#opal writes

The sudden inhalation through your nose is probably louder than his confession, but no one seems to notice over the din of table conversation and clinking cutlery.

You swallow the mouthful of turkey and stuffing he’d caught you in the middle of chewing and clear your throat delicately, cutting off another bite-size piece of turkey with your knife and fork, ignoring the comment. Maybe a little smaller of a piece than you have been, so you don’t choke if he chooses to slink his way through another remark like that.

A wise decision, as once your fork is in your mouth, you hear that telltale accent murmuring something else. “Did you shave it all smooth for me again?”

You huff quietly, taking a sip of your wine, and speaking into the glass covertly, “I did nothing for you, Billy.”

“Tha’s alright, love. Didn’t care about it last time neither. I don’t mind a little safari through the jungle s’long as there’s a wild cat waitin’ for me through the bush, eh?”

Your eyes snap to him again, and he’s cool as a cucumber, an arm now draped over the back of your chair as he shovels mashed potatoes onto his fork and takes a casual bite.

“It’s a no, Billy,” you whisper sternly, sitting up in your chair. Your body tenses slightly when his fingers brush against the back of your neck in what could be an entirely innocuous move. But you know him better than that.

“Then why’re your little thighs squeezin’ so tight it’s like I got my head between ‘em sneakin’ an early dessert?”

You want to spit a cutting remark back at him. Growl in frustration. But how could you argue against that when the plush of your thighs, only half concealed by your dress, don’t have a whisper of air to speak of between them as your pussy clenches traitorously.

You can’t do this again with him. The first (and only) time had only been slightly on purpose. Last Thanksgiving.

Fuck him, you had shaved for him back then. You were less sure of yourself last year. More self-conscious and more eager to impress. You’d met him a handful of times in passing, him being a frequent contact of your father.

Billy…his eyes had always lingered on you. It had made you hot. Willing. An older man, nothing but trouble and chaos in his quirked smile and dark eyes. Last Thanksgiving had been your shot, and you’d taken it.

And fuck, did the bullet land precisely where you’d aimed it. You’d never fucked in your childhood bed before. You’d never fucked a man that much older than you. Both proved to be hotter than sin in both imagination and in practice.

But he didn’t call. Didn’t even text. And the next time you saw him, in discussion with your father out on the porch, Billy just offered you a swift, salacious wink and a gentle curl of his tongue when your father’s back was turned to him.

You’d partially expected him to conjure an excuse to follow you into the house, play your post-Thanksgiving dinner game again in your bedroom. But, again, he never came. By the time you left the house, he was gone.

Every time you’d seen him since, it had been more of the same. And you’d grown jaded with it over the past year. You’d resolved yourself to never giving into him again, if he ever did try his luck with you.

And here he is, trying his luck. And here you are, wet and dripping for it like a whore.

You promised yourself, you remind your pussy insistently. He isn’t good for you. Anyone would tell you that. Your father would scalp the both of you if he found out. Just. Leave. It.

“Well,” he announces to no one but you, or anyone in the adjoining seats as he stands, “I’m hittin’ the loo.”

His fingers blaze across the back of your neck, your shoulders as he departs from the table. He doesn’t look back at you as he rounds the corner out of the dining room.

He’s good. He’s really fucking goddamn frustratingly good.

You stare at your plate for another three minutes. You know, because your brain can’t seem to shove out the tick tick tick of your father’s grandfather clock in the corner.

He’s waiting.

You take a steadying breath and lie down your cutlery, excusing yourself politely and promising to be back promptly.

Your dress feels tighter, but you don’t think you’ve eaten enough yet for it to be the fault of the meal. Perhaps it just feels more suffocating. Harder to breathe. The cocktail dress is already tight, forming to your curves. You should’ve given more foresight to your attire, knowing that Billy would surely be here to torture you.

But you just hadn’t been sure. He hadn’t taken the bait since. He hadn’t even tried. How were you to know he was still thinking about…about your…wet little cunt as he’d so respectfully put it.

You check each bathroom in your father’s egregiously large house. Each restroom has been cracked open, no one inside. Until you head upstairs, to the one in the back. It’s closed. A slight shadow in the crack beneath the door. You take another resolute breath. Your hand rises to knock on the door at least three times, chickening out each time in succession.

On the fourth rise, the door simply creaks open without you making contact at all.

There he is, all dark eyes and dark hair and smug grin, his smile lines carved in full force, devastating you even through the minimal crack in the door. He opens it wide enough to tip his head against the door frame, scan you up and down with that look in his eyes and the smarm on his lips.

“There’s the girl,” he rasps quietly, stepping back just enough for you to slide through the gap.

Your ass presses against the marble of the counter, hands clamping onto the edge as Billy latches the door silently and twists the lock, his eyes plastered to your body in your dress as he’s practically pressed up against you. His patterned button up undone halfway down his chest, the button on his jeans popped.

He makes you feel severely overdressed, but his eyes don’t seem to mind.

“You chose the smallest bathroom in the house,” you whisper.

“I chose the furthest bathroom in the house.”

“Not sure why. Barely heard a peep from you in a year,” you remark bitterly, avoiding his gaze.

He cocks his head. “And you don’t find the cat ‘n mouse game the least bit exhilarating?” He asks, his hands laying on top of yours around the sink’s edge on either side of you.

“Not if the cat already caught the mouse,” you mutter defiantly, meeting his playful glint with your petulant glare.

“I’m sorry for keepin’ you waitin’, love. But innit just a little more fun this way?” He smirks, his mouth drifting to your jaw, planting a soft kiss, then another, as your heart begins to stutter in your chest. “The ‘will we, won’t we’ of it all?”

“Not much of a ‘will we, won’t we’ if you’re the one calling the shots, is it, Butcher?” You point out, a small, breathy moan escaping as he nips at your earlobe.

“I ain’t callin’ no shots. You came up here.”

“Because you knew I would follow,” you say breathlessly, a large hand creeping up your thigh and slowly rucking up your skirt.

“Oh, now, love. I don’t know anythin’ more than you do.”

“Bullshit,” you sigh out, your breath hitching at the end when his fingers brush over the cotton of your panties.

“Now, do I know an eager little slut when I see one? Sure. But I can’t be blamed for just settin’ a trap. It’s the mouse’s job to not…” his finger draws the gusset of your thong to the side and slips through your embarrassingly slick folds, “fall into said trap, eh?”

You gasp at his thick finger stroking through your sex, glancing off your already puffy clit, that goddamn cocky grin firmly in place as you buckle beneath a single finger.

An even smuttier smile wrinkles his eyes as he explores more between your lips. “You shaved, naughty girl.”

“S-shut up,” you dismiss sharply, because fuck him.

He wasn’t supposed to find that out. He wasn’t supposed to find out that you’d shaved for him, because he never should have asked if you had, for you to have to lie and tell him you hadn’t in the first place as a “fuck you”. Fuck him.

God, you need to fuck him.

“W-we need to make this quick. My father will n-notice we’re both gone,” you stutter through, your eyes rolling slightly as he slips inside you with ease, two fingers piercing you through with assured movement.

Billy’s lips graze your ear as he coos, “Bend over for me and it’ll go a right sight quicker.”

You moan as he crooks his fingers inside you. “Yeah, yeah, okay,” you exhale.

Billy smirks, pulling from your wet clutch and wrenching you around to face the counter, pushing firmly between your shoulders as your head lowers into the basin of the sink with nowhere else to go.

You should turn the faucet on. Shock yourself out of this trance that Billy has you under and go back to dinner. Forget you’ve ever had this man inside y—

His hands are shoving your skirt up over your ass, ripping your panties down your hips, and then again…there he is. Massive and imposing against your fluttering hole, just as you remember. Only last time…last time he’d ordered you to hold your legs, lift your head, and watch him stretch you open around him.

Filthy, filthy fucking old man. God, you need him.

“Deep breath in, little dove. ‘M sure you remember,” he instructs.

Fuck, do you remember.

And fuckall does a deep breath do for you when he’s mounting you like a bitch with a cock as thick as your fist.

Furthest bathroom was the right move. Because even with his hand smashed over your mouth, you’re terrified that your primal moans carry.

Everyone had been wine-drunk and passed out in their post-feast stupors last time. They’re all conscious and conversing now. Maybe they’ve already noticed the pair of you gone, the more crass family friends already concluding that you’re currently bent over a bathroom sink, your guts getting ran through by a man twice your age with your plate still half full of meticulously prepared food growing cold.

“That’s it,” he praises in your ear huskily, hips pistoning into you at an unforgiving pace. “That’s a cunt that knows how to take a beating, innit love?”

You squeal and scream, muffled significantly by his well-placed hand.

“Come on, scream loud enough for your daddy to hear it down there,” he grunts, clamping onto your shoulder with an iron grip. “While you’re at it, scream loud enough for your daddy that’s right ‘ere to hear ya.”

You sob into his hand, your pussy clenching and pulsing at his words. A desperate, shaking hand dives between your legs, rubbing at your clit as he slams into you from behind, pouring filth into your ear.

“That’s right, come on this cock. Such a tight little fuckin’ cunt. Make her squeeze a bit harder for me.”

You swear to god your eyes cross as your orgasm hits you at full speed, your own fingers spasming slightly as they scrub frantically at the sensitive nub and send your climax splintering through your body.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunts out, his cock throbbing and raging inside your cunt as he chases down his own completion. “Get on your knees. Get on your fuckin’ knees,” he grits out, your cunt clenching around the absence of him as he pulls out.

Your brain hazy, you’re fairly certain that he puts you on your knees himself. You see his face collapse in pleasure, the divot between his brows deepening, an almost pained look in his eyes as he strokes his cock with rapid movements.

“Fuckin’ open,” he growls out in an unwavering demand, and your mouth drops open in obedience, tongue rolling out like a red carpet for him. The angry tip of him explodes across your taste buds, and reflex has you snapping your lips closed around the head as he spills himself into your mouth.

Your eyes fall closed with a shameless moan as you suck his spend straight from the tip, your hand thoughtlessly coming to cup his balls and massage as they pump you full of him.

“Fuck,” he curses, an edge of exhaustion in the word as he pulls his cock free of your lips and grips the counter to catch his weight. He gives a tight, breathless chuckle as he looks down at you, your tongue already proudly displaying what he’d given you. “Hungry bird, ain’t you, little dove.”

He taps the underside of your chin in silent instruction. You obey wordlessly, closing your mouth to swallow him down.

“Good girl,” he rasps out, running a thumb over your lips. “Still got most of your dinner waitin’ downstairs. Better not let on that you just got a bellyful of daddy’s dear ol’ friend, eh? Not lookin’ to lose both my heads.”

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Sequel (Well, Prequel) Here!