumbling under the covers. This was knowing, relentless. Every movement sent sparks up your spine. You yanked at his hair, and Jinu only groaned into you, clearly pleased with your desperation.

Him fingering you with a pretty mouth sucking on your clit was unlike anything you’d ever felt. Full in a way you didn’t know you could be, stretching and pressing against places you hadn’t even known existed.

He curled his fingers slightly, pressing against a spot that made your back arch. You gasped, clutching the sheets tighter, your voice breaking. “Oh—oh my god—”

“That’s it.” he coaxed, tongue flicking against your clit again, perfectly timed with the push of his finger. “You like that?”

You could only nod frantically, too breathless to speak, your hips jerking against his mouth. It was too much. Too new. You didn’t know how to handle it, your body shook, your breath came in ragged gasps, your mind blank except for the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure building in your core.

He focused there, stroking in rhythm with his tongue, and suddenly it was too much. Your body arched, your hand fisting his hair tight, sounds spilling from you without control.

The combination of that finger moving gently inside, his mouth hot and relentless on your clit was too much. Your vision blurred, your toes curled, and something built inside you, unbearable pressure winding tighter and tighter.

“I—something—something’s happening—”

Jinu’s voice was rough, muffled against you. “That’s it, baby. Let it happen. Don’t hold back.“

Your whole body convulsed, your cry breaking free as waves of pleasure crashed over you. It was blinding, overwhelming, you didn’t even know what was happening, only that you couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop clenching, clamping down around his fingers as he worked you through it. You screamed his name, hips twitching.

He didn’t stop until you were gasping, whining, trying to push him away from overstimulation. Only then did he ease back, licking you one last time before pulling away, lips and chin glistening.

You had never felt anything like it. Not once in your entire life. It was pleasure so sharp it hurt, so good it scared you.

You lay there, boneless, chest heaving, while he crawled up over you, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Not bad, huh?” he drawled, voice smug.

You glared weakly at him, face burning. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. You could taste yourself on him, and it made your stomach flip all over again.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever had.” he murmured against your mouth.

You covered your face with your hands, humiliated, overwhelmed, but he pried them gently away, kissing your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips.

“Don’t hide. You were perfect.”

Your voice was hoarse. “That—what was that—”

His grin was wolfish. “That, sweetheart, was an orgasm. Your first.”

You blinked at him, dazed, still trying to catch your breath. “I—”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, letting you taste yourself on his mouth. “And it won’t be your last.”

After that night—the night he gave you your first orgasm—you carried a glow in you that couldn’t be hidden. A new awareness. A new ache. At first, you were shy about it. You couldn’t meet his eyes in the morning. You avoided letting his hand slide too low when he cuddled you. You pressed your thighs together, too flustered by the memory of how good it had felt.

But every night after that, he showed you something new. Sometimes it was small, a kiss held longer, his tongue coaxing yours to move more confidently, his hand guiding yours when you touched him. He liked to see you practice on him. He liked to hear your questions.

You’d look down at his lap, flustered but curious. “Does it… always feel like that?”

“Like what?” he’d smirk, leaning back to let you explore.

“Hard. And… big.”

“Yes.” He caught your hand, pressed your palm against him through his sweats, made you feel the outline of his cock. You’d gasp. “That’s what you do to me. Always.”

And when you whispered, timid, “Can I… see it again?” he nearly lost his mind.

Your lessons with him were slow, but they built, each night adding a little more. Like the night you shyly asked how a condom worked. Jinu had to take a moment, actually had to sit back, close his eyes, and breathe, because the thought of you asking him to teach you how to roll rubber onto his cock was enough to short-circuit his brain.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I just… I don’t know. I want to.”

He tore the foil open, slicked the latex between his fingers, and handed it to you. “Go on then. Just pinch the tip. Roll it down. You’ll figure it out.”

You were clumsy, giggling nervously, apologizing every time you fumbled, but Jinu was patient. His eyes burned into you the whole time, hungry, proud. You got it right… eventually.

You were shy. Always shy. Every time his hand slid under your clothes, every time his mouth trailed lower, every time you found yourself spread out beneath him, it never stopped being overwhelming. You’d gasp, you’d whimper, you’d hesitate and grab his wrist, not sure if you were ready, not sure if you could handle more.

And Jinu never rushed you.

He’d kiss your knuckles, your thighs, your cheeks, and pull back, whispering, “We’ll stop if you want. Always your choice.”

But more often than not, you didn’t want to stop. Not really. Because every time you let him take you a little further, every time you allowed his mouth or his fingers or his body to guide yours, it felt good. Better than good. Something you’d never imagined your body could experience.

The first time you had sex, really had sex, you had been trembling the whole time. Nervous, embarrassed, clutching at his shoulders. You’d whispered a dozen questions before he even touched you, your voice small: “Will it hurt? Will it be messy? What if I don’t do it right?”

He’d laughed softly, not unkindly, brushing your hair from your face. “It’s your first time. There is no right or wrong. You just breathe. I’ll take care of you.”

And he did.

He had prepped you with his mouth and his fingers first, coaxing you open, making sure you were wet enough, making sure you were trembling with want before he even tried, murmuring low encouragement, watching every reaction.

“You’re tight, Y/N. So tight. Relax for me.”

You clung to him, trembling, but his voice kept you calm, his hands steady. When he finally pressed into you, inch by inch, you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shh. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

It hurt at first, a stretch you didn’t know how to handle, but he kissed the tears off your cheeks, whispered, “You’re doing so good. Taking me so well.”

And when the pain eased into something warmer, fuller, deeper, you understood.

Afterward, you’d collapsed against him, exhausted and shy, hiding your face in his chest. He’d kissed the top of your head and called you sweet things a dozen times, smug but soft, proud but loving.

That first time was just one door opened.

From then on, the two of you explored more. Not all at once, never rushed, but in small steps. From then on, you learned more. You learned how your body responded when he touched you here versus there. You learned that your thighs could clamp around his head, and he’d only groan, devouring you harder. You learned that your moans could be coaxed into words, that he liked when you begged, even if you didn’t know how at first. You learned to grind against him shamelessly, riding his thigh until you couldn’t think straight. You learned to arch into his hand when he fingered you, to moan instead of bite your lip, to let yourself feel. You learned how his cock looked when it was hard, learned how to touch it without shying away. He let you watch him stroke himself once, your wide eyes glued to the movement, and he smirked at your fascination. “Like what you see, baby? This is all yours.”

He taught you slowly, thoroughly. How to grind against him until your clit throbbed. How to take him deeper into your mouth when you tried oral for the first time, your gag reflex making him laugh softly as he stroked your hair. “You’ll get used to it. You’re already doing so good.”

You learned the difference between lazy, slow lovemaking and the sharp, filthy snap of his hips when he lost control. You learned that you liked both.

Sometimes, he’d surprise you. Pressing your hand against his chest while he went down on you, forcing you to feel the way his heart raced. Or making you sit on his lap while he jerked himself off, murmuring, “Watch, baby. This is what you do to me.”

You were always shy, always hesitant, but always willing. And Jinu? He lived for it. He never minded stopping to explain, either. You had so many questions, and though he teased you for them, he always answered. What pre-cum was, what orgasm felt like for him, why he groaned when you licked his skin just so.

Every new thing made you nervous. Every new thing made you shy. And every time, Jinu was patient. Smug about it, yes, but he never forced you, never pushed too far. He liked you hesitant. He liked that you let him guide you.

It drove him crazy.

Because Jinu was not an innocent man. He was not patient by nature. He was filthy, perverted, a selfish man. And now here you were, sweet, untouched, pure. Curling against him in oversized pajamas, giving him little innocent kisses, blushing when his hand brushed over your chest.

You were his girlfriend, and you were innocent.

Did he feel bad about taking that from you? About being the one to ruin that untouched sweetness?

Never. Not once.

If anything, it thrilled him. It fed something deep in him. The idea that he was the first, the only. That he got to guide you through every step of this. That every gasp, every moan, every orgasm was because of him.

You were his. Sweet, shy, innocent you. And he would never let anyone else touch you, never let anyone else teach you, never let anyone else have the privilege of your firsts.

He loved your wide eyes when you tried something new. He loved the way you whispered “Jinu…” He loved every shaky first, every clumsy attempt, every time you hid your face in embarrassment after cumming so hard you cried.

Because you were his. His sweet little girlfriend. His treasure.

And he’d never, ever give that up.

ABBY

He was everything you weren’t. Tall, broad, muscles layered on muscles. He swore like it was his first language, spit venom at everyone else, and carried himself like he could break doors just by leaning against them. And then there was you. Sweet, soft, small compared to him. You didn’t know much about romance. You didn’t know what an actual kiss was. You didn’t know what sex looked like, felt like. But you knew how to love. You knew how to cuddle, how to hold his massive arm against your chest when you fell asleep, how to smile at him.

That contrast was brutal. To Abby, it was unbearable. You’d curl up next to him on the couch, tiny legs pulled up, your head against his chest. His massive hand would rest on your waist, and you’d just… beam up at him, whispering, “I love being with you.”

It drove him crazy in ways he couldn’t admit. You’d cuddle against him and he’d have to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning, because all he wanted was to shove you down and fuck you stupid. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he just held you, let you tangle your little fingers in his hair, let you pepper his face with kisses that were too short, too sweet. He let you kiss his lips, messy and unpracticed, like you had no idea there was supposed to be tongue involved.

Abby wasn’t innocent. Not even close. He was a fucking freak. He’d done things he didn’t speak of. He knew things you didn’t even have words for. And here you were, draping yourself over him like he was safe.

Brutally cute. That’s what you were. Too fucking cute. So cute it made him want to ruin you.

Abby wasn’t a patient man by nature. He wanted. He took. He broke things when they didn’t bend fast enough. But with you? With you, he had to hold back every inch of himself, every filthy instinct.

You were a total virgin, but more than that, you were innocent. Pure in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries. You’d lay in his arms at night, tracing his scars with gentle fingers, murmuring, “You’re so warm.” And Abby would stare at the ceiling, fists clenched, cock hard, thinking: Sweetheart, you have no idea.

The innocence wasn’t just torture, it was cute. Brutally cute. You’d ask him questions that made him want to laugh and groan at the same time. “Why do you shave your face? Doesn’t it hurt? Sounds like it does.” “Why do your muscles move like that?” “Why is your voice so deep when you wake up?”

He’d answer gruffly, but inside, he was melting. Every little thing you did made him want to grab you, throw you on the bed, ruin you. But instead, he’d just wrap one arm around your waist and pull you closer, grumbling sweet, manly things to you.

The worst part was how loving you were.

Abby wasn’t used to that. No one had ever loved him like that. No one had ever been soft with him. And now here you were, drowning him in it, completely oblivious to how much restraint it took for him not to eat you up on the spot.

Sometimes, he’d test the waters just a little. Like when you kissed him, he’d let his mouth linger longer, waiting to see if you’d open for him. You never did. You just smiled, lips pressed together, happy with the contact. Or when you curled against his chest at night, he’d let his hand slide a little lower, fingers brushing your hip, the top of your thigh. You only giggled, hugging his arm tighter. “You’re so warm, Abby.” And he’d curse in his head, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him. Didn’t realize that the biggest, dirtiest pervert in the house was being fucked up by your cuddles, your pecks, your innocence. Every hug, every innocent kiss, every shy “I love you” was like gasoline on the fire already raging in him. He’d lie awake at night, your head tucked under his chin, and his body would scream for more.

But he never pushed. Not really. Because as brutal as Abby was, as much as he wanted to ruin you, he wasn’t going to take. Not from you.

He wanted you to come to him.

Because for all his filth, all his perversion, all his hunger, he fucking loved you. Obsessed with you, actually. Obsessed with the way you always reached for his hand. Obsessed with the way your lips brushed his jaw when you tiptoed to kiss him. Obsessed with the way your tiny frame curled perfectly against his massive body at night.

Sometimes he’d just stare at you. Watch you smile at him, touch his arm, hum softly while cuddling against his chest. It drove him crazy. Because while you were perfectly content with cuddles and kisses, he was burning. He wanted to show you everything. He wanted to ruin you in every way. He wanted to hear you scream his name, beg for him, cry from pleasure.

But you didn’t even know how to open your mouth when he kissed you.

So he waited.

You’d be curled on the couch together, your head on his shoulder, your fingers tracing the veins in his forearm, and he’d be gritting his teeth, trying not to imagine how your hand would feel lower. You’d press a kiss to his lips, soft, and he’d force himself to keep it that way, even though all he wanted was to slide his tongue past your lips and make you melt. You’d fall asleep on his chest, and he’d just hold you tighter, burying his face in your hair, his cock aching, his body begging for release. But he didn’t push. Not once. Because the truth was, your innocence wasn’t just torture. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And Abby, brutal as he was, wasn’t going to be the one to break it. Not until you wanted him to. Because you were his sweetheart. His baby. His innocent little girlfriend who didn’t even know what a french kiss was.

And god, you were so fucking cute.

Brutally, devastatingly cute.

But Abby was the kind of man who didn’t half-ass anything, when he wanted, he took. But with you, everything had to be pulled out in inches. You didn’t even know there were more kinds of kissing than the simple pecks you used to press to his jaw, his lips, his cheek. So one night, when you leaned up against him, soft and trusting as always, Abby kissed you like he usually did, but then slid his hand up, thick fingers brushing your cheek, and shoved two of them between your lips where your mouths connected. You froze, surprised, but he used those fingers to gently pry your jaw open, holding you wide. And then slowly, he licked into your mouth.

You gasped against him, muffled, confused. He could feel your whole body stiffen in his lap, but you didn’t pull away. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, patient but relentless until you whimpered and your small hands clutched his shirt.

When he finally let you go, you were flushed, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“New.” you whispered, embarrassed.

“Good?” he grunted, one hand still cupping your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek.

“…good.” you admitted, shy smile tugging your lips. “Wh–what was that?”

Abby smirked, his voice a low rumble. “A real kiss, sweetheart.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. “You liked it.”

Your cheeks burned, but you nodded. Because you had. God, you had.

The grin that spread across his beautiful face then was nothing short of wolfish. And from that night forward, you kissed differently. Awkward at first, shy, sometimes pulling back with a giggle because it felt strange, but you always came back. You even started to initiate, tugging his shirt, tilting your head just so, opening your mouth for him. It drove him wild.

That was the first domino. Once he had a taste of your mouth, he wanted more.

Soon he was letting you touch him. You’d trail your hand over his chest while cuddling, and he caught your wrist and pressed your palm to his abs. Rock-hard, brutal muscle stacked beneath your tiny hand. You gasped, wide-eyed. He smirked down at you, saying: “Go on. Feel.”

You did. Slowly. Nervously. Sliding your palm down, over each muscle, your lips parted. Abby leaned back and just let you explore, his big hand guiding yours whenever you hesitated. It felt like worship. Your awe. Your innocence. The way you whispered “They’re so hard…” like you couldn’t believe a body could be built like that. He wanted to laugh, wanted to throw his head back, wanted to grab you and show you all of him, but he didn’t. He let you touch, let you learn, gritting his teeth against the ache building in his cock.

Then once, you were climbing onto his lap like you always did, curling against his chest. He wrapped one arm around you and, without thinking, let his huge palm fall lower, onto your ass.

You froze.

He stilled too, hand heavy on you, heat burning his neck. For one second, he thought you’d push him off.

But you didn’t.

He gave the softest, slowest squeeze, testing you, and when you didn’t pull away, when you buried your face against his neck instead, he kneaded harder.

“Babe…” His voice was low, rough, warning. “…this okay?”

You nodded. Tiny. Shy. Almost trembling.

That was all he needed. From then on, he palmed your ass often, possessive grabs, firm squeezes, kneading like he couldn’t get enough. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes while carrying you to bed, sometimes just pulling you into his lap mid-conversation. And every time, you’d go red, stutter something shy, and melt into him anyway.

You had no idea. You had no idea what you were doing to him. No idea what kind of restraint it took for Abby not to push you down and ruin you right there. No idea that every time you kissed him goodnight and curled into his side, he lay awake for hours, hard as a rock, gritting his teeth. You thought you were just being sweet. Just being close. You had no clue that the beast holding you was slowly losing his mind.

When you left the room, he’d fist his cock with whatever he could get his hands on, your pillow, your discarded sweater, sometimes even the towel you’d just used after a shower. Anything that smelled like you. He’d bury his face in it, biting down on a groan, spilling over his knuckles while imagining your small hands instead.

He killed people without blinking. Snapped necks, tore out throats, ended lives like it was nothing. He was brutal. A beast. He’d done it for centuries.

But you? You were too sweet. Too soft. Too innocent. So he wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t taint that. Not until you wanted it. He’d rather suffer.

But god, that suffering was brutal. Your sweetness was worse than any blade. Your kisses burned hotter than Gwi-Ma’s torturing fire did on his back when he fucked something up. Every shy touch you gave him, every curious glance, every whispered “I love you” carved him open from the inside out. He could kill a man without flinching. But you? You were killing him slowly. And Abby was letting you.

Every time he introduced something new, you reacted like it was the biggest thing in the world. The first time he kissed down your throat, you squeaked, gripping his shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. The first time his hands slid under your shirt, you froze, breath catching, eyes huge. He never pushed too far, though. He’d stop, press a kiss to your forehead, let you curl back into him until you calmed down. And the next time? You were braver. You’d let his hand stay there, palm heavy on your bare skin, fingers teasing at the edge of your bra.

Every small step forward drove Abby insane. Because for him, it wasn’t just about sex, it was about you. About watching his sweet, innocent girl slowly discover her own body through him. About being the one to guide you.

It was addictive.

One night, he took it further. You’d been kissing for what felt like forever, his mouth deep on yours, his tongue sliding against yours until you were dizzy. His hands were under your shirt again, palms spanning your waist, fingers brushing higher each time.

You pulled back a little, whispering, “Abby…” Your voice was small, uncertain.

He hushed you with a kiss to your cheek. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just touchin’.”

And then, slowly, he slid his hands up until his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts. He didn’t move further. Just stayed there, letting you get used to it.

After a long, shaky breath, you did something that surprised this beast of a man. You grabbed his wrist, dragged his hand up, and set his palm fully over your chest.

“Here.” you mumbled, your face burning. “You can…”

Abby’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He almost groaned. Instead, he cupped you gently, his thumb brushing over the thin fabric.

“Good girl.” he whispered, his voice rough with restraint.

From then on, everything was progress. Kisses turned wetter, longer. Touches turned bolder. You let him explore, let him guide, let him teach you in ways that made your whole body tremble. Sometimes you stopped, overwhelmed, hiding your face in his chest. And Abby, brutal Abby, would just hold you, stroke your back, murmur low reassurances until you were ready again. Other times, you surprised him, like when you dragged his hand to your chest, or when you shyly asked to touch his abs again, or when you let his mouth stay on your neck a little longer, moaning softly without realizing. And slowly, you started copying him. Shy, hesitant, but learning. Sometimes you’d reach up on your own, grab his jaw, and kiss him open like he had taught you. Sometimes you’d flick your tongue against his, tentative, unsure, and he’d groan into your mouth. It was intoxicating, watching you learn. Watching you pick up the things he showed you, timid but willing. That sweet innocence of yours didn’t vanish, it just stretched. Abby lived for it.

Because you were still so innocent, still so shy, but you trusted him. You wanted to learn, with him. Like the night you realized what grinding meant. You were sitting on his thigh, kissing him, when instinct made you shift your hips just a little. The pressure hit your clit through your clothes, startling, and you gasped into his mouth.

Abby froze. Then he pulled back, eyes narrowing, smirk spreading across his face. “Well, well. Look what my girl just figured out.”

You stammered, face red, trying to move off his leg, but his massive hands locked you in place. “Uh-uh. Don’t run. You liked that, didn’t you?”

You buried your face in his chest, mortified.

He chuckled, deep and rough, pressing you closer against his thigh. “Go on, sweetheart. Move how you like. I’ll hold you.”

And when you did, slow, hesitant grinding against the hard muscle of his thigh, he held you steady, murmuring encouragement the whole time. Not pushing. Just letting you discover it for yourself. He was a good teacher.

One night he guided your hand over his chest again, this time lower. You froze when your palm brushed his waistband. “Keep going.” he said, eyes glinting. You didn’t. Not yet. But you thought about it, cheeks hot, heart pounding.

Another night, while you kissed, he ground your hips down against him, slow, controlled. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and he groaned into your mouth.

Sometimes he’d pin you to the couch, one massive hand braced beside your head, his mouth devouring yours, his thigh shoved between your legs. You didn’t know what he was doing, why it made your whole body hum, but you found yourself moving on him anyway. Rubbing against his thigh, shy and clumsy, until the pleasure overwhelmed you and you had to stop.

Abby never laughed. Never mocked. He just growled, low and filthy, “Good girl.” and let you breathe.

Every step was new. Every step was overwhelming. And every step, you let him take the lead. Because Abby might’ve been a brute, but with you, he was patient in his own way. He never left you guessing too long. He’d show you, blunt and rough, but he’d show you. And the way he watched you, intense, greedy, hungry, made you want to keep learning, keep seeing what else there was.

You were still shy. Still innocent. You’d bury your face in his chest after something new, too embarrassed to look at him. But Abby loved that too. Loved how flustered you got. Loved that even though you didn’t know half the words for what he was doing to you, you still let him.

Now, there was this time. It started out just like it always did, your body curled over his, lips pressed to his, your weight tucked safely into his massive frame. Abby half-laid across the couch, one long arm thrown across the backrest, the other locked firmly around your waist as he let you kiss him.

You’d been getting bolder lately, even if you didn’t notice it. Opening your mouth quicker, sliding your tongue against his, finally caught onto the rhythm he liked. He groaned low into your mouth when you did that, big chest rumbling under you, and it made you smile against his lips. Now you weren’t thinking much, just following his lead like you always did. When Abby wanted to kiss, you kissed. When he tilted your head back and pried your mouth open with his tongue, you let him. When he grunted low in his throat, you swallowed it.

You thought this was innocent, sweet boyfriend kisses, the kind of thing couples did when they loved each other. But Abby wasn’t innocent, and there was nothing sweet about the way his hand crept lower and lower down your back. First, it landed where it always did, on your ass. He squeezed hard, like he couldn’t resist. You let him, because you knew by now that Abby liked that. To you it was… casual. Familiar. He was obsessed with your ass, but you didn’t really think about it. You didn’t really connect it to sex, just another quirk of his.

He kneaded you with a low grunt, broad fingers digging into the soft curve until you whimpered against his mouth. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound until Abby stilled beneath you, breaking the kiss, staring up at you with those heavy-lidded eyes.

“Sounded pretty.” he muttered, thumb stroking across your ass.

Your face burned, but before you could argue, he kissed you again, hungrier this time. And then his hand moved. Lower.

Sliding between your thighs.

You froze, lips parting in shock. Abby was touching you where he’d never touched you before. His palm pressed between your legs.

“Abby—“

“Shh.” His voice was rough, but the way he hushed you was almost gentle. “Let me. Just… let me.”

At first he only cupped you, broad hand pressing up between your thighs. Even through your clothes, it was so much. He was big, too big, and he covered all of you in one hand like he was made to hold you there. Then he shifted his hand, slow, just a gentle rub against your covered cunt.

And oh.

Oh.

Your breath hitched, sharp, as something foreign and electric shot up your spine. You didn’t even know what it was, why it made your thighs twitch, why your body pressed down against his hand without your permission.

“There you go.” Abby muttered, like he’d been waiting for it. “Feels good, yeah?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. You only gripped his shirt tighter, face buried against his chest.

He chuckled. A low, mean sound. “Knew you’d like it.”

And then he started to move you.

His palm pressed harder, fingers spread to cup you fully, and his other arm shifted around your waist. With brutal ease, he began dragging your body against his hand, rocking you into him. You squeaked at the sudden motion, fingers digging into his chest.

“Relax, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He was calm, steady. “Just move like this.” He dragged your hips forward and back again, grinding your cunt against his palm.

You gasped. Loud. Your face went hot, your thighs trembling, because god, it was good. Too good. Better than anything you’d ever felt when you touched yourself (not that you did that often). Better than you thought touching could even be.

You clung to him, helpless, as he rocked you over his hand again and again. His big palm covered everything, pressing against you in a way that made your clit throb and your stomach twist.

“Good girl.” he grunted, kissing the side of your throat. “See how easy it is? Your body just needs something to rub on. That’s all.”

“Abby…” Your voice cracked, caught somewhere between shame and wonder.

“You’re wetter than fuckin’ rain already. Can feel it through your pants.”

You whimpered. Pressed your face harder into his chest as if you could disappear. But you didn’t stop moving. Not when his hand kept dragging you into that perfect friction.

Abby groaned when you rocked against him, even slightly. “Yeah, baby. Like that? Feel good?” He didn’t expect an answer, knowing you wouldn’t give one.

His huge hand slid lower, tugging you into position, until you were grinding against his palm, your soft cunt rubbing over the heel of his hand. Your gasp against his throat made him groan so deep it shook your bones.

“That’s it.” he said. “Ride it, sweetheart. Ride my fuckin’ hand.”

You whined, muffled and desperate, but you didn’t stop. You moved, shy and hesitant, rocking your hips against him while he held you steady. His grip was hot on your waist, coaxing you into a rhythm that made your breath catch every single time.

It was too much. Too good.

His thumb dragged upward, pressing firmer against your clit through the thin fabric. You choked on a moan, legs squeezing around his thigh.

“Yeah, right there.” he muttered, watching your face with a dark hunger. “Keep going. Don’t think about it. Just rub.”

It was so new. So overwhelming. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, heat coiling tighter and tighter. And Abby knew. He felt every twitch, every shudder, every sharp inhale. He knew exactly where this was going. He fucking loved it. Loved how red your face was, how your thighs trembled, how your innocence cracked with every roll of your hips over his hand. You didn’t even know what you were chasing, you just knew it felt good, and you wanted more, and Abby was the only one who could give it to you.

“Good girl.” he groaned, kissing your jaw as you moved faster, needier, chasing the friction. “Keep going. You’ll get there. I’ll make sure you do.”

Then you twitched away before you even realized it. Your hips jerked up, thighs trembling, away from him, and when your body realized it wants more, back to pressing down against Abby’s palm. Your body ran from the feeling, but the second it was gone, it chased it. It was instinct, pure and embarrassing. You gasped, your body moving on its own, wiggling against his hand with frantic, clumsy motions that made you burn with shame, but at the same time, made you shiver with pleasure. You didn’t know why you were doing it, only that you couldn’t not. Your thighs shook, your breath caught, and suddenly you were sitting down on him, writhing against his palm in these shy little circles that didn’t make sense to you but felt right.

“Look at you.” he murmured against your cheek, lips brushing, hot breath fanning over your skin. He ground the heel of his palm against your clit, slow and brutal, forcing you to keep feeling it. “Body knows what it wants.”

“Abby—” Your voice cracked, high and desperate. You didn’t even know what you were asking.

“Shh.” he cooed mockingly, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your temple. Each kiss rough, sloppy, claiming. “Don’t worry. I got you. I’ll take care of it. Gonna make you feel good. Real good.”

And then, before you could process, he shoved his hand down beneath your waistband. You froze, gasping at the sudden press of his skin against yours. His huge fingers slid lower, spreading over your mound, and god, you realized with a rush of humiliation how wet you were.

Abby groaned low. “Jesus fuck, sweetheart… you’re soaked.”

“Don’t say that—” You tried to hide your face, whimpering.

He only laughed. “Why not? You should be proud of it. So fuckin’ wet for me already.”

And then his fingers slid over your folds, parting you easily, then up, finding your clit like he’d known exactly where it was all along. He rubbed it with brutal precision, slow and steady circles that made your thighs twitch instantly.

You gasped. Loud. Your hands flew to his chest, clinging desperately as you bucked against his hand

“That’s it.” he muttered, teeth grazing your jaw. “Right there. Feels good, yeah? Don’t lie to me.”

“I—I don’t—” You couldn’t form words, couldn’t explain the burning, shocking pleasure sparking through you with every rub of his fingers.

He smirked against your cheek. “Don’t need words. Your body’s already telling me everything. Just feel. That’s all I want. You feel good, I feel good. Easy.”

And then one thick finger slipped inside you, slow, stretching you in a way that made your mouth drop open on a silent cry. You gripped his shirt so hard your knuckles ached. The intrusion was strange, shocking, a pressure you’d never felt before, but underneath the strangeness was something else. Something that made your belly clench and your thighs quiver.

“Abby—” Your voice was small.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, tongue quick and filthy. “Not fuckin’ you yet. Just—god—just touchin’. Just makin’ you feel good.”

His finger curled inside you and you gasped so loud it made his cock throb against his jeans.

“That it?” he murmured, hot against your ear. “That the spot? Should I—” He did it again, dragging his finger against the soft, electric place inside you.

You cried out, trembling. “Ah—Abby—”

“That’s it, baby.” he rasped, voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Take it. God, you’re squeezin’ me like a fist.”

You whined, trembling. “Abby, I—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your words, muffling your whimpers as his finger moved inside you, slow pumps that dragged against your walls in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest heave.

“Yeah.” he muttered into your mouth. “You like that. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You didn’t even know what that meant. You only knew that you couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop gasping every time he pushed in deep. And then he added another. Two fingers stretching you open, filling you in a way that made your head spin. You broke the kiss with a loud moan, face buried against his neck as your hips jerked helplessly. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing merciless circles as his fingers pumped inside you. The combination made your whole body arch, back bowing, thighs squeezing tight around his hand.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All you could do was cling to him and let him drag you higher, higher, with every brutal touch. “Abby—Abby, I—”

“Don’t fight it.” His voice was a growl, low and commanding. “Just let it happen. That’s your body begging to cum.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, but your hips moved anyway, grinding into his hand, chasing the impossible heat building inside you. He pressed harder on your clit, his finger curling deeper, and your body arched against him. You gasped, cried out, your voice breaking into a high-pitched sound you didn’t recognize.

“Yeah, that’s it.” he praised, kissing all over your face, your cheek, your nose, your forehead, each kiss rough and frantic. “Ride it out, sweetheart. Cum for me. Let me feel it.”

You didn’t even know what that meant. Cum? You’d heard the word before, but you didn’t know what it really was. All you knew was that something was building, unbearably tight, deep in your stomach, coiling and twisting and demanding release. And then it snapped. Your whole body went rigid, back arching hard against him, thighs clamping down as a shockwave of pleasure tore through you. You cried out, muffled against his chest, hips jerking helplessly as Abby’s fingers worked you through it, your cunt clamping down on his finger as your whole body shuddered. You moaned loud, shameless, against his mouth, trembling and shaking through it.

“Fuuuuck yes.” he snarled, kissing you hard, swallowing every sound. “That’s my girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

It was overwhelming. Shaking, blinding, consuming, you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t understand. You didn’t even realize what was happening until it was already over, until you collapsed against him trembling and gasping. Abby held you tight, his hand finally slowing, easing you down gently. You’d never felt anything like it. Never even imagined your body could do that.

He watched you with wild, blown-out eyes, his chest heaving. Your screams, your wetness, the feel of you milking his fingers, it drove him wild. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only watch his sweet, innocent little girlfriend pant as she leaned against him.

“Jesus Christ.” he groaned as he pumped you a little more, even as you were boneless and trembling. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck. Fuck.”

You whimpered weakly, still twitching, clinging to his shirt with desperate little fists.

“There you go.” he murmured, smug and tender all at once. He brushed sweaty hair from your face with his clean hand as his fingers finally slipped out of you, slick and glistening. He was shaking. Actually shaking with how hard he was holding back, with how ruined he was by the sound of your orgasm, the feel of it soaking his hand. His cock ached so badly it hurt, his brain screamed at him to shove you down and fuck you raw, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And when you finally blinked up at him, dazed and confused, whispering, “W-what was that…?”

“That, sweetheart,” he rasped, kissing your lips hard. “was you cummin’ your pretty little brains out on my fuckin’ fingers.”

After that night on the couch, it was like something inside Abby had been unchained. For months, he’d been holding himself back, keeping his hands (mostly) where they belonged, keeping his mouth cleaner than it wanted to be. But once he’d had a taste, once he’d felt you cum around his fingers, once he’d heard you scream his name in that perfect voice, it was over. There was no going back. And maybe he thought you’d resist, that you’d cry shyly and beg him to slow down, that he’d have to chain himself again to keep from terrifying you. But you didn’t.

You liked it.

Even when you blushed, even when you stammered, even when your hands fluttered against his chest, you just clung tighter. You gasped harder. You came back for more.

You wanted him.

It started with kissing again. Only now, kissing wasn’t just mouths pressed together. It was sloppy, so sloppy. So much.

“Open up for me, sweetheart.” he’d growl, tugging your jaw down with one big hand. “Yeah, that’s it. Let me in. Fuckin’ love your little tongue.”

He let you explore him more, he let you touch lower. Let you trace the cut of his waist, the bulge under his sweats. And when you flinched back, eyes wide, he caught your wrist, pressed your hand there, and groaned.

“Feel that?” His voice was wrecked. “All you, baby. You do this to me.”

You blushed so hard you hid your face against his chest. But you didn’t pull away.

And that became the pattern. Every time he pushed further, you’d shy, but never stop.

Soon, his hands were always on your ass. He was obsessed with it. Squeezing, kneading, spreading it wide when you bent over his lap. You thought it was casual at first, just your big brute of a boyfriend being grabby. You even laughed sometimes, like it was nothing. You had no idea how filthy it was for him. No idea how many times he locked himself in the bathroom afterwards, jerking off furiously into the sink with your scent still on his hands. No idea how brutal the ache in his cock was from keeping himself restrained, keeping his teeth from sinking into your skin the way he wanted.

Except slowly, without even realizing, you gave him permission.

One night, while straddling his lap, your lips swollen from kissing, you whispered: “You can… touch me again. Like before.”

His brain shut off.

“Baby…” He didn’t even finish, his hand already sliding down your waistband. And when his fingers slipped inside you again, you gasped but didn’t stop him.

Then, grinding. He figured out quickly how perfectly your cunt fit over his thigh, how your hips moved instinctively to chase friction, how your voice cracked when the seam of your jeans pressed against your clit. He’d sit there, flexing the thick muscle of his leg, murmuring filth against your ear while you rubbed yourself to pieces on him.

“Look at you. Little angel humpin’ my thigh like a bitch in heat. Thought you were innocent? Fuck, you’re filthy, baby.”

You loved it. You’d hide your face, whimper that he was mean, that he was teasing, but you’d keep moving. Always. Until you came, shuddering, clinging, leaving wet stains on his pants.

And that discovery cracked open the rest.

You were shy, yes, but you liked it nasty. You two discovered that fast. You liked his mouth spitting filthy words against your ear, liked when he called you his “slut” his “pretty bitch” his “fucktoy.” You’d slap at his chest in embarrassment, but your thighs would squeeze tighter, your moans louder.

Abby noticed everything.

The first time he spat in your mouth and you swallowed without thinking, he almost came in his pants. The first time he slapped your ass and you squeaked but didn’t stop kissing him, he knew that you weren’t as innocent as you looked.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he teased one night, two fingers buried inside you, his thumb circling your clit. You could barely breathe, tears pricking your eyes, your body trembling, but you nodded. That was all he needed. From then on, there was no such thing as “slow.” Not with Abby. You learned everything in weeks what might have taken years with anyone else. How to kiss sloppy and deep. How to grind against his cock through his pants until you soaked yourself. He taught you how to take his fingers in your mouth, sucking them clean after he fucked them into your cunt.

The first time his hand slid under your shirt and grabbed your tits, you squealed, shocked. He laughed, so deep in his chest it rumbled against you.

“Yeah?” he teased, kneading rough, pressing you against him. “You like that? Like me squeezin’ these pretty little tits?”

You whimpered, muffled into his shoulder. He pinched a nipple through your bra and you arched without meaning to. He didn’t stop touching them after that. Not once. He loved them, your tits, your ass, your soft little body he could manhandle however he wanted. And you let him. Because every new thing made you realize that you liked it.

And then, one night, you learned about his cock.

It happened one night when you were kissing on his bed, his shirt already discarded, your small hands pressed against his chest. Curious, your touch drifted lower. Over his stomach. Down, down, to the waistband of his sweats. You hesitated. Stopped. Looked up at him with those big, innocent eyes.

“Can I…?” you whispered.

Abby froze, then laughed, half a groan, half a bark, running a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe his life. “You—fuck.” he muttered, dragging your hand down for you. “Yeah, baby. Touch it. Go ahead.”

He let you tug down his sweats, shy but curious, and he nearly came from the look on your face. You’d felt him, sure. The hard press of his cock against you when he pulled you into his lap, the ache of it when he ground you down against him. You’d known he was big, of course you had, Abby was huge everywhere, it made sense. But seeing it? Your eyes widened, lips parting as you froze in place. Big was an understatement. He was heavy, thick, long, the tip flushed dark. Veins ran along the shaft, and the weight of it slapped against his thigh when he freed it.

Abby just laughed. This low, rough, pleased sound, his hand lazily stroking himself as he watched your reaction. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Never seen a cock before?”

You shook your head, cheeks hot. “No.”

“Scarin’ you?”

“I-it’s just… big.” you admitted, eyes glued to him.

“Yeah, baby. It is.” He spread his legs a little wider, showing off, stroking slow just to tease you.

You swallowed hard, then, quiet, almost too shy to say it, murmured, “Can I… touch it?”

Abby almost came right there. His head tipped back, a strangled groan ripping from his chest as his hand stilled. He had to take a breath. Then he looked at you again. “Yeah, sweetheart. Fuck yes, you can touch it. Please touch it. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Your hand shook when you reached out, fingers brushing over the heavy length of him. He was hot. Hard. The skin softer than you expected, but stretched tight over veins and muscle.

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking when your timid little fingers wrapped around him. He could see that you were fascinated. Tentative at first, then braver, stroking along him, watching the way his breath hitched and his thighs tensed. You explored him with wide-eyed wonder. Stroked the shaft, curious at the way it twitched in your hand. Brushed your thumb over the slit at the tip, fascinated by the bead of wetness there. You even glanced lower, curiosity burning in your chest.

And that was when your wide eyes landed on his balls.

Abby almost lost it.

The way you looked at them, like you were studying them, like they were something you couldn’t quite figure out, he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from groaning too loud.

“They’re… big.” you murmured, so innocently it nearly killed him.

Abby barked out a laugh, half-strangled. “Fuckin’ hell. Yeah, baby. They’re big.”

And when you touched them, gingerly, cupping them in your palm, rolling them curiously, he threw his head back, taking a deep breath in.

You blinked up at him, so shy and earnest. “…Do you like it?”

He stared at you like you’d just asked if fire was hot.

“Do I—? Fuck, yes I like it. You’re a natural, baby.”

Your curiosity only deepened. “…Can I make you… y’know. Finish?”

Abby’s brain short-circuited.

For a long moment, he just gaped at you, chest heaving, cock twitching violently in your hand. Then he laughed, ragged and disbelieving, dragging a hand over his face. “You wanna make me cum?”

You nodded shyly. “…If you’ll show me how.”

Abby grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand around him properly. He showed you how to grip, how to stroke, how to twist at the head just right. His voice was low and urgent, full of breathless instruction.

“Yeah, like that. Tight—fuck, tighter. Don’t be scared. I can take it. God, you’re a natural. Keep your thumb on the tip—yeah, right there, rub it. Jesus Christ, that’s good.”

You followed every word, fascinated by the way his cock throbbed, by the sounds he made, raw groans, curses, your name spit through clenched teeth.

When he came, you watched with awe. His whole body jerked, muscles locking as hot spurts spilled over your hand. His groan was guttural, loud, almost a growl. His cock twitched violently in your grasp, thick ropes of cum painting your skin.

“Fuck me.” he rasped. He caught your messy hand in his, lifted it, and kissed your knuckles with surprising reverence. And you, innocent, blushing, shy, just smiled, still staring at the mess on your hand. Abby thought he might actually die from how cute you were.

And then you found yourself straddling him.

Abby froze.

“Love…” His voice was hoarse, low, almost a warning. His hands hovered at your hips like he was afraid to spook you. “What’re you doin’?”

You bit your lip, looking anywhere but his face. “…Can you make me… y’know. Again?”

A second of silence. Then Abby tugged at your panties, growling when they didn’t come off fast enough. You squirmed, embarrassed, shocked that he already got to it, trying to help, and then they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, he immediately cupped your cunt in one massive hand. His fingers spread you open, his thumb finding your clit. It was immediate, the way your hips bucked, the way your lips parted in shock. His other hand cupped your tits through your shirt, kneading roughly, thumbs brushing your nipples until you gasped.

Abby grinned, feral, kissing your cheek sloppily. “There it is.”

You moaned, clinging to his shoulders, your shy little voice spilling out over the pounding of your heart.

Abby smirked, cock twitching beneath you. “Yeah. That’s what you wanted, huh?” His thumb rubbed slow circles, relentless. “Wanted me to touch this pretty pussy again.”

You whined, nodding, hips already shifting. It was too much and not enough, all at once. He played your body like an instrument. One hand squeezing your tits, thumb flicking over your nipple through your shirt. The other rubbing your clit, dipping lower to slide thick fingers between your folds, teasing your entrance. He kissed all over your face as he did it, messy, greedy, worshipping.

“Abby…” Your voice was small, shaky. You looked at him, eyes wide with embarrassment, lips trembling. “When you… before, when you… finished…”

He groaned, already knowing, already aching. “Yeah, baby? When I came?”

You nodded quickly, face burying in his shoulder. “…It made me feel funny.”

He paused, then leaned back just enough to look at you. “Funny?”

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “Like… like I wanted something. Watching you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

Abby’s cock twitched against your thigh. He growled low in his chest, starting to move his fingers again, rubbing you faster. “You’re tellin’ me watchin’ me cum made you horny?”

You whimpered, but nodded. “…Yes.”

Abby’s laugh was breathless, almost disbelieving, his hand working you harder as he kissed down your neck, teeth scraping. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You hear me? Fuckin’ perfect.”

“I like… the way you sound, when you cum,” you whispered. “It made me—oh god—made me think about… about your—”

Your eyes flicked down. To his cock. Still out. Still hardening again. You swallowed. Dared to touch it. Your small hand slid between your bodies, fingers curling around his thick shaft. Abby cursed instantly, hips jerking into your grip.

“Fuck, baby—careful.” he groaned, voice cracking as you stroked him shyly, your other hand clutching his shoulder for balance. The picture of you, perched in his lap, his fingers buried between your legs while you touched his cock was almost too much. His eyes were blown wide, almost manic.

“You’re so big.” you whispered, rubbing your thumb over the tip again, smearing his precum. “It’s… it’s scary. But I like it.”

Abby’s head fell back, eyes rolling shut, a raw laugh tearing out of him. His pace on your clit doubled, two thick fingers sliding down to push inside you, stretching you gently. Oh. Oh, it felt good. You gasped, half from the new sensation, half from the way his cock twitched in your hand when you squeezed it.

“Good girl.” he panted, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “Touch me while I touch you. That’s it. Nice and easy. You make me feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel even better.”

You whined, rocking against his hand, your grip on him tightening without realizing. “Abby—oh god—feels so good—”

He grinned against your skin, mouth hot and wet. “That’s my girl. Always so honest. I fuckin’ love it.”

He worked you like he’d been memorizing you from the start. Circles on your clit, steady pressure, while his mouth trailed across your jaw, sucking bruises into your skin. His other hand pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you whined. You were so responsive. You were the dream.

You rocked against his hand without realizing it, chasing more, desperate for something you didn’t know how to ask for. You clung to him, overwhelmed. “…It feels so—”

“Good.” he finished for you, kissing you hard, tongue pushing into your mouth. “It feels good, I know. I’ve got you.”

You came. You screamed his name, body convulsing, pussy fluttering around his fingers, clinging to him, your hand still around his cock even as your hips stuttered helplessly against his fingers. Abby held you through it, growling encouragement into your ear, his cock throbbing violently in your grasp. He was close again, but he didn’t let go of you until you were finished, until the aftershocks slowed and your breathing evened out. You collapsed against him, panting, dazed. You didn’t even realize you were crying until he wiped your tears with his thumb.

He’d kill for you. He had killed for less. But right now, with your little body trembling in his lap, your innocence still intact despite everything he’d just done, he realized he’d live for you too. And Abby—brutal, filthy, perverted Abby—swore then and there he’d never want another girl again. Not when you, his sweet little virgin, were staring at his cock with those big, amazed eyes. Not when you were this shy, this loving, this innocent, and still letting him ruin you step by step.

And god, the blue balls. You had no idea. No idea how often he had to jerk off in the shower after leaving you panting and blushing on his bed. No idea how he fucked his fist with his face buried in your discarded shirt just to keep from shoving himself inside you too soon.

He killed people. He had no patience, no mercy, no restraint in anything else. But with you? With you, he waited. He learned. He let it be step by step, even if each step made him insane.

Because you were worth it.

Because he loved every second of watching you discover yourself, and him, piece by piece.

It was funny how quickly things began to escalate after that night. At first it was innocent—well, as innocent as you straddling him and touching his cock while he made you cum could be—but once that line was crossed, there was no stopping Abby. And you… you wanted it. Every new thing scared you, sure, but it thrilled you more. Your shyness didn’t stop your curiosity. You liked seeing what you could do to him. You liked learning.

The first time you went down on him was clumsy, and you knew it. You’d been nervous, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, palms sweaty, your voice cracking as you whispered, “…Can I try?”

Abby nearly came just from that. He grinned, grabbed the back of your neck, kissed your hair, muttering, “Fuck yeah you can.”

You’d knelt between his thighs, staring at his cock. You’d touched it a few times before, but this was different. This time, your mouth was involved. You tried to be brave. You licked tentatively, kitten-like, then wrapped your lips around the head. Abby groaned so loud it made you flinch. (Which is so fucking funny plz nobody gets the humor of flinching at nothing scary like I do)

“Relax, sweetheart.” he’d said, voice rough, hand rubbing slow circles on your scalp. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You gagged at first, choked on the sheer size of him, eyes watering, but Abby never once laughed. He was patient in his way, brutal, but patient. He told you where to put your tongue, where to suck, how to use your hand at the same time.

You hadn’t gotten him to cum that first time, you pulled away coughing before you could, but the look on his face, sweaty and desperate, was enough to make you feel like you’d won anyway. And you kept trying. Kept learning. Every mistake you made just had him grinning like a madman, stroking your hair, muttering: “You’ll get it, sweetheart.” And he was right. You did get better. Every time you tried again, you grew bolder. Soon you were stroking his shaft while sucking the head. Soon you were licking his balls while he swore. Soon you were looking up at him through your lashes, his cock buried in your mouth, and Abby had to stop himself from coming too fast because the sight of you was so filthy and innocent all at once. Soon, he was cumming down your throat, groaning your name. Soon, he was pushing your hair back so he could watch you, his chest heaving, his thighs trembling.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop—ohhh, fuck—”

The first time you swallowed, shy and uncertain, you wiped your lips and whispered, “…Was that okay?”

Abby nearly blacked out.

“Babe,” he’d rasped, dragging you into his lap to kiss you messily. “that was the best fuckin’ thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

But of course, Abby couldn’t just let you stay the one giving.

He wanted to eat.

The first time his mouth was on you, it was a 69, because Abby thought it was funny, filthy, perfect. He had you climb on top of him, facing his cock, while he dragged your panties aside. You’d been shy, trembling, but the second his tongue pressed against your clit, you screamed. It was like nothing else. Unbearably good.

Abby laughed into you, hands spreading your thighs wider, licking deeper, hungrier. “Ohhh yeah, that’s it. Ride my fuckin’ face, baby.”

At first you were too overwhelmed to move. But the pleasure built so fast, too much, too soon, and before you knew it, your hips were grinding against him, chasing the heat of his mouth. You rode his face without even realizing it, panting, crying out, your hands gripping his abs for balance. Abby groaned beneath you, his cock twitching against your lips as you tried to keep up with sucking him.

“Good girl—fuckin’ use me—” he growled between licks.

You came so hard you forgot to breathe, collapsing forward, shuddering, his face wet with you. He devoured it, like he’d been starving centuries for it.

From then on, his mouth was everywhere. Between your thighs, against your tits, down your stomach. He wanted to taste every inch of you, every day.

And then came your first time. It happened late, one night when you were curled up in his lap again, kissing lazily. His cock was hard against your thigh, and you touched it. Stroked him. Looked into his eyes.

“…Abby.” you whispered. “Can we—do it? For real?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His pupils blew wide, and he gripped your hips so tight you squeaked.

“You’re sure?” he rasped. “Sweetheart, don’t fuck with me.”

You nodded, cheeks burning. “I’m sure. I… I want it. With you.”

He swore violently, kissed you hard, then laid you back on the bed like you were porcelain.

He was shaking as he got the condom on, because Abby was a lot of things, but careless with you wasn’t one of them. Well, he was careless, but not with you.

He stretched you open a little. And then, slowly, carefully, he pushed inside you. It hurt at first. The stretch was almost unbearable, and you clutched his arms, whining softly. But Abby kissed your face, your neck, held himself back even as sweat dripped from his brow.

“Breathe for me.” he muttered. “That’s it. Relax. You’re doin’ so good. You’re okay. You’re mine.”

And then the pain eased. Turned into something else. Something hot, pulsing, alive. You gasped, clutching at him. “Abby—oh god—”

“Yeah?” he groaned. He went slow, unbearably slow, until he was fully buried inside you. When he finally moved, slow at first, then faster. It was clumsy, sweaty, desperate, but it was yours. Your first time. With him. It was awkward at first, your bodies fumbling, but then something clicked. Your hips tilted, his thrusts found that angle, and suddenly it wasn’t pain anymore. It was heat. It was pleasure.

You moaned his name, clinging to him, your innocence melting away in real time.

Abby was wrecked above you, panting, swearing, praising you every second. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl. You’re fuckin’ amazing.”

And when you came around him, crying out his name, Abby followed immediately after, groaning loud, burying himself deep, his whole body shaking as he spilled into the condom.

After that first time, you never went back.

Abby couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. It was like something inside him had finally snapped free, and he needed you in every way, every day. Morning, night, half-asleep, on the couch, in the kitchen, there was no such thing as restraint anymore.

You were still sweet. Still shy. Still soft and cuddly. But every time he pushed the boundary a little further, you didn’t recoil. You leaned in. You wanted more. At first, it was just new positions. He bent you over the counter, fucked you in the shower, lifted you up and used his size to his advantage, holding you against the wall like you weighed nothing, or just simply in the air. He wanted to feel you from every angle, memorize every sound you made, every flutter of your muscles around him.

But then came the nastier discoveries. The first was his fingers wandering too far back. You’d been riding him lazily one night, your hands flat against his chest, your body bouncing gently on his cock while his big palms controlled your hips. He was groaning, muttering filth about how good you were, when one thick finger slipped lower, brushing against your other hole.

You’d gasped, tensing.

Abby stilled, his lips curling into a grin. “What’s this? Hm?” he teased, rubbing lightly. “Never touched here before, sweetheart?”

Your blush had been instant, your body jerking away, but you hadn’t said no. You hadn’t told him to stop. So he pushed further. Not inside, not yet, just rubbing, circling, teasing until your hips started grinding again, chasing friction despite your embarrassment.

“Fuck.” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you. “You like that, don’t you?”

The first time he slid a finger in there, you thought you wouldn’t be able to take it. The stretch was shocking, but his voice, his hands, his patience kept you calm. And when he worked it slowly, matched the rhythm of his thrusts inside your pussy, you lost it. You came harder than you’d ever thought possible, screaming his name, nails digging into his shoulders.

Soon, he was easing you open more and more. Two fingers. Toys. And eventually, the night came where he lined himself up and whispered in your ear, “Let me have it, baby. Let me in.”

It had been terrifying at first, the sheer size of him, the impossible stretch, but Abby didn’t rush. He kissed your face, told you how good you were, how perfect, how much he loved you. He rocked into you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep in your ass. And when he started moving, when that shocking pressure turned into rolling waves of pleasure, you lost all shame. You begged for it. Abby nearly blacked out that night, watching his innocent little girlfriend sob with pleasure while he claimed every hole she had. He’d never been so hard in his life.

But that wasn’t the end of your surprises. He’d been fingering you on the couch, two thick fingers pumping relentlessly into your soaked pussy while his other hand tortured your clit. You were whining, writhing, and then, suddenly, a hot rush sprayed from you, soaking his hand, his shirt, the couch. You squirted.

You froze in horror. “Abby—I—I didn’t—”

Abby laughed, wild and delighted, his eyes bright. “Holy fuck. Holy fuck, baby. Do that again.”

You tried to hide your face, but he wouldn’t let you. He pinned your wrists down, growling, “Don’t you dare get shy on me. You’re beautiful. You hear me? Beautiful.”

And then he set to work, determined to wring every drop from you. He fingered you until you were screaming, shaking, begging him to stop. The couch was ruined, the floor soaked, and Abby was grinning.

From then on, he was obsessed. He had to make you squirt every time. Fingers, tongue, cock, didn’t matter. He’d edge you, torture you, until you broke again and again, until you were sobbing from overstimulation, your body convulsing around him. He’d lick it off his hands, groan about how sweet you tasted, even press his face against you mid-spray, letting you drench him while he moaned like an animal.

And you discovered you liked it too. The release. The mess. The way it made him so feral.

Abby pushed you into nastier and nastier territory. He had you jerk him off with your feet once, just to see if you’d do it, you did, blushing furiously the whole time. He taught you how to deepthroat, how to relax your throat, coaching you through the gagging until you could take him all the way. He had you sit on his face while you sucked him off, 69 turning into a contest of who could cum first. Spoiler, it was usually you. He showed you how to ride him, guiding your hips, groaning at the sight of you bouncing helplessly on his cock. He showed you how to roll a condom on with your mouth, and the look on his face the first time you managed it was feral. And you, sweet as ever, let him. You liked being his student. You liked learning how to drive him insane.

Your first time had been sweet, careful. But soon, Abby had you begging to be fucked raw, begging for his cock in your ass, begging for him to make you squirt until you couldn’t stand.

He jerked off to you before. He’d killed people before. He’d done every brutal thing a man could do. But nothing wrecked him like you. The way you blushed asking, “Can I try that?” The way you moaned when he filled your ass, when he pressed his thumb against your clit at the same time. The way you soaked him when he made you squirt, begging, “Abby, I can’t—please, I can’t—” only to give him another gush seconds later.

And the best part? You were still you. Still innocent in your way. You’d kiss his cheek after riding his face until you came three times and whisper, “…Was that good? Did you like it?” like you hadn’t just drenched him head to toe.

Abby was ruined. Absolutely ruined. The beast of a man who once killed without hesitation now couldn’t survive a day without hearing your moans, without feeling you shake around him.

And he didn’t want to.

ROMANCE

He was touchy, clingy, affectionate to a fault. He never kept his hands to himself, your waist, your cheek, the small of your back. Because you were so sweet. You curled up in his arms on the couch. You kissed his cheek before bed. You looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes when he brushed hair out of your face, like he had hung the moon just for you.

Romance was used to sex being easy, casual. He had lived lifetimes drenched in it, bodies and lips and moans all blurring together. But you were a clean slate. You were someone who had never even been kissed until he leaned down one night, brushed your lips with his, and you gasped. He would never forget that.

The relationship, as it stood, was almost unbearably wholesome on your end. You loved to cuddle. That was your language. You climbed into his lap and fell asleep against his chest. You held his hand and swung your legs when you sat together. You pressed little kisses to his jawline, giggling shyly when he teased you for it. And for you, that was intimacy. That was closeness. That was your “relationship.”

But for Romance? It was absolute hell. Because you sat there, curled against him in bed, whispering “I love you” and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to ruin that innocence. How badly he wanted to teach you how good it could feel.

And yet… he didn’t. He never pushed.

Because as much as he was sex embodied, he was also in love with you. And the idea of scaring you off, of breaking that fragile trust, you, the one thing in his long, messed-up life that felt pure, was enough to keep him in check.

Barely.

You sprawled out across the couch, legs draped over him, oblivious to how suggestive it looked. You changed in front of him without thinking, because to you, it was just a shirt, just your boyfriend, while to him, every glimpse of bare skin was another test of his endurance. You said things that sounded dirty without meaning them. “Romance, will you hold me tighter?” “Romance, I like how warm you are.” “Romance, I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

And every time, he had to bite his tongue, bury his face in your neck, and pray you didn’t notice the way his breathing changed.

What killed him most, though, was how much you loved. You didn’t know what it meant to flirt, not really. You didn’t know how to be seductive. But you were the most affectionate person he had ever met. Always hugging him from behind when he cooked, always sneaking into his room just to nap beside him, always telling him that he made you happy. You were a sweetheart. A little angel. And Romance loved it. He loved it more than he had ever loved anything. But it also shattered him, because he was Romance. He was sex itself. He could have taught you everything, how to kiss, how to touch, how to moan, and instead, he was sitting there with your head in his lap, stroking your hair while you hummed softly in your sleep.

He could have gone crazy like that.

Romance had been with countless people. He had seen everything, done everything, lived long enough to get bored of it all. But you? You were new. You were untouched. You were sunshine in human form. And he couldn’t get enough of you. He had never been patient in his life. He wasn’t built for it, didn’t believe in it, didn’t practice it. But with you, patience became his religion. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because you were soft and shy and brand-new to every single thing, and he loved you too much to rush. Romance was always romance. From the very beginning of your relationship he smothered you with affection, kisses to your temple when you were cooking, arms wrapping around you from behind when you were doing something as small as rinsing a glass. He was touchy, handsy, needy. And yet he kept it soft, kept it slow, because you were new. You were innocent, so incredibly untouched, and he knew that if he wanted to keep you, he had to go carefully.

That didn’t mean he didn’t slip.

Not even that long into your relationship, he’d started kissing you deeper. It wasn’t long before his instincts got the better of him, before his tongue brushed against your lips and teased its way into your mouth.

You froze. You didn’t know what to do. Nobody had ever kissed you like that before. You were trembling, confused, your little hands gripping his shoulders. He pulled back immediately, eyes soft, voice honey. “Too much?”

And you shook your head. Wide eyes, bitten lip, breathless. You were confused, god, yes, but you weren’t running. You let him do it again, and again, until you started to melt into it, letting him lead. You tasted him, learned him, let him show you what it meant to kiss like that. Romance loved every second. You were clumsy, uncertain, hesitant, but you were his, and you let him guide you, and that trust made his chest ache.

Romance swore he could feel your heartbeat in your lips, in your shy little whimper when he licked into your mouth. He knew you were overwhelmed, that your mind was scrambling, but you trusted him enough not to stop him. That trust nearly killed him with how sweet it was. He guided you gently, teaching you how to kiss back, slowing down so you could follow. You were clumsy, yes, but your innocence made every second unbearably intoxicating.

Romance was never quiet about what he wanted. He didn’t believe in hiding desire, it was the entire point of him, of who he was. But he’d been holding this one back, sitting on it for weeks, waiting until he knew you were ready to hear it. It was late, the two of you tangled in bed, your head resting against his chest. He was tracing shapes into your back when he finally breathed it out.

“Baby… can I ask you something?”

You tilted your head up, curious, innocent as always. “What?”

He licked his lips. For once, he looked almost nervous. Almost. Then the confidence returned.

“I want to eat you out.”

You blinked at him. The words didn’t even make sense at first. “Eat me—what?”

“Shh, don’t be scared. I’ll explain. I’ll be so careful with you.” His voice was patient, coaxing, every syllable dripping with the sincerity of a man who would happily worship you forever. “It’s nothing bad. Just my mouth on your pretty pussy, licking, kissing. Making you feel good. That’s all I want to do, sweetheart.”

Your throat went dry. He was just… open. Vulnerable, even, in the way he confessed it. “You really…” Your voice cracked, nervous. “…you want to do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it nonstop.” Romance nodded, utterly unashamed, rubbing your thigh gently. “You have no idea how much I want it. How much I want to make you feel good. Please. Let me show you.”

The confidence in his voice made it worse, because you believed him. You knew he was good at this, that he knew what he was doing. And you… you wanted to know. You wanted to feel what he promised. After a long, shaky pause, you nodded. “…Okay.”

His grin was dazzling, boyish, so relieved and bright it made your stomach twist. “Fuck, baby. Thank you.”

The way he went about it proved he’d been honest, he wanted you, not just the act. “Lie back, baby.” he murmured, easing you onto the pillows. “Yeah, just like that. You’re so beautiful like this, you know that? Look at you.” His hands smoothed down your thighs, squeezing lightly, worshipful already. “If you get scared, you tell me. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. But fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna love this.” Romance eased you onto the bed like you were breakable. He kissed up your thighs first, slow and adoring, peppering your skin with warmth until you were squirming from the anticipation alone. When he tugged your panties down, he did it with love.

“You’re so pretty.” he whispered against your skin. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Then, cheeky as hell, he pressed a kiss directly to your clit. Just a soft peck, playful, as if to tease you into laughter. But instead, it made you gasp, hips jerking. He chuckled against you, utterly delighted.

“Yeah.” Romance murmured, lips brushing over you. “That’s what I wanted. That right there.”

And then he showed you how good he could be.

He didn’t rush, not once. His mouth was everywhere, kissing, licking, tasting like he was drunk on it. His tongue flicked at your clit in slow circles, patient and teasing, then firmer when he felt your thighs tense. He moaned against you shamelessly, like he loved every second of it. And you, god, you couldn’t believe how it felt. You’d never experienced anything like it before. You covered your mouth, embarrassed by the noises spilling out, but Romance just pulled your hands down, lacing his fingers through yours.

When he slid a finger inside, slow and careful, you nearly sobbed. The newness of it, the stretch, the way his mouth and hand worked together, it was overwhelming. Too much and yet not enough. He didn’t hold back, not from his enthusiasm, not from his noises. Because if Romance loved something, he let you know it. He moaned into you, like every flick of his tongue was a reward for him, like your taste was the sweetest thing he’d ever had. Louder than you, groaning and humming with his mouth full of you.

“Fuck, baby, taste so good.”

“You’re so wet for me, I can’t take it.”

“That’s it, let me hear you. Don’t hold back, I wanna know how good I’m making you feel.”

You clutched at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you could grab onto, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. Your thighs trembled, your breath came in sharp gasps.

He was so, so good at it.

Romance had centuries of experience, after all. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he’d never wanted to be good at something more than he wanted to be good for you.

He held you down gently, his other hand pressing to your stomach, his mouth never stopping. He guided you through it, whispered to you, kissed your thighs when you whined that it was too much.

You didn’t know what happened at first. You just knew that your vision went white, your body clenched up, and then suddenly you were sobbing his name into the sheets, trembling as wave after wave rolled through you.

That’s the story of the first orgasm he gave you. And from that on, the escalation was natural, so natural you barely realized it was happening. After that night, Romance got bolder. Not pushy, never pushy, but bolder in what he asked for, in what he suggested.

“You liked it when I touched you like that, right?” he’d ask, casually, like he was asking if you liked dinner. When you flushed and nodded, he’d smile. “Then let me show you something else.”

It started small. His fingers, more than one now. Teaching you how to relax, how to take it. Explaining in that smooth, charming way of his, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious.

“You’re so tight, angel. Gonna need to work on that.”

“Don’t look so scared. You’ll thank me later.”

“You trust me? Then breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”

He treated it like a lesson, and in a way, it was. He loved it when you got shy, when you hid your face against his shoulder or covered your mouth to stifle a moan. He’d always tug your hand away, kiss your wrist, and murmur, don’t hide from me. I want to hear it. But where Romance truly didn’t deny who he was, where he couldn’t resist showing his freak streak, was when he brought toys into it.

“Toys?” you repeated, head tilted, as the two of you sat in his room.

“Yeah.” he said easily, smirking a little, sprawled out with one arm tucked behind his head. “Sex toys, baby.”

You blinked. “Like…?”

He sat up, raising his brows. “Not, like, Legos. Jesus. C’mere.”

You scooted closer, curious, innocent eyes wide. And Romance reached over to his nightstand drawer, pulling it open. Inside was a collection that made your jaw drop. Smooth silicone, shapes, little bottles, things you didn’t even have names for, and your eyes nearly fell out of your head when he pulled a vibrator out.

You blinked at it. Blinked at him. “What… is that?”

He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and held the vibrator up. “This is gonna be your new best friend.”

You just stared, still flushed, still confused. “…That’s… supposed to go inside me?”

A laugh, soft, as he stroked your cheek. “Not at first. Not unless you want it to. It’s for your clit. It vibrates, here, I’ll show you.” He clicked the button, and the toy buzzed to life in his hand. He held it against your palm, and your eyes widened.

“Oh.”

“Oh.” he mimicked, his voice warm with affection. “See? Not so scary. You’re gonna love this.”

And he did show you. He laid you back, kissed you sweetly, and then pressed the toy against you while his fingers spread you open. The sensation made you jolt, your whole body tensing as your breath hitched. Romance just cooed, stroked your thigh, told you to relax. “That’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You just nodded frantically, eyes glassy. He adjusted the speed when it was too much, backed off when you squirmed too hard, and whispered steady encouragements. “Take it, baby. You’re perfect like this.” “You can cum as many times as you want. I’ll keep going.” And god, you did cum. Harder, faster, more than you thought you could. The toy pulled orgasm after orgasm from you, and Romance didn’t stop until you were sobbing into the pillows, begging for a break.

When he finally clicked it off, he kissed your damp cheek and stroked your hair. “See? New best friend.”

It didn’t stop there. Romance had a collection, of course. Over time, he introduced you to more, different vibrators, plugs, even a harness he wore once, grinning wickedly as you blushed so hard you thought you’d combust. Every new toy was an experiment, a discovery, and you trusted him enough to let him guide you through it.

What amazed him most wasn’t just your innocence, but your curiosity. You asked questions. So many questions. Sometimes timid, sometimes bold, always honest.

“What does this one do?”

“Why would anyone want something that big?”

“…Will it hurt?”

“Do you… like watching me like this?”

He answered them all, never mocking you, never shaming you. He was funny, sure, but his explanations were clear, his tone reassuring. He wanted you to learn, not to fear. And you did. Slowly, shyly, but you did.

Romance could have anyone. He knew it. He radiated sex, wore it. But you? You were untouched, innocent, utterly inexperienced. And you gave that to him. And it drove him crazy. Crazy enough to moan louder than you when he got his mouth on you. Crazy enough to laugh with glee when you squirmed under a new toy.

Eating you out became the thing. It wasn’t even special occasion anymore. It was routine. You’d be curled up on his bed, yawning, wearing something soft and oversized, and he’d casually tug you closer, sliding down between your thighs like it was his rightful place in the world. Sometimes it was slow and teasing, his tongue moving lazily while he held your hand, murmuring encouragements. Sometimes it was messy, desperate, muffled moans against your clit as he devoured you, grinding himself into the mattress because he got so lost in it. Sometimes there was a toy involved, he’d slide a vibrator against you while he sucked, or press a finger inside you, curling it until you cried out.

But always, always, he loved it.

You couldn’t understand it. Not really. You’d look down at him, cheeks flushed, fingers tangled in his hair, and whisper, “Why do you like it so much?”

And he’d only smile, so beautiful, licking his lips, voice hoarse. “Baby, if you could hear yourself, if you could see what I see, you wouldn’t even ask.”

Still, you heard the way he moaned into you, shameless, unrestrained. You felt the way he shook when you pulled on his hair. Whatever it was, you knew without doubt that he was telling the truth. He loved it.

It was late, one night. The two of you curled together in bed, your head on his chest, his hand lazily stroking up and down your arm. You were warm and safe, your muscles still loose from the orgasm he’d pulled out of you an hour ago. And the thought had been growing inside you.

“Romance?”

He hummed. “Yeah, baby?”

You fiddled with the hem of his shirt, nervous. “Can we… maybe… do more?”

He stilled, just for a second. Then his hand traced your shoulder, slow and tender. “More?” His voice was low, careful. “What are you thinking of, sweetheart?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know.” It was true, you didn’t. You only knew that you wanted to be closer to him. That you wanted to give him something back. That you wanted to know what came next. “What do you think?”

There was silence. He tilted his head back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. And for once, Romance didn’t have a slick answer, didn’t have a joke ready. He just sat there, struck by the weight of what you’d said. Because you trusted him. With your untouched body, with your innocence, with everything you hadn’t even explored for yourself, you trusted him.

He listed a few things, keeping his tone gentle, never pushing. “We could keep doing what we’ve been doing. Or we could try touching each other more. Or toys. Or…” He hesitated, then met your eyes. “Sex.”

The word sat between you, heavy.

You chewed your lip, thinking. Then, slowly, hesitantly, you nodded. “…Okay. Yeah.”

Romance froze. Just stared at you for a long moment, his throat working. Then he let out a laugh, soft, shaky, full of disbelief. “Oh my god. You mean it? You really—baby, you…”

You laughed nervously, tugging at his hair. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Not making fun.” he swore, pulling back. “I just—I didn’t think—I mean, I’ve been dreaming about this, but I didn’t think you’d…” He trailed off, shook his head, kissed your nose. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

He kissed you like he’d never kissed anyone before. Not because of lust, though the lust was there, but because you’d just given him something no one else would ever have, your trust, your first time, your body. And Romance wasn’t a gentle man by nature. But with you? He was soft. He was patient. He was everything you needed him to be.

He laid you down carefully, kissing your face, your neck, whispering between each press of his mouth. “So pretty.” Kiss. “So sweet.” Kiss. “Mine.”

He let you touch him, let you explore. He guided your hands, showed you how to undo his belt, how to slide the fabric away. You were hesitant, fumbling, but he smiled through it, kissing your cheek every time you paused.

When you saw him, hard and heavy in his boxers, your eyes widened, intimidated. He hushed you immediately. “Hey, hey. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not rushing anything. We go slow. As slow as you want.”

You nodded, cheeks blazing, and whispered, “Okay.”

Romance swallowed hard. He thought he’d seen everything in his centuries of living, every expression, every body, every reaction. But nothing compared to you.

He made it sweet. He made it about you.

He ate you out first, coaxing you into the familiar high until your body relaxed, until you were soft and pliant in his arms. He kissed your thighs, kissed your clit, kissed the inside of your knee, moaning into you until you were too lost in pleasure to think about nerves. He slid on a condom, showing you how, letting you touch, letting you see. He guided himself to you, but didn’t push in right away. He rubbed against you, let you feel the shape, let you gasp and cling to him.

Only when you whispered, “Please.” did he ease inside.

Slow. So, so slow.

He moaned, biting his lip, almost in pain from the restraint. But his eyes stayed on yours, watching every twitch of your face, every hitch of your breath. He kissed away the sting, murmured praise into your skin, circled your clit to ease you up, and waited until your body softened under him.

And then you were wrapped around him.

Your first time. His thousandth. And yet, it felt like his first, too.

When it was over, you lay together in the aftermath, sweaty and shaking and overwhelmed. He held you so tight, pressing kisses to your hair, whispering, “You were perfect. You’re perfect. I love you.” Over and over. And you, sweet, glowing, you curled up against him, still shy, still blushing, but smiling.

It was the best night of his entire existence.

Romance had a way of making even the most ordinary night feel like a movie. Dinner out with him was a thing you two did often. He knew how to pick restaurants that were perfect, knew how to make you laugh so hard at the table that strangers turned to look. He’d sit there with his chin in his palm, staring at you, eyes shining. And when you reached across the table to hold his hand, innocent and beaming, he’d squeeze your fingers tight, thinking to himself that he’d give up every indulgence in the world if it meant keeping you like this.

But the real show always came later.

Back home, Romance showed you what his kind of love looked like. He’d guide you to the bed, kiss your shoulders one by one, take your shoes off. He never rushed you. Even when his desire was making him go fucking crazy, he slowed it down, made every second about you. For weeks, this was the rhythm, romance in public, devotion in private. And you, innocent, shy, but so willing to learn, gave him every drop of affection you had. Little kisses on his jaw. Cuddles. Sex. Love.

Until one night, curled up in his lap, your cheek against his chest, you tilted your head and asked: “What do you like?”

At first he laughed, brushing your hair back with a playful little smile. “What do you mean, baby? I like this. You. Us.”

But you weren’t letting him dodge. “No, I mean… what do you like. Like, in bed.”

Romance blinked. He hadn’t expected you to ask, not like this, not with those big innocent eyes watching him like that. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling for a moment. “What do I like?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You’re always… taking care of me. And I love it. But… what about you?”

“You really want to know?”

You nodded.

So he told you.

The list that spilled from his mouth was not soft, not romantic, not anything you’d thought he might say. He told you about the way he liked having control, about how he liked his partners on their knees, about the thrill of marking skin with his teeth, about restraints, about the dirtier games he’d played centuries ago. He said it casually, frankly, like a man who knew himself, who wasn’t ashamed of desire. He talked about impact, about spanking until your thighs shook and you cried out his name. He confessed, calm but raw, that he loved the idea of being rough, of marking you up so badly you wouldn’t be able to hide it the next day. And that wasn’t even the half of it. He kept going, matter-of-fact, almost casual, about his fantasies, things involving mirrors, toys, overstimulation, the kind of marathon nights that would leave you wrecked and sobbing and begging him to stop. He admitted he moaned when you made him feel good because he wanted you to know what power you had, that he was addicted to the idea of you making him lose it.

By the time he was halfway through, your mouth had fallen open. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, floored, shocked that this silky, charming man could want things so… brutal.

He caught the look on your face and chuckled, reaching for your hand. “Hey, hey. Relax. Don’t get scared. I don’t expect you to want any of that. It’s just me talking, sweetheart. Just what I’ve done, what I like. With you—”

“I do.”

Romance froze. “You… do?”

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “I mean—I want to try. Even if I’m not good at it. I want to learn what you like.”

For the first time in a long time, Romance was speechless. He searched your face, waiting for hesitation, for nerves, for the telltale look that meant you’d spoken too fast. But there was none. You were shy, yes, adorably so, but you were serious. Determined. And the trust behind those words hit him harder than any lust could.

“…Baby.” he murmured finally, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. Then a slow, beautiful, crooked smile spread across his face. “Okay. We’ll explore. Step by step. I’ll show you.”

The first step wasn’t anything wild. It was him undressing you more boldly than before, guiding your hands when you faltered. You’d been shy, before, blushing when his fingers brushed over your bra strap, burying your face when he tugged your shirt up. But that night, when he pulled your top over your head and eased your bra off, you didn’t cover yourself. You let him look.

He stilled, blinking at you, eyes hungry but soft. “You’re not shy?”

You shrugged, nervous but honest. “I trust you.”

It was simple. Just that. And to him, it was everything. He cupped your breasts, kissed the tops, the soft skin beneath, the valley between them, murmuring words you couldn’t quite catch because his voice shook. Then he leaned back on his heels, grinning. “God, look at you. You’re perfect.” And when he finally took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, your gasp made him groan. He’d fed off lust for centuries, but nothing compared to the sound of you learning pleasure for the first time.

From there, exploration became a game between you. He didn’t throw you into the deep end. That wasn’t his way. He started slow, introducing little pieces at a time. A blindfold one night, a firmer grip on your wrists the next. He tested your reactions, stopped to ask if you liked it, laughed when you admitted you did. Then Romance brought new toys into the mix. And each time you gasped, each time your eyes went wide at some new sensation, each time you clutched at him, he swore he was falling in love all over again.

You weren’t good at it, not at first. You fumbled, you giggled, you sometimes got too nervous and asked to stop. But you were trying. For him. With him. And to Romance, there was nothing cuter, nothing sexier, nothing more brutally endearing than your innocence colliding with his filth.

He could have anyone. He had, for centuries. But no one had ever looked at him the way you did, trusting, curious, a little scared but still willing. No one had ever made him feel this much like he was worth the effort of learning. And everytime you whispered, in that sweet, innocent little voice, “Okay, show me more” he got more and more attached to you.

One time you’d pushed his shirt up, your tiny hands splayed across his chest, your face tucked into his neck. And then, in your quiet, sweet little voice, you asked, “Romance… can I, um… can I see you?”

He leaned back instantly, his eyes lighting up with delight. “See me? Baby, you see me every day.”

You flushed and swatted at him, pouting. “You know what I mean. Like… see you.”

The way you said it, soft, hesitant, innocent, sent a rush of heat through him so brutal he had to steady himself. This was trust. This was your way of asking for more. So he nodded. “Yeah, sweetheart. You can.”

He dimmed the lights, not to hide but to soften, to make the room feel private and safe. He kissed you first, long and warm, so you’d know this was intimacy. Then he leaned back against the pillows, spreading his arms lazily.

“Go ahead.” he murmured, voice low, beautiful. “Explore me. Whatever you want.”

He let you trace the lines of his arms first, the veins that ran down into his hands, the dip of muscle that flexed when he curled his fingers around yours. “Touch me.” he encouraged, his voice a low purr. “I like your hands on me. Anywhere.” You followed the slope of his chest next, the skin warm, smelling like his cologne. He chuckled when your fingers lingered on his collarbones, when you pressed curiously against his pecs. “You like those, huh?” he teased, flexing them just to make you laugh.

“I mean… they’re nice.” you admitted, shy but honest. You also liked his thighs a lot.

Your hands shook a little as you reached for his belt. He didn’t help, didn’t rush. He just watched you, his dark eyes following every movement, the little tremble in your fingers, the way your lips pressed together in concentration. You got the buckle undone after a fumble or two, and he chuckled softly, brushing your hair back.

“Good girl.” he said, genuine.

You pulled the zipper down and he lifted his hips so you could ease his pants lower. He didn’t shove them off, didn’t kick them away, he let you set the pace. You stopped for a second, just staring at the tented outline beneath his boxers, and he laughed again, tilting his head.

“Go on.” he coaxed. “You can look. Nothing to be shy about.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and nervous. He only smiled, reassuring, and nodded. So you hooked your fingers in the waistband and pulled. When he sprang free, you actually gasped. Your hands froze, your face went red, and you stammered, “Oh. Oh—oh, wow.”

Romance nearly lost it laughing. He threw his head back, hand over his face, cackling.

You whined and covered your face, but he reached out, gently tugging your hands down. “Don’t hide. It’s okay. He won’t bite. You’re allowed to stare. I want you to.”

And you did. Hesitantly, curiously. You tilted your head, bit your lip, your gaze flicking between his cock and his face. Finally, you whispered, “It’s… big.”

“Thank you, baby.” he said gently. “But it’s just me. Same guy who holds your hand, remember?”

You relaxed a little. You touched him, lightly at first, fingertips brushing his length, fascinated by the way he twitched at your touch.

Romance moaned. Loud. Shameless.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked immediately.

“God, no.” He caught your wrist, guiding your hand more firmly around him. “That felt good. You did good, baby. Keep going.”

You swallowed and nodded, your hand wrapping tentatively around him. The first squeeze made him moan again, his hips jerking, and your eyes flew up to his again.

“See?” he said between breaths, his smile beautiful and so proud. “Perfect.”

He let you explore everything. He told you what each touch did, when it was too soft, when it was good, when it made his head spin. And you giggled every time he praised you, so shy but so eager to do well. You traced him with your fingertips, squeezed, rubbed, even poked once with a little laugh that made him choke on his own breath. When your hand slid lower, brushing his balls, he moaned again, louder this time. You froze, startled, but he caught your hand and pressed it there deliberately. “Don’t stop. That’s good, baby. Feels so good.”

You explored for what felt like forever, your giggles partner to his moans, your innocent curiosity brushing up against his centuries of experience in a way that made his head spin. You asked him questions, so many questions, each one making his chest ache with how sweet you were. “Does this feel better than this?” “What if I do it faster?” “Do you always sound like that when someone touches you?”

And when you finally leaned back, hands still on him, face flushed and eyes bright, you whispered, “You’re really pretty, you know that?”

Romance actually had to close his eyes and breathe. Because he’d been called many things in his long life, hot, sexy, irresistible. But pretty? That was your word. Pure. Honest. Innocent. And it wrecked him.

“You wanna try getting me off?” he asked at some point.

Your breath caught. “I… I can?”

“Baby, I want you to. More than anything.” He licked his lips, and his chest rose and fell faster now. “I’ll talk you through it. Every step. Just say the word.”

You nodded, eyes big and serious. “Okay. I want to.”

He guided your hand to wrap around him, showing you the pressure, the rhythm, the pace. You fumbled, you giggled nervously, you apologized when your grip faltered, but he never once looked anything but blissed.

“Perfect. Just like that. Fuck, you’re learning so fast.”

And the more you tried, the more you wanted to see him lose control. His moans, his curses, the way his head tipped back, it was intoxicating. You stroked him faster, your tongue peeking out between your lips as you concentrated. You wanted to know. You wanted to see. You wanted to be the reason for all of it. When his thighs tensed beneath your hands and his cum spilled hot and heavy across your fingers, you realized you were.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That’s… that’s cum?”

Romance was laughing even as he caught his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, baby. That’s cum. You did that. You made me feel so good I couldn’t hold it back.”

You looked down at your hand, then back at him, then giggled. “It’s… warm.”

“God, I fucking adore you.”

Yeah. That’s how it went. And about a week or two after the night you made him cum with your hands, you were still glowing with pride about how far you’d come. Next time you were curled up in bed with him, half-asleep against his chest while he absently combed his fingers through your hair.

And then, softly, you whispered, “Romance?”

“Mhm?” He didn’t open his eyes.

“What… what else do you like? The things you told me before.”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped open, his hand pausing in your hair. Slowly, carefully, he tilted his head down to look at you. “Why?”

You squirmed under the weight of his gaze, cheeks hot. “Because… I want to know. I want to see what you like. I want to try.”

He just stared at you, chest rising and falling faster than before. He reached out, brushing your jaw with his knuckles, and whispered, “You’re serious.”

You nodded. “I want to.”

That was the moment things changed. Romance didn’t throw you into the deep end. He never would, not with you. He took it step by step, introducing you to his world the same way he had guided you through your own body. Except this time, he wasn’t showing you you, he was showing you him.

The first thing he taught you was control. Or rather, his love for taking it.

One night, he brought out silk ties. “They’re just scarves.” he explained as he laid them across the bed. “Soft. Won’t hurt. You trust me?” You nodded. So he tied your wrists gently, testing the knots, making sure you could pull free if you panicked. And then he kissed you slow, deep, whispering against your lips, “See? Nothing scary. Just me holding you. Just me keeping you still.” At first you laughed nervously, tugging at the ties, but the way his eyes darkened when you gave up the fight sent shivers down your spine. And when he finally slid down the bed and put his mouth on you, his tongue teasing your clit until you writhed against the restraints, you understood. It wasn’t just about him controlling you, it was about you letting him. About the trust.

After that came marking. You’d noticed before how much he loved biting, your shoulder, your collarbone, even your thighs. But this time, when you asked him directly, “Do you like leaving marks?” his smile turned sharp.

“Baby,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I like when everyone knows you’re mine.”

He proved it to you that night. He kissed and sucked bruises into your neck until you were moaning, begging, half-laughing because you knew they’d show in the morning. He pressed his teeth into your thighs until you gasped, holding you open with gentle but firm hands. And when you whined, “Romance, they’ll see.” he only chuckled against your skin. Good.

Then came the dirtier games. Romance didn’t sugarcoat them. When you asked, wide-eyed, “What about the other things you like?” he told you plainly. He liked it messy. He liked spit, liked the filth of sweat, liked when a partner got down on their knees. He liked teasing until tears welled in the corners of your eyes. He liked control, every shade of it. And you… you were fascinated.

“Why do you like it so messy?” you asked once, pulling back with spit shining on your chin.

Romance cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Because it’s real, baby. Because it’s raw. Because it means you’re not afraid to let go with me.”

You shivered at that, then nodded. And when you leaned back down, he groaned like he’d never survive it.

Soon, you weren’t just learning, you were experimenting. Sometimes he’d pin your wrists down, sometimes he’d push your thighs apart and tell you not to move while he worked you over with his mouth. Sometimes he’d whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made your face burn but your body ache with need. And you, his sweet, innocent angel, soaked it all in. You weren’t scared. You weren’t shy. You were curious. Hungry. Determined to understand what made him tick. And Romance, for all his filth, never forgot who you were. He never pushed too hard, never let the games eclipse the love. He always held you after, always kissed your forehead, always whispered that you were perfect.

But when he looked at you, bruised, marked, still catching your breath, his eyes were darker than ever.

You were on top of him one night, straddling his hips while he lay back on the bed. He’d been teasing you for so long that you decided to take a little revenge, pressing your nails into his chest without really thinking about it.

He gasped, loud, sharp, but not in pain. Not exactly. His hips jerked up hard against yours, and when you looked down at him, his pupils were blown wide.

“Do that again.” he rasped.

You blinked. “The scratching?”

He nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Harder.”

So you did. You dragged your nails down his chest, harder this time, leaving red tracks in your wake. His back arched off the bed, his hands clenching the sheets, and a groan tore out of his throat.

“Holy shit.” you whispered.

Romance laughed breathlessly, eyes wild. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

That was your first glimpse of it, the part of him that liked pain.

Afterward, when you were curled up against his chest, you asked quietly, “Do you… like that? Getting hurt?”

He didn’t even try to play it cool. He just nodded, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Yeah, love. I like when you take me apart a little. When you scratch. When you slap. When you tell me what to do. I like being the one hurt. I like pain. On me. Spanking, scratching, biting. Hitting. Telling me I’m nothing. Making me beg. Making me your bitch. That kind of pain.”

Your mouth fell open. You’d thought you’d heard it all, the marks, the toys, the messy things. But this? This you hadn’t expected. Romance, the embodiment of confidence, the man who moaned like he was the star of his own porno, wanted you to humiliate him?

“You’re… serious?” you whispered.

“Dead serious. I know it sounds insane coming from me, but I swear, baby, it’s what I like. It’s what gets me off. You want the truth? That’s it.”

You swallowed hard, your face burning. The man was insane. But the way he said it, so honest, so raw, it made something spark in your chest.

And then, before you could overthink it, you whispered, “Can I… try something?”

It started simple. Romance got on all fours at the end of the bed, glancing back at you with that teasing, challenging smirk. “Come on, baby. Don’t be shy.”

You stared at his ass, at the strong curve of muscle under skin, and raised your hand. “Like this?” you asked nervously.

“Like that.” he purred.

So you spanked him. A sharp, quick smack that echoed in the room.

Romance gasped, an honest gasp, and dropped his head against the sheets. His shoulders trembled. When he looked back at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips parted. “Again.”

You did it again. Harder. His body jolted, and he moaned into the mattress.

It became a rhythm. Spank. Gasp. Moan. His ass reddening under your palm, his thighs twitching. You couldn’t believe it. He looked ruined, hair falling in his face, sweat prickling on his back, muscles flexing as he struggled to stay still. And he kept whispering, “More. Harder. Don’t stop. Please, baby. Please.”

And god, it was intoxicating.

It escalated fast. Soon, you were digging your nails down his back, leaving angry red lines that made him hiss and groan. He bit into the sheets to muffle his cries, but when you pulled his hair and demanded, “Louder.” he obeyed, moaning so shamelessly that you flushed.

You spit on his shoulder once, hesitant, and froze. But when you looked down, his face was pure bliss.

“Again.” he begged. “Don’t stop. Do it again.”

The night it really shifted was when he finally asked for more.

You’d just finished spanking him raw, his ass glowing red, when he turned his head and whispered, “Baby… will you—fuck, will you put something in me?”

You blinked. “In… you?”

His grin was wild, desperate. “Yeah. Finger, toy, anything. I want it. I want you to use me.”

Your heart raced. You’d never done anything like that. But the way he looked at you, pleading, hopeful, trusting, it made you nod.

“Okay.” you whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

Romance guided you. Patiently, shakily, he showed you how to slick your fingers, how to press against him gently, how to ease in slow. You were trembling, terrified of hurting him, but he only moaned, clutching the sheets, telling you how good it felt.

“Deeper.” he gasped. “Please. Harder.”

You did. And when you found the spot that made him cry out, his whole body shuddered. He collapsed forward, sweating, moaning, gasping your name.

You couldn’t stop staring. The sex symbol, the confident demon, the man who kissed like fire, reduced to a panting mess under you.

And when he finally came, ruined and shaking, it wasn’t just hot. It was… bonding.

Afterward, he lay on his back, chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead. He reached for you, pulling you against him, still trembling from the high.

Then, another big thing. It began like most nights did, Romance kissing you stupid, showering you in affection until you forgot to be mad at him for the dumb things he did during the day. He had you tucked against his chest, his hands everywhere, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured sweet nothings.

But this time, his voice was lower. Hungrier.

“Baby…” He kissed your jaw, slow. “I want more tonight.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “More?”

His laugh rumbled through your chest. “Yeah. More. You know what I mean.” He leaned back so you could see his eyes, wide and bright, his grin sheepish but wicked. “I want you to peg me.”

The words made your stomach flip. Even after everything, the toys, the spanking, the begging, you hadn’t expected that.

“Me?” you squeaked. (Lmfao take this in the comedic sense)

Romance chuckled, sliding his hand down to squeeze your hip. “Yes, you. Who else would I trust with it? Come on, baby. Don’t give me that look. You’ve been a natural at everything else.”

You swallowed hard. “But I don’t… I’ve never—”

“I’ll teach you.” he interrupted smoothly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Like I always do. Step by step. You’ll be perfect.”

You hesitated, nerves twisting inside you. But then you saw the honesty in his eyes, the raw want, the vulnerability he never let anyone else see. And your own voice surprised you when you whispered “Okay.”

Romance wasted no time. He rolled off the bed, rummaging through the toy chest at the foot of it, and came back with a strap and a bottle of lube. He laid them gently beside you.

You bit your lip. “And you’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” he murmured. Then, softer: “I want you to ruin me.”

Your heart thudded.

He walked you through every step. First, the lube, how much to use, though you already knew how to finger him. You knelt between his thighs, watching his face as you pressed one finger in, then two. He gasped, moaned, gripped the sheets until his knuckles went white.

“Good girl.” he whispered through gritted teeth. “So good at this. Don’t stop.”

You added a third, marveling at the way his body opened for you, at the raw, needy sounds spilling from his throat. You couldn’t believe how beautiful he looked like this, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen from biting them, sweat glistening on his chest.

When he finally begged, “Please, baby, I’m ready.” you strapped the harness on with shaking hands. Romance helped you adjust it, guiding your trembling fingers with steady ones. His voice stayed soft, coaxing. “You look so fucking hot right now, baby. You have no idea. You’re gonna destroy me, and I can’t wait.”

You positioned yourself carefully, heart racing. “Tell me what to do.”

He grinned, reckless and needy all at once. “Just push. Slow. I’ll tell you when.”

You lined yourself up and pushed in gently. His breath hitched, his whole body tense, but his eyes fluttered shut, and a groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck. Yes. Just like that.”

You froze. “Are you okay?”

His laugh was shaky. “More than okay. Keep going.”

So you did. Inch by inch, you sank into him, watching his face, terrified of hurting him but unable to stop once you saw the bliss washing over him. He clutched your thighs, nails digging in, moaning so loudly you flushed.

“Baby,” he gasped. “you feel—fuck—you feel so good.”

Once you were fully inside, you stayed still, waiting. His chest rose and fell fast, sweat dripping down his temple. And then he opened his eyes, pupils blown wide, and whispered, “Move.”

You did. Tentative thrusts at first, shallow and slow, until you found a rhythm.

Romance screamed.

Head thrown back, mouth open, moans echoing off the walls, he was louder than you’d ever heard him. Each thrust had him trembling, begging, praising you between curses.

“Yes, baby. Fuck me. Harder. Don’t stop. Please. Please.”

Watching him come undone beneath you, watching him grip the sheets like his life depended on it, knowing you were the one making him feel like this, it lit a fire in your chest. You moved harder, faster. He arched into you, body shaking, his voice breaking as he begged for more.

When you leaned down and kissed him, he whined against your mouth, clutching your face. “I love you.” he gasped. “Fuck, I love you, don’t stop, please—”

And when he came, it was violent, his whole body convulsing, his moan tearing through the air. He collapsed under you, ruined, trembling, sweat-soaked and breathless.

You pulled out carefully, unstrapping the harness with shaky fingers. “Are you—”

Before you could finish, Romance pulled you against his chest, kissing your hair, still panting. “Perfect.” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re perfect. That was everything.”

You were still you. Still soft, still shy, still the girl who blushed at dirty words and giggled at bad jokes. That sweetness never changed. The only difference was that your boyfriend was showing you a whole new world, one step at a time. He taught you safe words, taught you where the line was, taught you how to take care of him after. Because for all his filth, Romance was still Romance, he wanted you to enjoy this, not be scared. He wanted you to feel powerful, not pressured.

And you did.

JINU

You’re a sweetheart.

The fact that you’ve never gone further than a kiss? That you don’t know what dicking someone down even means? For Jinu, that’s like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He delights in it. He lives for it. Not because he thinks less of you, not because he wants to tease (though god, he does), but because it feeds something primal in him. The thought that your first shiver, your first gasp, your first moan, every little milestone in intimacy, will be his doing.

You are innocent. Truly. Sweet as sugar. You’ve never kissed with tongue, never gone past a lingering peck, never even thought about sex without blushing into your sleeves. And you, pathetic, heart-on-sleeve creature that you are, love nothing more than curling up against Jinu. Always. Always cuddling into his chest, brushing kisses over his jaw, hugging him. You curl up against him on the couch with your head in his lap, kissing his palm absentmindedly, and he feels like he’s going to combust. You nuzzle into his neck when he’s reading something, kiss his temple before bed, and it fucks him. Because it never goes further. Never slips into what his dirty mind is screaming for.

The relationship is a little toxic, because Jinu is toxic. He can’t help it. He’s manipulative, territorial, selfish in a way only centuries of survival can breed. He’ll scold you for paying too much attention to the others. He’ll bribe you with food, gifts, touches. He’ll sulk when you deny him, pacing the room until you tug him down beside you and kiss his forehead, soothing him with your soft, steady voice. You always forgive too easily, and he uses that like a weapon. He’s an evil man who found himself addicted to a good thing.

But when you’re lying on top of him, chin propped on your folded arms against his chest, eyes bright with nothing but love, whispering “You’re so handsome, Jinu” he feels like he’s dying. Like maybe he never lived before this.

And when you press kiss after kiss after kiss to his lips, soft, innocent, chaste pecks that never turn into anything dirtier, he goes half-mad. He wants to corrupt you. To ruin you. To make you his in the darkest way. But you don’t give him that. You give him only sweetness. And it’s killing him.

He’ll spread out on the couch, robe loose(he will NOT let go of that fucking robe I swear man), and you’ll just… pad over, curl up against him, and tuck yourself under his arm without asking. You’ll put your head on his chest, nuzzle his neck, leave little soft kisses that never dip below sweet.

That’s it. That’s your idea of intimacy.

Jinu is filth. He’s the dirtiest dog on the planet. He looks at you and his mind is immediately in the gutter, always. Your lips brush his cheek and he’s imagining your mouth open under his. You hold his hand and he wants to pin your wrists to the mattress. You giggle against his shoulder and he wants to corrupt every innocent sound you make until it’s his name leaving your throat instead.

But he doesn’t get that. Not yet. Because you don’t even know.

One night, you’re curled up in his lap, straddling him because you’re clingy and love being close, your arms looped lazily around his neck. You kiss his lips, soft, sweet, like a little bird. Then you pull back, smile, and watch his pretty demon face.

And Jinu is dying. Because that wasn’t even a kiss, not in his book. Not the kind that involves teeth and tongue and a desperate pull of breath. It’s… innocent. Barely there.

He murmurs something.

“Hm?” you ask, blinking at him with those sweet, confused eyes.

“Nothing.” he lies, kissing your forehead.

You’ve told him before, shyly, fidgeting with your hands, that you’re… inexperienced. That you’ve never done anything beyond hugging and holding hands and maybe a peck or two in your life. And Jinu had laughed, not meanly, but like he couldn’t believe the universe handed him this kind of untouched sweetness.

And he loves it. Oh, he loves it.

Your innocence drives him insane. The way you’re so trusting, so pure in your affection. You drape yourself over him constantly, cuddle like a cat, press your lips to his jaw just to say “I love you” without words. You don’t even realize how suggestive it could be, not really. To you, it’s just… love. And to him, it’s torment. Delicious, endless torment.

Because Jinu is filthy, yes, but he’s also in love. He adores you in a way that unsettles him. He’ll let you climb into his bed every night just to curl against him like a blanket, kissing his shoulder until you fall asleep. He’ll stroke your hair and call you his little angel, his sweetheart, his baby, all while thinking things he can never say out loud because you’d probably blush yourself into a coma.

And the worst part? You’re so happy with it. With just kissing, hugging, and being close. You never push for more, because you don’t know there’s more. You just think that’s what dating is, cuddling up to your boyfriend, giving him soft kisses, telling him you love him.

And Jinu, the pervert, the manipulator, the filthy dog, sits there and takes it, because he’d rather starve on scraps from you than feast on anyone else.

When you fall asleep curled into him, cheek pressed against his chest, little hand clutching his robe, Jinu just stares at the ceiling. Smirking, sometimes. Groaning, often. But always with one hand stroking your hair, slow and gentle.

Changes started small. You sitting on his lap one night, curled up like always, your chin tucked into the crook of his neck. You kissed him, soft, sweet, like the thousand times before. But when you pulled away, he didn’t let you. His hand slid up the back of your head, kept you close, kept his mouth lingering over yours.

He kissed you again, deeper this time. And again.

You froze, not out of fear, but because you didn’t know this version of kissing. His tongue brushed your lip, testing, asking. And you, confused, innocent, a little flushed, let him. You followed his lead. Clumsy, uncertain, but trusting. Always trusting. What he did wasn’t enough to make it filthy, yet, but enough to have you pulling back breathless, touching your lips like, oh. That was different.

From there, things always escalated in little steps. Jinu never demanded. He didn’t have to. He’d kiss you deeper, linger longer, his hands brushing your sides, your waist, inching closer but never forcing. He’d guide your body, tilt your chin, place your hands where he wanted them.

And you… let him.

Because you loved him. Because he was patient. Because he made you feel safe even when his eyes were dark with something you couldn’t name.

The first time his hand brushed your chest, you squeaked, actually squeaked, and buried your face in his robe. Jinu only chuckled, low and pleased, stroking your hair. “Relax, baby. Just me. Only me.”

Weeks later, it was you. You were curled up in bed, kissing him lazily, your body buzzing from his touch. He pulled back, just barely, eyes searching yours, waiting for permission like he always did. And something inside you, some spark from all his patient teaching, made you grab his wrist and guide his hand higher. You pressed it against your breast yourself, looking away, shy, but certain.

“Here.” you whispered.

Jinu almost lost his mind. Squeezed once. But you only kissed him again.

The progress was slow, but relentless. First kisses, then deeper kisses. First brushes of his hand, then full touches. First his mouth against yours, then his mouth tracing lower, down your throat, across your collarbone, leaving trails of heat that had you arching without even realizing it.

And you let him teach you. Always. You’d watch his eyes, follow his lead, mimic his movements when he showed you how to kiss him back properly. Every time he praised you—that’s it, baby, just like that—your heart fluttered, and you wanted to try harder.

Jinu was patient, yes. But inside, he was feral. Every time you let him a little closer, every time you whimpered against his mouth or squirmed in his lap or guided his hand where you wanted him, it drove him insane. He’d bite back groans, press kisses into your hair, hide how much he wanted to throw you down and take everything at once. But he didn’t. Because you were his angel, his sweetheart, his untouched little love. And he was going to savor every single step. He knew what he was holding. A precious, naive little girlfriend who kissed his cheek, who thought climbing into his lap to cuddle was just… innocent closeness. He knew if he moved too fast, he’d scare you off, or worse, you’d look at him with those hurt, disappointed eyes, and he couldn’t survive that.

So he taught. Slowly. Patiently. Once you trusted deeper kisses and his hands on your cute tits, you loosened. You started climbing into his lap more. Sitting across his thighs, letting him hold your waist, sometimes even grinding against him by accident, just from the way you shifted when you got comfortable. And every time, he bit the inside of his cheek and told himself not to ruin it.

But you made it worse, because you started to copy him. If he licked into your mouth, you tried, clumsy and hesitant, but eager to please him. If he put his hands on your waist, you grabbed his shoulders, pulling him closer. You learned. You soaked up his every move.

He taught you how to make out properly, patient every time you shied away. He taught you that kissing wasn’t just lips, it was neck, collarbones, shoulders. You learned that giggling while he kissed your jaw only made him hungrier. He let you explore him too, guided your hands over his chest, his arms, letting you feel how solid he was. He didn’t flinch when your hand lingered lower, just kissed you deeper for encouragement.

Always, always, he let you set the pace. If you wanted to stop at cuddling, he stopped. If you wanted to kiss until your lips were raw, he let you climb him like a tree. If you hesitantly touched him where you weren’t sure you were allowed, he praised you, whispered dirty encouragements that made you blush but never once made you feel unsafe.

For anyone else, Jinu would never—never—have been this patient. He’s greedy, filthy, the kind of man who likes getting what he wants the second he wants it. But for you? He’ll play the long game. He’ll put himself through absolute torture, blue-balled to hell, walking around with bruises on the inside of his lip from biting it so hard when you sit in his lap all innocent and warm. Because he loves it. He loves you. And the slow burn of teaching you, guiding you, watching you bloom under his hands is better than anything else he’s ever had.

You’re his sweet little angel, his virgin girlfriend, the one who doesn’t even know how cruel he could be if he wanted. And that innocence? It drives him feral.

One night, his hands were on you. He kissed you slow and deep, palms cupping your tits through your shirt, thumbs dragging across your nipples until you shivered against him. You broke the kiss, breathless, blinking up at him like you weren’t sure what just happened.

That was the first time anyone ever touched your nipples.

And you let him get back to it.

Your innocence wasn’t gone, it was just… shifting. Turning into something pliable in his hands. And Jinu reveled in it. The way you trusted him enough to let him push you further. The way you looked at him afterward, still sweet, still pure, even with your shirt tugged half-off your shoulder and his hand firmly over your chest.

One night, the kisses got heavier. You had been perched sideways across his thighs, your arm looped lazily around his shoulders, his palm heavy at your hip. He tilted you closer, lips hot and insistent on your throat, and something about it made your body move on its own. Your hips shifted, just slightly, a mindless adjustment for comfort, but then you felt it. The way your clit brushed against the firm muscle of his thigh.

You froze.

He felt the way you stiffened, and for a heartbeat you thought he’d call you out, tease you, ruin the moment. But Jinu only hummed against your neck, pressing another kiss there as though nothing had happened. His hand stayed steady at your hip, not pushing, not guiding. Just there.

You tried to ignore it. You shifted again, testing it, and the heat that shot through your body made your lips part on a sharp inhale. Jinu felt that too, but he didn’t move. Didn’t do anything except kiss you softer, like he was coaxing you, like he was saying without words, go on, sweetheart. I’m not stopping you.

So you tried again. Slowly. Carefully. Rocking your hips against him, small movements that made your pulse spike and your skin heat up until your whole body was buzzing. Your thighs clenched, your lips parted, and Jinu tilted his head just enough to catch your mouth again, swallowing the quiet little sound you couldn’t hold back.

You stopped almost immediately after, embarrassed, face hot with shame at what you’d been doing. “I—I wasn’t—” you stammered, trying to climb off his lap.

But Jinu caught you, gently pressing you back down, his hand warm and firm at your waist. “You don’t ever have to be shy with me. Whatever you want—take it. I’ll never stop you.”

That became a pattern. Not every time, not even most times, but sometimes when you kissed him long enough, you’d find yourself moving against his thigh. And each time you tried, he stayed steady beneath you, letting you guide everything, only murmuring things in your ear when you got too nervous. You never finished, not yet. You always got shy, hid your face in his chest, begged him to stop looking at you like that. And Jinu always listened. He’d tuck you into him, stroke your back, calm you down until your heartbeat wasn’t thundering anymore. But he never forgot the way you sounded. The way you trembled when you rocked against him.

The first time you let his hand slip under your pajama shorts, he almost stopped breathing. Not inside your underwear, not yet, that was too much. But just resting on the curve of your thigh, fingers brushing close enough to have you biting your lip. You held it there yourself, covering his hand with yours so he couldn’t move it away, even as you turned your face to the side in shame.

The first time you let him kiss down your body, slipping your shirt up to press his mouth to the soft skin of your stomach, you gasped so loud he almost laughed. But when you didn’t push him away, when you instead tangled your fingers in his hair and held him there nervously, he realized you were giving him another piece of yourself. And he took it slowly, kissing lower, always watching your face, teaching you that nothing about you could ever scare him away.

But the night you surprised him the most was when you asked to see his cock. You’d been sitting in his lap again, kissing until your lips were swollen, and suddenly you pulled back, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, not meeting his eyes. “C–can I…?”

Jinu understood immediately. His heart stuttered, but he forced himself to keep calm, stroking your hair. “Anything you want.” he murmured. “You don’t even need to ask.”

You swallowed hard, then moved shakily, tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. Jinu helped, slow and careful, keeping his eyes on your face the whole time, watching your lips part as more and more skin was revealed. Until finally, you saw his cock, heavy against his thigh, thick and flushed in a way that made your breath catch.

You stared. For a long moment, you just stared.

Jinu chuckled softly, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “Scared?”

You shook your head quickly, though your voice wobbled. “Just… it’s… a lot.”

And god, the way you said that. He almost lost his mind. But he held it together, biting back the filth he wanted to spill, because this wasn’t about him. This was about you.

“You can touch it if you want.” he said gently. “No pressure. Just look, if that’s all you’re comfortable with. I’ll never push you.” This was manipulative talk, by the way. We know he’s good at that.

You hesitated, then reached out, tentative fingers brushing against his length. He hissed at the contact, more from restraint than anything, but kept his grip steady on your waist. You touched him again, a little firmer this time, and your eyes flicked up to his like you were trying to gauge if you’d done it wrong. Jinu kissed you. Hard. Desperate.

You spent that night learning. You didn’t do much, not yet. Just touched, explored, asked questions in your soft little voice that nearly killed him with how innocent they were. “Does it hurt when it gets like this? Is it always so warm? Why’s it… twitching?”

And Jinu answered every single one. Patient, explaining in the simplest ways he could while his body burned with the effort of not grabbing your hand and showing you what you could do to him.

When you finally pulled your hand back, shy and overwhelmed, he kissed your forehead and tucked you against his chest, whispering over and over how proud he was of you. He didn’t even touch himself after you fell asleep. He just held you, hard and aching, and smiled at the ceiling. Because every time you let him in, every time you loosened a little more, it wasn’t just your body you were offering him. It was your trust. Your innocence. Your heart.

After that, he let you explore him like this more. Once, it started like usual, you in his lap, kissing until your lips tingled, until you’d gotten bold enough to push at the waistband of his sweatpants again. He always let you. Always leaned back a little, hands behind his head, letting you take the lead.

You tugged, careful, and he shifted just enough for the fabric to slip down his hips. His cock fell heavy against his thigh again, flushed and swollen, and you stared with that same wide-eyed awe you always did. Thick, flushed, veined, it looked almost unreal to you, too much and too beautiful all at once. He could’ve laughed, but he didn’t. Not tonight. Tonight, he could feel something different buzzing in the air, humming under your skin.

Your lips parted. Your fingers hovered just above him. And then, in that tiny, shaky voice of yours: “…Does it always look like that? When… y’know, it’s hard?”

Jinu tilted his head. “Like what?”

You swallowed. “Like… so red. Like it hurts.”

He chuckled, low in his chest. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s supposed to be like that.”

You stared harder. “But it’s… so big. And… um. What’s…” You gestured vaguely, cheeks burning. “that stuff?”

Jinu glanced down lazily at the bead of precum glistening at the tip, then back up at you. “That’s me leaking. Happens when I get hard. Means I want you.”

Your breath hitched, but you didn’t pull away. “What happens if—um—if you don’t… finish? Does it stay like that forever?”

That earned you a quiet laugh, the kind that made your stomach flip. “No, baby. It goes down. Eventually. Not fun, but it does.”

You went silent for a moment, nibbling at your lip, clearly working up courage. And then came the real breakthrough, the one that made his chest tighten. “So… what’s it like? When you… when you cum?”

Jinu didn’t answer immediately. He watched you instead, let the question hang there until you started to fidget like you regretted asking. “It’s release. Pressure gone. Feels good. Real good.”

You shivered, fascinated. Then, with a bravery that shocked even yourself, you whispered: “Can I… make you?”

Jinu froze. “You really mean it?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I… I want to try. Please.”

“…Alright then.” He adjusted, spread his thighs a little, his cock heavy and hard between them, and crooked a finger at you.

You moved, cautious, Your hands trembled when they brushed against him.

“Start slow.” he murmured, wrapping his hand lightly around yours, showing you how to hold him without squeezing too tight. “Good. Feel that? Veins, heat. That’s all me.”

You nodded, watching intently as your hand moved along his cock under his guidance. The weight of him, the way he pulsed faintly against your palm, it was mesmerizing.

“Don’t be shy.” he teased, voice rough. “You wanted to learn, so learn. Wrap your hand tighter. Yeah, like that.”

You obeyed, and his jaw clenched, a hiss slipping through his teeth. His free hand gripped the sheets, but his words stayed steady. “Now stroke. Up and down. Slow at first, like this.”

You followed every instruction, nervous but focused, watching the way his chest rose and fell faster, the way his eyes closed, sometimes flashed yellow when you got the rhythm right.

“It feels good?” you whispered, almost disbelieving.

“Mhm.” he agreed. “Up and down. That’s it. Steady rhythm. Don’t rush.”

You followed, obedient, your lips parted in concentration. It was clumsy, awkward at first, but Jinu didn’t care. He let out a slow breath, tilting his head back, not exaggerating his reactions. Just letting you see, letting you learn.

“Feel that?” he murmured after a while, voice rougher now. “The way it twitches when you squeeze right? That’s good. Means I like it.”

You swallowed hard, nodding, tightening your grip just slightly.

“Good girl. Keep going. Don’t be scared of it.”

Your hand moved a little smoother now, more confident with his encouragement. Your other hand hovered, unsure what to do, until Jinu caught it and placed it low on his thigh.

“Hold me there. Anchor yourself. Makes it easier.”

You obeyed, pressing into the firm muscle of his leg, and he groaned softly at the sight. You smiled shyly, spurred on, and kept moving your hand. His cock twitched in your grasp, leaking more at the tip, and you paused, startled. “It’s… dripping.”

He smirked, voice tight. “That’s a good thing. Keep going.”

You bit your lip, nodding, stroking him again. “Like this?”

He groaned, throwing his head back. “Exactly like that. Fuck, you’re a natural.”

Your cheeks burned at the praise, but you didn’t stop. You grew bolder, experimenting with pace, squeezing a little harder, watching the way his abs tightened every time you did something right. Jinu let you, correcting softly when needed, but mostly letting you explore.

“…Will it be soon?”

Jinu cracked a smile. “Eager?”

Your face went red. “No, I just—I wanted to know if I’m… doing it right.”

That made him laugh. “You’re doing perfect. And yeah… keep it up like that, and I’ll be there soon.”

You faltered, unsure. “And when it does…?”

“You’ll know.” he promised, stroking your cheek with a surprisingly gentle hand. “You’ll feel it. Just don’t stop until I tell you, alright?”

You nodded, determined, and focused on the movement of your hand. The room filled with his sounds, low groans, sharp inhales, muttered curses under his breath.

And then his voice broke, rough and unfiltered: “Fuck, baby, just like that. Don’t stop.”

The words made your heart race, but you didn’t stop. You squeezed, stroked faster, watching his entire body tense beneath you. His hand closed over yours, stroking with you, faster now, and his head tipped back as a groan tore from his chest.

“Fuck—there it is—don’t stop, baby, don’t—” You didn’t. You squeezed, you stroked, and you felt it, the twitch, the sudden heat, the cum spilling over your fingers as he came, pulsing in your hand.

You froze in shock, almost pulling back, but he caught your wrist with surprising gentleness, breathless but firm. “Don’t stop yet. Slow—yeah, that’s it. Ease me through it.”

You followed, shaky, until his body finally relaxed, his cock softening under your hand.

Only then did he let you go, laughing under his breath as he slumped back, utterly undone. He looked at you, your wide eyes, your sticky hand, your flushed cheeks, and smirked. “Not bad for your first try.”

You froze, staring at the mess, then back at him, unsure. “I… did it?”

“Mhm.”

When you ducked your face into his chest, embarrassed, he only laughed again, smug and affectionate, stroking your hair.

“Don’t hide from me now.” he teased. “You just gave me the best orgasm I’ve had in centuries. Least you can do is let me look at that pretty face.”

You groaned, mortified, but he held you close, kissing your temple. Jinu was many things, selfish, perverted, arrogant, but when it came to you, he was patient.

Then the next milestone came. It was like a week after you jerked him off for the first time. The two of you were tangled on his bed, nothing unusual about it. You curled against his side, nuzzled into his chest like you always did, soaking up the warmth he gave you.

Jinu kissed your hair, your temple, then your cheek. Sweet, easy. You tilted your head up for more, and soon his mouth was on yours, deeper, hotter.

Kissing him was always new. You never knew what you were doing, your lips too soft, your tongue hesitant, but he guided you. He always did. His hand on your jaw, his mouth coaxing yours open, his tongue slipping past your lips. You gasped softly, the way you always did, and he smiled against you.

But tonight, when you shifted to straddle his lap, expecting just more kissing, he stopped you with a hand on your waist.

“Not this time, sweetheart.” he murmured, eyes gleaming.

You blinked down at him. “Not… what do you mean?”

“You’ve been learning me. I think it’s time you learn you.”

Your cheeks heated immediately. “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.” He guided you gently back, pressing until you were lying on the sheets and he was leaning over you. “You’ve been so sweet letting me teach you. But you haven’t let yourself feel what I can give you.”

“…You want to?” you whispered, so quiet it was almost lost in the dark.

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “I want to. More than anything. But only if you let me.”

You chewed your lip, heart hammering in your chest. This was different. You knew it. Up until now it had been safe, playful, experimental. But this… Still, you nodded. Small, nervous. “…Okay.”

He kissed you again, slow, reassuring, then trailed lower, down your throat, your collarbone. His hand slipped under your shirt, tugging it upward. “I’ll go slow. You’ll like it. Trust me.”

You froze. This was… new. Too new. “I—I don’t know if—”

“You don’t have to know.” His voice softened, his lips brushing just above your sternum. “You just have to let me.”

Something in you cracked at that. You nodded, barely, and he smiled against your skin.

“You trust me, don’t you?” Jinu’s voice was smooth, but softer than usual. A real question. A little manipulative.

You nodded immediately. “Yes.”

He kissed over your collarbone, slow enough to give you time to stop him. You didn’t. His hands slid under your shirt, up your ribs, and you let him pull it over your head, shivering under his gaze.

“Pretty.” he muttered, mostly to himself, before leaning down to kiss between your breasts, still in your bra.

You reached for him instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair. It was new, so new, and you didn’t know what to expect. His hands slid down to your shorts, undoing them with quick fingers.

“Relax.” He kissed your stomach, teasingly gentle, as he worked the shorts down your thighs. “Nothing scary. Just me.”

You lifted your hips enough to let him pull them off. The air hit your panties, thin fabric damp already, and you wanted to die of embarrassment.

“Pretty girl.” Jinu murmured, fingers tracing the outline of your folds through the fabric. You shivered violently.

“Jinu—”

“Shh. Let me.”

And then he bent down, kissed you there. Right through the fabric. Your breath left you. It felt… different. Warm. Not bad, just shocking.

He chuckled at your reaction. “Sensitive, huh?” His teeth grazed your inner thigh before he sat back slightly. “Take these off for me.”

You hesitated, but his gaze held yours, firm and certain, and you found yourself obeying. Hooking trembling fingers into your panties, you slid them down, baring yourself to him for the first time.

He inhaled sharply. His eyes darkened. “Fuck. You’re gorgeous.”

You wanted to hide, to cover yourself, but he caught your wrists, pinning them gently. And then, without further warning, he lowered himself and licked. The shock of it ripped a gasp from your throat. Your hips jolted up before you could stop them. His tongue was hot, wet, sliding over you in a way that made your brain short-circuit.

“Jinu—oh my god—”

He hummed against you, smug, then did it again, slower, flatter. The sound you made was strangled, desperate, and he grinned into your skin. Yeah. That’s it. That’s what he wanted to hear. The first drag of his tongue against your clit made you gasp out loud, hips jerking. It was electric, too much, too intense.

He looked up briefly, smirking against you. “That good already?”

You couldn’t answer, not with your breath catching and your thighs trembling around his head. He didn’t tease further, he went back to it, licking slow strokes that had you writhing in seconds. His tongue circled, teased, then flicked directly against your clit. You cried out, grabbing for the sheets, your body jerking.

Sensitive. Good.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The sensation was so foreign, so overwhelming you didn’t know how to process it. You writhed, whining, gasping, and he just held you steady, his hands firm on your thighs as his mouth worked you.

It was overwhelming. Too good. Your head fell back, eyes squeezing shut, small noises spilling from your lips no matter how hard you tried to hold them in.

Jinu hummed against you. “That’s it. Let me hear you.”

You wanted to tell him to stop talking, that it was too much, but then his mouth wrapped around your clit and sucked, and your words dissolved into a desperate moan.

Your hands scrambled for something to hold, finally tangling in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He groaned into you at that, like your desperation spurred him on, and slid his tongue deeper.

That’s when you felt it, his finger, pressing lightly at your entrance. You froze, hips jerking, panic fluttering.

“Shh.” he murmured against you, soothing. “Just my finger. I’ll go slow. Trust me.”

You whimpered, torn between fear and aching need, but you nodded, just barely.

And he kept his promise. He circled first, wetting you with his tongue until you were slick and ready, before gently easing one finger inside. The stretch was strange, foreign, and you gasped, eyes flying open.

“Breathe.” he instructed, voice low. “In… and out. Good girl.”

You did, shaky but obedient, and slowly the discomfort melted into something else. Something warmer. Deeper. His mouth returned to your clit, licking and sucking in lazy patterns, while his finger curled inside you.

It was nothing like the cautious rubbing you’d done on his thigh, nothing like fumbling under the covers. This was knowing, relentless. Every movement sent sparks up your spine. You yanked at his hair, and Jinu only groaned into you, clearly pleased with your desperation.

Him fingering you with a pretty mouth sucking on your clit was unlike anything you’d ever felt. Full in a way you didn’t know you could be, stretching and pressing against places you hadn’t even known existed.

He curled his fingers slightly, pressing against a spot that made your back arch. You gasped, clutching the sheets tighter, your voice breaking. “Oh—oh my god—”

“That’s it.” he coaxed, tongue flicking against your clit again, perfectly timed with the push of his finger. “You like that?”

You could only nod frantically, too breathless to speak, your hips jerking against his mouth. It was too much. Too new. You didn’t know how to handle it, your body shook, your breath came in ragged gasps, your mind blank except for the overwhelming, unbearable pleasure building in your core.

He focused there, stroking in rhythm with his tongue, and suddenly it was too much. Your body arched, your hand fisting his hair tight, sounds spilling from you without control.

The combination of that finger moving gently inside, his mouth hot and relentless on your clit was too much. Your vision blurred, your toes curled, and something built inside you, unbearable pressure winding tighter and tighter.

“I—something—something’s happening—”

Jinu’s voice was rough, muffled against you. “That’s it, baby. Let it happen. Don’t hold back.“

Your whole body convulsed, your cry breaking free as waves of pleasure crashed over you. It was blinding, overwhelming, you didn’t even know what was happening, only that you couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop clenching, clamping down around his fingers as he worked you through it. You screamed his name, hips twitching.

He didn’t stop until you were gasping, whining, trying to push him away from overstimulation. Only then did he ease back, licking you one last time before pulling away, lips and chin glistening.

You had never felt anything like it. Not once in your entire life. It was pleasure so sharp it hurt, so good it scared you.

You lay there, boneless, chest heaving, while he crawled up over you, eyes dark with satisfaction.

“Not bad, huh?” he drawled, voice smug.

You glared weakly at him, face burning. “Shut up.”

He chuckled, kissing your temple, then your cheek, then finally your lips. You could taste yourself on him, and it made your stomach flip all over again.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever had.” he murmured against your mouth.

You covered your face with your hands, humiliated, overwhelmed, but he pried them gently away, kissing your cheeks, your nose, your swollen lips.

“Don’t hide. You were perfect.”

Your voice was hoarse. “That—what was that—”

His grin was wolfish. “That, sweetheart, was an orgasm. Your first.”

You blinked at him, dazed, still trying to catch your breath. “I—”

He kissed you again, slow and sweet, letting you taste yourself on his mouth. “And it won’t be your last.”

After that night—the night he gave you your first orgasm—you carried a glow in you that couldn’t be hidden. A new awareness. A new ache. At first, you were shy about it. You couldn’t meet his eyes in the morning. You avoided letting his hand slide too low when he cuddled you. You pressed your thighs together, too flustered by the memory of how good it had felt.

But every night after that, he showed you something new. Sometimes it was small, a kiss held longer, his tongue coaxing yours to move more confidently, his hand guiding yours when you touched him. He liked to see you practice on him. He liked to hear your questions.

You’d look down at his lap, flustered but curious. “Does it… always feel like that?”

“Like what?” he’d smirk, leaning back to let you explore.

“Hard. And… big.”

“Yes.” He caught your hand, pressed your palm against him through his sweats, made you feel the outline of his cock. You’d gasp. “That’s what you do to me. Always.”

And when you whispered, timid, “Can I… see it again?” he nearly lost his mind.

Your lessons with him were slow, but they built, each night adding a little more. Like the night you shyly asked how a condom worked. Jinu had to take a moment, actually had to sit back, close his eyes, and breathe, because the thought of you asking him to teach you how to roll rubber onto his cock was enough to short-circuit his brain.

“You’re serious?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I just… I don’t know. I want to.”

He tore the foil open, slicked the latex between his fingers, and handed it to you. “Go on then. Just pinch the tip. Roll it down. You’ll figure it out.”

You were clumsy, giggling nervously, apologizing every time you fumbled, but Jinu was patient. His eyes burned into you the whole time, hungry, proud. You got it right… eventually.

You were shy. Always shy. Every time his hand slid under your clothes, every time his mouth trailed lower, every time you found yourself spread out beneath him, it never stopped being overwhelming. You’d gasp, you’d whimper, you’d hesitate and grab his wrist, not sure if you were ready, not sure if you could handle more.

And Jinu never rushed you.

He’d kiss your knuckles, your thighs, your cheeks, and pull back, whispering, “We’ll stop if you want. Always your choice.”

But more often than not, you didn’t want to stop. Not really. Because every time you let him take you a little further, every time you allowed his mouth or his fingers or his body to guide yours, it felt good. Better than good. Something you’d never imagined your body could experience.

The first time you had sex, really had sex, you had been trembling the whole time. Nervous, embarrassed, clutching at his shoulders. You’d whispered a dozen questions before he even touched you, your voice small: “Will it hurt? Will it be messy? What if I don’t do it right?”

He’d laughed softly, not unkindly, brushing your hair from your face. “It’s your first time. There is no right or wrong. You just breathe. I’ll take care of you.”

And he did.

He had prepped you with his mouth and his fingers first, coaxing you open, making sure you were wet enough, making sure you were trembling with want before he even tried, murmuring low encouragement, watching every reaction.

“You’re tight, Y/N. So tight. Relax for me.”

You clung to him, trembling, but his voice kept you calm, his hands steady. When he finally pressed into you, inch by inch, you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Shh. I’ve got you. Just breathe.”

It hurt at first, a stretch you didn’t know how to handle, but he kissed the tears off your cheeks, whispered, “You’re doing so good. Taking me so well.”

And when the pain eased into something warmer, fuller, deeper, you understood.

Afterward, you’d collapsed against him, exhausted and shy, hiding your face in his chest. He’d kissed the top of your head and called you sweet things a dozen times, smug but soft, proud but loving.

That first time was just one door opened.

From then on, the two of you explored more. Not all at once, never rushed, but in small steps. From then on, you learned more. You learned how your body responded when he touched you here versus there. You learned that your thighs could clamp around his head, and he’d only groan, devouring you harder. You learned that your moans could be coaxed into words, that he liked when you begged, even if you didn’t know how at first. You learned to grind against him shamelessly, riding his thigh until you couldn’t think straight. You learned to arch into his hand when he fingered you, to moan instead of bite your lip, to let yourself feel. You learned how his cock looked when it was hard, learned how to touch it without shying away. He let you watch him stroke himself once, your wide eyes glued to the movement, and he smirked at your fascination. “Like what you see, baby? This is all yours.”

He taught you slowly, thoroughly. How to grind against him until your clit throbbed. How to take him deeper into your mouth when you tried oral for the first time, your gag reflex making him laugh softly as he stroked your hair. “You’ll get used to it. You’re already doing so good.”

You learned the difference between lazy, slow lovemaking and the sharp, filthy snap of his hips when he lost control. You learned that you liked both.

Sometimes, he’d surprise you. Pressing your hand against his chest while he went down on you, forcing you to feel the way his heart raced. Or making you sit on his lap while he jerked himself off, murmuring, “Watch, baby. This is what you do to me.”

You were always shy, always hesitant, but always willing. And Jinu? He lived for it. He never minded stopping to explain, either. You had so many questions, and though he teased you for them, he always answered. What pre-cum was, what orgasm felt like for him, why he groaned when you licked his skin just so.

Every new thing made you nervous. Every new thing made you shy. And every time, Jinu was patient. Smug about it, yes, but he never forced you, never pushed too far. He liked you hesitant. He liked that you let him guide you.

It drove him crazy.

Because Jinu was not an innocent man. He was not patient by nature. He was filthy, perverted, a selfish man. And now here you were, sweet, untouched, pure. Curling against him in oversized pajamas, giving him little innocent kisses, blushing when his hand brushed over your chest.

You were his girlfriend, and you were innocent.

Did he feel bad about taking that from you? About being the one to ruin that untouched sweetness?

Never. Not once.

If anything, it thrilled him. It fed something deep in him. The idea that he was the first, the only. That he got to guide you through every step of this. That every gasp, every moan, every orgasm was because of him.

You were his. Sweet, shy, innocent you. And he would never let anyone else touch you, never let anyone else teach you, never let anyone else have the privilege of your firsts.

He loved your wide eyes when you tried something new. He loved the way you whispered “Jinu…” He loved every shaky first, every clumsy attempt, every time you hid your face in embarrassment after cumming so hard you cried.

Because you were his. His sweet little girlfriend. His treasure.

And he’d never, ever give that up.

ABBY

He was everything you weren’t. Tall, broad, muscles layered on muscles. He swore like it was his first language, spit venom at everyone else, and carried himself like he could break doors just by leaning against them. And then there was you. Sweet, soft, small compared to him. You didn’t know much about romance. You didn’t know what an actual kiss was. You didn’t know what sex looked like, felt like. But you knew how to love. You knew how to cuddle, how to hold his massive arm against your chest when you fell asleep, how to smile at him.

That contrast was brutal. To Abby, it was unbearable. You’d curl up next to him on the couch, tiny legs pulled up, your head against his chest. His massive hand would rest on your waist, and you’d just… beam up at him, whispering, “I love being with you.”

It drove him crazy in ways he couldn’t admit. You’d cuddle against him and he’d have to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from groaning, because all he wanted was to shove you down and fuck you stupid. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Instead, he just held you, let you tangle your little fingers in his hair, let you pepper his face with kisses that were too short, too sweet. He let you kiss his lips, messy and unpracticed, like you had no idea there was supposed to be tongue involved.

Abby wasn’t innocent. Not even close. He was a fucking freak. He’d done things he didn’t speak of. He knew things you didn’t even have words for. And here you were, draping yourself over him like he was safe.

Brutally cute. That’s what you were. Too fucking cute. So cute it made him want to ruin you.

Abby wasn’t a patient man by nature. He wanted. He took. He broke things when they didn’t bend fast enough. But with you? With you, he had to hold back every inch of himself, every filthy instinct.

You were a total virgin, but more than that, you were innocent. Pure in a way he hadn’t seen in centuries. You’d lay in his arms at night, tracing his scars with gentle fingers, murmuring, “You’re so warm.” And Abby would stare at the ceiling, fists clenched, cock hard, thinking: Sweetheart, you have no idea.

The innocence wasn’t just torture, it was cute. Brutally cute. You’d ask him questions that made him want to laugh and groan at the same time. “Why do you shave your face? Doesn’t it hurt? Sounds like it does.” “Why do your muscles move like that?” “Why is your voice so deep when you wake up?”

He’d answer gruffly, but inside, he was melting. Every little thing you did made him want to grab you, throw you on the bed, ruin you. But instead, he’d just wrap one arm around your waist and pull you closer, grumbling sweet, manly things to you.

The worst part was how loving you were.

Abby wasn’t used to that. No one had ever loved him like that. No one had ever been soft with him. And now here you were, drowning him in it, completely oblivious to how much restraint it took for him not to eat you up on the spot.

Sometimes, he’d test the waters just a little. Like when you kissed him, he’d let his mouth linger longer, waiting to see if you’d open for him. You never did. You just smiled, lips pressed together, happy with the contact. Or when you curled against his chest at night, he’d let his hand slide a little lower, fingers brushing your hip, the top of your thigh. You only giggled, hugging his arm tighter. “You’re so warm, Abby.” And he’d curse in his head, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him. Didn’t realize that the biggest, dirtiest pervert in the house was being fucked up by your cuddles, your pecks, your innocence. Every hug, every innocent kiss, every shy “I love you” was like gasoline on the fire already raging in him. He’d lie awake at night, your head tucked under his chin, and his body would scream for more.

But he never pushed. Not really. Because as brutal as Abby was, as much as he wanted to ruin you, he wasn’t going to take. Not from you.

He wanted you to come to him.

Because for all his filth, all his perversion, all his hunger, he fucking loved you. Obsessed with you, actually. Obsessed with the way you always reached for his hand. Obsessed with the way your lips brushed his jaw when you tiptoed to kiss him. Obsessed with the way your tiny frame curled perfectly against his massive body at night.

Sometimes he’d just stare at you. Watch you smile at him, touch his arm, hum softly while cuddling against his chest. It drove him crazy. Because while you were perfectly content with cuddles and kisses, he was burning. He wanted to show you everything. He wanted to ruin you in every way. He wanted to hear you scream his name, beg for him, cry from pleasure.

But you didn’t even know how to open your mouth when he kissed you.

So he waited.

You’d be curled on the couch together, your head on his shoulder, your fingers tracing the veins in his forearm, and he’d be gritting his teeth, trying not to imagine how your hand would feel lower. You’d press a kiss to his lips, soft, and he’d force himself to keep it that way, even though all he wanted was to slide his tongue past your lips and make you melt. You’d fall asleep on his chest, and he’d just hold you tighter, burying his face in your hair, his cock aching, his body begging for release. But he didn’t push. Not once. Because the truth was, your innocence wasn’t just torture. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And Abby, brutal as he was, wasn’t going to be the one to break it. Not until you wanted him to. Because you were his sweetheart. His baby. His innocent little girlfriend who didn’t even know what a french kiss was.

And god, you were so fucking cute.

Brutally, devastatingly cute.

But Abby was the kind of man who didn’t half-ass anything, when he wanted, he took. But with you, everything had to be pulled out in inches. You didn’t even know there were more kinds of kissing than the simple pecks you used to press to his jaw, his lips, his cheek. So one night, when you leaned up against him, soft and trusting as always, Abby kissed you like he usually did, but then slid his hand up, thick fingers brushing your cheek, and shoved two of them between your lips where your mouths connected. You froze, surprised, but he used those fingers to gently pry your jaw open, holding you wide. And then slowly, he licked into your mouth.

You gasped against him, muffled, confused. He could feel your whole body stiffen in his lap, but you didn’t pull away. He kissed you deeper, tongue sliding against yours, patient but relentless until you whimpered and your small hands clutched his shirt.

When he finally let you go, you were flushed, wide-eyed, lips parted.

“New.” you whispered, embarrassed.

“Good?” he grunted, one hand still cupping your jaw, thumb swiping across your cheek.

“…good.” you admitted, shy smile tugging your lips. “Wh–what was that?”

Abby smirked, his voice a low rumble. “A real kiss, sweetheart.” His thumb swiped the corner of your mouth. “You liked it.”

Your cheeks burned, but you nodded. Because you had. God, you had.

The grin that spread across his beautiful face then was nothing short of wolfish. And from that night forward, you kissed differently. Awkward at first, shy, sometimes pulling back with a giggle because it felt strange, but you always came back. You even started to initiate, tugging his shirt, tilting your head just so, opening your mouth for him. It drove him wild.

That was the first domino. Once he had a taste of your mouth, he wanted more.

Soon he was letting you touch him. You’d trail your hand over his chest while cuddling, and he caught your wrist and pressed your palm to his abs. Rock-hard, brutal muscle stacked beneath your tiny hand. You gasped, wide-eyed. He smirked down at you, saying: “Go on. Feel.”

You did. Slowly. Nervously. Sliding your palm down, over each muscle, your lips parted. Abby leaned back and just let you explore, his big hand guiding yours whenever you hesitated. It felt like worship. Your awe. Your innocence. The way you whispered “They’re so hard…” like you couldn’t believe a body could be built like that. He wanted to laugh, wanted to throw his head back, wanted to grab you and show you all of him, but he didn’t. He let you touch, let you learn, gritting his teeth against the ache building in his cock.

Then once, you were climbing onto his lap like you always did, curling against his chest. He wrapped one arm around you and, without thinking, let his huge palm fall lower, onto your ass.

You froze.

He stilled too, hand heavy on you, heat burning his neck. For one second, he thought you’d push him off.

But you didn’t.

He gave the softest, slowest squeeze, testing you, and when you didn’t pull away, when you buried your face against his neck instead, he kneaded harder.

“Babe…” His voice was low, rough, warning. “…this okay?”

You nodded. Tiny. Shy. Almost trembling.

That was all he needed. From then on, he palmed your ass often, possessive grabs, firm squeezes, kneading like he couldn’t get enough. Sometimes in the kitchen, sometimes while carrying you to bed, sometimes just pulling you into his lap mid-conversation. And every time, you’d go red, stutter something shy, and melt into him anyway.

You had no idea. You had no idea what you were doing to him. No idea what kind of restraint it took for Abby not to push you down and ruin you right there. No idea that every time you kissed him goodnight and curled into his side, he lay awake for hours, hard as a rock, gritting his teeth. You thought you were just being sweet. Just being close. You had no clue that the beast holding you was slowly losing his mind.

When you left the room, he’d fist his cock with whatever he could get his hands on, your pillow, your discarded sweater, sometimes even the towel you’d just used after a shower. Anything that smelled like you. He’d bury his face in it, biting down on a groan, spilling over his knuckles while imagining your small hands instead.

He killed people without blinking. Snapped necks, tore out throats, ended lives like it was nothing. He was brutal. A beast. He’d done it for centuries.

But you? You were too sweet. Too soft. Too innocent. So he wouldn’t push. He wouldn’t taint that. Not until you wanted it. He’d rather suffer.

But god, that suffering was brutal. Your sweetness was worse than any blade. Your kisses burned hotter than Gwi-Ma’s torturing fire did on his back when he fucked something up. Every shy touch you gave him, every curious glance, every whispered “I love you” carved him open from the inside out. He could kill a man without flinching. But you? You were killing him slowly. And Abby was letting you.

Every time he introduced something new, you reacted like it was the biggest thing in the world. The first time he kissed down your throat, you squeaked, gripping his shoulders like you didn’t know what to do with yourself. The first time his hands slid under your shirt, you froze, breath catching, eyes huge. He never pushed too far, though. He’d stop, press a kiss to your forehead, let you curl back into him until you calmed down. And the next time? You were braver. You’d let his hand stay there, palm heavy on your bare skin, fingers teasing at the edge of your bra.

Every small step forward drove Abby insane. Because for him, it wasn’t just about sex, it was about you. About watching his sweet, innocent girl slowly discover her own body through him. About being the one to guide you.

It was addictive.

One night, he took it further. You’d been kissing for what felt like forever, his mouth deep on yours, his tongue sliding against yours until you were dizzy. His hands were under your shirt again, palms spanning your waist, fingers brushing higher each time.

You pulled back a little, whispering, “Abby…” Your voice was small, uncertain.

He hushed you with a kiss to your cheek. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Just touchin’.”

And then, slowly, he slid his hands up until his thumbs brushed the underside of your breasts. He didn’t move further. Just stayed there, letting you get used to it.

After a long, shaky breath, you did something that surprised this beast of a man. You grabbed his wrist, dragged his hand up, and set his palm fully over your chest.

“Here.” you mumbled, your face burning. “You can…”

Abby’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He almost groaned. Instead, he cupped you gently, his thumb brushing over the thin fabric.

“Good girl.” he whispered, his voice rough with restraint.

From then on, everything was progress. Kisses turned wetter, longer. Touches turned bolder. You let him explore, let him guide, let him teach you in ways that made your whole body tremble. Sometimes you stopped, overwhelmed, hiding your face in his chest. And Abby, brutal Abby, would just hold you, stroke your back, murmur low reassurances until you were ready again. Other times, you surprised him, like when you dragged his hand to your chest, or when you shyly asked to touch his abs again, or when you let his mouth stay on your neck a little longer, moaning softly without realizing. And slowly, you started copying him. Shy, hesitant, but learning. Sometimes you’d reach up on your own, grab his jaw, and kiss him open like he had taught you. Sometimes you’d flick your tongue against his, tentative, unsure, and he’d groan into your mouth. It was intoxicating, watching you learn. Watching you pick up the things he showed you, timid but willing. That sweet innocence of yours didn’t vanish, it just stretched. Abby lived for it.

Because you were still so innocent, still so shy, but you trusted him. You wanted to learn, with him. Like the night you realized what grinding meant. You were sitting on his thigh, kissing him, when instinct made you shift your hips just a little. The pressure hit your clit through your clothes, startling, and you gasped into his mouth.

Abby froze. Then he pulled back, eyes narrowing, smirk spreading across his face. “Well, well. Look what my girl just figured out.”

You stammered, face red, trying to move off his leg, but his massive hands locked you in place. “Uh-uh. Don’t run. You liked that, didn’t you?”

You buried your face in his chest, mortified.

He chuckled, deep and rough, pressing you closer against his thigh. “Go on, sweetheart. Move how you like. I’ll hold you.”

And when you did, slow, hesitant grinding against the hard muscle of his thigh, he held you steady, murmuring encouragement the whole time. Not pushing. Just letting you discover it for yourself. He was a good teacher.

One night he guided your hand over his chest again, this time lower. You froze when your palm brushed his waistband. “Keep going.” he said, eyes glinting. You didn’t. Not yet. But you thought about it, cheeks hot, heart pounding.

Another night, while you kissed, he ground your hips down against him, slow, controlled. You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, and he groaned into your mouth.

Sometimes he’d pin you to the couch, one massive hand braced beside your head, his mouth devouring yours, his thigh shoved between your legs. You didn’t know what he was doing, why it made your whole body hum, but you found yourself moving on him anyway. Rubbing against his thigh, shy and clumsy, until the pleasure overwhelmed you and you had to stop.

Abby never laughed. Never mocked. He just growled, low and filthy, “Good girl.” and let you breathe.

Every step was new. Every step was overwhelming. And every step, you let him take the lead. Because Abby might’ve been a brute, but with you, he was patient in his own way. He never left you guessing too long. He’d show you, blunt and rough, but he’d show you. And the way he watched you, intense, greedy, hungry, made you want to keep learning, keep seeing what else there was.

You were still shy. Still innocent. You’d bury your face in his chest after something new, too embarrassed to look at him. But Abby loved that too. Loved how flustered you got. Loved that even though you didn’t know half the words for what he was doing to you, you still let him.

Now, there was this time. It started out just like it always did, your body curled over his, lips pressed to his, your weight tucked safely into his massive frame. Abby half-laid across the couch, one long arm thrown across the backrest, the other locked firmly around your waist as he let you kiss him.

You’d been getting bolder lately, even if you didn’t notice it. Opening your mouth quicker, sliding your tongue against his, finally caught onto the rhythm he liked. He groaned low into your mouth when you did that, big chest rumbling under you, and it made you smile against his lips. Now you weren’t thinking much, just following his lead like you always did. When Abby wanted to kiss, you kissed. When he tilted your head back and pried your mouth open with his tongue, you let him. When he grunted low in his throat, you swallowed it.

You thought this was innocent, sweet boyfriend kisses, the kind of thing couples did when they loved each other. But Abby wasn’t innocent, and there was nothing sweet about the way his hand crept lower and lower down your back. First, it landed where it always did, on your ass. He squeezed hard, like he couldn’t resist. You let him, because you knew by now that Abby liked that. To you it was… casual. Familiar. He was obsessed with your ass, but you didn’t really think about it. You didn’t really connect it to sex, just another quirk of his.

He kneaded you with a low grunt, broad fingers digging into the soft curve until you whimpered against his mouth. You didn’t mean to. You didn’t even realize you’d made a sound until Abby stilled beneath you, breaking the kiss, staring up at you with those heavy-lidded eyes.

“Sounded pretty.” he muttered, thumb stroking across your ass.

Your face burned, but before you could argue, he kissed you again, hungrier this time. And then his hand moved. Lower.

Sliding between your thighs.

You froze, lips parting in shock. Abby was touching you where he’d never touched you before. His palm pressed between your legs.

“Abby—“

“Shh.” His voice was rough, but the way he hushed you was almost gentle. “Let me. Just… let me.”

At first he only cupped you, broad hand pressing up between your thighs. Even through your clothes, it was so much. He was big, too big, and he covered all of you in one hand like he was made to hold you there. Then he shifted his hand, slow, just a gentle rub against your covered cunt.

And oh.

Oh.

Your breath hitched, sharp, as something foreign and electric shot up your spine. You didn’t even know what it was, why it made your thighs twitch, why your body pressed down against his hand without your permission.

“There you go.” Abby muttered, like he’d been waiting for it. “Feels good, yeah?”

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. You only gripped his shirt tighter, face buried against his chest.

He chuckled. A low, mean sound. “Knew you’d like it.”

And then he started to move you.

His palm pressed harder, fingers spread to cup you fully, and his other arm shifted around your waist. With brutal ease, he began dragging your body against his hand, rocking you into him. You squeaked at the sudden motion, fingers digging into his chest.

“Relax, sweetheart. Let me help you.” He was calm, steady. “Just move like this.” He dragged your hips forward and back again, grinding your cunt against his palm.

You gasped. Loud. Your face went hot, your thighs trembling, because god, it was good. Too good. Better than anything you’d ever felt when you touched yourself (not that you did that often). Better than you thought touching could even be.

You clung to him, helpless, as he rocked you over his hand again and again. His big palm covered everything, pressing against you in a way that made your clit throb and your stomach twist.

“Good girl.” he grunted, kissing the side of your throat. “See how easy it is? Your body just needs something to rub on. That’s all.”

“Abby…” Your voice cracked, caught somewhere between shame and wonder.

“You’re wetter than fuckin’ rain already. Can feel it through your pants.”

You whimpered. Pressed your face harder into his chest as if you could disappear. But you didn’t stop moving. Not when his hand kept dragging you into that perfect friction.

Abby groaned when you rocked against him, even slightly. “Yeah, baby. Like that? Feel good?” He didn’t expect an answer, knowing you wouldn’t give one.

His huge hand slid lower, tugging you into position, until you were grinding against his palm, your soft cunt rubbing over the heel of his hand. Your gasp against his throat made him groan so deep it shook your bones.

“That’s it.” he said. “Ride it, sweetheart. Ride my fuckin’ hand.”

You whined, muffled and desperate, but you didn’t stop. You moved, shy and hesitant, rocking your hips against him while he held you steady. His grip was hot on your waist, coaxing you into a rhythm that made your breath catch every single time.

It was too much. Too good.

His thumb dragged upward, pressing firmer against your clit through the thin fabric. You choked on a moan, legs squeezing around his thigh.

“Yeah, right there.” he muttered, watching your face with a dark hunger. “Keep going. Don’t think about it. Just rub.”

It was so new. So overwhelming. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, heat coiling tighter and tighter. And Abby knew. He felt every twitch, every shudder, every sharp inhale. He knew exactly where this was going. He fucking loved it. Loved how red your face was, how your thighs trembled, how your innocence cracked with every roll of your hips over his hand. You didn’t even know what you were chasing, you just knew it felt good, and you wanted more, and Abby was the only one who could give it to you.

“Good girl.” he groaned, kissing your jaw as you moved faster, needier, chasing the friction. “Keep going. You’ll get there. I’ll make sure you do.”

Then you twitched away before you even realized it. Your hips jerked up, thighs trembling, away from him, and when your body realized it wants more, back to pressing down against Abby’s palm. Your body ran from the feeling, but the second it was gone, it chased it. It was instinct, pure and embarrassing. You gasped, your body moving on its own, wiggling against his hand with frantic, clumsy motions that made you burn with shame, but at the same time, made you shiver with pleasure. You didn’t know why you were doing it, only that you couldn’t not. Your thighs shook, your breath caught, and suddenly you were sitting down on him, writhing against his palm in these shy little circles that didn’t make sense to you but felt right.

“Look at you.” he murmured against your cheek, lips brushing, hot breath fanning over your skin. He ground the heel of his palm against your clit, slow and brutal, forcing you to keep feeling it. “Body knows what it wants.”

“Abby—” Your voice cracked, high and desperate. You didn’t even know what you were asking.

“Shh.” he cooed mockingly, kissing the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your temple. Each kiss rough, sloppy, claiming. “Don’t worry. I got you. I’ll take care of it. Gonna make you feel good. Real good.”

And then, before you could process, he shoved his hand down beneath your waistband. You froze, gasping at the sudden press of his skin against yours. His huge fingers slid lower, spreading over your mound, and god, you realized with a rush of humiliation how wet you were.

Abby groaned low. “Jesus fuck, sweetheart… you’re soaked.”

“Don’t say that—” You tried to hide your face, whimpering.

He only laughed. “Why not? You should be proud of it. So fuckin’ wet for me already.”

And then his fingers slid over your folds, parting you easily, then up, finding your clit like he’d known exactly where it was all along. He rubbed it with brutal precision, slow and steady circles that made your thighs twitch instantly.

You gasped. Loud. Your hands flew to his chest, clinging desperately as you bucked against his hand

“That’s it.” he muttered, teeth grazing your jaw. “Right there. Feels good, yeah? Don’t lie to me.”

“I—I don’t—” You couldn’t form words, couldn’t explain the burning, shocking pleasure sparking through you with every rub of his fingers.

He smirked against your cheek. “Don’t need words. Your body’s already telling me everything. Just feel. That’s all I want. You feel good, I feel good. Easy.”

And then one thick finger slipped inside you, slow, stretching you in a way that made your mouth drop open on a silent cry. You gripped his shirt so hard your knuckles ached. The intrusion was strange, shocking, a pressure you’d never felt before, but underneath the strangeness was something else. Something that made your belly clench and your thighs quiver.

“Abby—” Your voice was small.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He kissed the corner of your mouth, tongue quick and filthy. “Not fuckin’ you yet. Just—god—just touchin’. Just makin’ you feel good.”

His finger curled inside you and you gasped so loud it made his cock throb against his jeans.

“That it?” he murmured, hot against your ear. “That the spot? Should I—” He did it again, dragging his finger against the soft, electric place inside you.

You cried out, trembling. “Ah—Abby—”

“That’s it, baby.” he rasped, voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Take it. God, you’re squeezin’ me like a fist.”

You whined, trembling. “Abby, I—”

He kissed you hard, swallowing your words, muffling your whimpers as his finger moved inside you, slow pumps that dragged against your walls in a way that made your stomach twist and your chest heave.

“Yeah.” he muttered into your mouth. “You like that. Can feel you squeezing me.”

You didn’t even know what that meant. You only knew that you couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t stop gasping every time he pushed in deep. And then he added another. Two fingers stretching you open, filling you in a way that made your head spin. You broke the kiss with a loud moan, face buried against his neck as your hips jerked helplessly. His thumb found your clit again, rubbing merciless circles as his fingers pumped inside you. The combination made your whole body arch, back bowing, thighs squeezing tight around his hand.

You couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. All you could do was cling to him and let him drag you higher, higher, with every brutal touch. “Abby—Abby, I—”

“Don’t fight it.” His voice was a growl, low and commanding. “Just let it happen. That’s your body begging to cum.”

You whimpered, shaking your head, but your hips moved anyway, grinding into his hand, chasing the impossible heat building inside you. He pressed harder on your clit, his finger curling deeper, and your body arched against him. You gasped, cried out, your voice breaking into a high-pitched sound you didn’t recognize.

“Yeah, that’s it.” he praised, kissing all over your face, your cheek, your nose, your forehead, each kiss rough and frantic. “Ride it out, sweetheart. Cum for me. Let me feel it.”

You didn’t even know what that meant. Cum? You’d heard the word before, but you didn’t know what it really was. All you knew was that something was building, unbearably tight, deep in your stomach, coiling and twisting and demanding release. And then it snapped. Your whole body went rigid, back arching hard against him, thighs clamping down as a shockwave of pleasure tore through you. You cried out, muffled against his chest, hips jerking helplessly as Abby’s fingers worked you through it, your cunt clamping down on his finger as your whole body shuddered. You moaned loud, shameless, against his mouth, trembling and shaking through it.

“Fuuuuck yes.” he snarled, kissing you hard, swallowing every sound. “That’s my girl. That’s my fuckin’ girl.”

It was overwhelming. Shaking, blinding, consuming, you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t understand. You didn’t even realize what was happening until it was already over, until you collapsed against him trembling and gasping. Abby held you tight, his hand finally slowing, easing you down gently. You’d never felt anything like it. Never even imagined your body could do that.

He watched you with wild, blown-out eyes, his chest heaving. Your screams, your wetness, the feel of you milking his fingers, it drove him wild. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Could only watch his sweet, innocent little girlfriend pant as she leaned against him.

“Jesus Christ.” he groaned as he pumped you a little more, even as you were boneless and trembling. “Sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. Fuck. Fuck.”

You whimpered weakly, still twitching, clinging to his shirt with desperate little fists.

“There you go.” he murmured, smug and tender all at once. He brushed sweaty hair from your face with his clean hand as his fingers finally slipped out of you, slick and glistening. He was shaking. Actually shaking with how hard he was holding back, with how ruined he was by the sound of your orgasm, the feel of it soaking his hand. His cock ached so badly it hurt, his brain screamed at him to shove you down and fuck you raw, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

And when you finally blinked up at him, dazed and confused, whispering, “W-what was that…?”

“That, sweetheart,” he rasped, kissing your lips hard. “was you cummin’ your pretty little brains out on my fuckin’ fingers.”

After that night on the couch, it was like something inside Abby had been unchained. For months, he’d been holding himself back, keeping his hands (mostly) where they belonged, keeping his mouth cleaner than it wanted to be. But once he’d had a taste, once he’d felt you cum around his fingers, once he’d heard you scream his name in that perfect voice, it was over. There was no going back. And maybe he thought you’d resist, that you’d cry shyly and beg him to slow down, that he’d have to chain himself again to keep from terrifying you. But you didn’t.

You liked it.

Even when you blushed, even when you stammered, even when your hands fluttered against his chest, you just clung tighter. You gasped harder. You came back for more.

You wanted him.

It started with kissing again. Only now, kissing wasn’t just mouths pressed together. It was sloppy, so sloppy. So much.

“Open up for me, sweetheart.” he’d growl, tugging your jaw down with one big hand. “Yeah, that’s it. Let me in. Fuckin’ love your little tongue.”

He let you explore him more, he let you touch lower. Let you trace the cut of his waist, the bulge under his sweats. And when you flinched back, eyes wide, he caught your wrist, pressed your hand there, and groaned.

“Feel that?” His voice was wrecked. “All you, baby. You do this to me.”

You blushed so hard you hid your face against his chest. But you didn’t pull away.

And that became the pattern. Every time he pushed further, you’d shy, but never stop.

Soon, his hands were always on your ass. He was obsessed with it. Squeezing, kneading, spreading it wide when you bent over his lap. You thought it was casual at first, just your big brute of a boyfriend being grabby. You even laughed sometimes, like it was nothing. You had no idea how filthy it was for him. No idea how many times he locked himself in the bathroom afterwards, jerking off furiously into the sink with your scent still on his hands. No idea how brutal the ache in his cock was from keeping himself restrained, keeping his teeth from sinking into your skin the way he wanted.

Except slowly, without even realizing, you gave him permission.

One night, while straddling his lap, your lips swollen from kissing, you whispered: “You can… touch me again. Like before.”

His brain shut off.

“Baby…” He didn’t even finish, his hand already sliding down your waistband. And when his fingers slipped inside you again, you gasped but didn’t stop him.

Then, grinding. He figured out quickly how perfectly your cunt fit over his thigh, how your hips moved instinctively to chase friction, how your voice cracked when the seam of your jeans pressed against your clit. He’d sit there, flexing the thick muscle of his leg, murmuring filth against your ear while you rubbed yourself to pieces on him.

“Look at you. Little angel humpin’ my thigh like a bitch in heat. Thought you were innocent? Fuck, you’re filthy, baby.”

You loved it. You’d hide your face, whimper that he was mean, that he was teasing, but you’d keep moving. Always. Until you came, shuddering, clinging, leaving wet stains on his pants.

And that discovery cracked open the rest.

You were shy, yes, but you liked it nasty. You two discovered that fast. You liked his mouth spitting filthy words against your ear, liked when he called you his “slut” his “pretty bitch” his “fucktoy.” You’d slap at his chest in embarrassment, but your thighs would squeeze tighter, your moans louder.

Abby noticed everything.

The first time he spat in your mouth and you swallowed without thinking, he almost came in his pants. The first time he slapped your ass and you squeaked but didn’t stop kissing him, he knew that you weren’t as innocent as you looked.

“You like it rough, don’t you?” he teased one night, two fingers buried inside you, his thumb circling your clit. You could barely breathe, tears pricking your eyes, your body trembling, but you nodded. That was all he needed. From then on, there was no such thing as “slow.” Not with Abby. You learned everything in weeks what might have taken years with anyone else. How to kiss sloppy and deep. How to grind against his cock through his pants until you soaked yourself. He taught you how to take his fingers in your mouth, sucking them clean after he fucked them into your cunt.

The first time his hand slid under your shirt and grabbed your tits, you squealed, shocked. He laughed, so deep in his chest it rumbled against you.

“Yeah?” he teased, kneading rough, pressing you against him. “You like that? Like me squeezin’ these pretty little tits?”

You whimpered, muffled into his shoulder. He pinched a nipple through your bra and you arched without meaning to. He didn’t stop touching them after that. Not once. He loved them, your tits, your ass, your soft little body he could manhandle however he wanted. And you let him. Because every new thing made you realize that you liked it.

And then, one night, you learned about his cock.

It happened one night when you were kissing on his bed, his shirt already discarded, your small hands pressed against his chest. Curious, your touch drifted lower. Over his stomach. Down, down, to the waistband of his sweats. You hesitated. Stopped. Looked up at him with those big, innocent eyes.

“Can I…?” you whispered.

Abby froze, then laughed, half a groan, half a bark, running a hand down his face like he couldn’t believe his life. “You—fuck.” he muttered, dragging your hand down for you. “Yeah, baby. Touch it. Go ahead.”

He let you tug down his sweats, shy but curious, and he nearly came from the look on your face. You’d felt him, sure. The hard press of his cock against you when he pulled you into his lap, the ache of it when he ground you down against him. You’d known he was big, of course you had, Abby was huge everywhere, it made sense. But seeing it? Your eyes widened, lips parting as you froze in place. Big was an understatement. He was heavy, thick, long, the tip flushed dark. Veins ran along the shaft, and the weight of it slapped against his thigh when he freed it.

Abby just laughed. This low, rough, pleased sound, his hand lazily stroking himself as he watched your reaction. “What’s the matter, sweetheart? Never seen a cock before?”

You shook your head, cheeks hot. “No.”

“Scarin’ you?”

“I-it’s just… big.” you admitted, eyes glued to him.

“Yeah, baby. It is.” He spread his legs a little wider, showing off, stroking slow just to tease you.

You swallowed hard, then, quiet, almost too shy to say it, murmured, “Can I… touch it?”

Abby almost came right there. His head tipped back, a strangled groan ripping from his chest as his hand stilled. He had to take a breath. Then he looked at you again. “Yeah, sweetheart. Fuck yes, you can touch it. Please touch it. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

Your hand shook when you reached out, fingers brushing over the heavy length of him. He was hot. Hard. The skin softer than you expected, but stretched tight over veins and muscle.

He hissed through his teeth, hips jerking when your timid little fingers wrapped around him. He could see that you were fascinated. Tentative at first, then braver, stroking along him, watching the way his breath hitched and his thighs tensed. You explored him with wide-eyed wonder. Stroked the shaft, curious at the way it twitched in your hand. Brushed your thumb over the slit at the tip, fascinated by the bead of wetness there. You even glanced lower, curiosity burning in your chest.

And that was when your wide eyes landed on his balls.

Abby almost lost it.

The way you looked at them, like you were studying them, like they were something you couldn’t quite figure out, he had to slap a hand over his mouth to keep from groaning too loud.

“They’re… big.” you murmured, so innocently it nearly killed him.

Abby barked out a laugh, half-strangled. “Fuckin’ hell. Yeah, baby. They’re big.”

And when you touched them, gingerly, cupping them in your palm, rolling them curiously, he threw his head back, taking a deep breath in.

You blinked up at him, so shy and earnest. “…Do you like it?”

He stared at you like you’d just asked if fire was hot.

“Do I—? Fuck, yes I like it. You’re a natural, baby.”

Your curiosity only deepened. “…Can I make you… y’know. Finish?”

Abby’s brain short-circuited.

For a long moment, he just gaped at you, chest heaving, cock twitching violently in your hand. Then he laughed, ragged and disbelieving, dragging a hand over his face. “You wanna make me cum?”

You nodded shyly. “…If you’ll show me how.”

Abby grabbed your wrist, guiding your hand around him properly. He showed you how to grip, how to stroke, how to twist at the head just right. His voice was low and urgent, full of breathless instruction.

“Yeah, like that. Tight—fuck, tighter. Don’t be scared. I can take it. God, you’re a natural. Keep your thumb on the tip—yeah, right there, rub it. Jesus Christ, that’s good.”

You followed every word, fascinated by the way his cock throbbed, by the sounds he made, raw groans, curses, your name spit through clenched teeth.

When he came, you watched with awe. His whole body jerked, muscles locking as hot spurts spilled over your hand. His groan was guttural, loud, almost a growl. His cock twitched violently in your grasp, thick ropes of cum painting your skin.

“Fuck me.” he rasped. He caught your messy hand in his, lifted it, and kissed your knuckles with surprising reverence. And you, innocent, blushing, shy, just smiled, still staring at the mess on your hand. Abby thought he might actually die from how cute you were.

And then you found yourself straddling him.

Abby froze.

“Love…” His voice was hoarse, low, almost a warning. His hands hovered at your hips like he was afraid to spook you. “What’re you doin’?”

You bit your lip, looking anywhere but his face. “…Can you make me… y’know. Again?”

A second of silence. Then Abby tugged at your panties, growling when they didn’t come off fast enough. You squirmed, embarrassed, shocked that he already got to it, trying to help, and then they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor, he immediately cupped your cunt in one massive hand. His fingers spread you open, his thumb finding your clit. It was immediate, the way your hips bucked, the way your lips parted in shock. His other hand cupped your tits through your shirt, kneading roughly, thumbs brushing your nipples until you gasped.

Abby grinned, feral, kissing your cheek sloppily. “There it is.”

You moaned, clinging to his shoulders, your shy little voice spilling out over the pounding of your heart.

Abby smirked, cock twitching beneath you. “Yeah. That’s what you wanted, huh?” His thumb rubbed slow circles, relentless. “Wanted me to touch this pretty pussy again.”

You whined, nodding, hips already shifting. It was too much and not enough, all at once. He played your body like an instrument. One hand squeezing your tits, thumb flicking over your nipple through your shirt. The other rubbing your clit, dipping lower to slide thick fingers between your folds, teasing your entrance. He kissed all over your face as he did it, messy, greedy, worshipping.

“Abby…” Your voice was small, shaky. You looked at him, eyes wide with embarrassment, lips trembling. “When you… before, when you… finished…”

He groaned, already knowing, already aching. “Yeah, baby? When I came?”

You nodded quickly, face burying in his shoulder. “…It made me feel funny.”

He paused, then leaned back just enough to look at you. “Funny?”

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “Like… like I wanted something. Watching you…” You trailed off, biting your lip.

Abby’s cock twitched against your thigh. He growled low in his chest, starting to move his fingers again, rubbing you faster. “You’re tellin’ me watchin’ me cum made you horny?”

You whimpered, but nodded. “…Yes.”

Abby’s laugh was breathless, almost disbelieving, his hand working you harder as he kissed down your neck, teeth scraping. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, sweetheart. You’re perfect. You hear me? Fuckin’ perfect.”

“I like… the way you sound, when you cum,” you whispered. “It made me—oh god—made me think about… about your—”

Your eyes flicked down. To his cock. Still out. Still hardening again. You swallowed. Dared to touch it. Your small hand slid between your bodies, fingers curling around his thick shaft. Abby cursed instantly, hips jerking into your grip.

“Fuck, baby—careful.” he groaned, voice cracking as you stroked him shyly, your other hand clutching his shoulder for balance. The picture of you, perched in his lap, his fingers buried between your legs while you touched his cock was almost too much. His eyes were blown wide, almost manic.

“You’re so big.” you whispered, rubbing your thumb over the tip again, smearing his precum. “It’s… it’s scary. But I like it.”

Abby’s head fell back, eyes rolling shut, a raw laugh tearing out of him. His pace on your clit doubled, two thick fingers sliding down to push inside you, stretching you gently. Oh. Oh, it felt good. You gasped, half from the new sensation, half from the way his cock twitched in your hand when you squeezed it.

“Good girl.” he panted, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your temple. “Touch me while I touch you. That’s it. Nice and easy. You make me feel so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Gonna make you feel even better.”

You whined, rocking against his hand, your grip on him tightening without realizing. “Abby—oh god—feels so good—”

He grinned against your skin, mouth hot and wet. “That’s my girl. Always so honest. I fuckin’ love it.”

He worked you like he’d been memorizing you from the start. Circles on your clit, steady pressure, while his mouth trailed across your jaw, sucking bruises into your skin. His other hand pinched your nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you whined. You were so responsive. You were the dream.

You rocked against his hand without realizing it, chasing more, desperate for something you didn’t know how to ask for. You clung to him, overwhelmed. “…It feels so—”

“Good.” he finished for you, kissing you hard, tongue pushing into your mouth. “It feels good, I know. I’ve got you.”

You came. You screamed his name, body convulsing, pussy fluttering around his fingers, clinging to him, your hand still around his cock even as your hips stuttered helplessly against his fingers. Abby held you through it, growling encouragement into your ear, his cock throbbing violently in your grasp. He was close again, but he didn’t let go of you until you were finished, until the aftershocks slowed and your breathing evened out. You collapsed against him, panting, dazed. You didn’t even realize you were crying until he wiped your tears with his thumb.

He’d kill for you. He had killed for less. But right now, with your little body trembling in his lap, your innocence still intact despite everything he’d just done, he realized he’d live for you too. And Abby—brutal, filthy, perverted Abby—swore then and there he’d never want another girl again. Not when you, his sweet little virgin, were staring at his cock with those big, amazed eyes. Not when you were this shy, this loving, this innocent, and still letting him ruin you step by step.

And god, the blue balls. You had no idea. No idea how often he had to jerk off in the shower after leaving you panting and blushing on his bed. No idea how he fucked his fist with his face buried in your discarded shirt just to keep from shoving himself inside you too soon.

He killed people. He had no patience, no mercy, no restraint in anything else. But with you? With you, he waited. He learned. He let it be step by step, even if each step made him insane.

Because you were worth it.

Because he loved every second of watching you discover yourself, and him, piece by piece.

It was funny how quickly things began to escalate after that night. At first it was innocent—well, as innocent as you straddling him and touching his cock while he made you cum could be—but once that line was crossed, there was no stopping Abby. And you… you wanted it. Every new thing scared you, sure, but it thrilled you more. Your shyness didn’t stop your curiosity. You liked seeing what you could do to him. You liked learning.

The first time you went down on him was clumsy, and you knew it. You’d been nervous, fumbling with the waistband of his sweats, palms sweaty, your voice cracking as you whispered, “…Can I try?”

Abby nearly came just from that. He grinned, grabbed the back of your neck, kissed your hair, muttering, “Fuck yeah you can.”

You’d knelt between his thighs, staring at his cock. You’d touched it a few times before, but this was different. This time, your mouth was involved. You tried to be brave. You licked tentatively, kitten-like, then wrapped your lips around the head. Abby groaned so loud it made you flinch. (Which is so fucking funny plz nobody gets the humor of flinching at nothing scary like I do)

“Relax, sweetheart.” he’d said, voice rough, hand rubbing slow circles on your scalp. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You gagged at first, choked on the sheer size of him, eyes watering, but Abby never once laughed. He was patient in his way, brutal, but patient. He told you where to put your tongue, where to suck, how to use your hand at the same time.

You hadn’t gotten him to cum that first time, you pulled away coughing before you could, but the look on his face, sweaty and desperate, was enough to make you feel like you’d won anyway. And you kept trying. Kept learning. Every mistake you made just had him grinning like a madman, stroking your hair, muttering: “You’ll get it, sweetheart.” And he was right. You did get better. Every time you tried again, you grew bolder. Soon you were stroking his shaft while sucking the head. Soon you were licking his balls while he swore. Soon you were looking up at him through your lashes, his cock buried in your mouth, and Abby had to stop himself from coming too fast because the sight of you was so filthy and innocent all at once. Soon, he was cumming down your throat, groaning your name. Soon, he was pushing your hair back so he could watch you, his chest heaving, his thighs trembling.

“Fuck—fuck, that’s it—don’t stop—ohhh, fuck—”

The first time you swallowed, shy and uncertain, you wiped your lips and whispered, “…Was that okay?”

Abby nearly blacked out.

“Babe,” he’d rasped, dragging you into his lap to kiss you messily. “that was the best fuckin’ thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

But of course, Abby couldn’t just let you stay the one giving.

He wanted to eat.

The first time his mouth was on you, it was a 69, because Abby thought it was funny, filthy, perfect. He had you climb on top of him, facing his cock, while he dragged your panties aside. You’d been shy, trembling, but the second his tongue pressed against your clit, you screamed. It was like nothing else. Unbearably good.

Abby laughed into you, hands spreading your thighs wider, licking deeper, hungrier. “Ohhh yeah, that’s it. Ride my fuckin’ face, baby.”

At first you were too overwhelmed to move. But the pleasure built so fast, too much, too soon, and before you knew it, your hips were grinding against him, chasing the heat of his mouth. You rode his face without even realizing it, panting, crying out, your hands gripping his abs for balance. Abby groaned beneath you, his cock twitching against your lips as you tried to keep up with sucking him.

“Good girl—fuckin’ use me—” he growled between licks.

You came so hard you forgot to breathe, collapsing forward, shuddering, his face wet with you. He devoured it, like he’d been starving centuries for it.

From then on, his mouth was everywhere. Between your thighs, against your tits, down your stomach. He wanted to taste every inch of you, every day.

And then came your first time. It happened late, one night when you were curled up in his lap again, kissing lazily. His cock was hard against your thigh, and you touched it. Stroked him. Looked into his eyes.

“…Abby.” you whispered. “Can we—do it? For real?”

For a moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His pupils blew wide, and he gripped your hips so tight you squeaked.

“You’re sure?” he rasped. “Sweetheart, don’t fuck with me.”

You nodded, cheeks burning. “I’m sure. I… I want it. With you.”

He swore violently, kissed you hard, then laid you back on the bed like you were porcelain.

He was shaking as he got the condom on, because Abby was a lot of things, but careless with you wasn’t one of them. Well, he was careless, but not with you.

He stretched you open a little. And then, slowly, carefully, he pushed inside you. It hurt at first. The stretch was almost unbearable, and you clutched his arms, whining softly. But Abby kissed your face, your neck, held himself back even as sweat dripped from his brow.

“Breathe for me.” he muttered. “That’s it. Relax. You’re doin’ so good. You’re okay. You’re mine.”

And then the pain eased. Turned into something else. Something hot, pulsing, alive. You gasped, clutching at him. “Abby—oh god—”

“Yeah?” he groaned. He went slow, unbearably slow, until he was fully buried inside you. When he finally moved, slow at first, then faster. It was clumsy, sweaty, desperate, but it was yours. Your first time. With him. It was awkward at first, your bodies fumbling, but then something clicked. Your hips tilted, his thrusts found that angle, and suddenly it wasn’t pain anymore. It was heat. It was pleasure.

You moaned his name, clinging to him, your innocence melting away in real time.

Abby was wrecked above you, panting, swearing, praising you every second. “That’s it, baby. That’s my girl. You’re fuckin’ amazing.”

And when you came around him, crying out his name, Abby followed immediately after, groaning loud, burying himself deep, his whole body shaking as he spilled into the condom.

After that first time, you never went back.

Abby couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to stop. It was like something inside him had finally snapped free, and he needed you in every way, every day. Morning, night, half-asleep, on the couch, in the kitchen, there was no such thing as restraint anymore.

You were still sweet. Still shy. Still soft and cuddly. But every time he pushed the boundary a little further, you didn’t recoil. You leaned in. You wanted more. At first, it was just new positions. He bent you over the counter, fucked you in the shower, lifted you up and used his size to his advantage, holding you against the wall like you weighed nothing, or just simply in the air. He wanted to feel you from every angle, memorize every sound you made, every flutter of your muscles around him.

But then came the nastier discoveries. The first was his fingers wandering too far back. You’d been riding him lazily one night, your hands flat against his chest, your body bouncing gently on his cock while his big palms controlled your hips. He was groaning, muttering filth about how good you were, when one thick finger slipped lower, brushing against your other hole.

You’d gasped, tensing.

Abby stilled, his lips curling into a grin. “What’s this? Hm?” he teased, rubbing lightly. “Never touched here before, sweetheart?”

Your blush had been instant, your body jerking away, but you hadn’t said no. You hadn’t told him to stop. So he pushed further. Not inside, not yet, just rubbing, circling, teasing until your hips started grinding again, chasing friction despite your embarrassment.

“Fuck.” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you. “You like that, don’t you?”

The first time he slid a finger in there, you thought you wouldn’t be able to take it. The stretch was shocking, but his voice, his hands, his patience kept you calm. And when he worked it slowly, matched the rhythm of his thrusts inside your pussy, you lost it. You came harder than you’d ever thought possible, screaming his name, nails digging into his shoulders.

Soon, he was easing you open more and more. Two fingers. Toys. And eventually, the night came where he lined himself up and whispered in your ear, “Let me have it, baby. Let me in.”

It had been terrifying at first, the sheer size of him, the impossible stretch, but Abby didn’t rush. He kissed your face, told you how good you were, how perfect, how much he loved you. He rocked into you slowly, inch by inch, until he was buried deep in your ass. And when he started moving, when that shocking pressure turned into rolling waves of pleasure, you lost all shame. You begged for it. Abby nearly blacked out that night, watching his innocent little girlfriend sob with pleasure while he claimed every hole she had. He’d never been so hard in his life.

But that wasn’t the end of your surprises. He’d been fingering you on the couch, two thick fingers pumping relentlessly into your soaked pussy while his other hand tortured your clit. You were whining, writhing, and then, suddenly, a hot rush sprayed from you, soaking his hand, his shirt, the couch. You squirted.

You froze in horror. “Abby—I—I didn’t—”

Abby laughed, wild and delighted, his eyes bright. “Holy fuck. Holy fuck, baby. Do that again.”

You tried to hide your face, but he wouldn’t let you. He pinned your wrists down, growling, “Don’t you dare get shy on me. You’re beautiful. You hear me? Beautiful.”

And then he set to work, determined to wring every drop from you. He fingered you until you were screaming, shaking, begging him to stop. The couch was ruined, the floor soaked, and Abby was grinning.

From then on, he was obsessed. He had to make you squirt every time. Fingers, tongue, cock, didn’t matter. He’d edge you, torture you, until you broke again and again, until you were sobbing from overstimulation, your body convulsing around him. He’d lick it off his hands, groan about how sweet you tasted, even press his face against you mid-spray, letting you drench him while he moaned like an animal.

And you discovered you liked it too. The release. The mess. The way it made him so feral.

Abby pushed you into nastier and nastier territory. He had you jerk him off with your feet once, just to see if you’d do it, you did, blushing furiously the whole time. He taught you how to deepthroat, how to relax your throat, coaching you through the gagging until you could take him all the way. He had you sit on his face while you sucked him off, 69 turning into a contest of who could cum first. Spoiler, it was usually you. He showed you how to ride him, guiding your hips, groaning at the sight of you bouncing helplessly on his cock. He showed you how to roll a condom on with your mouth, and the look on his face the first time you managed it was feral. And you, sweet as ever, let him. You liked being his student. You liked learning how to drive him insane.

Your first time had been sweet, careful. But soon, Abby had you begging to be fucked raw, begging for his cock in your ass, begging for him to make you squirt until you couldn’t stand.

He jerked off to you before. He’d killed people before. He’d done every brutal thing a man could do. But nothing wrecked him like you. The way you blushed asking, “Can I try that?” The way you moaned when he filled your ass, when he pressed his thumb against your clit at the same time. The way you soaked him when he made you squirt, begging, “Abby, I can’t—please, I can’t—” only to give him another gush seconds later.

And the best part? You were still you. Still innocent in your way. You’d kiss his cheek after riding his face until you came three times and whisper, “…Was that good? Did you like it?” like you hadn’t just drenched him head to toe.

Abby was ruined. Absolutely ruined. The beast of a man who once killed without hesitation now couldn’t survive a day without hearing your moans, without feeling you shake around him.

And he didn’t want to.

ROMANCE

He was touchy, clingy, affectionate to a fault. He never kept his hands to himself, your waist, your cheek, the small of your back. Because you were so sweet. You curled up in his arms on the couch. You kissed his cheek before bed. You looked up at him with those wide, trusting eyes when he brushed hair out of your face, like he had hung the moon just for you.

Romance was used to sex being easy, casual. He had lived lifetimes drenched in it, bodies and lips and moans all blurring together. But you were a clean slate. You were someone who had never even been kissed until he leaned down one night, brushed your lips with his, and you gasped. He would never forget that.

The relationship, as it stood, was almost unbearably wholesome on your end. You loved to cuddle. That was your language. You climbed into his lap and fell asleep against his chest. You held his hand and swung your legs when you sat together. You pressed little kisses to his jawline, giggling shyly when he teased you for it. And for you, that was intimacy. That was closeness. That was your “relationship.”

But for Romance? It was absolute hell. Because you sat there, curled against him in bed, whispering “I love you” and all he could think about was how badly he wanted to ruin that innocence. How badly he wanted to teach you how good it could feel.

And yet… he didn’t. He never pushed.

Because as much as he was sex embodied, he was also in love with you. And the idea of scaring you off, of breaking that fragile trust, you, the one thing in his long, messed-up life that felt pure, was enough to keep him in check.

Barely.

You sprawled out across the couch, legs draped over him, oblivious to how suggestive it looked. You changed in front of him without thinking, because to you, it was just a shirt, just your boyfriend, while to him, every glimpse of bare skin was another test of his endurance. You said things that sounded dirty without meaning them. “Romance, will you hold me tighter?” “Romance, I like how warm you are.” “Romance, I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

And every time, he had to bite his tongue, bury his face in your neck, and pray you didn’t notice the way his breathing changed.

What killed him most, though, was how much you loved. You didn’t know what it meant to flirt, not really. You didn’t know how to be seductive. But you were the most affectionate person he had ever met. Always hugging him from behind when he cooked, always sneaking into his room just to nap beside him, always telling him that he made you happy. You were a sweetheart. A little angel. And Romance loved it. He loved it more than he had ever loved anything. But it also shattered him, because he was Romance. He was sex itself. He could have taught you everything, how to kiss, how to touch, how to moan, and instead, he was sitting there with your head in his lap, stroking your hair while you hummed softly in your sleep.

He could have gone crazy like that.

Romance had been with countless people. He had seen everything, done everything, lived long enough to get bored of it all. But you? You were new. You were untouched. You were sunshine in human form. And he couldn’t get enough of you. He had never been patient in his life. He wasn’t built for it, didn’t believe in it, didn’t practice it. But with you, patience became his religion. Not because he wanted to, but because he had to. Because you were soft and shy and brand-new to every single thing, and he loved you too much to rush. Romance was always romance. From the very beginning of your relationship he smothered you with affection, kisses to your temple when you were cooking, arms wrapping around you from behind when you were doing something as small as rinsing a glass. He was touchy, handsy, needy. And yet he kept it soft, kept it slow, because you were new. You were innocent, so incredibly untouched, and he knew that if he wanted to keep you, he had to go carefully.

That didn’t mean he didn’t slip.

Not even that long into your relationship, he’d started kissing you deeper. It wasn’t long before his instincts got the better of him, before his tongue brushed against your lips and teased its way into your mouth.

You froze. You didn’t know what to do. Nobody had ever kissed you like that before. You were trembling, confused, your little hands gripping his shoulders. He pulled back immediately, eyes soft, voice honey. “Too much?”

And you shook your head. Wide eyes, bitten lip, breathless. You were confused, god, yes, but you weren’t running. You let him do it again, and again, until you started to melt into it, letting him lead. You tasted him, learned him, let him show you what it meant to kiss like that. Romance loved every second. You were clumsy, uncertain, hesitant, but you were his, and you let him guide you, and that trust made his chest ache.

Romance swore he could feel your heartbeat in your lips, in your shy little whimper when he licked into your mouth. He knew you were overwhelmed, that your mind was scrambling, but you trusted him enough not to stop him. That trust nearly killed him with how sweet it was. He guided you gently, teaching you how to kiss back, slowing down so you could follow. You were clumsy, yes, but your innocence made every second unbearably intoxicating.

Romance was never quiet about what he wanted. He didn’t believe in hiding desire, it was the entire point of him, of who he was. But he’d been holding this one back, sitting on it for weeks, waiting until he knew you were ready to hear it. It was late, the two of you tangled in bed, your head resting against his chest. He was tracing shapes into your back when he finally breathed it out.

“Baby… can I ask you something?”

You tilted your head up, curious, innocent as always. “What?”

He licked his lips. For once, he looked almost nervous. Almost. Then the confidence returned.

“I want to eat you out.”

You blinked at him. The words didn’t even make sense at first. “Eat me—what?”

“Shh, don’t be scared. I’ll explain. I’ll be so careful with you.” His voice was patient, coaxing, every syllable dripping with the sincerity of a man who would happily worship you forever. “It’s nothing bad. Just my mouth on your pretty pussy, licking, kissing. Making you feel good. That’s all I want to do, sweetheart.”

Your throat went dry. He was just… open. Vulnerable, even, in the way he confessed it. “You really…” Your voice cracked, nervous. “…you want to do that?”

“I’ve been thinking about it nonstop.” Romance nodded, utterly unashamed, rubbing your thigh gently. “You have no idea how much I want it. How much I want to make you feel good. Please. Let me show you.”

The confidence in his voice made it worse, because you believed him. You knew he was good at this, that he knew what he was doing. And you… you wanted to know. You wanted to feel what he promised. After a long, shaky pause, you nodded. “…Okay.”

His grin was dazzling, boyish, so relieved and bright it made your stomach twist. “Fuck, baby. Thank you.”

The way he went about it proved he’d been honest, he wanted you, not just the act. “Lie back, baby.” he murmured, easing you onto the pillows. “Yeah, just like that. You’re so beautiful like this, you know that? Look at you.” His hands smoothed down your thighs, squeezing lightly, worshipful already. “If you get scared, you tell me. If you want me to stop, I’ll stop. But fuck, sweetheart, you’re gonna love this.” Romance eased you onto the bed like you were breakable. He kissed up your thighs first, slow and adoring, peppering your skin with warmth until you were squirming from the anticipation alone. When he tugged your panties down, he did it with love.

“You’re so pretty.” he whispered against your skin. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Then, cheeky as hell, he pressed a kiss directly to your clit. Just a soft peck, playful, as if to tease you into laughter. But instead, it made you gasp, hips jerking. He chuckled against you, utterly delighted.

“Yeah.” Romance murmured, lips brushing over you. “That’s what I wanted. That right there.”

And then he showed you how good he could be.

He didn’t rush, not once. His mouth was everywhere, kissing, licking, tasting like he was drunk on it. His tongue flicked at your clit in slow circles, patient and teasing, then firmer when he felt your thighs tense. He moaned against you shamelessly, like he loved every second of it. And you, god, you couldn’t believe how it felt. You’d never experienced anything like it before. You covered your mouth, embarrassed by the noises spilling out, but Romance just pulled your hands down, lacing his fingers through yours.

When he slid a finger inside, slow and careful, you nearly sobbed. The newness of it, the stretch, the way his mouth and hand worked together, it was overwhelming. Too much and yet not enough. He didn’t hold back, not from his enthusiasm, not from his noises. Because if Romance loved something, he let you know it. He moaned into you, like every flick of his tongue was a reward for him, like your taste was the sweetest thing he’d ever had. Louder than you, groaning and humming with his mouth full of you.

“Fuck, baby, taste so good.”

“You’re so wet for me, I can’t take it.”

“That’s it, let me hear you. Don’t hold back, I wanna know how good I’m making you feel.”

You clutched at the sheets, at his hair, at anything you could grab onto, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of it. Your thighs trembled, your breath came in sharp gasps.

He was so, so good at it.

Romance had centuries of experience, after all. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he’d never wanted to be good at something more than he wanted to be good for you.

He held you down gently, his other hand pressing to your stomach, his mouth never stopping. He guided you through it, whispered to you, kissed your thighs when you whined that it was too much.

You didn’t know what happened at first. You just knew that your vision went white, your body clenched up, and then suddenly you were sobbing his name into the sheets, trembling as wave after wave rolled through you.

That’s the story of the first orgasm he gave you. And from that on, the escalation was natural, so natural you barely realized it was happening. After that night, Romance got bolder. Not pushy, never pushy, but bolder in what he asked for, in what he suggested.

“You liked it when I touched you like that, right?” he’d ask, casually, like he was asking if you liked dinner. When you flushed and nodded, he’d smile. “Then let me show you something else.”

It started small. His fingers, more than one now. Teaching you how to relax, how to take it. Explaining in that smooth, charming way of his, sometimes teasing, sometimes serious.

“You’re so tight, angel. Gonna need to work on that.”

“Don’t look so scared. You’ll thank me later.”

“You trust me? Then breathe. That’s it. Just breathe.”

He treated it like a lesson, and in a way, it was. He loved it when you got shy, when you hid your face against his shoulder or covered your mouth to stifle a moan. He’d always tug your hand away, kiss your wrist, and murmur, don’t hide from me. I want to hear it. But where Romance truly didn’t deny who he was, where he couldn’t resist showing his freak streak, was when he brought toys into it.

“Toys?” you repeated, head tilted, as the two of you sat in his room.

“Yeah.” he said easily, smirking a little, sprawled out with one arm tucked behind his head. “Sex toys, baby.”

You blinked. “Like…?”

He sat up, raising his brows. “Not, like, Legos. Jesus. C’mere.”

You scooted closer, curious, innocent eyes wide. And Romance reached over to his nightstand drawer, pulling it open. Inside was a collection that made your jaw drop. Smooth silicone, shapes, little bottles, things you didn’t even have names for, and your eyes nearly fell out of your head when he pulled a vibrator out.

You blinked at it. Blinked at him. “What… is that?”

He leaned forward, kissed your temple, and held the vibrator up. “This is gonna be your new best friend.”

You just stared, still flushed, still confused. “…That’s… supposed to go inside me?”

A laugh, soft, as he stroked your cheek. “Not at first. Not unless you want it to. It’s for your clit. It vibrates, here, I’ll show you.” He clicked the button, and the toy buzzed to life in his hand. He held it against your palm, and your eyes widened.

“Oh.”

“Oh.” he mimicked, his voice warm with affection. “See? Not so scary. You’re gonna love this.”

And he did show you. He laid you back, kissed you sweetly, and then pressed the toy against you while his fingers spread you open. The sensation made you jolt, your whole body tensing as your breath hitched. Romance just cooed, stroked your thigh, told you to relax. “That’s it. Feels good, doesn’t it?” You just nodded frantically, eyes glassy. He adjusted the speed when it was too much, backed off when you squirmed too hard, and whispered steady encouragements. “Take it, baby. You’re perfect like this.” “You can cum as many times as you want. I’ll keep going.” And god, you did cum. Harder, faster, more than you thought you could. The toy pulled orgasm after orgasm from you, and Romance didn’t stop until you were sobbing into the pillows, begging for a break.

When he finally clicked it off, he kissed your damp cheek and stroked your hair. “See? New best friend.”

It didn’t stop there. Romance had a collection, of course. Over time, he introduced you to more, different vibrators, plugs, even a harness he wore once, grinning wickedly as you blushed so hard you thought you’d combust. Every new toy was an experiment, a discovery, and you trusted him enough to let him guide you through it.

What amazed him most wasn’t just your innocence, but your curiosity. You asked questions. So many questions. Sometimes timid, sometimes bold, always honest.

“What does this one do?”

“Why would anyone want something that big?”

“…Will it hurt?”

“Do you… like watching me like this?”

He answered them all, never mocking you, never shaming you. He was funny, sure, but his explanations were clear, his tone reassuring. He wanted you to learn, not to fear. And you did. Slowly, shyly, but you did.

Romance could have anyone. He knew it. He radiated sex, wore it. But you? You were untouched, innocent, utterly inexperienced. And you gave that to him. And it drove him crazy. Crazy enough to moan louder than you when he got his mouth on you. Crazy enough to laugh with glee when you squirmed under a new toy.

Eating you out became the thing. It wasn’t even special occasion anymore. It was routine. You’d be curled up on his bed, yawning, wearing something soft and oversized, and he’d casually tug you closer, sliding down between your thighs like it was his rightful place in the world. Sometimes it was slow and teasing, his tongue moving lazily while he held your hand, murmuring encouragements. Sometimes it was messy, desperate, muffled moans against your clit as he devoured you, grinding himself into the mattress because he got so lost in it. Sometimes there was a toy involved, he’d slide a vibrator against you while he sucked, or press a finger inside you, curling it until you cried out.

But always, always, he loved it.

You couldn’t understand it. Not really. You’d look down at him, cheeks flushed, fingers tangled in his hair, and whisper, “Why do you like it so much?”

And he’d only smile, so beautiful, licking his lips, voice hoarse. “Baby, if you could hear yourself, if you could see what I see, you wouldn’t even ask.”

Still, you heard the way he moaned into you, shameless, unrestrained. You felt the way he shook when you pulled on his hair. Whatever it was, you knew without doubt that he was telling the truth. He loved it.

It was late, one night. The two of you curled together in bed, your head on his chest, his hand lazily stroking up and down your arm. You were warm and safe, your muscles still loose from the orgasm he’d pulled out of you an hour ago. And the thought had been growing inside you.

“Romance?”

He hummed. “Yeah, baby?”

You fiddled with the hem of his shirt, nervous. “Can we… maybe… do more?”

He stilled, just for a second. Then his hand traced your shoulder, slow and tender. “More?” His voice was low, careful. “What are you thinking of, sweetheart?”

You swallowed. “I don’t know.” It was true, you didn’t. You only knew that you wanted to be closer to him. That you wanted to give him something back. That you wanted to know what came next. “What do you think?”

There was silence. He tilted his head back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. And for once, Romance didn’t have a slick answer, didn’t have a joke ready. He just sat there, struck by the weight of what you’d said. Because you trusted him. With your untouched body, with your innocence, with everything you hadn’t even explored for yourself, you trusted him.

He listed a few things, keeping his tone gentle, never pushing. “We could keep doing what we’ve been doing. Or we could try touching each other more. Or toys. Or…” He hesitated, then met your eyes. “Sex.”

The word sat between you, heavy.

You chewed your lip, thinking. Then, slowly, hesitantly, you nodded. “…Okay. Yeah.”

Romance froze. Just stared at you for a long moment, his throat working. Then he let out a laugh, soft, shaky, full of disbelief. “Oh my god. You mean it? You really—baby, you…”

You laughed nervously, tugging at his hair. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Not making fun.” he swore, pulling back. “I just—I didn’t think—I mean, I’ve been dreaming about this, but I didn’t think you’d…” He trailed off, shook his head, kissed your nose. “Fuck. Okay. Okay.”

He kissed you like he’d never kissed anyone before. Not because of lust, though the lust was there, but because you’d just given him something no one else would ever have, your trust, your first time, your body. And Romance wasn’t a gentle man by nature. But with you? He was soft. He was patient. He was everything you needed him to be.

He laid you down carefully, kissing your face, your neck, whispering between each press of his mouth. “So pretty.” Kiss. “So sweet.” Kiss. “Mine.”

He let you touch him, let you explore. He guided your hands, showed you how to undo his belt, how to slide the fabric away. You were hesitant, fumbling, but he smiled through it, kissing your cheek every time you paused.

When you saw him, hard and heavy in his boxers, your eyes widened, intimidated. He hushed you immediately. “Hey, hey. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not rushing anything. We go slow. As slow as you want.”

You nodded, cheeks blazing, and whispered, “Okay.”

Romance swallowed hard. He thought he’d seen everything in his centuries of living, every expression, every body, every reaction. But nothing compared to you.

He made it sweet. He made it about you.

He ate you out first, coaxing you into the familiar high until your body relaxed, until you were soft and pliant in his arms. He kissed your thighs, kissed your clit, kissed the inside of your knee, moaning into you until you were too lost in pleasure to think about nerves. He slid on a condom, showing you how, letting you touch, letting you see. He guided himself to you, but didn’t push in right away. He rubbed against you, let you feel the shape, let you gasp and cling to him.

Only when you whispered, “Please.” did he ease inside.

Slow. So, so slow.

He moaned, biting his lip, almost in pain from the restraint. But his eyes stayed on yours, watching every twitch of your face, every hitch of your breath. He kissed away the sting, murmured praise into your skin, circled your clit to ease you up, and waited until your body softened under him.

And then you were wrapped around him.

Your first time. His thousandth. And yet, it felt like his first, too.

When it was over, you lay together in the aftermath, sweaty and shaking and overwhelmed. He held you so tight, pressing kisses to your hair, whispering, “You were perfect. You’re perfect. I love you.” Over and over. And you, sweet, glowing, you curled up against him, still shy, still blushing, but smiling.

It was the best night of his entire existence.

Romance had a way of making even the most ordinary night feel like a movie. Dinner out with him was a thing you two did often. He knew how to pick restaurants that were perfect, knew how to make you laugh so hard at the table that strangers turned to look. He’d sit there with his chin in his palm, staring at you, eyes shining. And when you reached across the table to hold his hand, innocent and beaming, he’d squeeze your fingers tight, thinking to himself that he’d give up every indulgence in the world if it meant keeping you like this.

But the real show always came later.

Back home, Romance showed you what his kind of love looked like. He’d guide you to the bed, kiss your shoulders one by one, take your shoes off. He never rushed you. Even when his desire was making him go fucking crazy, he slowed it down, made every second about you. For weeks, this was the rhythm, romance in public, devotion in private. And you, innocent, shy, but so willing to learn, gave him every drop of affection you had. Little kisses on his jaw. Cuddles. Sex. Love.

Until one night, curled up in his lap, your cheek against his chest, you tilted your head and asked: “What do you like?”

At first he laughed, brushing your hair back with a playful little smile. “What do you mean, baby? I like this. You. Us.”

But you weren’t letting him dodge. “No, I mean… what do you like. Like, in bed.”

Romance blinked. He hadn’t expected you to ask, not like this, not with those big innocent eyes watching him like that. He leaned back, exhaling slowly, staring at the ceiling for a moment. “What do I like?”

You nodded. “Yeah. You’re always… taking care of me. And I love it. But… what about you?”

“You really want to know?”

You nodded.

So he told you.

The list that spilled from his mouth was not soft, not romantic, not anything you’d thought he might say. He told you about the way he liked having control, about how he liked his partners on their knees, about the thrill of marking skin with his teeth, about restraints, about the dirtier games he’d played centuries ago. He said it casually, frankly, like a man who knew himself, who wasn’t ashamed of desire. He talked about impact, about spanking until your thighs shook and you cried out his name. He confessed, calm but raw, that he loved the idea of being rough, of marking you up so badly you wouldn’t be able to hide it the next day. And that wasn’t even the half of it. He kept going, matter-of-fact, almost casual, about his fantasies, things involving mirrors, toys, overstimulation, the kind of marathon nights that would leave you wrecked and sobbing and begging him to stop. He admitted he moaned when you made him feel good because he wanted you to know what power you had, that he was addicted to the idea of you making him lose it.

By the time he was halfway through, your mouth had fallen open. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, floored, shocked that this silky, charming man could want things so… brutal.

He caught the look on your face and chuckled, reaching for your hand. “Hey, hey. Relax. Don’t get scared. I don’t expect you to want any of that. It’s just me talking, sweetheart. Just what I’ve done, what I like. With you—”

“I do.”

Romance froze. “You… do?”

You nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “I mean—I want to try. Even if I’m not good at it. I want to learn what you like.”

For the first time in a long time, Romance was speechless. He searched your face, waiting for hesitation, for nerves, for the telltale look that meant you’d spoken too fast. But there was none. You were shy, yes, adorably so, but you were serious. Determined. And the trust behind those words hit him harder than any lust could.

“…Baby.” he murmured finally, his thumb stroking over your knuckles. Then a slow, beautiful, crooked smile spread across his face. “Okay. We’ll explore. Step by step. I’ll show you.”

The first step wasn’t anything wild. It was him undressing you more boldly than before, guiding your hands when you faltered. You’d been shy, before, blushing when his fingers brushed over your bra strap, burying your face when he tugged your shirt up. But that night, when he pulled your top over your head and eased your bra off, you didn’t cover yourself. You let him look.

He stilled, blinking at you, eyes hungry but soft. “You’re not shy?”

You shrugged, nervous but honest. “I trust you.”

It was simple. Just that. And to him, it was everything. He cupped your breasts, kissed the tops, the soft skin beneath, the valley between them, murmuring words you couldn’t quite catch because his voice shook. Then he leaned back on his heels, grinning. “God, look at you. You’re perfect.” And when he finally took one nipple into his mouth, sucking gently, your gasp made him groan. He’d fed off lust for centuries, but nothing compared to the sound of you learning pleasure for the first time.

From there, exploration became a game between you. He didn’t throw you into the deep end. That wasn’t his way. He started slow, introducing little pieces at a time. A blindfold one night, a firmer grip on your wrists the next. He tested your reactions, stopped to ask if you liked it, laughed when you admitted you did. Then Romance brought new toys into the mix. And each time you gasped, each time your eyes went wide at some new sensation, each time you clutched at him, he swore he was falling in love all over again.

You weren’t good at it, not at first. You fumbled, you giggled, you sometimes got too nervous and asked to stop. But you were trying. For him. With him. And to Romance, there was nothing cuter, nothing sexier, nothing more brutally endearing than your innocence colliding with his filth.

He could have anyone. He had, for centuries. But no one had ever looked at him the way you did, trusting, curious, a little scared but still willing. No one had ever made him feel this much like he was worth the effort of learning. And everytime you whispered, in that sweet, innocent little voice, “Okay, show me more” he got more and more attached to you.

One time you’d pushed his shirt up, your tiny hands splayed across his chest, your face tucked into his neck. And then, in your quiet, sweet little voice, you asked, “Romance… can I, um… can I see you?”

He leaned back instantly, his eyes lighting up with delight. “See me? Baby, you see me every day.”

You flushed and swatted at him, pouting. “You know what I mean. Like… see you.”

The way you said it, soft, hesitant, innocent, sent a rush of heat through him so brutal he had to steady himself. This was trust. This was your way of asking for more. So he nodded. “Yeah, sweetheart. You can.”

He dimmed the lights, not to hide but to soften, to make the room feel private and safe. He kissed you first, long and warm, so you’d know this was intimacy. Then he leaned back against the pillows, spreading his arms lazily.

“Go ahead.” he murmured, voice low, beautiful. “Explore me. Whatever you want.”

He let you trace the lines of his arms first, the veins that ran down into his hands, the dip of muscle that flexed when he curled his fingers around yours. “Touch me.” he encouraged, his voice a low purr. “I like your hands on me. Anywhere.” You followed the slope of his chest next, the skin warm, smelling like his cologne. He chuckled when your fingers lingered on his collarbones, when you pressed curiously against his pecs. “You like those, huh?” he teased, flexing them just to make you laugh.

“I mean… they’re nice.” you admitted, shy but honest. You also liked his thighs a lot.

Your hands shook a little as you reached for his belt. He didn’t help, didn’t rush. He just watched you, his dark eyes following every movement, the little tremble in your fingers, the way your lips pressed together in concentration. You got the buckle undone after a fumble or two, and he chuckled softly, brushing your hair back.

“Good girl.” he said, genuine.

You pulled the zipper down and he lifted his hips so you could ease his pants lower. He didn’t shove them off, didn’t kick them away, he let you set the pace. You stopped for a second, just staring at the tented outline beneath his boxers, and he laughed again, tilting his head.

“Go on.” he coaxed. “You can look. Nothing to be shy about.”

Your eyes flicked up to his, wide and nervous. He only smiled, reassuring, and nodded. So you hooked your fingers in the waistband and pulled. When he sprang free, you actually gasped. Your hands froze, your face went red, and you stammered, “Oh. Oh—oh, wow.”

Romance nearly lost it laughing. He threw his head back, hand over his face, cackling.

You whined and covered your face, but he reached out, gently tugging your hands down. “Don’t hide. It’s okay. He won’t bite. You’re allowed to stare. I want you to.”

And you did. Hesitantly, curiously. You tilted your head, bit your lip, your gaze flicking between his cock and his face. Finally, you whispered, “It’s… big.”

“Thank you, baby.” he said gently. “But it’s just me. Same guy who holds your hand, remember?”

You relaxed a little. You touched him, lightly at first, fingertips brushing his length, fascinated by the way he twitched at your touch.

Romance moaned. Loud. Shameless.

“Did I hurt you?” you asked immediately.

“God, no.” He caught your wrist, guiding your hand more firmly around him. “That felt good. You did good, baby. Keep going.”

You swallowed and nodded, your hand wrapping tentatively around him. The first squeeze made him moan again, his hips jerking, and your eyes flew up to his again.

“See?” he said between breaths, his smile beautiful and so proud. “Perfect.”

He let you explore everything. He told you what each touch did, when it was too soft, when it was good, when it made his head spin. And you giggled every time he praised you, so shy but so eager to do well. You traced him with your fingertips, squeezed, rubbed, even poked once with a little laugh that made him choke on his own breath. When your hand slid lower, brushing his balls, he moaned again, louder this time. You froze, startled, but he caught your hand and pressed it there deliberately. “Don’t stop. That’s good, baby. Feels so good.”

You explored for what felt like forever, your giggles partner to his moans, your innocent curiosity brushing up against his centuries of experience in a way that made his head spin. You asked him questions, so many questions, each one making his chest ache with how sweet you were. “Does this feel better than this?” “What if I do it faster?” “Do you always sound like that when someone touches you?”

And when you finally leaned back, hands still on him, face flushed and eyes bright, you whispered, “You’re really pretty, you know that?”

Romance actually had to close his eyes and breathe. Because he’d been called many things in his long life, hot, sexy, irresistible. But pretty? That was your word. Pure. Honest. Innocent. And it wrecked him.

“You wanna try getting me off?” he asked at some point.

Your breath caught. “I… I can?”

“Baby, I want you to. More than anything.” He licked his lips, and his chest rose and fell faster now. “I’ll talk you through it. Every step. Just say the word.”

You nodded, eyes big and serious. “Okay. I want to.”

He guided your hand to wrap around him, showing you the pressure, the rhythm, the pace. You fumbled, you giggled nervously, you apologized when your grip faltered, but he never once looked anything but blissed.

“Perfect. Just like that. Fuck, you’re learning so fast.”

And the more you tried, the more you wanted to see him lose control. His moans, his curses, the way his head tipped back, it was intoxicating. You stroked him faster, your tongue peeking out between your lips as you concentrated. You wanted to know. You wanted to see. You wanted to be the reason for all of it. When his thighs tensed beneath your hands and his cum spilled hot and heavy across your fingers, you realized you were.

“Oh my god,” you whispered. “That’s… that’s cum?”

Romance was laughing even as he caught his breath, wiping sweat from his brow. “Yeah, baby. That’s cum. You did that. You made me feel so good I couldn’t hold it back.”

You looked down at your hand, then back at him, then giggled. “It’s… warm.”

“God, I fucking adore you.”

Yeah. That’s how it went. And about a week or two after the night you made him cum with your hands, you were still glowing with pride about how far you’d come. Next time you were curled up in bed with him, half-asleep against his chest while he absently combed his fingers through your hair.

And then, softly, you whispered, “Romance?”

“Mhm?” He didn’t open his eyes.

“What… what else do you like? The things you told me before.”

That got his attention. His eyes snapped open, his hand pausing in your hair. Slowly, carefully, he tilted his head down to look at you. “Why?”

You squirmed under the weight of his gaze, cheeks hot. “Because… I want to know. I want to see what you like. I want to try.”

He just stared at you, chest rising and falling faster than before. He reached out, brushing your jaw with his knuckles, and whispered, “You’re serious.”

You nodded. “I want to.”

That was the moment things changed. Romance didn’t throw you into the deep end. He never would, not with you. He took it step by step, introducing you to his world the same way he had guided you through your own body. Except this time, he wasn’t showing you you, he was showing you him.

The first thing he taught you was control. Or rather, his love for taking it.

One night, he brought out silk ties. “They’re just scarves.” he explained as he laid them across the bed. “Soft. Won’t hurt. You trust me?” You nodded. So he tied your wrists gently, testing the knots, making sure you could pull free if you panicked. And then he kissed you slow, deep, whispering against your lips, “See? Nothing scary. Just me holding you. Just me keeping you still.” At first you laughed nervously, tugging at the ties, but the way his eyes darkened when you gave up the fight sent shivers down your spine. And when he finally slid down the bed and put his mouth on you, his tongue teasing your clit until you writhed against the restraints, you understood. It wasn’t just about him controlling you, it was about you letting him. About the trust.

After that came marking. You’d noticed before how much he loved biting, your shoulder, your collarbone, even your thighs. But this time, when you asked him directly, “Do you like leaving marks?” his smile turned sharp.

“Baby,” he said, voice low and dangerous. “I like when everyone knows you’re mine.”

He proved it to you that night. He kissed and sucked bruises into your neck until you were moaning, begging, half-laughing because you knew they’d show in the morning. He pressed his teeth into your thighs until you gasped, holding you open with gentle but firm hands. And when you whined, “Romance, they’ll see.” he only chuckled against your skin. Good.

Then came the dirtier games. Romance didn’t sugarcoat them. When you asked, wide-eyed, “What about the other things you like?” he told you plainly. He liked it messy. He liked spit, liked the filth of sweat, liked when a partner got down on their knees. He liked teasing until tears welled in the corners of your eyes. He liked control, every shade of it. And you… you were fascinated.

“Why do you like it so messy?” you asked once, pulling back with spit shining on your chin.

Romance cupped your face, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “Because it’s real, baby. Because it’s raw. Because it means you’re not afraid to let go with me.”

You shivered at that, then nodded. And when you leaned back down, he groaned like he’d never survive it.

Soon, you weren’t just learning, you were experimenting. Sometimes he’d pin your wrists down, sometimes he’d push your thighs apart and tell you not to move while he worked you over with his mouth. Sometimes he’d whisper filthy things in your ear, things that made your face burn but your body ache with need. And you, his sweet, innocent angel, soaked it all in. You weren’t scared. You weren’t shy. You were curious. Hungry. Determined to understand what made him tick. And Romance, for all his filth, never forgot who you were. He never pushed too hard, never let the games eclipse the love. He always held you after, always kissed your forehead, always whispered that you were perfect.

But when he looked at you, bruised, marked, still catching your breath, his eyes were darker than ever.

You were on top of him one night, straddling his hips while he lay back on the bed. He’d been teasing you for so long that you decided to take a little revenge, pressing your nails into his chest without really thinking about it.

He gasped, loud, sharp, but not in pain. Not exactly. His hips jerked up hard against yours, and when you looked down at him, his pupils were blown wide.

“Do that again.” he rasped.

You blinked. “The scratching?”

He nodded quickly, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Harder.”

So you did. You dragged your nails down his chest, harder this time, leaving red tracks in your wake. His back arched off the bed, his hands clenching the sheets, and a groan tore out of his throat.

“Holy shit.” you whispered.

Romance laughed breathlessly, eyes wild. “Yeah. Holy shit.”

That was your first glimpse of it, the part of him that liked pain.

Afterward, when you were curled up against his chest, you asked quietly, “Do you… like that? Getting hurt?”

He didn’t even try to play it cool. He just nodded, brushing his fingers through your hair. “Yeah, love. I like when you take me apart a little. When you scratch. When you slap. When you tell me what to do. I like being the one hurt. I like pain. On me. Spanking, scratching, biting. Hitting. Telling me I’m nothing. Making me beg. Making me your bitch. That kind of pain.”

Your mouth fell open. You’d thought you’d heard it all, the marks, the toys, the messy things. But this? This you hadn’t expected. Romance, the embodiment of confidence, the man who moaned like he was the star of his own porno, wanted you to humiliate him?

“You’re… serious?” you whispered.

“Dead serious. I know it sounds insane coming from me, but I swear, baby, it’s what I like. It’s what gets me off. You want the truth? That’s it.”

You swallowed hard, your face burning. The man was insane. But the way he said it, so honest, so raw, it made something spark in your chest.

And then, before you could overthink it, you whispered, “Can I… try something?”

It started simple. Romance got on all fours at the end of the bed, glancing back at you with that teasing, challenging smirk. “Come on, baby. Don’t be shy.”

You stared at his ass, at the strong curve of muscle under skin, and raised your hand. “Like this?” you asked nervously.

“Like that.” he purred.

So you spanked him. A sharp, quick smack that echoed in the room.

Romance gasped, an honest gasp, and dropped his head against the sheets. His shoulders trembled. When he looked back at you, his pupils were blown wide, lips parted. “Again.”

You did it again. Harder. His body jolted, and he moaned into the mattress.

It became a rhythm. Spank. Gasp. Moan. His ass reddening under your palm, his thighs twitching. You couldn’t believe it. He looked ruined, hair falling in his face, sweat prickling on his back, muscles flexing as he struggled to stay still. And he kept whispering, “More. Harder. Don’t stop. Please, baby. Please.”

And god, it was intoxicating.

It escalated fast. Soon, you were digging your nails down his back, leaving angry red lines that made him hiss and groan. He bit into the sheets to muffle his cries, but when you pulled his hair and demanded, “Louder.” he obeyed, moaning so shamelessly that you flushed.

You spit on his shoulder once, hesitant, and froze. But when you looked down, his face was pure bliss.

“Again.” he begged. “Don’t stop. Do it again.”

The night it really shifted was when he finally asked for more.

You’d just finished spanking him raw, his ass glowing red, when he turned his head and whispered, “Baby… will you—fuck, will you put something in me?”

You blinked. “In… you?”

His grin was wild, desperate. “Yeah. Finger, toy, anything. I want it. I want you to use me.”

Your heart raced. You’d never done anything like that. But the way he looked at you, pleading, hopeful, trusting, it made you nod.

“Okay.” you whispered. “Tell me what to do.”

Romance guided you. Patiently, shakily, he showed you how to slick your fingers, how to press against him gently, how to ease in slow. You were trembling, terrified of hurting him, but he only moaned, clutching the sheets, telling you how good it felt.

“Deeper.” he gasped. “Please. Harder.”

You did. And when you found the spot that made him cry out, his whole body shuddered. He collapsed forward, sweating, moaning, gasping your name.

You couldn’t stop staring. The sex symbol, the confident demon, the man who kissed like fire, reduced to a panting mess under you.

And when he finally came, ruined and shaking, it wasn’t just hot. It was… bonding.

Afterward, he lay on his back, chest heaving, hair sticking to his forehead. He reached for you, pulling you against him, still trembling from the high.

Then, another big thing. It began like most nights did, Romance kissing you stupid, showering you in affection until you forgot to be mad at him for the dumb things he did during the day. He had you tucked against his chest, his hands everywhere, his lips brushing your temple as he murmured sweet nothings.

But this time, his voice was lower. Hungrier.

“Baby…” He kissed your jaw, slow. “I want more tonight.”

You tilted your head, smiling softly. “More?”

His laugh rumbled through your chest. “Yeah. More. You know what I mean.” He leaned back so you could see his eyes, wide and bright, his grin sheepish but wicked. “I want you to peg me.”

The words made your stomach flip. Even after everything, the toys, the spanking, the begging, you hadn’t expected that.

“Me?” you squeaked. (Lmfao take this in the comedic sense)

Romance chuckled, sliding his hand down to squeeze your hip. “Yes, you. Who else would I trust with it? Come on, baby. Don’t give me that look. You’ve been a natural at everything else.”

You swallowed hard. “But I don’t… I’ve never—”

“I’ll teach you.” he interrupted smoothly, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Like I always do. Step by step. You’ll be perfect.”

You hesitated, nerves twisting inside you. But then you saw the honesty in his eyes, the raw want, the vulnerability he never let anyone else see. And your own voice surprised you when you whispered “Okay.”

Romance wasted no time. He rolled off the bed, rummaging through the toy chest at the foot of it, and came back with a strap and a bottle of lube. He laid them gently beside you.

You bit your lip. “And you’re sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.” he murmured. Then, softer: “I want you to ruin me.”

Your heart thudded.

He walked you through every step. First, the lube, how much to use, though you already knew how to finger him. You knelt between his thighs, watching his face as you pressed one finger in, then two. He gasped, moaned, gripped the sheets until his knuckles went white.

“Good girl.” he whispered through gritted teeth. “So good at this. Don’t stop.”

You added a third, marveling at the way his body opened for you, at the raw, needy sounds spilling from his throat. You couldn’t believe how beautiful he looked like this, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen from biting them, sweat glistening on his chest.

When he finally begged, “Please, baby, I’m ready.” you strapped the harness on with shaking hands. Romance helped you adjust it, guiding your trembling fingers with steady ones. His voice stayed soft, coaxing. “You look so fucking hot right now, baby. You have no idea. You’re gonna destroy me, and I can’t wait.”

You positioned yourself carefully, heart racing. “Tell me what to do.”

He grinned, reckless and needy all at once. “Just push. Slow. I’ll tell you when.”

You lined yourself up and pushed in gently. His breath hitched, his whole body tense, but his eyes fluttered shut, and a groan tore from his throat.

“Fuck. Yes. Just like that.”

You froze. “Are you okay?”

His laugh was shaky. “More than okay. Keep going.”

So you did. Inch by inch, you sank into him, watching his face, terrified of hurting him but unable to stop once you saw the bliss washing over him. He clutched your thighs, nails digging in, moaning so loudly you flushed.

“Baby,” he gasped. “you feel—fuck—you feel so good.”

Once you were fully inside, you stayed still, waiting. His chest rose and fell fast, sweat dripping down his temple. And then he opened his eyes, pupils blown wide, and whispered, “Move.”

You did. Tentative thrusts at first, shallow and slow, until you found a rhythm.

Romance screamed.

Head thrown back, mouth open, moans echoing off the walls, he was louder than you’d ever heard him. Each thrust had him trembling, begging, praising you between curses.

“Yes, baby. Fuck me. Harder. Don’t stop. Please. Please.”

Watching him come undone beneath you, watching him grip the sheets like his life depended on it, knowing you were the one making him feel like this, it lit a fire in your chest. You moved harder, faster. He arched into you, body shaking, his voice breaking as he begged for more.

When you leaned down and kissed him, he whined against your mouth, clutching your face. “I love you.” he gasped. “Fuck, I love you, don’t stop, please—”

And when he came, it was violent, his whole body convulsing, his moan tearing through the air. He collapsed under you, ruined, trembling, sweat-soaked and breathless.

You pulled out carefully, unstrapping the harness with shaky fingers. “Are you—”

Before you could finish, Romance pulled you against his chest, kissing your hair, still panting. “Perfect.” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re perfect. That was everything.”

You were still you. Still soft, still shy, still the girl who blushed at dirty words and giggled at bad jokes. That sweetness never changed. The only difference was that your boyfriend was showing you a whole new world, one step at a time. He taught you safe words, taught you where the line was, taught you how to take care of him after. Because for all his filth, Romance was still Romance, he wanted you to enjoy this, not be scared. He wanted you to feel powerful, not pressured.

And you did.

He sits underneath you, one arm is wrapped around your waist while the other is knuckles deep inside you, two fingers leisurely pumping in and out while you use his laptop to shakily navigate the clothing website, thumb circling your clit. your legs are spread out over his thighs, giving Sylus easy access to your fluttering hole

"don't you want to buy that sweetie? it would look gorgeous on you" he can feel the hesitation just from the way you tense up. still hesitating to use his money when all Sylus wants to do is worship you with his mind, body, and money.

his fingers start to slow down, making you squirm in his grasp to feel some stimulation again. Sylus notices, pressing his arm tighter into your body, keeping you locked in place.

“Fine, f-fine, I’ll buy it Sylus. Just -fuck- just keep doing that” you pant.

He kisses the side of your head, his fingers thrusting into you faster. “That’s what I’d like to hear sweetie”

The way Sylus hit your sweet spot made your vision bleary, barely able to move your trembling fingers on the trackpad. He notices this, he always does, his deep chuckles next to your ear sent a shiver through your body.

“C’mon sweetie, just use my card to pay and I’ll let you cum” he whispers into your ear. He inserts a third finger as he says this, a whimper erupting from your throat at the stretch.

Your hands shake as you type in his card information into the screen, his thumb flicking your clit harder the closer you get to completing the purchase. A stream of Sylus please, faster escapes your mouth.

The second you hit complete purchase, you orgasm, pussy squeezing Sylus’s still thrusting fingers as your eyes roll back. His lips land on your neck, pressing soft kisses as he helps you ride out your orgasm. His fingers turn into lazy strokes after a few seconds.

It takes you a minute to catch your breath, the sound echoing through the room until you feel Sylus’s fingers start to move again. Your head moves to look at him, confusion obvious.

“Sweetie, you just bought a new outfit. Surely you need to buy new jewelry to go with it, right?” His eyes gleamed with amusement as he tilted your head back to the laptop screen.

You were in for a long night.

an: university's been kicking my butt so i haven't been as active but AHHHHHH ty guys for 100 followers!! :3