Caruso's Constellations

You hadn’t noticed it at first—just the kind of numb that comes from a bitter wind and too many miles on aching feet. Joel had scouted the abandoned lab, cleared it of clickers, motioned you in with a grunt and a nod. It was supposed to be safe. Warm. But the cold just… lingered.

By the time the doors sealed behind you, it was worse. Too cold. Bone-deep and strange. Like something crawling under the skin, not just outside it. Your breath fogged the air, but your fingers were stiff even inside your gloves. And Joel?

He was pacing like a man trying to outrun something that wasn’t there.

“We need firewood,” he muttered, rubbing his palms together. “This ain’t right.”

“No wind. No broken windows. Should be warmer than this.” You pressed your hands to the sides of your neck. Even that didn’t help. You felt… muted. Like someone had pulled a curtain between your body and your mind.

You watched Joel strip off his jacket, despite the cold, shaking it out. “Somethin’ in the air,” he said. “Feels… wrong.”

He wouldn’t meet your eyes. That was the first red flag.

Joel never avoided eye contact.

You knew how he looked at you—how he usually looked at you when the adrenaline of a close call faded. Like he couldn’t stop himself. Like hunger bottled tight behind those stormy eyes.

But now? Nothing.

And that emptiness hit harder than it should’ve. No flicker of heat in your gut. No zing in your chest. No awareness of the space between your bodies. It was like something had scooped the desire right out of you both and left only the ghost of it behind. The absence burned in a different way.

“…Do you feel it too?” you asked, low. Not teasing. Not coy.

Joel stopped. Turned. And there was confusion on his face—like he didn’t want to say it out loud.

“I do,” he admitted finally. “It’s like I’m supposed to want to fork you senseless, but all I feel is cold.”

You blinked. “Exactly. Like... I know I want to. I just don’t feel it. Not in the usual places.”

He scoffed, the corner of his mouth twitching. “What, your spleen?”

You laughed. A real one.

And he did look at you then, like maybe laughter had cracked through whatever the hell was pressing on you both.

“But I miss it,” you murmured. “That wanting. The tension. Even the stupid looks you give me when I stretch.”

He stepped closer—slow, deliberate, like a man moving through fog.

“Maybe that’s the test,” he said, voice low. “See what we are when all the scissoring and fork-your-brains-out urges are stripped away.”

“And what are we?”

Joel reached out, took your hand in his. You should’ve felt heat. Instead, it was a weird mix of numb and pulse—like your body remembered what it should feel, and wanted it back.

“We’re still here,” he said simply. “Still wantin’ to reach for each other. That’s somethin’.”

You stood there for a beat. Just breathing. Just feeling the nothingness between you. And in a weird way, it tightened the bond. Like you were being rewired.

When the fog lifted hours later—when the cold retreated like a tide and the normal pull returned—it hit like a damn freight train.

He didn’t say a word. Just grabbed your face and kissed you so hard your teeth knocked. And when the fork and the scissor finally came? It was clumsy and greedy and feral, like trying to drink after weeks without water.

Because maybe missing the hunger made it all the sweeter when it returned.

The cold didn’t fade gradually.

It snapped.

One moment, your fingertips were numb. The next, the air around you was hot, stifling, wet with the kind of charged humidity that meant one thing and one thing only: the fog was gone—and the flood came rushing in right behind it.

Your knees buckled.

You clutched the edge of the broken lab table as a firestorm tore through your veins, leaving ash and want in its wake. The throb between your thighs hit you so hard, you gasped—and across the room, Joel made a sound.

Not a word. Not a groan. Not a grunt.

A sound. Animal. Desperate. Like a man finally, finally feeling the full weight of what he'd been denied.

He turned to you with murder in his eyes.

No. Worse. With need.

“Off,” he growled, already closing the space between you. “Take it off, all of it.”

You were shaking, fumbling with your layers, suddenly sweating under the remnants of your coat. He reached you before you could even tug it past your shoulders. Ripped it. Threw it.

And then his mouth was on you.

Hot, fast, merciless—no patience left. His hands were rough and clumsy, calloused palms dragging across your waist, your chest, down to your hips like he didn’t care about finesse, just contact. Your name left his mouth in fragments, like he couldn’t finish it without getting lost in the next word.

“I should’ve—fork—should’ve done this weeks ago,” he panted against your throat. “Wanted to… every damn night.”

You could barely think. Barely breathe. Your legs wrapped around his waist without permission, grinding up into his thigh like a woman possessed.

“Joel—” you whined, trying to speak, trying to form anything resembling English, but all you could manage was, “Please.”

His hand found the seam of your pants. “You’re soaked.”

You nodded frantically. “Fix it.”

He didn't even undo the rest. Just shoved everything out of the way and pressed his fingers into you like he’d been waiting to memorize the shape of you since the day he met you. You cried out, nails clawing into his jacket.

“Fork,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You didn’t care what he called you. You just wanted more. Faster. Deeper. The emptiness from before had twisted into something unbearable—like the fog had trained your body to ache for him on instinct.

“Joel,” you gasped, tugging at his belt now, losing all shame, “I need you to scissor me so hard I forget my name.”

He laughed. A dark, low rasp, like he couldn’t believe you’d said it.

“Don’t worry, darlin’. You won’t remember a damn thing.”

And then he was inside you.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful.

It was war.

Every thrust was punishment for the hours you’d spent empty. Every groan from his chest was another apology he didn’t know how to say out loud. The table screeched beneath you. His grip bruised your hips. You didn’t care. You wanted the bruises.

You wanted to wake up tomorrow and feel him in every inch of your body.

Your legs locked tighter around him. His pace faltered—barely—but you felt it.

“You close?” he rasped, forehead to yours, panting.

You nodded, eyes wild. “Fork me harder. Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You shattered mid-sentence.

Back arched. Mouth open. A silent scream. Everything clenched around him so tight he nearly followed you over the edge, groaning your name like it was a sin to say it aloud.

He didn’t pull out. Couldn’t. He came with a grunt that shook his whole body, burying his face in your neck like he could hide the mess of emotions tearing out of him.

You stayed like that for a while. Sweaty. Shaking. Clinging.

And when the cold started to creep back into the edges of the room?

Joel just pulled you closer.

“Next time,” he muttered against your skin, “we don’t wait for the damn fog.”

The Hypothesis: The fog is gone.

The Method: Repeated exposure to intense, prolonged scissoring.

The Subjects: One very wrecked you. One feral Texas man on a mission.

You were still gasping when Joel lifted his head from the crook of your neck.

Sweaty strands of hair clung to his forehead. His lips were red, raw, slick with the taste of you. His pulse thudded beneath your palm like a drum about to break. And yet—yet—his eyes? Not done.

Not even close.

“We gotta be sure,” he rasped, voice all gravel and sin. “Can’t risk it comin’ back.”

You blinked, still dazed, like your brain had been shaken loose by the first round. “Be sure of what?”

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “That it’s gone. That I can keep touchin’ you like this without it disappearing again.”

You whimpered. “You think we didn’t test it enough?”

He sat back on his heels, dragging you down with him until you were flat on your back on the floor, half-naked and wrecked, legs still twitching from the aftershocks. “Not even close.”

He settled between your thighs again, and you felt it—the weight of him, hard again, pressed against your thigh. Already. The man was made of fury and fork.

“I ain't done with you,” he growled. “Not 'til I’ve mapped every inch of you and made sure you still feel every forkin' second of it.”

You laughed, breathless. “This for science?”

He smirked. “Strictly experimental, ma’am.”

He started slower this time. Not soft. Just methodical. Like he was taking data. Measuring your pulse with his tongue, your breath with each drag of his teeth along your skin. His hands pinned your thighs open, thumbs pressing into the meat of them, holding you still as his mouth dipped low again.

“Oh, God—Joel—”

“Shh. Need to observe your reactions,” he murmured, not lifting his head. “Gotta see how sensitive you still are.”

You tried to tease him, to say something smart, but then his tongue curled just right and you forgot how vowels worked.

He didn't let up. Not once. Brought you to the edge and back again, letting your whole body tremble against his tongue and fingers like you were strung on wires. Every scissor of his mouth against you had purpose, every hum of satisfaction like a checkbox on a mental list. He was tasting your soul.

You came again with a cry that echoed through the empty lab, arching up so hard your spine left the ground.

Still. Not done.

You barely registered when he flipped you, chest pressed to the cold floor, hips lifted by his firm grip. You only knew the air shifted, his heat behind you like a second skin, and then—

He filled you again.

This time? It wasn’t rushed.

It was relentless.

Joel ground into you with deep, punishing strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints. Your cheek was flush to the floor, fingers clawing at nothing, sobbing his name between gasps.

“You still feel that?” he bit out, his voice ragged. “Still feel me, baby?”

“Yes—yes—Joel—God, don’t stop—”

“Fog ain't comin’ back,” he grunted. “Not after this. You’re gonna remember me every time you forkin’ breathe.”

You could barely handle it. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. All you could do was take it—every thrust, every slap of skin, every filthy word he growled in your ear as he used your body like it was his salvation.

When you came this time, it was silent—so deep it didn’t even make it to your throat. Just a full-body quake that left you limp and twitching in his arms.

He followed seconds later, emptying himself into you with a roar that shook your ribs.

And when it was over? When the fog stayed gone and your senses didn’t fade?

He held you there on the floor, chest to your back, both of you panting like you’d just survived a war.

“Yeah,” he muttered, lips at your shoulder. “Definitely gone.”

You turned your head just enough to whisper, “Still feel a chill…”

He growled. “Fork me—don’t tempt me, girl. I’ll make you sweat ‘til spring.”

Return to TLOU + Joel Miller Masterlist

The hot Texas sun beats down, radiating heat off the asphalt. You're stranded on a long stretch of highway, the sound of cicadas filling the air. When your car starts to overheat, you curse under your breath. Perfect timing. The tire’s flat, and now this. The last thing you expect is for someone to pull up behind you.

The truck engine cuts off, and the door slams. The sound of boots crunching against gravel makes your heart skip a beat. He steps out, the unmistakable figure of Javier Peña, rugged and more than a little dangerous.

“Looks like you’re having some trouble,” he says, strolling up with a cocky grin.

You shoot him a smile, trying to act casual, even though the whole situation has you feeling… off-kilter in a way you can't explain.

He takes one glance at the hood and notices the faint trail of smoke. He touches the metal, pulling his hand back quickly. “Damn,” he mutters under his breath.

Without saying a word, he pulls a kerchief from his back pocket, folds it over his hand, and carefully opens the hood. His sunglasses sit low on his nose as he inspects the engine, his eyes narrowing. He pulls the dipstick out, wipes it clean, and then checks it again. It’s dry.

“This is a problem,” he says, his voice low, as his eyes flick up to meet yours over the edge of his shades. You try to breathe normally, but the way he’s looking at you makes your pulse race.

You bite your lip, the heat in your cheeks rising. “Oh no, I’m not under arrest, am I, Officer Peña?” you tease, trying to hold back a giggle.

His expression doesn’t change. In fact, it darkens, but not in a bad way. “No,” he responds flatly, “But you are coming with me.”

You blink. You’re not sure if it’s fear or excitement creeping up your spine, but the look in his eyes tells you that whatever happens next, it won’t be boring.

He slams the hood down with a grunt and looks at you, hands on his hips.

“You can’t drive this anywhere. I’ll call a tow for you, but it’s about 15 miles to the nearest diner. I’ll check if they’re open—probably not on Sundays…” He mutters under his breath to himself, clearly frustrated by the inconvenience.

When you get to the diner, the lights are off. Shit. The sense of urgency is now gone, replaced by Peña’s quiet, simmering frustration. He turns to you, raking his hand through his hair.

“Well,” he says, exhaling, “I’ve got a couch at my place if you want to crash for a bit. Or, I could take you to the motel down the road.”

You glance at him, unsure, your stomach doing flips. But something in his voice tells you you’re not just getting a ride. Not with the way he’s looking at you now.

“Your place?” You swallow, and the tension in the air shifts from frustration to something else entirely. It’s hotter. His lips twitch at your hesitation, his eyes going dark.

He doesn’t wait for an answer, just jerks his head towards the truck and motions for you to get in.

Later, at Peña's Place...

The door slams behind you. His apartment is dimly lit, and the air feels thick, charged with something neither of you have bothered to address yet. Peña motions for you to sit on the couch.

He stands across from you, still in his boots, his body relaxed but that same intensity in his gaze.

He crosses his arms and looks at you, just watching, like he’s waiting for something.

“Well?” he asks, his voice low, almost daring you to make a move.

The heat between you both is unbearable. You don’t need to say anything. Without thinking, you stand, closing the distance between you. His breath catches in his throat when you press yourself against him. His scent—leather, whiskey, and something warm—invades your senses. You breathe him in, your heart racing as you glance up at him.

Peña’s hand slides to the back of your neck, tugging you in, his lips crashing into yours without warning. He doesn’t kiss like he’s unsure. No, this kiss is raw, demanding, and full of urgency. His other hand travels down your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, deliberate tease.

You gasp against his lips as his fingers move lower, brushing against the hem of your shirt, before he pulls it off entirely, leaving you exposed. His eyes rove over your body, and you can feel the heat in his gaze, but he’s in no rush. He’s taking his time.

“Damn, you’re perfect,” he mutters, his voice rough. “I’ve wanted this… wanted you… for too long.”

Your skin tingles at his words, but it’s the way he says them that sends a jolt of heat through your veins. You don’t even think anymore, you just need him. All of him.

He pulls you back in, his hands moving with purpose now, unzipping his jeans, and everything else melts away as he takes control. You can’t remember the last time you felt this alive.

The world outside ceases to exist as Peña proves exactly why he’s the kind of man who takes what he wants.

Your back barely hits the couch before he’s on you again, pressing you down with the full weight of his body, his mouth hot and insistent against your throat. His hands roam, exploring every inch of skin now bared to him, mapping out every place that makes you shudder beneath him.

He tugs your jeans down in one smooth motion, his breath hitching as he takes in the sight of you. His fingers trace a slow, teasing path up your thigh, his touch both possessive and maddeningly gentle.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he mutters, voice thick with want.

You barely manage a response before his hands and mouth are on you again, working you apart with an almost lazy expertise—like he knows he’s got you exactly where he wants you, like he enjoys watching you squirm beneath him.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he continues his slow, torturous pace. The heat coils tighter, building, threatening to consume you entirely—

And then—he pulls back, hovering over you with that smug smirk, his lips glistening.

“Think you can handle me, querida?”

It’s not really a question. It’s a promise.

And as he finally presses into you—stretching, filling, claiming—you realize there’s no going back.

Not that you’d ever want to. Your gasp barely has time to leave your lips before the sound of fabric tearing fills the room.

“Jesus, Peña—”

“Shut up.” His voice is a low growl, his hands ruthless as he yanks apart what’s left of your shirt, tossing the shredded fabric aside. Your jeans are next, seams splitting under his rough grip, leaving you utterly bare beneath him.

You should be mad. You should be embarrassed.

But the way he looks at you? Like he’s just found something he’s been starving for? You feel nothing but wanted.

His hands are everywhere—squeezing the soft curve of your hips, gripping the flesh of your arse like he owns it. His fingers dig in, holding you still as he rolls his hips against yours, dragging a ragged curse from deep in his throat.

“Fuck, baby.” His teeth scrape along your throat, his breath hot against your skin. “Look at you. Perfect. Perfect.”

His mouth moves lower, his stubble scraping along your skin as he drags his tongue over the swell of your breast before biting down just hard enough to make you jolt. He chuckles at your sharp inhale, his hands sliding up your sides before cupping your tits, squeezing, kneading, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you whimper beneath him.

“You like that?” he taunts, his voice thick with amusement. He pulls at your hair, forcing your head back so you have no choice but to meet his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.

He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.

His fingers slide lower, teasing, testing—until he pulls back suddenly, leaving you gasping, teetering on the edge.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, lips curling in a wicked smirk.

Your whole body protests, hips chasing his touch, but he holds you still, waiting, watching—until you’re trembling beneath him, desperate, needy—

And then he gives you exactly what you need.

To be continued...

What?! No!

Yes.

In Part Two: HERE.

You didn’t know his name at first. But you knew the way he watched you.

Joel Miller was a problem.

A big, broad, gruff-as-hell problem wrapped in worn denim and a stare that made your stomach twist. He wasn’t subtle about it—his eyes lingered when you bent over, his hands found your waist when he passed by, always just enough to make you feel it.

You should’ve ignored it. Should’ve kept your distance.

But here you are now, back pressed against some rickety table in an abandoned house, jeans shoved down to your knees, Joel’s fingers buried deep inside your soaking cunt.

"Look at you," he grunts, watching the way you clench around him. His fingers slide deeper, curling against that sweet spot inside you, and you whimper. “Drippin’ all over my fuckin’ hand. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ spread open like some needy little thing.”

Your head tips back, a moan spilling out, but Joel catches your chin in his rough grip. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me.”

You obey, but it’s hard with the way he’s working you open—his thick fingers pumping in and out, thumb rubbing circles over your swollen clit.

“That’s it,” he mutters, watching your breath hitch, your thighs trembling. “So fuckin’ greedy. You wanna cum already, baby? You wanna soak my hand like a good little thing?”

You nod, panting, but he tuts. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

"Yes,” you gasp. “Please—”

Joel pulls his fingers out.

You whine at the loss, thighs shaking, but he just chuckles, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth. Sucks them clean with a filthy groan.

"Goddamn, baby, you taste good. Bet that pretty little mouth would feel just as sweet wrapped around my cock."

He’s already undoing his belt, pushing his jeans down, and your mouth waters at the sight of him—thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip.

He sees you staring and smirks. “What? Ain’t never had a man this big before?”

You shake your head, and something dark flickers across his face.

"S’gonna be a stretch, baby," he murmurs, rubbing the head against your slick folds, teasing. "You sure you can take it?"

“Yes—God, Joel, please—”

"That’s my good girl."

Then he’s pushing in, slow, unrelenting, and fuck, it burns in the best way. You feel yourself stretching, splitting open around him, and Joel groans—low, wrecked.

"Jesus. So fuckin’ tight. Like you were made for me.”

He sinks in inch by inch, one rough hand braced on your hip, the other wrapping around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.

"Too much?" he rasps.

"No," you gasp. "More—"

Joel growls and snaps his hips forward, bottoming out in one brutal thrust.

You cry out, hands clawing at his shoulders, but he just grins, pulling back only to slam in again. “That’s it, baby. Take it. Let me ruin this pretty little pussy."

And he does. He fucks you like he owns you, like he’s got every right to.

His thrusts are deep, devastating, his grip bruising. One hand stays on your throat, the other slipping between your thighs to rub rough circles over your swollen clit.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Wanna feel you cum all over me.”

You’re already so close, body burning, muscles tensing.

"Joel—"

"Do it."

That’s all it takes. The coil inside you snaps, pleasure crashing over you so hard it knocks the breath from your lungs. Your walls flutter around him, squeezing tight, and Joel groans.

But he’s not done.

“Oh, we ain’t finished yet, baby.”

He keeps going, chasing his own high, pounding into you with filthy, wet sounds, his grip tightening as he fucks you straight through your overstimulation.

Tears prick your eyes, body shaking, but you don’t tell him to stop. Can’t. Not when it feels this fucking good.

"Makin’ such a mess, baby," Joel groans, watching where you’re stretched around him. "S’drippin’ down your thighs. Look at you. Fuckin’ wrecked for me."

His pace stutters, breath hitching, grip tightening. “Gonna fill you up, sweetheart. Make sure you remember who you fuckin’ belong to.”

With a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan.

For a long moment, all you hear is harsh breathing, the sound of your racing heartbeat.

Then Joel pulls out, watching his spend drip from your wrecked, swollen cunt. He smirks.

“Mmm. Think I’ll keep you.”

Previously in Name it Before you Tame it…

He flicks the bell for one last little jingle and gives you a peck on the nose. “This”, he grabs his cock over his jeans again, “You can have it next time”. He winks as he walks out of the basement.

You don’t understand how he can walk away while he is so obviously desperate to fuck you.  As you walk to the basement door to close it after him you see him in the drivers seat of his truck fucking his hand.  He sees you looking at him and doesn’t stop.  Doesn’t break eye contact.  You stand there watching him, waiting for him to cum.  It doesn’t take long for his face to contort and head to throw back against the headrest. 

He gestures for you to come outside and you walk on your tip toes to his window.

“Open” he says with a finger on your lips.

You open your mouth and he rubs his cum covered hand across your face and in to your mouth. “JESUS!” you think to yourself.  Bold move Joel Miller.  He pushes your jaw closed and presses his finger over your lips, gesturing a “shhhhh”.

“Next time.” he reiterates as he drives off slowly.

You realise he left the door open on purpose.  He wanted you to see that. 

“Next time”, you think to yourself.  What could possibly be on the menu for “next time”?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’ve managed to scrape together a few more things to furnish your burgeoning little dungeon. It’s coming together... as nicely as a shitty unfinished basement can. Sitting on a milk crate, you stare at your reflection in the full-length mirror you’d dragged down.

The last time with Joel had shaken something loose—memories, old routines, the kind of rituals that once made you feel untouchable. There was one partner in particular that stood out. Every night you would wait for his car pull up the drive way and you’d dutifully kneel next to the front door. His keys would clank in the bowl on the credenza as he unzipped his pants. Without a word, you’d take his cock in your mouth and you’d swallow his daily load, literally and figuratively.  He always had something to say after—something that made you feel like a queen. A small moment in the day, an enormous part of your life.

In your experience, most people didn’t understand. It wasn’t about obedience. It wasn’t about control. It was about wanting to be there and knowing he wanted you to be there.

You snort. A credenza. Like anyone has a credenza anymore. You’d be lucky to get two matching chairs these days.

You startle when you hear a voice coming from the doorway. Joel slowly starts to sing:

“I keep a close watch on this heart of mine”

“I keep my eyes wide open all the time “

“I keep the ends out for the tie that binds….”

As his raspy voice melts into your ears, with each step closer he takes, more memories are unlocked.  Forgotten songs, music lost to the outbreak. You look at his reflection behind you in the mirror, eyes flickering warm in the candlelight, and with a smile finish the verse,

“Because you're mine, I walk the line.”

He takes your hand in his and pulls you to your feet.  With a twirl he you're pulled in to him and corrects, “WE walk the line”.  You slow dance until he spins you around landing in a position where you’re both facing the mirror.

“sorry for interruptin’.  Enjoyin’ the view?” He’s clearly amused. 

How embarrassing.

His face shows a mixture of satisfaction, amusement and seduction and it works.  You feel like a teenager fangirling over a celeb.  He’s divine.  Does he know it?  Like everyone else, he obviously has a checkered survival story but you’re starting to see little bits of “pre outbreak” Joel peeking through. This guy? Singing? DANCING?

You don't answer him.  You were looking at yourself with pleasure.  Revelling in the feeling that sex, good sex, that sex, and how it brings back your...it brings back your "you". 

“Thanks for dressin’ up for the occasion” he says, dripping in sarcasm. 

“Fuck.  I got distracted”

“Distracted by your own face...” he mocks as he puts his bags down.

Still facing the mirror, he reassures you “It’s ok” placing his hands on your shoulders “I get it”   He snakes  his left hand around your waist, holding you tight with the kind of grip that makes you feel like you could relax every muscle in your body and you would still be upright.  Impressive, very hot, also potentially very dangerous.

He gently pulls the hair tie holding your ponytail in place free from your head, stroking your hair, “you smell so fuckin’ good” he says under his breath as he bunches your hair up and pushes it to his face.  This feels very un-Joel.  In a good way.  It’s a huge show of vulnerability and when you see it for the moment It is, it’s fucking beautiful.  You want to let him experience this long as he needs, it’s obvious this goes way deeper than the scent of your 2 in 1 shampoo. There’s a tranquillity in his demeanour and if that’s something you can provide him you’re going to do it.  You’re watching one layer of the onion fall and it is the most intimate, unmasked Joel you’ve met.

“we never covered knives” he says with his face still buried in your hair.

The lightening fast topic change catches you by surprise.  You hear a ”click” as a knife it flicks in to place in front of you.

“She’s been with me through everything. For a long time." he pauses "Can I touch you with it?” A reflexive shiver runs through you.

“Yes.” You pause to think. “Full disclosure, I’m not very experienced with knife play.”

His eyes darken, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. “okay, we’ll go slow,” The blunt side of the blade grazes your arm, cool against your skin, before it trails down to rest between your breasts. He waits a moment, watching your reflection in the mirror, waiting for any sign of hesitation. You give none.

“How attached to those clothes are you?”

“ahhhh” you say as you pull at the shitty pair of shorts and white tank you usually wear when you clean “I’d say about a 2/10…I was going to get changed bu..”

“Ok.  They’re goin’.  Stay still,” he whispers, his voice rough and thick. His mouth moves lower to the crook of your neck. You feel his teeth on your skin, his bite slowly increasing in intensity. He's dipping his toe in the water. Feeling out your pain limits, honing in on your pleasure spots. You know he's enjoying it because his steel hard cock is leaving no room between you. He's cataloguing everything your body is telling him, the way your breathing is shallow and deliberate, all of it.  Stored away in the manual he’s writing about what presses your buttons and how hard to press them.

“I fuckin’ love this mirror.  I fuckin' LOVE this mirror” he says pushing your bodies as close as possible. 

You feel the blunt side of the knife graze its way up your arm and then the tip gently kiss your decolletage until it stops between your breasts.    It’s cold and soft and it almost tickles. He leaves the knife resting there to make sure you’re okay with it so far. You are. You really are. His breath gently skims the nape of your neck and you're both looking at each other's reflection in the mirror intensely.  He continues. It makes a trail down your front.  “Still as a statue…” he can feel your breath stuttering and your cunt is pounding.  Cupping one side of your head in one hand using the other to hold the knife he makes a trail over your shitty tank from your belly button to the neckline, you feel safe but are acutely aware that a huge fright or even a sneeze could kill you right now.  The knife flicks around and skewers the neckline of your tank.  It slices through the material with no effort. In one quick motion he twirls the knife shut, dumps it in his pocket and grabs the cut neckline of your top, tearing it apart exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

Your body rocks at the force and you instinctively reach for your torn clothes to cover your naked torso but Joel catches your wrists.

“No.” he shakes his head. “Hands by your sides.”

“Ok” you manage to whisper, your chest is heaving. Your pulse beats loud in your and head hard in your cunt.

“You can’t cover this,” he murmurs, almost to himself, his hands exploring the newly bared skin with an aching tenderness. His palms move upward, finding the curve of your breasts, pausing there, as if committing the sensation to memory.

“No, this is too good to be covered” he whispers

His words strike you to your core, a peculiar mixture of longing and vulnerability rising within you.  This is the shit you can’t get with other guys.  Feelings that when mixed together should feed bad, but they don’t when they’re In the right hands. You are starting to trust each other and connect with each other on a deeper level and through a different path than conventional partners. As his hands continued their exploration, alternating between a feather-light touch and a firmer grasp, you feel yourself surrender completely. Your head falls back against him, your body melting in to his.

He gently massages your breasts, losing himself in their softness. His heavy breath peppered with an a occasional “my god” just barely slipping through his lips. He is rubbing himself rhythmically against your arse. 

He rolls his thumb over your nipple and his touch becomes more gentle.  Your weight is melded with his.  You're swaying in unison.  He starts to slowly and gently squeeze your nipple, his face nestled in the nape of your neck, lightly biting and grazing his teeth against your flesh.  It’s as if every sensation you feel is mirrored in him, and vice versa—each of you experiencing not just your own sensations, but the other’s as well.

All of a sudden you feel his breath quicken and his touch harder, he is kneading roughly, running his hands up and down your torso, rolling over your breasts as if they're not even there. It hurts, but it hurts in the right way. Your breathing becomes more forceful and that does not go unnoticed.  His forehead is resting on the back of your head and he is grunting like he’s about to cum. He pinches your nipple hard without letting go. You groan, both in pain and pleasure, and throw one arm behind you, finding his arse so you can pull him closer. Your head throws itself back hard against him. You're unable to arch your back, which you so desperately want to do because you're holding each other far too tight. He bites your shoulder and pulls your nipple until your skin runs out of stretch and your tit fall back in to place. Again, you cry out but it's the right kind of cry. Your cunt cannot possibly throb any harder.

You hear his knife again and instinctively stand still.  “that’s it” he whispers.  “still as a statue”. The tip of the blade traces a line down the middle of your naked torso until it finds itself resting in the waistband of your shorts. 

“I’m flattered that you’re trusting me with this…”

You smile to yourself.

“…because I could cut you open like a Tauntaun” A threat in a thinly veiled joke. He pushes the blade forward, twisting it so the sharp edge presses against the waistband. With one swift movement, the knife slices cleanly from the gusset to the waistband, severing the front of your shorts. He repeats the motion at the back before reaching down, grabbing the crotch, and yanking them violently away from your body..

You stand there. Naked. Once he is satisfied with what he has standing in front of him he pulls something out of his pocket.  It’s red, and it jingles.

“I brought this” he says as he gently ties a red ribboned bell around your neck. “just a memory, not a rule this time”.  He kisses the bow at the nape of your neck.

"And I brought dinner…"

He walks towards his bag. There’s a couple of containers of something with rice in it and...home brewed wine? Interesting. He even brought cups. And a straw. Huh. Okay.

Saying nothing, he kicks a milk crate over to where you're standing.  It'll be a satisfactory seat. For him.

You're unsure of what is happening, but Joel lays a plush blanket on the floor in front of his seat. You stay in your place and watch him set up whatever it is he is setting up.

"come here" Joel directs you. "I'm going to need a table"

You look around the room for something suitable but there's nothing in there. You look at him not really knowing what to say. 

"No. You come here. Hands and knees. I need a table" He motions with his head exactly where he wants you to be.

You feel that feeling in your stomach and a small, devious, knowing smile creeps its way on to your face. You start to bite the inside of your mouth. Joel notices everything.

You walk over to you position and drop to your hands and knees in front of him without a thought.  He opens his container of food and grabs some in his hand.  It’s in front of you but out of reach, you crawl forward and eat straight from his hand. "oh my god, that's GOOD.  Really good!"

He ignores you. “I remember seeing you in the bar” He collects a little more in his hand and once again, it is just out of your reach.  A little crawl is all it takes to reach the food in his hand.

“Two fingers is all it took.”

Again, he puts his hand out.  Again, out of reach. 

“Two fingers before we’d even spoken.”AGAIN putting his hand out of reach.  You crawl to his hand.  You’re hungry and this is fucking good food!

“I held two fingers up and you understood me, obeyed me like a beautiful, well trained dog”  He wipes his hands in your hair and he crouches down to meet your eyeline. ”Have you ever had to crawl for your food?”  You look over your shoulder and, without even realising, you had crawled half way across the room.

Shit.  You really were crawling for him without even realising it.

“No.”  How did you not notice this?!

His voice is low, gravelly, and it hits every nerve like a shot of whiskey on an empty stomach. “Well, now you have”.  He looks so satisfied with himself.

Fuck, he’s good.

“okay back to your starting point.”  He grunts as he gets to his feet. “No standing up, you crawl back.”  He watches you slowly crawl over the uneven and hard ground.  It hurts, you hadn’t noticed before because you had a distraction.   It HURTS.  Small rocks and wood chips are sharp under your knees as you grind them in to your skin with every move.  What you’re doing right now fiercely turns him on, has him teetering on the edge of restraint, breath coming sharp, fingers twitching—one second from saying “fuck it” and shoving you on to your naked back to fuck you in to the rough ground.  But he has restraint, just enough to grit his teeth and wait it out.  His time will come.  Right now you are at his mercy. 

You’re thankful for the blanket he set down.  It’s soft under your palms and knees.  Breathing meditatively you sink in to a space of concentration and relaxation with a huge dollop of anticipation mixed in.

You feel a bowl and a cup placed on your back. He sets what’s left in your bowl in front of you with a glass of alcohol.  

“how do I eat this?”  you ask him.

“however you want.  You can bend down like a dog or you can use your hand like a caveman.”

You hear him fill his glass and become acutely aware that your back is not flat. The glass doesn't feel very secure.

"um, i think that glass might be better on the other side? It doesn't feel stable"

"Drinks on the right. I know my manners. If it's unsteady, that's on you. Shut up. I'm hungry."

He starts to eat and the predicament you’re in starts to sink in. You wrangle with the logistics of how you’re going to eat.  Do you bow down or can you balance on just one hand?  After a few solid minutes of thinking and complete silence from Joel, you go with the former.  You feel his glass topple over and wine spill over your legs and arse immediately. "FUCK" you think to yourself, "this is it, this is "IT." Excitement flashes through your body like a boiling hot laser scanner. You're about to get a beating for that.

He gets up from his seat without saying a word. You feel him behind you, picking up his glass and you're bracing yourself for a hard punch. Instead you feel the heat of his mouth sucking your thigh, your arse, it feels incredible and you're more turned on. More.

"I don't like waste" he says as he walks to where your face is. His footsteps are so loud when you're this close to the ground. His boots are not to be fucked with. He crouches down to your level.

"I'm going to have my dinner on this beautiful piece of furniture" he runs his hands back forth along your side as if you were...well, a beautiful piece of furniture. He dips down and gives your nipple a TIGHT pinch just because he can. "I don't like waste” he reiterates…

He walks over to his bag and continues, “I've brought something I worked hard on during the outbreak”  He taps the ground. “You'll earn yourself one set of three strikes of my cane any time something spills.  You’ve already won yourself your first three.”

He puts the tip of the cane under your chin and guides your face so he can see you.

“Do you understand?"

"yes"

"repeat it"

"each time something spills during dinner, I'll be caned three times "

"good" he nods and returns to his seat.

He refills his cup and returns it to its place. You become hyperaware of exactly how precariously it is placed.

Okay, so eating like a dog is out of the question.  You can balance one two knees and one hand, surely.  You reach for some food and immediately jolt back in to position.  Your weight distribution was off and you were toppling.  Down goes his cup.

"FUCK"

"mmmhmm." he mumbles nonchalantly. He knew it was coming.

"Three strikes" he says as he taps the side of your arse cheek with his cane. You nod gently . He runs the tip of the cane over the length of your body, waking up your skin, pausing at your arse. "Here. The strikes go here" he says as he taps the cane over the meaty part of your arse and thighs, "and they're not going to be little love taps, they will be strikes, and they will hurt". Your cunt aches with those words.

As he grabs his fallen cup from the floor he rakes his sharp nails down your leg  You arch your back, in enjoyment and in pain. Bang. His bowl drops to the floor.

"look at that." he says flatly. "a two-fer, I hope you're counting.”

You take a breath. "Yes. Nine".

Dinner is reset and you hold your position perfectly still.

You see Joel's hand, with a heaped pile of food on it in front of you.

”How ‘bout I feed you”.

“Thank you”.  A “Sir” almost slips out but you catch yourself before you say it.

Ooooph, if your old scene friends could see you now...

He is diligent in reading your tone, body language and disposition. This wasn't his first rodeo and he would never overstep what he thought responsible play would be for himself and you. He is a man of born again ethical practice and he sticks to his mantra.

You'd caught yourself 9 strikes over the course of the meal.  The food was good and you were drinking (pretty drinkable) “wine”. 

Joel finishes eating and you feel his hand lightly slide along the small of your back toward his glass but it takes a turn.  It detours down the skin on your arse, which he grabs roughly, and his fingers eventually make their way between your legs. You feel a finger slide inside you with ease. "fuuuuuuck" you hear him whisper to himself. Yes. You’re soaked and burning hot. And this only served to make his erection throb harder and significantly less comfortable.

Dinner’s over.