Home Of My Freak

A shy smile tugs at his mouth as he ducks his head a little toward the sink, suddenly finding the plate in his hands very interesting.

“..Well, you cooked for me..” He says softly.

“Mhmm~ ♪ ” You nod, peeking over to smile at his profile.

“So.. I’m doing the dishes for you.” Another kiss is pressed against his cheek at his words.

“You’re sweet.” His ears are hot now, he never really got used to your affection. Every time feels like the first time. “Aren’t you? Aren’t you my sweet angel?” You tickle under his arms and the laugh that leaves him is bright and completely involuntary, shoulders jumping toward his ears as he clamps his arms tightly against his sides.

“Stop it!” The words come out between laughs, Michael twisting away just enough to escape your hands before inevitably ending up right back where he started, wrapped up in you.

You settle against his back again with a satisfied little hum, arms around his waist. After a second, you lean forward and bite his shoulder through the sweater

“Hey.” The protest is immediate, though there’s no real conviction behind it.

You smile against the fabric. “Hmm?” You tighten your arms around his waist, your cheek brushing his shoulder as he reaches for another plate.

“..Besides, I like doin’ things for my lady.”

“Oh, yeah? Your lady?” You repeat with a grin.

Michael hums and one of your hands slips beneath the hem of his sweater, acrylics finding warm skin as you scratch lightly across his stomach, feeling him suck in a small breath. Your hands were always cold when you were here.

You smile against his shoulder and a shy grin pulls at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

“Mm.. I like that, baby.” You say, hand still running along his soft skin.

“Well, you are..” He’s drying a cup with a rag

“I’m what?”

Michael shrugs one shoulder. “My lady.”

He’s halfway through drying his hands when you hook two fingers into the collar of his sweater and tug him towards you as you lean back against the kitchen island, still smiling at him.

He stumbles a half step closer, blinking down at you.

“I like when you claim me like that, daddy.” You chew on your bottom lip, running a hand down the side of his face before caressing his chin.

Michael’s entire face changes: his eyes squeeze shut and a noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh escapes him.

“Don’t.. call me that dirty stuff..” The words come out awkward, almost scandalized.

“What’s the matter?” You tilt your head, running your hands down his chest. “Big man..”

Here’s the thing about Michael.

Michael.. likes taking care of you, loves it even. That itself isn’t particularly groundbreaking—anyone who spends five minutes around him could figure that out. He likes carrying things when your hands are full. He likes opening doors. He likes hearing you call for him from another room because you need help with something. He likes being useful to you in a way that feels embarrassingly earnest. Somewhere along the way, usefulness and affection became tangled together until he stopped being able to tell where one ended and the other began.

And it isn’t as though the idea appeared out of nowhere. Michael grew up around men born in a certain generation, and men always seemed to have very strong opinions about how other men were supposed to act. Most of it came from his father and brothers. The latter didn’t have malicious intent. It was just the endless background noise of older brothers who found his softness endearing, but amusing. Michael was too nice. Too polite. Too easy. Michael let girls get away with murder. Michael needed to be tougher. More assertive. Less shy. The comments were usually followed by laughter and a head lock, but that didn’t stop them from sticking somewhere in the back of his mind.

So as he got older, the idea lingered. Not as some conscious mission to reinvent himself, but as a quiet curiosity about what adulthood was supposed to look like. What being a boyfriend was supposed to look like. Sometimes he found himself reaching for a version of masculinity that seemed to come naturally to other men. More decisive, confident and more certain of itself. And lately, with you, he’d been.. experimenting with it in harmless little ways. A hand at your back guiding you through a crowd. Taking charge of small decisions. Calling you my lady when the affection got ahead of his self consciousness.

The thing was, all of that felt very manageable when it lived inside his own head. But then.. you looked up at him, smiling, and said something, something “I like when you claim me like that, daddy.” And suddenly the entire arrangement collapsed.

Because of what it meant.

Because in one sentence you’d revealed that you had noticed. You’d noticed him trying. Noticed the possessive little note hidden inside my lady. Noticed the confidence he’d been attempting to grow into. Worse, you seemed to genuinely like it.

That was the part he wasn’t prepared for.

Michael could imagine himself being more assertive. He could imagine himself being the sort of man who knew exactly what he was doing. Those fantasies were safe because they belonged entirely to him. They required nothing. Risked nothing. But now you were looking at him like you believed it a little. Like you had taken that tentative confidence at face value and decided to encourage it.

And for one dizzying second, Michael finds himself trapped between two versions of himself. The first is the man he’s been trying to become: calm, confident, capable of handling the way you’re looking at him without blinking. The second is the boy currently standing in his kitchen with burning ears and a racing heart because the second you treated him like that man, he realized he might be in over his head.

The worst part is that he likes it. He likes the approval in your voice, likes being seen as someone strong enough to take care of you..

So now he’s forced into the humiliating position of trying to act like Mister Big Shot over here while every instinct in his body is screaming. Trying to keep his shoulders squared and his expression composed while his pulse is hammering in his throat. Trying to look like he belongs in the role you’ve handed him when, in reality, he is discovering that being treated like a confident man is significantly more intimidating than pretending to be one.

Which is why he couldn’t possibly say no to you when you were whispering so sweetly in his ear that you want something he’s never done before.

Because now this was an opportunity to admit he had no idea what he was doing, and another opportunity to pretend he did.

Michael’s penis, unfortunately, found the second option extremely tempting.

So he nods a little too quickly. “..Okay.” The answer leaves his mouth before his courage has a chance to catch up with it.

You take his hand, fingers sliding into his as you look up at him with heart eyes. Your bottom lip is tucked between your pearly teeth, “C’mon..” You say softly.

“I—” He starts, then stops immediately because he doesn’t actually know what he was going to argue against.

You’re already walking and the kitchen light falls away behind you as you guide him out, past the quiet hallway.

By the time you reach the stairs, he asks a stupid question. “Where are we going?” He asks.

You look back at him over your shoulder and smile. “Upstairs, silly..”

You guide him up the stairs, each step making your thick thighs flex under those clingy little shorts. The fabric over your ass is this close to splitting—seams straining as your supple flesh jiggles with every ascent, cheeks spilling from under the bottom.

Thar soft layer of padding of your tummy peeks out where your baby doll tee rides up just an inch or two. Every curve is exaggerated now, tits heavy and full beneath the flimsy top that clings for dear life. From here he can see the little “ℳ ” you got tatted right below the dimples on your lower back.

It wasn’t planned, but seeing it right there on you.so casually displayed while you climb those stairs..? It ignites something in him and pride swells hot under his ribs. That little letter isn’t just ink, it’s ownership stamped delicately into soft skin and the best part is.. she doesn’t hide it. She’s proud of it.

His confidence flickers to life like a match struck, so sudden and bright. Maybe.. maybe he really can do this?

This is his lady.

His.

Aaand for all the confidence he had, it’s gone when he has you up in his room. The air thickens as he takes in the sight of you sprawled across the bed—bare, save for the cotton fabric clinging to your hips.

You’re propped up on your elbows, eyes locking onto his with intent—dark and fathomless, pupils blown wide enough to swallow him whole. He feels like you’re not just looking at him but you’re devouring him, leaving no space for him to doubt or retreat between where you lie and where he stands frozen at edge of mattress. Every curve is exposed now, full breasts rising slowly with your breaths, thighs pressed together but already parting slightly—an invitation without words needed.

And then he sees it.

The wedgie on full display, panties in losing the battle.

Your fat folds devour the fabric, sucking it inward like a hungry mouth. The delicate material stretches taut across your plushness, struggling to contain what’s beneath: a soft pussy spilling over and around. Heavy inner thighs press tight together without thinking, sandwiching the wet spot into an even more pronounced bulge against thin cotton as you try to silence the heartbeat of your clit.

It looks obscene—how much your body is consuming the thin garment. The crotch seam rides deep between you; not just damp but soaked through with evidence of how badly you want this moment to unfold.

The air reeks of musk now, a raw, feminine hunger so potent it makes his throat dry. Your eyes never leave him though, not even when your hips lift slightly off the bed like an offering when his slender fingers hook into the waistband and pulls them down your thighs.

“Can I—” He stops himself. “‘M gonna eat it..” His voice is barely above a whisper. You tilt your head at him and give him a knowing smile that makes his hands shake with adrenaline. For the first time ever, he’s told you what he’s going to do versus asking you.

And u don’t even need to speak, the slow roll of your hips in answer says everything. A silent hurry.

Michael is so fucking hard that he doesn’t know if stalling with hurt or help him at this point. His entire body is thrumming, cock straining painfully against his boxer briefs, the fabric digging in just enough to border on torture. He doesn’t want to cum too fast.. he’s had issues with that in the past but tonight is different.

Tonight he’s fucking you from behind and he’s so nervous.

He remembers your hands guiding his head between your thighs months ago, teaching him exactly where and how to press his tongue against your pussy before sinking his fingers into you properly. The lesson flashes behind his eyes as he licks upward in one long stripe, tasting salt sweet arousal smeared across your lips.

Michael moans against you when you part those folds just enough for him at first, warm breath ghosting over slick skin while fingertips dig into soft flesh.

Oh, fuck.. he looks up at you with those wide, Bambi eyes—long lashes fluttering every time he drags his tongue through your folds. The contrast is maddening, that sweet faced devotion on a man who’s currently feasting on you like it's his last meal.

His cheeks are flushed hot; spit and arousal smearing across his chin as he licks deeper. Every little noise he makes, whimpers or muffled groans, vibrates against your clit in the most delicious way.

You love this: how helplessly hard he is while worshipping at your altar with nothing but kittenish stares and clumsy devotion. It makes something primal curl in your stomach when those lash fringed eyes lock onto yours just to see if you’re watching him because your approval still means everything to him.

“Oh, my gosh, baby..” You whine, reaching down to cup his chin as you roll your hips onto his face. “Makin’ me feel so good..”

The sudden shift hits him suddenly because one second he’s buried between your thighs, the next you’re gently guiding him up by his chin. Your lips crash into hus, still wet and swollen from eating you—tasting of sweetness as you kiss him deep. The moment breaks when your words register:

“But I wanna cum on that cock.”

A shudder wracks through him. That cock? The one currently aching so badly it’s embarrassing? The one straining against fabric like a prisoner begging for release? Oh. That cock.

The moment fractures whatever composure he was trying to keep.

He thought that there would be time. A period of anticipation, where he could mentally prepare himself. But you move with lethal grace, flipping onto your hands and knees in one fluid motion dismissing all pretense.

Your spine curves into a perfect arc; an offering carved from flesh. The sheer weight of what you present to him is overwhelming—the swell of the hip leading to the fat of your ass. Your hand slides beneath yourself, fingers parting the swollen folds and opening a sacred text meant only for him alone.

A sharp inhale betrays him and his body reacts before reason can intervene, already leaking against fabric. Your cheek presses into the mattress—squished, almost childlike in how you’re smiling. Lips caught between your teeth, a single dimple popping on one side as you watches him over your shoulder with half lidded amusement.

Michael thinks you could be posing for some sinful Renaissance painting right now.. all plump lips bitten to hold back laughter, eyes dark with mischief while presenting yourself like an unholy altar just for him.

His fingers tremble as they hook into the waistband of his underwear, peeling them down with a shyness that’s almost endearing. He’s exposed now, dick standing up on its own as every nervous breath id visible in the way his chest rises.

Goodness, you’re just.. there’s so.. much—all warm flesh and soft curves where he can barely see past.

For a second, he just stares—overwhelmed by you, eyes drinking in the swell of your ass beneath him, those parted lips glistening, it short circuits coherent thought. He cups one cheek with his palm before lining himself up with your slit, tentative pressure as he nudges forward.

A gasp escapes you both when heat finally meets heat and suddenly there’s no turning back now.

The first inch sinks in and his entire body jerks..

His cock pulses violently inside you, twitching with every shallow breath, every micro movement of your walls clenching around him. It’s not smooth, it’s frantic like his dick has a mind of its own and is begging to thrust deeper even as the rest of him trembles from sensory overload.

A broken sound escapes his throat, somewhere between a whimper and a groan as he bottoms out slowly, each new millimeter met with another involuntary spasm from that overstimulated length.

He isn’t thinking about anything else right now, just the white hot intensity: how tight, how warm, how perfectly you take him.

This position..

Standing behind you, hands gripping your hips—he feels it, He feels power of this angle. The way his cock disappears into you with every shallow thrust, how your body yields beneath him like clay under a sculptor’s palm.

It makes him feel filthy, a man using what he wants. It coils hot in his gut—the part of him that likes knowing he could pin you down harder if either of them wanted it rougher. It’s dirty.

Every thrust punches a wet sound through the room—no hiding how deeply he bottoms out, how thoroughly he’s using you for this moment.

It makes him feel like a caveman, sweat dripping down his temple, teeth bared in focus so he doesn’t cum so soon. The slap of skin on skin drowns out rational thought; all that's left is the slick heat squeezing around him and her ass jiggling obscenely with every snap of his pelvis.

You start fucking him back, the shit leaving your mouth is lethal. The shift is instant—rolling your hips back to impale yourself deeper on him. There’s gentleness now just raw, grinding friction as you ride his cock like it’s yours. Each backward thrust drives him impossibly further into that sweet spot inside you, the one that makes your toes curl and eyes roll back. The slap of skin echoes louder this way, more obscene.

“Fuck, daddy..” You grit through your teeth.

...You know what you’re doing.

The second that word leaves your lips again, his world stops.

His eyes slam shut, body going rigid as every muscle locks: biceps trembling where they grip your hips, thighs burning with tension. The sheer power of that word unravels him in ways he’s never.. anticipated.

Because this? This isn’t some kink for him—it’s a fucking revelation. A man who’s spent his life being called weak, too soft, a boy, too nice.. but now.. now you’re branding him something else entirely with just one filthy syllable.

He can feel it: that thick cock pulsing inside you like a live wire when you ride back onto it, your pussy taking what belongs to him. His breath comes in ragged bursts; jaw clenched so tight it aches. A broken groan rips from his throat as pleasure coils violently low in his stomach, too fast to stop now.

His hands grip to your waist not guiding anymore, just clinging because he cannot physically pretend to have this under control. “Oh—don’t stop! (Name), baby.. please, don’t stop! Don’t, don’t stop!”

“Michael.. You feel ’s good stuffing me full of that fuckin’ dick..” The words slither down his spine, his gaze falls to the “ℳ ” on your lower back.

Unfortunately, that’s a trigger he didn’t know he had until now.

“Oh—no, no, no.. no, no..” His balls tighten instantly; a coil snapping without warning, just pure reflex taking over as pleasure crests violently. A choked gasp escapes him before he can stop it; hips jerking erratically as the first hot pulse surges inside you.. and then another, and another.

The realization hits him a second too late. His hips jerk backward hard as the last few hot stripes of cum paint your lower back where they drip down toward the curve of your ass.

A ragged whine tears from his throat as he watches it happen—helpless to stop himself. The sight is obscene: pearly ropes sliding between the swell of you while his own spend starts leaking out from where he was buried moments ago.

It’s mortifying and exactly what he didn’t want to happen.

You giggle, looking back at him. “What happened, my love?”

“I.. I didn’t mean to.” Oh, he’s embarrassed.

So embarrassed that he couldn’t look you in the eye until the next morning.