steph

it’s a shrill noise that definitely signals something, and it would just be background murmur to you on any given point of time, but not to jake. because the minute his alarm reaches his ears, he’s immediately pulling off you, sliding the stained glasses he knows you love on him so much up bridge of his beautiful nose and plops back down on his chair to go back to working on whatever mumbo jumbo advanced physics workbook he was typing out before you both started this debauchery.

and you just stare. dumbfounded. absolutely ashamed.

because just a few seconds ago, jake had both your legs dangling off his surprisingly broad shoulders, the fabric of whatever color shirt which always fit his frame stupidly well crinkling under your heels that wouldn’t stop digging into his back with how each ministration of his tongue had you shaking. you can still feel the ghost of his palms keeping you in place as he’d ravished you with nothing but that smart mouth and those slender fingers you still can’t stop fucking staring at.

fuck. fuck.

jake is such a sexy fucking asshole.

he’s an absolute cocky bastard who can name complex quantum equations at the drop of a pin and simultaneously reduce you to a whimpering, heaving, flustered pile of dreadful desire for him with just a single glance at his arms.

you reckon you’ll still find the imprints of his nails pink and crescent on your upper thighs the next morning, and you’ll still probably think about it the next day when your mind wanders to how good he looked stalking his way over to the bed so he could pull you all the way down the edge without a word. you’ll still think about the way you’d shivered under the gaze of his dilated pupils raking across each inch of your barely clothed body hidden under the same sheets you’d both fooled around in just last night. you can probably also remember the way his hot mouth exhaled next to your lips when he’d leaned in to sigh about how you were nothing but an insatiable, pathetic little toy before practically ripping off whatever was standing between his touch and your very much leaking cunt.

“sorry, baby.” his sweet voice rumbles sickeningly through the air, drawing a cold shudder from your body at the way it always reacts to him. you can hear the smirk in his voice despite not even looking at his face, unable to stop the dryness in your mouth when he barely turns sideways to cast you a glance through his peripheral. “i’ll make you cum in the next break.”

. . .

you’re pouting so hard your face hurts.

it’s the dumbest thing in the world.

anton brought home the wrong strawberry milk again. the regular kind instead of the one with the cute pink cap you like. now you’re sprawled dramatically across the couch like the world is ending, arms crossed, refusing to look at him.

he walks in from the kitchen, still in his oversized black hoodie, looking unfairly soft and tall. “baby… i’m really sorry. the store only had this one left. i can run back out if you—”

“no,” you snap, cutting him off with a dramatic huff. “it’s fiiine. i’ll just suffer in silence like a tragic little peasant.”

anton doesn’t sigh. he doesn’t roll his eyes or get annoyed. he just crouches down in front of the couch so he’s eye-level with you, that gentle understanding smile on his face.

“you’re being a tiny bit bratty tonight, hm?”

your heart does a flip but you double down harder. “maybe i am. what are you gonna do about it, lee anton? ground me?”

he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low. “nope. i can just sit here with you until you feel like being my sweet girl again.” he reaches out and gently tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “or you can tell me what’s really bothering you instead of pouting over milk.”

you turn your face into the pillow and mumble, “you’re annoying when you’re all calm and nice. it’s suspicious.”

“am i?” he hums, standing up only to sit on the edge of the couch and pull your legs into his lap. his big hands start rubbing slow circles on your calves, thumbs pressing just right. “tell me, pretty. i’m listening.”

the gentle massage feels too good. your bratty armor is already cracking. you kick your foot lightly against his thigh. “stop being sweet. i’m trying to be mad at you.”

“i know,” he says patiently, hands sliding higher under the hem of your shorts, massaging your thighs now. “but you’re so cute when you’re bratty. makes me want to remind you how much i love taking care of you.”

you huff again, but it comes out weaker. “you’re not allowed to be this nice when i’m mad.”

anton leans down and presses a soft kiss to your knee, then another higher up your thigh. “why not? i like my girl even when she’s acting up.”

the kisses keep going. slow, warm, open-mouthed against your inner thigh. your resolve is crumbling fast.

“stop it,” you whine, but your legs are already parting a little. “i’m still mad.”

“are you?” he murmurs, voice dropping just a fraction as he pushes your shorts aside. his breath ghosts over your panties. “because you’re getting wet, baby.”

you try to close your legs but he gently holds them open with those big hands. “anton—”

“shhh. let daddy take care of his bratty girl.”

he tugs your shorts and panties down in one smooth motion, then dives in. tongue licking slow stripes through your folds before sucking gently on your clit. you moan loudly, hands flying to his hair.

he eats you out like he has all the time in the world. patient, thorough, humming softly every time you twitch. every time you try to act tough again he slows down until you’re whimpering and begging.

“please… i’m sorry for being bratty…”

“i know you are,” he whispers against your pussy, two long fingers sliding inside you and curling perfectly. “but you still need to learn to use your words instead of pouting.”

he fingers you slow and deep while his mouth works your clit, building you right to the edge… then stops.

you whine pathetically. “anton—!”

he sits up, wiping his shiny lips, eyes dark but still so gentle. “you wanna come, baby?”

you nod frantically, all bratty energy gone.

“then ask nicely.”

“…please let me come, daddy.”

he smiles, that soft victorious smile, and pulls you into his lap so you’re straddling him. he frees his cock. thick, hard and guides you down slowly, letting you feel every inch stretch you open.

“that’s my good girl,” he praises as you sink all the way down. “so small and tight on me… look how well you take daddy.”

he doesn’t let you move at first. just holds your hips still while he kisses you deep and slow, whispering against your lips.

“no more pouting over silly things, okay? if something’s wrong, you tell me. daddy’s here to fix it.”

you nod, already grinding down desperately. “yes— i’m sorry— please—”

only then does he let you ride him. big hands guiding your hips, thrusting up to meet you, hitting so deep you see stars. one hand sneaks up to squeeze your breast, thumb brushing your nipple while the other delivers one light spank to your ass when you start getting sloppy.

“slow down, baby. let daddy do the work.”

he flips you onto your back without pulling out, fucking you with those deep, steady rolls that make the bed creak. every thrust presses his body against yours, reminding you how much bigger he is.

you come hard. shaking, crying out his name, nails digging into his shoulders. anton follows right after, burying himself deep and filling you up with a low groan.

afterwards he collapses half on top of you, pressing soft kisses all over your face while you’re still panting.

“still mad about the strawberry milk?” he teases quietly, nuzzling your neck.

you bury your burning face in his chest, voice tiny and shy now. “no… you win. i’m sorry for being a huge brat.”

anton chuckles, hugging you tighter, still buried inside you. “i always win when you’re my good girl again. next time just tell me you’re feeling little and needy instead of throwing a tantrum, okay?”

you nod sleepily, already melting completely.

“yes, daddy.”

he smiles against your hair, stroking your back with those big gentle hands.

“Put your mouth on him. Show me how good you suck that fucking cock.”

Keeho’s voice is a low, demanding growl in your ear, his fingers tight in your hair. You don’t need to be told twice. Not with Jiho’s thick, flushed dick bobbing right in front of your face, the head leaking precum onto the hotel bedspread.

You lean forward, your own arousal a slick, aching throb between your legs, and wrap your lips around him.

Fuck. He’s so big. The taste of salt and clean skin floods your mouth as you take him deeper, your tongue working along the sensitive vein on the underside. Jiho lets out a choked groan, his own hand coming up to fist in your hair alongside Keeho’s.

“That’s it. Just like that. Your mouth is so fucking perfect,” Jiho grits out, his hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust.

You moan around him, the vibration making him curse. Behind you, Keeho’s hands are everywhere. One slides down your back, over the curve of your ass, giving it a sharp, stinging slap that makes you jerk forward, taking Jiho even deeper into your throat. The other hand pushes your shirt up, his thumb finding your nipple through the lace of your bra and pinching, rolling it until it’s a hard, painful peak.

“You love this, don’t you?” Keeho murmurs, his lips against your shoulder. “Our good little slut. Can’t wait to get us alone after the show. Wanted this all fucking day.” His words are pure filth, and they send a fresh rush of wetness soaking through your panties. You nod desperately, your movements on Jiho’s cock becoming sloppier, hungrier.

You pull off with a wet pop, gasping for air. “I wanted… I wanted both of you. The second the encore ended.” Your voice is ragged.

Jiho’s eyes are dark with lust. He uses his grip on your hair to guide you back to his cock, tapping it against your lips. “Then stop talking and get back to work. I wanna feel that throat fucking milk me.”

You obey, swallowing him down again. This time, Keeho’s hands go to the waistband of your leggings, yanking them and your soaked panties down to your thighs in one rough motion. The cool air of the hotel room hits your exposed skin, followed immediately by the searing heat of his palm cupping your cunt. “Jesus, you’re dripping,” he says, voice thick with awe. He drags two fingers through your folds, collecting your wetness, before bringing them to your mouth. “Taste how fucking desperate you are for us.”

You suck his fingers clean, your eyes locked on Jiho’s as you do it. Keeho chuckles, a dark, satisfied sound, and pushes you forward until you’re braced over Jiho’s lap, your ass in the air.

“Look at that pretty cunt,” Jiho says, his cock now nudging against your lips again. “All pink and open for us. Keeho, you gonna fuck her, or just stare?”

Keeho doesn’t answer with words. You hear the rustle of his pants, the tear of a condom wrapper, a quick, practiced sound. Then the broad, blunt head of his cock is pressing against your entrance, and you hold your breath.

He sinks into you in one long, slow, unbearable thrust. He’s so big, stretching you so perfectly full, you see stars. A broken scream tears from your throat, muffled by Jiho’s dick.

“Fuck, she’s tight,” Keeho grunts, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He pulls back and slams home again, setting a punishing rhythm right from the start. Each drive of his hips pushes you forward onto Jiho’s cock, forcing you to take him deeper into your throat. You’re being used, filled at both ends, and the overwhelming sensation is fucking euphoric.

Keeho leans over you, his chest pressed to your back. His hand slides around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a dominant claim. “You take my dick so good, baby. You’re such a good fucking hole for me.” His other hand snakes between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, frantic circles.

The dual stimulation is too much, too fast. Your orgasm starts to coil, a tight, urgent spring low in your belly. You whimper around Jiho, your body trembling.

“Uh-uh,” Jiho says, sensing it. He pulls his hips back, dragging his cock almost all the way out of your mouth. “You don’t get to come yet. Not until we say you can.” His denial is a hot shock, and the budding climax recedes, leaving you aching and desperate.

Keeho’s thrusts become sharper, more erratic. “Switch,” he pants.

In a fluid, coordinated move, they maneuver you. Keeho pulls out, leaving you empty and gasping. Jiho lays back, and Keeho lifts you, guiding you to straddle Jiho’s hips. You sink down onto Jiho’s thick cock with a sobbing moan, the stretch different, just as intense. God, he’s so deep.

Keeho stands at the edge of the bed, his own dick glistening. He grips your chin. “Open.” You do, and he feeds his cock into your mouth, fucking your face with shallow, steady thrusts.

You’re a blissful, overstimulated mess, bouncing on Jiho, sucking Keeho, completely at their mercy.

Jiho’s hands spank your ass, the sharp slaps mixing with the filthy, wet sounds of sex. “Fuck, you ride me so good. Your pussy’s gripping me like a fucking vise.”

Keeho pulls out of your mouth, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your lips. “You want more, baby? You want us both?”

You can only nod, your vision blurry with pleasure. “Please… please, I need it.”

They move again. Jiho stays on his back. Keeho lies beside him, and they guide you to kneel over Keeho, lowering yourself onto his waiting cock.

You feel the slick head of his dick, still wet from your pussy, pressing insistently against your other, tighter hole.

“Breathe out, pretty girl,” Jiho whispers, his voice gentle despite the filthy intent. You exhale shakily, and he pushes.

The stretch is immense, burning, overwhelming. You’re so full you can’t think, can’t speak. Keeho’s cock in your pussy, Jiho’s slowly fucking into your ass. It’s a deep, consuming fullness that borders on pain and tips right into mind-numbing pleasure.

“Holy shit,” Keeho breathes beneath you, watching your face. “Look at you. Taking both of us. Our perfect, filthy girl.”

They find a rhythm, a slow, rocking counterpoint that makes you feel every inch of them. Jiho’s hand wraps in your hair, pulling your head back. Keeho’s thumbs rub your clit in time with their thrusts. The pleasure builds again, higher and more terrifying than before, almost like a tsunami threatening to break.

“Can I… please, can I come?” you beg, your voice a ragged thread.

“Not yet,” Keeho says, his own control fraying. “Just a little more. Take it.”

They fuck you harder, deeper. The room is filled with the sounds of skin slapping, their guttural groans, your choked sobs of pleasure.

You’re right on the edge, hovering, begging with every ragged breath as Jiho’s pace stutters. “Fuck, I’m close..” He says

“Do it,” Keeho commands, his hips pistoning up into you.

With a ragged shout, Jiho buries himself to the hilt, his body going rigid against your back. You feel the hot, rhythmic pulses of his orgasm deep inside you, and it’s the final trigger.

Your own climax detonates, a hot explosion that tears through every nerve. You scream, your pussy clamping down wildly on Keeho’s cock as you convulse around him.

The intense, rippling contractions are too much for Keeho. With a final, brutal thrust, he shouts your name and comes, his release flooding the condom inside you.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of heavy breathing and the sticky, humid heat of three bodies intertwined. Jiho carefully pulls out of you, and you collapse forward onto Keeho’s chest, utterly spent.

Keeho’s hand strokes your sweat-damp hair. “Fuck,” he says, his voice hoarse. “You were incredible.”

Jiho collapses beside you, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “The best.”

You’re floating, boneless, completely ruined. But as your heartbeat begins to slow, you feel Keeho’s semi-hard cock twitch beneath you. Jiho’s hand slides down your spine, over the curve of your ass.

Keeho’s lips curve into a wicked smile against your forehead. “You think we’re done with you?”

The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows over the king-sized bed where the three of you had crashed after a long night of movies and laughter.

You, Anton, and Sunghoon—your closest friends since freshman year—had squeezed in together, a tangle of limbs and blankets in the cozy guest room of Sunghoon’s family home.

It was comical, the way you’d all piled in, giggling about how cramped it felt but too tired to care. But nothing about it was weird, you guys were all so close, all felt so safe together that the feeling of uncomfort didn’t exist.

Now, hours later, the house was silent except for the faint hum of the AC and the light creaking of the home’s foundation as the wind blew outside.

You were deep asleep, curled on your side facing the wall, oblivious to the charged air around you.

Anton laid behind you, his breath shallow and uneven, body pressed just close enough to feel the heat radiating from your back.

He was the shy one, always blushing at jokes, stuttering through compliments. Tonight though, with you asleep and vulnerable, his usual timidity cracked under a wave of longing.

His dark eyes trace the curve of your shoulder, the way your tank top had ridden up to expose a sliver of your midriff.

‘God, she’s so beautiful’ he thought, heart pounding.

His hand trembled as he reached out, fingers brushing your hip lightly, testing. You didn’t stir, and that emboldened him—a soft sigh escaping his lips.

Sunghoon, on Anton’s other side, watched with hooded eyes, his own shyness mirrored in the way he bit his lip.

He was elegant even in repose, sharp features softened by the low light, but inside, desire churned.

He’d harbored feelings for you for months, stolen glances during hangouts turning into fantasies.

And Anton.. well, the quiet moments between them had hinted at something mutual, a shared ache.

Sunghoon shifted closer to Anton, his hand sliding under the blanket to rest on the younger boy’s thigh, squeezing gently.

Anton gasped softly, turning his head to meet Sunghoon’s gaze—wide, uncertain, but needy.

His fingers trailed higher, brushing the bulge in Anton’s sweats, making the boy whimper quietly.

“She’s.. she’s right there. Can I..?”

Sunghoon nodded, lips brushing the shell of Anton’s ear.

Anton swallowed, his hand now daring to slip under your shirt. His palm lay flat against the warm skin of your stomach. Rising and falling with your breaths, and he felt a thrill at how soft you were, how trusting.

“Be careful.. don’t wanna wake her yet.”

His touch ventured up, thumb grazing the underside of your breast through your bra, circling slowly. You murmured in your sleep, shifting slightly, but stayed out—lost in dreams.

Sunghoon leaned in, pressing his lips to Anton’s neck, suckling lightly on the skin there.

Anton bit back a moan, his body arching into the touch. “mmmh, hyung… feels so good,” he breathed, hips stuttering as Sunghoon’s hand palmed him fully now, stroking through the fabric.

Their touches intertwined—Sunghoon’s mouth moving to Anton’s jaw, then capturing his lips in a tentative kiss.

It started soft, shy pecks, but deepened quickly, tongues brushing. Sunghoon sucked on Antons lower lip, then delved in, drawing out the boy’s tongue to suck on it, spit slicking their mouths as they panted into eachother.

All the while, Anton’s fingers worked your nipple to a peak, pinching lightly. Sunghoon reached over him to trace your thigh, pushing your shorts aside just enough to feel the edge of your panties.

The air grew thick with their quiet arousal, breaths mingling.

“She’s so warm,” Sunghoon murmured against Anton’s mouth. “Touch her more..please, Anton. I want to watch you.”

Anton whimpered, nodding, his shyness melting into need.

He tugged your top higher, exposing your chest to the cool air, and Sunghoon followed, his hand cupping your breast while Anton lavished attention on the other—fingers rolling, mouths hovering but not yet daring to taste.

They admired you like this, bodies close, their own touches escalating.

Sunghoon ground against Anton’s hip, freeing both of their cocks under the blanket—hard, leaking, stroking eachother slowly.

Anton’s hand was shakey, pre-cum slicking his palm as he jerked Sunghoon, who returned the favor with firmer pulls, making Anton whine into his shoulder.

The thought of you sleeping, completely unaware of what was happening only pulled them deeper; you were theirs to explore in this hazy limbo.

Sunghoon’s fingers dipped lower, tracing your folds through the thin cotton, finding you already damp.

He groaned softly, “Fuck.. she’s wet. Anton, feel this.” Anton did, replacing Sunghoon’s hand, rubbing circles over your clit with trembling fingers.

You sighed in your sleep, hips twitching faintly, and that sound undid them.

“I-I can’t.. hyung, I want to taste her,” Anton almost pleaded, voice cracking, tears pricking his eyes from the overwhelming pleasure of everything combined.

Sunghoon nodded, guiding him down carefully. Anton settled between your legs, pushing them apart gently, your shorts tugged to your ankles now.

His breath ghosted over your heat, and he leaned in, tongue flicking out to lap at your clit tentatively.

The first taste made him moan, vibrations humming against you.

Sunghoon watched, stroking himself now, then reached to caress Anton’s hair, encouraging him.

“Good boy..lick her slow. Make her feel it even when she’s asleep.”

You stirred then, a soft gasp escaping as pleasure filtered through your dreams. Your eyes fluttered open, confusion mixing with arousal as you registered Anton’s mouth on you—wet, eager laps, his tongue delving into your folds.

Sunghoon was beside you now, his hand on your cheek, turning you to face him. “Hey..shh, it’s okay,” he whispered, soothing. “We’ve wanted this for so long. Let us take care of you. You’re so beautiful like this.. just relax.”

Your breath hitched, body arching into Anton’s mouth as realization dawned—them, your best friends, touching you like lovers. But the intimacy, the way they looked at you with raw adoration, melted any shock.

“W-what.. Anton? Sunghoon?” you murmured, voice sleepy, but your hand found Anton’s head, fingers threading through his hair to hold him closer.

Anton looked up, eyes glassy with tears of bliss, his face slick with your arousal. “P-please..don’t stop me. You taste so good..” he stuttered as he begged, a tear slipping down his pretty little cheek before diving back in. His tongue thrusted inside you, spit dripped from his chin, whimpering with each lap.

Sunghoon kissed you then, slow and deep, his tongue seeking yours—sucking on it like he had Anton’s, drawing it into his mouth with wet, slurping sounds.

Spit trailed between your lips when he pulled back, his voice husky. “See how needy he is for you? Touch him.. guide us through it. Tell us what you want, we’re yours.”

His hand left his cock as he crawled down to join Anton between your legs, a finger sliding into your heat alongside the boy’s tongue, stretching you gently.

You moaned, the dual sensation overwhelming, your body waking fully to the intense feeling.

“Oh god.. keep going…T-touch eachother,” you whispered, emboldened by their vulnerability and pure want.

Sunghoon’s eyes darkened with lust, and he pulled Anton up, their mouths crashing together--tongues tangling, sharing your taste in a sloppy, spit-filled kiss.

Anton cried into it, tears from the intensity of pleasure as Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around both of their cocks, frotting them together.

“F-fuck, hyung.. please, more,” Anton begged, voice breaking, before they turned back to you.

Sunghoon positioned you on your back, Anton straddling your chest while Sunghoon settled between your thighs.

“We’re gonna make you feel everything,” Sunghoon murmured, talking you through it as he thrust two fingers into your heat, curling them against your walls.

“Feel that? Right there.. gonna fuck you slow first, build it up. Anton’s gonna feed you his cock—suck it like a good girl for us.”

Anton hesitated, a shy blush creeping up, but nonetheless he shifted forward, his leaking cock brushing your lips.

“O-open.. please,” he stuttered, and you did, tongue swirling the head before taking him in.

He cried out softly, hips bucking as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks. Tears streamed down his face now, overwhelmed—pleasure from your mouth, from Sunghoon’s fingers occasionally grazing his balls.

Sunghoon watched, stroking himself with his free hand. “That’s it.. take him deep. He’s crying for you—our shy boy, breaking apart.”

Then suddenly, he replaced his fingers with his cock, pushing into your wetness inch by inch, groaning at the tightness. “So perfect.. clenching around me.”

Your hand reached up, stroking Anton’s thigh, then pulling him deeper into your mouth as Sunghoon started thrusting—slow, intimate rolls that hit deep.

Anton whimpered above you, fucking your mouth gently, spit dribbling down your chin. “I-I’m gonna..too good..don’t stop sucking, please,” he begged, tears falling onto your chest.

Sunghoon leaned over to kiss Anton again while he pounded into you harder, the bed creaking loudly.

Their hands roamed; Sunghoon’s on Anton’s ass, squeezing, a finger teasing his hole; Anton’s fisting your hair, pulling you into him as he thrusts into your mouth.

“Hyung.. fuck her harder, make her cum.” Anton gasped, voice desperate as his hips began to stutter.

You felt the build, their words guiding you—muttered praises of ‘You’re doing so well, taking us both,’ mixed with shy confessions, ‘We love you..mmh…so much.. wanted this forever..’

The orgasm crashed over you first, walls pulsing around Sunghoon, milking him as you moaned around Anton’s cock.

Anton came immediately after with groan, spilling down your throat, hot and salty.

Sunghoon followed, thrusting as deep into you as he could get before spilling his sticky liquid inside.

But none of that ever happens.

Because in reality, Jake is a coward. A gorgeous, trembling, painfully nice coward who sits quietly, worshiping you with slight glances, calling it professionalism. Hoping—foolishly—that one day, you’ll notice him not as a coworker, not as a man, but as the thing he wants to be: your property. Your toy.

So Jake found himself lucky to get to travel with you in the name of the company, even if it’s more like you got to travel with him.

You’ve always had a thing for rooftop dinners. Velvet skies, free-flowing wine, fairy lights strung above your head like some Pinterest board fever dream. You’re halfway through a glass of red you can’t pronounce, listening to a group of executives over-intellectualize Shark Tank, when you realize Jake’s gone.

Not that you noticed right away. You were too busy being charmed by some VP with a Rolex and too much cologne. But on the way to the restroom, your steps slow.

There—by the bar your ex-manager stands. The one who should’ve been fired, but instead got quietly "transferred"l. He’s hunched over a whiskey glass, already too loud for the setting, and—of course—he’s found Jake. And Jake’s just… sitting there. Letting it happen. You don’t catch the whole thing, but what you do hear lands like a slap.

“She’s cold, huh? Don’t take it personal, new guy. That bitch just needs a firm hand. Or maybe some good dick to set her straight.”

Classy.

You’re not fragile. You’ve sat through worse. But the worst part isn’t him. It’s Jake. Jake—who’s supposed to be different. Jake, who’s tilting his head like he’s actually considering it. Your heart doesn’t break. It just… 

Lowers its expectations. Because of course. Of course the one man you thought might actually get it—the one who made fumbling attempts to earn your respect instead of demanding it, and the one who seemed like he worked as hard as you did to get where he was—turns out to be made of the same recycled garbage as the rest.

You almost walk away. Almost. When Jake moves. Your ex-manager lifts his glass for a toast to misogyny, and Jake spills it all over him. Deliberately. 

No apology. No more honorifics. He just, like that, made the golden boy vanish.

“Let me tell you something, you piece of shit,” he says, voice flat.

“She’s one of the most capable, intelligent, and dedicated professionals I’ve ever met. If you think she owes you warmth just for existing in her line of sight, maybe that’s why you’re no longer her superior. Or anyone’s, really.”

And suddenly, the bar quiets a bit.

“God forbid a woman doesn't tolerate bullshit. She’s earned more than the team’s respect. She’s earned admiration. Mine. And the higher-ups’, too. So here’s some advice: next time you think about speaking her name, do us all a favor and don’t.”

Your ex-manager, predictably puffs up like a drunk peacock about to throw a punch.

That’s your cue. You stride over, grab Jake by the wrist, and step between them. Not for Jake. Not even for the ex. But for you. Because you’re done letting men discuss your worth like it’s a goddamn cocktail special.

“You’re going to shut your fucking mouth.”

It leaves your lips like a knife thrown with perfect aim—smooth, deadly, no hesitation.

“No one here wants to hear the rot that curdles in whatever’s left of your brain.”

He blinks. “You—”

Stunned. Good. Let him choke on it. He always feared you a little, but now? Now that he’s been stripped of rank, status, relevance? Now that he’s nothing but a cautionary tale with a half-empty drink? He’s pathetic. And god, it suits him.

So you smile, slow and cruel, like you’re savoring it. 

Because you are.

“Your career didn’t end because women stopped smiling. It ended because you couldn’t keep your dick zipped and your mouth shut. And now look at you—bitter, balding, washed-up in a suit that screams clearance rack. Shit, I’d feel bad for your wife if I didn’t know she was already contemplating divorce papers.”

You step closer, watching his throat bob like he’s trying to swallow the truth—but it sticks.

“How about I send her your HR file?” you murmur, voice dropping low and poisonous. “Maybe she’d enjoy seeing the long list of every intern you've “mentored”. Wouldn’t your kids just love knowing daddy’s a predator with a pattern?”

He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His face curdles, and that’s enough for you.

You turn, already done with him, gripping Jake’s wrist like an afterthought—like he’s yours to take with you. And he lets you. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question. He just follows, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, dragged up to your rooms’ floor like a kid being led to bed.

Once the elevator dings and you’re back on solid carpet, you realize: you’re still holding onto him. Tightly. Nails half-embedded into his skin.

You drop his hand like it burned you. “Shit—I didn’t mean to grip that hard. Sorry—”

And then he whimpers.

A real, breathy, aching sound that does not belong to a man sober in thought. His hand is trembling, but it’s not from the pain. No. You think that’s Jake’s flushed. His eyes are glassy; his lips parted like he’s seconds from begging; and he’s not hearing a word you’re saying.

Actually, he’s still stuck in the bar, at that moment. Still reeling from the version of you that stepped in, grabbed him strongly. The version that protected him while threatening to ruin someone else.

And fuck, he liked it.

He could fall to his knees right here, in the hallway, under the hum of those fancy hotel lights, in front of the security cameras, the staff or any stranger possibly walking by from their own room—and he wouldn’t care. He’s hard. Pulsing through his slacks. You can see it. Can you ? Fuck he hopes you can’t.

He’s too drunk… Past his limit for sure, since he never really drinks. But this isn't just alcohol.

This is you.

“Mr. Sim?” You call for him again, in his daze.

Why the hell are you so pretty tonight ? And why’re your nails so clean? Why do they gleam under the light like they were made for him to fidget with ? To leave marks on his back? On his throat?

He's a man standing on the edge of fantasy, and you—well, you’re just standing there, breathing, and it’s too much.

“Mr… Jake?”

His eyes dart.

“S-sorry, have a good night, m-miss.” He stammers it out, then bolts like he’s escaping a fire. Or running from a wet dream that got too real.

And you just stand there. Stunned. What the hell was that?

🕗

You’d showered. Paced. Changed into something softer—something that didn’t scream professional, but still whispered respectable enough to knock on your boss’s door past midnight.

And now, here you stood in front of Room 707 with a travel-sized first aid kit and a mind spiraling in loops.

You told yourself this was about the wrist. About decency. About clearing the weird air that was left behind. Not about the way Jake’s eyes had clung to you like you were divine retribution in heels. Not about the ache under your ribs every time you replayed the way he stood up for you like it meant something.

Nope. Definitely about the wrist.

You knocked—firmly, like you weren’t praying he didn’t answer. But of course, he did. 

And god help you.

Jake’s shirt : rumpled, sleeves : shoved to his elbows, no tie, no belt, just that top button undone like a tease. He looked half-finished or  half-undressed. Either way, your brain short-circuited for a half-second too long.

“Hey,” you said, lifting the kit like a peace offering. “Thought I’d fix your wrist. Since I mauled you earlier.”

He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly and nodded before stepping aside to invite you.

Inside, it felt strange—quiet, warm, domestic in a way that shouldn’t have felt intimate but absolutely did. Jake moved around like he was trying to impress you in silence: fluffing the cushions, adjusting the lights, even pouring you water like it mattered, with that cute stressed expression.

You sat. He sat closer. And you started dabbing the ointment gently on the red welts your nails left behind.

“Sorry again,” you murmured. “Didn’t mean to dig in that hard.”

Jake just hummed, with the softest voice, almost a moan. Like the pain was holy now.

Then he asked, barely louder than a breath:

“You okay?”

And somehow, that cracked it all open.

You didn’t mean to spill. But it poured out anyway. Every time your ex-manager had belittled you, laughed too loud at meetings, but still stolen your credit. Every time his eyes lingered too long. Every time you’d swallowed the rage, because you couldn’t afford to be seen as “too emotional” in a room full of mediocre men who failed upward.

Jake listened. Like, really listened. He’d heard some of it. But your version made him exhale like he couldn’t take it.

“I should’ve broken that asshole’s nose,” he muttered, low and taut.

You stilled. The words hit deeper than they should have. Not because of the violence, but because of the intent. Jake wasn’t trying to play savior. He was just... angry for you.

Your hand lingered on his wrist softer now. “Thank you. For earlier. For saying all that. I know I act like it’s whatever, but it... wasn’t.”

Jake’s eyes stayed on you like you were speaking scripture.

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” he said. “I saw the kind of woman you are from day one. You’re smart. You don’t kiss ass. Guys like him can’t handle that. Because they don’t have the vocabulary for powerful.”

Something tugged tight in your chest. And lower. Warmer.

“I really should’ve punched him,” Jake said again, more to himself now. “No man like that deserves to say your name.”

You let out a laugh—one that tasted like relief.

“Honestly? I should’ve done it. Slapped him. Right in the face. Just once. Not even for like, feminism or justice or anything—just for me, for the satisfaction.”

You were smirking before you even realized it. Jake was grinning too, loose and genuine, like this moment was undoing all the knots inside him and you. Then something flickered behind his eyes. A wild idea taking root.

“How… How about you try it.” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Slap me,” he said, voice light but firm. “Come on. Let it out.” He smacked his own cheek lightly, then grinned at you like a lunatic.

Your jaw dropped. “Mr. Sim—”

“You’ll feel better.”

His cheek was pink now. His eyes dared you.

And your hand... your hand actually rose, by instinct. You stopped halfway. Fist clenched, nails digging into your palm. What the fuck were the two of you doing? Was it the adrenaline? The leftover fury? The wine? The way Jake looked at you like you were both priest and punishment? Either way, your heart pounded. Your hand hovered. Very much tempted, but terrified. And Jake just sat there, unblinking. Waiting for you. No, begging for it.

Jake’s hand wraps around yours like it’s his first taste of something forbidden—gently, reverently, like he’s convinced himself your fingers are a gift he doesn’t deserve but still needs to worship. He doesn’t just hold your hand. No—he kisses it softly, unfolds it, spreads your palm. His voice, when it comes, is low, breathless, and so fucking sincere it borders on stupid.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing your open hand to his cheek like some sacrificial lamb ready to be offered up. “I don’t mind. Say what you want. Slap me how you want. Curse me. Pretend I’m him—I’ll take it. I’ll be him, just this once. For you.”

And god help you—something about the way he says it, all shaky and soft-spoken, makes your jaw tighten and your thighs twitch. Because of course he’d say that. Of course Jake fucking Sim would offer himself up like a stand-in for your trauma with bedroom eyes.

You hesitate for a second, because sanity demands you to—but then your palm lifts and falls.

The first slap is light, really. Nothing to write home about. But the way Jake shivers under it? The way his breath stutters and his eyes flutter half-lidded like you just whispered something obscene directly into his bloodstream? That reaction alone makes something dangerous spark inside you.

And when you laugh—half from nerves, half from the ridiculousness of the whole thing—he laughs too, like he’s high off the sound. Like you just gave him a hit of something addictive.

“You’re a pathetic coward,” you whisper, almost shy to curse him but the words feel good leaving your mouth, like steam venting from a pressure cooker.

SLAP. 

“You ever do your own work? Or just ride other people’s backs while jerking off to the sound of your own voice?” 

SLAP. 

“Useless piece of shit—god, you couldn’t lead a fucking team of toddlers without crying.”

SLAP.

Jake’s mouth parts like he’s drowning and your voice is air. His hips twitch beneath you, subtle but undeniable, a reflex he can’t hide anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, like a prayer with cracked knees. “I’m… I’m sorry.” The way he says it—shaky, shame-drenched, utterly sincere—does something awful to your insides. Your cunt clenches around nothing

“Sorry?” you echo, voice rising just enough to cut the air like silk pulled taut. “You think that’s gonna cut it, you filthy little fuck?”

SLAP.

“Yes!” Jake gasps, and his voice is so wrecked, so gone, it nearly makes you moan. “Yes—I’m sorry!”

And then suddenly—without any warning—he pulls you on top of him, like his body just knows where you belong. You straddle him instinctively, the move so fluid it feels choreographed, and now you’re above him, your dress riding up your thighs, your weight grounding him to reality like some punishing fever dream.

The couch creaks a bit under you, but neither of you care. Jake lies back like an offering, eyes half-lidded and lip trembling, hips pressing up in slow, helpless thrusts like he’s trying to fuck through his slacks and into your core without permission.

Every slap now lands with purpose, with rhythm, your palm stinging and his face pinked with marks that scream I want this. And he’s moaning for each one—hands clutching your thighs like he’s scared you’ll vanish, like he’s trying to burn your shape into his memory.

“P-please,” he whines, eyes rolling back just a little, “please, don’t stop, keep going—fuck—”

You realize then you’re grinding into him rhythmically, like your body figured out what it needed long before your brain caught up. Your panties are soaked, dress bunched above your hips, and his cock—hard, thick, fucking twitching—presses up against you in the most delicious way.

And god, the sight of him?

He’s ruined.

His hair’s a mess, his shirt wrinkled like it’s been gripped and yanked—by you—his face flushed, eyes glazed over, lips parted like he’s seconds from begging with tears in his lashes. He looks like a man hanging on by a thread, and you’re the one holding the scissors.

Your hand finds his throat. Not to squeeze—just to touch, trying to own. Your fingers brush that frantic little pulse at the base of his neck, and Jake gasps—one of those sharp, gut-punched sounds—and tilts his head back without hesitation, baring himself like he’s got no shame left. And maybe he doesn’t.

Your thighs clench around him, hips still grinding slow and firm, your smile turning downright predatory now, because fuck, this man is beautiful like this. Ruined, desperate, and utterly yours.

And the sickest part? The part that makes heat pool in your stomach and twist behind your ribs like fire licking up your spine?

He’s smiling too. Like he’s finally found where he belongs.

You're straddling the line of a terrible mistake, and you know it. Jake Sim—your boss—is now lifting you as your legs close around him, carrying you through his room, to his bed, just to kneel between your thighs like a worshipper at the altar, and somehow, you’re the one in control. Not because you should be. Because he needs you, he wants you to be.

His lips brush your ankle, soft and trembling like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. His kiss isn't a declaration—it’s a plea. And you let him. You let him, because deep down, you've always known Jake didn’t want a woman who waited for his command—he wanted one who would ruin him.

You cock your head, letting the silence stretch. “So that’s what you like, Mr. Sim?” The mockery in your tone is gentle, like silk hiding a knife. “You want to be punished? Humiliated?”

His body jerks. Visibly. Shamefully. He nods, almost moaning from the idea of it. The sound is broken, needy, and completely unfiltered. He nods—frantic. Eyes wide, pupils blown, gorgeous lips parted like he’s about to confess something filthy and forbidden.

“Undress.” you order, and the sight of this grown man stumbling on unbuttoning and getting out of his pants is the cutest shit you ever saw suddenly.

You lift your heel to his cheek when he knelt back—still tender, pink from earlier—and drag the sharp arch of it down his throat, tracing the vein pulsing beneath skin. He doesn’t recoil. He leans into it, breathless. Then, with a shift of your leg, you press the sole of your shoe directly against his chest and push. Hard.

He gasps, then groans—like he wants to beg but can’t choose between pain and praise.

“You like that?” you murmur, increasing the pressure.

“Yes—fuck, yes,” he pants, squirming under your foot. “Don’t stop. Please…”

Your gaze drops to the dark patch blooming at the front of his boxers. Pre-cum stains the cotton, making it cling to every thick vein and curve of his cock. He’s twitching—throbbing—with desperation. It’s obscene, really. You haven’t even touched him, not really, and he’s already soaked like a teenager with a forbidden crush.

"God," you exhale, voice thick with amusement. "You’re soaking through for me, aren’t you, Jake?"

He chokes on a moan. The sound is pitiful. His hips jerk against the heel of your foot like he’s hoping for just enough friction to make him cum like a dog. And when he starts to kiss your leg—soft, reverent kisses that trail from your ankle to your thigh—you freeze him with a single word.

“Stop.”

He stiffens instantly. His face—red—jerks up, guilt shining in his eyes. You don’t say anything at first. Just stare at him. Let him writhe in the silence.

“Take my shoes off. Now.”

He obeys immediately—scrambling like a man whose life depends on it. Kissing the strap, whispering apologies as he unbuckles each heel. His fingers shake the whole time. You can practically feel how hard he is without looking.

Once bare, you remove your panty, spreading those legs, letting him see exactly what he’s begging for. His eyes darken instantly. Mouth falls open. He looks ruined already—and you haven’t even let him taste.

“Eyes on me, Jake.”

Fuck keep using his name. He loves it.

He nods slowly, almost reverent, eying you and your cunt like he couldn’t choose who gave the orders. His hands ghost up your thighs—asking silently, needing permission like his life depends on your mercy. You don’t grant it, but don’t stop him either. You just watch as his fingers reach closer and closer producing that electric feeling, till he reaches your folds, his breath catches audibly. 

Fuck, You’re soaked. His eyes flutter shut, like the sight alone sends him reeling. But the second his fingertips twitch forward—

“No fingers,” you say.

He freezes. His voice is nearly a whimper. “C-can I use my mouth?”

You pause, mischievous. Tilt your head like you’re thinking about it. Like the wet heat of your pussy throbbing for him isn’t already an answer enough.

“You can try. But you stop when I say. Understood?”

“Yes. Anything.”

And then he dives in. There’s no finesse. No gentle buildup. Just hunger. Jake eats you like a man starved, no like a freaking golden retriever—face buried between your legs, licking and sucking like every inch of your pussy is holy and he’s dying for it. His moans vibrate against your clit, tongue sliding in messy, frantic circles, sloppy and chaotic like he can’t think straight.

He’s a total mess, with like, no experience. And it’s perfect.

“You’re terrible at this,” you mutter, thighs trembling and back arching despite the insult. “Is this how you always eat pussy, Jake? Like some starved dog?”

The moan he lets out is devastating. Deep, guttural. He shoves his tongue into you like he’s trying to answer with action, not words. You curse, “fuck, FUCK !” His big nose grinds against your clit with every thrust, and the heat building inside you is blistering.

Then he breaks the rhythm—again. Too desperate. Too frantic, trying to breathe a bit. And you almost came by being denied. You want him in you. Now. 

“Jake—stop.”

But he doesn’t.

He wraps his arms around your thighs, locks you in place, and devours you some more. His hips are literally fucking helplessly into nothing but thick air. His mouth chants his devotion, tongue trembling from the effort as he fucks you with it, drowning in your slick.

And your orgasm hits you like a thunderclap—sudden, violent, raw. You cry out, thighs squeezing around his head suffocating him, voice cracking on his name like a command and a curse all at once.

"Stop! Jake! Fuck!"

He doesn’t. He moans against your cunt like he’s proud of breaking you, lips and chin soaked, tongue still lapping at the mess you made for him.

You shove him back with a kick—heart still thundering. He looks up at you, dazed and smiling like a boy who just won the lottery. His face is wrecked. Hair a mess. Cock visibly leaking like he might’ve come just a little from tasting you.

You grab him by the back of his hair, yanking his head up, your lips cruel inches from his.

“You didn’t listen, Jake.”

He winces. Nods. But his cock twitches. He freaking loves this.

“I told you to stop,” you say, voice hot, “You didn’t, so…” You smile slowly and mercilessly. “You don’t get to come.”

His face crumples. “What? Please—please, I just wanted to make you feel good—”

You lean in, let your lips brush his.

“No. Good night Jake.”

Jake looks pathetic. Absolutely wrecked, lips swollen, cheeks flushed like he’s run a marathon instead of just begging to come. His hand darts out, trembling like he’s on the verge of cardiac arrest, and he wraps his finger around your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he whispers, voice shredded. “You don’t have to touch me. Just… stay. Please. I won’t ask for anything.”

Right. Because that’s worked so well for him so far.

You glance down. He’s sprawled out like a cautionary tale—cock twitching uselessly, leaking against the waistband of his briefs. His hair is damp and curling at the edges, eyes wide and wet. And, God, the way it turns you on should be illegal in at least five states.

You sigh. It’s performative, but you let it be. “Fine,” you mutter. “But I’m showering first.”

“I’ll do it,” he blurts. Too fast and desperate. “I-I’ll wash you. Please.”

You should say no. You should. But instead, you tilt your head, curious. Maybe it’s the power trip still humming in your bloodstream. Maybe you just want to see how far he’ll go. So you let him follow.

You undress—slow, deliberate, aware of every inch of skin as it’s revealed. You’re not shy, not really, but there’s something oddly fragile about it. Like this version of you—this one he sees—is a new animal altogether. Jake touches you with his desperate eyes. He watches, jaw slack, eyes like you’re the first woman he ever saw.

In the water, he’s reverent and very careful. Lathers your shoulders, your back, your gorgeous breast. His hands shake when they reach your thighs. But he never slips. Never tries. Not where you ache. Not where he’s dying to be.

It's sick, how good that makes you feel. And it pleases him like nothing else to see you like that, breathing heavily at every touch. Holding onto the bathtub when his hand slides down your thigh.

When it’s over, sadly, he helps you into a robe. Like some kind of tragic gentleman. But his cock—still hard, still untouched—presses against your ass as he wraps the fabric around you. Just for a second. Just enough.

You don’t flinch,don’t comment, cause of course you’re dying to have it in you right now. But of course, he panics.

“Fuck, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—”

“Does it hurt?” you ask, voice flat, pretending you don’t really care. Jake nods into your shoulder like a punished schoolboy. “It’ll die anyway,” he mutters.

Spoiler alert : it did not. After shower, in his new briefs, he’s doing a poor job hiding just how painfully alive he still is. He crawls into bed next to you, still like this. He doesn’t try anything, doesn’t speak. Just folds himself against your side, forehead to your belly, arms wrapped around you like you’re some human security blanket. You card your fingers through his hair, lazy, soothing. Like he’s a dog you’re rewarding for good behavior.

“I love this,” he whispers, voice raw, earnest. “I love being under you…”

You don’t respond right away, you just keep stroking. Letting the silence stretch. Then, finally you speak : “I guess this makes us dom and sub now, huh?”

His head snaps up. Eyes huge. Like you’ve just freaking proposed to him. “Y-yes! I mean—only if you allow it. If that’s what you want.”

You look at him. Really look. This man—flushed, panting, cock caged and aching—would probably crawl across glass if you asked right now. And he always felt… Different. So…

“Yeah…” you say slowly. “But I’m not… Like… very… experienced, you know ?”

He lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. “Believe me,” he says, “you really, really are a natural.”

And that's how it started. The very next day you woke up like being a dom was a task on your to-do list. You made sure to tell Jake that nothing would happen until you were prepared. And “prepared” had its own definition for you. You documented, watched a lot of porn and blogs about it, visited shops after specialised shops to buy some accessories. For you it was serious, or at least you wanted it to prove to him you where. But three days became a week. And a week two, clueless of how pant up Jake was, waiting, observing you from so close but not even sparing him a glance.

Until he booked a meeting with you. a five minute before hour. It almost made me laugh. How many grammar faults he made and how the hour was strangely badly chosen. still you clicked on “accept”, and added a comment :

Be prepared. It’s gonna be the real thing.

🕗

And that night when you enter his office, Jake is on his knees.

Literally. Hands clutching his thighs like his own body might betray him at any second, head bowed low. You pause at the door, heels clicking against polished tile, and glance behind you—because what if it wasn’t you standing there? What if some clueless intern wandered into this fever dream instead?

It’s almost tragic how far gone he is. Almost...

He hasn't even looked up. Poor baby’s probably been like this for twenty minutes, edging himself in anticipation alone. All because you told him this meeting would be the real deal. That today would be official. He must’ve short-circuited from the promise alone.

Well, time to step into your role.

You close the door gently behind you. The satisfying click echoes like a gunshot in the quiet office. Your black dress is obscene — tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination, short enough to start a scandal, and paired with the same high heels he once moaned into as he kissed each pointed toe like a prayer.

and Jake? He’s visibly hard from the sound of your footsteps alone.

You walk toward him, and his thighs tense at the sight. He doesn't dare look up. Doesn’t need to. He knows who it is. You crouch down beside him, slow, calculated, a predator humoring her prey. Your fingers thread through his hair and gently pat.

“Good boy.”

He whimpers. Actually whimpers. You smirk when you feel the full hardness beneath his slacks with your hand..

“Pathetic,” you murmur, clicking your tongue in his ear. “Getting hard just from the sound of my heels?”

“I’m sorry…”

Your voice drops. “Are you in your right mind, Mister Sim? Should we reschedule this meeting for a time when you’ve got some self-control?”

“No, no, no—I-I’ll behave, I promise,” he rushes out.

You laugh, soft and dangerous. “Come here.”

You stride to his desk—his desk—and make yourself at home in the chair he usually owns like a throne. Now, It’s yours. He stands, hesitant, and when he sees you sitting there, legs crossed, perfectly composed—his expression crumples with want. Fuck he wants to crawl to you directly under the desk to serve you, but he walks and sit in front of you.

You reach into your branded bag and produce a thin stack of papers and two small boxes.

Back to business.

“Here’s the contract,” you say, voice clipped and professional, like this is just another quarterly strategy meeting. “I marked everything I’m willing to do or try in blue. You’ll go through it, mark your interests in green, and we’ll see where we align. I’ve included safeword options, conditionals, limits... all the usual.”

He blinks at the paper like it’s his acceptance letter into heaven. He takes it, reverent, then actually starts reading — not just flipping through, but really absorbing it. You watch his mouth part slightly at the sight of all your “X”s. Fuck keep it together, you need to look cool.

Bondage:Leash and collar – X.

Gag – X.

Cuffs – X.

Genital cage and toys– X.

Impact and Sensation Play:Biting. Hair pulling. Slapping. Sensory deprivation. Asphyxiation. All X. All yes.

And when he skims to the intimacy section, his whole posture shifts — hips twitch, breath hitches.

Unprotected sex. Orgasm. Kissing. Fluids. All marked. You didn’t even flinch.

But the part that breaks him?

The "I want to feel like..." and "I don’t want..." pages. You were for real. Letting him feel vulnerable out in clear, responsible terms. The aftercare checklist is long, thoughtful, even tender.

It’s the final confirmation: you didn’t do this on a whim. You mean it. You want him. Like this. His eyes shimmer slightly. Your boss. On the edge of crying from a form. Then he hesitates shyly. Circles two spots you left uncrossed.

You lift a brow as he gives back the form for you to consider.

“Golden shower and Exhibition “ you sight “I’m… not sure… But we can discuss it later.” you admit.

“That’s okay,” he replies too fast, nodding like a bobblehead on a bumpy ride. “That’s—totally fine.”

You hand him the smaller of the two boxes.

He opens it. A sleek, delicate pair of glasses. Not prescription. Just a look — something dignified, calm, an elegant reminder of his submission. “You wear those when you’re mine,” you say. opening the second box, “The collar’s only for play. But the glasses? That’s the symbol for our daily life.”

He slides the glasses on immediately — no hesitation, no second thoughts. They sit perfectly on his face, softening the sharpness in his jaw, giving him the exact look you imagined: cute, obedient, and just a little wrecked.

“So… that means I’m yours now?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, trembling with hope. It’s the kind of question you’ve already answered a thousand times without words by now, but you nod anyway — slow, steady, deliberate.

Pride blooms in your chest when his whole body slumps in relief.

He rises to his feet with shaky hands and then—without warning—sinks again. This time not to kneel, but to wrap both arms around your leg, hugging it with childlike desperation. And maybe it's the shortness of your dress. Maybe it’s just the way he clings, forehead resting against your thigh like it’s his new religion.

But when he shifts slightly… his face buries right against your heat. And you forgot one crucial detail.

No underwear.

You hear the shaky gasp he lets out when his lips brush against bare skin. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

Then he’s groaning. Mouthing at you through the fabric, or lack thereof, completely unhinged, trying to kiss your cunt like a happy dog. His hands tighten on your hips. One thumb hooks the edge of your dress and tries to push it up like he has to see it—like looking might kill him but not looking is worse.

He moves back a little and what he does almost kills you from chock. He literally starts to act like a dog, tongue out, heavy breath. heavy leed begging eyes. his tongue licks your thighs, giving eyes to your cunt, sending the message.

“Let me give you pleasure mistress—” he pants like a dog, “I’ll be good.”

God, you want to. Your legs twitch with the effort to stay composed. But instead, your hand fists in his hair and tugs him back—not roughly, just enough.

“Drive me home. Now.”

The tension follows you too in the elevator. He takes your hand— this time with fingers laced with yours. As if the act alone might earn him another kind word. Halfway down, his head dips into the crook of your neck and stays there. You hear the shaky breath he takes, then another.

“You smell like... so good,” he mutters.

You scoff. “And you smell like desperation.”

He chuckles, but the sound dies in his throat when his arms wrap around you from behind— tight, possessive —and his hips press into you instinctively. Grinding a bit, even. Like he can’t help himself anymore, he wants you so bad.

“Jake,” you warn, as he jerks back. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I... Didn’t mean— I just—”

You don’t look at him, but your smirk is visible in the elevator’s reflection. He wants it so bad.

In his car, he speeds.Of course he does. Your legs are crossed in his passenger seat, the scent of you still thick in the air, and his hands tap on the wheel like he’s one red light away from losing his mind entirely.

“I'll gag you if you keep speeding.” The words drop just to tease him for your fun. And you don’t need to look to know his cock twitches.

“You’re still speeding, Jake.”

“I—”

“Keep going and you’re going to be punished for real, just telling...”

🕗

Jake's practically vibrating out of his skin the second you walk through the door.

Eyes locked on you like a dog waiting for the bell to ring, panting through his nose, fists clenched at his sides like if he doesn’t get your hands on him in the next thirty seconds, he might combust right there in your hallway.

And maybe he would. Maybe you should let him. Instead, you toss your bag to the side and kick your heels off without ceremony, not sparing him a glance. His cock’s already hard. You can see it straining under his slacks like it's got a heartbeat of its own.

Pathetic.

“Bedroom,” you say without looking. “Now.”

He scrambles. Actually stumbles. Nearly trips over the threshold like his legs aren’t working right — and you, patient thing that you are, grab him by the tie and spin him around so hard his back ends up smacking open the door of your room.

He gasps.

You don’t give him time to recover. One hand in his hair, the other squeezing his jaw until his mouth opens like instinct, and then you're kissing him like punishment — bite, tongue, zero softness. You bite his bottom lip until he whines, and it’s only then you really look at him.

Glasses crooked. Tie wrinkled. Pupils blown out like he’s five seconds away from begging.

You smile. Good.

“You said you’d behave,” you say, dragging the tie like a leash, walking him toward the bed like you’re guiding a fucking lamb to slaughter.

“I tried,” he pants, already flushed. “I—I swear, I tried. I Didn’t touch myself once. Not since last time. Not since” you grab his hard on, “—fuck—please—”

He’s babbling.

You shove him flat on the mattress and climb on top of him in one smooth motion, thighs framing his hips, your weight pressing down on his cock. He bucks up like a reflex. Dumb move. You slap his cheek — not hard, but enough.

He gasps. Blinks. Nods.

“Good boy,” you murmur, tone razor sharp. “Keep your hands to yourself or I’ll break them.”

He doesn’t even argue. Just melts. Spreads his arms out above his head like he wants to be tied down. So you do —his belt. You grab, and tie him up. His breathing’s already shaky, cock twitching where it presses against you. You lean down, letting your tits graze his face. His tongue sticks out like instinct, trying to lick, suck, anything— but you yank back. Now he can’t move.

“No.”

He whines. Actually whines. It’s disgusting.

“You wanna touch?” you ask, voice sweet and awful. “Want it?”

“Please,” he chokes. “Please, I’ll be good. Let me—fuck—let me leave marks, I want you bruised, I want to fucking bite you—”

You laugh, throwing your head back. “You?” you mock, grinding down against his cock. “You can barely speak without begging. You think you’re gonna do anything without my permission?”

He moans. Loud. His cock twitches violently under you, and you can see the panic settle in his eyes. He’s close. Way too fucking close.

“Haven’t even fucked you yet,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “And you’re already about to cum like a virgin on prom night.”

“I—fuck, I can’t help it—please, if you slow down—just a second—”

You plant your knees on either side of his head and sit on his face. He cries out with a smile on his face— muffled, frantic — and latches on like he’s starving. His tongue is wild, sloppy, more desperation than technique, and you grind against his mouth like it’s yours — because it is.

“This is where you belong,” you groan, hips rolling. “Under me. Crying. Leaking. Useless unless I’m using you.”

He moans, so loud it vibrates through your whole body. His cock? Red and angry and twitching untouched. He thrusts into the air, desperate for friction, and you just press down harder on his face. He chokes. It’s beautiful.

You ride his tongue until he’s crying and slows down.

Then you finally slide off, and he gasps like he’s coming up for air after drowning—because he was. His face is wrecked. His glasses are somewhere on top of his head. His mouth’s slick with spit and slick and somehow pride. His chest heaves.

You grab his face with your hand, waking him from his daze.

“Focus.”

He moans like you kissed him and you untie him.

“Collar,” you demand.

He fumbles for it with shaking hands, holding it out like a fucking offering, like you’re a god he’s trying to appease. “C-can you put it on me ?”

You snap it around his throat without ceremony. He shivers.

“Good. Now lie back and don’t move.”

You climb up, pull your dress over your head, bare and wet and glowing, and he’s practically crying just from looking.

His cock leaks like it’s apologizing. You press your foot down — slow, cruel — on his cock and balls, and he howls.

“W-wait—please—don’t—if you—if you keep doing that, I’ll—I’ll cum—!”

You press harder.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t you fucking dare. Not until I tell you.”

“I’m trying—fuck—I’m trying—”

You lean in — breath warm against his ear, one hand wrapped around his throat, firm but teasing, just enough to make him shiver.

“You’re lucky I don’t blindfold you, tie you up, and edge you for a fucking week,” you whisper, slow and mean. “No cumming. No touching. Just my voice in your ear while I whip you until you cry for it.”

He whimpers. It’s not even a sound anymore — just breath and broken vowels. His eyes roll back, his cock leaking like it’s begging to be used, untouched and pulsing like it could burst if you so much as looked at it too long.

You spit in your palm, rub yourself raw until you’re soaking, then sink down in one brutal drop.

He screams.

Not a moan. A scream. The sound punches out of him like you knocked the wind from his lungs.

And then you ride.

Hard. Fast. Messy. Punishing. Like you’re trying to fuck him into the mattress. Like your orgasm is more important than his survival. His hands are useless — clawing at the sheets, at the air, at nothing — because you haven’t let him touch you, and he knows better than to break that rule now.

He’s moaning too loud. Too desperate. You slap a hand over his mouth just to muffle the chaos spilling from him. Your hips don’t stop — bouncing, rolling, dragging him to the edge with every ruthless grind. His cock’s buried so deep you can feel it in your gut, and the way he looks up at you — glassy-eyed, mouth stuffed full of your palm, pure reverence — it’s enough to send your stomach twisting.

And then it shifts. Something flips in the air. You catch yourself leaning in, just a little too close. You’re still in control — you always are — but something about the way he’s watching you now, fucked-out and worshipping, makes your rhythm falter. Just once.

Jake sees it. Of course he does.

You see the exact second he realizes: you’re falling, too.

And he fucking loves it.

He’s chasing your orgasm now like it’s the only thing that matters. Like if he gives it to you, maybe — just maybe — you’ll kiss him.

You don’t say it. Don’t ask for it. But he knows.

He flips you with shaky hands, your legs locked tight around his waist before you even land. He fucks into you like he’s losing his mind — sloppy, desperate thrusts, slamming into you like he needs you to feel it.

“I’m close— fuck— I want you to cum too—”

“Me too,” you gasp, wrecked and ragged. One hand slams against the headboard as the other claws at his back. “Harder— Jake, please—”

And he delivers.

His rhythm turns frantic, almost cruel. You’re a mess beneath him, crying out, moaning his name in broken syllables.

“C-can I stay inside?” he begs, barely able to speak. “Please— I— fuck—”

You nod, frantic. “Kiss me.”

And he does.

He dives in like he’s starving for it, lips crashing into yours, moaning into your mouth as he cums — thick, hot spurts, wave after wave, his hips stuttering through it, unable to stop. The kiss is wet, messy, all teeth and breath and desperation. His cock twitches inside you, still buried to the hilt, still pushing in shallow little thrusts that make you shake.

It’s too much. Too wet. Too hot. Too full.

And it tips you.

You cum on his cock with a strangled cry, nails digging into his arms, your mouth still on his, tasting him, gasping into him as your whole body tightens and then breaks.

But you don’t stop kissing. Not even then.

His lips stay on yours through the aftershocks. Sloppy, slow, still trembling. His head dips to your neck, mouthing at the skin, soft kisses, little groans as he licks at your pulse.

You twitch under him every time his mouth moves, still too sensitive. He hisses at the way your walls pulse around him even now.

“Was I good?” you ask, breathless.

He nods into your neck like a kid, voice hoarse, cracked. “Yes. You— You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

You grin. Can’t help it. Can’t hide it.

“So fucking perfect, huh?” you echo, teasing. And he kisses you again. And again. And again. Little kiss bombs, dotting your cheeks, your lips, your jaw — and you finally grab his face and still him.

Your smile twists into something darker.

“This is only the start,” you purr, your voice all breath and promise, panting into his mouth. “I have so many things I want to try.”

He nods — fast, frantic — like he needs it.

Like he wants to be wrecked. Used. Owned. And maybe, if he’s lucky — loved.

You’re going to give it to him. Every filthy, fucked-up fantasy.

Again. And again. And again.

Part.2

MASTERLIST

Author’s Note:

Finally here for the comeback, lol!! It took me so long to post this because I kept second-guessing if I really loved every part of it... But then I thought: just do it, fighting girl! 💪💗@veilstqr — knowing you were waiting for it seriously helped me push through and finish it~ Hope I didn’t disappoint!

Don’t just lurk, darling. Reblog it. Leave a comment. Let me feel you. Your silence is not nearly as thrilling as your reaction.

So go on... show me you're watching.

gia, your roommate, turned to where he stood in the doorway. “where else would she be, right now?”

he took that as an answer, and headed straight to the staircase.

stressed was far from what you were feeling at this point. everyone around you had more faith in you than you did in yourself, and riki was one of them. time and time again, he reminded you of why you were doing this and how hard you’d worked to get to where you were. but the sound of his encouragement was drowned out by doubts.

riki jogged up the steps, the small chains around his neck clanking quietly.

he reached your bedroom door, listening for a moment before reaching for the knob.

there you were, sprawled out on your bed with papers from your notepad scattered across the duvet. your arms rested over your eyes but you were wide awake. the raging pain that went on in your head prevented you from getting any rest the night before, as well as the next day.

riki stood in your doorway, his shoulders slouching when he saw your state. you hadn’t even acknowledged his presence like you usually did, so he knew you were at your breaking point.

“y/n,” he called out quietly.

he approached your bed with careful steps, waiting for a response that he never got. you didn’t have the energy to speak or for a pep talk right now. you couldn’t even hug him if you wanted to.

riki sat beside you on your bed, his hand coming to pat your thigh gently.

“hey,” his voice was soft. “c’mon sit up for me.”

you groaned—stubbornly—but did so anyway. your arms falling to your sides as you pushed yourself to sit against the headboard.

riki looked at you for a moment before speaking.

“i’m not here to yell at you or anything,” he mumbled, his hand remaining in the same place, but squeezing gently.

you hummed, “maybe you should.”

he shook his head, his lips pressed in a straight line. normally he’d laugh at the things you said but not now. he really was concerned for you and you felt guilty knowing that he was.

“tell me what to do,” riki said. “what can i do to help?”

you shrugged, not knowing what could possibly calm you down in that moment. there was absolutely nothing you could do that would take your mind off of it. or so you thought.

riki sat closer to you on your bed now, sitting in deafening silence as you both thought for a moment. there was really only one thing riki could come up with that might lift some weight off of your shoulders.

his hand moved further up to the waistband of your leggings.

you even didn’t flinch, but your expression changed slightly, the corners of your lips twitching.

“what are you doing?”

his face was still, as if he had good intentions. but what he intended to do was anything but.

“do you remember gia’s end-of-the-year party?” he asked quietly, his fingers dancing across the edge of your pants.

he was referring to the one and only time you had been drunk enough to make out with him, an occurrence that you both swore to never talk about. but here he was, reliving the past.

“riki, we said we wouldn’t—“

“do you trust me?” his body was closer to yours, his face only inches away.

warmth climbed your neck as you tried to muster up a response but there was nothing. you could only stare back at your best friend, wondering how such a topic even came up.

he waited and waited, his fingers hooking into your pants’ waistband and resting there.

your shiver was enough for him to continue.

riki’s eyes remained on yours as he climbed further into your bed, his other hand coming to rest on your tummy as he coaxed you to lay back once more.

he tugged on your leggings with one hand, his nails gently scraping against your thigh as he peeled them off of you.

the cool air hit your skin, making your legs shake (more so in anticipation).

his hands came to rest on the plush of your thighs, spreading and settling between them. your breath caught as you met his gaze again.

“you’d tell me if you didn’t want this, right?” riki asked, the concern he had for you never leaving. he’d do anything if it meant you wouldn’t be overwrought, and if that meant he had to get on his knees to eat you like his last meal—so be it.

you nodded, trying to ignore the fact that the guy you had known all your life was now settled between your legs, your clothed heat sitting in front of him for the very first time.

the rings he wore were cool against your skin, which had been burning up since he even introduced the idea. they brushed along the sides of your thighs as he slid your panties off with ease.

⁐⁐୨୧⁐⁐

the warmth of riki’s tongue glided through your folds, your wetness collecting on its surface. he pushed your legs up so that your knees touched your mattress, all of you spread out and open for him.

your hand was clamped over your mouth, your eyes screwed shut as you tried not to make a sound. you swallowed your moans, in fear of riki hearing such a thing.

he placed a sloppy kiss on your bud before taking it between his lips, sucking harshly.

“don’t hide ‘em,” he mumbled, his grip on your thighs tightening as he spread them further.

you whimper softly at his words, heeding them but still too embarrassed to let him hear you. your whole body was tense with pent up stress and frustration, you felt as if you couldn’t just let loose.

letting your best friend pleasure you was something you never thought could ever happen, especially between you and riki. but it might’ve been the best thing to happen to you all week, and you’d be thinking about it while attempting to answer all the mind-boggling questions on that exam.

riki let go of your clit with a wet pop as he pulled away for a moment, replacing his lips with his fingers, the pads of them pushing up against it.

your chest was rising up and down rather quickly—breathing completely uneven.

before you could even try to catch a breath, a wet string of saliva fell from riki’s lips just to land right against your entrance.

you let out a startled moan, hands coming to grip your own thigh, clawing at your skin.

“h…how did we even get here?” you whined, head thrown back as riki’s tongue dipped into you. everything was blurring into one line, one thing leading to another. he hummed as a response; in agreement, as his hand wrapped around your wrist. he placed your hand atop his head, resting in his hair for you to grip rather than scratching yourself.

your fingers immediately tangled themselves into his strands, moving his head closer to your wetness. his tongue continued to plunge into you slowly, occasionally flicking upward.

you shivered once more, your voice cracking with every word you tried to utter.

“ki, i need…”

he pulled back slightly, plump lips still resting against you.

“what is it, pretty?”

you whimper—too impatient for teasing or taunting games. your hips push up into his fingers that remained on your clit, just pressing gently but never moving.

he didn’t change his pace or anything that he was doing, but kept the same agonizing pressure from his digits.

“go ‘head and tell me what you need,” his voice vibrated your lower half, making you whine louder.

“y…your fingers,” you pant. “i need—“

your pleas were cut short by moans you couldn’t hold in, the pleasure being almost too much but not enough.

riki then complied, a finger sliding through your pool of wetness before sliding into you. your back arched off of the mattress as his digit thrust into you, quiet squelching quickly filling the space along with your moans.

he added another, burying them inside of you, his rings rubbing against you. he leaned in, letting another string of his spit land on your heat, mixing with your arousal.

your body was trembling, the sensation of his fingers plunging into and out of you making your brain turn to mush. the exam was the last thing you were thinking of in that moment, it was the least of your worries.

riki’s head lowered again, his mouth latching onto you with his fingers still moving at a steady pace.

“don’t stop,” you breathe out. “please, don’t stop.”

he groaned into you, spit starting to coat his chin, all restraint leaving his body. now he ate like a madman, his tongue making figure eights along your clit and occasionally latching on.

“that’s it, baby. relax for me.” riki smiled against your heat, your moans fueling him. he didn’t care about anything else or anyone else, but you. making you feel good was the only thing that concerned him in that moment.