the diary of the soul of an angelִֶָ ་༘࿐

Mark made it a point to rub in just how much he pleased you. Prick gets off by how embarrassed you get when he dicks you down. Especially how loud you'd get.

That's why he has you bent over a stingy washroom sink. Skirt bunched at your waist, tits pressed firmly against the cool porcelain.

Panties pushed aside—perfect view of your drenched folds glistening under the low light. The faint sound of music drifting in the background, party long forgotten.

His hot breath grazed your ears, his hand trailing down the curve of your spine. Feather light touch sent a shiver down your spine.

“Must have been fantasizing about this, hmm? I mean, you didn't even wear shorts!” His hand stopped at your fat cunt, he gave it a tentative tap. Spreading your slick folds, admiring your pussy.

You shivered, lips clamped shut. He continued, collecting your essence on his fingers, rubbing along your puffy folds. “C'mon, not even a little whimper. I know you love it when I play with this pussy,” he huffed.

A wicked grin spread on his lips, his body hunched over yours, smearing sloppy kisses down the juncture of your neck.

Hot breath fanning your skin makes your breath hitch. His index finger swiped over your aching clit causing you to gasp.

“I know you can give more than that,” his fingers toyed with your sensitive clit, your lips wobbled, your restrain snapping like twigs.

You moaned, you already knew you were done for. He mimicked it, almost perfectly, “That's how it's supposed to be. Moaning like a bitch for me.”

Two fingers probed your quivering hole, sliding in with ease. “So wet, and I've barely touched you.” The intrusion was tantalizing.

His movements were slow. Agonizingly slow. You could feel your resolve fizzling out, you rolled your hips against his hand. The delicious feeling of thick fingers pumping into you sent a jolt of pleasure down your spine.

Your breath staggered, soft moans tumbled from your lips. “Aw, is the slut enjoying my fingers? Gripping em’ tight,” he cooed, angling them higher to curl at your g-spot.

You jolted, whining at the added stimulation. “I asked you a question. You're a big girl, aren't ya? Use your words.” fingers bumping at your sweet spot, making your legs tremble.

“I love it… Love your fingers, Mark. M’fuck,” you slurred, feeling heat crawl up your cheeks as the little pride you had left withered away.

“I love it, love your fingers, Mark. Of course you do, I’m the best.” his finger picked up their pace, fast and overwhelmingly good.

Broken moans fell from your lips like a waterfall, Mark only huffed with pride. The familiar knot in your stomach tightened, walls clamping down on his fingers.

“Mark, I'm gonna cum…please!” He quickly withdrew his fingers with a wet plop. You groan, looking over your shoulder, lips pursed in a scowl. “I was close!”

Mark cocked his head to the side, a lazy grin on his lips. “So impatient, you’ll cum, eventually” Harshly slapping your ass, he unbuckled his pants, fabric pooling at his ankles.

“I mean, I’m curious to see how long you’ll last.” Tip of his cock aligned itself against your slick hole. “Y'know, like a fun little experiment.” He mused, pushing in.

You gasped, you could've cummed right there from the delicious stretch of his thick cock. An angry red tip is already reaching the deepest part of you.

“See? Won't it be better to cum on my dick sweetcheeks?” he cooed, rough palms slide over the expense of your ass. Rolling his hips in slow thrusts.

Your mind reeled, hands gripping the delicate porcelain beneath you. “Yes, God yes.”

“Already breathless and I haven't even fucked you silly.” drawing his hips back for a particularly harsh thrust making you gasp.

He continued, each swift roll of his hips grew rougher. Until the echo of skin slapping and breathy moans bounced off the walls.

“Isn't this better, baby?” Mark's grip around your hips was bruising, his smile taunting.

Your thoughts practically melted with each languid stroke of his cock. He only snorted, “C'mon, tell me my dicks better. I know you can do it f'me, baby.”

His words flew over your head. Not even attempting to register his words. The clawing feeling of your orgasm approaching.

Your silence drew him to pause mid thrust. Sudden loss made your fogged mind clear

“No! Please, just keep going!” You whined, hips grinding against his, a feeble attempt to get any friction.

“Please, just keep going. Then answer my question. My dicks better ain't it?”He cackled, pinching your ass cheek.

“Yes! Your dicks, ahh, amazing,” you squeaked. The torturous start and stop was evermore irritating.

His pace was brutal, damn near knocking the air from your lungs. Your grip on reality slipped from your fingers, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. The familiar knot of release forming in your abdomen, only to quickly dissipate.

You whimpered at another ruined orgasm. “Please, Mark. Wanna cum…please let me cum!” You babbled. Hands clawing at the porcelain beneath you, the cool touch only ebbing your frustration further.

His fingers swiped at your clit in fast circles “You really wanna cum?

“Yes! F-fuck yes….gotta c-cum.”

“Then cum.”

Your legs buckled, vision splotchy as your orgasm crashed into you, a high pitched cry of ecstasy.

Mark didn't stutter, even as your pussy clamped down, gripping him like a vice. “Look at that, did my slut enjoy herself?”

You nodded your head haphazardly, “yes, yeah…so much…m'fuck.” Even as the waves of your orgasm subsided, his frantic movements continued.

Your hips jerked away, pleasure becoming overwhelming. “No! Shit, ngh, too much! Mark…too much!”

“You wanted to cum, didn't you baby? So cum again f'me.” He cooed. Your second orgasm hit you like a train, you withered beneath him.

It went on, you've lost track of how many orgasms he's given you. Relentless abuse of your poor cunt muddled your mind further.

“C'mon slut. Just one more for aah, me. Can't you do that?” you moaned meekly, pussy clamping down weakly against his pistoning cock.

“There we go, cream on my cock one last time, hah. Shit…just one more, m'so close.” Mark babbled, his resolve teetering as his cock twitched.

He grumbled, thick spurts of cum painting your walls. “Fuck, your pussy milking me dry, sweetheart.” You groaned, both your releases smeared against your thick thighs.

Your legs crumbled beneath you, Mark held you up with ease, “C'mon, you've had multiple orgasms and I only had one. Seems a little unfair, huh?” Littering sloppy open mouth kisses along your soft jaw.

( the scene )

Lemme get something straight first and say that you using the safeword HAS NEVERRRR HAPPENED. Mark is excellent when it comes to using his superpowers for an advantage in bed, never for abuse.

He loves how he can manhandle you so easily or keep you in place exactly where he needs you to be. And he ALWAYS makes sure he's being careful with you- making sure he's not crushing you, making sure your expression in your face shows everything of pleasure and nothing of pain.

But...there was this one particular night that he'd fucked up.

It was after a shitty, rough mission. What should have been a simple in-and-out job turned into something torturous: hundreds of aliens plaguing the city with their psychic abilities- using mind control and hallucinations to turn one person on another. And the Guardians of the Globe weren't shy from these powers either. One of the aliens had sent Mark into an endless mind loop, showing images of the death of his loved ones and...you. By the time Mark had snapped out of it, he'd killed the alien in a blind-rage.

So, when he finally came home- your bedroom, he was all raw, shaken and barely holding it together. He was so desperate to ground himself in you, eager to let go of the headspace he was now put in.

Mark opened your window with trembling fingers, and when you eyed him up and down, his body told you everything that it was a rough fight.

Split lip, messy hair, blood on his jaw and that wild look in his eyes...

"Oh, Mark," You whisper, sympathy furrowing your brows as you grabbed his hand with tenderness and softness- a simple reminder that you were here and safe, "Why don't I run you a bath? And then we can eat ice-cream?" He was motionless. You frowned, "Or we can just cuddle?"

But, your words served no purpose in this moment because he was already releasing your hand off him and, with efficiency, he unshed his suit. With every inch of bruised and cut skin exposed to your orbs, he lowered and lowered more until...

Oh.

"Oh."

He was hard.

It's not the first time Mark's needed to fuck you after a fight or mission. In fact, it's probably the best sex you get- with all the pent-up frustration and adrenaline still pumping through his veins, he's gotta release it somewhere…

You could say it's the perks that come with having a superhero boyfriend

So, with no further questions, you let him take you as he pleases.

But this time it's...it doesn't feel right. Sure, he kissed you passionately as he backed you until you were sitting on the edge of your bed, and his hands were roaming every inch of your precious, delicate skin like he needed to make sure all parts of you were intact.

But, it just...it felt rushed and rough- there was not an ounce of praise slipping off his lips as it so easily does and if there were any words, it was-

"-Need you- fuck," He grumbled against your neck- your skin already trailed with deep, maroon-kissed hickeys. He had already pulled your pyjamas off, and you couldn't help but whine when you heard the tear of your favourite undies as he so effortlessly ripped them in half. Of course, they weren't anything expensive, but comfort beats labels- does it not? "Need you now, baby."

You'd hope that rubbing your arms up and down his biceps that pulsated with raging muscles and veins would have encouraged Mark to slow him down, "Mark, can you just- Mark!" You were cut off with a gasp at the harsh bite of his teeth on your skin- your soft, smooth, delicate fucking skin.

He. Fucking. Bit. You.

Mark never bit you. And sure, it didn't hurt enough for you to stop him, but God, were you gonna have a word with him.

So you had let it go, only to then choke again when Mark suddenly flipped you over so your stomach was resting on your bed. His calloused, large hands that usually reminded you of a flower's petals, or the bridge of a baby's nose now felt rough, harsh...unfamiliar.

You tried to push the feeling of discomfort that was arising away to the back of your brain, and better yet, bringing forward the phantom breathy moans of Mark's voice telling you how pretty you are and how you're doing so, so well for him amongst your racing mind.

But it wasn't until Mark brought your ass closer to him and he pushed your head down into the bed roughly and you actually couldn't move against his force did your heart begin to race, though not out of the usual excitement and arousal.

No, this was...this was panic- discomfort.

His cock was just grazing the entrance to your hole when you realised that he wasn't even going to stretch you, to prepare your walls for him, to...to even fucking please you.

So with a sharp inhale, you said it.

"Red!"

Once the word left your lips, Mark had stopped everything.

Let's just say that you using the safeword was the slap back to reality he didn’t know he needed.

He froze.

"Wait- what?" And when he flickered his eyes down to your face, screaming of seriousness and panic, he immediately took his hands off of you, "Baby- fuck," And he watched as you silently - definitely from the shock, not to ignore him - manoeuvred yourself so you could stand up and away from the bed.

And as he observed your figure with worried eyes while you walked around the room and picked up your pyjamas, he couldn't help but feel like his stomach just got punched worse than any villain ever could.

His voice changed immediately- from that deep, breathless edge to a broken concern, "I'm so sorry. Are you okay?"

( the aftermath )

The aftermath was hard at first because aftercare was Mark's favourite part of sex, but clearly you weren't in a good headspace for that.

While he wanted nothing more than to curl his body around you, cuddling you until you fell asleep as he whispered his sorries, it's more important that you collected your feelings first.

So, the first thing he did was let you have your space.

You made him have a shower so you could sit in your bedroom by yourself- the one room that was your safe space now felt...ugh, it felt dull. And you hated that because all you wanted to do was shake whatever negative thoughts you had out of your brain, but you couldn't do that when your eyes wouldn't stop staring at your teared underwear on the floor.

You're not mad, nor upset at him- just frazzled at how uncomfortable and weird it was for you. It didn't feel like your boyfriend, your Mark.

Mark had the quickest shower he's ever had. Ignoring the aches his cuts winced against the hot water and soap, and his muscles whining with how efficiently he cleaned his dirty body- Mark was in and fucking out, not wasting any more of a second being away from you.

But, even after Mark got out of the shower and he frantically stumbled into your room with only a towel wrapped around his hips, you didn't look up at him- didn't want to.

And fuck, did it break his heart.

His baby, his sweet girl was like this because of him.

But, after you walked past him and began showering yourself, you did come eventually around. And thankfully, Mark was right there for you.

( the aftercare )

Cue Mark's aftercare!!

You just finished having your shower. And as you walked back into your room with wet hair and new pyjamas, you immediately noticed the difference in atmosphere in your bedroom; it didn't feel so sickeningly odd anymore, instead, it was oozing back into that familiar sense of safety and comfortability.

Your bedsheets were neatly fixed, and your bedroom lights had been flicked off, only the individual-lit candles circulating your room with warmth were the only lights provided for your eyes. There's a couple of sweets and snacks on your bedside table, along with a freshly filled water bottle (yes, it's got lots of ice too).

And Mark, now in sweats and a shirt he usually left at your place for emergencies like this, was just standing there...nervously.

"Is…is this okay?" He asked, immediately scratching the back of his neck, and if you really looked close enough you probably would've noticed the rosy-kissed blush spreading just below his jawline.

You tilted your head a little, examining the room just one last time before you attached your gaze back onto his. And, with a little smile, you nodded, "This is a start."

Mark sighed in relief.

Good. That's all that he needed so far.

Mark knew your weakness. He knew one of the many things that made you melt, made you feel at peace...

Warm blankets that were just fresh out of the dryer.

So as Mark wrapped said blanket around your body, he then sat on your bed with his chest against the headboard- and pulled you into his lap gently. It's so reverent, so incredibly warm as you rested your cheek against his covered chest, while one of his hands cradled your head and the other stroked your back.

With your ear pressed up against his chest, your heart was able to beat to the same rhythm as Mark's, only helping to relax you more to the natural white noise provided just for you.

Then, the questions came.

Mark's the type of guy to do that- don't tell me otherwise.

He just was so nervous- and with anxiety comes the constant need to be reassured.

So, he asked them one at a time with a frequency so gentle yet so eagerly that you could feel the faint vibrations of his voice pulsating through his body.

"Do you need anything else right now?"

"What size are you in underwear?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

...

"Should I leave? Do you want me to leave?"

You sighed heavily, "Just stay with me," You ushered in a delicate whisper. And with that, Mark let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. He clutched you tighter- though still careful.

You spent the new few hours like this, with your favourite show playing low on your laptop in the background and the occasional shift to your positions.

But, one thing never faltered during it all- Mark never let you go.

He's reassuring- maybe too reassuring. "I'm not gonna stop checking in now, okay? I don't care if we've done it a million times- I'm still gonna ask. I'd rather annoy you than hurt you again."

DID I MENTION HE'S SO WARM AND BIG AND UGH.

And he won't slide it under the rug either. He explained thoroughly to you what those aliens did, but even when your head started to feel heavy with sympathy as you listened to him, Mark hushed you. "No, what happened to me from those aliens should never have been your body's responsibility to snap me out of it. I should've had more self-control to just...get over it, rather than putting it all on you."

And even days later, he still was on about it.

Mark would keep reminding you how much he valued your trust, even when you forgave him and softly reminded him that: "Hey, that's what safewords are for, right?"

Mark kept his promise about constantly checking in on you, because now when you have sex, he is fucking relentless with how much he asks if you're okay.

He's also slower, more communicative, and soooo so gentle the first few times you're intimate again.

Everytime you encouraged him to be a little more rougher, Mark would double...triple check to make sure you were okay about it.

"Are you sure you want me to be rougher?"

"Yes, baby,"

"No but- are you...sure sure?"

You sighed, your knees and arms wearing thin with exhaustion in your current doggy position because Mark was not shutting up- even with his cock buried inside you. So, you turned your head, and directed his right hand that was on your waist down a little lower so it rested on your ass cheek. "Mark. Please slap my ass."

"Shit- fuck, okay-"

He’d tried to convince himself it was a smart move. A soft rebellion. Maybe if you bomb once, you’ll stop throwing your workload into his lap like it’s part of his tuition. Maybe you’ll get the message without him having to look you in the eye and say no.

But now he’s here, heart doing that ugly fluttery thing like it’s trying to crawl up his throat, every footstep outside the door sounding like you in your usual stormcloud mood. Sharp clacking shoes. Soft voice. That sugary venom in your tone when you call his name like you own it. His phone buzzes. A small sound, pathetic even, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way it ricochets through the cramped silence.

Mark jumps, a sharp, startled twitch of limbs against concrete and metal shelving, knocking into a box of dusty paper towels with a soft thud. His heart nearly claws its way out of his ribcage, frantic and feathered, wings beating uselessly against bone. With a hand that barely feels like his, fingers cold and trembling, he drags the phone out of his pocket. Screen cracked, brightness low. It lights up his face like an omen. One message. From you.

“I will find you.” That’s it. No smiley face, no punctuation. Just four words, typed clean and sharp like a promise. His blood turns into static. Because he knows you. Knows the games you play, the way you turn hide-and-seek into warfare. This isn’t a bluff. You will find him. You’ll crawl through every hallway, knock on every door, whisper his name down every corridor until he’s backed into a corner with no exit and no excuse. He swallows hard, breath caught halfway in his throat.

The knob fumbles. A weak, clumsy twist. Mark freezes, every nerve pulled taut like snapped violin strings and watches it turn in slow, gut-wrenching motion. And then you’re there. Grinning like you already won. Framed in the doorway like sin incarnate, all legs and ruined decency.

Your skirt’s a joke, barely there, riding high enough that he catches soft glimpses of plush skin, the smooth curve of your thighs glowing beneath the low hallway light. Your top’s slouched off one shoulder, bra strap peeking out. Lips glossy. Shameless. Entirely too much. Mark feels his soul leave his body. He should’ve picked somewhere with a lock. A church, maybe. A different continent.

“Well, well,” you laugh real pretty, like this is a game and you’ve already decided the ending. He wants to crawl into the mop bucket.

“Why do you look so scared, Marky?” Your voice is syrupy sweet, sticky with fake concern. A pout on your lips, mock-sincere, but your eyes give you away, glinting, bright, sharp like broken glass.

Mark flinches again, visibly, like the nickname itself has claws. He hates that name. You know he does. He’s told you, multiple times, in that tight, awkward voice like he’s trying not to snap. And still, there you go, dragging it out like gum on the sidewalk.

His skin prickles, goosebumps crawling up his arms like your words live beneath them. “I don’t bite,” you add, stepping forward, one slow click of heel against floor after another. But you do. You bite and chew and leave bruises just from talking, and he’s not sure what’s worse, the way your words twist around his spine or the way his traitorous heart jumps every time you say his name like it belongs to you. He doesn’t answer. Can’t. His mouth’s too dry.

He stands up. God knows where he finds the nerve, maybe somewhere between survival instinct and dumb luck but he pushes off the stack of old textbooks and stands on shaky legs, spine straightening like a man preparing for war.

Too late. You’re already on him. The door clicks shut behind you, soft but final, like the last nail in a coffin. You don’t even give him room to breathe, step right into him, cut off his air, your chest pressed flush against his. He feels everything. The soft weight of your tits against his ribs, the heat of your skin soaking through his hoodie, the sweet, toxic scent of your perfume curling into his lungs.

There’s nowhere to look. Nowhere to run. And God, he wishes he wasn’t so aware of the way his heart’s pounding like it’s trying to punch through his sternum.

“L-look…” His voice cracks halfway through, eyes darting to the dusty shelves, the light fixture, anywhere but you. “I’m really sorry… I didn’t do it on purpose.” A lie. Such a bad, obvious, choking lie. It clings to the back of his throat like smoke, bitter and foul. He can feel your smirk before he even sees it

Your face hovers just inches from his, the space between you nothing but shared breath and tension so thick it could choke. Your plum-glossed lips linger just over his, not quite touching like a threat, like a dare. You’re pretty. Pretty in a way that feels curated, intentional. Glossy and shallow like a magazine ad come to life. It makes his ears burn, dusted pink at the tips. He looks like he wants to disappear into the wall. You look like you’d pin him to it for fun.

“Awe, Marky, you’re being so mean to me, you know that, right?” Your voice dips low, not soft, not gentle, but lush and poisoned, the kind of sweetness that sticks in your teeth and leaves a burn going down.

You pout like you’re heartbroken, big eyes all shiny, lips pushed out in that perfect little curve, and jab a single manicured finger into his chest, firm and unforgiving. He doesn’t move. Can’t. It’s like you’ve nailed him to the floor, body locked up, breath hitched.

Your long nail presses into the fabric of his hoodie, right over the solid thrum of his heartbeat. He’s trembling under you, not visibly, not like a coward, but in that subtle way only you notice. The kind of tremble that starts in the hands and climbs up the neck. The kind that comes from being caught.

“I trusted you,” you add, voice dropping just a little more, breathy and laced with mock hurt. “And you went ‘n sabotaged me? After I've been soo nice to you?”

He gulps. Loud and shaky, Adam’s apple bobbing like it’s trying to make a run for it. Poor thing.

“Sweet puppy’s grown a backbone now, has he?” you coo, tilting your head, voice dipped in amusement that’s just short of cruel. You don’t pull away. Of course you don’t, instead, that impossible closeness tightening like a noose.

His shoulders hit the shelf behind him with a soft thud. He can’t back away any further. Your chest presses against his, soft curves molded against hard muscle, and you feel it—feel everything. The way his breath stutters. The way his hands twitch at his sides like he’s trying not to grab you.

And lower, the real betrayal. He’s half-hard, thick and aching, tenting his pants like a loaded secret he can’t tuck away. You smile, slow and lazy, eyes flicking downward, then back to his face.

“Cute,” you murmur, almost fond. He wants the ground to swallow him whole.

You slide a hand down. Deliberate. Slow. Like you’ve got all the time in the world to ruin him. Fingers trail over the thick line in his pants, heat trapped beneath the fabric, swollen and straining—and you wrap your hand around it through the material, squeezing just enough to make him suck in a breath. His hips twitch. His jaw clenches.

He’s trembling now, a little, but it’s there. A ripple under your palm. You look him right in the eyes, eyes wide and glinting with something unholy. Your thumb strokes once. Soft. Cruel.

“Did me callin’ you a puppy make you hard?” Your voice is low, a velvet drawl, wrapped around mockery like it’s a love song.

“You’re, uhh… too close…” He whispers it. Barely. Like maybe if he says it soft enough, the words won’t count. His whole body is stiff, locked up, trying not to think about your hand wrapped firm around his bulge, the heat of your palm, the way your thumb had moved.

But it’s impossible. You’re too close. Too close. You’re all over him, heat and scent and lips a breath away, voice curling into his ear like silk and fire. And his brain? It’s white noise. He swallows hard, again, like maybe that’ll push the shame back down. Like maybe it’ll kill the way his dick pulses helplessly under your grip. But it doesn’t. Nothing helps.

You can feel it too, the way his body betrays him, twitching under your hand like he’s trying so hard to behave, to not give in. It’s adorable, You think.

You half-smile, head tilted, lip gloss catching the light like temptation bottled up. “Let’s make a deal,” you hum, voice flat and casual, like you’re discussing lunch plans, not unhinged propositions. “I’ll suck your dick, and you do my work properly.”

He chokes. Not metaphorically, he literally chokes, breath catching mid-gasp like his lungs betrayed him. His face flushes immediately, that soft, pale pink crawling up his neck to the tips of his ears.

“W-what… what do you—” His voice breaks, small and high and strangled, as if saying it out loud would summon lightning. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost theatrical, exasperation oozing off you like perfume. “What’re you actin’ dumb for?” you snap, grip tightening just a little around his cock, enough to make his hips twitch again.

“You’re already hard.” Your words hit him square in the gut, shame blooming behind his eyes, his mouth working silently like he wants to say something, protest, maybe—but all he manages is a sound. A low, broken exhale that sounds suspiciously like surrender.

He’s not pulling away. And he’s not saying no. You notice. And he’s cute, you think so now. In a nerdy, helpless, needy kinda way. The flushed ears. The twitchy hands. The stutter in his voice like he’s not used to being handled. It’s charming. Pathetic. A little funny.

So really, it’s a win-win. He gets to feel the touch of a woman—maybe for the first time, if you had to guess, and you get guaranteed grades for life. Straight A’s and a warm mouthful of praise every time you strut past your professors. Everyone’s happy.

You lean in, your nose brushing his, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, soft enough to be dangerous. “You gonna be good for me, Marky?” you whisper, voice sticky and slow.

“I’m a real good fuck, actually,” you say, so breezy, so matter-of-fact it’s almost cruel. Your smile’s all teeth and glittering pride as your knees bend, thighs spreading just a touch as they kiss the cold linoleum floor. He looks down at you, eyes blown wide and lips parted like he’s watching a dream and a nightmare crawl into his lap at the same time. You tilt your head, all smug satisfaction and sweet venom.

“You got lucky,” you hum, palms sliding up the inside of his thighs now, thumbs hooking the waistband of his pants like a promise. And he knows it. Knows he’s in over his head. Knows you’ve got him right where you want him.

You make a show of it. Fingers slow and precise, unbuttoning him like you’re unwrapping a present you already know you’ll like. The zipper drags down with a lazy hum, and his breath stutters. He clenches the fabric of his hoodie like it might anchor him.

You tug his pants down just far enough, and then the boxers. He twitches when the cold air hits him, body jerking like he wasn’t ready, like he should’ve been, but wasn’t. And yeah. He’s big. Your lashes flutter. A slow, lazy grin curls on your lips like sin itself is stretching out to get comfortable. It’s better than you expected—thick, flushed dark, heavy where it hangs, and already leaking like his body’s ahead of his brain. Small pearls of pre ooze from his slit, leaving a slimy trail all the way down to his heavy balls and a light dusting of hair.

You glance up, just to watch his expression twist, poor boy, caught somewhere between pride and terror. His mouth parts like he might say something, but nothing comes. You look back down and press a soft kiss to the tip, soft and sweet. The mess sticks to your gloss, shines faintly when you pull back just an inch.

He whispers something—barely, like even his voice is too embarrassed to say it out loud. But your hand’s already moving, slow and deliberate, working him up with lazy strokes that make his legs twitch. You tilt your head, smile playing soft on your lips like you don’t know he’s on the verge of breaking.

“What’dya want, baby?” You purr it, like honey slipping off your tongue, like he has any real say in the matter. A mercy, letting him speak at all. He stutters, Red all the way down his neck now, lip caught between his teeth as his voice cracks.

“Y-your tits…” A breathless pause. “Wanna… feel them.” His hands hover, fingers twitching mid-air like he’s too scared to ask properly, like he’s afraid you’ll laugh.

You blink once, then laugh anyway—not mocking, more amused, indulgent. You lean forward just enough for your chest to brush against him, soft and warm through the thin fabric of your top.

“You wanna feel these?” Your voice drips slow, the words curling at the edges, soft like something wicked in silk. He nods before you’ve even finished the sentence—frantic, desperate, practically drooling like a mutt starved for affection. It’s pathetic. It’s adorable. It’s everything.

You bat your lashes, long and thick, gaze dipped half-lidded as your fingers slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You tug it up slow, just to watch the hunger flicker in his eyes, then reach behind your back, a quick flick, and the bra slips off like it was never really meant to stay on.

They bounce free, soft and full, skin warm and glowing under the harsh closet light, and his breath catches so sharp you swear he might choke on it. You cup them lightly, just enough to make them spill between your fingers, teasing him without saying a word. Then, voice dropping lower, sweeter, with a tenderness that makes it sting:

“You wanna feel ’em with your dick… or your hands, puppy?” You watch his brain short-circuit, like he doesn’t know what’ll kill him faster. He doesn’t answer —can’t. His mouth opens like he wants to speak, but no sound comes out. Just a shaky breath and a helpless look, red-faced and wide-eyed, every ounce of his nerve short-circuiting all at once.

So you make the choice for him. You lean in, slow and deliberate, gaze fixed on his like you’re daring him to look away. One hand slips between your tits, the other trailing down with intention, You press your breasts together again, as his leaky ‘n throbbing cock slides in between them.

His knees nearly buckle. His breath comes in short, desperate little bursts, hands twitching at his sides like he doesn’t know where to touch, if he even can.

You tilt your head. “Feels good, huh?” Voice velvet-soft now, syrupy and slow. “Bet you’ve never had anything close to this.” And he hasn’t, And he knows it. Your slick, glistening breasts slide along his throbbing cock, coated in his warm precum. As you glide them up and down, your tongue flicks deliberately at his sensitive tip, teasing with slow, hungry licks. Mark’s body trembles, his muscles clenching with every shuddering breath. He ruts eagerly against your soft, yielding tits, like a dog in heat lost in the overwhelming pleasure. Nothing he’s ever fucked—his hand, a pillow, a toy—comes close to the wet, enveloping warmth of your breasts and mouth.

Your tongue swirls and laps at his pulsing cock, wet slurps and soft gags echoing through the room, mingling with the rhythmic slap of his balls against your slick, heaving tits. Mark’s groans are deep, guttural, his chest rumbling as you gently squeeze his balls, sending a jolt through his trembling frame. “You’re pretty big,” you coo, voice dripping with praise, “such a shame it’s attached to a dork who doesn’t even know how to use it.”

Mark lets out a desperate whine as you guide his throbbing shaft into the tight, wet warmth of your throat, deepthroating the length not already enveloped by the soft, plush fat of your tits. His cock throbs with every bob of your head, slick and warm in your throat. Mark’s in bliss, thinking if he died now, he’d go out happy, his dick devoured by such a pretty girl. Your soft pants, warm puffs of air teasing his sensitive tip, push him closer to the edge. His balls tighten, hips jerking as he feels the surge building, ready to unleash his pent-up load across your face and dripping tits.

“Hah—‘m gonna cum,” Mark chokes out, voice shattered, breathless, like he’s unraveling at the seams, pleasure swallowing him whole. You hum, low and smug, a wicked edge to it, and double down. Your head bobs faster, throat clenching around his pulsing cock, gurgling slurps and wet gags filling the air—loud, obscene, a filthy symphony just for him. Your tits, slick with spit and precum, squeeze his shaft tight, a perfect, plush vise. His dick’s buried in heaven, warm, wet, yours to ruin.

His legs quake, thighs trembling like they might give out. Head thrown back, it thumps against the wall, his only anchor as he falls apart. You catch the way his fingers claw at nothing, fists white-knuckled, and that pathetic, broken whimper slipping from his lips? It’s fucking music. His balls tighten, hips jerking erratic, desperate. He’s a mess, sweat-slick, eyes glassy, whimpering like he’s never been touched before.

“Poor Marky,” you say with a pop, voice dripping with mockery, using your hand to finish him off. “Thought you could handle me. Big cock, no clue how to use it.” Your pace doesn’t falter, lips slick, hand relentless, tits bouncing with every move. “Gonna blow already? Such a shame.”

And with that little remark, that teasing curl of your lips, that tone too smug to be anything but wicked, he falls apart. All messy ‘n sloppy, big fat load creating a warm and wet mess all over your breasts and dirtying your pretty face. A few stray droplets kiss your cheek, cling to your lashes. You blink slow, licking your lips like it’s nothing. Like this happens all the time.

You blink slow, all lazy-lidded and smug, the corners of your mouth twitching like you’re holding back more laughter—the kind that would make him shrink even further if he had anywhere left to run. But he doesn’t. He’s stuck there, looking absolutely devastated by his own body, like his soul left him mid-spill and hasn’t come back yet.

“Tears?” you croon, voice dipped in honey and mockery. “You cryin’ over this? Oh, baby.”

You reach up and swipe your thumb across the corner of his eye, not gently. It’s teasing, purposeful, like you want to see if the contact will shatter him completely. And it nearly does. His breath hitches and his eyes flutter closed like even that’s too much. His lashes are damp. His cheeks hot. He’s blushing so hard it looks painful. Shame clinging to him like a second skin.

“Don’t tell me that was your first time gettin’ off with someone watchin’,” you murmur, tilting your head, lips twitching again. “God, that’s actually so cute. I could eat you alive.”

And he doesn’t answer—just stands there, stiff and red and broken open in the prettiest way. You lean in close, your voice a whisper now. “Bet you’ll do anything I ask now, won’t you?”

He nods, slow and small like he’s ashamed of it — like even that’s a surrender too humiliating to admit out loud. But it’s there. Clear as day. He’s yours now. All soft eyes and trembling hands and a brain melted to mush. You smile, bright and sweet like you didn’t just break him down into dust.

Your fingers trace lazy circles on his bicep—featherlight, affectionate, like you’re rewarding a pet after a trick well done. And your tone? Cheerful. Too cheerful. Like you’ve moved on already.

“Great!” you chirp, lips popping on the G. “You can resubmit that assignment for me.” He stares, chest still rising and falling like he ran a marathon, lips parted like he wants to protest—like he’s got dignity left in some corner of his soul. But he doesn’t speak. Just swallows hard and looks away.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Marky,” you purr, already turning to adjust your skirt, unfazed. “You came, I smiled, we both got something outta it. Now go on. I want that A.”

You wink over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, stunned, pants around his thighs, wondering how the hell he ended up in this situation when he was trying to get out of it the first time.