nymphia

This ache, inside. A deep dullness, that feels reminiscent to something tied to pleasure.

Almost a throb of need that pulses up your spine, though at first - you don’t know what for. Something that cuts down to your marrow - nameless, a constant presence that lingers on the edges of your mind.

Two days have passed and nothing seems to quench it. Not food nor sleep, and even with stealing both as you can, your mood crackles as you go about your lessons and duties in the mansion - a fraying thread about to snap.

Neither does the press of your fingers, when you wake in the night. Sweat dewed across your skin and it only leaves you even more lost and frustrated, how the end always seems to dance just out of reach.

You distract yourself with cleaning. Something about that feels right - moving about your room, a private space near the back reserved for a gardener.

Small, but perfect for you.

Some of Logan’s things - an old t-shirt, a grey jacket with the school logo on it - ending up in your bed. Tucked against your pillows, and you tell yourself it’s just because you miss him. That it won’t be too much longer, until he’s back.

Not because there’s something inside you that tells you it belongs there. His presence comforting - the smell of him, when your nose buries in the fabric - even in his absence.

Another day passes before you really start to worry.

A palm pressed against your forehead, as your temperature slowly ticks up. Your appetite waning, and the hours of sleep you snatched before turn into restless minutes.

Leaving you to wonder how long this feeling will linger. If you ingested something from the gardens that you shouldn’t, even though you know each plant by name.

It’s enough that you hover outside the medical lab, fist raised to knock - but the door whirrs opens before you can pluck up the courage to knock.

“You’ve seemed distracted lately. I thought you might be stopping by.” Hank says in greeting, though not unkindly, “And, I sensed-“

The sentence hangs with the flare of his nostrils - a beat, as if he’s rethinking it. Something knowing in his eyes, as your own drop - a different kind of heat licking up your spine at the thought of being noticed in this state, as he tactfully pivots.

“Well, let’s take a look. Is that alright with you?”

It’s familiar, the way you follow him to his station. The lab is a place you wind up in often - herbs gathered for tinctures, hand-tended with your powers.

“Tell me how you’ve been feeling.”

The paper on the bench crinkles, as you sit. He’s not the person you’d like to be confiding in, but you’ve already typed out messages again and again to Logan.

All deleted. Unsure how to even begin. Wondering how to explain - still not sure if it’s even something to worry him about.

Your mouth open, and closes. A breath, before you rattle off the basics.

Elevated temperature.

Difficulty eating and sleeping.

Inability to concentrate.

Abdominal pain.

It’s there that your list ends. As friendly are you are with Hank and as much as you enjoy his company, there no way to put to words how your libido has sky-rocketed, and yet nothing you have done has quenched it.

“Pain level?” He asks politely, and you shake your head.

“A different kind of pain.” A breath before you’re adding, with the unconscious press of your hand against your abdomen, “Um, like-, a craving.”

It’s the best you can do. The fur of his brows raise fractionally at your last addition, though all he does is nod - as you try to tamp down the warmth that spreads to your cheeks and ears.

“I’d like to take a few tests. I have a few theories, and I think that would be most enlightening.”

The prick of the needle is no different than the thorns of the rose bushes outside, though your nose wrinkles at the swab that runs along the inside of your cheek.

Your hands curled into fists as he fits your samples into a device - the DNA strands hi-lighted on the screen he holds, though you’re too far away to make sense of anything.

His hum of interest is almost immediate, as the sequence rotates in place.

“Exactly as I had thought. Secondary mutations are certainly not uncommon-“ Hank’s claws scratch scratch absentmindedly through the thick ruff of fur at his throat, “And yet, this-“

He examines the sample more closely.

“Yes. These evolved cell patterns closely mirror the samples I took from Logan, though the abundance of estratetraenol in your system of would conclude an estrus…”

Another swipe of his fingers on his tablet, zooming in.

A muttered “fascinating” as his eyes narrow, all while the room seems to tilt on its axis. Your heartbeat a running drum in your ears, as another cramp makes your muscles clench.

“Hank,” You grit out, “What’s going on?”

Those eyes lift to yours, and there’s a small, sheepish smile. Drawn back from his fascination at your new mutation.

“Forgive me. But to be frank, my dear-“

His hand pats yours, sympathy pulling in his brow.

“-I believe you’re in heat.”

You’re left pacing in your room.

Trying to run through what you were told, carefully broken down for you along with a prescription for a medication that Hank is working on called a suppressant - but it’s still a blur. Edged out by deep ache of need inside you.

The idea of heats wasn’t foreign to you, not with your attunement to nature. Had been able to fill in the pieces, during Logan’s first rut in this world.

Experiencing his need first-hand, and was all too happy to do so. Had even thought there were moments in the past, close to this time of year, when your own desires seemed to skyrocket.

But it hadn’t compared to this.

This craving, as you had named it. A need to be pinned down and filled. To take and take until that primal ache inside you is fully satisfied.

You have to inhale another breath, to steady yourself.

You can make it through this.

Just need to wait it out.

Another quilt drawn out from the closet, tucked away a week ago as the winter temperatures tipped into spring. Added to the nest on your bed, as you pluck Logan’s jacket out and slip it on - something feeling right about the careful way you arrange them.

Another cup of camomile, to try to calm your nerves. Any book you pick up soon forgotten - the words hazy, whenever try to focus on them.

Something beneath your skin seems to skitter. Some sort of innate anticipation, your eyes drifting to the window again and again.

And finally - just as you’re about to break - something gives.

It feels like the spinning compass inside you has finally found its north. The needle catching in the direction of the front entrance - with the revving of an engine and the rough scrape of gravel - left quivering as you wait.

Though he does not leave you to suffer long.

The door almost bangs off its hinges. Logan seems broader than you remember, in the way he fills the doorway.

Eyes near-wild. Nostrils flared, and it’s not quite the homecoming expression you’re expecting.

Neither is the way your body seems to hitch, to thrum, at his arrival. It’s all you can do - hand pressed against your stomach - to greet him.

Lips parted, his name hanging with the wobble of your step, before it becomes too much.

There’s strong hands catching you - instincts overriding the urge to hold himself back - and something in your chest thrums.

“Baby.” It’s rasped out. Worried. “Hank called me. You okay?”

“It hurts.” You whine. That ache more like a pulse, now. You want to peel back his skin and burrow deep inside him. Wrap yourself up in his scent until you don’t know where you end and he begins.

He inhales a slow breath as his nose dips into the curve of your neck, and you swear his eyes darken.

“I could smell you.” He admits, jaw ticking, “The second I stepped inside. But I never thought-“

His head shakes. More will come at another time. Maybe when you’re sated.

Maybe when you’re ready to pick apart the evolution of your mutation. How the proximity to your Alpha activated latent genes.

Springing to life with the turning of the earth, like so many things before.

For now, you need comfort.

Need him, in this bone-deep way you’ve never felt before. Like every part of you is crying out, desperate.

A name - his - that you can finally put to end this torture.

Every thrumming beat of your heart settling low, fixed between your thighs.

You ache for him.

“Please.”

Pain flickers in your belly, as you try to press yourself closer. Tears brimming - and it’s then that he’s crossing the room, tucking you into the nest you made. His mood tempering, now that he knew you were safe.

“Did real good, baby.” Logan coos, “Made this for us, huh? S’okay if I join you?”

The praise shoots through you, sending your nerves alright. Biting back a whimper as you nod - scooting back to make room. The mattress dipping with his weight, boots loosened at left on the floor.

Shoulders rolling to loosen the worn leather jacket, letting you press your nose to it and inhale. Tuck it against your pillows.

Leather, tobacco. The sharp wind outside, the earth. Him. Skin and sweat and the heat of the sun.

Has Logan always smelled this good?

It calms you. Softens the sharp edge, and it’s then that you can find your center again, for just a moment.

“Can you fix it?” It comes out soft and low.

There’s the small curve of his mouth as he answers - tracing your chin with his thumb.

“Nothin’ to fix. Just another part of you.”

“Right,” Your smile is small - of course it is. No different than the mutations you were born with, even though it feels new. “It’s just a lot to take in. I meant-“

There’s the brush of your tongue against your lips as you try to pick out what you mean, as his eyes drop to watch.

“Can you make it better?”

“Yeah.” It comes out low and rough - making you shiver, “Yeah. I can make it all better, sweetheart.”

Logan inches further onto the bed, tucking you between his chest and the wall - and immediately your world narrows, as he tips your mouth up to meet his.

Everything else forgotten for now. His presence softening the surging storm inside you, though you feel it threaten to break through each time you move.

How sensitive your skin is, as his fingers drag down your arm as he deepens the kiss. How even the press of your thigh together makes you squirm, pleasure blooming when his tongue licks across yours.

How you string tight, as his hand drifts down. Over the ache in your belly, down to the band of your leggings.

“Can I take these off for you?”

It feels like you move in slow-motion, as you nod. Your mind a blur of sensation, achingly aware of every move he makes all while everything else goes hazy.

Lifting your hips for him as he leans back, so he can drag the fabric down. The pretty lilac shade of your underwear turning violet, with how you’ve soaked through them.

“Fuck, sweetheart.” Logan’s nostrils flare, with his sharp inhale. His free hand unconsciously adjusting himself, the heel of his hand pressing against the thick bulge tenting his jeans.

“Drivin’ me crazy, here.”

The last layer drawn down, leaving you half-dressed - left in the zip-up jacket he left behind. A warm palm smoothing up your thigh as he shifts - pressing down, opening you up as he fits between them.

It feels like your heartbeat has settled in the apex of your thighs. A groan, as he sees how swollen and slick you are, inhibitions lowered as you shift beneath him. Hips bucking as you clench needily around nothing, and it takes him a long moment before his eyes are drawing up.

“It’s gonna be okay.” His voice is low. Rough, but the words carefully chosen as his jaw clenches. Forearms flexing as he works the silver belt buckle and button beneath open.

Revealing bare skin beneath, the thick trail of hair downward. His cock already straining against the fabric, the head swollen and glossy where it bobs - trapped against his abdomen.

There’s another deep throb, a whine caught in your throat. Fingers drifting uselessly against your clit. You’ve already tried, unable to concentrate long enough to get there. Leaving you even more keyed up and frustrated, but unable to help trying again.

“Just try to relax, baby.” His hand is at your wrist, as he shoves his jeans down. Shifting until he can hoist your thighs over his, a low groan when the underside of his cock makes contact with the slick seam of your pussy.

Logan’s hips shift. Hands biting into your hips, as he sucks in another inhale.

“Gonna make me go into rut, seeing you wearing my clothes. Smelling like this-” It’s growled out, as he tugs at the zipper on your jacket, dragging it down until it parts.

A low groan at the strip of skin it reveals, the flex of his hips sending his cockhead nudging against your clit.

Leaving you breathless, as his hand drops - his thumb presses against the flushed, sticky head, guiding it down.

“Like what?” It slips from you, your eyes tracing all over him - unsure where to focus. What to take in.

“Smelling like an Omega.” His hips shift, and your muscles string taut as he inches inside.

“My Omega.”

It sends a shiver through you, how right the word sounds. One you’ve played with. Trying to understand the dynamics from Logan’s world, the pieces that spilled into yours.

Ones that aren’t just pretend to you, anymore.

“Yours, Alpha.”

“Fuck.” Logan’s hips snap forward on their own, his groan filthy and low. As your eyes find his face, and yes - this is where they’re meant to stay.

Dark eyes with blown-wide pupils, inching out the hazel. That look he gets when he’s barely holding on, the control threatening to slip through his fingers.

Your brow pinching at the way the stretch of him blends into pleasure. Trying to meet him, to take more, as you lift - heels pressing into the mattress - but his hands are on your hips. Making you take him slow. Not able to work you open like he’d like.

A shallow shift back, before he gives you more. Another inch, another. Your eyes going half-lidded as you clench around what he gives you.

Sighing with relief as he starts to move - deeper, deeper. That tight string of your muscles starting to relax, as his cock rubs against your walls. The slick slide sending up sparks, as you moan.

“Thats’s it.” He rasps, as feels you tighten around him, “This is what you needed, isn’t it?”

As if needing it himself, as well. That assurance that he’s doing what he promised - taking care of you.

That he can still do this, at least. Helping you the way you’ve helped him. Needing it to be him, and no one else.

“Just needed your Alpha’s cock.”

You’re nodding. Reaching for him, drawing him closer - the angle changing, inching him deeper. Arms banding around his shoulders as his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“Yes, Logan.” It’s a whimper. You’d beg for it, if you had to. Make him promise to never stop, not for anything, “Missed you, Logan. I need you, I-”

“Missed you too, baby.” The scruff on his cheek scrapes against your skin with the low rumble, “I’m here now.”

The saw of his hips is slow. A creak of the bed with each thrust - spots of pleasure burst behind your eyelids, but it’s not enough.

Far better than your own attempts, but the tightening in your belly is taking far too long. Edged, over and over again, and it leaves you trembling.

“Please.” It takes you a moment to realize you’re saying it out loud. Echoing over and over, each time his hips press flush, each time your thighs squeeze around him.

He grunts, fingers flexing against your skin.

“Been a while since-“ Logan’s breath hitches, leaving that train of thought. Not wanting to think of a time before - how long it’s been - not when he has you beneath him.

What he’s been waiting for.

Depending on him, as his nose runs down your throat again. Nuzzling into you, marking you with his scent, “Tryin’ to take it slow.”

Not overwhelm you. Give you time to get used to him. There’s a filthy groan in your ear at the way you squirm - hips rolling, seeking more friction.

“But I can smell you leaking all over my cock, sweetheart. Makin’ it real fucking hard to do this right.”

“Don’t want it slow.” It’s panted out, “Need you to fuck me. Know you can, Logan-“

You need him to ruin you.

Need that Logan from the training room, working through his rut. Growling and possessive, all while using you as a means to an end.

“Stop holding back,” You hate the tremble in your voice, but it feels like you might die if he doesn’t. “I can take it. You said I was made to-”

Filthy words from another time, but it’s like something snaps inside it.

The sound you make is close to cry, when he slips from you.

The betrayal easing when Logan flips you onto your belly. Hands smoothing down your back, hooking at the curve where your hip meets thigh - lifting you onto your knees before he’s fitting himself back in with a long, slow thrust.

Even after the months together you still struggle to take him - so used to the stretch and ache that lingers after. Especially like this, he always feels so much bigger. But everything is so slick, now. You feel every inch make its way inside you, as your fingers curl into your sheets.

It’s better like this, beneath him. Too much was left in front of you before - all those inches of space and room to move, the ceiling spinning patterns above you.

Now, you’re pinned - caged between the breadth of his shoulders and the palms that flatten on your bed.

That slow thrust turning into another, and then another.

His hips shift, and you see stars. What little strength left in your elbows - where you had been hovering, braced on them - fails. Eyes going half-lidded as your shoulders slump, fingers fisting in the sheets for purchase.

It’s too good, like this.

Just what you needed.

The way his cock rubs against that spot inside you has you clenching. His pace - unrelenting, drawing you closer and closer each time his skin smacks against yours.

The grind of hips and the sticky kiss of his sack against your clit, pounding you into the mattress until you can barely breath - little gasps slipping from you instead, pitching higher and higher.

Your pleas are an echo again. Words that become incoherent, begging for what he promises you. His teeth bared as he keeps up the pace - until you’re coming with a cry, the sound muffled into the pillow as your release drips from you.

A slick warmth smearing against your inner thighs - something that might be embarrassing if not for the more, more, more-, echoing in your mind.

The way you can’t help but whine through your orgasm. Meeting his thrusts with the rock of your hips, fingers scrabbling against the sheets.

A distant part of you remembers this.

The need that follows him in his rut - how his cock would twitch, as he filled you. Still impossibly hard, as he kept moving. Fucking himself deep into you, while he worked towards another, until it was too much and he was leaking out of you with each thrust.

“I know.” It’s low, caught in his throat. As if he really did - could feel how it wasn’t enough. “You gotta take my knot, sweetheart.”

A breath, before he’s adding-

“Only way you’re gonna feel better.”

Another new piece of you slots into place, as his pace slows. Steady and deep, letting the ripples of pleasure ebb.

You’ve asked for it before, while teetering on the edge of bliss.

Wanting to do that, for him. Give him something from his world, all too happy to lean into what makes him special.

You love him, and it had been easy.

But it’s different this time.

“Please. I need it-” Your moan is low - drawn-out. Arching, pressing back against him - feeling where his base flares, swollen with his desire.

“I need your knot-“

It’s not pretend, this time. The way you beg, trying to rock back against him, take it yourself.

“Listen to you beg.” Logan husks. Teasing thrusts, as he groans. Mouth dropping to the curve of your shoulder, teeth testing your skin, “Gonna take my teeth too?”

A place he’s teased before, but the pleasure blooms this time. More memories surging to the surface - more moments of playing pretend turning real.

“Yes.” It slips from you, desperate, “Bite me.”

A hand slipping from your sheets, reaching up to tangle in his hair - as if to guide him to your neck.

His pace stutters - a harsh thrust and then stuttering almost to a full stop, and it has you whimpering.

“Please, Logan.”

He shifts, a palm running from your hip, up and up. Fingers splaying wide - a collar against your throat, holding you in place.

“Such a fuckin’ mess. Really want it all, don’t you?” There’s almost wonder in his tone - the sharp edges funneled into the rough grunt as he punches deep inside you.

You’re nodding against the press of his palm. Another “please” buzzing in your throat, against his skin, and the laugh that slips from him is rough.

“Yeah? You wanna be my little mate?”

It has you trembling, left on the edge. You want to be his, in the way that’s important to him. That connection between you something that you feel as if you could reach out and touch now - grab onto it with both hands.

“Yes.” You beg, “Alpha, please-”

It cracks open a piece inside him, long buried. Something he’s dreamed of you saying, know it would never be.

“Fuck. Been wantin’ it too.“ Logan growls, “S’gonna hurt, but I’ll make it better.”

His lips ghost against the spot under your ear, just as his hips snap forward. Working you open, making you take more.

“Gonna make it all better. Gonna give you anything you want.”

That thick bulge at the end of his cock teases at you, as his hand leaves your neck to skim down. Two fingers finding the tight bud between your thighs and circling, sending you higher.

So much pressure, in the weight of his chest against your back, in the desperate swipe of his fingers and the knot that you start to stretch around.

“Just need you to come, sweetheart.” His teeth catch at the lobe of your ear, breath hot and panting, “Fuckin’ come again for me, so you can take your Alpha’s knot.”

Another sharp thrust.

“So I can make you mine.”

It’s all too much. That ache that’s built since this morning shattering, as you come undone beneath him. Moaning as your body strings taut, unable to do more than whine and take what he gives you.

A relieved moan as his fingers play with your clit, drawing out the waves of pleasure. His hips losing the sharp rhythm, staring to surge forward instead as you flutter around him.

There’s a sharp sting of pain, as your pleasure crests. Teeth piercing skin just as he splits you open. A familiar ache in the way you make room for him, his thick knot fitting inside your walls just as he begins to swell.

Another groan and he’s emptying himself inside you with the taste of copper on his tongue and your slick smeared across his skin.

Pieces deep inside your chest swelling until they make you feel whole, as Logan presses open-mouth kisses against your neck. An inhaled breath before he’s groaning - shallow thrusts echoing each throb of his cock.

The pillow your cheek is pressed into is shredded, feathers and torn cotton joining your careful nest. His control lost as he followed you - claws splitting through skin, springing free.

It’s only now that your mind begins to feel its own, that foggy haze lifted. Your scent already starting to blend with his - sparks of pleasure at the low rumble of approval in your ear.

An arm bands around your stomach, keeping you close. Fingers drifting down between your thighs again, to feel where you’re joined to him.

He pulls another from you - soft and slow, with a lazy grind of his hips, and then one more - before he finally softens.

Careful, in the way he eases from you. Eyes dark as his hand stays cupped against your pussy.

As your own lift to trace the mark, exploring the scar that will remain. His mouth follows - a kiss pressed against the tender, broken skin.

It feels like the space he’s taken up inside your heart has grown. Something tangible tethering you to him, something that mirrors the tenderness you’ve carried for him since the beginning.

“I’m yours, now?” You ask - the words tentative. Testing them out.

“And you’re mine?”

“Sweetheart,” Logan hums, as his mouth drags down the column of your throat. The arm that tucks around your waist tugging you closer, as he curls around you.

Possessive - even more so than during his own rut - and it makes the newly awakened Omega inside you purr.

“Always have been.”

Even with his wandering eyes. Hard not to notice a pretty girl like yourself. Even without you plastered over the billboards. A poster hung beneath the marquee on Pioneer Plaza.

Passed it on his route, every goddamn day.

Never would’ve acted on it. Just was supposed to get you there and back again. Paid well to make sure you made it on time, to wherever you were going. Something temporary.

Didn’t ever think he’d get roped into your other whims, as well.

Not without the weeks of you dropping hints. All but crawling into his lap after-hours. Drinks shared in the backseat after a long shoot. Drunk, off the taste of whisky on your lips.

All things he would have - had - thought about, back in Mexico. A hand fisted around his cock and his limo smelling like your perfume and laced with guilt. A constant reminder, all the way home.

Now, he’s wrapped around your finger.

And tonight, you’ll be wrapped around him.

You’d started this, as well. He’d missed the lift of your hips in the backseat, on the way to your interview. Busy checking to see what time he’d be picking you up later - how long he’d have to wait, before seeing you again.

Something silky tucked into the front pocket of his suit jacket through the open window, as you had leaned against the limo door. Just for him - and he had resisted the urge to fish it out, while you were gone.

Far too old to be jerking it in the front seat to a pair of panties.

Far better to let the sweet cling of your arousal surround him as he waited. His cock half-hard just from the thought of you, bare beneath your dress.

The damp spot in the fabric that you left for him, and the wink you shot his way as he watched you go.

Fingers drumming on the rolled down window while he waited. That little built-in tv in the console running your interview in the background - he wasn’t watching it. Just could never remember how these damn things work.

Wasn’t worth his time to learn.

“You just wrapped your second film this year! Is there any room for romance with a schedule like that?”

“It’s hard to find time for anything.” A pause, a smile. The briefest pause - as if you were turning a thought over, before it was divulged.

“But there might be someone. I’d like there to be, at least.”

A gasp from the host, before you’re quick to add.

“It’s a secret though. I can’t tell.”

Even as the frown had creased between his eyebrows. Reading into anything and everything, his gaze drawing away from the way the camera quickly panned to your grinning co-star, flicking sharply out the window as the sun set.

Alcohol burning his throat, from the bottle he swiped from the back.

But still unable to turn it off.

Now, you find yourself where you always seem to. Perched in his lap, the tinted windows blocking out the last of the sun.

Your dress rucked up - a pretty, sinful number. Deep red, the soft fabric spilling over his thighs and onto the leather seat below you.

Irritation still prickles across his skin. Something unnamed, a tightening in his chest.

“Surprised you came back.” Logan growls out - even as your hands slide up his chest, plucking at the buttons of his shirt.

His tie long-loosened. Too tight around his throat, yanked free some time ago. Jacket stripped from his shoulders and slung across the passenger seat.

“You know I never like to stay long.” Your hips shift, and he has to bite back a groan.

Cock already swollen, despite it all. Nudged up tight against the zipper and throbbing each time your weight shifts.

Logan grunts. Half-pleasure, half-open wound.

“Just thought-” It’s rasped out, as your hand slip down. Letting the edges of his shirt hang out, as you tug at his belt, “Thought your someone might be waiting.”

Your fingers still. A little wrinkle between your brow, and you almost look amused if you didn’t seem so surprised.

“You watched my interview?”

His eyes drag away. Caught on the glow of the led runners, shifting from blue into gold.

“Just killing time.”

There’s the tuck of your tongue between your teeth, before you’re smiling - something small, just for yourself. The silver buckle loosened, clinking against the button.

“He care that you’re here with me?”

Not that he does. Just doesn’t like surprises, never had. Would rather fucking know. It doesn’t change anything for him.

“Who?” Your fingers trace the tight strain of fabric, and he bites back a groan.

“What’s-his-face. Your co-star.” You shift again, and his hands grip at your hips. To keep you moving or to slow you - he’s not sure.

The mark deepens between your eyebrows.

“Why would I give a fuck about that?”

He scowls, “Just seem pretty chummy to me.”

A scoff leaves you. Head tilting, and it feels like he’s under a microscope again. Back in the lab, as someone tries to put him together.

Your hands slip from him. Twisting in the hem of your dress, tugging it up before he can stop you. Revealing inches of skin - knee, thigh, higher.

The scent of you washes over him again - stronger, now. One that’s clung to him all night, but he still managed to forget for a second in his dark storm of a mood.

There’s a sharp inhale when he’s reminded that you’re bare beneath. Remembering the folded scrap of lace, tucked against his heart.

“Give me your hand.” It comes out firm, your eyes fixed on his.

His hand loosens, and you drag it down. Fitting his palm against you, letting him feel the warmth that waits. How slick you are when his fingers crook, unprompted.

Parting you, sliding up your slit.

Just for him.

“I was telling the truth.” It’s sighed out, the edge in your words softened by the moan that slips out, “But whatever you think you saw was acting.”

Your other hand presses against his chest - hips shifting into the press of his fingers, when they swirl against your clit.

You were good at that.

A gift of mimicry. Accents, emotions, movement. He’d seen it called online - an article he’d scrolled through on his phone. Thumb swiping, peering through the glasses tucked into the other side of his jacket pocket.

Spent enough time in that mansion to know what it was. Doesn’t know how he can tell you. What good it would do, if you didn’t already know. Wasn’t safe anymore.

Useless to think about another time. Another life - how good you could’ve been. Never used to wish he was younger.

And yet-

Maybe he believes you.

Damn hard to fake something like this.

“He wasn’t who I’ve been thinking about.” Your lips ghost against his, “You know that, right?”

That train of thought snaps with your words, as his arm wraps around your waist. With the rush of your scent and the way your heart hammers beneath your ribs.

Putting pieces together real fucking quick, and the need to be inside you hits him like a blow.

Guiding you, until your back presses against one of the long leather seats that run up the side of his limo. An ache in his knees, as they spread on the carpeted floor before you - cartilage long wearing thin, but he doesn’t fucking care.

The flicker of pain an undercurrent for the spark that runs through him.

It’s easier, like this. To spread you open, as he yanks at his zipper. The heft of his cock slipping from his worn, dark trousers as your eyes round, lips parted. His fist wrapping around with a rough stroke, before smacking the tip against your clit.

“This what you were thinking about?” It comes out rough, desperate. “Out there getting wet beneath that dress, thinking about this?”

You shiver, breath catching as his cock slips against your folds. So fucking hard for you. Always seems to be.

“Yes.” It comes in a rush, your pupils blown wide, “I did. I am, just, please-”

He won’t be one to deny you - his forearms hooking under the joints of your knees, opening you wider as you give around him. It’s not the first time, but there’s something different, with way your head tips back and the way you moan as he sinks inside.

“Logan-“

His name is sweet in the enclosed space. Each sound louder than it should be. Your gasp and the slick slide as he inches into you, hollowing you out. A groan caught in his chest as you take every inch.

Eyes fluttering shut as his hips shift back, driving deep again.

That ache inside him ebbs. He definitely knows you’re not faking, now. You’re not mimicking another time, with another lover.

Not with the way your nails sink into his arms. The bite that will take longer to heal than ever - lasting as long as the ache in his joints tomorrow. How you’re spread out below him, legs inching wider for him.

Eyes half-lidded with pleasure as your breasts press against the straining silk of your dress, the straps slipping from your shoulders. Swaying with each snap of his hips while your cunt flutters around him, your moans filling the silent space of the backseat.

A broad hand dropping, fingertips dragging against where you stretch wide around him. Sliding up, palm flipping so it can slip under the bunched-up fabric of your dress. Up and up - finding the low dip of the neckline.

Fingers curling - fisting and tugging until the silk is yanked down into his grasp. A sharp inhale as the air hits the tight peaks of your nipples, your tits tugged free.

As his hips snap faster, harder. Using the leverage to pull you to meet him with each thrust - punching him deep each time.

“You gonna show me what you do?” Logan can feel the tight tension coiling low in his belly, “When you’re thinking about it?”

Your tongue peeks between your lips as you nod, all while your fingers slip down. Parting with a sigh as you show him how you touch yourself, when you’re alone in your hotel room. Circling your clit, your breathing growing short as he fills every inch of you.

Panting, your eyes never leaving his.

“You too?” You beg, as your back arches, “You think about me, too?”

His teeth grit, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

“Every goddamn time.”

There’s relief, in the pull of your smile. The way you murmur “good”, low and throaty. How your eyes drag down - across his shoulders, chest.

Back to his face - as if you like what you see.

“Because I’m-”

He doesn’t get to hear the rest. It’s lost in the way you fall apart soon after - so fucking pretty the way you come around him. How the vowels in his name pull long, as you cry out. That tight pulse around his cock as you come - dripping down onto the black leather seats as his teeth grit, jaw working as he holds himself back.

Feeling the sharp prick of metal against scar tissue, threatening to rip through. An old habit he never outgrew.

Trying not to follow. Not yet.

He can give you another. One more after that, if he can manage.

Hold out a little longer, old man.

Because if he only gets you for now…

Then he wants to give you something to remember, too. Every single time you slip into a limo-

He’s gonna make sure you’ll be thinking about him.

He’s still inside you when you speak again. You haven’t made an effort to move, and neither has he - even as he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

“Filming wraps soon. Couple weeks.”

His eyes find a mark on the juncture of your neck. A bruise from the scrape of his teeth that will linger tomorrow.

“Figure I’ll need someone to drive me around there, too.” You shrug, but there’s a waver in your tone. False bravado, and his chest clenches.

“So if you’re free, I thought-”

The rest hangs in the silence. Waiting for him, and so he fills it, the words coming slowly.

“Sure, sweetheart.”

He never opened himself up. Not fully. Doesn’t even know if he can, anymore.

Maybe this is all he has left.

These stolen moments with you.

It’s not enough.

It’s too much, all at once.

Doesn’t know what to make of this long-dead stirring.

You don’t know it can never be. It’s still a possibility in your mind. A daydream, the edges still hazy.

So he’ll let himself pretend.

Just for a little while longer.

you quiver, the forest air is cold and fierce on your now bare backside. scraps of fabric flutter in the wind.

before you have the chance to react, his face nuzzles between your legs and begins curiously sniffing and slurping. x24 thinks you taste good. it's new. it makes his dick lurch in his pants and fuck does he like that feeling. wants more.

he holds you open, large palms kneading at your ass to keep you in place. and you accept it, gladly, albeit flushed red from embarrassment. if your colleagues at the lab could see you now. . . face down ass up for an experiment?

x24 is more than that. you know it. you know they know it.

there's a plead in there somewhere between all the moans slipping sweetly from your lips.

he paws at his dick between his thighs, locked up tight beneath the material. it yearns to be free. he's the master of his own fate now.

for a split second, his eyes flit around the forest floor as though he will be scolded for following his own will. but with no one around, he allows himself to pull his dick free from its confines.

it's large, leaking, heavy, seeking you. it stands well above average, and he marvels at how it throbs in his palm.

x24 grunts as he plays with it. eyeing your eager hole, he watches as it twitches and begs for attention.

an idea springs to mind.

you gasp as you feel his tip twitch at your entrance.

he feels big.

you know he's big.

you've seen it before.

but never felt it.

and then he's pushing in. and you're crying out. the stretch is delicious. he thinks so too. his hands smooth across your back and then grip your hips, trying to find the best way to push in, to make your body accept him.

so you arch, giving in, letting him drive deeper as your eyes roll back.

how many times had you thought of this? dreamt of this? too many times.

meanwhile there's fireworks lighting in his brain, pleasure blooming in his gut, growing a garden so beautiful he thinks he could do this forever, chase this feeling forever.

why had he never been allowed to do this before? where had this feeling been all of his miserable short life?

finally, he's found sanctity, a reason to live, in a hole in the woods.

his body snaps down, covering yours as he bottoms out and then pulls back, snapping in again.

you yelp and try to pull your head up, but his firm hand pushes you down again. fuck you love this.

and he takes you. deep. hard. rough. it's not long before his balls are tightening. what is this feeling? it's tingling, need curling in his very core.

then he bursts, hot, sticky, wet and thick and white and abundant. it floods your twitching, spasming hole as he roars against your ear.

it feels good to be claimed, you think.

he's snarling, gasping and rutting with the sound of wet slaps that ricochet from tree to tree.

x24 slows, catching his breath. the beautiful feeling fades to a gentle buzz.

you attempt to catch your breath for the first time since he pinned you down. your thighs shake, you ache to cum.

his cock twitches, as does his nose, feels the way your hole flutters.

he doesn't soften, not even for a moment. in fact, you feel him swell again as your body forces another shudder.

Charlie’s heartbeat pounds in his ears as you straddle him, kissing him senseless. His body comes alive beneath yours, heat igniting under his skin and pooling hot in his groin as your plush lips and small hands send sparks of electricity skittering across his nerves.

“Fuck,” he pants roughly as you break apart for air. His fingers dig into your hips, urging you to grind against him. “I bet you’d look real pretty bouncing on my cock.”

You pull away from him, long enough to tug your tank top over your head. You throw it onto the passenger seat before pressing your lips back to his. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you murmur, fingertips dancing down his torso as you undo the buttons of his shirt. Your fingers thread through the dark curls decorating his pelvis, tracing the thick vein that disappears beneath his jeans.

A groan rumbles from his chest, your touch sending shivers down his spine. The way you caress him is so eager, yet so cautious. He can tell that you can’t believe you’re doing this, and the thought that he made you break some kind of unspoken rule drives him wild.

“Hell yeah,” he grunts, nipping sharply at your lower lip before soothing the sting with his tongue. His large hands travel higher to span your waist, thumbs stroking your soft skin as he rocks his hips upwards. “I wanna see those gorgeous tits bounce while you ride me.”

You laugh against his mouth, the vibration making his stomach flutter. “Greedy,” you tease, popping the button open on his jeans.

His hips buck as your hand delves into his boxers, freeing his rock-hard erection. A hiss escapes through clenched teeth at the contact, his grip on your waist tightening as you begin to stroke him.

“Christ.” He breathes your name out like a prayer. “You keep doin’ that, and I won’t last long enough to enjoy those beautiful tits of yours.”

His own hands wander, sliding up your sides until he reaches your bra strap. He unclasps the garment, letting it fall away to reveal dusty peaks that make his mouth water. But before he has a chance to put them in his mouth, you scoot over, slinking across the centre console until you’re kneeling in the passenger seat. Your lips hover over the tip of his cock, breath hot against the sensitive head.

His breath hitches as he looks down, his vision flooded with messy hair and the curve of your bare shoulders. His fingers twitch at his sides, fists clenching then releasing, resisting the urge to grab handfuls of hair and guide you where he wants you. But something in him wants you to lead. Wants to feel that you’re choosing every second of this, not just giving in to some rough-handed ex-boxer who only knows how to take.

You place a soft, teasing kiss on the tip of his length, your tongue darting out to taste the creamy bead leaking from the slit. Your hand wraps around the base, giving him a gentle squeeze before taking more of him into your mouth. The wet heat makes him groan loudly, his fingers digging into the leather beneath him.

You bob your head slowly at first, getting used to the impressive size of him. Your hand continues to stroke what you can’t fit in your mouth.

Charlie’s hips jerk involuntarily as you work magic on him. “Fuck…that’s it, baby,” he manages to rasp, one hand giving in and tangling in your hair. He doesn’t force you, just holds on, fingers flexing as you set a rhythm that has his toes curling in his boots. “You’re so fucking good at tha–” His voice breaks on a groan as you take him even deeper.

You moan around him at the praise. You speed up your movements, your hand working in tandem with your mouth. Your other hand cups his balls, gently rolling them between your fingers.

You can feel him getting closer, his breathing becoming more ragged, his hold on your hair tightening. You pull off of him with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny. “Do you want to come in my mouth?” you ask breathlessly, hand still stroking him as you lean back a little to look at him. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

A growl rips from Charlie’s throat at your filthy question, hazel eyes darkening with a hunger that’s been building all night. The image of your mouth, those perfect lips wrapped around him as he comes, is almost enough to make him lose it right then. But the thought of feeling your tight cunt squeezing him as he thrusts deep – that’s an urge he can’t resist.

“Fuck…need to be inside you,” he says roughly, pulling you up by your hair until your lips meet in a bruising kiss. His hands are everywhere at once, grabbing your ass and pulling you back on top of him, wandering up to pinch your breasts, desperate to feel every inch of you. “Condom’s in the glove compartment,” he manages to pant between kisses, reaching between your bodies to tug open the button on your shorts.

You lean back, stretching out your arm until you can reach the dashboard. As you sift through the glove compartment, Charlie latches on to one of your nipples and sucks hard, making you gasp.

He smirks as he swirls his tongue around the peak. He enjoys the way your body arches towards him like a moth drawn to flame.

His calloused hands slide down to peel off your shorts and underwear. You lift your knees to help him and he tosses the clothes to the side. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasps, helping position you over his lap as you find the condom packet. His dick throbs painfully against his abdomen, pre-come leaking from the tip as he watches you rip the wrapper open with your teeth.

Your fingers tremble as you roll the latex down his length. Once he’s sheathed, you arrange yourself properly over his hips, the worn leather of the seat scratching your knees. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, and you pause, looking down at him. From what you can make out it in the dim light filtering in through the windshield, his face is a study in raw need. His jaw is tight, eyes hooded, hands gripping your hips so rough you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

The thought sends a thrill through you.

Every muscle of Charlie’s body is coiled with anticipation, his breath held captive in his lungs. He watches your face, sees the mix of apprehension and lust in your eyes, and something shifts in his chest – a fierce, possessive ache that has nothing to do with just getting laid. “Come on, darlin’,” he urges. His thumbs press into the hollows of your hips, a silent plea mixed with a demanding edge. “Don’t tease me…ride me.”

Slowly, inch by inch, you lower yourself onto him, your walls stretching around his girth. When he’s fully seated inside of you, you let out a shuddering breath, forehead dropping to rest against his. “Oh…Charlie…” you whisper, voice trailing off into a moan. You start to move, rising up until just the tip remains inside of you before sinking back down, taking him to the hilt.

Charlie’s head falls back against the seat, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. His hands flex on your hips, guiding your movements as you find a rhythm that has both of you panting and writhing together.

“Fuck yeah…that’s it,” Charlie grits out. “Gonna fuck this sweet pussy so good…” One hand slides up your side to palm your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. He leans forward, capturing the stiff peak between his teeth, biting down just shy of too hard before suckling gently.

Every nerve ending in your body feels electrified, sparking to life under Charlie’s touch. The dual sensations of his mouth on your nipple and his cock stretching you open has you seeing stars behind your eyelids.

“Oh! Fuck yes!” you cry out, head falling back as you lose yourself to the pleasure.

Charlie pistons his hips up to meet your frantic movements. “That’s it, baby. Come on my cock,” he growls, one hand slipping between your sweat-slicked bodies to find your clit. He rubs tight circles over the sensitive bud.

That’s all it takes. “Charlie! Oh god, yes!” Your nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent moon indents in his flesh.With a keening cry, you come undone, your orgasm crashing over you.

Charlie isn’t far behind. With a hoarse shout, he holds you down on his cock, hips stuttering as he empties himself into the condom in powerful spurts. “F-Fuck!”

For a moment, your bodies stay locked together, hearts hammering against chests as you both catch your breath. Charlie’s big arms wrap around you, pulling you close as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. You collapse against him, resting your hands on his chest.

“I needed that,” you say softly, pressing a kiss to his neck, his pulse still racing beneath your lips.

Charlie wraps his arms tighter around you, lips brushing against your ear. “Me too, sweetheart.”

You tilt your head to look at him, a small smile spreading across your lips. “So…does this mean we’re friends now?”

Charlie chuckles. “Friends with benefits, maybe,” he says with a wink. “Can’t be going soft on anyone, babe.”

You laugh. “You’re secret’s safe with me.”

“Whatcha drinking?” you asked, sat in the bar seat next to him. So tonight was the night. He could help but smile. Sweet sweet girl. “Whiskey, straight.” Your nose scrunched up, “My dad drinks stuff like that. S’nasty,” you muse, look of disgust plastered on your face. Were you even old enough to drink? “S’for real grownups. You even allowed to drink yet?” he asks, and you look shy now. “Yes, I am. But I just don’t. Not really. My parents let me try some on my birthday and it tastes kinda nasty,” it comes out small and quiet from your mouth, eyes everywhere but his own. “You want a real drink?” Logan asks and you contemplate it for a moment, before nodding— up and down once then twice. “None of that sugary soda shit you’re drinkin’.”

He pushes his amber-liquid filled glass towards you with two fingers, thick fingers, and you eye the glass a beat before picking it up. You smell the contents of the glass and exaggerate a wretch, pulling a silent smile from Logan. “Go on,” he encourages, and you eye him over the rim of the glass before taking a sip. Your face immediately sours at the taste seeping into your tongue and you begin to sputter. “Yuck!” you heave out. “Not gonna taste any good, sweetheart. Have a few more sips, you’ll see why people drink.” It’s a subtle coaxing, but it seems friendly nonetheless— your guard is down, eyes swirling with lust. You take another sip. And another. And another. And then between a giggle and an eyebrow raise from Logan it hits you. Your eyes flutter slowly, and you begin to feel warm all over. 

You want to touch. Feel. So you do, you reach your hand out to Logan’s and begin tracing your finger up and down his tender skin along his wrist. He pauses his words for a moment, and he smiles. “Feeling it now? All good?” he asks softly and you bite your lip before nodding. Yeah, really good. “Wanna come with me, sweetheart?” he asks, eyeing you. And you’re still in that sweet headspace, nodding and eyes fluttering. 

You blink once and you’re in a car, then again and you’re sitting on a couch, and you almost panic before you remember how you got there. Him. Logan. It’s a little disorienting to be catching up to a moment as you’re living it. You look around to see the man himself approaching to join you on the couch with a glass in hand, filled with the same amber-colored liquid as before. The warm buzz is settling now, more of a hum. “Here,” he says, tipping his glass up to your lips. You feel pliant around him. So you drink. You sit on his couch, and smile, and laugh, and giggle, and drink, and you end up in his lap somehow, maybe with a soft tug of your hips, maybe with a coo in your ear, but tonight your inhibitions are at a zero. You finally get why people drink, just like he said. Your head lolls against his chest and your eyes close, humming contently. “Feel good sugar?” he asks, and his words rumble in your ear pressed against his pectoral. You giggle a little and nod. “Mmm, yeah. Nice…” you trail off. 

“Wanna feel even better?”

Your brows pinch together and your eyes open a little. “How do you mean?” you ask, voice dripping in sincerity. Logan almost feels sick for the implication, even worse that it went over your head. His hand trails up and down your waist slowly, before he brings them down lower and lower— beyond the hem of your little skirt, and snakes his fingers under the fabric. Still, he rubs your thighs slowly, not yet bothering to touch your most sensitive area just yet. “This okay?” he asks, and you nod, gripping his shirt as your eyes close. His fingers trail up, up, and up, and he grazes the damp gusset of your panties and you gasp, curling your fists deeper into his shirt. “Told you, feels good doesn’t it?” he asks and you nod lethargically, dizzy with warmth. It's smooth, uncomplicated, just like he likes it. The cotton of your panties is pushed to the side to make way for thick digits, touching you all over experimentally, as if they’re studying how to wind you up and treat your nerves with an annoying air of frivolity. 

Logan looks at you focused, watching the twitch of your eyebrows and purse of your lips as he rubs you with an inkling of effort. Finally, he decides to give you some respite. He moves his fingers to your clit, rubbing soft circles and you let out a small moan. “L-Logan…” you squeak out and he smiles, rubbing a little faster. You’re twitching in his lap, mewling his name as he rubs your sensitive bud under your panties and the pressure in your ears feels insurmountable. You keen and throw out a Logan! at a particularly gratifying rub and he hums, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. You’re wound up so incredibly tight, it’s beyond cruel when he stops his ministrations. Your eyes shoot open in confusion. “Why…” you begin and he shushes you with a kiss to your forehead. “Can you do me a favour, sweetheart?” he asks, and he knows it’s wicked to ask in a moment where all you can say, have been saying, is yes. True to nature, you nod. “When I’m makin’ you feel good, call me Papa, okay?” He can see the collusion of confusion and complacency fighting behind your eyes, but when his fingers begin to rub at you again, you mewl out a “Yes!”, dripping with desperate enthusiasm. Good girl. 

“Who’s making you feel good?” he says softly in your ear as he toys with your pussy, and you feel so hot. “Y-you are…” you mumble, hips jerking up softly in search of some respite. “And what’s my name baby?” Logan coos in you ear and you practically melt in his lap. “Papa… you’re my Papa,” you breathe out, his fingers finally finding their way inside your wetness, thrusting and rubbing against a spot that has you teary eyed— wailing for your Papa. “F-feels s’good, Papa… I can’t- It’s so much,” you moan. You’re writhing and shaking and moving under his touch until you’re gushing and gasping at the sudden intense pleasure from his fingers. 

You’re still reeling from your orgasm you don’t even hear the clink of a belt coming undone, the unzip of black slacks, or your slight shift in position in Logan’s lap until you feel something warm position itself between your puffy and sensitive pussy, dripping wet still. “Papa… are you…?” you ask, quiet— feeling a collision of sensation and emotion begin to bubble up in your tummy. “You can take it, be good for your Papa now,” he hums. Your back is to his chest, legs spread out as they sit on either of his thighs, still clad in his dress pants you notice, he just shimmied them down enough to where his cock was free. His cock. That’s what was positioned between your wetness, pulsing against your clit on every off-beat in anticipation of what was about to happen. You glance down out of pure curiosity and your stomach tightens seeing the thick head, a soft pink and leaky with pre-cum, resting against you. You want it. You want it bad. “Can you put it in now? Please, Papa?” you moan, laying back against his chest, head resting in the juncture between his shoulder and neck. 

Logan kisses your forehead before reaching forward and between your entanglement of limbs to place the head of his dick right at your entrance. Ever compliant, your hips arch up a little to help him and then you sink down slowly when he’s situated. God, it’s surreal, feeling something in you after seeing it against you. Your head is spinning and you moan softly, melting into Logan’s chest. “S’big, Papa,” you hum, sitting still to adjust to the stretch. He chuckles a little, and you can feel the timber in his voice as he does, rumbles against your back, jolting you slightly in the moment. “You can take it, baby.” 

He leaves you with those words before his hands find purchase at your hips, and he begins to bounce you steadily up and down his thick cock. The remnants of alcohol and the budding pressure from deep within your guts sets your body ablaze, with embarrassment or pleasure, you weren’t sure. You were beyond the point of controlling your words or your hips, bouncing yourself wildly in his lap as your spill out moans of praise and yelps of Papa! over and over again. 

His hands are strong, big, overwhelming even. They don’t let go of the supple skin around your hips, squeezing even tighter as he’s reduced to grunts and groans of Oh, baby, you’re making your Papa proud as your bodies come together over and over, skin kissing and sweat dewing. One of his hands leaves your hip, and finds its way to your aching and swollen clitoris, rubbing it in a quick succession of circles as he fucks you so deep you’re convinced this isn’t real. You don’t even have to say anything anymore, your head just lolls against his shoulder as he brings your body to its crux, kissing your forehead softly. “Let go. Cum for me,” he says softly in your ear. You whimper softly as your eyes open lowly — when did they close? — feeling yourself get ready to orgasm for the second time today. His thick cock hammers your walls over and over and it’s all encompassing, all overwhelming, and paired with the sweet nothings he whispers in your ears and the deft fingers at your clit, you can’t hold on any longer. You let out a soft, “Oh, god,” from under your breath before your body tenses, chest heaving softly. 

Logan doesn’t stop just yet. He fucks you through your orgasm until he’s almost ready for his own release. He grabs your chin and pulls it towards him so you’re facing him, and he kisses you deeply as he delivers one final thrust into you before cumming deep into your pussy. You moan into the kiss, the warm sensation in your belly threatening to throw you over into a bout of overstimulation. You’re half relieved and half disappointed when Logan pulls away, and lifts your hips up so he can pull his softening cock out of you. 

Your face is flushed, mind reeling after you take in what just really happened and who it happened with. Logan pays no mind, his hands rubbing at the tender skin of your hips after his intense grip on them. 

“What do good girls say after a gift?”

“T-thank you, Papa.”

A floater student is what you would consider yourself, showing up to class once in a blue moon, rather busying yourself with doom scrolling in your dormitory or shopping off campus at the mall, only showing up during exam time and barely passing. your prognosis would be one of the many hyperactive disorders, but you never bothered to diagnose yourself officially. In high school, your parents didn’t make a huge deal of your grades, thanking a graceful god out there that you even got your diploma to begin with. At this age however, with tens of thousands of dollars being poured into your tuition, your mother and father have seemed to coil up even tighter in terms of frustration with your nonchalant attitude towards school. 

A report card from your fall semester riddled with C’s and D’s, emboldened and italicized as if to taunt you silently, was the final straw, the cussing you received was enough for a lifetime. At your parents' discretion, before the start of the semester you consulted with your academic advisor in suggestion of a course schedule that wasn’t a twelve hour day, and professors who would accommodate you with in the case of your late assignments and missing homework. 

All classes but one would be easy- you had been told. Your world history class and its professor had been the only one where you had been saddled with a hardball teacher, rate my professor describing one Logan Howlett, teacher of Modern World History in the Context of Classic Literature, as a man with a foul mouth and harsh grading asshole— with an excellent curriculum but horrible grade weighting, as described by your fellow student body, the mandatory attendance and participation accounting for twenty percent of your grade alone pulling a groan from you as your laptop screen stares back at you, the blue light emitting from it seemingly silently taunting you with the course course outline. Get used to looking at my screen. Three hours in an auditorium, every Wednesday and Friday for twelve weeks at nine in the morning with this douchebag.

You mentally prepare yourself for the exhaustion of the upcoming semester, shutting your laptop closed with a huff of annoyance before laying in bed, mentally preparing yourself for this seemingly infamous professor Howlett.

After a rather inadequate night of sleep, a zero sugar monster energy (gotta give in for the sake of your health where you can) and a double shot latte, you feel something that briefly resembles yet still distant from awake, you find yourself struggling to get comfortable in the stiff chairs in your lecture room. You’re glad you tucked yourself away in a seat in the corner, four rows back from the front, embarrassed that your peers are silently mocking your struggle. 

It’s some odd minutes to nine on the dot, and you’re rather proud of yourself for being able to make it minutes early rather than stumbling in twenty minutes late like you’re prone to doing. Face resting on your hand, cheek squishing your right eye closed, your left eye flits around the room to the other people present, and you wonder if anyone else is stuck in your current situation: burnt out student who didn’t have a choice but to take this class at the least convenient time possible, simply for your graduation credits. Unfortunate kismet, you think, if anybody else in this room also had the privilege to have been born with the unlucky gene you possess. 

Your eyes are heavy, the seconds tickering away at the speed of minutes, and you can’t help it when the last open eye you have flutters close. You hum to yourself, relishing at the feeling of finally being able to rest some more. the quiet shuffling of your classmates feet and the soft scrapings of their chairs, clock ticking so quietly that it barely registers in your mind. The ambient noise is like a blanket to you. It’s not more than five minutes, just a micro nap— you tell yourself, counting the seconds of each minute down silently. 45, 44, 43, 42, what minute is this?, 30, 29, 28, so tired, 22, 21, time to sleep…

Your eyes shoot open when you hear the auditorium door slam shut, blinking away softly the sleep in your eyes. your heart sinks for a minute and panic sets in— did you sleep through the whole class? On the first fucking day? You look around, eyes wide, and immediately sigh in relief when you’re greeted with a full hall. Conversely, you see everyone’s attention to the front of the class with materials out, so you trail your eyes to the front of the room and that’s when you see him, finally. Not his face yet, the wide expanse of his back and tail of his coiffed head facing you all instead. Your eyes trail down his body to his feet, clad in a pair of black combat boots, you can’t help but quirk up and eyebrow, bootcut jeans that seem to be worn in well, seemingly like they’re tailored to his long, very legs, then you see his jacket, which now you catch in time to see him taking it off to reveal a black t-shirt underneath and your breath hitches a bit. You can only see his triceps flexing as he maneuvers his jacket off, but you can just tell he’s covered in rippling muscle, his arms straining against the fabric of his shirt. You can’t help but wonder what he looks like, wondering if his face is as captivating as the rest of him. Your eyes flit over to the girl sitting two seats down from you, and you can’t help but smile a little at her expression, teeth chewing her bottom lip and eyes widened slightly and blinking in slow flutters, seemingly thinking the same things about this Professor Logan Howlett as you are; He’s obscenely sexy even though I haven’t even seen his face.

When you focus your attention back to the front, your face warms immediately upon finally seeing his– Professor Howlett’s face and fuck, you feel stupid for even thinking that he wouldn’t be even a fraction of attractive. His hair, oh god his hair, styled as if he just rolled out of bed and ran his hands through it once, maybe twice even, streaked with gray at his temples, peppering down into his sideburns and disappearing in his scruffy beard. His eyes are an enrapturing shade of hazel, almost brown, almost green, you squint a little to see the mix of hues better, cursing yourself for sitting so far away. His nose, button-like yet poses so masculine at the same time. His lips look so soft and kissable, framed perfectly by his facial hair as if it’s screaming at you to kiss there, to taste each other, let your tongues touch and whisper your deepest secrets to one another-

Gravelly and deep, his voice rouses you from your rather indulgent fantasy. “Good morning. Lively bunch this semester,” he quips and a quiet wave of laughter reverberates and echoes around you. Your chest tightens at the sound of his voice and you want to smack yourself silly for it. “Gonna spare you all the pointless introductions n’ ice breaking crap, yeah? We’ll go over the syllabus and get this show on the road.”

He’s curt, forward, doesn’t bite his tongue, you deduce. Not the jackass his reviews seem to pin him as, though it’s only the first class. They didn’t seem to mention how ruggedly handsome he was as well, you think and pull your lips taut as Professor Howlett, continues to read off the syllabus. Two essays, three quizzes, and a final reading comprehension exam. Attendance is mandatory Your eyes quickly flit to the back of your skull as he reads off that point. No makeups. No late work. No excuses. 

You feel your heart hammer in your chest a little, a sense of anxiety bubbling up in you at how much this class demands. It’s nerve wracking, super fucking discouraging to say the least given your track record, but you know you have no other choice but to commit fully and pass this class, so help your parents. You suppose you can find the motivation in a hot professor and at the very least, make an effort to roll out of bed and be presentable on the days you show up to his class. You exhale softly, hearing the shuffling of books and closing laptops to rouse you from your thoughts. 

“And don’t forget, first five chapters of tulip fever for next class,” his voice booms in the auditorium, fighting with the noise of students desperate to leave and head to their next class or back to their rooms. You flit your eyes towards your professor, arms crossed and muscles bulging against his shirt, casually leaned against his desk. His eyes meet yours for a moment and your breath hitches immediately. His brow quirks at you silently and you’re sure you might disintegrate on spot. You feel your face heat up and you break away the eye contact to rush out of the lecture, both exhausted and perpetually embarrassed, not having enough energy to handle feeling both. In your haste, you miss the way Logan's lip quirks up for a split second at you, rushing out the door with Tulip Fever and streaks of grey on your mind. 

You find you can’t keep your modern history professor off the brain since leaving the lecture hall that wednesday, ever so flustered. You thought about his thick arms back at your dorm, and how they might feel wrapped around you in a warm embrace. You thought about those graying temples, and the picture it would paint with his head between your thighs. You thought about him in your humanities class as your professor droned on about morality and its many philosophical perspectives, but you tune her voice out and think of his instead, wondering what it would sound like whispering sweet nothings in your ear. The level of yearning you’ve reached is bound to get you in trouble, hell it’s gotten you in trouble already— completely neglecting to finish the first five chapters of Tulip Fever like Professor Howlett had assigned, losing yourself in the work from your other classes. Friday had snuck up on you and you smacked your forehead for being so forgetful, the beginnings of discourage and a knot forming in your stomach. I’m a failure, I suck at this, I should drop out, I’m such a fucking idiot.

The thought of letting down a man you barely know has you berating yourself even further. You need to get a grip and quickly— he’s your teacher for God's sake. You suck in a breath, finding yourself sat in the same lecture hall your vivid fantasies found themselves being born in, laptop open as you’re frantically reading the Sparknotes summary minutes before class is set to start. Today, you chose a seat in the second row, still far off to the right side. You weren’t sure you could stay coherent with his gaze on you so heavy.  You tell yourself you picked this spot for a better learning experience, closer seats meaning less of a chance you fall prey to your fantasies, but deep down beyond the denial you knew better than to convince yourself of a lie like that. You sat upfront because you wanted to see Professor Howlett better, to pinpoint the hues of his eyes you couldn’t make out yesterday from so far behind. You wanted to trail your eyes up and down his muscular frame, taking snapshots of the hair on his forearms, the freckles on his thick knuckles, the veins trailing his big hands—

“Good morning, everyone,” a gruff voice speaks and you feel a ball of energy sits itself deep in your stomach, it’s him. You've missed the deep baritone of his voice, you realize. “Hope you all read up the chapters, yeah? We’ll be discussing ‘em today, and I am the asshole who picks on students to participate.” There’s a soft wave of grumbles from some, but your panic is quiet and you hope to a God in heaven somewhere that he doesn’t pick you, god knows you barely retained any information from your flash round of Sparknotes earlier.

“Like any book, the first few chapters were mostly exposition, character and scene setting stuff. Tell me, what does Sophia’s marriage and lack of heir signify to us in these times?” Professor Howlett asks, and you immediately avert your gaze to the grooves and scratches in the table in front of you. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, please please please— “Yeah, you,” your head snaps up, heart hammering in your chest when you see him nod his head at some girl, some girl with too much fucking chest out, you spit, her hand raised high and smile plastered across her smug little face. Your brows pull together and you barely contain the urge to roll your eyes at her enthusiasm. 

“Thank you, Professor,” This fucking bi- “I think that- that while Cornelius and Sophia are often representative of the way marriage was a lot of the times something more transactional, her being unable to have a kid being a main problem- shows how a lot of times a marriage with no evidence of, um, consummation, is seen as practically null and void.” Your fist tenses against the desk at her answer.

“Little long winded, but yeah, good job..?” his voice lilts off, and you smile a bit knowing he doesn’t even remember her name. “Oh, um, Amber,” she sputters out. He nods at her response and continues asking questions about the book. You feel a little bad as class progresses, your unprovoked and unwarranted jealousy towards another woman over a man who’s simply an authority figure to you both, no matter how attractive, makes you cringe. What is he doing to you? 

“Good answers, guys. Glad you all did more than skim the book,” Professor Howlett muses, turning his back to face you all as he digs through his briefcase. You take this time to admire how broad his back looks, draped in a black polo shirt today that practically has you drooling. “The rest of you I didn’t pick on today aren’t unscathed unfortunately,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. He turns around and presents the stack of papers between his large hands to you all and he smirks, “Pop quiz.” 

A myriad of groans come crashing from all over the lecture hall right down to your ears and you silently join, hands falling down against your desk. You sincerely hope these weren’t going to be graded, praying that Professor Howlett possesses some sense of apologeticness, knowing that the definite zero percent you’d get on this would completely fuck over your overall average for the rest of the semester, subsequently giving your parents ample reason to rip you a fucking brand new one. 

Row by row, he passes a stack of papers for each student to pass down and he stops in front of you, seeing as you so conveniently sat at the end of the second row. “Nervous?” he asks, brow quirked and smug fucking look on his face as you look up at him. You quirk your eyebrow right back at him, “Hardly.” A group of papers fall in front of you and he breathes out a laugh, leaving you to pass papers to the next row. You lied like shit, you were insanely nervous, knowing you hadn’t retained a lick of information from your mini crash course nor the class’ discussion prior.

“No tech, no cheating. You guys know the drill, don’t make me catch you and have to chew you out. Twenty minutes and I’m picking ‘em up.” Logan says, walking down the aisle and back to his desk, his hulking frame leaning against his desk and his arms crossed up against his chest so tight that his biceps practically bulge out of his shirt. Or maybe, he’s just that toned, that any movement, minuscule or major, would have him threatening to rip out of his clothes. You’re practically fighting yourself in your seat, tearing your eyes away from his thick arms and heavy pectorals and down to your paper. 

It’s one page, front and back, ten questions. It wouldn’t be so bad had you actually read the book, considering you can’t even remember the name of the main character in the book. You bite your lip, trying so hard to rack your brain for something that resembles a coherent answer to these questions that will give you at least a 75%, knowing it wouldn’t skew your grade average completely off. What does Maria’s role stand to symbolize in the context of 1600’s Amsterdam?. You clench your  fist so hard around your pen you’re almost amazed that it doesn’t break under the pressure. You didn’t even remember a Maria in the book.

Twenty minutes of writing later, grasping at straws for potential points that would make you feel better than getting a big fat zero on your first quiz in this class, in his class, you’re walking to his desk to place your quiz in a pile with the rest of your peers, just as he’d instructed. You kept your eyes down the entire time, feeling too embarrassed to look at him after that silly excuse for banter you had attempted earlier. Hardly. Yeah fucking right. 

After your quiz, you had been dismissed from class, and you felt the anxiety set in almost immediately. The phone call you had with your parents that weekend over your classes and grades so far only worsened, the stern and subtly implied threat of coming back home to learn at a local college looming silently above you if you didn’t keep your grades up. You had obviously avoided mentioning the pop quiz you had, choosing not to set them ablaze at the mention of the fact that you most definitely failed that pop quiz. The stress of your grades instilled a new found productivity in you, in which you took initiative to read ahead of the assigned chapters and annotate as well as take notes for your modern history class, hoping to be prepared next time he’d ask a question. Your stomach churns at the thought of his praise, Good answer. Very good, kiddo. Like that idea. you imagined he’d say to you. You bite your lip as you study your western civilization notes, maybe he’d even indulge in you, call you his good girl, his good little student, something that Amber would never have above you. 

Monday and Tuesday went by uneventfully, as you completed your labs and started on your assignments when assigned. Tuesday night however, you had been anxious almost, or maybe excited— you weren’t sure, but you did know you wanted to be prepared for this class, to prove to Professor Howlett that you could handle his class, show him that you wouldn’t let him chew you up and spit him out so easily. You took the time before bed on that Tuesday to prepare your books in your bag, organize your notes, and even pick out an outfit, neatly folding it and leaving it on your desk chair. Grades be damned, you were beyond ready to prove everyone wrong, yourself included. 

You sat in the front row again, enraptured in the world of Tulip Fever, but really you would rather focus on Professor Howlett. He was all you thought about these days, especially at night when it was only you and the dark of your dorm to entertain you before bed. You hear a giggle next to you and you snap your head to the direction of the noise. Amber. A deep rumble sounds in front of you, someone clearing their throat. You look forward again and see your professor and your face heats up. “Welcome back to earth, sweetheart,” he muses, humour painted all over his face. Your eyes widen at the pet name he’s given you and you feel like sinking into your seat. “I need you here next time, yeah? Not in that pretty little head of yours,” he says, quiet enough so only you and the front two rows can hear. Your head spins. Pretty. He called you pretty. He continues his lecture like nothing else happened, leaving you dazed at his affection. His eyes flit to you briefly and he smiles, before walking back to the front of the class. 

Little moments like these pepper themselves throughout your lectures with Profess Howlett in between the assignments and lectures and raised hands. You’d catch him looking at the juncture of your breasts sometimes as you wore low cut tops, his lilting voice calling you precious pet names, sweetheart, kiddo, sweets. They all have your face warming. Heated gazes, stolen smiles, one off banter, you were convinced you were being delusional. One particular moment after class where you had asked for details on an assignment had you reeling for days. You went up to him after class to ask your question. His face was insanely close, you could smell the mint off his breath from the gum he was chewing during the lecture, feel his words fan your face, deep rumblings and focused glares as you were only inches away from his face. His lips, oh God his lips… so close, so soft looking, so pink, you had been so caught up in him the entire time. And he had noticed, his fingers coming up to your chip to raise your gaze. He did it wordlessly, eyeing you as you eyed him. His look daring you to say something. Challenge me. I dare you. But you didn’t— you couldn’t, you had tried to focus on something else, his musky woodsy scent, his greying stubble, anything, as he continued to explain your question to you. You walked out of his class that day with jello for legs, replaying the moment in your mind. 

Next class you had seen him he had given the assignments back, adorned with little gold stars on those who had grades higher than a B minus. Your paper had come back to you with an A minu, a little gold star next to your grade. “Boosts morale,” had been Logan’s explanation when a student had asked why the gold star. You smiled. Cute. 

You had felt like you finally found your groove, despite the hiccup you had at the beginning. Your first test of the semester approached, and you weren’t nervous, in fact you showed up to class early, getting a chance to get a good spot and watch Professor Howlett walk in and begin setting up. You had waved, a meek good morning in your own words and he returned a wink back. Your insides tugged at themselves. He had waltzed over to you in your seat, starting up conversation. “Nervous?” he asks, curt and short. You smile, “Hardly,” using your own words once more. “I’m gunning on a gold star. I studied extra hard.” Professor Howlett hums, smile on his face. “I look forward to seeing your work. I enjoy reading it,” he says. He leaves you with those words as he walks back to his desk, more students beginning to pepper in the classroom as the test hour approached. You had been so sure you did excellent on your test, studying for days and days beforehand. So when you got back your test, a C Minus staring back at you with a gut wrenching empty space next to your grade right where a star would be. Tears prick your eyes as you look at the grade, feeling so disappointed in yourself. This couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

You had promptly stayed behind after class to speak to him, and it seemed like Amber had the same idea, her body close to his as she spoke lowly. She didn’t spare a glance back at you as she spoke to him, hand grazing his bicep as she walked away and past you. Your eyes rolled in your head and you walked up to Professor Howlett next. He’s in the middle of packing up his papers in his bag when you come up to him, and he glances up in acknowledgment before going back to what he’s doing. You breathe out and his brown quirks as he pauses and looks at you. “Yes?” he asks. “I… I would like to see you after class if possible to discuss my grades,” you say, fist curling and uncurling with nerves. ”Tomorrow afternoon come see me at my office,” he says, arms crossing. “Don’t be late. Don’t get your hopes up either,” he quirks. You chew your lip before sighing. “I’ll be there. On time.” 

And true to your word, you showed up promptly and on time. Your heart was hammering in your chest cavity so hard you felt like it would burst through your ribcage. Your lower lip found itself between your teeth, chewing at it tenderly. You had been staring at the mahogany colored door, finished with a shiny golden plaque, L. Howlett, PHD. carved within the surface of the precious metal. His name posed just as intimidating as he did. You’d been standing in front of his door for almost three minutes now, fingers skimming along the hem of your plaid skirt. The accompanying white tanktop and white cardigan hand made your subconscious intentions loud and clear, as some part of you, a delusional part of you, had hoped this school girl-esque get up would grant you some sort of leniency with Professor Howlett as you begged for him to give you a retake, a makeup assignment, something for God’s sake.

Any moment more of hesitancy and you would be late for your two o’clock appointment time, so you bring your knuckles up to the door to knock, twice in succession, when the door swings open in front of you. Your knuckle is almost met with Amber’s face, her shock seeing you just as evident as hers. She doesn’t let it linger however, as she casts a glance over her shoulder and muses a “Bye Professor. Thank you so much, I’ll see you in class Monday,” before looking back forward and right back at you, holding your gaze as she walks right out the door and past you, making sure her shoulder doesn’t miss yours. You scoff. Bitch. 

“Right on time. Come in,” he gestures, refusing to get up from his comfy looking office chair. As you walk around his office you take in the interior briefly. The mahogany furniture, the lingering smell of cigar smoke, evidence of his nasty habit sitting on top of an ashtray on his desk, the glass bar cart, adorned with various bottles of whiskey and gin, and a mini fridge sitting on its bottom shelf— filled with ice and garnish you assume. You eye his book cabinet, shelves stuffed with various literary titles, old and new, classic and contemporary. You find yourself impressed, but you shouldn’t be, his teaching— albeit rough, brutish sometimes even— is a testament to his passion towards books and literature. You smile a little as you sit down in the foam lined chair in front of his desk. You try not to think of who sat in it before you as you feel the residual warmth of it against your thighs. You take in Professor Logan, black t-shirt and dark blue jeans— casual, but damn if he made it look good. You eyed his arms, veiny and bulging out his shirt, before flickering your attention back to his face, framed by those greying temples you oh so loved.

“So?” He trails, redirecting his attention from his desktop to you. You swallow a little and sigh. “Um, I know that you said no… no retakes or anything, and I understand your answer if it’s a hard no,” you say, pausing to look at him to try and assess what he’s thinking, but you’re simply met with a raised brow and crossed arms as he leans back further in his chair. “But I… I was wondering if- Well, my parents, they said that If I have a grade lower than an A on my report card this semester I had to drop out and transfer locally, and I don’t want to make this a pity story but I… It’s only this class where I’m having trouble. And I know what you said but my last test really fucked my average and I-” your nervous ramblings are cut off by him raising his hand. Your lips clamp and you watch him, waiting for his impending words. He makes you sit in the silence and with your words, instead opening his desk drawer, rifling between what sounds like various loose pens and papers before taking a lighter out. Small, sliver, zippo style and engraved with meticulous swirls. He picks up the already cut cigar out the ashtray, placing it between his pink lips, and lights it— two experimental puffs of smoke floating your way and you get dizzy. 

“You don’t mind?” He asks only now, and you try not to roll your eyes and that façade of chivalry. “No,” you shake your head. “Thought so,” he smiles, smug. He puffs from the cigar once more before he places it down on the glass ashtray once again before he speaks up. “As it stands now if you tighten up for the rest of the semester you can pass my class with a B something, which don’t sound too bad to me, sweetheart.” Your gut twists with tension. A B isn’t what you need. You brows furrow and you open your mouth to speak, but he continues. “I would love to help you sweetheart, trust me I would. But that wouldn’t be fair to all the other students who come waltzing in here dressed just like you, begging for an A,” he drawls, picking up his cigar again and slotting it between his lips before he stands up and your breath hitches. “Wh- dressed like me? I didn’t-” you begin, confused at what he’s implying. Your eyes follow his moving figure, his steps taking him around his desk to the side of your chair, conveniently eye level to his groin. 

“But you did, didn’t you?” he asks softly, thumb coming to your chin to direct your gaze up to his eyes. “I don’t understand…” you murmur, skin beginning to warm at the rather inappropriate contact and position. Your chest heaves up and down beneath your cardigan and he surely notices letting out a soft chuckle. “You’re a smart girl. I’m sure you can put two and two together,” he continues, thumb rubbing softly back and forth against your chin before he drops his hand from you completely. Your eyes drop in sync to his limb, your mind racing a million thoughts a second. But… isn’t this what you wanted? What you needed? What you’ve dreamed of for weeks upon weeks? “Look at me,” he says, stern. And you do. “You listen so well,” he hums and you feel the makings of a fire ignite itself inside you somewhere deep. I’m being good. Good for him. “Kills you inside that you couldn’t get that shiny little sticker, doesn’t it?” he muses, looking down at you with mirth swirling in his eyes. You feel tears spring to your eyes at his words. He sees right through you. It did hurt. All you ever wanted to be was good for him. 

“We can fix that today. Tell you what, you be a good student for me, and I’ll be a good teacher to you, yeah?” he says, taking a puff from his cigar. “Nod your head like a good student.” And you do. Up and down, slowly. Your brain is fuzzy. This surely isn’t happening, is it? It couldn’t be. He walks away and back to his desk, propping his cigar down after asking it. He pushes a pile of papers from his desk, until he finds what he’s looking for. A sticker sheet. What is he…

“C’mere,” Professor Howlett gestures with a finger, simultaneously sitting back on his chair. Your legs are trembling under you as you get up and walk towards his side of the desk. Logan pivots his desk chair to the side as you walk over to him and you find yourself standing between his legs, quiet. “Take that off,” he says, flicking his head towards your cardigan. You let it drop off your shoulder promptly, standing only in your white tank top and plaid skirt. “Kneel,” he says, and you drop immediately. Pathetic. Your hands lay in your laps as you’re sat between his legs on your knees. Your breathing is as laboured as ever. You can’t believe this is happening— something that you spent nights dreaming of. Touching him, tasting him, feeling him. He reaches over to his desk and grabs the sticker sheet of gold stars, a fresh sheet of stars neatly arranged row by row. “You know what to do, don’t you sweetheart?” he asks, palm of his hand running against your face. You nod, reaching forward to the zipper of his dark denim jeans before his palm grabs your hand. “When I ask you somethin’, I want a verbal answer. Y’understand?” he says. Your voice feels caught in your throat. He’s so intense your head is spinning. “Y-yes,” you breathe. “Yes what?” he spits back and your heart hammers. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“Good girl,” he hums. He lets go of your hands, taking a sticker off the sheet and placing a small gold star right next to your left eye. Your face heats up at the praise and you almost let out a breath, but you don’t. Your hands go back to undressing Professor Howlett, fingers deft with his button and zipper. He lifts his hips up and helps you shrug his jeans down until they’re sitting on top of his black combat boots, clad only in black briefs. The heavy tent in his pants makes your eyes go wide but you persist, thinking of your grade on the line. With a tug at his boxer band his dick pops up over the elastic, and you pull down until the full sheath of him is bobbing freely. Your eyes widen a little at the sheer size of him, wondering how he could possibly fit inside your mouth let alone your pussy. He was long, eight inches you’d guess just by looking and insanely thick. He was heavy too— the length of him unable to stand up fully, bobbing haphazardly as he twitched from arousal. You looked up at him, and his gaze was steady. Expectant. You sucked in a shallow breath before grabbing his cock, warm to the touch. Your fingers barely touched. You’re hand jerked up once before Professor Howlett was grabbing your wrist, only to spit on his dick, the string of saliva landing on the shaft. “S’better. Go on,” he encourages, and you do— jerking him a little faster now with his spit lubricant, the sound of his slick skin making your pussy feel warm, wet. You jerk him faster, spitting in the palm of your second hand before you join your other, breasts bouncing up and down as you jerk him. Little grunts leave Logan, and it makes your tummy feel warm. You were making him feel— “Good, just like that, yeah. Use your mouth now,” he moans. You felt intimidated by his size, but you persisted still. You wanted to be his good girl.

You look up at him as your mouth opens, coy like a fish, and you wrap your lips around his tip. He inhales a sharp breath and it gives you some encouragement. Be good. Your head drops lower, lower and lower until your mouth his full and his tip is tickling your uvula, and you gag around him, sputtering spit all over him. You pull off his dick to cough and he chuckles at you. “Let’s try again together, yeah?” You nod, “Yes, Sir.” You reposition yourself, back on your knees in front of him. “Open your mouth and stick your tongue out, open real wide,” he says, tapping your cheek. It felt soft slap more than a tap however. But still, you open your mouth wide, tongue hanging out. “Juuust like that, yeah…” Logan groans, slapping the warmth of his cock on your tongue. “Breath through the nose,” he says, before putting the length of him in your mouth and pulling your head down on him, fist clenched in your hair. He pulls you down deep, further than you managed to reach alone and you gag, spit everywhere, but he pays you no mind. His curses under his breath before standing up out of his seat, your head craning up as his fist pulls at your nape. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he breathes, thrusting his cock in an out of your mouth. Your throat feels rubbed raw, tears pooling in your eyes but you hold on, hands gripping his thighs. “Take it, fucking take it,” he grunts. His hand disappears before placing a sticker on your spit-covered cheek and you whimper around his cock. Logan’s brows pull together and he laughs. “That turn you on? You like being my good little student? You like sucking off your professor?” he laughs, fucking your face with a deep pace. You muffle a Yes, Sir around him as his spit soaked balls slap against your chin and he laughs. Sticker after sticker covers the expanse of your face, a juxtaposition to your debauched mascara-streaked-spit-covered face.

Your throat is raw, but you’re relishing in the attention, the praise, the intensity of it. “One more mouthful, c’mon,” he grunts, pushing your head down even further down his cock and you squeal around him. Your eyes snap shut, focusing on holding your breath as he brings his dick deep down your throat until your nose is buried in his greying pubes. “So fucking nasty,” he drawls, deep groan leaving his chest. “Take it, be good and take it,” he says breathless, before he’s spitting his cum down your throat, leaving you no choice but to swallow his bitter semen. Your eyes wretch open lowly, watch Logan’s face contort in pleasure as he finishes in your throat and you whimper, squeezing his thighs tightly. “Good student,” he coos, pulling his cock from your mouth and it’s a relief that’s long overdue. Your first unobstructed breath is a deep one, and you’re slightly dizzy from the oxygen after having it restricted for so long. You don’t think about it for long before a hand is pulling you up off the floor, and before you know it, lips are on yours, tongue finding tongue. Your eyes close by themselves and you melt into the kiss, Professor Howlett’s lips soft against yours, but kissing you so roughly. Your arms grip his biceps, desperate for something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself with. 

The kiss breaks and your mind feels hazy. Your eyes open and you see Professor Howlett staring back at you, hands roaming your body. “Pr-professor…” you moan out after a particularly hard squeeze at your ass. “Logan, baby,” he says, kissing your lips once in a peck, and again as a sloppy embrace, his tongue swirling in your mouth and you keen into him. His hands pull at the back of your thighs and you jump up in his arms, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He walks you a few paces, still stuck in an embrace, until he puts on you down on his desk. He breaks the kiss between you two before pulling the front of your tank top down, revealing your breasts to him, nipples pert. He wastes no time kissing and licking your chest, and you throw your head back in a silent moan. He sucks on your nipples for a minute, pinching and toying with your breast until your chest is heaving and nipples are raw. “What a sight for me,” Logan hums, and you feel shy under him like this. “Lean back and spread your legs f’me,” he says low, kneeling as you do as he asks. He’s eye level with your pussy, only covered by your skirt and white panties. He lifts the plaid fabric up and groans, the little wet spot of your pussy a delectable sight. 

Logan leans forward and licks the wet gusset of your panties and you let out a shuddering moan. “P-please, Logan…” you breath, too wound up to wait. He smirks and indulges in you, pliant and needy. He hooks a finger in the crotch of your panties and pulls them to the side, hurrying his face into your wet and waiting pussy. It’s an enrapturing feeling, having him suck and lick and taste your clit and folds like this, groaning into you and he praises you for having such a sweet fuckin’ pussy, baby. He sucks your clit roughly, before pulling back to spit on your pussy, rubbing his nose against your clit before flattening his tongue against your gushing slit once again. The streaks of grey between your thighs sends blood rushing downwards to the center of your arousal and you can’t help but run your hands through his salt and pepper hair. He licks and tongues you until your legs go numb, teasing your orgasm from you time and time again until you’re nearly in tears for him, ready to cum.

 “Please Lo- Sir. Please, Sir. Wanna cum, I’ll be good. Just-” your begging is cut short as two thick fingers push themselves in you and you throw your head back at the stretch. “You’re gonna come for me in a little, sweetheart. Be good for now,” Logan coos, kissing your inner thighs. You’re heaving as he curls and scissors his fingers inside you in a way that feels so unfairly good that tears begin to streak down your face, gold stickers peeling and falling off your damp skin; scattering down on the desk and falling on your chest. “G-gonna… Oh my God, Sir,” you squeal, just about ready to… Until his fingers deftly leave you. Before you can whine about this, Logan’s thick fingers covered in your slick push into your mouth and you groan. “Hush, baby. You’re about to feel real good in a little,” Logan hums, rubbing his cock, now hard again, up and down your wet and sensitive pussy, the head of him hitching your clit so good it hurts. His fingers leave your mouth. “Beg for it.” And you do. You’re a babbling mess under him. “Inside, p-put it inside me, Professor,” you moan, and Logan's resolve snaps, thrusting into you in one fluid movement.

You see stars, no pun intended, at the stretch of him. Your stomach feels full and you shudder, laying back down against the desk. “Tightest, sweetest fucking pussy I ever felt,” Logan coos, fingers pushing back into your mouth. His unoccupied hand grabs your leg and throws it over his shoulder and he begins to thrust in and out of you, knocking the wind out of you with every push in and out. Your intermittent moans turn into a symphony of cries as his pace increases and he’s fucking into you at a brutal speed. Your hands are grasped around the wrist of his hand that’s by your mouth, sucking his fingers to soothe the burning part of the pleasure. “That’s it, fucking take it,” he grunts, pushing your leg from around his should back until your knee was touching your shoulder. The new angle made the pleasure unbearable, every movement rubbing against your g-spot. Your eyes begin to close, your body shutting down seemingly as you begin to enter a pleasure comatose, the bubbling pleasure, the fingers in your mouth, it all feels like too much. But Logan doesn’t let you stay in that place for too long, his fingers leaving your mouth to slap your cheek, pulling back down. “I need you right here, know it feels good but I want you with me,” he says breathy, thrusts still never faltering. 

Without his fingers in your mouth your moans are free to be heard, your incoherent babbles of “s’too much,” and “so deep in me, sir,” floating in the air between Logan’s heavy breaths and obscene curses. You’re breasts jump with every thrust in you, your head bouncing up and down from the sheer force of his thrusts. “T-Tell me…” you stutter out, eyes fluttering. “Tell you?” he asks, grinding his hips up and deep, and you’re sure he’s grazing your cervix. You grip his t-shirt and keel. He gets what you mean. “Good girl. My good girl. You’re the best girl. You want another star, don’t you?” he breathes out, a hand moving down to your clit as he thrusts up and out, up and out into you. You whimper, his words and ministration’s overwhelming, “Yes, Sir. M’good. So good. W-want it. Please, can I have it?” you babble. You belly feels warm, and the heat bubbles with every brush at your swollen clit and thrust in your pussy. He lets go of the hand at your knee, spreading you open to grab a sticker from the sticker sheet. “Stick your tongue out f’me,” and you do, overwhelmed with this moment. You’re being good. You’re being good. You’re almost there, keep being good. He spits in your mouth and you moan holding it there and waiting for him to tell you what to do. “Swallow it,” he huffs, thrusts faltering. He’s close, you deduce. I don’t want it to end. Please don’t let it end. You swallow and stick your tongue back out to show him and he groans.

He puts the star sticker on your tongue, and he thrusts in you harder, tweaking at your clit as he does. Your body seizes and you melt into a fit of moans and grunts, and you finally cum, Logan fucking you through it. “Yeah baby, just like that. Kneel for me,” he says, pulling out of you. You lay up off the desk and fall promptly to your knees, watching him jerk himself to orgasm above you with your tongue out, gold star on the middle of your tongue. He grunts with deep Fuck! before warm ropes of cum spray your partially sticker-covered face and tongue. Your eyes close and you hum, relishing in the warmth. Logan wipes the cum from your eyes with his thumb and sticks it in your mouth, and you suck, no questions asked. “Good fucking girl.” 

The moments following are awkward. Logan tucks himself back in his pants, and pulls his jeans up and you’re left laying on the floor, coming down from your ecstasy high. The zip of his jeans breaks the silence and you’re looking up at him, soiled with cum, spit, stickers, tears and mascara. He walks to his bar cart and grabs the cloth hanging off the handle bar, and he hands it to you. You clean yourself up, and when you’re done you find his cardigan in his hands. You fix your tank top back over your breasts and pull the crotch of your panties back into place before grabbing it from him. “Thanks,” you say quietly. “See you in class on Tuesday,” is the last thing he says to you before you leave his office. Stunned.

On Tuesday, he hands you back your test with a new grade, an eighty, and gold sticker placed on it right next to the new grade. He glances at you as you look over your test, and smirks. You read the note he left in red ink on the back of the test, heart beating a little faster once you look back up at him. Good girl. 

"Logan" You whine, embarassed. "Stop"

He just grins. "And why should I, hm? Don't you know what you're getting into, getting with an old dog like me? Such a pretty little young thing, and you're giving yourself to me."

His hand inches lower, tugging the strap down, and he groans, deep in his chest at the sight of your perfect fucking tits. "Fuck, look at you. My beautiful, beautiful girl. All for me, hm?"

You arch into his touch, sighing softly in pleasure. "Mm, yeah. Only for you"

He watches, amused and transfixed at the way you seem to ache for his touch. "Should be with someone your own age, you know. Someone who isn't old enough to be your goddamn daddy"

You shake your head, looking up at him with those doe eyes that make his head spin. "No- No, Lo. I don't want 'em. Only want you. Only ever gonna want you"

His eyes soften, and his free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb tracing your lower lip with his thumb. "I know. I know you do, honey. Just not sure why"

"God, I love you" he murmurs against your mouth. And you can't help it. You're putty in his hands.

Before you can answer with the list of reasons for why you love him, the one you've given him so so many times, he turns you around to straddle his lap and presses his lips to yours in a desperate, hungry kiss.

It was a silly spur of the moment purchase. You had stopped to get gas on the way home and wanted something to drink too… but the honey packs sitting atop the protected shelf behind the checkout clerk had caught your eye. You’d heard people talk about them online and how they could make a man last longer in bed, not that your man— Hugh, had ever needed any assistance in that department, but what’s the harm in trying something new? So you had asked for a six count box, only a few, stuffing it into the plastic bag from the cashier along with your water and snacks.

You made it home before Hugh but you were so exhausted that your gas station goods and the idea of unpacking them were unfeasible to you at the moment, so you just set the plastic bag of assorted items on the kitchen counter as you passed on the way to the bedroom, ready to decompress and get into bed.

The next morning, you awoke to an empty bed. Hugh had a habit of waking up before you, for a workout most days if not to surprise you with breakfast, and today seemed to be no different. You had assumed Hugh to take up the former option, considering how quiet it was in your shared penthouse. Groggily, you peeled the plush sheets back from your master bedroom, and padded your way to the connecting ensuite bathroom to get ready for work. The used honey packs on the kitchen table went unnoticed by you as you exited the home.

The day trudged on painfully uneventful much to your dismay, and the late Friday afternoon traffic just only served to add to your boredom.

“I’m home,” you called out when you stepped through the front door, shutting it behind you and shedding your jacket to hang it on the nearby rack. “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a m—” you were cut off by Hugh’s lips on your own and his hands pulling you close gripping your waist tightly. The force of the kiss pushed you both back into the door. He kissed you so feverishly, hardly allowing you to catch your own breath. His lips finally detached from yours only to dive straight into the junction between your shoulder and neck biting and sucking the sensitive skin there. Hugh grabbed your thighs lifting them slightly, a silent demand to wrap them around his waist which you did instantly.

“Hugh,” you whined. “I just got back from work, let me shower first,” you protested, laughing a bit at his needy exposition. What had gotten into him? He didn’t say a word to you, letting his heated gaze speak for itself. He carried you from the entryway, lips never leaving your body as he walked you into the kitchen to set you on the table. “Can’t wait,” he said breathlessly. “Need you so fucking bad, sweetheart.”

Hugh’s insatiable behavior and the opened honey packets on the counter beside his mug of tea have you putting two and two together finally. You push back against Hugh trying to get him to look at you and stop marking your neck. You cup his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over his graying beard. “Baby did you use that in your tea,” you ask with a hint of a smile on your face as you try to hold back a laugh. “That’s what you’re focused on right now?” he quirks, squeezing your hips tenderly. ”Yes, silly, those are like liquid viagra!” you giggle, watching him nuzzle his face in the warmth of your palms.

“I wanted to surprise you with them and take them together, but it seems like you beat me to it,” you hum, your hands trailing down from his face down to his chest, clad in a black polo that had your mouth watering. He eyes you quietly and you can feel the heat in his look, beyond the swirling mirth in his eyes. “Naughty, naughty girl. Calling me an old man who can’t keep up?” Hugh tuts, pulling your hips to bring you flush to him, legs wrapping around his back halfheartedly. You roll your eyes at his statement. “You know that’s not what I—” you’re cut off, your sentence trailing into a soft oh! as you’re suddenly picked up again off the counter, Hugh bringing you to your bedroom. “You want a surprise? You got it,” he hums, kissing you deep and hard as he carries you with ease.

Your back meets plush sheets, and from the night becomes a blur, your memory blacking in and out from the intensity of it. You’re stripped bare, left only in your lacy panties. Slotted beneath him, it’s here you’re his and his only. Hugh’s lips wrapped gingerly around your nipple, tweaking the other as he grinds his groin into yours, reducing you to a body of simmering heat and arousal. He toys with you like this until you break, and it has you begging. “P-please, touch- need you to touch me there,” you whine, his beard hair rubbing against your nipple making it hard for you to be coherent. “That’s not how you ask now, is it sweet girl?” he teases, sucking and pinching your chest, grinding into you so deep that you’re sure you’ve soaked his slacks through your panties. “Please, daddy?” you moan, embarrassed it took barely any teasing for you to reach this point. Still, ever the one to oblige in you, Hugh moves from your breasts, now tender with nipples beyond sensitive, trailing hot open mouthed kisses down to your panties.

He places a kiss atop your clothed mound and you squirm a little, ready for some due respite. “Impatient little girl,” he coos, no threat in his tone. His nose finds its way against your panty covered pussy, inhaling you once before licking and sucking your arousal through the fabric. “D-daddy!” you squeal, surprised at this new display of lust, one that’s new to you. I’ve never seen him this worked up. He sucks and licks you through the thin fabric, and it has you bucking your hips up to reach deeper against his face at the sheer lewdness of it. “My naughty girl,” he says, kissing your thigh. “That got you all worked up? And I’m not even touching you?” he laughs softly, fingered hooking into the gusset of your underwear and pulling it to the side. “So wet and ready for me, hm?” he asks, and you nod fervently, anticipating his lips on you where you really want them.

When they finally plant themselves against your clit, it’s like a dam opens and tension leaves your body, flooding with a warm throb in place. He sucks you in the most skilled way, his tongue and nose rubbing and sucking against you in all the ways you like. His tongue licks you up along your slit once and then again before he plunges the appendage into you, making you keen with a breathy moan. Your hands fist his greying locks as he tongue fucks you, his nose and rough beard hair grinding against your clit overwhelmingly good. He licks and sucks until you’re nothing but a babbling mess under his mercy, trapped against his mouth by his thick arms. The pleasure begins to overwhelm you in a way that borders pain and before you can tell him, you’re cumming against his face, trembling softly as he licks you through your orgasm.

Your mind goes fuzzy for a moment, and you barely notice Hugh’s lips leave you, only noticing when he comes back up to kiss you, seemingly undressing himself in the time it took you to come down from your orgasm. “Did so good for me, baby. My good girl, you are,” he coos into your ear softly, sucking at the skin on the juncture of your neck and rubbing the thick head of his dick against your inner thigh and the feeling on his precum smearing against you has you whimpering, grabbing into him with everything you have. “Need it inside now, daddy. Please? Need you now,” you moan, chest heaving.

At your words, Hugh lines his tip up against your wetness, and pushes in slowly. Your breath hitches at the stretch and his head is thrown back with a deep groan. “So wet and warm, fuck baby,” he grits out. You do nothing but whimper at the stretch, gripping his biceps until he reaches the hilt. When he’s fully sheathed inside you, it’s an overwhelming feeling, one you don’t think you’ll fully ever get used to, no matter how many times you find yourself in a moment like this with Hugh. “Feel so full…” you spill out, mind feeling hazy. After a beat, Hugh begins to pull back, then push back forth into your dripping pussy until he finds himself at a steady but bruising pace. With every stroke, it feels like the wind is knocked out of you, the thickness and curve of Hugh’s cock rendering you speechless. In a silent plea— for what, you aren’t sure— you lock your ankles around the juncture of Hugh’s back as he fucks you, looking up at him with half lidded eyes and your lip caught between your teeth. Harder. Faster. Make it hurt. Fuck me deeper. I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Fuck, baby. Feeling good cause’a your daddy, yeah? Feel me deep in there?” he asks, pushing on the midsection of your stomach for emphasis and you arch into him and moan deeply. “S’good, please don’t stop daddy. Love it so much,” you heave out, your pussy aching with satisfaction. He fucks into you hard and rough, lips whispering dirty words and leaving wet kisses anywhere he can reach and you take it like the good girl he says you are. Thick fingers poke at your lips for only a fraction of a second before they’re being welcomed into your mouth and sucked on fervently. “Nasty fucking girl,” Hugh groans, and your lips perk up in the corners as you suck on his thick index and middle fingers, bobbing your head up and down on them in blowjob fashion, eliciting a deep groan from Hugh. His fingers swiftly leave your mouth and find their way to your clit, rubbing at the bundle of nerves fervently. The stimulation has your second orgasm peaking around the corner, and you can’t help but sputter and wiggle under Hugh, the pleasure bordering a welcome pain. “Oh my god, I’m gonna-” you manage to speak out, but you’re interrupted by Hugh, increasing the speed of his thrusts and fingers as he chases behind your upcoming crux. “Just let it happen baby, give it to daddy.”

A white hot flash of please takes you and your limb go numb, feeling everything and nothing at once as your head tips back and mouth falls open in a silent moan. The pleasure is overwhelming and you’re squirting beneath hugh from it, dampening the sheets beneath you. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” you hear, and then you feel it, something warm begins to flood your insides and its effect on you is something of a muscle relaxant, making you go limp under him, feeling sated. Hugh doesn’t pull out of you, taking the moment to catch his breath along with you. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asks, lips attacking your face with pepperings of kisses. “Made a bit of a mess didn’t you?” he teases. You giggle and nod, hitting him playfully on the arm. “Mmm, feel really good,” you sigh, looking visibly relaxed. Hugh sits up and pulls your legs up with him, throwing them over his shoulders and your eyes widen in confusion. “Good,” he says, kissing your ankle, “Cause I’m not even close to finished with you yet.”

And he meant it. Hugh was still painfully hard as he thrust back into you slowly in this new position. You grip the sheets in one hand and hold on to the headboard with the other when Hugh picks up the pace slamming into you over and over and over again in a way that has your breath knocked out of you every single time. The room is filled with the sound of skin on skin and breathless moans from the two of you. He pushes your legs back suddenly until your feet are nearly touching the headboard. Practically folded in half Hugh fucks you, relentlessly chasing his high in a borderline animalistic fashion. “That’s it baby, just take it” he says in between breaths. This angle has him hitting you impossibly deep, his tip nudging your cervix with each push. You’re whining beneath him, partly from the stretch of this position, partly from the bordering overstimulation when he releases one of your legs and trails his hand down your body groping your breast along the way. He leans in closer, placing open mouth kisses along your neck, nipping and sucking the skin there in a way that’s sure to leave a mark. His deft fingers travel further down until they’re working over your sensitive bundle of nerves once more. You throw your head back in a loud moan nearly cumminf from the simple touch alone. “C’mon. You can give me one more,” Hugh says huskily. It’s not a suggestion, but a command from him. Hugh’s thrusts speed up again as his peak approaches and you’re just on the edge of yours. His fingers pick up their pace, feeling that tell-tale throbbing beneath them when that flash of overwhelming pleasure overtakes you once more. You clench around Hugh involuntarily and the feeling sends him over the edge next, spilling into you with a shout.

Finally, you come down from your third explosive orgasm of the evening. Both Hugh and you are spent, panting and sweating messes in bed. Hugh is practically collapsed on top of you but he musters up his strength to prop himself up by the arms. He plants a gentle kiss to your forehead, your nose, and then your lips. “Did so good for me, baby,” he praises. His hand comes up to push a sweaty lock of hair out of your face. “Took me so well,” he says with a fond smile. You’re still too blissed out to fully respond yet and just opt to smile and nod. Hugh chuckles at the response and finally pulls himself free of you. “Gonna run us a bath.” Hugh pads off to the ensuite giving you a view of ass on the way out. You let out a low whistle at the view and hear him laugh. You listen to the sound of the faucet running for a while when Hugh returns for you. You still don’t want to move though and lift your arms lazily telling Hugh to carry you. He rolls his eyes but does so anyway, knowing what he put you through tonight. He carries you bridal style into the en-suite and eases you gently into the tub. The water is perfectly warm just as you like it and filled with lavender scented bubbles from the soap he used. Hugh climbs in after making the water rise even higher, nearly threatening to crest. He’s settled behind you with you leaning back against his chest. A comfortable silence fills the room with just the sounds of water sloshing and loofas on skin as Hugh bathes the two of you. “I love you…so much” he whispers in your ear kissing the side of your temple. You turn your head to give him a chaste kiss on the lips before resending “I love you, too.”

It's past midnight when he walks through the door. You've been busy all night, but things are finally starting to wind down, the customers that frequent the small establishment slowly trickling out until only a few remain. None of them are your regulars, and given how empty the doorway has been, you're honestly considering calling it a night and going home early. The past few days have been hellish, full of people who didn't do a damn thing to turn you on, and you'd love nothing more than to sink into a warm, cozy bed and drift off to sleep. Tonight, you've been roaming the floor for the past hour without getting anything- everybody is either interested in another one of the workers or entirely fixated on the dancers.

It's not that you don't like your job- you do. Sure, being a stripper isn't the most flattering form of work, but the bills are paid. That's all that really counts these days. Your pride has long since been discarded in favor of earning hefty tips from the sleazy guys who are dumb enough to believe that you'd actually be into them. You put on a good show, of course, but if it weren't for the money? Not a fucking chance.

You like it that way. Hardly any of your clients go beyond the intimacy of a private dance, mainly because you don't let them, reserving that for your favorites. But you haven't met someone who turns you on in a long while, and without the occasional thrill of a real good time from a customer, you're starting to get bored. The days are blurring together, nothing separating the good days from the bad ones, if there even is such a thing anymore.

You're on your way to ask your boss if you can get off early when you hear the bell ring. You groan internally, realizing that you're the only one on the floor who isn't occupied, meaning if this client is interested, they're yours.

Damn it.

So much for an early night.

You're midway through praying to whatever God is out there that this client tips well when you turn and actually lay eyes on them. The moment you do, your mind goes blank, your prayers long forgotten as your thoughts become consumed by him.

He's older- much older. Pushing sixty, at least. It's not inherently a bad thing, but typically the older they are, the more entitled they become.

You're not usually into older men, finding them self-centered, greedy, unable to keep up with your desires; but you're not even ashamed to admit that this stranger could ask you to do just about anything and you'd probably agree in a heartbeat.

The man is tall, big, his muscular form obvious even underneath the suit and tie he wears. His salt and pepper hair is short, accompanied by a scruffy beard you're certain would feel like heaven against your thighs. His tie is loose, his top button undone, and he's got on a pair of dollar-store glasses that he hasn't even pulled the tag off of. There's a weight to him, an exhaustion that seems to have infiltrated the deepest parts of his soul, as if he's seen things you couldn't even begin to fathom- and yet, he's here, seeking some semblance of relief.

Lucky for him, you know exactly how to give it to him.

He looks around like he's lost, the colorful lights and sultry music overwhelming, the center stage where your coworkers get dollar bills thrown at their feet foreign to him. By the time you've made your way over, your legs moving of their own accord, he's turning to leave. "Hey." You call out, and he stops, turning back around to face you.

He's even bigger up close, and his eyes roam over your form almost shamefully before finally meeting your own. "I was just leaving." His voice is rough, a little scratchy, and while you're sure it's supposed to be intimidating, all it does is further fuel the heat pooling between your legs.

"So soon?" You look up at him with a doe-eyed gaze you're well aware makes men weak in the knees.

"I shouldn't be here." He says, but he doesn't walk away from you.

You move a little closer so your breath is fanning across his neck, your voice dripping with suggestion. "I could show you a good time."

"Listen, sweetheart, I've got-"

Sweetheart.

"Let me take care of you." You lean up to whisper in his ear. Your breath is hot against his skin, your mouth tantalizingly close, and you can feel the way he twitches slightly- an exercise of self-control.

A moment passes, two, and he lets out a long breath. "Fuck, darlin'." He reaches out, hesitant to touch, as if he's not sure how this works, doesn’t want to cross some invisible line he hasn’t learned exists. You take his hand, guiding it to your waist, reaching up to put one hand on the back of his neck. "You sure know how to get a guy wrapped around your finger."

In response, you give a coy smile, taking his tie in one hand and giving it a soft tug. He allows you to guide him, pulling him along by the tie you're sure he has a million ideas of what to do with.

You lead him into a private room, pulling the curtain closed behind you, letting his tie slip out of your grasp. His eyes dart around for a moment, but then you're in front of him again, reaching up and sliding his blazer off of his shoulders. You hang it up on the wall, then return, now slowly guiding him backwards and giving him a gentle shove into the leather chair near the wall. He raises an eyebrow as you circle him, leaning in from behind to whisper in his ear. "Just relax." You murmur, letting your lips graze his neck before pulling away. He leans back, eyes following your every move, a stare that feels like it could set you on fire.

You put on a good show for him- dancing, teasing, tantalizingly close, but never touching. Not yet. You can see the hunger in his gaze, the restraint it takes for him not to pull you down into his lap and keep you there. You give him a strip tease, taking off your bra and letting your breasts go free. His eyes roam over you, a murmured word, "Beautiful," leaving his lips, and that makes your already soaked panties drenched.

Then you give him a lap dance- and unlike most of the men you meet, he doesn't touch, doesn't paw at you. Instead he waits, lets you set the pace, doesn't do anything without your permission. Your hands go to his tie, undoing it at a speed you know is killing him, tossing it aside.

Finally, you rest yourself entirely on his lap, and whisper in his ear. "You can touch now, if you want to."

His hands immediately settle on your hips, like they belong there. You grind down against him, feeling him tense beneath you at the friction against his clothed cock. You repeat the motion, relishing in the groan it elicits from him. His grip on your hips tightens slightly, and he begins to guide your motions, pressing you down against his thigh in a way that makes you moan. It's a small, soft sound, but it still makes him smile. “Atta girl, that’s it.” He huffs approvingly. You keep going, feeling yourself almost get lost in the rhythmic movement before you come back to your senses.

Your hands move to the collar of his shirt, slowly beginning to undo the buttons, revealing his toned chest. You only get about halfway down before his hands are gripping your wrists, and your protest dies on your lips when he leans up and kisses you.

He tastes like cigar smoke and whiskey, a blend that should be uncomfortable but is somehow pleasant. His tongue slips into your mouth, tangling with yours as he pulls you closer. By the time he finally pulls away for air, you're dizzy, flushed.

A kiss- almost as personal as a name.

You've never met a man who could make you feel like this- and certainly not without getting all your clothes off first.

His words snap you out of your breathless haze. "Let me touch you, baby." His voice is both a plea and a demand, and who are you to deny him such a request?

A simple nod is all it takes before his hands are on you, roving over your breasts with an appreciative groan. You can't help the way your hips rock against him, and one of his hands goes down to your ass, encouraging you to grind against him again. His other hand rolls your nipple between his thumb and index finger, while his mouth leaves sloppy kisses along your neck, down to your breasts.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing him in. His head comes up from your chest to whisper in your ear as he keeps your hips moving back and forth, his other hand alternating between your breasts. His skin muffles your moans, but you know he won't let you hide those pretty sounds from him forever. "You're so perfect." His words don't exactly do you any favors in the 'keeping your composure' department. "Sweet, pretty thing like you..." He nips at your earlobe, making you gasp softly. "You got no idea what you do to me."

Those words snap you back a little, remind you of your promise to take care of him. You raise your head up, leaning back a little to meet his eyes. "Then show me." Your hands reach down towards his belt, and this time, he doesn't stop you. Instead, his gaze roams over you as you unbuckle it, slowly pull it out of the loops of his pants, toss it aside, letting it join the other discarded articles littering the floor. You undo the buttons, then pull his pants down.

Even through his boxers, you can clearly see the outline of his aching hardness. You gently take him in your palm, running your hand along him through the fabric, watching the way his eyes flutter. Then you adjust yourself so you're grinding on him again, thin layers of clothing the only thing separating the two of you.

You go on like that for a little while, keeping track of every little sound he makes, every hitch of his breath and shudder that goes through his body. Then you lean back, pulling his boxers down, freeing his cock from the confines of his clothing.

Immediately, your mouth waters. He's huge, the biggest you've ever seen, and you find yourself wondering if you even can take him.

You push that thought aside for now, swiping your thumb across his tip, smiling to yourself at the groan that leaves him. You repeat the motion, letting precum gather on your fingers as you begin to move your hand up and down, up and down. You start slow, stroking him gently, then gradually increase your pace. Midway through, you grab a condom with your other hand, keeping eye contact as you open the wrapper with your teeth. You roll it onto him in one smooth motion, earning a startled grunt. His head falls back, his breaths coming unevenly, and it takes him a while before he can manage a coherent sentence.

"Fuck, you treat every guy like this?" Even with all the energy he can muster, the words are still a little short.

Your smile widens, and you lean in to press a kiss against the vein of his throat. "Only the good ones."

His mouth opens, as if to argue with the notion that he's anything good, but your ever-faster movements silence any protests that could have come from him.

You can tell he's getting close, and you slow down, letting him breathe a little slower as you whisper a soft question. "Where do you want me? You want my mouth, you want-"

Your words are cut off by his hand cupping your clothed mound, a gasp escaping you. "I want this." His voice is rough, and this time, it's not a plea. He leans in, his breath hot against your ear as you unconsciously begin to move against his hand, chasing any friction he can give you. "I think it's a little unfair, seeing how I'm all out in the open and you've still got these," His thumb hooks in the waistband of your panties. "Separating me from you, hmm?

You don't even answer, just raise your hips up slightly so he can tug your lingerie down your legs until it falls and hits the floor. Immediately, his gaze lands on your exposed cunt. "Jesus, you're soaked." He murmurs, running his fingers through your slick. You whine as he brushes against your clit, and he chuckles. "Need me that bad, huh?"

"Need you." You whine. You can tell he wants to take it slow, to tease you, and by god do you want to let him- but you're impatient, your own teasing having riled you up too much to do anything but fuck him. Luckily, he picks up on your silent request, raising your hips to hover above his cock. His gaze searches yours, waiting for permission, and you nod. "Fuck me." You say softly, and it takes everything in him not to come completely fucking undone at that sweet tone of voice.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he lowers you down onto him. It burns, in a delicious way you've come to love in your years here. Even with the sheer amount of wetness coming from you, it's still a struggle to make him fit- but he does. When you've finally sank all the way down onto his cock, he lets you breathe for a moment. "You can take it, baby." He murmurs reassuringly- a support and a chance for you to back out. You close your eyes, breathing in and out, resting your face in the crook of his neck again.

Then you start to move.

It takes him by surprise, and you like the grunt that comes from him. For someone of his age, you're sure not much can catch him off guard anymore, so that makes it all the better when you lean back to see the look on his face. He catches your small smirk and returns it with one of his own, letting you move yourself up and down, over and over. Your pace slowly increases as the two of you adjust, and the room is soon filled with soft noises and the sound of flesh against flesh.

It's slow, almost sensual, but despite the circumstances that should have you turning this in another direction, you like it. You feel that familiar coil building in your stomach, your soft whimpers turning to moans now.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

All you can do is nod, and he rocks his hips up into yours. The way he fills you up is mind-numbing, until you can't think of anything else but him and how fucking good he's making you feel, how badly you need to come undone on his cock.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-" Your voice takes on a sharp pitch as he thrusts up into you, and your vision goes white for a moment as your orgasm hits you, unending bliss shaking your whole body. He rides out your orgasm for as long as he can, but the tight feeling of your cunt clenching around him soon sends him over the edge too. You can feel him twitching inside you, only prolonging the aftershocks of your own pleasure.

Eventually, you both come down. You're breathing heavily, trying to scramble together any semblance of thought. He stands suddenly, picking you up like you weigh nothing and setting you down on the chair. His cock slips out of you at some point during the process, leaving you feeling empty. You sit there for a moment before opening your eyes, finding him pulling his pants up and buckling his belt. He meets your gaze with a hint of a fond smile, bending over to grab his tie.

You stand up to retrieve your own clothes, pulling them back on while he shoves his arms through the sleeves of his blazer and rifles through his pockets, eventually pulling out his wallet. "Um, how much do I owe you?"

He looks almost embarrassed, and you find it kind of adorable. You flash him a smile, saying words you never thought you'd dare to let pass your lips. "Nothing. It's on me."

Immediately, his eyebrow shoots up. "No, I can't... I can't let you do that, pretty girl."

You shake your head. "I insist. Nobody's ever fucked me like that, and certainly not any of my clients." You see the way your words boost his ego- good. He deserves it. "Besides, if you hadn't showed up, I'd have gone home anyway." You say nonchalantly, taking a few steps over to him. You reach up and put a finger to his lips before he can continue to argue. "It's on the house."

Although he still looks conflicted, he reluctantly nods. "Okay. Next time, then."

Next time.

You feel a thrill run through your body as he brings up the prospect of a next time, and your smile widens. "Next time." You affirm. You step back, letting him be on his way.

He moves towards the curtain, pausing before he goes. "See you around, sweetheart."

And just like that, he's gone.

But you don't miss him- because you know he'll be back.