♡

his cock. that’s how far his cock was gonna go when he pushed his way inside of you. your cunt pulsed, empty and aching at the promise of being filled so completely. but you were a smart girl and you slowly shook your head, mounting trepidation winning out against your arousal.

‘it’s not gonna fit,’ you said, rather obviously, you thought, because clearly he must have also realized this, ‘there’s not enough room.’

joel let out a soft laugh that was mostly breath, eyes alight with amusement and maybe something a little darker, more intense. ‘why don’t you let me worry about that, huh?’

a firmer press of his thumbs had the next pass of his cock sliding deliciously over your clit. you couldn’t help the gasp you let out, eyelashes fluttering.

‘you just lie there and let me take care of everything,’ joel continued, ‘let me stretch out this cute pussy real gentle and slow-like.’

your teeth sank into your bottom lip, angel and devil on your shoulder bickering as joel continued the slow rock of his hips. you’d been like this for the past ten minutes, laid out on your bed, hips yanked down to the edge so he could tease you between your legs. your underwear gone translucent where his cock pressed against your wet cunt, almost like he was trying to press the fabric inside, nudge it into your hole little by little.

he’d stripped you of your favorite pair of jeans, hands busy with the button and the zipper as he kissed your mouth tender. your fingers had hovered over your swollen lips as you were pushed back into the mattress by a palm to your chest. ‘lie back now,’ he’d told you like he wasn’t doing it for you, and, ‘there’s a good girl,’ when you’d said nothing in protest, head spinning.

you weren’t even sure how you’d gotten here. not here, here. you lived here, you’d only taken a few steps down the hall to your bedroom. but here, half-naked and spread open for your neighbor who was at least twice your age, who’d only come over at your behest to fix the burst pipe in your kitchen, water rapidly soaking the towels you’d scavenged from the hamper and shoved haphazardly at the mess.

maybe it was the boots, dusty workman’s boots that had been worn down on the sole where he always propped his weight, one knee to the floor, the other bent to accommodate the lean of his elbow, the angle of his flashlight into underside of your sink cabinet. or his hands when he fiddled so effortlessly with the hinges of the cabinet door, the tiny screws, the base of his palm pressing into the corner as his fingers curled around the edge, coming down so far it made your head swim. thoughts of what a grown man could do with hands like that.

or maybe it was just you, standing there with the mug of tea in your hands, the toenails on your left foot painted a soft sea-foam green and only the left foot because the water in the kitchen had interrupted you before you could start on the right. he’d stared down at them, unblinking, while you rambled on about how you didn’t know how something like this could’ve happened and how this house was so old and things were always breaking and it was such good timing that he’d answered the door at the first rap of your knuckles on the other side.

such good timing. as though he’d been waiting just behind, one foot already stepping past the threshold, hand outstretched. and the truth was less fortunate and more a lapse in judgment, one you’d not been aware of—still not, though maybe you would be soon—of the way joel had spent the past seven months since your arrival to jackson hyper-aware of your every move.

he knew he unsettled people, his eyes, the way he watched but rarely spoke. liked it that way, most times, liked to be left alone when he wasn’t needed, when he was needed also too and went off hunting on his own. just a rifle and a day’s worth of provisions. quiet. he didn’t understand why people always had to talk so much. there was rarely anything important to say. and even then, it could be said with less.

but then you’d shown up, been set up in the house across from his, sweet and young and with a naivety that tickled the back of joel’s brain, insistent, in the long hours between sunset and actual sleep, when he could watch you dance around your kitchen to songs he couldn’t hear, your bare legs cut at the calf by thick socks that let you spin and spin and spin. you’d waved to him when you caught him staring the first time and it made his breath catch in his chest and there was a whole lot of catching and being caught for a man his age, so he’d abruptly shut his blinds and gone off to bed.

but he kept on watching—just less obvious from then on. had become, over the years, good at being invisible and if not invisible then overlooked, a shadow, a shift of the leaves before the killing shot, the deer trussed up over his shoulder. there was something innately deer-like about you, as well, joel had come to realize in the weeks and months that passed. a softness to your features and a sweep of your lashes against your cheek. so it was only natural he couldn’t keep his eyes off you, only natural to want to pin you with just the weight of his gaze on your back.

but he was not so far removed from social niceties to know he shouldn’t do anything of the sort. he made sure to avoid you when any real chance at meeting occurred. kept his back up to the wall, an easy escape route, made sure the watching was just watching and the fantasy in his head of you looking up at him with those big, prey-like eyes was locked up tight, no key, just three layers deep of iron and steel.

seven months of watching and wanting and not touching and then, suddenly, all of you on his front porch, all of you in your barefoot, wet jean-hem glory, your hands smoothing back the frizzing of your hair at your temples, your mouth opening around his name and a please and a will you help me? and it turned out his choice of metal was only a choice and that he couldn’t help but choose different: once he was inside, once he could smell the candle you were burning and saw the shoes lined up neat by the doorway and watched you weave your way into the kitchen, head turned back every three seconds to make sure he was following. like he wouldn’t follow you right off a cliff if he’d thought you wanted him to.

so all of that and then also the way you’d looked at him while he worked, when he’d stripped his flannel and gotten down on his back and fixed the pipe with his flashlight between his teeth. when he’d stood up and you were right there, close enough to touch and he now had to live with the knowledge of your scent and the way your eyebrows weren’t perfectly symmetrical and how small you looked up close like this. and it meant his thumb was coming up to trace the curve of your cheekbone, meant he was watching those long eyelashes flutter, your soft mouth parting and a shaky breath escaping.

joel was a only a man. and not a very good one. he was leaning down and kissing you, big hands in your hair, on your waist. walking you back into your bedroom like he already knew where it was and maybe he did. maybe he knew everything about you. certainly touched you like that was the case, like he had a manual stashed away in his coat pocket of how to best push the buttons that made the pretty noises come out. flicking and pinching and rubbing and caressing. flat palm on your low back and the other at your jaw, holding you close, pressing his thigh between your legs until you whimpered, hot breath into his open mouth.

and then suddenly he had you on your back, no pants, his own unbuckled and his thick cock straining against his briefs. your mouth had gone dry when he pushed down the waistband, when you got to see the length of it hang heavy between his legs before he was pressing it against you, rubbing up against your sensitive cunt and driving you crazy.

‘i’ll be so sweet to her, baby. i promise. just let me inside.’

he talked a lot of filth for a man who’d never talked to you before. and wasn’t that interesting?

‘okay,’ you said, capitulating, your breath going uneven as his cock slid over your clit again, ‘okay, just really slow, please.’