Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Hello friends. I'm in some serious trouble. I'm a college student trying to find work, my family doesn't have the money to support me. And I just learned my hermit crabs have a case of dust mites back home that my parents are making me pay to take care of.
I don't currently have that money. And I love these small creatures with all my heart.
My starting base for any sketches is gonna be $10.
I will do anything that's legal. I won't be making any art that depicts; incest,pedophillic behavior, or skat.
I will also happily take any writing commissions.
Below are some examples of my art.
I do both traditional and digital art. But if a physical piece is made, costs of shipping will be added to your commission price.
I'm in a very dire need for money. And this is really really important to me to be able to take care of my pets.
Sketch pieces start off at $10, this includes however your character looks.
I can do furry art, I can do anything you ask me. And it will be done as soon as possible.
Lineart starts out at $20
Coloring $30
If you want a fully rendered piece, this includes a background. It'll start at $40.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
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âŠBasically the fanart for that one scene in @pangolin-404âs fic Obsession Infestation where Lyle and Spine dueled it out on who is the Sam stalker. In Samâs bedroom.
Please do check out their fic if youâre interested! It is a pretty brilliant character read on Lyleâs obsession and capacities to act on it, and is very nicely written.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Quality
Anya is LIVE right now
FREE
Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
đđđđđ đđŸđ: You are a medical student at the top of your classâbrilliant, disciplined, and utterly numb. Burnout has hollowed you out, leaving behind a ghost in a white coat who moves through life on autopilot.
The worst part? You can't feel anything anymore. Not joy, not pain, and certainly not pleasure. Your body is a locked door, and you've long since lost the key. Then you meet him.
A mysterious practitioner operating out of a butcher-shop backroom, known only as Jack. His methods are unorthodox, his hands unsettlingly precise, and his eyesâblack as a starless nightâseem to see straight through the cracks in your composure.Â
He offers a solution: sensate therapy.
But the deeper you sink into his treatments, the more you realizeâJack isnât just fixing you. Heâs rewiring you. And the thing that stirs under his touch isnât just arousal.
Itâs hunger.
đžđđđđđđ đđ¶đđđŸđđ: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.Â
Also, huge shoutout to @noctivaâyour art genuinely inspired me and gave me the push I needed to return to my roots. Thank you for reigniting that spark.
đđž: 16.1k
đđ¶đđ: soft dom!eyeless jack x fem!reader, doctor/patient dynamic, touch-starved Reader, possessive but gentle, gothic erotica, slow burn, sensual horror, atmospheric and haunting, sensation play, sensory deprivation/overload, medical kink (clinical but intimate), consent and safe words, body worship and arousal through fear, touch-starved to overstimulated.
Teach me how to scream.
Thatâs all you think about.Â
Not in the way a normal person mightâin some moment of panic or ecstasy, laughter or fearâno, you think about it clinically, with the same cold curiosity you apply to everything else in your life. You wonder what it takes to break a person.
 To tear down the wall of composure and discipline and professionalism until all thatâs left is something raw and visceralâa sound dragged from the deepest part of the chest. Screaming seems... liberating.Â
Youâve forgotten what it feels like.
Your apartment is a minimalist tomb, quiet and sterile. The walls are a tired white, barely catching any of the moonlight that slips between the blinds like skeletal fingers.Â
Textbooks line your desk in tall, uneven stacks, some with cracked spines from overuse, others still pristine, untouched. Highlighters bleed neon colors into pages already carved with notes in your tight, mechanical handwriting.Â
It smells like tea and ink and the exhaustion of someone who doesnât even know theyâre lonely anymore.
Youâre a medical student. Top of your class. On a full scholarship, tooâthe kind of golden ticket people envy you for.Â
Smart, capable, diligent.Â
Youâve heard all the praise, the admiration. But it doesnât change the fact that your nights are hollow, your days are repetitive, and your sense of wonderâthat spark that once made you dream of saving livesâhas slowly been reduced to a clinical grind.Â
Everyone thinks you have it easy because youâre not drowning in debt. However, you are drowningâjust in a quieter way. No one sees it. No one asks. Youâre the kind of person people assume will be fine. Always fine.Â
Youâve become a ghost in your own life, watching your twenties dissolve beneath the harsh fluorescence of hospital lights and the dry rustle of textbook pages.Â
You are a phantom that drifts from lecture hall to lab, stethoscope in hand, caffeine in veins, and nothing behind the eyes but tired calculation. Itâs a life of purpose on paperâof accolades, scholarships, and prestigeâbut beneath it all, you are starving.Â
Hollow. And you know it.
The worst part?
It killed your sex drive.
Not just dulled it. Not just reduced it to some manageable inconvenience like a missed meal or a skipped nap. It erased itâsurgically, completely, like a tumor you didnât realize had been excised until you tried to reach for it and found only scar tissue.Â
Thereâs even a phrase your over-medicalized brain canât help but conjure: lateralized sexual arousal suppressionâa clinical concept you read once in a study, the theory that arousal, that raw hormonal ache, can be selectively deadened by stress or imbalance, sometimes even felt more intensely on one side of the body than the other.Â
You chuckled at the time, because God, thatâs such a pathetic thing to be academic aboutâyour own inability to get off.
You were reading some obscure psych journal at 3 a.m., probably during a breakdown disguised as âstudying,â and there it was: an article on how chronic stress can suppress arousal, kill libido, even change how your brain registers pleasure. Real clinical stuff.Â
They called it âsituational anorgasmiaâ and âarousal fatigueââfancy words for why you, a perfectly functional adult with a pulse, havenât been able to cum since your first anatomy midterm.
Youâve tried. Of course, youâve tried.Â
You brought toysânot just the cheap, pastel-colored ones from those random Amazon hauls, either. No, you went full send. Bought the ones your roommate back in undergrad swore by.Â
She was the type who talked about orgasms like she had a PhD in themâcomplete with charts, reviews, and the occasional TED Talk. If anyone knew how to chase the Big O in times of crisis, it was her. You thought maybe she'd unlocked the secret.Â
Maybe it was you who was broken.Â
Well⊠Turns out it was you.Â
Because even the expensive, silicone-coated sorcery with six vibration settings and a glowing LED couldnât do it. Nothing worked. It was like flipping switches in an abandoned buildingâthe power was out, the lights were dead, and everything inside was covered in a spiritual layer of dust and depression.Â
Your hands donât even feel like yours anymore. Just more tools. Instruments. Like forceps. No pleasure, no spark, no warm shiver of release. Just... effort. Awkward, humiliating, mechanical effort.
You used to call it self-care. Now it just feels like CPR on a corpse.
So you gave up.
You told yourself you didnât want it anyway. Whatâs the point of craving something you canât feel? Youâve got a million flashcards to memorize, patients to shadow, vitals to record, and whatever grim flavor of instant noodles waiting for you in your pantry. Sexual frustration doesnât even rank on the priority list anymore.Â
Itâs been outpaced by exhaustion, caffeine withdrawal, and your mysterious recurring knee pain. You are one bad week away from becoming a cryptid.
But the silence? The silence is getting heavier.
It presses into you at night like a second set of lungs, breathing damp and slow against your ribs. Thereâs something waking up inside youâan ache, not sexual exactly, not yet, but primal. Hungry. Cold.Â
You try to outwork it.Â
You pile on more studying, more mock exams, more hospital shifts. But itâs still there. Whispering under the fluorescent lights. Nestled beneath your white coat and pressed dress shirts, buried under clinical detachment and years of overachievement.
And lately, that whisper has evolved into a gnawing.
You donât know when it started. Just that it has. It lingers in the corners of your thoughts like a rotting tooth. Itâs no longer about pleasure, about getting off, about orgasms or release. Itâs deeper than that. Darker. Itâs about being provoked. Violated. Broken open.Â
Something inside you is begging for ruptureânot affection, not safety, but something raw. Violent. Real.
You want to be dismantled. Undone. Taken apart in ways that anatomy textbooks donât cover. Not by gentle hands. By something sharp. Something relentless. You need to be reminded that youâre not just flesh wrapped around ambition. That your blood still runs hot. That you are more than a breathing corpse in scrubs.
You need to get off. Badly.
Again, not in the playful, flirty, "teehee I need a good dicking" kind of wayâno. You were about three nights of sleep deprivation away from putting "Unable to orgasm due to academic rigor" on your medical records.Â
If only you trusted your universityâs counseling office not to slap it on your permanent file next to âburnout riskâ and âexcessive caffeine consumption.â
So you did something you hadnât done in... what, months? You left your apartment. Took the train across town with a tote bag and the grim, resigned energy of someone preparing for emotional exposure.
You went go see Zâyour old roommate from undergrad.
The one person you could talk to about this without getting put on some kind of watchlist.
Her apartment hadnât changedânot even a little. It was still giving teenage dirtbag chic, as if Z had stolen the entire emotional atmosphere of a 2007 Tumblr blog and made it livable.
A lovechild between Hot Topic clearance racks and thrifted furniture from someone's cool auntâs garage sale. You were greeted by the scent of jasmine incense, old vinyl, and something vaguely burntâmaybe toast??
The walls were still a shrine to Zâs unapologetic chaosâplastered in band posters that had definitely survived multiple apartment moves and at least one questionable phase involving safety pins and eyeliner as a personality trait.
A twisted line of mismatched fairy lights looped across the ceiling, dangling lazily like drunk neurons on their last spark of function, simply blinking intermittently in faint hues of dying neon green, casting soft, ghostly shapes that danced along the cluttered walls.
The blinds were obnoxiously openâwide, tauntingly so. Sunlight poured in with a kind of aggression, spilling across the hardwood floors and highlighting every fleck of dust, every stray sock, every single reminder that someone actually lived here.Â
You squinted at it like it had personally insulted you.Â
Honestly, you couldnât remember the last time you saw real daylight that wasnât filtered through hospital-tinted windows or the flicker of your laptop at 3 a.m. Your body recoiled from it instinctively, as if your med school-induced vampirism couldnât withstand such unfiltered natural cheer.
Your teaâwhich Z handed you with that smug little curve of her lips âtasted faintly of lemon and betrayal. Warm, sharp, slightly too sweet. You suspected she put honey in it just to mock your bitterness.Â
She sipped her own casually, lounging in what could only be described as her throne of chaos: a nest of cushions, blankets, and plushies that looked. Her legs were draped dramatically over the armrest, her socks were chicken legs?
You, by contrast, sat rigidly on the couch like it might bite you if you leaned too far back. Your shoulders were hunched slightly, as if trying to fold into yourself, to shrink down and disappear into the muted fabric.Â
Z raised an eyebrow, already halfway to a grin, her lips twitching like the punchline was burning a hole in her mouth. You could almost hear it loadingâthe way her brain clicked into gear when she had a roast lined up and ready to go.Â
You didnât need to see her eyes to know she was aiming.
And God, you already regretted bringing it up.
âYou actually came,â she started with a shit-eating grin. âYou? Miss White Coat? Miss I-Diagnose-Myself-With-Insomnia-Not-Feelings? This is serious.â
You glared. âZ, for the love of God, stop laughing. You know this is an ongoing issue.â
âYeah, but I didnât think it would get worse.â She snorted, barely containing her laughter. âGirl, you probably need medical help.â
âI am medical help.â
She cackled, clutching her chest. âOh my God, youâre a walking irony.â
You sank further into the couch, drawing your knees up like a sulking cat. âDo you know how embarrassing it is for a med student to need a clinical intervention because she canât orgasm? Itâs humiliating. I'm supposed to be helping people, not... lying awake at 2 a.m. wondering if I died inside during second-year pathology.â
âHonestly?â she leaned forward, stirring her tea lazily. âMaybe you did. Maybe med school killed your libido and buried it under a pile of medical flashcards.â
You buried your face in your hands. âIâm a disgrace to the human reproductive system.â
Z sipped her tea, watching you with that predatorâs smirk she always wore when she knew something you didnât. âOr maybe...â she said slowly, âwhat you really need... is for something else to do it for you.â
You paused. Lowered your hands. Narrowed your eyes at her like a suspicious cat. âWell, obviously not you.â
âPlease.â She scoffed. âIâm flattered but not deranged.â
âRight,â you muttered, sipping your tea just to avoid eye contact. âTotally. Of course.â
The conversation fizzled into one of those awkwardly familiar silences â not the comfortable kind where two people just exist, but the kind where something unspoken hangs in the air, unacknowledged but dense.Â
Z picked up her phone and started scrolling absently, her fingers flicking across the screen with the kind of speed that said she was pretending to be disinterested.
You followed suit, sipping your tea like it didnât feel like your skin was trying to crawl off your bones. The clink of your spoon against the inside of your cup was the only sound besides the occasional buzz of her phone.
Her eyes kept drifting back to you, though. Subtle, but you noticed. A glance too long. A flicker of something behind her lashesâamusement, maybe, or curiosity. Or something sharper.
You glanced up, caught her staring. âWhat?â
Z didnât answer right away. She leaned back into the pillow throne like a queen about to issue a decree, her phone now forgotten on the coffee table. The soft lights above flickered green, briefly bathing her in something eerie, ethereal.
Then she said, too casually, like she wasnât about to ruin your whole evening: âThere are things out there, you know. Stuff that could probably wake you up.â
You raised a brow, deadpan. âWhat, like... therapy?â
She grinned over the rim of her mug like the devil sipping tea. âPossibly, babe. If it's been this long, it might be time to admit you need more than a bubble bath and a vibrator with a college degree.â
You snorted. âWow. Thank you for that incredibly professional medical insight, Dr. Z.â
âAnytime,â she said sweetly, already scrolling on her phone like she hadnât just diagnosed you with âclinical dicklessness.â âBut for real. I found this ad a while back. Weird little flyer. Some guy left it on the bathroom sink at the clubââ
You blinked. âWait. You still go to âthe clubâ?â You added dramatic finger quotes like you were talking about some ancient cryptid.
Z didnât even flinch. Gave you a flat look, her eyes wide with mock betrayal. âUh, yes? What do you think I do for stress relief? Knit?â
You groaned and collapsed further into the couch cushions. âGod, you are still the same chaotic goblin I met in college.â
She grinned, smug as sin. âAnd yet here you are, begging the goblin for help because you canât even get your engine to rev. Whoâs the tragic one now?â
You look away and took another sip of your lemon-betrayal tea and muttered, âMe. Itâs me. Iâm the tragic one.â
âThatâs right.â She sighed, âAnyway. This flyer. It was handwritten, almost cryptic. Said something about off-the-record consultations. No names. No appointments. Just... results. Kind of urban legend-y, honestly. But people talk. Especially at clubs. And from what Iâve heard, this... doctor... isnât your typical back-alley quack.â
You stared at her. âZ. Did you seriously consider going to some random off-the-grid sex doctor?â
Z shrugged, grinning wickedly. âI considered it. Havenât done it yet. Thought Iâd let you be the brave one, since, yâknow... youâre the actual med student.â
You scoffed, pulling the most odd-looking facial expression, setting your mug down a little too loudly on the table. âWhy me? What made you think of me when you saw some creepâs sex clinic ad?â
Her smirk faltered just a little. âBecause I know you. And I know when youâve gone full medical-grade emotionally constipated. Babe, itâs like watching a Roomba try to find joy. You need something thatâll slap the soul back into you.â
You went quiet. Embarrassed. Maybe a little pissed.Â
You werenât used to people seeing through the cracksânot the ones you spent so much time spackling over with caffeine and credentials. But she wasnât wrong.
âAnd no,â she added quickly, âIâd never throw you into something shady without at least vetting it first. You know that. Iâm not an idiot.â
You looked down at your lap. Your fingers toyed with the hem of your sleeve. âItâs just... weird, you know? Iâm a med student. I should be able to fix myself. Notâgo off seeking weird underground therapy from club bathroom flyers like Iâm in a Netflix special.â
Z snorted, nearly choking on her tea. âYeah, well. Sometimes it takes weird to fix weird. And unless youâre ready to walk into your clinical psych rotation and say, âHey, I canât cum and I think my soulâs in a coma,â this might be your last option that doesnât come with a straightjacket and a mandatory 72-hour hold.â
You made a face, but⊠yeah. She had a point.Â
A mortifying, scarily accurate point.
You didnât like the ideaâsome strange, off-market âdoctorâ discovered via bathroom flyer in a club known for bad decisions and worse lighting. But God help you, you were actually considering it. Really considering it.
Because the thought of another weekâhell, another monthâof being this empty husk of a human, this walking flesh-printer spewing out diagnoses and memorizing mortality rates with all the excitement of a houseplant?
No. You couldnât keep doing this.
So you made the appointment.
After classesâafter trudging through another mind-numbing lecture on autoimmune disorders and scribbling down notes with a highlighter youâd long since stopped seeing color inâyou sat down and filled out the form.
The website had looked⊠normal.?? Professional, even.
A minimalist black/dark blue-and-white layout, vague clinical language, and a discreet little logo that looked almost like a mask. You didnât think much of it at the time.
The questionnaire started like every other patient intake formâname, birthdate, gender. But then there was something else. A line that didnât make sense. Not in this context.
âDo you fear what watches you when you sleep?â
You paused, eyes narrowing slightly. Weird question. Probably one of those psych-eval icebreakers. You ticked off another box and kept going, ignoring the pressure that had begun to build in your throat. This was probably nothing. Some edgy branding tactic. Experimental therapy, maybe. Trauma work in a spooky coat of paint.Â
Thatâs all it was.
You submitted the form.Â
Ten minutes later, your phone buzzed with a confirmation and a location that didnât show up on Google Maps.
Of course it didnât.
That night, sleep came reluctantly, like a reluctant houseguest knocking on your door well past midnight, and you only let it in because you had nothing better to do.
After a fresh shower, you dress in t-shit with shorts, collapse onto your bed with all the grace of a corpse being dropped into its grave. The air in your apartment felt stagnantâthick and unmovingâlike it hadnât been touched by breath or sound in days. Maybe weeks.
The only light was the faint, glitched glow of your laptop in sleep mode, pulsing like a dying heartbeat. Your limbs felt heavy. Weighted. Your thoughts, even heavier. Again, youâd submitted the form hours ago.Â
And now you canât stop thinking about that line.Â
âFear? What watches me when I sleep?âÂ
You swallowed and rolled onto your side, burying your face into the pillow that still smelled vaguely of antiseptic hand cream and stress. For a while, nothing came. No dreams. No darkness. Just silence. But eventually, slowly, the world began to slip sideways.
At first, it felt like floatingâlike your bones had been scooped out of you and replaced with warm fog. The room was no longer your room. Not quite. The shadows were wrongâlonger than they should be, bending around corners that didnât exist. Your bed felt deeper, like a divot in the earth, and the air was⊠comforting.Â
Invasive, somehow, but soft. Almost maternal.
You couldnât move. You didnât want to move.
And then came the touch.
It wasnât hands. Not really. Not at first. More like heat. Pressure. A sensation that ghosted over your skin, just enough to make you shiver.
Something brushed your ankle. Light. Curious. Your breath hitched.
Another drifted along the curve of your calf. Up. Higher. Not aggressive. Not rough. Just⊠deliberate. As though the air itself had grown fingers and was now reading you like braille. Like it knew you. Had always known you.
Your hips twitched, and you felt itâjust beneath the surface of your skinâa dull, yawning ache that had been locked away for too long. That absence. That void. You hadnât even realized how deeply youâd buried your hunger. Your need.
The touch glided higher, a whisper along the meat of your thigh, a reverent sweep that left goosebumps in its wake. It wasnât sexual. Not entirely. Not yet. But it was intimate. Intrusive in a way that felt oddly safe, like the firm hand of something old guiding you through a ritual youâd forgotten the words to.
You should have been terrified.
But you werenât.
Your breath came shallower. Your heart picked up. And for the first time in monthsâyearsâyou felt something: warmth. Thrum. Longing.Â
The phantom touch curved under the hem of your hoodie, feathering up your stomach. It pressed gently against the cage of your ribs like it was searching for a way inside. You arched instinctively, needing more.Â
Needing anything.
There was a whisper. A sound. You couldnât tell if it was in your ear or your bones. Soft, smoothâmasculine, maybeâbut in that ageless, unsettling way that made it impossible to pin down.
âLet me ruin you.âÂ
Your breath caught.
It wasnât loud. It didnât need to be. The words dripped like honey laced with venomâintimate, feral, promising. They bypassed your ears and curled straight into your gut, igniting something molten at your core. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. Your fingers curled into the sheets like you could anchor yourself against a flood.
It wasnât a question. It was an invitation. A threat. A vow.
Your body bucked as heat flashed through you like a short-circuit, static and dizzying and almost holy. It wasn't released. Not yet. But it was the promise of it. The threat. And something inside you whispered backâwithout words, without thoughtâyes.
You gasped.
And thenâyou woke up.
Heart pounding like a war drum in your chest. Skin slick with sweat, sticking to your sheets in places you didnât even know could sweat. Your thighs were clenched like youâd just braced through an earthquakeâor maybe something far more intimate. The sheets coiled around your legs, your waist, one arm â as if youâd been grasping in your sleep. Or writhing.
You lay there, dazed. Breathing shallow. Eyes wide as the fragmented edges of some half-dream shimmered just out of reach, teasing your thoughts with phantom touches and shapes you couldnât quite pin down. But your body remembered.
Oh, it remembered.
The morning light creeping in through the blinds was soft and gray, casting everything in shades of faded silver. It wasnât warm. It was the kind of light that followed unsettling dreams â like the lingering taste of ash and honey on your tongue.
You sat up slowly. Each movement felt like an echo.
Something had changed.
A circuit, somewhere inside you, had quietly reconnected. A wire long-burnt out had sparked again. You didnât know how, or why, but your whole body pulsed with a strange awareness. Your skin buzzed. The air felt too sharp, like the molecules themselves were brushing too close against you. You ran your palm along your own armâit felt like someone elseâs skin.Â
Someone new. Something not quite⊠human.
You werenât sure whether to be thrilled or terrified.
A sharp laugh escaped youâshort, stunned, breathless. You wiped a shaky hand down your face, your skin still tingling like it had been touched by something you couldnât name. "What the hellâŠ" you muttered to no one, voice hushed in the muted blue-gray light filtering through the blinds.
Because for the first time in what felt like forever, your body wasnât numb.
It ached. It buzzed.
You were horny. And maybeâjust maybeâhaunted.
Not the jump-scare, crawling-out-of-your-TV kind. No. This was subtler. Seductive. Like something ghostlike had struck a match down your spine and whispered promises to your bones.
You sighed, rubbing your temples.
Then your eyes flicked to your phone screen. Shit.
You jolted upright, the weight of time slamming into your chest. Adrenaline took the wheel. The sheets slipped off your legs as you stumbled toward your dresser, still half-lost in the fog of sleepâor whatever strange thing had wrapped itself around your dreams.
You moved on instinct, grabbing whatever felt softest, lightest, least constraining. You slipped into an asymmetric maxi skirt that flowed around your legs like smoke, streaked in midnight blue and obsidian black. It cinched at your waist with a simple circle leather belt, the buckle cool against your stomach. A cropped top followedâloose, gauzy, a whisper of fabric more than a shirt. Air moved through it easily, kissing your skin.
You looked⊠casual? A little lost, maybe.
The kind of outfit that felt like something you could disappear in without a sound. Your fingers fumbling, you pushed your hair back, unlocked your phone, and typed with sharp, quick taps:
You: Location shared.
Dropped off at that creepy butcher shop you told me about.
If Iâm not out in an hour, call the cops. Seriously.
The reply came almost instantly:
Z: "Roger that, orgasm-crisis queen đ"
âBitch,â you muttered, rolling your eyes with a reluctant smirk. You didnât text back. You didnât need to.
You were quick to reach the building was everything your gut told you to avoid. Normal. Painfully, strategically normal. It sat like a tumor on the edge of the blockâred-brick exterior faded from years of sun and smog, windows that reflected nothing, and a crooked sign over the door that read âBalkan Meats & Cold Cutsâ in peeling paint.
 A rusted awning flapped listlessly in the breeze, and somewhere inside, the thick metallic scent of iron and brine curled into your sinuses. It smelled like blood that had soaked too deep into tile.
You didnât see a sign for a clinic. You didnât expect one.
Your eyes scanned the side of the building until you spotted the narrow stairwell half-hidden beside a dumpster. You hesitated only once before climbing, hand gliding over the sticky, warm metal of the rail. Above, a flickering bulb buzzed like a trapped wasp, casting shadows that moved just a little too much.
When you reached the landing, everything went quiet.
Unnaturally quiet.
The hallway was narrow and sterileâpainted beige so aggressively dull it made your teeth itch. No music. No voices. Just the electric hum of fluorescent lighting and your own pulse, thudding loud in your ears.
You found the door at the end. Plain metal. No placard. No name. Just a tarnished silver handle. You stared at it for a moment, fingers hovering near the knob, chest tight. Every inch of your rational brain screamed to leave. But you were tired of being rational. Rational hadnât helped.Â
So you opened the door.
The room inside was quiet. Still. Too still.
There were three mismatched chairsâone metal, one wood, one soft and threadbare like it came from someoneâs grandmotherâs house. A water dispenser stood lonely in the corner, full but with no cups, like a trick. A desk stood at the far wallâpaper neatly stacked, everything aligned with almost religious careâbut there was no monitor, no receptionist, no phone.
The silence wasnât empty. It was waiting.
You took a cautious step inside. Your shoes made the faintest sound against the polished floor. You moved around the desk, squinting for some kind of bell, clipboard, sign of life.
And thatâs when you felt it.
The breath, soft and warm against the nape of your neck. The presence, solid and sudden behind youâtoo close. A chest. Firm. Immovable. Pressed just a whisper from your back.Â
You froze. Every muscle in your body pulled taut.
âYou have appointment?â
The voice was low, deep, and smooth, and somehow casually clinical. But what rattled you most was how heâd arrivedâsoundless, like heâd stepped out of the air itself. You spun around, heart in your throat.
And there he was.
Moving toward you with the kind of quiet purpose that didnât demand attentionâit consumed it.
Dressed in layered blacks so matte they seemed to drink in the light, he walked like the air parted for him out of habit, each step slow, deliberate, respectful in a way that somehow felt more unsettling than if heâd stormed in. His presence didnât crashâit settled, like dusk creeping in unnoticed.
He was tall. Towering, almost. But not in a way that screamed dominanceâit was more architectural. Like he belonged in old cathedrals or under moonlight, not in this oddly quiet waiting room above a butcher shop. His build was lean but sharp-edged, tailored by something too precise to be simply "fit."
His hair was a mess of deep brown waves, slightly tousled like heâd forgotten he had it. Strands fell across the top edge of his black surgical mask, softening the austere lines of his outfit.
And thenâhis eyes. His. eyes.
No whites. No pupils. No clear edges or irises. Just obsidian pools so deep they looked like if you stared too long, theyâd start staring back. They werenât dead or hollowâthey shimmered faintly in the overhead fluorescents, alive with something too exact, too alert. It was like he wasnât looking at you, he was measuring you.
Then the ears. It took a second glance to really process themâsubtly pointed, the kind of detail your mind initially dismissed as a trick of the light. Delicate but wrong in the way that made fairy tales dangerous. Piercings traced their way up the cartilage, tiny silver hoops and bars arranged not for fashion, but like some strange celestial map.Â
His skin was smooth, cool-tonedâgrayish, yes, but in a way that reminded you of marble, not illness. Preserved. Not decayed. A color that made your brain second-guess itself.
He stopped a careful distance from you, his height folding slightly as he inclined his head. Not deferential, not patronizingâjust polite. Attuned. Like a creature whoâd spent centuries perfecting human etiquette without ever being human himself.
Instinct made you step back. Your breath caught.
âHoly shit,â you blurted. âDo you have⊠Argyria?â
He tilted his head, a frown ghosting across his face like he was trying to compute the question. âNo,â he said after a moment, voice low, textured. Almost soothing. âI do not.â
Then his eyes roamed youâslow, thoughtful, clinical. Not with desire, not with threatâlike he was unpacking a file only he could read. His gaze wasnât the kind that undressed you. It unspooled you.
He made a soft sound in the back of his throat. âYouâre a medical student, yes?â
You froze. âHow do youâ?â
He walked past you, each step soft and unnervingly quiet, rounding the desk with a smooth turn of his shoulder. His fingers brushed the desk surface like he was orienting himself with muscle memory.
âYou carry yourself like someone whoâs trained their exhaustion into structure,â he said, more to the desk than to you. âYour posture is clinical. Your eyes never stop scanning. Slight tremor in the left hand suggests chronic overextension. Pair that with the guarded breathing, the subtle shift in weight when approached from behindâtextbook hypervigilance.â
He turned back to face you. His eyes locked with yours again.
âYour libido is comatose, yes?â
You blinked. âWhatââ
âAnd you smell faintly of herbs,â he added, softly, âsomething floral beneath the surface. Artificial, like a cheap perfume meant to disguise the real scent. Something sweet, desperate. Useful.â
You stood, stunned into silence.
Every nerve in your body was ringing like it had been plucked. What the actual hell had you just walked into? And why, despite all logic, did it feel like... exactly where you were supposed to be?
The man moved without a word, extending one long arm past the threshold to open a nondescript door tucked into the hallwayâs end. The hinges didnât creakâthey glided, soundlessly. The room inside was dimly lit but strangely warm, nothing like the cold sterility of the corridor.Â
At first glance, it looked like a therapistâs officeâor some vague approximation of one. Two chairs sat opposite each other: high-backed, dark fabric, a bit too clean, a bit too deliberate in their placement.Â
Potted plants softened the cornersâlarge-leafed, thriving, well-watered. The air held a faint scent of petrichor and sage. It was subtle, like the room had been exhaling while no one was there. The walls held a few certificates, two diplomas, and a clock.
You noticed that immediately.Â
Again, everything was too clean. Not clinicalâbut manicured. Controlled. As though someone had designed this space not for comfort, but for ease of disarmament. You stepped closer, the doorway framing you. But your feet hesitated. Something primal, buried, and clawed screamed softly inside your chest. A warning. That if you stepped into that room, if your foot crossed that threshold⊠it wouldnât be just your body walking in.
You swallowed. Hard.
The man leaned against the doorframe now, arms crossed, his presence still and observant. Watching, not pushing. He didnât coax you. Didnât rush you. His voice came soft, measured:
âItâs professional. I assure you.â
You met his gazeâthose endless black eyesâand didnât see a lie. But you didnât see the truth either. Just⊠depth. He glanced away, absently brushing a loose curl from his temple. âWhen did you find my card?â
Your lips twitched. âFriend gave it to me,â you said, fingers quoting air. âClaim they found it at the âclubâ they frequent.âÂ
Thatâs when his eyes widened slightly, his face lifting in something that looked like genuine amusement. He let out a low, rich chuckle, the sound curling through the quiet like smoke.
âAh. That place.â
âYou go there often?â you asked, curiosity sharpening to a point.
He straightened slowly, still smiling. âNow and then. Good for getting the word out. Not many people in your situation ask for help in⊠traditional places.â
You tilted your head, one brow raising. âAnd what exactly do you do?â
He seemed to pauseânot for hesitation, but for precision. Like he was combing through a thousand possible answers and measuring which one wouldnât make you walk away. Finally, he said: âI work with... bodily systems. Unblock pathways. Redirect energy. Reset patterns. Most of it is touch-based. Topical. Very specific. Not mainstream. But itâs effective.â
You frowned. That was vague enough to mean anything from chiropractic therapy to illicit back-alley sorcery.
âYouâre a medical student too?â you asked, more defensively than intended.
He hummed. âWas. For a time.â A pause. âNow I work to pay off the debts.â
Then he gave a slow tilt of his head. âAnd before we begin, I should mentionâmy sessions arenât exactly cheap.â
His eyes glinted faintly.
âStill willing to go through with this?â
You stood, heart somewhere between your throat and your spine. Your body still thrummed from the dream, from the walk, from him. This wasnât sane. This wasnât rational. But then again, neither was what was happening to you.
You sighedâthe long, tired kind of sigh that sounded like it had aged a decade on its way out. Truth be told, you really didnât want to leave without getting something resolved. Not after dragging yourself through the iron-scented meat shop, past the flickering stairwell light, and into this strange little time vacuum of a room.
âIf I come out dead, I come out dead,â you muttered, more to yourself than him, as you finally stepped forward. âItâs not like Iâm missing brunch with a life coach.â
This was, in some weird, macabre way, the most interesting thing to happen to you in months. Hell, maybe years. If you were going to spiral, might as well do it with a little flair and mystery. You squared your shoulders, glanced back at the man, and with the enthusiasm of someone marching into a mild haunting, said: âAlright.â
He hummedâsoft, approving, almost like a cat that had just seen you pick up its favorite toyâand stepped aside to let you pass. As you entered, the smell of the room shifted again, warmer now, like bergamot and dry cedar, grounded and oddly calming.
The door clicked shut behind you. A little too gently.Â
He gestured toward one of the chairs. âHave a seat.â
You chose the one that didnât face the doorâa risk, but also felt like a testâand he slid into the opposite chair with ease. Just fluid motion, like gravity, took him differently than it took everyone else. From a side drawer built into the table, he pulled out a clipboard and a pen. The scratch of it echoed a little too loudly in the stillness.
He looked up at you, eyes glittering darkly. âBefore we begin, letâs do a quick intake.â
You blinked. âDidnât I already fill that out online?â
âYes,â he replied without looking up. âBut this is more for me. A⊠recap.â
You raised a brow. âSo youâre giving me a pop quiz on my own trauma?â
âI find it helps to speak it aloud,â he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. âClarifies intent. Filters out exaggeration. Or embellishment.â
You exhaled slowly. âAlright then.â You tapped your fingers against your knee, pausing before letting the words tumble out. âMy issue is⊠weird.â
He didnât blink. Just nodded, as if âweirdâ was his mother tongue.
You hesitated again. âLike, I donât know if itâs physical or psychological. But I wake up⊠not exactly aroused, but like my body thinks it is. Except thereâs noââ You made a vague, circular gesture. âNo stimulation. No dreams I can recall. Just this⊠residue. Like my nervous system got love-bombed by a ghost.â
He blinked once. Still quiet.
âAnd I canât concentrate. Nor get off as I want to for stress relief. Everythingâs wired wrong. I feel like a haunted, but emotionally detached.â
The corner of his eye twitched.Â
You sworeâsworeâthat mightâve been a smirk.
He scribbled something down. âInteresting.â
You exhaled through your nose, slowly, one eyebrow arching with muted skepticism. Of course. Still, you werenât here to play games. Not too many, at least. âSo?â you said, his name careful on your tongue. You looked away for a second, then met his eyes again, sharper this time. âHow do I fix my issue? What is it exactly? What do you thinkâs going on?â
He nodded once, slow and deliberate, and set the clipboard aside with a soft clatter against the side table. âAnorgasmia,â The man said, as if the word wasnât something that could make you want to melt into the floor.Â
He leaned back slightly in his chair, hands foldedâlong fingers, clean nails, veins just barely visible under that unnervingly smooth, pale skin. âSpecifically, it sounds like youâre experiencing Female Orgasmic Disorder. Acquired, generalized. Based on what you put in your intake and your⊠reaction, Iâd guess itâs been ongoing for more than six months, right?â
You blinked, hard, then nodded. That clinical delivery shouldâve felt sterile, cold. It didnât. His voice was low, textured. Intimate without trying to be. And God help you, it was kind of hot. You couldnât tell if it was his confidence or his complete lack of awkwardness when talking about something that made you want to crawl out of your skinâbut it worked.Â
You were listening, hanging off each word.Â
Your eyes narrowed slightly, involuntarily tracing the line of his throat to where his collar restedâloose black, matte fabric, something tactical and breathable. His posture was perfect: relaxed but with intention. He didnât fidget. He didnât blink too often. There was a heaviness to him, a quiet focus that made you feel pinned, studied⊠and not in a way that made you want to leave. Damn it.
âSo basically,â you said dryly, forcing your gaze back up to his face, âmy vaginaâs in a coma.â
He cracked a brief, silent laugh through his noseâlips curling just slightly beneath the mask. âThatâs one way to put it.â
âAnd youâre telling me the solution isâŠâ You hesitated, bracing. âTo build sensations back up?â
âYes.â He said it simply, without any waver.Â
âThatâs the starting point, at least. If you were hoping for a prescription or an easy out, Iâm afraid there isnât one. Thereâs no single medication that resolves this. At best, there are supplements that might help increase blood flow or sensitivity, but theyâre not proven. What you need is guided stimulation therapyâSensate Focus, gradual reintroduction of arousal, maybe eventually partnered techniquesââ
You cut him off, âYou sound like youâre assigning more homework than I already have to deal with on a daily basis,â you muttered, cheeks heating. âJust with more nudity.â
That earned another small smirk. âOnly if youâre an overachiever.â
Oof. You groaned into your hands. âOh my god.â
He continued, not unkindly. âYouâre not broken. This is more common than most people think. Stress, medical trauma, interpersonal issues⊠and in your case, high-functioning academic burnout. Youâve been so focused on achieving, suppressing, managing everything, that your nervous system no longer registers pleasure as safe or worth prioritizing.â
You blinked, stunned. âIâI didnât even sayâhow do youââ
The man tilted his head slightly. âAgain, you carry exhaustion like armor. And guilt. You intellectualize your body instead of inhabiting it.â
You didnât respond right away. Your throat felt tight.
âAndâŠâ he added, tone dipping lower as his eyes flicked over your face, âyou havenât had the time. Or the space. Or the kind of partner who asks you to stay in the moment.â
You swallowed thickly. ââŠSo what now?â
âNow?â he said, gently. âWe start small. Sessions like this. Focused touch. Retraining your response system. Making your body feel safe again.â
You felt your fingers twitch in your lap, not sure whether to bolt or laugh or just melt into the chair. Then, because you needed to feel like you had some control, you leaned back, folded your arms, and asked, âAnd before we go further⊠are you gonna tell me your name? Or am I just supposed to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Mildly Threatening?â
That finally cracked something. His smirk deepened, the smallest glint of teeth visible behind the mask.
âYou can call me Jack.â
You raised a brow. ââŠJust Jack?â
He tilted his head, eyes glittering like obsidian in the low light. âFor now.â
ââŠSo, Jack,â you said, dragging his name out with a hint of sarcasm, âyou do this often? Therapize poor souls out of their orgasmless despair?â
Jack leaned forward, just slightly. âOnly the .â He said as he stood smoothly, setting the clipboard aside with practiced ease, and gestured for you to follow him.Â
You didâhesitantly at firstârising from the stiff chair and trailing after him as he crossed the hall and unlocked another door with a soft click. When he pushed it open, the first thing to hit you was the warmth.
The lighting was low and amber, diffused through soft bulbs hidden behind velvet-draped sconces. The space smelled faintly of cedarwood and something sweet you couldnât quite placeâalmost like jasmine.Â
It was⊠not what you expected. At all. Youâd prepared yourself for a clinical space, something sterile or weirdly kinky, but this room?
It was intimate. Luxurious, almost.Â
Rich textures blanketed every surface: soft velvets, high-thread count cotton, brushed suede. The walls were painted a deep, dusky blue that made the shadows look heavier, closer.
A plush bed with dark sheets dominated one side of the room, framed by heavy curtains and stacked pillows in earthy tones. There were other touches tooâsoft rugs layered beneath your feet, a tray of water and mints, tissues neatly folded. A single mirror, gold-framed and slightly fogged, leaned in the corner.
And then there was the chair.
It looked like something halfway between a modern art sculpture and a spaceship seatâsleek, curved, contoured like it had been made to cradle someone. It was upholstered in black leather with subtle seams and built-in supports. Strange as it was, it didnât feel perverse. Not cheesy or tacky.
It was⊠functional. Designed. Like everything else in this room.
Jack gestured toward it casually, like it wasnât anything to raise an eyebrow over. âThat,â he said, âis a sensual lounge chair. Enhanced positioning. For alignment, breath regulation, deeper physical feedback.â
Your stomach flipped again. Christ.
He turned toward a cabinet and pulled out another clipboard, this one thicker than the first, and handed it to you. âBefore we go further,â he said, âyouâll need to sign this waiver. Standard practice. Andââ he paused, meeting your eyes with that intense calmââweâll need a safe word.â
You blinked. âA safe word?â
Jack nodded, leaning back against the counter, hands folded loosely in front of him. âYes. My sessionsâwhatever form they takeârequire that the patient always feels in control. If, at any moment, you feel unsafe or overwhelmed, you use it. No questions asked. Everything stops.â
That⊠wasnât what you expected. For someone who looked like the personification of a Victorian ghost with resting murder face, he was oddly considerate. Thorough.
âAnd,â he continued, âyou should also indicate if there are any areas of your body you donât want touchedâor if touch in general is an issue.â
You hesitated. Jack watched your silence carefully.
âIâm⊠not exactly comfortable being touched,â you admitted, voice lower now, unsure. âNot really.â
He tilted his head, brow faintly furrowed. âAs in, discomfort from trauma orâ?â
You shook your head. âIâve never⊠been touched. At least by someone thatâs not me. Iâve tried. It justânever worked. Nothing felt⊠real. Or good. I donât think Iâve ever had an actual orgasm. And itâs not like I even want sex, really. I justââ You exhaled, rubbing your temple. ââuse it to sleep. For stress relief. However thereâs never been feeling.â
Jack didnât speak right away. His gaze didnât shift, but it softenedâjust slightly. He stepped forward, retrieving the clipboard gently from your hands and flipping through your answers with quiet focus.
âI see,â he murmured eventually. âThatâs⊠unusual. Not unheard of, but rare. Youâre likely dealing with a variant of the Disorder. Possibly psychogenic anorgasmia, possibly neurochemical. But your phrasingânever felt real, never wantedâitâs more complex.â
You nodded, arms crossed tightly. You felt vaguely ridiculous standing in a velvet sex room, discussing the void that lived between your thighs with someone who looked like a cursed Renaissance painting. But oddly enough⊠you didnât feel judged.
Jack reached for a pen, jotting something down. Then, after a moment of consideration, he looked up. âIâm registering you as a special case,â he said simply. âAgain, weâll go slow. No expectations. No pressure. Just sensation. Understanding. Rebuilding the pathway.â
Your breath caught. Despite yourself, your eyes drifted over him againâhis posture, the quiet precision of his movements, the way his sleeves had pushed up just slightly at the forearms.Â
Even the way he held the pen. God, even that was hot.
You cleared your throat. âAnd youâre⊠trained for this?â
That smirk againâbarely there, but you caught it. âLetâs just say Iâm highly practiced.â
You looked at the waiver. Then at him. Then, slowly, you picked up the pen.
ââŠWhatâs the safe word?â you asked.
He shrugged. âYour choice.â
You glanced around the room, then muttered, âVelvet.â
Jack nodded once, like it was sacred. âVelvet it is.â
Jack's hand lingered at the back of the chair, fingers grazing the leather as he gestured for you to sit. âGo ahead,â he said, his voice deep but even, ârelax back, let it support you. Itâs built for comfort.â
You eyed the chair, skeptical but curious. The leather was cool against the backs of your thighs as you slowly settled into it. Jack crouched beside you without a word and gently slid your bag from your shoulder, placing it neatly beside the chair like it deserved a designated resting place of its own.
He looked at you with quiet concentration, one hand resting on the edge of the seat. âMay I touch you?â he asked.
There was something respectful in the way he said itânot hesitant, but patient. You gave a small nod, and he murmured, âSay it.â
âYes,â you said, just above a whisper. âYou can.â
He nodded in return, then reached up⊠and touched your ears? Your expression must have said âwhat the hell are you doingâ, because Jack actually gave a soft huff of amusement under his breath. âThere are over a dozen zones in the female body that can stimulate a neurological arousal response,â he said smoothly, his thumbs brushing gently around the outer edge of your ears. âEars are one of the most overlooked.â
You blinked at him. There was no reaction. Nothing flared in your stomach or between your legs. You werenât even sure it tickled. You just stared at him, flatly. Jack pulled his hands back, nodding to himself like he was taking mental notes.
âAlright. Not the ears.â
Next, he moved to your scalp, his fingers spreading through your hair with practiced ease. You expected it to feel awkward, maybe even clinical, but instead it was⊠gentle. Thoughtful. His fingertips pressed down just enough to release tension, circling at the base of your skull, following invisible patterns across your scalp.
Your eyes softened. Your breath evened. It didnât arouse youânot in the way you feared or expectedâbut it felt good. Normal. Like something you hadnât realized youâd needed.
Jack noticed, clearly. âNoted,â he murmured, withdrawing again. âSome feedback, not enough to trigger arousal. Good to know.â
He stepped around the chair, âThe neck, then.â
When his fingers touched the back of your neck, it was subtleâalmost like he was testing the current in a live wire. He barely pressed at all, and yet your entire body tensed beneath the surface like a ripple across still water. Your breath hitched.
Jack froze.
ââŠInteresting,â he muttered. âOdd tingle, but not necessarily pleasant?â
âItâsââ you started, but hesitated. âItâs something. I donât know what.â
He gave a faint frown, filing that away. âAlright. Moving down.â
Then his fingers gently circled your inner wrists. You watched him as he focusedâhis brows slightly drawn, touch featherlight, like he was reading braille in your skin. âThese are usually extremely responsive,â he said quietly. âEspecially in individuals with dulled primary zones. The nerves are close to the surface here.â
You just stared at him. Nothing.
He looked up at you and raised an eyebrow. âStill nothing?â he asked.
You blinked. âNothing.â
He gave a quiet exhale through his nose, but not out of frustration. Just⊠reassessment. âOkay,â he said. âLower back next. The muscular network there is directly tied to your abdomen and pelvic floor. Sometimes, tension here bottlenecks sensation.â
His hand slid to your waist, firm but not invasive, and pressed into your lower back. The motion was a slow knead, thumbs working just beside your spine. A small breath escaped youânot from pleasure, exactly, but from release. It felt like something began to melt from your muscles. Like heat unfurling.
Jack stilled again.Â
âBetter,â he said. âStill not there. But⊠warming.â
You let out a low sound of agreement, your body leaning back more deeply into the curve of the chair. Your muscles werenât buzzing, but they werenât frozen either.
Jack stood upright, arms crossed loosely as he studied your posture, your breathing, every inch of your subdued response. âShit⊠definitely a complex case,â he said, half to himself. âYou have all the partsâjust not the ignition.â
You quirked a brow up at him. âAre you calling me broken?â
A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. âNo,â he said. âIâm calling you⊠locked. Thatâs different.â
You watched him. Even his frown was attractiveâconcentrated, thoughtful, not overdramatic. He wasnât rattled. He was just⊠intrigued. Motivated. Somehow, that made the heat in the room just a little thicker.
Jack didnât say anything right away.Â
He watched you for a moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. There was something unsettling in his stillnessâsomething restrained. Like he was holding back more than just words. You sat on the edge of the chair, shoulders tense, knuckles pale as you clutched the armrests like they might anchor you in reality.
He crouched in front of you slowly, making sure not to invade your space too suddenly. Then, in that same low voice he always used when speaking seriously, he asked, âWould you feel safer if I guided you through the rest? Or would you prefer to take the lead?â
Your throat was dry, your thoughts in knots. âI donât know what to do,â you admitted softly, hating the vulnerability in your voice.
He nodded, taking your words without judgment. âThatâs alright. Iâll take care of the pacing,â he said. Then he stood and gently reached out a hand.Â
âMay I?â
The question hung between you, soft as a pulse. You glanced down at his outstretched handâpalm upturned, fingers slightly curledâthen back to his face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but his eyes held yours with a quiet intensity. Not hunger, not impatience. Just waiting.
You swallowed, then placed your hand in his.
His grip was warm. Not the dry, clinical touch of a doctor, but something livingâcalluses you hadnât noticed before brushed against your knuckles, subtle proof of hands that worked, that knew their own strength.
He guided you up carefully, his other hand lifting the clipboard from your lap with a precision that bordered on reverence. Every movement was deliberate, unhurried. Like he had all the time in the world.
"Would you be comfortable sitting on my lap?"
His voice was low, barely more than breath against your ear. The question shouldnât have felt so intimateânot here, not like thisâbut something about the way he asked it, the way his thumb traced a slow arc over your wrist as he waited for your answer, made your stomach tighten.
You hesitated.Â
Not from fear, but from the sheer strangeness of it.Â
When was the last time someone had held you? Not for sex, not for comfort, but justâheld you? The thought was almost embarrassing in its simplicity.
Yet you nodded.
Jack stepped back, settling onto the chair first. His posture was relaxed but controlled, thighs slightly parted to make space for you. He didnât pull you down, didnât rush. Just lifted his chin, watching you with those endless black eyes, and let you come to him.
You lowered yourself slowly, every nerve alight. The first brush of your back against his chest was electricânot from arousal, but from the sheer warmth of him. He was solid, real in a way that made your breath stutter. His arms came around your waist, not trapping, not demanding, just there.Â
A steady weight. An anchor.
And thenâhis breath.
You hadnât expected that. The slow, even rise and fall of his chest against your spine, the heat of his exhale skimming the nape of your neck. It was too much. Too close. Your own breathing was shallow, uneven, a frantic counterpoint to his calm.
"Youâre safe."
His voice rumbled through you, deeper now that you were pressed against him. One hand rested lightly above your ribs, his palm a brand even through the fabric of your shirt. The other stayed at your side, thumb tracing idle circles over your hip. Not teasing. Not yet. Just⊠measuring.
"Weâre going slow. All you have to do is exist here."
The words sank into your skin like a balm. Your shoulders dropped, your lungs expanding fully for what felt like the first time in months.Â
The room came into focus around youâthe faint scent of lavender and something darker, earthier, clinging to his clothes. The muted hum of a ceiling fan you hadnât noticed before. The plush give of velvet beneath your fingertips where youâd gripped the armrest. And beneath it all, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.
You closed your eyes.
For the first time in too long, you felt something.
"Just follow my hands."Â
His voice was a murmur, barely louder than the brush of his thumbs along the slope of your neck. You shiveredânot from the cold, but from the sheer attention of it. His hands were warm, palms broad enough to cradle the base of your skull as he worked slow circles into the tense cords of muscle there.
"Breathe," he reminded you, his lips grazing the shell of your ear.
You hadnât realized you were holding your breath.
His touch trailed downward, following the curve of your spine, pausing at the dip between your shoulder blades. There was no hesitation in his movements, no fumblingâjust the smooth, deliberate drag of skin against skin. When his fingers reached the hem of your shirt, he didnât push. Didnât assume. Just splayed his hands over your ribs and waited.
âYou okay, there?â
You nodded, your "yes" escaping as a shaky exhale.Â
His palms slid beneath the fabric, warm against the bare skin of your stomach. You tensed instinctively, but his grip tightenedânot restraining, just steadying. "Easy," he soothed. "This isnât about getting you off. Itâs about learning how you react."
His thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, so light it was almost teasing. You bit your lip, eyes fluttering shut as he traced the outer curves, mapping you with a patience that bordered on maddening.
Thenâhis fingers curled, lifting the fabric higher. Cool air kissed your skin as your shirt rucked up beneath your arms. You glanced down, watching as his hands dwarfed you, his fingers spanning the width of your ribcage.
"Jackâ"
He stilled. "Whatâs wrong?"
You didnât answer.
Instead, you grabbed his wrists, guiding his palms back to your chest. His breath hitched, but he didnât resist. Let you press his hands flush against the soft swell of your breasts through your lace black bra, your nipples pebbling under the rough heat of his touch.
Your voice was thin, frayed at the edges. "Pinch them. Like I do when Iâwhen I try to hurry."
A few seconds of silence. Thenâ
Jack laughed.
Not mocking, not cruel. A soft, breathless sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Thatâs your problem, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumbs already circling your nipples with agonizing slowness. "Youâre always in a rush."
You whined, hips shifting restlessly.
He ignored it. Just kept his touch featherlight, maddeningly gentle, even as you squirmed. "You donât need to chase it," he chided, his voice dipping into something darker. "Let it come to you."
Thenâfinallyâhe gave you what you asked for.Â
His fingers tightened, just shy of pain, and your back arched off his chest with a gasp. "There," he murmured, satisfied. "Now youâre listening." He simply grinned.
âAlso, you came prepared."
His voice was low, amused, as his thumbs brushed the hem of your maxi skirtâdark fabric pooling around your hips where you sat straddling his lap. You stiffened slightly at the words, fingers twitching against his hands.
"What do you mean?" you asked, though the heat creeping up your neck already betrayed your understanding.
Jack didnât answer right away. His hands slid up your sides, tracing the notches of your ribs through your thin top before his thumbs found the peaks of your nipples. He pinchedâjust soânot harsh, but enough to make your breath hitch. A slow, circular rub followed, the friction deliberate, studying the way your body tensed and released beneath his touch.
âBlack lace bra, matching black lace panties,â he observed, voice rough with something that wasnât quite approval. "Skirt easy to remove. You knew what this session would require."
You opened your mouth to protest, but his hands were already moving down, palms skating over the flare of your hips, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your skirt.
The leather belt came undone with a quiet snick, the circle buckle cool where it grazed your stomach before he set it aside. His knuckles brushed your navel as he pushed the fabric down, letting it slide to the floor in a whisper of fabric.
His hands settled on your bare thighs now, just shy of the lace edge of your underwear. You could feel your own dampnessâfaint, but thereâand the realization sent a fresh wave of heat through you.
Jack noticed. Of course he did.
"Show me," he said, fingers flexing against your skin.
"How you usually touch yourself."
Your pulse thudded in your ears. For a moment, you just stared at himâhis gaze unwavering, those black eyes absorbing every twitch of your expression. Then, hesitantly, you crossed your legs, pressing your thighs together in a slow, practiced grind.
Jackâs brows lifted. "What are you doing?"
"I donât⊠use my fingers," you admitted, voice barely audible. "They donâtâ It doesnât feel like enough."
A few seconds of silence. Then, a low, incredulous laugh rumbled in his chest. "You get off like this?" His grip tightened slightly on your thighs, as if to emphasize the absurdity. "No wonder youâve numbed yourself. This much pressureâcrossing your legs would dull anyoneâs nerves."
You flinched, but his hands gentled instantly, one sliding up to cradle your jaw. "Iâm not mocking you," he murmured. "But if youâll let meâ" His thumb brushed your lower lip. "âIâd like to teach you how to do it properly."
Your mouth went dry. "Okay," you whispered.
Jackâs smile was sharp. "Good."
Then his hands were on your hips, lifting you effortlessly to reposition youâknees bracketing his thighs, lace-clad cunt hovering just above the hard line of his own arousal. You hadnât even noticed it before, but now it was impossible to ignore: the heat of him, the way his breath shallowed when your inner thighs brushed against him.
"First lesson," he said, fingers tracing the soaked seam of your underwear. "You donât need to crush the sensation to feel it. You need to tease it."
And thenâslow, torturousâhe dragged the lace aside.
"Youâre wet."
His voice was low, matter-of-fact, as his thumb brushed over the soft, puffy lips of your cunt. Not probing, not demandingâjust noticing. The contact was featherlight, barely there, but it sent a jolt through you anyway. Your hips twitched, a reflexive flinch, but his other hand anchored your thigh, keeping you still.
"Probably from me touching your breasts earlier," he mused, more to himself than to you. His fingers retreated, glistening faintly in the dim light. He studied them for a moment, then met your eyes. "You donât even realize it, do you? Your body reacts before your mind catches up."
You swallowed. You hadnât realized. The slow, methodical way heâd palmed your breastsâthumbs circling your nipples through the fabric of the lace bra, his breath hot on your neckâhad felt clinical at the time. Like an assessment. But now, with his fingers hovering just above your clit, the evidence was undeniable.
Jack tilted his head. "One last chance," he murmured. "Is there anywhereâanywhere at allâthat makes you feel good? Even just a little?"
You opened your mouth. Closed it.Â
Your mind was blank, your nerves alight but directionless. Youâd spent so long numb that the mere possibility of pleasure felt like a foreign language.
He sighed. Not frustrated. Resigned.
"Then I need you wetter."
His hands slid down to your hips, gripping firmly. "Stand up."
The command was quiet but absolute. You obeyed on shaky legs, and you rose. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for you to tenseâ
Slap.
The sound was sharp, sudden. His palm connected with the curve of your ass, not hard enough to sting, but enough to make you gasp. Your muscles clenched, a startled noise catching in your throat, but he was already lifting you, effortlessly, like you weighed nothing. Your underwear peeled away, the fabric dragging against your thighs before pooling at your ankles.
"Step out."
You did. The air was cool against your bare skin, a contrast to the heat building low in your stomach. When you turned to face him, Jack was still seated, his gaze dark and unwavering. He held your discarded underwear between two fingers, studying the damp spot with detached interest before setting them aside.
"Good," he said, as if youâd passed some unspoken test. His hands returned to your hips, guiding you forward until you stood between his spread knees.Â
"Now. Letâs try something simple."
One broad palm settled on the inside of your thigh, pressing inânot teasing, not stroking, just pressure. The heel of his hand ground against your muscles, slow and firm, and your breath hitched.
"There it is," he murmured, watching your face. "You donât need finesse. You just need to be felt." His other hand mirrored the motion on your opposite thigh, fingers digging into the tense flesh. You swayed, your knees threatening to buckle, but his grip held you upright.
"Breathe," he reminded you, his thumbs creeping higher. "Just breathe. I want to test something."
Jackâs voice was low, a rumble against your spine. You felt his hands shift on your hips, his grip firm but not demandingâjust enough to steer. His thumb brushed the jut of your hipbone, a silent question.
You tilted your head, frowning. His thigh?
Before you could voice the confusion, he was already moving you. His palms pressed into the softness above your waist, guiding you forward until your bare cunt settled against the hard muscle of his thigh. The fabric of his pants was rough against your sensitive skin, a stark contrast to the heat building beneath.
"Slowly," he murmured, his breath warm on your shoulder.
His hands moved you first, a deliberate rock of your hips against him, letting you feel the drag of friction. It was clinical at firstâan experiment, an assessmentâbut then your body reacted. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickered low in your stomach.
Your breath hitched.
Jack stilled, his fingers flexing against your hips. "You felt that." It wasnât a question.
You nodded, your throat tight.
"Good." His voice was dark with satisfaction. "Now, do it yourself."
He released you, his palms sliding away until only the ghost of his touch remained. For a moment, you hesitated, hovering above him, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding yourself up. Then, tentatively, you rolled your hips.
The sensation was sharper this timeâless controlled, more yours. A quiet sound escaped you, barely more than a sigh. Jackâs exhale was ragged against your neck, his own restraint fraying at the edges as he watched you.
"Again."
You obeyed, rocking forward with more confidence this time. The pressure was perfectâjust enough to tease, not enough to overwhelm. Your fingers dug into his knees for balance as you moved, your pace quickening without thought.
"Look at you," Jack murmured, his voice thick. "Finally feeling something." His hands returned, not to guide you, but to feel youâhis thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist, his fingers spanning the curve of your ass, tracing the way your body moved against him. Every touch was possessive, reverent. Like he was memorizing the way you came undone.
Your breath came faster, your hips grinding down in desperate little circles now. The coil in your stomach tightened, your nerves alight with something raw and new. You werenât just touching yourselfâyou were using him, his strength, his stillness, the unyielding muscle of his thigh giving you exactly what you needed.
"Slow down." His voice was a blade wrapped in velvetâsmooth, but with an edge that made your breath hitch. His fingers curled around your wrist, halting the frantic rhythm of your own touch. You hadnât even realized youâd started moving against him, hips stuttering with restless need. His grip tightened just enough to emphasize the point, his thumb pressing into your pulse like he was counting every erratic beat.
âBe careful, donât rush your lesson now.â
Before you could protest, his hands were on your hips, turning you in his lap until you were straddling him backwardâyour spine pressed flush to his chest, his thighs bracketing yours. The shift was effortless, his strength unsettling in its ease. One arm banded around your waist, holding you in place. The otherâ
Slap.
A sharp, stinging bite against your bare cunt, just hard enough to make you gasp. The sound echoed in the quiet room, followed by the slick, obscene proof of how wet you were.
"Look at that," Jack murmured, his voice a dark hum against your ear. His fingers glided through your folds with clinical precision, spreading you open like a specimen he couldnât wait to study.
"Dripping. And weâve barely started."
His touch was cold. Not unpleasantly so, but enough to make you flinchâa stark contrast to the heat between your legs. You hadnât noticed before, too lost in the haze of his control, but now it was all you could focus on. The chill of his skin as he dragged a single finger up your slit, circling your clit with agonizing slowness.
"Good girl," he praised, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Look how far youâve gotten. All tense and desperate, just for me."
You could hear the smirk in his voice. Could feel it in the way his fingers worked youâteasing, taunting, never giving you enough. Just slow, maddening circles that had your thighs trembling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, holding you steady as your hips jerked, seeking more friction.
"Ah-ah." A warning nip at your earlobe. "I decide when you come. Not you."
His sharp smile pressed against your throat as you whined, fingers clawing at his thighs. "Patience. There you go," Jack murmured, his voice a dark velvet rasp against your ear. "Just like that."
You didnât remember when youâd gotten fully naked.Â
One moment, you were perched on his lap, his hands mapping the tension in your hipsâthe next, your clothes were gone, discarded somewhere in the hazy periphery of your awareness. Jackâs cool skin was against your bare skin, but your body was warm, more like a furnace against him.Â
His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, slow and methodical, pausing just shy of where you ached. "Tell me what you feel," he said, his breath hot on your shoulder.
"Iâ" Your voice cracked.Â
You were wet. So fucking wet it almost embarrassed youâa slick, shameful heat that had no business pooling this fast under the touch of a man who spoke like a surgeon and held you like a sacrament.
Jack hummed, low and approving. "Good. Thatâs exactly how you should be." His free hand slid up your stomach, palming your breast with a possessiveness that made your back arch. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb brushing over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles. "So responsive. So eager to learn."
You whimpered.
His chuckle was a dark, honeyed thing. "Ah, thereâs the sound Iâve been waiting for." He pinched your nipple just soânot enough to hurt, just enough to make your hips jerkâand you gasped, your thighs trembling around his.
"Youâre perfect like this," he continued, his voice dipping into something rougher. "All soft curves and pretty, desperate noises. I adore the ones with meat on their bonesâsomething to hold, to savor." His teeth grazed your shoulder, blunt and teasing.
"Youâre exactly my type."
Your breath came in shallow pants.Â
It was too much. Not enough. His words coiled hot in your belly, his touch everywhereâone hand still working your nipple, the other now dragging through your slick folds with agonizing patience. "Jackâ"
"Shh." He pressed a kiss to the hinge of your jaw. "Let me teach you." His fingers parted you gently, his middle finger circling your clit with just the barest pressure. "This is where you start," he murmured. "Slow. Gentle. Let the ache build."
You bit your lip, hips twitching.
"No, noâlook." He caught your wrist, guiding your hand down between your legs, his fingers overlaying yours. "Feel that? The way your body pulses when you touch here?" His voice was a sinful whisper, his breath damp against your neck. "Thatâs your hunger. Donât rush it. Feed it."
You shuddered, his words searing into your skin. His fingers moved yours in slow, slick strokesâshowing you the rhythm, the pressure, the filthy, perfect angle that made your vision blur.Â
"Youâre so quiet."
Jackâs voice was a low murmur against your ear, his breath warm where his lips nearly brushed your skin. His fingers, still curled gently around your waist, flexed onceâa silent prompt.
You hadnât realized how little sound youâd made until he pointed it out. No moans, no hitched breaths. Just the soft, steady rhythm of your lungs fighting to stay even.
His head tilted, those black eyes scanning your face, again like a surgeon assessing an incision. "Not even a sigh," he mused. "Care to explain?"
You swallowed. "Thereâs no point," you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Jack went very still behind you. Then, slowly, his hand slid up your torso, his palm skimming the curve of your ribs before settling just beneath your breast. His thumb pressed there, not quite teasing, not quite cruelâjust present.
"Are you sure?"
The question hung in the air for half a heartbeat before his other hand dipped between your thighs.
You gasped.
His fingers were bigger than yoursâwider, rougher in a way that shouldnât have been as intoxicating as it was. A single digit pressed inside without warning, stretching you in a single, smooth motion.Â
Your back arched instinctively, your nails digging into the arm still wrapped around your waist. "Breathe," Jack reminded you, his voice dark with amusement. "And explain."
You tried. God, you tried. But your thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm as he began to moveâslow, deliberate drags in and out, his knuckles brushing sensitive flesh with every retreat.Â
Your hips jerked, chasing the sensation, but his grip on your waist held firm, keeping you pinned against his chest. "Iâ" You choked on the word as his thumb circled your clit, feather-light. "I neverâneededâto moan."
Jack tsked, his free hand sliding up to squeeze your breast, fingers plucking at your nipple just hard enough to make you jolt. "Try again."
"It was justâquick," you panted, your thighs trembling around his wrist. "Just toâto relax. Neverâah!ânever like this."
He hummed, considering. His finger curled inside you, pressing up in a way that made your vision blur. "Can you handle another?"
You nodded frantically.
Jackâs grip on your breast tightened in warning. "Words, sweetheart."
"Y-yesâ"
The second finger breached you before you could finish, stretching you impossibly wider. Your legs spasmed, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your body clenched around him. It was too muchâthe stretch, the heat, the way your own slick coated his fingers with every thrust. You could hear it, wet and obscene, and the sound alone sent a fresh wave of heat flooding between your thighs.
Jackâs lips grazed your shoulder. "Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick with something like pride. "Dripping all over my fingers and youâve barely made a sound."
You sighed softly, your hips rocking helplessly against his hand.
Then Jack stops.
You donât realize heâs moved until his hands leave your waist, the sudden absence of his touch like a cold draft against your skin. You start to turn your head, confusedâ
And then he lifts you.
Effortlessly. As if your weight is nothing. One arm hooks under your knees, the other cradles your back, and in a single motion, he stands, taking you with him. Your breath hitches, fingers scrambling for purchase against his shoulders as the world tilts.
"Whaâ?"
No warning. No explanation. Just the dizzying shift of gravity as he carries you the few steps to the bed and drops youâsoftly, deliberatelyâinto the nest of pillows. Your head sinks into the downy embrace, hair fanning out around you.
And then heâs over you.Â
Knees bracketing your hips, palms planted on either side of your head, his shadow swallowing you whole.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Up close, the sheer size of him is startling. You knew he was tall, but like thisâhis torso blocking the light, his thighs pressing yours widerâheâs overwhelming. Lean, yes, but corded with a strength that makes your stomach flip. His shirt stretches tight across his shoulders, the fabric straining with the faintest shift of muscle as he leans down.
"Iâm offering you an experience," he murmurs, voice like gravel wrapped in silk. "A real one."
Your pulse stutters. "W-why?"
His lips curlâjust slightly. "Because Iâve touched you everywhere. Played with your breasts. Slapped your pretty cunt. Even fingered you." A pause, deliberate. "And you didnât come. Not once."
The words shouldnât burn. Not when he says them like heâs reciting lab results. But they do. Your face flames, thighs pressing together instinctivelyâonly for his knee to nudge them back apart. "You got wet," he continues, thumb brushing your lower lip. "But wetness isnât your goal. You want you to come. Hard. And Iâm willing to make that happen."
Your breath is coming too fast now. "H-how?"
Jackâs smile is all teeth. "By eating you out."
Your entire body locks up. Eating you out. The phrase rattles in your skull like a stone in a tin can. Youâve neverâno oneâs everâGod, you donât even know what itâs supposed to feel like. Just the thought of his mouth there, his tongueâ
No. No no no.
You jerk your head to the side, one hand slapping over your eyes like a child hiding from a nightmare. Itâs ridiculous. Youâre a grown woman. A medical student, for Christâs sake. But the heat in your cheeks is volcanic, your chest so tight it aches.
A chuckleâamusedâvibrates through the mattress. "Tiny thing," Jack muses, "and yet so scared." Then his fingers wrap around your wrist, prying your hand away from your face. "Look at me."
You donât want to. You do.Â
Andâoh.Â
The face mask is gone.
His face isâHandsome isnât the right word. Itâs too⊠non-human, too soft. Jack is all edges: sharp cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, lips just a shade too red against the cool gray of his skin. His brown hair is a mess of waves, half-tamed, like heâs been running his hands through it. And his earsâthose damn pointed earsâtwitch faintly as he studies your reaction.
Butâwith his full face, his eyes that steal your breath.Â
Pitch black. No whites, no pupils, just endless depthâlike staring into a well at midnight. And beneath them, those faint, inky tear lines, as if heâs been crying shadows.Â
You should be terrified. This isnât a man. This is something other. Something that shouldnât exist outside of folklore or fever dreams.
But heâs also hot. Professionally, clinically hot.
And heâs looking at you like youâre the fascinating one.
Your throat bobs. "Iâ"
Jack doesnât let you finish. He lifts your captured hand to his mouthâand bites your palm. Not hard. Not enough to break skin. Just a slow, deliberate press of teeth, his tongue flicking against the fleshy base of your thumb. A shiver rockets down your spine.
"Itâs okay to be scared," he murmurs against your skin. "Iâll be gentle." A pause. "Unless you want me to be rough."
The option hangs between you, ripe as fruit. You groan, rolling your eyes like youâre not already arching into him. "Justâjust fucking do it, Jack."
His grin is wicked. "Good girl." His lips pressed against yours without warning, but not without permissionâthe kind youâd given with your breath hitching, with your fingers curling into the sheets of the bed. It wasnât sweet. It wasnât soft. It was claiming, a hot, deliberate slide of his mouth over yours, his teeth catching your lower lip just hard enough to make you gasp.
"Open," he murmured against you, voice dark as spilled ink.
You hesitatedâjust for a heartbeatâbefore parting your lips.
He didnât wait. His tongue swept in, hot and relentless, tangling with yours in a way that felt less like an invitation and more like a taking. Your mouth felt full, overwhelmed, every flick and twist of his tongue dragging a muffled sound from your throat. He kissed you like he was mapping you, like he could taste the years of numbness on your tongue and was determined to burn it away.
When he finally pulled back, your lips were wet, swollen. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, catching a thread of saliva, and his eyes locked onto yours. "Good," he said, low and rough.Â
"So good for me already."
Then he was moving down.
He didnât rush. Every inch of you was a ritual. His lips traced the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse, the hollow of your throatâeach touch a brand. His hands followed, sliding down your sides, fingertips pressing just hard enough to make you arch.
When he reached your breasts, he paused. His breath was hot against your skin as he looked up at you, those black eyes glinting. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he saidâbut it wasnât a question. It was a reminder. That you were still in control. That he wouldnât take what you didnât give.
You didnât tell him to stop.
His mouth closed over one nipple, tongue circling slow and wet before his teeth grazed the peak. Your back bowed off the chair, a broken noise tearing from your lips. He hummed, pleased, his free hand cupping your other breast, thumb rolling over the neglected nipple until it ached.
"Jackâ" you gasped.
He pulled back just enough to smirk. "You sound pretty when you say my name." Then he switched sides, lavishing the same torment on your other breast, his fingers pinching the first just enough to make your thighs jerk together.
He didnât let you. His knee slid between yours, forcing them apart. "None of that," he chided, voice dripping with amusement. "I havenât even gotten to the best part yet."
His lips trailed lowerâover the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, the trembling plane of your stomach. Every kiss was a brand, every nip of his teeth a spark, then glancing up at you. "Last chance to say no."
You didnât.
His hands slid up your bare legs, fingertips pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider. The first breath he took against your cunt was audibleâa slow, deliberate inhale. His groan vibrated through you. "Fuck. You smell perfect."
You shuddered, hips lifting instinctively, but his grip tightened, holding you down. "Ah-ah. Iâll take care of you. Just let me." His hands slid beneath you, palms broad and warm against the curve of your ass, lifting you just enough to adjust your weight.Â
The grip was firmânot demanding, but certain, like he knew exactly how to hold you without letting you strain. Your thighs fell open wider, almost embarrassingly so, the cool air of the room brushing against skin that had never felt so exposed.
Then his mouth.
Cold at firstâa shock of contrast where you were already throbbingâhis lips pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Not where you wanted him, not yet. He was savoring this, tracing the delicate crease where leg met hip with the tip of his nose, inhaling like you were something sacred. Your fingers twitched against the sheets, then found his face, cupping his jaw as if to steady yourself. His stubble scraped lightly against your palm, rough and real.
When his tongue finally dragged a long, flat stroke up your center, your back arched off the chair. A gasp tore from your throat, your hand fisting in his hair before you could think to stop yourself. Brown strands wrapped around your fingers, silky and thick, and you pulledâjust enough to hear him groan against you.
The vibration rolled through your nerves like a shockwave.
"Fuckâ" you choked out, hips jerking.
Jackâs breath hitched, his nose bumping your clit as he glanced up. "Sorry," he murmured, voice already wrecked. But you didnât let him retreat.Â
Your thighs clamped around his head, heels digging into his back, holding him in place with a desperation that shouldâve embarrassed you.
"Donât you dare stop."
A huff of laughter warmed your skin before he obeyed, diving back in with a focus that made your toes curl. His tongue was relentless nowâflicking, circling, then pressing inside with a twist that had you seeing stars. One of his hands slid up your body, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb brushing your nipple in time with every lick.Â
You whimpered, the dual sensation short-circuiting your thoughts.
And the soundsâyour moans pitched higher, breathier, tumbling from your lips like prayers. His ears twitched at each one, the pointed tips flicking forward as if to catch every broken sigh. You could feel how much it pleased him, the way his fingers flexed against your ribs, the way his hips shifted restlessly between your legs like he was holding himself back from grinding into the chair.
Then his free hand gripped your thigh, pushing it wider, deeper, as he sucked your clit between his lips.
Your vision whited out.
"Jackâ" you sobbed, thighs trembling around him.
He hummed in response, the sound vibrating straight through your core, and you ground against his face, chasing the pleasure like youâd die without it. His fingers pinched your nipple just shy of pain, and you came with a cry so loud it echoed off the velvet walls.
Jack didnât let up. Not until you were squirming, oversensitive, your hands fluttering weakly against his shoulders in protest. Only then did he lean back, lips glistening, chin damp, his breathing as ragged as yours.
"Good?" he asked, though the smirk in his voice said he already knew.
You could only stare at him, dazed, your chest heaving.
Slowly, deliberately, he licked his lips.
"Letâs try that again."
Your breath hitched. Again? Youâd already come onceâshaking, gasping, your thighs clamped around his head like a vice. But Jack wasnât satisfied. No, the way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his lips glistened with you as he pulled back to smirk up at youâhe wanted more.
"You didnât scream," he murmured, dragging his tongueâtongues?âslowly up your inner thigh. "You didnât even beg. And from the way your body locked up just now?" A chuckle, dark and knowing.Â
"You wanted to come hard."
Damn him. Damn him for reading you like a medical chart, for seeing the truth in the way your back arched, the way your fingers twisted in the sheets. You had wanted it rough. Needed it. Months of numbness, of dull, mechanical friction, and here he wasâruining you with just his mouth.
And thenâ
His lips sealed over you again, and this time, there was no teasing.
One thick, slick stroke of his tongue from entrance to clit, and your back bowed off the chair. A whimper tore from your throat as he flickedâsharp, mercilessâagainst your oversensitive bundle of nerves. The noise you made was pathetic, broken, and Jack growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core.
"There it is," he murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face as his tonguesâwhat the fuckâpressed against your entrance. "That little gasp. Thatâs the sound of you feeling something."
Then he pushed in.
One out of his three tongues. Your vision whited out.
The middle one was thick, ridged, fucking into you with slow, deliberate thrusts while the other two coiled around your clit, lapping and squeezing in tandem. It was too much. It wasnât enough.Â
Your hips jerked, desperate, but Jackâs grip on your thighs was iron, holding you open, forcing you to take it. "You wanna take a closer look?" he teased, pulling back just enough to let you see.
Your stomach dropped.
Three tongues. Long, sinuous, glistening with your arousal. The middle one tapered to a wicked point, the other two slightly shorter but no less skilled, curling lazily in the air like they were tasting you already.
"Whaâ" you choked out, but Jack just grinned, all sharp teeth and dark amusement.
"Special case, special treatment," he purred, lowering his mouth again. "And you, sweet thing? Youâre very special."
The middle tongue speared into you, deeper this time, fucking in and out with a rhythm that had your toes curling. The other two twisted around your clit, one applying steady pressure while the other flicked rapidly, brutally, over the swollen bud.
You sobbed. "Jackâfuckâ!"
He hummed, the sound vibrating through your entire body. "Thatâs it. Let go." You couldnât. You were too busy unraveling, your orgasm crashing into you like a tidal wave, your thighs trembling, your nails clawing in his brown hair beneath you. It was too much, the overstimulation bordering on pain, but Jack didnât stop. Didnât let up. Just kept working you, dragging out every last shudder, every broken gasp.
And thenâ
"Teach me how to scream," you begged, voice raw.
Jackâs eyes gleamed. "Gladly." He quickly stops.Â
The shift is sudden, but not rushed. One moment, youâre cradled against the bed, lulled by the rhythm of his tongue was just deep inside you; the next, his hands are guiding you up, turning you with a quiet certainty that leaves no room for hesitation.
He leans back onto the bed, creaking softly. His movements are fluid, almost predatory in their precisionâstretching out like a shadow given form, his head propped against the pillows, those black eyes fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse stutter.
âCome here.â
His voice is rougher now, the clinical detachment fraying at the edges. A command, not a request.
You hesitate, knees sinking into the mattress beside his hips. The air between you is thick with the scent of your own arousal, the slick heat between your thighs impossible to ignore. Jackâs nostrils flare, his tongue darting out to wet his lipsâtoo sharp, too pointedâand suddenly, the reality of what heâs asking crashes over you.
Sit on his face.
Your breath hitches. âIâI donât know if I canââ
âYou can.â His hands slide up your thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your knees. âAnd I can take it.â Thereâs a dark promise in his words, a dare.Â
âI want you to scream my name like itâs going out of style.â
You move.
Clumsy with want, you straddle his chest, one hand braced against the headboard for balance. Jack doesnât rush you. He watches, eyes swallowing whatever faint light exists in the room, as you lower yourselfâinch by trembling inchâuntil your thighs frame his face, until the heat of your cunt hovers just above his mouth.
His breath ghosts over you, hot and deliberate.
Then contact.
The first lick is slow, almost reverent. A flat, wet stroke from entrance to clit that has your back arching, your fingers tangling in his hair. Jack groans, the vibration against your sensitive flesh drawing a broken sound from your throat.
âFuckâ!â
He doesnât let you recover. His tongue flicks, teasing your clit before plunging deeper, fucking into you with a rhythm thatâs too perfect, too practiced. You gasp, hips jerking forward, but his hands clamp down on your thighs, holding you in place.
âStay.â The word is muffled against your skin, but the order is clear.
You whimper, nails scraping his scalp as his tongue curls inside you, fucking in and out with obscene precision. Itâs too much. Itâs not enough. Your thighs shake, your breath coming in ragged pants, but Jack doesnât relent.
Thenâa sudden second pressure, another tongueâthicker, rougherâjoins the first, lapping at your entrance before pushing in alongside it. Your eyes fly open, a strangled moan tearing from your lips. What the hellâ?!Â
Jackâs grip on your thighs tightens, his breaths coming faster now, his cheeks hollowing as he sucks, dragging both tongues over that sweet, spongy spot inside you. Your vision goes whites out.
âJ-Jackâ!â
He growls, the sound vibrating through your core. His mouth is still on you when you feel itâsomething wrong. A slow, slick pressure, thinner than his tongue, curling against your inner thigh like a living thing. Your breath hitches, muscles locking, but Jack doesnât let you pull away. His hands tighten on your hips, pinning you in place as that third tongueâfuck, itâs a third tongueâslithers up through the mess heâs already made of you.
It flicks once, twice, against your clit, teasing the swollen bud before pushing in alongside the others.
You scream.
Itâs too muchâthe stretch, the fullness, the way he spears into you with a hunger that borders on violence. His teeth graze your thigh, his nails carving half-moons into your skin as he fucks into you with that unnatural muscle, coiling and twisting inside you like heâs trying to carve his name into your walls.
Jackâs eyes roll back, his hips jerking beneath you as if heâs the one being ruined. His face is glazed with your slick, lips swollen and shining, breath coming in ragged, animal pants. He doesnât stop. Canât stop. Not when you sob his name like a prayer, not when your nails tear bloody furrows through his hair, not when your thighs shake and your vision whites outâ
âbecause then youâre coming, hard enough to choke on it, your orgasm ripping through you like a live wire.
He drinks it down. Every spasm, every pulse, his tongues working you through it until youâre wrung dry, until your screams dissolve into broken whimpers. Only then does he let you collapse, your body limp, your mind wiped blank.
Jack exhales, slow and satisfied, his fingers tracing idle, possessive circles on your trembling thighs.
You just came hard enough to black outâvision tunneling, muscles seizing, a silent scream locked behind your teethâbut he catches you before you fall. His arms wrap around you, cradling your limp form against his chest with an unsettling gentleness. His lips brush your forehead in a mockery of tenderness, the gesture sweet enough to make your stomach twist.Â
Then, with deliberate slowness, he drags his teeth over your collarbone, biting down just hard enough to bruise.
You gasp, jerking in his hold, but he doesnât let you pull away. His grip tightens, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your waist like heâs memorizing the give of it.
"ShhhhhâŠ"
His voice is a dark purr, thick with something that isnât quite human. You feel it vibrate through your ribs, deep and resonant, like the hum of a predator after a good meal. His breath is warm against your skin, but his mouthâwhen he licks a slow stripe up your throatâis cold.
Too cold.
You try to twist away, but his free hand slides up to cover your mouth before you can scream. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, forcing your jaw open just slightly, and he leans in, inhaling like heâs savoring the scent of your panic.
"Shhhh... Thereâs no need to scream now," he murmurs, voice dripping with false reassurance.
Thatâs when you see it.
The black.
Not just his eyesâno, those have always been voids, endless and depthlessâbut the slick, tar-like substance now trickling from the corners of his sockets, slow and syrupy, dripping down his cheekbones like tears. It doesnât fall. It clings, viscous and shimmering, before vanishing into the sharp line of his jaw.
You freeze.
Jack notices. Of course he does.
His lips curve into a smileâtoo wide, too knowingâand he leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. "Perfect," he whispers, and this time, when his tongue drags over your pulse point, you taste itâcopper and salt and something sweet, something rotting, something that shouldnât be inside youâ
You whimper.
He hums, pleased, and nips at your earlobe. "You did so perfect for me."
His hands slide down your body, mapping the tremors still wracking your limbs, the damp heat between your thighs. He lingers there, pressing two fingers against your clit with a slow, rhythmic pressure that makes your hips jerk despite yourself.
"But Iâm not done with you yet."
Because the taste of youâfuck, the taste of youâis better than anything heâs ever had. Better than blood, better than flesh, better than every desperate, writhing thing thatâs ever begged beneath his hands.
And he will have more.
Heâll take it slow this time. Heâll let you catch your breath, let your heartbeat settle, let your body remember how to want before he ruins you all over again.
After all, youâre a med student.
Youâll understand the importance of thoroughness. And Jack?