Out of My Head

The loud booms and explosions of the fireworks are a distant, unimportant cacophony when Steve is so focused on the wet sounds you’re pussy is making while taking his cock. The obscene schlick of your cunt greedily swallowing his cock is music to his ears, and he slows down, pumping lazily into you to draw it out.

“F-fuck, Steve,” you whine, your voice thready and desperate. It’s so fucking sweet, it has Steve’s mouth watering with the desire to hunch over your back and take your mouth, just so he can taste your pleasure straight from your lips. “Ah! You’re so—so deep. Ohmygod!”

Steve plows harder into your cunt, wrenching a shrill, shameless cry from your lips, and his chest puffs up. You need this just as much as he does, he knows it. Just like he knows you’re enjoying this just as much as he is.

Your tight, wet pussy is clinging to him like she never wants him to stop, and your back is arched to lift your ass up. It puts you in the perfect position to take him nice and deep, until the fat tip of his cock is kissing your cervix.

With his two big hands on the round curves of your ass, Steve spreads you open so he can see the thick shaft of his bare cock fucking deep into your pussy. There’s a ring of white, creamy wetness circling the base of his dick, your desire dripping down to his balls and making a mess of your thighs. 

Staring down at where your bodies are joined, Steve slams deep into your cunt, watching your ass ripple and your thighs shake as you let out another strangled scream. He likes the sight so much, he does it again, and again, pounding deep into your pussy while his hands grip your hips so hard, his fingers dig harshly into the plush softness of your body.

“Steve!” you cry out, and the professor wrenches his gaze away from the sight of you taking his cock.

His eyes trail up your body, past where your sundress is rucked up around your waist, lingering for a moment on your tits, which are pressed so enticingly against the wood of his desk. Finally, his gaze finds your face. 

Your pretty features are twisted with pleasure, your brows scrunched and your teeth digging deep into your plump lower lip. Your eyes are desperate and frenzied as you stare at him over your shoulder.

“Do you need something, pretty girl?” Steve coos, his tone half mocking as he bends over your body, one hand gripping your face and pulling you close so he can kiss you. “Does my sweet little slut need something from her professor?”

“Please,” you sob, tears gathering in your hazy, lust-filled eyes. “Please, professor, ‘m so close.”

Steve grins against your mouth, the expression wolfish and wild. “You need me to make you cum, sweetheart?” he asks, even more mocking condescension in his tone. And when your pussy clenches tight around his cock, he can’t help but chuckle, loving the reaction your body has to his filthy words.

“Yes, yes, yes. Please, please, please,” you chant, rocking your hips like you’re trying to take Steve’s cock harder and faster on your own. It’s almost too bad that you’re bent and pinned against his desk, his bigger body making it so you can barely move.

“Well, since you begged so nicely…” Steve trails off, shoving one of his hands between your body and the desk, until his fingers are pressed against your clit. Once there, though, he doesn’t move them. “Grind on my fingers and make yourself cum like a good little slut,” he commands, using his most authoritative voice. “Show your professor how good you are at following orders.”

“Oh fuck, Steve,” you cry, your hips already working hard to do as he says. “Yes, sir. I’ll be so good for you, sir. Such a good slut for you, sir, I swear,” you babble, grinding your clit against his fingers and taking his cock deep into your cunt—so deep that your words devolve into a helpless, wanton moan.

Steve grins against your cheek, watching the desperation and determination contort your pretty face while you fuck yourself on his cock and hump against his fingers. If Steve thought you were beautiful before, he realizes now that you’re downright fucking gorgeous once he’s turned you into a feral little cumslut—all for him. 

The fireworks are still going off outside his office window, but Steve’s entire focus is on you and the sounds you’re letting out while you’re desperately trying to make yourself cum for him. It’s glorious to watch, especially when you reach the edge, your body going tight and taut, every muscle clenching down, before you finally let go.

You cum with a scream that’s drowned out by the fireworks show’s finale, your whole body shaking as you sob through your pleasure. Your legs are trembling riotously, and your upper body goes limp in Steve’s arms. It’s only his hand still holding your face that stops you from slumping onto his desk. 

And the professor watches it all, his cock throbbing in your tight, fluttering cunt. But he’s not done with you yet.

Once your pleasure wanes and you catch your breath, you open your eyes, a question in your gaze and the quirk of your brows. “D-did you cum?” you ask unsurely. 

A grin spreads across Steve’s face and he steals a kiss from your lips. When he pulls away, he lays you gently down on his desk, and stands back up so he’s towering above your bent over body. 

Steve’s hips retreat until only the fat mushroom tip of his dick remains in your pussy. You’re still pulsing from your release and he revels in the feeling of your hole mouthing at his cock. Then, he thrusts forward, burying every inch of his fat dick in your oversensitive cunt, his hips smacking against your ass. 

“Ohmygod, Steve!” you blubber, your body shaking even more violently under the onslaught of pleasure. “Wha-what are you…d-doing?” 

“Oh, pretty girl,” Steve coos mockingly, giving your ass a harsh slap that has you jumping, your body sucking his cock even deeper, until the tip is nestled right against the end of you. “You didn’t think I was done with you already, did you?” 

His big hand soothes over your smarting cheek, his hips pulling back and plowing forward again. He leans forward, brushing tears of pleasure from your face, grinning at the sight, and catches your eye over your shoulder.

“It’s my birthday, and I’ll cum when I want to,” Steve tells you, punctuating his statement with another deep, brutal thrust. “And I’ve wanted you too long to cum so soon.”

Steve picks up the pace of his thrusts, the fingers of his other hand finding your puffy, swollen clit and playing with it so meanly that all you can do is collapse on the professor’s desk and take what he gives you. He loves the way you submit to him, your cunt clenching greedily down on his cock even as you shake and cry from the overstimulation.

“Of course,” Steve goes on, curling over your back to press a sweet kiss to your mouth. “You can cum as much as you want, pretty girl. In fact, I’d like it very much if you did—and you want to be a good slut and give your professor what he wants for his birthday, don’t you?”

It’s music to Steve’s ears when your answer rings out in the silence following the fireworks, your voice drenched in pleasure as you respond to him with sweet obedience.

“Yes, sir!”

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So before Steve could open his mouth and say something you were not yet ready to hear, you beat him to it, tossing a piece of opened mail on the counter. 

Steve blinked down at it, frowning once more as he glanced between you and the paper before him. “...my driver’s license renewal card?”

You huffed, leaning closer and stabbing your finger at the date of birth printed on the card stock. “Your birthday is in a few weeks! And you haven’t mentioned it at all!”

“Oh.” Steve’s big, broad shoulders lifted as he gave you a sheepish look, a rosy flush staining his cheeks and working its way to the tips of his ears. “I just… didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.” 

“Well what if I want to?” you glared at him. “You were just going to rob me of the full birthday experience?” You made something close to jazz hands that had Steve choking down a laugh because you did seem genuinely irritated by this. “That’s so selfish of you, Hercules,” you finished with a huff, crossing your arms for good measure.

Even though he was able to suppress his laughter, Steve wasn’t able to do the same with his smile. He grinned big, blue eyes twinkling with a very fond sort of mirth as he rounded the counter and pulled you into his arms. 

“You’re right, omega, I’m the worst.”

“Truly!” you nodded in agreement, your own lips twitching as Steve interlocked his hands at the small of your back and kissed your cheek. 

“Next year, I’ll be sure to set monthly reminders for you about my birthday so it’s always top of mind,” Steve murmured, kissing your other cheek. “It won’t be obnoxious at all.”

You nearly giggled, but were able to maintain your stink eye as you gave him an unimpressed look. “You better,” you hmphed, realizing your mistake a second after you spoke. 

That you didn’t object to the fact that you would still be here–with Steve–a year from now.

You hadn’t really thought much about the future since you were a young omega, still brimming with hope and not yet beat down by the state of the world. 

But now… after months of being in Steve’s orbit, of… whatever this was between you–because you still weren’t ready to admit that you were together–the thought of this whole thing not being temporary, of it being your future, of Steve being your future… 

Well, it was an idea that you didn’t hate.

You could tell by the warmth and softness in Steve’s gaze that he was thinking along the same lines as you, but again, you just couldn’t with what ifs, and big feelings, and more. 

Not yet.  

“So,” you cleared your throat, pretending to fiddle with the collar of Steve’s t-shirt so you could escape his intese gaze for a moment. “What would the perfect birthday look like to you?”

Steve was quiet for a moment, for more than a moment, and you felt a swirl of anxiety in your stomach, worried that you had upset him by side-stepping the almost emotional landmine. 

But when you peeked up at him, Steve’s gaze was just as warm and soft as a moment ago, and he was giving you a small, boyish smile as he replied, “I think I have an idea that we’ll both enjoy.”

A few weeks later, on Steve’s birthday, his idea came to fruition, and for the first time in a very long time–maybe ever–you really were getting the full birthday experience, even if it wasn’t your birthday.

But that didn’t make it any less perfect.

Because Steve had driven you upstate to a small lake house in the middle of the woods. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you had been out of the city, and it truly felt like a slice of heaven to be surrounded by nature and quiet and have Steve all to yourself on his special day.  

His special day was just part of the week-long vacation he had surprised you with, and he really had planned it all so perfectly. The fridge and pantry were stocked with your favorite prepped foods and takeout, so neither of you would need to cook. And he had gotten a cute little birthday cake, along with lots of other treats, from his favorite bakery. 

And now, you were both enjoying the gorgeous tranquility around you, as you and Steve sat on the dock out back of the house, watching the sun set over the lake. 

You gave a quiet sigh of contentment as you sank back in the circle of Steve’s arms, allowing your head to fall to the side as his nose skimmed up the side of your throat as he took his time scenting you. 

It was actually the first time you two had ever done this–scenting outside of sex–and you didn’t hate it. You were kind of obsessed with it to be honest.

In fact, you had never been so squirmy in your life, your mind pleasantly hazy and quiet for once as you gave a soft chirp when Steve pressed a kiss to your unmarked mating gland. 

“You smell so good, omega,” he murmured against your skin, inhaling deeply and purring with satisfaction as he basked in your scent. “You always do.”

Your inner omega chirped up a storm, loving Steve’s attention and admiration as you turned your face so you could nuzzle his nose with yours. 

Steve kissed you gently, his eyes so soft and happy as he told you, “This really is the perfect birthday.” His lips touched yours again, lingering this time before he pulled away and breathed, “Thank you, omega. I mean it.”

As he often was, Steve was so earnest in his words and feelings, but something about the sheer affection for you that was coloring his alpha scent had you feeling shy, and a little cranky to be honest. 

Because you were still getting used to how much Steve made you feel and want, even after knowing him for months. But you shoved down the minor flare of irritation that you knew was a defense mechanism, because you would not be bitchy with Steve on his birthday. 

So instead, you playfully rolled your eyes, murmuring, “You’re such a sap.”

“Only for you,” Steve grinned. 

Your scent spiked with your own joy–and something wanting–and he huffed a laugh.

He leaned in and kissed your mating gland, laughing again as you squealed and tried to squirm away, overwhelmed by how sensitive that part of you was, especially under Steve’s attention. 

“How do you like it?” he rumbled, eyes twinkling as you huffed and twisted in his hold to glare at him. 

For a moment, you just gave him the best stink eye you could muster, and then, you pounced.

Of course you knew that Steve was letting you “attack” him as he fell back against the dock and took you with him. But that didn’t make it any less silly or fun as you wrestled with him until you straddled his hips and had his hands pinned above his head, preening your victory. 

“Well now that you’ve got me, what are you gonna do with me?” Steve husked, his eyes noticeably darker as you hovered over him. 

For probably the millionth time, you were nearly struck dumb by how gorgeous Steve was. His skin smooth and flawless, his golden hair gleaming in the setting sun and now perfectly mussed. And his eyes–those pretty blue eyes–so expressive as he watched you, as he waited for whatever you deemed came next. 

For a long, quiet moment, you just stared at each other, and then your eyes flickered down to another feature of his that you sure did love–those plump pink lips. 

Those plump, pink, kissable lips. 

“I have a few ideas,” you finally replied before swooping close and capturing his lips with yours. 

Steve groaned into your mouth as you traded pinning his wrists for framing his face between your hands. You made your own sound of delight when you felt his touch at your hips, his fingers pressing into you, holding you tight and urging your body against his even more.  

Your lips teased and tasted until both you and Steve were breathless, and when you finally pulled back enough to raggedly inhale a gulp of air, you paused for a beat, your eyes dancing as you said, “I want smores.”

“I want more too,” Steve immediately returned. His big hand cradled your cheek and tried to reel you back in for another kiss, but you pulled away. 

Giggling as you sat up over him, you shook your head, lips curled into a playful smirk as you tutted, “Keep it in your pants, Hercules. I want smores. You promised we’d make them using that little fire pit on the back deck.”

For a long moment, Steve just stared up at you, uncomprehending, gaping. And it was nearly enough to make you cackle, but then he blinked owlishly, his brain rebooting, and he didn’t look disappointed at all as he said, “Oh. Right.” Instead, he gave your hips a squeeze, his grin boyish as he continued, “I’ll go set it up now.”

You couldn’t help the dreamy sigh that bubbled past your lips as Steve helped you to your feet. Because he really was so good, so perfect.

And he was all yours. 

Preening for a different reason now, you looped your arm through Steve’s, pressing close to his side as you two began to slowly walk back up the dock. 

You felt mischievous as you glanced over and drank in the still flushed state of Steve’s cheeks, the way his lips were still kiss swollen, too.

“After smores, then I’ll give you more,” you teased, shooting Steve a wicked grin. “You can spend the rest of my night fucking me full of your cum and keeping me on your knot, birthday boy.”

Steve tripped over his own feet, making you burst into laughter as you grabbed onto him to help steady his steps, enjoying the way his flush deepened for an entirely different reason now as he shot you a stink eye. 

“You’re such a menace," he muttered, but he was already grinning again as he wrapped his arm around you and tugged you flush against him. “But you’re my menace.”

“Well happy birthday to you,” you chimed, laughing into Steve’s side as he pressed a kiss to the crown of your head. 

He held you just a little bit tighter as he murmured against your hair, “You’re the best birthday present ever,” rumbling his content as you caught his hand with yours, twined your fingers together, and stayed tucked close as you cleared the dock and made your way back to the lake house. 

—

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Your body shivers uncontrollably beneath the blanket. If only you had a mountain to burrow under. Something to keep you warm. Yet you’re sweating from every pore. 

Hate burns deep in your belly, swirling with the nausea. That sick fuck is gonna leave you down here to die. Let the fever ravage you until you expire. No. You won’t let it. Your teeth grit even as they chatter. Burning rage fuels you, though exhaustion tugs at your eyelids. Sleep too tempting to resist, you plummet into it. Rest is good—it’ll help your body fight. 

You awaken to a weight shifting beside you a few hours—who could say how many—later. Your eyes snap open, arms flailing to swat at the man sitting beside you. A weak growl rolls roughly in your throat. 

“Hey, shhhh,” he soothes as he grabs your wrists. 

You blink and squint into the dim lighting. It’s not Andy—the man imprisoning you in his basement. The older man beside you looks down at your shivering frame with something like pity shining in his eyes. He’s handsome, but you’ve learned to be wary of that. Too many fucked up experiences under your belt. 

“What has Andy put you through?” he asks, muttering more to himself than to you. 

You scowl and turn your head away from his hand lifted to check your temperature. 

“Fuck off,” you grit from a sore throat. 

“I’m here to help you,” the man says with a quick glance over his shoulder. “You can’t live like this.” 

You blink up at him, suspicions dulled by a foggy head but still pricking at his smooth-talking. Like he expects you to believe him. He knows Andy. He’s probably in cahoots with him—friends, thick as thieves. Who knows what this wolf is hiding under his sheep’s clothing. 

The door to the basement unlocks and opens. Andy enters with a tray filled with a plate, pill bottles, a single flower in a vase, a cup, and mug. 

The man leans closer in quiet desperation. “Just trust me.” Even his insistence doesn’t persuade you, though something about his tone piques your curiosity. He stands and backs into a corner as your captor closes the door. 

“There’s my girl,” Andy croons, approaching the bed and setting the tray next to it. “The doctor recommended plenty of fluids and to check your temperature about now.”

He presses the button and the device beeps before he slides it across your forehead. You scowl, but it doesn’t affect the path of the device as it reads your temperature. 

“Oh, dear,” he mutters under his breath. 

Andy places the thermometer aside and cradles your face in his hands. You bare your teeth, but you have so little energy to fight. 

“Her temperature’s higher,” he says to the man in the corner. “What do I do?” His eyes plead, his fingers stroking over your cheek. 

The man pushes himself away from the wall. He approaches and gently sits beside Andy. He removes your captor’s hands from your face. You slump, releasing the tension in your body. In your fuzzy brain, you can’t decipher the look the older man sends your way. 

“You know what needs to happen,” he says with a pointed look toward your feet. 

You unconsciously shift, the chains rattling under your blanket. 

Andy sighs, his chin dropping toward his chest. “Yeah,” he admits in defeat. 

Your ears prick beneath the heat of your fever. What is he doing?

He reaches for the button of his collared shirt. It pops open under his fingers and he reaches inside, drawing out a thin chain necklace and a dangling key. He hesitates with the key in his hand, but bends slowly toward your feet. He draws away the blanket and lifts your ankle to his lap. The click of the lock unlatching sounds like a hallelujah chorus. The chain and ankle cuff fall away with a clatter to the floor. Tears fill your eyes. It’s not much, but already you feel hope igniting in your heart. An opportunity, even if you can’t take it right now.

Without looking away from your foot, Andy asks, “do you really think this is—”

“Yes,” the older man interrupts. 

A moment passes as the two men lock eyes. Andy sighs and leans down again to kiss your legs—higher up your thigh, exposing more of your skin to the cold air. If you could move, you’d kick his teeth in. But he keeps a gentle hand on your ankle in his lap, petting over and soothing the red skin. Even his softest touch stronger than what little you possess in your weakened body. His thumb strokes your ankle bone. You growl, but the sound cuts off into a coughing fit. 

Andy rubs your back as he lifts you in your shivering cocoon of fever. Hiking you up into his arms and holding you close to his chest. He grunts. You protest with soft sounds of fury and surprise. Curses and spite sit on your tongue, unvoiced.

As he climbs the stairs up out of the dingy, disgusting basement you can’t even appreciate it, eyes closed to stave off the bubbling nausea in your gut. Sunlight blooms across your face. You open your eyes to be blinded. Such a normal home around you. Big windows leading to a lush green backyard. 

Your lips open to scream, sure that this is your chance. All you manage is a weak croak. 

“Shhh,” Andy shushes with his head tilting to rest his chin to your forehead. “Don’t exert yourself, honey. Everything’s okay.”

You turn your head and open your lips, biting into his shoulder. Your teeth ache with the pressure. He groans softly and tilts his head to press his lips to your forehead. You stop, stomach lurching. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.”

He keeps climbing up another set of stairs and another like a ladder. The room he enters barely catches your notice, save for the lightness of its walls and its cleanliness. 

The door just to the side of the entrance reveals an adjoining bathroom. He takes you in and sits you on the closed toilet in your blanket. Your eyes scan your surroundings. White tile gleams, pristine. A large sink sits in a quartz countertop which dips into a vanity. A shower head points into a large tub—big enough for at least two. You shudder and close your eyes for a moment to shield yourself from that gut-wrenching thought. 

Water rushes from the faucet of the bathtub and he lets it fill. The sound of it grates in your head. Too loud, too much. Your feet itch. An attempt to stand and run leads to disappointment—dizziness and fatigue too much a hinderance. You groan. Though it catches his notice, Andy says nothing and continues to prepare towels and soaps for your bath. 

You can admit that relief sparks at the prospect of finally getting clean. How long you’ve spent in that filthy, disgusting basement you couldn’t say. Don’t even want to guess. Nose-blind now to your own body odor, you can’t imagine how you smell, and you can’t bring yourself to look in the vanity’s mirror to see the state of your skin.  

“Come here, honey,” Andy beckons while he approaches and tries to strip the blanket from your shoulders. 

“No,” you grit between your teeth, clutching at the fabric. 

With your impaired strength against his, it’s no wonder you lose. He balls the blanket and throws it out the door. A smug smile on his lips. You sneer. 

Delighted at your inability to defend yourself, he hikes you back up into his arms and dips you into the water. One smooth motion with no time for you to snap at him as your bottom finds the porcelain of the tub. Violent shivers wrack your body. The water, it’s too cold. Your hands grip the edge, searching for leverage to hoist yourself out of the glacial water. 

Andy’s hold you down. “Hey, let your body get used to it. The doctor said lukewarm water would help lower your temperature.” His eyes shine down at you, a farce of kindness and sympathy. Too consumed by drinking in your bare figure beneath the water.

Your lips tremble too much to do more than sputter hateful sounds. But your captor doesn’t seem to mind as he begins to douse your shoulders and hair with water and foam up a loofah with body wash. 

“Don’t. You. Dare,” you manage to bite as his hand approaches. 

“Do you think you can wash yourself, honey?” he asks, all concern and encouragement—evil bastard. “Here.” He offers the loofah to your hands. “You can go ahead.” 

The frustration builds. Your hands fumble the soapy loofah before it falls into the bath water. You try again, but each effort to wash your limbs ends in struggle and defeat. 

“It’s alright, precious girl,” Andy coos with a pleased glint in his eye, “let me help you.” 

You’ve no choice. Not when he takes the loofah and softly scrubs it over your shoulders. With the warmth of the water and your waning energy, it’s no contest. You sink down into the water while he manipulates your limbs. 

“You know,” he mentions as he tilts your head back and grabs a soft washcloth for your face. “I’m not a bad guy, honey.” He smooths the soapy cloth over your face and clears it from the dust and debris of the basement. “I just wanted us to have our best chance.”

“Holy hell,” you mutter under your breath, leaning into the distortion of your syllables through your slightly stuffed nose. 

A knock sounds from the door. Your head lifts from its position. Sputtering through the water that splashes in your eyes, you huff a frustrated breath. 

“I have everything ready out here,” the other man says through the wood. 

“Thanks,” Andy calls over his shoulder, turning back to you with a smile. “It’s all gonna be better, you’ll see.”

Curses run through your head, scenarios forming. Each one worse than the next. What hell are they going to put you through now? Andy tips your head back further and soaks your hair with water. 

“I know this might take a moment, but I’ve researched what’s best for your hair.” Pride exudes from his words, like he’s expecting praise from you. As fucking if. 

He squeezes shampoo into his hand and begins. Each step he does with the utmost care. Like you’re some precious, fragile doll fit for breaking. You wonder how deeply he researched—what effort were you worth? He pours more water over your head and shields your eyes. 

God fucking dammit. You’re enjoying it. The pampering. The care. The gentle touch. You retch over the side of the tub, a dry convulsion of your stomach. His hand rubs over your back to soothe you. You want to scream. But you fall back into the lukewarm water, shivers running up your spine, and let him finish. The sooner he does, the sooner you stop that traitorous train of thought in its tracks. 

Once he completes the last step of his routine, he pulls the plug on the drain and leaves you in the murky, receding water. You let your fingers drift until it’s all gone, disgusted by the grime sloughed from your skin. 

“Oh,” he says, coming back to your side with a fluffy towel. He stares at the last dregs of water like you. “Maybe one last rinse, precious.” 

By the time you’re truly done with your bath, you can’t even complain when he helps you stand and wraps you in the fluffy towel. Relief flowing too heavy to fight him off. He cradles you close to his chest and runs his hands along your waist, reveling in your semi-compliant state. 

“There we go,” he sighs in delight. “Nice and clean.”

You grumble but can admit you feel much better. Your head clears as you stand there in his arms, despite the sickness still swirling around in your body and leaving a cloudy haze behind.

Andy escorts you out to the larger room. You glance around. But you halt your perusal, confused by the stranger from before seated at a small table. Before him spreads several papers. You’re sat beside him, Andy’s hands a firm weight on your shoulders. 

“Andy,” he addresses your captor, “why don’t we let her have a moment to herself?” 

Andy pipes up a noise of protest. “She needs to—”

“Andrew,” he admonishes, “give her a break.”

Andy sighs and squeezes your shoulders. You glance up at him. Irritation narrows his gaze. But they both leave. 

You gawk after them. Flabbergasted by the sway the older man has over Andy. The way Andy defers to him. Could this man really help you get out of here? You keep to your observations of them until the door shuts behind them, disbelief and suspicion waning. 

The room falls silent around you. With a chance for a better look around, you notice the light grey walls, the white crown moulding, the tufted headboard on the bed and matching furniture. It looks like someone threw up a Pottery Barn catalogue and a Live Laugh Love Pinterest board, and it congealed into this room. Not your style at all. You grimace. 

Another door stands in the corner—you pray for a closet. You walk over and open it, finding not much. A few frilly dresses, and that’s all. Your brow furrows in disappointment. Better than being naked, you grab one off the hanger and throw it over your head. At least there’s no zipper to grapple with. 

You tug and smooth the fabric over your stomach and legs. The dress not to your preference, it clings uncomfortably to your frame. Your feet find their way back to the table, you glance at the array of documents. Fingers flip through a few of them before your vision swims and the door opens again, just a crack. 

“Are you decent?” the stranger whispers through the small space. 

“As good as I’m gonna get,” you respond with a sigh and a hand massaging your forehead. 

With your reply, he sneaks into the room and closes the door behind him. He glances to the fingers still pressed to the papers and those kneading at your temple. 

“Did you get a chance to read through them?” he asks with a nod of his head toward the table. 

You shake yours. “But it looks like some kind of contract.”

“You’re right.” His hand raises to comb his hair back. It flops over and brushes his cheeks. “Mostly, it’s a non-disclosure agreement. A few other bits and pieces.” 

“For what?”

“Andy’s a lawyer,” he explains while taking a seat at the table. “He understands legal documents. I suggested this as a way to help you.” His hands sweep in a gesture above the papers.

“Why?” you ask, the words tinged with suspicion as you sink into the seat across from him. 

“Why what?” he asks with a tilt of his head. 

“Why do you want to help me?” 

The man lets out a heavy breath and stretches his hands across the table. “Andy’s my friend, but he needs help. I know that.” He presses a finger to the sheet closest to him. “This is what I can do. Get you someplace better. Make sure my friend gets what he needs. Make sure he never does this again.” 

Looking in his eyes, keeping your gazes locked, he doesn’t flinch or look away. He’s telling the truth. He wants to get you out, just like he said. You blink in shock.

“So if I sign these papers, it’s over?” you ask, hands finding their way to clutch together in your lap.

“It’s the only way I can see this getting better,” he replies with the same sincerity. He gathers everything up in a pile and hands it over. 

A pen sits by your hand and you lift it. You scan the first document, but with the headache and sinus pressure, it’s all legal jargon you can’t decipher before it becomes blackish grey mush in your eyes. Your head starts to spin. Before you can think better, your signature and initials sit on their respective dotted lines. 

The man breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” he says, clipping everything together. Gratitude saturates each word, too saccharine. “It’ll be so much better now. I promise, you’ll enjoy the attic much more than the basement.” 

He keeps talking, but static fills your brain. The attic? Wasn’t he going to get you out? He said—he said…you can’t quite remember anymore. Your brain pounds behind your eyes. You clutch at your head. 

The door swings open and Andy charges in, beelining for his friend and flipping through the packet of papers. A smile growing wider and wider on his lips.

“She signed everything?” he asks, voice excited in a way you don’t like. 

“She did.” The older man pats your captor on the back. “Congratulations, you two. I’ll leave you to your honeymoon.” 

“What?” you mumble. A nauseous weight sits heavy on your chest. You can’t breathe. All air sucked out of the room.

The older man comes over to you, crouching and catching your eye. “It’ll be better,” he repeats, patting your hand. “Just you wait. That marriage certificate was exactly what he needed. He’ll take much better care of his wife.” He stands and presses a kiss to your forehead. You wipe your face in shock while he shakes Andy’s hand. He walks away and turns back for one last wave before closing the door to your new hell.

The auctioneer welcomes you out onto the stage, and you tentatively step out into the spotlight. All told, you’re nothing necessarily special. You’re wearing a relatively simple sundress, which, even though it only comes down to mid-thigh, is much more modest than the more scantily dressed women being auctioned off. 

There’s an innocence about you even as you straighten your spine and stand tall, refusing to be cowed by the men hooting and hollering in the crowd, calling for you to take your dress off. You don’t do any such thing, raising your chin higher and looking down on the club like a queen overlooking her court.

And big, bad Steve Rogers, the leader of Brooklyn’s most feared mafia organization, is struck dumb. He’s unable to respond when Bucky makes some comment about you causing a riot because the mafia boss has been rendered speechless. It would’ve been funny, if it had happened to anyone else but him.

Steve only snaps back to reality when it’s announced that you’re selling your freedom for a whole year, and the mafia boss knows he has to have you. He’s already thinking about the ways he can put your body to good use, fucking you in that pretty little sundress in the filthy back alley behind his club. He knows, deep in his bones, that you’re going to be so fucking pretty when you cum on his cock. 

It strikes Steve that even a whole year with you might not be enough. But that’s a problem for future Steve. For now, he needs to focus on winning you, buying your freedom, and then he can worry later about keeping you beyond the year. 

Thankfully, Steve regains enough of his senses not to jump in too early in the bidding. His life is one long power play, and he knows how to win an auction. Compared to negotiating peace with Tony Stark’s Manhattan organization, this should be like child’s play. 

So Steve feigns disinterest, sipping on his whiskey and watching as the price of your freedom racks up. He ignores Bucky’s low whistles and mocking scoffs, his best friend eventually realizing what’s going on and that the mafia boss is going to make a play for you. Steve doesn’t need to say that you’re worth every penny, Bucky figures it out.

When the bidding slows down at $1.5 million, Steve knows it’s time to strike.

“Two million dollars,” he calls across the club, the sheer authority in his voice ringing through the space. He watches with a sense of predatory satisfaction when your attention turns to him, your eyes widening almost imperceptibly as you take him in. It takes everything in Steve not to puff up like some peacock. 

The other men who’ve been bidding on you look around uneasily, still trying to discern where the offer came from. Deciding to reveal himself, Steve rises from his seat, taking one last drink from his glass before he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and begins prowling up toward the stage.

Recognition ripples through the room, uneasy whispers circling the tables of the gentlemen’s club. A few obstinate men look like they’re gathering the courage to try to outbid the mafia boss, but before they can open their mouths, the auctioneer saves them from making the mistake of trying to cross Steve Rogers.

“Sold! To the proprietor of the club,” the auctioneer crows, ushering Steve up onto the stage, even though it’s clear to anyone watching that the imposing mafia boss is going to do as he pleases anyway. “Happy birthday, sir,” the other man simpers.

Steve stalks across the stage while the auctioneer leads the club in a motley rendition of “Happy Birthday,” but the intimidating mafia boss ignores the crowd. He only has eyes for you, the birthday present he’s gifting to himself.

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, your eyes wide as you stare up at the tall, blond man, using all your strength to keep the steel in your spine and not wilt beneath the intensity in his bright, blue eyes. 

He exudes an aura of danger and violence that has nothing to do with the way his broad shoulders and thick biceps fill out the suit he wears. Instead, it has everything to do with who he is. 

You may not know much about the underworld of New York City, but you know enough to recognize—and be intimidated by—the Brooklyn mafia boss, Steve Rogers. 

It had never been your intention to catch the attention of someone so notorious, so infamous for bloodshed, and now not only are you in his sights, you’ve officially sold your freedom to him for an entire year. 

If that’s not bad enough, you can already read the mafia boss’s depraved intentions all over his face. It’s clear in the way he’s staring at you like a starving predator whose set his sights on his prey—and that prey is you. 

The truth solidifies in your gut, Steve Rogers is going to eat you alive.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes, but you blink them quickly away, cursing yourself for being so stupidly naive. You’d just wanted to help your boyfriend. He’d gotten himself deep into some gambling debts, and you hadn’t even known he’d borrowed money from some seriously scary people until it was almost too late.

He’d been the one to suggest the auction at the gentlemen’s club. The two of you had concocted a plan for you to sell your freedom for a year, both so that you’d earn enough money to clear your boyfriend’s debts, and because the length of time might mean someone would buy you to be a glorified house maid. 

Now that it’s done, though, you can’t help but realize you’d deluded yourself. The look in Steve Rogers’ eyes, filled with hunger and promise, makes it clear that the mafia boss has plans for you—and those plans include using your body in every filthy depraved way he can think of. For a whole year. 

However, when you expect to feel fear at that realization, you feel only…a tentative thrill. A thrumming kind of…excitement. You tell yourself you’ll do anything the mafia boss asks of you so that you can help your boyfriend, but a not-so-small part of you is intrigued about what exactly he’ll do with you…

Only a few seconds have passed since Steve came to a stop in front of you, the echoing refrain of “Happy Birthday” only just tapering off in the club. As you watch him, Steve holds out his big hand to you, and for a moment all you can do is stare at it. 

You know the hand he’s presented to you has been stained with blood on more than one occasion, but it’s also a lifeline. It’s an escape from the mess your boyfriend created, the one that could’ve easily led to you being kidnapped and hurt in order to make him pay back his debts. 

When you continue to hesitate, Steve speaks, and his tone is so soft, so gentle, that it wraps around your heart and soul like a blanket. 

“My diamond,” he says, his voice low like the rumbling purr of a lion. “I believe you’re mine now.”

There’s a question in his words, so subtle you barely notice it, but it’s there. He’s giving you a chance to back out, to rebuff his offer of $2 million and try your luck elsewhere. But your only other options are less money or leaving your fate in the hands of the men your boyfriend owes money to.

Even with the depraved promise in Steve’s eyes, you know he’s your best option. So you slip your hand into his. You’re instantly struck by the warmth of his palm, and the electric sparks that have your body lighting up for him even before his calloused fingers close around your hand.

“Yes, sir, I belong to you,” you murmur, almost forgetting to tack on, “For one year.”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s handsome face, sharp as the edge of a knife, and far more dangerous if the way your heart flutters is any indication. Quick as a shot, Steve bends over your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, the promise of depravity in the ostensibly modest gesture.

“Right, for one year,” he repeats, and there’s a dark kind of humor sparkling in his eyes before he blinks it away, like he finds something about that statement funny. He draws you in closer, securing you against his side and leading you off the stage. 

When you enter the VIP section on the arm of the mafia boss, a man with brown, messy hair and a scowl on his pouty mouth greets Steve with a question of, “What the fuck, boss?”

Steve smirks, unruffled by the rude question, and squeezes your hip possessively. You only realize he’s not going to explain himself to this man when the mafia boss lowers himself onto one of the leather couches, sprawling out like a king on his throne.

You don’t move until Steve grabs your hand and guides you to sit on his lap, your body leaning against his broad chest while he snags a fresh glass of whiskey off a server’s tray. He asks what you’d like to drink, and you’re grateful for the consideration, asking for something strong, which makes him chuckle, the sound vibrating through your body to settle heavily between your thighs. 

Relaxing into Steve’s big body, you’re distracted by the thick muscle of his leg beneath your ass, and the weight and warmth of his hand where it’s settled on your hip. His thumb rubs maddening circles into your skin through your sundress, the gesture both teasing and comforting. 

You don’t know how you’re going to deal with Steve’s closeness for a whole year—especially when you know he has every intention of stripping you bare and having his way with you. But you’re brought back into the moment when the mafia boss speaks to his friend. 

“It’s my birthday, Buck,” Steve is saying to the other man, hiding a smug smile behind his glass as he takes a sip. “I deserve to get myself something nice—like a little diamond doll.”

Steve turns his smile on you, stealing the breath from your lungs with how handsome he is. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to have him look at you like you’re something precious to him, and you can already tell you’re greedy for more of his attention.

It strikes you all over again that you’re in way over your head. If you’re not careful, you’ll enjoy being Steve Rogers’ diamond doll a little too much and forget the entire reason you sold your freedom in the first place. But would that be so bad?

thank you for reading! comments and reblogs are appreciated! ♡

As he washes his face, he keeps himself on alert. Sure, this isn't breaking the rules, but it's a kindness. Kindness always has a cost. And if your price puts him at risk with Melinda, he's well and truly fucked.

He tries to quietly walk out of your office but you motion for him to have a seat across from you. His shoulders tense as he sits, keeping his gaze averted.

"We're keeping the door open so Melinda can't accuse us of anything and speaking in hushed tones so you won't get in trouble," you quietly say. "I'm going to hand you some papers and a copy of my office key will be amongst them. Whenever you need the private bathroom here, if you need a few minutes away from everything, my office is open to you."

Andy stares at the small pile of papers, breathing shallow with indecision. If he accepts and Melinda finds out, she'll drop him as a prospective Husband. She might even make it look like he's stealing and he'll be fired and kicked out on the street. On the other hand, you're showing him more kindness than he's ever experienced since he got hired. You're giving him a chance to preserve what little dignity he has.

"Melinda isn't the queen," you reassure. "She shares power in this company with me and Yvette and she's already on Yvette's last nerve. So if she raises a fuss, she'll be outvoted. Understand?"

"I...I think so, Madam," he breathes.

Andy considers his options. You've always been polite to him, but maybe it's a trap? If it weren't for your open disputes with Melinda he'd think the two of you were setting him up, testing him to prove his loyalty to her. Because a good Husband is loyal to his Wife. If he takes the key, keeps it secret, Melinda could accuse him of being unsuitable for the role of Husband and, again, he's out on his ass with less than nothing.

But, at this point, what are the chances Melinda will ever follow through on her promises? You've always been polite to him. Honest. Straightforward. Complimentary, even. Maybe he can trust you?

The entire time Andy deliberates you keep looking like you're working so as to not arouse suspicion. It pains you how scared he looks contemplating letting himself preserve some dignity.

"I'll make sure this gets taken care of, Madam," he finally says, grabbing the papers, and the key, as he stands.

You let out a small sigh of relief. It isn't much, but maybe it'll be a start towards getting him out from under Melinda's desk and getting him somewhere safe, healthy. The man could be a good Husband, but he's never going to reach that potential if he stays her side-piece.

It really doesn't take much for Andy to hide your office key from Melinda. She doesn't pay attention to him outside of when she wants something from him. She's not going to notice an extra key on his key chain.

He's also smart enough to know to take his time cleaning himself up after Melinda uses him. She expects him to take forever to get back because of the lack of men's bathrooms available in the building. If he were to be sitting at his desk a few minutes later, freshened up, she'd be suspicious. He can't risk that.

Back at his apartment his roommates noticed he was more on edge.

"Boss threatening to fire you?"

"What? No. No, of course not."

"You should be looking over your shoulder, sleeping your way into a Husband role like that," they scoff.

"I didn't...it's not exactly by choice," he grumbles. "I got lucky to be hired at all."

"You know you only got hired for your looks," one of them sneers. "Friggin' pretty boy using his good looks to take a job someone worthy could use."

Andy sighs and just heads to his room. There was no solidarity here. They never saw him as the victim part of him knows he is. He was always just getting by on his looks. Always "asking" to be used by his boss.

He pulls out his key chain, looking at that key to your office. Maybe there was someone who saw him for what he was.

In another part of town, you're sitting across from Natasha Romanov, a college friend who was now a high ranking member of Her Majesty's Intelligence Agency. The two of you had kept in touch over the years and it was because of you that she got her in at the Agency.

"I'm guessing you're calling in your favor?" she smiles as she sips her wine.

You chuckle. "You're always too good at reading people."

"Not like this was difficult. It isn't often you ask to meet me without some kind of heads up or asking me a time that works. This is something important."

"Well...important-ish. It is for a guy, after all."

"Oh really?" she raises her eyebrows in surprise.

"You know Melinda Benefry?"

"One of your business partners," she nods.

"Correct. You know our diversity hire?"

"Oh, her secretary. I'm guessing Melinda isn't interested in sharing?"

"And I'm not interested in how she continually uses and degrades him. Having a side-piece is one thing. Emotionally torturing the man is another."

"I concur," she nods. "The number of men who we've found that were kidnapped, trafficked, worse. No one deserves that."

"It's my hope I don't have to say more," you raise an eyebrow.

She smiles conspiratorially, "you don't."