desi girl

Dick was panting, his cock was twitching inside you, his lips stamping sloppy kisses into the curve of your neck while he thrusted hard, fast, messy, into you.

“Fuck, honey,” He panted, tips of his messy hair clinging to his forehead, “such a pretty— pretty fuckin’ pussy, huh? Takin’ me so well.” He’d been more talkative lately during sex. Since the idea of proposing stuck in his head, even more so now that he’d finally done it. “C’mon, Mrs Grayson, come for me. Please?” His thumb flicked at your clit, drawing gasps from you — “dick!” — all while he couldn’t stop his moans, headboard slamming into the wall. “You’re so close, honey, hm?”

It was times like these where the rest of the world stopped existing. Where everything else faded to grey, as erotic as the moment was, he was still kissing the apples of your cheeks and babbling on about how much you meant to him. His pretty eyelashes tickled your temple, his lips grazed your cheekbone, his prayers blessed your lips—

Buzz.

He perked up from your face. His hips stilled. His head snapped to his phone on your bedside table.

Buzz. There it was again, his phone lighting up with Bruce’s name on the notification. He could just ignore that. Fuck. But what if it was important? What if Bruce needed him? What would be the consequences of him ignoring it? As much as he loved having sex with you, he’d rather Batman not show up at his window when he was balls deep in you. So he conceded, his head hung, huffing. “Is that Bruce?” You asked, expectant. Of course it was Bruce.

“Yeah.” He muttered, groaning. “Sorry— sorry, baby, I have to get this.” He — so painstakingly — pulled out, dick still hard and screaming at him as he got up from the bed. At least you got the view of his abs and ass when he grabbed his phone. Sure enough, it was Bruce, calling him for backup in a last-minute drug ring bust. “B’s asking me to back him up on a drug bust.”

“That’s pretty important.” You mused, propping yourself on your elbows to brush a kiss to his lips. “Go. Kick some ass.” He’d rather grab some ass. Your ass specifically, but somehow Bruce was the world’s greatest cockblock, so he had to go.

“Yeah, I will.” That soothed his frustration a little, and he pecked your lips to savour your taste a little longer. Then again. His smile was brighter than the lamp in the corner, dimple creasing his cheek. “And, when I’m back, I’ll pick this back up.” He paused, scanning the length of your body, draped like a Greek statue under the sheets, he almost forgot Bruce’s text entirely. Jesus fuck, you were ethereal. His breath stuttered, eyebrows raising, jaw slacking, head tilting to the right. You could’ve sworn he moaned just by looking at you. “I mean—”

You smacked his chest. “Go.” You shoved him off you, laughing, to which his mock-hurt glance didn’t breeze by you. Even so, he grabbed his compression shorts and underwear, slipping them on.

“You know, Hal was telling me something funny. A week before I proposed.” He snorted lightly. A chastity curse? Surely getting engaged meant more sex than ever, right?

You twisted to face him better as he shimmied into the Kevlar. “And what’s that?”

“Just that—” He shoved one leg into his suit, “getting engaged puts some, like, chastity curse. That’s stupid, right?” It wasn’t already happening, right?

You also snickered, drinking from the water bottle he kept beside the bed. “Yeah, that’s— that sounds like a him problem, if he and Carol can’t get it up.”

“Yeah… yeah. Sounds right.” He bounded back in for one more peck before he went. His nose nuzzled yours, swiping your chin with his thumb. His lashes tickled your cheek. His chuckle buzzed on your lips. “I’ll make this quick.”

You raised an eyebrow. “No, take your time, I’m not risking my husband’s safety.”

He got giddy, grinning, lifting your leg so he could press an open-mouthed kiss to your ankle. “You better call me that when I’m fucking you later.”

“Only if you come back safe.” Oh, yeah, he was coming back safe. He fixed his domino mask on, kissing your forehead with a mumbled ‘bye’ before leaping out your bedroom window.

That was the last time he saw you naked.

Your plaid was half-unbuttoned.

All so Dick could shove his hand under your top and pull down your bra, all in favour of sucking on your tits while he sat you on the counter. The shirt half-hanging off your shoulders, half-untucked, bra cups pushing under your tits from where Dick had messily pulled them down, your legs hitched around his waist. You’d clocked from early in the dating stage that he had an oral fixation. Licking sauce off his fingers when he cooked, clicking his tongue when his mouth sat idle, sucking on your tits and clit like it owed him rent. This was a regular occurrence.

Your hands were buried in his hair, keeping there as he gave your nipples the same love he gave your pussy. Greedy, sloppy, moaning, flicking at the tit not in his mouth with a wet thumb, pads of his fingers groping. It was this shit that made foreplay equal to sex. But you had to go in ten minutes.

You didn’t know what they had planned, but Donna, Kori and Steph had arranged your first of three bachelorette parties. They couldn’t agree on one idea, so they planned three separate parties, plus arranged your dress fitting, cake tasting, decor viewing, etc., all in the span of one month. And it’d been a week since he last fucked you— well, half-fucked, because when he came back from the raid, you were asleep and he was too tired, so he knocked out.

“These pretty fuckin’ tits, huh?” He spoke against the softness, kissing at the swell, his own hands acting as your long-forgotten bra. “Gotta give your pussy the same treatment, don’t I?” But that’s when you pulled his head away from your chest. Oh, no. “Don’t tell me.”

“They’re coming any minute.” You cringed, but kissed his cheek to placate him as you tugged your bra back up. “I promise, I promise you’ll be able to eat me out later.”

He pouted. “Can’t do that, honey, Wally, Alfred, Bruce and Jason are takin’ me to my tux fitting.”

“Tomorrow, then.” You pecked his lips this time, buttoning your shirt. You had no clue what type of bachelorette party involved wearing your oldest plaid and pair of jeans. “I swear, we’ll get our time.”

He hummed, nodding. No, no, this wasn’t a stupid chastity curse, this was your schedules being busy. That had happened before. He could go without eating your pussy, he wouldn’t have withdrawal symptoms. It wasn’t like his balls were already cerulean, that— that would be immature. So immature—

He was having withdrawal symptoms. How could he go without eating your pussy? It was his favourite meal, what the— what the fuck—

His eyelids were weighted. His suit lay sweaty on the couch. He’d taken a shower, he’d washed the grime off his body.

His lips still found your skin, kissing up your neck. Open mouthed, insistent, wanting. Basically let’s fuck, honey in invisible love stamps on your skin. You could feel bandaged knuckles brushing down the length of your arm. Down your wrist, his warm, slender digits twining with yours, just as he shifted his focus to love your neck.

“Mm.” He hummed, your toothbrush swiping across your teeth pausing. Another kiss to your pulse. “Missed you.” He breathed, guiding your hand in his to the waistband of your loose-fitting shorts. Only stopping when you gave the hm for him to stop. Stop?

Yeah. He could do that.

He drew his hand back, peering at your face. “Tired?” He asked. You had been out to taste more cakes and start your dress-choosing. So, in true him fashion, he pressed a tender kiss to your lips instead.

“A little.” You murmured against his lips, pinching his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “Thanks for your consideration.”

“Psh, that’s—” He dramatically waved a hand, “— that’s no biggie. I’m not a monster.” He took the toothpaste and smeared it over his own brush, running it under the tap. “What’s the agenda tomorrow?”

“You have the second of your day-long bachelor parties.” You side-glanced to him as he brushed his canines. “You sure Roy hasn’t hired any strippers?” It was a cautious thought, since most bachelor parties involved strippers. At leased televised ones did.

He just snorted, kissing your hand with foamy lips from the toothpaste. It left a white mark on you. “If Roy hired strippers, I’m putting ‘im in the Hudson. Or the Potomac. Whichever’s closer.” His hard fucking boner was pressed into your thigh. Not because of the thought of strippers in general, just cause the mention of strippers instantly took him to the night of your engagement. You’d given him a striptease, nothing big— it totally didn’t make him almost come in his best trousers.

“That’s my Dickie.” You gently tapped his ass, then grabbed his hand. “C’mon, come to bed with me.”

He waggled his eyebrows jokingly, but followed after spitting and rinsing his mouth. Sex could wait.

It’s been one month since his cock was last in your pussy. Nothing was cutting it. Jacking off in the shower wasn’t helping anything, any time he’d try to start something, you’d have some wedding planning thing that he’d left to you so you’d have your perfect wedding— why did he leave the planning to you when you asked? He just made it so he couldn’t make you feel good, but even him volunteering to be at everything but the bachelorette and dress-choosing did fuck all. He was officially in a sex deficit, just like Hal had warned him.

Was it pathetic to want to go down on his fiancée that badly? No, surely not. It wasn’t totally normal, of you were a normal guy, normal men should go through shit when they haven’t pleased their lady. That’s how it should be, at least in Richard John Grayson’s world.

You were curled up on the sofa, head in his lap, How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days serving as background music. The scene where Kate Hudson showed up in a yellow dress and you could practically see Matthew McConaughey’s heart beat out of his chest. Your favourite scene and you were too asleep to see it.

His thumb stil swept over the crown of your head to help you sleep. You always smacked his hand when he scratched— something about spending a lot of time on your hair. He always tuned out to admire your frown, confused, pretty smile and how your voice sounded out his name.

He really was pathetic. But never apologetic for it.

Eventually, he had to get you to bed, otherwise you’d wake up with sore muscles from sleeping funny. He turned off the TV, lifted your head with one hand, rising from the sofa with a soft grunt. He slid his feet into his fluffy slippers with #1 Fucker on them (Jason got them as a gag gift) — and hoisted you into a princess carry, cradling your head to his chest.

It was pitch black, no problem, he knew the floor plan of the apartment off by heart and blindfolded. How many steps it was from the couch to the bedroom door. How many steps from the bedroom door to the mattress. How many steps he’d have to walk to get you a midnight snack.

He had to lay you down on the bed without waking you up, he should’ve known that’d fail. Your arms winding around his neck and sleepy hum triggered the chain reaction of his ears heating up and turning scarlet.

Your hand smacked his cheek in an attempt to find your face. He recoiled. “Honey—”

“Sorry,” You mumbled, soothing the blow with the backs of your knuckles. You were caressing his forehead; your eyes weren’t even opened, “wanted to make sure it was you.”

“What would you do if it wasn’t?” That was a little concerning.

“Scream. Kick. Pepper spray.”

“You don’t have pepper—” You pulled pepper spray out of your waistband, he plucked it out of your hand. “— that could go off while you’re sleeping—” You landed on the bed with a small ‘oomph’, tugging him on top of you. “Sweetheart, we should— mmf.” His head landed right on your chest, his eyes closed. On your tits. Yeah, he could stay here. Your hand carded into his hair, which felt nice. Really nice. He might wake up tomorrow with a raging boner. Oh, no.

But he was too starved for your hands, he couldn’t really stop himself from hugging your waist and mouthing at the soft swell soothingly. To him, or to you, he didn’t know.

Your hand was still there the next morning. What was new, though, was his hard-on poking into your shin. He predicted it, didn’t make it any less obvious that he was this desperate for you after a month of waiting.

“Hon?” He said softly, but you didn’t stir.

Well, your pussy was right there. Still, he didn’t want to do anything without your permission. So he pushed himself up, stroked your cheek with his knuckles till your lashes fluttered and you murmured a sleepy “what?”.

“Can I—”

“Yeah.” He instantly got to it. Reaching down, his thumb found your clit over his boxers, rubbing his thumb over your clit. Your soft moan went straight to his aching dick, which he ground into the bed as he kissed up your soft thighs. Over the creases in your skin, the lightning bolts imprinted on your skin. Mouth hovering over his boxers.

Your phone started ringing. Fuck.

Your head popped up. “Shit.”

“Really?” He huffed, his head dropping to the bed. “How many times have we been interrupted?”

“I’m so sorry, I—” You grabbed your phone, which was blowing up with messages from Steph about how you’d miss your third (fourth? Fifth?) cake tasting if you didn’t get your ass out the door. Your head thudded back.

“You have to go?”

“Mhm.”

“I’ll…” He gestured to his crotch. “I’ll sort this out myself. Go, have your fun.” He smiled, pecking your lips. “I’ll get out some clothes for you, sweetheart.” He shuffled off the bed and to your closet.

He was done. Not with the engagement, fuck no, he was just done with the dry spell. The fucking dry spell and that this stupid schedule was governing when and where he got to show you how much he loved you.

So he made a plan. He had the Emporio Armani perfume that you loved. He’d sprayed himself with it. He wore those Calvin Klein sweatpants that he was gifted from a modelling stint he did for them, you loved the way they looked on him. Calvin Klein boxers to complete the set. No shirt, so you could see the promise ring from a year into you dating resting just between the slope of his collarbone. He’d even bought some body glow oil that was clearly meant for women, but it was desperate times.

Now he knew how women felt when getting ready for their husbands. Or boyfriends. Or situationships. He was inclusive, ok?

He’d essentially become sex on legs, wearing everything that’d turn you on in hopes that you’d drop your girls’ night out for a couples’ night in (if you catch his drift). Time could only tell. Or your sex drive could.

He caught an audible moan before it could escape when he saw you getting ready. You hadn’t put on your clothes yet, just a dressing gown with a hint of cotton and lace peeking from behind the silk of it. Hair freshly dried, swiping your favourite lipstick over the pout of your lips.

He couldn’t wait to get that all over his mouth.

“Hey,” He grinned, strolling in, hands finding your hips as soon as he was in proximity. Swiping his thumbs over the dips, lowering his head so his lips pressed to your creamy skin. “You look fuckin’ gorgeous.” He hummed, sucking your skin between your teeth until it turned an angry red. You gasped, clapping a hand over it.

“Dick, I— I’m about to leave.” You stammered, swiping a thumb over the red bruise. “Now I have to use more concealer—” You paused. What was that smell? You breathed in. Shit. “You’re wearing…” He was wearing the Armani perfume. The fucking Armani perfume that you smelled on him once and spent the rest of the day riding him till he was too pussydrunk to speak.

“Yep.” He popped the ‘p’, now you wished he’d pop your cherry, licking over a spot on the hinge of your jaw that made you shudder. The tip of his tongue tracing the shell of your ear. “Cancel your plans, honey.” He whispered in your ear.

You almost faltered. “Dick, I would, but Kori, Babs, Donna, the girls’ night, it’s in thirty minutes.”

“Just text them. Cancel. Say you’re ill, or you’ve got food poisoning.”

“They’ll break down my door with broth and ginger.”

“You’ve got chlamydia.”

“Steph and Donna both know you get regular checkups and that you’d never touch me with your eight-inch pole if you had chlamydia.” Rude, he was like ten inches.

He almost pulled out his hair. Instead, he stared at you in the mirror. “Tell me. Do you know how long it’s been since we’ve had sex?”

You blinked. “Is that relevant to…” Your resolve almost faltered when you saw the sheen of his skin and how his sweats framed those goddamn thighs. Jesus. “… whatever this is?” Your voice turned breathless, but you fixed it with a sharp cough.

“Very.”

“Fine, um, a week.”

“Freezing. It’s been a month.”

“What?!”

He scoffed, guffawed, even. That’s a word he didn’t know he even had in his repertoire. Guffawed. “You didn’t know? You’re telling me you haven’t felt the absence of any sexual intimacy for a whole month?” Maybe he wasn’t good enough at sex for you to also have withdrawal symptoms. Maybe it was just him that was hopelessly addicted to your heavenly pussy.

“We’ve been doing so much, I kind of forgot sex existed.” You replied, fully turning to face him. “Now that I say that, it sounds worse.”

“Because it is worse.”

“So… Hal was right.”

“Looks like.” He cocked his head. “But I don’t think Hal is the healthiest thing to, you know, talk about right now.”

You nodded, muttering a soft “yeah”. A few familiar tingles stirring up heat in your gut, burning a trail down to your achingly empty cunt. You took him in again. Your thighs clenched.

The last thing you remember was hitting the send button on a text cancelling your girls’ night and silencing your phone. By the time your phone clattered to your dressing table and knocked over your closed concealer, his lips consumed yours.

The first sloppy drag of his lips on yours was raw, charged— and he was pressing you down onto the bed, tongue licking over your lips, encouraging your lips to fall open so he could suck on your tongue, pulling a moan from deep down your throat. You couldn’t compute his lips blazing a trail down your neck, leaving his saliva-soaked prints all over your skin. His tongue swirled and licked your tit into his mouth, sucking hard.

Your back arched straight off the bed, a broken moan tearing from your throat as two fingers slid over your sternum, down your stomach, over the curve of it, circling your clit with the tip of his finger before pressing with his thumb. That, him moaning into your tits as he switched to the other and the lit nerve endings from his thumb flicking at your severely neglected clit, two fingers sliding in and out quickly to test how wet you actually were.

You couldn’t tell what you were saying. Choked, soft gasps and cries of how good he was doing, his hands flying up to grasp your hips.

Flipping you over. Your cheek pressed into the pillows, his tongue licking a hot stripe up your soaking cunt. The sound you let out was obscene. Though it was mixed with his.

“Fuck, this gorgeous pussy missed me, huh?” He panted between slobbering licks, messy, uncoordinated, almost as if he’d been starved for a month. “I missed you too,” He muttered before he started licking again.

You had a sneaking feeling he was talking to your pussy like she was a person.

Maybe you’d go on Reddit to ask if this was normal.

Your eyes rolled back into your head when he propped you up on your knees, grabbed your ass and spread you, fucking his tongue into your cunt with concerning vigor. “O—Oh,” You gasped, fingers curling into the sheets.

Your knees were pressed to your chest in a way that was almost uncomfortable, but your white pillows were darkened by a pool of doll as his tongue slid in and out of your dripping pussy. He came up to speak, “Touch yourself, sweets, yeah?” He ordered softly, dipping back down so he could thrust his tongue back into you.

Your hand slid under your body to find your clit, rolling it under your fingers just like he did, pressure stacking in your stomach from the overstimulation. Soon enough, you were coming and he drank it all up, save for small pools that stained your bedsheets. You were about to push yourself up when his gentle hand on your back kept you pressed down, undoing the drawstring of his sweatpants and shoved those and his boxers down just enough for his painfully hard cock to make itself known.

You let out an embarrassing whine. “Dick, please—”

“I got you, hon, shh,” He whispered, shifting you closer so your ass was nestled against his length. He lined himself up, pushing his tip inside you— fuck. Fuck. Shit. You were tight, really tight, or that you were clamping down on him due to the intrusion that hadn’t happened for one whole month. He stroked your back, kissing it as he eased himself further in until his tip kissed your cervix.

His head dropped to rest against the dip in your back, gasping like he was a fucking virgin. “Baby, you—” A strangled sound forced through his lips, “so tight, n’ warm, you fuckin’ angel—” He couldn’t help but move, thrusting into you, holding your ass tightly, eyes shut, working off pure muscle memory. Groping your tits with one hand, slipping his hand from your hips to your stomach, feeling the bulge of his cock inside you.

He was clearing your schedule first chance he got.

“Missed you so fuckin’ much, sweetheart,” He was babbling out everything that was on his mind, “missed this fucking pussy, missed you, been thinking about you every day — haah, s’tight —”

His tip was bullying your cervix, your eyes were burning the back of your head, mumbling “s’good”, “just like that” and “missed you” into the plush, goose feather pillows. You were close, embarrassingly close, he knew by the pitch up of your voice and how your walls fluttered around his pulsing cock.

A guttural groan ripped from his chest— shit, he came. He actually came that quick.

To sweeten the wound, however, he could hear your close-shriek of his name as you came, gushing around his dick, sending tingles up his body. He pulled out, still hard, turning you over wile heavy breaths puffed from his lungs. “You ok?” He asked, sweeping his thumb over your forehead with a loving smile.

“Great.” You nodded, smiling, also breathless while wiping your saliva from your messy, coated, smeared-red lips. Your eyes dropped to his dick. “Wanna take care of that?”

He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.” He leaned down to kiss you, his nose bumping clumsily against yours. He was still recovering. “If you’re up to it.”

“Richard John Grayson.” His heart almost went cold. “We haven’t had sex for a month. We’re not stopping for hours.”

Oh. Oh.

Who's this? And did he know he was making your panties wet?

"Bitch." The guy beside you — Mark, or something boring like that — grunted as he walked off.

"This bitch made you call her mommy." You clapped back, eyes still on the fine man across the room. His lips were rosy, you just knew this man ate pussy.

Your heels thunked on the carpet as you strutted over. "Have we met before?" You asked, drawing his attention away from the book. "Could've sworn I've seen you from somewhere." Yeah, the line was overused. That was the point.

"Uh, no, we haven't." Jason replied awkwardly, even more so as your palms rested on the table. He got a full view of you. Your skin had the glow of body oil, your gloss put a magnifying glass to your lips, crisp eyeliner, sunglasses perched on your head — who the fuck wore those to be indoors — chain dangling from your neck. Following the metal led to a clear view of your chest hidden by the lace of a bra peeking over a leopard print cami. You looked like you'd walked out of a Y2K magazine, like all the girls who’d shoved their tits in his face. He wasn’t dealing with that again. "Can I... help you with something?" He had pretty eyes. Where does a man get off, having those eyes?

You pointed to the book about American history beside him. “Can you pass me that?” Of all the god-awful flirting tactics that usually worked, it didn’t this time. He just muttered “sure” and passed you the book, going back to Jane Eyre.

What the fuck? How thick was his skull?

You walked out with frustration bubbling under heated skin. That was the first time a man didn’t stutter at the sight of you. He’d just acted like a book was more interesting than your lips. Fuck him for being that sexy and playing hard to get.

You’d missed his flush when his eyes fixed on your thighs as you exited.

Your stupid Carerra Cabriolet had broken down on the side of the road, when it was fucking boiling out. At least you’d chosen another tank today, it made things a little easier for you when you had your tools out, bent under the bonnet of the car, trying to figure out the problem.

The roar of a bike almost deafened you, until it stopped right beside you. Your eyes locked on faded Levis, biker boots, but those arms were unmistakeable. The tip of your tongue traced the outline of your canine, lips stretching the longer you recognised that build, those god-gifted hands that were tracing the pages of a book just a few days ago.

Would you look at that. The library hottie.

He lifted his helmet off, ruffling his flattened hair so it’d stick up. The black fell in front of mossy green eyes, which took you in. You were the same girl from the library, the one who he accidentally checked out when you walked away. The sun kissed your thighs from its perch in the sky, his gaze trailed up, up, tracing, memorising the black lace of panties peeking above the waistband of your shorts like they did again with your tank top. You seemed to be a fan of that. Your chest rose and fell with every laboured breath. He caught the tongue tracing your canine. Maybe he shouldn’t have stopped.

“Car trouble?” He asked, hooking his helmet on the handlebars of his bike. “That’s some great luck, in this heat.” His eyes followed a bead of sweat trailing down your neck. His tongue ached— fuck, why was it doing that?

“I sure am lucky.” You replied, velvet voice making something in his fingers twitch. And somewhere else that he wouldn’t mention right now. “D’you know your way around cars? I could use some help here.”

He should say no. He should say he didn’t know shit then drive off in his bike, but he wasn’t a liar and he wasn’t gonna strand you out here in high heats. So, yeah, he took his swelteringly hot jacket off — fashion over comfort if he wasn’t Red Hood — slinging it over your car’s trunk. “Yeah. Yeah, I can help.” He was so going to regret this.

Your eyes were still on him. The black highlighting your eyes only making warmth creep up his spine and making its way to his ears, but you didn’t budge. You just stared. His hands hovered by either sides of your waist, eyes tracing the curves, the rolls of your stomach as you bent a little towards him. A soft “fuck” was at the tip of his tongue.

His hands gripped your waist, moving you gently— shit, the callouses on his hands. They were rough on your skin; you weren’t afraid to somehow into that. Maybe all the men who overuse hand cream sensitised you to the guys who actually used their hands. “Sorry, can I just…”

He was keeping talking to a minimum. It made you smile, especially as his black tank brushed your back and his fingers pressed into the skin where your tank rode up. “Sorry.” He mumbled again, looking under the bonnet. His eyes caught the spark plug. “Here.” He gestured to your spark plug. “You’ve got a worn spark plug. Got a spare?”

“Yeah, I do.” You bent down, you felt his eyes slide over your ass, greedy, and down your legs, stopping at your high-heeled boots. Ripping his eyes away from you as you stood up, crisp wing striking again. He didn’t miss the glint in your irises when he took the plug from you, manicured nails scraping his fingers. His soft muttered “thanks” punctuated the replacement of the spark plug, and without another word, he backed off to his bike. Hoping to get away before his brain betrayed him.

“Can I get your number?” Your voice stopped him in his tracks. He tried not to look at your lips, your moving jaw as you chewed on spearmint gum that burned the back of his throat. “In case this kinda thing happens again. I could use a guy who’s good with his hands.” You really would use him.

“I, um, ok.” He swallowed, putting out his hand for your phone. You gave it to him, the freakishly soft pads of your fingers caressing his knuckles this time. He was fucked. But he keyed in his phone number, pressing the ‘save contact’ button and giving it back to you. You read the contact name.

“Jason.” His name slid over your tongue, through his veins, straight to his dick. What was it about you? He swore he was better than this. “Can finally put a name to the face.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t.” He regretted that as soon as it left his mouth. Now he couldn’t avoid making a connection, treating you like you actually meant something in his life. If he let you mean something, you’d distract him, he knew your type.

Oh, he didn’t know shit about you.

Your laugh shot up his spine, your name rang a million times in his brain when you gave it. It rang in the daydream of you on top of him, clothed pussy moving slow, languid, over his cock. It rang every time he moaned your name in that fucked up image. He— he had to stop that. Now. “See you.” He almost tripped over his words, swinging a leg to mount his bike. Your smile was fresh in his head. Your tongue, your teeth that and caught your bottom lip as you watched him drive away.

You’d have him. One way or another.

Your name lit up his phone one random Friday afternoon. A text, a simple one. Your shower stopped working suddenly and you needed his help.

“M’not a fucking plumber,” He muttered, but it was pathetic how quickly he stood up and got his jacket on. Pathetic was how fast his index hooked his keys like he was, line and sinker. Maybe he was your plumber. And mechanic. He could be anything you wanted him to be.

This was either the start of a really bad joke, or highly erotic pornography.

He hesitated before knocking on your door. Ignoring how he’d spent the last five minutes driving above the speed limit. Denial was one of five stages of grief, or its distant cousin: horniness.

He waited. One minute second, two minutes seconds, three— the door swung open.

A silk robe was wrapped around your body. Tied in a knot. Damp hair plastered to your cheeks, valley of your tits covered with cascading droplets that disappeared down the V of the fabric. Very… flimsy fabric that was covering you. Barely. Your no-gloss smile still stole his gaze. How were your lashes curled with no mascara? Your leg peeked out from beneath the silk. His breath hitched. His face flushed. “You came.” You purred.

“You called.” He replied stiffly, stepping in. Kicking off his shoes by the door. Your apartment was… luxurious, but he wasn’t expecting less. He was almost expecting a brothel. But that was stereotyping, he wasn’t a big fan of that. “So, your shower just stopped working?”

“Out of the blue.”

“What makes you think I know how to fix it?”

“A hunch.” The grin you had on made him feel like he ate shit. The defeatist sigh was his white flag.

“Your hunch would be right.” You notched the win on your robe’s belt. You watched his ass as he disappeared into your bathroom. Bingo.

It wasn’t like you were lying about the shower, it had stopped right before you were about to put on a hair mask. It just gave you a very good excuse to call your pet project over.

“Looks like it’s a pipe issue, I got it.” He called over his shoulder. This bathtub was bigger than his single bed. But then again it attested to the difference between la bourgeoisie and la pété thune. Draped over a radiator was your loungewear. Tiny things— rib-knit cami, sleep shorts that probably stopped just short of your ass, matching white panties. In a row, right there.

The panties caught his eye. They were soft, lace at the trim, satin otherwise, fuckin’ gorgeous. You wore those. Just to sleep, you wore those. What the fuck. Why the fuck. Why the fuck was his mouth watering? His tongue heavy? Aching? Begging to circle your clit over the fabric with his tongue just so he could watch the fabric dampen, drench, cling to your cunt? He had to get out of here. Drive off. Start a new life, maybe crash at Dick’s place in Blüdhaven. He’d be safer there.

He found the pipe problem. He fixed it, it was backed up. The panties called his name; since when was he susceptible to that?

“Those were a gift from Victoria’s Secret.” He hadn’t noticed his gaze was fixed on the white fabric draped on the radiator. It snapped back to you. You were leaning against the doorframe, tongue back on your canine. Now that he looked again, he realised it was pointy, like a vampire.

Now that he looked again, he wanted it to drag up his neck.

He looked back at the panties, back to you, tripping over his tongue. “I—I didn’t mean to—” He still stood up, ready to plead guilty and for forgiveness, but your hum stopped his train of thoughts.

You pointed at the panties, tilting your head. “You can keep those.” His brain almost short-circuited. Huh? “I don’t mind.” This was… if you were sane, you’d kick him out. Scream. Maybe get a restraining order.

“I—” Words caught in his throat, “you—”

“Keep them.” You insisted softly, picking up the panties, finger hooking into his belt loops. A sharp tug brought him close, too close for his dick to be comfortable in his jeans. Your fingers slipped into his front pocket of his Levis, tucking the satin panties into them. Never breaking eye contact. Your spearmint breath fanning across his lips. “Never gave you a proper thank you. For saving me twice.”

“You don’t need to do that.” He almost leaned in himself. To get a taste of whatever was on your tongue, to satiate himself while he didn’t have access to your pussy.

Your lips tugged. Into a smile that burned his insides. “Sure?”

“No.” He breathed, and his whole body melted before your lips even captured his. More like devoured. That was a better word for the nasty smack of lips on lips and how your nails carded into his hair. How you pushed your saliva into his mouth with your tongue, forcing his lips apart with a sharp tug to the hair at his nape.

He couldn’t stop the moan. The whine. His hands helplessly grabbed at your thighs, silk bunching up, itching to undo the robe, lips attaching to your jugular, sloppy, open-mouthed, greedy kisses stamped onto your skin.

You got him.

You’d got him, but you pulled him off your neck by the collar of his shirt. “Another time, sweetie.” His head followed the drag of your finger down his jaw, pressing into your finger as it trailed down his chest. “Gotta finish my shower.”

“When?” He rasped, pupils blown. Dick hard. Breath laboured after you pulled all the oxygen he had from his lungs.

You paused, pouting as you mused. “I’ll call you.”

Fuck.

He wished it was you riding him. He had to settle for your panties instead.

The fabric was soft against his palms, even more so against his dick as he fisted it. This wasn't even a measured affair, his sweats were haphazardly pulled down so the waistband collected around his upper thigh. Same went for his boxers, sheets only covering him from the knees down. Everything was silent, too still, save for his frantic breaths, whimpers and faint thwaps of his hand moving up and down his cock.

He needed your cunt to drag up his dick and make it wet, he needed your pussy to suck in his dick, to use it, use him, he needed your mouth by his ear telling him how good he made you feel. He was incomplete without it.

"Fuck, ma, please," He didn't know why he was begging, when you couldn't hear him. You were in your apartment, you couldn't hear him calling out your name to God knows who. Maybe worshipping at your altar was enough to grant him permission to, y'know, come.

Some sick part of him wanted to call you up. Ask you whether he could finally have an orgasm he'd been chasing for the last thirty minutes, it was a twisted thought, but his hand scrambled for his phone on his bedside table. Almost knocking it over amidst his moans.

He’d put you on speed dial at some point. He’d blacked out when he did, apparently, he couldn’t remember when. Sometime between fantasising you on top of him and picturing eating your pussy. The two weren’t mutually exclusive.

His thumb frantically tapped on the green button, knowing it was an ungodly hour of the morning. Knowing you said you’d call him when you wanted to fuck. He just wasn’t pressed to wait.

But you knew it’d happen. You’d been ticking off the hours in your head, laying on your king-size, for when this six-two hunk of a man would crack and call you, desperate for your permission. You’d played the waiting game before.

So you waited again.

Let the phone ring for ten seconds, really dragging it out, letting him delay himself that tiny bit more for an ego trip. He stared at your caller ID the longer his moans grew louder. His hand slowed down because he hadn’t heard your voice yet, he hadn’t asked you—

“Hello?” Your voice, sickly sweet, rang out from the phone. He put you off speaker, slamming the phone to his ear, so close, so ready, whining into the microphone. Your lips curled on the other end.

You could only hear his breathing. His paced up puffs of breath punctuated by needy whines which had your panties soaking through. Gosh, this really was something. “Speak up, Jason.” You sing-songed, prompting a low groan from him.

“Need t’come, ma.” He couldn’t recognise his own voice. Raspy, hoarse, from all the broken sounds he’d been letting out for god knows how long. “Can I—? Please — shiiiit — please lemme, m’so close.”

Your laugh was taunting. It only shot a shiver up his spine. “Oh, Jay,” He could practically hear your smirk through the phone, “you really need my pussy, huh?”

“Fuck, yeah, I do.” He nodded frantically, hand picking up the pace around his cock. Satin dragging against his skin. “Wanna — haah— feel that fuckin’ pussy around my cock, wanna— wanna taste it, m’gonna eat you so good, ma—”

Huh. You’d managed to break this guy in a matter of a week, an incredible feat, even for your standards. Here he was, babbling about going down on you. Your index crept down to circle your clit over your shorts. Your long sigh soothed his ear. “Mhm, Jay, I know, baby— come f’me?” The sugar talking earned you a deep moan from the other end, the shallow breaths and whimper of your name telling you he’d definitely come. His head thudded back against the pillows, covering his dick with your panties so they caught every thick rope of come. He felt so dirty. “Sounded so good, sweetie." That made it feel better. Less pervy.

There was a pause as he caught his breath and composure. “Fuck, ma, when m’I gonna see you?”

You'd never felt like this before.

Jason's tongue dragged over your cunt, almost folding you in half in the effort to make your thighs clamp around his head. His face was buried in your pussy, slurping whatever you had to give him, so much so that saliva mixed with your dripping arousal. He was moaning, moaning, against your clit, bumping it with his nose.

He was too fucked out to be methodical. Too fucked out from fucking his fist with your satin panties for a week when "I'll call you" was a long time coming. You'd finally told him to come over, after seven tortuous days.

He'd narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket.

He rolled his hips, humping the bed so his dick would get some friction, pads of his fingers sure-fire bruising your skin, they'd be visible for days. You'd be walking around with his fingerprints blooming just under the hem of your shorts. That was hot.

Obscene slurping sounds had you gripping his hair harder as his thumb flicked and teased your clit, two fingers filling you up. "Oh, shiit, Jay," Your eyes rolled back at the intrusion. You were keeping him, for sure.

His fingers were long. Thick. Crooked from being broken one too many times. They instantly brushed your g-spot, he curled them just right, you couldn't help the moan that came when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked. Stacking one thing on top of another so he could make you feel as good as he did over the phone.

"Look at this—" He stopped to whine against your pussy, vibrations sending your head knocking back against your headboard, "this pretty fuckin' pussy, huh?" He was just babbling at this point, trailing off into incoherence the longer he licked you clean. "Kept me waiting so long, ma, jus' wanna make you feel good."

He'd never felt this bliss before.

Your clit dragged on the base of his cock every time you lifted yourself up and dropped back down. Hard slaps of skin on skin was the soundtrack to Jason grabbing your thighs in a frenzy, pupils blown, unable to look away while letting out the most lascivious moans you'd ever heard in your life as his glasses tilted with every bounce of you on his cock.

This was either the start of a really bad joke or highly erotic pornography.

That question got answered real quick.

He propped himself up, to be able to fuck up into you but also kiss the tits that had been taunting him for ages, sucking your nipple into his mouth like it owed him rent. You couldn't help the grab onto the strands of his hair that desperately needed a trim as he sucked insistently, one hand sliding between your thighs so he could rub his name onto your clit with two fingers. You'd spelled out your name in hickeys that spanned his neck and chest. Lipstick prints spanned his jaw and scarlet smeared over his lips.

His green eyes were desperate, looking up at you. "Fuuuck, ma, s'good," He mumbled incoherently, releasing your tits with a slick pop to run aimless kisses over your neck, "s'warm, feels fuckin'—" The smacks of his hips against yours, the smacks of his lips on your skin, they sent you barrelling to a new high.

Your hand messed up his hair, other leaving red trails across his back. Scarlet that any girl would look at and realise that this man belonged to someone. If they didn't get the hint from the smudged lipstick and hickeys. "Yeah, Jay, you're so good, huh?" You praised, his hips picked up the pace. Your head tilted back, clamping down on him, he swore into the crook of your neck. "I'm— m'coming, baby, come with me, yeah?"

"Uh-huh — shit, I — haah —" It was a wave submerging him that reached you too. A cry of each other's names that would end up with a noise complaint at your door the next morning, considering the headboard had been knocking the wall for the past two hours. He'd come inside you, warmth filling you till you felt it in your throat, hand stroking his hair as his breath shuddered against your neck. You were keeping him, for sure.

He lifted his head from your neck, you reached out to wipe the sweat from his flushed temple. His head followed your hand like it held his will to live.

He swallowed, panting. "Was that good?"