Vivibuns

♡ early morning road trip (sfw) ♡ lazy morning, lazy mouth (18+) ♡ got your bible, got your gun (sfw) ♡ winding down (18+) ♡ misbehaved (sfw) ♡ inexperienced (18+) ♡ in heat, literally (18+) ♡ sleepy (18+) ♡ one bad decision (18+) ♡ sinful (18+) ♡ first time (18+) ♡ bruised knees (nsfw) ♡ secret admirer (sfw) ♡ time and place (sfw) ♡ his bunny (sfw) ♡ tired out (18+) ♡ drive-in date (sfw) ♡ perfect neighbour (sfw) ♡ eating you (18+) ♡ a christmas party (18+) ♡ making a mess (18+) ♡ helpin' you (18+) ♡ older!bf headcanons (sfw + 18+) ♡ crying during sex (18+) ♡ comin' home (18+) ♡ disobedient (18+) ♡ birthday girl (18+) ♡ after care (18+) ♡ too rough (18+) ♡ desperate (18+) ♡ picking you up (18+) ♡ good student (18+)

Series + longer fics

“Why’re you callin’ me, sweetheart?”

The voice is quiet over the line, just a smooth Southern accent that rings in your ears. You grin to yourself, biting your lip, shifting your hips against your dorm room bed, and you gaze at the ceiling of the empty room.

Your roommate was gone for the weekend, finally, leaving you alone to do whatever you wanted, and your mind had drifted to one idea only: calling Beau Arlen, your dad’s best friend, who was only a couple hundred miles away because you’re currently shipped off to college. 

“I don’t know… I miss you,” you admit quietly to him, listening to him sigh to himself. “It’s been weeks since I last saw you… won’t see you until the holidays,” you mumble, holding your phone close to your ear.

Beau’s sitting at the desk in his office, rubbing his hand over his scruff, his green eyes scanning over unfinished paperwork. He was working a late shift and stopped the minute your name appeared on his phone, your father’s name in brackets beside it. He sighed and answered, knowing you were probably up to no good. 

“Miss me, huh?” he asks, leaning back in the leather chair, glancing out of the glass windows, and out at the rest of the station; empty, all of the employees had already gone home.

“Yeah…” you nod despite the fact he can’t see it, and you shift against your bed again. “Why? You don’t miss me?” you ask, and he can hear the smile curled into your lips. 

“‘Course I miss you, sweetheart,” Beau sighs, resting his free hand on his thigh. “Jus’ don’t know why you’re callin’ me so late,” he shakes his head, his tongue poking into his cheek.

“I just told you, I miss you,” you laugh softly, and you lift one leg out of boredom, gazing at your black tights. “It’s weird being away from home,” you explain further, listening to the silence.

“I know,” he drawls quietly, shifting his hips. “What’re you doin’ over there?”

“Just… in my bed,” you shrug, groaning when you adjust against the blankets. “My roommate left for the weekend; it’s all boring,” you mumble, and he’s tipping his head back.

Beau is trying to act like he can’t hear the soft ruffling of the bedsheets and blankets, or the way you breathe heavier, the soft grunts and groans when you roll around slightly. He sighs.

“Why ain’t you call your daddy? Friends?” Beau questions, his lips drawling into a thin line, waiting for your excuse.

“Wanted to talk to you instead,” you admit, biting your lip, and he goes quiet.

“Over your friends, huh?” Beau asks, and you can hear the smile in his voice now. “Real sweet of you, darlin’,” he grins, gazing down at his lap, blinking at the zipper of his jeans.

“Mhm, real sweet,” you reply softly, turning your head to gaze at the dorm door, then back up at the ceiling. “My uniform isn’t comfy,” you tell him, shifting your hips against the bed, sighing.

Beau swallows hard.

Your uniform? His head drifts to an area he doesn’t want to think about right now: the skirt you’re probably wearing, the white button-up, the black tights. He reaches down, pressing his hand down against the front of his jeans, his palm lightly brushing his denim.

“Wearin’ a uniform?” he chuckles, shaking his head. “What? You goin’ to some private school?”

“I am,” you mumble, biting your lip. “You know my daddy… wants the best for me, even if that’s spending a couple grand at some private school where I’m forced into a uniform at almost twenty-four,” you giggle, and he laughs along, nodding.

“What’s it look like?” Beau asks quietly, his free hand sliding up to scratch his beard instead. “Can’t be too bad, sweetheart,” he drawls, brushing off the perverted curiosity as a genuine concern about how your body feels wrapped up in nylon and cotton.

“Oh, it’s bad,” you laugh, gazing down at the silly uniform you’re still in. “Plaid skirt, white button-up, tights, a tie…” You drawl out, and you hear him sigh, and you smile.

“Huh,” he mumbles across the line, looking at his lap again. “And you’re still in it?” he asks, his eyes focused on his zipper, feeling how hard he is getting behind it.

“Yeah,” you whisper, like it’s a secret. “Finished my last lecture like forty minutes ago… just crashed when I got back to my room,” you explain, nodding.

Beau is experiencing every emotion right now: guilt, confusion, and arousal. He’s trying his hardest not to picture you right now; sprawled out on your bed, your skirt riding up, your legs covered in the sheer tights, and how exhausted you must be, how he should be there, relieving all of that stress from exams and studying.

“Must be an exhausted girl,” he drawls out, tipping his head back when he realizes that unfortunate sexual tone slipping through. “Workin’ your ass off all day,” he adds, his hand sliding back down to the front of his jeans.

“Mhm, I am,” you agree, and you look down at the pleats on your skirt. “I know you’re working hard too… being a sheriff and all,” you add, knowing how much that stupid man loved praise.

Beau chuckles. “Yeah, workin’ real hard, sweetheart.”

There’s a pause, and you shift again, and he hears it over the static line; the shuffling, the brushing, the soft breaths and sighs when you adjust your body. And he’s hard. He hates himself a lot right now.

“Maybe you could come here, at some point,” you offer, breathing in. “Like… you know, could show you my campus,” you explain, and he squints.

“Where am I gonna stay, darlin’?” Beau asks, swinging the leather office chair back and forth. “Can’t be stayin’ with you in your room,” he adds, and god, you wish he could.

“Motel,” you mumble, looking at the clock. “I could stay there, too,” you add, holding your breath.

There’s another pause at the thought; you and Beau staying at a motel together, doing god knows what—maybe indulging in the fantasies you’ve both been having about each other since you last saw each other. 

“Yeah,” Beau mumbles, swallowing hard. “Maybe.”

“Why maybe?” You ask quietly, lifting your hips. “I want to see you,” you whisper, like someone else is listening over the line.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he whispers and shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “What’re we gonna do in that motel room, huh? Talk?” He asks, and you giggle.

“Yeah,” you say innocently, crossing your legs. “We can talk,” you agree, and he rubs his hand over his beard again.

“We ain’t gonna be talkin’ in that motel,” Beau shakes his head, sighing heavily. 

“What will we be doing then?” You ask, shifting your hips, feeling that dull ache growing between your thighs, and he’s already lightly palming himself through his jeans.

“Fuckin’,” he says plainly, that Texan drawl suddenly coming out thicker, and your eyes widen, your lips parting in surprise. He was always so blunt, but right now it hit harder.

“Really?” You ask quietly, biting your lip. “You wanna take my virginity?” You question, swallowing hard. 

You hear Beau curse under his breath, clearly reacting to the thought of taking your virginity in some seedy motel; your soft body beneath him, the soft whines and cries that he’d hear from you. He looks at the office door again. 

“Yeah, baby,” he mumbles, blinking slowly, trying not to groan over the line as he palms himself. “I’ll take your virginity,” he agrees, licking his lips.

You go quiet now and squeeze your thighs together, your eyes shutting at the thought; his strong body, all of those thick muscles on top of you, sweaty and warm, his longer, shaggy hair, those green eyes. God, you’ve never wanted a man this bad, not in your life.

“Please,” is all you whisper over the line, and it hits him in the gut, and he presses down harder, the heel of his palm driving into the front of his jeans.

“I’ll fuck you, sweetheart,” Beau groans out, his hand lightly working now, focusing on soothing that ache. “You’ll like it too; moanin’ and whinin’, trustin’ me,” he tells you, and you almost whine. 

Your eyes stay shut as you slide your hand down your stomach, bypassing the waistband of your skirt and sliding down. If only he knew what yoy were up to.

“You ain’t even on birth control, or nothin’,” he shakes his head, that risk and thrill making his own eyes close. “Would be such... a risk, sweetheart, Jesus Christ,” he mumbles, shaking his head again.

“I don’t care,” you whisper, sliding your hand down, gently cupping yourself through your cotton underwear. “Beau… Beau, I don’t care,” you whine into the line, and he already knows what you’re doing.

“You touchin’ yourself, ain’t you?” Beau suddenly asks, and all you can do is whine in response—his body goes still, and he groans, his own thick thighs squeezing together. 

He listens to your soft breaths as you rub the heel of your palm against your clit through your underwear, and he’s doing the same action, just through his denim jeans. It’s the hottest thing ever, and you both barely know what you’re doing right now. 

“Touchin’ yourself to my voice, ain’t that the sweetest thing ever,” he lightly teases, and you tip your head back, not moaning, just letting out a heavy breath. “Think about what I can really do to you.”

You are; that’s all your mind can think about: his body against yours, his thrusts, his relentless hips, all of it wrapped up in the heat of a motel room on a weekend. You’re getting off more than you’d like to, and you rut in your hand, lightly grinding.

“Bendin’ you over… holdin’ that pretty hair, maybe makin’ you look in the mirror—heard the way you were talkin’ about yourself, how you don’t think you’re pretty or nothin’. I’d show you how pretty you are,” Beau rambles on, and you whimper, swallowing back hard.

You don’t know how it’s possible, but you’re already close—it’s a feeling that’s so foreign; feeling good, because of your hand and Beau’s voice. You’re used to trying to think of him, trying to picture hands and fingers, and the way he’d speak to you, and he’s doing it right, over the fucking phone. 

“You’d look so fuckin’ pretty; exhausted and sweatin’, that soft skin, glistenin’, your hair a mess… you ain’t know how much I think about you, baby,” he continues, feeling himself just getting close to you. “Can feel you… hear you, sweetheart; that voice, those whines, I’d make you feel so good,” he promises, and you feel dizzy.

Beau just hearing your soft whines and gasps over the line is enough to get him going, the thought of you in your uniform, squirming around, lightly begging him to keep going without asking. He’d do everything for you.

It’s his best friend’s daughter he’s speaking to with that sharp voice, all deep and drawn out, and the fact he knows you’re doing yourself too. It’s all too much for the both of you.

“Tell me how you’re touchin’ yourself,” Beau lightly commands, his eyes closing, and he pants. “C’mon, darlin’,” he encourages, his hips pathetically bucking into his palm.

“Just… through… through my underwear,” you whisper and nod, trying to hold the phone to your ear still. “With… with my palm, just my palm,” you babble, and the thought makes him curse.

“Two fingers, baby,” he tells you, trying to picture it in his head. “Slide ’em in that underwear, against your clit, sweetheart… slow circles, baby, nothin’ too quick,” he directs, and you groan, nodding, head tipped back.

You do exactly what he says; your fingers slide beyond the waistband of your underwear, right into the front of them, placing the pads of your fingers against your bare clit, no friction or restraint from the fabric. You moan softly, moving in the slow circles, just like he asked.

“Yeah? Feelin’ good, ain’t you? Movin’ those little fingers against your body, good girl,” Beau mumbles, listening to the soft sound of your breaths picking up, along with the moans. “All wet, too? Bet you are, thinkin’ about me stuffin’ you with my cock.”

“Mhm… mhm, really… wet,” you admit, nodding quickly, your back curling and arching off the bed. “Please, Beau,” you plead, and he knows what you want; you wanna hear his thoughts, what he’s thinking, what he wants, what he’d do to you.

“Oh, darlin’,” he groans, still palming himself through his jeans, his eyes closed. “Jus’ wish I was there to fuck you right now… against that bed of yours,” he tells you, imagining how obscene it would be to do in a god damn dorm room. 

Your fingers are moving quickly, using his words to help strengthen your imagination, and you’re basking in it more than you’d like to; it’s all much for you, and you’re shifting your hips around, helplessly grinding into the tips of your fingers.

“I’d cum in you too,” Beau adds on, grunting when he realizes his words were syncing up with what was going on his jeans right now. “Fill up that stomach… stretchin’ you out, forcin’ it all in you, god,” he moans, feeling himself spill into his boxers, right in the middle of his fucking office.

“Please… please cum in me,” is all you plead, right before you feel it. You finish, just as quickly as he does.

It’s in your underwear too, all over the soft fabric, and right into your skirt and glistening on your fingertips. You’re both panting over the line, breaths in sync like you’re actually together, touching and talking to each other. You don’t speak; neither of you do. It’s just a silent acknowledgement of how both of you are just as pathetic for each other.

It was just one time in the truck; your hips against his thigh, helplessly grinding, whining and begging to cum. But it bloomed into something both of you didn’t want to admit, a sick routine you both adapted to and hid from your mother.

Every damn day it happened. Sometimes it was in the truck, or the couch when your mother wasn’t home, your bedroom when she was, one time on the backyard step when you told him you were needy. Just the grinding on his thigh, no sex, and that’s what he hated.

Something inside of you said it was better; just grinding on his thigh, nothing more. Sometimes kissing when it was done, but your clothes were always on, and he was always happy to do it. But it was getting hard, and you were addicted.

The first ounce of pleasure you felt in your life, and it was from humping your mom’s boyfriend’s thigh, and it was the filthiest secret you had. And you loved it.

“Baby,” he whispers to you softly, his eyes gazing up at you. “We… we can do more than this, you know?”

You’re too busy focusing on the movement of your hips, your eyes shut in bliss, and he’s staring at you; your head tipped back, lips parted, soft moans slipping by, and he’s gazing at the front door. It was another night when your mom wasn’t home, and you found yourself on the couch with him, sliding into his lap like it was nothing, letting it slip into something it wasn't supposed to be.

“I… I like this, though,” you say to him quietly, your hips never stuttering. “Don’t you?” You ask softly, tilting your head to the side.

“Course’ I do, sweetheart,” he whispers again, massaging your hips, but he’s currently struggling to hold back. “Wouldn’t it be nice… if I made you feel even better?” He prompts, and you swallow hard.

The idea of sex is foreign—completely crossing a boundary your mother didn’t even have to place, just a basic rule of thumb; you don’t fuck your mom’s boyfriend. Though you could see it in his eyes, how it tore him apart, unable to get off himself, meanwhile you took and took and took.

“Mhm…” you nod a little, stopping the grinding. “I don’t even… know how to kiss yet,” you tell him, showing him how much of a jump sex is.

“I can teach you that too, sweetheart,” he reassures, nodding. “What we’re doing right now… it’s nice, baby, but we can do more,” he tells you.

“I know,” you mumble, nodding again, stopping your hips. “I’m nervous, though,” you whisper, blinking slowly.

“Yeah, I know,” he nods, lifting a hand to run through your hair. “You have to trust me, though, yeah?”

“I do,” you tell him, and you look around the living room, your eyes finding his again.

He’s staring at you, eyes soft, but you know there’s a need lingering behind them, an undeniable want for something that he can’t have, not from you, at least. It makes him sick that he craves it from you so bad; wanting to touch you, to make you cum, to kiss you and teach you how to, to take your fucking virginity. 

The minute a pair of headlights shoot into the dimly lit living room, you immediately crawl off him, right onto the couch cushion beside him–your mom was home, already back from dinner with her coworkers. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you’re wearing something that you definitely wouldn’t wear around someone you’re not trying to seduce; just underwear and a short t-shirt, and the front door shifts open before you can even cover up.

The scene looks like something from a dollhouse, the two of you frozen in place, and a random movie playing on the television. Your mother is exhausted, and she shuts the door, then throws down her purse and shoes. She walks into the living room, her eyes sweeping over the two of you, then she turns her head to the side.

“You two watching a movie?” she asks in a slight surprise, smiling at her boyfriend. “What is it?”

“Just somethin’ random,” he recovers and looks up at her, patting the spot beside him–you’re sitting on the other end, your legs awkwardly huddled up and pushed against your chest.

Your mother sits down with a groan, immediately curling into her boyfriend, and you look over, feeling jealousy settle in behind your chest. You grit your teeth and turn to the screen, sighing loud enough for him to look over at you. You’re pouting, and he sees it. 

“Honey,” your mother says, looking over at you, her head against his chest. “Wanna give us some alone time? You’re always around,” she shoots, and you grimace at her words, pointing to the television.

“I’ve been… been watching the movie,” you shake your head, glancing at him beside her, and he’s not stepping in. “I want to finish it,” you add.

“Well, you can watch the rerun in an hour or so,” she counters, nuzzling closer into him, and that gesture alone makes you want to leave. “We would like to be alone.”

You look at her boyfriend for some support, maybe a defence, but he’s reaching for his whisky glass and taking a long sip, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her close.

“Fine,” you mumble, shaking your head.

You stand up off the couch and leave the living room, your mom's eyes narrowing at your outfit. She didn’t like you prancing around the house like that, just in your underwear and a T-shirt, her boyfriend right there. She looks at him and nuzzles her head beneath his chin.

“She needs a job,” your mother mumbles to him, and she can hear you slam the door. “Get her out of the house… away from you, us,” she mumbles.

He shrugs. “She’s… just adjusting to the new place; there aren’t many places to work.”

“You work from home,” she states, eyes flicking up to him. “I work at the clinic… she needs money; she just keeps going to you,” she shakes her head, gazing at the television.

“I don’t mind,” he shakes his head too, his eyes focused on the television. “She’s young, give her a break.”

“What has gotten into you?” She asks, sitting up a bit more, turning to her boyfriend. “You keep defending her—she’s ungrateful, she’s a bitch that leeches off of us, mostly me, and doesn’t pay a cent,” she spits.

“Hey, calm down,” he coos, staring at her, lips parted, realizing that his clear adoration for you slipped out. “I know how I was at her age, baby… she’s doing good, give her time,” she says softly, reaching to pull her back in.

Your mom leans into him again, pressing her head against his chest and sighing.

“I guess,” she mutters, running her tongue over her teeth. “I just have a long shift tomorrow—possibly a double, might be up for twenty-four fuckin’ hours.”

“And when you get home…” he drawls, hinting at something that would make you vomit.

Your mom laughs a little and shakes her head, finding amusement in his charm—you clearly find it in it too.

“I love you,” she mutters, tilting her head to look at him. 

“Love you more,” he says, smiling as he leans down to press against her lips.

The two of them look back to the television, and he carefully rests his hand against his jeans, his thigh. His lips part casually when he presses his palm to the denim—it’s damp, a warm wet spot left by you. His eyes quickly drop, and there it is: a darkened spot, his jeans slightly bluer from it. He shifts awkwardly and looks over his shoulder at your bedroom door. 

“No, I don’t know…. I think he likes me,” you mumble into the phone line, leaning against your headboard, your finger wrapped around the cord. “He just… keeps going back to his girlfriend for whatever reason.”

“I don’t think he likes you that much, then,” your friend says, laughing over the phone. “He keeps wanting sex and you just… wanna make out?”

“Well… I feel like having sex is crossing some line,” you mutter, glancing over at your nightstand. “You know? If we just… make out, then it’s not anything wrong.”

“He’s probably with his girlfriend so he has access to sex,” she says, laughing again. “And then… goes to you, when he’s bored or something.”

You sigh dramatically and look up at the ceiling, the state of the conversation making you ill; lying to your best friend about the whole situation, leaving out the fact it was about your mom and her boyfriend, and that you actually just wanted to grind on his thigh all fucking day, not make out.

“I need to sleep,” you grumble into the phone, glancing at the digital clock, and then to your bedroom door. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

The phone call ends, and you place it back on your bedside table, slinking down to rest your head against the pillow. You stare at the ceiling and turn your head, soft eyes staring at the closed door. You blink and pull yourself out of bed, opening up your bedroom door and poking your head out.

The bedroom door down the hallway is closed, the light turned off, but the kitchen light lingers. You slide out and pad down the hallway, and there he is; he’s standing over the sink, a glass of water in hand, and he’s taking pills. You smile, glancing over your shoulder, mentally checking off that your mother is asleep.

“Sleepyhead, what’re you doin’?” he asks as he turns around, his eyes on your figure. “Get to sleep, it’s late,” he mumbles, crossing his arms and leaning against the counter.

“You know…” you mumble with a smile, and he’s scoffing, shaking his head.

“You did not just get out of bed to ask me for somethin’,” he clicks his tongue, sighing.

“I was never asleep,” you deny, looking over your shoulder again. “I was on the phone.”

“Yeah? With who?” he asks, tipping his head back slightly, head tipping to the side.

“My friend,” you tell him, walking quietly across the tile floor. “Why?”

“Not a boyfriend?” he questions, eyes narrowed.

“No,” you shake your head, stopping right before him.

He lifts his hand and threads his fingers through your hair again, pushing the strands back. When he pulls away, his thumb gently scrapes your chin, and he settles his hand on the edge of the sink.

“I was thinking,” you mumble, shyly looking down at your bare feet. “I want you to take my virginity.”

When you look up at him, he’s rubbing his scruff, his breathing rigid. You blink, clearly seeing the way he reacted to your words, and he looks back at you, shaking his head.

“Baby,” he mumbles, gazing down at you. “Can’t just tell me things like that when your mom is just down the damn hallway,” he shakes his head, leaning back into the counter. 

“You’re the one who brought it up!” You giggle, and he smiles, running his tongue over his lips.

“Yeah, hours ago, when you were ridin’ my thigh,” he shrugs, his eyes gazing down at your shirt, not noticing the colour that just flooded your cheeks.

“What’s the difference?” You quip, a knit forming between your eyebrows.

“The difference is…” he mumbles, glancing over at the stove. “It’s twelve in the mornin’, and you need to sleep.”

You tip your head back, groaning in frustration, and he’s smiling at the little outburst. Your neck is stretched back, unmarked and begging for some. He swallows hard, shifting on his feet.

“Can you at least… tuck me in, or something?” you smile, and he chuckles, rolling his eyes.

“How old are you again?” He asks, grinning.

“Old enough,” you respond, and he looks past you and down the hall; your mom is sound asleep, and then he finds you again. He gestures for you to walk. 

You bite your lip, and he follows you down the hallway, carefully creeping into your bedroom, and he shuts the door behind you, locking it with a soft click. Your room is dim, just your nightstand lamp buzzing, and he glances at your bed; the stuffed animals, your pretty floral bedding.

“Just here to tuck you in, right?” He asks, watching the way you climb onto the bed and lie on top of the blankets.

“Mhm,” you nod, and he saunters towards you, sitting on the edge of the bed, reaching down and pressing his hand against your forehead.

“What am I gonna do with you?” He whispers, his thumb rubbing your hairline. “Making me lose my fuckin’ mind,” he smiles, shaking his head.

“Yeah… mine too,” you almost pout, and he bites the inside of his cheek. 

“How?” He asks, his thumb rubbing between your eyebrows.

“You act like I’m a ghost… when she’s around,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes, looking away.

“What do you want me to do, kid?” He asks, making a sarcastic face. “Can’t be kissin’ you, and doin’ the stuff we normally do.”

“I don’t know,” you groan, tipping your head back in frustration. “Attention.”

“I give you more attention than you know what to do with,” he says, smiling as he slides his hand from your forehead to your neck. “You’re just sayin’ stuff.”

“Is she gone tomorrow?” You ask softly, and he purses his lips, nodding.

“Workin’ a double, actually,” he explains.

“That means…” You giggle, biting your lip.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his free hand rubbing his thigh through his jeans. “We can.”

A silence fills your bedroom, and you look away from him, blinking slowly, breathing a little heavier at the thought of probably being alone for more than twelve hours. It feels good, knowing you two would have the entire house, everywhere, to do whatever the hell you wanted. It was a dangerous idea, but you basked in it. 

“Teach me how to kiss,” you mumble, shifting and looking up at him again, and he pats your head.

“Tomorrow,” he dismisses, slowly standing up off your bed, and the wooden frame groans in relief. 

“Now,” you demand, and he freezes, looking over his shoulder at you. “Please.”

You’re sitting on that bed, all wide eyes, not an ounce of sleep on your face, and he sighs, turning back around. He approaches you with a slow, short walk, and he doesn’t hesitate; his hand finds your chin, and he tips it back, leaning forward and pressing his lips against yours.

It’s warm, all bitter whisky, and soft lips, his rough fingertips touching your soft skin. Your eyes close, and your lips part, an invitation that makes him lightly groan—it’s dangerous, and he slowly makes his way to crawl on top of you, right through your thighs.

“Slow, baby,” he mumbles, noticing the way you’re moaning at his lips, sloppy and full of teeth.

“Trying,” you mutter, and he smiles, one of his hands holding the side of your face, and the other one rests at your hip, gently rubbing through your underwear.

You’re using all teeth, and he’s laughing; sloppy and messy, your mouth uncoordinated, not catching up with him at all. He rubs his thumb beneath your eye, tilting his head to the side, hoping you know enough to tilt it the other way. You don’t.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he says into your mouth, feeling how eager you are. “No rush… jus’ take your time,” he whispers, nodding slowly.

His hand slides up your shirt, gently rubbing at your ribs. His palm is large, spanning most of your ribs, a gentle hold that keeps you grounded. It feels good, his hands all over you and that consistent weight. 

“There… you go, keepin’ up with me,” he whispers, feeling the way you begin to move like him, gentle lips moving at the same pace, less teeth and more flesh.

You smile into the kiss, enjoying the praise.

“Tongue,” he mutters, and you feel it slip right in, his tongue.

It pushes past your lips and beyond your teeth, right into your mouth, and you gasp quietly. You let your tongue move against his, almost twirling, a filthy tango that has you moaning softly, and he’s pressing his thumb right at where your breasts swell from your chest. You whimper. 

“Feels good, yeah, sweetheart?” He asks, pulling away to kiss the side of your mouth lightly, then carefully moves along your cheek, peppering you with gentle kisses until he reaches your jawline. 

“Mhm,” you whisper, nodding quickly.

He begins to kiss at your jawline, moving his lips along it, and then down, dipping to the slope of your neck. Your head tips back against the sheets and blankets, and he smiles against the skin, noticing how easily you melt from him. He loves it. 

“This feels real nice, doesn’t it?” He asks you, his warm, damp lips moving, lapping up everything he can. “Kissin’ your neck, baby?”

You nod quickly, biting your lip, sliding your hand up to gently cup the nape of his neck. He nuzzles his nose against the groove where your shoulder meets your neck; he kisses it next, breathing in the sweet scent he remembers from the first night you really spoke to him, all over pizza.

“More, more, please,” you beg him, and he huffs out a breath, shaking his head. “More… please, I want more,” you beg quietly, and he feels his gut twist.

“This is it… for tonight,” he mumbles, and he can hear the whine slip right by your lips. “Just… for tonight, baby.”

“More… more,” you whine out, and he’s about to cover your mouth. “Please—you wanted more from me.”

“Later,” he groans against your neck, and you feel the light grind of his hips, the hardness straining against the front of his jeans, and now rubbing against your core.

You tip your head back, moaning the second you realize what he’s doing. It’s just a test, wanting you to know what he can give you, what he will give you eventually. It’s a warm feeling, all rough and hard, pressing to the front of your cotton undies.

“Earlier,” he mumbles into your neck, his voice deeper than usual, and your thumb lightly rubs the back of his neck. “Left a lil’ mark on my jeans, sweetheart… your mom was right there,” he tells you, nodding.

“I’m sorry,” you whimper, feeling the way he’s lightly grinding into you, the bed creaking quietly. “Didn’t—mean to do that, I didn’t,” you apologize.

“No… no, it’s okay, baby,” he whispers, kissing up your neck and to your jawline again. “Liked feelin’ it there, could smell you, even when you were in your room,” he nods, and you whimper.

“Stop,” you plead quietly, feeling your cheeks flushing, an undeniable shyness creeping in. He knows you well.

“So sweet, it smells,” he tells you, and you’re swallowing hard, listening to that deep voice. “Wanna taste it, soon, sweetheart,” he whispers, nodding.

“Want you to… to be the first to,” you tell him, and he groans, kissing up your jawline, moving to the other side of your jaw.

“I will,” he mumbles, working his way down the untouched skin. “Will be the first to taste you… to be all inside this pretty body,” he promises, and you squeeze your eyes shut, your nose scrunching.

You nod quickly, desperately wanting it just as much as he does. You can feel his grinds slowing down, the ache in his boxers, behind his jeans, growing and blooming into something he wishes he could fix right now. He can’t. 

“It’ll hurt first, baby,” he whispers, starting to walk you through what it’ll feel like. “Stretchin’ you out, makin’ room for me,” he adds, mouthing at your neck, his hand sliding from your ribs and down to your waist, his thumb rubbing near your stomach.

You’re squirming now, shifting your hips beneath his, and his grinds grow a little more firm, pressing his hard on right against your underwear, and you moan softly. This feels even better than the thigh riding—slow rocks, the kiss, the hardness, his deep voice, the dirty thoughts. You’re getting lost in it, this blissed-out feeling making you melt right into the sheets.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he groans against you, lightly thrusting right against you, the barrier and friction making it worse. “Gonna be doin’ this… all inside of you, though, all up in here,” he mentions, punctuating it with a press of his thumb into your lower abdomen.

You’re panting softly and nodding quickly, your thighs spread out and sprawled out, parting right around his body; he’s just moving against you—it looks like you’re having sex, both fully dressed, both moaning, and he’s close. He’s so close.

He’s ashamed, more than he’d like to be. He feels himself spill into his boxers, a warmth, a stickiness spreading throughout. He groans, shaking his head at himself, knowing he just came into his pants. All because he was grinding into you.

He curses quietly and pulls back away from you, gazing down at how innocent you look. You have no idea that it just happened, that he came in his pants, and he can feel it more than he’d like to. It’s a humiliating feeling for him, a man usually so stoic and closed off, suddenly getting off on just a few grinds and the sound of you whining and moaning. He looks away, and you lay there quietly.

“What?” You whisper to him, gently biting your lip.

“Nothin’, baby,” he mumbles, shaking his head and swallowing hard. “Jus’… gotta stop now, yeah?”

“Why? I-I didn’t… even do my thing,” you whimper, but there’s a completely different issue at hand, and he’s pulling back from you, staring down at you.

“Tomorrow, baby, we have all day,” he reassures you, sliding his hand down to gently rub over your thigh. “Promise, gonna let you cum all over my thigh,” he promises, nodding.

“Why not now?” You whine to him, but he’s already pulling off you and standing up, awkwardly adjusting his belt. It left imprints on your bare thighs.

“Jus’ told you… you listen to me,” he mumbles, his voice stern. You swallow hard and nod a little, staying there, and he nods. He steps out of the room as if he was never even there.

He flicks the bathroom light on in the shared bedroom with your mother. He unbuckles his belt and carefully pulls down his jeans, then his boxers—a completely fucking mess, all sticky and warm, on his thighs too. He tips his head back, groaning in frustration at how ahead of himself he got. 

When your eyes flicker open, it’s because of your mom lightly knocking on your bedroom door, a few gentle taps before she walks in. She’s beaming, a smile on her face that screams she’s not going to work, and all you want is for her to go to work.

“Honey,” she chirps, clearly way too excited. “Melissa just called me; she’s taking both of my shifts!” She smiles, and you’re half awake, groaning and rolling away from her.

“That means… we’re doing a day trip—come on, sweetie, get outta bed,” she tells you, vaguely mentioning a day trip with the three of you, and dread fills your stomach. 

You know you’re addicted to him the minute the first thought that pops into your head is wondering how you’ll find time to grind on his thigh, to kiss and make out, to have sex finally. That’s what you thought the entire day would be, and now… it’s anything but. You whine louder when she leaves the room.

You lay there with your face buried in a plethora of stuffed animals, your eyes closed, hoping it’s a dream, but it’s not, and another firm knock at your bedroom door confirms it. It’s him walking in, and he shuts it behind him lightly. You roll over, and your eyes widen.

“Can we—can we—” you immediately babble, practically climbing out of bed, and he quickly shakes his head, covering his mouth with one finger, and walks towards you.  

“No, baby,” he tells you quietly, looking over his shoulder again. “Gonna pick out your underwear for today,” he tells you casually, and your eyebrows furrow, lips parting.

“Why?” You ask, watching as he begins drifting towards your dresser.

“Jus’ wanna know what you’re wearin’ the whole time we’re out,” he explains, nodding slowly. “Only we’ll know.”

He sifts through your drawer and pulls out a pair of cotton ones, placing them on the top of your dresser, eyeing the lace and the little ribbon. He’s satisfied with his choice, and looks back over at you.

“Left somethin’ with them, too,” he tells you casually, and he slowly dips out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

You yawn and rub your eyes, groaning when you stand. You move towards the dresser and see the familiar pair of underwear, then see it against them: it’s small, pink, the tiniest bullet ever. Your eyes widen when you realize where this goes, and you immediately look over your shoulder.

The December air chilled right through your plaid dress, your Mary Janes pressing into the crunchy snow on the doorstep, and your boyfriend stood beside you, gently holding your hand. You were both mentally preparing for the inevitable: meeting your entire family tree. 

December twenty-third, just two days before Christmas, and your strict Catholic parents did it every year: hosted a large get-together at your childhood home, inviting every damn family member, each branch, people you’re sure you haven’t met before, and this year you were bringing him, your boyfriend.

Every nerve of yours was on fire, knowing how taboo the situation you were in was. Dating a man who was either closer to your father’s age or even older wasn’t the most normal thing, especially in your family, who urged you to date a boy from your church, one of the ones who begged you to stay ‘pure’ before being married off, only to divorce in a few years because you two were truly incompatible.

You had left the church years ago. They barely knew that; you had run off with the man beside you.

“You nervous?” your boyfriend mumbles quietly to you, and your eyes are fixed on the obnoxious wreath hanging outside of the door. You hesitantly nod.

“Yeah… really nervous,” you tell him, turning your head to gaze at him, and you want to scold him for wearing such casual attire- just a canvas jacket and some jeans; meanwhile, you stood beside him like a church girl–it was more modest than anything you ever wore.

“You’ll be fine, baby,” he reassures, gently squeezing your cold hand, and the winter air nips at both of your necks.

You’re about to scold him for getting the whiff of cigarettes on him, but the door swings open and your eyes widen, staring at your parents before you. Their eyes widen too, and they immediately dart their eyes towards the man beside you; tall, shaggy hair. Disapproval is evident in their gaze.

“Honey,” your mom suddenly smiles, her neck decorated with pearls, a large cross beneath the other jewelry. “So glad you made it… so glad you made it!” she cheers, and you can smell the scent of food wafting in from the busy kitchen.

“Kiddo,” your dad chimes in, not even hesitating to pull you in by the shoulders, and your boyfriend awkwardly shuffles in behind you. “Missed you, a whole bunch.”

“Yeah… yeah, I missed you guys,” you nod, and you turn to look at your boyfriend, who is standing beside you, his hand on your lower back, his eyes elsewhere.

He’s mostly looking at the decor strung around your childhood home. The crucifixes hanging in the living room, the bright lights on the railings–it looks like Christmas threw up all over the place, and you shift on your feet, your mom helping you take off your jacket.

“And who is this handsome man?” your mom beams, and you recognize that fake smile from the grocery store, the similar one she uses when she’s trying to charm the cashier into letting her use an expired coupon.

“My boyfriend,” you smile, and he’s smiling too, and you recognize his fake smile–the one he uses when he’s about to knock the daylights out of the guy hitting on you at a bar. It’s just your fucking mother.

“It’s nice to meet ya’,” your dad joins in, holding out his hand, and your boyfriend looks at him next, taking his hand in his, giving him a firm shake and a nod.

“Very nice to meet the two of you.” Your boyfriend nods, and your mom finds her way to him in the small front foyer, taking off his jacket. It reeks like cigarettes, and you’re pretty sure a half-empty flask is weighing it down.

“Your aunts and uncles are gonna be here soon, sweetheart,” your mom explains, hanging up your jackets, and your dad is currently eyeing the man who could pass as his age, or maybe is his age. It would be rude to ask.

“I know,” you mumble nervously, and your mom glances down at your outfit, smiling at the modest choice: a long plaid dress and black tights, your boyfriend smirking at the thought of you trying to dress that way when he’s seen how you usually dress around him.

There’s an awkward pause at the front door, and you swallow hard, your boyfriend shuffling closer to you, and he’s placing his hand on your back again. The oven timer saves the day, and it begins beeping, signalling that more sugar cookies are ready to be taken out, and your mom grins.

“Well! You two… love-birds, make yourself at home,” she smiles, nudging your dad, who is still glaring at your boyfriend and his unshaven beard. “You know where we’ll be,” she nods.

“Thanks, mom…” You mumble, looking up at your boyfriend, who is still giving that fake smile, and you can see your dad clenching his fist as the two of them disappear around the corner, heading into the kitchen.

“Kid…” your boyfriend mumbles, and you immediately nudge his waist, and he’s laughing.

“Stop,” you whisper-yell through gritted teeth, looking over your shoulder after you turn to face him.

“I know you said your family is… weird, but Jesus Christ… literally,” he shoots, and you can't help but smile at his wit, and you nod, knowing exactly what he means.

“Wait until you meet the other seventy-five percent,” you tease, and he groans, tipping his head back. “My grandma… grandpa, the whole family tree,” you shrug, and he’s mentally preparing himself.

“Your outfit looks ridiculous,” he suddenly says through a laugh, glancing down at it. “Wanna take it off you,” he says casually, and your eyes widen, cheeks flushing red.

“Okay, you can’t… say anything like that at all,” you shake your head quickly and grab his hand, pulling him towards the staircase. You decide to take him up to your childhood bedroom.

His feet are heavy on the wooden staircase, and he trails behind you, glancing at the hung-up pictures and even more crucifixes nailed into the wallpaper. He scoffs under his breath, following your lead, but regretting ever saying ‘yes’ to you dragging him here.

Your bedroom door swings open, and he looks around, an immediate smile curling into his stoic look. It’s all bright pink and childish, completely frozen in time, and he’s stepping ahead of you, laughing at the sight of it.

“Haven’t changed at all, have you, baby?” he smiles, looking at the stuffed animals neatly lined on your bed, and he recalls the many you have tucked on your shared bed back home.

“Shut up,” you scowl, shutting the door and quickly locking it.

“No… no, it’s adorable,” he mumbles, his hands in his pockets as he approaches your desk, gazing down at the stacks of books and then to the bulletin board on your wall.

He squints; polaroids of you and your friends, dorky photographs of you in middle school, a few candids of you when you were just a girl, and he plucks one off of the board; you at fifteen, probably wearing the same dress you are right now.

“Huh,” he teases, his rough thumb rubbing over the picture, and looks back at you. “Just a little thing, still are,” he nods, and you’re quickly walking over, eyes narrowing at the photo.

“Hey! Don’t touch that!” you immediately whine, knowing how incredibly foolish you look in the picture, and he lifts his hand, completely making it unreachable. He smirks.

“Stand on your tiptoes, sweetheart,” he quips, already knowing you were, and you whine in frustration, tipping your head back to look up at the photograph above his head.

“I hate you,” you whimper, standing flat on your feet, still wearing your black shoes. You huff.

“Look at you,” he coos, lowering his hand and casually sliding the image into his back pocket, and then cupping your cheek. “Sweet girl.” he looks at your outfit again, smirking.

“Stop doing that,” you quietly protest, knowing his wandering eyes find your modest outfit quite amusing, and you can feel his eyes undressing you. He purposely picked out your bra and underwear today, for that exact reason.

“Admiring my girl?” he asks, his rough thumb rubbing over your cheekbone.

“Dad…” you whisper to him, looking away, and his eyebrows raise.

“We doin’ that here, kid?” he ticks his head at the name you just called him, dad, and he can’t help but find it entertaining that you’re saying it here, your biological father just below.

You just look up at him, pouting, and he slides his thumb down to your lip, pulling at the plush flesh. He licks his own lips, unable to pull his gaze away from your innocent eyes, and he leans forward, nudging his nose against the side of your jaw.

“Hey,” you whisper, feeling him gently mouthing at the side of your neck, and you press your hand to his chest. “Stop… my parents, come on.”

“Really feelin’ the Christmas spirit,” he teases, pulling back from you. “Getting all Virgin Mary on me,” he smiles, and he watches your cheeks flush in real time.

“No… it’s just… my parents would shoot me, and then you, if they walked in on this,” you explain, and he laughs at your explanation, slapping the side of your hip. Way too loud.

“Your daddy gonna come in and kill me?” he asks, grinning.

“Yeah, probably,” you nod, and he’s back at it; his stupid hand that was on your hip, now sliding up the plaid fabric, and your eyes widen.

“Five minutes,” he edges on, his warm palm already sliding to your tights, and you’re shaking your head. “Come on, for dad, baby,” he presses, and you’re whining quietly to him.

The doorbell rings, and immediately your name is called, and you look at your boyfriend, who looks like cold water was just dumped on his damn head. You bite your lip, and he slides his hand out from under your plaid dress, landing a harder slap onto your hip.

“Not my fault,” you quietly protest, and he’s looking down at you, nodding towards your bedroom door again, silently telling you to lead the way. You do.

You quickly slip out of your bedroom, and he’s walking closely behind, eyes focusing on the shapeless dress and the black tights he’ll be ripping and tearing later on, knowing the underwear beneath it, the ones he told you to put on. He swallows hard when you walk down the stairs.

You’re overwhelmed when you reach the bottom step; your relatives are packing into the foyer already, smiling and laughing, and you can hear the light Christmas music from the stereo system. The festive party is in full swing now, and you’re going to have to act as normal as possible.

You’re awkwardly hugging people you barely know, and your boyfriend watches from the sidelines, looking up at the ceiling, his jaw clenched whenever he receives a disapproving scowl.

“This is your boyfriend, sweetie?” your aunt grins, looking at your boyfriend, who’s gazing at the older woman, nodding along with you.

“Yeah… he is, my boyfriend,” you mutter nervously, and you can feel your other relatives pushing around you, trying to find the living room with refreshments and snacks.

“Well… I know your mom wouldn’t mind being a grandma soon,” she teases with a grin, and your cheeks suddenly flush pink, and your boyfriend subtly pinches your hip.

“I–yeah… maybe soon,” you nervously laugh, shrugging and looking up at your boyfriend.

“Definitely,” he speaks up, swiftly sliding his hand around your waist, squeezing. “Isn’t that right, little lady?” he grins sarcastically, and your aunt is the only person who seems to be a little forgiving.

“I’ll see you around.” Your aunt smiles and nods, turning around to join the others, and you immediately look up at your boyfriend, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure.

“Do you always have to be weird?” you ask him, and he shrugs, his hand sliding down to squeeze your ass next, and you shift.

“I’ll stop when your family stops askin’ if I’m gonna give you a baby,” he counters, and you’ve never rolled your eyes harder as you pull away from him, scoffing, and walking towards the others. 

Your boyfriend is right behind you, two hands on your hips, lightly guiding you towards the living room where fewer people sit. He’s tapping his thumbs against your body, giving small nods to your relatives who eye him.

“Can’t believe they’re wonderin’ when I’m gonna cum in you,” he mumbles just for you to hear, and you tense at his words, but he’s right. “Maybe I’ll do it here,” he offers, the irony making you squirm.

The two of you find an empty place on the couch in your living room– the family room, dining room, and kitchen mostly packed–it’s just you and him on the couch, the Christmas tree spinning around, ornaments glinting in the dim light. You sigh, and he parts his legs, hips lifting as he adjusts himself, a hand resting on his own thigh, the other around your shoulders.

“I wanna go home, dad,” you mumble to him, and he smiles at the complaint, turning his head to kiss your temple.

“I know, baby,” he mutters, kissing it again. “You’ll be fine… make you feel real good when we get home, yeah?” he promises, his hand rubbing over your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you nod and turn to face him, and he’s already looking at you, finding that sweet look to be absolutely heartbreaking.

“This dress is so uncomfortable,” you complain some more, awkwardly tugging down the fabric, and he looks down at the sheer tights, adding a dark tint to your legs. “And everything is too tight, and I wanna go home,” you whine, and he’s smiling, amused again.

“How about I get us some drinks?” he offers, nodding towards the refreshment table your mom had neatly set out, a few other little festive treats scattered throughout. “I’ll be back,” he tells you, nodding, and he’s already standing up.

You watch him navigate through the crowd; his frame broad, and he’s so damn tall, lightly moving through your family members who aren’t used to the strange man wandering around, and he disappears around the corner, into the abyss of your judgmental family.

He returns in just a few minutes; he holds a clear glass filled with a thick white liquid, and just a beer for himself. You squint at the drink, and he sits down with a heavy sigh.

“Here, kid,” he tells you, handing you the drink, and you take it. “Eggnog,” he confirms, and you sniff it–it doesn’t smell like normal eggnog.

“Are you sure?” you ask him hesitantly, staring down at the mysterious liquid, and you hold it to your nose again. “Smells… gross,” you mumble.

“Spiked eggnog,” he clarifies, already taking a pull of the cold beer. “Won't make you so anxious, and all squirmy,” he smiles, putting his arm around your shoulder once again,

You take a swig, and it almost makes you gag, but a buzz would definitely give you some relief. 

There’s something comedic about the fact that your family is fine with you drinking in their sacred house, while also disapproving of every damn thing you did–you take a longer sip at the thought that’s pissing you off.

“Feel better, sweetheart?” your boyfriend asks, nudging your knee with his own, and you nod, a little stain above your upper lip, and he’s instantly wiping it away from you.

“Tastes really bad,” you confess, looking down at the cup resting in your lap.

“Jus’ drink up,” he encourages, flashing you a grin, and he takes another sip of his beer.

The two of you sit alone in the living room, the soft sound of Christmas music still playing; a lighter chatter from your family members hums as well, and you’re dreading the second you actually have to get up and socialize, to explain that no, you’re not pregnant. No, it won't be happening anytime soon. 

You lean into your boyfriend a little more, nuzzling into the corner of his arm where it lifts to rest behind your shoulders, and he’s mindlessly rubbing your arm, and that’s until it’s called–yeah, it’s the festive dinner, and you immediately whine to him, shaking your head.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers to you, looking over at your family members who seem to be filing into the dining room, a long table awaiting you. “Gotta get some food in you,” he adds on, shifting to the edge of the couch. 

“I don’t wanna,” you complain, and he pats your upper back. “It’s gonna be awkward, and… I feel dizzy,” you add on, and he clenches his jaw at your childlike behaviour.

“Yeah? That’s from drinking on an empty tummy, c’mon,” he reassures you again, and you begrudgingly stand to your feet, flattening out your plaid dress. “Atta girl.”

Your boyfriend stands behind you as you hastily walk into the dining room, and there are far too many people for your liking; dishing out food onto their plates, laughing and cheering, drinks being poured, and he just has his hands on your hips from behind, squeezing. 

You somehow make it to your seats at the end of the table, and you nervously sit down in the wooden chair, glancing at the food–you don’t really have an appetite right now, although your boyfriend clearly does, and you scowl.

“Don’t feel good,” you whisper to him, and your relatives across the table smile at you, and you give one in return, and then you feel it; his hand finding your thigh beneath the table.

Comforting, and unfortunately, arousing. 

“You drunk, kid?” he asks you sarcastically, turning his head to stare at you, his plate half-loaded with food, and yours empty.

“What? No…” You mumble, and maybe you are, just a little bit. 

“Get some food in your stomach,” he directs, patting your thigh, rubbing it gently, and you shift awkwardly in the wooden chairs, aimlessly staring at him.

“Don't wanna,” you protest, shaking your head, and he shoots you a glare–it’s like you’re the needy one now, and he’s not sure if he can put up with it when every relative of yours surrounds you two. 

Your defiance has his fingers curling into the flesh of your thigh, almost right up and into your dress that was supposed to be modest, and you take it as a hint to reach forward, grabbing a stupid dinner roll. He notices and slowly moves his hand back, but keeps it on your thigh.

It's just as awkward as before; a silence stretches between the two of you; you picking at the food you don't want to eat, and he’s glancing at you, making sure you aren't throwing any more of a damn tantrum for some unknown reason. He’s rubbing your thigh still, a rough thumb grazing along the inseam of your black tights. 

Curious eyes glance between the two of you, and your thighs are squeezing together under the table, hidden from the family friends minding their business in front of you, and your boyfriend is too careless for your liking. You’re picking at some carrots, hesitantly eating them, and he finally lets his hand slide right up your dress.

“Have to go to the bathroom,” you mumble to him, placing your fork down already, and he’s chewing his food, shaking his head.

“You can hold it, kid,” he lightly scolds, squeezing your thigh again, his thumb pressing into your skin.

“I can’t,” you whisper, feeling your hips squirming in the chair.

“You will,” he mumbles, not looking at you anymore, and you pout, though he can’t see it. 

You lean back into the chair and away from the table, and you’re trying not to make a scene, but it’s a little hard when your boyfriend is aware of the fact that you just tried to sneak out of dinner so you could hide in the bathroom. He’s still rubbing your thigh.

“Really have to go,” you whisper to him, and his jaw stops, and he turns his head to look at you.

“Gonna piss yourself if you don’t?” he asks, an edge to his words that has you swallowing hard. You nod.

He puts his fork onto the table and stands up, and your eyes widen when he grabs your upper arm–it’s a little too aggressive for your family’s eyes, and you’re beyond embarrassed by the way he’s maltreating you. You look up at him, and he’s carefully pulling you away.

“Go to the bathroom,” he murmurs to you, pushing you ahead of him, forcing you to lead the way.

“I’m–I’m sorry,” you mumble, looking up and over your shoulder at him, and he’s clenching his jaw, and you’re quickly finding your way to the nearest bathroom.

The door shuts with a heavy click, and he discreetly locks it. You look up at him, feeling him crowd you against the sink, a familiar look in his eyes, and you whimper. He basks in it, the almost tinge of fear he can see in your innocent eyes.

“Turn around,” he says quietly, using his finger to gesture a spin. “Hands on the sink, baby,” he tells you, and you bite your lip, hesitantly turning around, looking in the mirror. 

He’s immediately behind you, pressing up against your dress, his one hand gripping your hip, the other reaching up to grab a fistful of your hair. He glances at the door, and then in the mirror at your reflection; cheeks all flushed, an anxious line knitting into your brows. He smirks, looking down at the way you’re subconsciously arching your back.

“Pissing me the fuck off out there,” he mumbles to you, grabbing your hair even harder, forcing your neck back uncomfortably. “Actin’ like a child, whining and complaining, when you dragged me here in the first place,” he hisses. 

“I-I’m sorry,” you whimper softly, and he tugs your hair even harder, causing a soft whine to leave your mouth again.

“Can’t behave one day, not even for your real fuckin’ daddy,” he shakes his head, watching the look in your eyes in the mirror. “Then lying about havin’ to piss? Real cute,” he scoffs, using his knee to press into the back of yours, forcing you to bend awkwardly.

You groan when you lean a bit more forward against the sink, struggling to keep yourself up–his hand is still tangled in your head, forcing your neck in a position that doesn’t feel the best. It’s not supposed to. 

“Should’ve made you do it at the dinner table, in front of your family,” he mumbles, and you can feel how hard he’s getting through his jeans. “Maybe it’d teach you something, yeah, baby? Making you clean it up yourself too.”

“No… no,” you shake your head, gasping when he yanks your head back, and your shoes slip on the tile floor. You hate that you like this. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mumbles, digging his fingers into your hip. “Misbehave one more fuckin’ time,” he grints through his teeth, letting go of your hair and sliding his hand to your shoulder, forcing you to stand up straight.

“Okay… okay, sorry, I will… I will,” you mumble, staring at yourself in the mirror, and then at him. His eyes are darkened and heavy. 

“Gonna go out there and be a good girl,” he tells you, landing a harsh slap on your hip, and you cringe at the thought of your family hearing it from the dinner table.

“Mhm… good girl,” you repeat, nodding, standing up straight for him.

“There we go,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to your neck. “You’re a good girl, yeah?”

You nod some more, staring in the mirror at him.

“Mmm… on your knees then, kid,” he whispers, and he watches the flash of fear cover your face.

“What?” you ask in disbelief, turning around to face him, and he clicks his tongue.

“On your knees,” he nods, lifting a hand to ruffle your head. “Gonna be real quick,” he promises.

“Come on… my family, dinner…” You ramble, and he’s using the hand on your head to push down lightly, and you sink to your knees on the tile floor, whining in the process.

“Let’s use that mouth for somethin’ other than whining and complaining,” he says, his hand reaching to undo his belt. “Yeah? Good girls do that.”

You watch his long fingers undo the clasp of his belt, letting it open before popping his button out, and then his zipper quickly following. You swallow hard, his jeans lowering down his hips just enough–it’ll be easy to slide them up, and that’s how he wants this interaction; easy and quick. 

“Been a real bitch lately with that mouth,” he tells you, his hand sliding into the front of his boxers, denim jeans down just enough. “Especially today, with your whole fuckin’ family around us, baby.” he shakes his head, pulling himself out. 

“Wasn’t doing anything,” you mumble, shaking your head, and he grins at how stupid you look on your knees, wearing the most librarian clothing he’s seen in a second.

“Awww, you weren’t?” he mocks, waiting for your response.

The minute your mouth opens, he uses it as an opportunity–he pushes right in, and your eyes squeeze shut the minute he hits the back of your throat. No warnings, no licks beforehand, just an immediate thrust, and a strong hand on the top of your head.

You’re barely doing any of the sucking; he’s just using your mouth as a hole, both of his hands holding either side of your head, using your throat just like you always let him.

“See… good girl,” he groans, his head tipping back, and drool is dripping out of your mouth and down your chin, right onto your lap and on your dress. “Good baby, c’mon,” he mumbles, nodding.

Your noises are muffled–the whines and the chokes barely audible, but you’re gagging, and he’s realizing it’s a bit louder than he expected. It’s the empty bathroom that’s making the noise louder, and he can’t help but run off it, the thought of someone opening the door.

You grasp at his thighs, holding them tightly as he relentlessly thrusts, and you just want him to finish so you can go out there. It’s not that you don’t like it, but you know your family is going to be suspicious; the both of you in the bathroom for too long.

Tears pour down your flushed cheeks, eyes glassy and begging. He stares right into them, his mouth agape, panting, in awe of how well you’re taking him. In the bathroom.

“Gotta swallow for me, baby,” he tells you, and you feel him poking the back of your throat, twitching and throbbing, ribbed veins on the flat of your tongue. Your eyes are closing.

It’s cruel; he doesn’t tell you he’s close; he just cums, and your eyes shoot open in surprise, feeling the warmth at the back of your throat, filling your poor mouth, and he pulls back, and you practically slump back. You swallow.

“I know, sweetheart,” he coos, staring down at you, and he’s fixing his belt, zipping up his jeans, preparing to go back out there like it’s nothing. “Come on,” he encourages, reaching down to help you up.

You stand to your feet, all wobbly, and you glance in the mirror at yourself; red eyes and teary cheeks flush, and you move your jaw. It hurts. 

He doesn’t give you time to fix your messy hair or the way your dress is bunched up a little, not even time to fully wipe his cum off your fucking mouth; he’s just pushing you out of the bathroom, forcing you to walk ahead first to make it less obvious the two of you left together. You walk back to the table, breathing heavier, and you take a seat. 

“You’re doing well, honey?” your aunt asks as you pass by her seat, and she’s reaching out and holding your arm. You nod.

“Food… didn’t sit with me right; I’m okay,” you smile, realizing the distress on your face is more obvious than you wanted it to be. You swallow hard and sit back down in the seat, looking at the food that has gone cold. You have no appetite. 

Your boyfriend sits down beside you, and you tense up, sitting up a bit straighter, and you take a bite out of the dinner roll you hadn’t started yet. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and his eyes narrow; the white splotch right on the corner of your mouth, crusting over, and he has to hold back from groaning. 

You stare at your plate as you slowly chew, trying to act like your boyfriend wasn’t using your mouth less than ten minutes ago, and there isn’t an ache at the back of your throat from the way he kept hitting the back of it. You clear your throat.

“You alright, baby?” he mutters to you, and you turn to look at him, nodding. You look like a mess; hair still ruined from the grip he had on it, and your eyes are red, glassy, pupils blown. He grinds his teeth.

“Uh-huh,” you tell him, and he slides his hand over to you, patting your stomach.

He lifts his hand and wipes away the mess on your mouth, his eyes gazing right into yours as he does it, slowly reaching over to the glass of water that was poured when the two of you were absent. He hands it to you, rubbing his thumb across your cheek when you take it from him. 

By the time dessert comes around, you’re slumped into the wooden chair, still a little blissed out and dizzy from what had happened in the bathroom, and your boyfriend’s hand is back on your thigh, gently rubbing. He peeks over at you when plates start being taken away.

“Kinda… wanna go to my room,” you speak up, slowly looking over at him, and he’s taking a final sip of his beer, setting it onto the table and crossing his arms.

“Your room?” he asks with a raise of his eyebrows.

“Mhm,” you mumble, nodding, and his lips pull into a thin line. 

“Lead the way,” he waves for you to stand up, and you do, still wobbly, and he has to catch your hands to help escort you through the decorated house. 

Relatives are too busy gathering in the living room, picking over presents, and laughing at stupid jokes to notice the two of you sneaking off to your bedroom. Your parents are both a little drunk anyway, and the Christmas tunes fade as you move up the stairs again.

“Gotta tell me what’s wrong, kid,” your boyfriend says to you as he follows behind, and you’re moving into your bedroom again, and he’s shutting the door, locking it once again. 

“You… got me all… you know…” You shrug, walking towards your old bed. “And then… then you made me go out there!” 

“Ah,” he nods in understanding, quietly stalking behind you. “All needy, yeah?”

“Yeah…” you admit, your knees hitting the edge of the bed, and you look down at the sheets. “You’re never fair,” you shake your head, and he’s creeping up, lifting a hand to gather your hair away from your neck. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” he whispers, but it’s condescending and lacking any true care; he places a kiss to the side of your neck, hands finding your hips again. “All squirmy at the table, yeah? Mess in your underwear?”

You kneel a little on the bed, feeling that familiar weakness in your knees. You nod. 

“Poor thing,” he coos, sliding one hand down, slowly lifting your dress a bit. “Need daddy to take care of that ache? That tingle?” he mutters, and you whimper, nodding again. 

“Yes, please,” you whisper, and he’s smirking, slowly sliding up your dress a bit more.

“See? When you behave… and act like a big girl…” he starts smoothly, a hand guiding you down onto the bed, forcing you onto your hands and knees. “... you get treated like a big girl–a polite one, too,” he says.

You’re on your hands and knees now, your childhood bed low to the ground, making it easy for your boyfriend to stand right behind you–same position as in the bathroom; having you bent over. You look up, seeing your vanity right across from the two of you, a large mirror.

He has your dress fully bunched up now, and he smirks at the black pantyhose. Two hands rip them, and you gasp loudly at the gesture; he ruined them, and the thread is splitting even further, going down the back of your thighs, destroyed. 

You hear the familiar clink of his belt as it unclasps, and you whine, your head bowed, patiently waiting for him. He looks at the underwear he had picked out for you, wrapped around your hips and ass, and he hums at the sight.

“Gonna have to rip these off too, huh?” he asks, and you shake your head. He laughs. 

He’s already hard and throbbing in his hand, just looking at the back of you; back arching already, your hips wiggling for him, palms pressed into the floral sheets you had since you were a teen, and now you’re bent over them, waiting for him. He sucks in a breath.

His thumb pulls aside your underwear, and he doesn’t hesitate again; a firm thrust, quick and hard–it’s easy when you’re as wet as you are, and he slides in.

You moan way too loudly, and he immediately leans forward, wrapping a firm palm over your mouth, but he doesn’t stop thrusting. He’s always been rough, aggressive, and it slips out more when you’re in a risky situation, like this one. 

Your head is tipped back again as he fucks into you from behind, your stupid dress all bunched up, one hand on your hip, the other clasped over your mouth. He’s looking in front of him at the mirror, gawking over your facial expressions; heavy eyes almost rolling back into your head, and you’re already dropping onto your forearms.

“Taught my girl well,” he mumbles out, watching that curve of your spine, how effortlessly you slid into such a position. “See what a little punishing does, baby?” 

You mindlessly nod, your body rocking with each thrust, and he’s leaning over you a little more, still pressing his hand over your mouth. You can hear your family chattering downstairs, the loud laughs and hollers, and you’re getting your guts rearranged in your childhood bedroom. 

“Lookin’ so good… so fuckin’ good,” he groans, his hips never stalling, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress. “Trying to be all… modest. Just for me to fuck you like a whore,” he practically laughs, thinking of your poor attempt at conserving yourself. 

You whine into his hand louder, gripping the sheets, watching a teddy bear fall right onto the ground and hit the floor. He shuffles closer to the bed, moving deeper, and your eyes roll back, and he watches it. 

“Takin’ me perfectly, baby… for daddy,” he mumbles, pounding right into you, and you're feeling it more than ever; the angle is perfect, and he’s perfect, and your mind is absolutely melting.

“Gonna fill you up… aren’t I?” he mumbles, his hand sliding from your hip to your lower back, tracing the arch of it. “Seems like… whole world wants me to, kid,” he nods, and you can do nothing but take it all.

“Get you all pregnant… hmm, let everyone know… what we do together, baby,” he taunts, his thrusts more pronounced each time he speaks, edging you on. “Wouldn’t you like that? Everyone knowin’ I fill you up?”

Your heavy eyes gaze up at the vanity, the mirror, and you see the wolfish grin curled into his lips, clearly getting off on this sick idea. You look back down into the sheets, his palm leaving a red handprint right across your face, in the open. 

“C’mon… c’mon, doll, take it,” he grunts, moving somehow quicker, his jeans pooling at his ankles, and you can feel the way he hits deeper and deeper, no hesitation in any of his movements. It feels so good; you can feel yourself growing dizzier.

He cums before you do, and it’s obvious as ever; he groans, louder than he wanted to, and his hips stall, forcing himself to bury himself right inside of you, ensuring not a drop goes to waste. It’s all inside of you, stretching you, forcing you to adjust and accommodate his load and his size. It’s embarrassing how you cum even after he stops thrusting. Somehow his words made it easy; just his voice and the thoughts were enough for your body to give, and when it does, he lands a hard slap on your hip. You yelp and lurch forward, and he collapses right on top of you, pushing himself deeper. Jesus Christ. 

He’s panting into the side of your neck now, hunched over you, his chest to your back, his palm sliding from your mouth and going to gather your hair, to move it from your neck.

“Jus’ gonna stay like this,” he tells you, kissing lightly, soothing you. “Mmm… my sweet baby,” he mumbles, feeling him twitch.

“You’re falling behind, I don’t know why,” the strict voice tells you, large hands shuffling through the plethora of papers on his desk. “At the beginning of the semester, every essay you handed in was well-written, and now…” he pauses, eyes glancing at the sheets. “You didn’t even hand the final in. Why?”

His office is dark, the small lamp on his desk casting a glow across the sheets, and he’s looking at you, eyes narrowed, dainty glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He never wore those when he taught his lectures, and you can tell why. 

There’s a pause, your brain trying to conjure up an excuse. He’s waiting, his hand rubbing the side of his clenched jaw, an impatient gesture.

“I’m not sure,” you confess, the leather chair squeaking when you shift your weight. “Chem is kind of… taking over my life,” you say, laughing nervously as you push a strand of fallen hair behind your ear.

“Am I your chemistry teacher?” he asks, his tone flat and unforgiving. “Your other courses do not have anything to do with me,” he shakes his head, sighing quietly, long fingers sliding the papers back into the folder.

“I’m sorry… I-I… I’ll get the final in, I promise,” you plead, shifting forward to the edge of the seat, and he’s currently writing something on a slip of paper.

“These are my office hours,” he says plainly, pressing the small sticky note onto the desk before you. “You can talk to me during these time slots; other than that, you should be off during your own thing,” he dismisses, leaning back into his chair.

He’s staring at you, his expression blank, his eyes showing little emotion. You can’t read him like you can read most men; he’s reserved, strictly professional, and the little nod towards the door hints that he doesn’t want this to go beyond a professor-student dynamic. It’s not like you thought about him that way, anyway. 

“Thank you, sir,” you say quietly, retrieving your backpack and swinging it over your shoulder, keeping your head low as you walk out and shut the door with a soft click.

The commute back to your apartment is a quiet one. The pavement is glistening from the storm that just passed, the streetlamps reflecting off the stray puddles you keep stepping into with a soft, displeased grunt. Your school shoes are getting dirty, and you only find relief as you step into the complex, smiling at Mrs. Esther, an older woman who usually sat by the front door, observing, watching.

“How did that date go, sweetheart?” she asks you, a shaky hand holding a cigarette, and you let go of the door slightly, gazing at her wrinkled face and soft smile. She always sat there, on that bench outside the doors. 

“Date?” you ask with a small laugh, eyes glancing up at the night sky as you awkwardly hold the door open.

“Mhm.. last Thursday, that handsome man with the long hair,” she says, taking a long drag of her cigarette, a complete juxtaposition to the hospital band wrapped around her wrist – she had been there just a week ago, something about ‘breathing problems’. You were the only one to bring her flowers, she remembers.

“Oh,” you chirp, laughing a bit harder as you shake your head. “Uhm.. yeah, it went fine,” you nod, stepping aside as an older man passes through, and you’re still holding the door, feeling your arm and shoulders going numb.

“When I was your age… oh, dear God, every man I spoke to… wanted nothing but trouble,” she hums, tapping her cigarette on the overflowing ashtray. “Don’t let them, darling, listen to me,” she grins, and you’re shaking your head.

“Okay… thank you, Mrs. Esther,” you mumble, sighing in relief as you shut the door behind you and groan at the heaviness of your backpack. 

You quickly type in the code, and the main doors open, finally allowing you to enter the apartment lobby. You make a beeline for the elevators. It’s a relief, standing quietly as it bypasses each level, and your head is leaning against the metal wall. 

“Bitch, where the hell have you been?” your roommate practically yells as she springs off the couch and walks towards you. She notices the exhaustion on your face: under-eye bags and mascara smeared down your lower lids.

“My prof’s office,” you mumble, slipping off the Mary Jane shoes you’re pretty sure are bleeding through your white socks. “I think he hates me, and wouldn’t mind if I died.” 

“It’s… eight o’clock at night, and you’re hanging around with your professor?” she grimaces, her eyebrows furrowing, and she wanders off towards the kitchen. “If anyone saw that… they’re gonna think you’re fucking, or worse, dating him.” 

“Oh, my god,” you roll your eyes as you throw your backpack onto the ground. “If anyone knows that man, they know he’s not… sleeping with a student, definitely not dating one either,” you sigh, taking a seat on one of the stools near the island.

“Well, is he hot?” she asks, standing by the fridge, scanning through the shelves that scream, “I am a broke college student who can't afford anything.” 

You pause and gaze down at the counter, shrugging. She notices the silence and turns around, barking out a laugh that has you tilting your head to the side. 

“He’s someone’s father, I hope you know that,” you relent, and she’s cracking open a Diet Coke, shaking her head.

“Okay?” she jokes, taking a long sip of the drink. “It’s just attraction, like, it doesn’t matter,” she explains with a shrug, resting her elbows against the granite counter. “Besides, you don’t even know if he actually has kids.”

You sigh again, slumping in the stool as you reach into your pocket, pulling out the crumpled piece of paper, and she instantly snatches it, unravelling it.

“Is this like… a planned hookup?” she teases, and you groan in distaste, grabbing the sticky note and reading it over; his office hours, and a little phone number at the bottom.

“Do you have to be a pervert?” you ask, blinking slowly. “It’s just his office hours and office number,” you explain, tossing it back down. 

“My profs have never done anything like that,” she says, shaking her head and clicking her tongue. “I think he wants you to call him,” she smirks, tilting her head to the side.

“Yeah… I’m really sure,” you give her a fake smile, and nod, and she’s lifting her hands in the air like she’s pleading guilty, laughing loudly as you stomp down the hallway and into your bedroom. 

Your bedroom is already a mess when you walk in; papers and textbooks are scattered across your desk, piles of clothing are on the floor, and your bed is still unmade from this morning. You cringe at the sight, moaning at the idea of tidying up any of your own mess. 

The chair squeaks as you sit, your eyes gazing down at your desk. You open up the folded sticky note again, glossing over the numbers–his handwriting is neat. Perfect numbers curled with intent, the word ‘phone’ practically a blob. You toss it into the pile of other papers, but you’re still looking at it out of the corner of your eye. 

Your phone glows as you lift it. Nope, he hasn’t texted you, that stupid boy you went on a date with.

You’re not sure what possesses you; fingers suddenly finding the phone icon, eyes looking at the sticky note, your fingertips dialling it in, typing each number in until there’s a ringtone. You cross one arm over your chest, lightly chewing on the nail of your thumb, and you wait until it stops—a voice.

“Hello?” a deep voice drawls across the line, and it’s like somebody has smacked you across the face. You called your professor at almost nine o’clock at night on your cellphone.

“Uhm–hello,” you awkwardly stutter out, covering your own mouth with your hand as you close your eyes. You’re humiliating yourself in ways you didn’t know you possessed, and you can feel the warmth in your pink cheeks.

“Is there something you need?” he asks, his tone flat and monotone, but deep and heavy, like you can feel his gaze despite him being God knows where, and you’re in your apartment.

“No…” You say quietly, and you’re shaking your head, looking at the ceiling. “I’m… uhm, I’m just making sure this is your number,” you excuse yourself, and you have to stop yourself from bursting into a fit of laughter.

“Staff directory,” he tells you, and you can hear the faintest hint of annoyance. “Google it. You’ll see it, beside my name, confirming this is, in fact, my phone number,” he adds on, and there’s a beat of silence following the pure disinterest in his voice.

“Right… yeah,” you mumble, pulling the phone away from your face as if that would make the situation any better.

“Have a nice evening,” he says politely, but hangs up almost immediately, not even letting you respond to the mess you just made. 

You sit there, listening to the dial tone humming in the background of your quiet bedroom. It seems merely impossible to face the man again, especially since you have to see him tomorrow, right in front of you, as he teaches you about Gothic literature and a variety of other things you won't remember.

The ceiling is a hazy mess as you lie back on your bed, feeling the weight of the world ease off your shoulders. You close your eyes, and suddenly you’re there again, sitting before him, his gaze on you from across his large desk.

You sigh, your mind playing tricks on you, skewing the interaction into a jumbled mess you know isn’t reality; his lips quirking into a smile as he looks at you, until he’s walking over to you, making the effort to walk around his desk, settling right between your legs, large, careful hands gripping at your thighs.

The vision is too clear, and it feels like you’re reaching for it as you lie on your bed, but instead, you reach down, your nimble fingers bypassing the waistband of your skirt and slipping right into your underwear without hesitation. And it’s all to the thought of him: his body clad in a suit, glasses discarded on the table, his tie loosely hanging around his neck after spending all day teaching, an exhausted yet hungry look on his face, finding you.

The feeling has your back arching, mouth opening to gasp his name but you hold back, drowning in the erotic scenario that’s filling your thoughts; his nose dragging along your thighs, and he’s praising you in that low voice, reminding you of the good student you are, how well-displcined you are, giving you that validation you found yourself seeking elsewhere, like lousy dates on Thursday nights to fill the gaps. 

Your fingers work lightly against yourself, just moving in circles, your eyes closed, head tipping back. And you find yourself embarrassed by how quickly you finish. You wish it were that easy with other people, instead of helplessly guiding your ex-boyfriend for an hour and a half. Now, just the thought of your professor kissing your thighs and admiring your effort is enough to get you off. God help you.

You pant heavily, head turning to look at your desk, and you can see it, waiting, unravelled and a stupid mess; his phone number, his room number, the hours, his writing, him. It’s there, waiting for you.

Your alarm breaks the silence, and you immediately sit up, eyes darting around your bedroom, then down at yourself: your skirt and tights still on, your blouse loosely unbuttoned, and your hair a mess you do not want to clean up right now. You must’ve fallen asleep.

Scrambling around your room, you find another skirt and tights, swiftly changing into them, discarding the shameful, dirty underwear that takes you back to last night; yeah, masturbating to your professor just because you heard his voice over the phone. You want to slap yourself across the face.

You fix your hair in the elevator mirror, dragging your fingers through the strands, your backpack unzipped, your entire face a mess of old mascara and smeared lip gloss. 

You’re not sure whether it’s the guilt from last night or the fact that your final isn’t done, but you quickly realize you’re about to be late for class. 

The lecture is already in session when you walk in, a disoriented mess fumbling with your backpack, and he turns his head, looking over his shoulder, noticing the slight disturbance of your arrival. That’s when you suddenly remember the phone call, and he resumes, presumably ignoring your entrance.

Your hands fumble with your notebook as you fish it out of your backpack, quickly pull out a pen, and try to catch up on the material you missed, but your eyes drift from the board, and you’re looking at him instead.

Tall and strong, biceps straining against the white dress shirt. He must’ve already taken his jacket off – it’s hanging loosely on the back of his chair, and he pauses, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his toned forearms and the watch tightly around his wrist. It’s only his behind, but you’re staring at it, head tilted to the side as his hair stays stiff, gel-kept in place.

“That clear?” he says aloud, the chalk hitting the shelf as he turns around, crossing his arms against his broad chest, leaning back against the board. “The test will be on Thursday, no absences, clear your schedule,” he says without concern, already dismissing a student who immediately raised their hand in protest.

You glance down at the notes you didn’t write, clearly realizing you were far more distracted than you wanted to be. You look to your left, the girl beside you having it neatly written out, glitter pen and all, and yours is a mix of words, things you mindlessly jotted down as you drooled over the damn slope of his nose whenever he turned, and the faint amount of stubble on his jaw.

The lecture is over before you can think. You look around as the students immediately leave the room, laughing loudly, and you’re stuck fumbling with your backpack, books, notebook, pen, and your thoughts.

“Excuse me,” the low voice said suddenly, and you freeze, every hair on your body standing up. You brace for impact, turning on your heel to face your professor.

“Late,” he says dryly, still leaning against the chalkboard. “And, your final… where is it?” he asks, eyebrows raising slightly.

You weren’t used to this, attention. High school was a fucking breeze; teachers barely noticed you, and they were shocked when they suddenly realized you were in their class. It was easy to get out of things, lie, and misplace work you just didn't want to do. Now here he was, a professor with a class of 250, noticing you, of all people.

“I know,” you nod, eyes gazing down at your feet.

You hear the chalkboard settle as he lifts his weight off it, and he wanders towards his desk, his eyes glossing over it before looking back at you.

“It’s rude not to look at somebody when they’re speaking to you,” he comments, reaching for his folder full of papers, slowly putting on his jacket. “Don’t make that a habit.”

Your lips part to say something, but he’s not looking at you; he’s much too focused on filling his satchel with his work, large hands placing folders neatly. You notice it; there’s not a ring on that finger, though, that’s quite irrelevant to you.

“I’ll get it in tonight,” you reassure, though you know it’s a lie, and you’re pretty sure he does too.

“Punctuality is key in this course,” he starts, long arms adjusting the bag, sliding it across his chest as he turns to look at you. “If you’re falling behind, then you’re behind. That’s that. It’s going to catch up to you,” he explains, beginning to walk towards you.

He politely gestures for you to walk with him, and your heart stutters, but you follow suit, walking alongside him as he heads out of the corridors. He holds the door for you and begins walking down the hallway, keeping you by his side.

“Sir, I understand,” you explain to him, watching his large hands push open another set of doors until you’re outside again. “It’s chemistry, I swear, it’s not… It’s not like I’m a bad student,” you plead to him, your shoes moving along the pavement.

“You’re right, you are a good student,” he agrees with a nod, and when you look at him, he’s looking at you. You remember last night, suddenly, the stupid thoughts that filled your head, and the way you fantasized about this.

“But, you’re falling behind,” he states, stopping in his tracks, and you stop too, facing him on the sidewalk. The gloomy air is still, a cold breeze wrapping itself around you.

“Listen,” he starts, looking around, before his eyes land on you. “Come by my office, okay? We can talk about… adjusting the due date, yeah?” he relents, leaning his head forward, his eyebrows raised.

You stand there, almost in shock. He seems oddly… nice, a sweet gesture rather than a harsh one, a stark contrast to the man who was in his office yesterday.

You hesitantly nod, swallowing hard. “Thank you… thank you so much,” you shake your head, smiling nervously, and he’s politely smiling, too.

He gives you a soft nod before wandering off in the opposite direction, his gaze averting from other students, and you stand there, as if time has stalled.

He’s just as guilty, though, and that thought doesn’t cross your mind as you head to the library. What would he be guilty of? Virtually nothing. The most professional man, he would not let his guard down for a student, especially you, of all people. That’s what you think, assume.

You weren’t there when he answered the phone last night, hearing your soft, awkward voice whispering something over the line. You didn’t see the smile curling at his lips as he paid close attention to the quiet breaths between your stumbling sentences, each syllable sending a gentle wave through his body.

When he hung up the phone, almost urgently, you didn’t see him tip his head back in frustration, mad at himself for giving in to every urge.

It was simultaneous; you were sliding your hand into your skirt, all while he was at his house, sitting on the recliner in his living room, a glass of bourbon on the coffee table, his own hand fumbling with the clasp of his belt, disappointed in the bulge he noticed in his jeans, all because of your innocent voice.

As your head tilts back, moaning his last name quietly, he’s moaning your first name, a bitter taste on his tongue at the realization that he’s already cum into his hand four strokes in, all because of you. And maybe he feels guilty about it, and that’s why the sudden idea of an extension seems like the best possible make-up.

You know none of this, though.

The library is warm compared to the rest of the campus, and you nestle into a small booth, right against the window. You pull out your notebook, open it, and slump back when you truly realize how few notes you took. Your distraction is evident as you look over the pages; mindless doodles, blobs of words you couldn’t decipher. 

“Didn’t even say bye to me this morning,” a soft voice says, watching as your roommate slides into the booth before you, grinning, a coffee in hand. “What’cha doing?” she asks, adjusting her backpack, sliding her jacket off.

“Going over… my notes,” you mumble, cringing at the sight of them. She snickers behind the paper cup, looking down.

“The lack of them, you mean,” she teases, the cup hitting the wooden table. “What the hell were you doing all class?” she asks, laughing as he tilts her head, trying to make out the name of the course at the type – yeah, she was right.

“Oh! It was he who had you distracted,” she laughs obnoxiously with a nod, and you’re leaning over the table, shaking your head, a look of panic etched across your face.

“Can you shut up?” you say through gritted teeth, sighing loudly as you rest back against the booth, and she has that classic shit-eating grin etched into her face.

“Relax, relax, he’s probably… in a lecture, I don’t know,” she lifts her hands like she’s guilty again, staring down at the table.

“Yeah, but what if someone else is listening, and then they tell him, and then he hates me, and then he gives me a bad grade, and then I fail–”

“Okay, what the hell has gotten into you?” your roommate abruptly cuts in, leaning in closer, her mouth agape. “Yesterday… he was just some asshole who was pissed at you, rightfully so, for not handing in your final, and now his validation matters?”

She calls you out in a way that has you just staring at her, and she nods, permitting you to speak, but you don’t, because all you’re thinking about is how good the thought of him feels.

“I don’t know, I feel bad for being a bad student,” you dismiss with a shrug, flipping over the page of your notebook. “He’s just doing his job, and I’m being… disobedient,” you mumble.

“Disobedient?” She takes a sip of her coffee, looking up at you from the lid. “You sound like you’re his pet,” she teases, a smirk drawn on her glossy lips, dirty innuendo in her tone. Of course, you pick up on it.

“I’m going to his office later,” you casually add to the conversation, and you swear she almost spits out her drink. “He told me to–he says he’ll adjust the due date,” you explain, tilting your head to the side.

“Did you do witchcraft in your bedroom last night?” she prys, a look of disbelief on her face. “My friend is in that class, and she’d probably shoot me, and then you, and then the professor, if she knew you were getting an extension,” she laughs, leaning back into the booth with an exasperated sigh.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s just being kind,” you dismiss, adjusting the sleeves of your blouse, then the buttons at the front.

“Undo the top two,” your friend nods to the top of the shirt, and you grimace at her perverted suggestion. You look at her, and she’s smiling, like she just came up with the most life-changing idea on earth.

“How low do you think of me?” you ask, trying your best to suppress a laugh. “I just want the extension, and then I can go back to… dating apps, and focusing on chemistry instead of…” You pause, waving at the unfinished notes. “...this mess.”

“Right… how was that date? With the guy with the long hair, brown hair, kind of looked like some type of animal, a cute one,” she rambles on, and you’re furrowing your eyebrows at her explanation–she’s right, he did look like a cute animal; big eyes, a charming smile.

“Fine,” you reply plainly, sighing as you flip yet another page of half-written notes. “Hasn’t called me back, though,” you admit, and your friend rolls her eyes.

“Okay, so revenge sex with your hot professor is the perfect idea,” she instantly says, and you’re about to lean over the desk and cover her mouth with your own hand, but you resist, and instead give her no reaction.

“I think you’ve lost your mind,” you say, a short nod following, lips pursed. She analyzes your facial expression and pauses, then agrees.

“I’m just saying, like, imagine… You do this, and then… I don't know, I’m just bored and living through you,” she groans, dramatically resting her head on the table, arms flailing in front of her.

You laugh at the expression and stare at her blonde hair, a golden mess across the desk, and your eyes almost bulge out of your head when you turn to look out of the window; there he is, walking towards his car. 

“Holy shit,” you say under your breath, and your roommate quickly lifts her head, her hands messing with her hair as she follows the direction of your eyes; there he is, now leaning against it, large hands cupped around a cigarette as he lights in.

The two of you watch in silence, admiring the man through the window. You feel guilty, like a sick pervert, for creeping on him while he casually smokes on his break. He doesn’t see you; he can’t see you from where you are. You bite your lip gently, laughing to yourself at the memory from last night, and your roommate looks towards you, joining in on the laughing. If only she knew.

“Okay, whatever happens,” she starts, leaning forward like she’s your lawyer. “Just… tell me everything, please? Nothing good happens, I’m stuck talking to Mrs. Esther about what she did in college, and she’s beating us… by miles, by fucking miles,” she practically explains, leaning back into the booth. “Threesome.. Two German exchange students, back in–”

“Okay, okay,” you flinch in disgust, beginning to pack up your belongings, hoping to God she gets the hint to shut up. “You need new friends, or… a boyfriend, I don’t know,” you shake your head, standing up from the booth, packing away your belongings.

“Text me–no, call me, immediately if anything—” You cut her off with a look: a tilt of your head and furrowed eyebrows, and she instantly understands. “Sorry,” she says, giving you an awkward wave as you walk away from the table.

The next lectures blend, a fluid mess of words and equations, pure nonsense swarming your brain, and you’re trying your best to write it all out without getting distracted by the impending doom, seeing him in his office, alone, again.

You turn your wrist, glancing at the watch, and you bite your lip. Ten minutes until your last lecture ends, and then it’s straight to his office, where you can figure out your extension and maybe a few other things. You bite your tongue next, feeling disappointed in your own thoughts.

Four o’clock, you glance at your watch again, shoes padding along the tile floor, a long hallway, a series of other offices and vacant classrooms. The overhead lights flicker, and you swallow hard, suddenly feeling like this is the worst idea imaginable.

Room 226, his office. 

You’re standing in front of the door, adjusting the collar of your white blouse, and your hands drift down. Two buttons loosen slightly, and you shake your head, immediately regretting the idea, but the door is already opening, and you pause. You look up at him, hands mid-buttoning, and he’s smiling–well, it’s not a smile, it’s amusement.

“How’d I know it was you?” he asks, widening the crack in the door, and you nervously laugh, flattening the rest of your shirt, and he’s watching.

“Well… I don't know,” you laugh nervously again, and he’s opening it even more, his hand waving you in. You give him a small nod as you walk past him, and there’s definitely a reason God didn’t let you notice the way his eyes slid down to the backs of your thighs.

“So,” he starts lowly, the door softly shutting, the leather seat creaking as you sit down. “This is about… the extension, yeah?” he hums, walking around his desk, standing in front of it.

You don’t respond, you’re too busy being enamoured by the man before you; all muscles and rough edges, his tie hanging around his neck loosely, oddly resembling the fantasy. You shift slightly, and he looks up, acknowledging the leather's groan.

“The extension,” he says again, his eyes gazing up at you through the dim lighting.

“Yes–yes, the extension, yes, that’s what I wanted to talk about,” you shyly mumble, nodding quickly, and he’s still standing, looking down at the mess of papers on his desk.

“Do you have any sort of copy of the final? Rough draft, ideas?” he asks, licking the rough callous of his thumb, using it to flip through the folder that he had just lifted.

“Uhm.. yeah, just… a short rough draft, it’s not much, it’s kind of bad actually,” you ramble on again, the words coming out of you like word vomit, and he seems unaffected by all of it.

“Do you have that with you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to you again, his large hand resting on his hip.

“Yes… yes, it’s in my bag,” you nod quickly, eyes glancing at the way his thumb fiddles with the leather strap of his belt, and you’re frozen. He notices.

“I’d like you to get that for me, sweetheart,” he drawls, the tone so casual and flat, but the pet name has your eyes widening as a rush of heat courses through every inch of your body.

You’re thanking your body for autopilot right now, because your hands are completely disconnected as they reach for your bag, shuffling through the many papers hidden deep inside of it. Your mind is elsewhere, adding that to your fantasy list: a professor calling me sweetheart.

“Perfect, thank you,” he says, taking it from you and giving you a polite nod.

He grunts as he finally sits down, his hips lifting as he adjusts himself in the chair, and he sighs; one hand holds the paper, and the other rubs at his jawline again. You wait impatiently, your thigh bouncing up and down, an anxious tremor as he reads over the mess you made, an urgent piece of writing you aren't exactly proud of.

“Is this your best work?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the paper with a displeased expression. “Doesn’t seem like your best work,” he follows up, tossing it onto the desk, his arms folding across his chest.

“No… no, it’s not my best work, not at all,” you admit, your knees rubbing together awkwardly, and you’re staring at him, you’re not sure if you can stop.

“It’s poorly written,” he says plainly, his jaw ticking in distaste. “This is not college-level work, and you don’t have a college-level work ethic,” he adds on, his tone scolding rather than neutral, slight frustration alcing his words.

“I–” you start, in disbelief of the words you’re hearing. You’ve never had a professor pick apart your work like this, not even your chemistry professor after a failed lab.

“No, come here,” he says, setting the paper down and waving you over to his desk.

Thank God for autopilot again because you’re somehow slowly standing up, slow, heavy footsteps leading you towards his desk, and suddenly you’re in his space, standing beside his desk as he sits down.

It’s so incredibly him, the scent you’re getting for the first time; thick, expensive cologne, not the silly, cheap cologne most guys your age wear, and a hint of cigarettes still lingering from his smoke break. You know he tries to hide the habit; your eyes are drifting over his desk, noticing the knick-knacks, like the gum wrapper from the piece he chewed to get rid of the gross taste.

“I want you to read this sentence for me, and tell me a student like yourself wrote this,” he orders, his finger slowly gliding over the paper, underlining a sentence, and you swallow hard, leaning down to get a better view.

It’s silent in the office, just the quiet sound of some students walking by, and the analogue clock ticking behind both of you. You’re reading the mess of words, warmth filling your cheeks out of nervousness.

“Are you reading it?” he asks, turning his head slightly, and you realize he’s far too close to you now, his face just a breath away.

“Yes, sir,” you whisper, and you realize how stupidly erotic that sounded, and he does too; he does not like it, the way his slacks suddenly protest against the growing bulge in them.

“Then why aren't you reading it aloud?” he whispers, following your actions, and he taps the sentence again.

“You… you didn’t tell me to,” you defend lightly, leaning a bit more forward, awkwardly hunched over his desk.

“Do I need to tell you everything to do everything? You’re a big girl,” he tells you with a nod. “Read for me, please,” he tells you, and you heasitently nod, taking in a deep breath.

You begin to speak softly, following his fingertip as it glides along the page, reading each word, watching it as it splinters into a mess that does not make sense. That does not deserve a grade, or even a glance, from a professor in his field. You’re ashamed.

You feel it, and your heart stops; a warm hand finds your lower back, gently rubbing while you read, a comforting gesture, although it’s not comforting at all–your knees are basically buckling, and you lean forward.

“Keep going, didn’t tell you to stop,” he mumbles, rubbing gently through your shirt, lightly dipping onto the fabric of your skirt, too.

You continue to read, stumbling over the words now, taking little pauses where you try to breathe, and he’s basking in it; the stupid hiccups you make when he lightly squeezes, and you’re gripping the edge of the desk. Dear God.

“Reread it for me, slower,” he tells you–he’s not asking you, it’s an order, and you’re instantly giving in.

You start again, and you hear his chair groan. You pause to look, and you notice him standing up, his hand roving across your back and finding the side of your hip; meanwhile, the other one does too; he now has you bent over his desk, standing behind you, gripping your body.

“Good girl,” he breathes out slowly, his eyes tracing down your body: your poorly arched back from a lack of experience, followed by the rip in your tights and the loose, flimsy skirt around your waist.

You grip the desk tighter, knuckles turning white, and you’re still stumbling over the words, trying to get them out in a rush. He’s merely observing from behind, large hands rubbing at your hips, moving lower, almost roving over your clothed ass.

“Again,” he commands quietly, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying your best to muster the courage even to have a voice in something like this.

This time, though, he’s shuffling forward, and you feel it; he’s hard, and he’s pressing it against you from behind. You gasp, and he bites his lip, testing his own restraint, his own ability to resist groaning at the sound you’re making.

You whimper quietly, head bowed forward, and he squeezes your hip gently. He watches you practically collapse over his desk, and it’s better than what his sick imagination had gathered that night alone.

“Your work is terrible,” he mumbles, and you’re whimpering a bit louder at the harsh words. “But… god, you’re something else,” he groans out, shaking his head as he gives into his urges, and one of his hands finds the hem of your skirt, lifting it, bunching it around your hips in a swift movement.

You look over your shoulder, watching the way he easily maneuvers your body; strong hands gripping and pulling, long fingers tugging and grabbing, and you feel your underwear sliding down your thighs. 

“Keep reading,” he hums, and you turn your head back, mouth agape, eyes widened.

You grip the desk harder, groaning to yourself, hearing the clasp of his belt slowly unbuckling, a soft noise in the room. You swallow hard, hesitantly reading again; stuttering, stammering, breathing between sentences, all nervous and embarrassed, and he’s soaking up the mess you’re already turning into.

His one hand holds your hip, the other one sliding down into the front of his pants, and he’s ashamed of himself; hard, and regretful, but he’s pulling himself out, groaning at just the sight in front of him. It’s his fantasy, too, what he was thinking about that one night. 

Bracing yourself, you close your eyes, softly gasping as he pushes himself against your entrance, warm and meaningful, and it makes you whimper once again. 

One smooth rock forward, and you have stars in your eyes, a slow burst behind your closed eyes, and you let out a loud yelp. A hand instantly comes forward, strong and large, covering your mouth in an urgent movement–other students are still walking around, finishing up some of the last lectures.

“C’mon, don’t disobey me now,” he practically groans, his hand still braced around your hip as he mercilessly moves back and forth, your back curving in a way you didn’t know was possible; he’s mainly forcing you into the position, a hungry motion, contorting you into the vision he saw last night.

You moan into his hand, eyes rolling back, standing on the tips of your toes. His head is tipped back, focused on keeping you quiet while sumtamtemly focused on his pleasure, and your own; it’s a whirl of emotions, guilt and devotion clashing at once, and you’re feeling it all for the first time.

“Good girl, just like that,” he praises quietly, grunting through clenched teeth, and you’re embarrassed by the way you’re basically collapsing onto his papers. It’s even worse, recognizing student names neatly written on essays. Jesus Christ.

Despite his palm helplessly pressing against your lips, the sound of his hips meeting the back of your thighs is louder than you’d like–he’s much too lost in the feeling, the thought, to even notice. You’re whining louder and louder, wails of pleasure in the place where you’ve never found an ounce of pleasure in your fucking life.

“God, look at you,” he groans, his hand sliding up your hip, lightly pressing against your body, forcing your back into an arch. “Stay… stay like that, for me, baby, come on,” he breathes out, his own breath growing heavier and shallower.

Your fingers nails scratch into the edges of the desk, a plead for something, anything, but you’re just as lost as he is in the moment; eyes rolling back, the scent of him wrapping around you, the feeling of his warm skin against yours, the famialirlty of the office, the rush of knowing you’re five seconds away from another student knocking on the door. It’s exhilarating in a way that has your heart sinking into your stomach, almost daring you to cry.

A string of curses leaves his mouth, his hips never stalling, a fluid motion. It almost feels slow, even though he’s persistent, keeping you whining for more and more, begging for something more, and it’s all he can do. All he can do is give you even more.

“Perfect girl, God,” he grunts, his teeth still clenched, his head tipping back, a louder noise he instantly regrets leaving his mouth, and he’s suddenly hunched over you, heavily breathing against the back of your neck.

You feel it, dripping down your thighs, the sticky mess leaving a trail along your legs, and you’re shaking, sprawled across the wooden desk. Your forehead is damp with sweat, a glistening sheen coating your face, and he’s rubbing both of your hips now, his body leaning over yours, but it’s not like he’s finished.

He groans quietly, admiring the work before him; your body limp and exhausted, your knees buckled, and your hand still gripping his desk. He pauses.

“On the desk,” he murmurs, and you don’t listen, not right now at least. You’re limp, your mind and body physically spent from whatever the fuck just happened.

“Not gonna ask you again,” he practically groans, an urgent plea, and you’re peeling yourself off of the desk, breathing heavily as you turn around, and he’s doing the work for you; his hands finding the front of your hips, hosting you up onto the desk, and he’s dipping down, suddenly on his knees.

Your eyes widen in surprise, watching his built frame nudge between your legs, and he’s gripping your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders like it’s a thing in the god damn world.

He’s grabbing at the side of your thighs now, one hand loosely messing around with the hem of your skirt, pushing up the pleats, letting it bunch up, giving him the room he needs.

There is zero hesitation; his mouth is against you, lips hot and warm, using his own cum to make the entire thing easier–it’s slick and sticky, and he’s poking and prodding with his tongue, and you’re pretty sure you’re on another planet, your mind mush and your head tipped back.

He works over you, and you’re looking down, breathing heavier than ever, watching the way he nods, his head working with his mouth; frantic, hungry swipes of his tongue, accompanied by the light suction–he knows your body somehow, like he’s done this time and time again, maybe he has. You’re not sure if that’s with students.

“You taste… unreal,” he groans into you, the vibrations sending a hand into his hair, where you instantly grip it, tugging him closer, and he’s burying his face up against; his firm nose nudging into you, his lips following suit, his mouth engulfing you. It’s something you’ve never felt.

“God,” he murmurs, like he’s praising God more than anything right now, thanking Him for letting this happen; your body unfolding, legs opening in a way that’s just for him, and he’s basking in it.

One hand is rubbing the side of your upper thigh, and the other is finding yours that’s gripping the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and urgent, and he’s taking it in his own. In the midst of the impatient heat, the gentle gesture has you whining out loud, and he’s shaking his head, pinching the side of your leg.

“No… no, baby, shhh,” he pulls away for just a second, his eyes finally finding yours from the low angle, and it’s suddenly like you’re on your bed again, hand in your skirt, imagining this exact scenario. 

You hesitantly nod and swallow hard, biting your lip, your head lolling back once more. You tug on his hair lightly, and his thumb taps your hand, a reassuring touch, calming you down, keeping you grounded while your head feels like it’s floating, and there’s a buzz from your neck down.

Your thighs clench and squeeze, the muscles tense while his tongue is too, delving inside of you, only to flatten out once he slides out. It’s practiced, calculated, like he's unlocking a part of you, and you hate it–almost–being so vulnerable and spread out on your professor’s desk.

“I’m–” you pant out, regretting the warning because he lightly hits your thigh in the middle of your broken words, and he narrows his eyes. 

“Be... a good student, and ask me,” he hums lowly against you, and you squeeze your eyes shut at the thought of forming any coherent sentence.

“May–may… may I… please, please cum,” you whimper, and his eyes soften, like it’s the sweetest thing he’s ever heard–it’s that voice, the whisper he heard across the phone when his hand was in his pants, his ice melting in his drink.

“Mhm,” he grants permission with a nod, just as eager to see you finish. 

He’s not sure what it is about you, why suddenly his guard is down, and he’s letting you cum into his mouth, but he is, and the way he’s looking at you is like he’s been waiting for this.

You’re pretty sure that’s the hardest you’ve ever finished in your life; toes curling in your dumb shoes, your thighs squeezing around his head, tightly gripping his hand, while the other one forces his head deeper between your legs, and there’s zero resistance on his end. He’s just as guilty, giving into your pleasure, letting you feel.

He pulls back and stares up at you in the dimly lit room of his office. His mouth and chin are glistening, dripping in his own cum and yours, and his eyes are a hazy mess, chest heaving. He’s still rubbing the side of your thigh, leaning sideways, resting his cheek against the bare inner skin, lightly kissing.

Your friend won't hear about this.

The campus is quiet, your eyes glued to the trail beneath you. Each step is heavier than the last, and you’re trying your best to ignore it–the feeling in your underwear that you pulled up in a hurry, his own hands helping you with it, all while he focuses on adjusting his tie, making it look like he didn’t just have sex with his student against his desk.

Walking into the apartment was more shameful than you wanted it to be. There’s a part of you nagging, convincing yourself that those waiting in the elevator with you know what just happened, that you’re shamefully pressing your thighs together. He didn’t bother cleaning up your thighs–some ramble about liking the thought of you having to walk back with it still on your legs. 

You could’ve stopped at the student washroom, could’ve cleaned it up, but you hated that you didn’t want to.

You slip into your complex and glance down. Your roommate's shoes are missing, a clear sign she’s gone for the evening, and it’s a relief. No explaining why you took longer than you should’ve, or why your cheeks are flushed, and why you’re walking to your bedroom so awkwardly.

You jiggle the nob of your bedroom door, confirming that it’s locked before you begin taking off your skirt, letting it pool at your ankles, and then your underwear. You grimace at the sight, biting your lip; it’s a mess, and you’ve never felt more ashamed for being turned on. 

It’s significantly worse the next day: bypassing your roommate, who is overly concerned about why you’re ignoring her, not even bothering to say hello to Mrs. Esther, who is holding a cigarette outside the apartment. You’re much too focused on that stupid lecture, and seeing him, facing him after his head was buried between your legs, his hands gripping your hips like it’s the first time he’s ever done it.

A deep breath, and you’re pushing open the corridors, the lecture room still half-empty. You are far too early, and he’s sitting there at the front of the room, talking to a few students, and you join the short line; a few girls ahead of you, all ogling him, and it’s hard to believe you’re the first student to have this filthy attraction to him.

“Can I help you?” he asks quietly when it’s your turn, and he’s not even bothering to look up at you, his eyes fixed on the course material he’s going to go over that class.

“Uhm..” you hum softly, hoping he looks up at the familiar softness in your voice, but he doesn’t; he remains flipping through the pages, like it’s nothing.

“If you remember, ask me at the end of the lecture,” he responds dryly, shaking his head slightly. “Other students need help,” he dismisses, nodding for you to go to your seat.

It feels like the air from your lungs has been swept out of you, leaving you a ghost, and you float to your usual spot, the top left, alone. 

He does look up when you walk away; the only girl in the whole lecture hall wearing a skirt at eight in the morning, and he shifts in his chair, a strong hand gripping the arm of it in an attempt to relieve the unfortunate tension that’s building again.

"Easy, Sugar. I'm not going anywhere" Quaritch chuckled, holding you by the thighs, thumb brushing over your feverish skin. Despite his words, he couldn't deny the throbbing ache pulling deep in his groin that grew more unbearable with every second that passed in which he wasn't buried in your sweet cunt.

You were already panting, your hand grasping his rock hard cock. Normally you would have jerked him off, wrapped your lips around the tip and worshipped him until he made you get up so he could fuck you, but your body was already wound tight and you feared you were going crazy. You felt like you were about to combust if you didn’t get him inside you with your next breath.

You lined him up with your hole and finally, finally sank down onto his massive cock, your folds eagerly opening up for him. The stretch in your pussy was immediate, overwhelming, despite how wet you already were.

He was huge, as thick as your wrist, longer than anything you'd ever taken and it hit the most perfect spots inside you every time, making your thighs quake from him just just filling you up with his sheer size.

"Oh fuck, Quaritch" you sighed out in utter most relief, overpronouncing the 'r' in his name, but neither you nor him cared about that right now. He found it cute, his name on your tounge, especially with the thin trail of drool running down the corner of your mouth while you looked at him like your head has just been emptied, and the only thing you still knew how to do was how to bounce on his cock.

Your cunt was immpossibly drenched, hot, slick juices coating him from tip to base, making every slide of your ovulating pussy effortless and obscenely smooth.

Up and down you went, the glide so wet it bordered on being too slippery, your walls parting greedily around his veined shaft.

Each time you dropped fully, bottoming him out against your swollen cervix, a loud, lewd slap echoed throughout the room, followed by a high moan from you and a low groan from deep withing his chest.

Your soaked entrance wetly met his heavy balls, the sound mingling with the squelch of your arousal that spilled around the base of his cock.

His thighs beneath you were a slick mess, ruined by the flood of your wetness that dripped down in thick globs, pooling on his blue skin and soaking into the fur bed beneath him. You couldn't help it. The way he filled you had your body in overdrive, sweat beading on your forehead and trickling between your heaving breasts that jiggled with every bounce.

Your moans spilled out uncontrollably, high and needy, mixing with heavy pants as you rode him harder, hips rolling in desperate circles. You were almost sobbing at how good you felt, the bioluminescent freckles on your body pulsing in sync with every wave of pleasure rolling over you.

Quaritchs yellow eyes were locked on you, his pupils dark with lust and that deeply rooted affection he reserved only for you. "Goddamn, look at you, baby" he drawled, voice gravelly and thick, the sound sending shocks down your spine and causing your pussy to squeeze him even tighter.

His eyes fluttered at the sensation, his jaw going slack watching his dick disappear in your cunt "My cocks stretchin' you so pretty, fuck, love it when you're like this" His words hit like sparks, igniting your heat soaked core, making fresh gushes of slick coat him even more. Your body trembled harder, eyes starting to roll back in your head, crossing slightly as the pleasure blurred your vision and took every reason out of your head.

All you could think about was cock. His cock. His cum, in your pussy, breeding you good.

You sobbed pathetically, your body falling forward in exhaustion, but you caught yourself, your palms sprawling out over his chest to steady yourself. Even though your body was getting tired, not even if someone put a gun to your head would you stop grinding your hips back on his dick. Your breasts swayed between your arms, the movement hypnotising to the starved man.

Quaritch reached up, his large hands palming your perfect, sweat-slick tits, thumbs flicking over your stiff nipples before squeezing the soft flesh, giving them a soft slap. "All tits, no brain. Ain't that right, baby?" he teased you with that smug grin on his face.

If you hadn't been this batshit horny, you would have wiped that smirk off his frustratingly handsome face in a second. But against your better judgement, you babbled out a dumb "uh-huh" your words ending in a cute little mewl as he pinched your nipples, softly pulling at the peaks.

You were needily arching into his rough touch, the added sensation sending jolts straight to your clit. Drool escaped you once again as you bounced with wild abandon, the easy in and out, his veiny cock dragging against your walls.

Slap, squelch, slap, the sounds were making Quaritch go crazy.

Your steady rhythm faltered for a moment. "Q-Quaritch..." you panted out, your voice just over a whisper. You didn't know why you said his name, why it seemed like a plea, like you craved something more than just his cock.

Quaritch groaned under you, one strong hand keeping you moving on his cock by grabbing the soft flesh of your thigh "Fuck, keep saying my name while you get yourself off on my dick, sugar" he murmured into the valley between your breasts.

He kissed and sucked your jiggling tits, not long before a nipple slipped between his lips. The suckling and nursing of his mouth made you gasp, the coil in your core tightening.

You threw your head back, your mind swimming with pleasure. "Quaritch- I, please, oh-" you hiccuped, the coherent words you tried to speak being interrupted by a string of wanton moans.

He was about to egg you on even more, telling you to use your words if you wanted something from him. But then he catched your braid falling over your shoulder into your lap, your queue slithering free between the dark strands of hair, desperately seeking his.

He huffed softly. This was the thing you wanted the most from him, an ache not even his cock could satisfy deep within you. He heard you whimper his name once more. That was it. He grasped his kuru, guiding his own neural tendrils to intertwine with yours. Tsaheylu snapped into place, an electric jolt racing through your veins, bonding your sensations. You felt his pleasure echo yours, the throb of his cock, the clench of your walls, his feelings ebbing into yours as if you were one.

You screamed. Quaritch pupils were already wide, but now they resembled dinner plates, almost swallowing all of the rich yellow colour around them. "Yeah, feel how bad I want you" he whispered, not even knowing if you heard him, but you certainly felt it.

Your body folded backwards, your hands on his thighs keeping you steady while your back arched and your head rested between your shoulders. Your hips kept their movements going, your pussy dragging along his cock.

This new position revealed what you felt all along, now visible to the naked eye, Quaritch cock nestled all the way in your gut. A bulge formed in the lower parts of your stomach, disappearing and reappearing with every thrust of your hips.

Quaritch damn near lost it.

He moaned at the sight, one hand sliding down to press firmly against the prominent swell in your lower belly, right where his cock outlined itself inside you. This was probably the most erotic thing he had ever seen in his entire life, licking his lips as he watched your clear arousal turn thicker and white with every bounce. "Filthy little thing, creamin' all over me. Gonna breed this pussy full."

The pressure of his hand made stars burst behind your eyelids and his words, fuck he always knew what to say to make you completely lose your mind.

Your eyes rolled back fully now, crossing in ecstasy as you shook violently on him, thighs quivering like they had turned into jelly. Sweat poured off you, mingling with the wetness between your legs, and just thinking about Quaritchs seed taking root in your womb made you want to explode. You cried, hot tears streaming down your cheeks.

He put a hand on your arm, pulling you into a more up-right position so you could look into his eyes. You felt his release building through the bond, hot and insistent, every time you bottomed out.

"Gonna make you squirt all over me, aren't I? Cum for your man, baby. Let it go."

It was effortless, the way he unraveled you. His long fingers pulled your nipples harder, his thumb pressing against your tummy, cock throbbing inside your soaked heat.

The coil snapped without warning.

You cried out, a guttural moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashed over you. Your pussy clenched rhythmically, squirting in forceful bursts that sprayed across his abs and thighs, adding to the slickness of your paired arousals. The pressure made his cock slip free from you.

"Quaritch!" you whined loudly at the loss, sobbing pathetically and cock-drunk.

Lucky for you, he needed to cum inside you. Right now. You weren't empty for long as he swiftly pulled you back on him by the hips, hissing as your still pulsing pussy enveloped his sensitive tip.

"Ugh, Miles!" you squeaked in relief as he filled you once more. You were trembling uncontrollably, body shaking on his cock, panting through the pleasure thrumming in your veins, eyes still lost in crossed bliss.

"That's my girl" he praised, bucking up to meet your spasms, his own release building. "Squirtin' so pretty for me, fuck, that pussy is perfect. You're perfect, sugar"

Quaritch roared then, his cock pulsing strongly against your cervix, unleashing rope after rope of thick cum, flooding your pussy until your hole overflowed with the sheer amount of it, white streams leaking over his abdomen with each thrust.

It was so much, excessive, and messy just how you liked it, his seed painting your insides and marking you utterly as his.

He kept thrusting through it, prolonging his orgasm to make sure he filled you with every last drop to satisfy every craving your womb had during your heat so it could finally die down.

You both panted in the aftershocks of your orgasms, your thighs shaking poorly. Boneless, you fell forward, not being able to support your own weight on your legs any longer. He cought you gently, laying you against his sweaty chest, though it felt cooling when your cheeks were pressed to his skin, a sigh escaping you.

When the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears faded away and you could grasp a thought that wasn't just about Quaritch fucking you, you cringed. His cum was dripping out of you, but you were too lazy to move a muscle. Not that you even could. Your muscles were sore like they hadn't been in a long time, the joints in your knees aching faintly.

Quaritch eased you into the nest of fur blankets next to him so he could sit up and slowly bend your legs. Your knees had been locked up in the same angled position for a while and the least thing he could do was give you a little massage to ease the pain.

His thumb dug into the tendons of your calves, triggering points to relief tension. You practically melted into the pillows. "You feelin' alright, Sugar?" he asked you like he hadn't just fucked the living daylights out of you.

"Never better" you muttered sleepily, your eyes at the brink of closing. You felt warm, your heart full amongst other things and oh, how perfect this evening would be if you could cuddle up against him and fall asleep.

Seemed like you weren't gonna get to the cuddling part, at least not concious. Just a minute later, when Quaritgh looked back up at you, the lights were out. Your mouth was opened in a soft snore, your nose scrunched softly. It warmed his heart, something he hadn't thought was possible with all the shit he had witnessed and done in his lifetime, blue or not.

He cleaned up both of you, not wanting you to wake up feeling sticky and gross, before joining you in bed, pulling your sleeping body against his side with a kiss to your temple.

Quaritch played gently with your kuru behind your back, the smooth braid wrapped around his palm until he, too, fell asleep.

★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★