Asking your boyfriend if he’ll pull your hair
Ch: Sanji, Zoro, Law, Ace, Sabo
Warning: Hair pulling, spitting, face fucking, office sex, riding, missionary, fem rev, male rev, fingering, spanking, angry sex, kitchen sex, p in v, nipple play, drunk sex, rough Zoro, mean Sabo, raw, teasing, jealousy.
An: I finally posted this. It's not really my favorite, but I hope you like it. @blushinglemon
You have to beg this man to pull your hair, like, actually, on hand and knees, because he just doesn’t want to hurt a hair on his love's head.
You can only get him to do it if you do what he likes.
That thing is putting his two favorite things together: you and food.
So just be prepared to feel sticky after it’s all said and done. All I'm saying
Safe to say you’ll both be happy by the end of the day.
The kitchen was a symphony of sizzling pans and Sanji’s quiet, focused humming. You watched him from the doorway, noting the sharp line of his shoulders and the precise flick of his wrist as he seasoned a pan-seared scallop. The air was thick with garlic, white wine, and the promise of a meal that would make you weep. But you weren’t here for the food. Not tonight.
You’d been dancing around the issue for weeks. The lingering touches when he handed you a plate, the way his blue eyes darkened when your laugh echoed in the galley. The man was a fortress of chivalry, a knight in a crisp black suit who would sooner throw himself into the sea than risk making you feel like anything less than a lady. It was maddening. You didn't want a pedestal. You wanted the man beneath the suit, the one with the calloused hands and the hungry gaze he thought he hid so well.
You took a breath, the scent of him—tobacco, sea salt, and sage—cutting through the gourmet aromas. You walked to the central island, the marble cool under your palms. He hadn’t looked up, his concentration absolute.
“Hmm? Dinner in ten, my darling. The beurre blanc needs just a moment more to reduce.” His voice was a smooth, distracted melody.
“I’m not hungry for dinner.”
That got his attention. He glanced over, a charming, puzzled smile on his lips. “Nonsense. Everyone is hungry for my cooking.”
You leaned forward, letting the neckline of your shirt gape just enough. You saw his eyes flicker down for a millisecond before snapping back to your face, a faint blush on his cheeks. “I’m hungry for you.”
The spatula in his hand stilled. The smile vanished, replaced by a tense, guarded expression. “Don’t say things like that. It’s not… proper.” He turned back to the stove, but his movements were stiff now. “You deserve romance, candlelight, and courtship. Not… this.” He gestured vaguely at the steamy, chaotic kitchen.
“I deserve what I want,” you said, your voice dropping low. You came around the island, standing close enough to feel the heat from the burners. “And I want you. I want you to stop treating me like I’ll break.”
“Because you might,” he said, the words torn from him. He finally looked at you, and the raw want in his eyes stole your breath. It was there, a wild, barely contained thing, warring with a lifetime of conditioning. “The thought of being rough, of losing control… I couldn’t bear it if I hurt you. Not a hair on your head.”
You knew then. Pleading wouldn’t work. Logic wouldn’t work. There was only one key to this particular lock. You’d seen the way he looked at you sometimes when you ate, a strange, potent mix of culinary pride and something far more primal.
You reached past him, not for him, but for the small bowl of fresh, plump strawberries he’d been hulling for dessert. Your fingers closed around one, its ripe red surface glistening under the kitchen lights. You held his gaze, your lips parting as you slowly brought the strawberry to your mouth. The first bite was deliberate, the juice bursting on your tongue with a sweetness that made your eyes flutter closed for a moment. A tiny drop escaped, tracing a slow, tantalizing path down your chin.
Sanji’s breath hitched, his hands tightening around the edge of the counter. You could see the battle in his eyes—the need to stay composed, to resist, warring with the hunger you were stoking. You took another bite, letting the fruit linger on your lips, the juice glistening like a temptation he couldn’t ignore.
Then, with a suddenness that made your pulse leap, his hand shot out. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping firmly but not painfully, pulling your head back just enough to force your gaze to meet his. His breathing was ragged, his blue eyes dark with a heat you’d never seen him fully unleash before.
“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growled, his voice low and rough.
You smirked, licking the juice from your lips, and then you let the half-eaten strawberry slip from your fingers onto the counter. “I know,” you murmured, your voice a sultry challenge. “Are you going to stop me?”
For a moment, it seemed like he might. His grip loosened slightly, his internal struggle clear on his face. But then, with a growl of surrender, his fingers tightened again, pulling your head back further, exposing your neck. His other hand came up, brushing away the stray drop of juice from your chin with his thumb before he leaned in, his breath hot against your skin.
“No,” he whispered, his voice a mix of warning and promise. “But you’re going to regret pushing me, love.”
And in that moment, you knew you’d finally broken through.
Sanji froze. His entire world narrowed to that droplet.
You let the strawberry fall from your fingers onto the counter. You leaned in, your lips a breath from his ear. “Taste it,” you whispered, your voice husky. “Come on, cook. Don’t let it go to waste.”
A shudder racked his frame. His hands, which had been gripping the counter’s edge, knuckles white, lifted. One cupped your jaw, his thumb, rough from knifework, swiping through the juice on your chin. He brought his thumb to his mouth, his eyes locked on yours, and sucked it clean. The sound was obscene in the quiet kitchen.
That was the switch. The last thread of his restraint snapped with an almost audible twang.
His mouth crashed onto yours, not with the gentle reverence you were used to, but with a desperate, starving hunger. It was all heat and demand, his tongue claiming yours, tasting the strawberry, tasting you. The spatula clattered into the sink, forgotten. He lifted you onto the cool marble of the island, pushing bowls and utensils aside with a reckless sweep of his arm. The world was steam, spice, and Sanji.
His kisses trailed down your neck, hot and open-mouthed, as his hands worked frantically at your clothes. “You play a dangerous game,” he growled against your skin, his breath scorching.
“I know,” you gasped, arching into him as his fingers found your breast, his thumb circling a taut nipple through the fabric. “Now play with me.”
He made a sound like a wounded animal, all frustration and unleashed desire. He yanked your pants down your hips, the air cool on your suddenly exposed skin. He knelt before you, there on the kitchen floor, but the act wasn’t worship. It was devouring. He pushed your thighs apart, his gaze blazing as he took in the sight of you, wet and ready just for him.
“Mine,” he breathed, the word more possession than endearment, and then his mouth was on you.
You cried out, your head falling back. His tongue was an artist’s tool, used now for pure, sinful pleasure. He licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, then circled the aching bud with an utterly maddening precision. He alternated between broad, flat strokes and sharp, focused flicks, his hands gripping your hips to hold you still as you writhed against his mouth. Every nerve ending was on fire, the pleasure coiling tight and deep in your belly.
He understood. He rose, fumbling with his pants, his eyes never leaving yours. He was beautifully, fully hard. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock nudging against your soaked folds. He paused there, trembling, a final war in his eyes.
You reached down, wrapping your hand around him, guiding him to you. You looked up at him, your eyes pleading, your body begging. “Now. Don’t make me beg anymore.”
With a ragged groan, he surrendered. He pushed into you, one slow, exquisite inch at a time, filling you completely, stretching you in the most perfect way. The feeling was overwhelming—the fullness, the heat, the rightness of it. He stayed buried to the base for a heartbeat, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you panting.
It was nothing like you’d imagined. It was better. Hard, deep thrusts that drove the air from your lungs, each one punctuated by the slap of skin and his guttural curses against your skin. He hit a spot deep inside that made you see stars again and again. The kitchen around you blurred—the simmering pots, the forgotten food; it all faded into a haze of sensations. Your nails dug into the shoulders of his suit jacket as he pounded into you, the marble counter solid and unyielding beneath you.
“Is this,” he grunted, his rhythm becoming frantic, “what you wanted? This… mess?”
“Yes,” you sobbed, the coil inside you winding impossibly tight. “More.”
He slammed into you, one final, brutal thrust, and you shattered. Pleasure erupted through you in blinding waves, your body clamping around him, milking him as your cries echoed off the copper pans. With a shout that was half your name, half a sob, he followed you over, his own cum pulsing deep inside you, hot and endless.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and a pot bubbling over somewhere on the stove. He was still inside you, slumped against you, his face buried in your neck. You were both a sticky, sweaty, glorious mess. He finally lifted his head, his expression one of dazed awe and a hint of horror.
“Oh, god,” he whispered, his voice wrecked. “The… the beurre blanc is ruined.”
You let out a breathless, giddy laugh, your fingers tracing the shell of his ear. “Worth it.”
He looked at you, at the wreckage of the kitchen, at the two of you joined together amidst his culinary domain. A slow, real smile, one you’d never seen before—unburdened, possessive, and sated—spread across his face.
You don’t even have to ask him; he just does it without second thought.
He curls his finger deep into your hair and pulls it, causing you to lean back into him.
He's rough about it just like he is with most things, and don't try to complain about it; he’ll just pull tightly and say, “You asked for it."
He loves to do it while he's fucking your face; just something about the way you try to catch your breath when he pulls on your hair gets him every time.
He also loves the afterglow you have on your face, makeup all smeared and your hair all messed up like you just walked through a storm; your look alone makes him want to go for a round two.
The tension had been building for weeks, a slow, simmering pot about to boil over. You’d been so busy with Sanji, planning that surprise party for Zoro’s birthday, that you’d missed the signs. The way Zoro’s usual grunts of acknowledgment had turned to silence, the way he’d stop his katana drills to watch you walk away from the kitchen, his jaw tight. You thought you were being clever. He thought you were being his.
It all shattered when he stormed into the galley. You were laughing, wiping flour from your cheek as Sanji twirled, a plate of delicate appetizers in his hand. “For you, my darling, only the finest—” The cook’s words died as the door slammed open.
Zoro didn’t speak. His eyes, dark and sharp as his blades, locked onto you. In three strides, he was across the room, his hand closing around your bicep with a grip that brooked no argument. He dragged you from the stool.
“Zoro, wait, I can explai—”
“I don’t want to hear another thing about that shitty cook.”
His voice was a low, vibrating rumble that cut through any protest. He hauled you through the ship, past a wide-eyed Usopp, and into the men’s quarters, kicking the door shut behind you. The dim room smelled of him—of steel, salt, and clean sweat. He released your arm only to push you backward until your knees hit the edge of his bunk.
He stood before you, a monument of frustrated muscle, and began stripping his haramaki and pants with brutal efficiency. There was no ceremony, no slow seduction. This was a claim. His cock, already thick and half-hard, sprang free, and the sight of it, of his intent, sent a heat pulsing straight to your cunt. You knew this dance. You knew his moods.
You didn’t wait for a command. Your hands, trembling slightly, not from fear but from a desperate kind of anticipation, reached for him. You wrapped your fingers around his base, feeling the hot, velvety skin over the iron-hard core. You leaned forward, placing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his cock, from base to tip. A deep, guttural groan tore from his chest, and the sound was better than any praise.
Emboldened, you took the swollen head into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the crown, tasting the first salty hint of him. You teased the slit, loving the way his abdominal muscles jumped.
The words were a growled warning. A heartbeat later, he took control. His hands clamped on the sides of your head, and he thrust forward, sheathing his entire cock down your throat in one smooth, punishing stroke. You gagged, tears springing to your eyes as your body convulsed around the sudden, overwhelming intrusion. He didn’t pause. He didn’t care. He set a ruthless, driving rhythm, fucking your face with the same focused intensity he used to split boulders.
You braced your hands on his powerful thighs, the muscles there flexing with every thrust. The world narrowed to this: the slap of his hips against your face, the salty-bitter taste of him, the strain in your jaw, the desperate need for air. You pushed back weakly, a primal instinct for breath, but he was ready.
His hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back sharply and arching your throat. The sudden sting was electric, a bright pain that melted into a deep, submissive thrill. He held you there, immobile, his cock still buried deep.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he rasped, his breath coming in harsh pants. His hips gave a shallow, possessive grind. “You’ve been running from me all day. So you’re going to sit there and take my cock like a good girl. Got it?”
You blinked up at him, tears blurring his fierce, satisfied expression. He took it as assent.
“Good. That’s what I like to see.”
He released your hair, but only to guide you back to him, resuming his pace. This time, the rhythm was different. It was still dominant, still rough, but it was for you. He watched you, his eye dark with a feral hunger, mesmerized by the messy, desperate picture you made. Each time he pulled back, you gasped, dragging in ragged breaths, your lips swollen and slick. Each time he plunged back in, you swallowed around him, a tight, wet suction that pulled another ragged groan from him.
His fist returned to your hair, not just holding it now but using it. He’d pull back, stretching you taut, then push you down, controlling the depth and speed. The slight burn on your scalp synced with the fullness in your mouth, creating a feedback loop of sensation that had you wet and aching between your legs. You could feel him thickening, the rhythm becoming more erratic, more urgent.
He was close. You could taste it, feeling the tension coiling in the base of your spine. With a final, brutal yank on your hair that tilted your face up to his, he drove himself balls deep and held. A hot, pulsing flood erupted down your throat. You swallowed convulsively, taking every drop as he shuddered through his release, his groans echoing in the quiet room.
When he finally slid out, you collapsed forward, hands on the floor, coughing, dragging in sweet, clear air. Your makeup was smeared, your hair a wild, tangled mess from his hands. You felt thoroughly used, utterly wrecked.
Zoro looked down at you, his chest heaving. His gaze traveled over your flushed face, your glazed eyes, and your bruised, parted lips. The aftermath. The storm he’d put you through. A low, appreciative rumble sounded in his chest.
“Look at you,” he muttered, his voice gravelly with spent passion. His thumb, surprisingly gentle, swiped at a streak of mascara under your eye. The contrast to his earlier roughness made you shiver. The possessiveness in his gaze didn’t fade; it transformed, heating anew. He was still hard, or hard again, his cock resting heavily against your cheek.
He curled his fingers back into the mess of your hair, not pulling yet, just owning the grip. “All messed up. Just for me.” He leaned down, his breath hot on your ear. “Think you can handle round two?”
He gives you a long, judgmental look, almost like you've grown two heads.
After a while of you asking, he’ll finally ask, "Why?" When you tell him that you just think it would be hot and that some of your other friends talked about it, he just shrugs and says, “Fine.”
It took him a while to see the appeal, but after pulling your hair a couple of times and seeing the flustered look on your face, he couldn’t help but want to do it all the time.
Now, sometimes he just pulls your hair to make you stop running around, knowing exactly what it does to you, especially when he's drunk.
Music thumped through the hull, a frantic heartbeat echoing the laughter and shouts from above. The air in the shared cabin was still and cool, a stark contrast to the sweaty, rum-soaked chaos of the deck party. You were still buzzing with it, the ghost of Usopp’s tall tales and the silly, breathless races with Chopper and Luffy dancing in your veins. You hadn’t even heard him calling your name. Not the first time, nor the second.
It was on your fourth triumphant lap, skirt fluttering, that you felt it—a firm, inexorable tug at the very end of your ponytail, snapping your head back just enough to steal your momentum.
You whirled, a giggle dying on your lips.
Trafalgar Law stood there, his expression an impenetrable mask of patience worn thin. The fingers of one hand were still loosely wrapped in your hair, a silent claim. The yellow of his gaze, usually so analytical, held a dark, simmering heat that had nothing to do with the party.
“Come on,” he said, his voice a low rumble that cut through the distant music. “You’ve had your fun.”
You wheezed out a protest, but it was pointless. He didn’t listen. His grip tightened, not painfully, but with absolute certainty, and he turned, leading you—no, towing you—by your hair toward the cabin door. It was a dominant, possessive gesture that sent a jolt straight to your core, melting the playful energy into something liquid and warm.
Once inside the familiar space, your bravado returned. As he released you to shut the door, you darted for it, a giddy laugh escaping as you stuck your tongue out at him. Freedom was two steps away.
His hand fisted in your hair again, a sharper, more deliberate pull that stopped you dead. He yanked you backward, your spine meeting the solid wall of his chest with a soft "oof." His other arm banded around your waist, locking you in place. You could feel the hard length of his cock already pressing against your lower back, a promise and a threat.
Then his fingers were tilting your head back, his mouth capturing yours in a deep, consuming kiss.
It was all command and hunger. His tongue swept past your lips, neither asking nor taking. You met him with equal fervor, a fight for dominance that you knew, with thrilling certainty, you would lose. Your tongues tangled in a wet, heated dance that tasted of spice and the faint, medicinal hint that was uniquely him. Your hands came up, clawing at the front of his shirt and clinging for balance as the world narrowed to the slick heat of his mouth, the scrape of his teeth on your lower lip, and the possessive groan that vibrated from his throat into yours.
When he finally broke the kiss, a thin, glistening string of saliva connected your lips for a heartbeat before snapping. You stared up at him, your breath coming in short pants. His eyes were half-lidded, the gold nearly swallowed by black, focused solely on you.
“Go lie on the bed,” he instructed, his voice gravelly with want. “Pants off. Legs spread.”
A shiver, delicious and deep, wracked you. You didn’t hesitate. You never did, not with him. Not when he used that tone.
You turned, your fingers fumbling with the tie of your skirt as you walked the few steps to the bed. You let it fall, then hooked your thumbs into your panties, drawing them down your legs. You left a trail of clothing, a breadcrumb path of surrender, before climbing onto the cool sheets. On your back, you let your knees fall open, presenting yourself to him completely, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Law watched, a slow, approving smirk touching his lips as he removed his shirt, the intricate tattoos stretching over his muscles. He approached not like a lover but like a conqueror surveying his prize.
He knelt at the edge of the bed, his hands firm as they hooked behind your ankles. In one smooth, powerful motion, he dragged you to the very edge, your ass barely on the mattress. He pushed your thighs wider, then settled his shoulders between them, his large hands spreading you open further for his inspection, for his pleasure.
The first touch of his tongue was a flat, broad stroke from your entrance all the way up to your clit.
You cried out, your back arching off the bed. Oh god.
He hummed against you, the vibration making you twitch and gasp. He did it again, slower this time, lapping up the wetness that had already gathered, tasting you with a focused intensity. His tongue was clever and relentless. It circled your entrance, dipping inside just barely, teasing, before swirling up to pay devastating attention to your clit.
Flick, circle, suck. He varied the pressure and the rhythm, keeping you teetering on a knife’s edge. He’d flatten his tongue and rub broad, maddening circles, then point it and tap at the swollen bud with rapid, precise flicks that made your toes curl and your hips jerk.
“You taste,” he murmured, his breath hot against your soaked skin, before he licked another long, slow stripe, “so fucking sweet.”
The praise, growled against your most intimate flesh, unraveled you further. You were a writhing, pleading mess, your hands fisting in the sheets, then tangling in his dark hair. You didn’t pull, just held on as he feasted.
He slid one hand up your inner thigh, his thumb finding your clit as his mouth moved lower. His tongue speared into you, deeper this time, a rough, fucking motion that made you see stars. He fucked you with his tongue, his thumb maintaining that perfect, circling pressure, and you could feel the coil in your belly tightening, tightening.
Just as you were about to shatter, he pulled back. You whimpered at the loss, a sound of pure need.
Law looked up, his chin glistening with your arousal. His eyes were wild and possessive. “Not yet,” he commanded, his voice thick. He leaned in again, but this time he replaced his tongue with two fingers, sliding them into you with ease, crooking them just right. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking it deeply, ruthlessly between his lips as his fingers pumped inside you.
The dual sensation was too much. The coil snapped.
Your orgasm ripped through you, a silent scream trapped in your throat as your body bowed off the bed. Waves of electric pleasure pulsed from your cunt, milking his fingers, as he continued to suck and lick, drawing out every last shuddering ripple until you were limp and trembling.
Slowly, he withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to lick them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. He rose to his feet, looming over you, his need visibly straining against his trousers.
“Good,” he stated, as if grading your performance. He unfastened his belt, the leather sliding free with a sharp, promising sound. “Now it's my turn."
He laughs at the idea at first, thinking you're joking.
When he sees you're actually serious about it, though, it's game over.
He's the type to pull your hair while he's fucking you as a missionary.
He will pull your hair so that he can spit in your mouth.
The whiskey was a warm, liquid blur in my veins, a familiar haze that blurred the edges of the cabin and melted the space between us. Ace’s laugh was a low, gravelly rumble next to me, his arm slung over my shoulder, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my bare thigh. Your clothes—a scattered trail of jeans, a t-shirt, and his flannel—were lost somewhere between the door and the couch, casualties of our weekly ritual.
The ritual always ended the same way.
His hand was already there, sliding under the thin cotton of your panties, his palm rough and warm against your skin. You arched into him, a sigh escaping your lips as his thumb found the slick, aching center of you: just a hint, a tease. Your head fell back against his chest.
“You’re so wet already,” he murmured, his voice thick with drink and desire. His other hand came up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over the nipple until it hardened into a tight peak against the fabric.
You didn’t answer. You just turned, crushing my mouth against his in a kiss that tasted of whiskey and need. Your hands fumbled with the waistband of his boxers, pulling them down, freeing him. He was already hard, the length of him hot and heavy against your stomach.
Time lost its meaning. Maybe it was the liquor. Maybe it was the sheer, grinding feel of him. He shifted you, pulling you onto his lap, your back to his chest. One strong arm wrapped around your waist, holding you steady. The other hand stayed between your legs, his fingers playing over your clit in a dizzying, inconsistent rhythm—soft circles, then a sharp, fleeting press—that made your hips jerk and your breath catch in ragged gasps.
Slow. So damn slow. The head of his cock pressed against your entrance, a tantalizing pressure, before he finally pushed in. A full, deep stretch that made your eyes roll back. Oh god. He filled you completely, a perfect, burning fit. He began to move, a steady, relentless pump that ground into your very core. His fingers kept working your clit, the dual sensations coiling a tight, desperate spring low in your belly.
Your mouth found his chest. You leaned forward, taking one of his nipples into your mouth. You licked it, then rubbed your teeth against the sensitive nub. He groaned, a sharp, gratifying sound, and his thrusts became harder, faster.
“You feel so fucking good, babe,” he mumbled into your skin, his breath hot on your shoulder.
You only moaned into him, the sound vibrating against his chest. Your nails dug into the muscles of his back, seeking purchase, scratching shallow trails across his skin as he drove into you. The pleasure built, a rising tide threatening to pull you under. His hand on your stomach pushed down, firm pressure, making you feel every inch of his penetration, how deep he was fucking you, and how he owned the space inside you.
The warmth bloomed first—a sudden, liquid heat spreading through your hair, a wetness trickling down your scalp. Then the tug. A firm, possessive pull on my ponytail that yanked your head back, forcing your eyes open.
You looked up. Ace’s face was above you, flushed, sweat beading on his temple. His grin was lazy, dumb, and utterly triumphant. “Come on,” he breathed, his voice husky. “Open that pretty mouth for me.”
He licked at your bottom lip, a slow, wet stroke. You obeyed, your mouth falling open in a pant.
Right then, you felt it. Something wet and warm slid across your tongue—the taste of him, of you, salty and intimate—until it hit the back of your throat. His spit. He’d pulled your hair to make you watch, to make you taste every bit of him as he fucked you.
“Fuck,” he gasped, his hips never stopping their relentless rhythm. “I can never get tired of that. You look so good for me.”
His hand left your stomach, cupped my jaw, and pulled you into a kiss. It was rough, playful, and full of tongues and possessions. Exactly like him. Your mouths moved together, messy and hungry, as his cock continued to plunge into you, each thrust jolting through your body and into the kiss.
Orgasm tore through you, a white-hot lightning bolt that seared up from your clit and deep from where he filled you. Your body convulsed around him, a series of sharp, uncontrollable clenches. You cried out into his mouth, the sound swallowed by his kiss. He held you tighter, his movements becoming frantic, driving into you, tightening rhythm until he shuddered, a harsh groan breaking from his lips as he spilled into you, his heat joining mine inside.
He finally broke the kiss, panting. His eyes, dark and satisfied, locked onto yours. He brushed your cheek with his thumb. “Ah,” he sighed, a world of affection in that single sound. “I love my dirty girl.”
He's super polite about it, but is perplexed about what made you want to do this.
He'd ask if you’re okay first, maybe even slightly concerned. If you reassure him.
Sabo is sneaky; he looks soft but can be really mean at times. Moments like those are when he loves to pull your hair.
Oversimulation and hair-pulling are his go-tos when you are acting bratty.
The last of the commanders files out, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving only the hum of the overhead light and the heavy scent of ink and spent coffee. You push back your chair, the legs scraping loudly in the sudden quiet, already turning toward the exit. A week of whispered promises broken by urgent summons, of cold sheets, and of a colder spot beside you in the bed. Today, you’d decided, would be different. The slit in your skirt was daringly high, the neckline of your top dipping just so. The slow brush of your foot against his calf under the massive war table was a calculated risk.
His voice stops you cold, not with volume, but with tone. It’s the voice he uses for insubordinate recruits. Dear. Where do you think you’re going?”
You freeze, your hand inches from the doorknob. You glance back. Sabo hasn’t moved from the head of the table, but the easy, diplomatic smile is gone. His face is a placid mask, but his eyes, those sharp blue eyes, are dark with a promise that makes your stomach flip. “Why don’t you go ahead and close that door? Lock it for me as well, dear.”
The order is soft and absolute. A shiver, equal parts fear and electric anticipation, races down your spine. You do as you’re told, the solid thunk of the bolt sliding home sounding impossibly final in the silent room. You lean against the door, waiting, your earlier bravado evaporating.
He doesn’t speak. He simply crooks a finger, gesturing you forward. Each step across the polished floor feels like a mile. When you’re within arm’s reach, his hand snaps out, not harshly, but with undeniable authority, wrapping around your wrist. In one smooth, effortless motion, he stands and guides you, then places you onto the wide, polished surface of the strategy desk. Maps and reports scatter, fluttering to the floor like fallen leaves.
“You thought,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your ear as he leans over you, caging you in, “you could just waltz in here, dressed like a temptation, and tease me all through that meeting… without being punished?” His free hand smooths over the bare skin of your thigh, exposed by the rucked-up skirt. The touch is deceptively gentle.
You bite your lip, refusing to answer, a last spark of defiance. You want to see the mask crack. You need to.
The sharp, sudden smack to your ass cheek is a shock of pure sensation—a bright, stinging heat that blooms through the thin fabric of your underwear and vibrates deep into your flesh. You gasp, your back arching off the cool wood.
“So now you can’t speak?” he asks, his palm circling the already-warming skin. “You were sure mouthy earlier with those little sighs and shifts in your chair.” His smile returns, but it’s different now—predatory, intimate. “Since you felt the need to be such a tease, you can do all the work today.”
He sinks back into his high-backed chair, rolling it closer to the desk’s edge. His hands go to his belt, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet room. He frees himself, his cock already fully erect, jutting proudly against his stomach. The sight, after so long, sends a fresh pulse of wetness between your thighs. “Go on,” he says, his words clipped. “Ride it. Show me how needy you really are.”
Hands trembling, you push your damp panties aside, holding his gaze. You position yourself over him, the broad head of his cock nudging against your entrance. You sink down in one slow, excruciatingly delicious slide. The feeling of him stretching you, filling you after the weeks of absence, is so intense it borders on pain, a glorious, full ache that makes your vision blur. A broken moan escapes you as you bottom out, your hips flush against his.
“There,” he breathes, his composure slipping for a second, his head falling back. “Now move.”
You do, setting a punishing pace from the start, bouncing on him with a frantic energy born of frustration and pure, unadulterated lust. The wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin fills the office. You watch his face, your pleasure magnified by the sight of his controlled facade unraveling—his lips parting, his eyes squeezing shut, a deep groan tearing from his throat as you clench around him. His obvious pleasure eggs you on, and your first orgasm crashes over you quickly, a sharp, convulsing wave that makes you cry out and falter for only a second before you force yourself to keep moving, chasing the next.
By the third, your thighs are screaming in protest, a deep burn setting into the muscles. Your movements become sloppier and slower. A low groan of exhaustion slips out.
Another stinging smack lands on your other cheek, making you jolt. “I didn’t tell you to stop,” Sabo chides, his hands gripping your hips to steady you. His smile is back, wicked and delighted. “Don’t tell me my dear is all worn out. I know you can do more.” He releases you, leaning back to truly watch, as you struggle to continue. You squirm, the overstimulation becoming a sweet agony, feeling like you’re trying to both escape and impale yourself further on his relentless length.
After the fourth shattering climax, you break. Tears of overwhelm prick your eyes. “P-please,” you beg, your voice ragged, your body slumping forward against his broad chest. “Sabo, please… I can’t… you take over. Please.”
“Ah,” he sighs, the sound rich with feigned sympathy. He thrusts upwards once, a shallow, pointed movement that makes you gasp and your inner muscles clutch him tightly. “I don’t know. You were the one being so needy. But now you can’t even handle me?” The slight movement sends another jolt of unbearable pleasure through your oversensitive clit, now swollen and throbbing. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, a hot tear tracing a path down your cheek and onto his skin.
You feel him shift. “Fine,” he whispers into your hair, his arms wrapping around you to hold you close. “I guess I’ll take over. But we’re not stopping until I say so. Got it?” He doesn’t move, waiting. You manage a weak, desperate nod against his shoulder. “Good girl,” he purrs, one hand coming up to swipe the tear from your cheek. His thumb brushes your lower lip. “That’s what I like to hear.”
In one powerful motion, he stands, lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he remains buried inside you. He turns and lays you back down on the desk, this time with your shoulders pressed to the wood, your head hanging slightly off the edge. He looms over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his blonde hair falling into his eyes. “Now,” he says, his breath warm on your face, “let’s see how many times I can make you come before you forget your own name.”
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