#alixwrites

it’s the same ritual every night. sammy knows it by heart now. two hours drive. listen to whatever the radio is spitting. park in front of the house. look for the keys, always stuck in some hidden pocket or in the bottom of the duffle bag. say hi to the nanny. pay the nanny. go upstairs and kiss the kid, asleep for several hours by now. go back downstairs. look in the empty fridge. open a beer. wonder why the fridge is packed with a brand that tastes like shit. crash on the couch, turn on the tv and—yeah, whatever.

a tired hand runs across his face, and sammy wonders how did he ended up here. stuck in this half life. shoveling too much shit in the day and returning to a too silent house in the night. he knows he needs to get some sleep—just to fake a semblance of normalcy to greet his new partner tomorrow. he can't exactly say he's eager to get involved in this mess, considering the outline sal gave him a few hours prior. fucking sal, always dumping his problems on him. he had some favors to return, and no choice but to accept the new detective that some higher-ups put in his hands. you. and now you’re sammy’s problem.

he looks at the tv screen, eyes fixated on the moving pictures, mind oblivious to whatever shit they’re trying to sell. glittering eyes. plastic crap that will change your life. big white smiles. maybe tomorrow is gonna go well. yeah. you’re probably just trying to survive in the midst of the animals that some precincts harbor. no denying that some guys can’t stop thinking with their dicks. sammy can still hear sal, hand clasped on his shoulder, index digging into his chest, spitting his re-heated speech to his face. make this shit work sammy. my hands are tied, ‘didn’t have a choice ok. i only ask for one year and you’ll be free, sammy. one year and you’ll switch partner if you want. she already burned three guys, filling five or six sexual harassment complaints ok. the broad is difficult but i need you on your best fucking behavior all right?

yeah. all right sal. ok.

apparently, sammy was the only one in the LAPD who hadn't heard about your story—or at least, how it ended. your fall from grace. he got the first half like all LA two summers ago—LAPD’s new golden girl, crowned in glory for solving a wave of violent murders incriminating some A-lister. after that, he saw your face on the LAPD’s posters. cute. bright. he missed the part where TMZ leaked some porn photo shoot that you did when you were younger; the sour after taste of triumph. LA fame has a way of always putting the spotlight on the grime you’d rather hide.

his gaze drifts again to the TV. he wonders if the pictures are still on the net. he wonders if they’re really that filthy. maybe he should look. just a quick peek ok. he’s not a creep. he simply wants to form an unbiased opinion on the exact nature of the scandal. before he knows it, his laptop is booted up and google spells in big black letters the title of the article he’s looking for.

“HOT COP HOT SHOTS: LAPD star officer caught spreading her legs playboy style!!! exclusive pictures only on TMZ” ok. why not. classy like a TMZ title. a splash of cheap beer down the throat, he clicks on the link.

the photo shoot is called “at home with peach” and it’s a pornified fantasy of the perfect wife; young, pulpy, no subtlety. the TMZ title didn’t lie—it could pass for the feature pages of a 90’s playboy. the quality is not the best, it feels somewhat amateurish, but fuck, sammy can't help but stare. it’s you, all of you, it’s your flesh on a plate for carnivorous eyes. it’s you, given, glossy eyes and half open porn mouth. it’s you from behind, sitting in front of a vanity desk in a pale rosy negligee. it’s you pretending to remove your make-up—in the mirror, your negligee is open and your tits spill out of your bra in the most indecent way. sammy’s gaze grazes the screen, falls on the ring of your nipple peeking beneath the pink lingerie. heat creeps on his neck, his cheeks. he swallows another sip of his cheap beer and hits next.

it’s you pretending to make the bed and put away some toys in the most impractical outfits, high heels, translucent dresses—you who always slightly lean down to show your tits hanging, defiant eyes and half a smile. it’s you naked under an apron, food all over your lips, you licking and sucking a spoon, mouth and tongue wrapped against the wood, obscene, you behind a fridge door, a man’s shirt barely covering your ass, cheeks bare if not for a neon pink thong, two beers in your hands and a naughty smile on your lips. and it’s you on all four on a pink bed, naked, glittery, back offered to the camera, your ass and pussy suspended in the air, half hidden by a chaste hand. one of your pretty finger is circled by a wedding ring. golden, with a big diamond that sparkles against the color of your pussy. fuck. you’re what? nineteen, twenty? twenty-one at best and sammy feels an hot flash of acid in his stomach—he should be disgusted to see a girl baring her ass for a trashy photo shoot but he’s not. he’s fucking turned on. maybe it’s the sign that it’s been too long since he got some action or—maybe it’s the play house thing that gets him so hard. he finishes his beer and lets his eyes run again on the screen’s pixels, wandering on your shimmering frame. the discomfort in his briefs is getting hard to ignore. fuck you’re so beautiful. suddenly there’s this sharp hook behind his navel; dirty, hot. vicious. it doesn’t take him a lot of efforts to fantasize about you—he stares at your last picture and sees himself coming back home to you, pushing the door of your shared bedroom; you’re waiting for him. in the dim light you’re lying on your side, spread wide, wearing one of his tshirt and nothing else, the fabric bunched under your belly, exposing your pretty ass, same as what he ogles on his screen. in his fantasy, you're a little older, a little chubbier. he stares at you a second before moving forward, and he drops his belt, his tie, and he goes into the bed, with you. he kisses your neck, nose lost against your skin, inhaling your scent like an animal, pressing his body against yours. you squirm against his famished palms and he says shh it’s me, babe, it’s me.

he should go to bed. try to get some sleep. but it's too late. he’s a bit drunk but feels almost high; one hand opens his shirt, one button after another, unzips his pants, his other hand getting lost under his briefs. he feels his cock already dripping so much, and he starts touching himself. slow. he wants to take his time.

he drifts back to you and your mouth that quickly find his. in between sloppy kisses, you say that you missed him, you say you need him, almost pleading in that high pitched voice that he likes. your ass presses against his cock, rocking against the wet mess you’re causing. one of his hand slides to your pussy when the other goes to your lips. you don’t need a word to take his thumb in your mouth, whining and choking on it when he starts fucking with his thick fingers. you’re so tight, burning and writhing against his touch. he says be quiet, babe, don’t wake the kid. you nod but you moan so loud that he has to put his hand on your mouth—just be quiet, can you do that for me? and you say yes, yes yes against his palm, nodding desperately. he laughs and says atta girl, nipping at your lobe and—

sammy is a wreck—biting his fist not to make too much noise, loudly panting, face and ears electric red, his head burning, his hand glistening with precome. it's dripping on his briefs, on his pants, on the couch. he’s making a mess but he doesn’t care, fucking his fist like he would fuck you, your name on his lips. he wanted to last, to savour this fucked up scenario but he’s already on the edge picturing your tight pussy, how good it would feel to run the tip of his cock along your hole, feeling you clench around his cock, taking him entirely—

how good you would look when he manhandles you and presses you on your stomach, bending your frame, opening your thighs with a push of his knees. how good would it feel to bury himself inside you, to press your head on the mattress to smother your cries, to feel your ass against his hips, his cock swallowed by your warmth. he would fuck you like that, deep and slow, until you beg, until the both of you can’t take it, until everything burns, until the ache inside your bellies is too much and you both need the release, please, please, please sammy, fuck me, fuck me hard

and he comes, he comes on his stomach, whimpering, gasping for air, brain saturated with your image, your body, your whole being, you, you, imprinted under his eyelid.

one last stroke, and his cock finally stop pulsing.

fuck.

he spilled everywhere.

he wipes his fingers against his thigh. instinctively, the back of his hand wipes the sweat pearling on his forehead. his body goes lax, head resting against the couch.

he’s spent. one his palm crawls against his chest, feeling his heart running too fast, his lungs filling up too quickly. everything feels like too much. what the fuck did he do. guilt doesn’t take long to set in. he stands motionless for a moment, his chest going up and down, numb, dumb, dazed, senses overwhelmed by oxytocin and shame. and—he takes one deep breath and snaps out of it. he quickly deletes his history, close his laptop and grabs some paper towels, swearing in a low voice, trying to mop up the mess he's made on himself and the couch. everything sticks.

under the shower, the semen residues coil and cling to his skin, his hair. his skin becomes red. he lets his head rest against the tiled wall, lets the water run on his head, his nape, his back. he doesn’t feel clean.

in the sleep he manages to get, he dreams of you, of this fake version of you; under the pink lights, you shimmer like a star.

you’re perched on your balcony, savoring a late night cigarette, admiring the city’s lights from afar. you can’t sleep, all nerves, on edge.

it’s a hot summer in LA, and the nights are endless—soon, the sewers will overflow with everything the city can't swallow. you can feel this uncanny vibe in the air, raw, electric. you wonder if your partner will be up to the task.

you meet him on other occasions; you’re always with someone else, and he never gives you much attention. in spite of yourself, you develop a crude infatuation with him; an embarrassing thing that coils in your guts and makes your cunt ache for a man that should repulse you. the other girls that volunteered previous summers talk about him in a bragging tone, as if being fucked by the wildlife management officer is some badge of honor. desire makes a strange, ugly thing out of you. you try to find ways to see him, to talk to him—every time you do, he’s polite, albeit a bit rough around the edges, but nothing more.

at night you crave him, teeth and body yearning, fingers wet from hunger, staining your pillow with his name. you rub your clit thinking about him, pinching a nipple imagining that it's his hands on you, and you close your eyes thinking about his mouth, about him eating you until his jaw ache, about cumming on his tongue, his thick fingers curled inside you.

he occupies your thoughts—a distant figure that clings to your flesh, tepid, latent. a fake scenario that only exists in the hollow of the quiet hours.

until he becomes real, one stupid afternoon.

you’re sent down an old trail to check on an abandoned building, and you end up getting completely lost. you don’t really know how it happens, the forest simply swallows you—suddenly there’s nothing around you but a suffocating green and the deafening clamor of insects. the day is scorching hot and even in the trees shade, you’re sweating. your clothes cling to your damp skin, the salt of your pores pricking every little cut you’ve gotten on the wild paths. you’re lost in your thoughts, fingers crinkling the paper of your map when a hand grabs your shoulder. harsh, violent.

your heart leaps—

“the fuck you doin’ here? this area is supposed to be clear for the day.”

of all the people wandering through the woods, he's the one you had to stumble upon.

the tone of his voice and a glimpse at his face tell you that he’s pissed. you clench your jaw, trying not to let the situation get the best of you.

“sorry i uh—got lost…”

shane scoffs, looking down on you—and fuck, the disdain in his gaze hurts. stupid girl. you fantasized about a moment like that. him and you, alone in the woods. the kind of bullshit scenario straight out of some cheap amateur porn found online; reality leaves a bitter taste on your tongue.

“yeah, ‘figured. can’t fuckin’ hunt with your ruckus…” he spits.

your teeth graze your lower lip, spilling out a nervous frustration you'd rather hide.

“can you help me find this old hunting lodge? i’ve got a map but i don’t know where i am…”

he sighs loudly, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder.

“come with me. ‘got a deer to kill… i’ll give you a ride after. it’ll be quicker than to have you fuckin’ roamin’ around for two hours.”

you obey.

his pace is military and you do your best to follow him; you hide your short breath behind your teeth, ignoring the burn of your muscles and the flood between your shoulder blades. he navigates through the forest as you imagined he would—indifferent to its beauty.

you walk for half an hour before he slows down. he makes you stop near a clearing, a hole in the dense tangle of the woods, where the trees tear apart and open up to the sky; a burst of pale blue eating up the edges of a cliff. the deer is laying on the sun-scorched grass and you can see its flank rising up, up and down, fast, feverish, all dirty fur and sick eyes.

you turn back to shane, ready for whatever comes next. but—instead of the irritated look he'd been giving you up until now, you're met with inquiring eyes. a slight grin on the lips, gaze wandering all over your body, he's sizing you up.

“want to kill it?” he asks bluntly.

you never killed an animal. you know how to use a hunting rifle, but you've never killed anything with it. “i can try,” you hear yourself reply. you kneel next to him and he gives you his weapon—lighter than you’d imagine, barely seven pound of cold metal and carbon fiber. you secure the rifle against your shoulder, head tilted to find the scope, instinctively trying to shape your grip into something that feels natural. it's not as easy as he makes it look.

he doesn't give you time to adjust.

a hand darts out to correct your posture from behind your back and suddenly his face is right over your shoulder, too close to yours, his palms all over your body, straightening an elbow, an arm, a wrist. you didn't see him move. he says to relax, a hand flattening the curve of your neck, his stubble an almost-scratch on your lobe. you feel his breath on your cheek and all you can think of is how easy it would be to turn your head and leave the rifle here and taste something real on his lips. you feel the weight of his palm on your drenched skin, brain fixated on the pressure, hunger burning your guts like a dog bite.

you could leave the rifle here.

you try to think about the deer you’re going to kill.

“need to aim for the center mass. ‘should have a good view of its flank from here.”

his voice is low, sickly warm on the hollow of your neck. you nod, mind still trying to adjust to the mass of his body pressed into your back, to his scent, a mix of pine, honeysuckle, of sweat and cheap manly deodorant. he steadies your dominant hand, rough touch on damp skin.

“right spot is just behind the shoulder. ‘see it?”

you struggle to focus, eye on the target, adjusting the scope until you’re able catch every wound on the animal’s fur. the image is sharp, suppurating. you give shane another nod, unable to speak; in the back of your mouth, your vocal chords feels like barbwire.

“now, we’re close enough to aim without having to compensate for bullet drop. when you’re ready, stop your breathin’ and press the trigger slow.”

his hands move to your hips, a false anchor that only distracts you more. in your throat, you feel every contraction of your heart. you wonder how many beats per minute that is and you stop breathing and you press the trigger. slowly. and for a second you’re not you anymore, you’re a pulse, bare, primal, you're the recoil, the kick in your muscles, the sound and the smell of the chemical compounds scattering in the air. on impact, the deer startles and falls. you see blood staining the fur, you feel his hands leaving your hips to smother your biceps. you want this moment to linger, you want the awkwardness and the proximity to stretch, but shane’s already up, snatching the rifle from your hands, ejecting the cartridge and reloading in one swift move. you watch him approach the beast, barrel aiming at the carcass in case the animal might still be alive. a boot kick assures him it's not.

he gives you a nod from afar. and, for the first time, you see a genuine smile on his face.

“think you just earn'd your beer,” he admits when you join him to witness your kill.

you help him wrap the corpse in a tarp, securing it with thick ropes. half an hour later, you're at his camp, savoring the promised reward—and, after dragging the carcass for a mile and a half in a stifling inferno, even his shitty pilsner tastes like heaven.

one beer becomes two, two becomes three and you lose count, rocked by his stories, the flow of his voice, your laughers. you feel soft and mellow in the heat, looking at his face, barely listening to what he says, mind focused on how close you sit, on the accidental brush of his fingers against your thigh, on the warmth of his knee against yours. you see his lips move but words have lost their meaning; you think about the glint of pride in his eyes when you killed the deer, about his mouth on yours, you think about his fingers, about him ruining you.

and when the silence comes back, your gazes hook and the air feels syrupy, thick between your lips. your eyes fall to his mouth, suspended on his grin. you can almost taste him. your brain is floating in a boldness that smells like alcohol and you stop thinking and you fall foward and you press your lips against his. and, for a second, he kisses you too, tongue pushing inside your mouth, swallowing an embarrassing moan that escapes you. one of his hands runs to your neck, possessive, squeezing slightly. your teeth sink into his bottom lips, grazing the skin and

he pushes you away.

“easy girl—”

he snikers, half-smile, fingers wiping your bite on his lips.

“what? i th—”

“yeah i get you want my dick but i ain’t touching a 20 somethin’ virgin sorry. pussy not worth the trouble.” he tilts his beer toward his mouth, shaking his head before taking a sip. heat creeps on your face, ugly, humiliating. you wonders how he knows, if someone told him or if it’s just written on your face, but it doesn’t really matter. you quickly learned that things never stay secret for long ‘round here. people have nothing to do but talk.

you’re too drunk to care. you know about him too, about the girls he fucks, the stories they tell at night, cigarette in their mouth and tongues loose from the alcohol, comparing the places where he fucked them, the number of times, what he did, never quite sure if it was really good or if they're lying to feel different from the others. i’m the one he took care of. you know shane doesn’t take care of anybody but himself. and maybe deep down, this is what makes you wet—the perspective of forgetting about your self-respecting principles to get fucked dumb in the forest by a man who does not care.

“that’s not what i heard,” you retort.

he laughs again.

“’m tryin’ to do you a favor here kiddo. don’t know what you’ve heard ‘n what you’re expectin’ but this ain’t gonna match your fantasy.” you look at him and he looks at you, his dead eyes contradicting every one of his words, eating up your body like a piece of meat.

your nails scratch the label of your beer absently. “yeah i get it. ‘too old to get it hard after a beer and a day in the bushes uh.” petty words escape your lips and you want him to hurt. it doesn’t really work. his smile grows so wide you feel his face is gonna disappear; soon he’ll be only teeth.

“or—maybe you’re just not doin’ it for me sweetheart.”

piece of shit. it hurts and you understand too late that’s what gets him off; toying with the latest girl infatuated with him. how far can he go before giving you what you came for. how much filth can he spew before changing his mind and coaxing you with honey. piece of shit. you put down your beer and you get up and you don’t know anymore you don’t know youdon’tknow—

you slap him.

you only see your hand on his cheek. you only see the consequence of the offense. your hand, hot, his cheek, hot.

the sound resonates in the camp like a caning.

you’re as surprised as him by your gesture. he stares at you and there’s nothing gentle in his eyes anymore. nothing curious or amused. the impact of your deed brutally sinks in—behind your navel, a hook tears your flesh. hot. shane loses his smile. “so this want you want uh.” he puts down his beer and he gets up too. slowly. he looks down on you, face inches from yours, frame eating up your field of view. the afternoon is almost dead and you’re suffocating.

“alright,” he nods. “alright.”

he grabs you and pushes you against a tree, yanking your shorts and underwear without gentleness. they fall in the dirt, trampled by your faltering steps. a hand smothers you, forces you to turn around, face against the bark and he kicks your legs apart, almost making you lost balance. heart on the edge of your lips, your blood pounds so hard in your skull that the world seems to go silent between each beat. you don’t hear the insects’ noise anymore; everything feels blurry and too much. under his palm, your sweat turns cold. he comes closer, his chest clinging to your back, swallowing you against his frame. you feel powerless and maybe maybe he was right and you’re gonna regret this and you should have listened and not desire something ugly and rough and violent and maybe,maybe—

one of his hands runs to your belly, slides between your thighs and two fingers breach you. thick, calloused. you buck instinctively but his weight on your spine pins you in place. your ass, bare, meets his bulge, tearing a grunt from his lips. you feel his exhale against your neck, blunt, burning. “fuck you’re so wet already… you like it rough uh.” and it’s a taunt and not a question, ‘cause your body spills what you want even if you’re not sure what you’re gonna get. between your drenched thighs, his fingers go back and forth a few times; enough to make you whimper but you're not even sure you can call that shit foreplay, a minute or two and he stops, leaving your cunt clenching around nothing. you hear the metallic noise of his belt before feeling him lining his cock with your pussy, a hand on your hip, the other gripping the heavy tip that he presses against your slit. you can’t see him but you know he’s big, the girls giggled about it, and he doesn’t take the time to stretch you more, to sweeten the deal, it’s here, it’s now, you’re gonna take his cock like a big girl, ‘n it’s him pushing inside, hard, raw, prying obscenities out of your mouth and fuck it hurts it hurts. “fuck, shane—sto—fuckfuckfu—” you squirm and you writhe but you can't escape his hold, only making things worse for you the more you move. you’re impossibly stretched around his cock and it’s already too much; tears prickle on the edge of your eyes and it makes him laugh again.

“you need to relax kid, it’s just the tip,” he mocks. and he starts to really sink in, inch by inch, taking his time ‘cause you’re so tense he has no choice but to go slow. the grip on your hips tighten and you know his hands are gonna leave dents in your flesh and you try to hold back a whine but you can't and it pours out of you, it pours and you feel nothing anymore but his cock penetrating you, belly ablaze, torn by how thick he is. both of your breaths are ragged when he finally bottoms out, pelvic bones pressed against your ass, your spine arched impossibly as your body tries to fit his cock. you feel split, and something wet and sticky dripping on your thighs and you hope you hope it's only arousal and sweat. he leans in and caresses the back of your head, fingers grabbing your hair, almost tender when he pulls back to whisper to your ear. "see? y'can take it," and you feel sick 'cause all you want in this instant is to make him proud. he loosens his grip and his hand goes back to your hip and you know that tomorrow, you'll have his fingerprints engraved on your skin—blue, green and yellow.

there's no warning when he starts fucking you for real.

without giving you a minute to really catch your breath he starts to move, almost pulling out to better sink in, deep, buried to the hilt, hips rolling to set a brutal pace. soon the forest echoes with the wet sounds of your bodies crashing into each other, your broken moans and the obscene noises of his pelvis and his balls hitting your ass. that too, is gonna leave a mark. your cunt's hot and throbbing, and you feel every thrust slapping your sodden and swollen flesh, pain and pleasure blending in your skull. he's cruel and it's too much and you still can't get enough, your palms embedded in the bark in a futile attempt to soften his brutal thrusts. when he slows down it's only to fuck you deeper, to make you feel every inch of his cock splitting your tight pussy—your legs burn and shake and you think you're gonna fall but he only grips you tighter.

he comes before you do.

you feel him swell impossibly, close, halfway collapsing on you, forehead pressed to your spine, cursing and grunting when your cunt contracts again around his cock and he breaks suddenly, his thick cum filling you up. he does not care about you and you feel used and it feels good and your hands leave the tree and you start touching yourself, abusing your clit, your fingers inadvertently grazing his softening dick until he pulls out, leaving your spasming hole spitting his cum. you're a mess of sperm, spit, sweat. you feel everything dripping out of you, panting, cock-drunk, trying to chase your own orgasm; he's still half-leaning on you, and his hands still on your flesh, refusing to let you go. you think about the bruises and the pain and the weight of his head between your shoulder blades, his ragged breath, his impossible warmth that still swallows you, his fingers tightly gripping your hips and he says nothing and it builds, it builds in your belly until you can't take it anymore—you snap and you come too, his name spat by your mouth like an insult.

your release makes you feel like an animal, body shaking, anesthetized by oxytocin and adrenalin, too numb to feel shame or pain. you want him to hold you tight in his arms but he doesn’t, he simply whispers 'good girl' in your ear, patting your ass like you pet a bitch after a perfect trick. he straightens up and sets you free and you know you’re gonna hurt tomorrow, you're gonna bruise, you’re gonna break and you’re gonna have to lie about it but you don’t care, you don’t care.

now virgin!dex can’t get off like he used to. when he watches the video he has to picture you instead of the girl to cum. he badly photoshoped your face over hers on a still image from the porno, printing his pathetic little montage to jerk off to it.

virgin!dex stalks you every week-end and one night he sees you cry in your apartment. he knows he’s a sick fuck but he’s so hard watching you upset like that. he pictures you like in his porno, crying and moaning, pleading, no,no,no—dex s’toomuch pleaseplease, but fuck you’re a bad liar cause he can feel how wet your are for him when your cunt swallows his cock. he fucks his fist so hard in his car he comes in two minutes, his abused cock turning a nasty shade of red in his death grip. he spends the rest of the evening trying to wipe the mess he made all over the dashboard.

usually he’s cleaner than that, spitting his load in a paper tissue he can easily discard. but not when he thinks about you, not when he watches you. fuck, when he thinks about it, it's kinda irritating how much you disrupt him with so little. he's a bit mad at you for making him cum so much, in such a messy way.

when he scrubs the sticky spots on the plastic, he wonders how it’ll feel when he’ll fuck you for real. you’ll be on your back, legs bent, smothered between your two bodies, ankles hanged above his shoulders. split open when he’ll bottom out. how he’ll react when he’ll feel your cunt clenched around his cock and your juices drenching his pelvis, dripping on his balls. and the sounds you’ll make....

he hopes he’ll last long like the guy in the video.

fb!abbot who mocks your hoarse voice one night at work, as if he wasn’t the one fucking your throat a few hours before. looking at you with a grin “you ok there doctor? you need a mint maybe?” you have to fight the urge to flip him off so badly that you think you’re gonna chip a tooth clenching your jaw so hard. “seriously you should hydrate, liquids are important for the throat’s health.” and you know he trained you too well, cause even if you’re pissed the minute your hear liquid + throat you feels your pussy getting wet knowing how much he likes to cum in your mouth and watch you swallow. he buys you a bottle of water later, and he watches you drink it and it shouldn’t feel obscene—you sitting in the break room, him standing right in front of you, looking down, his arms crossed—it shouldn’t feel obscene and yet, it is. it’s in the way he looks at you, his gaze fixated on your mouth, watching you drink water the same hungry way he watched you suck his cock some 12 hours before. as if he wants to eat you up. and he doesn't say anything, he simply watches, but you can see that he's half-hard in his scrubs. when you’re done he just—smiles and he leaves. you hope he sends you another text asking you to go to his place after the shift.

fb!abbot who is a problematic insomniac and you know when you go to his home you’re not gonna sleep a lot. it’s always the same, the sex is really fucking good, the kind that leaves you stupid and giggling and sleepy and you make him promise not to wake you up, you need your 7 hours, and he always says yeah, yeah, sure kiddo, i’ll behave… so you fall asleep in his bed, only to be woken up two hours later when you feel him against your ass, grinding his cock, a hand on your hip to pull you closer and you know you’re gonna regret this but whatever, you arch your back, cause maybe you like it to much when he fucks you half awake, when he whispers in your ear that you’re such a good girl for him, that you take him so well, and maybe it’s too good to feel his cock sliding all over your cunt, still wet with his thick spill and your cream, his cock slowly getting in and out, his hands on your tits, all over your body, caressing every inch of your being, and everything feels so good and mellow and sometimes you come and sometimes you don’t cause you can’t anymore but it doesn't matter, you're just soft under his touch and you fall asleep again. he holds you so tight against him.

it's less fun when the alarm rings and you have another migraine.

fb!abbot who's always in your vicinity when someone hits on you like a shark smelling blood. always encouraging you to go on a date, to have fun, because whatever you’re both adults, you do what you want, no strings attached. but the minute you give your number to someone else you can be sure to have a text from him;