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You crept quietly along the halls of the Police Station, slowly making your way through to the upstairs offices. Clutching a rusted film reel in your arms sheepishly, you pushed open the door to the stairs, and sighed in preparation to walk through the pitch black stairway. You snuck up the stairs past a small grunt, who was patrolling the corridors leading to Coyle’s office, and quietly made your way to the large double doors. Pushing one of the doors open with your knee, you carefully slunk inside the room, letting the door close behind you with a soft click. Holding tightly onto the film reel, you approached the projector.

Your eyes scanned over it, trying to make sense of how it worked, when you suddenly heard footsteps approaching outside the door. Beginning to panic, you set the film reel down on the floor beside the projector equipment, before ducking into Coyle’s office, quickly scanning the room for hiding spots. Luckily for you, an empty barrel sat in the corner, and you took your chance, not thinking about it and just diving into it head first. 

What you had failed to realise is that you were supposed to lower yourself into it, so you could crouch beneath the rim of the barrel, but because you had haphazardly thrown yourself into it face first, you were at the mercy of your elbows and forearms, with your lower half having nowhere to go. You prayed that whoever it was that was approaching the room would leave, or if they came in they would just think you were a dead body shoved into the barrel. 

But oh no. Luck was not on your side today. 

The double doors creaked open, the loud crackle of electricity filling your senses. You tried to stay as still as possible, albeit with your legs and ass poking out of the barrel.

Coyle sauntered in, effortless swagger in the steps he took. He shut the door behind him quietly, his footsteps echoing throughout the room as he inched closer to the office, where he leaned up against the doorframe, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with his baton. He took a slow drag before he spoke. 

“Well, well, well. Looks like you’ve got yourself in the shit, sugar.” His southern drawl was like caramel, sweet yet stuck hard in your brain. “Ya’ want ol’ Coyle to give ya’ a hand?” He actually sounded genuine, like he was willing to help you, but unbeknownst to you, the grin that was plastered across his face showed his true intentions. 

You paused for a moment, weighing your options. You could let him help, but he also could just straight up kill you. But what did you have to lose? He was here already, might as well take that chance. 

“Please, sir. I’m stuck.” You stammered, the panic setting in that if he didn’t help you, you would just be stuck here for goodness knows how long. You began to wriggle in the barrel, the metal creaking as you moved against it. 

You heard Coyle chuckle darkly from behind you, stepping closer towards you. 

“Alright, stay still for me, honey.” His voice was lower this time, almost sinister, as he placed his gloved hand on your calf, sliding it down towards your hips. His other bare hand joined shortly afterwards, holding your hips and pulling at your body pathetically, as if your frail figure was too heavy for him to lift. He began to slide his hands down your hips slowly to your ass, gripping it hard. Your breathing became faster as you felt him grope at you, wriggling slightly in a failed attempt to shift away from him. 

“Ah ah, what did I say, honey? I said, stay still. Sergeant Coyle’s just tryna’ help.” He grinned as he spoke, pulling at your waistband this time, yanking off your pants and underwear, the cold air of the room immediately making contact with your skin, making you shiver. “Damn butterfingers.” Coyle chuckled, smirking evilly behind you as he groped at the soft flesh of your ass. 

“Mister Coyle? I don’t think that’s helping…” You stuttered, trying once again to wriggle out of his grasp. 

“No, no, it is, you just gotta trust yer’ ol’ Sergeant.”

His hands worked their way between your legs, fingers gently easing open your folds. His eyes widened, looking upon your untouched skin. Two fingers delicately held your lips open, while a third slowly slid into the center of them, circling your clit slowly. You winced softly, your legs wriggling again at the strange sensation blossoming between them. 

Coyle just chuckled quietly in response, continuing to circle with his fingers. His other hand wandered between your legs after a while, one of his fingers delicately teasing your entrance. You shuddered, whining quietly at his touch. He grinned, pushing the tip of his large, stubby finger slowly into your hole, which made your whole body quiver. He continued to push the entire digit inside you, bottoming out at his knuckle. The stretch was slightly painful, your eyes watering at the sting. A small whimper of pain escaped your lips, and Coyle raised a brow in response. 

He slowly began sliding his finger in and out of you, your body responding well by coating his digit in your silky fluids. He watched you closely to observe your reactions, grinning more and more as he finally realised through your reactions and sounds that you were, in fact, still a virgin. 

And he was the one who was going to take that from you. 

Another wince of pain tumbled out of your mouth as he slid another finger into you, slowly sliding them in and out, savouring your every whimper and squirm. A strange tight feeling began to form in your stomach, but it felt good. It was getting tighter and tighter and Coyle’s fingers began to increase their pace of undulation, your wet walls squeezing around his thick digits tightly. Coyle grinned, he could feel you getting close now, but he didn’t want your very first orgasm to be from just his fingers, oh no, he wanted to take it from you properly. 

And so he slowly slid his fingers out of you for the last time, where you gave a soft whine in response, almost in disappointment. You were enjoying yourself and he just…stopped. Kind of a shame really. 

But then you felt his large hands grip your bare waist, hoisting you up and out of the barrel. Your head began to spin as you returned to an upright position again, but it quickly faded as your body realigned itself. Coyle lifted you out enough so that you could finally stand on your feet again, but he pushed your stomach against the top of the barrel, your arms crossing over with your hands holding onto the rim, bending you over at a 90 degree angle. You looked back at him in confusion, where you were met with a wild grin. 

Coyle stared down at you through his dark shades with contempt, gripping your hip with one of his hands while his other fumbled with his belt, the gentle jingling of metal subsiding as the buckle was yanked open. You heard the quiet sound of a zipper being opened, before Coyle leant forward, pressing his upper body down onto your own. 

“Now sweetness.” He began, his gravelly voice infiltrating your mind. “You be a good girl and stay still for me, got it? Sergeant Coyle’s gon’ make you feel real good, honey.” 

His words sent chills down your body, your knuckles whitening as you gripped the edge of the barrel like your life depended on it. You braced yourself for whatever he was about to do, but it wouldn’t be enough. You felt his fingers once more, swiping them between your legs to coat them with your fluids, before he took them away once again. He then untucked his hard length from his underwear, it springing free and hitting against his stomach, beads of precum falling from its head, and used his wet fingers to lubricate himself, both of your fluids mixing deliciously against his skin. Then slowly, he took a hold of himself with his hand, guiding it towards your entrance, where you felt his swollen, thick head meet your skin. 

Your eyes widened. This was way thicker than his fingers, and he wasn’t even inside you yet. Then you felt it. He slowly pushed the head of his cock into you, the stretch quickly sending pain shooting through your body. Tears welled in your eyes, your hands gripping the barrel so tightly you thought your fingers would bleed. But he kept going. More and more of his length entered your trembling body, your hole being filled so quickly you thought you might break. And then he stopped. You were panting heavily already from a mixture of pain and pleasure, and he leant forward once again, pinning you to the edge of the barrel. 

“Now, sweetness. How does that feel, hmm? Is Sergeant Coyle makin’ you feel good?” He purred, chuckling darkly as you nodded slowly, tears running down your face. You could smell the tobacco on his breath as he spoke, and it was nauseating, yet strangely calming. It reminded you to try to calm your breathing, to slow it down, and you did try, your breaths slowing to a softer pant. Coyle just laughed again, his voice lowering. “Now honey, you be still for ol’ Coyle, cus you are in for one hell of a time.” 

And with that, he stood back up and slid slowly almost all the way out of you, before slapping your ass harshly, beginning to thrust in and out of you at a less than preferable pace. 

You yelled out in pain, both from the slap and the sting of the stretch, the brutal thrusts making you feel like you were going to split in half. Along with your slick, small amounts of blood began to coat Coyle’s cock and trickle down your legs, ultimately confirming to him that you were indeed, in fact, a virgin. He grinned, gripping your hips hard as his own snapped back and forth. That strange tight feeling began to blossom in your stomach once again, and some quiet moans began to slip through your lips along with your whimpers of pain. 

Your sounds went straight to Coyle’s cock, and he growled under his breath. He began to thrust even faster, even harder, digging his fingers into the flesh of your hips so hard you just knew your skin would bruise. Small cries and moans tumbled from your lips with every breath, that weird feeling in your stomach getting tighter and tighter, and it wouldn’t be long before it snapped. Coyle leant forward, cooing into your ear and mumbling how you were behaving so well for him, such a good little inmate, blah blah blah, but you couldn’t help but focus on the tightening knot, ever getting closer to the finale. Coyle could feel it too. He felt your walls closing in on him, getting tighter and wetter with every thrust. It was almost too much.  

SNAP. 

You immediately saw stars. Loud cries and moans left your lips as you felt your insides begin to contract quickly, short bursts of muscle spasms flooding your body with overwhelming pleasure. Your eyes scrunched shut as your body rode out its very first orgasm, tears flooding out between your eyelids as the intensity was just too much for you. 

Coyle felt it too, your body’s reactions spurring on his very own orgasm. Your walls milked his length as he began to spurt rope after rope of warm cum into your womb, your stomach stinging at the swell from the copious amounts of fluid that the pent up cop released into you. You could feel him filling you so much that your stomach began to protrude slightly from your emaciated frame.

He leant forward against you once again, pressing your swollen stomach painfully against the rim of the barrel, panting and groaning in your ear as your orgasms subsided. Tears continued to roll down your face as you attempted to bring your breaths back to a regular rhythm, but with Coyle leaning against you, it was a little difficult to do so. You felt Coyle chuckle atop of you, slowly getting up off of you, where you felt him shifting inside you, slowly pulling his cock out of your abused hole and tucking it back into his uniform pants.

As he did, he stepped back, admiring the view before him. Your legs were spread as you leant against the barrel, and as soon as he had stepped away, the copious amounts of cum that Coyle had filled you with began to quickly leak out of you, releasing the pressure in your stomach. Coyle let out a low whistle as he watched the thick white substance drip to the floor, creating a tiny pool beneath you. 

“Now that is a sight to behold, sweetness.” He murmured, a filthy smirk plastered across his face. He quickly grabbed your shoulder, pulling you up and spinning you to face him. “Did Sergeant Coyle make you feel good, honey?” He grinned, and as he spoke you could smell the thick tobacco scent of his breath again every time he opened his mouth. You slowly nodded your head, stray tears still rolling down your cheeks. “Good girl. Now, go on, get!” He shoved you roughly away from him with a sick, twisted grin, your back hitting the wall beside you. He then turned on his heel and sauntered out of the room, disappearing behind the closing doors of an insertion gate. 

You stood for a moment, a dull pain between your legs as you looked down at yourself, almost in shame of what just happened. You carefully pulled your pants back up, stifling a few tears and choked sobs, before completing the task of changing the film reel and limping back to the exit shuttle. As you were about to enter the shuttle doors, you heard that familiar southern drawl behind you. 

“I’ll see you same time tomorrow, honey. Don’t disappoint me.” His voice was dark, almost threatening, and it sent chills through your body once again as you slowly stepped into the shuttle backwards, watching Coyle’s face twist into a sick smirk as the doors finally closed. 

🕷 𝕿𝖆𝖌𝖘

“What is that supposed to mean?” You ask, shooting your eyes past the open door, stacked with nonfat milk (wow, she’s back to drinking dairy), a watery almond alternative (maybe not), sugar free ketchup, and low-sodium soy sauce. His eyes immediately widen, his lips parting to spit out an apology punctuated by a correction.

“No, no,” he starts, waving his hands in dismissal. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” He shrugs. “We don’t get to have you around all that much. It’ll be nice to have you back in the house, that’s all.” 

Leon’s a big guy. Even in his late forties, he’s still a behemoth of a man. You wonder how he’s feeding all those muscles underneath the long-sleeved quarter-zips he wears for work, knowing he’s definitely not meeting his protein goals from the tofu and 95-percent lean ground turkey your mother seasons with salt, if that. 

When you don’t answer, silently enjoying the coolness of the open fridge on your scorched skin, Leon continues. 

“Happy to be home?” 

“Always am.” Sarcasm seeps from your cutting tongue.

Is he going to refute that statement? Bring up the times he’s heard you crying after your mother makes a nasty comment about the number sewn into your denim shorts, or seen the tears that build in your eyes when she pinches the molecule of flesh on your waist. You’ve grown a lot since both of those unfortunate occasions, learning how to accept her for who she is, sit through the humiliation and torment, and let it roll off your back. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Not for anything in this fridge.” 

There’s nothing like sea moss sludge and probiotic coconut yogurt to wet your appetite.

He chuckles, wrapping his lithe fingers around the handle, shutting the door. You close the other, waiting for him to explain. 

“Come on,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I’ll take you to lunch. What are you feeling?”

“No, that’s alright,” you say with a flat, dismissive smile, wanting nothing but to shower beneath a stream of teeth-chattering-ly cold water, and to sit and rot in your bedroom for the rest of the day. Maybe fill out a few job applications. Or not. “I need to shower anyway.” 

“Go on and shower,” he says. “I can wait. Plus, you’ve got to catch me up on everything going on in your life. It’s been too long.” 

You cinch your brows, knowing he and your mother were just at your graduation ceremony not even a month ago. There’s a photo on your phone to prove it, you standing in your regalia, caught between your mother and Leon, their arms around you. And he was the one who helped you move out of your apartment, taking a whole day off work to load your things into a storage unit, promising he’d be the one to help you move them wherever you go next.

“And I’m really hungry,” he adds, a smirk growing at the corner of his mouth. 

Cutting your eyes to the fridge, you gesture to the plethora of inedible alternatives behind the shut doors. “Not hungry enough for vegan bacon?” 

He chuckles, a low, rumbling sound straight from his chest. “Fuck no.”

Fifth of May

“Have you seen my–oh, hi,” you say when you realize it was Leon, not your mother, you heard walking around down the hall. He’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, low on his hip, and black t-shirt that does nothing to hide the details of his physique. You have to remind yourself to close your lips, falling agape at the sight. 

“Hey.” He’s unloading the duffel bag he takes with him whenever he leaves for work assignments, setting what looks like a gun in a leather holster into the drawer of his nightstand. “What’s up?”

“Have you seen my dress?” You repeat, describing the latest addition to your closet, the piece you bought especially for this date tonight, and we’re chomping at the bit to wear. Hell, you even purchased a pair of shoes to match, and knew exactly which earrings to pair with it. It had been hanging in your closet since Hunter announced he would be returning to your hometown before starting an internship in the city, and wanted to take you out to dinner. 

Leon grimaces, the corners of his mouth lowering into a frown as you stomp into your mother’s bedroom, the cloying scent of her gardenia perfume missing from the space. “I think your mother has it.” 

You want to give her the benefit of the doubt, crossing your fingers that it’s stuffed in a dry cleaning bag, or hanging in her closet among the other articles she’s planning on taking to the alteration lady she has on call. 

“Where is it?” 

“She wore it out.”

“What? Where?” 

He shrugs. “Girl’s night.” 

First of all, the woman is nearing fifty, she doesn’t need to be wearing a mini dress out to dinner with her friends. Second of all, what the actual fuck?

“What the fuck?” You verbalize, a second away from ripping out your own hair. “I told her I was going to wear that tonight on my date. He’ll be here in–” You check the time on your phone, numbers taunting you alongside a message that says he’s just about to leave the house to come pick you up. “Fifteen minutes.” 

“You’re going on a date.” It’s less of a question and more of a statement he mumbles to himself. 

“Yeah. And I wanted to wear that dress. Are you sure she had it on?”

He steps aside, gesturing to your mothers gargantuan walk-in closet. “You can double-check but I’m pretty sure she was wearing it when she left.”

You walk around the closet, Leon stepping past the door frame, just lingering with his arms limp by his sides as you stomped around, manically shifting through the racks of clothing that line the room. Growing frustrated hanger by hanger, you groan, meeting your body in the reflection of a standing mirror in the corner of the closet. You’re in nothing but a pair of pajama shorts and a tank top, the wavy glass (along with your mother’s voice in your head) distorting the image of your body. 

“I’m so fucking fat,” you spit, tugging at the white cotton clining to your form. “Nothing looks good on me, and my hair’s a mess. And he’s gonna be here in ten minutes.”

And you’re sweating. And your make-up’s beginning to peel around your hair line. And your perfume’s wearing off. And the dress you were supposed to wear–that you had your heart and mind set on wearing–is ten miles away on the body of a woman who was apparently put on this earth to have a daughter just to make her life miserable. 

“Hey, hey, woah,” Leon coos, approaching you with his hands out like he’s trying to calm a skittish horse. “You’re bea–you look great, stop that.” They settle on the flesh of your upper arm, palms light on your skin, steadying you. “I don’t want to hear you say those kinds of things about yourself, okay? And look, I know for a fact that you could wear a potato sack and still look…beautiful.”

Something in his eyes tells you he means it.

“How was your date?” 

Leon’s still awake, sitting on one of the barstools tucked around the edge of the kitchen island, hunched over a crystal low ball, filled with a shot of whiskey from the half-empty bottle beside it. His eyes are glassy, his speech slightly slurred, and although he never quite stands up straight, his posture is severely slacking, shoulders falling forward. 

“Fine,” you respond, setting your clutch down on the marble. “He hasn’t changed since high school. Like, at all,” you say with a breathy laugh. Across from you, Leon chuckles, so light and low a sound, you almost miss it. You’re glad you don’t. 

“Was he a gentleman?”

“If gentlemen talk about themselves and their ‘crazy’ exes the whole date and ‘forget’ to bring their wallets, then yeah, sure.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes.

“Why are you still up anyway?” 

It’s nearing two in the morning, the sky finally an inky black, the pale light of the crescent moon hung among the stars seeping through the windows, curtains drawn to let it flood the pane.

“Can’t sleep, kid,” is all he gives you. 

“Obviously. But why can’t you sleep?” 

He looks up at you, maintaining eye contact as he gulps his drink down in one hungry sip, mouth sealing the crystal lip of the glass, not so much as wincing as the liquor goes down. 

“Work.” 

Either he’s telling you the truth, which he very well might be based on what few details he’s given you surrounding what it is he does to afford a German car and a house in one of the wealthiest suburbs on the continent. 

Or.

He could be speaking in a code only the two of you can decipher. ‘Work’ doesn’t mean getting shot at while trying to save the world. ‘Work’ means dealing with a neurotic loon with a personality disorder and a compulsive need to make a judgmental comment every five seconds or she just might combust into flames. 

“Work,” you repeat with an understanding nod. “Sounds rough.”

Third of June

Leon takes a seat next to you on the tile ledge, rolling up his pant legs until the denim material is folded neatly below his knees. He practically groans as he lowers his feet into the pool, cerulean rippling around his calves, the cold water a salve to his aching joints. 

The two of you sit beside each other for a while, just listening to the chirp of crickets, the ripples your legs make in the water as you kick them back and forth beneath the surface, the sound of children playing two houses over.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you finally say, referring to the way Leon stood up for you at the dinner table, correcting your mother when she said you should work on losing another five pounds before you start going on job interviews. You were willing to roll your eyes and agree just to shut her up, but apparently, Leon wasn’t. 

Do you ever get tired of being so critical?

It was the first time you had ever heard him snap back at her in front of you, though you had heard their arguments in the past, always hidden and muffled behind closed doors.

“Yeah, I know.” He leans back on his palms, eyes steady in front of him, looking out at the pool, the rest of the backyard surrounding it. Then, nothing. Neither of you speak again, returning to comfortable silence.

You take the time to study the fine lines on his forehead, and the corners of his eyes, and it makes you wonder whether your mother has ever dragged Leon to her one of her bi-monthly botox appointments, trying to convince him to get a jab or two to smooth them. 

He has a straight nose, with just the slightest bump at the bridge, so stately and masculine yet somehow strangely beautiful, the perfect fit for the rest of his face. Smooth, plump lips, framed by a sprinkling of patchy facial hair, sandy in some places, salty in others. 

You used to think poorly of Leon. Not because he’s a bad person, or isn’t intelligent, or unambitious. He’s none of those things, and you knew that upon meeting him for the first time, hearing him talk about his job, his dream of becoming a police officer before the world needed more from him and took it. 

No, you didn’t think less of him because he was inherently ill-created, but because he (allegedly) fell in love with your mother and married her. She’s decidedly a horrible person, and you know even Leon, though he fucks her in their shared bed and wears a ring on his left hand, honoring the vows he made to her, can see that. So why her? 

You’ve never asked, and you doubt you ever will, part of you knowing how rude it would be to ask a person why they put up with their partner, another part of you not wanting to hear him say that he loves her. 

Glancing back up at the house, your eyes hone in on the windows to their bedroom, the curtains closed except for a tiny inch in the middle that lends a strip of light to be seen between them until it’s snuffed into darkness. You figure she’s already popped an ambien and is on her way toward full-on sedation. 

“I’m gonna swim,” you say, yanking off the ratty, old t-shirt you’re wearing over your bikini. Leon looks once, if only for a second, though that’s all it takes for your cheeks to burn under his gaze on your nearly-naked body. “Wanna join?” 

“No,” he says, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “You go ahead.” 

With a shrug, you sink into the pool, dunking your head under the surface to wash away the disappointment singing your cheeks. After a few laps back and forth across the length of the basin, you swim back to where you and Leon were sitting, only to find the patch of tile empty and a light on in the pool house. Though the blinds are all shut, you watch as a gray shadow walks behind them, settling into the sofa, reaching for the lamp beside it, before it goes black. 

He sleeps there sometimes, you’ve noticed.

Mid-June

“Is she going somewhere?” You ask, pointing to your mother’s coordinated luggage set, packed and standing like soldiers by the front door. A floppy sun hat rests on one of the suitcases, her purse on another, a passport tucked inside it. 

“Girl’s trip.” 

You nod, humming. “How long?” 

“A week and a half.” 

Twenty-First of June

“Wanna watch a movie?” 

There’s a beer in his hand, the neck sweating, a droplet falling onto the web between his thumb and pointer finger. He looks over at you as he wraps his lips around the amber mouth, tossing the bottle back along with his neck to take a swig. 

The two of you have been enjoying having a weekend without the storm cloud that is your mother hovering around. For breakfast this morning, Leon even made pancakes, fluffy and sweetened with peanut butter chips, not to mention completely sopping with full-sugar syrup and whipped cream. And the man can mix up a mean hot chocolate. 

Steaming ceramic mug warm in your hand, you settle onto the sofa, curling up against the arm rest, tucking your feet beneath you. Leon’s on the opposite side, already reaching for the remote on the coffee table, bringing the television to life with a press of a rubber-capped button. 

“Whatcha in the mood for?” He asks, throwing back the last puddle of beer before discarding the bottle onto the table, sans coaster, in an act of silent rebellion. 

“Doesn’t matter,” you respond, following suit in placing your mug next to the empty beer. Chocolate and cream still sweet on your tongue, you lick your bottom lip. “I’ll probably fall asleep half-way through anyway.” It’s a talent of yours, being able to doze off during any piece of media, captivating or not. 

Leon chuckles, readjusting his hips on the sofa so he’s one inch closer to your feet, his hand resting on the square of cushion between you, pink caressing the upholstery. “You do like to do that, don’t you?” 

The two of you continue to spout off movie titles, debating back and forth over which one sounds the most appealing, though Leon does mention that you’ve already shown your hand, not having much skin in the game if you’re just going to snore the whole time. 

“Just pick one, then,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

So he does, choosing a random title neither of you paused to read the description of, and as the opening credits roll, you feel your eyelids grow heavy. Blinking hard, your mind grows cloudy, fog eclipsing any rational thought, and you scoot over, laying your cheek on Leon’s shoulder. He tenses beneath intimacy of it all, but yet, not only a moment later, he doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arm around your waist, bringing you closer into him. 

He smells like the beer dried down on his lower lip, like sugar crystals and heady spice as you sneak an inhale of his t-shirt, nuzzling into its soft cotton.

“You watching?” He asks, already knowing the answer, though your kitten purrs confirm that you’re not.

“Leon?” You ask, voice hoarse, mind foggy with sleep or lack thereof. Your eyes cut to the digital clock below the television, its neon green letters reading a couple minutes after one in the morning. You turn back to the man who was just spooning you, his knuckles between your thighs, forearm flush to your ass. “What are you doing?” 

Were you cuddling? You blink back to lucidity, reflecting on the happenings of the night before you supposedly fell asleep. 

Yeah, you were. You asked him to hold you.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” he says, stupefied, his hand now hovering over the curve of your waist, fingers wet and wrinkled with your arousal, glistening under the low light filtering from the lamp in the corner. It casts the living room in an orangesicle glow. “I’m so, so sorry.” 

There’s an ache between your legs, your hole both sore and desperate for whatever was inside you to return, and you can feel a familiar dampness spreading across the crotch of your panties. It’s not difficult to put two and two together, especially since, when your eyes fall to his lap, you see a strain against the fleece of his sweatpants, the outline of his cock as it twitches. 

“Were you touching me?” 

He sits up straight, completely removing himself from your back to sit on the cushion beside you, a hand coming up to cup his mouth, not even removing it to speak. “I couldn’t–we fell asleep, you were asleep and I couldn’t–I shouldn’t have, God, I’m so sorry.” His hand falls, and you see his bottom lip start to tremble. “Don’t hate me. Please don’t hate me. God, what have I done?” His face is wracked with remorse, the skin between his eyes creasing, the lines deepening as his brows continue to furrow. The whites of his eyes are glassy, black pupils eclipsing blue irises beneath the darkness of the living room. Purple crescents beneath his eyes betray his exhaustion–the kind that cuts to the bone. 

There’s no time for you to think about your next move, the moral gravity of it, how it could completely alter the course of your life, and Leon’s. All you can hear is the pounding of your heart in your ear, the thump of its rhythm in your chest, the need between your legs, and the pit of desire deepening in your stomach. 

With shaky hands, you grab the hem of your pajama shorts, along with the band of your panties, and lift your hips into a bridge to pull them down your thighs, discarding both articles to the floor. Leaning back against the pillow behind your head, bolstered by the arm rest, back flush to the sofa cushion, you part your legs. 

Pussy now exposed, weeping for him, you glance between your knees at Leon. His shoulders shudder at the sight, his hand once again cupped over his mouth as he mumbles something inaudible. He swallows hard, eyes affixed to your cunt. They flicker up to your face, meeting your gaze if only for a moment before falling back between your thighs. 

“You were touching me, weren’t you?” 

“Yes. I was.” 

Before he has the chance to apologize again, you cut him off with another question. “How?” 

His eyes narrow. “How?” He repeats, his voice almost at a whisper, sounding uncertain whether he wants you to confirm it or not.

“How were you touching me?” 

He parts his lips to speak, closing them to swallow. “I–”

“Show me.” You open your legs wider, as wide as the back of the couch will let you. “Please.” 

Leon closes his eyes, not moving the way you so politely asked him to, so you pull up on your elbow, other hand grabbing his forearm. The touch prompts him to open his eyes once more to watch how you manually drag his hand to your cunt. Taking your direction, he presses the heel of his palm onto your clit, moving it side to side to gather a frictious rhythm that conjures a tight ball of tension in your stomach.

“That feels good, Leon,” you saw sweetly, a tiny moan leaving your throat. “But that’s not what you were doing.” 

“You’re right.” 

It’s the first time he’s responded to you without looking as if he wants to whip himself with one of the belts hanging in his closet. 

Leon sucks in a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling an inch with it, and he removes his hand from your clit, straightening his ring and middle fingers to tease your seam with the pads of them. 

You gasp when he pushes them inside, adding a third on the way in, stretching your hole as he keeps them in a straight line, plunging in and out. 

“Like this?” 

Nodding, you screw your eyes shut until you can watch a constellation of stars sweep across the backs of your lids. His name falls out of your mouth in a near screech as he continues to slide across the button at your front wall, his thumb now dragging your clit from side to side. 

You feel his presence draw closer, his body coming to hover over yours, the hand that’s not making work of your pussy, grabbing the lip of the sofa to keep himself above you and to leverage more strength. He continues the attack, fingers crooking at the knuckles to deepen your pleasure. It’s not long before you’ve met the height of your pleasure, gushing all over his hand. Huffing and heaving, and in desperate need of more, you reach down between your legs to grab his forearm, locking his hand in position, digits still soaking inside you. 

“More, Leon,” you cry out. “Again. Fuck me again.” 

With a growl best likened to that of an angry bison, Leon once again starts to pound at your pussy with his fingers as he bows down, spreading your lips with his other hand to begin licking at your clit. The drum of his tongue flat and heavy on the bud, he devours you, manically swiping the tip of his tongue across it, side to side. Your hands find his long curtains of dark blonde hair, tugging at the strands and then using them to push his face deeper onto you. 

You yell out his name, the cry in harmony with the wet, gushing sound of his ministrations between your legs. “God, you feel so good inside me. Keep fucking me with your fingers, Daddy.”

“Oh, shit–fuck–I’m gonna come if you keep–” Leon lets out a pained groan through gritted teeth, removing both his mouth and fingers from your cunt, throwing himself back against the couch, his hand gripping the arm rest until his knuckles drain of color. “Give me a minute.” His other hand is on your knee, just caressing it while he takes in a few calming inhales. “Let me catch my breath.”

Instantly sobered, you can’t help but giggle at the scene as you come down from your high. Leon–big, boulderous Leon–getting so flustered, so close to his own climax just from fingering you, hearing a few of your moans...hearing you call him ‘Daddy’. Maybe it’s hot more than it is amusing, but you laugh anyway.

“p-please”

the word slips from your lips as coyle briefly rips your head off of his cock, allowing you a small breath. you thought you were going to pass out from how long he held you there, nose to his wiry, black hair as he blocks your throat with his heavy length, your knees digging into the cold, dirty floor.

your daring to speak angers coyle, immediately slamming your head back down on his member and fucking into your mouth while his hands hold your face in an iron grip. nails bite your palms as you try your hardest to relax your throat and appease the former police officer.

“you call me daddy”

he growls from above you, continuing his rough assault on your throat. he pushes you up and down on his veiny cock, hitting the soft part of your throat with every thrust. you’re forced to deep throat him, eyes subconsciously rolling with the effort to keep from gagging.

“you call me God”

he punctuates each word with a deep thrust, sheathing himself inside of you like a fuck toy. drool is dripping down your chin in embarrassing amounts, adding to your humiliating position.

“or you don’t talk with your mouth full”

with that, he presses his cock fully into your mouth and once again holds you there; coyle lets out a dark chuckle under his breath and pinches your nose with his thumb and index finger.

you try to push off of him desperately, eyes flooding with tears as your body tries it’s best to fight off the intrusion. static is starting to filter in the sides of your peripheral, and the only thing that registers in your mind is the mass of solid heat that sits in your throat.

once you’re on the verge of passing out, he finally pulls you off of him and tilts your chin up, forcing your gaze onto him. you can’t help panting, desperate for air lest it be denied again.

“got it, whore?”

coyle takes a long drag from his cigarette, casually ashing it above your head; you let out a cry as a glowing ember hits your cheek. it’s nothing compared to the back of his gloved hand, a harsh slap landing on the side your face. you can’t help crying out again, quickly quieting yourself and looking up at him pleadingly with wide, watery eyes.

“answer me” he growls.

your whole body aches from his rough treatment, feeling as though you could collapse at any moment. you swallow roughly, still trying to take advantage of the pause in his use of your mouth. the words barely choke out of your sore throat, trying your best to sound complacent.