The beige wallpaper inside the gentleman’s club was stained, and peeling in some places, exposing the wooden planks underneath. The tiny flowers dotted at even intervals, once a cheery yellow, were now various shades of orange and brown, made even uglier by the light of the oil lamps along the walls. The sag of the paper in several corners matched the downcast mood of the cramped, badly lit lobby.

This was taken in discreetly by Dutch Van Der Linde, yet he made no comment about it. At an establishment such as this one, the real attraction was the people, not the building.

He walked up to the antiquated counter, where an older man with a large, crooked nose and wrinkly skin sat, puffing away at a fat cigar.

“Yes sir,” the man spoke with a small, knowing smile. He blew a cloud of smoke to the side. “Are you interested in a show? Or perhaps a private room with a girl? We’ve lots of lovely young ladies, the best in Lemoyne. Any size, any color, whatever you want. Cheap rates too.”

Dutch usually felt it was beneath him to patronize such a place, but things back at camp had been so upsetting and melancholy lately that he’d been driven to seek out a different type of thrill entirely. Just for one night…

“I’d like to book a room with a girl,” he answered. “And could I make a special request?” 

“‘Course.”

He listed his preferences. “I’d like a cute one. Young, but legal. Perhaps…one that hasn’t been here for long.” 

There was just something special about laying with a woman on the younger side, in Dutch’s opinion. One that wasn’t sullied and jaded by the aches of the world. He liked the zest for life so many of them had— yet, without fail, that enthusiasm eventually faded. It happened with Susan, and it had begun happening with Molly. That was a great tragedy of his life; he could never hold on to that feeling of sunshine— eventually, the rains came.

The man nodded and thought for a bit, taking another drag on his cigar. “I tell you what, sir, we not too long ago got a wonderful girl. She’s very pretty, she’ll lay down and take anything you give her—”

“That’s- that’s fine,” Dutch interrupted, not wanting to stand in this dingy room any longer. “What room?” He shifted, looking at the worn wooden staircase to the left of the room. 

“2C should be open,” the man informed him, gesturing towards the staircase. “That’s the second floor, second room on the right. I’ll collect the girl and she’ll meet you there, yeah?”

“Thanks,” Dutch grunted. After he paid, he ventured up the creaky stairs and found 2C easily. He could hear faint moans coming from some of the other rooms. Pushing open the door, he stepped into a small, simply decorated room with a bed and a couple of chairs with thin beige cushions. He calmly took off his shoes and vest, then sat on the cream-and-red bedspread and waited.

You’d just gotten dressed after a bath when a knock came at your door. The Saint Denis sun had almost completely dipped, and rays of purple were overtaking the yellow and orange sky. You’d been hoping to turn into bed early; it had been a rare day with no clients.

Mr. Gelding called your name just as you opened the door. He was a large, overbearingly friendly man, though to his credit he never crossed the line. He was one of several managers in Landry Gentlemen's Club— they all oversaw the daily events of the club, as well as providing protection and support to the girls. That was a big reason you preferred to work here instead of simply catcalling on the streets; it provided greater job security.

This— providing various services to men— was your line of work. Had been, for the past 6 months. It paid the bills much faster than a regular job, and you were able to squander a little cash every week. Eventually you wanted to get a small place of your own—perhaps in Strawberry— but until then, you would work here.

Prior to this, you had juggled 2 jobs: toiling for a rancher by day, and working as a bargirl by night. After your father had left your mother when you were ten, you’d worked to support the family.

Then your mother, who’d always had a weak immune system, succumbed to a particularly bad fever soon after you’d turned nineteen. The rancher you worked under had at least been understanding and let you stay on the farm with a discounted rent, but even with that discount you struggled to make ends meet. Thus, you’d sought out a more lucrative line of work and started working at the gentleman’s club.

Only the girls who provided direct sexual services to clients actually lived in these quarters. Most of the dancers and performers came and worked, then left for their own homes. After being hired, you’d moved here out of convenience. This particular building was a little offset from the performance area, but still basically next door to it. It was quite small; two stories high, with plain hallways that had several doors on either side leading to the girls’ private rooms.

Your room was simply decorated, just a plain bed with your keepsakes hidden underneath it. The savings you’d earned so far were in a lockbox shoved deep in the closet.

“Missy, don’t turn in just yet,” Mr. Gelding spoke in a jovial voice. “You’ve got a client waiting in 2C.” He leaned against the doorway, smelling of cigar smoke and sweat.

“Oh,” you spoke, silently mourning the free time you’d had. Then again, more clients meant more money.

“He seems pretty wealthy, between you and me,” he added in a lower tone. “Be a good girl for him and he might pay a little extra.” He chuckled, then patted your shoulder.

After Mr. Gelding left, you quickly changed into a simple red dress. You’d noticed that men liked that color a lot, for whatever reason. A quick brush of the hair and of your teeth, and you were ready.

You wasted no time in walking over to the “performance building”. On the right side was where the showgirls and dancers performed, and on the left were the private rooms. You entered on the left side.

Climbing up the creaky staircase, you brushed by Millie, another worker here. She was quite a bit older than you, perhaps 30 or 35. Sometimes you wondered how long she’d been here.

Well, that was not going to be you. This was strictly a temporary job.

Standing in front of 2C, you took a moment to pat down your hair and put on a soft smile. Then you entered the room.

Sitting on the bed was a man in the best sense of the word. You hadn’t known what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t this. He was quite tall and broad, with a dark crop of curls and a large nose, which sat right above a neatly trimmed mustache. He had on a simple white and blue striped button-up and black pants. You could see the vest that he’d taken off and laid on the chair was made of a soft red velvet, with golden chains attached. Oh my. 

“Hello,” he greeted you, smiling a bit. He seemed just a tad nervous. It was clear he was older, maybe in his forties. Was he married?

“Hello sir,” you replied softly, closing the door behind you. You padded over and took off your shoes. “‘S nice to meet you.” You told him your name.

He repeated it, lips curling a bit. “I’m Dutch.”

Even him smiling couldn’t soften the serious look on his face. His brown eyes were rather dark, and his brow was heavy and thick. You felt both anxious and drawn in by them.

“What would you like me to do, Dutch?” you asked, sitting on the bed beside him. You placed your hand on his large, grizzled one with practiced ease.

He cleared his throat. “I-I must apologize, I’ve never hired a prostitute before.”

You smiled. “That’s alright, sir.” Pulling him in closer, you gently pressed your lips against his.

Dutch, seemingly unsure for a moment, hesitated, then returned the kiss. His mustache tickled your nostrils as he softly kissed you.

Your fingers became intertwined with his, and he grew more bold, cupping your face with his free hand and kissing you more earnestly. The cold metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

Quite rapidly, Dutch took control, pushing you down onto the bed and slipping his tongue into your mouth. You sighed softly, liking how direct he was now. The bedframe creaked quietly with your combined weight.

 Dutch’s tongue explored your mouth for a good while, and his hands traveled from your face to your chest. He gently squeezed your left breast, running a thumb over the fabric protecting your sensitive nipple. Within a minute he had teased them both to stiff peaks, with you mewling quietly underneath him.

Finally, Dutch broke the kiss. You both took a moment to catch your breath and he wiped off his mouth.

His demeanor had changed a lot. Now his face seemed even more serious; his pupils reflected lustful thoughts, and he carried himself more confidently.

“I’d like a blowjob, love,” he requested, sighing. “I need to relax. Will you do that for me?”

You weren’t sure when this shift in dynamic had happened. Perhaps when he’d pushed you onto the bed. Now, you sensed that this was a powerful man, one who was used to getting what he wanted. Suddenly you were craving to satisfy him, to fulfill his hidden desires. 

“Yes, sir,” you whispered.

He’d wasted no time in removing his clothes. You slipped out of your dress and bloomers while Dutch stripped naked as well, putting all his clothes in a neat pile on the chair. Then he got back on the bed, laying down with his legs spread wide enough for you to lay between them. His muscular chest was covered in dark hair, with a nice thick happy trail down to his groin.

As you got in position, you surveyed his cock and your eyes got big. He was very large, with veins running prominently up the shaft to his tip, flushed red and already leaking precum, and down to the thick mess of hair around his base. His balls were nicely rounded and large as well.

His cock was already mostly hard; it was slightly curved, and stuck out so his leaky tip was mere inches away from your lips.

Holding your breath, you grasped his thick cock between your index finger and thumb, gently massaging a small spot on his tip.

Dutch inhaled sharply and threw his head back, running a hand through his shiny black curls.

With one hand, you cupped his balls, and with the other you held his cock at the base and dragged your tongue over his tip. You could feel the muscles of his thighs tightening. He let out a shaky breath.

“That’s a good girl,” he mumbled, eyes closed. “A good fuckin’ girl.”

You continued to lick his tip and shaft and massaged his balls. Your nail very gently grazed the sensitive skin.

Dutch’s hand shot down and he roughly stroked your hair, sighing. “That feels so good, sweetheart, keep going.”

The rhythmic hair stroking felt good. You laid your head on his thigh and sucked on just the tip, slobbering over it good and slowly pumping your hand up and down.

“Yes, babygirl, that’s good,” he moaned. “You know just what daddy likes. So good. So good.”

Dutch’s praise made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, like he was really truly proud of you. No one had been proud of you in a long time.

You doubled your efforts and took more of his cock in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around, putting plenty of spit on his throbbing cock.

Drool was dribbling out the sides of your mouth and oozing down Dutch’s shaft. Removing your mouth from his cock with a small pop, you instead took one of his balls in your mouth.

Dutch groaned loudly, pulling at your hair just a bit. “Oh-ho, you filthy girl…”

You sucked on his balls, switching between them and continuously jerking him off with your hand.

“Oh, honey, this is just what I needed. A good tight cocksleeve to blow me…” He moaned and spread his legs a bit more.

You rapidly swept your tongue across them, back and forth, till Dutch's legs came together and squeezed the sides of your face. You let go of his balls, now drenched in spit, and slurped up his cock again. You couldn’t get enough. It almost had a taste to it, sort of masculine and heavy. Whatever it was, you were addicted. As you coaxed about three quarters of Dutch’s shaft down your throat, you looked up at him in admiration. His eyes were still tightly closed, and the outline of a vein had appeared on his forehead. 

Deepthroating this older man’s cock had set a fire in you that you didn’t know existed. You wanted him to keep calling you a good girl. His good girl.

Suddenly he opened his eyes and you made direct eye contact. You ducked your head down, embarrassed at your no doubt obvious display of affection.

Dutch smirked. “S’okay, honey, nothing to be ashamed of. You’re obsessed with daddy’s cock, huh?”

You nodded sheepishly.

He stroked your face. “You need a daddy to take care of you, love you?” he asked in a husky voice.

Your face burned. He’d seen right through you. Was it that obvious that you were starved of affection? You nodded, again, still sucking lewdly on his cock.

He chuckled. “Oh, I know. I know, sweetheart. So many girls like you, laying down for any excuse of a father figure they can find. S’not your fault.”

When did this become so…real?

“You want that?” Dutch asked, squeezing your ass. “You want me to protect you, teach you right from wrong, make every decision for you?” His voice softened. “Want daddy to take the hurt away?”

His cock slipped out of your mouth and you stared at him, heart pounding so fast you thought your chest would burst into a million butterflies. “Yes,” you whined in a tiny voice that you didn't recognize. “I-I want to be your special girl…”

What is going on? 

He pushed your head back onto his throbbing cock. “Don’t think about anything anymore,” he said in a low voice. “Not your job, not your future, not even what to eat. Daddy’ll do it for you. The only thing that should be in your brain is being a good cocksleeve for daddy.”

You were struggling to remember what had led up to this moment. You faintly remembered being obligated to do this, for payment, but…

Wordlessly, you nodded. Whatever happened in the past didn’t seem that important compared to being an obedient girl for Dutch. He felt warm, and comforting, like a dependable authority figure. You clung to him desperately.

Dutch shifted positions so he was laying on his side. You laid down with him with your head on the blanket.

He held your head in place and pistoned his hips, shoving his cock in and out of your drooling mouth.

“Damn— I’m close, honey, daddy’s close. You’re going to swallow every drop, you hear me?” Dutch growled, pulling your hair so tightly you whined in pain.

You tried to nod but he was fucking your face so violently that all you could do was take it, and try not to pass out. Every thrust made you gag.

It was unclear how long he fucked your face for. You did know that you were drooling freely, all over his cock and the blanket. And that his cock was twitching in your mouth, signaling the load you knew was coming.

‘Fuck— fuck-” Dutch grunted, using your face as if it was nothing more than an inanimate object, sparing no thought on how you felt.

But how you felt was indescribable. It felt like you were finally healing some part of you that died when your father had left, years ago. You weren’t sure if this was roleplay or real life and you didn’t know if you cared, you just wanted to be his girl. Dutch’s girl. 

Finally, he slowed, pushing in a couple more times, then held your hair tightly and let out fractured groans as his cock let out thick, warm splurts of cum down your throat. He fucked your throat with tiny thrusts, emptying his balls and rapidly filling up your mouth.

After a brief pause Dutch pulled out of your mouth, smearing the leftover cum on your cheek. He was breathing heavily and wiped off his sweaty forehead.

Your cheeks bulged with his load, and it took you several gulps to down it all. Then you opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue for him to see that you had swallowed it all.

He inspected it, putting a thumb in your mouth, then patted you on the head. “That’s my good girl.”

Dutch wanted to cuddle afterwards.

He insisted on cleaning you up and wiped up your face with a damp rag. After that he removed the stained bedspread, then pulled you up to lay in his arms. The two of you sat there for a while, you with your eyes half closed and Dutch tracing circles on your knuckles.

You could hear his soft breaths, and feel the rise and fall of his chest. If you never moved again, just stayed stuck in this position for all eternity, you would be happy, you think.

After a few minutes of silence, he spoke. “I wish I could have someone like you at home.”

“Are you married?” you asked curiously. You always felt vaguely bad about sleeping with married men.

He sighed. “Well- no. I never was. But I had a woman…not long ago.”

Was this a sensitive subject for him? “D-Did she, err…”

“She betrayed me,” Dutch said in a low growl. “Took everything we had together, and fuckin’ destroyed it.”

“Oh,” you said wondrously, not quite understanding what he meant. Did he mean she cheated?

He stroked your hair. “I came here because my whole…ahem, family…has been in shambles lately…no one respects authority anymore. No one appreciates the work I put in.”

How could anyone not respect this reverential figure? “How could they do that to you?” you wondered.

“I wish I knew, sweetheart. If only everyone was as obedient as you..” Dutch pressed a kiss to your temple.

You sighed softly. What insane woman had squandered her relationship with him? He was so polite, so serious, so warm. 

She probably just couldn’t handle his intensity.

The two of you relaxed for a few more serene minutes, then Dutch sighed. “I should probably get goin’, honey. As ungrateful as my acquaintances are, they’d be nothing without me. Nothing.” 

Despite his words, he didn’t move. His hand squeezed yours and he furrowed his brow. “I just can’t win. They say I’m too harsh, too controlling. But that’s what it takes to survive! Every fuckin’ day, I put my own needs aside for them. And not one of those…those people appreciates it.”

“That sounds awful,” you agreed. “It sounds like you do so much for them, but no one notices.” You knew that feeling well.

“You’re damn right they don’t,” Dutch grunted. “I don’t even know why I try sometimes.”

“Well…I appreciate you,” you told him shyly.

Dutch smiled. “Thank you, sweetheart. I might have to come back to see you again.” He planted a final parting kiss on your mouth, squeezed your ass again, then rose and got dressed.

You sat on the bed and watched him, already missing his warm body. Dutch’s words about his family seemed harsh, but then it was a cruel world. It made sense to be a little cruel in return. 

After he redressed himself, Dutch came over. “Here’s a little extra, baby. For letting a tired man rant.” He pressed a few bills into your hand.

“Th-thank you,” you squeaked, very pleased. 

“Take care,” he said, and exited the room, shutting the door behind him.

Once he left, you flopped back down, exhilarated and anxious. What in the world just happened? Did he mean anything he said? Was it just a kink he’d wanted to try out?

Your underwear was soaked through; they had been, for some time. Whether or not he’d meant them, Dutch’s words had affected you greatly. And now you were feeling the loss, a great grief that had cracked your heart open, and despair was pouring out. 

Already, you wanted to see him again, to learn everything about him. The concept of letting that man make every decision in your life and simply existing as his pet…well, that turned you on more than you cared to admit. You’d been independent for most of your life, and didn’t you deserve something for it? Didn’t you deserve a strong, handsome man to shield you from the horrors of the world?

You’d forgotten to ask him about his occupation. Perhaps he was the head of a railway company, or a well-respected professor. With that demeanor and elocution, he had to be in some prestigious position. 

I’ll ask next time, you decided.

After arriving back at your private room, you laid down and finished what had started between your legs. As you desperately rubbed yourself to orgasm, you imagined Dutch’s deep, rich voice growling in your ear, and your pussy being stretched to its limits by his thick cock. Very quickly, you came, gasping softly.

Dutch had said he’d be back. You would wait, with bated breath, till that day. Perhaps if you were a good enough girl for him, he’d take you with him. Stranger things had happened. Powerful men married their mistresses all the time. 

Dutch had a lady. But after all this time, she wasn’t exactly what he needed. The once fiery woman had now dissolved into a shell of her former self. He was finding it hard to keep her entertained.

Day after day she’d nag, and nag, and nag. He couldn’t stand being around her most days. Couldn’t seem to catch a break.

But you. Oh, you.

Dutch has a natural inclination to appreciate a new face.. but you? You were especially interesting. Unlike anyone else at camp. Like an innocent little lamb caught in a den of wolves. You didn’t belong with these rugged folk. You had hardly experienced the cruelty of this world. You were like a breath of fresh air. A sweet release.

You often kept to yourself, engrossed in the pages of fiction that lay in your hands. Lost in your own world and blissfully unaware of Dutch’s lingering presence.

“How’re you settling in, my dear?” His voice startles you, drawing your attention away from your book. “Folks been treatin’ you alright?”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, somewhat bashful. “Some real nice people…”

Sir. Oh, how he loved the sound of that title coming from your sweet little mouth.

You looked at him with the utmost respect. Like he was some kind of savior, or hero. He was nothing of the kind. If only you knew the nasty thoughts that swarmed his mind everytime you were near. Everytime you looked up at him with those gorgeous, doe-like eyes.

He yearned to ruin you.

“Glad to hear.” He motions his hand toward your book. “Whatcha’ readin’ there?”

Quickly, you attempt to conceal the cover from his view. He grins. How cute. You were embarrassed.

“It’s nothing interesting…” you retort. “Really. Just some silly old romance story I found.”

Dutch hums, crouching down towards you to take a peek at it. It was indeed a silly old romance story. And he’s willing to bet you’ve never even experienced half the things that occur within it.

“No need to be shy with me, little miss. I’m not one to judge.” he tips your head back up, sweeping away a few stray hairs that fall over your eyes. The cool silver of one of his rings brushes the flesh of your cheek. He notes the way you shudder at the contact. Like you’d never been touched before. Sends an unbearable surge of heat through him, straight down to his cock.

“Perhaps another time, you could read a bit for me?”Begrudgingly, he stands back up, letting you go. His pants were growing uncontrollably tight. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could conceal himself.

You nod in agreement, shaking off your feelings of fluster. “Yes, Mister Van Der Linde. I’d enjoy that.”

You sure would.

───── ⑅ ♡ ⑅ ─────

Doesn’t take long before he’s hurriedly pumping his fist over his length once he’s excused himself from camp. His ‘taking a walk’ is just a shitty cover for his true intentions.

In a secluded place near camp — not too close but not too far — he sits, eyes closed against a tree. All he can imagine is your cute little face. Sweet, plump lips. Your pretty, innocent eyes gazing up at him through your fluttery lashes.

He craved you to no end.

Never in his life had he needed something so badly.

He groans, corkscrewing and churning his palm around his leaky tip, picturing the way your lips would part as he’d ease into your warm, wet mouth. Imagining the tears that’d fill your lashline as you struggled to take it all in.

But you would take it all.

He knew you would. You were such a sweet girl, you’d probably do anything he asked of you. You were so grateful to him. So grateful to him for taking you in.

You’d never guess what a sick and twisted man he truly is. Cumming all over himself to the thought of breaking you in. He was a disgusting, horrible man. Not even close to worthy of your gratitude.

And he had no shame. None at all. Cleaned up, walked back to camp, back to Miss O’Shea like it was nothing. Slept by her side like a baby. Without lick of guilt in his system.

───── ⑅ ♡ ⑅ ─────

The following day, he made his rounds. It was like routine.

After wishing everyone good morning — and attempting to appease Molly — he’d stealth over to your bedroll to pay you a ‘friendly’ visit. Which you, of course, thought nothing of. Mister Van Der Linde was just a sweet, selfless man in your eyes. Treated everyone equally.

In truth, he was always desperate to see you. To hear your voice. Just so he could have more material to think of when he’s tending to his needs. His intentions were anything but good. And he loved that you were too dumb to catch on.

You followed him into your tent like an obedient puppy. Just to read your book to him.

You sat in his lap in your pretty little dress, just as he asked, without even questioning it. It was like a dream come true for him. It was far too easy to get what he wanted from you.

The pair of you sit on your bedroll, Dutch’s larger form leering over your shoulder as you read the words from your book. The story was cheesy. Everything he had expected from a romantic novel.

Well, for the most part.

Some aspects surprised him. He hadn’t expected a sweetheart like you to read something so… erotic. The way you read these things aloud to him so effortlessly made him question a bit.

His hands rub slowly, tantalizingly up and down your sides as he listens intently. It appeared you were no longer paying attention to him or what he was doing, far too immersed in what you were reading.

In actuality, all you could focus on was the scruff of his facial hair tickling your neck. His large hands splayed out along your middle. His reoccurring hums of praise.

How you wished he’d teach you how to do the things they were doing in your book.

You found yourself leaning back, sinking further into his warm lap. Letting your dress hike up just a tad. You wanted him to notice. Wanted it so badly. You were too scared to say something to him outright.

It was so unbelievably wrong. Pining after a man so much older than you. A man who was taken. You wouldn’t dare.

But he would.

“Ever done something like that, my dear?” he questioned, referring to the page you were on. You were hardly even comprehending the words, too distracted by his closeness.

Of course, you had touched yourself before. But you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him that.

“No, sir…” you shake your head. “Never.”

“No?” he mocks surprise. “That’s a shame.”

You’re almost disappointed when he drops the topic, urging you to continue narrating. You feared you just threw away the only opportunity you had to be something more to him. But then, you feel a rough hand snake it’s way up the bare skin of your thigh.

“I’d love to teach you, sweet girl.” he eyes you closely, observing your expression like a hawk. He was pushing it. He knew that. But in this moment in time, he couldn’t bring himself to care about the potential risks. And deep down he knew you wouldn’t deny him. You needed his expertise.

Your thighs instinctively spread, making way for his hands to venture higher. Your body language told him everything he needed to know.

“Atta girl,” he praises. His fingers inch their way up to your panties, rubbing along the outside. “Keep reading for me.”

You obey, continuing where you left off before his interruption, struggling again to focus as he slips his hand beneath the fabric of your underwear. He dips into your slick, groaning in arousal at the feeling. You were absolutely dripping wet, and he hadn’t even done anything to you yet.

“Such a needy little thing,” he teases, sliding his finger through your juices. “Let’s take these off.”

Gently, he pulls your panties down, letting them slip off from your ankles, revealing your pretty virgin pussy. He almost turns feral at the sight.

His arms snake around your waist once more and he uses his legs to pry apart your own. “Fuck.. You’re perfect,” he husks. “Anyone ever told you that, baby?”

“No, sir.” Again, you shake your head. “No one’s ever seen me like this.”

He takes a deep breath, trying and failing to calm his nerves. That fact alone, that he was the first to see, made him painfully hard.

“Such a good, sweet girl.” he coos, his middle and index fingers moving circles around your little nub. “Let’s keep it that way.”

He holds you steady on his lap, relishing in the way you squirm against him.

“Mister Van Der Linde-“ you whimper, sending another surge of heat down south. Mister. Sir. It drove him mad.

“Shhh,” he hushes gently. “Wouldn’t want to get caught now, would we?”

He eases a finger in, his breath hitching at the way your squeeze around him. So fucking tight. He couldn’t wait to stretch you out, mould you to his shape and size. You were going to be his and his alone.

He adds another digit, slowly but surely scissoring you open. He curls them inside of you, searching for that spongey spot to make your toes curl. He rubs over it in slow strokes, making your pussy drool.

“Mm.. making such a mess for me.” he pulls his fingers out, bringing them up to his lips to lick them clean. He nearly loses it. You were so fucking sweet. He needed more.

He lifts you off of his lap with ease, laying you flat on your back on your bedroll. He’s no longer thinking. Just doing. Bunching your frilly dress up over your hips and burying his face between your legs.

His large, roman nose dives into your cunt, nudging your clit as his mouth latches on. Your fail to muffle your moans as his tongue laps through your folds. He’s sloppy with it, eating like it’s his last meal.

He slurps and sucks through your mess, eventually setting on your clit. He flicks his tongue mercilessly, panting and groaning into you. Your hips threaten to lift off the bed, unable to stop squirming as relentlessly he torments your poor pussy. But he forces you back down, not willing to let you slip away. Not until he’s had his fill.

“Taste so fucking sweet,” he mumbles, the vibrations of his deep voice almost make you tip over the edge. “Cum on my tongue, sweet girl. Let go for me.”

Your thighs tighten around his head squeezing him suffocatingly tight. He doesn’t mind, of course. If anything he loves it. Knowing he’s making you lose your mind.

“Gooood girl,” he drawls out, still circling his tongue around your bundle of nerves. “Cum for me…”

You do. And it’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. He doesn’t stop until you’re practically jirating. Until your voice starts to reach that painfully high octave, begging and pleading with him to stop.

When he sees that fucked out look on your face, he can’t hold back. His belt comes undone, pants dropping down to his ankles. His hard cock hangs heavy. He lays it to rest against your lower stomach, as if measuring how deep he’ll go.

“Look at that, baby…” he’s peering down, pupils blown out. “Think you can take it all?”

You’re still struggling to catch your breath from cumming last. Your brain hadn’t fully recovered, all you knew was that you needed something more. Needed it so badly.

“Yes, sir..” you pant. “Fill me… please.”

Before you know it, his lips come crashing against yours in a messy, spit filled kiss. His tongue slips in past your lips seeking out yours.

“My sweet, innocent girl. I’m going to ruin your little pussy. My little pussy.” his teeth sink into your lower lip, dragging back and reluctantly letting go.

His fat tip drags down your slit searching for your entrance. He throbs, his precum mixing with yours as he pushes in. He sucks air through his teeth, wincing. You were squeezing his cock so tight it was almost painful.

He watches your nose scrunch as you take in this new sensation. “Mm.. relax for me-“

His hips roll forward, pushing deeper inside of you and he swears under his breath. His girth was stretching you to the max. Tears fill your eyes as he thrusts a final time, bottoming out inside of you. Your mouth pops open, but your voice fails you.

“Fuck- that’s it… s’ okay. Taking me so, so well.” he croons, swiping the tears from your cheeks. “So proud of you..”

He kisses you once again, much softer this time.

Once you’ve calmed down and adjusted to the size of him, he begins to roll his hips. He shudders, pulling out and pushing back into your depths.

The sounds of squelching and slapping of skin soon fill your small tent. Plap. Plap. Plap.

Dutch can’t control himself enough to go slow anymore. He’s fucking your tight cunt like you’re his personal fleshlight. You can hardly keep your eyes open, and he’s practically crushing you with his weight.

Your legs remain wrapped around his waist, and your hands squeeze his as he pins them at your sides. “So fucking good…” he moans. “Like you were made just for me.”

“Mister Van Der Lin-“ you mewl, and his lips attack yours, muffling your sweet voice.

He picks up the pace, desperately chasing his high. He pulls away to whisper harshly into your ear “Mmm- My pretty little cock sleeve. Gonna breed you so full… Fill you with my babies.”

Dutch’s thrusts begin to lose their rythym. He’s watching your face. Your arched brows, glossy eyes staring up at him like your brain has gone dumb. Turned into a pool of mush. So fucking pretty.

The sight of you pushes him over the edge. His cum spurts out inside of you, deep within your canal. He rides out his high, lost in the pleasure and unable to stop his movements.

He curses softly, filling you with everything he’s got, letting you milk his aching cock.

He eventually pulls out with a wet plop, flopping down beside you to catch his breath. You curl up to his side. His hand comes up to rest on your head, lightly scratching at your scalp.

And this is the first time we see something like this happening, because, until this point, it seemed like Ellen didn’t had any control over her trances. But this scene proves that she does, she can snap out of it, at will. But why doesn’t she, more often? Probably because of what Lily-Rose Depp says in this interview. And how Robert Eggers says Ellen doesn’t hide her sexuality. This scene also proves something else: it wasn’t Thomas that “blocked” Orlok; it was Ellen herself.

Lina Muir, the costume designer, talked about the importance of Ellen’s corset to the plot in a interview with “The Art of Costume”:

One example of costume design serving the plot, as you mentioned, is Ellen’s corset. I came across a particular style called a fan-laced corset during my research, which I’ve also referred to as a “self-tying corset”—though it doesn’t actually tie itself! This type of corset can be tightened from the front, allowing the wearer to adjust it independently. For Robert, this design was ideal. When Ellen is in the throes of her supernatural connection with Orlok, the men around her—Sievers and Harding—try to impose control by tightening her corset. Because of the fan-laced design, we can see her anguish and convulsions, as well as the men’s oppressive actions, without needing to obscure her face or body by laying her prone. This moment is a perfect example of how research and storytelling can come together harmoniously in costume to enhance a scene.

And, indeed, we see Ellen corset consume her, to the point she tries to break free from it during this scene with Thomas:

This is Ellen desperately trying to break free from Victorian society expectations and medicalization of her. She wants freedom, she wants to be herself in a society which will never accept her, and will always restrain her (metaphorically and literally) not only with drugs and tying her to the bed, but with gender roles of marriage and children (a major theme in Female Gothic literature). And she wants Thomas to understand this, but he can’t (like Robert Eggers tells us in several interviews). He’s unable to handle the situation, and his reaction is to do what Victorian society tells him; call the doctors.

We also see Ellen grabbing her corset, while Dr. Sievers is tightening it to restrain her, trying to stop him from doing so.

Those unfamiliar with Victorian medicine, it’s a wild ride. Victorian doctors were obsessed with demonizing sexuality (especially female) to the point endless pathologies (diseases) were theorized about it, and it was during this time period the notion of “paraphilias” was created. Female sexuality was seen as a plague and a monstrosity in need of containment, because the ideal Victorian woman was a model of virtue, purity, virginity and modesty; who didn’t take pleasure in sexual activities.

Married heterosexual sex was the only socially acceptable sexual expression in the Victorian era, and everything else (masturbation, homosexuality, prostitution, etc.) was considered deviant, and labeled as “sinful” and “evil”. Sex was a marital duty, and often seen as a painful task women had to go through to have children, because being a submissive wife and a mother was women’s role in Victorian society. Women served their husbands, including sexually. Regular sex was considered important to men’s health, and husbands could beat and rape their wives without fear of legal repercussions, because the husband owned the wife, according to the law. In the early Victorian era (in which “Nosferatu” takes place), women’s sexuality was controlled by their husbands. Marriage was considered of the pillars of patriarchal society and social order, and a social contract, above all.

The fear of sexual transmission diseases was also at a all time high during the Victorian era. Which is also connected with vampirism lore; a “disease of the blood”. STD’s were seen as a sign of civilizational failure, and sexuality itself by extension. A decent Christian knew how to control their impulses, and sexual impulses were seen as animalistic, uncivilized and demonic. Von Franz tells demons seek out and haunt those who are dominated by “low animal functions”, meaning, sexualized. And this encapsulates Victorian views of sexuality.

Which is also connected to the 19th century racist theories. Where indigenous civilizations, with their Pagan-shamanic ancestral religions and traditions, were seen as “uncivilized”, “animalistic” and “demonic”, and hence the “Western Christian white man” was superior. It also during this period the notion of “The White Man's Burden” is born, connected to Colonialism, because it’s the Christian white men destiny to civilize non-white peoples, by erasing their culture and heritage, and violently impose Christianity upon them (even among fellow Europeans, who weren’t considered “white”).

It’s no coincidence the character who’s deemed the “villain” in this story is a Eastern European Pagan sorcerer and a Pagan creature (strigoi). Orlok, the Pagan sorcerer from the “uncivilized” East of Europe comes to the West to bring blood plague and death, threatening the lives of the good and moral Christian white men. As a Pagan, he’s also demonized as a “devil worshiper” by the Christian characters (even though his sigil and coat of arms has no satanic symbols). The Victorian characters see him as a demon terrorizing a woman, and Ellen as a poor victim of his sexual perversion, of his sickness. Ellen is in “grave danger” Von Franz tells the audience.

The Victorian characters victimize and patronize Ellen; she’s blameless because she’s “sick”, she has a “disease” she’s not able to control. Anna says she’s innocent, a “sweet Romantic” and Von Franz calls her a “child” repeatedly. Then, they come to the conclusion Ellen is “cursed” and needs to be saved and protected from this sickness, from this “plague carrier” who is trying to corrupt her by inflicting sexual pleasure (sickness and shame) upon her, threatening to turn her into a demon. It’s even reassuring to these characters that this “creature” happens to be a Eastern European, strengthening the idea of Ellen’s innocence and victimhood at his hands.

Why? Because Victorian women were expected to be innocent, ignorant and naïve about the world. And if a woman wasn’t innocent, she should pretend to be, which is what we see with Ellen, as she accuses Orlok of corrupting her innocence (making her “unclean”) and of being “her shame”, even though she’s the one who grants and denies him access to places (strigoi folklore). The average Victorian woman wasn’t allowed to be educated nor possess knowledge outside of the domestic. A woman’s entire life revolved around men: obeying their fathers, preparing for marriage, seeking an husband and as a wife, living for her husband.

An important historical note: we are talking about middle and upper class women here. Working class and poor women had to work, the same as men, and children. And poverty was also seen as a moral failure by Victorian society.

Friedrich Harding, however, is not so convinced of Ellen’s innocence and naivety, and he resents her because of what she represents; not only “otherness”, or “sickness”, but mostly female sexuality. He’s allowed to be sexual and display sexuality because he’s a man; Ellen cannot because she’s a woman. Friedrich is not convinced because he recognizes his own nature in Ellen (“rutting goat”; “always hungry”): “her dashing young husband is leaving her bedside cold” as he jokes with Thomas before his departure. And he tells Ellen himself: “I am most sensitive to your ardent nature”.

And he doesn’t want her anywhere near his wife, nor their children, and reluctantly accepts this friendship between them, probably out of respect for his dear friend, Thomas. In the Harding household, we also see the strict gender separation; the women and children in one room, and the men in another, drinking and smoking. It’s the domestic sphere vs. public/social life.

Friedrich Harding sees Ellen as a bad influence on his wife and children, and as a social embarrassment to Thomas, as he chastises Ellen for her behavior: “Find the dignity to display the respect for your caretaker” and “And for your husband’s sake, I pray you might learn how to conduct yourself with more deference.” He also instructed Anna to keep Ellen away from their children, and wasn’t pleased with his wife disobedience, however he’s too passionate about her to be angry about it (“I cannot resist you, my love”). Because virtue and decency were the Victorian ideals, and a woman’s reputation was said to be her greatest treasure. And since husbands owned their wives, the wife’s behavior would reflect on the husband.

Harding also considers Ellen a burden on their household, which Anna herself agrees, but she loves her, and, as such, endures her because Ellen is a decent married woman, and, as such, blameless of her disease.

These choice of words aren’t random from Eggers’ part, because this is Victorian female role model in a nutshell. Victorian Christian women endured everything out of “love”, considered the opposite of “passion”, which the sacrament of marriage was meant to repress and contain, alongside erotism and “animalistic impulses” (sexual desire), especially when women are concerned. In the Victorian era, “love” was considered tempered devotion confined to the household. Because “lust isn’t love” is a staple of the Victorian definition of “love”, and so, love was meant to be chaste, modest and restrained. And initiated by the men (who could be as lustful as they wished to be, as we see with Friedrich Harding character).

The Hardings are also the couple Ellen and Thomas wish to emulate, because that’s what Victorian society expects of them. Thomas admires and aspires to become like Friedrich; a successful man, with a good and wealthy house, and a devoted and comfortably settled wife, who elevates his social respectability.

And so, Thomas dismisses Ellen’s concerns as “fancies” and “things of the past”, sweeping them under the rug to make them go away, and pretending they don’t exist: “Ellen, we have put these difficulties behind us” and “Never speak these things aloud. Never. It is a trifle. A foolish dream, just as your past fancies.” He fears her “past melancholies” might return, symbolizing his failure as a husband and a man, before Victorian society.

For Victorian men, marriage was the institution where they could fully accomplish their male privilege: to form a household, exercise authority over dependents (wife and children) and provide safety and comfort where the trademark of a successful man (gender role). This was also connected to their social and professional success, making them respectful in the eyes of other men. A man who couldn’t govern his wife was also seen as unfit, socially, professionally and morally.

And this is Thomas ambition: he wishes to climb the social ladder, being “no longer a pauper” who has to ask his wealthy friend, Friedrich, for money, drowning himself in debt. As he tells Ellen, he aspires to buy them “a fine house” of their own (implying the one they live in, will probably rented), with “a maidservant”. Ellen says she’s doesn’t need any of that, all she needs is his love: and, indeed, she married “down”, because Ellen comes from a wealthy family, and we see the contrast between her family house in the prologue (a manor), and the small apartment she shares with Thomas (with old and damaged wallpaper).

And now, we have the context of Ellen scene with Thomas: this entire scene is her putting his Victorian male identity into question. She accuses him of not writing, which means she’s accusing him of not loving her, because letters were a part of Victorian love ideals. Then, Ellen weaponizing Thomas’ ambition against him: “You never listen. Well where is it? Your money? Your promotion? Your house? Where is that which is so precious to you? Have you paid back kind Harding your debt? Have you repaid him with this plague that infects his wife? For what? For what? For these... things?!” What she’s truly accusing him, here, is of being a failure, as a husband, and as a man in Victorian society.

During this scene, we see the extent of Orlok’s connection with Ellen, too, as she reveals some things he says to her, and even weaponizes them against Thomas: “He told me about you.” And calls him “weak”, “fearful” and reveals she knows about Orlok attack on him, and further questions his masculinity (she compares him to a “swooning lily of a woman”).

And Ellen breaks off her communication with Orlok when confronted with the threat of more drugs and imprisonment; and she promises she’ll be good, which echoes with what Friedrich Harding told her, earlier: “Find the dignity to display the respect for your caretaker”. She’ll try to be a good Victorian wife for him, as she has tried to be until recently. But then gives him the final insult of saying: “You could never please me as he could.”

And Thomas has sex with Ellen, symbolically establishing his ownership over her. She’s his wife, she belongs to him, not to Orlok. And now she weaponizes this against Orlok, as she tells Thomas to let him see their love, because this is the kind of love Ellen wants, and craves. And then asks Thomas to kiss her heart, but he refuses. Then, she kisses Thomas heart, where Orlok fed on him, and Thomas has a vision of Ellen, as Orlok (like he did in the castle just before Orlok attacked Thomas), and begs her to stop it.

Thomas promises Ellen is safe with him, because he’s a good Victorian husband who can protect and govern his wife. She can trust him to protect and rescue her from this Eastern European demon, because he’ll step up to his role, destroy and save his wife from danger, like he’s suppose to. His entire male identity depends on it.

This is also the “second night”, where the perfect Victorian patriarch Friedrich Harding is powerless to protect his wife and children from Orlok. Just as Ellen vows and fails to embody the “Victorian wife role model”, we see Orlok killing this archetype in the narrative: Anna, and also the children, which are deeply connected with women’s identity in the Victorian era. Ellen gave him access into the Harding household, and, now, he’ll destroy the archetype Ellen doesn’t want to be. He also feeds on Friedrich; the perfect Victorian patriarch Ellen doesn’t want to be married to, but Thomas aspires to be.

Whenever they walked together, Logan’s hand often found its way to the back of her neck, his fingers curling gently but firmly around her. He didn’t grip her too hard, but the warmth of his palm against her skin was grounding - and a quiet reminder that she was his.

Her head tilted slightly to glance up at him, a soft smile playing on her lips. “You always have to touch me, don’t you?”

Logan smirked, his thumb brushing lightly over her nape. “Keeps you close, doll. Don’t like you strayin’ too far.”

She giggled, leaning into his side. “Like I’d ever wander off.”

His girl loved her sundresses and skirts, but Logan had a habit of making sure they didn’t ride up too much. Whenever she stood up from sitting or bent down to pick something up, his hand was there, smoothing down the fabric over her thighs before she could even move.

One day in the common area at the mansion, she got up to grab a book, and Logan, without looking up from his cigar, reached out to tug the hem of her skirt down. “Logan,” She said, blushing as she glanced around. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, I do,” He replied gruffly, exhaling smoke. “Ain’t lettin’ anyone else get a look at what’s mine.” Her cheeks flushed, but she couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at her lips.

Whenever they went out to eat, Logan took it upon himself to handle the ordering. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do it herself - he just didn’t like the way male waiters would sometimes linger a little too long or make her flustered.

At one of her favorite cafés, the waiter approached with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you today?” He asked, his eyes flicking to her.

Logan cut in smoothly, his voice firm. “She’ll have the hazelnut latte, light foam, and the turkey club. And I’ll take a black coffee and steak sandwich. That all right, doll?”

She nodded, her cheeks burning as she glanced up at him. “Perfect.” The waiter scribbled on his notepad, his friendly smile faltering slightly under Logan’s sharp gaze. As the waiter walked away, she leaned closer to Logan. “I could’ve ordered on my own, you know.” She said with a little smile that told him she didn’t really mind being spoken for.

Logan smirked, draping an arm over the back of her chair. “I ain’t about to let some guy try to sweet talk you over a menu.”

His possession over her came out in other aspects of their relationship. Logan had a way of asserting his preferences when it came to her outfits. He wasn’t controlling about it - not exactly - but he liked the idea of her dressing in a way that reflected her sweetness and his protective nature. His girlfriend, on the other hand, didn’t always agree, especially when she was feeling playful or a little bratty.

One evening, she was getting ready for a night out with Kitty and Rogue, slipping into a fitted top that showed a bit more cleavage than Logan was comfortable with. He walked into the room just as she was adjusting the straps. “That’s a no.” He said, his eyes narrowing slightly.

She turned, her hands on her hips. “Logan, I’m an adult. I can wear what I want.”

“And I’m your man,” Logan countered, his voice firm. “And you know I’ll already be losing my damn mind wondering if anyone’s hitting on you tonight. Do you really want to stress me out more by wearing that?”

She huffed, crossing her arms. “It’s not that bad!”

Logan stepped closer, tilting her chin up with his finger. “It’s not about ‘bad,’ doll. It’s about me keepin’ my sanity while you’re away. Now, be good and put somethin’ else on.”

Her face flushed, and she muttered under her breath as she went back to the closet. “Bossy…”

Logan smirked, watching her switch to a more modest top. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” She said sweetly, turning to face him with a grin. “Better?”

“Perfect,” He replied, pulling her in for a kiss. “You can wear the other shirt just for me later on.”

Another night, Logan had picked out an outfit for her to wear to dinner - a pair of jeans, a pastel colored top, and the leather jacket he’d bought her. She came out wearing everything but the jacket, draping a cardigan over her shoulders instead.

“Where’s the jacket?” Logan asked, his tone laced with amusement.

She shrugged, looking at him with a playful smile. “I thought the cardigan looked cuter.”

Logan shook his head, stepping closer and taking the cardigan from her shoulders. “The jacket, doll. I like you in it.”

“But it’s not as cute!” She whined, crossing her arms.

Logan’s hand slid to the small of her back as he leaned down, his voice low. “You gonna make me ask twice?”

Her pout deepened, but the way his gaze lingered on her left no room for argument. With a dramatic sigh, she went back to grab the jacket, slipping it on.

“There,” She said, spinning around. “Happy?”

Logan grinned, pulling her into his arms. “Very.”

And with his words, he was just as possessive. Logan had a way of catching her off guard with his compliments, his gravelly voice softening just enough to make her heart race. He loved the effect his words had on her - the way her cheeks would flush, her lips would part in a shy smile, and those big eyes of hers would dart away, too overwhelmed to hold his gaze.

Right now, she was sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair before bed, when Logan leaned against the doorframe, watching her with an intensity that made her shift in her seat.

“You’re so damn pretty, doll,” He said, his voice low and gruff. Her hand stilled, her cheeks instantly heating up as she ducked her head slightly, letting her hair fall like a curtain to hide her face. Logan wasn’t having it. He crossed the room in a few long strides, gently gripping her chin and tilting her face back up toward him. “Don’t look away from me when I’m talkin’ to you, baby.” He murmured, his thumb brushing her cheek.

She bit her lip, her eyes wide and bashful as they met his. “I’m not used to hearing things like that.” She whispered.

Logan smirked, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her lips. “Get used to it,” He said against her mouth. “Cause that look in your eyes when I compliment you? I’m getting used to that.”

Another time, they were out in the mansion’s garden, Logan leaning against the railing while she sat beside him, the golden sunlight casting a warm glow over her skin. “You know what I can’t stand?” Logan said suddenly, his eyes locked on her.

She blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“How perfect you are,” He said, his voice matter-of-fact. “Sweet, smart, and so damn gorgeous I can’t think straight half the time.”

Her cheeks burned with a deep heat as she dropped her gaze to her lap, fiddling with the hem of her dress. “Logan…”

He huffed, reaching over to gently tug her chin up. “What’d I tell you about lookin’ away from me?” Her eyes met his, her shyness making her lips tremble slightly. Logan grinned, leaning in to kiss her softly, his hand cupping her cheek. “That’s better,” He murmured. “I like seein’ those pretty eyes when I’m talkin’ to you.”

In short, Logan was a man who thrived on control. And in the privacy of their bedroom, his possessiveness shone through the brightest.

There was something about seeing his girl this undone in his arms that only stoked the fire in his chest. Her cheek was pressed against his broad pectoral, her soft whimpers muffled as she trembled from the sheer overstimulation. His large hands gripped her hips firmly, guiding her slow, steady movements as her body quivered against him. Logan had her nestled in his lap, her thighs trembling on either side of his hips as he guided her with strong, unrelenting hands. Her breathing uneven and her whimpers growing softer as the overstimulation began to overwhelm her. Her tiny frame shuddered with each bounce, her slick heat clenching around him as Logan worked her through every inch of his unrelenting length.

“That’s my girl,” Logan murmured, his voice rough and low, his large hand splayed across the small of her back, keeping her steady against him. He could feel how limp her arms were, her fingers barely clutching his shoulders for support. She was utterly wrecked, and he reveled in it.

Then it happened - she drooled, a small streak of saliva slipping from the corner of her mouth onto his chest. When he felt the warm, wet sensation of her drooling on his chest, Logan froze for a moment before his lips curved into a dark smirk. “You’re gone, huh, doll?” He murmured, his tone a mix of amusement and raw arousal. She let out a soft, unintelligible sound, her lips barely moving as she tried to lift her head, only to have it fall back against him. Logan’s chest rumbled with a deep chuckle, and he ran a hand through her damp hair, gently stroking her scalp. “Look at you, sugar. Can’t even hold yourself up,” He teased, his voice dripping with affection. “Droolin’ on me like a sweet little mess.” He shifted slightly, his grip on her hips tightening as he began to slow their rhythm, drawing her down onto him with excruciating slowness.

“Uh-uh,” She whimpered, her entire body trembling against him.

“Shhh,” Logan cooed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “It’s alright. Daddy’s gotcha.” Her soft moans and ragged breaths filled the room, and Logan’s hands roamed her back and thighs, savoring the feel of her trembling body. “You takin’ me so well, baby,” He murmured, his voice thick with pride and desire. “Such a good girl, lettin’ me use you like this.”

She whimpered again, her nails digging weakly into his shoulders. “L-Logan,” She managed to whisper, her voice shaky and small.

“I know, doll,” He said, his hands kneading the soft flesh of her hips. “I know it’s a lot, but you’re doin’ so good for me.”

Her head tilted slightly, her dazed eyes fluttering open as she tried to focus, aware of the wet spot she was leaving on his bare chest. "Daddy," She mumbled, her voice slurred from exhaustion and pleasure. "S-sorry…"

"Don't be," Logan said, his tone softer now as one hand came up to brush her hair back from her damp forehead. "You're too damn cute when you're like this." She whined softly, her cheeks flushing even more as she tried to lift herself off him, but Logan's grip tightened, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. "Ah-ah," He teased, leaning down to press a kiss to her temple. "We're not done yet, baby. You're my good girl, aren't you? You can give me one more."

The sight of her like this - completely undone, trembling, and pliant in his arms - did things to him he couldn't even put into words. She was utterly overwhelmed, yet she trusted him to keep her safe, to take her as far as she could go without breaking.

Logan moved her hips again, slower this time, savoring the way her body squeezed him with each bounce. "That's it, doll," He murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "Let me take care of you. You're doin' so good for me." He ran a thumb along her jaw, tilting her face up so he could see her half-lidded eyes and swollen lips. "Even when you're a mess, you're the prettiest damn thing l've ever seen.” He added, his voice a low growl. All she could do was whimper again, her hands clutching at his shoulders as her body tensed. Logan felt her peak building, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she shuddered in his arms. "That's it," Logan coaxed, his voice soft but commanding. "Let it all out, doll. Daddy's got you."

As she tipped over the edge, her nails dug into his skin, and her cries were muffled against his chest. Logan held her tightly, his own release not far behind as her body milked him for everything he had.

When it was over, Logan leaned back against the headboard, his chest rising and falling heavily as he held her trembling form against him. His large hand rubbed soothing circles on her back as she nuzzled closer, her soft breaths warm against his skin.

"Logan," She whispered, her voice barely audible.

"Yeah, doll?" He replied, his tone tender now.

"Love you.” She mumbled, her words slurring as exhaustion began to take over.

Logan's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile as he kissed the top of her head. "Love you too, baby. Now get some rest. I'll clean you up in a bit."

And as she drifted off to sleep, Logan held her close, marveling at the trust and love between them, his heart full as he murmured, "You're somethin' else, doll. My perfect girl."