#des1retalks

He gives you that lazy, half-lidded grin—the one that means he's about to say something he absolutely shouldn't—while dragging a hand over his stomach like he's showing off a trophy, fingers sinking into the soft, doughy flesh that hangs just a bit over his belt, all that fat layered over years of hard living and harder indulgences, warm and inviting in its unapologetic bulk.

"This here?" He pats his belly like he's proud of it, the slap echoing a little as his palm connects with the skin. "This is quality. Premium. Top damn shelf stuff, darlin'. Built like a goddamn fortress from all them years haulin' ass through hell, and you—" he points at you like you're the one bein' unreasonable, "you don't give it half the attention it deserves."

You stare at him. "Joel."

"Shit, I'm talkin' prime real estate, soft as a fresh-baked roll but solid underneath, beggin' for a pretty thing like you to come grind on it till you're screamin'."

His ramblings don't stop. He ignores you completely, leaning back on the bed with that smug, lazy smirk that always gets under your skin. 

"I mean, hell, sweetheart, I'm sittin' here wonderin' what a man's gotta do to get a little appreciation around here. Got all this real estate goin' to waste, this big ol' gut that's seen more action than most cocks twice its age, and you actin' like it ain't the best damn seat in the house."

His hands strokes over his belly once. 

"Christ, imagine slidin' that sweet little honeypot right over it, lettin' it squish up against you while I watch you lose your mind." 

He leans back further, smug as sin, his belly protruding proudly, the faint trail of coarse hair disappearing into his waistband like an invitation for you. 

You groan. "You can't be serious, Joel." 

"Oh, I'm real serious, honey." He taps his stomach again, dramatic, the fat quivering under his fingers. "This is prime territory. Untouched. Neglected. Downright tragic, if you ask me. Bet if you gave it half a chance, you'd be real fond of it." 

A beat. 

That wicked little smirk, eyes gleaming with filthy intent. 

"Real fond. Slippin' and slidin' till your juices are drippin' down my sides, markin' me up like I own that tight pussy of yours."

You roll your eyes, but he's already spiraling, words tumbling out in that endless, deranged stream.

"See, I figure a gal like you needs somethin' real to rub up on, not all that fake hard bullshit from younger folks. This here's authentic—warm, plush, gonna cradle that clit like it was made for it. Hell, I could lay here all night feelin' you hump it, beggin' Daddy for more while I tell ya how right I am."

You throw a pillow at him. He catches it in one had, grinning like an idiot, tossing it aside without breaking eye contact.

"C'mon, honey," he drawls, voice dropping into that teasing gravel. "Don't act like you ain't curious. I know that look—the one where you're half-pissed at my mouth but your thighs are clenchin' thinkin' about what I could do to ya."

You sputter. "What look?"

"That one." He points at your face, his other hand idly stroking the curve of his gut, thumb dipping into the soft fold above his navel. "The 'Joel, you're a filthy old pervert but unfortunately you fuck like a god' look. Admit it, darlin'. You been eyein' this belly since we started this little arrangement, wonderin' how it'd feel pressin' up on that honeypot till you're soakin' it through."

You try not to roll your eyes, annoyance bubbling up because yeah, he's maybe a rambling sleaze who never shuts up, but damn if his confidence doesn't make your pulse kick up. 

He's sprawled out like he owns the damn world, that fat tummy on full display, rising and falling with each breath, the skin stretched taut over the generous swell, dotted with a smattering of dark hairs that thicken lower down, leading to the bulge in his jeans that's already twitching with interest.

"Fine," you say, crossing your arms but stepping closer anyway, because as much as he annoys you with his unhinged bullshit, those orgasms he wrings out of you are worth every eye-roll. "You want appreciation? Earn it, you old goat."

His eyes light up.

"Oh yeah? And how's a fella supposed to do that, huh? You gonna climb on and show me, or do I gotta beg? Nah, fuck that—I don't beg."

You don't answer with words.

Instead, you swing a leg over his lap, straddling his thighs first, your hands planting on his chest for balance, feeling the wiry hair and solid muscle beneath his shirt. 

Joel's breath hitches, rough and eager, but he plays it cool—or as cool as this motormouth can—those big, calloused hands settling on your hips like they've done a hundred times before.

"Like this?" you tease, grinding down just a little, feeling the heat of his hardening cock through his jeans pressing against your cunt. 

But you shift up, sliding your weight forward until your core hovers right over that prized belly of his.

Joel's grin turns downright feral, teeth flashing in his lined face.

"Go on, lower that pretty pussy down—let ol' Joel's gut show you what it's made for. Bet it's gonna feel like slidin' into heaven, all soft and warm, huggin' your folds just right while I talk you through every second."

You hesitate, annoyance flaring because no way  his stupid fat belly gonna feel that good—no way you're giving him the satisfaction of admitting it. 

But curiosity and that building ache win out, and you lower yourself slowly, your pussy pressing against the firm give of his stomach through your thin shorts, the fabric bunching up as his skin meets yours. 

It's immediate; that plush warmth under you, layers that dimple under your weight, warm and slightly sticky from the day's heat, the coarse hairs tickling your inner thighs like a tease.

"Fuck, Joel," you mutter.

You start to rock just a bit, testing it. It's not bad, but you're not about to say that—his ego's big enough without your help.

He groans low, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp, the other gripping your ass to guide you, fingers digging into the flesh. 

"That's it, sweetheart. Ride it out. Feel how this big ol' belly cradles that honeypot? Soft as sin, ain't it? Gonna make you drip all over me, leavin' your scent on every inch while I watch you fight it." He rasps, tugging on your hair again. "But you can't fight it forever—Daddy knows what you need, and it's this fat gut grindin' up on your clit till you're shakin'." 

His voice is all gravel and heat, rambling on without pause, that unhinged mouth firing off deranged filth like its poetry (or his own perception of it). 

"Look at you, already gettin' slick—bet those lips are partin' for me, suckin' at my skin like they do my cock. Go on, hump it harder, darlin'. Let it squish up against that swollen little nub."

You bite your lip, grinding down despite the annoyance—his words are so over-the-top, so smug, but they worm into your head, making the friction hotter. 

"Shut up," you pant, but there's no real bite.

Your hands splay over his chest as you pick up the pace, sliding your soaked pussy along the length of his belly, the slickness making every pass smoother, more obscene. 

"Shut up? Nah, honey, I'm just gettin' started."Joel chuckles, the vibration rumbling right through you, sending sparks straight to your core. 

"Bet you wanna lick it up after, taste yourself on ol' Joel's belly. Come on, admit it feels good—ain't no shame in lovin' a real man's body, all this padding made for makin' you cum buckets." 

He bucks up slightly, pressing the swell harder against you, his free hand roaming to pinch your nipple through your shirt, twisting until you whimper. 

"That's right, fight it all you want, but your body's tellin' on ya. Clenchin' and grindin' like a bitch in heat. Daddy's gonna talk you right over the edge—see how this fat tummy milks that honeypot? Gonna make you squirt if you keep goin', flood me till I'm drenched and you're beggin' for my cock next."

The words are relentless, deranged and filthy, pouring out in that confident drawl as his eyes lock on yours, dark and hungry, watching every twitch of your face. 

You're annoyed—god, so annoyed at how he never stops, how he's so damn sure of himself—but the orgasms he gives are so good, and this one's creeping up fast, his smug rambling pushing you closer even as you resist.

"Joel—fuck, it doesn't—" you start, but it's a lie, your movements turning erratic, hips slamming down harder, every slide dragging your clit over that perfect ridge where muscle meets pudge.

"See? I was right all along—this premium belly's your new favorite toy. Cum for me, drench daddy, show me how much you love it even if your mouth says no." His voice drops lower, "That's it, honey—let go. See, I was right."

It's the smugness that tips you over, that endless, unhinged torrent of filth from this old man who knows exactly how to break you. 

You shudder, grinding down hard as the orgasm crashes through, your pussy clenching and pulsing against his skin, soaking him in waves, the fat tummy slick and shining under you. He holds you steady, murmuring more deranged praises—"There ya go, floodin' Daddy's gut like a good girl, I was right, fuck yes"—his own breathing ragged, cock throbbing forgotten against your thigh.

When you slump forward, spent and half-laughing through the annoyance, he smirks up at you, hand stroking his now-glistening belly like a prize. 

"Told ya. Premium stuff. Now, you gonna clean this up with that tongue, or we movin' on to the main event?"

You swat his chest, but there's no denying the afterglow. "Shut up and fuck me already, you smug bastard."

His laugh is pure victory, rough and triumphant. "Yes, ma'am. I got you."

Sleazy!joel Masterlist

Um...yes please.

Joel decided to let it slide when it happened, just because you’re the bubbly girl next door, 20-something with your little ‘hello’s’ in sundresses that hug your curves just right. And he already hated himself for catching himself staring at your ass when you bend over to garden, or your tits bouncing as you jog by, ‘She’s half my age, for fuck’s sake’—but his cock twitches anyway because, yeah, it’s been forever since he’s buried himself balls-deep in a tight, wet pussy and filled it up to the brim.

He was only a man, after all.

So when you knocked on his door, the first time, with a smile sweet as pie, asking if you can use his washing machine because your ancient piece a’ shit gave up on you, and you have week-old clothes, he couldn’t say no, his eyes fixated on the soft, baby pink bras and thongs in your basket.

And after you did your load, he came back to find one of your pink cotton panties on the bathroom floor (maybe it slipped from the basket, he thinks).

Joel picked it up, saw the faint damp spot in the crotch from your day, and that night, alone in his dim bedroom, he wrapped it around his thick cock and stroked real hard, imagining your sweet face as he grunted and shot ropes of cum into the fabric, staining it further.

Guilt hit after, of course. But the high lingered.

Then, it happened again. You, wanting to use his machine, with a: “It takes forever to be repaired, I’m sorry.” And then leaving yet another lacy, pink underwear on his floor.

That time, Joel was bolder—he sniffed it first, tongue darting out to taste the salt, then jerked off in the laundry room by himself, leaning against the dryer, fantasizing about bending you over it and rutting into you from behind until he flooded your cunt with his load.

And now, when he hears the door knocking, he anticipates that you want to drop off yet another one of your panties on his bathroom floor because the repair guy is taking so long, but—a third time? That would be a bit too much, wouldn’t it?

“Again? That’s the third time now, darlin’. Your machine still out?”

There you are; standing once again with a basket full of pink underwear, an apologising smile on your face and a soft sundress clinging to your skin in the humid afternoon air. 

You nod quickly, shifting the basket in your arms, your voice coming out small. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Miller. The repair guy’s dragging his feet. It won’t take long, promise.” 

He sighs heavy, trying not to show his excitement, and steps aside to let you in.

“Fine. But you just like wastin’ my water, huh?Comin’ over here every other day.” 

You set the basket down by the washer in his cramped bathroom, glancing up at him with a soft laugh that doesn’t quite hide your nerves. Your cheeks tint pink as you start loading the clothes. 

“No, s’not like that, Mr. Miller. I appreciate it, really.” You say. 

As you bend over, one hand ‘accidentally’ brushes your pocket—a pair of your sheer, white silk panties tumbles out, landing softly besides the machine. You straighten up quick, pretending not to notice, but you bite your lip hard, pulse thumping.

Joel spots it right away, blood rushing through his cock, jaw clenching tight. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against the door with that stern look. “And those panties…”

You swallow hard, your face heating up like fire, eyes flicking to the floor. “W-what?”

Shit, you were caught.

You knew this was gonna happen the third time. I mean, who the hell even washes laundry three times a week? 

“You like leavin’ me little souvenirs?” His words come out firm, almost instructional, like he’s correcting a bad habit, but there’s a husky rumble underneath that he can’t quite mask. 

He’s trying to play the responsible neighbor, the gruff teacher, but you see the way his jeans tighten, the tension in his stance.

You fumble with the last shirt in the basket. “I... they’re just laundry. Must’ve fallen again.”

Again, again and again? 

He chuckles. 

Joel steps closer, slow and deliberate, bending down to pick up the panties with just two fingers. He holds them out like they’re proof in some lesson plan, dangling them in front of you. 

“First time, fine—must’ve fallen. Second? Alright. The third? Right in front of me? What the hell’s that about?” His voice is gruff, eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demands answers. 

Inside, you know he’s been thinking about it—about you—just like you’ve hoped.

Your breath catches, and you squirm a little, the sundress suddenly too tight against your hardening nipples. “Can I have them back? Please?”

“They’re full of cum now, girl. Both pairs. What’d you expect me to do, just toss ‘em? After you left ‘em there, all damp and smellin’ like you?”

And you would be surprised, ashamed even embarrassed if it wasn’t exactly what you were planning on. The old, lonely man from next door who always stares at your tits when you walk by, who always has an eye on your curves when you bend over. 

Who would’ve thought that he would use the panties you left for them?

You press your thighs together as a rush of wetness soaks your bare pussy—no panties underneath this time, just for the risk of it.

“You…you used them? Mr. Miller, that’s—“

—That’s disgusting and perverted, and you sure as hell didn’t want that to happen? Oh yeah, sure. 

Joel’s restraint cracks just a fraction; he stuffs the panties into his pocket and shuts the door behind you both, then he backs you up against the sink, not crowding you fully, but close enough that you feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the faint musk of him.

“Need to teach you some damn manners, apparently.”

“Teach me?” you whisper, your voice half-challenge, half-plea, hands twisting in the fabric of your dress as flutters build low in your belly.

“Yeah. Lesson one: Teasin’ like that gets a man thinkin’ things he shouldn’t.” His rough palm cups your cheek, thumb brushing over your bottom lip—gentle in that gruff way, like he’s demonstrating instead of just saying. “You been droppin’ these on purpose? Hopin’ I’d notice? Hm, baby?”

“No... I mean, maybe a little. But I didn’t think—“ You avert your eyes, flustered, but you lean into his touch anyway, craving more.

He tilts your chin up with firm fingers, his eyes stern and unyielding. 

“Look at me when you answer. Been jerkin’ off to your scent every night, fist pumpin’ hard while I pictured slidin’ my cock into that tight little pussy of yours. That’s what you wanted huh? Me leakin’ all over your pretty panties, fillin’ ‘em up with my load.” 

His other hand trails down your side, calluses scraping lightly, then hooks the hem of your dress and inches it up slow, exposing your thighs.

You whimper, nodding as your face burns hotter. “I’m sorry. I just...wanted to you notice me. Makes me feel...”

“Wanted? Fuck, yeah, you are.” He finishes it for you, voice dropping to a gravelly growl, his hand slipping higher to discover you’re bare beneath. 

His fingers trace your slick folds, parting them gently at first.

“Christ, no panties today? Lesson two: Own what you provoke. You’re soakin’ wet already, drippin’ down your thighs for an old man like me.”

He circles your clit with his middle finger, pressing just right—slow, firm circles that make your knees buckle. You love it, the way his filthy words twist in your gut, making you clench around nothing.

“Mr. Miller—“ you moan out, hips bucking forward instinctively, chasing the pleasure. Your hands grip the sink edge behind you, flustered breaths coming fast.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Say it—admit you left ‘em for me, wanted me strokin’ my cock to the thought of buryin’ it in you.” 

He dips one thick finger inside your pussy, curling it deep to stroke your inner walls, the stretch making your eyes roll back. His free arm braces above you on the mirror, caging you in as he pumps slow, agonising.

You gasp, walls fluttering around him. 

“I did...wanted you to touch yourself to me. Please, show me more.” 

The words tumble out, embarrassed but honest, and you push back onto his hand, loving how full he makes you already.

“Good girl. Y’learnin’ fast.” He adds a second finger, stretching you wider, thrusting them in and out with wet, obscene sounds that echo off the tiles. His thumb starts  working your clit, building that coil tighter.

“Feel that? How your greedy little cunt sucks me in? Been dreamin’ of this—your tight hole grippin’ me like it never wants to let go.”

You nod frantically, moans spilling free as pleasure sparks through you. “Yes—feels so good, don’t stop.”

Your body loves every filthy syllable, the way he talks like he’s claiming you, making your arousal drip down his knuckles.

He withdraws his fingers suddenly, leaving you aching and empty, and you whine at the loss. But then the rasp of his zipper fills the air and his cock springs free—thick, veined, the head flushed pink and leaking pre cum. He wraps his hand around the base, stroking once, twice, his eyes devouring you. 

“Lesson three: How it feels to take what’s been buildin’ up. Gonna fuck this sweet pussy raw, fill it with my cum just like I did your panties.”

He rubs the fat head along your slit, coating himself in your juices, teasing your entrance. 

“Sweet pussy. Sweet fuckin’ pussy. Been so long since I had one this tight and wet.” He growls.

You love it, the praise mixed with his dirty edge, making you throb for him.

With a low, guttural groan, he pushes in—inch by thick inch, the stretch burning so good as your walls part for him.

“Breathe through it, darlin’, let me in deep.” His hands grip your hips hard, guiding you down onto him until he’s buried to the hilt, balls pressed against your ass. “Thaaat’s it, honey.” 

You brace on the sink, pushing back to meet him, the fullness overwhelming you. 

“Mr. Miller—oh god, you’re so big. Deeper, please.” Your voice is breathy, flustered, but you rock your hips, loving how he splits your pussy right open.

He starts thrusting—slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the slap of his hips against your ass punctuating each drive. One hand slides up to cup your breast through the dress, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you arch. 

“That’s right, take every inch. Been holdin’ back too long from a little tease like you—now you’re milkin’ my cock, beggin’ for it without sayin’ a word.” 

His pace picks up, pounding deeper, the angle hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

You cry out, legs trembling as you wrap one around his waist, pulling him closer. 

“Yes—fuck me harder, Mr. Miller.”  The words feel bold, but his filthiness eggs you on, your pussy clenching rhythmically around him.

“Greedy girl.” 

He grunts with each thrust, sweat beading on his brow, his free hand dropping to rub your clit in tight circles. The dual sensation has you spiraling, the bathroom filling with the wet sounds of him fucking you senseless, your walls clamping down real greedily.

“I’m close, don’t stop.” You whimper out.

You shatter first, orgasm crashing over you like a wave—your pussy spasms wildly around his cock, gushing wetness as you scream his name.

He follows right after, burying himself balls-deep with a low goran, his cock throbbing as he unloads. Thick ropes of hot cum pulse into you, flooding your walls, so much so that it starts leaking out around him with every grind. 

“Take it all, darlin’—fillin’ this sweet pussy up, markin’ you with my seed. Fuck, you’re perfect—taking every drop.”

He holds you pinned there through the aftershocks, his mouth crashing down on yours in a deep, possessive kiss, tongue claiming as his cock pumps the rest of his spurts.

Finally, he pulls out slow, watching with dark eyes as his cum drips from your swollen pussy, trailing down your thighs. 

“Trouble,” he mutters gruffly against your lips, but his hand strokes your back soft, almost tender. “But you’re gettin’ the idea now.”

Also look who I got yall🥰🥰😜hehe