random combination, but pogue!bunny!reader and dbf!john b. her father doesn’t talk to her anymore since becoming a stripper, but her dads best friend john b likes to make sure she’s all cared for. financially, sure — he’ll buy her lunch from time to time. emotionally, definitely. someone needs to hold that girl. sexually? of course. who else is gonna make that sweet girl feel good? what if no one satisfies her and she resorts to sleeping with those scary men from the club? not on john b’s watch.
however, he felt like a creep everytime it happened. it was like clockwork, your sweet figure on the porch of the chateau at a ridiculous hour with your stripper heels in your hand and a duffle bag full of money.
“look you cannot keep just… walking around at night with this much money on you, jesus.” he pants, already exasperated as he pulls you inside, looking around to check you weren’t followed. your shoulders are deflated and your face is all pouty and tired, so he drops it — but makes a mental note to bring it up again later.
“just needed you.” your voice cracks and suddenly his brows are furrowed, lines of age and wear that he’s had for years deepening on his forehead as he whips his head around to you after locking the door for the night. “hey? heyheyheyhey. c’mere, sweetheart.” he’s immediately pulling you to his warm chest, rocking you on the spot as you instantly melt against him, the thud of your money bag dropping beside your feet along with your discarded heels. he nods to himself, walking you to his bedroom. “i know. iiiii know what you need, come on bubba.”
the cap that was on his head sits on the edge of the bed now, about to tip onto the floor as he allows you to run your long manicured fingernails over his scalp— gasping and mewling wetly at the ceiling as he sucks on your clit, thick fingers burrowed in your glossy hole. “mhm, mhm…” he responds to your moans, voice deep and raspy.
you squirm, barely able to form a sentence but pull it together enough to squeak out a “s’too — s’too much your beard ‘s makin’ me all sore jom’bee!” through tears of overstimulation and pleasurable pain. he responds to this by pushing your thighs up and more open with his hands, uncharacteristically cruel. he always got a little mean when you were close.
“you’re okay pretty baby. god, who made you this wet hm? you weren’t dancing at the club like this, right?” his voice is breathy and a little insecure for a man of his age but you don’t pick up on it. you don’t even seem to really pick up on anything really — including how he can’t seem to connect with girls his own age, spending all his time and affections on his friends daughter. he likes that about you. you don’t see him as pathetic as he feels sometimes.
“mm—mm, jus’ for you— s’pussies all wet just for you!” you pant, feeling yourself get closer. that satisfies him for now, nodding to himself all serious before glancing up at you in concentration, curling his fingers.
“okay. good girl. it’s okay, you can cum for dad.”
it was always the nickname that made him feel the sickest. yet it was the nickname that got him the hardest, and made you cum the loudest— so oh well.
