#andy barber

You moan for him, loud and shameless, because it makes him angrier. Makes him fuck you harder, like he’s chasing oblivion. Like if he just buries himself deep enough, your heat might thaw the cold that grief carved out.

“Lucky me,” you purr, grinding back. “ADA Barber’s got a soft spot for crime bosses with tight cunts.”

He’s still in his suit, sleeves rolled, pants shoved down, cock buried to the hilt in the same body he promised he’d put behind bars. You’re half-naked beneath him, legs trembling from how hard he’s fucking you.

Your pussy always makes him forget he’s supposed to be a good man.

“You like being bent over your empire, sweetheart?” Andy pants, thrusting harder, cock dragging against every spot that makes your walls pulse around him. “I should drag your pretty ass to holding. Cuff you and keep you there.”

You laugh, wicked. “Cuffs are in the drawer if you want a test run.”

He growls in response. His hand wraps around your throat, hauling you upright against his chest, arching your back so his cock slams into that perfect, unforgiving spot. Your vision blurs. You cry out his name, shaking, cunt clenching hard enough to make him swear.

“Look at you,” he rasps. “All this power and you still come on my cock so fucking pretty.”

He fucks you through your release, until you’re sobbing and pliant in his arms, and the fight drains out of you completely.

“Be a good girl,” Andy snarls, breath hot against your ear. “Say thank you.”

“Thank you,” you choke out a gasp, the sound almost swallowed by the slap of skin as he keeps driving into you.

That’s what breaks him.

Andy growls low in his chest, hips jerking and control shattering as he spills deep inside you. His teeth sink into your shoulder like it’s the only way to keep from falling apart completely.

Because he’s the law and you’re the rot beneath it. He shouldn’t orbit your fire. 

But where worlds collide and days are dark, Andy Barber finds absolution between your thighs.

It’s happened before. You remember those nights you went to sleep and the next you woke up without a mother. You grieve for that little girl who believed she wouldn’t leave again. Who even hoped that if her mom did go, she’d take her with her. That never happened.

You know this is different. Andy isn’t going to leave you alone. You already told him to. You gave him every reason to. You gave him back everything he gave but he just put it all right back in your lap. His control is overwhelming and confusing.

Is it control? He’s not asking you to pay him back. He’s not making you work for it.

Not like when your dad had you scrub the floors for your first package of tampons. All the while, he reminded you how disgusting you were. He didn’t make you change three times before leaving the house; he didn’t set a timer when you went to the corner store.

It doesn’t feel like a collar around your neck. You can’t quite understand the feeling. There’s that weight of suffocation in your chest but there’s something else. A lightness. A trickle of hope. You can’t help but imagine what it could be like to let him take it all over. To just stop thinking and let Andy decide. He’s good at that.

He told you, over and over. You want to believe him but there’s that little girl crying in that empty house. He’s shown you how nice he can be, how much he can do for you, but you just can’t make yourself believe that this is more than temporary. He will leave, or at the very least cast you out. You can’t let yourself succumb to naivety. Not this time.

No, you can be cautious. Enjoy that time while it lasts. Put your pennies away for after. Make sure that there is an after.

You leave class wrapped up in your inner turmoil. As you shuffle along with your peers, following the sound of their squeaking soles, your stomach bubbles giddily. You stop at the top of the staircase and step to the side, out of the way of those impatient to top up their caffeine addiction or get started on their Friday night hurrah.

You smirk and bite your lip. There’s that needling thought in the back of your head. The naughty one that makes you want to melt to a puddle.

You’ve seen the movies about wild coeds, about all sorts of scandalous and obscene antics. Movies about professors and students breaking the rules behind closed doors, of frat parties bursting at the seams with alcohol and nudity. Everly dragged you into the latter one too many times, but the former…

An older man.

You shiver and lean on the wall as you grip the straps of your knapsack. Your chest flutters and you feel suddenly nauseous. It’s not like you never thought of men, maybe even a few women, but you just never chased it. You never thought of it being real.

You saw how it goes. You saw your father lashing out, your mother covered in bruises. Then Everly, look at how that went. And your aunt and her stories of men robbing her blind after nights out, or refusing to get off her damn couch.

This seems too good to be true. No, it’s just that early stage when it’s all perfect and pretty. Don’t let it go past that. Protect yourself first.

Don’t be like them.

Your face falls as your pocket vibrates. You dig out the phone Andy forced into your hand when he dropped you off. You’re not surprised it’s him texting.

‘Everything okay? Waiting.’

Your lip trembles. Are you really going to do this? You close your mouth and a tingle ripples over you. You can still feel his warmth and the tickle of his fingertips on your skin.

‘Omw. Srry'

You shove the phone away and barrel down the stairs. Stop thinking. This is the one moment in your life when you can do that.

You go out into the wet aftermath of the morning showers. Andy waits in front of the gate to the paid parking. You pick up your pace. He’ll get a ticket if he idles there.

You open the door and drop into the car. You gulp down a breath, only then realising you’d stopped. Andy leans over and startles you. He kisses between your cheek and temple.

“How was it, sweetheart?”

You flinch and settle your knapsack on your lap. “Um… just class.”

“Uh huh,” he sits back. “Buckle up.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” you stutter. “Thanks for coming to get me. I… I could’ve–”

“No more buses. If I’m around or not, I’ll make sure you get to where you need to be,” he insists.

“Oh, well, the pass is part of our tuition–”

“Don’t worry about it.” He backs out and spins the wheel, joining the sluggish line of cars trawling through the oblivious pedestrians crossing without looking. “Let me worry about things, alright?”

“Mm, okay. I guess…”

“You guess,” he echoes.

You shrug. “Sorry, it’s just… all so…” your voice trails off as your phone shakes again. You ignore it. “Well, I… I’m just… tired. It’s been a long two days…”

Your phone starts again. You can hear the buzz. So can Andy.

“Who’s that?” He asks.

You lean to one side and dig out the phone. It’s your dad. You have missed calls from the days of separation from the device and more from today.

“My dad. I can call him back.”

“He’s been calling for a while…” He drawls.

You cluck and huff. “Yeah, well, uh…”

“You think he’s worried?” Andy asks.

You nearly scoffed. You’re embarrassed to let on that your dad would never worry about you. Not like that. Only what he can get from you.

You chew your lip and answer, putting the phone to your ear as you lean away from Andy.

“Hello.” You answer.

Your father grumbles.

You stare at the top of your bag. You are overly aware of the presence next to you. You sniff.

“Hello, sir.”

“Bout time you fucking answer.” He snarls.

“I'm sorry–”

“Don't give me this shit about school. I know it ain't that hard.” He snarls. “Now I been wasting my time tryna get through to you. I got bills to pay and you're not helping none. Running around at some fucking college.”

You shrink down. This is why you didn't want to answer. Your hands are sweaty as your vision blurs.

“I don't why you're fucking wasting the money when you owe me a fuckton.” He goes on.

“Hey, everything okay…” Andy asks quietly as he touches your arm.

You jolt and the phone shifts in your hand.

“What's that? You fucking around–”

The phone slips entirely and you scramble to catch it. Your thumb smears the screen and your dad's voice comes full force over the speaker. You stare in horror as his rant is broadcast for Andy to hear.

“A slut. Just like mommy, huh? I heard that. You got some boy there. Well, forgive fucking me for interrupting you. Hope you're at least getting paid for being a fucking whore–”

Andy swipes the phone before you can turn the volume off. You squeal as he scoops it up in front of his mouth, his other hand firmly on the wheel.

“That's no way to talk to your daughter.” He sneers.

“And who the fuck are you? Oh, don't you sound all tough and mighty. Bet you're 120 soaking wet, huh, boy?”

“You need to apologise.” Andy ignores your father's snipes.

“Fuck off.”

“Now.” Andy grits.

Your father guffaws. “Why? You know I ain't wrong. You're fucking her and all that.”

“I don't give second chance but you can apologise right now –”

“Or what?” Your father spits. “Having fucking fun with the leech. I don't fucking want her. Never did.”

The call clicks and Andy keeps the phone hovered just over the wheel. He taps the side button and slides it into the cupholder. You sit in silence, humiliated and hot.

He flips on his signal and pulls into the library lot. You stare down, eyes barely open as you fight back tears. He shifts into park.

You don't move. You don't even look at him. He undoes his seatbelt. You stay frozen in the passenger seat.

He grabs your knapsack and shoves it down onto the floor. He clicks the buckle of your seatbelt and it repels. He reaches to untangle your shoulder then grips it.

He angles you in your seat and draws you close. He wraps his other arm around you as he leans over the space between your seats. His hand brushes up to your head and he pets your hair as he guides your face into his neck. His other hand spreads over your side as he hugs you snugly.

"Thank you, Mr. Barber. I just wish I knew why this was happening."

"Because he doesn't deserve you," Andy mutters under his breath, too quietly for you to hear. "Let's get some of the details ironed out. Do you have a place where you can stay?"

"Um...my mom?"

"You should probably call her. I'll go ahead and cancel some appointments while you do that."

"Mr. Barber, I can't---"

"Andy, please. Just call me Andy."

"I'm sorry, I'm just all out of sorts."

"Understandable. Now go call your mother to make sure you've got a place to stay."

After you've left his office, Andy makes a phone call to a secure number.

"He's followed through on his end of the deal. Send the photos to the usual location."

He hangs up without waiting for a response.

When he'd found out your husband was cheating on you, Andy could've shown you the proof. But with this route, he can be your hero. And when the photos show up in court evidence, he can claim he'd just gotten them, that he'd had no idea. Best of all, you'll get everything in the divorce with that.

And you deserve everything.

Giddy with enthusiasm to start your day, you hopped out of bed when it was still early in the morning, especially for the weekend. But you’d waited as long as you could, so you eagerly got ready with a bounce in your step and a smile on your face. 

From your closet, you pulled the skimpiest bikini you owned, one that was little more than tiny scraps of fabric held together by thin strings. It left nothing to the imagination, and it gave you a sense of satisfaction to imagine how the buttoned-up lawyer-next-door would react to seeing you in it.

Flouncing downstairs, you paused only briefly to make an iced coffee and grab one of your smutty romance novels before making your way outside.

The patio around your pool was drenched in warm, golden sunlight, a soft breeze blowing through your yard to keep the heat bearable. You took a deep breath, soaking in the scent of freshly mowed grass and the late summer flowers of your garden—a mix of zinnias and black-eyed susans. 

You loved this time of year, when the high heat of summer had burned off, leaving the smoldering, delicious warmth of August’s cooler nights and bright sunny days. If you could live your entire life in one slice of a season, it would be this.

Bubbly joy filled your chest and a bright grin was spread across your face as you made yourself comfortable on your favorite sun lounger—the one that had a perfect view of the kitchen window in the Barber house. 

You didn’t see the smudge of shadow that meant Andy was inside, which sent a tiny pang of disappointment curling through your belly, but you reminded yourself it was still early. Perhaps the 40-something lawyer needed to sleep in after all the excitement of yesterday.

That thought had you smirking to yourself and you flipped your book open to a page you knew well. You’d read this particular romance novel before, so you knew exactly where to find your favorite smutty sex scene. Settling into the lounger, you sipped your coffee and began to read.

By the time you felt the familiar electric current zip down your spine that meant Andy Barber was watching you, your body was already warm with desire. The book had done the trick and your arousal was already making a mess of the scrap of fabric between your thighs.

Lifting your eyes from your book, you caught a glimpse of Andy’s shadow in the window of his kitchen before he disappeared. It was so much like those mornings when he’d disappeared after simply watching you that your heart dipped unpleasantly, but it perked up a moment later when Andy stepped out his back door.

Your body shifted on the sun lounger, almost without your notice, crossing your legs enticingly and arching your spine so your tits were pushed up, straining against the thin strings of your bikini. Your nipples were already hard and aching, clear as day against the thin fabric of your suit.

The closer Andy got, the more his expression darkened with desire. His blue eyes were raking unabashedly over your body, feasting on every inch of exposed skin like it was a meal only for him—which, of course, it was. Surely he knew that by now…

“Is this all for me, sunshine?” Andy rumbled, his voice gruff with barely leashed lust as he came to a stop next to your lounger, casting a shadow across your face. 

Setting your book aside, you skated your fingertips teasingly up your thigh and over your hip, toying with the ties of your bikini for a moment before moving higher. You heard the hitch in Andy’s breath when your fingers traced the curve of your tits, and a smile tugged slowly on the corners of your lips.

“It’s always been all for you, Mr. Barber,” you said huskily, catching Andy’s eye and arching your body toward him in a sensual, lustful presentation.

For a moment, Andy’s jaw just worked, the muscle popping as he chewed over what to say. While you waited for him to decide, you were gratified to see the bulge growing in his jeans. Your fingertips lightly teased your aching nipples, your smile growing when his cock twitched in his pants.

“You’re too good for me, sunshine,” Andy murmured, and the tenor of his voice had the breath rushing out of you. 

The fear that Andy might pull away before you’d ever really had him struck deep in your heart and you sat up quickly, grabbing his hand. You laced your fingers through his until your palms were pressed together and you peered up at him, letting him see the genuine honesty in your eyes as you spoke.

“I want this, Andy,” you said, squeezing his hand lightly before pulling it to your chest. You pressed the back of his hand against your sternum, so he could feel the way your heart raced. “I want you.”

“You want a divorced, 40-something lawyer who works too much and has no idea how to do this anymore?” Andy asked, gesturing between the two of you with his free hand, bitterness dripping from his tone. His face was guarded, but you could’ve sworn you saw something deep in his eyes, something that looked like hope.

Spurred on by that spark in his gorgeous blue eyes, you pushed yourself up to standing, gratified when Andy didn’t step back. Your bodies were close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him, and for a moment, you basked in the feeling of him. It was the first time you’d ever been so close.

Andy Barber was hotter than the sun in his simple jeans and t-shirt, a hint of the silver chain he wore around his neck peeking out. You couldn’t help the way your body swayed into him, not quite touching, but aching to. Instead, you squeezed his hand again, still holding on.

“I want the man who’s my hot, friendly, charming neighbor, the generous man who always offers to mow my lawn or carry my groceries even when he’s busy,” you said, speaking slowly to make sure Andy heard every word you said. “I want the man who makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world every time he looks at me—the one who drives me so wild that I’ve been showing off for him all summer hoping he’d finally take a hint and ask me out.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest, and you felt laid bare after your pronouncement. You felt so much more vulnerable admitting your feelings than you ever had showing off your body, and you wondered briefly—morosely—if Andy would leave you hanging like he did all those other mornings.

Andy was quiet for a long time, his eyes searching your face like he was looking for any hint that you weren’t being entirely truthful. However, you had nothing to hide. You’d told him how you felt, how you’d been feeling all summer, and it was up to him to figure out how to handle it.

“He sounds like kind of an idiot,” Andy rumbled, raking his free hand through his fluffy brown hair. The gesture was uncertain, but there was a glimmer of humor in his gaze, and in the flickering corners of his mouth. “Maybe you’d be better off with someone else.”

You could hear the insecurity in his tone, and a sad smile curved your lips. He’d barely finished the sentence before you were shaking your head. 

“He’s the one I want,” you said simply, closing the distance between your bodies and pressing lightly against Andy’s chest. For a second, your head spun at the exhilarating feeling of him, but you refocused, pressing his hand to your sternum again. “My heart’s set on him.”

Andy took a deep breath, his chest rubbing against your aching nipples and sending a delicious shiver down your spine. It took all your self-control to hold yourself back from rubbing against him and begging him to fuck you. Somehow, you knew Andy just needed time, so you gave it to him.

“Well, sunshine,” Andy murmured, cupping your cheek in his big palm. His touch was cool compared to the warmth of the sun and you nuzzled into him, your eyes going heavy-lidded as you stared into his handsome face. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” you said quickly, just to drive your point home that you were sure. 

You were rewarded with Andy’s soft smile and his even softer, “Alright.” He ducked his head, pressing his forehead to yours.

Inside your chest, your heart soared. Andy Barber was finally going to give you what you wanted—him. You were so sure he was going to kiss you, a buzzy awareness filling your body as you tipped your head back, ready to slant your lips to his. You could taste the coffee on Andy’s breath, and you wanted to lick the taste from his lips.

But before your mouths could connect, Andy was pulling away, leaving you feeling bereft. A cry of protest rose in your throat, but you swallowed it down when he dropped a quick kiss to your knuckles, which stopped you from feeling too disappointed. 

There was a smirk flirting around the edges of Andy’s mouth, and there was a heated promise in his gaze as he stared at you. It only took a second for you to realize that Andy wanted to have a little fun before you took things further—and he’d rightly guessed that if you kissed, you didn’t know if you’d be able to stop yourself from jumping him.

“How about that dip in the pool?” Andy asked, back to his charming, friendly self—back to the game the two of you had been playing. “It’s another scorcher today, and I could use a little relief.”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Andy that you needed some relief from the heat swirling in your core, but you were too curious about what he was up to. So you let him pull his hand from yours and gestured welcomingly to your pool. “By all means…”

Then, right in front of you, Andy Barber began to strip. 

Reaching behind his back, he tugged his shirt over his head, ruffling his fluffy brown hair and revealing the wide expanse of his broad, golden chest. There was so much to look at, and all you could do was stare.

Andy’s shoulders were deliciously broad, his pecs covered in a dusting of dark brown hair that led down to his belly, and even further down… His skin was also decorated in a smattering of freckles that ran up his toned arms and across his collarbones, which were highlighted by the silver chain he always wore.

There was a layer of softness to Andy’s body that belied the strength you knew resided in his corded muscles, and it only made you ache for him even more. The tight coil of need in your belly wound even tighter as your gaze followed the path of hair down to his belly, where it disappeared into his jeans.

“Ya like what ya see, sunshine?” Andy asked, his tone friendly and teasing, but there was an undertone to it that revealed his own lust. It occurred to you, suddenly, that he liked it when you looked at him just as much as you liked the feeling of him watching you. 

The realization had your mouth curving into a smirk, and you wrenched your gaze up to Andy’s face to let him see the naked desire in your eyes. 

“Oh, I like it very much, Mr. Barber,” you murmured huskily, teasingly skating your fingertips down your sides to play with the ties of your bikini. “I’m feeling a little hot and bothered, might need to join you in the pool.”

At that, Andy grinned, his eyes dipping down your body to rake appreciatively over the way you looked in your skimpy bikini. It made you practically glow with pride and you grinned back, your own gaze greedily wandering his body.

In his jeans, Andy’s cock was hard and bulging, and you could imagine it was beginning to get uncomfortable. It was a good thing, then, that he made quick work of shucking off his jeans and socks, leaving them with his shoes by the sun lounger beside yours. 

Andy reached out, brushing his fingers over the back of your hand as he walked past, moving toward the pool. His touch sent tingles dancing through your body, and you desperately wanted to grab him and drag him back, but you wanted to see how this played out first.

“Join me whenever you want, sunshine,” Andy said, before pausing next to you and catching your eye. “Until then, enjoy the show.” He brushed a quick kiss to your cheek, his beard rasping against your skin and sending a shiver of delight down your spine.

Then he was gone, strolling to the edge of the pool and executing a smooth dive into the cool water. 

Your legs felt weak, all the blood in your body rushing between your thighs, where you were throbbing with need, so you sank down onto your sun lounger. You watched with breathless anticipation thrumming in your blood as Andy cut a clean line through the water, swimming laps like he didn’t have a significant bulge between his thighs.

You were too riled up to sit still for long, and when you couldn’t stop squirming on the lounger, you gave up the pretense of watching to walk to the edge of the pool. There, you sat down, dipping your feet into the pool and letting its coolness give you some relief. 

For a little while, you watched Andy swim laps, his golden skin a contrast to the bright blue water. Leaning back on your hands, you kicked your feet idly as you watched him unabashedly, your eyes taking in the way his muscles shifted beneath his skin, the curve of his trim waist and the perfect flex of his ass and thighs.

When he finally came to a stop, treading water in the middle of your pool, he looked around and grinned when he found you sitting on the edge. Swimming over, his hands gripped the lip of the pool on either side of your hips, a shameless grin on his handsome face. 

Andy made a show of looking at you, his eyes lingering on the plushness of your thighs pressed against the stone edge before dragging slowly up to your tits and peaked nipples. His gaze felt like a physical caress, it was so intent on your body, and your tits bounced a little as your breathing quickened.

Finally, Andy’s eyes collided with yours, and you sucked in a gasp at the sheer amount of heat in his gaze. It perfectly matched the desire burning in your belly. You wanted to jump him so bad, but you tried to act as if you were indifferent to the hot older man in front of you.

“How’s the pool? Refreshing?” you asked, trying to distract yourself from the tension swirling thickly around you and your neighbor. However, your voice was so breathless, you still sounded as if you were panting like you were in heat. 

Andy noticed, the corner of his mouth curving up into a ridiculously self-satisfied smirk. The expression was so distinctly masculine, it made your core clench and you squirmed a little, pressing your thighs together for some semblance of relief. 

“It’s perfect,” he purred and you nearly trembled at the seductive heat in his voice. “And it’s even nicer with you sitting on the edge, looking so pretty in your little swimsuit while you watch me.”

“Andy.” His name was a helpless exhalation, your heart racing faster in your chest the longer you stared at your handsome neighbor. Up close, you could see the fine lines around his blue eyes, and a little smattering of gray in his beard. 

The evidence of Andy Barber’s age was a reminder that he was older than you, but it also made him all the more handsome in your eyes. You swayed toward him, pushing your tits out as if in offer, and he let out a little growl of desire.

“What do you want, sunshine—want to give me some of those pointers on how to improve my show,” Andy began, his voice as low and rough as gravel. “Or do you want to join me in the pool and let me get some hands-on experience with how to please you?”

Your brows winged up and your eyes widened with delight at the second option Andy presented. It didn’t take you more than a second of thought to decide you wanted your neighbor’s hands on your body—and you hoped desperately that led to his cock in your cunt.

The question was barely out of Andy’s mouth before you were slipping into the pool. He stepped back and straightened his arms to give you room, but didn’t move his hands from the edge of the pool. That meant that as you slid into the water, your body rubbed against his bigger, sturdier frame.

Andy held your gaze the entire time, your body rioting with sensation at the drag of his hard muscles against your softer, plusher body. His blue eyes darkened and it felt like your skin was engulfed in flames, even as the cool water of the pool swirled around you.

Once your toes touched the bottom of the pool, Andy crowded you into the side, pinning you between the tiled wall and his hard body. Your hands rested on his biceps, distractedly learning the curve of his muscles, and you gasped softly when his bulge brushed against your belly.

“This is what you do to me, sunshine,” Andy murmured, his voice low as he pressed his hips forward, digging his hard bulge deeper into your softness. “You’ve been driving me wild all summer, making me fuck my first more than I have since I was a teenager.”

“Mm, it made me so wet knowing you were watching me,” you teased, winding your arms around his broad shoulders and lifting your legs to circle his waist. “I would’ve been more than happy to help you with your predicament, Mr. Barber.”

Your core settled against his thick bulge and you closed your eyes as pleasure burst through your body, a soft, helpless moan slipping from your lips. He felt so big and thick, you knew he was going to fit inside you perfectly, and your body was already aching for exactly that. 

Andy’s growl brought you back to the moment. “Stop calling me Mr. Barber like you’re the naughty girl next door,” he rumbled, his hands falling from the edge of the pool to grab your hips. He rubbed you shamelessly against his bulge, wringing a moan from you. “Or are you calling me that because what you really want is to call me daddy.”

Your pussy clenched and you clung tighter to Andy, humping against his bulge while you moaned in his ear, “Fuck, daddy, your cock feels so big and hard against my pussy.” You dragged your slit down the length of his dick, the scrap of fabric of your bikini already slipping to one side. “What are you gonna do about it?”

With a tortured groan, Andy captured your lips in a kiss, stealing the filthy words from your tongue and plundering your mouth for all you were worth. His fingers yanked on the strings of your top until he could pull it free and toss it onto the patio.

Then Andy was groping your tits and grunting his satisfaction into your mouth. His hands were so big and strong, his deft fingers pinching and plucking at your nipples, wringing soft moans and desperate whines from your mouth, which he greedily swallowed down.

Andy was quick to figure out what made your breath hitch and what had you moaning helplessly into his kiss; he put that knowledge to good use, turning you into a writhing mess in his arms.

All you could do was hold onto him, your arms tightening around his shoulders, your fingers carding through his soft brown hair. You raked your nails down his neck and across his shoulders, enjoying the way he shuddered against your body.

Andy’s mouth broke from yours to trail kisses down your jaw, nipping and teasing your throat while his beard rasped deliciously against your skin. It sent tingles of pleasure dancing through your body, leaving you to hump mindlessly against his bulge.

“Oh god, Andy, I need more,” you cried, burying your face in the base of his neck, mouth suckling on the skin just above his collarbone. He tasted like salt and chlorine and you didn’t think you’d ever get enough. “Please, daddy, I need you.”

“You’re a needy little thing, aren’t you, sunshine?” Andy rumbled with a deep chuckle, the vibration teasing between your thighs. You rocked your hips, grinding harder against his bulge while he played with your tits. “Why don’t you tell daddy exactly what you need, and then maybe I’ll give it to you.”

You huffed a petulant sound at the teasing in Andy’s tone, but lifted your head to look him in the eye. You were gratified to see he was just as wrecked with lust as you were, and a smile flirted around the edges of your mouth at the realization that you were both in this moment together.

“I need you to fuck me, daddy,” you said plainly, growing impatient with all the games you’d played that summer. You felt like he’d been edging you for months, and you were ready for a good, hard pounding. “I need you to split me open on your fat cock and fuck me like a slut. I’ve waited so long—please, Andy, give it to me. I need it—I need you.”

“Oh fuck, baby, you’re so fucking perfect,” Andy groaned, kissing you again. His hands slid down your sides, fingers tearing at the strings of your bikini until the scrap of fabric was finally wrenched away. In the next moment, he was shoving his boxer briefs down, freeing his hard length.

Then Andy was lining up the head of his cock with your tight entrance, dragging the tip through your soaked folds. You were already drenched and dripping for him before you’d even gotten in the pool, and all the grinding against his bulge had only made you needier. 

Still, when he began pressing inside, it stole the breath from your lungs. 

“Oh god, Andy, yes, give it to me,” you babbled quietly in Andy’s ear, barely enough air to get the words out. You held him tight in your arms while he lowered your hips onto his cock, slowly impaling you on his thick length. “Daddy, daddy, please!”

“Jesus fuck, baby,” Andy grunted, shunting his hips forward until half his cock was hilted inside you. A high-pitched squeak tumbled from your lips and pleasure coursed through your body, pleasure singing in your blood at the burn of him stretching you open.

Distantly, you were aware that you were still in your backyard, which only offered an illusion of privacy, so you buried your face in Andy’s beard, muffling a moan into the coarse, dark hair. He was so big and thick inside you, making room in your tight cunt for his fat cock, that you were trembling in his arms from how good it felt. 

“Y’alright, sunshine?” Andy asked, one of his hands stroking up and down your spine in a soothing gesture. 

You nodded into his neck. “Feels sooo good, daddy,” you murmured, enjoying the way his cock twitched at the endearment. “Deeper, daddy, need you deeper, all the way—want you to fill up my tight cunt with your big daddy cock.”

Andy groaned like he was being tortured, but he grabbed your hips and pulled you all the way down on his cock. You stifled a scream into his beard, your mouth biting into his jaw through the coarse hair and making him grunt, his cock twitching inside you.

For a long, hazy moment you let your body adjust to the feeling of Andy’s cock buried inside you. It was such an intense feeling of fullness, and you already knew you’d never get enough of it. Andy Barber could stuff you full of his cock every day of your life and it still wouldn’t be enough.

Before too long, though, you grew impatient for the friction your body craved. You squirmed against Andy, trying to fuck yourself on his cock, but he pinned you more firmly against the side of the pool, keeping his cock buried deep in your tight cunt.

“Gimme a minute, sunshine,” Andy rumbled, his voice warm with affection as he pressed kisses to your cheek before capturing your lips in a sweet kiss. When he pulled away, his forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna savor this—the first time daddy’s cock is buried in his baby girl’s cunt.”

The filthiness of his words had a delicious shiver skating down your spine and an obscene moan slipping from your lips. You didn’t know which of you closed the distance between your mouths, but in the next breath you were kissing desperately, making out with your hot older neighbor in your pool while you were impaled on his cock. 

By the time Andy slowed the kiss, your body had relaxed in his arms. You were draped loosely around his sturdy frame, your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nails raking through the hair at the nape of his neck, and your legs wound around his waist, ankles resting on the curve of his ass.

“That’s a good girl,” Andy cooed in your ear, smoothing his hands up and down your bare back. “Just keep daddy’s cock warm for a minute while he makes sure he doesn’t come too soon.”

Despite the loose, relaxed feeling in your limbs, you snickered into Andy’s beard. “Really showing your age, old man,” you teased, purposefully clenching around his cock and wringing a grunt from your neighbor.

He pulled back and gave you the harshest glare he could muster, which wasn’t harsh at all. If anything, it was adorable. But you gave Andy a sweet kiss all the same in apology. 

“I like it,” you murmured into his mouth, letting the truth spill freely. “I like knowing I have such an effect on you.”

Andy’s mouth curved into a smile against yours, and you could practically taste the affection on his lips. “You have no idea, sunshine, the effect you have on me,” he said, his words sounding like a promise. 

Before you could ask him what he meant, his hands were sliding under your ass and he began to move you on his cock. Your body was buoyed by the water, making you basically weightless, and Andy used that to his advantage, lifting you up and pulling you down on his hard length. 

“Be a good girl and take it, sunshine, take my cock like the pretty little slut I know you are,” he growled, fucking you in hard, deep strokes. With every thrust, the tip of his cock brushed against a spot inside you that had you seeing stars, and you gave yourself over to the sensation.

You threaded your fingers in Andy’s hair, holding on tight as he fucked you, enjoying the feeling of his thick cock dragging in and out of your tight pussy. When he hiked you up higher against his chest, his head ducking down so he could lick and suck at your tits, you squealed, the sound dissolving into a moan.

Curling around Andy’s big body, you buried your face in the crown of his head, trying to muffle your sounds of pleasure. You’d remembered far too late that even though the trees around your property shielded your yard from view, there was nothing stopping the noises of you and Andy fucking from carrying on the breeze.

Thankfully, it was still early on a Sunday morning, and most of the neighborhood wasn’t awake yet. Otherwise, you had no doubt someone would’ve been calling in a noise complaint to the HOA.

The pleasure in your core coiled tighter as you rushed toward your release. When your pussy was fluttering around Andy’s cock, he yanked you back down into the water and pinned you against the wall of the pool, pounding into you relentlessly. 

All you could do was take it, clinging on to Andy while he fucked you, moaning helplessly with every brutal thrust of his cock in your tight pussy. It wasn’t long before you were close, the sounds spilling from your lips becoming more and more high-pitched and desperate. 

“Daddy, please, cum inside me,” you begged, burying your face in his beard and whining your need into his sun-warmed skin. “I’m on birth control, just pump me full—please, Andy.”

“Fuck, yes, baby, daddy’s gonna fill you up,” Andy groaned, grinding his hips between your thighs. The movement had his cock stroking that spot inside you, his pelvic bone rubbing against your clit. “Cum for me, sunshine, wanna feel your perfect cunt milking my dick dry while your pussy sucks all the cum from my balls.”

“Oh god, Andy,” you cried, teeth sinking into his shoulder to muffle the piercing scream that spilled from your throat as you came. Your body convulsed in your neighbor’s arms, pleasure overwhelming your mind until all that was left was you and him and his cock inside your clenching pussy.

Your release triggered Andy’s, and he came a moment later, his mouth pressed against the side of your throat as he groaned his pleasure. You felt the bite of his teeth and it only sent your pleasure spiralling higher, making your release last even longer. 

Through your haze of pleasure, you felt Andy’s cock twitch as he spilled rope after rope of cum inside your pussy, painting your inner walls white. He groaned against your neck and held you crushed to his chest, his hips jerking as your body wrung every last drop from his cock.

It was everything you’d wanted—better even than all the fantasies you’d had about Andy Barber all summer, because it was real. He was really in your arms, his cock coming inside you, claiming you, his mouth murmuring sweet, possessive words against your skin.

“My girl, my sweet girl, my perfect girl.”

You hid your smile in Andy’s beard, nails digging into his skin as you clung on to him, your bodies writhing together and eking out every bit of pleasure you could. 

When you were both finally spent and exhausted, Andy carried you over to the tiled steps in your pool and collapsed, keeping both of your bodies submerged in the cool water. He leaned back, and you sprawled across his broad body, enjoying the feeling his chest hair teasing your nipples.

“Was that worth the wait, sunshine?” Andy asked, a hint of insecurity in his voice that had your heart clenching in your chest. His hands were lovingly stroking your back, but you could feel the tension in his body.

You lifted your head from where it had been laying against this shoulder and cupped Andy’s handsome face in your hands. Your fingers teased through his beard, nails scratching lightly at the skin beneath. He practically purred at the feeling and you had to bite back a bigger grin.

“It was everything I’d waited all summer for,” you said honestly, ducking forward and capturing Andy’s mouth in a sweet, decadent kiss. When you pulled away, you couldn’t stop yourself from adding a snarky comment: “I’m still waiting for you to ask me out, though.” 

Andy chuckled against your mouth, giving your ass an affectionate squeeze before his hand slid up your spine and wrapped around the back of your neck. He pulled you in for a kiss, this one all happy smiles and teasing nips. When you were sufficiently breathless, he finally pulled away. 

“Can I take you out to dinner tonight, sunshine?” he asked, a small smirk on his lips. 

You knew he had a right to look and sound self-satisfied—you were, after all, going to say yes. But you made a show of making him sweat a little. Leaning back, you tapped your chin, acting like you were checking your schedule in your head and thinking it over.

Andy chuckled at your antics and waited patiently, though he did start rocking his hips, fucking you in shallow, grinding thrusts that had your head going hazy with renewed pleasure. 

Finally, after another moment of his teasing rocking, you put Andy out of his misery. “I’d like that,” you said, your voice more than a little breathless, before leaning in for another kiss.

Andy’s relief and happiness were palpable as he kissed you. His mouth moved slowly, methodically, against yours, and it took you a moment to realize what he was doing—that he was deliberately exploring your body, taking the time you hadn’t given him earlier to learn you.

With a smile that he licked from your mouth, you settled in on Andy’s lap, kissing him back and reveling in the knowledge that you had all the time in the world to explore him and learn him in return. After so long spent dreaming about your neighbor, you were going to take your time getting to know him, and his body, better.

You spent the rest of the morning with Andy Barber, enjoying the refreshing coolness of the pool and the rekindling heat between your bodies. For a while, you kept his cock warm while you sat in his lap in the pool. When he was ready for another round, you rode him lazily, delighting in the pleasure of his cock inside you.

After, you recovered together on one of the sun loungers on your patio, where you told him about all the books you’d read that summer and he’d opened up about himself. The sun was dipping low in the sky, the afternoon bleeding into evening when you finally parted ways.

That evening, Andy took you out to a nice dinner, and you discovered you didn’t need to be wearing a skimpy bikini for him to rake his eyes appreciatively over your body. You just needed to be you.

Despite how much you’d talked during the day, you and Andy didn’t run out of conversation topics at dinner, and it was an enjoyable date. So enjoyable, in fact, that you went home with him afterward—though nothing much happened.

After such a long day spent in the sun, the two of you ended up falling asleep on the couch together instead of continuing what you’d begun in the pool that morning. At some point in the night, Andy led you up to his bedroom, and you fell back to sleep together, entirely entwined.

You woke the next morning with a smile on your face and Andy’s arms wrapped around your body. There was an autumn chill in the air, so you snuggled deeper into his chest, enjoying the way his arms tightened around you and held you close.

As summer turned to fall, your relationship with the hot older man next door deepened and turned into something profoundly meaningful. Andy Barber went from being a good neighbor to a good boyfriend—and, eventually, he became a good husband.

part 1 ☀️ part 2 ☀️ part 3

It started with stray, lingering touches, because it was torture to have you—so beautiful and sweet—sitting across from him week after week, and yet still, Andy couldn’t have you. 

No matter how much he knew it was exactly what you needed, him to protect you and appreciate you, someone who had a deep understanding and sympathy for your issues but who could also, in time, he was sure of it, lure you out of your shell and, at the very least, make that tempting body of yours come alive. 

But after just a few weeks, touches weren’t enough. 

Andy needed to taste you, and not just that sweet mouth, oh no. He needed to feast on your pussy like a man starved. 

So of course Andy took it as “a sign” that the same day that he woke up from the most intense wet dream ever—dreaming of ruining you from his place between your thighs—you wore a pretty dress for him, for the first time in weeks. 

If that wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know what was. 

As exquisite as it was to drink from your sweet cunt, nothing compared to the first time he filled you with his cock. 

You were under just enough that you couldn’t resist—not that you would, he was sure of it—but still aware enough that you could feel him and hear him and respond to him. 

Beg him. 

And you did. 

He had barely stretched you open before you were mewling and moaning and pleading for more, your fingers curling into his crisp button down, your mouth as responsive as your cunt around his cock as he dipped close and kissed you deeply. 

And the icing on the cake? Without any prompting or influence at all, you said his name, his given name–”Andy!”–as you came around his cock, sending him over the edge right after you. 

Andy groaned against your neck as he pumped into you a few more times, spilling his seed deep and marking you in the most intimate way he could. Making you his completely, whether you knew it or not–for now, anyway. 

And once he was done? Andy cleaned your sensitive cunt with his mouth, forcing another orgasm from you, eyes shining as your fingers gripped his hair, your eyes still closed and face sweetly twisted with your pleasure. 

Andy shifted your panties back into place, tugging your dress back down and smoothing it for good measure. He stole one more kiss before returning to his chair across from the sofa where you laid, now freshly debauched by him, and clueless about it. 

He took his time gently pulling you back to the surface of consciousness. Smiling encouragingly as your shy gaze briefly met his as you sat up and primly tugged your dress as far down as it would go, crossing your legs at your ankles before folding your hands in your lap. 

“How do you feel?” Andy asked. 

He barely suppressed a smirk as you squirmed in your seat, avoiding his gaze. 

“Um, good actually. I don’t feel as tense as when I first got here.” A small, beautiful smile broke out across your face as you glanced up at him. “I guess our work is paying off, huh?”

“I certainly think so,” Andy grinned, making a note in his pad. “I say we strike while the iron is hot and double up our weekly sessions for the time being, what do you think?”

“If that’s what you think is best, Dr. Barber, then let’s do it.”

Smiling, Andy resisted the urge to praise you with a gentle “good girl.” He promised himself that he’d save that for your next session, which he could barely wait for, growing hard again already merely at the thought of having you again. 

And again, and again.

I won’t even apologize 😌

—

Please take a moment to drop a comment or reblog. Engagement is the fuel that keeps writers writing and sharing their work for your enjoyment, so do your part to keep our fandom alive. Serial likers will be blocked.

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

He opens the fridge and stands there, hand on the door, looking for the thing he knows he doesn’t have: some dinner that isn’t toast or yogurt. He glances at his phone, no messages. He looks around before releasing a deep sigh. The house always feels too silent.

Now he’s back at the door, peering through the storm glass, the box still waiting unobtrusively before him.

It isn’t his birthday, not for another three months. He’s not sure who would send him a package anyway, and he’d made no orders recently. Andy’s neighbors are too old to bother with pranks. He opens the screen, bends down to collect the box, and slips the package under his arm, carrying it in to the kitchen counter.

A neat arrangement of flowers emerges as he opens the box. No cellophane, just a pale blue tissue cushioning the stems and a small card. Not even in an envelope. The handwriting is blocky: TO ANDY. That’s it. No return address, no signature, just his name as if that alone would explain everything.

He looks at the flowers: some kind of bloom he’s never seen before. The petals seem delicate, and they’re a strange, precise shade of ivory, each petal streaked with a faint green that seems to deepen as he stares. The scent is so thick he almost recoils, first overly sweet, almost rotten with anticipation, syrupy-sweet and high-pitched, but settling, after a breath, into something lusher, like the inside of a greenhouse after rain. The air feels heavy, and on a second, unguarded inhale, his chest swells with a pleasant, tingling warmth. He can feel the pink rising along his neck, the way his hands want to fidget, like he’s standing awkwardly at a middle school dance, which is so strange he almost laughs. The scent—if he admits it, even to himself—reminds him of you, his new neighbor.

He wonders if you’re home, and the thought is so sudden, so absurd, he nearly puts the flowers back in the box. But that would be ridiculous.

He’s only met you twice: once waving from your side of the street as you retrieved your mail from the mailbox at the curb, and once at the neighborhood meeting, where after introductions were made the two of you had exchanged a handful of words about the late pick-up of recycling before Janice had called the meeting to order.

Maybe he should give the flowers to you.

No, that would also be ridiculous. He hardly knows you.

He goes to the kitchen sink and fills a water glass, digs under the cabinet for the only vase he owns—one of those heavy-glass things, left behind by someone in the house before it was his, maybe a relic of a more optimistic era, or more likely, a leftover from a florist’s upcharge. He arranges the flowers, still cautious, sets them in the middle of the kitchen table. For a minute he stands, simply staring, as if they might reveal something by being observed.

He sits at the table, scrolling his phone, forcing himself to focus on the news, but the scent of the flowers—now more bearable, even comforting—keeps lapping at his attention. He tries to read about the city council’s new water restrictions. Then about the meteor shower predicted for next week. When he looks up, the glass vase is throwing long, refracted ovals of green-tinted light onto the table, and the petals are trembling faintly, as if in a draft. There is no draft. He wonders what kind of flowers these even are. The urge to Google it is strong—maybe they’re from some rare local shrub. Maybe you’d know.

He huffs in frustration, then pushes away from the table. He makes his usual evening circuit through the house—checking doors, clicking on the living room lamp, pulling a can from the fridge—but each time he passes the kitchen, the wet-glass shimmer of the flowers is waiting, like a question he forgot to answer. He hovers in the doorway during commercials as he pretends to watch the game while really watching the slow collapse of petals in the vase. He tries to remember what you looked like across the street, what you were wearing, but all he can recall is how you hadn’t noticed him at first, and how that felt sharp and interesting in a way he didn’t know what to do with.

He eats cold noodles over the sink and finds himself rehearsing, in his head, how you might react if he brought you the flowers after all. What kind of note would he write? Would you even open the door?

The phone buzzes—a work group text, something about interviews for the new interns next week—and he thumbs out a reply, then set the phone down and finishes his shoddy meal.

He can’t remember the last time he was this preoccupied with anything. You’ve crossed his mind a number of times since you moved in across the street, but tonight it’s somehow impossible to think of anything or anyone but you. He’s never thought of himself as the “intrigued by a neighbor” type. And yet. The air feels crimped with possibility, which is stupid, because what would that even mean? He wonders if you’re watching the same game, or if you’re home at all, or if you’re across the street eating your own sad single-person dinner, oblivious to the fact that you’ve taken up residence in someone’s mind.

It doesn’t get any better.

He blames the flowers. The scent is everywhere, and he can’t make it stop, can’t crack a window wide enough to dilute it, can’t shake the sense that the petals are folding and unfurling at a speed just shy of human perception. He’s always been able to fall asleep instantly—smirking at friends who whined about insomnia—but now it’s as if his head is a hive. Minutes after crawling into bed, he’s restless, hot, the sheets sticking to him. He twists, then sits upright, the pillowcase damp and smelling faintly of the flowers. He gets up, paces the kitchen, then the living room, then stands at the window and stares across the street.

Your porch light is on. A rectangle of light throws out from your living room, and there’s a silhouette moving inside, maybe you, maybe a coat thrown over a chair, but all the same, the knowledge of you being over there is a burr under his ribs, a contamination in his bloodstream.

He can’t take it. He runs his hands through his hair, then growls in frustration and strides out his front door and down the steps of his porch before he knows what’s happening or what will come next.

The knock on your door startles your heart clean out of your body because no one should be knocking on your door this late at night.

You freeze, bowl of cereal in hand. In place of chewing, you hold your breath. After a full, tense ten seconds, there’s a second knock, insistent and measured, as though whoever is out there has no intention of going away.

You reach for your phone, thumb shaking a little more than you want to admit, and check the time, knowing you should’ve headed to bed ages ago. Not even the delivery apps will come out this late, not in this blissfully suburban neighborhood.

You mute the TV and tiptoe to the entryway, bowl cradled to your chest like a shield. Peering through the peephole, you almost drop the whole thing—milk, cereal, ceramic and all—because Andy from across the street is standing on your porch. He’s alone, wearing lounge pants and a t-shirt that’s wonderfully too tight, his usually soft-looking floofy hair wild, face creased with some expression you can’t decipher.

You step back, breathing through your nose, heart in overdrive. It’s not as if you’ve fantasized about him showing up at your doorstep in the middle of the night. Except you have. Far too many times.

You set the bowl on the entry table and smooth your hair in the faint reflection of the hall mirror. Four seconds elapse. Too long? Too short? You open the door just enough to wedge your face out the crack, just far enough to shield your pajamas, which feature a cartoon from your childhood with a long-defunct brand logo, but not so much that you’d seem like you were hiding. Andy’s bearded face is flushed; he runs a palm over the back of his neck.

“Hey,” he says, honeyed voice low, and pitching right to your twisting core. “Sorry. I know it’s late.”

You make yourself smile. “Is everything okay?”

“I, uh, yeah. I—” He glances back at the perfectly safe, empty street, then leans a little closer to the door frame. “Actually, could I come in? Just for a second?”

There’s a quality in his voice you can’t name. An urgency layered under hesitancy. You nod, opening the door wide, and back up through the narrow entry, suddenly very aware of the state of your hair, your house, the half-finished bowl of cereal.

He nearly pulls the door out of your hand, pushes it tenderly but forcefully shut, and before you can arrange your face into the appropriate social mask, Andy is kissing you like he came here to do exactly this and nothing else in the world has ever mattered. His hands are reverent and greedy at once, one cradling your jaw, the other fisting in the back of your t-shirt. He tastes faintly of toothpaste. You respond as you always imagined you would—if not out loud, then with every part of your animal self—gripping his shoulders like a lifeline, digging into the muscles you’d admired from across your respective sidewalks.

You’re already a little winded when you break apart, but Andy’s eyes are glassy and his breathing is ragged. His thumb is tracing delicate lines over your cheekbone, and you’re trying to remember how to speak when he does it again—lips on yours, but this time slower, like he’s trying to press your molecules together, seam to seam. You let him. He mouths at your lower lip until you open for him, tongue gliding in, deliberate and sure. His body presses yours backward, and you feel the flat cold of the door through your pajamas. Andy’s body is all heat and intention and hard planes against your utter softness, and the pressure of him caging you in is heady.

He pulls back, just enough to look at you, eyes wide and startled as if he can’t quite believe what he’s doing. “Sorry,” he says, almost in a daze of his own, “I just need…”

He kisses you again, mouth hot and desperate, tongue slick against yours, like he’s been thirsty for weeks. His hand never strays from your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it with a tenderness that nearly undoes you, but he slides the other down, skimming your side, the subtle flex of muscle through his shirt as he grips your waist. Your mind cracks open, every synapse alert, every cell singing.

You arch into him, needy, shameless. You think there’s no way this can be real. But even as you think it, he smothers a groan into your neck, lips dragging from your mouth to the pulse that hammers there, then back again, like he can’t bear to be away from your lips for more than a single heartbeat.

His palm curves over your hip, slow and decisive, then dips past the loose elastic of your pajama shorts. You gasp a warning that’s half protest, but mostly need, as his knuckles drag against your belly, then he’s inside, palm cupping you, and the simple warmth of his hand makes every thought you’ve ever had vanish. Andy kisses you with the same searching hunger, open-mouthed and ruined, as two blunt fingers sweep through the wet slick of you, slow at first, deliberate, petting the lips of your cunt until you’re squirming for more, until it’s embarrassing how wet you are, how quickly you’re coming apart.

You brace both hands against his chest, meaning to slow him, but instead you just hold on, clutching the soft cotton of his shirt, small noises escaping you. The way he kisses you is relentless—mouth devouring, tongue hot and sure, as if the world might end if he doesn’t taste every inch of you. His hand works down your body, urgent and hungry, and his fingers push deeper into your shorts, parting the seams, as if he’s opening a gift he’s thought about unwrapping for months. He slides two thick fingers into you, curling them with a deftness that feels like it should belong to a darker, more dangerous man—the kind of person your mother warned you about, not Andy, who always walks his recycling bin out at the exact right day and waves at the old lady three doors down.

You’re already trembling and he’s barely started. He fucks you with his hand, slow at first, then ruthless, setting a rhythm that makes your knees threaten to buckle. You clutch his shoulders, gasping into his open mouth, and he swallows the sound, grinning against your lips.

How is this happening?

You can’t think. You feel the split between your thighs and Andy’s hand, the way his palm is big enough to cover all the space there, possessive and gentle at once, drawing out tight circles over your clit. His fingers drive in unyielding and sweet, crooking with precision, the heel of his palm grinding firm as he fucks you through a shattering pleasure—one that comes so fast and hot you actually try to bite it back, your teeth sinking into his lower lip. He huffs a desperate, laughing sound, and when you come, it’s not like climbing some steady hill, but being dropped through a trapdoor.

You gasp and shudder, clutching at the man who just wrecked you. You should’ve protested all of this, shouldn’t you?

You want, more than anything, to collapse to the cool hardwood and drag him down with you, but Andy must sense this, because he presses you harder to the door, trapping you upright between the wood and the furnace of his body.

Andy’s hand doesn’t ease up. He holds you pinned, like you’re an answer he’s demanded from the universe and now that he’s got you, he won’t let you out of his grip. He presses his lips to your temple, riding out your aftershocks, but you feel the tremor in his arm, like restraint is costing him something precious. When you try to shift away, to breathe, he gives a small, strangled sound—almost wounded—and tugs you back, mouth at your ear.

“No,” he whispers, and his hand strokes lower, like he’s determined to find the bottom of you, the root of this need. “I need more. Need to see you—” His breath stutters, and he sucks your earlobe into his mouth, worrying it with his teeth. “Need to watch you lose it for me again.”

You’d argue, but the truth is you want the same thing, no part of you wants him to stop.

The twist of his wrist, the scuff of his palm over the tight bundle of nerves, the softness of his mouth on your jaw, your neck, the corner of your lips—he’s everywhere, demanding and worshipful. Andy’s body presses closer, crowding you against the door, and you can feel every frantic beat of his heart through the thin shield of his t-shirt. He murmurs nonsense into your skin—good girl, so gorgeous, fuck, need, need, need.

You think you’re going to say his name, but it gets stuck behind your teeth, too many syllables suddenly unfathomable. It’s ridiculous. The pressure builds, sweet and sharp, and Andy’s hand is never not exactly where you need it, somehow reading micro-adjustments on your face, your breath. He curses—soft, reverent—when your whole body shivers, when your hips buck into his palm. You’re making noises you don’t recognize, high and pleading and so raw you’d be embarrassed if you could think straight. There’s no shield. There’s just Andy and his hand and you, the way your body opens for him, the way you melt and tremble. The second release is so complete it whites out everything—and what brings you back is not your own breath or heartbeat but the faint, helpless trembling in Andy’s forearms, the way he is shaking almost as badly as you are.

He’s watching you, face open and wild, like he’s just been let out of a cage. And the sight of him—lips parted, brow damp, pupils obliterating the blue—turns your insides to syrup. You are about to collapse, or maybe just melt, when you realize Andy’s hand is still inside your shorts, but now it’s gentle, just a palm pressed over your cunt, and his other hand has caught your wrist and pinned it gently but immovably above your head.

You try to breathe. You fail.

He kisses you, softer this time, and you let your eyes flutter closed. For a long minute, the world is just your breath curling together, the press of his lips, the warmth of his chest pressed to yours, and your heart constricts beautifully, remembering how you’ve longed for a moment just like this.

And then a sudden, vivid memory of the other night, ambushes you mid-kiss.

You, alone and wine-drunk a week ago, flicking through late-night TikToks until you scrolled upon a witch who was too intriguing to pass by. She spoke about manifesting and desires and moon cycles. She was answering comments with wisdom that was tinged with only a whiff of whimsy. The whole thing seemed so exquisitely stupid, so precisely the sort of thing you’d mock with a friend at brunch, but that was half the ache that had you wine-drunk and scrolling. You’d never been in a serious romantic relationship, but now you were also in a new town with no family, no friends, lacking connection, and feeling so alone.

So you’d stayed, wanting to believe, just a little, in magic.

The witch hadn’t seemed much older than you, if at all—hair in two space buns, eyeliner winged so sharp it could slice through time. Unlike the other algorithmic spiritualists who popped up on your feed, she answered comments with candor and missed no opportunity to call out the grifters. She laughed often, cackled sometimes, and radiated a low-budget but compelling earnestness that you respected. Her handle was something like @HexAndFlex, and before you knew it, you’d clicked through to her profile and linktree, then her Etsy, then, in a tangle of embarrassment and fascination, to the checkout page.

Wine glass in hand, you signed up for her $19.99 “Goddess Alignment Manifestation” bundle via Etsy, which included a personalized reading and three PDF guides. You filled out the intake questionnaire at 2:12 a.m., pausing long and hard on the prompts: “What are your hopes? Who are you inviting into your life? What does love feel like in your body?”

Waking up the next morning, you had an email from Sage Moonwater—a name that was either a branding masterstroke or her actual birth certificate humiliation—inviting you to select a time to consult that evening via her convenient Calendly link so you could step into your power and claim the life you deserved, specifically by manifesting “your soulmate’s touch” before the next crescent moon. It was so transparently silly, but her voice had had a way of making you feel less like a joke and more like a person who could actually want things, and what the hell did you have to lose now that you’d already paid the twenty bucks?

You’d set up the call for the same evening, all self-mockery, already rehearsing the text you’d send to Emily about what you were about to do. But as soon as the video chat connected, you felt a weird, grounding nervousness, like maybe you were about to reveal something shameful and true.

Sage had an actual backdrop—galaxy stars on a rich tapestry, a candle burning low, shelves of glass jars and labeled bottles that might hold essential oils or ketchup packets for all you could see. She greeted you with a firm, confident wave and a smile so wide it bordered on conspiratorial. She asked about your day, your mood, how you slept, and the questions came not as a checklist but as a real curiosity, like she wanted to know what you’d eaten for lunch because it was the first data point in a cosmic equation. The whole interaction felt, bizarrely, more intimate than your last three actual dates.

She asked and you talked about desire, about heartbreak, about loneliness, about the years and years of being the person everyone called “so independent” and “so intimidating” when really, you would’ve given up every self-actualized inch of it just to have one person see you across a crowded room and want you enough to cross the distance. You had not intended to say any of this, not even to yourself, but in the slow momentum of Sage’s affirming silences and cocked eyebrows, it all tumbled out. The next thing you knew, you were telling her about the feeling of your last almost-relationship ending, how it made you feel like a fading echo in a canyon, and how the new town had seemed like a possibility for a reset, a new chapter and new connections, but instead just made everything echo louder.

And then you mentioned your neighbor. Andy. Not by name at first, but by silhouette: the broad-shouldered man who was clean cut and seemed so kind and took his trash bins to the curb at the exact legally sanctioned minute, who always mowed the lawn of your elderly neighbor. You admitted—your cheeks burning, as if Sage could sense it across the pixels—that your neighbor looked like the actor who played Captain America, only with a beard that made him look less Marvel franchise and more the Northeast suburban lawyer that he was. You told her that, and Sage grinned, writing notes on an index card, and said you should never apologize for wanting a man whose forearms could probably open a stuck pickle jar with hardly an ounce of effort.

Sage guided you through a ritual that was half guided meditation, half pep talk, and one hundred percent more soothing than you expected. The rest of the call was a blur, but you remembered the precise click of the lighter as Sage torched a little twist of something in a shell, then told you to believe, for just a minute, that the universe would not play you if you simply asked for what you wanted, no disclaimers, no shame. At the end, Sage closed her eyes and murmured something, then said, “Manifestation doesn’t mean sitting still. When you see the signal, walk into it. Be the spell.” You laughed—together as she took her craft but not herself too seriously, you promised to leave her a five-star review, and closed the laptop.

Then you forgot about it. Full on forgot for the rest of the week, until the entire affair reverberates with the force of a sucker punch, the moment Andy’s hand, slick with you, presses harder, grounding you in the exact present of everything Sage told you to want.

Now, as you gasp for air—Andy’s mouth still pressed to the hinge of your jaw, his hand holding your wrist pinned—you have the wild, horrible thought that you might actually have done this. Not just metaphorically, not in the way of I set an intention and now the universe is showing me signs, but in the literal, actions-have-consequences sense of the word. That you, in a fit of late-night desperation, tapped your wishes into the digital void with the help of an Etsy witch, and then the void, bored or mercenary or high on its own power, sent you Andy, unfiltered, nearly deranged with need, to finish what you started.

“Oh, no,” you murmur, breathless, aware at cellular level that you’ve broken something and there’s no undialing it back. Andy’s mouth is still on your neck, but his hand has stilled, fingers wet and honest where they rest. You feel the insane urge to confess all of this, to babble out the chain of cause and consequence, but that would be even more unhinged than what’s actually happening, so you just clutch at his nape like you can anchor yourself to him and ride it out.

Andy, meanwhile, is not waiting for your existential reconciliation. He’s pulling you from the entryway, hands gentle but insistent, urging you through the darkness of your own house toward the living room. Neither of you turns on the light, as if to do so would break this spell and lay bare the ordinary details—your couch’s threadbare arm, the red-wine blot you still haven’t cleaned from the rug.

You stumble a little in front, Andy’s body close behind, and he makes a sound, half-plea, half-laughter, and tells you to, “Wait, wait,” and then he’s pulling you, deft hands at your hips, to the couch.

He presses you down by the shoulders. Not rough, not even assertive—just a gentle, inarguable pressure until you’re seated, knees spread slightly by the width of his own. Then he is on his knees before you, hands sliding up your thighs with a kind of focus you’ve never been on the receiving end of, certainly not from a man who, until ten minutes ago, was no more than a participant in your erotic daydreams. He looks up at you, gaze level and starved, and you realize with a choked hitch in your breath that Andy’s intent is not ambiguous. Not even slightly.

You know how this scene is supposed to go. You’ve read enough, watched enough, spent enough late nights with a hand beneath your sheets and a fantasy running wild to recognize the choreography: the kneeling man, the parted thighs, the hungry eyes and trembling hands. Your heart should be galloping, and your body should be velvet and opening, but what you actually feel in this precise instant is a kind of underwater panic—a clutching in your chest that says, This isn’t you, this isn’t how you imagined it, not even in the most fevered, shame-laced moments before sleep. You want him, yes, but you want the wanting to be mutual, not conjured or compelled or rolling downhill because gravity says it must.

You seize his wrists—not to guide, but to stop him. For a second, the only sound is your breath, jagged and raw in the dark. Andy’s arms tense, and he freezes, hands hovering just above your knees.

“I need to know,” you say, surprised at how thin and breakable your voice is. “Do you actually want this?”

He’s startled, like you’ve splashed cold water in his face, and draws back just enough for a wedge of lamplight from the street to silver his jaw. He blinks, hard, and his mouth forms a quizzical line. “Of course I want this,” he says, and when you don’t let go, he adds, “I need it.”

You should let that be good enough. You should. But something inside you is a little stubborn, a little afraid this isn’t about you, but about magic and that the spell won’t last if it isn’t real.

You tug Andy’s arms higher, make him look at you. “Not need,” you say, the two words sounding childish, a repetition from some earlier, unsophisticated self. “Want. Do you even like me?” It’s an absurd moment to ask, and you nearly laugh, except the stakes are so much sharper than they were a minute ago.

Andy’s head tilts, and you see the fight in his face, the tangle of what’s happening and what he thinks should be happening. His brow knits, lips pursing as if considering this seriously, like you’re a witness in some small, late-night court, and he needs to get the answer right on the record.

“I—” The word is thick. He tries again. “Yes. Jesus, yes. Since you moved in. Hell, I thought I was being subtle. I—” He drops his gaze, and his hands flex hard on your knees.

Then his hands come up to cradle your hips, steady and unquestioning, and for a moment he just looks at you. His hands squeeze your hips, like he’s grounding himself, and he says, “No, I wasn’t being subtle. I was being careful. Guarded.

“Last time I had something that was supposed to be good, it blew up, and I lost it all. I couldn’t keep it, and I swore I’d never want that hard again.” His thumb slides, absently, along the bare skin where your shirt rides up. “But I haven’t stopped thinking about you. Not since the first week you showed up. I don’t even know why I’m here, doing this, skipping a hundred steps. But I want to want you, actually want you, and not just for tonight.”

You stare at him like an idiot, every word a stone dropped in the deep well of your body. You surge forward and now it’s you who’s kissing him like he’s the air you need to breathe. Your mouth meets his and this time there is no hesitation, no apology. You wind your hands into the back of his hair and tug, not to hurt but to anchor, and when Andy’s teeth scrape your lower lip, you welcome the pain because it means presence, it means both of you are here. The kiss tastes a little of resolve and a little of blood, and you devour it, clambering forward until you’re no longer seated but crouched over him, both of you half off the couch, falling together into the negative space between bodies.

He moves with you, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his lap, so you’re straddling him, your knees bracketing his hips, your hands gripping his face. The feel of his beard on your palms is shockingly soft, and you run your thumbs along his jawline, mapping him, learning the shape of what you’ve summoned into existence. “Andy,” you whisper, testing the word against the flat of his tongue, and then again, like this will root him in place and keep him from dissolving away. He shudders, arms banding you tight, and you think, This is what it means to be wanted.

You can’t stop your hands. You want to clutch the collar of his shirt and drag it over his head, but instead you just knead the soft cotton over his shoulders, wanting to memorize every contour, every heat map of skin and muscle. He lets you, hands feather-light at your back, as if he’s still recalibrating to the idea that it’s possible, that this is happening. You dig your nails into his shoulders, shivering at the thought that this is real. Andy shivers too, and when your hips rock down, you both moan, a glorious, unscripted duet.

You laugh, or do something like it—a sound that is threaded with disbelief, with the creeping thrill that this moment is real. Andy is kissing your throat, your jaw, your face, kisses everywhere. You let your arms go slack, let your head fall back so he can drag his mouth along the column of your neck. All shyness has evaporated. You grind against him now, swim in the dizzy, churning heat, and every friction of your body ratchets it higher.

He rocks you in his lap, hands steady, and you can feel him straining hard beneath the soft jersey of his pants. There’s a voice in your head that wants to script this, to slow time and savor every beat—but you’re already gone, fueled by something that feels elemental. You hook your fingers under the hem of his shirt—his body is so warm, too warm, as if he’s been running a fever for you—and drag the fabric up his back. Andy helps you strip it off, and you stake your palms against his chest, which is warm and smooth, and you realize with delight that you had guessed correctly—light brown hair, just enough to tangle your fingers in. You do, just because you can, and Andy hisses, then laughs, catching your wrists and kissing the insides of them.

Your own shirt is next, or maybe he gets there first, but either way you’re bare chested against him, your nipples dragging over the broad terrain of his chest, and the friction is electric. You shudder, and Andy’s breath is hot on your neck as he buries his face there, humming low. His hands find the small of your back—one splayed to anchor you, the other traveling up your spine to cradle the curve of your neck, fingertips tracing fire along your vertebrae. His palm is huge, a brand against your skin, and you arch into it—hungry, greedy, alive.

You reach down, pulling at the drawstring on his lounge pants, and brush your knuckles along the line of his hip, skin so hot you think it might burn you. Andy’s teeth scrape your collarbone, and you laugh again, gasping.

You slide your hand beneath the waistband, push past the taut elastic, and find him hot, hard, and heavy in your palm. Andy’s eyes screw shut, jaw flexing. His head tips back, lips parted, and the sound he makes is so raw, so unguarded, you grip him tighter just to hear it again.

He lets you stroke him for three, maybe four slow pulls, until his patience fails and he tackles you backwards, the suddenness of it sending you sliding to the rug. He lands above you, catching your skull in his hand so you don’t hit the floor, the other braced by your shoulder, and for a moment you both hover, suspended over the thrum of your own need, before he’s tearing at your shorts, shoving them down your legs and off, then pulling your thighs around his hips. You’re naked on your living room rug, limbs akimbo, world reduced to the heat where his body meets yours.

Andy’s hand finds your knee, wedges himself between your thighs, and your heart stutters when you feel the heavy press of his cock against you, notching himself at your entrance. He presses forward, the head of him breaching you, then stops, sucking in a breath so sharp it’s almost a curse. “Fuck,” he growls.

The tenor of it sends a sliver of doubt through you. “What is it?”

He looks down, like this is the first moment he’s considered anything other than skin and the immediacy of you. “I, uh,” he says, “I don’t have anything on me.” The way he says it—on me—drags you back to the shore of reality. “Fuck, I’m sorry, this is so… Do you have anything?”

You don’t have to think hard about it. You know there is no pharmaceutical miracle in your bedside drawer, no leftover Trojan in your purse, not even a faded old wrapper in the medicine cabinet. You are never reckless, never this unprepared, and yet—“I don’t,” you say, and there is no hiding the want in your voice, no matter how much you try to paste on a veneer of caution. So you say the only other thing that’s blaring through your mind, “I don’t care. I want you.” And you mean it.

Andy freezes, some battle of conscience visible in the sharp lines of his face. But your next words crack him open. “I trust you.”

He leans in, presses his brow to yours. “I’ll pull out,” he says, voice a rumble and a promise, but you know even as he says it that you’re both already beyond that kind of discipline. He lets the head of his cock push just inside—enough to make your body go tight, desperate—and then he fucks you. It’s want, it’s intimate, but it’s an unadulterated fuck.

There is no slow easing in, no warmup. He’s already so thick and hard that the first push makes you gasp, makes your knees come up to lock behind his hips, makes your eyes flutter shut so you can concentrate on the sensation of being split with wanting. Andy cradles your head in his palm, mouthing frantic apologies into your neck, but you clutch at his ass, digging half-moons into his skin, urging him deeper. He’s past the point of teasing, and so are you. He drives in, the long, forceful motion grinding your back into the rug, and you can feel every inch of him, feel the way your body adjusts and grabs at him, absolutely unwilling to let go.

The sounds are obscene—yours, his, the wet slick of every thrust amplified by the chamber of your ribs. With each stroke, Andy mutters a gospel of fuck yes, you feel so good, so tight, fuck, never, never, not like this, fuck, need, fuck. You lose the shape of your own voice, the thrum of your body a radio tuned to a single frequency—fullness, friction, the absolute need to have him inside you.

You feel the edge building with every thrust, the thick heat of his cock nearly too much, the sweet ache of him pushing against the deep wall of you, and then—he angles your hips and suddenly he’s hitting something that turns you inside out. Your yelp is wild, and he does it again just to hear it, just to chase it. The rhythm is relentless, not violent but insistent. Your hands catch at his arms, shoulders, back—anywhere, everywhere—and your nails rake lines down the ladder of his spine.

He braces himself above you, then drops onto his elbows, crushing your body beneath his, pressing your breasts to his chest, so every thrust rocks you together. One palm cradles your jaw, tilting your face up, and he kisses you so deep the longing goes atomic, the world turning inside out.

You know that you’re making noises. You know your mouth is open and you’re emitting a sound with each pulse of his body into yours, but you’re not sure what it is, nor do you care. You’re right at the edge, clinging to the lip of it, and the friction is so much, so constant, that when you blurt, “Don’t stop,” you don’t even recognize your own voice.

Andy cants his hips and you swear he’s gotten deeper, impossibly so, and he grazes the spot that makes the world flash white at the edges.

You teeter at the precipice, clutch at his back, your legs straining around him. He feels your body start to come undone and murmurs, “That’s it, just like that,” right by your ear, breath molten. He grinds even deeper, and the pressure is so much you’re not sure if you’re gasping or screaming. Climax devours you in greedy waves—first ripping and sharp, then rolling, sensual, heady. Your cunt clamps hard around him and you feel him stutter, lose cadence, gasp your name like a plea. He’s close, so close, so ready to follow, and you sense his muscles tense, his will battling itself.

He tries to pull out, you feel it, the faltering withdrawal, and something primal and vast surges up from your deepest self. You fist your hands in his hair, drag his mouth to your ear, and whisper, “Don’t. Please. I want you to finish inside me.” Your voice is shredded, a raw thing, almost animal.

He groans, the sound wrenching from him, and he punctuates it with your name, the syllables snapping and falling apart, and then he’s coming inside you, the heat of it blooming in deep, pulsing bursts, and your body cages it, cages him, takes in all of it because it wants to, because you can. He’s heavy on top of you and you pull him down, press your face to his shoulder and hold him through that long, shuddering ride-down, both of you panting, hearts jackhammering against rib and skin and the braided muscle of your entwined bodies.

Eventually, Andy shifts, bracing himself carefully on his elbows so as not to crush you under his weight, but he looks down at you, face awash in disbelief and—if you’re reading it right—something like worship.

For a long time you just breathe. Your body hums, a sweet ache radiating from your pelvis, your thighs, your shoulders. Andy strokes your ribs in slow, lazy circles, like you’re a cat he’s coaxed into his lap. The air smells like salt and sweat and ozone, like something essential has been altered at the molecular level.

Andy is the first to break the silence, resting his brow against yours and exhaling, “Jesus Christ.”

You giggle softly and press a kiss to his jaw. “That was…” You don’t finish the sentence. Can’t. The words would be inadequate.

He nudges at you, gentle as a suggestion, and rolls your entire body with his until you’re both on your sides, limbs still knotted, belly to belly. The rug itches at your hip and the room is cold now that the furnace of him has transferred from on to next to, but neither of you is willing to move. Andy tucks your head under his chin, beard scraping your scalp, one arm pillowed under you, the other banded around your ribs.

You go slack in his arms, the exhaustion of pleasure rolling in after the storm, but your mind is a live wire, all overloaded circuits and impossible, bright newness.

“We should get up,” you say, because you were never one to fall asleep on the living room floor, but now you know you and Andy are both far too old to stay here for long in any kind of comfort.

Andy rumbles a laugh in your hair. “We should,” he agrees, but neither of you does, and you lay there, two bodies caught in a gravity well, breathing in tandem.

You run your palm up Andy’s rib cage, feeling the slight tremor beneath his skin, and look up into his face. He’s already watching you, blue eyes luminous in the dark. You’re both still naked; your bodies are still a tangle, and neither of you is prepared to speak just yet. He kisses your forehead, so light it feels like a benediction, and then he sighs, long and low, utterly without artifice. “You’re unreal,” he says.

You want to tell him, in that moment, about the witch, the twenty-dollar spell, about the two a.m. confessional and the shattering loneliness that made you whisper your want directly at the universe. You want to tell him you think you made this happen, that the ties between coincidence and desire are thinner than dental floss, but the words tangle up in your chest.

Because as surreal as the first moments were rocketing through the two of you as he showed up in your entryway, everything after felt real. The ache in your limbs is a perfect echo of satisfaction. You’re aware of Andy’s hand moving, tracing slow, distracted circles along the small of your back, like you’re something fragile or a secret he’s only just discovered.

It’s only a few minutes later that you do shift and groan at the discomfort of the floor, and Andy laughs.

You both untangle, groaning dramatically at the effort it takes to stand. Andy is first to his feet, and he has the nerve to offer you his hand like he’s some kind of courtly gentleman and not the man who just railed you so hard your vision is migrating out the sides of your skull. You snort and take it anyway, let him steady you as if you might topple, even though you are perfectly well balanced, thank you.

You shuffle toward the bathroom and he hangs back, fastening his pants, fussing with the drawstring. When you turn back to catch him, he’s straightening the couch cushions, gathering your clothes, and—hilariously—folding them into a neat pile on the endtable.

“Andy?” you call softly.

“Yeah?” he answers, turning to look at you.

“Come shower and stay the night?”

He looks at you for the space of four heartbeats, but it’s all intensity and warmth, and so you know before he says it, that the answer is a simple, “Yeah.”

Maybe this will be nothing. Maybe this will be everything. Right now it’s just this: a real thing, a warm thing, a thing with no name yet and no need for one, and the rest of it can wait.

AND???

WHAT DO WE THINK?

Did you like? 🥹 As I said in the A/N at the beginning, I had some immediate AU possibilities come to mind, but then I felt like they were all stories I'd probably read before, and I was happy enough to play in the typical sandbox, but then I thought....

WAIT!

WHAT IF ETSY WITCH?! And then my muse was gleeful in that idea... scrolling through Tiktok, going ahead and just trying the thing, and then maybe the witch thinking... maybe let's give these two a little push and sending those flowers Andy's way, see if she could send just a little bit of harmless magic your way because she genuinely liked you.

A little sex pollen never hurt anyone, right? 😌

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that it’s playing out in reality, like so many other scenarios that felt like they’d only ever be witnessed on a page or screen.

Only now it’s all layered over with the veneer of post-apocalyptic, not royal luxury.

Here you are, world order dissolved, everyone left stripped back to survival of the fittest. It was inevitable that a group like Andy’s would form and start to present a threat.

You are handed out of the truck and toward the mouth of his compound by two men whose hands sweat through their gloves—still wearing pandemic-era masks with their post-apocalypse uniforms, which you note as proof that nobody really knows how to dress for the end of the world. You’re wearing what the mayor’s wife had selected for you at triple speed: a white blouse, a pleated skirt scoured from the collective closets of the women in your makeshift town, and an oversized parka because the wind whips through the chain-link fences with a sharpness you’d never known before.

You replay the instructions she gave you—you had been given exactly two days to prepare. Demonstrations and conversations of whispered, hurried, sometimes giggling, sometimes grave lessons in a back room with no power. “You’ll need to kneel, just for a moment, but only if it feels right. Make eye contact, not too much. He’ll expect you to be afraid, but don’t give it to him so quickly. Let him think you’re scared, but not too much. Never let him see you cry, unless you want him to want to see it again. Above all, don’t let him hurt you if you can help it.”

Now, as you walk past the patchwork of scavenged shipping containers that make up the walls of Andy Barber’s fiefdom, you cling to those instructions as if they’re scripture, even though your memory keeps skipping and rewriting them in your head. The guards bring you through a yard lined with the visible skeletons of things that once mattered: playground swings frozen mid-swing, a lawn full of toppled patio chairs, a car hood propped up as a barbecue pit. Colorless children, peeking from windows, vanish at the sight of you.

The mayor’s wife had done your makeup herself, in daylight against a hand mirror. “He’ll expect something soft. Hopefully you’re given some softness, but it’s not likely. But you’re not property,” she’d said. “You’re leverage. There’s a difference. Don’t forget it.”

You want to believe the story ends with you coming back, escorted by a sympathetic guard, with a promise of safety for the town and a pallet of supplies. Instead, you keep imagining the possibilities: a private cell, a locked room, or worse, being made a public example.

After a few more minutes of walking, you are escorted not into a warehouse or an old public building, as you half expected, but into a house. An actual house, with a porch, a glass-paned door, a cheery slant of sunlight on the steps. The only thing visibly wrong with it is the excess of sandbags and the slouch of a blue tarp across what must be a blown out window.

Inside, the foyer is warm and bright, the floors scrubbed to a shine, with a runner of real wool. You smell lemon polish, actual bread baking, and something earthy you can’t place. A woman in a flowered apron greets you. She has a nurse’s badge on her chest and a surgical mask hanging loose under her chin.

She asks your name. You give it, and she repeats it back to you with an accent that makes it sound unfamiliar, even to your own ears. She tells you to leave your boots at the door. You do, standing awkwardly on the cold tile, feeling more exposed without your shoes. Another masked man steps forward and rifles through your parka pockets with a bored efficiency. He finds the little tin of mints the mayor’s wife had pressed into your palm as you left, and flicks it open, shaking one into his mouth before handing the rest back to you.

The nurse leads you through a corridor and into a study. You step in, and for a second you think the nurse has made a mistake, or at least a joke. The study is lined floor to ceiling with books, actual books, the spines neat and upright. There is a green velvet couch and an antique globe, an old university pennant tacked above the window. The carpet is so plush it swallows your toes. You realize you haven’t stood on an actual carpet in years.

The man at the desk is not what you expect. He’s young—somewhere in his thirties or forties, but it’s hard to tell in the world you live in now, and the sharpness in his face makes it harder to tell. He’s got a haircut you associate with the old world: a little too clean, a little too expensive, fluffy in a way that invites fingers to be brushed through it. He’s reading, one elbow propped on the desk.

You chest tightens because not only is he younger—maybe only a few years older than you—he’s dangerously handsome. Not pretty. Solid. Appealing. He wears a white button-down shirt, sleeves rolled above the elbow.

He closes the book and studies you instead—it’s a quick assessment, and you wonder if you’ve passed or failed, but all he does is stand and beckons for you to, “Follow me,” as he heads out another door from the study.

Andy—because you know immediately that’s who he must be, even though nobody bothered to introduce him—moves with a confidence that doesn’t need to check if you’re following. Andy makes no effort to slow his stride, which is smooth and confident, a little too elegant for someone who supposedly took this place by force.

He leads you up a flight of stairs, banister polished to a nervous gloss, the kind of detail that means someone here cares about things looking good even when nothing else in the world does.

He’s already halfway up the stairs when he calls over his shoulder, “Coming?” and you realize you have stopped on the first step, hands gripping the rail as if you’re afraid of heights. But it’s not that. It’s how strange all of this is. You take a deep breath and continue to follow him. There’s a second floor, and then, to your surprise, a third: a short flight of steps leading to what must you assume must be the master suite. He opens the door and gestures you in with a slight tilt of his head. It’s oversized even by old-world standards.

The room is huge, gleaming, a museum of privilege, sun flooding through two picture windows, lamps on every surface, a king-size bed dressed in what looks like real cotton sheets, a heavy comforter, actual pillows. Your mind stalls at the idea of that much cotton, the absolute luxury of it. There are two armchairs angled to face each other across a chess set, and a desk, smaller than the one downstairs, but cluttered with beautiful things: notebooks, a decanter, a vase of white tulips that must have been trucked in from somewhere far away.

Andy closes the door quietly, but doesn’t linger at the threshold to savor your awe. “You can take off the parka,” he says. “You’ll overheat.” His voice is even, almost kind, and that makes it even more unbearable.

But you slide the coat from your shoulders and lay it over one of the armchairs before turning back to him.

He glances at the bed, then at you, and you’re surprised at how direct it all is. You had expected some kind of ritual, some acknowledgement of the transaction, but instead he gestures, open-palmed, for you to sit. You do as he indicates, careful to perch at the edge of the bed, hands folded on your lap like a child waiting for punishment or pardon.

Andy steps forward, but stops a few feet in front of you. The room is quiet except for the humming of something—maybe a generator, maybe your own nerves. He lets you feel the silence. His gaze is steady: not leering, not gentle, a calibration you can’t quite make sense of.

“So,” he says, the faintest hint of amusement in his tone, “They send me a virgin.” The word hovers between you like a dare or an accusation. “Is that true, or is it just the kind of story they think men like me want to hear?”

You are not sure if you’re meant to answer. You look at his hands because his face is too much. “I—yes,” you say. It comes out rougher than you’d like.

He smiles, not unkindly, but not kindly either. “You look a little old to be a virgin in this century.”

You can’t help but scoff, almost a laugh. “Dating apps are not really popping off anymore.”

He does laugh. “No. I suppose not now that the internet’s gone.”

He doesn’t move for a long moment, and you wonder if he’s waiting for you to make another joke, but then he comes forward, the air between you shrinking to nothing. His knees touch yours. He looks down at your hands—your fingers locked together, knuckles white—and then bak to your face, again measuring.

“Up,” he says, gesturing with a tiny flick of his fingers. “On your knees, if you don’t mind.”

It’s not a question, but it’s not a threat. Merely a command. You shift onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, the sheets cool and smelling like a laundromat—a clean that feels almost violent after so long without it.

Andy’s gaze never leaves you. He steps closer, between your knees, and without pretense begins to unfasten the buttons at your collar. His fingers are quick and impassive, as if he were undressing a mannequin.

With the blouse open, he pauses. You brace for him to move faster, to push or yank, but instead he shrugs the shirt off your shoulders with an unexpected delicacy, and lets it fall silently to the floor. Goosebumps crop up along your arms, a shock of cold or of shame. The air in the room feels suddenly immense against your exposed skin, your naked curves and soft belly.

Instead of what you expect—hands, hunger—he tips your chin up with one finger, like a slow-motion correction from a ballet teacher. His deep blue gaze is unreadable, set beneath eyebrows that seem heavy with thought. You try to swallow, but your mouth is dry.

Your bra is plain, a pale cotton thing, and you’re embarrassed by its thrift-store plainness, by the faint gray band where the elastic is surrendering. Andy looks at you, not at your chest, but at your face. There’s something clinical in it, but not cruel. You try not to shiver, but you’re certain he sees it. He is so close, the scent of his skin is intoxicating, a muted mint and soap. You brace yourself for what comes next—anything but the actual thing that happens.

He kisses you.

It’s too soft, at first. So brief you barely have time to register his lips before they’re gone, and you’re left blinking at the place where his face just was. Then he does it again, firmer this time, catching your lower lip between his, holding it, like he wants to make certain you remember this moment.

A third kiss, now hungry. He grabs your jaw—not roughly, but with authority—and tilts your face to meet him. You’re aware of your own heartbeat, the way your body lurches forward, not entirely in protest. His tongue is in your mouth, his breath warm, and you realize you have not been kissed in years. Maybe ever. Not like this.

You should be afraid, and maybe you are, but your heart is hammering.

He unclasps your bra with no ceremony, just a practiced flick, and lets the straps slip from your arms. His hands are warm, broad, a little callused at the tips, and they cup your breasts as though he’s weighing fruit, not flesh. It’s jarring, the way he behaves as if your body belongs not just to him, but to both of you—something to be shared, assessed, and enjoyed.

There’s an undertone of something rough or transactional, and it’s in line with what you’d been told to anticipate by the women who prepped you. But he’s also precise, focused. He resumes his kissing, even while his thumbs brush over your nipples, circling, teasing, until the sensation is so sharp you gasp into his mouth. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t smirk, just keeps at it, clocking your reactions like the study of a live wire. The fact that you’re responding—more than responding, melting, throbbing under his attention—should humiliate you, but it doesn’t. Once you moan and arch into him, he nips at your bottom lip, then pushes you back on the mattress.

The next thing you know, he’s hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your skirt and yanked it down, along with your underwear, both in a single, unhesitating motion. You’re left bare and blinking, all your warnings and modesty gone the way of the parka and blouse. The air is cold against your thighs, and he’s already climbed up on the mattress, caging you in, hands braced on either side of your hips.

You try to close your knees, but Andy is stronger, prying them apart, a butterfly to be pinned. His gaze is fixed on you in a way that makes your skin prickle, more naked than naked, your most intimate area exposed to him, and you have to look away, humiliated even though you knew…

But did you know this? Did you know he would be interested in anything more than spearing you with his cock and pumping you with his cum?

Andy presses your folds open with his thumbs, insistent, examining you with the deliberate, almost impersonal care—as if reading a label, or studying a specimen. You feel heat rocket along your thighs, a bright humiliating slash of exposure, and squeeze your eyes shut. You brace for the inevitable, for the hard push, the sharp pain of him forcing his cock in to claim your hole.

But instead he murmurs—not to you, but more to himself, as if you’ve just done something clever. “Pretty,” he says. “That’s almost unfair.”

The words hit you with a strange electric pleasure, equal parts shame and pride. You still want to close your legs, but Andy’s grip is unwavering, the spread of his hands an absolute vise. And then—without any warning at all—his tongue presses flat and hot over your cunt, a blunt swipe that has you yelp in surprise, and you can’t help but rocket your gaze down to look at him.

He licks you again, a long, anchoring stripe, and then again, but slower—deliberate, savoring. You feel every cell of your body contract around the press of his mouth, the prickle of his beard, the promise in the blunt slide of his tongue. When you jerk, he presses a palm to your hip and pins you down, not cruel but absolute, and you feel your bones ring inside your skin with the certainty of his grip.

You can’t breathe, or you can, but it’s all in these short shudders, because he’s not just doing it—he’s watching you as he does it, gaze never wavering. You can’t look away, not even when you want to, as his mouth settles over your clit and he sucks with a restraint that makes his intent clear: he’s not here to finish this quickly. He’s here to make you squirm and writhe, to see what noises you make and how many times he can wrench them out of you before you break.

You dig your nails into the sheets, shocked at how quickly your body starts to betray you. Andy’s mouth is possessive, owning you, as if he’s claiming this most intimate part of you for himself. His palm flattens against your pelvis, a weight that demands you stay exactly where he put you. The sounds you make are not the ones you’d planned to release—too open, too desperate, too much like an animal. Part of you is mortified; another part is numb with relief.

Once he’s mapped the places that make your hips buck or your thighs tremble, he sets a steady rhythm, letting you adapt before ratcheting it tighter, higher. Your eyes tear up from the pressure of holding the tension. He’s not just eating you out—he’s devouring you, and it’s not even entirely sexual, or at least not only that. It feels like a demonstration, a declaration: this is what you are here for. This is what men like Andy Barber do when absolute power is placed in their hands.

He’s still watching you, the blue edge of his gaze impossibly steady, demanding. Your face is burning but he shakes his head minutely, a warning not to break contact, not even for a second.

It's obscene, the way he eats you. You feel the slickness of it leaking out of your cunt and down your ass cheeks, hear the soft, greedy noises of his mouth. He doesn't moan or hum—he's not trying to perform pleasure, he's trying to extract it from you, to see if you'll give it up. The pressure of his tongue grows relentless, the friction of his beard against your now tender and swollen pussy lips its own sweet torture, then he stops just at the point where you're about to lose control and lets up, drawing back so your body rides the edge of that crest, desperate and suspended between indignity and pleasure. You are furious at him for it, and more furious at yourself for wanting him to finish the job, for being made to want anything here, in this room, on these sheets, by this man.

But Andy only grins up at you through the fan of his inappropriately pretty eyelashes. Your hips squirm, betraying your need, and ultimately he relents. But it’s with such a seemingly casual attitude that it’s frustrating as he merely leans forward, pressing the flat of his tongue against your clit once, twice, three merciless times. It’s enough. You shatter. The orgasm rips through you so suddenly that your body jerks hard, knees threatening to close, but he holds you exactly in place until the spasms subside.

As he climbs up your body, he wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, but it doesn’t clear his beard of your juices completely. What you don’t expect is for him to kiss you again, your lips this time, the taste of yourself so sharp and unfamiliar you nearly recoil, but his hand cups the side of your face and he deepens the kiss, relentless, as if all his focus has tunneled down to this single point of contact. It’s not a reward, isn’t even a comfort—it’s raw demand. He wants you to taste it, to know precisely what he’s done to you. You let him, because there is nothing else for you to do, and the way he kisses is nothing like any kiss in your memory. He uses his tongue like he’s feeding you a secret, flooding your mouth with it, devouring your breath, his palm anchored heavy against your cheekbone.

You remember, distantly, that you’re supposed to hold something back. That you’re not meant to give away all of yourself this quickly, not to let him see how easily he’s unmade you. You are dizzy with it, the world shrunk down to the taste of his tongue and the heat shimmering between you.

Andy kisses like it’s an argument, like he’s intent on convincing your whole body that you want this as much as he does, and you hate that it’s working. His hand migrates from your face to your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your jaw as his other arm wraps beneath you, gathering you to him. He is still fully dressed, and there’s something criminal in the inequity of it, the cool cotton of his shirt brushing your naked skin in all the places you’re most embarrassed to be seen.

He slots one of his legs between yours, the fabric of his pants rough against your sensitive pussy, and you find yourself grinding against the muscle of his thigh with an obscene, automatic hunger. The friction is so immediate, a blessed counterpoint to the way you’re drowning helplessly in his kiss, a place you can control, can beg for more, and you feel another wave of pleasure threatening to overwhelm you.

Distantly part of you collapses under how unfair this is. Although you’ve survived this long, self-sufficient in the community you’d been part of, fine with the connections—friends, found family—it’s painfully evident how touch-starved you’d become, how desperate your body is now to connect, be pleasured, be overwhelmed. Your body doesn’t care who he is or what he represents, it’s merely taking what it’s been denied and apparently aching for for far too long.

Andy bites down on your lip, far from gently, and you let out a yelp because the sting is what you need to break the pattern, to snap yourself back from the undertow of sensation. He seems to know it, smirking as he pulls away, the taste of iron brightening at the tip of your tongue. That amuses him, apparently; you see it glint in the twist of his mouth, the way he leans in to study the damage up close, then licks the spot with a proprietary flourish.

You half expect him to tear your body open next, to force himself inside you without preamble, but he only loosens his grip and sits back, irrationally careful, as if you’re made of blown glass. His hands slide over your flanks and rest there, heavy and steady, as you gasp for air. Your knees are still splayed open. You wish you could close them, to reclaim some boundary, but his gaze is resolute, and you know without testing that he won’t let you retreat by closing them.

“Show me how you touch yourself,” he commands you.

You whimper, wanting him to demand or give you the pleasure you’re aching for.

But he’s going to be cruel, demand that you perform for him, that you share this intimate, private act with him.

“Do it,” he growls.

Your hand trembles as you obey, sliding between your own legs, over the gloss of your own slick, fingers clumsy and cold at first. Andy’s eyes flick down and back up, hunting for any pause or hesitation, his gaze a hand itself, guiding and demanding. You touch yourself, uncertain at first, then with more intent, your face burning with the effort of pretending not to care that you are, in this moment, pure entertainment for him.

He doesn’t praise you, doesn’t even smile. Just leans closer, elbows braced on his knees, face intent upon every move you make. The sound of your own fingers become the room’s only music, a wet, embarrassing melody that would mortify you if you weren’t already unmoored from every anchor of sense.

“Faster,” he says, not unkindly, but as if you should already know what he wants. “Press harder. I want to watch you do it like you need it even more than I do.”

You want to protest, want to ask why, but the words tangle up with the tension in your stomach and never make it past your lips. Your body is trembling, but you continue to do as you’re told, rubbing circles where you know the nerves are most raw, most electric. It’s humiliating how quickly you can build yourself up under his scrutiny. Every gasp or twitch of your hips is noted, cataloged, used as evidence in this silent game.

He slides his hand over your thigh, but he doesn’t help, doesn’t intervene, just keeps you splayed open, obscene and compliant. You find yourself working harder for the next edge, hating how well he’s taught your body to obey. You’re right at the crest again, so close to another shattering, and he leans forward, nose nearly grazing your wrist.

“Look at me,” he orders, though you still are—really, why can’t you look away?—and then your already racing heartbeat skitters at what he does next.

He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the motion practiced and casual, and a disorienting surge of heat runs through you seeing how hard he is—straining against the zipper, a solid shape that looks angry to be contained. He draws it out and up, and it’s bigger than you expected, thick and flushed, the head glossy with pre-come. He fists his cock once, twice, the motion unhurried. His other hand keeps you wide open, thumb pressed hard into the flesh thigh.

“Keep going,” he says, and you do, your fingers working frantically at your clit now, desperate to keep up with him, to meet the animal challenge in his gaze. You are both animals in this moment, both exposed, both reduced to what the world has left you: nerve, hunger, and nothing else.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, voice low and tight at the edges. “You like being watched by me, don’t you? Didn’t think you would, but you do.”

You nod, barely breathing, hand working yourself as you watch him stroke his cock. It should disgust you, or terrify you, or at the very least impress upon you the gravity of your situation, but all you can process is the hunger, the humiliation, the way your body seems to belong to him already. He jerks himself with a slow, ruthless rhythm, showing you how he likes it, and you match your own movements to his—faster, then slower, as he wishes.

“You’ll come for me again,” Andy says, voice edged with grit. “Don’t stop. I want to see you lose it.”

You do not stop. You can’t. Your insides are a mess, nerves shredded, climax so close it hurts. He drags his thumb over the head of his cock, collecting the bead of pre-come and smearing it, then spits in his hand for more, so deliberate that you shudder. He never takes his eyes from you.

You start to whimper, both hands between your legs now, because the intensity of watching him watching you is too much. Every nerve in your body is tuned to his voice; you clutch at yourself, desperate, the urge to come for him rewriting all your other needs. Andy’s face is a study in hunger, all cheekbones and sharp blue eyes, framed in the neatly-trimmed beard and mustache. The way he works himself—deliberate, ruthless, patient—somehow makes you want to please him, obliterate yourself for him.

“God, look at you,” he says. “You’re so fucking sweet like this, you have no idea. I want to see that little cunt twitch when you come for me, you understand?”

You nod, unable to speak, mouth open on a gasp. He leans closer and strokes himself harder, the slick noise of it matching yours in the charged air. “You want me to fuck you, don’t you?” he asks, voice low and intent. “That sweet virgin pussy.”

You can’t summon a yes, not with your throat locked up tight, but your hips cant, ass lifting off the sheets in supplication. You’re panting, the wire of tension strung too tight.

“You’re going to let me,” he says, voice flinty, nothing left of the earlier restraint. “You’re going to let me fuck you until you can’t think.”

He fists his cock, the knuckles pale, but he doesn’t fuck you yet. He talks you through it.

“Rub it like you’re desperate. You are, aren’t you? Poor little thing, nobody ever taught you how. You want me to show you how to touch your own clit, you need that so bad?” His voice is a rasp, hungry, just shy of mean, but there’s a note of awe in it, too—a kind of delighted cruelty, as if you’re a discovery he’s just cracked open and can’t believe his luck. “Right there. Keep going, don’t you dare stop—good girl. That’s it.”

You press harder, the friction almost unbearable, the nerves so raw they threaten to split you down the middle. “You’re gonna come for me again, I can see it. You’re about to lose your mind, aren’t you? Let them hear it downstairs. Let everyone in this fucking compound know what a perfect slut they sent me.”

The words punch through your embarrassment, spike straight to your core. You let out a sob, legs locked, pelvis tilting up to meet the rhythm of your hand, and it’s never been like this the times you’ve sought your own release alone in the dark. But now the pressure of your own palm is so intense it feels like you’re being burned alive all because he’s watching.

He grins, wild and wolfish, and strokes himself faster. “That’s it. God, you’re fucking perfect. Just like that, come on, give it to me—”

Your orgasm detonates inside you, a shuddering thing that blanks your mind. You sob his name through gritted teeth, body clenching tight. You are aware of the way your cunt spasms, sharp and helpless, clearly keening to be filled—and to be filled by him. Immediately. And Andy’s gaze devours every twitch, every humiliating whimper.

The sound of your ruin, the sight of you, is all he needs. He pulls back, gives himself two savage tugs, and then he comes. It’s violent and unfiltered, streaks of thick white landing across your belly, the heat of it making you yelp and shiver as he marks you, ruining you further.

You hold your breath, because it’s the first—and really only—thing you can control in this moment. Because you don’t want to look at the mess he’s made of you, or at him, or even at yourself. It’s the first moment you’re able or allowed to look away, and you stare at the ceiling, an attempt to collect the pieces of yourself that are left.

Instead, Andy leans over you, bracing one hand on the mattress beside your ear, his face somehow still neat, but the look in his eyes wild, raw. He glances back down to the slick on your skin, then, with a single finger, scoops a line of it from your hip and slips it between your lips. “Taste,” he orders, even though it’s already in your mouth.

It’s salty, bitter. You are crying, of course, but the tears don’t sting. They’re just sliding down your temples, pooling in the hollows of your ears, slicking the pillow you hadn’t even realized you’d crushed in your fist. More than the taste, it’s the gesture—the insistence, the taboo—that breaks you in half. He’s not the monster you expected, but something worse: a connoisseur, a collector of reactions, a man who knows exactly what it means to have a person at his complete disposal, and wants every part of it.

He traces your jaw with the back of his knuckles. His touch is gentle, almost apologetic. But there’s no apology in his eyes, only the dangerous satisfaction that comes with having anticipated an outcome and then engineered it, like a chess master two moves ahead. He wipes your face with the sleeve of his expensive shirt, dabbing away the dampness with a patience that threatens to make you feel cared for, and you lean into it. He smiles, but it’s too sweet.

He sits back on his heels, his body language so suddenly casual it startles you. You expect him to crawl up and claim your mouth again, to press your hips wide and press forward, and claim your cunt, but instead he stands, tucks himself away with a practiced flick, and reaches for a silk handkerchief from the nightstand. He tosses it onto your belly, where his cum is already cooling, and gestures with a lazy flick of his fingers that you should clean yourself.

A beat passes—one, two—before you process that he’s off you. Only then do you realize you’ve been paralyzed waiting for further instructions, or violence, or some aftershock. When he turns away to pour himself a glass of water from a carafe, you feel your body seize with an angry, involuntary disappointment. You shift, trying to make yourself smaller, less exposed. Only then does it register how wet you are, how sticky the inside of your thighs and the damp indentation of the sheets between your legs is. You wipe at yourself with the silk, the fabric so fine it brings tears to your eyes for an entirely different reason.

Andy is already on the far side of the room, rolling down his sleeves, composing himself as if the last ten minutes were a board meeting and not a war crime. He buttons his cuffs with brisk, practiced flicks, then gestures at the chess set on the table as if it’s the actual point of all this. When he speaks, the breathiness of before is gone, replaced by a tone of almost bored amusement.

“I suppose you thought I’d fuck you right away.” He doesn’t look back at you, but you feel the words strike somewhere between your ribs and your gut. “In case you forgot, you’re leverage. Did you think I’d take the risk of dulling your shine so soon?” Andy asks, watching you from across the room with a critical detachment. His tone is almost academic. “They warned you, I’m sure. If you give everything away, what’s left to bargain with?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. The air between you has chilled, or maybe it’s that the high is already evaporating and all that’s left is the undertow of humiliation, the realization that you made yourself a spectacle for nothing. That your worth—what little of it you thought you could barter for your own survival or anyone else's—has dropped in value with every moan and shiver he milked from you.

Andy picks up a pawn from the chessboard and rolls it between his fingers, gaze flicking up and down your body as you are still virtually on display. You pull the comforter up, finally covering yourself.

“You need to negotiate the final terms to keep your former home safe, do you not?”

You blink, stalling. This was not covered by the mayor’s wife, not narratively prescribed, not accounted for in the breathless, trite warnings handed down by generations of women preparing their daughters for the tyranny of men.

His voice is sharp again, the velvet replaced by wire. “Come here.”

It’s not a question or invitation, but you stand and do as told, feet uncertain on the softness of the carpet. You keep the comforter wrapped around you, unwilling to return to the hard bright nakedness of earlier, but Andy only smirks, amused by the gesture, pleased to see you cling to even the smallest modicum of dignity.

You stand before the chess table, which is not a prop but mid-game—a dozen pieces locked in radiating patterns, a puzzle you recognize from the margins of your own, previous life. Andy steps close and places one of his large hands on your jaw, striking a balance between care and warning as he angles your head sharply up to look at him.

“I want you to remember how easily you almost gave up everything to me. Know how effortlessly I could have taken it.”

His hand lingers on your chin, thumb dragging slow over your bottom lip—where a ghost of swelling registers, not quite pain but the memory of his teeth. You flinch, not because you want to, but because you want to want to. You’re fighting yourself, your body’s instinct to surrender to what’s easy, what’s warm, what could, in a different world, feel not like defeat but belonging.

Andy’s palm is so hot it feels alive, charged, as if the contact is meant to cauterize something in you. He is already looking away, down at the chessboard, only the pressure on your skin reminding you that the threat is not gone, it’s simply evolved into something harder to define. “I like it better this way,” he says, as if reading the thought from behind your eyes. “A little push and pull. More compelling.” He lets your chin go, and you try to keep your face from collapsing around the ache of it. You try to conjure spite, or at least the outlines of a plan—some method of reverse psychology, a way to burrow under his skin and flip the script. But your mind is jellied, too blurred out at the edges by the aftershocks of what he made you feel. You suppose that was the point. The line, the boundary, the game.

“You’ll stay here tonight,” Andy says, still not quite looking at you, but at the pieces lined up on the board. “We will negotiate in the morning, precious virgin.”

This one sort of came at me out of nowhere. No one asked for him, no one inspired him, I watched a porn video that gave me only just maybe 10% of a vibe/inspo, but then the rest just sort of happened.

The backdrop of this post-apocalyptic verse was going to be the same as Beyond Survival with that taking place on the west side of the country and this in New England, but then I remembered that... BS is omegaverse and this is not. 🙃

PART TWO: NEGOTIATION

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest