Dear Lord, when I get to heaven

“You have to go?” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” he whispered apologetically, his warm hand brushing the hair out of your eyes. “I have to go.” 

With a quiet sigh, you turned into his hand, kissed his palm, his wrist. Protectively pressing love into old scars. “Be safe.” 

“For you? Always,” Frank swore. Gruff, resolved. 

You hummed, smiled small and sleepy as he stroked your cheek with rough knuckles. “Go back to sleep, hm?” 

With that, he slipped away, and so did the rest of the world as you fell easily back into slumber.

˙⋆✮⋆˚࿔:

At first, in your foggy half-asleep haze, you think you’re dreaming of him. Like you so often do when his side of the bed has been cold for days. When you’ve slipped between the covers each night, donning the lacy tank top you picked out together just for certain nights, a pillow wedged beneath your hips. 

A signal, a desire silently communicated, to take without explicit permission.

Even upon waking to sunlight and snowfall, untouched by rough hands, without bruises left by deft fingers, it felt good anyway. 

It felt like trust. It felt like giving yourself to him completely–even when you hadn’t given him anything at all. 

So, after many mornings like that–left without the aching reminders of capable hands, solid muscle, a fullness that made you feel whole–you thought you were dreaming. 

But those sounds aren’t echos of hushed goodbyes under cover of early morning shadows. Those touches, they aren’t apologetic, tender. They aren’t trying to commit your every detail to memory for safe keeping.

Instead, they’re tangible, desperate, unrestrained. The touch of a man starved. 

“Fuck,” a low voice grunts, rough with the vowel all stretched out. 

A familiar feeling follows: fullness.

It’s like someone has dumped ice water on your head, shone a very bright light in your eyes. Adrenaline spike causing the dark room to come into blaring focus, a survival response initiated as you gasp and shoot up in bed. Almost like a Very pistol shot off in the dense wilderness, illuminating everything in a bright red glow. 

Your heart pounds, blood pumping, awake enough now to really feel the stretch. The space between your legs filled. Your chest flares with anxiety, but–

Deft hands–and unintentionally, insistent hips which keep you pinned to the mattress–are quick to rub reassuring patterns into your back, between your exposed shoulder blades.

“Sh, sh, sh, hey,” he whispers. “Hey–s’just me.” 

That well-known timbre–like a shot of diazepam injected straight into your bloodstream–instantly loosens your shoulders as you sigh and drop your head back onto the pillow.

“Frank,” you whine, pussy aching and so fucking wet as you blindly reach back in search of his hand. 

When he interlocks your fingers your relief is palpable–all the worry and fear you’ve held for him this week, gathered like a tight knot in your chest, loosens with a single touch.

“Just me,” he repeats as his hips begin to roll, eliciting a low moan from your throat. “There ya go…”

You hone in on that feeling: his hands roaming over your smooth skin, his cock stuffed snugly inside of you. The resulting hot pleasure that drips into your gut, rolling through your body in waves, like the wall of heat erupting from an oven ajar. 

Sticky warmth coats your thighs, soiling the pillow that tilts your hips toward him for the easiest access. Allowing him to fuck you from behind, his hand falling away from yours to grip your thigh where its hiked up over rumpled sheets. 

All the predictable noise of the city–honking taxi’s, indecipherable shouting, late-night laughter–drowned out by his homecoming. The outside world nullified by the sensations that hold you captive, like a prisoner with Stockholm Syndrome.

“Missed you,” you sigh, the words pushed out of you by the hypnotic rhythm of his hips. 

“So much,” Frank confesses through a groan, his hands shifting to clutch your waist harshly. Hope sparks like a fire–a hope to find a garden of bruises blooming there tomorrow, in vibrant hues of green and yellow, perhaps some blue and purple. 

High on the surprise, the sleepiness, the slick sounds of his dick sliding home, delirious laughter bubbles up your chest, morphing into a moan. 

Frank chuckles darkly. “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” you affirm wantonly. 

Though the question isn’t fully formed, you both know what he means: Feel good? Your answer is a confirmation of a shared feeling. 

The rush of the initial shock is half the fun. Waking to feel him inside of you is invigorating, exhilarating as the first time you fucked–the both of you bloody and high on adrenaline after Frank effortlessly and brutally picked off the team of mercenaries hired to kill you. 

A feeling to relish as this specific indulgence of yours is rare. The initial thrill is a high for the pair of you, but you’ve heard the way he groans, and felt the way he pounds into you when you settle once you know it’s him whose fucking your unconscious form. 

That you trust him enough to use your body like this–that’s his favourite part. 

Sighing as his balls slap against your flushed skin on a particularly rough thrust, Frank’s dull nails bite into the unmarred flesh of your hips. The sigh melts into a yawn, and Frank must notice because he leans down, his plush lips brushing the shell of your ear. 

The sensation coupled with the anticipation for his almost certain snide remark at your apparent sleepiness induces the shivers. Frank’s hand glides over your shoulder, like he’s trying to warm you up.

“Y’wanna go back to sleep f’me, sweetheart?” 

His voice is as deep and dark as the night, rumbling sensually through his chest like the engine of a sports car. It’s not just the quality of his voice, but the content of his question, that warms your cheeks. A hushed and surprising inquiry that sends your heart aflutter. 

Go back to sleep for him. So he can revel in the warmth and pliability of your body. How it yields to him even in sleep–especially in sleep. When your body is here in your shared bed, beneath him, being used by him, and your mind is elsewhere–a thousand miles away in dreamland. “Or y’want me to give ‘er what she needs first?” 

After over a week, your man is finally fucking home, and he’s finally fucking you. His weight pressing you into the bed, trapping you beneath almost 200 pounds of muscle. His cock, his fingers, his mouth–all eager to please, to touch, to thrust until you’re dizzy with it. 

He’s offering to make you cum. You’d be fucked in the head to choose sleep over a week-overdue mind-numbing orgasm. 

But you have to admit, sleep tugs at you after a week’s worth of sleepless nights spent worrying, your eyelids drooping as he presses a kiss to your nape. The gentle rocking of the bed lulls you into a sleepy stupor. 

Moreover, you realize that what you really want is for him to take what he needs right now. To feel all the trust you so eagerly place in his hands, and all the safety and predictability of that trust, in the way your unconscious body accepts him without objection. 

To give that to him might be more gratifying right now than letting him make you cum. A pleasure found not in your sexual peak, but in the feeling of trust, of usefulness, of being needed. 

Let him choose whether he pulls out and paints your back in cum or fills your cunt with it so you wake up with his spend lavishly dripping from you. A decision as inconsequential to him in your unconscious state as it would be were he fucking a doll. 

“Mmh, m’tired,” you mumble, half asleep already. Full. Soaked. Content.

You feel the quirk of his lips against your warm skin. 

“Alright, go back to sleep.” He places a tender kiss atop your head, stroking your hair lovingly like he isn’t about to ruin you while you sleep. “I’ll keep you nice and full, baby.” 

You hum and settle into the pillow as he stills, fully sheathed inside of you. His tip kissing the deepest part of you as you drift off. 

“Keep him warm ‘til ya fall asleep.”

It’s the last thing your brain registers–though it sounds far away, like you’re underwater–as sleep pulls you under once more. 

˙⋆✮⋆˚࿔:

Sometime later, as you roll over in bed, you’re vaguely aware of the squeak of the pipes as the tap is turned on in the bathroom. Some quiet shuffling, a soft grunt or two penetrate your sleepy haze before you drift off again. Memories so bleary and muffled they could be part of a dream. 

Now, a gentle pressure between your legs–a sensation too intense to be phantom. Empty of Frank’s thick cock, now, you realize, traded for his tongue.

Gasping at the intrusion, you look down your body to find Frank buried between your thighs.

“Fuck,” you gasp as you bury your hands in his hair, drawing your knees up to give him better access. Dark eyes hungry as he licks you out incessantly, his tongue curling inside of you. 

He growls, his arms winding around your thighs, forcing his tongue deeper inside when he tugs you closer. A resulting high-pitch squeak echoing off the empty corners of the room as his tongue presses between your gummy walls. 

Regrettably, the wet muscle curls up and slides out, leaving you empty for the very first time in all your waking minutes tonight. 

“Please–don’t stop,” you lament, desperate now after graciously giving up your first orgasm. 

Ignoring your pathetic plea, Frank crawls up the bed toward you, and you pout petulantly up at him, his face hovering above yours now. 

Placing a hand on your neck, his fingers rest just beneath your jaw as he squeezes, a euphorically dizzy feeling descending upon you. Lightheadedness softening the hard lines of his face.

The heavy handed act of possession has you smiling up at him, your bottom lip drawn between your teeth, probably giving him the most blatant fuck-me eyes. You’re sure he can feel the erratic thrum of your heart against your jugular. 

Just like that, he kisses you for the first time in over a week, wasting no time in sliding his tongue into your mouth. Though it isn’t the only intrusion as his warm seed flows from his tongue to yours. 

Moaning in surprise, eyes rolling, you accept it like a gift. Letting the smooth, mild substance fill your mouth as his fingers loosen around your neck. 

Frank kisses you once more, almost chaste, his index trailing over your lips when he pulls away. Near-black eyes meet yours in the dim room. 

“Swallow for me.” 

His voice is scratchy and his words set you alight, your entire body warming instantly, like stepping into a room set ablaze. 

It has you feeling floaty and safe as the edges of your little world soften and narrow down to him. Just him–him and his ruggedly handsome features. 

Nimble fingers play at the strong lines of his stubbled jaw, consumed by rich coffee-coloured eyes, admiring his prominent nose–slightly misshapen from repeated fractures. 

Frank’s hand snakes between your bodies, his other cupping your face as his thumb rubs your temple, like he knows you’ve retreated inside your head. 

“Swallow,” he prompts again, gently as he starts circling your clit. And you know he’s sensed the change in you. He always catches it right away, when you slip away into that warm, muddled space that only he can put you in. With his commanding voice and skilled hands. 

Finally, you comply, missing the taste of him immediately. 

Without so much as another thought, like it’s second nature (in a way, bearing yourself to him is), you obediently present him with your clean tongue. 

A smirk tugs at his lips and he nods, pleased, drawing in a steadying breath. 

“That’s my girl,” he praises before licking over your tongue and kissing your mouth passionately. 

The action is so dirty, somehow more so than him feeding you his own cum, that you whimper into the kiss. Arms winding around his neck possessively. 

When he pulls away, a gossamer line of spit connects you until it snaps when he redirects his mouth to your neck. Head tilting back to give him more room, you thread your fingers through his dark locks, sighing. 

His own digits are sticky on your skin as he tugs your tank top down to expose your tits. Skilled tongue swirling around your nipple before pulling back to blow cool air over the wet nub. A coldness that stings like a bee, and has your back arching with a choked gasp–half shock, half pleasure. 

Chuckling at your reaction before moving on to the other, repeating the process and scraping his teeth over it to elicit a sharp inhale. 

“That was mean,” you whine, relishing in the lavish kisses he trails down your belly. 

“Shut up, you like mean,” he husks. 

“I–fuck.” 

Whatever retort was on your tongue is lost at the practiced way his tongue flicks over your clit, making your hips jump.

Frank’s hands press into your hips, muscling you down into the mattress. Heat simmers low in your belly at his sheer strength–you couldn’t get free even if you wanted to.

“Don’t have much to say about it now, huh?” he chuckles against your skin, kissing and nipping at the apex of your thigh. He’ll leave marks on the sensitive flesh that you’ll savour the dull sting of every time you press your legs together tomorrow. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

You giggle a little deliriously, heart pounding against your ribs as you exhale a halfhearted, “Fuck you.” 

Frank’s lips pause where they were pressing gentle kisses over your mound, and you know you’re in for it now. Skin sizzles like the asphalt on a hot summer’s day. 

“Yeah?” he asks. “Fuck me?” His tone is so rough–like high-grit sandpaper–it makes your pussy clench. 

“Mhm.” The sound is pitched-up and small. A little pathetic if you’re honest, even as you courageously meet his eyes. They’re sparkling with mirth, grateful to have a reason. 

He tilts his head at you, flashing his teeth in a smirk. “Y’wanna look me in the eye and say it?”

You swallow, chest heaving as your nerves build. You could tuck your tail between your legs and retreat, submit with the shake of your head. But where’s the fun in that? 

Two simple, but effective, words seal your fate: “Fuck. you.”

With the twitch of his upper lip and the work of his jaw, all he mutters is a resolute, okay, before sitting up on his knees and spreading your legs apart.

Just as you’d looked him in the eye and bravely–stupidly–cussed him out, Frank holds your gaze as he delivers a sharp slap to your cunt, eliciting a weak cry from your lips as you keel over. 

Like tossing a stone in a lake, the pleasure/pain ripples through your body in seemingly endless waves. 

He rubs your thighs, breathing hard, calloused fingers digging into malleable flesh. “You sorry yet?” 

You sigh a little too dreamily for someone who’s just been smacked by her older boyfriend, but this is a familiar and well-discussed routine. One that leaves your pussy warm and throbbing so hard it feels like it has its own heartbeat. 

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head, catching the way his eyes flare in the low orange light spilling in from the streetlamp outside. 

“No? You need another?” 

Wordlessly, you draw your legs up again, spreading yourself out before him in offering. 

“Yes, please.” It’s so breathy it might as well be a sigh. 

“Fuck,” he grunts in disbelief. You’ve given him so much tonight and now you’re literally begging for more. 

Pressing your thighs to the mattress with eager hands, Frank instructs, “Deep breath now.” 

Just as you begin to draw in lungfulls of oxygen, Frank delivers another harsh smack to your pussy. All the air is punched out of you on contact as just the tip of his finger manages to graze your clit. Legs twitching violently as all sound gets caught in your throat.

“M’sorry, m’sorry,” you babble, the lingering sting over your sensitive bundle of nerves enough to have you acquiescing. Though you’re sure, even as your pussy surely swells, Frank would’ve been happy to dole out further punishment. “M’sorry.”

You’re breathing hard, like you’ve just run from Brooklyn to Manhattan.

As if to soothe, Frank leans down and spits directly onto your already soaked center, watching as it drips down to your hole. An addition to the already sloppy mess he’s made of you. 

“Good girl.” Frank runs his hands soothingly up and down the length of your thighs with a kiss to your knee. Achingly soft yet raspy when he murmurs, “Want me kiss ‘er better, sweetheart?” 

“Fuck, yes, please,” you whine, and Frank presses his palms into the backs of your thighs, spreading you out before him. “Frankie…”

When he doesn’t immediately dive in, you watch curiously as he scoots your ass closer to the center of the bed. 

Heat creeps up your neck when he stares, thumbing up your center, spreading around his spit and your arousal. You’d squirm at his focused attention if you weren’t so high up in the clouds. 

Instead, a whimper slips past your lips, earning you a mean pinch to the sensitive inner flesh of your thigh, a gruff ‘Nough of that tacked on. Pain melds into pleasure. He could kiss you between the thighs or sink his teeth into you, and it would all be the same to you. 

At last, Frank tilts his head, and just like he’d promised, kisses your cunt. Stubble grazes your skin as his lips press tenderly to your center. He groans, guttural, as he slowly makes out with your pussy. 

Tongue laving over stinging skin, head tilted to simulate the angle at which he’d kiss your mouth. Taking his time, he teases around your weeping hole before dipping inside like he’s pressing his tongue into your mouth. 

Now that he’s had a taste–his first in far too long–he becomes crazed, insatiable. Can’t help but yank you toward him as he switches the angle so that he can better devour you. Licking broadly all the way up your pussy, swirling his tongue around your clit. 

It’s all you can do to gasp and bite into the flesh of your hand, submitting fully to his desire. 

His toned arms encircle your thighs. One of his hands rests on your belly, the other squeezes at the plush flesh of your thigh. He becomes an animal between your legs; growling at your taste, shaking his head like a dog. Desperate, eager for your pleasure to peak as overwhelmed tears blur your vision. 

It’s only now that you become aware of the sweet ache. Now that you’re fully awake, the pleasure his tongue provides lighting you up–a potent stimulant. The ache from being stretched on his thick cock for the first time in days. An ache that fills the blank space where your memory should be. 

A sensation that tells you all you need to know about how good he fucked you. How deep he got when he came inside of you. 

The words spill from your mouth just as easy as he spilled inside you. “How–” you moan when the tip of his nose bumps your clit. “–How was it?” 

The ache has piqued your curiosity, your tone filled with wonderment and interest. 

This isn’t a question you usually ask him until after. After he’s cleaned you up, spoken to you so gently, caressed you so kindly. 

By asking it now, it’s become part of the game. This teasing, thrilling game of cat and mouse you like to play. The one where you poke the bear just to see what the bear might do. Where he can’t resist entertaining the poking because of this thing inside him that is gratified by doling out punishment. 

Frank’s response is anything but hasty. Maybe he’s lost in the wet heat on his tongue. Or maybe it’s all part of the game. 

You huff petulantly. Far too impatient for someone who’s being licked out so generously. 

When his eyes drifts up to yours, dripping in honey, he grunts into your sex, a crease forming between his brows. The vibrations settle over just the right spot, causing your eyes to roll. 

“F-frank,” you prompt beneath a moan. “Please…I want–need to know.” 

Dull nails scratch at the skin beneath your navel, your hips twitching in response. 

When he pops off your clit, his lips swollen and glistening, he rests his head against your thigh. 

“Well,” he’s out of breath, little puffs of air cooling your sticky skin. “I filled this little hole up, so what d’you think, hm?” 

“But–” His thick fingers slide inside of you, and when you finish your sentence, it’s anything but productive. “–Oh, fuck.”

His name on your tongue is pitchy and barely sounds like you at all as you toss your head back. Heat creeps up your neck, finally fully awake and full of him. 

“What was that, hm?” His voice is gruff, even deeper still with lust, and mocking as his free hand rubs up and down your thigh. Now who’s poking the bear? 

Huffing in defiance, you work up the will to meet his eyes again. 

“C’mon,” you pant, wanting to know now. Wanting his words to push you over the precipice. Wanting to hear the things he did to you, how it felt, while you were sleeping–for him. 

“Pretty please?” you try with pleading eyes. 

He chuckles darkly, fingers curling inside you, reaching that delicious spot that has you kicking out and gasping his name like a prayer. 

His withholding nature was a real problem early in your relationship. You felt like you had to pull things out of him, and it was frustrating in the worst way. It made you red in the face. Now, when he’s withholding in bed, that frustration creeps in again, this time making you burn–trading anger for lust.

A fever induced by his cheeky stubbornness–a conflicting, and arousing, combination. 

“How ‘bout…” he begins contemplatively, like he doesn’t already have a plan for you. 

Frank’s always got a plan. Plans you’re usually not privy to until he’s got you on your knees with his boot wedged between your thighs, or pressed against a cool brick wall in a dark alley with his hand up your skirt. “How ‘bout you cum on my tongue like a good ‘lil girl, and maybe I’ll tell you, yeah?”

 “Mhm,” you whine. 

“Yeah?” his voice pitches up at the end. 

“I said: yes,” you intone brattily. 

Laughter rumbles low in his chest as he grumbles to himself, “Dirty fuckin’ mouth, oughtta bend you over my knee.”

“Why–why don’t you?” 

Detrimentally, you’re getting bold now. So close to getting what you want and willing to sabotage it just to pull a reaction out of him. 

As always, he sees right through you. Managing to keep you on your toes, he admits, “Cause this pussy was good to me while you slept.” 

Because this was your reward–his tongue between your thighs. A reward for being so good for him, so quiet, so still, so…asleep while he had his way with you. 

Mouth parting around a quiet gasp at his words, his fingers stretching and filling you, pleasure builds and builds, brick by brick. A building erected just to be demolished. 

You can sense his cocky smirk even as your eyes slam shut, pussy squeezing his thrusting digits, right on the edge as he rambles praise: That’s right, there you go…Good…good…There it is…Feel my fingers, that’s it.

Reattaching his mouth to your cunt, Frank expertly rolls his tongue over your clit as his fingers curl inside of you. Even with everything that came after, it’s his little maybe that has you hot all over. 

Of course you’d find pleasure in hearing him describe what he did to you. But there’s also some sick satisfaction you derive from not knowing. A dizzying heat settles in your gut at the thought of letting him keep that from you, all for himself. 

It’s his uncharacteristic pleading, near-whiny, cum for me, sweetheart that does you in. Like the epic conclusion to an extravagant orchestral arrangement, your pleasure peaks. Just as a dam bursts under immense pressure, or an explosion erupts upon gas meeting flame, so too do you come undone. 

It rips through you like a hurricane, ravaging your body in waves of pleasure. Aftershocks like lingering musical notes echoing off the ornate walls of an ancient theatre. 

Vaguely, as you suck in greedy breaths, you feel the press of Frank’s sticky mouth to your thigh. Calloused fingers tracing the skin there softly, lovingly, adoringly. 

His voice pulls you out of your post-coital stupor when he whispers, “Y’didn’t squirm.” 

The meaning of his words take a moment to register with you. 

You lift your head from the pillow, glance down at him. His dark hair falls into his eyes, his chin soaked with you.

Soft lips press below your navel, trail up your belly, and teeth graze your nipple before he meets your eyes again, adding softly, “Y’couldn’t get all…mouthy with me when I fucked ya nice an’ slow.” 

Your breath hitches as your eyes lock with deep, earnest ones. A kiss planted lovingly at the base of your neck, the corner of your mouth, wet spots left across your skin. Like blood spatter evidence at a crime scene, they’re patterns revealing the exact method of love and pleasure used against you. 

“You were…you were fucking perfect, sweetheart,” Frank finishes, sounding nearly pained by it before he kisses you, square on the mouth. Your resulting sigh is appreciative and contented.

“Thank you,” you whisper after pulling away, his fingers playing at your hair, stroking over your flushed cheeks. 

“You were perfect too,” you profess, thumbing at his wet chin.

Frank kisses the pad of your thumb before pressing his forehead to yours. You’re treated to a soft smile, barely contained elation in the squint of his eyes as he kisses the tip of your nose. 

Quiet laughter bubbles from you at his affections. 

It’s a gentle moment, a moment you treat tenderly, carefully, like picking up shattered glass. Frank deserves that–you both do. After all the pain and anxiety of the last week. It’s written on his face, and probably all over his body, in fresh cuts and black-and-blue-stained skin. 

A moment soaked in the muted glow of the city lights just outside your bedroom window, lightened by hushed whispers, soothing hands, and a peaceful, dreamless sleep wrapped in his protective arms. 

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