Living in my own head

There’s nothing in the world that gets him harder than sinking his cock down your tight throat and fucking your mouth like a second pussy. He’ll lounge back against the headboard, one tattooed hand lazily tangled in your hair, golden eyes half-lidded and that shit-eating grin carved deep into his cheeks while he guides you exactly how he wants it—slow and sloppy at first, then ruthless when you start to drool. 

He loves the way your throat bulges, the wet gagging sounds, the tears that spill when he holds you down just a little too long. He’ll buck up lazily, chasing that tight heat, cursing low and filthy when you swallow around him. And when he finally spills down your throat? He keeps you there, grinding through it with a low groan, making sure you take every drop like the good little barrack bunny you are. 

But when he does eat you? He’s mean and greedy about it. 

You never see it coming. One minute you’re teasing him—maybe straddling his lap in the common room after everyone else has crashed, grinding against the growing bulge in his pants just to watch those golden eyes darken. The next, he’s got you pinned on your back on the nearest flat surface, knees shoved up to your chest, his broad shoulders keeping you spread open. 

Enjin doesn’t tease. He devours. 

His mouth is hot and relentless, tongue dragging through your folds like he’s starving, sucking hard on your clit until your hips jerk and you’re crying out. He’ll growl against your soaked cunt when you try to close your thighs, strong tattooed hands gripping harder, holding you wide open so he can bury his face deeper. Two thick fingers curl inside you without warning, pumping mercilessly while his tongue flicks and laps at your clit in messy, greedy strokes. 

He eats you like he’s trying to ruin you—loud, wet, obscene sounds filling the room as he sucks and licks and fucks you with his fingers and tongue. He’ll pull back just when you’re about to tip over, grinning that infuriating dimpled smirk while you whine and try to chase his mouth. 

When he finally lets you tip over the edge, he doesn’t stop. He keeps going—greedy, mean, overstimulating you through it until you’re shaking and sobbing, thighs trembling around his head. Only then does he pull back, lips shiny and chin wet, looking far too pleased with himself as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

__________________________

Zanka:  Zanka also prefers to be eaten. Finally using your mouth for something other than teasing him with your bratty quips. 

He’s not as openly cocky as Enjin, but there’s a quiet intensity to it that makes it even hotter. He’ll sit on the edge of his bed or lean back against the wall in some shadowed corner of HQ, legs spread just enough for you to settle between them. One hand rests on the back of your head—firm but not forceful—guiding you slowly down his cock with that familiar stern expression. 

His lips press into a tight, controlled line, navy eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to prove he’s completely unaffected. But his leaking cock gives him away, twitching hard against your tongue every time you swirl it around the head or take him deeper. The faint flush creeping up his neck and the way his fingers tighten in your hair betray how much he’s fighting not to thrust up into your warm, wet mouth. 

He loves the eye contact, even if he denies it—those big, watery eyes looking up at him while your lips stretch around him. It makes him feel in control, even when his cock is leaking steadily down your throat and his breathing starts to hitch. He won’t moan loudly, but you’ll catch the quiet, shaky exhales and the way his abs tense under your hands. 

But when he does eat you? He’s totally mean about it—in that stubborn, childish Zanka way. 

He’s weirdly squeamish about going down on a woman, muttering about how it’s “gross” or “not necessary” even while his fingers are already buried inside you. He prefers using those long, bony fingers—fucking them past your folds with precise, almost clinical strokes, calloused pad grinding firm circles against your clit when he feels like being generous. 

You’ll be spread open on his lap or pinned beneath him, whimpering and rocking against his hand while he watches your face with that stern, slightly flushed expression. Complaining that you’re squirming too much.  

Only when you start begging—really begging, praising him in that breathy voice he secretly craves—does he finally relent. Despite complaining about how much of a spoiled brat you are and that this is just to shut you up.  

But once his mouth is on you? The complaints don’t stop, even as his lips attach to your clit in gentle, almost reverent sucks. He’ll grumble between licks, while his tongue flicks and circles with surprising skill, fingers still pumping steadily. He acts like he’s doing you a huge favor, but the way he presses his face closer, the soft hums vibrating against you, and how he refuses to stop even after you’ve come once tell a different story. 

He’s mean in his reluctance, but thorough once he gives in. And the whole time he’s eating you out, he’ll keep that tight-lipped control—until you praise him again, then watch his ears turn red as he doubles his efforts just to shut you up. 

____________________

Gris: Gris lives for your pleasure. 

Of course, he likes having you between his legs like any other man—those big, calloused hands gently guiding your head as you take him into your mouth, his low, rumbling groans vibrating through his chest while he praises you in that deep, steady voice. But it’s never his main focus. 

There’s something about watching you fall apart for him that hits different. That’s where he truly thrives. 

He’s more than happy to spend hours between your plump thighs while you lay comfy on his bed, completely relaxed and taken care of. Gris will kneel right at the edge of the frame, broad shoulders settled between your spread legs, giving you the entire bed to sprawl out on. No rush. No selfishness. Just pure, focused devotion to making you feel good. 

He starts slow and thorough—large hands gripping the soft meat of your thighs, holding you open as he kisses and nips along your inner legs, working his way up until his warm breath fans over your already slick folds. When his mouth finally closes over you, it’s with a deep, satisfied hum, like he’s the one being fed after a long mission. 

Gris doesn’t tease for the sake of being mean. He teases because he wants to draw every little sound, every shiver, every roll of your hips out of you. His tongue is broad and patient—long, slow licks through your folds, circling your clit with just the right pressure, then dipping inside you like he can’t get enough of your taste. He’ll suck gently on your clit, then firmer when your fingers thread desperately into his blond hair. 

He can stay down there for ages, strong arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you anchored while you squirm and cry out. When you get close he doesn’t pull away—he doubles down, groaning encouragingly into your pussy as you come on his tongue, working you through it with steady, relentless strokes until you’re shaking and oversensitive. 

And even then? He doesn’t stop right away. He’ll keep licking you softly, almost reverently, cleaning you up while you catch your breath, pressing gentle kisses to your inner thighs and mound like he’s worshipping you. 

Only when you’re boneless and glowing does he finally rise, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before crawling up the bed to pull you into his arms. Then he’ll kiss your forehead, voice low and warm against your hair and praise you about how well you did for him.

_______________________________

Follo: Poor Follo can’t decide. 

He loves the feeling of sinking into your soft throat, rutting into your mouth like a desperate mutt in heat—whining and panting, hips jerking forward in short, eager thrusts while his honey brown eyes flutter half-shut in bliss. But he also loves having his head between your thighs, lapping at your clit with such ferocity it makes your head spin. The way he buries his face in your pussy, moaning like he’s the one getting spoiled, tongue working desperately against your swollen clit and slick folds. 

So most nights, you two end up in a messy, eager sixty-nine—with Follo on top so he can have the best of both worlds. 

He’ll crawl over you with that needy, flushed expression, sharp black bangs falling into his eyes as he swings a leg over your head. The second his cock slides past your lips he lets out a broken little whimper, hips already twitching forward, chasing the wet heat of your mouth. At the same time, he drops his face between your spread thighs like a man starved, arms wrapping around your hips to pull your pussy flush against his mouth. 

Follo doesn’t do anything halfway. While he’s fucking your throat in shallow, greedy rolls of his hips—leaking steadily, balls brushing the bridge of your nose—he’s devouring your cunt like it’s oxygen. His tongue is relentless: messy, wet circles around your clit, long licks through your folds, sucking noisily whenever your thighs start to tremble. He moans and whines the whole time, the vibrations shooting straight through you, hips stuttering harder every time you gag or swallow around him. 

You're just along for the ride—a warm, slick hole for that eager, puppy-like boy as he devours you completely, from top to bottom.

He sets the pace—frantic and needy—rocking between your mouth and your pussy like he can’t decide which feels better. Hands usually ending up gripping your thighs hard enough to leave marks, holding you right where he wants you while he loses himself completely. 

When he gets close he gets even sloppier, face pressed so tight against your cunt he can barely breathe, tongue flicking wildly over your clit as he fucks your throat with desperate little snaps of his hips. 

He’ll whimper against your pussy about being close, the words vibrating deliciously before he tips over the edge with a muffled, broken cry, spilling hot down your throat while he keeps licking you through your own orgasm like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. 

Even after he finishes, Follo stays buried between your thighs for a while longer—nuzzling, licking softly, pressing lazy kisses to your oversensitive clit like he just can’t help himself. 

______________________________

Bro:  Bro is the perfect mix of Gris and Follo. 

He truly loves eating you out. At thirty-five, the massive Cleaner knows exactly how to make you cum—how to work that huge tongue in ways that leave you shaking and sobbing. But none of that experience stops him from devouring you like a starving man who’s finally found salvation between your thighs. 

He eats you with the raw, passionate hunger of an inexperienced teenager—long, dragging licks of that broad tongue from your entrance all the way up to your clit, groaning deep in his chest like your taste is the best thing he’s ever had. His hands grip your ass or thighs with reverent strength, pulling you closer as he laps messily and noisily. Sucking gently on your folds before flicking that thick tongue against your swollen clit over and over. 

He’ll rumble, voice low and commanding, that you sit on his face.  He doesn’t ask. He demands it. No matter how embarrassed the position makes you, no matter how much you hesitate—he’ll simply grab your hips and pull you down until you’re properly smothering him. 

And once you’re there? He’s in heaven. 

Bro’s huge tongue works you relentlessly—long, fat licks that cover your entire pussy, swirling around your clit before dipping inside you. He moans and hums the whole time, the vibrations shooting through your core as he eats you like he’ll die if he stops. His massive cock is rock hard and leaking profusely in his pants, throbbing painfully against the fabric, but he couldn’t care less. He won’t let you touch it. Growling against your dripping cunt if you try to reach for him, his focus wanting to be solely on you.  

When the orgasms start hitting you hard and you eventually fall forward, exhausted and trembling against his broad chest, Bro simply wraps one massive arm around your waist and holds you there— trapping you against his warm, solid body. His other hand stays on your ass, guiding you to keep grinding against his face while he continues slurping and sucking on your clit like it’s his favorite treat. 

He won’t stop until he’s satisfied. Until your thighs are shaking uncontrollably and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s made you cum. Only then will he finally ease up, pressing soft, almost apologetic kisses to your oversensitive pussy before gently maneuvering you off his face. 

__________________________________

Tamsy:  Honestly? Tamsy doesn’t actually care for either. 

What he does care about is the psychological edge. The delicious power of having you completely at his mercy, whether you’re choking on his cock or falling apart under his fingers. He thrives on control, on watching that sharp, bratty mouth of yours reduced to desperate, broken sounds. 

When you’re on your knees for him, he’s merciless in the most elegant way possible. He’ll hold you down on his cock with one graceful hand tangled in your hair, forcing every inch down your throat until your cheeks burn red and your eyes water. Your fists pound weakly against his thighs while he coos at how cute your fighting is, in that velvet-smooth voice, golden eyes half-lidded with dark satisfaction. 

He keeps you there right on the edge—until your vision starts to blur and your lungs scream—only releasing you at the very last second. He watches impassively as you pull off gasping, coughing, and sucking in desperate gulps of air. Saliva drips down your chin while you struggle to recover, him just watching you with that soft innocent smile of his while his eyes beam with sadistic cruelty under long lashes.

When it’s your turn to be on the receiving end, he’s even more devastating. 

He’ll have your arms bound tightly behind your back, face pressed flush into his mattress as he fingers you with cruel precision. Two elegant fingers curling perfectly against that spot inside you, over and over, until you’re squirting all over his hand and the sheets. He doesn’t stop. He keeps going—pulling orgasm after squirting orgasm from your exhausted body until you’re delirious, shaking, and babbling from dehydration and overstimulation. 

Only when you’re truly begging for mercy, voice hoarse and broken, does he finally give you something new. 

He’ll hook his thumb into your ass, using it as leverage to yank your hips higher. Then that refined, angelic mouth latches onto your abused clit in a nasty, messy suck—tongue swirling and lips slurping loudly, completely at odds with his usual pristine image. The contrast is filthy and overwhelming. He’ll keep that thumb buried deep, tugging and pressing while he devours you until you’re screaming into the sheets.

You put the book aside and stood. He watched you like he expected you to ask him what happened, and you didn’t. You just took his hat off, placed it on the desk, and reached up to push your fingers through his hair.

For a second, he stayed perfectly still, then his eyes shut.

“You’re eating,” you said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re eating.”

“I’m your captain.”

“And I’m very impressed. Sit down.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue, but he was too tired to make it worth the effort. He sat on the edge of the bed while you brought him the bowl from the little warmer you had stolen from the galley. Rice, broth, fish. Nothing fancy. Nothing heavy.

Law stared at it. “You poisoned this?”

“I considered it, but Bepo looked sad.”

“Mm. Weak.”

You sat beside him and held the bowl until he took it. He ate slowly at first, like he was doing it only to shut you up. You kept your fingers in his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp between pauses, and the longer you did it, the more his posture sank.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for you.

There were entire confessions in the way Law accepted being touched without making a miserable comment about it.

When the bowl was empty, you took it from him and placed it aside. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face hidden in his hands. You kept stroking his hair.

Neither of you said anything for a while.

The Polar Tang hummed around you, deep and steady under the sea. The sound filled the room, safer than silence, gentler than the things neither of you wanted to name.

Eventually he turned his head just enough that his cheek rested against your thigh.

You looked down at him. “That’s new.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re cuddling my leg.”

“I’m resting.”

“On me.”

“Mm.”

You smiled, but you didn’t tease him further. Your fingers slid through his hair again, slower now, nails barely touching his scalp. He exhaled through his nose, quiet and rough.

It should not have felt intimate, but it did.

He turned his face slightly, and his lips brushed the inside of your wrist.

You stopped breathing for half a second.

His eyes opened, sharp even half-dead with exhaustion. For a moment, he looked at your wrist like he hadn’t meant to do that. Like his body had moved before his control returned.

Then, because he was impossible, he did it again.

A warmer kiss.

Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Law.”

“Problem?”

His voice was low, tired, almost bored. You hated him a little. “No.”

“Then stop looking offended.”

“I’m not offended.”

“You look like you’re trying to decide whether to hit me or climb me.”

You stared at him. He looked back, deadpan, mouth barely curved.

“You’re the worst man alive.”

“Probably.”

Then he kissed your palm. Not quickly. Not as a joke. His mouth pressed there like he was testing your pulse, your patience, both.

Heat crawled up your arm.

He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. His eyes were dark, shadowed from lack of sleep, but clearer now. More present. More dangerous in the quiet way.

“You’re still thinking too loudly,” he murmured.

“I’m thinking you should sleep.”

“I was.”

“You were kissing my hand.”

“Multitasking.”

You laughed under your breath, and something in his face changed. He reached for you then, one hand closing around your hip, and pulled you down with him under the blanket. It was clumsy only because he was exhausted. Law being clumsy felt illegal.

You ended up half beside him, half on him, your knee between his legs, his arm around your waist. The blanket slipped over both of you, trapping heat fast.

“This is a terrible sleeping position,” you said.

“Then leave.”

His hand spread over your back and held you there.

You looked down at him. “You are very bad at bluffing.”

“I’m excellent at bluffing.”

“You’re literally holding me hostage.”

“You’re not resisting.”

Fair.

His mouth found your wrist again, then your forearm, slow little kisses that did not match the sharpness of his face at all. You watched him do it, feeling each one settle lower in your stomach.

Comfort turned strange that way. One moment you were keeping him together. The next, his lips were on your skin and the air was too warm and his hand had slipped beneath the back of your shirt.

His fingers were ice cold.

Law’s mouth twitched against your arm. “Sensitive?”

“Your hands are freezing.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“That explains nothing.”

“It explains enough.”

His hand flattened against your lower back, then slid up, warmer now from your skin. He touched you like he was still trying not to ask for anything. Like he could make this practical if he moved carefully enough.

You leaned down and kissed him.

That broke the last useful thought in the room.

He kissed back slowly at first, his mouth firm and tired, one hand cupping the back of your neck. Then your fingers tugged lightly in his hair and he made a sound so low you almost missed it.

You didn‘t miss the way his grip tightened.

“Do that again,” he said against your mouth.

You smiled. “Ask nicer.”

His eyes opened. Exhausted, half-wrecked, still somehow arrogant enough to ruin your life. “You’re warm, fed, and in my bed,” he said. “Don’t get ambitious.”

“You dragged me here.”

“I made a medical decision.”

“Was kissing my palm also medical?”

“Your circulation looked poor.”

You laughed, and he kissed you harder to shut you up.

His hand slid under your shirt again, and this time he didn’t stop at your back. His palm moved over your waist, your ribs, then higher, dragging heat after it. He gave you just enough time to pull away. His thumb brushed under your breast, light enough to be cruel.

Your breath caught.

Law’s mouth paused against yours. “Still fine?” he asked, quiet now.

You nodded once.

His eyes narrowed. “Words.”

“Yes,” you said. “Still fine.”

Then his hand covered you properly, and the sound that left you was embarrassingly soft.

He kissed your jaw, your throat, the spot below your ear, while his thumb moved slowly over your nipple through the thin fabric. Not rushed. Not sloppy. Precise enough to make your hips shift without permission.

His thigh slid between yours under the blanket, pressing up just enough to make you tense.

You broke the kiss with a shaky breath. “Law.”

“I know.”

That was the problem. He always knew.

His hand left your chest and slid down over your stomach. Slow. Warm now. His fingers traced the waistband of your shorts like he was considering the most annoying possible way to take you apart.

You grabbed his wrist. He stopped immediately. For half a second, his face went still. Careful. Too careful. Then you guided his hand lower.

“Brat,” he murmured.

“You were taking too long.”

“I was being considerate.”

“You were being evil.”

“That too.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric.

Your whole body went hot.

Law watched your face as he touched you over your panties first, slow pressure between your thighs, finding the wet warmth there. His mouth parted slightly, the smallest crack in his composure.

“You’re soaked,” he said, low.

Your face burned. “Don’t sound surprised.”

“I’m not.”

“You sound proud.”

“I am.”

You should have had a comeback. You did not. Because his fingers moved, and the blanket made everything worse. The heat. The closeness. The tiny space where every breath hit his mouth and every movement rubbed your body against his. His hand stayed steady between your thighs, stroking you through the damp fabric, watching you try not to fall apart too quickly.

“You’re quiet now,” he said.

“I hate you.”

“Mm. Of course.”

His fingers pushed your panties aside and your nails dug into his shoulder.

He exhaled once, controlled but rough, when he felt you bare. His fingers slid through you slowly, gathering slick heat before circling your clit with the kind of patience that made you want to bite him.

You buried your face against his neck.

He let you for exactly three seconds, then his free hand caught your jaw and tilted your face back. “Don’t hide.”

“You are annoying.”

“You knew that already.” His fingers circled again, a little firmer, and your hips rocked into his hand.

That made his eyes drop. There was something devastatingly hot about him like this. Still tired. Still half-dressed. Still acting like he had control while his breathing slowly betrayed him. His hair was messy from your fingers. His shirt was wrinkled. His gaze kept moving between your face and the shape of your body shifting under the blanket.

He touched you like he had all the time in the world. Like the world outside his cabin had finally shut up.

When one finger slipped inside you, your breath snapped.

Law kissed the corner of your mouth. “There?”

You nodded.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

His mouth brushed yours. “Good.”

He worked you open slowly, one finger at first, then two, his palm pressed against your clit with every shallow thrust. Not rough. Not gentle either. Intentional. The kind of touch that made your thighs tighten around his wrist.

“You’re making this difficult,” he muttered.

You laughed breathlessly. “For you?”

“For my self-control.”

Your eyes opened, and for once you caught him before he could hide it. The hunger in his face. The strain in his jaw. The way his hips had shifted closer without him seeming to notice.

“Oh,” you whispered.

“Don’t.”

“You’re turned on.”

His stare went flat. “Excellent medical deduction.”

“You’re really turned on.”

“You want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Then stop talking.”

But you felt him against your thigh now, hard and hot through his clothes, and the knowledge made your body clench around his fingers.

Law inhaled. His eyes sharpened. “You did that on purpose.”

“I didn’t.”

“Liar.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You gasped, hand flying to his shoulder, and his mouth found your throat again. He kissed you there messily now, less controlled, teeth grazing skin as his fingers kept their slow, ruthless pace.

Under the blanket, your hips moved against his hand. His palm rubbed your clit every time his fingers pushed deeper. You were hot everywhere, trapped between his body and the blanket and his voice near your ear.

“You’re close,” he said.

You hated how calm he sounded.

You hated more that he was right. “Shut up.”

“Very close.”

“Law.”

“Mm.”

A laugh broke out of you, shaky and breathless, and he kissed it straight from your mouth. His fingers moved faster then. Just enough. The angle changed, his thumb pressing directly against your clit, and your body went tight.

You grabbed his hair and he groaned, not a neat little sound. Not controlled. Low, rough, dragged out of him before he could stop it.

That was what pushed you over.

You came against his hand with your face pressed into his neck, trying to keep quiet and failing in small, broken sounds. Law held you through it, fingers slowing but not stopping too fast, his mouth at your temple, his voice low and close.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s it.”

Your whole body shuddered.

“You’re evil,” you whispered again, weaker this time.

His lips brushed your hair. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

He was quiet for a moment. His fingers slipped out of you slowly, and you felt the loss of them in a way that made your stomach twist. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you.

The exhaustion was still there, but underneath it was something rawer. Needier. Law, caught between wanting to pretend he was unaffected and being very obviously affected.

You looked down. His belt was still fastened. His shirt still buttoned. He looked unfairly composed for someone who had just ruined you with his hand. “That seems unbalanced,” you said.

His mouth twitched. “You’re recovering fast.”

“I’m talented.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re hard.”

The silence after that was deeply satisfying. Law stared at you.

You smiled.

For once, he did not have an immediate answer. Then his hand caught your waist and pulled you closer until your thigh pressed between his legs. He shut his eyes for one second, jaw flexing.

You moved against him lightly.

He sucked in a breath.

“Oh,” you said softly. “Sensitive?”

His eyes opened. “Careful.”

“No.”

“No?”

You reached down between you and worked his belt open under the blanket. Your fingers were less elegant than his, mostly because your hands were still shaking. Law watched you struggle for three seconds before looking personally offended.

“You’re going to break it.”

“I am not.”

“You’re attacking it.”

“It’s dark under here.”

“It’s a belt, not an enemy.”

“Help or shut up.”

He huffed a tired laugh and helped, undoing it with one hand like an irritating show-off. You pushed his pants open just enough to slip your hand inside.

The moment your fingers wrapped around him, his entire body went still.

He was hot in your hand, hard and heavy, and the sound he made when you stroked him once was almost silent. Almost.

You kissed his jaw. “There?”

His eyes cut to yours. “Don’t start.”

You stroked him again, slower, and his forehead dropped briefly against yours.

That shut both of you up.

The room got quiet except for breathing. Yours uneven. His controlled until it wasn’t. Your hand moved beneath the blanket, fingers sliding over him, learning what made his mouth tighten, what made his hips shift, what made his grip on your waist go almost too firm before he forced himself to ease up.

He was beautiful like this in the worst way. Still trying to hold himself together while letting you touch him. Still trying to be Law about it, even with his breath breaking against your mouth.

You kissed him softly.

He kissed back harder. His hand returned between your thighs, slick fingers finding you again, and you jolted. “You’re sensitive,” he murmured.

“I just came.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re welcome.”

You squeezed him in warning.

His smugness died immediately.

Worth it.

He groaned against your mouth, hips pushing into your hand before he could stop himself. His fingers pressed against your clit again, slower now, less calculated, more distracted. That made it hotter. Law losing precision because your hand was around his cock felt like something you should put in a museum.

A terrible museum.

For horrible people.

You moved together under the blanket, messy in a quiet way. Your hand stroking him. His fingers rubbing you. His mouth dragging over yours, then your cheek, then your throat. Neither of you fully undressed. Neither of you needed to. It felt almost more intimate like this, half-hidden and overheated, clinging to each other in the small private dark.

His voice dropped near your ear. “Can you come again?”

Your stomach clenched. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“You’re very demanding for a man I fed rice to.”

His laugh was barely there, rough and low. “Answer.”

“Yes.”

His hand changed pace.

He kissed your cheek like he was pleased with himself and too tired to pretend otherwise.

The second time built slower, deeper, your body still oversensitive from the first. He kept touching you like he knew exactly how much you could take, while your hand grew slick around him from his own precum. His breathing got worse. His jaw pressed against your temple. His hips started moving into your fist in short, restrained thrusts.

“Law,” you whispered.

His fingers stilled for half a second. Not stopped. Checked.

You nodded quickly against him. “Keep going.”

He did. Your legs tightened around his hand again. The blanket had slipped down to your hips, but neither of you cared. Your shirt was pushed up. His pants were open. Everything was too warm, too close, too much.

And still, somehow, soft.

Because his other hand was in your hair. Because his mouth kept brushing your forehead between kisses.

Because even while he was touching you like he wanted to ruin you, he held you like something precious he would rather die than name.

You came again with a broken little sound against his mouth.

This time Law followed almost immediately. His body went tense, his hand closing hard around your hip as he came into your fist with a rough, muffled groan. His face pressed into your neck, breath hot against your skin. For a few seconds, he did not move at all.

You held him through it, fingers gentle now.

His breathing slowly evened out. “Messy.”

You laughed, exhausted and warm. “That’s your first comment?”

“It’s accurate.”

“You’re romantic.”

“I’m tired.”

“You came on my hand.”

“You were involved.”

“You’re stupid.”

His mouth brushed your shoulder. “You’ve said that too.”

“And I’ll keep saying it.”

He shifted carefully, cleaned you both up with a towel from beside the bed. He was efficient about it, but his touch had gone softer. Almost shy, if Law could ever be accused of such a thing without committing murder.

When he settled back down, he pulled the blanket over you both again. You ended up against his chest, your leg tangled with his, your hand resting over his ribs. His heartbeat was slower now. Heavy. Human. He held your wrist for a while, thumb moving over the inside of it.

You thought he was asleep.

Then he murmured, “You’re still not allowed to tell anyone I cuddled you.”

“You didn’t cuddle me.”

“Good.”

“You medically restrained me under a blanket and then got me off twice.”

His chest moved with a quiet laugh. “Accurate.”

You smiled against him, boneless and warm. After a long silence, his hand slid up to the back of your head. He held you there, not tightly. Just enough.

“Thank you,” he said.

It was so quiet you almost pretended not to hear it.

You kissed the side of his throat. “Anytime, Captain.”

“Don’t call me that in bed.”

“Oh, you like it.”

“I don‘t like it.”

“You’re lying.”

He sighed, but his arm tightened around you.

Later, he woke you up with his mouth already against your neck and his hand flat on your stomach.

Not soft. Not sweet. Possessive and warm, his fingers spread under your shirt like he had been holding you there for a while and had only just decided to make it your problem.

You opened your eyes into the dark cabin.

Everything hummed low around you. The walls were thin. Too thin. Somewhere outside, metal creaked, pipes clicked, and the ship sounded alive in the worst possible way.

Law’s mouth moved against your skin. “You awake?” he murmured.

You swallowed. “No.”

His teeth grazed the side of your neck. “Liar.”

You shifted back against him just enough to feel him hard behind you.

His hand stopped moving. For one long second, neither of you breathed right, then his fingers tightened at your waist. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“I’m sleeping.”

“You’re bad at it.”

“You woke me up.”

“You moved first.”

“You were touching me first.”

His mouth brushed your ear. “I was checking your pulse.”

“At my waist?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you?”

You almost laughed, but then his hand slid lower, over your hip, dragging you back against him with enough pressure to make your breath catch.

Law heard it. His voice dropped, mean and quiet. “Careful.”

You turned your face halfway toward him. “Or what?”

That was the mistake. His hand came up and covered your mouth before you could say anything else. Firm. Just enough to remind you exactly where you were, exactly who slept outside that door, exactly how much trouble you were in.

“Or you’ll wake someone,” he murmured. “And I’ll make you explain why you can’t behave.”

Your stomach tightened hard. His eyes caught yours in the dark. “Yeah,” he said, too calm. “That’s what I thought.”

You made a muffled sound against his palm.

Law’s mouth twitched. “Still mouthy. Impressive.”

Then he moved. The blanket shifted over both of you as he slid down your body, disappearing beneath it. Heat flooded your face before his hands even reached your thighs.

“Law,” you whispered.

His answer came from under the blanket, low and dry. “Lower.”

Your fingers twisted in the sheets. “Law.”

“Better.”

His hands pushed your thighs apart, not gently, not cruelly. Just with that controlled strength that made your body obey before your pride could complain. His mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh first, slow and hot, then higher.

You grabbed the blanket. He kissed you once over the thin fabric of your panties. You jolted.

He huffed against you. “Sensitive.”

“You’re annoying.”

His fingers hooked into the waistband and dragged it down just enough. “Still talking.” Then his mouth was on you.

Your head fell back into the pillow, breath breaking immediately.

He did not ease into it. He ate you out like he had woken up starving and decided manners were a disease. His hands gripped your thighs under the blanket, holding you open while his tongue dragged through you slow, then deep, then mean. He was quiet about it except for the low sound in his throat when he tasted how wet you were.

The sound alone almost ruined you, so you bit your knuckle.

One hand left your thigh and pushed your wrist away. His fingers laced with yours instead, pinning your hand beside your hip under the blanket.

“No hiding,” he murmured against you.

“Then let me be loud.”

His mouth paused. The silence under the blanket felt dangerous. Then he gave a low, humorless laugh.

“You really want to embarrass yourself that badly?”

Your whole body burned.

He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth returned to you, hotter, wetter, filthier. His tongue circled your clit with awful patience before he sucked lightly, just enough to make your hips jerk into his face.

His grip turned bruising. “Don’t move.”

“You’re under the blanket eating me out,” you whispered, breathless. “And you’re giving orders?”

His eyes flicked up from between your thighs. Even in the dark, you felt that stare.

“Yes.”

Then he lowered his mouth again and made you regret being funny.

You were close too fast. Embarrassingly fast. It climbed sharp and hot through your stomach, your legs shaking around his shoulders, your fingers gripping his hair beneath the blanket. He groaned when you pulled, and the vibration went straight through you.

“Law—”

Voices passed outside.

Both of you froze. You stopped breathing. Law went still between your legs, mouth still close enough that you could feel every exhale against your soaked skin.

Two crew members walked past the door, speaking quietly. Too close. Too awake.

You stared at the ceiling, one hand clamped over your own mouth.

Under the blanket, Law’s fingers dug into your thighs.

The voices slowed. For one horrible second, you thought they would stop. Then the footsteps continued down the corridor. Their voices faded. The ship hummed again. Silence settled.

Law did not move for another few seconds, then his mouth pressed one slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.

You whispered, shaky and furious, “You didn’t let me finish.”

He emerged from under the blanket just enough for you to see his face. His mouth was wet. His hair was a mess. His eyes were dark in that flat, devastating way that made him look meaner than he actually was.

“I wasn’t trying to make you finish.”

Your brain stalled. “Huh?”

His hand slid up your thigh. “I wanted to taste you.”

You stared at him. He looked completely serious.

“Do you ever hear yourself?”

“Unfortunately.”

“You’re disgusting.”

His mouth curved faintly. “You’re wet.”

You had no response ready for that. He kissed your stomach once, over your shirt, then climbed over you with an efficiency that should not have been attractive. His hand caught your hip.

“Turn over.”

Your pulse jumped. “Ask nicely.”

Law’s eyes narrowed. Then he leaned in, mouth beside your ear. “Turn over before I decide you don’t get to come at all.”

You huffed and turned. Fast enough that you heard him exhale a quiet laugh behind you.

“Asshole.”

“I’m about to fuck you into the mattress and you’re still insulting me.”

“You started it.”

“I’m going to finish it.”

He pushed you flat onto your stomach, hand between your shoulder blades, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to keep you there. Your legs were pressed together beneath him, thighs tight, body stretched out under the blanket. He straddled them from behind, knees bracketing your legs, trapping you in place with his weight.

The position made you feel pinned before he even touched you.

It made you quiet.

Law noticed that too. His palm slid down your spine, slow, possessive. “There,” he murmured. “Finally learned something.”

You turned your face into the pillow. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His hand slid beneath you, finding you between your pressed thighs. He felt how wet you still were from his mouth and went still for a second.

Then his voice dropped. “Still dripping.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Stop talking.”

“No.”

He leaned over you, chest against your back, and his arm slid around your throat, forearm firm across your upper chest and collarbone, hand gripping your shoulder, holding you exactly where he wanted you. Your breath hitched anyway.

Law’s mouth brushed your ear. “Tap twice if it’s too much.”

Your hand found his wrist. You tapped once just to be annoying.

He went still, then you dragged his arm tighter around you. “Bad idea,” he whispered.

“Then stop.”

He did not. His other hand disappeared between you, belt shifting, fabric dragged down just enough. You felt him press against you from behind, hard and hot, sliding between your thighs first, coating himself in how wet you were.

Your fingers curled into the sheet. “Law.”

His hand came over your mouth again. “Quiet.”

Then he pushed in.

The angle stole your breath.

Because your legs were together, because he had you pinned flat, because he was above you and around you and everywhere, he felt deeper than before. Tighter. Hotter. You made a broken sound into his palm and his arm locked more firmly across your chest.

He stopped halfway in, forehead dropping against the back of your head. “Fuck,” he breathed, so low it barely had sound.

You clenched around him. His hand tightened over your mouth.

“Don’t.”

So you did it again.

Law went silent, then laughed once, dark and breathless.

“You really are asking for it.”

He drove in the rest of the way. Your body jolted under him, trapped between his chest and the mattress. His hand swallowed the sound you made. The blanket hid the movement, held in the heat, made every thrust feel secret and filthy and too close.

He didn’t fuck you fast at first.

He fucked you hard.

Slow, deep, punishing thrusts that made your thighs tremble together under his weight. His arm stayed around your throat, holding you up just enough that your back arched beneath him. His mouth hovered near your ear, breath rougher than he probably wanted it to be.

“There,” he murmured. “That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?”

You nodded against his hand.

His hips snapped forward again. “Of course it was.”

Your eyes rolled shut.

“Look at you,” he said, voice low and mean. “Couldn’t stay quiet from my mouth, and now you’re trying to take this without waking half the ship.”

You whimpered into his palm.

He slowed just to make it worse. “That was not quiet.”

You bit lightly at his hand.

His rhythm faltered. Barely.

But you felt it.

Law’s mouth pressed to your temple. “Careful,” he whispered. “I’m already being nice.”

You almost laughed. It came out as a muffled sob when he started moving again, rougher now, hips grinding deep every time he buried himself inside you. The pressure of your legs together made everything tighter, every stroke dragging against your clit through the way he had you pinned.

It was unbearable.

He knew. He had to know. His hand slipped from your mouth only long enough to catch your jaw and turn your face slightly.

“Breathe.”

You dragged in air.

“Good.” Then his palm covered your mouth again. It should not have been sweet. It wasn’t, not really. But there was something in the way he kept checking, kept holding you together while taking you apart, that made your chest ache under all the heat.

Law’s voice roughened near your ear. “You can take it.”

Your nails dug into his wrist.

“You can,” he repeated. “You’re doing it.” A hard thrust made your whole body jolt. “Quietly.” You made a desperate noise into his palm. His breath shook. “Mostly.”

That almost ruined you. The dry little correction. His voice half-wrecked, still somehow sarcastic while fucking you into the mattress under a blanket with people sleeping down the corridor.

You pushed back against him as much as you could.

Law’s grip turned rough. “Greedy.”

You nodded.

“Yeah?” His mouth brushed your ear. “That all you wanted? Me pinning you down so you’d finally stop pretending you don’t like being handled?”

Your body clenched hard around him.

He cursed under his breath. “Thought so.”

His thrusts got rougher then. Less patient. His chest stayed pressed to your back, his arm around your throat, his hand over your mouth. You were completely trapped under him, legs together, body pinned flat, taking every deep stroke while the bed barely creaked beneath the blanket.

He was trying to keep it quiet.

That made it hotter, because you felt how much effort it took him. The strain in his arm. The way his breathing kept catching. The way his hips wanted to move faster but he forced them into deep, controlled thrusts instead.

“You’re close,” he said.

You nodded quickly. His hand slid from your mouth to your throat for half a second, just to hold your jaw, to keep your face turned enough that he could see you.

“Not loud.”

You swallowed. “Then don’t make me come.”

His eyes darkened. Wrong answer. His hand returned to your mouth, and his other arm tightened across your chest.

“I told you,” he murmured. “Brat.”

Then his hips changed angle.

Your whole body went rigid.

He had found exactly the spot he wanted, and because he was Law, because he was cruel when he was right, he kept hitting it. Again. And again. Deep and rough and controlled, his mouth at your ear, talking you through every second like he could feel your mind slipping apart under him.

“There. That’s it.”

You shook beneath him.

“Don’t fight it.”

Your fingers clawed at the sheet.

“Just stay quiet.”

You came with his hand clamped over your mouth and his arm locked around you, the orgasm tearing through you hard enough that your body tried to curl under his. He held you down through it. Kept you flat. Kept fucking you while you pulsed around him, every sound trapped against his palm.

Law groaned into your shoulder. Not quiet enough. Not nearly as composed as he wanted to be.

You heard it and clenched again, that made hips stutter.

“Don’t,” he rasped.

You did. His control snapped in a way you felt more than saw. His thrusts turned shorter, harder, less even. His face buried against your neck, teeth grazing your skin, breath hot and broken. “You’re unbearable,” he muttered.

You made a muffled sound that might have been a laugh.

His hand pressed more firmly over your mouth. “Still not funny.”

It was absolutely funny.

Then he drove into you deep and stayed there, his whole body tensing over yours as he came with a rough, smothered sound against your shoulder. His arm around your throat held you close while he shook twice, breathing harshly into your skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The cabin was silent except for both of you trying to remember how to breathe like normal people.

Then another set of footsteps passed outside.

He froze instantly. So did you. His hand was still over your mouth. He was still inside you. The footsteps paused.

Your eyes went wide. Law slowly turned his head toward the door, expression murderous in the dark.

Someone outside yawned, then kept walking. The footsteps faded.

You started shaking beneath him. Not from fear. From trying not to laugh.

Law’s hand tightened over your mouth, but his own breath hitched once near your ear. “Do not,” he whispered.

You shook harder.

He pulled out slowly, and you both winced. He cleaned you up with infuriating efficiency, still under the blanket, still half-dressed, still trying to look like he had not just lost several pieces of his sanity. Then he dragged you back against him, your back to his chest, his arm around your waist this time.

Much safer. Much less threatening. Still possessive.

You whispered, “You didn’t make me explain.”

His mouth brushed the back of your neck. “Next time.”

Your stomach flipped. “You covered my mouth.”

“And you still almost got us caught.”

You smiled into the pillow. Law exhaled slowly behind you, then pressed one quiet kiss to your shoulder. Soft enough to make the whole thing worse. After a moment, he muttered, “You okay?”

You reached back and touched his wrist. “Yeah.”

His fingers laced with yours. “Good.”

Morning on the ship was usually quiet in a way that felt medical. Dim lights. Low engine hum. People speaking in tired voices because being loud before coffee was how accidents happened.

Law walked into the galley looking like death had filed a complaint against him and lost. Hat on. Shirt buttoned. Face blank.

Completely normal.

You were already at the table with your cup in both hands, trying to look like a person who had slept. You had not. Not properly. Your legs still felt suspicious. Your throat had one spot that made you want to slap him and kiss him every time you swallowed.

Law did not look at you first. That was how you knew he was looking at you.

Bepo was making breakfast with too much cheer for the hour. Shachi and Penguin were half-dead over their plates. Ikkaku was reading something and pretending she was not watching the room with deeply feminine intuition.

Law sat across from you. Calmly. Like he had not had his hand over your mouth a few hours ago because you were both idiots in a submarine full of people with ears.

“Morning, Captain,” Penguin mumbled.

“Morning,” Law said. His voice was normal.

Terrible man.

You lifted your cup to hide your mouth.

Law reached for the coffee pot, then stopped. Just for half a second. Barely anything. His fingers flexed around the handle.

You noticed because you were a bad person. A ruined person. A person with evidence.

His hand was close to his face, and he had smelled it. Not strongly. Not obviously. Just enough.

His eyes went flat.

Oh.

Oh no.

You looked down into your cup so fast your neck nearly cracked.

Law poured his coffee with terrifying precision.

You were going to die.

Not from shame. From trying not to laugh.

He set the pot down. His thumb brushed once over his index finger, like he was trying to decide whether his own hand was guilty of a crime.

It was.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Across the table, Law’s gaze flicked to you. Sharp. Warning.

You widened your eyes innocently.

His jaw tightened. That was when it got worse. He took a sip of coffee. Then his chin dipped slightly, and the faint shadow of his beard brushed the rim of the mug.

His whole face changed by exactly nothing.

But you saw it.

He smelled you there too. On his own skin. From last night. From under the blanket. From the way he had buried his face between your thighs and then still had the nerve to act like breakfast was a normal social event.

His eyelids lowered for one second.

He stared into his coffee like it had personally betrayed him.

Your shoulders started shaking.

Law looked up slowly. “Something funny?”

“No.”

Your voice was too high.

Shachi looked at you. “You okay?”

You nodded quickly. “Coffee went down wrong.”

“You didn’t drink any.”

“Emotionally.”

Ikkaku’s eyes lifted from her page.

Law’s stare could have amputated you.

Bepo turned around with a plate. “Captain, do you want eggs?”

Law did not answer immediately. Because he had moved his hand again. Because his fingers were near his mouth. Because, apparently, his own body had decided to spend the morning reminding him exactly what you tasted like. His nostrils flared once. Very slightly.

You pressed your lips together so hard it hurt.

Law shut his eyes for half a second. He looked like a man trying to survive war.

“Captain?” Bepo asked, worried.

Law opened his eyes. “No eggs.”

Bepo’s ears drooped. “Oh. Sorry.”

Law’s face softened by a millimeter. “It’s fine. Rice.”

“Okay!”

You watched him pick up his mug again. His hand was steady. His face was blank. His control was flawless. Except his ears were faintly red.

You placed your cup down very carefully.

He looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you said anything. Then you smiled.

His expression turned dangerous.

Under the table, his boot nudged your ankle.

A warning.

You nudged him back.

A mistake.

His eyes sharpened. You looked away first because you were not suicidal before noon.

Penguin squinted between you both. “Why is it weird in here?”

“It’s always weird in here,” Shachi said into his plate.

“No, this is different.”

“It’s your face.”

“My face isn’t weird.”

“It’s morning. Everyone’s face is weird.”

You made the mistake of glancing at Law again. He was staring at his rice like the entire concept of appetite had become complicated.

You knew exactly why.

You imagined him trying to eat breakfast while still smelling you on his chin, still catching it on his fingers every time he moved, still pretending that it was not making him think about throwing the whole tray across the room and dragging you back to his cabin.

He would rather be executed than admit it.

That made it so much better.

You took pity on him. Mostly. You leaned forward slightly and said, very casually, “Captain?”

His eyes lifted. “What?”

“You have something on your face.”

Law’s stare went black. Ikkaku slowly lowered her page. Bepo turned around. “Where?” Bepo asked, deeply concerned.

Law did not move. You reached across the table before he could stop you, thumb brushing lightly over the edge of his chin.

His skin was warm. His eyes did not leave yours. The whole room narrowed around that tiny touch.

You pulled your hand back and looked at your thumb. Nothing there. “Nevermind.”

Law’s expression stayed perfectly blank. Too blank.

He was going to kill you.

Penguin blinked. “What was it?”

“Nothing,” Law said. His voice was calm enough to be a medical threat.

You took another sip of coffee. This time you could not stop the smile.

Law leaned back in his chair, one hand around his mug, the other resting on the table. His fingers flexed once.

Still guilty. Still remembering. Still pretending. Then he said, without looking away from you, “You’re assigned to inventory after breakfast.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“Medical inventory.”

“That’s not my job.”

“It is today.”

“That sounds personal.”

“It’s organizational.”

Shachi pointed his spoon at you. “You should never question medical inventory. That’s how he gets mean.”

You looked at Law. Law looked back.

There was no expression on his face.

None.

Except his eyes said very clearly: Keep laughing and I’ll give you something to be quiet about later.

Your stomach flipped. Unfortunately, your mouth was still alive. “Do I need gloves?”

Law’s hand stopped around his mug. Ikkaku made a tiny sound and hid behind her page. Penguin frowned. “For inventory?”

You looked at Law with the innocence of a war criminal. “Just asking.”

Law stood. Very calmly. Pushed his chair in. Very calmly. Picked up his tray. Very calmly. Then he leaned down as he passed behind you, close enough that only you heard him.

“You are going to be quiet when I deal with you.”

Your smile vanished so fast it was humiliating.

There you are. I knew you would stay.

The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

𝘙𝘦𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘧𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵. 𝘋𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘱𝘺, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵, 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮, 𝘰𝘳 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘐.

You stepped through with a curious smile. A room of reminders dolled out in punishment. In hung the criminal thinking she could trick with magic that wasn’t hers. Your smile grew at her writhing in the restraints. Hog tied in the air, wrapped in a skin-tight black latex that covered every single inch of her except for three very important areas. 

Small weights already dangled from clamps attached to her bared nipples. 

A large plug was already pressed into her asshole.

And you walked up as the demon initiating the punishment manifested behind her. He stood twice your size, let alone the human’s. Large red wings spread out from his back as he approached. The soft whining through the latex suit came with desperate breaths through tiny nose holes. His cock was the size of her forearm. Already hard and leaking.

You hummed, the sounds of your shoes clacking against the black tile floor. She was shaking uncontrollably. It was a cruel punishment, you knew, but it’s what she wanted. Pleasure in the dark arts. You lifted your hand and ran it over her wet cunt. Sopping wet. She jolted, but there was nowhere for her to go. Everything held her entirely immobile. She was just a hole to play with and a clit to tease.

“My friend here is going to give you what you want, sweet human,” you teased, tilting your head to watch as you parted her folds. There. You pulled the hood back on her clit and rubbed. She tensed; the weights swung and tugged on her nipples. “It’s a unique experience. His cum is so powerful, it’ll break your feeble mind. You will want and want and want and crave to serve his every whim and need.” You flicked her clit hard, and she shrieked. “Unfortunately, it’s a trade-off.”

You hummed again, and went back to light, lazy circles on her clit. Her pussy clenched and dripped down onto the floor. She started shaking. Kinky whore. She could’ve already cum like that. This was exactly what she wanted. Tenfold.

“You do not get to cum until he does. It’s a binding contract the second his cock touches you.” You felt her jerk as hard as she could in the restraints. “And he takes quite a while to cum. Days.”

He stepped closer. His steps were loud. Unignorable. He fisted his cock slowly with each step, and the bead of precum at the tip glistened. You flicked her clit again. 

“You’re his now,” you said, stepping back to let him stand between her legs. A cycle of endless fucking. A mindbreaking desperation to cum after days of forced edging. Being flushed with his seed right as she finally breaks apart in pure ecstasy. Then it begins again, the craving, the need, without a thought to permeate. She was just a thing for him. Until he grew bored of fucking her. “Go ahead.”

You stepped back. Her little restrained movements were pathetic. The rope would never give. The suit was magically bound. You could hear the muffled begging and apologies spilling out of her mouth. They were pointless. You stood with a satisfied smile when he grabbed her hips and pressed his tip to her cunt. One touch, and she made a choked, wanton sound. He rubbed his tip over her, spreading his precum from entrance to clit. And then he pressed his hips up, and filled her.

Wet, rough, deep grunts, groans, and pure sin echoed in the cell.

His balls slapped her clit with every thrust. The weights bounced and tugged and swayed, torturing her sensitive nipples. His cock stretched her pussy wide and rubbed against the plug he pushed down on with his thumbs, keeping it neatly secure in her ass. He’d breed her for weeks on end. Months. You could see the glint in his eyes. He liked this one. He’d keep her for a while.

Poor thing. At least she got to cum. There were rooms around her where they were strapped and plugged, played with and teased, only to have their throats and asses used for pleasure but never for their own. You stepped back, hand reaching for the door. You needed to step into one of those rooms. It’d been a while since you’d checked on them.

“Have fun,” you mused, listening to the wet thrusts get harder; rougher; faster.

You’d send an assistant in later to lick and play with her clit for extra torment.

The man’s head is covered with a black bag. Naked. Bound immobile to a chair with padlocks on his ankle, wrist, and throat cuffs. A timer with big, bold red numbers ticks higher and higher and higher behind him. His cock’s hard and leaking. A single gloved hand reaches in from off screen with a feather, and brushes it over the man’s erection.

His reaction is visceral. Everyone knows it before it happens. He jolts and shouts, slams his head back and his cock twitches painfully. Precum leaks out of it and dribbles down the side. The gloved hand continues to run the very edge of the feather over his erection. Again and again. The timer ticks higher. The man lurches and moans, grunting, squirming. He tries to pull away, but he’s got nowhere to go.

“F-Fuck. No. No. N–”

His hips jerk up, and the hand pulls the feather away. The man shouts as he cums on himself. Hard. Viscerally. It tears through him with hard gasps and pleasurable sobs while he tries to hump the air. The timer behind him blinks. 3:45:30. He lasted longer than most. Most didn’t make it past an hour after the injection. But the goal is four full hours like that, and you’d win their game. A supposed $1,000,000.00 in cash. Nobody had won yet.

You sit back in your chair as the last few seconds of the video played out of him just quietly cursing between heavy breaths. Someone else who thought they could beat it. Someone who jolts when the promise is kept. The bag is pulled off of their head for the very single final second, flashing their shame to the world. 

You tap the description of the video. It was always the same.

Contestant #382. Play our game. One injection. Four hours. Naked. On camera. You’ll walk away with a clean million. But if you cum and fail, you’ll be revealed to the world. 

A sigh falls out of you. It has millions of views already. And before you can click off, the autoplay starts the next. It has even more. Tens of millions of views racked up, and you know exactly why. Contestant #219. 

It’s a slightly different format depending on the contestant. Sometimes, they’re livestreamed. Sometimes, it’s a full multi-hour-long video. Sometimes, they’re chopped up for easy viewing. Hers isn’t. It shows the masked, gloved person stepping into frame to inject her inner thigh with the venom they have to survive. And right as it plunges into her, the timer starts. She starts. There’s no fight in her–it hits her like a truck, and she weeps.

She lasts ten minutes. Right when they bring the feather out for the first time. Your guess is the bag is sheer enough from the inside to see out of because she reacts before they touch her. 

“No.” She shakes her head violently, writhing more than she already is. “No, please. I can’t. I can’t.”

But the gloved person still reaches for her. She has nowhere to go, and pulls hard on the restraints when they spread her pussy and pull the hood back from her clit. One brush of the feather, and she screams. It almost sounds like it hurts. Maybe it does. Whatever they give the contestants drives them mad with what most viewers assume is some sort of lust.

“No, no, no,” she screams. 

They turn the feather and rub the very tip over her clit.

Her thighs quiver violently. 

“I can’t. I can’t. I can’t win. Please. Please, make it stop. Make it stop!”

The magic words. Why some videos get so many more views on top of the already fucked up attempts. Someone pulls the bag off of her head, and takes her by her hair. She has to face the camera as the feather is set aside and more hands come into frame. Reminding the viewers that a whole team runs this show.

Fingers rub at her clit. They pinch her nipples. They press into her pussy and asshole. All in quick succession. Thrusting. Rubbing. Mascara-stained tears stream down her cheeks while her pretty face contorts. She lasts seconds. Not even.

She squirts onto the floor beneath her, thrashing in the restraints. Thanking them. Profusely. The video cuts with her collapsed limp, smiling, twitching as lingering waves of pleasure hit her even after the hands pull away. 

You only briefly glimpse at the comments. They’re all the same.

Whore fucking loved that, holy shit. 

Why stop with just one? Bet she’d stay there forever. Think if you kept giving them injections they’d just get stuck in a cycle?

God, I watch this video when I get off every day. Twice. I wish that were me. I’d do this if you plucked me up for a video. 

Touching myself right now–not sure if I wanna be her or one of the ones doing it to her. If you’re hiring, call me. 

The next video starts. Contestant #249. A man. Another short one. The same thing. You fast forward a few seconds, and there he is, begging. The feather is traded, and in come the hands. They pinch his nipples, hold him by his hair, slide into his asshole, and jerk him off. He grunts and shudders hard when he cums at the 23:30 minute mark.

God, he didn’t even try. Look at that. 

Holy fuck, he’s hot. They need to make them cum repeatedly. Come on.

Think they should inject them continuously. That’d be fun. Imagine failing that and having to get jerked off until the IV runs out.

When is it going to be my turn? Fuck. 

The comments against the videos always get drowned out or just deleted. The only place you can find them is off of the actual videos. You try. But it’s impossible to keep up with. The people in them are consenting. The websites they’re on allow the content. For all intents and purposes, it’s just…there. And people fucking love it.

You click off the video right as an alert pops up. A new headline. It takes you from the video page over to their community tab with a brand new video linked.

What…?

New form. New deal. New challenges. 

Watch now. 

You click the link, and it brings you to the only time you’ve ever seen one of their videos with less than a thousand views. But the number already climbs. It autoplays, and opens up to a woman tied up to a chair naked, head bagged, wrists over her head and knees back. She’s injected at her thigh, and a prompt showed up at the bottom of the screen.

Challenge 1: Nipple Play. 30 seconds.

Option A: Clamps - Continuous +$50.00

Option B: Vibrating Clamps +$70.00

Options C: Sucking and Pinching +$100.00

If a single sound is made, all money earned is lost. 

She stutters out a single letter. A.

Hands reach in with metal clamps, and she yanks hard on the restraints as they close around her hard nipples. But…she doesn’t make a sound.

A red sign behind her tallies up the money. $50.00. 

Challenge #2: Clit Play. 30 seconds. 

Option A: Feather +$50.00

Option B: Finger +$90.00

Option C: Tongue +$110.00

Option D: Vibrator +$200.00.

If orgasm is reached, no money is earned. 

She stutters again. “A.”

A hard buzzer echoes out in the room. 

Cannot pick the same letter as the previous challenges until each letter has been picked once. 

The woman whines, but they don’t deduct any money. And she shakes her head a few times, but gives in. She sputters out a quiet B. 

A masked person comes into frame and kneels in front of her. They press a button on a remote, and a timer on the other side of the counted money earned begins. They rub light circles over her clit, and she jolts with a loud, pleading moan. They don’t stop. She shakes, and shakes, and starts shaking her head. They still don’t stop.

It’s the longest thirty seconds you’ve ever watched.

But she comes out of it with curled toes and an added $90.00.

Challenge #3: Internal Stimulation - Vaginal. 60 Seconds.

Option A: Nothing -$30.00

Option B: Finger +$90.00

Option C: Tongue +$100.00

Option D: Vibrator +$200.00

If orgasm is reached, no money is earned.

The woman whines, nods, and barely gets the letter out. 

“C.”

A woman masked from the nose up crawls in on screen. She runs her hands along the contestant’s inner thighs before dropping her mouth down to her cunt. She angles her head for the cameras, and the angles suddenly shift, showing multiple of her pressing her tongue into the contestant’s pussy. It’s wet and sloppy; loud and obscene. The contestant lurches and outright sobs, her hips–without being restrained–free to rock and twitch. They press up toward the woman tongue-fucking her, and the contestant starts to shudder.

“No, no, no, no, no.” Her toes curl. Yours do, too. 

The time reaches sixty seconds. The contestant is at the edge–it’s fucking obvious. You feel it down in yourself as you sit there. You didn’t blink once.

Challenge #4: Clit Play and Internal Stimulation - Anal. 60 Seconds. 

Option A: Nothing -$150.00

Option B: Finger - Both +$90.00

Option C: Tongue - Both +$100.00

Option D: Vibrator - Clit / Finger - Anal +$220.00

Option E: Clit - Numbing Cream / Tongue and Fingers - Anal +$250.00

If orgasm is reached, no money is earned. Game ends. 

It’s a fucking set-up. You blow out a long breath as you process the same thing the contestant–and everyone else watching–does. You play to humiliate yourself on screen for everyone watching and for the chance for some money. Your thighs press together beneath your desk, and you lean in, watching the contestant shake her head. A heat builds underneath your clothes; they feel sticky with sweat.

“E….” She forces out.

Hands come into frame. The same woman from earlier comes up and doesn’t wait. She dives her tongue toward the woman’s asshole, lapping at it like she’s getting paid handsomely to do it. She probably is. The contestant writhes and moans, yanking on the restraints on her wrists.

Right as another comes on screen. They scoop up something out of a small container. It’s clear like lube, and your heart skips. They pull back the hood of the contestant’s clit, and gently rub it over her clit. She screams at first, her hips jutting up from the contact. It’s sinful, the sounds leaving her, and she tries to kick her feet, but they’re firmly restrained. The woman trades her tongue for a finger and slips it into her asshole, moving aside for the camera to get a good view, right as what you can assume is that special cream kicks in.

The contestant makes a strangled sound. She’s panting, whining, looking down at herself. The gloved hand still rubs her clit. Faster. Harder. Showing her what she can’t feel anymore. 

The hand retreats. 

The sixty seconds finishes.

Challenge #5: Internal Stimulation - Vaginal. 5-20 Minutes.

Option A: Fingers - 10 minutes +$100.00

Option B: Tongue - 20 minutes +$150.00

Option C: Vibrator - 5 minutes +$200.00

Option D: Strap - 20 minutes +$250.00

Option E: Cock (w/Condom) - 20 minutes +$250.00

If orgasm is reached OR if any sound is made, no money is earned. Game over. 

The contestant moans, throwing her head back. She shakes her head, but there’s no pause. There’s no premature ending. She breathes out a sob before answering. 

“D.”

The woman from earlier returns wearing nothing but a thick, pink strap on. Lubed up. It vibrates. The contestant shivers shudders out another breath. Just like that, the camera angles switch again. The strap is pressed up to the contestant’s pussy. With a click of the button, the timer resets, and the strap slides in. Vibrating. 

The woman fucks the contestant slow and deep.

She makes it to the twelve minute mark before something snaps. She shakes her head frantically, rocking her hips with every thrust she’s given. The camera captures every dirty angle there is for everyone watching to see.

“I-I can’t. I need…I need to…. Please. Please. Take it off. T-The cream…I can’t do this. I can’t. I need to…I’m so fucking close. I can’t. Can’t. Can’t bear it. Please. Please!”

“What?” the woman fucking her asks. “You want some attention here? Is that it?”

She rubs the contestant’s clit, and a broken sob breaks out. 

“What?” the woman mocks. “I’m giving it to you. Can’t you feel it? Isn’t this what you wanted? Here, how about this?” She reaches off screen. She comes back with a magic wand. It clicks on. “Can you feel this?”

She presses the strap in deep, and presses the wand to the contestant’s clit. She jolts. Something, there’s something she can feel. And your hand drops below your desk. It moves on its own as you watch the contestant thrash, fucking herself on the strap with what few inches she can move. 

The game’s already over.

The woman wiggles the wand.

The contestant thrashes again, and the woman pulls out and steps back, leaving her gaping and empty. Gasping. Right on that unsatisfied edge.

Failure. Game over. It blinks across the lower screen. Money Earned: $740.00 + $5,000.00 sign on.

Someone steps on screen and spritz someone onto the woman’s cunt.

Redemption Challenge: $1,000.00 and Orgasm Allowed. Anal Sex. Until Completion.

The woman moans. A gloved finger brushes over her clit, and she shrieks.

“Yes,” she cracks out. 

It only takes a second for someone to step on screen in all black, masked, their cock out. They already have a condom on and are lubed up. The camera angles shift again, giving the best view as he slowly gives her his cock, and her back arches up. The bag is pulled off of her head when he gets balls deep. Her eyes flutter shut and roll back, and someone steps next to her.

The man pulls out and thrusts into her–hard. Right as she moans, the other person drops their fingers to her. Bares her clit and rubs it.

It devolves in seconds. She arches off the table with a primal, hungry, pleading sound. The thrusts get harder and deeper; faster. Your hand moves faster and tears well up. Your toes curl. You don’t blink. You don’t do anything except feel heat rush through you with a mild peak compared to the woman squirting on screen. It’s visceral and addictive; a drug-like euphoria washing over her as it’s milked out of her for long, vicious seconds that draws out beyond yours. Leaving you a pulsing mess while she still cums.

The man stills deep, grunting softly as he cums.

They pat the contestant’s pussy with wet taps.

He pulls out and sets the used condom on her stomach.

$6740.00 total earned. 

Sign up now using the link below to be vetted, and you can be our next contestant. The longer you last, the more money you make. What’s easier? $1,000,000.00 edging, or whatever your limits lets you win?

You slump back in your chair and finally breathe.

“Fuck.”

You’re no better than the climbing number of views.

Your cursor hovers over the link.

Could it actually be that intense…?

No. No. You slam your laptop shut. You won’t do it. Won’t be unmasked like that on camera for someone who knows you to see. You won’t. You won’t.

You chew your bottom lip.