Rating: Explicit
Relationship: Eric Love (Starred Up 2013)/Fem Reader Insert
Tags: Post-Canon, Haircuts, Post-Prison, Loss of Virginity, Virgin Eric Love, Tattoos, Hair Washing, Inappropriate Erections, Alcohol, First Kiss, Clit Play, Cunnilingus, Safe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Penis in Vagina Sex
Words: 7,330
read on ao3 or below the cut
It's Friday night at the salon. Stick it out for just a little while longer, and an entire weekend of freedom awaits.
You've only been settled at this new place for three weeks. Still the newbie getting stuck with the grunt work. But you like it. You can easily see yourself building a future here. And then, once you're established, you'll actually be allowed to dictate your schedule, so you can show up at opening and be done for the day in time for tea and the occasional night out.
Not that you get invited to lots of those anymore. Your closest mates are all coupled up these days, and wrapped up in building their little families. They've traded clubbing and carousing for playdates, and you no longer fit neatly into the equation. You're happy to say you don't exactly envy them, but you do miss them.
You're thinking of old friends when 8 o’clock arrives. The others have packed up for the evening and headed home, but not you. Not yet. It's your duty to close up shop—like it has been every day this week.
Lucky for you, your fellow stylists are all courteous and professional. They always do their bit so you’re left with only the most basic tidying up. At your last job, that wasn't always the case.
You've done often enough that you know the closing time routine by heart. Check the wall sockets for any plugged-in tools that, accidentally left on overnight, could set the whole place alight. Wipe down the countertops. Sweep up any leftover hair or popcorn or crisps that might be on the floor around the stations. Toss any empty champagne flutes and beer bottles and fizzy drink cans. Launder the dirtied towels and capes. Empty the rubbish and replace the bin bags. Double-check that the petty cash in the register matches the expected totals.
At the very least, you can skip the inventory count. The latest shipment arrived the previous day, and by your count, the salon has a surplus of every product and accessory either you or a client could want for, and will for a minimum of a week.
A pleasant but suddenly unwelcome electronic chime makes you realise you forgot one important step. You never locked the front door.
“Pardon,” the man at the entrance says, polite but slightly frantic. “Please tell me you're still open…”
He seems good-looking at a glance, though he's mostly obscured from you, hiding himself under the cover of a maroon hoodie.
“I'm sorry, sir…,” you start, stepping toward the front, with the intention of ushering him outside.
“Please.” The desperation in his request stops you in your tracks. “It's an emergency.”
You should turn the man away. You're exhausted, and it's past closing time. Company policy gives you every right to turn him away.
But then he pulls back his hood.
His age is difficult to place, his visage world-wary and worn, but with a youthful charm bubbling beneath the surface. He's undeniably handsome, with a short but well-maintained beard and a messy mop of soft chestnut hair in bad need of a trim. His dress is casual, a hoodie paired with joggers, creating precisely the inexpensive, effortless look the fashion-minded spend hundreds to achieve.
It doesn't take a genius to recognise his type. The bad boy. The variety of man you've always been irresistibly drawn towards, but have never pursued because you know better.
You can't deny your curiosity, or his sky-high potential.
“What kind of emergency?” you wonder.
He holds up his phone, cradled in both hands, his grip around it somewhat uncanny.
“I just got word I’ve got a job interview, bright and early tomorrow—6 in the morning,” he rushes. “I can't be expected to impress them if I don't look presentable. Would've handled it myself if I had the tools, and I've tried everywhere else…”
You can't help but feel for him, but your desire to agree is fuelled by something else entirely. He's got you inspired—a blank canvas upon which you can channel so much pent up creativity.
It's not that your job isn't fulfilling. The pay is very good, and you've earned it, working hard for years to develop the hundreds of little skills that add up the talent customers covet, and a sense of real trust. But your clients rarely pose any challenge these days or really push your imagination with their requests.
At this place, they've all started to run together. You've gotten used to supermodel types who'd remain as gorgeous and self-assured as ever if you accidentally turned all their hair to gum, and Brexiters who must be in on some scheme together, demanding nearly identical I'd-like-to-speak-to-your-manager haircuts.
So the temptation to help this stranger undergo a transformation from shabby to downright dishy is irresistible.
Moments like these are what made you so passionate about this business in the first place—opportunities to bring forth inner beauty, to aid the tiny shifts in perspective that allow a person to look in the mirror and like what they see for the first time in ages. Time and time again, you've seen what people are capable of when they're gifted with the smallest spark of confidence.
So who are you to say no?
“All right,” you finally say aloud after your careful deliberation. “But only because you've said ‘please.’”
He huffs a sigh and grins, baring slightly crooked, pointy teeth that couldn't better suit his handsome face. You know immediately that you've made the right decision.
“How much?”
The man pulls out his wallet, offering two £20 notes. His brow is deeply furrowed and there's a pitiful look in his endlessly blue eyes.
Maybe it's a wild guess, but you're convinced it's all he’s got.
The salon charges about that much for most men’s cuts, and you typically expect a tip on top—you do always provide excellent service—but you lie, telling him just 20 will do. You can handle the till discrepancy later.
He hands you the cash, and you beckon him to follow you to the washpoints in the back of the salon.
There are pegs on the wall lined up for hanging coats, and he unzips his hoodie, revealing the clingy white T-shirt underneath and dark black tattoos down his thick, strongly muscled arms. You're glad his attention is on putting his jacket away, as it seems to prevent him from hearing the tiny squeak of delighted surprise that passes through your lips.
He's clearly taken very good care of himself to sculpt this physique. That might be a red flag. He could be too into physical conditioning, with little interest in anything else. But he doesn't seem vain or self-obsessed, like you might expect.
And then there are the tats. It's an eclectic collection of ink, but the styles appear earned and meaningful, rather than obtained on a whim. Some look fully professional, others crudely but passionately stuck-and-poked, but they all come together to impressive effect.
His arms run with a collage of clovers and spirals and knots and chrysanthemums and a winged hare with antlers and a bubbling saucepan and little initialisms and phrases, not entirely coating his limbs, but taking up much of the space.
Two tattoos in particular draw your eye, holding space in your mind.
There's “Hold It Down” in thick, flowing cursive.
And then:
NEV ‘69–’17
It's silly, but it almost feels like an invasion of his privacy to really take them all in—like reading his encoded journal with half the cypher.
Normally, you wouldn't hesitate to ask about them, but the man still seems nervous as he sits down in the comfy chair. You get the feeling that's not the right course of action to put him at ease.
“Let me guess,” you say instead. “About… six months ago, you buzzed your hair short and you’ve not touched it since?”
“Bingo.” He looks impressed. “Nice one.”
“This is my world,” you explain as you start to work through his hair with a wide-tooth comb. It gives you no trouble—no knots or tangles whatsoever.
It's virgin hair, which is unusual for the men who tend to come into this place. It's not been coloured, or even seen heat. He's got touches of grey at the temples, only visible upon close inspection, that give off a dignified and comely impression. The follicles are densely concentrated but the strands are fine, and not too porous, giving the hair a thick appearance without losing manageability.
As infrequently as it comes up, one of the perks of this job is the excuse to gawk whenever you see fit. You're quite certain you've never served a customer so fit as this.
And still, he can't relax at all. He's all nerves, tense and clenched up, his hands balled into tight, trembling fists. You wonder how a man like this could be so nervous for a job interview.
But the wash will help loosen him up, you're quite certain of that.
Finally, it's time for him to lay his head back into the basin. You adjust the chair so he's rested almost completely horizontally and then run the hand shower until the water’s the perfect lukewarm temperature before soaking his hair with it, leaning over him from the side.
Once his locks are properly saturated, you grab a pump of your standard shampoo and rub the liquid between your hands, emulsifying it, before working it deep into his scalp.
You see his wide nostrils twitch as he takes in the scent.
“Fuck me, that's nice,” he utters, before cringing at his own outburst. “Sorry…”
“It's orange peel and peppercorn,” you explain, because it is nice.
Both notes mingle into something new—fresh and invigorating. You've gotten so used to it already you hardly notice, so you appreciate the mindful reminder.
“Sorry,” he mutters again, before getting swept away in the relaxing sensation of your massaging, sudsy hands against his skull.
As you coax your fingertips in side-to-side motions, really working to cleanse away any residue that might be built up under his hair, you continue to take advantage of the opportunity to admire him. Up close, you notice things you couldn't recognise before, like the healed scars that line his brow, his chin, and cheeks. They create a rugged contrast against the gentle, anxious demeanour of his expression.
You have to wonder how he got them. Is he some kind of brawler? A brute fighting in the street, luring others into acts of aggression? It's hard to picture. But then again, you don't really know the man at all.
And as your hands continue to work, rubbing the tight skin behind his ears and down the nape of his neck, your touch elicits a hushed moan of pleasure. It stirs something between your legs. You'd love to hear more sounds like these from him. To be the source of that bliss.
It's very naughty of you to steal a glance, but perhaps even worse that he has an erection, sizeable and straining against the baggy material of his jogging bottoms. You hope he doesn't see you blush, and you have to fight the smile threatening to form on your face as he inconspicuously crosses his legs to hide it. It's easy to pretend you didn't see. Gracious, even.
It's not his fault, after all, that your bosom’s been hovering over his head during this whole process, the smallest glimpse of cleavage visible from below. That's kind of the nature of the wash. He's allowed to enjoy the show if that's his thing.
Still, you wish he'd relax a little and enjoy himself. The wash is meant to be pleasurable—if not that pleasurable.
“So, what style are we looking for today?” you ask, gently, as you rinse the lather off his scalp with warm water from the sprayer.
“Buzz it all off, I think,” he mutters, still timid as ever. “That's probably all I can get for what you charged me…”
“Now, don’t do that,” you insist, retrieving another dollop of shampoo for the second round. ”Pretend cost is no issue. What would you want, then?”
“No fucking idea,” he admits.
“Try me.”
You're used to reading people's minds, translating their gibberish into something tangible as well as stylish, and preventing people from going home with a style or colour they hate because they were confidently using the wrong lingo.
“I'm serious. Don't know what anything's called, and even if you handed me a haircut encyclopaedia or whatever, I wouldn't know where to begin. I just want what’ll get me the job, I imagine.”
“Noted,” you say, working in the next shampoo application gently. “I don't intend to let you down. And you've got so much beautiful hair. I think it'd be a crime to take too much.”
You watch down on him as he holds back a smile, his cheeks reddening as you cradle his head in your hands.
“Do you trust me?” you ask him.
“I'm sorry?”
He laughs, the sound tinted with something like disbelief.
“With your hair, I mean. I just want to tame it a bit. Then I'll show you how to slick it down to get it looking really profesh, all right?”
“Yeah, sweet,” he agrees. You swear there's a sparkle of mischief in those soul-searching eyes of his, made even more intoxicating behind the flutter of his obnoxiously long eyelashes.
You rinse away the last of the suds before it's time to condition. He seems to enjoy this scent as well—similar to the shampoo, but with base notes of sandalwood. You're careful to apply it just to the ends of his hair to avoid greasiness.
“What's your name, love?” you ask.
This sends him into an unabashed fit of giggles, his jaw opening wide so you swear you can see every last one of his teeth. There's an innocence to the expression that makes him look 20 years younger, and it feels as if there's a fist around your heart, clenching hard.
“Eric,” he answers with a smirk once he's settled down. “Eric Love.”
“You're joking.”
“Nah, look.” He flashes his ID—a Pass card, rather than a driving licence—and there it is, spelled out for you, next to a miserable photo that may as well be a mug shot. You find yourself chuckling, too, feeling that no other name could suit him better.
“You know I'm not gonna let that one go any time soon?” you say.
“I wouldn't want you to.”
By then, the conditioner has set a couple minutes. After a warning, it's time to rinse it away with cool water, towel his hair to wick away most of the moisture, and lead him back to your station against the wall—one of eight in total.
Eric takes a seat in the styling chair and you tousle his damp hair a little. You catch a new angle of him in the mirror, framed in the reflection of the one behind you, and they bounce against each other into an emerald infinity.
“Peckish?” you wonder. “How about some popcorn and beer?”
He pauses.
“I don't know if…”
“Refreshments are free for customers,” you interrupt, and that seems to put him at ease. “You don't seem like the mimosa type. Brown ale fine?”
“Yes, please.”
You throw the apron over him before retrieving the beer bottle, from a local craft brewery, uncapping it for him, and a little plastic bag of popcorn. Usually, you'd pour the popcorn in a more stylish container, but you don't suppose he cares.
Next, you wheel over your trolley of tools. It's time for the real work to begin.
And just when you were convinced you'd helped him open up and gotten him loose, you see the deepest worried creases in his forehead yet.
“You can relax,” you insist, gently squeezing his shoulder. “It's just a haircut and I promise I'm nice. And anyhow, if you hate it, we can go with the original plan and shear it all off. But I'm confident you won't hate it. Sound good?”
“Yeah, fair play,” he says.
The tension in his brow lifts—a little. The pressure’s all on you now. The last thing you want is to let him down.
You start with the comb. His hair is still plenty damp, giving you control as you separate the hair at the top of the crown from the rest at the back of his head, combing the top upward and securing it with a clip.
You'll be focusing on the back first. Carefully gripping both your comb and your scissors with one hand, you begin by lifting out a vertical section down the centre with the comb, creating a guide at the edge of the comb with the other hand’s forefinger and middle finger pointed downwards, and making the very first snip. You love the satisfying crunch of the stainless steel shears through damp hair, and it's just the first cut of many.
Keeping direction in the hair and using Eric’s shortest length as a guide, you repeat that step again and again. Now, you can use just the comb as an edge, tidying up as you cut his hair uniform, creating consistency and flow from the apex of his crown to the nape of his neck, following the length down with cut after cut after cut.
When it's time to trim the sides, you continue to do the same, being extra mindful of maintaining the flow of his hair, and not taking too much. You don't want to do anything that will mess with that luscious length.
So far his squareish ears have been hidden in his hair—they stick out in such a cute way—and you fold them down gently to cut around them, taking the hair around them in just a little for a clean look.
All the while, Eric is quiet as a mouse, quickly finishing his popcorn and beer and setting them aside. You're so used to clients who love nothing more than to natter on about themselves at length, so the lack of chatter, paired with the salon music being turned off, creates an atmosphere that's almost eerie.
Suddenly, you feel the need to break the unnerving silence. Plus, you're curious about Eric.
“This is for a job interview, you said?”
“Yeah.”
“You been looking for work long?”
It’s an educated guess, based on the length of his hair and the lack of cash in his wallet
“No,” he answers. “Well, yeah. It’s complicated.”
You wait for him, anticipating an explanation, but receiving none. He must see the expectant look on your face in the mirror.
“Trust me,” he says, his voice soft. “You don’t wanna know.”
“I really do,” you insist. “I won't force you, but I do want to remind you I'm doing you a big favour here, and it only seems fair.”
“You'll freak out. And you've got sharp scissors.”
“I might not,” you say. “And yes, they're very sharp and perfectly tensioned, but that just means they're far too expensive to risk damaging them by using them as a makeshift weapon.
That almost makes him smile, before his mouth curls into an O shape and lets out a sharp exhale.
“I was in prison.”
Internally, you do find yourself panicking a little, suddenly feeling somewhat unbalanced, but he’s so timid now, so sweet, so worried about this job interview, that you immediately relax. As far as Eric knows, you've remained perfectly composed.
“Well, then this is an extra important interview, yeah?” you say. “I’ll make you look so good they’d be fools not to hire you on the spot.”
He grins wide, with a bashful softness lingering beneath the surface.
Unfortunately, his reflection still looks quite messy. It's a matter of trusting the process for anyone in the chair, but your vision is coming to life precisely as you've planned.
“You are going to love it,” you reassure him further as you move on to the top of his head.
You remove the clip and follow the same technique, creating a consistent length and snipping the excess hair that peeks through the guide of your fingers.
Suddenly, there's a sharp, needle-like pain in your index finger.
“Shit,” you hiss, stepping back from Eric’s chair to observe.
“Fuck, did you cut yourself?” he asks, the concern pitching up his voice.
“No, just a hair splinter,” you explain, showing him the way a piece of his hair has embedded itself in your fingertip, the length visible under the skin. “Standard occupational hazard. Just a moment.”
You put your things down and grab a pair of tweezers, though dislodging it with your non-dominant hand proves tricky.
“Let me,” Eric says, and you're happy to oblige him. He removes it easily, first try, and the relief is immense.
“Thank you. Now, how about a kiss to make it better?”
He looks flustered until he sees you’re merely offering your finger. He presses his lips to the place that no longer hurts. Just a touch of his soft lips makes you desperate for more.
“Looks like I’m the one who owes you the favour now,” you say.
“I mean, it was basically my fault. It was my weirdly sharp hair that shivved you.”
He has a point there. And his word choice has you thinking about prison again.
“Well, now that I know a little more about you, I can't help but be curious,” you share. “Would it be awful of me to ask?”
“Er, no, I guess,” he says, though he doesn't look thrilled about it. “And I have the right to refuse at any time. Fair?”
“Fair,” you agree. “So can I ask how long you were in for?”
“Christ,” he says, like it's a big question he has to think about. “Since 2009, soon as I was old enough to go into a YOI. Was under a custodial order for four or five years until then.”
Christ, indeed.
You spend a moment working out the mental maths. He was just a kid when he did whatever it was that put him in the system, well over two decades ago. He spent nearly 20 of those years in prison. It must've been serious, but you don't think anyone deserves to be locked away like that—especially based on their childhood actions.
And he's missed so much. Regular coming-of-age shit. He's never gone to secondary school or had a first date.
Suddenly, you're gripped by the very real possibility he's never slept with anyone. He's got to be in his mid-30s now, at least. That would be a real shame. Not that he should be ashamed. It just feels like a waste, is all.
You're dead curious, but you don't have the heart to ask your most burning questions.
“Well, you're here now,” you say instead, warmly. “On the other side. I think congratulations are in order.”
“Er, yeah, thanks,” he blusters, as if that was the last thing he expected you to say.
“That's got to be strange. But in a good way, I hope.”
“It is,” he says. “They do try to prepare you for it. Little courses on handling money, finding somewhere to live, getting work. It doesn't really compare with the reality, though.”
“Well, you're doing all right, I'd say. You've got the interview lined up, don't you?”
“I probably won't get it,” Eric deflects.
You scoff.
“Not with that attitude you won't! Seriously, I think you have a good shot at it, and it'll be even better once I'm done with you. What kind of work is it anyway?”
“Shipping and logistics,” he explains. “It's all inventories, moving shit around to and from the docks. I need to be able to lift three stone above my head…”
“So no issue for you, then. You certainly look strong enough.”
You've been admiring his build, and you're not afraid to say you've noticed.
“Thanks. I've had loads of time for the gym, if you can imagine.”
“So I think this cut will really suit you,” you say. “Not too prim and proper. Rugged, but self-assured.”
“My hair's gonna say all that?” he wonders.
“Yes, it will,” you answer, and you mean it. “What's the haircut situation in a place like that, anyhow? I don't suspect they let the inmates run around with scissors.”
“Nah, you're right,” he says. “They'd never allow that in high security. A barber would come in every couple of weeks and there was a sign up sheet. We were entitled to a cut a month—two, on occasion, as a reward for good behaviour. Toward the end I waived a couple of mine. Figured it'd be a momentous occasion to shed it all on the outside, symbolic like.”
“Well, shit,” you say. “Did you need me to cut it shorter, then? I don't want to deny you your symbolic casting-off.”
“No, don't,” he says. “I think it's appropriate. Best laid plans, and that. Maybe it's good to hang on to certain things. Not forget where I've been?”
“Yeah, I like that,” you say, nearly done trimming the top to just the right length. “Another question. How did you shave?”
“We could shave every day,” he says. “They'd lend us disposable razors in the shower and watch us like hawks, and then collect it back after.”
“So is it nice?” you wonder. “To have freedom to do all those things on your own now? Or does it feel…?
“Unstructured?” he blurts out. “Overwhelming? Oppressive? But blissfully free? I live somewhere in the middle of it all, really. Never know what to do with myself these days.”
“Well, a job will help with structure and get you into routine. Maybe a sense of purpose, if you're lucky.”
“And cash,” he adds.
“Yeah, there's always that.”
When you're done up top, you finish off the cut with the trimmer, again using the comb as a guide as you buzz away the fluff at the nape of his neck. You shape it not into clean lines, but a more natural vibe. You fancy his wildness, and that should reflect in his look.
Finally, it's time for the blow dryer. You start nice and hot—not enough to burn, of course, moving swiftly so the heat never uncomfortably concentrates too long in one area—and using a circular brush to create the desired shape, back from the centre. Once the hair is dried, you blast shots of cool air to leave the strands soft and shiny.
“Wow,” Eric says once the whole vision comes together. “I look… good.”
“You really do,” you say, glowing. “And I'm not done yet.”
It's a very good sign he likes it unstyled, because he's about to look twice as stunning—and you're already feeling a bit weak in the knees.
You show him precisely how to use the vanilla and musk-scented pomade—how much, and where—to slick back the hanging bits of fringe, creating a windswept, voluminous cascade with his hair, and creating a bit of a duckarse in the back. It gives off just the healthy, matte look you’d hoped, and you give him the rest of the little pot to take home. No one has to know.
He looks rich and in charge, the regal lion's mane framing his squared face, and you catch him holding back embarrassed smiles at how handsome he looks in the mirror.
While you're at it, you decide to put some finishing touches on him—a vitamin serum and moisturiser to make his skin glow, and a salve on his lips and beard, applied with your ring finger, mostly because you've been dying to touch his lips again.
“You could walk like that into any job,” you announce. “Just act like you own the place, and it’s yours.”
As he giggles a little at the process, a gelled strand falls from his temple.
“Shit,” he murmurs, moving a hand to fix it.
“No, leave it,” you say. “That looks absolutely perfect as is.”
It's a happy accident. And now he may be the most irresistible man on the planet. He's got you ready to break every rule—the salon’s and your own.
“I have to tidy up here,” you tell him, “but after, would you like to grab a drink? My treat.”
He agrees before offering to help, throwing his hoodie back on—and very purposefully keeping the hood down this time. The sweeping, wiping down, and dunking of tools in barbicide seems to take a fraction of the time with the work split up.
Once you finally lock the salon up, you show him the way to the pub around the corner. It's become a favourite after-work spot, where the food is decent and the drinks cheap.
On occasion, that combination also attracts some strange clientele. On the way to the bar counter, a big bloke with a great big bushy beard with his friends nearly knocks you over on the way out, drunkenly stumbling straight into you.
In a flash, a grimacing Eric has him by the collar with one hand, his other first reeled back and ready to pounce. In another blink, both hands are on the massive stranger's shoulders, patting him like nothing happened. It happened so fast—and his party is so drunk—that you don't think any of them ever knew he might've been in danger.
“You should watch where you're going, mate,” Eric says, firm but not aggressive. “You ran straight into the lady. I think you owe her an apology.”
“Yeah, sorry,” the man slurs.
“Thank you,” you say, and soon, they're all gone to be someone else's problem.
“Maybe I should go,” Eric mutters.
“Please don't,” you say. “You had a reflex, but then you held it down. You did good, Eric.”
You realise you've accidentally parroted a motto from one of his tattoos. It's impossible he didn't notice.
“Then can we pretend that didn't happen?” he asks, sheepish, as you both sit down at the bar. “Fucking embarrassing. I'm barely fit for polite society…”
“It might take some practice,” you say, “but that's what this is. You'll get there, I swear it.”
He smiles to himself, and soon the barman is ready to take your orders. You both start with a pint of lager.
“Thanks,” Eric says, taking his first sip, his grip on the glass a bit shaky. “Still fucking nervous about tomorrow, but this helps.”
He grasps the edge of the counter, as if to steady himself, and you can't resist placing your own hand over his. Your fingertips trace the raised scar issue along his knuckles, your palm pressed soothingly against his. You feel the tension in his fingers release under yours.
“You've been too good to me,” he whispers. “I hardly deserve it.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” you say. “So far, you’ve earned it.”
He doesn't know what to say to that, but lucky for him, your food’s out fast—you've each ordered a sausage roll and mushy peas—and you both tuck in before he breaks the silence again.
“Do you really think I've got a chance?” he wonders. “I haven't ever had a real job. My empty CV is damning. It's no use pretending I didn't spend my entire life in the nick.”
“Well, then own it. Yeah, you were in prison. You did your time, you learned a thing or two. I can see from experience it didn’t entirely fuck you up. Maybe you learned strength, resilience. I don't know.”
“That's not bad,” he admits. “I just get so anxious around regular people. I only know how to deal with fucking criminals, know what I mean?”
“You've done a fine job dealing with me.”
“That's because you've been kind to me. Fuck if I know why.”
Does he not have eyes? Even the surly bartender eyed him earlier, like he was too handsome to be seen around these parts.
He answers your unvoiced question with his piercing blue gaze. He's really looking at you now, seeing you, in a manner that makes you feel bared and vulnerable.
“Have you spent a lot of time around women, Eric?”
Having zero interactions with girls over the last 20-ish years would explain the boner.
“Not loads,” he says, “but there’s always been lady prison officers around.”
This surprises you.
“I didn't realise. And that's safe for them?”
He shrugs.
“Probably safer than for the men. We were more mindful of them, I think.”
“Did any of the inmates and officers ever…?” you begin.
“Have sex?” Eric finishes your sentence.
You nod.
“Fuck’s sake. I never thought about it. Would've been risky, and I don't see there being many opportunities for it. But who knows, people get up to all kinds of shit, don't they?”
You've steered the conversation as far in this direction as you can, and as much as you'd love for him to make the first move, it's clear he won't. He's still easing back into real life, with no idea what he's doing around you. He eyes you with as much caution as interest. You're convinced that if you don't step up and act first, it'll take Eric years.
“Would you like to come back to mine?” you ask, directly, and you’re thrilled when he's brave enough to say yes.
You pay the bill and leave together, your heart thumping violently in your chest, as you walk the short way to your flat.
Once inside, he follows you timidly, taking a seat beside you on the sofa. It's not even that he's hesitating. He doesn't know he's meant to take that next step.
But you're in the perfect position to teach him the ways of the real world.
“By the way,” you say, “I really fancy you, and I'd love it if you would kiss me now.”
The direct approach works. He smiles and leans in, pausing halfway, before finally pressing his lips to yours, your head spinning as you take in the softness of his touch, and the gentle scratch of his facial hair. He's completely still once you're conjoined, unsure what to do until you kiss back, gently tugging on his lips with your own.
His lack of experience is endearing, and oddly a turn-on.
Next, you guide his hands, one along your jaw, the other under your bum, pressing your body close to his. You're not at all surprised he's rock hard for you again.
“So you've never done this?” you ask after another long, deep kiss.
He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, before he admits he hasn’t.
You've never been with a virgin before. You certainly never expected to be with one in his 30s. Especially one as beautiful as this. You don't blame him for being nervous.
“I don't know what I'm doing,” he says. “I'll just embarrass myself.”
“Don’t worry, no judgements here. You’re just gorgeous enough to get away with anything. Would you like me to show you what I like?”
He nods, biting his lip.
You take his hand, guiding him to the bedroom, where you strip down to your bra and knickers. He, too, undresses until he's just in his Y-fronts, revealing more tattoos—most notably an enormous Celtic cross down his left side. He quivers when you run your fingers down his smooth, cool skin. You can't wait until it's pressed against your body.
After laying down on your side, you instruct him to join you in a spooning position, one arm draped around you. His erection grazes you briefly, making him gasp aloud, but he adjusts himself, and it doesn't happen again—to your disappointment.
“This is where the magic happens,” you share, and then guide his hand under your pants to your clit.
You use his hand like a toy, showing him the back and forth motion you love under his middle finger, letting him know precisely how good he's making you feel with every moan and ragged breath as the bliss builds.
He's a quick learner, and when you set his hand free, he keeps going at exactly the delicious pace and pressure you set.
“Oh, yeah, Love,” you groan as he drives the action. “Just like that. Just like that…”
He doesn't let up, and soon he's made you come, the warm, deliriously pleasurable heat radiating from your core as you convulse against his fingers and cry out. He, too, moans at the sight and sound and feel of you.
Once the sensation fades, you're left panting, and you twist your neck so you can kiss him along the jaw.
“You're a natural,” you tell him, your voice breathy and dazed from his good work. “Up for something a little more advanced?”
When he enthusiastically agrees, you free yourself from his hold, ditching the rest of your clothes, spreading your bent knees for him.
“You want me to lick your clitoris?” Eric asks, with a dreamy exhale.
So he's not completely clueless about these matters. You like that.
“Badly,” you tease him. “If you're up for it. Just like you did with your finger, but with your tongue.”
He nods, licking his lips as he gets into position below you in the bed. He lies on his belly and puts his mouth on you. Your hips automatically kick up when his fat, round tongue makes contact, and you exhale sharply with every touch.
He hums his contentment as he works you, tightly gripping your thighs, his gaze locked on yours as his tongue flicks left and right, slightly clumsy but immensely pleasurable all the same. You're tempted to grab him by the hair, to force him even closer to you, but you refuse to tousle him now.
He's so beautiful you're not convinced any of it is real, until he eases another orgasm out of you, making you shout and flail with your clit between his pretty lips.
You stroke his face once you've recovered, and he's wearing his widest grin yet. He angles to kiss your hand.
“What do you need next?” he asks.
“What do you want?” you turn the question back on him.
“To kiss you,” he says, rising back to your side. “To touch you. And then…”
You pull him in for a rough kiss, your tongue dancing against his, as his rough hands explore your body, exquisitely caressing your thighs, your buttocks, your breasts. His fingertips then trail down your stomach and over your mound. He stops there, but when you nod your approval, he presses two thick fingers inside you, wet and wanting for him. His ecstatic groan is even louder and more pronounced than yours.
He moves inside you tentatively, unsure how to touch you. Your breath hitches with every movement with the pleasant sensation, but you're equally at a loss.
“Would you make love to me now, Love?” you ask him.
He gulps.
“I'm afraid it'll be over before it's even started.”
“I don't think that would be such a bad thing,” you reassure him. “You could finish as quickly or as slowly as you need. I just want to feel you.”
“I want to make you come,” he whines, sounding almost desperate.
“If you do, you do. And if not, you've already left me plenty satisfied. Really.”
“You sure?” he asks again. It must just be virgin nerves.
“Yes,” you answer. “Make love to me. Please.”
You have a condom for him, which he knows how to put on in theory. Finally, he sheds his pants, giving you the full view of his impressive cock, and you find watching him figure out how to roll the condom to be a tantalising scene in itself. He's careful as he gets on top of you, gripping one of your hands in his, and using his other for balance, his gaze fixed in your eyes. At last, he enters you, thick and satisfying, with a moan so deep and guttural the sound borders on pain rather than pleasure.
“Fuuuck,” he bellows, stopping in place, grinning as he pants.
You brush the side of his face with your free hand.
“You all right?” you wonder.
He nods, and chuckles, before the expression fades to neutral.
“Is this weird?” he asks. “Should I be serious?”
“No, Love,” you assure him. “It’s meant to be fun.”
The grin returns, as spectacular and sparkling as ever.
“Good,” he whispers.
At last, he moves again, thrusting into you with a deliberate slowness, like he only has a finite number of strokes in him, and he knows it. You watch each other intently all the while. The closeness is nearly too much, making you want to look away, but you can’t peel your eyes from him.
He changes his angle a bit on the last push, hitting you just right, making you cry aloud, before he stops again, leaning down for another deep kiss..
“Am I hurting you?” he asks, gently.
“The opposite,” you say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It's a moment before he resumes, pushing even more slowly, but deeper and harder and just where you need him.
You can't help but murmur panted little, “yeah, yeah, yeah”s as he goes.
“You feel so fucking good,” Eric gasps.
His hips move without finesse when they pulse, seeking their pleasure and release, but there's an honesty to his motion that pushes all your buttons. This flavour of want feels brand new to you, and you cling to it desperately.
Where your hands are conjoined, his fingertips play with the unusual calluses under your middle and ring finger, formed by repetitive use of heavy shears. He's kissing your neck when he finally loses control.
Eric's orgasm is forceful and sudden, his hand squeezing yours in ecstasy as a guttural growl leaves his throat and he ruts into you, hard and fast. Soon, he's gasping and panting, collapsed on top of you. You glow under his weight on top of you, inside of you, as his beautiful crown nestles in the crook between your head and your neck.
You've never experienced anything quite like him. You want a lot more of it, as soon as possible.
He looks slightly dazed, almost drunk, as he rises, looking upon you with a beautifully patient sense of awe.
He shakes his head, lips pressed into a closed smile.
“Everyone said I'd be disappointed,” he says.
“By your first time?”
“Yeah. They said after so much buildup, expectations would let me down but… you made this perfect. You were perfect. Thank you.”
“You weren't so bad yourself,” you say, laughing.
“Beginner's luck,” he insists.
You know he'll get even better with time, with guidance. You don't want to make any assumptions, but you'd be glad to be the one he improves with.
And this time, when his lips meet yours, he's confident and direct, all the shaky nerves gone. His perfect hair’s been made wilder and even more appealing, mussed by your activities. It's almost a shame he'll need to wash and gel it up again in the morning.
Eric moved to lay beside you on the bed, all smiles as he stares at you. But you also catch him eyeing the clock.
“I know you've got to go,” you assure him, “and that you're not giving me some crap excuse. Your interview is early.”
“I'm sorry…” he starts, before you shush him, handing him your business card.
“Ring me. Mine's the number at the bottom,” you say. “Good luck, Love.”
He leaves you with another kiss, and while you intend to stay up all night fussing about him and his success, you instead drift off almost immediately—a deep, dreamless rest.
A text is waiting for you in the morning once you wake. You don't recognise the number, but you know precisely who it's from.
“I got the job. I owe you big. Dinner soon?”
You message back immediately. It's a date.
(Find more to read at my fic masterpost here)
