Memoirs of an Iridescent Lily (aka IriLil 🫧)

Sammy Bryant has always had his eyes on you. I mean, who wouldn’t look at you? You’re an absolute stunner is what he’d say if anyone ever asked. You’d been his and Tammi’s neighbor for about two years before the divorce.

Each morning, when you both were heading to your respective jobs, you’d still be polite enough to yell out a “Mornin’ neighbor!” All while waving your pretty manicured nails at him. 

He’d blush each time, but he’d still offer up his own “Good morning” to you. Sammy liked having you as a neighbor. You were always polite and helpful. 

Whenever you’d have a cookout with your friends and family, you'd invite him and Tammi over. Of course, Tammi never came, but Sammy never let that stop him from going to eat good food. 

“Make yourself at home, Sammy. Come on, I’ll make your plate,” you said, tugging him along with you to the kitchen. As you passed by different members of your family, you would introduce them. 

“Say mane, you ain’t gone arrest us or nothin’ right?” Your uncle asked him. 

“No, sir, m’just here to enjoy some good food and company,” Sammy answers. 

“Uncle Leroy, leave my neighbor alone,” you said, laughing slightly as you pulled Sammy into the kitchen. The man watches quietly as you move around the kitchen and grab one of the long plates. 

You look up at him, “Do you eat potato salad?” 

Sammy nods, “Yeah, I do. Honestly, it all looks great, so load me up with it all.”

You chuckle, “I’ll hook you up. My dad makes the best ribs this side of town.” You navigate around the table as you pack Sammy’s plate with various foods. His mouth waters the more that you put on the plate.

But truly, he’d be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that his mouth was watering from the food. In actuality, the man can’t keep his eyes from trailing over your body. He can’t help the way that he notices the way that the shorts cling to your body, or how they rise each time you lean over the table. 

He’s a cop. He’s supposed to pay attention to the details that other people would miss, such as the fact that when your shirt lifts, he can see the faint glint from your belly button piercing. 

Or even the fact that he can tell that you just shaved your legs–as evidenced by the bandage on the side of your leg.

“You hurt yourself?”

“Huh?” 

When you turn to look at him, Sammy points to the bandage on the back of your leg. You look down at it and hum as though you forgot it was there. 

“Yeah, I nicked myself shaving this morning. You know how it is, playing host. You never really get time to yourself,” you explain, before sticking a fork in his plate. 

You pass the plate over to him, and he ignores the way that his skin tingles at the feel of your fingers brushing against his. Sammy follows you back into the party, where you both sit together at one of the tables. He takes the first bite of potato salad and nearly moans. 

The ribs are even better. 

“This is some of the best food I’ve had in a while,” He states, taking another bite of the ribs. 

You smirk, “Your wife not cooking many home meals?”

Sammy wipes his mouth and swallows down the food, “Not really. She does her best, but she’s not much of a cook. But I knew that when I married her.” He winces once the sentence is out and tries to save face, “She makes a great casserole.”

He cringes even harder at that sentence.

You laugh softly, “M’just teasing you, Sammy. Since you like the food so much, I’ll make you some to-go plates.”

Sammy takes his time to stare into your eyes. He analyzes the different shades of color present there and how your eyelashes perfectly complement your eyes. 

“I’d really like that. Thank you.”

“S’no problem.” 

You hold eye contact with him for a beat before breaking it once one of your cousins calls your name. You’re polite enough to include Sammy in the conversation. Actually, you’re great at reassuring him throughout the entire evening. 

Even when you’re teaching him to play Spades, you’re patient and calm with him. He finds himself laughing along with your family as they joke about you bringing a white boy around. 

You laugh loudly, “Y’all are gonna put some respect on my neighbor’s name. I’m not about to let y’all come for him like this.”

“Right, niece! Y’all ain’t coming for my friend. He said he's going to help me get rid of these parking tickets,” your uncle, Delmont, said, all while winking at Sammy. 

Sammy can’t help but admire how joyful and carefree you are when you’re with your family. It only makes him more attracted to you, especially with how welcoming you are. 

He stops the thoughts before they can even begin to manifest into a montage of images. If there’s one thing that Sammy Bryant doesn’t do is cheat. 

He knew his fair share of guys at the station who were messing around on their wives and girlfriends, but that had never been Sammy’s scene. 

He took the sanctity of marriage seriously. When he said those vows to Tammi, he meant every single word. So as much as he liked you, he’d never cross that line and hurt his wife. 

Because his parents raised him to be a lot of things, but a cheater wasn’t one of them. 

Even though he has his suspicions of Tammi, he still wouldn’t allow himself to ever cross that line. 

By the end of the night, as things are winding down, Sammy stands across from you in your yard with his to-go plates stacked together in a plastic bag. 

“Thank you again for inviting me and for the food,” He said, smiling shyly at you. 

“You’re welcome. Thanks for coming. You know it was really nice having you here, Sammy. You’re welcome to come to any future cookouts.”

He smiles, “Good, because I don’t think I ever want to miss out on your dad’s ribs.” Before he knows it, you’re stepping closer to him. He can practically feel the warmth of your body with how close you are. 

“Have a good night, Sammy.” He expects that to be the end of the conversation. What he doesn’t expect is for you to pull him into a hug. He can feel the increasing thumping of his heart beating against his chest at the feel of your body pressed to his. 

He tries to take a deep breath to calm his nerves, but that only worsens the situation because then he gets a big waft of your perfume. He circles his arm around your waist and pulls you more to him. 

You happen to move your head back to stare at him, and for a moment, he’s trapped within your gaze. He clears his throat and moves back. For a second, he allowed himself to visualize what it’d be like to have your lips pressed against his. 

He swallows roughly as the guilt starts to creep up into his body. He smiles awkwardly at you, “G’night.” 

You spare him one last smile before turning to walk back inside your house. Sammy follows suit and walks back to his house. When he gets inside, he spots Tammi sitting on the couch, watching TV and texting on her phone. 

“You’ve been gone all day. Thought I might have to file a missing person’s report,” She said, eyes flickering over his form and the bag in his hand. 

“No need for that. The neighbor and her family invited me to stay and eat with them. They were really nice,” Sammy responds.

Tammi hums. She’s not blind. She can see how pretty you are and the occasional glances that you spare Sammy’s way. Even just the fact that he was so excited to go to your house has her raising her eyebrows.

Sure, she’s already having an affair of her own, but something about the thought of you and Sammy together just makes her stomach queasy. However, it would absolve her of some guilt about her affair if Sammy were sleeping with you. 

Maybe he’d even be willing to look past what she’s doing in favor of his affair with you. 

The next day, Sammy’s on edge. 

He suspects more and more that Tammi is cheating on him. But it’s fully confirmed for him in that moment when he checks his to-go plates and sees that someone had eaten his ribs. 

Tammi doesn’t even like ribs. 

So who did she have in his house?

You’d noticed the change in Sammy since his divorce. At first, he was more withdrawn and isolated. You’d grown worried when you started to notice the usual softness and joy present in his face fading away. 

You were there for Sammy even when he started to push you away. You’d send over meals to his house, and he’d give you a soft smile, but you could always tell that the light had left his eyes.

It only got worse when he found out that the baby that he was so excited for wasn’t his. 

In that moment, Sammy Bryant decides to become a brand new man. As he looks in the mirror, he takes in his chubby cheeks and the slight curve of his stomach. He figures that he’ll start there.

He starts going to the gym more and being more mindful about what he eats. Soon, the weight practically falls off, and his face becomes slimmer. His jawline’s sharper, and the man that stares at him in the mirror is him…but not him at the same time. 

He likes it. And he’s not the only one. Sammy starts to garner a lot more attention from women on the regular patrols. They’d usually keep their eyes on Nate and disregard Sammy. 

But now, they flash heated looks and sugary smiles in his direction. It puts a certain pep in his step. Even as he goes to the bar with the guys, more women are pulling him to the side and suggesting that they come back to his place. 

He smiles politely and declines. 

He sips from his beer after he’d rejected yet another woman. Ben turns to him, “Jeez, Bryant, she was a real smoke show. I bet she would’ve been open to showing you a good time.” 

Sammy shrugs, “Nah, not my type.” 

Nate scoffs, “Not your type? What’s your type then? Oh, let me guess, your fine ass neighbor next door?” 

Sammy shoots him a warning look. Nate chuckles, “So, I’m right. Why don’t you just ask her out, man? She seems like she’s into you.”

“I don’t know. I just haven’t gotten around to it yet.”

“Well, you’d better get a move on it. Pretty girl like that. Some guy’s bound to scoop her up soon.”

Sammy knows that he’s right. You’re a beautiful woman, and not too many men would miss their opportunity to have you on their arm. Since the divorce, he’s been watching you a lot more. 

He finally feels like it’s not a sin to look at you and imagine what it’d be like to be with you. 

Which just happens to be the case now as he watches you head out to your car. You glance up, feeling his eyes on you, “Mornin’ neighbor.”

“Morning,” Sammy replies before he starts to walk over in your direction. 

You lean against your car and give him another one of those dazzling smiles, “Long time no see, Sammy. You get a brand new look and dump me.” 

You don’t hide the fact that you’re checking him out, which he really likes. 

“I’m sorry, it wasn’t you, I swear. It’s just been a lot with the divorce and then the baby…” He trails off at the end of the sentence and swallows roughly. 

It still hurts him to talk about the fact that the baby isn’t his. A cute, chubby-faced baby that Sammy was prepared to give the world to. Even after the DNA test came back negative, he tried to make it work. It was always his dream to be a father. But as all things are with Tammi, they eventually become complicated. Her affair partner was still a constant in her life, and he obviously wanted to be a part of the kid’s life. 

So Sammy did the mature thing. 

He bowed out and left. There was no point in fighting for something that would only hurt him in the end. 

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry that you had to go through all of that, Sammy. Really. You’re a great guy,” You said, your expression softening. 

“Thanks, and thanks for being there. Those home-cooked meals meant more than you know.”

“You’re welcome. You know you’re always welcome over anytime,” You said.

Sammy smiles shyly. Even with his new look, he still found himself nervous around you. 

“I should go, but I’ll see you around, Sammy. Be careful.” With one last parting smile, you get into your car and drive away. Sammy watches you drive away and mentally scolds himself for not being brave enough to ask you out. 

It’s a random Friday night, and Sammy finds himself on patrol with Nate and Ben. There’s nothing too crazy besides them having to get a few sloppy drunks in line. Sammy’s eyes scan to the entrance of the club, and he stops once he spots you walking out with your friends. He lets his eye run down your figure in the way that the front of the dress dips dangerously to show the outline of your breasts. 

You look beautiful, and you’re practically glowing as you laugh loudly at something that one of your friends says. Your eyes scan your surroundings, and they automatically land on Sammy leaning against the patrol car. 

Sammy sees you say something to your friends before you start to walk in his direction. By this point, Nate and Ben have noticed you approaching them. Nate nudges Sammy, “Aye, Bryant, there goes your lady.”

Sammy rolls his eyes, but can’t stop the smile that covers his face. 

“Evening officers. Hi, neighbor,” You say, looking in Sammy’s direction. 

“Hi, uh..you look really nice. Girls’ night out?”

“Bachelorette Party, actually. My best friend’s getting married next week,” You reply, briefly glancing back at the group of women, who wave at you before making obscene gestures. Sammy chuckles at their antics. Your friends use his laughter as an excuse to come over and antagonize you finally. 

A woman with long faux locs and a sasha labelled “Bride” smirks while looking between you and Sammy. “Oh, so you must be the sexy neighbor that she won’t stop talking about.”

Your eyes widen, “Kamari!”

“Ooops, my bad. I’m a little tipsy officer, forget I said anything,” Kamari states before turning her gaze to Ben and Nate. “Hey, is it possible for you guys to handcuff me and put me in the back of the cop car?”

Your other friends laugh at Kamari’s suggestion, but truthfully, Ben and Nate are down to make her wish come true. You watch in amusement as Ben puts the cuffs around her wrists loosely as your other friend, Shay, takes pictures and videos of the moment.

You find that Sammy’s already looking at you, “Aren’t you gonna frisk me, Officer?”

Sammy smirks at the insinuation, “I don’t know, ma’am. Have you been a good girl or a bad girl tonight? I have to have reasonable cause for a search.”

You step closer and pretend to think it over, “I don’t know, Officer Bryant. I think I’ve been pretty bad tonight. I think you should cuff me and make sure that I’m not in possession of anything. You know, for the safety of the public and all?” You peer at him from beneath your lashes as you flash one of those dazzling smiles in his direction. 

“How much have you had to drink tonight, sweetheart?” He figures that it must be some sort of liquid courage if you’re openly flirting with him like this. 

“Not a lot. I’m playing designated driver tonight, so that means that I’m completely sober and in my right mind to flirt with you,” You mutter as you reach out to lightly touch his shirt. Your fingers play with the buttons of his shirt, and Sammy feels flush at having your hands on him.

From the side, Kamari stumbles, and you take a step back from Sammy. “I should get her home. It was nice seeing you, Sammy. Stay safe tonight.”

“Drive safely, sweetheart.” 

He watches you walk away, the dress clinging to each curve of your body. You throw a fleeting glance over your shoulder and wink at him before turning around. 

“She’s so into you, man. You gotta get in on that,” Ben suggests. 

For the first time in a while, Sammy figures that it’s time to make his move.

12:20 AM. 

That’s the precise time that Sammy makes it to his house. He briefly glances over to your house and clocks the fact that the lights are still on. 

He walks into his house, which is silent except for the sounds of his dog, Cooper, snoring from the couch. 

As Sammy showers, he’s suddenly hyper aware of his body and all of the different changes there. The slight pudge that used to sit over his pants is nonexistent. Even as he stands in the mirror and observes his jaw, which one lady stated “could cut through glass,” he just stares.

He starts to wonder if maybe Tammi wouldn’t have cheated on him if he looked like this. Was she turned off by his chubby cheeks or the feel of his stomach against hers when they had sex? 

Then he thinks about you. 

Never once during the times when he’d talked with you did you ever make him feel like he was disgusting. In fact, the only time that he ever felt wanted was when he was with you. 

The realization is what gives him the confidence to finally walk across the pathway as he stands in front of your door nervously. 

He readjusts his grip on the wine bottle as he raises his hand to knock. 

He lowers his hand, “What are you doing, Bryant? She’s probably asleep. What? You bring wine and then what?”

He jumps as the door opens. You stand in front of him with a wide grin on your face, “Are my eyes deceiving me, or are you talking to yourself at my front door, Sammy?”

Sammy blushes under your gaze. He awkwardly rubs his hand through his hair, “How’d you know I was at your door?” 

You take a small step forward and point to the side of the door, where a ring camera sits. 

“I saw you on my camera. The motion detector went off, and then I just kind of watched you psych yourself up at the door,” You respond, laughing. 

Sammy laughs right along with you. 

“I’m sorry. That was weird. I should probably go.” 

“Don’t be. It’s cute. Plus, you walked all this way, you might as well come in,” you states, leaning on the door. Frankly, it’s not like he walked far. Your house is literally only a few steps away, but implication is just far too sexy to resist. 

Sammy follows behind you into your house, and he takes the chance to look around. You’ve changed things around since the last time that he’s been here. It’s warm, cozy, and completely you. 

You navigate him towards the kitchen where you go to the cabinet to grab two glasses. 

He removes the cork from the wine glass, and you blatantly stare at the flex of his muscles. 

“Sorry if it’s not the good stuff,” He said, as he pours you both a glass. 

“It’s fine. I’ve become all too familiar with cheap wine, and truthfully, I kind of like it,” you reply. You usher him into the living with as you both sit side by side. You pull your feet up to rest on the couch as you stare at Sammy. 

“What brings you by this time of night, Officer Bryant?” You ask teasingly.

“ I wanted to see you.”

You smile, “I wanted to see you, too. I was hoping that you’d stop by.”

“You looked really beautiful tonight,” Sammy announces, eyes briefly flickering down to your bare legs.

“Thank you. You looked pretty hot in your uniform.”

He smiles bashfully, “Yeah? That’s seems to be the consensus among everyone these days. Guess they didn’t really like the way that I looked in the uniform back then. Nobody likes a chubby guy, you know?”

He tries to laugh at the end of the joke to take the sting away, but it still hurts. The insecurity of it all stillhurts. 

You set your glass down the table before turning to look at him. He wants to smooth the frown out of your pretty face. 

“Is that really what you think of yourself, Sammy? Don’t get me wrong, you’re hot like this, but I liked you when you had a little weight on you, too. You were fluffy.” 

Sammy chuckles, “Fluffy? Like a bunny?”

“Yeah, like a bunny. You always looked like you were good at cuddling and like you could keep a girl warm on a cold night,” you explain, your expression darkening. 

You scoot closer to him on the couch until your legs are touching his. You trail yours eyes across his form and suddenly, he just feels so naked under your gaze. 

He finds himself leaning in closer to your face, but you stop him. You stand from the couch and hold your hand out to him, “Come on, I wanna try something.” 

Sammy’s like a little puppy with how he willingly lets you lead him throughout your house. He eyes the various pictures frames that have you and your family in them. His heart is hammering against his chest as you both get closer to what he presumes is your bedroom. 

It also doesn’t help that he can feel himself hardening in the grey sweatpants. You push the door open lightly as he finally catches a full view of your room. 

The big bed sits neatly in the middle of the room, but what catches his eye more is the huge mirror that sits in front of the bed. Sammy’s mind goes to less innocent scenarios, such as you pleasuring yourself in front of the mirror. 

You turn to face his as you both stand in front of the bed. “Is it okay if I touch you, Sammy?”

He nods, wide eyes seeking your approval.

You click your tongue, “No, baby, you’re an officer, you know how important consent is.”

He swallows the saliva that fills his mouth, “Yes, you can touch me. You can do whatever you want to me, doll.”

“Good because I wanna make you feel good tonight.” Your fingers reach out to lightly squeeze the bulge that peeks through the sweatpants. He jumps in anticipation. 

Your hands grasp the edge of his shirt before you lift it above his head. The fabric falls carelessly to the floor. Sammy suddenly feels very shy under your gaze. 

You pull his body to yours with the drawstring of his sweats. You peer up at him, “I want you to kiss me, Sammy.”

He doesn’t need much else after that as he lips descend upon yours. Sammy’s lips move across yours, and it feels like he’d devouring you. But truthfully, you don’t know how much, he’s been waiting to finally touch you. 

You moan softly at the feel of his tongue sliding into your mouth. You can taste the faint hint of mint on Sammy’s tastebuds. You move your hands up to cup his face, “You know how many hours I spent thinking about this face? Sammy, I’d literally cum to the thought of sitting on your face.” 

You move your lips to the side and press a kiss to his cheek, “I was always happy whenever I’d get to see your sweet face in the morning.” 

As expected, he blushes. You slide your hands from his face down to his stomach, which is now lean with abs and a visible v-line running down. Your hands grasp the side of his waist.

“I really liked your stomach.” Sammy’s mouth goes dry as he watches you to come to stand behind him. You turn his face to the mirror, “Eyes on the mirror, baby. I want you to watch every single thing I’m doing to you.”

He watches you bite your lip through the mirror, “You wanna know what I fantasized about when it came to your stomach?”

“Tell me,” Sammy orders gruffly. 

 Your manicured hands slide down the length of his body before you dig your nails into his stomach. 

“I used to think about you and me together. I thought about you laying your body atop of mine, and you thrusting away. But you wanna know what really turned me on? I couldn’t stop thinking about your belly rubbing up against mine. It didn’t turn me off at all. Means that you’re eating good. Can I make you feel good?”

“Please,” he whimpers, as he leans back in your hold. 

You gently usher him to sit in the middle of the bed. Grasping the sides of his sweatpants, you pull them down as his dick slaps against his stomach. 

You kneeling between Sammy’s legs, staring up at him all pretty. 

“I wanna see you too,” Sammy said, softly. 

You lean back to toss your shirt over your head. Sammy’s greeted with the sight of your beautiful breasts as the air starts to harden your nipples.

“You look beautiful,” Sammy states. 

“Thank you, baby. So do you. Now let me make you feel good,” you tell him, to which he nods.

You take his length in your hands and slide your tongue across his tip to collect the precum dripping there. 

Sammy shudders in your hold. Licking up the underside of his dick, you allow your glossed lips to cover his tip. Lifting up, you swirl your tongue around like you’re licking a lollipop. 

“You taste so good, baby. Just like I knew you would.” Sammy jumps and moans loudly at the feel of you enveloping his full length into your mouth. He pulls your curly hair out of your face so that he can stare at you. 

You look at the Sammy the entire time as you move your head up and down. When you move up again, you allow a large amount of saliva to trail over Sammy’s tip before slurping it back into your mouth.

“Baby…fuck…that feels so good,” Sammy moans, his face scrunching up in pleasure. 

You moan around him at the praise and Sammy finds his hips lifting each time to meet your mouth. Quite frankly, you’re happy to see him prioritizing his own pleasure and wants. You know he deserves it after everything that Tammi put him through. 

Sammy feels the creeping of the orgasm rising in his body before he can fully comprehend it. His mind feels frazzled as he moans unabashedly in the room. He tries to push you back a little, “Baby…”

But you already know what that means, and you’re not letting your man miss out having his pleasure. Hallowing your cheeks more, Sammy moans increase as you fully submerge yourself to the base of his length, pushing your nose into the ginger hairs at the base of his dick. 

Stars burst beneath his eyes as his orgasm starts. He moans and whimpers as the ropes of cum leave him. You obediently drink him down and move up at the sheer amount of cum that floods your mouth. 

With him now out of your mouth, you point his leaking dick at your chest as the white liquid paints your breasts like a canvas. 

The last bit of Sammy’s white release trails lazily down the side of his dick. You catch the liquid before it can drop on the bed and bring it to your mouth. Sammy’s dick jumps at the sight of your wet mouth, along with your bare chest painted with him cum. 

“Come here, sweetheart,” He orders. 

You stand in front of him, bare and waiting. Sammy surprises you when he moves his face closer to your body and his tongue flicks out to swipe the cum away from your nipple. The ginger-haired man fully wraps his lips around your nipples as he sucks gently. Sammy repeats the action on your other breast before moving to lick the remaining remnants of his cum from your chest.

Once you’re cleaned up to his satisfaction, he connects his mouth to yours. You both kiss messily as the faint trace of him remains on your tongues. 

Gently laying you down on the bed, Sammy hovers above you. He presses light kisses down the length of your body. He grabs your hips in his hands as he slides your sleep shorts down your legs and discard them on your floor. 

“M’gonna make you feel good too, baby. For the next couple of days, all I want is the taste of you in my mouth,” He explains, laying down between your legs. 

Kissing up your thighs, Sammy nips at your thighs before soothing the bites over with his tongue. Truthfully, he wants to mark you. He wants to leave this bedroom knowing that some part of him is still imprinted on your body. 

Sammy pushes your legs back and is greeted with the sight of your glistening folds. Leaning down, he collects the slick that gathers at your entrance on his tongue and licks a long stripe towards your clit. 

It seems like just from that small taste, it incites Sammy to fully bury his face into your pussy. You lean up on your elbows as you watch his head move back and forth. 

Stuffing your hand into his curls, your jaw drops at the feel of the man eating you out like you were his last meal on Earth. 

“Sammy…”You moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head. How could Tammi be this stupid and give an eater like Sammy up? 

Admittedly, this is the first time that a man’s been able to bring you the edge so quickly just off of head alone. Sammy’s Bryant a dangerous man, and you’d definitely be willing to fight anyone before you gave up your best eater. 

With one last suck to your clit, you’re exploding on Sammy’s tongue. He watches as your back arches from the bed. It brings a huge sense of pride to his chest at the fact that he’s making you feel so good. 

You breathe heavily and laugh, “If I knew you were this good, I would have came to your house sooner.” 

Sammy licks his lips, tasting the remaining juices on his face. “I think we both have a lot to make up for baby.”

Leaning up, you pull his lips to yours, “Well, we can start now.” You grasp his hardened dick in his hand, “I’d love to feel you inside me.”

Reaching over to the bedside drawer, Sammy pulls out a condom and slides it over his length. 

“Yeah, baby, we got a lot to make up for.”

From that moment, you instantly become Sammy’s girl and there isn’t a thing that he won’t do for you. Sammy feels good about his relationship with you. For the first time in a while, he feels valued and less like a burden. 

Knowing that you found him attractive in every single state sent a wave of flutters throughout his chest each time. 

Naturally, the guys at the station teased him for getting a woman as beautiful as you. He’d heard his fair share of “You sure you can handle all that, Bryant?” But truthfully, Sammy had excelled at proving that he could handle you. 

The man was practically manhandling you all throughout his house. He got off on seeing just how much he could make you cum. He always kept a perceptive eye on you as he liked watching you cum, and seeing how overwhelmed you got by the orgasm. 

He liked knowing that he was the only one making you feel good. 

Even the first time that you’d let him go raw inside you, Sammy Bryant had literally turned you every way but loose. 

You still didn’t see how Tammi could ever cheat on the man when he was putting it down like this. 

Speaking of Sammy’s ex-wife, she’d started to become a rather bothersome nuisance. She’d heard around town that Sammy had started seeing a new woman. So imagine her surprise when she spots you and Sammy walking hand-in-hand in the grocery store with love sick smiles on your faces.

It’s also not lost on Tammi how good he looks. This wasn’t the same Sammy Bryant who’d divorced her months ago. 

No, he actually looked happy with you. 

She swallows down the sting of bitterness. As the saying goes, you never know what you have until it’s gone. And Tammi was surely recognizing that now. 

Sammy gets off on Friday and heads home to take off his uniform. He’d already since logged his body cam back in at the station. He parks in front of his house and walks in, just as he smells food wafting through the home. 

He smiles at the realization that you’re here and you’re cooking for him. He’d given you a key to his house pretty early on the relationship, and he didn’t regret it. As far as Sammy was concerned, he was serious about his relationship with you. 

Sure, the sex was great, but there wasn’t a moment that he didn’t enjoy spending with you. He loved the fact that he was able to get to know you on a more deeper and intimate level. 

He spots you stirring away at the stove. His eyes zero in on the pretty dress your wearing and how it rides up when you move. 

Gently walking up behind you, Sammy wraps his arms around your waist. 

“Evenin’ ma’am. I’m Officer Bryant with the LAPD. I’m here to discuss something serious with you, you might if I search your person for anything?” Sammy questions.

You smirk, you already know this is about to end with you cumming around Sammy. You turn the stove off as you turn your head slightly to the side, “Of course, Officer. May I ask what’s this about?”

“Well, ma’am, I have reasonable cause to suspect that you’re harboring something deadly on you. Now, do I have your consent to frisk you?”

You laugh lowly, which Sammy catches as he chuckles.

“I don’t know, Officer Bryant. Do you have a search warrant.?”

Sammy raises his eyebrows in amusement, “M’afraid I don’t ma’am. But I could take you down to the station and it’d be a lot longer. I think it’d be easier if you just consented here.” He trails his fingers down to the edges of your dress. 

“Okay, Officer Bryant, you have my permission,” you respond. 

Sammy navigates you away from the stove and to the the nearby counter. “Hands in front of you where I can see them, ma’am. Spread your legs for me.” 

You follow Sammy’s orders as you spread your legs more. You can already feel the panties between your legs becoming wet with freakiness of it all. 

Starting at your chest, Sammy gently pats his hands along your body. He gets to your breasts and cups them in his hands. You lean into his touch. Patting along your waist, Sammy moves his mouth close to your ear, “Have you been a good girl, sweetheart?”

“Mhmm..I’m always a good girl for you, Officer.” Sammy hums before kneeling behind you. 

He trails his hands up your legs as he reaches the hem of your dress. He pushes the fabric over your hips and whistles at the sight of your panties clinging to your wet pussy. 

“Now what do we have here, sweetheart? Is this getting you all hot and bothered?” Sammy asks, as he swipes his fingers along the damp center of your panties. 

“Tell you what, sweetheart. I’ll make a deal with you. I got a little situation going on if you catch my drift. You help me out and I’ll let you go scot free,” Sammy suggests. 

“Okay, Officer Bryant. We can do that,” You state, subtly waving your hips in his face. In response, Sammy pulls the wet material down your legs as he stuff it in the back of his pocket. 

He practically salivates at seeing how wet you are. 

Standing up behind you, Sammy unbuttons his pants and pulls them down just enough before guiding his tip to your entrance. 

You bend over more as you arch your back. You and Sammy moan in unison as he slides into you. 

“God baby, you feel so good,” he mutters against your shoulder. He has to pause due to how your warm walls encircle around him. 

Pulling back lightly, Sammy thrusts forward, which makes you let out a soft moan. He starts a steady pace as he rocks in and out of you. The man looks down at his your pussy stretches around him, and at the white creaminess that coats the base of his dick. 

You know Sammy’s watching. He’s always been a fan of looking at your bodies being connected. You start to thrust back as your ass bounces against his thrusts.

Sammy reaches around to close his hand around your throat as his movements increase. The loud sound of skin slapping fills the kitchen space. You and Sammy are so utterly lost in the moment that neither of you pays attention to the woman, who stands gobsmacked in the kitchen. 

Tammi doesn’t know what she expected to find when she came back to her former house. All day, she’d talked herself up to come back to the house. She had said that she would tell Sammy that she’d forgotten something, then being the nice guy that he is, he’d let her in. 

She expected that they talk, reminisce on the good old days before they’d talk about how much they missed each other. Them missing each other would lead to them kissing and then they’d go at each other like rabbits.

At least, that’s the scenario that Tammi planned in her head. However her plan was severely flawed from the jump. As soon as she had gotten to the house, she’d knocked and knocked. Not that you and Sammy would be able to hear over the sounds of your lovemaking. 

So Tammi got desperate and used her old key, which has led her to the current moment. Having to watch her ex-husband fuck you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever get to do. Her eyes zero in on Sammy’s hand wrapped around your throat, and how much pleasure you seem to be in. 

Tammi has to admit it to herself, Sammy’s always been a phenomenal lay and even better when it came to giving head. But as she watches him here with you, a large flare of envy creeps into her mind. 

Here you were reaping all of the good benefits of Sammy. The parts of him that she had neglected.

With one last thrust, you and Sammy moan loudly as your mutual climaxes erupt. Sammy holds your body flush to his as you can feel the white spurts of cum shooting against your womb. 

You laugh softly, “You keep cumming in me like this, Sammy, we’re gonna be picking out baby names.”

“Wouldn’t bother me, one bit, honey.”

You’re both startled at the sound of keys hitting the floor. You both look at the former Mrs. Bryant as she stands awkwardly in the doorway. 

Sammy pulls his pants up as he smooths your dress down, “Tammi, what are you doing here? How’d you even get in?”

The blonde woman blushes in embarrassment, “I was coming by to talk and I knocked, but you weren’t answering.” 

Her eyes flicker over to you, “I can see why now. You know, I always knew that you liked him. You’d look at him whenever he came out of the house. I guess you were just waiting on your chance to swoop in and steal him from me.” 

Sammy scoffs, “Oh, come off of it, Tammi. Last I checked, you cheated on me, and we’re divorced so you can stop with the whole ‘woe is me’ bullshit.”

“I just wanted to talk, Sammy. You remember when we used to do that?”

“Yeah, I do. I always remember that you used to not cheat on me either, or maybe the fact that you got pregnant with his kid. God, Tammi, nothing that I ever did was ever gonna be enough for you,” Sammy states, running a hand through his hair. You place a reassuring hand on his back. 

Tammi sees it. She also sees the way that Sammy’s body visibly relaxes in your hold. She isn’t dumb. She sees what’s going on here, and she swallows down the acidity as it crawls up her throat. 

Sammy is in love with you. 

It’s just as clear cut as it needs to be. There’s no chance of reconciliation for her and Sammy because she’d already lost his love to you. 

Even with the way that she can see Sammy grasping your fingers between his, it solidifies the moment.

“I shouldn’t have came. I’m sorry, Sammy.” 

She turns to leave the house until Sammy calls her name. She’s honestly expecting him to make some grand speech in front of you about how he would always love her and how he wants them to be friend. 

But that doesn’t come. 

Sammy holds his hand out, “I need my key back to my house.” Tammi’s eyes widen as she fishes the key from the key chain. She slides into Sammy’s hand and watches as he hands it over to you. 

“Aren’t you at least gonna walk me out, Sammy?”

You roll your eyes as Sammy huffs in annoyance. He’s about to take a step forward until you stop him, “I’ll walk her out, baby.” 

Sammy watches as you usher Tammi to the door. You both disappear around the corner. She turns to face you, “It won’t last with you two. Sammy and I have history together. He isn’t gonna throw it all away for some fling.”

You laugh, like actually downright laugh in her face. “Honey, was that for you or me? I seem to recall you threw all of your history with Sammy away for some fling. You even let him knock you up. You never deserved Sammy. He’s a great man, who you took for granted. But hey, I should be thanking you. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have him. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m about to go fuck my man again.” 

Before she can respond, you close the door in her face. You walk back into the kitchen where Sammy is standing. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even know she still had a key. And for the record, you’re not just a fling to me. I’ve never been happier than when I’m with you.” He takes a second to pause, “I love you, sweetheart. I know it may be too soon to say this but I’d like to spend the rest of my life with you.”

That pretty smile that made Sammy fall for you covers your face. You step forward to cup his face in your hands, “I love you too, Sammy. And for the record, I like the idea of spending the rest of my life with you.” 

Sammy leans down to press his lips against yours. When he pulls back, he keeps his forehead pressed to yours, “Thank you for being here and loving me at every stage. There hasn’t been a moment where I had to wonder if I was worthy enough to be with you.”

Your eyes soften, “Sammy, I’ll always spend every moment reminding you of why you deserve the world.”

He smiles, “And I’ll make sure that I spend every moment making sure that I’m giving it to you.” 

“Good. Now, are we eating or going for another round?”

Sammy laughs loudly, “Let’s eat, then I can show you all the ways that I love you.”

“I like the sound of that.”

End.

Taglist (if you’re tagged here, it just means that you’re on my Shawn Hatosy list☺️):

@cosmicneptune @abschaffer2 @slvtformyman @naibaby @blyffe

@plan3tch1ld @mauvecherie-writes

@xxohsnapitspatxx @accountforreading123

@danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere

@1dhoe93 @heyyimmisunderstood @chubbyblackhottie @playgurlxoxo @hollddgk

@tyinek @dynasty1996 @a-true-janian-reply

@nainai5243 @amacohet @blueblizzardreview

@itzpixiebabe @periesque @ace-spades-1

@silovicbaird @no-effortlol @thatonecarebear

@pitstop-piastri @slytherclaw1978 @closetednerd @ifyoubewooedingoodtime

@mirathebookworm @irissunshines @beas-mind @kellthegreatest @twilight0306

@expensiveazzqu33n @hi-im-dr-spencer-reid

@osoyums @jsamara52 @tinypalacehumanpsychic @anniebelsworld2

@spicypsionthunder @ynniksslirg @xoscar03

@straykids1011 @gg-trini @a-lumos-in-the-nox

@kittykaylat1987 @iloveejackabbott @abbotsangel @mskarter213 @melissa66orion

What if Pope did something bad and went into hiding? In your home...

After the heat died down, Pope just…lives with you now.

You never liked the Codys and Pope is undoubtedly the most concerning one but…he’s grown on you? It’s good to get along with your neighbors, right? Well, that would be true if the Cody family weren’t a bunch of weird assholes who think they can bully or bribe their neighbors into silence for the crimes they may or may not have heard or witnessed take place a yard over. 

Pope didn’t think like that, though. When things got hairy in or around his house, his visit to your doorstep was never to coerce you to keep it quiet if the cops came around. It was to make sure you were alright and apologize if he disrupted your evening.

And the more he did that, the more you sorta…liked him?

Maybe it was his near-timid, coarse tone that left his lips when he spoke to you and you could tell he was trying really hard to be polite and not give you reason to be concerned by his presence. Surely he knew what people thought of him, “the crazy one,” you’d heard your neighbors call him. It didn’t seem to phase him but…he seemed to want to prove to you that he wasn’t all crazy and maybe kinda friendly.

Maybe it was his brooding eyes that softened at the sight of you when most times he had this distant stare into the troubles of his past that you knew he carried with him every day. Troubles that you saw documented in mugshots, bruises, and scars on his forehead, arms, and knuckles.

Maybe it was despite those troubles that he’d seen and committed with his own hands that he was trying his best to be kind. Patient. Generous. To you. Maybe others, too, but the number of times a gift basket of fruits or your mail neatly stacked appeared on your doorstep so you didn’t have to trek across the street to your mailbox…it was like he was trying to tip the scales. In his own special way. Add some light back into the darkness he created for himself. 

You know you can’t save Pope from that darkness nor do you want to. Way too big of a job. But whether you like it or not, you have a soft spot for him now and a spare bedroom that he’s been holed up in for two weeks straight after the incident before he finally emerged last night to be somewhat human again.

And the first thing he wanted to do was thank you for your kindness. He made dinner that night and tonight after a trip to the store, asking what you had a taste for and other snacks and such you like to keep stocked in your kitchen. Pope came back with more than that, though. A new shower head to replace the one in his guest bedroom because “the pressure’s weak” and a whole tool kit to work on anything else around your place you’d been meaning to get to but now he was fixing it.

You were getting used to a generous Pope. Especially when he’s just as generous with his mouth. 

It happened so seamlessly…one minute you were sitting beside him on your couch, shoveling the steamed rice and chicken stir fry into your mouth that he’d cooked earlier…the next few minutes you became increasingly aware of his thigh pressing against yours and both of you pretending to ignore that as you watched Charade…and for the last twenty minutes you’ve been sitting on his face and meshing your fingers with his curls to pull his head up closer, slot his mouth against you harder because you were about to come on his tongue.

The backrest of your couch felt your furious grip for a while but when Pope started wagging his tongue along your clit with a pointed tip before wedging it between your folds for you to grind on, you had to yank on his hair to keep your balance. And maybe tell him to ease it up because, fuck, you’re growing sensitive. But also…

“Mmh, right there…right there…”

Pope didn’t let up even as you squeeze your thighs around his head, yelping and whining, tugging on his hair even harder in hopes he’d release you from his grip. But no…he is generous…too goddamn generous as his large hands turn into clamps on your hips that force you to stay fixed to his lips. Letting you writhe and wriggle with each wicked pass of his tongue…laying it flat when your whines turn sharp…and pointing it back into a tip when you settle back down to get you to yelp again, tracing your clit and suckling sweetly when he feels your pussy fluttering from the ebb and flow, giving you more than you think you can handle.

You’re dripping into his mouth, down his chin, and likely his neck as he lay down on the cushions and looks up at you with those handsome, dark eyes that touches you just as softly as his breath that rushes through his nose and against your mound when he grunts from the feel and taste and sight of you above him.

And when he finally releases you ten or twenty minutes later, god, you can’t tell time or right from left right now, you were grunting from the feel and sight of him above you as he holds your right thigh around his waist and hooks the other one over his shoulder. Strong fingers gripping into you just above your left knee to keep you right here, keep you from squirming away and off the damn couch onto the floor.

It isn’t like you want to slip away from him, not really…you just aren’t sure if you can take anymore pressure pounding and pounding so deep in you that it feels like Pope is trying to put it in your stomach. He isn’t even pounding fast and that is largely the delicious problem…he’s looking down at you with low lids and his bottom lip tucked between his teeth as he draws his hips back maybe three inches before snapping into you. 

Deep strokes that hammer into the depths of your pussy that’s snug around the thickness of him, pussy pulling on every inch of him with each thrust as your nails dig into the soft skin yet taut muscle of his abs. Trying and failing to make him back up a little because you are having a hard time catching your breath when he keeps stealing it with every jolt of his hips.

And he’s wordless through it all, merely listening to you moan and whimper and curse and scream when he pulls another orgasm from you because he’s learning if he just holds you down, you’ll accept that you have to come. That he’s going to make you come because it seems to be the only thing he wants from you, the only way he wants to repay you for how kind and patient you’ve been with him for the last two weeks, or the last couple of years you’ve known him.  

So he’s patient, giving you more than enough time and space to wear yourself out with strained lungs and tired muscles from your crying, your back arching, your thighs shaking, your hands clasping at him anywhere you could reach so you can regain your balance but it’s long gone. What remains is Pope breathing heavy, enticing, little pants that escape through his lips when he feels you flutter on his dick as you give up another orgasm for him.

His hands are all over you, too, anywhere he can reach, too. One of them slips around your throat to pin you back down to the couch as gently as he can manage without choking you because maybe he’s still learning his own strength, but you still rasp and weep his name when he ruts into you at a brutal pace now, a little faster but harder somehow. Watching you curiously with a bit of pink blooming on his cheeks like he didn’t know you’d make that pretty sound, like he didn’t know that is the magic button he’s hitting in you over and over and over and… 

But Pope is a smart man, you know that at least. No way he isn’t aware that precision is what gets the job done every time. You don’t know the ins and outs of his family operations, and you didn’t wanna know, but you knew they had to be fairly organized to stay out of jail…Pope may have slipped up recently but instead of jail again, he wound up in your home…another act of precision.

He knows where to go, what to say, how to use his hands to pull himself out of trouble’s way. Yet as he squeezes your throat because he can feel how it makes your pulse jump and your pussy throb on his dick…and when he decides to use his other hand to press a gentle rub to your belly that caress down until his thumb finds your clit with dizzying up and down motions…it’s very troubling how easily you erupt and surrender to another orgasm that wets him with your juices, glistening on his slick, tuft of hair just above his dick.

He knows how to keep his pumps precisely on your spot as he rolls his hips and tucks into you, letting your thighs attempt to crush his waist in another effort to keep him at bay but you are too weak, too fuzzy to focus on anything but him. Too full of him and he knows that, too. He knows his precision is going to make you come for him again.

Maybe two or three hours later, he’s gathering you into his arms and carrying you into your guest—his bedroom and laying you across his sheets while he goes to run the shower water until it’s billowing with steam that wafts from the open bathroom door, carrying the gentle aroma of eucalyptus. Pope walks over to you slumped on his bed and half-asleep, crouching down onto his knees with his arms folded on the edge of the bed, his face half-hidden behind them as he gazes at you. 

You recognize the softness in his eyes and it makes your heart do a little flip in your chest and your lips twitch with a smile you’re too tired to finish. But you’re listening as he murmurs to you, “I bought some essential oils earlier. I read they’re good for achy muscles. Does the smell bother you?”

You part your lips to murmur back, “It smells good, Pope,” as he reaches a finger or two to trace the line of your cheek and jaw. Looking at you like you’re some kind of angel and you admittedly feel pretty ethereal right now…your body so tender and boneless that it feels surreal.

He lets a fingertip follow the curve of your bottom lip and then your chin as he mumbles, “You can call me Andrew. Andy…whichever you like. If you don’t mind.”

And because you sorta, definitely like this adorably timid man now, you mumbled back with a tiny grin, “I don’t mind one bit, Andy.”

Likes, reblogs, and comments appreciated if you liked this! Thank you for reading! 💚

He remembers the dress first. God, that dress. The dark fabric had clung to your figure, hugging every curve, and he'd spent the entire evening irritated with himself for noticing at all. 

He remembers the way the dip of your waist had fit beneath his palm when he'd guided you behind him, the startling softness of you, the instinctive way you'd moved closer when the man started getting aggressive. The tiny stutter in your breathing as he'd told the asshole to ‘fuck off and stop bothering his girl’ in a gruff voice, the way you'd looked up at him with those wide eyes, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful, as though he had done something remarkable when all he'd really done was the bare minimum.

Worst of all, he hates that he remembers the warmth of your body as he pinned you against the wall of the men's bathroom, mouths hovering over each other, not kissing, but breathing in wine-tinted lips. 

God, the way your warm walls stretched around his fingers, your clit under his thumb, still made him achingly hard. Jerking off in the shower had been futile ever since that night, ever since he felt your soft fingers around his cock, your moans spilling into his mouth. And your soft whines when he called you a good girl, fuck. He’s hard, again, in the middle of reading through the PHD proposals sent his way. He sighs, pulling his cock out his pants. 

It was becoming ridiculous. Which is precisely why he is looking forward to the start of semester.

But the universe has a fucked up way of derailing his plans. By the time he arrives at the lecture hall the next morning, coffee balanced in one hand and laptop tucked beneath his arm, he's almost managed to convince himself that the entire thing was behind him.

Then he walks through the door. The lecture hall blurs into meaningless shapes and colours, and in the centre of it sits you. 

The girl he couldn’t take out of his brain for the past seven days. 

Jack forces his legs forward, somehow making it to the front of the room without visibly embarrassing himself. He places his coffee on the desk. Sets down his laptop. Connects the HDMI cable twice because he misses the port the first time. His fingers feel too clammy, his pulse too fast. 

Jack opens his mouth to introduce himself.  

"My name is-"

But the words die there. Because he makes the mistake of looking back at you, again. 

Those same eyes he'd spent an entire week trying to unsuccessfully forget are fixed directly on his, wide with disbelief.

For a fraction of a second his mind goes entirely blank. Then your eyebrows lift. Just slightly.

And he realises with a jolt of horror that you've noticed the way his words catch. Jesus Christ.

He clears his throat and looks away, pretending to adjust something on his laptop despite the fact that absolutely nothing needs adjusting, acutely aware of the warmth crawling up the back of his neck, and onto his cheeks. It's ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. 

He's a respected academic pushing fifty years old, not some nervous graduate tutor fumbling his way through his first class.

"My name is Dr Jack Abbot," he says again, his voice steadier this time, lower too, the words settling more naturally now that he's managed to regain some semblance of control. "I'm the lead lecturer for the sociology department.”

His eyes catch yours. 

“It'll be my greatest pleasure to work with all of you this semester."

You’re this close to fucking shitting your pants. 

The sexy old man that had fucked the shit out of you with his fingers, while you could barely wrap your hands around his girthy cock in the corner of a dingy bathroom, was your professor. He was in front of you speaking in a voice too gravelly for his own good, and donned in what you’d deem an outfit way too slutty. 

Tweed blazer that somehow actually showed how broad he was, how fat and juicy his biceps were. A soft wool polo underneath that stretched around his fat pecs. 

And those brown pants, for fucks sake, those pants should be an abobination. You could see the bulge of his dick, the print, as he moved around the room. 

What’s worse though? His fat fucking fingers. As he gesticulates while talking about the content, which you don’t give a fuck about, all you can think about is how they felt inside of you, curling up to reach that sweet spot, and making you come faster and harder than your vibrator. 

As the flashbacks of him pounding into you fade, and you focus, you see something black and shiny glinting as it catches the overhead lights. You blink. Adorning one of those delicious fingers, is a ring. Fuck. It’s a wedding ring. 

You stare at it for a second too long before immediately snapping your gaze back to your laptop. Heat floods your face. You rack your brain trying to remember whether he'd been wearing it that night. You don't think so, you're almost certain he wasn't. Yeah, he definitely didn’t have it on that night in the bar, you would’ve felt it against your pussy, that fucking slut. 

You clench your jaw and look away, typing away to start making notes. You’d hooked up with an older married geratric. Yeah, maybe you should just drop out. Hurl yourself off the chair and out the door and withdraw from your course and fade into the abyss and die in a hole.

But what's worse is the way your cunt is clenching around nothing at the thought of this older man fucking you with his fingers while he had a wife at home- no, stop. How deeply unfeminist of you. You cunt. 

Yet still, when you look up and accidentally make eye contact with Jack Abbot, it feels like a punch to the vagina. 

By the time the lecture ends, Jack has spent nearly two hours forcing himself not to look at you. It has been a miserable failure. Not an obvious one, nobody in the room would have noticed. Years of teaching and having to discreetly catch students on their phones have made him an expert at disguising where his attention is actually resting. 

But every time his gaze swept across the theatre, every time a student asked a question, every time laughter rippled through the room, some part of him remained acutely aware of where you were sitting.

Which is precisely why, as students begin packing their bags and filtering towards the exits, he decides to do something incredibly stupid.

He tells himself it isn't stupid. He tells himself it's necessary. Professional, even.

After all, the two of you know each other in some capacity. There was the bar, there was what occurred inside of that bar, that lapse in judgement. There is now the unfortunate reality that you are one of his students. A conversation needs to happen. Boundaries need to be established, expectations clarified.

At least that's the excuse he gives himself. The truth is considerably less flattering. The truth is that he wants an excuse to speak to you.

He calls out your name. The words leave his mouth before he can reconsider them.

You freeze halfway through sliding your laptop into your bag. For a second you look almost startled that he's addressed you directly. Then your eyes meet his, startled. 

"Could you stay for a moment?"

Several students glance between the two of you before continuing out the door. Jack immediately regrets saying it publicly. Excellent start, Abbot.

By the time the last student leaves, you're making your way slowly towards the front of the room, one loop of your backpack slung on your shoulder.

As you slow to a stop in front of him, his eyes map your face. Your wide eyes, your slightly messy hair, the shape of your lips- Stop. Jesus Christ. 

He forcibly redirects his gaze towards his laptop on the podium. Professional. Remember, professional.

"You wanted to see me?" you ask softly.

Jack clears his throat.

"Right. Yes."

Very articulate. 

"I just thought it would be best if we acknowledged..." He gestures vaguely between the two of you. "The situation."

You blink.

"The situation?"

"The fact that we've met before."

"Oh."

You glance down at the strap of your bag, fingers tightening around it.

"Yeah. I noticed."

The dry response catches him completely off guard. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

"Um, sorry, Dr Abbot," you add quickly, stumbling over the words. "I didn't mean to make things weird."

Jack immediately shakes his head.

"No, it's okay. You're good."

Dr Abbot. Dr Abbot. His brain plays your lips wrapping around his name again and again, perhaps in more precarious positions. He rubs his neck, looking away, willing for his cock to stop fucking stiffening. 

"I just wanted to clarify," he starts carefully, "I'd appreciate it if what happened stayed private."

Your eyes immediately narrow, apparently offended.

"Dr Abbot, I'm not stupid."

His eyebrows lift at your sudden confidence. He puts his hands out in front of him in defence. 

"I wasn't suggesting-"

"No, I know," you interrupt. Then your eyes widen, immediately looking mortified for interrupting him. "Sorry. I just mean... I'm not exactly planning on standing up in tutorials and announcing that I fu- I met my professor in a bar."

Jack closes his mouth. Fair point. And suddenly he becomes aware of how ridiculous he sounds.

You aren't the problem here. You haven't done anything. If anything, you're handling this better than he is. This sort of “casualness” is probably the usual for someone as beautiful as you, as young and brilliant.

"Right," he says finally.

A silence settles between you as he continues staring you down. 

You shift your weight awkwardly beneath his gaze, looking everywhere except directly at him now, and suddenly he's struck by how young you seem standing there. 

Then, before he can stop himself, in some hope to keep you standing there in front of him, he hears himself say, "If you ever need help with coursework, though, my office hours are listed on the syllabus."

The second the words leave his mouth, he knows they weren't necessary. Your eyes flicker up to his face in shock, before immediately dropping back down again. Interesting.

For someone who'd managed to argue with him thirty seconds ago, you seem remarkably incapable of holding eye contact for more than a few moments.

Then you nod, still staring at the floor. 

"Okay."

"Okay. Yeah, good."

Another silence. Neither of you moves, seems entirely unsure on how to end the conversation. Eventually you shift your bag higher up, and take a small step backwards.

"I should go."

"Yes, thank you for staying back."

You hesitate for a second, then whisper as you turn and walk away from him. 

“Goodbye, Dr Abbot.”

Jack stares at your ass through your jeans as you depart, he can’t help it. You sick, sick old man, Abbot.

The second you're gone, he drops his head down, groans, rubs a hand over his scruff. 

That conversation was supposed to make things better, supposed to reassure him that whatever happened at that bar was firmly in the past.

Instead, all it has accomplished is proving that being around you is a nightmare.  

It's been four weeks since that conversation and you cannot get him out of your head. Every time you enter those lectures where he stands in the front of the room with another blazer, another pair of form fitting pants, twice a week, you leave with a pool of slick. 

You refuse to acknowledge the way he looked at you when you let your attitude slip, his furrowed brows, hazel eyes narrowing. He looked… mad almost. Like he wanted to tame you. Of course you're being delusional, he has a wife for fucks sake. 

And weeks of observing him has made you realise that he has an immense proclivity for eye contact, with everyone. Basically, you’re not special. 

And, so your avoidant ass refuses to take him up on that offer to see him at his office. You’re doing well academically, you presume, in all your subjects. Which is not surprising given it's the only thing you’ve got going for you, being an antisocial chud, but these days, rather than studying, a lot of your time is spent replaying that night in the bar. The sense of comfort you felt pinned against the wall by him, the way he’d protected you against that creep. Nobody had done that for you before. 

God you sound fucking pathetic. 

And specifically, his suggestive line of “my office hours are listed on the syllabus” reverberates around your skull, like the start of those Wattpad stories you used to read as a teen. And so, you and your vibrator have the time of your life at all odd hours of the day, imagining him and you in those situations. 

In hindsight, being overtaken by lust to distract from your crippling loneliness was a poor decision to make, that much you clock when you receive one of your midterms back today. With a big fat fucking 60% written on the front. In Dr Abbot’s class at that too. 

Humiliation takes over you, cheeks warm as he walks by to return the paper, refusing to look at him but feeling his gaze on your face. 

Around you, students are already discussing their marks, complaining about feedback, celebrating distinctions, debating whether certain deductions were fair, while you're busy boring holes into the godforsaken paper with your eyes as though sheer hatred might cause it to burst into flames.

As someone who quite literally had nothing going on for them other than academic success, it's a stab to the heart to realise you’ve fallen off in any capacity. For your wretched brain, one poor mark isn't just a mark, it's indicative of you falling behind, lacking in the one thing that defines you. 

Academics have always been your thing, the one area of your life you've been able to control through sheer stubbornness and hard work, the one thing you've quietly built your entire sense of self around. You aren't particularly outgoing. You don't have a huge social circle. You don't possess some secret hidden talent waiting to be discovered.

And now a bright red sixty is staring back at you from the top of the page like a personal attack.

The feedback only makes it worse.

Critical analysis underdeveloped.

Needs greater engagement with course material.

More depth required.

Each comment feels less like academic criticism and more like somebody taking a hammer to your ribcage.

Especially because you've spent the last month thinking about fuckass Jack Abbot far more than you've spent thinking about sociology. You've replayed conversations that lasted less than five minutes. Analysed glances that probably meant absolutely nothing, and constructed entire fictional narratives from harmless comments that any reasonable person would've forgotten weeks ago.

Meanwhile half your readings have been sitting untouched in a browser tab.

You stare down at the paper again, jaw tightening.

Perhaps this is the universe intervening. Perhaps this is your sign to get a grip. Perhaps this is your sign to finally take him up on that offer he'd made four weeks ago.

Not because you're harbouring some pathetic crush. Absolutely not. 

Purely for academic reasons. You need to know what went wrong and you need to know how to fix it before your anxiety makes this into something worse and you have another one of your depressive episodes. 

And if that means sitting in Dr Jack Abbot's office while he explains why your argument was underdeveloped and your analysis lacked depth, then so be it.

The thought alone makes your stomach perform an alarming little flip, which is deeply unfortunate.

Because that's probably another sign that you're not thinking nearly enough about sociology.

After stalking the stupid university website you’ve discovered that Dr Jack Abbot apparently remains on campus until after five o'clock most evenings, like some sort of psycho freak. 

Doesn’t he have a wife to go home to? Surely no sane person voluntarily spends that much time at a university.

Still, at 5:17 PM, you're standing outside his office clutching your assignment paper so tightly it's beginning to crumple around the edges.

You knock on the door and hear his gruff voice let out a “come in”. You walk in.  

Fuck your life. 

His blazer is off, sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to show veiny forearms, as he types away on his laptop. 

“Oh it's you. Hello sweetheart.” He winces at the slip of the pet name. 

“Sorry Miss-” he pauses. “Um, just have a seat, please.”

You hope to God that he can't hear the beating of your heart as you step in, closing the door shut behind you, avoiding eye contact as you sit on the seat opposite him. 

You set your paper on his desk and mumble.

“I just wanted to review the feedback I got on this.”

“Yeah of course, what’d you want to ask?”

You hesitate, his soft tone suddenly making you want to spill everything. 

"I just..." You stare at the desk. "I thought I'd done better than this. So I wanted more clarity on all the comments you made."

He nods and picks up the paper, starts reading through it, then squints. 

He sighs.

“Wait, let me get my readers on.”

You sneak a glance up. 

Oh fuck. 

He puts his readers on. Some fucking high prescription glasses that enunciate the size of his stupid hazel boba eyes and delicious eye wrinkles. 

Yeah, pussy exploded. 

You look back down on the table, and inhale to calm your heart. 

When Jack finally finishes, he sets the paper on the desk. 

"You know," he says carefully, tapping one section of the essay, "the reason this stood out to me wasn't because the writing is bad."

Your eyes lift despite yourself. He slides the paper slightly closer.

"It's actually the opposite."

“What?"

"The writing is strong, and your arguments are quite clear. You've obviously got the ability."

The knot in your chest loosens slightly. Only slightly.

"But?" you whisper.

His mouth twitches.

"But I don't think you pushed yourself."

Jack studies your expression for a moment before leaning back slightly in his chair.

"You understand the material," he continues. "I don't have concerns about that. What I'm seeing is somebody who's engaging with the content at a surface level when they're capable of going much deeper.”

Right, so you’re failing. You ridden with lust, and doing god knows what in hopes to distract yourself from the sheer loneliness and mundanity of your life and now you can’t even understand the content the way you want to understand it and-

“Hey sweetheart, are you feelin’ okay?” 

You look up at him in confusion and realise your breaths are heavy, uneven. Your hands are trembling slightly where they're resting on your lap. 

Fuck, the beginnings of a panic attack. 

“I’m so sorry Dr Abbot, I just- I’ve never done poorly in a test really, and so this is all so…” your voice cracks. “I don't even know what I’m saying I just-”

He gets up and walks over to you as you break off, letting out a shaky laugh that sounds suspiciously close to a sob.

He leans against his desk, in front of you, bending to reach your eyes.  

“Hey, it's okay angel, breathe for me.”  

He inhales. 

“Look, follow my breathing.”

You try to, but it comes out stuttered.

"Fuck, I'm sorry."

"Nothin’ to apologise for, sweetheart, just keep trying. C’mon, take a deep breath in, and out."

He holds your hand and brings it to his chest. You feel his heart beat steadily under your palm. He exaggerates his breathing to help you.

“In, and out, just like that.”

It seems nice to just let go. To have someone else take over your brain, follow their instructions and shut the noise, the anxieties and the worries. 

Once your breathing slows, he moves your hand away from his chest. 

“You breathin’ better now?”

You nod slowly, still feeling shaky, still mortified by the fact that you've just had what can only be described as a minor psychological collapse in your professor's office.

“I’m so, so sorry you saw me like that Dr Abbot, I didn’t mean to-”

“Hey, it’s okay, sweet girl.”

He pauses, seems occupied gathering his thoughts.

You busy yourself staring at the floor. Then he exhales softly through his nose and settles back against the edge of his desk.

"After my wife passed away, I used to get them all the time."

The words are so unexpected that your head lifts immediately.

Jack's gaze remains fixed somewhere over your shoulder rather than directly on you, his expression thoughtful. 

"My therapist taught me a few tricks," he says with a small shrug. "Matching breathing patterns was one of them."

Your heart races again, for different reasons this time. The ring, the fucking black ring. He’s a widower. You don’t know whether to laugh or scream at the fact that he’s not married, and you aren’t a homewrecker. But then you feel real fucking horrible for different reasons, youre brain sabotaging again. 

“I’m sorry about your wife. I’m sorry if that reminded you of back then, or whenever it happened I don’t know, I don't want to assume-”

“Shh, take a deep breath for me. You’re good, sweetheart. 

 He brings a palm to your cheek, engulfing it.  

“Yeah? It’s okay. Don’t worry ‘bout it. It was a long time ago.”

You breathe in slowly for the fucking hundredth time that night, calming down.  

“You feelin’ better now?” He asks gently.

You nod, biting your tongue to stop from apologising again. 

“Yes, thank you.”

It slips out before he can stop it. 

“Good girl.”

Your thighs instinctively clench, and you see him stiffen as he notices.  You both stare at each other, feeling tension coil in the air between you. A moment passes. 

“I could help you, you know.”

You blink, confused. 

He rubs your cheek gently, eyes boring into yours. His expression is blank, neutral. 

“I could help you relax, get out of your brain for a little.”

He pauses.

“Like that night in the bar. You liked that, didn't you? Somebody taking control.”

Your breath hitches, and you mumble a “yes.”

“Louder, sweetheart. If we’re gonna do this, you need to speak clearly.”

His voice is stern, gravelly. And your brain is calm for the first time in weeks, since that night. The validation you crave so desperately, the sense of comfort that would help with escaping your brain, perhaps it is held in the palm of Jack Abbot’s hands. 

Slowly, you nod. 

“Yes Dr Abbot, I’d like you to help me.”

He smirks, the edges of lips pulling up. 

“Atta girl. C’mon then, get up for me.”

You follow his lead, mind hazy as he holds your hands and guides you to his chair. 

“I’m gonna sit, then you're gonna sit right here, on my lap. And then I’ll help you, yeah?”

You nod again. 

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Dr Abbot.”

He smiles, proudly. Your brain turns to mush again, pussy fluttering.

He’s so handsome.  

Pulling you onto his lap sideways, your legs draping over his thighs, he caresses your hair. Fuck, it feels so good. You nuzzle your head into his neck, whimpering softly as he coos, "such a good girl, my smart girl, yeah? smartest in the whole damn class.”  

Then he brings his fat fingers to your skirt, tracing circles on yout thighs near the hem. Inching close, but never slipping under. 

“Please, please Dr Abbot, touch me.”

“Yeah, you want me to touch that little pussy? Want me to make you feel good? So you can rest your pretty brain?” 

He taps your head. 

You whine ‘yes, yes please sir.’ 

You feel his cock jerk up under you. He groans.  

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart. Say that again.”

“Please, Sir, please touch me.”

“Whatever you want, pretty girl.”  

Then he finally flips your skirt up, and starts rubbing slowly over your panties. On your lips, your folds, through your soaked underwear. You wrap your arms around his neck, begging him, please. 

He brings a finger to your clit, mutters lowly, “right here sweetheart?” and you nod, whining. 

He rubs gentle circles on your clit, your slick helping his finger move smoothly even over your panties. Buries his face in your hair as he continues rubbing. He breathily exhales, as if simply your pleasure was turning him on . 

“That’s it, just let go sweetheart. Let me take care of you, yeah?”

“Fuck- right there.”

You buck up in his hold. 

And he stops, a hand splaying over your thighs to stop you from squirming.

“Fuckin’ stop that, or this is going to be over a lot quicker thank you’d like.” 

You feel the hardness of his cock under you, prodding below your ass. Your brain is mush, the words slipping by themself.  

You nod tucking your head in his neck, “Yeah, yeah sir I’ll stop, please- fuck. Please keep going.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

And he starts rubbing over your clit again, kissing down your cheeks, down your neck, murmuring “yeah? yeah” as he inhaled your musk.

You whimper, arching your neck as you get closer to your release, feeling it build up low in your stomach the faster his circles get.  

“Fuck I’m going to come! Pl- please let me come sir.”

“Yeah? Is my good girl gonna come? You gonna come for Dr Abbot?” He groans, low and husky. 

And fuck, that gets you. You close your eyes as your orgasm hits you, pleasure washing over. 

You mutter whimpers of his name as you come, squirming as much as he lets you, clenching your thighs in his palm.

In the haze of your orgasm, you hear him, moaning. He jerks up, moaning in your ear, face pressed against your hair, babbling.  

“Fuck- sweetheart, did so good for me, fucking coming all over my fingers, fuck!”

The last word comes out as something resembling a whine. His hips buck up once, twice, before you feel warmth spreading under you. 

Did he just… orgasm?

Both of you pant harshly, him into your hair, forehead pressed against your head. And you look down, seeing your soaking panties, his hands splayed over your thighs. A smile overtakes your face, god, you felt alive. 

And he came. In his pants. God, you love old men. But as a giggle bubbles up in your throat, he stiffens. 

You see his hands leave you, and before you can even process what's happening, he's gently but firmly moving you off his lap, tugging your skirt back into place. 

"Fuck."

The curse leaves him under his breath, as he immediately turns away in his chair, one hand dragging through his curls.

You stand there, still dazed as he refuses to look at you. 

“Fuck, um. You should leave and I- I think-”

The words die halfway through. You watch him struggle to find them.

“Yeah, you should leave,” he awkwardly mutters as he covers the wet patch on his pants. You're still breathing heavily, and furrow your brows. 

What the fuck?

You’re so utterly mortified. Still in the post orgasmic haze, standing there feeling horribly exposed, your brain sluggish and foggy and vulnerable.

And through that stupid fog you pick your bag up from the seat, smooth out your skirt. Avoiding eye contact, you wobble out of the room, tears pooling in your eyes. 

Fuck old men. You hate old men.

After hours of sobbing into your pillow, and spiralling about how people will use you for your body, and nobody will be able to save you, and you’re going to die alone, you reached a conclusion. Probably a delusional conclusion, but a conclusion nonetheless.

He was embarrassed, that’s all. The man had simply come in his pants. Which, admittedly, would be humiliating for anyone. You’re so young and sexy that he was embarrassed he came in his pants. He definitely still wants you. 

The thought soothed you enough to stop crying, enough to prevent you from throwing yourself dramatically into the nearest body of water.

It's when you’re holed up in your dorm room, buried under the blankets reading a fic, when your spiral begins again. 

Because you get a text from an unknown number. 

Hi. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.   That was incredibly impolite of me, I got way in over my head.

Then two minutes later. 

And I wanted to check in.  Are you feeling better?

Chat, what if you fucking killed yourself? 

The perfect grammar and punctuation made your stomach churn in lust. The way you could hear him grumble that out in his husky voice, gravelly warmth beneath every syllable. 

Stop.

Objectively speaking, this man had sent you into an emotional crisis less than twenty-four hours ago. He basically kicked you out after giving you another toe curling orgasm. 

And yet somehow all it takes is three perfectly punctuated texts and you're smiling into your pillow like an idiot. Whatever, stay nonchalant. 

So you ignore his apology and reply to the latter half. 

Hey, i’m okay thanks 

Wow, look at you go. 

His reply is almost immediate.

Good.  Good girl. 

You take a deep breath in, pull your blanket over your head. Fuck. Fuck this stupid old man and his ability to make your pussy throb with two words. 

You genuinely have no clue what to reply, stupid. Stupid woman who can’t even formulate a reply and be flirtatious. 

You type something.

Delete it.

Type something else.

Delete that too.

Your chest develops a familiar buzzing anxiety. This, by the way, is exactly why maintaining relationships has always felt so difficult. Everyone else seems to possess some innate understanding of social interaction that you're missing entirely. 

What are you supposed to say?

Thanks for checking on me after kicking me out?

Sorry for crying in your office?

Please stop being unexpectedly kind after making me come so hard because it's making this significantly harder?

After two minutes of spiralling, or five, or ten, you don’t even fucking know at this point, your phone buzzes again.  

Can I see you?  Please.

Your breath stutters. 

yeah sure When do your classes finish today? At 3pm Okay. I’ll meet you at Sapphos.

Fuck, you hate how he doesn’t ask you. Just makes a statement, tells you what to do. You hate how that turns you on, and even worse, how good it feels to not have to make decisions for yourself, for once. 

But also, that cafe was off campus. Realistically, should you be potentially jeopardising your academic career with this emotionally unavailable older man, who will definitely be using you for your body if this continues? No, but are you lonely and so fucking bored with the stangancy of your life? Well, yes. 

And so unfortunately, rational thought has never stood much of a chance against loneliness. Against the quiet ache that follows you home every evening, and the possibility of spending a few hours with somebody who sees you.

So your dumbass agrees. 

Okay ! i’ll see u soon  See you soon, sweetheart. 

Sweetheart. Yeah, you're actually gonna kill yourself. 

Sitting and staring out the window of some cafe he randomly picked, Jack doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. He doesn't know how many times a man can call something a lapse in judgement before it stops being a ‘lapse’ and starts becoming a conscious choice.

He got in way over his head after making you come on his lap, spiralling. Yes, it was the sheer humiliation of coming in his pants (which was a nightmare to clean off, by the way) but also, there was the humiliation of losing control of himself after years of carefully maintaining it, the mortifying reality of having to go home and sit alone with the consequences of it all.  

What was worse was somewhere along the way you'd managed to reach inside him and pull loose something from his heart he'd thought had calcified years ago, something he'd buried beneath research papers, lecture halls, and the endless routines he'd constructed around himself after his wife died.

And he knows, he knows, you deserve someone better. He was a widow for Christ's sake, probably three decades or somewhere very close to that, older than you. And you’re young. Thoughtful. Young enough that your entire life still seems stretched out in front of you. Even your anxieties, the things that weigh you down, feel temporary in a way his never will. 

You still have time to become whoever you're meant to be.

Jack feels as though he's already become whoever he's going to be.

He thinks about the way you looked during your panic attack, how hard you'd been trying to keep it together even as everything was falling apart. He thinks about how quickly you apologised for taking up space, for having feelings, for being overwhelmed.

And he didn't pity you, God, no. It wasn't that. He understood it. The loneliness. The exhaustion. The feeling that if you stopped holding yourself together for even a second, everything might collapse.

But he also saw the way your brain shut down, the way you trusted him. It made something ache inside his chest, a warm ache, the sort that spread through his ribs and settled somewhere dangerously close to hope. 

And hope was precisely the problem. Because he couldn't give you anything. Not with the grief and sense of routine buried in him before his teaching, in the chasm of his heart, since his time in the godforsaken military where half his limb was gone. 

He can't offer you anything but his fingers, or his mouth, between your legs, and you deserve someone better than that. 

But if that was the only way he’d be able to get you out of his head, then so be it. 

And so despite all of that, despite every logical argument he could construct, despite every fucking university regulation he was violating right now, his eyes keep drifting towards the café entrance every few seconds.

Jack exhales heavily and rubs a hand across his jaw.

And then you enter. Looking around with an adorably confused look before you spot him, and dare he say, your eyes light up. 

Abbot, no. 

But the words slip out as you reach him. 

“Hey sweetheart.”

“Hi Dr Abbot.”

You sit opposite him, glancing up at him briefly before staring back down at the table. He hates how endearing he finds it, how he wants to reach across the sticky table and pull your jaw, hold it, and force you to look at him. He wants to see your eyes glaze over the way they did the day prior. 

He chooses instead to slide the menu across to you, and once you order, he leans back. 

“Did you have a nice morning?”

He withholds a wince at the awkwardness. 

“Um, yes. Classes were okay. Thank you?”

The end of the sentence rises almost into a question, as though you're unsure whether that's the correct answer, and something about it makes his chest tighten.

“Good, that’s good.”

Then an awkward pause. Jack sits there like a complete fucking idiot.

For Christ's sake he’d called you here. And now that you're sitting in front of him, he can't seem to form a coherent sentence.

Get your shit together, Abbot. 

"Look," he begins, rubbing a hand across his jaw. "I wanted to apologise for yesterday."

Your eyes finally lift from the table.

“It was wrong of me to let you go like that. Quite frankly I don’t even have an excuse I just…”

He trails off, looking behind you out the window for a second. What exactly is he supposed to say?

That the sight of you crying made me feel physically sick? That for one terrifying second I’d felt something dangerously close to happiness sitting in that office with you? That after years of carefully maintaining the same dull routine I’d somehow started structuring entire days around whether I’d see you?

None of those seem particularly appropriate, too intense. 

"See, no man my age enjoys being reminded that he's still capable of behaving like a teenager."

That makes you smirk a little. His heart warms. 

“You mean, you.. coming in your pants?”

Jack groans softly and drags a hand down his face.

“I didn't want to put it so crudely, but well... yes."

"I thought so."

You giggle. And the sound catches him off guard enough that he finds himself smiling despite the mortification currently trying to consume him.

"To be honest," you continue, "I think I understood once I calmed down."

His shoulders loosen slightly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You shrug.

"But I'm not going to lie, it didn't feel very good. You kicking me out like that."

The honesty makes him wince.

"And that's exactly why I wanted to apologise, sweetheart." His gaze settles on you properly. Giving you a look that he hoped was earnest. "That was real shitty of me. I’m truly very sorry.”

You look at him for a few moments in silence, mapping his face. Then once seemingly finding what you were looking for, you reply. 

“Apology accepted.” 

The waitress arrives then, setting down your coffee, some monstrosity involving whipped cream and probably enough sugar to send him into cardiac arrest.

Jack eyes it suspiciously, humorously. 

"What?" you question. 

"That isn't coffee."

"It literally is."

"Sweetheart, that looks like it barely has any caffeine."

You let out a giggle, again. God, you’ve got to fucking stop that if you want his heart to survive.  

"It has espresso."

"Buried beneath, what? Three inches of whipped cream."

"Whatever, you’re just old and grumpy."

You grin. The grin grows wider when he continues staring at the drink with visible disappointment.

For some reason that finally breaks whatever lingering awkwardness remains between the two of you. The conversation begins flowing after that.

He makes a witty remark, you giggle. And you manage to make him laugh as well, coming out of your shell. 

Then the conversation shifts to that night at the bar. 

“Yeah so if he wasn't that buff and scary, I wouldn't even have called you over. I would've told him to suck my strap and choke.”

Jack nearly chokes on his coffee, coughing violently. You immediately burst into soft laughter. He wipes his lips with a napkin, grinning.

"Sweetheart."

"What?"

"Please give me some warning before you say things like that."

Your grin grows, eyes sparkling. 

"Why?"

"Because I'm fifty."

That seems to make your eyes widen imperceptibly, and you look down towards the coffee you ordered, chugging it. 

Interesting. 

Neither of you acknowledge the elephant in the room, instead you continue talking, skirting around the edges. Circling the obvious without ever touching it.

And eventually your drinks are empty. People around you start leaving.

Yet neither of you seems particularly eager to end the conversation.

Jack glances at his watch. Then back at you. He really, really shouldn't. But he wants to give you a way out. While still offering you a choice. 

"I don't have any classes after tomorrow's lecture."

The words leave his mouth casually.

Your eyes flicker up.

"Oh."

A pause.

"I could come see you."

"In my office?"

You immediately look embarrassed.

"Only if that's okay."

God. There it is again, that instinct you have to ask permission for existing.

"Sweetheart."

Your eyes lift.

"It's okay."

The relief that flashes across your face is so immediate it almost hurts to look at.

"Okay."

"Okay."

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

When the bill eventually arrives, he picks it up before you can.

"Dr Abbot-"

"No."

"I can pay for myself."

"I know."

"Then-"

"I know, I know you’re a self sufficient woman. You’re brilliant. But let me. I’ll pay for it."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. Jack watches the entire internal battle play across your face.

Then you nod softly, muttering an “okay, thank you”. 

Jack's heart clenches again. Genuinely fuck his life. 

So you think you’ve somehow ended up in a situationship or whatever the fuck with your fifty year old professor. 

Over the course of the past five weeks, you show up in his office after the lectures, and even a few times throughout the week, and he sets you on his lap, or on his desk while he laps at your cunt. 

Occasionally, he lets you pull out his cock and suck it. Sometimes under his desk, riding his boot as he's grading papers, God, his fucking whimpers when he comes. 

Unsurprisingly, he also does help you with understanding the content and doing your assignments. Has his own unique methods of doing so. 

Jack had you sitting on his lap, back to his chest, completely clothed while you were naked, bare. 

He hooked his face on your shoulder, whispering filth in your ears, telling you to “focus” as he rubbed slow circles over your pussy. Smearing the slick oozing out your cunt over your folds, avoiding your clit. 

You whined and tried to clench your thighs, whispering against his stubbled cheek. 

“Please, pl- touch me, Dr Abbot.” 

But he'd splayed one wide palm, tightly, over your thigh.

“No. Type out the rest of the essay, c’mon. Then you can come, pretty girl,” he’d muttered in a low voice. 

And once you did, he'd shoved his fat fingers inside of you, thrusting fast, the other hand alternating between your neck and your nipples, pinching, squeezing.  

You’d squirted that day, for the first time, creating a mess of his pants, some landing on his desk. 

He’d made you lick it off. 

Surprisingly, however, you hadn’t kissed, not even once. Nor had you fucked, in the penetrative sense. 

The latter you’re grateful for, because you were a virgin. It was too humiliating of a thought to ever bring up in your twenties now, but thankfully he never brings it up either. You suspect he knows though, from the little details you've unveiled to him over the course of the past few weeks. 

Talking about your feelings has always been.. difficult. The words choke up and clog the back of your throat when you go to speak. Entire relationships - well, lack of relationships - have been built around your inability to say what you need. 

But it's easy, sometimes, with Jack. When your brain shuts off in a post orgasmic haze, and you sit in other's company, his hand resting in your hair, or his head buried in your chest, the words bubble out of you. 

Snippets of memories of your family that you left behind, of the few friends back home, the lack of romance. When you stop speaking halfway through a sentence because you've forgotten how to explain yourself, he simply waits.

Surely he's put two and two together.  

And you think he has some avoidant issues of his own, the old fuck. 

He'll spend forty minutes analysing a political institution and somehow avoid answering a direct question about his own feelings.

Yet occasionally things slip through the cracks.

A memory about his wife. An offhand comment about the military that lingers in your mind long after he's moved on to another topic.

You'd had a lengthy conversation one day about that, your radical opinions spilling out before you could stop them, about systemic exploitation and imperialism, about how much you despised the military as an institution. You’d accuse institutions of manipulating vulnerable people; He agreed more than you'd expected him to. Told you about his journey of basically being forced into it to help his family, about the machinery of poverty and patriotism that pushed kids toward enlistment before they were old enough to understand what they were signing away.

He takes your ideas seriously, but he also looks genuinely delighted when you disagree with him.

And god, that’s what you were starting to like most about him. The intellect. Yes he has a girthy cock that would probably annihilate you in the best way when (if) the time came, and incredible arms, and his fat pecs. But his brain. Wow. 

Intelligence has always been your love language, whether you've admitted it or not. And Jack speaks it fluently. There’s a sense of strange intimacy and letting others hear your thoughts and opinions. And the ability to be able to talk and have someone just listen, or banter with you – it was rare. Especially for someone as reclusive as you. 

Unfortunately, you're also smart enough to recognise reality. Whatever this is, it isn't heading anywhere permanent. Because Jack never talks about the future, never makes promises, or gives any indication that he's looking for something lasting.

And honestly? You aren't sure he can. Not after everything he's lost, not with the gap of decades between you. So you tell yourself you're enjoying things exactly as they are. You tell yourself that spending time with him is enough.

And for now, maybe it is.

The problem is that every time he looks at you like you've said something brilliant, every time he remembers some tiny detail about your life, every time his face softens when you walk into a room – this lie gets a little harder to believe.

Five weeks. Jack’s ‘brief’ lapse in judgement has lasted five fucking weeks. 

Every time he sees you enter the lecture, you exchange a secret look, your eyes fluttering, him blushing. He feels like he’s twenty again. It's exhilarating. 

But the ‘ethical dilemma’ of it all sat permanently in the back of his mind, festering like an untreated wound.

He knows that every time he let himself enjoy your company, every time he answered one of your messages, every time he found himself smiling at something you'd said hours after the conversation had ended, he was stepping further into territory he had absolutely no business occupying.

The way you trusted him, allowing him to lick into your cunt or set you on his lap and caress you, felt nice. It felt real fucking good to be wanted and desired in some capacity, especially after being touch starved for nearly a decade since his wife. 

And seeing you under him sucking his cock, fuck.

“Dr Abbot….” you whined in a teasing tone, laced with humour. 

He groaned, placing his forehead on your back from where you sat on his lap. You definitely wanted something. 

“What?” he huffed out.

Still facing your laptop, you breathed out your next words. 

“When are you going to let me suck your cock?”

He jolted, hips thrusting up.

“Jesus Christ sweetheart, warn a guy.”

You said his name again, more firmly. 

“Stop dodging the question.”

He paused. 

“This whole… us. It's about you, about helping you relax so you can focus on studying. It’s not about me or my pleasure or-”

“Jack.” 

He lifted his head from your back, stilling. You’d never said his first name before. 

“What if doing it would give me pleasure, hm? What then?”

He stayed silent. 

You twisted in his lap, neck twisting to face him. 

“I want to taste you, please.”

Widening your eyes, and pouting, you all but begged him. Brought a hand to his stubbled cheek.  

“Please, Dr Abbot. Let me do it.” 

He sighed. Jack Abbot was a weak, pathetic man when it came to you.  

“Fine,” he grumbled. 

“Get off, c’mon.”

Yeah, it was worth it for the blinding smile you gave him, kissing his cheek.  

He gently lifted you off his lap, and pulled his chair back to give you some room. 

Jack nodded, glancing down pointedly. 

“If you want it, you gotta do it yourself.”

You kneeled immediately, settling yourself in the gap between his desk, between his open thighs. 

Unbuckling his belt, staring at his bulge with those doe eyes the entire time, you slowly pulled his cock out. 

It was hard, leaking, tip red and aching. Your soft hands wrapping around his dick made a drop of precum roll down. He moaned, a low sound emanating from deep in his chest. 

You slowly twisted your hand up and down his cock, fingers barely stretching around. 

Jack couldn’t wait. He gripped your hair, not too hard, but enough to lift your head up to face him. 

“You gonna put your mouth on it or do I need to shove it in?”

You smirked, you vixen. 

“Shove it in, I dare you.”

He groaned, muttering “you fuckin’ brat” as he pushed your hands off his cock.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

You did, tongue lolling out. A drop of drool dripped onto his thighs, and he moaned under his breath. 

He couldn’t wait any longer. Gripping his cock, he fed it into your mouth. Inch by inch. 

Until you gagged. 

Feeling your soft throat close around him, he couldn't help but groan your name.

“Fuckin’ hell.”

Your hands came up to stroke whatever didn't fit in - which truth be told, was more than half his cock, but it's okay, he'd train you eventually. 

“Can I help you, sweetheart? Teach you how to take your professor's cock down your throat?”

You nodded quickly, moaning, his cock still in your mouth. 

Then he guided you through it, holding your head as you sucked him. Muttered praises, filth, to guide you.

“Just like that, sweetheart”.

“Yeah, grip it harder”.

“Suck the tip, just like that.” 

And right before he came, he ripped you off him and wrapped a hand around himself. He whimpered as jerked off furiously over you, until drops of his pearly cum splattered over your tongue. 

He had never come that hard in his life. 

Panting harshly, he patted your head. 

“Swallow.”

Other than the sex, there were also the days where you'd walk into his office and start talking about some article you'd read, your entire face lighting up with excitement, and everything in him would melt. He’d pull you onto his lap, or set you in front of him, on his desk, and let you talk, feeling the softness of your thighs under his palm as he traced small circles. It was nice to let someone in, fill the void and the silence in his life. 

There wasn’t a label on what you two were, if you even were anything. 

While at first he’d thought it was common for you to be used to this sort of ‘causalness’ or a friends-with-benefit type situation (or whatever the fuck somebody born two generations after him would call it), he'd come to realise you were actually the opposite. Not that he’d have any issue with either. 

But from the scattered stories you'd told him about your past, the way you spoke about relationships, and the cautious vulnerability that appeared whenever the subject drifted too close to ‘feelings’, he'd begun piecing together a picture of someone who felt things deeply and trusted people slowly.

He could calculate you were likely a virgin. And so he never pressurised you, never made the first move to initiate sex, kept his cock to himself, waiting for you. No matter how much he wanted to feel the tightness of your pussy around him. 

However, his patience is wearing thin, growing precarious with every instance of you bringing another small thing that wedges itself beneath his ribs and refuses to leave. 

Now he's left with the deeply inconvenient problem of wanting things he really shouldn’t want. Not just a warm body near him, but wanting your company, your attention. He wants those afternoons in his office where you do nothing but talk to last a little longer.

All of this wanting, this yearning, is quite frankly, far more than he has any right to want.

Which is exactly why today is proving so unbearable.

He often feels a pit of something bitter bubble in his chest when you interact with someone other than him. Not that it happens frequently - you're quite reserved. But not today. Today, specifically, you seem to be chatting up a boy. 

When he enters the lecture this morning, you aren’t sitting alone like usual, but instead, there’s some boy next to you. Some boy your age. Dressed in some sort of hideous baggy outfit that hangs off his lanky frame. Is that fashion now? God that fucking punk. 

Why was he sitting next to you? Distracting you? 

As he sets up his laptop on the podium, seething under his breath, he hears a giggle. Your breathy giggle, the one he thought only came out with him. 

His jaw tightens. The lecture hasn't even started, for Christ's sake.

Jack spends the next five minutes attempting to focus on setting up his stupid slides while simultaneously becoming aware of every interaction occurring in your vicinity.

Looking up, he realises it's a grave mistake. Because now you're touching. Touching that punk’s arm. 

Fuck. 

Something ugly immediately twists in Jack's stomach, his brows furrowing. Anger bubbles up in his chest.

But he can’t do anything but continue on, beginning his lecture, as if he isn’t seething with jealousy. 

Halfway through the lecture, he catches himself directing a question towards your side of the room and immediately wants to launch himself into the sun.

Because you answer, of course, brilliantly as usual. But the boy next to you looks at you with stars in his eyes.

Yeah, Jack wants him expelled.

After a torturous two hours, students begin filing out of the room. Normally, this is the part where he'd catch your eye, maybe exchange some silent look that promised you'd be appearing in his office within the next ten minutes.

Instead, you're still standing beside that boy. And the little prick is making you laugh now. Then you reach out and lightly smack his arm, again.

Jack immediately decides prison might be worth it. 

He shoves his laptop into his satchel with considerably more force than necessary, and effectively storms out of the room without giving you a second glance. 

If you wanted to fuck about with some kid your age, then fine, Jack was not going to stop you. 

By the time he reaches his office he's practically fuming, throwing his bag onto his desk and immediately hating himself for it.

Because what exactly are you guilty of?

Making a friend? Talking to somebody?

The answer is nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Yet that doesn't stop the ugly feeling sitting beneath his ribs. Yeah, he’s going to commit a fucking crime tonight. 

Jack Abbot has managed to elicit yet another strange emotion in you.  You're staring at the doorway he'd just disappeared through, confused as fuck. 

He'd packed up and left so quickly you'd barely had time to process it, when usually, you walk to his office together. 

Once James - the man you were talking to - leaves with your Instagram to “organise a study session”, a strange sinking feeling begins to settle in your stomach.

You gather your things slowly, trying not to overthink it but failing spectacularly.

The thing is, you had actually been excited, embarrassingly excited. Somehow, after weeks of mostly keeping to yourself, after spending the majority of your university experience drifting between classes and then disappearing home, you'd accidentally made a friend today randomly. For the first time somebody actually came and fucking sat next you and talked to you. 

And the first person you'd wanted to tell was Jack. Which was probably concerning. You know how ridiculous it is that every interesting thing that happens in your day somehow circles back to him.

You'd actually spent the last ten minutes of class thinking about it, thinking about walking into his office and saying, "I made a friend today." And hearing whatever sarcastic response he'd inevitably come up with as he pulled you into his lap. Maybe teasing you about finally socialising - a topic he often teased you about -  or maybe pretending to be shocked.

Instead he'd practically fled the room.

By the time you reach his office, the excitement has mostly dissolved into uncertainty, and a sick, sick feeling. Your brain convinces you he hates you, he’s sick of you. The affair with the pretty young thing is over. 

Your hand hovers over the door, then knocks.

A gruff voice immediately answers.

"Come in."

You push the door open, and there he is standing beside his desk.

His jaw is clenched, his shoulders rigid.

And suddenly you're no longer excited to tell him anything. Instead you're left standing there wondering what exactly you did wrong.

He stalks up to you, and shuts the door behind you with enough force to make you jump. For a moment he simply stands there, broad chest rising and falling, staring at you as though he's trying to decide whether to throttle you or kiss you.

“Who the fuck was that boy?”

You’re confused. 

“Who?”

“Don't play games with me, sweetheart.”

“James?” you ask, tilting your head. “Oh he’s just a… friend I made. We decided to share notes for the course.”

His jaw visibly tenses.

“The fuck you mean you ‘share notes’?” He exaggerates the last two words, mocking the phrase in a deliberately high-pitched voice. “Don’t I give you enough notes to go off? I'm not teachin’ you well enough, so now you gotta go to some punk to share notes?

“Jack, it’s not like that, I just-”

“Dr Abbot.” He interrupts.

The correction slices straight through you.

“What?”

He walks up closer to you, until your back hits the door and you’re pinned against it. He tilts his head down to peer at you. 

“It’s Dr Abbot when you’re in my office, sweetheart,” His voice drops lower. “I’m still your professor.” 

You scoff at that, hurt. It’s not hot to you, no. In that moment your brain forces you to think about how every moment you've spent together has happened in this room, only in this room. And maybe that's all there is, and maybe that's all there ever was. You convince you that you guys can’t exist out of this space, this dynamic that exists between the two of you. 

Can he just not have a civil conversation? Why is pretending to act jealous? If he wanted to fuck you he could just ask. 

You swallow hard.

“Right,” you say lowly. “My professor.”

The words taste bitter.

“The one who only seems to want me when we're in here.”

His brows furrow immediately.

“That's not what-”

“No, it’s okay. Let me finish. The one who shoves his face between my thighs when he feels lonely to cure whatever fucked up grief he keeps bottled up inside of him. The one who refuses to see me outside the four walls of this godforsaken office-”

“Enough.”

You see something that resembles hurt flash across his face, his brows creasing. The lines around his eyes deepen.

“Is that really what you think of me?” He whispers, staring at you.

You twitch uncomfortably under him, looking at the floor, confidence evaporating now that you've actually said out loud what you’ve been spiralling over ever since this began.

“I just...” Your voice cracks slightly. “Look, you don't have to act possessive, okay? Whatever we have this- this thing. I know it doesn’t mean much to you.”

Jack immediately opens his mouth, but you keep rambling.

“Which is fine. Seriously. I'm okay with that.” Your hands shake slightly at your sides. “But just don’t give me false hope. I’m happy with you being my professor, or my dom, or whatever the fuck. And I like that you help me study and talk and get out of my head and feel good, but there’s no need to act like you- like you care. I can't handle feeling like you care one minute and then being reminded none of this is real the next.” 

You're panting hard by the end of your rant, still refusing to look at him. 

“Sweetheart, look at me.”

You shake your head, tears of frustration welling up at letting yourself be seen like this, vulnerable. You promised yourself you wouldn’t ever tell him. Stupid. 

Sex, that’s easy. It’s the meshing of two bodies, it’s clinical - you orgasm, your brain feels hazy and good while he drives you there. But this, talking, about feelings of all things, fuck. You can’t let anyone see you like that. Because then, they get sick of you, and then they leave. 

“C’mon, look at me,” he pleads.

You wipe your eyes, about to tell him to move back so you can leave, but then he says your name. Softly. Not sweetheart. Not pretty girl. But your actual name.

“Please.”

You look up then, tears pooling in your eyes. And your breath catches.

Because Jack looks devastated. His eyes are red around the edges, and his mouth is pulled into a frown. 

His hand rises slowly, cupping your cheek. He gently swipes a thumb under your eye. 

“Hey, I need you to know - this is real. To me.”

His voice cracks.

“I’m not using you as some sort of placeholder or whatever self sabotaging bullshit you’ve created in your head okay?”

Then he inhales deeply. 

“You've become the best part of my day. I wake up and mentally map my days around you. Hearing you talk loosens the constant ache I feel.”

Jack closes his eyes briefly.

Then opens them again. His hand tightens against your cheek.

“Sweetheart, I love you.”

You still. 

Your lip quivers as you stare at him. 

You bring your own hand up to cup his, and look up through your lashes. 

The words get stuck in your throat. God. He loves you. Somebody loves you. Somebody saw through rot and the cage around your heart, and said he fucking loves you.

“I do. Too. That thing,” you wince at your awkwardness. “I just, I want to say it but I-"

“Hey pretty girl, it’s okay.”

Jack smiles sadly. He leans his forehead down to yours.

“I do,” you whisper desperately. “I do. I just-”

“Shh.”

His mouth nearly presses against you as he whispers again.

“I love you. And I’ll wait however long you need me to say it back, okay?”

Your breath shudders as he says that, a sob catching in your throat. Because for the first time in a very long time, nobody leaves. 

Your eyes squeeze shut. Tears roll down your cheek, overwhelmed.

You barely register them before you feel Jack’s lips against your skin, kissing your tears. He mutters soft, ‘I love you’s as he presses kisses all over your face, cradling it. He presses one last one on your forehead before he tucks you into him. 

Your cheek rests on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

You wrap your arms around his waist. And you genuinely think you can control it, for about ten seconds at most, then you sob. Uncontrollably, for the first time in years in front of another human. 

Because God. You have spent so much of your life believing that love was something you had to earn, something you had to perform correctly for your family, the people around you, to accept you. Something that disappeared the second you became too much, too emotional, too difficult, too needy.

But he stayed. And he saw you. 

You stand there, wrapped in each other's embrace until the tears slow. Jack gently wipes your cheeks with both hands.

“Sorry for making you cry, princess,” he pouts, lip jutting out exaggerately. 

A watery laugh leaves you at that, and you cup his cheek. Jack immediately leans into your palm.

Jack watches you with an expression so openly adoring it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. As though he's still struggling to believe you're real.

Your thumb traces the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, mapped with years lived longer than you.

Then your hand drifts lower, brushing against the silver-grey scruff along his jaw, littered with specks of auburn, and you rub it gently, feeling the coarseness between your fingertips.

That was it, was it not? The stark difference between you, the thing that made all this so exhilarating. 

Jack had lived a life that existed before you. And somehow, impossibly, it had still found its way to yours. As though he's spent years wandering through darkness and has suddenly found something worth staying for.

And perhaps, you realise, so have you.

That’s when you know.

“I’m ready,” you breathe out.

Jack's eyes widen, his hand coming to hold yours where it rests on his jaw.

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.”

“Jack. I’m sure. I want this, I want you.”

He shudders, exhaling hard, bringing his face down to yours.

“Yeah?” He whispers against your lips, brushing them.

“Yeah.” 

Then his lips slam down onto yours, for the first time. 

And God, its everything you fucking imagined. 

His mouth presses against yours and soft whimpers escape the both of you. There’s a certain desperation in the way his mouth moves against yours, in the way your tongues immediately find each other. 

After a few brutal minutes of grinding against each other, moaning, Jack succumbs. He lifts you into his hands, your thighs wrapping around his waist, as he carries you to his desk and sets you on it.

Mouth still pressed against yours, he rips your shirt off, pulls your jeans and panties off, shoving them to the floor. 

He whines as you detach your lips from his to pull his blazer off. Looking up at him, naked on his desk, you unbutton his shirt. Trail your fingers down the dusting of salt and pepper chest hair, down, over his pecs, slightly raking your nails over his nipples.

“Fuck yeah, use your nails on my chest,” he grunts out as he unzips his pants.

You moan, pressing against him harder.

“I can’t wait any longer, fuck. Please, sweetheart, let me fuck you.”

You nod.

“I’m ready, Dr Abbot.”

He groans mutters ‘you fucking minx’ as he pulls his pants and boxers down, standing bare in front of you.

His cock hits his soft stomach, curving to the left, precum coating the tip, the way you love. 

You glance down at his prosthetic. 

“You sure you want to do this here, Jack? We can go on the sofa if you want.”

He looks at you with so much adoration, a soft smile gracing his face.

“No sweetheart, I'll keep it on for now. Wanna fuck you on my desk. ”

Then he pinches your nipples as he leans in. 

“And I still need to fuck the brat out of you.”

You whine.

“What are you waiting for then?”

He brings a hand down your stomach, fingers pressing up against you. 

“Gonna finger you a little bit, yeah? Get you ready for your professor's cock, s’not gonna fit in this tight pussy otherwise.”

A whimper escapes you at his crude words, god can this old man dirty talk.  

He slowly slips two fingers inside of you, thrusting, then three once you’re ready. Circles your clit softly, the way he’s learnt after many nights on this same desk. 

Whispers filth against your lips, kissing you, desperate now that he knows what your lips taste like after many weeks. 

Once you come, he finally presses his cock against you. Rubs the tip over your folds, coating it in your slick. 

“Yeah? You ready sweetheart?”

You nod, whisper a soft ‘please’ against his lips. 

Then he pushes his tip into you. And oh fuck. He’s just so fucking thick. 

He immediately brings a hand up to hold his base to stave off his orgasm, puts his head on your shoulder. Breathing harshly. 

It hurts a little but you want more, you crave the feeling of him pressed up against you. So you buck your hips. 

“Please, Jack, fuck. Put it in,” you whine. 

“Oh- oh shit. Fucking stop that.”

He lays a hand flat on your thigh. Breathes deeply. 

“I’m trying not to blow my load here, sweetheart, gimme a sec.”

You giggle softly, pleased. Having this old man at your mercy, your dreams come true. 

“Take your time, old man.”

He stills at that, grips your waist harshly. 

Looks up at you, his eyes darkening. 

“Fuck you,” he snarls. 

Then he presses into you, inch by inch, until all of him is buried inside. His thighs shake with the effort of not coming, and you breathe deeply through the pinch of pain. 

“Fuck princess, so tight for me, my good fucking girl,” he babbles in your ear. 

You whimper against him, waiting for the pain to subside. 

Then you nod. And he begins thrusting, slowly. And it's so fucking euphoric, the feeling of sex. It makes sense why they call orgasms ‘a little death’ in French, because god, you know your body will leave your soul once he starts properly fucking you. 

With every deep thrust of his cock into you, his grey pubes brush against your clit. You both moan softly. He grips your waist, shoving faster, harder. 

“Only man that’s ever gonna be in this pussy yeah? Yeah?”

You’re half gone drooling against his neck, letting out high pitched whines. 

“Nod for me, c’mon. I haven’t fucked the brains outta you yet.” 

Jack grips your hair tight, pulling your head away from where it was buried against his neck. 

You nod, slurring your words.

“Yeah Dr Abbot, s’only your pussy.”

“That’s it, good fucking girl.”

Then he starts thrusting, faster. Your hands rest on his shoulders, his face buried in your neck. His body slamming into yours is so hard it makes the table squeak under you. 

When he brings a hand to your clit, you whimper loudly. He covers your mouth with his palm, and stops immediately. 

“Quiet, you don’t want anyone to hear right?” 

He roughly pants, trailing a line of kisses up your neck. 

“Don’t want them to know your professor’s fucking you, right?”

You shake your head, words muffled under his palm. 

“I’ll be quiet please, fuck please!” 

He starts thrusting against faster, the table shaking. You toss your head back in pleasure, his cock reaching a spot deep inside you. He stares at you, at your face twisted in pleasure, the way your tits bounce as he thrusts into you. 

“Yeah that is it, baby, good fucking girl.”

God it feels so good, and you’re there, you're nearly there, egged on by his rough groans and whimpers in your ear. You bring a hand down to your clit, starting to rub it to reach your orgasm but he shoves it off. Pushes you onto the table, your back hitting the desk. 

“That’s my job sweetheart. This pussy is mine.”

Then he hovers over you, eyes boring into yours as he fucks you harder, rubbing circles on your clit. The pleasure is so, so overwhelming and you close your eyes. 

He pulls your head towards him, gripping your jaw. 

“C’mon, look at me sweetheart.”

You open your eyes, moaning. 

“Say it,” he grunts. “Say you’re mine. Say it.”

“Fuck- Dr Abbot, I’m yours.”

He moans gutturally then pushes his lips onto yours again. You both moan into each other's mouths, sloppily kissing as you build towards your peak.  

“Fuck yeah sweetheart, just like that- good girl, so fucking tight.”

He continues to mutter filth against you while all you can do is softly moan. Your brain is mush, filled with thoughts of him, jackjackjack. 

You clench tightly around him when he bites your bottom lip.

“C’mon tell me how good you feel,” he pants, nearing his own orgasm. 

“Fuck, Daddy, feels so good.”

His hips buck once, harshly, then he stills. 

“What’d you just call me?”

Your eyes come into focus. The fog clearing a bit. 

You stammer, “Um nothing, sir, I was just-”

“No. Repeat it.”

He trails a hand to your neck, squeezing gently once, then more harshly

“What did you call me?”

“Daddy,” you whisper out.

He pouts mockingly. 

“Yeah? Daddy makin’ you feel good, baby? That’s why you're grippin’ this cock so tight, right?”

And then he starts thrusting, harder than before. 

“Just. Let. Daddy. Take Care. Of. You,” He harshly thrusts between each word, one hand covering your mouth as your moans get louder. 

Then you feel your orgasm approaching, the flutter building up again, clenching around him. 

He looks into your eyes, only a thin ring of hazel left, his pupils so dilated.

“You gonna come for your Daddy? Yeah?” 

You nod, whining, then you bite his palm. Hard. 

His hips stutter and you feel the warmth of his spend pooling in your cunt. He whimpers and babbles your name as he comes, “fuck, fuck I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

You moan at his words. But you still have to come. 

“Jack please, please keep going.” 

He groans gutterly as his cock begins to soften, overstimulated but he continues thrusting jerkily. 

He grips your chin in his palm. 

“Fuckin’ come for me. Now,” he grunts out, pinching your clit roughly.

And then it happens. You write, moaning under his hands as the coil of pleasure snaps, closing your eyes. 

He whimpers soft praises and coos of “I love you, did so good for me” as his cock spurts out more cum, twitching.

You pant against each other's mouths for a few long moments, his scruff tickling your chin, his forehead resting against yours, both of you trying and failing to steady your breathing.

“Fuckin’ hell, sweetheart,” he murmurs, a breathless laugh escaping him. “That live up to your expectations?”

You laugh softly nodding. 

“Mhm.”

He leans his head back to look at you properly once he’s cooled down, and holds your face in his palms. 

After a few long seconds of just staring, something grave passed over his face.

“Don’t think I got a lot of years left, sweetheart.”

Your brows immediately furrow.

“Jack-”

He presses a finger to your lips when you go to interrupt, shushing you. 

“Let me speak.”

You sigh, but nod. 

“I've spent most of my life thinkin' there'd only ever be one great love for me,” he says quietly, his thumb brushing beneath your eye. “And after I lost her, I figured that was it. Figured whatever part of me knew how to belong to somebody had gone with her.”

Your breath stutters. 

“Then you came along. In that fucking bar, wearing that tiny dress, asking me to help you. ”

A watery laugh escapes you.

“And whatever years I have left, I wanna spend them with you. I wanna hear every thought that gets trapped in that head of yours. I wanna know what articles you're reading, what you're writing, what you're dreamin’ about at three in the morning.”

He pauses. 

“I wanna be the person you come home to.”

Your breath catches.

“As your other. If you’d want.” 

You breathe out, seeing his face dimly lit by the lamp in his office. Mapping out his wrinkles near his eyes, the silver threaded in his slight beard and his soft smile. And suddenly it comes spilling out of you before anxiety can stop it.

“I love you.”

Jack stills completely. His eyes pool with tears. 

“Yeah?” He whispers, half surprised, half in awe.  

You nod, leaning up and brushing your nose against his.

“And I’d love to be yours.”

Relief washes over his face so intensely it almost hurts to witness. His eyes glisten as he kisses you softly, a slow, reverent press of his lips against yours for a few quiet moments.

Then he moves back to start cleaning up, cock still inside you. 

As he leans up, his back cracks, loudly. 

You both still. Before you burst out laughing. 

“You’re so fucking old… yeah you’re not making it very long, I can’t lie.”

He groans dramatically, rolling his eyes to the ceiling.   

“Fuck you, shut up.”

You bite your lip. His gaze travels there.  

“Make me, Dr Abbot,” you say, exaggerating a whimper, only half serious.

His eyes darken, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle jumps beneath the skin. Yet despite the stern look he's trying to give you, a pink flush begins creeping across his cheeks, spreading over the tops of them and disappearing beneath the scruff along his jaw.

“Yeah sweetheart, about that… I’m not gonna be able to get it up for a while.”

You break, laughing harder as he laments. He’s so fucking old. 

Once you calm down, he slowly pulls his cock out of you, both of you moaning, you at the loss of the fullness, him at your shared cum oozing out. 

“But my mouth still works,” he smirks. 

Your breath hitches as he plugs you with his fingers to stop more of your cum from spilling out. Leans in close, and whispers. 

“My leg’s killing me, sweetheart,” he begins, breath fanning over your face. “But I'm going to lie on that sofa right there. And you're gonna ride my face till you come. Again. And again.”

You whimper softly against his mouth. 

“Okay.”

“Okay, who, pretty girl?” “Okay, Daddy.”

He grins. 

“Good girl.”

omg hi u made it ! guys when i tell you this is so personal to me, from the dialgoue to the experimental (?) writing style. i need this man to be my father figure SO FUCKING BAD i have had such a week.