#mapleshmaple

Then one day after the holiday you come back with this big ass bag perched on your hip the size of a small child. Or Beef, maybe.

There’s a glassy jingle as the bowl is refilled and he reads the text on the packaging after it's stuffed under your cubicle.

Some 400 fucking flavors of those tiny dum-dum lollipops ranging from root beer, to blue raspberry, to your pants, my floor c'mon baby—

Alright, so maybe he always thought you were kinda cute. Not in any intentional way, just like how you see an Armani tie bar in the windows downtown and think "well that looks nice, but I can do better."

Although, honesty's never really been in his wheelhouse.

And you do look nice. 

He's starting think maybe you're tryin' to classically condition him or some shit, cause he took a psych class once at Harvard and it's a little suspicious how he can't walk by without you holding out your crystal bowl—smirk on your face that's growing more striking by the day—saying:

"Hey Sonar, want some?"

In a voice that swiftly works its way into his nightly 'alone time', if you catch his drift.

Now he's not clueless, he knows what kind of guy he is. The guys at his old office had some words for it, followed by manly slaps on the back. He thought he knew what kinda person you were too, but maybe not.

Even Homer sometimes nods.

It's gotten to the point he can't even enter the bullpen without taking the path that leads right by your desk, ears pricked to attention and his fingers itching to dip inside the smooth cut glass and take a sweet. Pop it between his teeth right away, so he can watch the way your eyes trace his tongue.

Shit, he's really rolling the dice on this one. Taking a gamble for big time winnings. Pulling out the Trump card for his biggest investor.

"Which flavor would you be?" he asks after weeks of torture, like he's offered you the deal of the century, ten times back in returns.

And then you do the last thing he ever expected.

Flip the script. Hit him with a counter pitch of your own.

"I'm really not sure," you've got the top three buttons of your blouse undone, a smart little tease of the goods on offer. "Why don't you tell me?"

And, fuck if he doesn't sign his name on that dotted line right then and there.

You're in Sonar's bed that night, all unwrapped and ready for him to finally get a taste. Get that sweet little treat you've been hiding all this time between his lips until he's finally satisfied the craving.

If only you’d stop holding out on him. 

"Quit hovering," he's bitching, but he doesn't care. You've been teasing him with this too long, priming and prepping him to want it so bad he's gonna fucking scream. 

His tongue can reach, can swirl and slide through your folds, get a hint of that flavor he's guessing at. But he didn't get you here for just a lick. Sonar wants your pretty candy clit in his fucking mouth, pressed against the smooth edges of his teeth. Wants your pussy gushing sugary slick that gets matted in his fur so the scent stays with him long after you're gone.

"Are you, mmm—sure?" 

Oh where’d all that confidence go now, huh? He’s grinning just staring up at his shiny new chew toy. Shouldn’t have played the game if you couldn’t take the heat. 

Sonar is not one to half-ass anything, and you’re not gonna ruin that reputation just cause you don’t wanna sit. 

You've got your knees on either side of his head, and he can feel them shaking with the effort of staying upright. He works his arms up around your thighs, grabs two fistfuls of flesh and tugs. Pulls and presses until you pitch forward, hands braced in the hair on his chest and thighs against his ears with your weight fully bearing down on him.

God, if that first suck at your folds isn't the best hit he's ever taken.

He'd do a line of you cut on the counter of any shitty bar bathroom.

"Good," he groans, muffled against your ass, reaching a palm up high enough to get a handful of tit. The air is heavy and perfumed with nothing but pure concentrated you, hot and clinging inside his lungs. "Now, fucking stay there till I'm done."

Which won't be anytime soon, but you should have known what you were asking for.

‘Please take one!’

Yeah well, Sonar knows himself. He's a greedy little motherfucker.