Angelbby

Three days since you realised you were just a nobody for Joel. Just that bratty little girl, he met at a bar, who spread her legs for him whenever he wanted. Not his woman. Not his girlfriend. Not his anything if you'd put it bluntly. 

The thought made you want to break something.

So, your plan was to confront him. All these sweet messages, all those nights when he had you under him—praising, loving, caring for you, they had to mean something to him, right? 

He was already on his porch, horsing it down in the sun and having absolutely no clue of the world when you marched straight over to him with murder in your eyes. 

"Who was she?" You snapped, trying to make your presence loud.

Joel looked up, the water still spraying, his expression shifting from surprise to something confused. "Excuse me?"

"That woman. In your truck. Tuesday night." Your voice was sharp, brittle, and you hated how shaky it sounded. "Pretty. Laughs like a goddamn bird. Who in the hell is she?" 

He turned off the hose, slowly, careful, and set it down. 

Then he crossed his arms, those dark orbs studying you with an unreadable calm that made you want to scream. "That's none of your business."

"None of my—" You laughed bitter. "Are you serious? You fucked me in your car, called me 'good girl,' and I don't get to ask who you're bringing home at two in the morning?"

Joel's jaw tightened. "Watch your mouth."

"Or what? You'll spank me again? Put me over your knee like I'm some child who needs—"

"Stop." His voice cracked like thunder, and you flinched despite yourself. He stepped closer, and you backed up until your shoulders hit his front door. "You wanna throw a tantrum, fine. But you don't get to come onto my property and talk to me like that."

"Then tell me who she was." Your voice just above a whisper. 

"It ain't your concern." 

"It is my concern when—" and louder again. 

"Enough." 

He grabbed your arm—not hard but enough to hurt and to make you gasp—then pulled you into his house. You struggled, digging your heels in, but he didn't slow down. 

Through the front door, past the living room, into the kitchen where he finally released you, turning to face you with a look that made your stomach drop.

"You wanna act like a brat?" His voice was low, a slight anger bubbling behind it. "Fine. Then I'll treat you like one."

"Don't you dare—"

"You're gonna shut up, and listen. Or I swear to God, I'll bend you over this counter and spank you 'till you can't sit for a week."

The threat hit you like a slap, and you hated the way your body reacted—the way your cunt throbbed, the way your breath caught. You crossed your arms, glaring at him, but you didn't move.

"She's Tommy's new girlfriend," Joel said, his voice flat. "She drove him home because his truck broke down. I gave her a ride back to her place."

The words landed like a bucket of cold water.

You blinked. "What?"

"You heard me." He stepped closer, and this time you didn't back away. "You've been stompin' around here for three days, lookin' at me like a kicked dog, all 'cause you saw a woman in my truck and decided I was cheatin' on you."

"I wasn't—"

"You were." His hand came up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced over your bottom lip. "You think I don't know you? The way you get all bratty when you're jealous?"

You wanted to deny it. Wanted to shove his hand away and tell him to go to hell. But your eyes were burning, and your throat was tight, and all that anger that had been sitting inside you was turning into something that was close to humiliation. Or even embarrassment. 

"I don't like sharing," you whispered, your eyes watering. 

"Neither do I, baby." His voice softened, just a fraction. "Which is why I don't. You think I'd let some other woman in my bed after havin' you?"

"But you didn't tell me."

"I didn't think I had to." He sighed, running his hand over his face, suddenly looking older, tireder. "Goddammit, girl. You gotta learn to use your words instead of tearin' me like a feral cat."

"I'm not a cat." You pouted. 

"No, you're a brat with a temper." But there was no heat in it now—just exhaustion. He stepped back, leaning against the counter, crossing his arms again. "Alright. You wanted answers. You got 'em. Now what?"

Now what.

You stood there, frozen, the anger draining out of you and leaving behind a hollow, shaky feeling. You'd spent three days working yourself into a frenzy, convinced he had been with someone else, and it was all for nothing. You felt stupid. 

And still so, so fucking wound up.

"I don't know," you admitted, your voice barely audible.

Joel watched you for a long moment. Then he pushed off of the counter and crossed to you, his hands settling on your hips, pulling you against him.

"You're still angry," he said, but it wasn't a question.

"I don't know what I am."

"Angry. Stubborn. All wound up with nowhere to go." His hand slid up your back, into your hair, tilting your head back. "I know that feelin'. And I know how to fix it."

"You mean you know how to fuck it out of me."

A ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "If ya wanna put it that way."

Suddenly he turned you. 

The kitchen counter felt cool against your palms as he pressed your chest down over the smooth surface with a firm hand at the back of your neck. Your shorts and panties were shoved down in one rough motion, cool air kissing your bare skin before his palm followed, spreading you open with calloused fingers.

"Look at this," he muttered, two thick fingers dragging through your slick folds. "Already wet and I ain't even touched you proper. Been walkin' around mad for days 'cause you thought I was givin' my cock to someboyd else."

You whimpered, hips twitching back against his hand as he circled your clit once, twice, drawing out the tension that had built for days. 

Joel's belt then clinked, zipper rasped, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against your entrance, thick and insistent. 

"Who does this belong to?" he asked, as he pushed inside in one long, thick slide, stretching you open inch by inch until his hips were flush against your ass.

"You," you gasped, fingers curling against the countertop.

"Say it again." He bottomed out, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other anchored your hip, holding you steady as he began to move.

"Yours, Joel—fuck—yours."

He pulled back and drove in hard, setting a punishing rhythm that made the cabinets rattle and your breath come in short bursts.

Every thrust knocked a broken sound out of you, while the slap of skin on skin echoed through the kitchen as he fucked the attitude out of you with deep, quick strokes. The emotional weight of the past three days poured into each movement—his frustration, your jealousy, the possessive need to claim what was his.

"That's right," he grunted, sweat beading at his temple. "This tight little cunt's mine. Your attitude's mine too. You get jealous, you get mouthy, you come to me. You don't stew for three goddamn days."

Your legs shook, knees threatening to buckle as his free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight circles that sent sparks racing up your spine. 

The story of your jealousy unraveled in the rhythm of his hips—the way you had watched from the window, the sting of seeing another woman in his space, the way it had twisted into this desperate, bratty silence.

"Who's fuckin' you right now?" he demanded, voice rough with exertion.

"You—Joel—only you—"

"That's it. Come on, baby. Let it out."

Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your knees buckled, waves of pleasure rolling over you as your walls clenched around him. 

But Joel caught you, one arm banding around your waist as he kept fucking you through it, the aftershocks leaving you trembling and gasping against the counter.

"Easy," he murmured against your ear, his breath hot and steady. "I got you, babygirl."

He eased you down onto the kitchen floor, laying you on your back on the cool tile with careful hands. 

Joel shoved his jeans lower, knelt between your spread thighs, and slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, the new angle hitting deeper, drawing out a fresh moan, and a gush from your cunt. 

"Still got that attitude?" he asked, rolling his hips slow and deep now, each stroke claiming your pussy.

You shook your head, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming mix of humiliation, relief, and pleasure. "No—Joel—please—"

"Please what?"

"Don't stop—need you—"

He braced one hand besides your head, the other sliding under your ass to tilt you just right, every stroke dragging over that perfect spot inside you. 

Your second orgasm built fast, the emotional depth of the scene layering on top of the physical—the way his tired eyes softened even as he dominated you, the way your bratty jealousy melted into submission under his steady hands.

"There she is," he breathed, forehead pressing to yours. "My good girl. Cum for me again, honey. Show me who you belong to."

You came with a broken cry, body arching off of the tile as pleasure flooded through you. 

Joel groaned, hips stuttering as he followed you, spilling deep inside you in hot, thick pulses that filled you completely. 

He stayed buried, cock twitching inside you. 

After a long moment he eased out, gathered you into his arms, and sat back against the cabinets with you in his lap. His big hand stroked slow circles on your back while you trembled through the aftershocks, the kitchen quiet once more except for your shared breathing.

"Next time you get jealous," he said quietly, lips against your hair, "you use your words. Or I'll bend you over the nearest surface and remind you again. Understand?"

You nodded against his chest, soft and small, the bratty edges smoothed away by his steady presence. "Yes."

Joel kissed the top of your head, tired and fond. "Good girl."

ME DOING REQUESTS FINALLY???? 🫪🫪

The last patrol together had been… relaxed. On your side, anyway. Maybe a little too relaxed. You had missed a couple signs you should have caught, let your attention drift more than once while walking the tree line. Nothing dangerous had happened, but Joel had noticed. Of course he had. The man noticed everything.

Still, the whole lecture had felt unfair.

When you rode patrol with Joel Miller, the man practically absorbed the entire job himself. He checked the tracks, listened to the wind, scanned every ridge like something deadly was about to crawl over it. Half the time he handled things before you even had a chance to step in.

Trying to assist often felt like showing up late to a fight he had already finished.

So yeah - maybe you had been less attentive than you should have been. But it wasn’t because you didn’t care.

It was because when Joel was beside you, the world felt… handled.

That realization had landed right as he was finishing his little speech.

And instead of apologizing like the sensible part of your brain suggested - maybe slipping out of the stables before things got worse - you had planted your boots firmly in the dirt.

“Who then?” you shot back, folding your arms as the words came out sharper than planned. “You're gonna be the one teaching me? I’d love to see you try, old man.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you knew the last part had been unnecessary.

Joel had a particular talent for getting under your skin, but calling him old man had been like flicking a match into dry grass.

The reaction was immediate.

He went still.

Then he released the horse’s reins without looking, letting them fall loosely over the post as he stepped out of the stall. Each step measured enough that your instincts kicked in before your pride could stop them. You weren’t even sure when your own boots shifted backward, but the space between you widened all the same.

Joel’s expression didn’t change much.

That was the unsettling part.

His eyes stayed locked on you, dark and assessing, like he was already calculating something.

“Well,” he drawled after a beat, voice calm in a way that felt more dangerous than the shouting had. “That’s not the worst idea you’ve had.” Another step closer. “Been hearin’ you skipped more’n a few of those self-defense drills lately.” His gaze dragged over you. “Let’s see how tough you act when someone actually puts you on your back.”

And that was how you ended up trudging through ankle-deep snow on what should have been a perfectly quiet afternoon off.

Because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut.

The wind dragged like cold fingers through the trees lining the path to the training barn, snow crunching under your boots with every step as you replayed the moment in the stables for the hundredth time. If you had just walked away - if you had swallowed your pride for once - you’d be somewhere warm right now.

Instead, you had challenged Joel Miller to prove you wrong.

And if you were being honest with yourself, the irritation between you two wasn’t exactly one-sided. Getting under Joel’s skin had become a strange sort of sport. The man had a way of grinding against your nerves until you snapped back without thinking.

Apparently the feeling went both ways.

Your breath curled in pale clouds as the barn came into view, the big wooden structure crouched quietly beneath a dusting of snow. No voices. No movement. Just the faint creak of wood shifting in the cold.

You reached it later than the time he had given you.

Technically by accident.

Mostly.

A small, petty part of you had slowed your pace on purpose. Let him stew a little. Pissed people made mistakes. And today you had every intention of knocking Joel Miller down a peg or two.

The barn door groaned softly when you pushed it open.

Inside, the air was colder than you expected, the structure barely insulated from the winter outside. Your boots echoed faintly against the packed floor as you stepped in, shrugging out of your thick coat and shaking snow from the sleeves.

“Joel?” you called, voice carrying through the wide space.

You draped the coat over a small wooden stool near the entrance. If this training session looked anything like the handful of drills you’d bothered attending before, you wouldn’t stay cold for long.

Movement would fix that.

The training area had been mostly cleared out. A broad patch of packed dirt and old mats where Jackson ran its combat practice. Last time you’d been here it had been crowded - laughter, teasing, half the patrol crew watching each other stumble through holds and throws.

Now the place felt different.

Quieter.

Dim light filtered through the high slats in the barn walls, dust and hay drifting lazily through the beams. A few old crates were stacked toward the back, casting long crooked shadows across the floor. Somewhere deeper inside, a loose board creaked softly with the wind.

But most notably - no Joel.

You suppressed the thought that Joel Miller was almost never late. If anything, he was the kind of man who showed up ten minutes early just to glare at everyone else.

Still.

If the universe decided to make an exception today, you weren’t about to complain.

“Joel?” you called again, already turning back toward the door as you reached for your coat. “If this is some kinda joke -”

A faint shuffle cut through the quiet behind you.

Subtle enough that it could have been anything. The wind blowing through a crack in the boards. A rat scurrying somewhere in the hay.

But your brain, helpful as ever, supplied a different thought.

What if something actually had happened?

Joel slipping on ice somewhere behind the barn. Old men did that, didn’t they?

The image made you snort a quiet laugh as you stepped deeper inside, heading toward the darker end of the building where the stacked crates sat like squat shadows.

“Joel?” you called again, tone lighter now.

No grumpy Texan clutching a broken hip greeted you. Just scattered hay, dirt, and the faint smell of old wood.

Then you noticed the tracks.

Boot prints pressed into the thin dust near the crates.

You barely had time to register them before something slammed into you from the side.

Hard.

The impact knocked the air clean out of your lungs as your body was driven backward into the stacked crates. Wood rattled violently behind you, the force of the hit folding you against it so abruptly that even the instinct to shout died in your throat.

All that escaped you was a strangled breath as the world lurched sideways and suddenly felt very, very close.

You only managed to catch yourself at the last second. Your boots slipped in the dust as the crates rattled behind you, but instinct kicked in before gravity could finish the job. One hand shot out, bracing against the wood long enough to steady yourself before you stumbled back into the more open space of the training floor.

And he followed.

“What the actual hell was that, Joel?!” you snapped, the words bursting out before your lungs had even properly recovered.

Joel Miller stepped out of the shadows like he had all the time in the world. The dim light spilling through the barn slats caught the edge of his shoulders, the familiar broad frame moving toward you with the same steady patience he carried everywhere.

He didn’t answer.

Just kept walking.

The deliberate silence set your nerves on edge faster than any insult could have.

Without thinking you took a step back - mirroring exactly what had happened in the stables earlier. Your heel scraped lightly over the packed dirt before you forced yourself to stop retreating. Straightened your back. Planted your feet.

You refused to give him the satisfaction twice.

“So…” You cleared your throat, hating the faint tremor that slipped into your voice anyway. “How are we doing this? Thought these things usually start with rules. You know. Demonstrations. Maybe someone showing the hold first before -”

A low chuckle slipped from him.

It carried about as much humor as a knife.

“You honestly think that’s what it looks like out there?” Joel muttered.

He rolled one shoulder as he moved, the motion stiff enough that you noticed it immediately. The impact must’ve hurt him too when he slammed into you. He masked it well, but the brief tightening of his jaw gave it away.

Still, the look he gave you afterward made it clear he didn’t care.

“Oh, darlin’,” he added quietly, voice dropping into that slow Texan drawl that usually meant trouble. “You’re in for a rude surprise.”

Two seconds.

That was about how long you had to swallow the sudden spike of unease rising in your chest.

Then the panic got burned away by something hotter.

The sheer audacity of this man.

You took two quick steps backward, widening the distance and shifting your weight the way you’d been taught during drills. Feet planted. Knees loose. Hands lifting instinctively toward your chest.

Fine.

If Joel wanted to play instructor like this, you’d show him you had actually listened during those classes.

Unfortunately, you were still underestimating just how serious he was about the lesson.

He moved before you could fully settle into your stance.

One moment he stood a few paces away.

The next he was on you.

Your hands shot up higher, ready to intercept a grab - because that was what the drills usually started with. Wrist control. Balance breaks.

Joel didn’t reach for your arms.

He swung.

An actual punch.

The movement came fast enough that your brain barely had time to process it. You ducked on instinct alone, dropping your shoulder just as his fist cut through the air where your head had been.

You avoided the worst of it.

But not all of it.

His knuckles clipped the side of your skull as they passed, the glancing contact sending a sharp buzz of pain through your temple that made your ears ring.

“Jesus, Joel!” you barked, staggering back a step as your hand flew to your cheek. “What the fuck -”

“Thought you might try talkin’ your way outta trouble too?” he grunted.

Another swing followed immediately.

You barely avoided that one too, stumbling sideways as the punch cut past your shoulder close enough to stir the air.

And that was when the realization finally clicked.

He wasn’t actually trying to hit you.

Not really.

If Joel had meant it - if he’d put his full weight behind those blows - you’d already be down. Nose broken. Lip split. Maybe worse.

This was controlled.

Terrifyingly precise.

“Of course not, you idiot,” you shot back, breath coming faster now as adrenaline started flooding your system. “I just -”

“You just what?” Joel cut in, circling closer. “Thought you could coast through patrols and let somebody else watch your back, kiddo?”

“I just thought -”

You never finished the sentence.

Because that was when he closed the distance completely.

One moment he was a step away.

The next his hands were on you.

His unyielding grip clamped onto your shoulders before you could react, momentum carrying straight through you as he hooked a foot behind your ankle and swept your legs out from under you in one brutal, practiced motion.

The world flipped.

Your back slammed into the old training mats hard enough to knock the air from your lungs in a sharp, involuntary gasp. Dust puffed around you as your vision flashed white for a split second, stars scattering across the edges of your sight.

You barely had time to register what had happened.

Because Joel was already on top of you.

His weight settled in fast, knees pinning your legs to the ground before you could kick free. One hand locked around each of your upper arms, forcing them down against the mat with a strength that left very little room for argument.

You tried to twist.

Tried to buck him off.

It didn’t move him an inch.

Joel leaned slightly over you, breath still steady despite the scuffle, his shadow falling across your face in the dim barn light.

“Weren’t thinkin’,” he muttered, voice low and rough. His grip tightened just enough to make the point unmistakable. “That right there’s the problem, darlin’.”

“Okay, you know what -” The words came out between clenched teeth as you bucked against his hold again, muscles straining even though every logical part of your brain already knew it was pointless.

Joel barely shifted.

Still, the flash of defiance in your eyes caught his attention for half a second. His gaze dipped toward you and he made a low sound under his breath as he adjusted his weight to counter your movement.

It wasn’t much.

Just enough pressure in the right places to remind you he was still very much in control.

He waited.

Actually waited.

Like he expected some brilliant comeback to fall out of your mouth.

So you gave him one.

“Fuck you, Joel.”

The words snapped out sharp and immediate, and before he could respond you twisted your hips hard - throwing your weight the way you’d been shown once during a half-forgotten training drill.

The motion had a name. Something about breaking a mount by shifting the opponent’s balance.

At the time it had sounded like wishful thinking.

But somehow - 

It worked.

Almost.

Joel’s grip slipped just enough that you managed to twist sideways beneath him. Your shoulder rolled, your body following the momentum until suddenly you were face-down instead of pinned flat.

You didn’t wait.

You scrambled forward on instinct, boots digging against the mat as your hands clawed for traction in the dust.

Behind you, Joel sucked in a sharp breath.

The knee you’d driven into his ribs during the maneuver had clearly landed better than you’d planned.

For one brief, glorious second you thought you might actually get away.

Then his hand closed around the back of your belt.

The jerk backward was violent enough that your progress stopped instantly, your body sliding helplessly over the dusty mat as the inches you’d gained disappeared in a heartbeat.

Your fingernails scraped uselessly against the ground.

“Damn it -!”

You barely got the protest out before Joel leaned forward again.

One hand seized both your wrists, yanking them behind your back in a single brutal motion. His grip tightened until your arms were forced together, the angle making it impossible to twist free.

A second later his knees settled heavily against the backs of your legs, pinning you in place while his weight pressed down just enough to make resistance feel laughable.

You opened your mouth to curse him out.

Then you felt it.

The rough scrape of something fibrous brushing your skin.

Rope.

Your stomach dropped.

“Okay - Joel, wait!” The words came faster now as the cord circled your wrists, tightening with practiced efficiency. “Hold on a second -” The rope cinched tighter. “I said wait!” The sharp edge of panic in your own voice caught you off guard.

Joel didn’t react.

“Give me one good reason,” he said simply.

“What reason do you -?” You twisted your head, trying to glare up at him over your shoulder. “This isn’t funny, Joel.”

“It ain’t supposed to be.”

You squirmed beneath him as he pulled the knot snug, the rope biting just enough to make the reality of it sink in. It was too tight for a mere training unit.

You weren’t slipping out of that anytime soon.

Your body shifted restlessly under his weight, trying again to find leverage that simply wasn’t there.

Okay.

New strategy.

“Alright,” you muttered quickly, forcing the words out before the tension crawling up your spine could take over completely. “I get it. Message received. I should’ve paid more attention on patrol. That one’s on me.” The rope tugged tighter. “This is still unfair,” you added stubbornly.

Joel’s knee slid upward slightly as he finished securing the knot, pressing into the small of your back with deliberate weight.

“Fair?” he repeated. His voice carried a faint edge of disbelief. “You think the folks waitin’ out there care about your sense of fairness?”

You turned your head against the mat, cheek scraping the rough surface as you tried to look back at him.

Joel didn’t appear the least bit rattled.

His brows were drawn together the way they always were, deep lines etched across his forehead. The familiar salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth set in that same firm line you’d seen a hundred times before.

But there was no anger now.

No smirk either.

Just a calm, steady focus that somehow felt worse.

You weren’t sure what exactly he was determined to do, and something about that thought made your chest tighten.

“No, it’s just…” you started, words faltering as you tried to find something that didn’t sound like outright surrender. “I wasn’t expecting you to be such a -”

The sentence cut off when Joel suddenly shifted.

His weight lifted from your back without warning.

Relief barely had time to register before his hands caught your shoulder and hip, rolling you over in one smooth motion.

You landed flat on your back again.

Joel settled over you almost immediately, kneeling around your legs the way he had earlier - only now your wrists were secured behind you, leaving your arms completely useless.

The position pulled uncomfortably at your shoulders, the rope tightening each time you moved. But you decided very quickly not to complain about that. Comfort clearly wasn’t high on Joel’s list of priorities today.

“- such a committed trainer?” Joel finished dryly.

You glared up at him.

“Such an asshole,” you corrected.

Your body twisted again beneath him, instinctively trying to knock him off balance. Your hips jerked upward, attempting to disrupt his center of gravity.

Joel barely shifted. If anything his crotch pushed into your center just as much to secure you.

“Newsflash, darlin’,” he muttered. “World outside Jackson ain’t exactly known for patience.”

You huffed out a breath, rolling your eyes despite the position.

“Yeah, alright. Point taken.” You shifted your shoulders experimentally against the rope. “So untie me already. Pretty sure the lesson stuck.”

Joel didn’t move.

Didn’t even look like he was considering it.

Instead he adjusted his weight slightly, settling into the kneeling position like someone getting comfortable for a long conversation.

Your stomach sank.

“Doubt it,” he said. The words were calm. Almost casual. “Lesson ain’t even started yet.”

Something flickered in his hand then.

Metal catching the faint light filtering through the barn walls.

And when your eyes dropped to it, the breath caught hard in your throat.

Joel had a knife.

For a moment you just stared at it. Then - unexpectedly - even to yourself, a laugh slipped out. It started as a short breath and turned into something sharper, almost incredulous.

Because this was Joel.

Joel Miller might be a lot of things - grumpy, stubborn, occasionally insufferable - but he wasn’t some deranged lunatic who’d decided to start carving people up during a training session.

The man patched fences for neighbors after long patrols. Helped haul lumber for repairs even when he’d already pulled double shifts. Joel Miller carried himself like someone who’d seen too much of the world to waste energy pretending to be nice, but you had never once seen him be cruel.

Rough, yes.

Unfair? Never.

So this?

This had to be part of the scare tactic.

A prop.

A way to drive the lesson home.

And hell… it was working.

Your laugh lingered a little longer than necessary, the sound edged with nerves you hoped he wouldn’t notice. When something overwhelmed you, that was usually how you dealt with it.

“Alright, alright,” you muttered, rolling your eyes toward him. “You can cut the theatrics now. What exactly are you planning to do with that?” You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the tone casual. “Pretty sure the council won’t be thrilled if I walk back into town with knife wounds from a training exercise.”

You aimed for cool and unbothered. Joel’s eyes flickered briefly over your face. The faint tremor in your voice hadn’t slipped past him.

“Knife ain’t just for stabbin’ people,” he said flatly. “Might need to sign you up for a weapons lesson too while we’re at it.”

Before you could respond, the blade moved.

Not the sharp edge but the flat, dull side. Cold metal brushed lightly across your cheek.

Your head turned instinctively, trying to avoid it, but Joel followed the motion easily - guiding the blade downward along the line of your jaw and throat.

A slow trail of chilled steel.

The tip continued lower, slipping toward the collar of your shirt.

You stilled despite yourself.

The point of the knife tapped lightly against the first button of your flannel, clicking softly against the plastic.

Then the next.

And the next.

Each small contact felt absurdly loud in the quiet barn.

“Don’t see you doin’ much fightin’ right now,” Joel observed calmly. His chin tipped forward slightly, gesturing vaguely toward the position you were stuck in beneath him. “Someone got you pinned like this out there… what exactly’s your plan?”

“I wouldn’t get caught,” you shot back automatically.

Joel’s mouth twitched.

“If an old man can do it half asleep…” he said dryly, tossing your earlier insult right back at you, “I ain’t too confident you’d fare better with a group of raiders.”

Your eyes narrowed.

“If it were raiders,” you countered quickly, “I’d already be exactly where you said I’d end up. Dead somewhere in a ditch.” Your gaze flicked pointedly to the knife. “They’d want my gear. My rations. My weapons. Not my patience.”

Joel’s grin tilted sideways.

Not amused.

Just… knowing.

“You sure about that?” he murmured.

Before you could respond, the tip of the knife slid neatly between one of the lower buttons and its thread.

Your brain barely had time to register what he was doing before he twisted his wrist slightly.

Pop.

The button snapped free.

It shot somewhere over your shoulder, landing out of sight behind you.

“What the - Joel!”

Your head jerked up instinctively, more offended by the destruction of a perfectly good shirt than anything else. Still, something deeper shifted under your ribs.

Because Joel was right. Being captured out there - especially as a woman - wouldn’t end quickly.

Wouldn’t end kindly.

The next button popped.

Adrenaline flooded your bloodstream in a sudden rush and your body bucked beneath him again, instinct overriding reason.

The blade slipped. Not deep. But the point grazed your skin just enough to leave a sharp sting across your stomach.

“Watch it, jerk!” you hissed.

Joel stopped. But not out of concern.

Out of calculation.

Slowly the knife lifted from your half-open shirt and returned upward, the flat of the blade resting once again against the side of your neck.

“If I was one of them,” Joel said quietly, leaning closer, “and I had you stuck like this beneath me…” His voice dropped lower. “Best start pickin’ your words real careful.”

He was close enough now that you could see every line in his face.

Close enough that he had to see the flicker of fear creeping into your eyes.

And he didn’t stop.

Didn’t pull back.

Didn’t soften the pressure of his weight holding you down.

For one alarming second a thought flickered through your head.

He wasn’t ignoring your fear.

He was letting you sit with it.

Maybe even - 

Enjoying the effect.

Your breathing slowed. When you spoke again, your voice came out colder than before. Enough that it caught his attention immediately.

“Yeah?” you murmured. Joel leaned a fraction closer, watching you carefully. “Then listen real close, Joel.”

But instead of the clever insult he was clearly expecting…

You gathered saliva.

And spat.

Right into his face.

Joel jerked back just enough that the dull side of the knife scraped lightly along your skin. The movement was quick - reflex more than intent - and for a second his brows pulled together in something close to surprise.

Then he huffed.

And laughed.

Not the dry little breath of amusement people in Jackson sometimes coaxed out of him. Not the brief exhale that usually passed for humor from Joel Miller.

This was different.

The sound came as a real laugh that rolled out of his chest before he could seem to stop it. It carried something sharp in it too - something edged with challenge that made the skin on the back of your neck prickle.

You realized, distantly, that you could probably count the times you’d heard Joel Miller laugh on one hand.

This one felt… new.

“Alright,” he muttered, still chuckling as he dragged the sleeve of his jacket across his face, wiping away the spit without much ceremony. “Go ahead. Act like a brat.” His dark eyes dropped back to yours. “Let’s see how far that attitude carries you.”

The knife returned to your shirt.

Before you could react, three buttons popped in quick succession.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

The sounds echoed in the quiet barn like small gunshots, fabric pulling apart under the pressure of the blade. Within seconds only the top button still held, the flannel hanging open enough that the cold air slipped easily against your skin.

Joel rested the tip of the knife against that final button, his gaze settling back on you.

“Tell me somethin’, darlin’,” he said, voice quieter now. “When does all that stubbornness finally turn into beggin’?” His mouth twitched faintly. “Be real interestin’ to hear you whimper for once.”

The knife didn’t move.

It waited there, hovering against the thread.

“I’d rather you stab me,” you shot back immediately, forcing the words out before hesitation could betray you. “You’re not getting a single plea out of me.”

It was a lie.

You both knew it.

The tension in your chest was already tightening, nerves and adrenaline twisting together into something that made your breathing shallow.

And yet… something inside you refused to back down.

Part pride.

Part curiosity.

Because a small, reckless voice in the back of your mind wanted to know just how far Joel Miller would actually push this lesson.

Surely not that far. Right?

You gave yourself a second to remember exactly who was sitting on top of you.

Joel Miller.

The same man who had barely glanced at you that one patrol when you’d slipped in the brush and torn your shirt on a branch. The fabric had ripped at exactly the wrong place, leaving your cleavage embarrassingly obvious for the rest of the trek back to Jackson.

Joel had looked away almost immediately.

Barely a second.

Like it hadn’t even registered.

That Joel Miller wasn’t about to take things further just to prove a point.

…Right?

And if he did…

Your stomach tightened unexpectedly.

Would it actually be so terrible?

“We’ll see about that,” Joel muttered.

The knife twisted.

Pop.

The final button gave way.

The front of your shirt fell open completely, the two sides sliding apart under the pressure of the blade as Joel used it to push the fabric aside. The cold metal drifted slowly down the center of your stomach, tracing a lazy line over your skin.

Your belly rose and fell beneath it, each breath a little quicker than the last.

“Not even gonna try bargainin’?” he asked, eyes lifting back to yours.

“What for?” you muttered, a little more breathless than you meant to sound. “Don’t exactly have anything worth trading.”

Joel’s grin tilted darker.

“Oh, I dunno,” he said quietly. “Seems like I’m gettin’ a pretty decent view already of what you gotta offer.”

Something in your stomach flipped unpleasantly - and not entirely with disgust.

“Try me, old man,” you shot back, the insult coming out sharper than intended. A thread of nervous energy slipped into the words despite your effort to sound confident. “Bet you wouldn’t even be able to.”

You held his gaze stubbornly, your own grin tight with defiance.

There was plenty of spite in it. Plenty of tension too. Because you still weren’t completely sure what Joel actually wanted here.

To scare you? Or rather something else entirely…

The jab made him chuckle again, deeper this time. His shoulders shifted slightly as the sound shook through him, his weight pressing more firmly against you for a second.

Then he leaned forward.

The knife disappeared between his teeth, clamped carefully by the handle so both hands were free.

Your stomach dipped as Joel’s fingers hooked into your belt.

Opening it took him almost no effort at all. He worked the buckle loose with the same calm efficiency he seemed to apply to everything, his other hand planted beside your head for balance. The knife still sat between his teeth, the metal glinting faintly when the dim barn light caught it. The grin around it was unmistakable - broad, wolfish, the kind that showed just enough teeth to make your stomach tighten.

Your breath hitched the moment his fingers found the button of your jeans.

That was when the realization finally settled in fully.

He wasn’t bluffing.

“Joel…” The word slipped out before you could stop it. It wasn’t exactly a plea - not yet - but it carried something close. A last attempt to catch his attention before the line you’d been dancing around disappeared completely. His head tilted slightly at the sound, like he was waiting for the rest. Waiting for the begging he had predicted earlier.

“You don’t have to,” you added, quieter now. “I get it.”

The sharp edge of your usual sarcasm had faded from your voice, replaced by something more honest - tension, a flicker of fear… and an uncomfortable thread of anticipation you didn’t quite know what to do with.

Joel’s mouth curved slowly at one corner.

The grin that followed wasn’t kind.

His fingers finished undoing the button, lingering a moment at the metal of the zipper without pulling it down. Instead, the back of his knuckles brushed lightly across your center through the layers of denim and cotton, the casual contact enough to make your body twitch in surprise.

Your hips jerked instinctively, trying to shift away from the touch even though the movement accomplished very little.

Joel adjusted his weight slightly, leaning back just enough to free the knife from his teeth. The blade slipped back into his hand, the flat side drifting lazily across your exposed stomach again.

“Bit late for that, ain’t it?” he muttered.

Before you could respond, he leaned forward again.

The knife drove suddenly downward, the blade burying itself in the mat right beside your head with a dull thunk that made you flinch hard enough for the ropes around your wrists to bite.

Joel’s chuckle rumbled low in response.

“Besides,” he added calmly, shifting his weight again, “I ain’t convinced you actually get it yet, kiddo.” His free hand returned to your jeans. “You’re still thinkin’ I’m gonna stop here. Scare you a little. Let you walk off and hope the lesson stuck.”

His thumb caught the zipper. Slowly he dragged it downward. The sound seemed absurdly loud in the quiet barn.

“All you’ve done so far,” Joel continued, voice steady, “is prove you only understand somethin’ once it’s right in front of you.” The zipper reached the bottom. He clicked his tongue softly. “And I ain’t exactly confronted you with much yet.”

“I - I’m gonna scratch your eyes out!” you snapped.

Joel’s brow lifted faintly.

“Be real curious to watch you try that with your hands tied behind your back,” he drawled. “Truth be told, you oughta be grateful you still got ’em.” His tone remained casual. “Seen what raiders do when they’re worried about people fightin’ back. Fingernails, teeth… anything sharp tends to disappear real quick.”

He paused just long enough to make the words settle. Then shrugged lightly.

“Think I can manage you just fine with your claws intact though.”

His hand slid forward again, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear where the open denim now left the fabric exposed.

Your body reacted before your brain caught up.

Your hips jerked upward, the motion automatic.

Joel noticed immediately.

“Now there’s a little fight,” he murmured, the darkness back in his voice. “Thought that tough brat already ran off and left me with somebody a lot more nervous.”

Instead of answering, you twisted harder beneath him.

Your knees drew upward slightly, boots scraping uselessly against the mat as you tried to shift your weight enough to disrupt his balance. It only gained you a fraction of an inch, but the effort felt necessary all the same.

Beside your face, the knife remained planted firmly in the mat.

A silent reminder.

Too close for comfort.

“When this is over,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna make you pay for it.”

Joel huffed softly at that. “When this is over,” he echoed, “you’d be dead in a ditch somewhere.” He tilted his head slightly, watching your expression. “That’s the theory, anyway.” His hand slipped forward again, the rough pads of his fingers brushing lightly against your hip as if testing the reaction.

“In practice?” he continued. His gaze flicked briefly down toward you, as his fingers slipped under the soft cotton of your panties, sliding slowly through your folds, way too wet already for the situation you were in. A slow grin followed.

“Seems like you’re not exactly hatin’ the lesson as much as you pretend.”

You tried to fight it.

Tried with everything you had left in you to keep the reaction from showing, to stop him from seeing what the smallest touch of his hand was doing. Pride alone demanded it. But when Joel’s fingers slid just a little deeper, gathering the slick wetness there before circling lazily over your clit, control slipped through your grasp all the same.

The sound that escaped you was small.

Barely more than a breath.

But it was there.

A whimper.

Joel froze instantly.

Not pulling away - just stilling, the pressure of his hand remaining exactly where it was. Then he leaned forward, lowering his head until his ear hovered close to your lips.

“What was that?” he murmured.

You clenched your jaw. “What, old man?” you muttered back through your teeth, trying to sound unimpressed even as the tension curled tighter in your stomach. “Can’t hear… anyth -”

Your voice faltered.

Because his fingers started moving again.

Slow circles, each motion stealing another piece of your composure until the bite in your words began dissolving into something softer, something harder to contain.

“…fuck,” you breathed, the sound slipping out before you could swallow it back. Another whimper followed, one you tried to stifle by turning your head sharply aside and pressing your lips together.

Joel huffed quietly. “Oh, I can hear those moans just fine,” he said, voice low and amused.

His fingers shifted again, sliding deeper before nudging forward to your entrance with a careful pressure that made your back tense against the mat.

“Just caught me off guard, that’s all.”

Your hands flexed uselessly behind you, fingernails scraping against the mat as your body reacted without asking permission.

“Didn’t realize you were this desperate for it,” he went on calmly. “Could’ve saved myself the whole training lecture if you’d just said so.”

“Don’t - get too excited,” you forced out. Your face remained locked in a scowl, brows drawn tight with irritation, but every small twitch of Joel’s hand kept betraying you anyway. Joel’s mouth curved faintly.

“Funny,” he muttered. “You look like the one getting excited here.”

Before you could snap back, he pressed two fingers into you, stretching you unexpectedly.

The sound that tore from you echoed far louder than you would’ve liked in the quiet barn, bouncing faintly off the wooden beams overhead. Heat rushed through your skin despite the winter air creeping through the walls, your breath coming quicker as your body arched against the pressure.

Joel let out a low hum.

“Well now,” he murmured. “That’s a helpful reaction. Good girl making it easy for me.”

The words good girl slipped from him almost lazily, like he wasn’t even thinking about them.

But they landed.

Harder than anything else he had said.

Being called a brat had been annoying. Something to push back against.

That?

That slid straight under your skin.

Joel shifted slightly above you, his hips grinding forward just enough that you could feel the effect of the situation for yourself. His hard cock clearly visible - and noticeable - through the denim fabric.

“Gotta admit though,” he added under his breath, “didn’t figure you’d let me get this far.”

Your chest rose and fell unevenly.

“Didn’t exactly have much of a choice,” you shot back.

Joel snorted quietly.

“Would’ve stopped the second I saw real fear in your eyes,” he said, almost casually. “That much I promise.”

His fingers moved again, angling just right, the motion pulling another involuntary arch from your back.

“Didn’t expect quite this much anticipation, though.”

Then he withdrew.

Just like that.

The sudden emptiness left you staring up at the rafters for a moment, trying very hard not to look as disappointed as you suddenly felt.

“Anticipating the moment I get to wipe that smug grin off your face,” you muttered.

“Sure,” Joel said mildly. “All talk so far.”

He shifted his weight again, giving your hips just enough room to move - but not enough to actually escape. Before you could twist away, his hand caught your arm, gripping firmly as he rolled you over once more.

The cold mat pressed against the bare skin of your stomach as you landed face-down again, the rough surface biting lightly against your skin.

“Haven’t seen much proof otherwise,” Joel continued. “Well… close to none…”

You could feel the weight of his gaze moving over you as you squirmed beneath him, ineffective against both his strength and the rope holding your wrists.

Then his hands returned to your jeans.

Before you could brace yourself, he dragged the fabric downward in one swift motion, shoving the denim down to your knees and leaving your legs tangled while your butt was suddenly exposed to the chill air of the barn.

“Look at you…” The words slipped out of Joel almost under his breath, less a taunt and more an observation that had surprised even him. His palm drifted across your exposed backside, the touch unexpectedly light at first - almost thoughtful. The calluses of his hand dragged slowly over your skin, tracing the curve there.

Then his fingers tightened without warning.

They dug sharply into the soft flesh, and the sudden sting ripped a startled cry from your throat before you could stop it.

Joel exhaled a low, amused breath.

“Easy now, darlin’,” he murmured. “You tryin’ to let the whole town know how hard you’re fightin’ back?”

The old barn swallowed his voice and threw it back in faint echoes. Winter air leaked through warped wooden boards, brushing cold against the parts of your skin left bare.

His other hand tugged at the hem of your flannel, pushing the fabric upward just enough to expose the line of your back. His fingers wandered there, following the ridge of your spine like a path. They traveled upward, past the tension between your shoulder blades.

From there, they slid higher still. His hand buried itself in your hair and Joel closed his fist.

Your head jerked back as he pulled, forcing your spine into a sharp arch. The position twisted your face just enough that he could see part of it - your clenched jaw, the stubborn crease between your brows.

“Should’ve gagged you,” he muttered, studying the way your expression flickered between anger and something far less controlled. “That’s what a raider would’ve done. Wouldn’t want you hollerin’ for help.” His grip in your hair tightened slightly as he tilted your head further. “You want that?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “Full experience?”

His knee planted firmly beside your hip, grounding your movements. The other nudged your legs apart a little more, creating space as his free hand drifted back down between your legs.

The moment his touch returned to your wet center, the sound that escaped you was impossible to disguise.

He huffed out a quiet laugh against your ear.

“Well… that settles that.”

His fingers resumed their slow movements, and your body reacted before your pride could catch up. Your words tangled in your throat as sensation swallowed them whole.

Joel felt it instantly as you clenched around his digits.

“Can’t lie,” he said after a moment, voice thick with amusement. “Kinda like hearin’ you make those sounds.”

You tried to respond immediately, some sharp retort ready on instinct - but the rhythm of his hand stole the thought clean out of your head.

It took effort to gather enough focus to speak.

“Funny,” you managed eventually, breath uneven but grin stubbornly tugging at your lips despite the pull in your hair. “You’ve said more in the last five minutes than in all our patrols put together.”

Joel clicked his tongue.

“That’s ’cause you never had anything worth talkin’ about, sweetheart.”

His hand slipped away from you abruptly.

The sudden absence again left a hollow ache you refused to acknowledge.

A moment later, the quiet clink of metal broke the air as his hand moved to his belt.

“That is,” he continued casually, working the buckle loose, “until now.”

You couldn’t see him.

That was the worst part.

The outline you’d caught earlier through the denim of his jeans had been enough to plant the thought firmly in your mind - but without seeing it now, you had no real sense of what waited behind you.

And it was coming.

That much had become unavoidable.

Joel Miller was going to fuck you.

Before closing the distance, Joel leaned forward again. His grip in your hair loosened just enough to guide your head slightly to the side.

His lips brushed near your ear.

The scrape of his beard against your skin sent a small shiver down your spine.

“Wouldn’t mind refreshin’ these lessons now and then,” he murmured. “What d’you think?”

His hips rolled forward slightly against your backside as he spoke and you could feel his rock-hard cock against your skin. The pressure alone made it very clear that whatever came next would be anything but gentle. Or small.

Your reaction betrayed you instantly.

Despite every ounce of pride screaming otherwise, your legs shifted apart a little farther - limited only by the jeans and underwear bunched around your knees. Your hips lifted instinctively, pressing back toward him.

Joel felt it.

The chuckle that rumbled out of him vibrated straight through your body.

“That ain’t an answer, darlin’.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Your lips stayed sealed for a few stubborn seconds longer.

Then the words forced their way out anyway, your head giving a tight nod against his grip.

“Y-yes… Joel.” The admission came out strained, breath catching halfway through. “I… wouldn’t mind that.”

“Mind what now, darlin’?”

You swallowed the last ounce of pride left in your body. “Wouldn’t mind you fucking me.”

You barely had time to register the shift behind you.

One moment there was the pressure of his cock lining up at your entrance, the heat of his body crowding yours, the grip on your wrists keeping you arched and exposed.

The next - 

The breath punched straight out of your lungs.

Joel moved in one hard thrust, leaving no room for hesitation, no careful pause to let you adjust around his girth. This wasn’t patient. This wasn’t gentle.

It was rough, immediate, and entirely on his terms.

The sound that tore from you never had a chance to fully escape. His hand left your hair in the same instant and clamped firmly over your mouth, muffling the cry against his rough palm.

Joel groaned low behind you, the sound thick with the shock of it.

Your breath came hot and frantic through your nose against his skin as you struggled to drag air back into your lungs. That first impact had stolen every bit of oxygen from you.

“Fuck, darlin’…” Joel sounded strained as he leaned forward, pressing himself closer along your back. For a moment his forehead rested against the back of your head while he steadied his breathing and settled into the rhythm he wanted.

Despite the brutal beginning, he slowed.

Not enough to make things easy on you - far from it - but enough that the movements stopped feeling like a single overwhelming blow. There was a rough kind of control in it now, a measured pace that gave your body just enough time to keep up.

You mumbled something against the hand covering your mouth, the words lost in a garbled sound. The strain had tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.

Joel huffed softly.

“Wouldn’t have pegged you for such a good girl,” he muttered near your ear, the words carrying that familiar teasing edge. “All ready for me like this.”

The praise sounded almost mocking paired with the relentless rhythm he kept.

Then, unexpectedly, his lips brushed briefly against the side of your neck - a fleeting kiss that contrasted sharply with the roughness everywhere else.

Before you could process it, he shifted again.

His hand slid away from your mouth, leaving your lips parted as you pulled in a shaky breath. Instead, he grabbed hold of your bound wrists, using them like a handle to pull you upward into a deeper arch. The position tightened everything, forcing your back to curve as his other hand dug firmly into the side of your hip to steady you.

“Let's see how good you take me like this.” You could hear the grin in his voice.

“Will you ever shut the fuck up,” you snarled breathlessly, your voice rough from the air you’d been fighting to catch.

Joel laughed behind you - gravelly and clearly entertained.

“Actin’ tough ain’t gonna do you much good right now,” he replied.

Another sharp thrust stole the rest of your retort, a broken sound slipping from your throat before you could stop it.

“In the end,” he continued casually, “you’re gonna be the one babblin’ nonsense… ’cause the only thing left in that head of yours’ll be me fucking you senseless.”

The blunt boldness of his words hit harder than it should have.

Joel had always been many things - stubborn, gruff, irritatingly calm - but this kind of filthy confidence? That had never once crossed your radar.

And damn it, it worked.

Heat built relentlessly in your core, faster than you wanted to admit. Embarrassingly fast.

Joel noticed once more.

“Look at you,” he muttered, almost amused. “Already cockdrunk.” His tongue clicked softly. “Wouldn’t be much of a lesson if you were enjoyin’ yourself too much, now would it?”

The words sent a spike of panic through you.

You twisted your head, trying to catch sight of his face over your shoulder.

Surely he wasn’t serious.

Joel paused just long enough to lean down near your ear again.

“That is…” he added thoughtfully, “…unless you ask real nice.”

The cruelty in it was obvious.

He wanted it. The attitude stripped away, the stubbornness broken down until you were the one begging for more.

And the worst part?

You weren’t nearly as far from it as you wished.

“Joel…” you swallowed hard, your voice suddenly tight. “Please.” The word slipped out before your pride could catch it.

“Yeah,” he murmured, voice softening just a fraction. “I got you, baby girl.”

Another deep slam made your whole body shudder involuntarily as he bottomed out once more.

“Gonna take real good care of you,” he continued, almost conversationally. “Might turn out you’re useful after all.” There was a faint hint of that raider roleplay creeping back into his tone, the mock threat hanging between the words. “Keepin’ you around’s startin’ to sound better than ditchin’ you out there.”

You let it slide. At that point, resisting the game would have taken more focus than you had left.

The tension building inside you climbed higher, tighter.

“Joel… I’m gonna -”

“There you go, darlin’,” he muttered, his own voice rougher now, the control slipping slightly. “That’s it. Show me how you can come on my cock.”

And when it finally hit, it tore through you hard enough to make the world blur at the edges. For a few seconds you forgot everything - where you were, what you’d been arguing about, even your own name.

Joel’s hand returned to your mouth just in time to muffle the loudest part of it, the sound trapped against his palm.

“Beautiful,” he breathed close to your ear as the aftershocks rippled through you. His grip on your wrists tightened briefly. “Wouldn’t mind seein’ that again.” He shifted slightly behind you. “But this barn ain’t empty forever,” he added, voice still low. “And you already got me so close.”

Before you could even process the implication, wondering if he would really fill you up, he pulled out, leaving you abruptly empty. A moment later hot ropes of his climax landed across your back, your bound hands, and the wrinkled fabric of the flannel pushed up around your waist.

Joel’s grunt came staggered, the sound dragged straight out of his chest as he worked through the last of it. One hand was clearly still wrapped around his length, last droplets dripping down and slow strokes guiding the final waves of his release while the warmth of it still marked your back and hands.

Beneath him, your own body hadn’t quite caught up yet.

The remnants of your orgasm still pulsed through you in fading ripples, muscles clenching instinctively around emptiness now that he’d pulled away. Each aftershock made your breath hitch, your nerves still firing long after the moment itself had passed.

The strength drained out of you all at once.

You sank fully down against the mat beneath you, cheek turned to the side as the cold surface pressed against overheated skin.

“Fuck…” It came out hoarse, barely more than a breath.

Behind you, Joel shifted. You could hear the rustle of denim, the quiet sounds of him putting himself back together, but you didn’t have the energy to turn your head and confirm it. Just lifting your arms felt like more work than you were ready for.

“Yeah,” he muttered after a moment, voice still thick. “That about sums it up.” There was a faint grunt as he adjusted his belt. “Could get used to training sessions like that.”

The comment hit your ears just as your mind began catching up with the rest of you.

Your wit returned the moment he was no longer slamming into you.

“Wouldn’t do your back any favors, old man,” you shot back from where you lay.

The sarcasm came automatically.

There was movement beside you that finally made you crack your eyes open.

You caught it just in time.

Joel leaned forward toward the floor, reaching for the knife still embedded upright in the mat where it had been planted earlier. His fingers closed around the handle and he yanked it free in one smooth, forceful pull.

The metal flashed briefly in the dim barn light.

“Careful there, kiddo,” he said, voice lowering again as the knife traced lightly along the line of your spine.

The cool steel sent a sharp shiver through you.

“Taught you a pretty solid lesson the first time about runnin’ that bratty mouth, didn’t I?”

The blade slid down between your bound wrists.

With a quick, practiced slice, the rope gave way.

The tension disappeared instantly as the fibers snapped apart.

“Don’t mind turnin’ up the heat next time,” Joel continued, cutting the last strands free. “If I get the impression you’re still too stubborn to learn.”

The moment the rope loosened, you moved.

Your arms came forward instinctively, and you twisted beneath him to roll onto your side and then upright, pushing yourself into a seated position, pulling up your jeans cumbersomely while he shifted just enough to allow it. Joel settled back on his heels in front of you, watching as you immediately began rubbing at your wrists. The skin there was red, angry where the rope had bitten in. You circled them slowly, working the stiffness out.

“Maybe,” you said after a moment, lips curling slightly, “you’re just a shitty teacher.”

The smirk that followed was impossible to hide.

Joel’s answering grin was just as quick. 

“Sounds like I wasn’t clear enough then,” he replied. His voice carried a tired edge now, the exertion finally settling in, but it did little to hide the faint spark of satisfaction underneath.

For a moment, he simply looked at you.

His gaze drifted over you again, slow and assessing.

Then he pushed himself upright and, almost casually, extended a hand toward you.

You ignored it.

Instead you scrambled to your feet on your own, tugging at your clothing in a half-hearted attempt to put yourself back together. The flannel hung crooked, your jeans still unbuttoned and loose around your waist, and you weren’t entirely sure what you were supposed to do next.

Joel solved that uncertainty by stepping closer. He closed the small distance easily, his broad frame towering over you.

Before you could react, the cold tip of the knife lifted beneath your chin. It nudged your face upward just enough that you had to meet his eyes.

“Better head home now, darlin’,” he said quietly. “And maybe pray I don’t catch up to you to drill the next lesson into that pretty head of yours.”

Your throat tightened.

You actually gulped.

One hand clutched the ruined flannel closed over your chest while you held his gaze just long enough to let him see that stubborn spark still burning there.

“Yes, sir,” you murmured.

Then you took a step back.

Joel didn’t move.

He simply stood there watching as you pulled your coat on and made your way toward the barn door.

You didn’t run.

Not even walked nearly as fast as you could have.

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After months of eye-fucking and a shit ton of home-baked goods, you finally got the old man in your bedroom. It wasn’t like either of you were playing hard to get, Joel was just stubborn. Refused to give in to the growing ache in his heart—and other places. Usually he’d take whatever goods you made him and shy away back into his house. But today was different. Today, he couldn’t resist that gleam in your eyes when he opened the door.

 He stood with his hands deep in the pockets of his worn work jeans, a telltale reminder of how out of place he was in your bedroom. All girly and untouched, a reflection of you. He’s pulled out of his thoughts when your lips meet his. Soft and delicate against his own—dry and filled of dirt and profanity he wouldn’t dare to get on you. It was a wonder to him why you’d even take another look in his direction.

 Your tongues press firmly together. The poor man hasn’t kissed in so long, he was like a poor virgin just barely grasping the ropes. “Fuckin’ slow down,” he almost pleas. With a sinister giggle, you quietly refuse as you pull him by his old flannel and onto the plush, pink sheets of your bed.

 “I’ve slowed long enough,” You sigh as you kiss down the rugged stubble against his face and neck. He groans and fists at your shirt. His heart raced for many, many reasons. For one, years in construction and zero pussy gets you like a puddle in bed in a snap. And two, he felt wrong and dirty for even accepting the first batch of cookies you made him. He knew what you were getting at, but fuck. He was only a man; a reasonable one at that. Who was gonna turn down a sweet thing like you in tiny shorts with a box of warmed goods?

 “Gon’ give me a heart attack, girl.” He sighs as he watches your smaller hands undo the buttons of his shirt. He writhes beneath you, head turning as if to find some sort of salvation. As if answering his mercy’s call, he spots it. A pink dildo just in the open drawer of your night stand.

 He reaches over and grabs it, leaving you confused sitting atop of him. Your face scrunched as you watch him inspect it. Blushing with embarrassment you mumble, “What? Never seen a girl own a sex toy?” He eyes you before patting your thigh and sitting you on the bed.

 “Got an idea, lay back,” he demands. Confused, but nonetheless willing, you lay back and start to remove your shorts and panties. Joel watches, his eyes blown wide with his lips in a small pout. Old man couldn’t remember the last time a woman had her legs spread for him like this. Taking a finger, he drags it along your slit. You grip the sheets beneath you, whining quietly. “Already so wet.” He licks his fingers and takes the dildo. Slapping it a few times against your cunt, he brings it up to your mouth. “Suck.”

 “You’re kidding right?” You scoff. But the look on his face said he clearly wasn’t. With a defiant whine, you reluctantly loll your tongue out. You lick the tip before taking inch by inch. His breath shakes as he watches your lips wrap around the matching pink silicone.  He thrusts it in and out slowly, watching your spit slick and shine the toy. He pushed it further until it bumped against the back of your throat, biting his lip as your eyes welled in tears. You pull off and wiped the drool from your mouth. “I want you to fuck me.”

 “Oh do you?” He says with a smirk. His vacant hand pulls your thighs apart wider. With your spit slick dildo, he nudges it against your entrance. “Can’t fuck you the way you want me to,” There was a hint of disappointment behind determination. “don’t mean I can’t pleasure you.” With that, he inches the toy into you. Your pussy clenches with every thrust from him. He massages your clit as he starts a pace. Soon, the room filled with moans and slick sounds. “Look at you takin’ it so well.” He groans, watching as your pussy sucked in the dildo.

 Your back arches, the silicone tip hitting just right. “Fuck, Joel..” His jaw clenches at the way his name rolled off your tongue so naturally.

 “C’mon baby,” He urges, his wrist joint starting to sore as it continued its vigorous motions. He refused to slow—even if by a beat. The need to make you come was stronger than any will in his body that begged him to stop. Your breaths shorten and shake, whines pulling from your throat. Watching intently, he continues to hit that sweet, spongy spot within you, his hand soaking from you. With a final, throat-aching cry, you spill over his hand. But even so, he continues to fuck you with the you until your shaking legs calmed.

 “Joel..” You sighed. It takes a moment for him to realize how labored his breaths were. He feels a long lost—yet familiar—ache pooling in his lower abdomen. Looking down, he sees the unmistakable tent in his jeans.

The first thing you notice when your eyes drift open is how bright the light feels when only a sliver of it was seeping through your blinds.

The second was the pounding behind your eyes courtesy of last nights drinks when you thought you had a day off tomorrow.

And the third? The third hit you like a goddamn Mack truck when your tired eyes shift to the clock on your nightstand.

7:32 am.

“Oh — fuck!” You bolt upright in the bed, your head spinning and a nauseous feeling washing over you as you do so. Everything comes rushing back to you now. The phone call, Tammy’s voice — all apologetic and fake as fuck as she told you she had a “family emergency” and couldn’t make it to work for her seven to three shift tomorrow and if you could please do it for her.

You’d said yes without even thinking about it. Because you were drunk, because you were too nice, because you were a fucking idiot.

You were supposed to be opening too.

By the time you practically fell into yesterday’s jeans and shoved your feet into your sneakers, your heart was already slamming against your ribs rapidly. Donald — your boss — was going to kill you. You didn’t bother brushing your hair, just a quick tug into place, didn’t bother doing any makeup or brushing your teeth either, just splashed some cold water on and scrambled down the stairs and out the door with your car keys and a prayer.

The engine roars to life as you pull out of the driveway and onto the road, your eyes flicking between the road and the time on the dashboard like it might magically change and you wouldn’t be thirty minutes late anymore.

And maybe you were pressing down a little too hard on the gas considering how late you were. That was, of course, until the sheriff car behind you came into view, the siren on top of the vehicle flashing rapidly.

Your heart just about drops to your ass.

“No.. no, no, no,” you mumble frantically to yourself slamming your fist down onto the wheel. Of all mornings, of course this had to be the one where you get pulled over. You continue to drive, slowing down a little as if that would make the cop suddenly realise you meant no harm and leave you alone.

But obviously that didn’t work.

“Fuck.” You grit, switching your indicator on and pulling onto the side of the road. You lean across and grab your licence from your handbag, setting it onto your lap and killing the engine.

The sheriffs car pulls in behind you and you watch from the rear-view mirror as a man steps out. You pray that it’s just some younger guy who you’ll be able to flirt away from giving you ticket.

The broad man slams the drivers door shut and saunters over toward you, each step succeeding in intimidating you enough to make your hands shake.

But then he stops at your door and crouches down enough for you to be able to identify his face. Jim Hopper. The chief of Hawkins police station.

Fucking great.

You knew him — everybody did. He was heavily involved in that Byers’ kid’s disappearance two years ago. A local hero — some would say. You remember being in highschool and having him come in and give talks about staying away from drugs and drinking responsibly and he always had this confident sort swagger in the way he presented himself. He came across as entitled and sarcastic and it was incredibly obnoxious yet attractive at the same time.

And now he was at your fucking window.

He knocks on the glass, signalling for you to roll it down. You’re quick to do so, smiling tightly and awkwardly as you do. You’re not going to be able to charm yourself out of this one — or so you thought.

He wears a pair of shaded glasses and he removes them as you pull the window down fully. You clear your throat nervously, taking a deep breath before speaking. “Good morning, sir.”

He doesn’t please you with a greeting, just grunts in response. He sets one hand on his hip, straightening up off of his hunkers. “You any idea of how fast you were goin’ back there, miss?” He drawls, his voice lazy and uninterested.

Your hands fidget with the license in your lap. “Yeah.. sorry about that I just.. I slept it out and I’m really late for work so, I just — I understand theres no excuse for it.”

He hums, licking his lower lip and looking you up and down. And there was just something about the look in his eyes. It was a little predatory — unprofessional for certain. Was he checking you out, or something? You’re suddenly aware of the button you forgot to do on your blouse while scrambling into your clothes this morning and it sends a flush of hot heat to your cheeks.

“Can you produce your license for me?” He asks, sticking two of his fingers out for you to slip the card in between. He takes it from you and takes a quick, bored glance at it, mumbling something to himself.

You swallow and avert your eyes from him, looking down at your feet in shame. But there was something else building in your gut — some sort of knot that you couldn’t understand what was from. Was it nervousness or something else? You think the latter.

He hands the licence back to you, clearing his throat impatiently when you don’t notice he’s finished with it right away. You jump a little at the sound and quickly turn and take it off him, uttering a frazzled sorry as you put it back in your handbag.

There’s a beat of silence for a second. He just looks at you. And it feels like he’s doing it for so long until he finally speaks up. “Do you have any alcohol in your system? You drink last night or this morning?”

Panic washes over you. Fuck. You still had alcohol in your system. You finished your last drink at about two am last night, meaning you shouldn’t be driving until nine am at the earliest.

“I uh..” you stutter, your palms feeling sweaty. “I drank last night so — yes, there is. But I — I just, I really had to get to work and it was.. was just the only thing on my mind.”

Jim nods, his expression staying neutral. “Right, well this is what we’re gonna do. You’re over the speed limit and technically still drunk so I’m gonna have to write you a ticket which will result with a fine. If you aren’t — ”

“Please — please, don’t do that — sir,” You cut him off, not even caring about how fucking desperate your tone sounded or if you were overstepping your place. You turn fully in your seat, making direct eye contact with the man. “I really can’t afford that.” You plead.

He tsks, tilting his head patronisingly. “Well, maybe ya shoulda’ thought about that before you stepped on the gas so damn hard there, sweetie.” And he’s enjoying this, isn’t he? Watching you get so worked up. He looks entertained, that twitch in the corner of his mouth told you so.

“I know, just — please! I’ll do anything, I just can’t afford to pay a fine right now I mean — I work in melvald’s, they aren’t exactly handing out wads of cash.”

Then you see something switch behind his eyes — like your lashing out and begging awakened something within him and you could now practically hear his brain ticking away with ideas. His jaw ticks and he reaches down to the door handle and pulls it open, reaching down to grab you by the bicep to tug you out of the vehicle.

You stumble a little as Hopper pulls you to your feet, and you reach out to stabilise yourself with a hand on his chest. He shoves your car door shut and begins to march you over to the sheriff car, his expression blank but determined.

You stumble along beside him, looking around frantically. “What are you — doing?!” You ask loudly, not quite shouting but with enough strength in your voice to hold your ground.

He stops in front of the back door of the car, taking his hand from your arm and opening the door. He puts his hand on the small of your back, gently guiding you inside of the car until you’re situated on the seat.

You look up at him with wide eyes. “This is bullshit, you don’t have the grounds to arrest me! I haven’t even —“ Jim cuts you off by slamming the door yet talks loud enough for you to hear. “I’m not arresting you.” He replies calmly, rounding the car and opening the other side of the back seat door.

“Just taking you up on your offer.” He explains way too casually, climbing into the seat, rocking the car a little in the process with his weight. He groans as he spreads his legs obnoxiously wide, his eyes turning to you expectantly.

You open your mouth but no words come to you. You don’t understand. He doesn’t want you to… I mean, he couldn’t, right? “I don’t..” you start dumbly, your throat suddenly feeling dry when your eyes drop down to his lap. “I don’t understand what you mean, sheriff.”

He scoffs, looking away from you like it was obvious what he was asking of you. It was condescending and made you feel so goddamn stupid. “You said you’d do anything, right? Well then c’mon, show me what you’ll do to get out of that speedin’ ticket of yours, kid.” He says, reaching down and palming himself through his khaki, uniformed pants. “Oh and — drop the ‘sheriff’ thing and just call me Jim, would ya? I know you know who I am.”

So that was how you ended up between the thighs of chief of Hawkins police — Jim Hopper. You looked up at him nervously, eyes wide as he unbuttoned his pants and manoeuvred his cock and balls from the confines of them — resting his heavy, messily trimmed sack on his waistband.

The sight of him caught you off guard for a second. He was.. thick. Like way thicker than you’d ever seen or dealt with before from a man and it sent a rush of adrenaline through your veins. Knowing that you would have to work hard and grow accustomed to the feeling of your lips stretched wide around his dripping tip made your core tingle and your stomach clench with a mix of nervousness and excitement.

He wasn’t even particularly long — not like the kind of cock you’d read about in erotic novels or see in a Playgirl magazine. He was just girthy and fat — fat enough that the thought of fucking yourself on it made you feel dizzy.

Jim holds his base in front of your face, watching you intently as he smears the beads of pre-jack into your dry lips. “Best put the work in, kiddo. Your little performance is gonna determine whether ya get outta that ticket or not,” He taunts, his other hand reaching down to cup your jaw. He tilts his head to the side, grunting when your tongue slips out to lap at the salty residue. “You always this easy, sugar? Just droppin’ to your knees whenever you need to get outta a tough situation?”

You feels his taunting burn into the pit in your stomach, something about the way he was being so dehumanising towards you made you want to punch him and please him at the same time. You choose the latter and shake your head no. “No, just you,” you say breathily, your lips enveloping his tip, your tongue swirling around those throbbing glands.

He moans under his breath, dropping the back of his head against the headrest. He removes his hand that was resting on your jaw up toward your head, tangling his fingers in the strands near your scalp. He pulls you down onto his cock a little forcefully. Your mouth has no choice other than to part wider, your jaw aching already at the uncomfortable position.

“Fuck, there you go,” Jim praises, using the hand that was in your hair to bob your head up and down, your tongue darting out to glide over his shaft with every intake of his length. You breath in harshly through your nose, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth and threatening to spill. You sputter violently when he guides your mouth down further until his tip is brushing the fleshy bit of tissue in the back of your throat.

Your throat makes a gurgling sound but hopper doesn’t budge. He keeps pushing you down until your nose is pushed against the coarse hair at his root, your nostrils inhaling the sweaty, beefy smell of him. And for a second, you think you might throw up — what with how fucking wide he’s stretching your throat. But with some miracle, your stomach settles and the feeling of him choking you — of his cock prodding that sensitive gag reflex of yours so roughly sends a wave of relaxation toward you.

Maybe it’s because it’s pacifying, or maybe you have somewhat of an oral fixation. But you think you may just really like being used like this. Having your throat fucked as if you mean nothing to him — which, you didn’t really if you think about it. You’re just a desperate, young woman who needed to get out of a sticky situation.

You moan pathetically around him, the vibrations sending shockwaves up to the tip of his cock. And you just now that you notice the way he’s looking at you. Your eyes dart up to his, glossy and willing and he stares back at you with something that could only be described as awe.

It’s like he was testing how far you’d go for him but he didn’t really think you would actually comply to this extent. His hand releases from your hair, allowing you to drag your lips back up his length until you can release his tip with a pop.

He takes your chin between his thumb and pointer, forcing your face to be looking in his direction. His tone drops low — filthy, perverted almost. “Bet those panties are fuckin’ wet, huh? Look like your enjoyin’ yourself, sweetheart. Like you actually like doin’ this for me,” he shakes his head, tutting. “Bet your momma wouldn’t like that. Imagine your parents finding out about their daughter getting her face fucked by the chief of police, hm? What would they think?”

Your heart sinks a little at his degradation but yet your clit still doesn’t fail to pulse beneath its hood. It’s like a weird, slightly controversial kink is being awakened in you. You always prided yourself as someone who would never take any shit from a man, always the politically educated feminist at the Christmas Day dinner defending herself from her narrow minded family members, but there was just something about the way Jim was doing it that was just so captivating.

Like he knew just how to push your buttons without even knowing you. He knew exactly how far to go and when enough was enough and it sort of hypnotised you in a way. “They’d be…” you start, fumbling for the right word, your face feeling hot and sweaty. You felt like a child being chastised by their parent, an answer being demanded from you. “Disgusted. Probably a little ashamed.” You answered honestly, your eyes mimicking ones of a doe looking for validation.

“Mm,” he nods, his thumb swiping over your chin. “But I think you’re gonna do it anyway, am I right? I think you’re gonna be a good girl and suck my cock until I need to cum, huh?” He says mockingly, his thumb prodding at your lips until you opened for him. When you did, he slipped his digit inside, resting it on your sloppy tongue and stroking the muscle up and down. Your eyes roll back at the tickling sensation but your pleasure is quickly taken from you when Jim brings his cock back towards your mouth, tapping his tip onto your lips.

“Yes, sir,” you reply to his previous question, your tongue darting out to kitten lick his mushroomy head while your left hand wrapped around the base to stroke. You twist your hand everytime it gets close to the tip, eliciting a deep, rumbling moan from Hopper. He likes that, you think to yourself.

“Open up — none of that teasing. Where’s that dirty girl who was getting her face fucked just minutes ago? Suck my cock like you mean it, kid.” He orders gruffly, his tone leaving no room for argument. And as you do as he says in taking him back into your mouth, you wonder if you are the only one he’s done this with. Is he really just a bent cop who regularly persuades women to sleep with him, or was there just something special about you?

He reaches out and braces one hand on the front seat behind your body, grasping the head rest tightly when he feels his balls start to grow tight and uncomfortable. Jim’s eyes close momentarily but you keep yours eyes up on his regardless, especially as you take him deeper down your throat until your breathing heavily through your nose that’s brushing his pubic hair once again.

“C’mon, there you go,” Jim mutters under his breath, encouraging you with a tug on your hair with his other hand to start moving up and down. Once you do and he’s satisfied, he leans back fully, allowing himself to melt into the seat behind him. You could feel that he was near his peak — what with the way his hips thrusted up a little to meet the bobs of your head and how his tip started to throb in your mouth. Your hand still moved on his base, jerking him off the best you could with how slippery his dick had become with your saliva.

“Just a dirty fuckin’ girl. Bet you’re enjoying this, aren’t you? Getting all slutty for me to get out of that ticket o’yours.” He degrades, his voice turning a little wobbly with each word passing his lips. Spit dribbles down your chin and onto your chest, ruining the blouse you were supposed to be wearing to work.

You start to rut your hips down and with the way your legs were folded beneath you, it was creating the perfect friction for your pussy against your foot. And with your grinds and the way hopper lifted his hips up and down to match your mouth, the car was rocking rather suspiciously. Suspicious enough that if anyone were to drive by and notice, they would definitely know what was going on inside.

“There you go, grind on yourself for me while i make a mess in that mouth.” Hopper says finally, a hand reaching up to run through his brown, slightly-greying hair as he bites down on his upper lip, trying to contain the sounds fighting to come from his throat. Jim feels the pressure continue to build, almost like he’s at a point of no return, as dramatic as it sounds.

And the combination of your mouth, hand and pretty eyes staring up at him, he can’t hold himself back any longer. His muscles start to spasm, his hips jerking on their own as hot, white cum spills from his tip into your mouth. You pull back until only his head is in your mouth and for a second, the saltiness of his spend makes you gag, but when Jim looks down at you from the noise, his eyes alert and warning despite being an absolute wreck, you pull yourself together. “All of it.” He orders, referring to swallowing every last drop.

You garble something untranslatable and hesitantly open your throat to swallow the stringy substance.

After Jim tells you it’s okay to get up, you both just sit there, either side of each other in the back of the car, silence hanging heavy and awkward in the air. You turn to Hopper nervously, looking at him for a second before opening your mouth to talk. “Uh.. by the way, my name is — ”

“I know what your name is,” hopper cuts in abruptly, sniffing harshly and leaning over to open your door. “Saw it on your license.”

“Maybe next time don’t go so fast on your way to work,” he suggests, nodding his head toward the open door, silently telling you to leave. “Or do..” he adds quietly. “I’m on traffic the rest of the week.”

Well maybe you will then.

NON pressure tags: @likesomeoneinlovee @pillow-princess-69 @corpseonvinyl @livingundeadgirllz @profoundthingnut @krisstyu @a-stranger00 @mytearsricochetm @fuzzyfawnnn @layaflores @himenoakuma @muldermuse @graveyardofemotions @valyrianjoel @written-smitten @mabelmiller

He gets hard just watching you walk to the car. Your heels click down the walkway, hips swaying in that little black dress he picked, and Joel’s watching the way your legs shake every time the toy pulses. He clicked it on the lowest setting just before you stepped outside, and now you’re already flushed, your pussy dripping around it as it buzzes low and steady. He follows a few paces behind you, hands in his pockets, cock already starting to swell in his jeans. He doesn’t look away from your ass. Doesn’t care who sees. “Keep walkin,” he calls softly, voice warm with threat. “That pussy starts drippin down your legs, you’re gonna sit in it all night.”

He turns it up when you’re halfway through the wine list. The second you start to relax, he shifts in his chair, leans forward just enough to press the remote in his pocket. The toy inside you jumps to a higher setting and your whole body jerks. Joel smirks into his menu, eyes flicking up to meet yours like he didn’t just set your cunt on fire under the table. You cross your legs tight, biting your lip. Joel watches the tremble in your thighs, the flush crawling up your chest. His cock twitches under the table, thickening by the second. He doesn't touch it. He just watches. “Wine okay?” he asks softly, tilting his head. “You’re lookin a little shaky, sweetheart.”

He tests your limits while the waiter takes your order. He waits until the poor kid’s standing beside you, notepad in hand, then bumps the toy to setting five. You almost cry. Your cunt pulses around it like it’s alive. The vibration slams right into your clit with every breath you take. You stammer through your order, voice catching, fingers white-knuckled around your napkin. Joel gives his order calm and easy, hands folded on the table, cock thick and throbbing under the fabric of his jeans. He watches you twitch, watches your eyes water, and gives the waiter a polite thank you. When the kid walks off, Joel leans forward and whispers, “You keep clenching like that, baby, you’re gonna cum right on this chair before the appetizers come.”

He won’t let you cum. Not yet. You’re there, right at the edge, mouth open, pussy clenching down hard, juices soaking your panties and dripping onto the seat beneath you. And Joel knows. He sees your breathing change, sees the tears welling up. He clicks the remote and turns it off. You gasp like he hit you. Your whole body jerks with the sudden silence inside your cunt. Joel’s cock is rock hard now, pressing painfully against the zipper of his jeans. He doesn’t even try to adjust himself. Just smiles and takes a sip of wine. “Should’ve asked first,” he says softly. “Now you don’t get to cum till I say so.”

He touches you under the table like it’s nothing. His fingers slide under the hem of your dress, knuckles brushing your inner thigh, then higher, spreading you open. He presses two fingers against the fabric of your soaked panties, groaning when he feels how wet they are. “Fuckin drenched,” he murmurs. “Haven’t even touched you yet and you’re ready to cum on my fingers.” He presses the toy back on while his thumb rubs your clit through the lace. Your whole body jerks and he smirks. “Sit still. You’re gonna make the glasses rattle.” His cock throbs in his pants. He doesn’t care. All he wants is to see you come undone without anyone noticing.

He makes you beg for the next setting. You’re trembling now. Your thighs won’t stop twitching, your breath won’t steady, and your pussy is aching so hard it hurts. “Joel,” you whisper, “please.” He cocks his head. “Please what?” You shake your head, grinding down against the toy. “Please turn it back on.” His eyes darken. “Say what you really want.” You flush deep, lips trembling. “Please, Joel, I wanna cum. I need it. I’ll be quiet, I swear, I’ll do anything—” He clicks the remote to max. Your whole body arches and the vibration hits like a punch. Joel watches your face and lets out a low groan, his cock twitching hard against his zipper. “That’s better,” he growls. “Show me how my toy makes you fall apart.”

He watches you cum with no one noticing. You grip the table edge so hard your knuckles ache. Your whole body’s on fire. The toy is buzzing so hard your clit feels raw. You moan but it’s barely audible, just a high whimper that you bite down and swallow. Joel watches, cock rock hard, pressing into the table edge as he stares at the tears in your eyes and the way your thighs shake. Your orgasm hits like a wave. Your cunt spasms around the toy, walls clenching tight, slick dripping down to your ass and soaking into the chair. Joel smiles and slowly clicks it off. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Quiet like a good girl.”

He turns it back on before you’ve recovered. You’re still twitching, thighs sore, dress damp, pussy swollen and sensitive. Joel doesn’t give you time to breathe. He hits the remote again and the toy comes alive. You whimper, legs snapping shut. Joel grabs your ankle under the table and forces them open again. “You close your legs again, I’m gonna drag you into the fuckin restroom and bend you over the sink.” His cock is throbbing, leaking against his boxers now, the head red and thick, begging to be touched. You’re crying again. Your cunt pulses around the toy like it’s begging too. Joel leans in. “One more. You take it and I’ll fuck you in the truck till you pass out.”

“Did ya daddy say mean things again?” He pinches your chin in his hand, making you look up to him.

You can only nod, unable to speak—because if you did, you were sure the knot in your throat would unravel, and you’d sob, just like you did hours before coming to Joels house.

He softly coos, one arm wrapping around your body as he pulls you into his chest. “Oh, babygirl,” he whispers, resting his chin gently on top of your head. “I’m sorry.” Then he presses a kiss there, steady and long.

His words sink deep into your bones, steadying your heart—not with judgment, but with understanding and care.

“S’okey.” You mumble, burying your face into his flannel shirt further, taking in his musk.

“Hell, I probably stink, don’t I?”

Joel just came back from chopping wood. His hands were rough—calloused, streaked with dirt as usual. Sweat clung to his skin, glistening along his neck and brow, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The scent of him was musky, edged with pine and smoke, but also of course, a hint of sweat lingering behind.

You loved burying your head into his chest.

“Not really,” You mumble. “Can I stay here tonight?” You ask, pulling away from his embrace and locking eyes with him—the question making your cheeks all flushed, a hint of embarrassment behind them.

“We can’t keep doin’ this, bug.” Joel murmurs, finger twirling a strand of your hair. “You come back every single time, like a damn stray cat.”

You roll your eyes at that, but a smile tugs on your lips.

“What? it’s true. I feed her, give her some milk and she always tip toes into my house back and gives me a near damn heart attack.”

You couldn’t quite pinpoint when it all began.

Maybe it started when your dad and Joel, being neighbors, began visiting each other—trading food, clothes, medicine like good old friends. Or maybe it was when you and Joel started talking about everything and nothing, while you found yourself trusting him with things you hadn’t told anyone else. Then again, it might have been that night you tiptoed into his house without asking, desperate for a place to stay after your dad had been cruel to you again.

Even then, he never asked questions. Even then, he knew what you needed in that moment, as if he could read you.

They all say in town: Joel Miller is a rough, stern, stubborn, and gruff man. But you always saw the opposite. You saw the way his fingers shifted patterns on your skin, careful not to let his dry hands scrape you. The way he’d place a cold hand on your forehead and leave it there—steady and quiet—until your migraine melted away. You heard his voice becoming softer when he talked to you.

And then there were the quiet actions. Like replacing the kitchen clock with a quieter one, just because you once told him—without meaning to—that the ticking reminded you of the one in your father’s room: loud and fast.

Or how he never locks the door anymore. Always leaves the porch light on, so you know—you can come in, even if it’s the middle of the night.

You sometimes wished he was your father.

“I tell ya what. You help me with bringing those logs inside and then you can stay here.”

You nod, eagerly.

So, he gestures towards a pair of worn boots by the step—his, clearly too big for you, but the only option he’s got.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Slip into those. Ground’s cold.”

You glance down at the boots, then back up at him, one brow raised.

He sighs, already exasperated. “Why ya always gotta come barefoot anyways? Ya gonna catch a cold.”

You roll your eyes, a little smirk tugging at your lips. “I’m fine.”

And before he can argue, you step past him, bare feet brushing over the cool stone, then the grass, then the packed dirt of his garden path.

Joel watches you go, but then shakes his head, chuckling. He can’t stay mad at you. Never.

The wood’s already stacked neatly near the shed, thick logs piled in a criss-cross pattern. You bend to grab one, arms wrapping around the weight of it, and carry it back towards the house. Joel moves the same, grabbing two—instead of one—and moving them into his house.

You come back for another, but as your foot shifts on the ground, something sharp presses into your sole. You hiss, stumbling slightly, and glance back at him.

He’s already shaking his head.

“Told ya to wear the boots, honey bun.”

You stick your tongue out at him, giggling as you hobble a step, then straighten and scoop up the log anyway. Joel smirks, eyes accidentally lingering on your legs as you walk back towards the house, the hem of your dress swaying with each step.

You’re halfway through stacking the last of the wood before Joel disappears into the hallway. You don’t think much of it—just keep moving, barefoot on the cool floor, arms full of logs that leave little flecks of bark on your dress.

When you place them down, and turn around, he’s back. Holding something.

A pair of thick, worn, brown socks.

He tosses them onto the couch, then goes to close the door to his garden. He jerks his chin towards his couch. “Sit.”

You blink. “What?”

“Sit down, kiddo.” His voice is calm, but firm. “You been runnin’ around barefoot like a damn forest sprite. Floor’s cold. You’re gonna catch somethin’.”

You roll your eyes, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”

Joel gives you a look—that look—the one that says, “I could bend you over and spank you,” and you know better than to argue. With a huff, you drop onto the couch, legs swinging slightly.

He kneels in front of you, knees popping—followed by that quiet dad groan he always makes as he lowers himself. His hand comes up, wraps around your ankle real gentle but firm.

You try to pull back, but he doesn’t let you.

“Quit squirming. Let me take care of you.”

You go still, cheeks flushing.

He slips the first sock over your foot, slow and careful, as if you’re something fragile. His fingers brush your ankle, your calf. He doesn’t look up, his eyebrows are pinched, concentrated

“Can’t have you gettin’ sick. Cold floor like this’ll mess with your stomach. You’ll be cryin’ to me about cramps in a day or two.” He murmurs.

You snort. “You sound like an old man.”

He smirks, sliding the second sock on. “Yeah, well. Old man knows how to keep you warm, bug.”

When he’s done, he pats your knee, then leans in—just a little and presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle. Soft. Barely there.

Your stomach does a small flip. And your toes curl against the rug, like your body’s reacting before your mind can catch up. It’s just a kiss, soft and low on your ankle, but it sends something warm skimming up your spine.

Then he stands up slowly, “There. All better.”

You wiggle your toes in the socks, quiely recovering from the kiss. They’re too big, smell like cedar and laundry soap—just like Joel smells whenever he changes clothes. You don’t say thank you. You don’t have to.

Joel’s already watching you with that quiet, unreadable look—the one that says he’d do it all over again, every day, just to keep you safe.

Then he clears his throat, voice low and lazy.

“Whatcha want to eat, huh, hon?” You glance up. “We can make some pasta,” he adds, already turning towards the kitchen.

You hop off the couch, socks slipping slightly on the floor, and trail after him. “You always make some pasta.”

Joel shrugs, pulling open a cabinet. “It’s easy. And you love my pasta.”

You climb onto the counter, legs swinging, watching him move m—sleeves pushed up, hands steady, the taught rhythm of someone who’s done this a hundred times before. He grabs a pot, fills it with water, sets it on the stove.

“You gonna help or just sit there lookin’ all cute?” he mutters, not looking at you.

You grin. “I’m moral support.”

Joel snorts, tossing you a clove of garlic. “Then start peelin’, bug.”

So, you do. Slowly. While watching him out of the corner of your eye as he moves around the kitchen and hums under his breath. The silence between you isn’t awkward…it’s warm. Familiar.

And when he brushes past you to grab the salt, his hand grazes your knee. He doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t even look at you.

But you feel it. And so does he.

Slowly, the air starts to smell like olive oil and tomatoes. The kitchen, warm now, feels like home—the kind you never had, but Joel made for you.

He glances over his shoulder at you, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re gettin’ more garlic on the floor than in the bowl, bun.”

You shrug, grinning. “You’re the one who made me help.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he stirs the sauce.

Then—suddenly—a knock on his door.

Your heart jumps. The garlic slips from your fingers, forgotten. You freeze, eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.

Joel looks up, brows furrowing. “Relax,” he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel. “It’s probably just Tommy.”

But you’re already sliding off the counter, feet hitting the floor with a soft thud, knowing what it could mean if your father finds you. You duck behind the counter, heart pounding, curling in on yourself like instinct. Joel watches you for a beat, something unreadable flickering across his face.

“Alright,” he mutters, more to himself now. He walks to the door, slow and steady, and opens it just a crack. And the smell hits him first—sharp, sour, unmistakable. Then the voice.

“You’ve seen my girl, Miller?”

Joel’s jaw tightens. Your father stands on the porch, swaying ever so slightly, eyes glassy, breath thick with liquor. His shirt’s half untucked, belt askew, like he got dressed in the dark.

Joel doesn’t blink. “Nah,” he says, voice flat. “I was home all the time.”

Your father squints at him, leans in too close.

“You sure?”

Joel’s eyes narrow. His voice drops, low and dangerous. “You callin’ me a liar?” And hell, he could punch the shit out of him if you weren’t behind the counter.

There’s a beat of silence. Then your father scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and stumbles back down the steps, disappearing into the dusk.

Joel watches him go, jaw clenched, hand still on the doorknob, trying to calm himself down from the anger he is feeing. Only when the sound of retreating footsteps fades does he shut the door, slow and deliberate. The lock clicks into place.

He turns around.

You’re still crouched behind the counter, peeking up with wide, sad eyes. Your hands are clenched in your lap, shoulders drawn tight.

Joel’s face softens instantly, the anger washing away as fast as it came. He crosses the room in a few strides and kneels besides you, his knees popping as he lowers himself down.

“You stayin’ here tonight,” he says gently, “Maybe even tomorrow.”

You don’t answer. You just throw your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest. He catches you so easily, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other wrapping around your waist.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers, pressing his lips to your hair. “Ain’t nothin’ gonna hurt you here. I got you.”

You nod against him, breath shaky, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb under your eye. “It’s alright now. Let’s keep cookin’, yeah? My tummy’s grumblin’”

You manage a small smile. He helps you up, steadying you with a hand on your back, and guides you gently back to the counter.

The garlic’s still there, waiting. The water’s boiling. And Joel—Joel is right beside you, like he always is, and always be.

—

The pasta’s gone cold, but neither of you seem to notice.

You’re sitting across from Joel at his little wooden table, legs tucked under you, fork still in hand.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you with that unreadable look. You can feel it—the way his eyes linger, the way his fingers tap slow against the rim of his glass.

You set your fork down. Swallow hard.

“You know…” you start, voice soft. “I don’t really trust people. Not anymore.”

Joel’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“But I trust you.” You look up to meet his eyes. “With everything.”

He shifts in his seat, like the words hit somewhere deep. He looks away, jaw tight.

“Don’t do that,” he mutters. “Don’t go puttin’ that kind of faith in me. I ain’t no good man, baby.”

You shake your head, voice steady now.

“Well… you’re better than my father.”

That lands like a stone in the room. Joel’s eyes snap back to yours, something raw flickering behind them. He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you, like he’s trying to figure out what to say that won’t break the moment.

Finally, he leans forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “That ain’t sayin’ much.”

You smile, sad and small. “It’s sayin’ enough.”

Joel exhales, long and slow. Then he reaches across the table, rough fingers brushing yours. He doesn’t grab your hand—just lets his rest there, close enough for you to choose.

And you do.

You slide your hand into his, and he closes his fingers around yours tightly. You expect him to let go, to change the subject.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lifts your hand slowly, eyes never leaving yours, and presses a kiss to your knuckles—soft, sweet, delicate, like he’s done it a thousand times in his head but never dared to do it for real.

Your heart warms.

It started with safety. With wishing he was the kind of man who could’ve raised you. But now, when he looks at you like that, and kisses you— you know it’s something else entirely.

And then there is another thing. The one where Joel makes you feel different. Not in your heart but rather…down there. Deep in your belly, where butterflies loom whenever you look at his calloused hands, whenever he stands in front of you—broad shoulders and as a big man who could handle anything.

A giggle slips out before you can stop it.

Joel raises an eyebrow. “What’s funny?”

You shake your head, cheeks warm. “Nothin’. Just… your hands are so big.”

He laughs, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes—something darker, deeper. “Yeah? That a problem?”

You shrug, trying to play it off, but your tummy does a little flip as his thumb brushes over your knuckles again, slow and absentminded.

The room is dim now, the outside fully dark. And if it weren’t for the gentle brushes of his thumb over your knuckles, it would be the silence that let’s you a yawn slip. Stretching your mouth wide before you can stifle it.

Joel catches it instantly.

“Looks like somebody’s tired already?” he says, voice low and teasing.

You blink at him, eyes heavy, lips curved in a sleepy smile. “M’not.”

He chuckles, his hands leaving yours before standing up and offering the same hand. “C’mon, honey bun. Let’s get you tucked in before you fall asleep on my damn table.”

You take his hand without hesitation, letting him guide you down the hall—his thumb beginning to brush over your knuckles again.

He stops in front of the small door and pushes it open with a quiet grunt. The hinges groan slightly, like they haven’t been used in a while. The room beyond is cozy, if a little dusty—a twin bed tucked against the wall, a faded quilt folded neatly at the foot, and a big mirror leaned against the other side of the room.

Joel steps inside first, flicking on the light. Dust motes dance in the glow.

“S’been a while since you were here,” he murmurs, running a hand along the edge of the mirror. His fingers come away gray, and he wipes them on his jeans with a quiet huff. “Should’ve cleaned up better.”

You smile, stepping in behind him. The room is small, but it’s yours. Always has been. He never says it out loud, but he keeps it ready—just in case.

Joel walks over to the bed, pulls the blanket back with a dramatic flourish, and pats the mattress. “Alright, bug. Hop in.”

You climb in, the sheets cool against your skin, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight. Before you can settle, Joel grabs the edge of the blanket and throws it over you, tucking it in tight around your sides.

Then, with a grin, he starts rolling you—gently, playfully—wrapping you up like a burrito, like a cocoon. “There we go,” he mutters, half to himself. “All wrapped up. Ain’t goin’ nowhere now.”

You giggle, squirming a little under the snug weight of the blanket. “Joel!”

He chuckles, crouching beside the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other smoothing your hair back from your face.

“You always do this,” you murmur, eyes soft.

Joel grins. “You always giggle.”

You peek up at him, voice quieter now. “You always kiss my forehead.”

Joel’s expression shifts—something tender flickering behind his eyes. His voice drops, warm and low. “And I always will.”

He watches you for a beat longer, then leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead—slow, gentle, lingering just a second too long. A silence settles between you, thick with something unspoken. Then he clears his throat gently.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he says, softer now. “Still need to work on somethin’. If ya need anythin’, just come down, yeah?”

You nod, cheeks warm, eyes already heavy.

“Okay.”

“Night, honey bun,” he whispers.

And then he stands, walks to the door, and slips out without another word, closing it behind him with a soft click.

—

It hits you just minutes after the door clicks shut. A slow, pulsing ache deep in your belly. A thrum of want, right where your hands have never wandered before.

You shift on the bed, the sheets cool beneath your thighs, the air still holding the warmth of where he was. Your fingers twitch at your sides, unsure. You glance towards the door, half-expecting him to come back. He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

The silence stretches.

You sit up, then lie back down. Pull the blanket up, then push it off again. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s holding something in. Like something wants to release, but it can’t.

Your eyes flick to the mirror across the room. You don’t recognize the girl staring back—flushed cheeks, parted lips, pupils wide like she’s seen something she wasn’t supposed to.

You think of Joel.

His voice…low, steady, rough. The kind that settles in your chest and stays there.

His hands—big, calloused, careful. The way they brushed over your hand, the way he kept you wrapped up around his chest. The way he looked at you—not like you were fragile, but like you were worth protecting.

You close your eyes and breathe him in, even though he’s gone. The scent of him still lingers—soap, cedar, something with wood.

Your hand moves without thinking. Just resting. Just curious.

You’re not sure what you’re doing. But you know what you’re feeling.

You never touched that place. But today, something in your body wants more. Something aching to be touched, something that makes your pulse go faster, your breathing deeper.

So your hand starts moving—slow strokes over your damp panties. Your cheeks burn as the first waves of pleasure stir beneath your skin, soft and startling.

It feels good.

Too good.

A spark flares, sharp and sweet, and for a moment you think—maybe this is it. This is what your body wants. But it fades too fast. Dissolves before it can crest. You’re left with a pulse that won’t settle and a need that won’t quiet.

So you try again.

Stroking up and down. Left and right. Your body responds—hips shifting, breath catching. It’s good. More than good. But it’s not enough. Like trying to drink from a glass that’s just out of reach. You taste it, but you’re still thirsty. Your breath comes out in sharp waves and your hand moves faster, chasing something that’s there something you are not quite sure how to reach.

But you fail. The burning sensation on your cheeks grow, and you’re breathless when you let your hand fall.

You shift again, restless. Your thighs press together, trying to chase that feeling. Your gaze drifts across the bed, landing on the pillow near your hip. You hesitate. Then, slowly, you pull it between your legs, the fabric cool against your skin and the now, more dampened fabric.

You close your eyes, hips rocking against that feeling.

You don’t know what you’re doing—only that it feels good. You sit up, straddling it. The pillow is soft beneath you, and your hips begin to move faster without permission. You bury your face in the sheets, breath catching, heart pounding.

And somewhere in the dark, his name flickers on your tongue.

Joel stands at the kitchen sink, cleaning the dishes from the pasta. He should’ve gone to bed by now, leave all of that and just relax. But something’s keeping him up—a restlessness in his chest he can’t shake. If it’s guilt, or love—he can’t decide.

He thinks of you. The way you looked at him tonight, the way your eyes peaked from behind the counter. The way you wrapped your arms around him like he is the only person that can save you.

He runs a hand down his face, exhales slow. “Get a grip,” he mutters to himself. “She’s just a kid.”

Still, it lingers. He folds the same dish towel twice. Stares out the window like it might give him answers.

And when he finally heads to the hallway, to wash his face, put on his something more comfortable—he hears it.

Upstairs, Joel freezes.

He’s halfway to his bedroom when he hears it—your voice, muffled but clear, calling his name in a tone that makes his stomach twist. It’s not loud, but it’s enough. Enough to make his heart lurch.

He doesn’t think. Just moves.

Two long strides and he’s at your door, pushing it open with a sharp breath.

“Baby?” he calls, voice tight with worry. “You okay—”

Then he sees you.

You’re on your knees, straddling the pillow, frozen mid-motion. Your breath catches. Your eyes go wide. Your mouth is parted, lips swollen, cheeks flushed a deep, blooming pink.

Joel stops dead in his tracks.

His heart drops straight into his boots.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice low and stunned. He turns his head, suddenly aware of what he’s walked into. “Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to barge in like that.”

But then you say it again.

“Joel,” you breathe, voice trembling, needy. “Please.”

He doesn’t know what you’re asking for. Doesn’t know if you know. But the sound of it—the way you say his name like it’s the only word you’ve got left—hits him like a punch to the chest.

His cheeks flush hard. His hands find his hips, like he needs something to hold onto.

“Gosh,” he says, voice rough. “The hell are ya doin’, bug?”

He doesn’t even know why he asks. He sees it. Clear as day. But his brain’s still catching up to his heart, and his heart’s caught somewhere between panic and something he doesn’t dare name.

You sink down on the pillow slowly, heart pounding, shame already rising in your throat. “I… I can’t help myself,” you whisper, voice thin and breathless. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes flick back to you, going soft. “S’alright,” he says, voice low. “I’ll just—”

“Will you help me?”

The words tumble out before you can even stop them.

Joel freezes. Really freezes. His whole body goes still, like the air’s been knocked out of him. He looks at you, disbelief written on his face, and something shifts. His mouth parts, but no sound comes out. He’s searching for words and finding none.

“I don’t know what I’m doing…” you whimper, voice cracking. “I just—I don’t know how to make it stop.”

Joel’s hands fall from his hips. He rubs his forehead, dragging his palm down his face like he’s trying to wake himself up from a dream.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “Nah. Not happening.“

“Please, Joel.”

He shakes his head, backing towards the door. “No, baby. I— I can’t. You can just… do whatever you need. I’ll leave ya alone.”

He turns, hand on the doorknob, already halfway out.

And then you say it.

“It hurts…”

Just two words. Barely a whisper. But they hit him like a bullet.

Joel stops.

His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut. He curses under his breath—not at you, god, never at you—but at himself. At the way his heart twists. At the way his body responds, his cock wakes up in his pants. At the way he wants to help you, even while he knows he shouldn’t.

So, he turns back around.

Steps into the room again, slow and quiet. He walks awkwardly and sits down besides you, careful not to touch.

His eyes land on your flushed skin, sweat on your forehead, the way your hands are gripping the pillow as if it’s going to run away from you. And then the small wet spot you left—on his pillow. His. Joel’s head turns into mush.

“W-what do ya want me to do, bug?” he asks, voice almost broken.

You should be embarrassed. You should be hiding your face, pretending it didn’t happen. You shouldn’t be asking him for help. But you don’t feel shame anymore. Because it’s Joel. And with him, you don’t feel ashamed. You feel safe.

You look at him, eyes glassy, lips parted. “Touch me.”

Joel flinches. His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut. “God, baby… it ain’t right to do things like that when you’re visitin’ someone.”

He rubs his face, voice cracking. “You’re young. You’re hurtin’. And I’m supposed to be takin’ care of you, not—” He stops himself, breath shaky. “Not this.”

You look at him, heart breaking a little, eyes wide and wet, voice barely a whisper. “But you said you would help me with anything.”

Joel freezes. That line hits him like a punch in the ribs. And he swallows hard, jaw clenched, eyes flicking away. “I did,” he murmurs. “I did say that.”

Why did he have to say that, for fuck sake.

He rubs his palms together, like he’s trying to scrub the guilt off of his skin. “Didn’t think it’d be this, bun. Didn’t think you’d be askin’ me for somethin’ like this.”

Silence stretches between you two. His eyes on you. On your skin. On your dress that’s hitched up. And on the small bit of your underwear that he can see. He lets out a shaky breath, seeing the way the fabric is completely soaked. He huffs, soft and low.

“Y’really are needy, aren’t you, huh?” His voice is deep, but soft.

You nod your head silently, shifting your hips to show him the mess you made. He swallows, muttering something under his breath that comes close to “christ.”

“Ain’t gonna touch you,” he says, finally. “But you can listen to my voice, yeah? Let me take care of you like that.”

You blink at him, confused. Lips parted, brows drawn.

Joel sees it immediately—sees the flicker of doubt, the question in your eyes—and his heart damn near cracks. He knows you’re just needy, just desperate to feel something. And he feels like a real bad man for denying you.

“I just…” he starts, then stops. Rubs a hand over his mouth. “I don’t wanna mess this up, bun.”

You tilt your head, still quiet. Still waiting. Like a cat.

“You’re all soft right now, all sweet. All needy.” he rambles, “and I know you trust me. I know you feel safe. And I ain’t gonna take that and twist it.”

He shifts, nervous. His hands twitch like they want to reach for you—but fhey don’t. They can’t.

“So I’m gonna talk you through it. Just my voice. You’ll still feel good. I promise. But this way… you’ll know I ain’t just takin’ advantage.”

You nod, slow, understanding what he is trying to say. You see it in his eyes, guilt written on them. You don’t want to make him feel bad. So, the tension in your shoulders eases, and you trust Joel to make the ache go away.

“Okay,” you whisper. Joel exhales, shaky and repeats: “Okay.”

“Alright then,” he murmurs. “Do what you were doing before I came into the room.”

You hesitate, eyes flicking to his. He nods, just once. “Go on. I’m right here.”

He shifts where he’s sitting, his body turning towards you. Now, his whole attention is on you.

So you move—just like before. Still unsure, still not a damn clue what you’re doing. Your hips begin to buck in that familiar rhythm, slow and searching. A soft whine slips from your lips as the now cool, damp pillow brushes against your aching heat. The sensation is new, startling, and you want to chase it.

You glance at him, eyes wide, waiting.

He sees it—the unsureness in your gaze. The need. And his voice comes low, steady, like a hand on your spine. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Just like that. You’re doin’ good. So damn good.”

You inhale sharply. The words settle over your skin. You hadn’t expected it to feel like this—how his voice alone could make your body respond, how praise could feel like touch. You move again, tentative. His voice follows you, steadying.

“Go slow, baby. No rush. Let yourself feel it.”

Each slow grind of your hips draws a quiet squeak from the mattress, rhythmic and raw. Your breath stutters, a whine escapes your mouth.

He hears it, so his voice dips lower. “You’re so beautiful like this. So sweet. Look at you.”

And Joel feels guilt in his chest rising from the words that leave his mouth. He swallows hard, jaw clenched. His voice is steady, but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from reaching for you.

You glance at him, always. Only at him, awaiting something. Cheeks flushed, lips bitten bloody.

He gives you a nod, eyes warm but careful—not trying to let you see the guilt. “Keep goin’. I’m right here, bun.”

You move faster, shaky, needy, guided by his voice.

The tension starts to build, hips stammering in that rhythm he coaxed from you with nothing but words. You’re right there, teetering, the edge rising up to meet you—

And then it’s gone.

The pressure breaks, not into release, but into absence. A gasp tears from your throat, sharp and helpless. You freeze, blinking hard, chest heaving.

Frustration prickles at your skin.

“I—I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking. “It’s not working.”

Joel’s jaw tightens, he sees the frustration. Sees the way your hips messily buck, your chest rising up and down quickly.

“I wanted to,” you whisper. “I really tried.”

He nods, brushing a hand down his face, like he’s trying to steady himself. Then, quieter: “I know. I saw you.”

Your breath hitches, frustration bubbling up in your chest. You blink fast, trying to swallow it down, but the words slip out before you can stop them.

“I—I never did it.”

Joel stills. His brow furrows. “What?”

You look away, cheeks burning.

“Touched myself I mean,” you whisper. “I tried before, but… I don’t have any privacy in that goddamn house. Someone’s always around. I never—” You shake your head, voice cracking. “I never got there.”

Joel’s face softens. He nods, slow and quiet, like he’s piecing it all together.

“That’s why you’re so worked up, huh?”

You nod, eyes downcast, lips trembling. You feel embarrassed for making such a scene tonight—keeping him up, begging him to touch you. But you don’t know any better. You don’t have anyone else.

He hesitates, then shifts closer, voice low and careful. “Can I… can I try somethin’ else?”

You look up, confused. He swallows hard.

“Still not gonna—” He stops, starts again. “Still not gonna take more than you give me. But maybe if I just…”

He lifts his hands, palms open, hovering over your hips.

“Just here,” he says. “My hands. That’s all. I’ll guide you. Help you move. Nothin’ more.”

You whisper, “please,” and reach for him without hesitation, your fingers curling around his hands like you need him to stay grounded. Joel exhales hard by your reaction, as if the wind’s been knocked out of him. His hands settle on your hips, warm and trembling.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice thick. “You’re going to fuckin’ ruin me, bug.”

You blink up at him, breath catching, feeling the throbbing get worse now that his hands are on you.

He shakes his head, eyes locked on yours. “Always fuckin’ using those eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Always knowin’ you get what you ask for, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, a soft smile tugging at your lips as you squeeze his hands.

“I just look at you.”

Joel huffs a breath, something like a laugh but heavier. “’Course you do, baby.”

His gaze drops, catches on the slow, unconscious roll of your hips on the pillow—like your body’s still chasing the rhythm, even if your mind hasn’t caught up.

He swears under his breath, voice thick.

“C’mon then,” he says, shifting closer, hands squeezing gently on your hips. “Let’s get you there.”

You start moving your hips again, while Joel’s hands guide you, slow and sure now, his voice a low hum in your ear. And every time you falter, his grip reminds you: he’s here. He’s watching. He wants this for you.

And somehow, that makes it easier. Makes it deeper.

The friction is good, but it’s his hands that make you tremble. His hands that coax the heat higher. His hands that tell you it’s safe to fall apart.

“There we go,” he murmurs. “Movin’ so good for me.”

You whimper, chasing that edge again, feeling it coming closer and closer. He leans in, lips brushing over your cheek.

“Sweet little thing,” he breathes, “So fuckin’ good for me.”

Something in you breaks open at that—soft and aching. You can’t help it. You lean forward, forehead pressing to his shoulder, breath hot against his neck.

Joel stills, just for a second. Then his hands tighten firmer on your hips.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “You rest right there, baby. I got you.”

You nod against him, breath trembling. He keeps talking, voice low and steady, every word a touch. You feel more wetness soaking the pillow, more mess forming between your legs. And he notices it.

“Didn’t know you had all that in you, honey bun.”

You bury your face further into his neck, heat rushing to your cheeks. You don’t say anything—can’t. Your body’s trembling, and his words only make it worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.

And he also notices the way your hips go faster, the way your thighs clench, the way your breath hitches.

“You’re shaking, baby. You gonna make another mess for me?”

And it hits you right in the chest. You whimper, barely, and lift your head. Your eyes meet his—wide, glassy, desperate. You nod. Just once. Small. Needy. Like you’re asking permission and giving it all at once.

Joel groans, his hands tightening on your hips.

“You’re doin’ so good. So proud of you. Let it come, bun. Let it take you.”

“J-joel.” You whimper out.

“M’right here. M’right here, baby.” He whispers, gently squeezing your hips and moving you against the pillow faster.

“I think—it’s coming, Joel.” You whimper, breathless.

Joel nods, his hands guide you on the pillow with a steady, fast rhythm, with the right amount of pleasure. You fall back to his neck, releasing a hiccup, hands holding down on the sheets, feeling that coil in your tummy finally about to snap and then—

…It’s gone again.

You freeze, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide with disbelief. Your face stays buried in his neck, hot with frustration, your breath hitching in little gasps.

“It’s gone.” you whisper, voice cracking.

Joel holds you tighter, one hand smoothing slow circles down your back. He doesn’t say anything at first—just breathes with you, steady and warm.

“What am I gonna do with you, bug, huh?” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You lift your head, eyes glassy, almost crying lips parted.

“Please,” you whisper. “Do something. I don’t care what. Just… please.”

Joel’s jaw flexes. He looks at you, then away, scanning the room like he’s searching for an answer. That’s when his eyes land on the mirror. On the long, full-lengthed one, leaning against the wall. He stares at it for a beat, then huffs a breath.

“Your father’s gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You blink, trying to figure out what he is thinking. “No,” you say, voice trembling but sure. “You’re stronger than him.”

Joel lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “You got no idea what you’re sayin’, baby.”

Then, you put your hand on top of his again, squeezing gently. “I do. I trust you.”

Joel’s mind spins with possibilities—how this idea could play out, how it might shift the shape of your relationship, how it could make him look like something he’s not. Like he’s crossing a line. Like he might ruin you. He looks at you for a long moment, searching. Then he nods. Slow. Decisive.

“Alright,” he says, voice almost broken. “Let’s try somethin’ different.”

He stands up, the bed dipping as he rises. Then he turns, reaches a hand out to you.

“Let me show you somethin’.”

You blink up at him, confused, but you take his hand. He pulls you up slowly, the pillow that just sat between your legs, now completely wet and ruined laying there in the corner. He steadies you when your knees wobble, and pulls down your dress again.

Together, you walk across the room, his hand warm around yours. The mirror looms ahead—tall, full-length, catching your reflection in the dim light.

He steps behind you, his hands resting on your hips. You meet his eyes in the mirror.

“You trust me?” he asks.

You nod, almost too quickly. Because you do. You trust him with everything you have.

He leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“Then let me see you, baby.” A shiver runs down your spine. “Can I take your panties off?”

Your breath catches. No one’s ever asked you that before. No one’s ever seen what lies behind the fabric.

And for a second, you freeze. Not because you don’t want it—but because it’s him. Because it’s real. Because this isn’t about being used. It’s about being seen. Because you trust him.

You nod. Slow. Careful. Then whisper, “Okay.”

Joel nods, pushing your dress up and hooking into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate. He kneels as he draws them down your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours in the glass.

His eyes land on your pussy, and he licks his lips without even noticing.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “So god damn pretty.”

You let out a shaky laugh, burying your face in your hands. “Joel…”

“What?” he says, looking up and grinning. “I’m just tellin’ the truth.”

You peek down at him through your fingers, cheeks burning, but your cunt still pulses. Still asking. Still open for him.

“Sit,” he says softly, guiding you down.

You lower yourself onto the floor, the plush rug cool against your thighs. Joel kneels behind you, his presence a wall of heat at your back. Then he shifts, legs sliding out on either side of yours, bracketing you in.

You’re nestled between his thighs now, your back against his chest, his arms resting loosely around your waist.

He leans in, his voice a low murmur against your ear.

“There we go. You okay?”

You nod, breath catching, looking at yourself in the mirror.

Then, with slow hands, he reaches down, his palms gliding over your thighs. He nudges your knees apart, spreading you gently until your legs rest over his.

“Just like that,” he says. “Let me hold you open.”

You glance at the mirror, at your swollen pussy, then to Joel. Your cheeks flush, but you don’t look away. Not this time.

“I don’t want you to just feel it. I want you to watch how your body moves. Watch how it wants this. You ain’t broken, bug. You’re just learnin’.”

You nod, but your voice is small. “I don’t even know where to touch.”

Joel’s hands settle on your thighs, grounding you. He leans in, his voice a low hum in your ear. “Then I’ll show you, baby. Just once. So you know where to start.”

Joel’s hand hovers just above your center, not touching yet.

“Before we get there,” he murmurs, “you gotta learn how to tease yourself. Build it up slow. That’s how you make it last.”

“I know you’re already worked up with two ruined orgasms…” his eyes softly find yours in the mirror. “But I want you to also learn it for other times, yea?”

You nod before you even realize it, breath catching in your throat. You don’t fully understand what he means—not quite yet—but you trust him. You trust that whatever he’s teaching you, it’s not just about your body. It’s about you.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaking. “I’ll try.”

He smiles, just a little. “That’s my bun.”

And when his hands return to your hips, guiding you again, you let go of the fear. You let him lead. You let yourself feel. He brushes his fingers along the inside of your thigh, featherlight. You shiver.

“Start here,” he says. “Skin’s soft. Sensitive. You touch yourself here, you’re tellin’ your body what’s comin’.”

He drags his fingertips up, tracing the curve of your thigh, then across your hip, your lower belly.

“Then here,” he whispers. “Your mound. Just a little pressure. Not too much. You’re not tryin’ to rush it—you’re sayin hello.”

You watch in the mirror, mesmerized by the way his hands move, by the way your body responds.

“You feel that?” he asks, his palm resting just above your center. “That heat?”

You nod, lips parted.

“Good,” he says. “Now we go lower.”

His fingers dip between your folds, still avoiding your clit, just gliding through the slickness there.

Joel’s fingers glide through your slick, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t rush—just lets himself feel you, lets you feel it.

He groans, low and wrecked.

“Goddamn, baby…” he murmurs. “You’re soaked.”

You squirm, cheeks burning, but you don’t look away. Not this time. You watch how his big fingers explore your cunt, how the pleasure feels tingly.

He pulls his fingers back, glistening with your arousal. Then, without a word, he brings them to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, voice rough.

You do. Lips parting, breath trembling. He slides his fingers past them, slow, letting you taste yourself.

His eyes stay locked on yours in the mirror.

“Tastes sweet?” he asks, voice low and wrecked.

You nod, your heart beating faster, your tongue curling around his fingers. His fingers are big, and you need quite a while until you suck your arousal off.

He groans, deep in his chest. “Good.”

Joel watches you suck his fingers, slow and shy, your tongue curling around the taste of yourself. His breath is ragged behind you, chest rising and falling against your back.

Then, he pulls his fingers free again, slick and warm, and you gasp like you’ve lost something.

Suddenly, he pulls away from you and mutters, almost to himself: “Hang on.”

He reaches for his glasses tucked into the collar of his shirt. Slips them on with one hand, slow and deliberate. You catch his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes narrow behind the lenses, the way his jaw tightens.

“There,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Now I can see exactly where she is.”

His hand slides down, slow and deliberate, until his fingers hover just above where you ache. Then, just when you least expect it; his fingers part you gently. The cold air meeting your slick coated cunt.

You shift in front of the mirror, thighs trembling, eyes flicking up to meet his in the glass.

“See this right here?” He taps on the little nub once, featherlight. You jolt. “That’s your clit, baby. That’s where all that ache’s comin’ from.”

“This little thing’s what makes you fall apart. You ever touched it like this before?” he asks.

You shake your head, quietly, your cheeks flushed.

“That’s alright,” he taps on your little clit again. “You feel that? That little twitch? That’s your body beggin’ for more.”

A gasp leaves your mouth when he gives you one rub. You squeeze your eyes shut, your head falling back against his chest. And suddenly, Joel lands a spank on your thigh making you jolt against him and open your eyes wide. “Keep your eyes on the mirror. I want you to see what I see.”

His hand smoothes over the spot. “Easy bug,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to scare ya. Just want you here with me.”

His hand stays steady between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick, slow and reverent. You’re trembling, breath shallow, eyes locked on the mirror like he told you.

Joel’s voice is low, almost hypnotic.

“Slow circles,” he murmurs, brushing over your clit with the lightest touch. “Not too fast. Not too hard.”

You twitch, hips jerking, but he holds you still.

“Just like this,” he says again, rubbing in a lazy rhythm. “Slow circles. That’s how she likes it.”

You whimper, your head falling back again on his shoulder. You feel the pleasure in your tummy slowly building—just from feeling his middle finger on top of your clit. And he doesn’t stop.

“There she is” he whispers. “All swollen and pulsing.”

He keeps rubbing, patient and precise, and your body starts to melt into his.

“She’s real sensitive,” he says. “You rush her, she’ll shut down. But you take your time…”

He presses just a little firmer, and you gasp.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s the spot. You keep her there, she’ll take you all the way.”

His fingers never stop moving, and his voice keeps repeating, grounding you in the rhythm.

“Slow circles. Soft pressure. Let her talk to you.”

Joel’s fingers keep working you in slow, deliberate circles, never rushing, never faltering. The pleasure builds like a storm, tight and trembling in your belly. Your thighs are shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

You can’t hold it in anymore.

“Joel,” you whine, the sound broken, desperate. “I—please—”

He stills. Just like that.

You cry out, hips jerking, chasing the friction he’s stolen. But his hand stays still, warm and maddening between your legs.

He leans in, “Now you continue,” he says. “Let me see if you listened.”

You blink, dazed, your whole body buzzing.

“Wha—?”

He guides your hand down, curling your fingers over your clit, still slick from his touch.

“You’re so close, baby,” he murmurs. “Don’t stop now. Show me you remember.”

Your hand trembles, but you start to move, mimicking the slow circles he taught you. Your breath catches. It’s not the same as his touch—but it’s yours. And it’s working.

Joel watches you in the mirror, his hands resting on your thighs, grounding you.

“That’s it,” he says, voice thick. “Look at you. So fuckin’ pretty like this. Wrecked and tryin’ so hard.”

You whimper again, your body arching, chasing the edge he left you on.

“Keep goin’,” he whispers. “You’re almost there.”

Joels hand circle your thigh and before you even notice it, his other hand is gently rubbing on your nipple over the fabric. You gasp, trying to keep the rhythm of the circles on your clit, but it’s hard to do when you feel his hands and his gaze watching you.

Your breath stutters. Your legs shake. Your vision blurs.

“Joel,” you gasp, voice breaking. “I—I think—”

And then it hits.

Your body arches, a cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashes over you—sharp and deep and endless. You collapse back against him, your whole body trembling, your hand falling away from your center.

Joel catches you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. A hand sneaks down to cup your cunt, pressing his palm on your clit to make you ride out your orgasm. You bury your face in his shoulder, breath ragged, heart pounding.

“There you go,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “That’s it, baby. You did so good.”

You whimper, still shaking, overwhelmed. Your first orgasm.

“Shh,” he soothes, rocking you gently. “I got you. I got you.”

He presses a kiss to your hair, his voice warm. He slowly removes his hand, making sure that the throbbing slowly fades away.

“First one always hits hard,” he says. “You held on so long. Now you let it out, bun. You earned that.”

You’re still trembling, your body boneless and warm, your breath slowing in Joel’s arms. He doesn’t rush you. Just holds you there, your back pressed to his chest, his hands gentle on your thighs.

One of them drifts up to your waist, rubbing slow, soothing circles into your skin. The other stays low, massaging the sore muscles of your inner thigh, where you’d tensed so hard.

You melt into him, your head resting on his shoulder, eyes fluttering closed.

“Did so good,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So proud of you, bug.”

You hum, barely awake, your voice a sleepy whisper. “Thank you.”

Joel smiles, soft and warm.

“’Course, baby,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Ain’t nothin’ I wouldn’t do for you.”

You sigh, content, your fingers curling around his wrist where it rests on your belly.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of your breathing, the weight of his arms, and the quiet hum of something new blooming between you.

And then your voice comes out, soft and sweet, but bold.

“Now I want one from you.”

He stills, breath catching. Joel looks at you in the mirror, searching for your eyes. Then a low chuckle rumbles in his chest.

“That so?” he says, voice rough with restraint. “You really bringin’ me to my limits today, aren’t you, bug?”

You smile into the mirror, still dazed, still glowing. Joel’s always been careful. Too careful. He’s guided you, watched you, whispered praise—but never let himself touch you the way you crave. And you understands why. You know he’s afraid of taking too much, of being too much.

“You said you’d do anything for me,” you whisper, the words soft but sure.

Joel groans, tipping his head back with a quiet curse.

“Y’gonna always play that card now?” he mutters, but there’s no heat in it. Just awe. Just surrender. So, this time—Joel does not argue, he doesn’t let guilt take over him. His fingers find their way down, on your clit and resume their slow, sweet rhythm, just like before. You twitch beneath his touch, still sensitive, still trembling.

“You still sensitive, hm?” he murmurs, watching your body react, watching your eyes flutter in the mirror.

He spreads your pussy lips, creating a v-shape with his fingers. Your cheeks flush again, looking at your aching cunt—your hole clenching.

“So fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, then goes back to rubbing your clit.

But you wonder. What does it feel like? When something is inside, when the pleasure comes from there instead of your clit. And then you wonder: how would his big fingers feel in you, and you can’t help but arch your back, a whine escaping from your throat.

“Inside.” You mumble out before you can stop yourself.

Joel stills, his breath catching. His eyes flick to yours in the mirror, dark and steady.

“You want it inside?” he asks, voice low, reverent.

You nod again, cheeks flushed, body aching.

Joel leans in, lips brushing your ear.

“You sure, baby?” he asks, “It might hurt a little. First time always does.”

Your breath stutters. You hadn’t thought about that. Not really. But you nod anyway. Because it’s him. Because you want to learn. Because you want it to be him who teaches you.

Joel leans in, lips brushing your shoulder.

“I’ll go slow,” he murmurs. “Real slow. You tell me if it’s too much, yeah?”

You nod again, more certain this time. Your body aches, but your heart is louder—beating with trust, with want, with the quiet hope that this will be different. That he will be different.

He nudges his middle finger against your opening, and your breath hitches.

“Relax for me, bun.” He gently coaxes. “I wanna feel you take me in soft.”

You try to breathe, slow and deep, but your body’s tight—nerves coiled, thighs trembling. You’ve never done this before. Never let anyone in.

But Joel’s voice is there, smooth, wrapping around you like a blanket. “That’s it, baby. Just breathe. You’re doin’ so good.”

His finger presses again, gentle but sure, and this time your body yields—just a little. Just enough.

It’s strange at first. Not painful, not really. Just… full. New.

You gasp, eyes fluttering shut, but Joel’s hand is on your hip, grounding you.

“You okay?” he murmurs, still. Waiting.

You nod, breath shaky. “Yeah. Just… it feels weird.”

“First time always does,” he says, voice warm. “But you’re takin’ me so well, bun. So fuckin’ sweet for me.”

And with that, he eases in a little more, slow and careful, watching your face in the mirror the whole time. When his whole finger is in, he hums.

“Tight little thing, aren’t you?” Kissing your temple, he presses in just a little deeper, slow and careful. “You’re makin’ it real hard not to lose my mind here, bun. You feel what you’re doin’ to me?”

Your body jolts when he curls his finger just right, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat before you can stop it. Your thighs twitch, your breath stutters, and your eyes fly open—wide, startled, overwhelmed.

Joel’s watching you in the mirror, gaze dark and steady, lips parted like he felt it too.

“There,” he murmurs, voice thick. “That little spot right there?”

He presses again, slow, and your hips buck before you can stop them.

“That’s your G-spot, bun.” He kisses your temple again, his free hand stroking your side. “Feels good, don’t it?”

You nod, breathless.

Joel’s fingers start working you slow and sweet, in and out while rubbing your clit with his thumb. Your body trembles, your breath catching with every stroke. You’re close again, the pleasure building fast, and you can’t hold it in.

Your body arches into him, still trembling, still so sensitive. The second wave is building fast—hotter, sharper, like your body’s been waiting for this all along.

His voice right at your ear. “That’s it, baby. Let me take care of you.”

You whimper, your hips rolling into his hand, chasing every stroke.

“You’re gonna soak my hand, aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over me.”

You nod, breathless, your fingers digging into his thigh. You can’t even process all the dirty things he is saying into your ear. It feels like you’re floating.

“Please,” you whisper. “Don’t stop.”

His breath catches, and his hand stills for just a second—just long enough to feel the way you clench around him, desperate and trembling.

He murmurs, voice thick. “You beg so fuckin’ sweet.”

He curls his finger again, slow and deep, dragging it right over that spot that makes your thighs shake.

“Oh, bun… you’re right there, huh?” He asks, “So close I can feel it. You’re flutterin’ around me, squeezing me so tight. Cunt’s begging to come.”

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t rush. Just keeps that steady rhythm, dragging his finger over that spot again and again.

“Come on, baby. Let go for me. Wanna feel you make a mess on my hand.”

Your breath catches—then breaks. The pressure snaps, and you fall.

Your whole body seizes, thighs clamping around his wrist, a cry ripping from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. Your cunt pulses against his finger, and wetness gushes out of you.

Joel holds you through it, one hand on your belly, the other still deep inside you, grounding you as you ride it out.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs. “So good. So fuckin’ good. You’re perfect. You hear me?”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks, your body limp and warm. He kisses your temple, his voice soft now, reverent.

“You did so good for me. My sweet girl.”

Slowly, carefully, he begins to ease his finger out. You whimper at the drag, the sudden emptiness making your body clench around nothing.

“Shh, I know,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. “You’re so so good.”

Joel wipes his finger on his jeans as you sag against him, your legs barely holding you up. He catches you without a word, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back into his chest.

Your heart’s still racing, but his hands are warm, his voice soft, and you feel yourself start to come back—slowly, gently, safely.

You’ve never felt this way before. Not just the pleasure, but the after. The way he holds you like you’re something fragile and precious. Like he’s proud of you. Like he’s not going anywhere.

The room slowly begins to fill with silence, the kind that hums with everything unspoken.

And then you shift, just slightly, and feel it—wetness, warm and unexpected, seeping through the fabric of his jeans where you’re sitting in his lap.

You blink, dazed, and glance down. Then up. You turn around.

Joel’s face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes flicking away like he’s been caught.

You tilt your head, lips parting. “Joel…?”

He exhales, low and rough, then meets your gaze.

“Couldn’t help myself, bun,” he murmurs, voice thick with something between awe and apology. “You—watchin’ you like that… callin’ out for me… I just—”

He shakes his head, a crooked smile tugging at his lips.

“You undid me.”

You blink, lips parting, and then something soft blooms in your chest. You reach up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing the stubble there.

“You came… just from me?” you whisper, wonder in your voice.

He nods, eyes searching yours.

“Yeah. Just from you.”

You smile, slow and sweet, your heart fluttering. You lean in, pressing your forehead to his.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you whisper, and it’s not a joke—it’s the truth.

Joel lets out a shaky breath, his arms tightening around you.

“You’re somethin’ else, baby,” he murmurs. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You nuzzle into his neck, your voice barely a breath.

“I like that I can make you feel good too.”

He kisses your temple, ”You do. More than you know.”

Then he murmurs, voice low and a little rough: “C’mon, let’s get us both cleaned up.”

You nod, barely awake, but you don’t move. You just hum and nuzzle into his chest. Joel chuckles softly, his hand smoothing over your waist. Then, after a beat, he adds—almost shyly:

“And then… maybe you’d like to sleep in my bed tonight?”

You blink up at him, eyes soft, lips parting.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’d like that.”

Joel exhales, something easing in his chest. He presses a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady.

“Good,” he murmurs. “’Cause I ain’t gonna let you go back to your father anyways.”

You look up at him, and he’s already watching you, jaw tight, eyes soft.

“You’re safe here,” he says. “With me. Always.”

okey so this is HALF proofread…if you find mistakes or something doesn’t make sense, just ignore or let me know🥹 I feel like i’m using the word “like” too much…

Well anyways, i know this took a hot minute…i’ve been sick. forgive me pookies 😩 If you liked this, i’d love to hear your thoughts! Comments, messages, little keysmashes…i cherish all of it. you make it worth it 🫶🏻

He offered to drive you everywhere. 

Got your iced coffee every morning during his errands. 

Picked up your feminine products on those emergency days.

He even made sure your converse sneakers were polished clean after each fuck-session he had with the prostitute he paid to wear them specifically.

You weren’t supposed to know the last one. Or at least, he doesn’t know that you do. 

And you definitely shouldn’t be watching the tiny camera you set up in his office, hidden between the books and pointed directly at the desk.

It made you feel wrong: waiting and watching, up until the moment he’d pull her close by the hip, his burly arms wrapped around  her waist. He’d tilt his head and bring her into a kiss, one so good that she’d chase him back when he would pull away. You could see that smirk on his face. Lust filled. Teeth biting into his lip before enclosing them back to suck her tongue in. 

He was a good fucking kisser.

Joel always did this for a little, getting heated in his make out session. His hands, veiny and thick, would roam her back, pulling her tight ass into his crotch. She lets out a gasp, granting his tongue permission to snake its way into her mouth. Eyes rolling back, she starts gyrating her hips. His knee spreads hers effortlessly as she submits.

Your clit feels swollen under your panties too. 

His low growls can faintly be heard by the crappy mic. “You gonna wear em for me?”  He pulls away from her lips, only to suck hickies on her neck, down and down until his fingers help pop open her spaghetti strapped shirt. 

“Ugh….Joel…” she moans, falling back as his kisses litter her chest. “Whatever you want.”

He gently nudges her until she sits atop the desk, with his body between her legs that spread even wider to accomodate him. 

“Say ‘Daddy,’” he commands lowly, nipping at her sparkled tit with a voracious suck. 

“Daddy,” she hums, a devilish grin spread across her cheeks.

He caresses her body tightly against his own. Swallowing the air between them, he helps slide her panties off. If the little fabric there could even count as panties.

He descends lower, calloused palms gliding along her thighs until he’s kneeling on the plush carpet. He pulls a box from under his desk—your famous converse sneakers that had gone missing for the last two days…again.

He helps her feet out of the stiletto heels and replaces them with your flat sneakers, tying them securely. 

“That’s much better.” He stands up, fits himself between her again, but with the protruding tent in his jeans now snugly nestled at her heat. “Where were we?”

She bites her lip, hoisting her heels up to the desk, spreading herself to him. 

“Oohhh, look at the pretty pussy babygirl.” He back away to admire it, all sticky and pulsing just for him. what he’s really observing is her naked body, save for the converse seated atop his desk. If he can ignore her face, this would be enough to get him off.

“Ain’t wanna wait another second.” Joel begins unbuckling his belt, allowing his enormous erection spring free. 

Even you gasp each time you see it. The monitor doesn’t even do it justice. You have to rely on her facial expressions, her moans, her rolled eyeballs to get a sense of what that monster might feel like inside you…

Your fingers are starting to cramp just rolling your wet nub. Tossing the sheets, you lie back, pulling your shirt above your breasts with a bite on the rim. With one hand holding your phone, the thumb flicking your nipple, your other busies itself between your open cunt…

“Fuck Daddy, so big.” The woman reaches out for his hard cock, entranced.

Joel’s eyes are focused almost behind her, drool about to slip from his mouth. “You like that baby?” He slaps her hand away at the last second. “Need it now,” he rasps desperately. He slips a condom from his pocket, rolls it over his cock and slaps her folds a few times.

She giggles from all the teasing, and you so badly want to wipe that stupid smirk off her pretty face. 

Joel seems to have lost all patience almost abruptly. He grasps her neck, not squeezing, but firmly centering her to why she’s here:

They both careen down to the way he forces his tip through her entrance, a gravelly moan shared between the two.

Their bodies obscure it, making you curse under your breath. All you have is your  imagination of how it must feel to have him split you open, your three digits trying to slide through to pathetically imitate it. “Daddy,” you whisper.

When he’s fully sheathed inside her, he yanks her close, their chests pressed flesh to flesh. He perches his chin on her shoulder and begins thrusting. All working from the power of his hips, she uses her one hand to steady behind her, the other wrapped around his broad back. 

“Shit-shit baby!” She whines. her clients usually were limp-dicked one-pump shit heads. but when Joel’s name comes up, she almost is tempted to take the bill off just for him. 

“That’s it, baby. Take it—deep, deep in that little cunt, huh bunny?” He hushes against her temple. 

Sweat glues her hot body against his shirt. Her tits bounced against his chest, walls throbbed and sucked him back in with each rut.

And yet he couldn’t be bothered to look her in the eye, too focused on whatever was behind her.

She didn’t notice, voice pitching higher as her orgasm drew near.

“I’m gonna-f—fucking cum—“ she tosses her head back in a last fit, her body practically glowing in ecstasy as a tidal wave of pleasure courses through her. 

“Huh—hah—ha-h—hah!” He grunts, finally pulling out of her snatched heat. Instead of jerking off, however, to both you and the escort’s surprise, he grips his shaft tightly, denying his orgasm.

“You want it on my face, Daddy?”

She prepares to get to the floor, but his arm quickly grasps her upright. 

“No. No’skay. I don’t—ah shit—don’t wanna blow. Not today.”

“A-are you sure?” She asks awkwardly. His rejection stung in a way she’s not used to.

He steadies his heart before taking a deep breath, releasing his erection. “Yeah…yeah babygirl. S’good. You did so good. Wanna edge myself to ya.” He rubs her arms affectionately, bringing her in for another deep kiss. “So, so’good,” he repeats, breathing in her scent.

She pouts as he starts dressing her. “I’d like to make you cum,” she whines, a last ditch effort to get a taste of him.

He only grips her chin, pecks her cheek on either side, and then slings her bag back over.

“Oh ah… don’t forget to leave the shoes.”

She rolls her eyes with a smile but obliges, carefully removing them and setting them in his hands. “Lucky girl.”

“S”just the taste in shoes. ‘At’s all,” he brushes off with a hint of annoyance. He slaps a wad of bills in her hand. 

“You can keep it, if you’d be interested in—“

“I’m not,” he interrupts curtly. Any former lovey dovey tenderness he’d been showing her had completely vanished. She felt cold standing behind his straightened, uncaring, almost alien posture.

He nods towards the door again. “Close the door on ya way out.”

She huffs but takes the money and leaves. 

Joel is left in his office alone again. His back faces you.

“Ya didn’t cum yet,” he says to no one in particular. His fist clenches on the desk, head facing forward towards his computer screen. You try to make out if someone else had come in the room, but he was alone. The man puzzled you. 

I’m talkin’ to you, babygirl,” he says softly in that same tone he holds just for you. “You’re makin’ me ache real bad, here.”

Joel finally turns around.

Your blood runs cold when his eyes meet directly to your camera. Licking his lips, he pulls it out from between the books, inspecting it closely.

You almost toss your phone across the room and jump out the window from fright of being caught. But fear and thrill are driving your adrenaline so much now, your eyes stay glued to him.

He smacks his lips together before pointing the lens towards his desk again… around the side, where his monitor screen is now visible to you— 

A clear, live shot of you sitting in your bed, with your fingers splayed between your folds reflects back on you.

You gasp, pulling yourself upright and searching around the room. No sooner did you drop your phone did you notice his little wink into your camera before he places it face down. Footsteps echo closer up the stairs, in the hall, towards your bedroom—

The door swings open quicker than you expected, causing you to jump back in your bed. Joel Miller stands at your entryway, his broad shape taking up all escapable space. He was panting slightly. Out of breath, though not from his journey up the stairs. The dark look in his eyes as he scanned your flushed body, the two of you breathing heavily with thick silence in the air. 

You gulp. “I want my fucking shoes back,” you bite back finally slicing the tension. 

He tilts his head playfully with a smirk. “These?” He holds up your converse by their canvas ankles. 

“Come an’ get em, then.”

You didn’t want to get out of bed. He knew it: you were naked under the sheets, pussy still beating and glistening with arousal from rubbing yourself off to him fucking another woman. 

“S’wrong baby? Don’t want em anymore?” He teases. “Let Daddy put ‘em on for his princess.”

 Joel quietly latches the door close. The temperature of the room seemingly skyrockets with each step he takes towards your bed. You don’t dare look away, but his sinfully wide pupils drink in your desire beating off of you in waves.

Joel gets to one knee, his eyes trailing down your body as he goes. You don’t resist him when he slips his hands underneath your sheets, his fingertips brushing your legs. He pulls them gently until you’re sitting over the edge, the blanket barely covering your lap, your feet exposed and resting atop his knee.

True to his word, Joel slips the worn-shoe onto your toes before pushing it in place over your heel. He repeats the step with your other foot, the cover falling off completely. He clears his throat at the sight of your bare thighs, your naked cunt just protected by your closed legs. The scent of your freshly moistened cunt makes him dizzy in the best way possible. He’d been dreaming of this, fucking his fist for months as he watched you on his screen. Elated when he found your own perverted scheme. 

“Lean back,” he whispers, his lips ghosting your knee cap. 

You oblige: resting your weight on your elbows, you allow him to sit up to slip your other shoe on. He laces them carefully so they fit snugly but not painful, like he was your Prince Charming. 

The darkness in his pupils were anything but fairytale innocence. 

“What do we say?” He hums. He sits up further until he’s starting to lean over you, his torso making way between your legs, crawling atop with your knees bent and spread wide.

“Th-thank you,” you squeak. Your own ankles begin to wrap around his hips as his callused hands grope your body. 

“You look so pretty like this.” His eyes trail down just as his hands push your shirt up, revealing your supple breasts. Naked underneath him, he lets out a growl. 

His bulge presses painfully in his partially zipped jeans. He hadn’t even finished wiping that woman’s cum off his dick before running up here, let alone buttoning up. It didn’t matter—he knew his cock would be someplace warm and wet again very shortly.

The sudden feeling of your exposed body makes you shiver. “Hold me, daddy,” you whimper with pleading lips. 

Your stepdad nods. His arms hook under your knees, hands going to your grip your ass tightly as he hoists you up. He stands tall, mostly dressed, holding you, naked save for your converse, in the air. Joel’s firm body presses against yours while you cling to him. So broad and masculine, feeling his strong muscles in a way you had never before. He held you so close. Even closer was the press of his cock against your seam.

Joel easily slips it out of his boxers. The bulbous tip slaps your folds, making you moan. 

With slight adjustment, you face Joel just as his head breaches your entrance. Both your lips part, a needy groan escaping your mouth into his. Sinking further down onto his length until you were buried to the hilt. 

“M’so full,” you whine, wanting to bury your face into his chest. 

“Daddy’s gonna make it better,” He nods again before setting a rocking pace. His pushes his hips forward, slapping into yours, using the new leverage of his bent knees to fuck up into you over and over again. You  feel the reassuring grip of his hands never loosen even once as he holds you up high, your knees still bent in half, anchored against his lower back. The balls of your shoes dig into his spine only feel even better, knowing he has you like this , finally, after dreaming and fucking so many women who looked like you for months.

Your pussy was divine. So wet and tight, deliciously sucking his thick member back in with each thrust. He never wanted to leave it, he decided then. He was going to be everything you’d ever need in life. So long as you stayed exactly like this for him. Shoes and all. 

“M’close,” you whine into his shoulder.

Joel could feel it too: your cunt clenching and pulsing on him. He couldn’t contain his excitement: pushing you forward until your back collided on the bedtop again with a bounce. Joel hastily clambers over your body, his steel grip on your thighs forcing your body bend in half. He plunges his cock inside you again, fucking you mating press, your ankles at his ears. His arms planted firmly on either side of your ears. The older man lets out animalistic grunts above you. The wet slapping of your love making—if you can call it that—echoed in just your room along with the creaking of the bed springs with each rut of his hips down into you.

He was so deep, you could practically feel him tickling your spine. His balls suffocated against your ass, each full press topped with a slight roll to remind you just how far inside you he could snugly get comfortable. The keening high pitched sounds you make tell him you’re close. He would know: he’d been watching and listening to them for a while now as you touched your precious princess parts. Joel’s thick digits made sure to circle your engorged sensitive clit clockwise until you were screaming in ecstasy, back arched and quivering all over as you came on his fat cock. He made sure you got your full orgasm before pulling out, pumping himself over your gorgeous body.

“Show me how badly you want Daddy’s cum,” he pants. 

You grip your ankles high in the air with your converse facing the ceiling and spread your legs. Your glistening wrecked, throbbing pussy open wide for his view.

Joel stares, transfixed, fisting his dick faster than a spinning turbine before letting out a painted groan. He lets out a fat load, shooting all over your belly and tits until it dribbled over your clit and folds. His knees felt weak, brain foggy while coming down from his extraordinary high. Blinking, he sighed, eyes filled with adoration as the sight of you still there, covered in your step dad’s cum, grinning in pleasure.

He wondered if he should steal more of your clothes to get you like this in his bed next time.

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