Untitled

“Alright class, if you haven't already, make sure to exchange emails or phone numbers with your partner. The first draft of your project will be due in 3 weeks.”

This is what your professor says at the end of his lecture, murmurs rising in the stands as students begin communicating with their partners and exchanging info. 

You're glad to know you're not the only slacker, but now you have another problem. The man beside you is packing up to leave, and you want to stop him so you can get his info, but you still don’t know his name.

And it's not like you can call him Hat Guy! That'll definitely give you away.

“Hey, um—”

He notes your hesitation and rolls his eyes.

“Scaramouche,” he supplies. You test the name on your tongue.

“Scaramouche…do you mind if we exchange emails?”

Somehow, having his phone number seems a little too personal.

“It’s [email protected].”

Okay, that definitely won't be hard to remember.

He hikes his bag over his shoulder, and you blink, wondering if he's going to leave without getting your email in return. It wouldn't surprise you, considering how much he seems to dislike interacting with others.

But then, after having his back turned to you for a good few seconds, he looks over his shoulder, his eyes annoyed.

“Are you going to tell me yours, or what?”

“Oh!” you startle. “It's [YN]@gsi.edu.”

“See how easy that was?” he says with a fake little smile, and then walks away.

You almost flip off his retreating figure. 

What a brat.

But, at least now you two will have a way to communicate outside of class…

Scaramouche isn’t afraid to admit he's a loner. People are annoying, and he feels most comfortable in his room, on his PC, judging others on the internet.

Which is how most of his evenings are spent.

Hence, why he's once again on his PC, checking his recent social media interactions.

He's just hit 20k on Twitter…he wasn't expecting that to happen so soon.

A small smirk tugs at his lips.

“Bunch of horny bastards.”

He opens nsfw comms one time and now he's got a fan base. How pathetic.

But, 20k is 20k...he supposes he should do something as thanks.

It takes him a little bit of thinking, but he manages to come up with the perfect prize. One that won't be overly burdensome and will also likely drag in more paying customers for next time.

And so, he makes his tweet.

Now, all he needs to do is wait.

It's not that Scaramouche necessarily has anything against his project partner personally. Sure, an awkward first introduction had left much to be desired, but he knows that it's partly because he just…doesn't like people in general.

Nor does he like group projects.

Frankly, if he had known this course would have a group project, he would have searched for a different professor to take it with.

Alas.

Walking into the lecture hall the next week, Scaramouche takes his regular seat—his gaze sliding sideways towards you as he pulls out his laptop.

You're on your own laptop—a google docs tab open and ready to be filled with notes. However, with the lecture not having started yet, you're currently checking emails. You delete a few, and then move your cursor to the search bar.

Scara's interest piques the second you start to type twitter's domain into the search bar, but just as you're about to hit enter, you freeze. Then, you backspace the address and close the tab entirely—instead opting to stare at your blank google doc instead.

Scaramouche resists clicking his tongue.

What a goody two-shoes.

A beat later, the professor makes his way into the lecture hall, and class begins. 

He does his best to pay attention, really—but his thoughts wander. 

Maybe he shouldn't have started up a raffle. He'd decided on it mostly because it would likely bring in more paying customers (chance at private phone call + more entries for nsfw commissioners = more nsfw commissioners going forward = more money for him), but…now it sounds like a little bit of a hassle. 

Scaramouche sighs, tapping his finger against his thigh.

It's not like he agreed to call the raffle winner at a certain time, though. He could just wait to make the call until he's feeling in the mood.

He nods to himself. He's in control—everything is up to him—so it'll be fine.

“Hey…”

He blinks out of his thoughts to find the lecture hall filled with conversation, and with you peering at him, like this isn't the first time you've tried to get his attention.

“Lost in thought?” you ask, and he sits up a little straighter.

“Hard not to be when the professor drones so much. What's going on?”

“Oh, the professor told us to use the last 15 minutes of class to make an outline for our project, since he assumes most people haven't talked yet.”

Scaramouche glares at the head of the room. If the professor knows students don't want to be forced to interact, why make them do group projects??

Turning to your laptop, you create a new document and title it. Project Planning.

Scaramouche sighs, knowing that as much as he wants to just get up and leave, he might as well take advantage of the window created by your professor.

“Alright,” he says, turning towards you. “Got any ideas?”

Thankfully, it seems you've put a little thought into the project already—offering up some topics you think will work well. Scara vetoes a few right off the bat—uninterested in them—and almost laughs when you turn away to roll your eyes in annoyance—unable to hold back your reaction at his blunt comments.

Seems you're finally coming out of that awkward shell.

“Well, we've picked our topic, have a few ideas on where to start researching, and a basic outline for the presentation,” you summarize 15 minutes later—people beginning to exit the lecture hall. 

Scaramouche snaps his laptop closed and shoves it in his bag.

“Good work team,” he says, somewhat sarcastically. “Now make sure you start researching before next class.”

“Uh, you too, buddy,” you shoot back at him, catching the implication in his words that he's trying to get away with you doing most of the work.

“This project is gonna be 50-50. I will hound you if I have to.”

Scaramouche rolls his eyes.

“Fine. I will also put forth some effort. I'm not a complete asshole.”

You squint at him like you're not sure you believe that, and he narrows his eyes at you. 

“Alright,” you relinquish, turning away from him and packing your own bag. “I'll choose to believe you.”

Good girl, he thinks to himself wryly, but thankfully doesn't voice those words aloud.

He's into degrading and teasing internet strangers for money, and you're certainly not that.

Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, he instead says a simple, “see you”, and then exits the lecture hall. 

He misses the quick-as-lightning middle finger you flash him as he walks away.

When Friday night rolls around, Scaramouche…spends a lot of time trying to figure out how the fuck to do a raffle. 

Maybe he should have figured out the mechanics first, but luckily with the help of a website that has already been created for this purpose, it ends up not being a complete hassle.

He inputs the names of all his commissioners into the system, and then allows it to randomly select one.

The email address that stares back at him sounds vaguely familiar—probably a commission he has filled more recently.

He searches his emails for the address, and ah—that's right. The commission which had been gifted by friends, and not purchased by the recipient herself.

Interesting.

Before attempting to contact the winner, Scaramouche makes another tweet saying the winner has been selected (but that'll he'll be contacting them privately, as he doesn't intend on putting someone's personal handle or email out on the internet).

Then, once that's taken care of, he drafts his email to the winner.

Subject: Twitter Raffle - Winner

Hi again,

You may have seen but I recently hosted a raffle for all my past commissioners, and you were drawn as the winner.

The prize is a phone call from me. Let me know a phone number I can reach you at. The call will be random, so it will be a nice surprise for us both ;) Look forward to it.

-Hat Guy

Nodding, he hits send and waits.

…and waits.

…and waits.

…and—

“Does she not check her fucking emails??”

He hisses the words at his phone as he plops himself into his seat in the lecture hall Monday morning.

It's been 2 whole days since the raffle ended and he hasn't heard anything! You'd think someone whose friends went out of their way to purchase a filthy comm for them would be desperate enough to get back to him ASAP.

“You alright…?” you ask, sliding into your seat beside him.

He waves you off.

“It doesn't concern you.”

Okayyyy, obviously he's in a bad mood…

Not bothering to try and pry any further, you silently unpack your things.

Scaramouche bounces his leg, frustrated.

It's not like he has necessarily felt in the mood yet, but he may soon, and he needs that phone number.

For a second, he debates picking a different raffle winner. He always could, but…he figures he should wait at least a week to make it seem like they got a fair chance to get back to him.

He scrolls through his inbox, and happens to see the initial email from the recipient's friend.

He perks up.

Maybe their friend would be willing to give him their phone number…

Smiling to himself, he writes another email—a very polite one, explaining the situation and kindly asking to be provided with a phone number he can reach their friend at.

He sends it just before the lecture starts, and by the time he's packing up to leave, he already has a response.

Hi Hat Guy,

Oh, how fun! My friend is sometimes slow about checking her email, forgive her ❤️

Below is the phone # you can reach her at. I'm sure the little kitten will enjoy this surprise.

Scaramouche stares at the phone number with devious glee—a grin spreading on his face.

At his side, packing up your things to leave, you notice the shift in his attitude.

That smile of his is a little off-putting, but…

You heft your bag onto your shoulder, and head for the door.

At least he seems to be in a better mood now.

About a month into the semester—between school, work, and your part-time job—your days have become busy.

Busy enough that you're not constantly scrolling through social media, letting your brain rot. 

But, you don't exactly mind, as it has helped you take your mind off of Scaramouche, and…the things that have transpired between the two of you through a veil of anonymity.

Seeing him in class twice a week for multiple weeks now has also aided in softening your nerves about the whole situation.

At this point, he's just your attitude-having project partner, who you just happen to know has a semi-popular online personality. 

That's all there is to it—embarrassing actions and a sinful audio file buried beneath rows of fresh emails—memories beginning to fade away.

You take a deep breath, a smile stretching at your lips as you breathe in the scent of buttered popcorn—the bowl cradled between your hands as you plop onto your couch. 

Your muscles relax, and you reach for the TV remote.

This is your first free evening of the week, and you fully intend to spend it unwinding from the last few days of class and work. You'd managed to get any assignments finished up earlier, which means your Sunday night will be fully devoted to R&R.

You open Netflix and are trying to figure out what movie sounds interesting enough to watch, when on the table in front of you, your phone screen lights up.

You raise your eyebrows, leaning forward to look at the ID of the call coming through.

It's a local number, but one that you don't have saved.

You debate letting it go to voicemail, but inevitably grab your phone, and hit the button to accept the call.

“Hello?” you say, holding it up to your ear.

“What are you wearing?”

You freeze, holding your phone in front of you, staring at it in shock horror. Something about the voice on the other side makes your hairs stand up, but you assume that's because of their offputting question, and nothing else. Slowly, you bring it back to your ear.

“Excuse me?”

“What, you think I'm just some pervert? You don't recognize the voice of the man that commanded you like a toy?”

Immediately, you freeze—your heart pounding so harshly inside your chest that you worry you may actually be having a medical emergency.

That playful, condescending tone…it's Scaramouche. Or, rather, based on the way he's talking to you, Hat Guy.

“How did…?” you almost whisper, unable to think straight. 

…he's calling you? Why?? How???

There's a scoff of a laugh on the other end of the line.

“Your friend said you've been busy lately, and I figured that may be an excuse, but based on how confused you sound, maybe they weren't lying. Do you even know why I'm calling?”

“No, I don't,” you admit, digesting his words. Did Yae or Lisa give your number to him??

He sighs.

“I hosted a twitter raffle and you won. When you didn't respond to my email, I reached out to your friend to get your phone number. Now, here we are.”

You won a raffle? Fuck, you haven't been regularly checking his page since he became your project partner, and you've been falling behind on your emails too…

“Well,” you say, voice tight. A part of you is afraid he'll somehow recognize your voice over the phone. You need to abort this call ASAP.

“As…lucky as I feel to have won, I obviously kept you waiting on a response, so I don't mind if you decide to re-draw a new winner—”

“Hush,” he interrupts you, and it's a command. 

Despite yourself, you immediately stop talking, and then curse yourself—feeling embarrassment bloom.

Why are you listening to him—

“If I wanted to draw a new winner I already would have. And besides, you kept me waiting, like you said. So to make it up to me, why not just be submissive and obedient, hm?”

You open your mouth. Your bottom lip trembles.

What can you even say? How can you get yourself out of this?

You suppose you can simply say that you're uncomfortable with this. As bratty and mean as he can be, you also know he's big on consent. He won't push it if you're not willing.

And yet…

You place your free hand above your heart, feeling the hurried thrum. 

As much as you're horrified at what's happening, you're also excited—arousal settling unbidden between your legs.

This whole situation is wrong, and yet, there's a desperate part of you that wants to be under his command once again.

His voice drawls from your phone, yanking you back into reality.

“So…?”

There's an exit, despite the expectation in his voice.

An exit you hardly look at.

“I consent to this phone call continuing,” you say, not willing to promise you'll be good.

Scaramouche chuckles.

“You've got a little spice, huh? Can't wait to get you fucked out and needy.”

Your thighs clench—arousal soaking a wet spot on your panties, and you take a shaky breath.

“God, I can't believe this is happening. I need a drink.”

“Get one,” he says without missing a beat. “Might help.”

“Help what?” you respond with a scoff, but nonetheless get up and head for the small kitchen of your apartment. 

“Your agenda to get me “fucked out and needy"?”

You open your fridge and locate a half empty bottle of soju you'd cracked open a while back. Then, you twist the cap off and chug it as if it were water—the smooth aftertaste almost making you feel like it is.

“Oh, you've got a little bit of a mouth on you. If I were there, I'd definitely take care of that quickly.”

“Too bad you're not here,” you respond with a snarky smile he can't see. 

“Too bad,” he echoes, and you have to keep your mind from wandering to thoughts of what would be happening if he actually was here.

“Did you have your drink?”

“Yes.”

“Good, then let's get started. Head to your room, let's get comfortable.”

Like a puppet on strings, you immediately turn and make your way into your bedroom, seating yourself on the edge of your mattress.

You set your phone beside you on the bed, warmth blooming in your stomach as the alcohol settles.

“How about answering that first question I asked you? Unless, you're not wearing anything?”

You roll your eyes—smoothing your hands against your pants.

“I'm wearing pajama pants and a t-shirt. I was just getting cozy to watch a movie before you so rudely interrupted.”

“The more you give me attitude, the more I'm gonna edge you.”

Your pussy clenches. Shit.

“It's just not…sexy, y'know?”

“Who said you need to be in lingerie to have sex appeal?” he immediately shoots back. “If I were there, I'd bend you over and would have one hand under your shirt pinching your tits while the other tugs your pants down and gives you a good hard spank for being a brat. Sounds sexy enough, don't you think?”

Your pulse races, arousal licking at your insides as you yearn for him—for the scenario he's painted.

“Actually, why don't you do it for me?”

His shit eating grin translates through the call.

You flex your jaw.

“Do what?”

“Spank yourself,” he responds. “Strip yourself naked, and bend over your bed. If I can't hear it audibly through the phone, then you didn't do it hard enough.”

Despite the scoff that leaves your lips, you've already stood—your fingers grabbing at your shirt as you tug it up and over your head.

Goosebumps rise on your skin as the warmth of your clothing is stripped away, and you shiver when your nipples drag against your sheets as you lean over your mattress.

You curiously grope your own ass with your hand, unable to keep yourself from feeling a pang of disappointment that Scaramouche isn't here disciplining you himself.

“...the angle is a little challenging but…”

You raise your hand and smack your right cheek with an open palm. Your skin immediately stings, the sound bouncing between the walls of your room.

When Scaramouche doesn't comment right away, your gaze darts to your phone.

“You heard it, right??”

“Oh, is that what that tiny sound was? I thought it was just static from the receiver.”

“You—!”

“Do it again. Switch cheeks.”

Annoyed, you immediately twist your body and raise your other arm, smacking your un-reddened cheek. 

“...wow, that was even quieter than the first one—”

“Because you made me use my non-dominant arm—!”

“—guess you'll have to do it again. Back to the other side.”

On the other end of the line, Scaramouche smiles joyfully at the frustrated groan you let out.

He shifts in his computer chair, his cock sitting heavy against his leg beneath his shorts. 

He's having too much fun already, and the show has only just begun.

The sound of a solid smack reaches his ears, followed by a little whimper. He breathes an amused laugh through his nose, but before he can get the chance to tell you that you've finally done a good job, you're speaking.

“I literally can't do it any harder than that on my own, okay?? So, you'll have to accept it!”

“Hmm…I was about to admit that was good enough, but then you went and ran your mouth again.”

You freeze, staring at your phone in horror. His tone promises punishment.

“I—”

“Grab your vibrator,” he interrupts you, not intending to give you a chance to apologize. “Kneel on the floor and hold it to your clit.”

Obediently, like a scolded puppy, you fetch your vibrator from a nearby drawer, and kneel, pressing the head between your legs.

“Turn it on.”

You do so, your body jolting as vibrations assault your swollen clit. Arousal flares in your gut, your muscles tightening, and you can't help but whine.

“Turn it up.”

You turn it up to medium. Your walls wetly clench around nothing, craving to be filled with cock.

And yet, even empty, you're still quickly approaching an orgasm.

“Sc—”

“Turn it up again,” he overlaps with your call of his name. (His real name—inadvertently saving you.)

A whine sneaks past your lips, your thighs clenching around the vibrator. 

“Hat Guy, I—”

“Sir works fine. Or Master. Hat Guy during sex just seems…too stupid. Even if it is phone sex.”

“Sir,” you pant. “Please let me turn it down. I'm gonna cum.”

“No, you're not,” he replies calmly, as if your clit isn't throbbing. “I didn't give you permission.”

“I know, but—!”

You writhe, your shoulders slumping, and your forehead pressing against your mattress. Your fingers tighten around the vibrator, your sanity starting to slip.

“Even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to hold it with the vibrator on high—”

“Oh? That sucks.”

“Sir!” you plead, and he can hear the desperation in your voice. He can hear the snark and wit slipping away—your brain melting into something much more primitive. A sub who wants to please as much as she wants to cum.

Your labored breathing and pathetic whines have him shoving his hand into his pants, his fingers fisting around his cock.

“You can withstand it like a good girl—”

“I can't!” You cry, your entire body shaking. The arousal in your belly is wound so tight that you feel like it's going to snap.

“But if you cum, we can end it here, right? Don't you want that, since you tried to suggest earlier that I should pick a different winner?”

“I—”

“Even though now you're stripped naked kneeling on the floor like an obedient slut? All for a man you don't even know—”

“I'm gonna cum!” you cry, your eyes squeezing shut. Tears wet your lashes, your finger hovering shakily over the power button of your vibrator.

“I don't want to. Not yet, please—!”

“Fine. Stop.”

You jam the button, the vibrations ceasing. Your cunt pulses wildly, an orgasm that had been teetering on the precipice slowly retreating back to safety.

Your entire body goes slack, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath.

“I told you I'd edge you,” he says smugly.

You lift your head, glaring at your phone.

“That was a lot for a first edge.”

“Oh, is that back talk? Should we try it again?”

The thought of edging like that again—worse yet with a potential ruined orgasm looming if you manage not to stop in time—immediately has you sitting up a little straighter.

“...sorry.”

“That's more like it. What a good girl.”

You bite your lip to resist making a snarky comment.

“You've got a dildo, right? Get it.”

Once again like a puppet on his strings, you swiftly retrieve your dildo. You're just about to reach for your lube as well when Scaramouche pipes up.

“Also, no lube.”

You pause.

“No?”

“You're gonna lube it up for yourself.”

…oh.

“Get on your bed. Ass in the air.”

You do as he says, and, already knowing where this is heading, position the dildo below your face. 

“I want you to suck your dildo as if it were my cock, got it? No teeth, no biting. You'll follow my directions.”

“Yes, sir,” you respond, your neediness making you compliant. You want to follow his directions and let him use you until he feels you've earned your orgasm.

“Good. Suck on the tip.”

You bend down and part your lips, taking the dildo into your mouth. You swirl your tongue around the crafted cock head, lubing it with your spit.

Diligently, you continue to suck and lick until Scaramouche issues his next command.

“Deeper, now. Take the shaft into your mouth.”

Loosening your jaw further, you flatten your tongue and take the dildo deeper. Silicone veins trace against your tongue, and you can't help but wonder how Scaramouche's cock would compare. 

If he were here, you bet he'd have a hand rooted in your hair—guiding you to his depth and pace.

The mental imagery makes your pussy clench, and you can't help wiggling your ass, wanting even more. To be filled, to be touched—anything.

“How's that dick feel in your mouth, sweetheart?”

He can hear the audible pop of your lips as you unlatch the dildo to answer him. The sound has him fisting his dick tighter. His thumb catches the precum leaking from his slit, and he smears it over his cock, wishing that the friction of his hand was your mouth instead.

“Wish it was your dick instead.”

He sucks in a breath.

Fuck.

“Hah…look at you, trying to win brownie points.”

You giggle, and somehow the sweet sound makes him want to bully you more.

“Back to sucking, princess. As deep as you can go now. I wanna hear you gagging.”

You do as he says—bobbing your head until the tip of the dildo brushes past your uvula. 

Immediately, you gag. Yet, you don't stop—going down on it time again until tears are wetting your lashes and drool is slick against your lips.

“Next time you go down, hold it there,” he says, and if you were of sounder mind you'd probably realize how breathy he sounds.

But alas, you're too busy taking the dildo into your throat—smothering the urge to gag as tears finally roll down your cheeks. 

A good 10 seconds pass before he finally decides to relent.

“Breathe.”

You hurriedly sit back, lungs heaving as sinful lines of spit connect you to the dildo you've been so lovingly adoring.

“Again.”

You’re not quite sure how long he forces you to choke yourself on the fake dick—considering your head starts to get fuzzy after the fourth time—but when you finally crack and brokenly whine “please”—a please that clearly means “I want more” and not “stop”, Scara decides it’s time to move onto the main act.

“Think you’ve earned that cock inside you?”

“Yes,” you pant, your pussy practically dripping. “I did everything you asked and didn’t even puke.”

He can’t help but laugh at that.

“Very true. Why don’t you go ahead and sit on your dildo then, hmm? Take it nice and slow. You don’t need lube, right?”

“As if,” you grumble, positioning your spit-slicked dildo beneath your hips. “I’ve never been this wet in my fucking life…”

You nudge the head between your folds—a blissful little sigh escaping you as you the dildo fills you inch by inch—giving you that stretch you’ve been craving.

Scaramouche catches the sound, and he grips his cock tightly, fighting against himself as the mental imagery of you sinking down on his cock fills his mind.

He usually doesn’t feel much when he fulfills commissions. Whispering filth and giving mean commands is like second nature to him—no emotion involved. But…you’ve got him craving—wishing he were there in the flesh inside of hiding behind a screen.

“Hm,” he chuckles, “you should be thanking me for that.”

“...”

“...or do you not want to ride that dildo?”

You sigh, annoyed, but can’t resist. You need to feel the friction between your walls—you’re going to go crazy if you don’t cum soon.

“Thank you.”

“For?”

“For bullying me and getting me wet.”

The laugh that leaves him has your heart skipping a beat—the sound genuine, and a little boyish.

“Fine, you’ve earned it. Go ahead and ride that cock, princess. Imagine it’s mine.”

Oh.

Without hesitation, you immediately brace yourself on your palms and begin grinding your pussy on the dildo. Your eyes flutter shut, and you imagine him beneath you—his hands on your hips, guiding you.

You’re sure he’d look smug if he saw you and how desperate he’s made you—unraveling further with each passing second. Every stroke of the cock between your walls lights your nerves on fire, and it’s not long before you’re panting and whining—struggling to keep pace.

“Fuck…”

Your eyes crack open and you peer over at your phone, drawn to the breathy voice on the other end of the call.

“You’re so wet I can hear it…”

And you are—arousal smearing messily against your skin as your pussy sucks the dildo in again, and again, and again—

Scaramouche clenches his jaw, his fist working against his cock in tandem with the wet sound of your cunt.

Your pussy would feel so much better than his hand…

“I…,” your voice shakes, as do your thighs. You’re starting to lose it.

“I’m getting close…do I have permission to cum?”

“No,” is his immediate response, and you almost whine, but then he continues.

“We’re gonna cum at the same time. Hold out a little longer.”

Your eyes widen at his words, and heat floods your face as you realize the reason he’d sounded so breathy a moment earlier.

He’s touching himself while dominating you.

Holy fuck.

…It only makes you want to cum more.

“Fuck,” you curse, head hanging as you keep your pace—your stomach tightening as you attempt to ward off your looming orgasm.

It’s not easy to do—especially when Scaramouche’s heavy breathing is picked up on the receiver.

Like forbidden ASMR that goes straight to your cunt.

“Please cum…,” you beg him. Your pussy can’t take it anymore—the dildo grinding against your g-spot too deliciously.

“I’m almost there,” he reassures you, his brow pinching as he concentrates on the stroke and pressure of his hand—trying to imagine what you’d feel like around him.

A wanton symphony of sounds reaches his ears—all of your defences down. You can’t stop yourself, your brain only caring about cumming. 

It’s so fucking hot. 

Scaramouche bites back a groan as his balls tighten.

“Get ready, princess…”

Oh god, you’ve never been more ready in your entire fucking life.

Just knowing he’s about to give you permission has your pussy clamping hard on the dildo, nearly sending you tumbling over the finish line too early.

“Shit,” you bite. You try to push the urge back down, but it’s impossible. You’re too close—you’ve been holding yourself on the edge for too long—

Luckily, Scaramouche gives his final command at the perfect time.

“Cum.”

With a choked cry, you let go. Your pussy spasms, hips grinding to a shaky halt as the waves of pleasure crash over you. 

At the same time, Scaramouche spills his seed over his hand—biting back curse as he milks himself dry.

It’s been a while since either of you have cum this hard…

For a minute after, the only sound on the call is that of two people catching their breath. Then, finally, you speak up.

“Did I get you that turned on?” you tease with a tired grin he can’t see.

He can hear it, however.

“Don’t try me,” he warns, although there's a little bite in his voice—the tiny smile on his lips betraying him. You laugh.

“Yes, sir.”

“Better,” he muses. He leans back in his chair, eyes sliding to his phone.

“So, are you glad you accepted your prize?”

You flop down onto your mattress and roll your eyes.

“Maybe.”

“Mhmm.”

You giggle at his unconvinced hum. He rolls his eyes.

“I’ll end it here. Go clean yourself up and drink some water.”

“Yessir~”

He breathes a laugh.

“Fucked out brat…don’t dream of me.”

“I won’t,” you promise, and with that, Scaramouche ends the call.

For a few minutes, you lay there—unwinding, letting your muscles relax.

…then, the post orgasm clarity hits, and you shove your face into your pillow and scream.

HOW FUCK ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO FACE HIM AFTER THIS.