#second person

The hall to your front door isn’t illuminated by the light from the kitchen. The void hides your packages from view. If you really concentrate, you can almost make out something staring back at you. To your right is the living room. You could ignore it all, if you wanted. Crack open one of the beers stored in your cheese drawer, throw yourself onto your hideous paisley couch, flip on the TV. There’s a new season of a medical procedural your coworkers from the salon love or a documentary series about fancy chefs cooking fancy foods. You love fancy chefs. You love fancy food.

Your head throbs. Your shields wobble. Silt fills the air and you’re a cave diver looking for a guide rope as you stagger for the front door. Mother fucker. You wish the post office hadn’t cancelled your PO box. You would be able to ignore your fan mail a lot easier if it weren’t dripping on your hall rug.

You pick up and juggle your two packages until they’re both shoved under one arm. Then, holding the wall for support, you make your way to the content room. The shag carpet creates a lot of friction when you drag your feet. Static electricity jumps and sparks every time you reach for the next patch of wall. When you look for the content room’s light switch, a bolt actually arcs between your fingers and the metal plate, jolting the dark room into illumination a beat before you flip the switch.

Maybe the rule should be Involve as few people directly as possible. Three soft light boxes disperse a gentle purple glow across your set. A black desk, a red velvet tablecloth, a wooden bowl of river stones, a set of leather gloves carefully set to one side. In front of the desk, waiting like a silent sentry, is your tripod and camera.

“And the crowd is confused,” you say to the inert packages. They’re not pulling at you, not getting heavier, not thrashing. It doesn’t escape you that you’re beginning to sound a bit like one of your comment sections. The real horror here might be the internet brain rot you’ve slowly subjected yourself to over the past three years. Having an assistant to help moderate alleviates your symptoms.

You toss your fan mail behind the desk and get ready. The cape and mask you wear are piled on the sad, velvet chair in the corner opposite your set. When the assistant doesn’t run away, this is where they sit. When the assistant isn’t a coward, they get paid a generous 20%. When the assistant is a professional, they check the camera as you buckle all six buckles on the back of your head to keep the oval mask strapped to your face.

You take your mask – more accurately, your face plate – off and hang it on the back of your chair where your head would be. Your face plate grins at you with its leering, split mouth. The small, round eyes glow yellow. The LEDs the assistant put in before disappearing off the face of the planet are much better than the sightless, black holes your mask used to have. If the assistant ever deigned to call you back, you’d tell them that. You check the view finder on the camera, make sure that it can see you and your work surface.

Then you put your mask back on, turn on the camera, and stalk around your desk to take a seat.

“Boo boo says the ghost. Goo goo says the baby. Boo hoo says the assistant,” you say. You pick up your gloves and begin the work of wriggling your fingers into them. They’re tight after their cleaning, but much less blood-stained. “That’s the story of our assistant who is, once again, absent this week, dear listeners. Despite the same thing happening on this channel every single video, I might add. Nothing shocking about it and yet…” You look up directly into the camera. “Here we are. Alone. Ready for another unboxing.”

You’re probably going to add the same royalty-free spooky music you’ve always used over this video. The assistant is a lot better at sound effects and “broadening the audience through use of popular sound”, but that doesn’t mean your way isn’t just as good. So what if their videos always gross more views than yours? The algorithm favoring them was a fluke.

The packages make wet, sticky sounds as you adjust them on either side of your velvet workspace. The mic built into your mask likely caught it and you’ll need to edit out your whispered gross as well.

“Let’s see what has found its cosmic way into our seeking hands,” you say. You have to pull your silver letter opener out of the top drawer of the antique desk to slice off the letter taped to the top of the first package. It’s moist from the sprinklers and shines wetly as you gingerly unfold the single page inside. Luckily, it’s still legible. “Dear Breaker. Inside this box is every piece of jewelry my ex gave me. He died two months ago in a freak work accident. Since then, I’ve felt his presence. We broke up over a year ago and I know he never got over me. Since his death, I’ve lost my job. My current partner wakes up with scratches every night. There’s a heavy weight inside my chest. I’m afraid that it’s a sign he’s cursed me from the grave. Please, please, please help me. Cleanse whatever curse he’s left behind and send me back my jewelry. Thank you, Sally.”

You blink. Check the back of the letter. Slice open the box. Inside is a glass vase filled to the brim with jewelry and taped shut with packaging tape. Styrofoam peanuts fill the space around it, preventing it from breaking.

You look back at the camera. “Um, Sally. You didn’t include your return address? Or postage. I’m doing you a favor, Sally. Even if you did give me those things, I’m not paying you by dealing with the post office. They’re basically one step away from banning me anyways. Long story, I’m sure I’ve told it before.”

You don’t actually remember if you’ve told it before. The assistant would. If they were here, they’d encourage you to tell it to make sure your video got to the fifteen-minute mark.

“If you were really a fan of my channel, you’d know I don’t give the cursed items back,” you say. You pull out the vase and start picking at the tape with your letter opener. “And why would you want this back anyway? Your ex gave it to you. Doesn’t everyone throw away ex-partner presents when they break up? Or burn them? Pretty sure curses are the reason people always burn stuff from their ex.”

It's pretty obvious what item is the problem before you even upend the vase. But you have a channel to run so you make a big show of picking up each piece, judging it, and then casting it aside once it’s been deemed safe.

“Sally, the best taste I see here is you breaking up with him,” you say, holding up a small gold tiara. It’s got a spray of hearts coming off the apex. You grimace. “I know you won’t mind me getting rid of this. Un-cursed spiritually, sure, but not un-cursed fashionably.”

It’s fifty-fifty whether your audience laughs or calls you cringe.

After another few pieces, a rant about your useless assistant, and a small knowledge drop about how to use cubic zirconium in spellcasting, and you finally pick up the problem piece. It’s a locket in the shape of a heart (you’re beginning to suspect the ex-boyfriend had a thing for them) about the size of a quarter. The chain is too thick for the pendant and the locket is more yellow than gold. You hold it up by the clasp and let it spin in front of the camera.

“This,” you say, “is cursed.” Carefully, you lower it down onto your workspace. You grab a handful of river stones out of the bowl and place them in a circle around the necklace. “Always contain curses before working on them. Curses are, at their heart, parasites. Once they’ve become untethered, they’ll latch onto the first living thing nearby.” You grin at the camera despite knowing your audience can’t see it. “That’s why I don’t stream, you know. If I ever failed live, the curse could very well come for you, dear listener. So stop asking me to do a livestream.”

If the assistant were here, they’d tell you to be nicer.

You’re honestly thinking about the assistant a lot more than you thought you would. They’re your fourth “the assistant” and you should be used to the disappearing act by now. Sure the assistant spent the night (in the guest room!) whereas your other assistants all said your house was too haunted for them and left directly after filming. And maybe that led you to believe they were more cool with your perpetual haunted nature than the others. And that might have made you feel a little warm inside. And maybe you might have opened up to them a little which led to them telling you about their haunted childhood and you bonded over that. And maybe there are still spaghetti leftovers in your fridge from the first meal you cooked for them after hitting a million subscribers.

But all of that didn’t mean anything because they ran away. And that’s why you should be focusing on the cursed necklace instead of them.

You clear your throat. “Now, whatever is tethering this curse is inside the locket. I warn you, dear listener. This tether could be anything. Bone. Flesh. Or, as we learned last week, a worrying amount of blood with an alarmingly fresh quality.” You lean forward and whisper, “Are you ready?”

The pause you leave after the question is for suspense. It’s definitely not because the assistant would normally quip “Get on with it!” or “Wait, Breaker, let me get behind the ward—wait!”

Surely not.

Suddenly not in the mood for fanfare, you open the locket.

You’re even less in the mood now.

You gag. “Oh, yuck. I hope this doesn’t get me demonetized. For those listening, it’s, uh, hair. Very specific hair.” You frown at the camera. “Sally, for both of our sakes, I hope you didn’t wear this. Ever. I don’t think I need to tell you all what method I’ll be using to break this curse.”

Despite your ire with the assistant, you think you’ll play one of their soundbites here. Start that fire! Said in the same tone as one of those home makeover people would cry for the driver to move the truck out of the way of the new house. The first time they said it, it’d made you laugh.

The curse doesn’t fight very hard. “Because Sally didn’t cherish the necklace,” you tell the audience. You arrange the kindling in the copper cauldron you’ll be using in a clockwise pattern. It’s not really enough wood to keep the fire burning if it were a natural fire. Even with the curse fueling it, you don’t think it’ll burn longer than five minutes. “Curses need energy. Her ex was strong-willed enough to put a little oomph here, but that’s it. If Sally had been attached to this, it’d be a different story. I doubt it’ll even scream. Sorry, folks. I know we all love a good scream.”

The necklace surges away from your hand when you reach for it but runs up against the river stone circle. You snort when it tries to bite at you. Yeah right. You hold it over the cauldron with one hand, letting the audience see how it jerks against your grip. Your sceptics will cry about magnets and wires. Your believer will wonder why you still use a physical lighter when you should set the kindling ablaze with your mind.

Both sides of your audience tend to get it all a little wrong. All of them except the assistant. The assistant always got it right.

You drop the locket into the fire. Like you thought, it doesn’t scream. The flames shiver with veins of black and red. You watch the curse try to fight itself free.

“Will,” you say. Your fingers drum on the desk. Your eyes stay locked to the curse. Even a weak curse will win if you lose focus. “What will it take to meet someone that has enough of it? Enough will to stand bravely in the face of the darkness? Enough will to face the unknown that lurks in my crawlspace? Is it a spell I have yet to find? A sacrifice? What will it take to be known?”

You’ve sworn off spell-casting, but the temptation still lurks close to the surface. It pushes even closer, against your sternum like a begging cat, as the warmth the assistant gave you slowly grows cold.

You jolt when the flames finally splutter and die all at once. Your face burns. You’ll need to edit all of that out. Clearing your throat, you reach for the next package. “We have a bonus today, dear listener. Well-packaged. The letter is sealed correctly on the outside of the box. Take note, future cursed ones. This is how you send a curse to the Breaker.”

You pull off the letter and flip it open. You can tell this box is a dud. There’s no curse in here. You reach in without looking as you start to read.

“Dear Breaker,” you read, “Stop saying dramatic shit.” Your mouth drops open. Rage uncurls in your stomach. You look up at the camera. “I do not say—that’s not—” Your hand finds something long and thin in the box. You pull it out.

There’s a Snickers bar in the box. On the Snickers bar is written KEEP READING in metallic sharpie.

“If you recall, I’m just visiting home for the holidays,” the letter continues. You’re reading it out loud by instinct. A slow blush is pooling in your cheeks. “I’ll be back on the 13th for the Friday special. Eat this Snickers and go to bed. You probably decided to film as soon as you got this and you know that’s too late. You have work in the morning. I have tracking enabled. I’m giving you two hours to text me that you’re in bed before I release the Video.” You frown. “The Video…”

Then the bottom of your stomach drops. Not the Video. The face reveal video. The one where you did that stupid accent and tried to pretend you were British. The one you forgot to delete off of your privated series before giving the assistant access.

“Don’t delete this video,” you read. “We need it for the upload schedule. I’ll edit out all your rambling. Probably. Maybe. If you delete it, I’ll release The Video.”

You really need to get that video away from them.

“I have copies of The Video.”

Damn.

“Drink water.”

The assistant is not your mother.

“You kind of pay me to be your mother, so I’ll also tell you to brush your teeth.”

You won’t dignify that with a response.

“See you Friday, Breaker. Signed, Lu—The assistant,” you hastily say. Your face feels like it’s on fire. Why would they sign their real name?! You flip the letter upside down on the table and clear your throat. “Well. That’s it for the video. As always, stop cursing people and people, stop getting cursed. I’ll see you next time.”

You barely remember to turn off the camera in your haste to text the assistant. You’d fire them on Friday, see if you didn’t. Well, you might not. You think you’re going to hit 1.5 million subscribers on Friday. If you don’t, you’lk fire them. If you do, you’ll probably make steaks.

You think they like steaks.

---

You have been best friends with Alena Kennedy since Kindergarten, when she punched a boy who was pulling your pig tails, and you shoved his friend off the jungle gym. Both of you got in trouble for fighting, but the best friendship of your life was born that day. You two went on to do everything together: dance team, cheerleading, and more. 

Turns out you two had a lot in common, too: single moms, busy dads, and big personalities. The difference was that Alena’s parents actually wanted to be part of her life. Your mom preferred to let nannies raise you while she worked, and your dad only showed his face when he wanted money from Mom. 

You have memories of spending weekends at Alena’s house, amazed at how much of a family she had. Not only did she have a mom who stayed around, but two dads. One was always around, that was her stepfather. He would help them with homework, kiss Alena’s mom when he walked through the door, and even taught you how to ride a bike. Her other dad was her biological father, Leon Kennedy. You remember him always being super busy, leaving for weeks on end, but he rarely missed a recital or cheer competition. He also never missed one of her birthdays or Christmas. At first, you were a little jealous, but as your friendship grew, Alena’s family took you into theirs. They celebrated your birthdays, even when your own mother forgot. They invited you to spend the holidays with them. Even took you on their family vacations. 

You met her dad, Leon Kennedy, growing up. He even took the pair of you to get ice cream a few times, but he mainly just took Alena out. 

Now in your early thirties, Alena was getting married to the love of her life, and she informed you that you were her maid of honor. How could you say no? The special occasion was set to take place in Vegas, because that’s classic Alena, and it would be for an entire week: Alenapalooza. You had bridal fittings, a bachelorette party, girls' nights (according to Alena, those two things are different), rehearsal dinner, and of course, the wedding. Knowing your week was going to be full of fixing problems, handling bridezilla, and acting as gopher for whatever she wanted, you got to Vegas a couple of days early. If you were going to be in Vegas, you at least wanted one night of wild drinking, gambling, and, if you were lucky, a poorly timed hookup. You weren’t the one getting married. 

Checking yourself out in the mirror, you grinned at how perky your boobs looked in your black see-through, except for some expertly placed pasties, corset top, ready to earn the attention of the perfect daddy out there. Boys your age never really did much for you. They always seemed so immature or inexperienced. No, you wanted an older man, at least ten years your senior. You wanted maturity. You wanted a man not offended that you made more money than him. You wanted experience. You wanted a man not afraid to walk into a room, bend you over the nearest table, and fuck you senseless. Oh, and conversation; you wanted to be able to talk to him about the random things you were researching for your job. However, tonight all you were looking for was a daddy ready to let you bounce on him. 

Taking a seat at the hotel bar, you ordered a gin and tonic. Arching your back in just the right way, you caught the eye of every male and most women, sipping their drinks. One with dark hair and a wedding ring tan was first to approach. 

“Can I buy your next drink?” He winked. 

Noticing the obvious white skin from his wedding ring, you shake your head no. “I’m not second fiddle.” 

Waving him off, you scan the bar, eyes settling on an older gentleman, approximately ten years older than you, you guessed, sipping his own drink. He had dark-blond hair, a few gray streaks peering through, biceps the size of your thigh, and the face of a Greek god. Sneaking a look at his left hand, you don’t see a ring or any signs of a ring. Good. 

“Baby, I’m going to ride you so good tonight,” you thought, sliding off your chair and making your way towards him. 

As he could sense you checking him out, he looked up, revealing sultry blue eyes scanning you from head to toe. You knew the effect you had on men. You knew how easy it was get what you wanted from them, and damn if you didn’t want this man with arms big enough to cage you in and fuck you senseless. When his eyes met yours again, his blue eyes were a shade or two darker. 

“Mind if I have a seat?” you ask, already sliding onto the stool next to him. 

“Seems I don’t,” he said, his low voice sending delicious shocks straight to your pussy. 

“What are you drinking?” you ask, catching his gaze lingering on your chest for a long five seconds. 

“Scotch, Johnnie Walker,” he answered. 

“Another round on me,” you motion towards the bartender. 

He smirked, raising an eyebrow. “A woman who drinks scotch?”

“I’m a woman of many surprises,” you smile, picking up the glass of scotch. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” he smiled, sipping the drink. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You give it with a smile. “Yours?”

“Leon.”

“Well, Leon, what do you say about getting out of here?” you ask, placing a hand on his biceps, unable to keep yourself from touching him. God, it was rock hard. You needed this man. 

“You clean?” he asked.

Nodding, you hold up your phone. “Want to see my papers?”

“No need,” he replied. “I’m clean too.”

“Perfect,” you pur. 

“Your room or mine?” He motioned to close his tab. 

“Yours.”

Eyes never leaving yours, he spoke to the bartender. “I’ll cover her tab.”

“Well, aren’t you a gentleman.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips against your ear, making your pussy even wetter. “Is that what you want? A gentleman?”

“No,” you whisper back. 

“After you,” he said, holding his hand out to help you off the stool.

Taking his offered hand, you slide off the chair, ensuring to slide your breasts against him as you do so. “Thank you.” You swear you hear him growl as you do so, the sound making you drip from your already wet pussy. 

Hand on the small of your back, you let out a long, hot breath at the size of it. With expert guidance, he leads you to the exclusive elevator. Oh, he’s fancy, you thought. 

“Your own elevator?” you ask, peeking behind yourself at him. 

“I enjoy my privacy,” he said, so close to you, you could feel his breath on your skin. 

Biting your lip, an idea popped into your mind as the elevator door opened. Turning to face him, you grab him by the belt loops and slowly pull him into the elevator. Taking the invitation, Leon grabbed you by the back of your neck, crashing his lips over yours, as one hand grasps your ass, hauling you up, so you could feel his erection against your stomach. The kiss was feverish, soul-claiming, and one of the best you’ve ever had. Too many times, you’d find a potential candidate who appeared he could take control, demand everything from you, but would spend the entire time asking if it was okay, if you enjoyed it, as if you didn’t just press your basically naked breasts against him in public. Leon, though, Leon read all the signs perfectly. The way he arched your neck to his liking; the way he forced your mouth open with your tongue had you clinging to his shoulders, submitting to his administrations. 

Leon kissed along your jaw, pulled your head to the side, exposing your throat for him to bite and suck his mark right where your shoulder met your neck. Pussy wetter than you’ve experienced in too long, you ground yourself against his thigh. The muscles flexing beneath your pussy, his bites, and kisses had you mewing in the elevator. 

“Don’t hold back,” Leon demanded, lifting his head, dark eyes meeting yours. “I want all of your sounds.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you respond, earning another growl, right before he takes you for another body-claiming kiss. 

The ding of the elevator signified you arrived at his room. Easily lifting you into his arms, you wrap your legs around his waist, pressing your dripping pussy against his cock, crying at the amount of clothes between you.

“Don’t worry, baby girl,” Leon growled, setting you on a table, tossing his suit jacket somewhere behind him. “Daddy’s going to make you feel so good.” 

“I need you, Daddy,” you breathe, kissing along his jaw and mouth, needing to leave your own marks on him. “Fuck me, Daddy.”

“In due time,” Leon replied, letting you kiss and suck along his jaw, while his hand untied your corset top. Had your mind been less foggy, less filled with the smell and feel of Leon, you would have been seriously impressed with how easily he undid your corset, pulling it and your pasties off in one go. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he muttered, grasping your neck with enough pressure telling you he’s in charge, but somehow you knew if you wanted him to, he’d let go. Not that you wanted him to. 

“Are you just gonna look?” You ask, arching your back under his gaze. 

That earned another growl, as he used his free hand to grasp one breast, pinching the nipple, while he sucked the other into his warm, expert mouth. Moaning at the contact, you place one hand on the back of his head, gripping the wrist of the hand on your throat, with the other. Leon took his time sucking, biting, and pinching each breast until you were moaning a mess beneath him. 

“Maybe one day I’ll make you cum just from playing with your breasts,” he spoke, straightening up. “You’d like that.”

“Yeah,” you reply, your pussy on fire from the contact, or lack thereof. 

“But not today,” Leon ran the hand that was at your throat down your body, between your breasts, stopping at the top of your jeans. Flicking the button open, he spoke. “Lift.”

Using his thighs as leverage, you lift your hips so he can take off your jeans and panties. “Already so wet for me,” Leon’s eyes took in the sight of your dripping pussy. “Bet you could take my cock right now.”

“Please,” you beg, head falling back in anticipation. 

“Look at me,” Leon demanded, hand back on your throat. “Never take your eyes off me.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you moan, tilting your head to the side. “Please, Daddy. I need your cock. Give me your cock.”

“Not yet,” he smirked. “I want to taste you first.”

“Oh god,” you moaned, as he knelt between your legs, letting go of your neck once more. Keeping your eyes on him, you place your legs over his shoulders. He buries his face in your pussy, instantly sucking on your clit, making your head fall back again. When the contact broke, you let out a cry, looking back at him. 

“Keep your eyes open,” Leon demanded, inserting one finger into you. 

Nodding, you watch him dive back in, licking all of your folds, before sucking your clit again. He ate you out like a man starved, and you were his first meal. You could feel his tongue fucking you, as he pressed his nose into clit repeatedly sending delicious shocks through your whole body. Inserting another figure, he moved them around until he found your G-Spot, making you buck against his face, letting out a loud cry. 

“There, Leon,” you moan, hand going to his head, not to direct him, but to hold onto something. “Right there.”

“Oh, like this?” he asked, sucking on your clit while he used two fingers to stroke that spot inside you. 

Focusing on keeping your eyes open, you nod. “Yes.” The familiar wondrous sensation was reaching its peak. “Leon!” you cry, rutting your pussy against his face. “I’m gonna cum.” 

“Cum on my face, baby,” he said against your clit, the vibrations sending you over the edge. Screaming his name to the ceiling, you cry out as Leon never stops stroking your G-spot through your orgasm, earning him mewing and moaning sounds from overstimulation. “Now I can eat this pussy for hours, but Daddy needs something from you.” 

Pussy still quivering from one of, if not the best, orgasm you’ve ever had, you sit up and slide to the edge of the table. Running your nails down his shirt once, you start undoing the buttons. “What would Daddy like me to do?” 

“Use this pretty little head of yours,” He smirked. “I bet you can think of something.”

“I do have something in mind,” you reply, as you push his shirt off, revealing the best body you have ever seen. Mind fogging up, you lean forward and begin to lick, suck, and kiss along each muscle you can see. You saw various scars scattered around, but they only made you need this man more. Here is a man who has been through shit, who has experienced life. God, if that didn’t turn you on even more. 

As you bit a nipple, you undid his belt and pants, sliding your hand down his pants, gripping his cock. You could feel his girth and length were bigger than what you’ve ever had, but damn if you weren’t excited to take this man completely. 

Leon bucked his hips into your hands, as he let out moans of his own. “Use more than your hands, baby.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply coyly, sliding off the table, kneeling in front of him. Looking up at him, you slide his pants, letting his fully erect cock slap you in the face. Running your face up its length, you blow on the tip before licking the vein that goes from top to base. 

“That’s it,” Leon, gripping your hair, into a makeshift ponytail. “Open up.”

Opening your mouth and sticking out your tongue, you were rewarded with Leon slapping the tip on your tongue. “Only take as much as you can,” Leon instructed, showing a caring side to him. 

“Of course,” you respond, as you take the tip into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks out, earning a dark moan from the man above you. Using one hand to stroke the bottom half, you begin to bob your head up and down. Tongue wrapping around the tip, you taste the precum already leaking from this man. His moans make your pussy drip down your thighs. 

You hum a little around what you have in your mouth. “Ooo, fuck,” he mumured starting to rock his hips into your face. Having a surprise trick still up your sleeve, you look up at him until your eyes meet. Flattening your tongue, you begin to take him deeper into your mouth and down your throat. You learned back in high school that you had no gauge reflex, which was always fun to show off to the unexpected lover. 

“Oh fuck, baby,” Leon threw his head back, thrusting into your mouth, setting an easy pace. You held onto his hips, allowing him to use your mouth as his personal fleshlight. 

When you began to feel his cock twitch, he pulled you off with a pop. “As much as I’d love to cum down that pretty throat of yours, I have a better idea.”

“Oh,” you ask, tilting your head to one feiging innocent. 

“Yeah,” he growled, easily putting you back up onto the table. Stepping out of his shoes and pants, Leon lifted you into his arms, carrying you down the hall. 

A part of you wanted to fucked on that table, but the memory of his large cock expanding your throat to its limits, warmed your pussy in the best ways. Anywhere he wants to fuck you, you will let him. Setting you down in the middle of the bed, your eyes never leave each other, as you slide back, and he crawls towards you. 

“Top or bottom?” Leon asked. 

“Fuck me, anyway you want,” you replied, arching your back and spreading your legs. 

“As you wish,” he growled, taking your lips into a heated, lust-filled moment. “On all fours.”

Doing as instructed, you stick your ass in the air, shaking it for him. “Fuck,” he cursed, running his hand over your plump cheeks. “I’m going to fuck you so hard you wont beable to walk straight for a week.”

“Don’t be all talk, Daddy,” you reply, pushing back against him, feeling his cock slide against your ass. “Do it.”

Earning another growl, you felt the tip of his cock, part the soaked folds of your pussy. Thrusting enough to wet it, Leon lined it up with your opening. “I’m going to go slow. You tell me if it becomes too much.”

Nodding, you push back on his cock, taking in the first few inches, earning a loud moan from the man above you. As he slid more of his cock into your weeping pussy, you felt yourself stretch to accommodate him, and god if it didn’t feel amazingly painful. 

“Oh, baby, you’re so tight,” Leon groaned, sliding more of his cock into you. “Take me so good.”

When he bottomed out, you could feel his cock twitching inside you. Oh my god, you have never felt so full in your life. After taking a moment to breathe, you were ready for him to move. Clenching around his cock, you felt and heard the moan, right before he slides out of you, almost completely, before slamming back in. Setting a steady, rough pace, you moan uncontrollably, your mind going to that amazing foggy place, where you were completely dickdrunk. Most men could not get you there, but Leon, fuck if he didn’t do it the quickest. Body meeting his pace, your arms gave way, leaving you face down in the pillow, while Leon continued to fuck into your weeping pussy. The grunts and moans sent quivers through your leaking pussy, ensuring he slides in and out with ease. Taking a handful of your hair, Leon lifted you, so your back was pressed against his chest, never breaking stride as he fucked you. 

“Is this what my baby wanted?” he licked your ear. “Wanted Daddy’s cock fucking your pussy?”

“Yes,” you nod, one hand having reached behind to grab on his neck, the other gripping the arm wrapped around your middle. 

“Say it,” he growled, punctuating each word with a thrust into your G-Spot.

“Need your cock, Daddy. Fuck me harder with your cock,” you scream to the ceiling. 

“As you wish,” he growled, quickening his hips to bone-crushing, mind-melting pace. 

When he reached around and began to stroke your clit, you screamed, arching your back. “Daddy! Leon!”

“Yes?” he asked, keeping steady his strokes on your clit and his cock pounding your pussy. 

“I’m close, so close,” you moaned, completely dickdrunk on his dick. 

“In or out?” he asked.

“In,” you moan.

“Are you on birthcontrol?” he asked. 

“Yes,” you quickly respond. 

“Good,” he growled, fucking you so hard, you felt he was bruising your cervix, and fuck if you didn’t need that. “Come on, baby. Cum on Daddy’s cock.” 

With those words, you came with a scream of his name, your pussy clenching around his cock. God, you saw stars behind your eyes as he fucked you through another mind-blowing orgasm. 

“I’m close, baby,” Leon muttered, his thrusts losing their rhythm. 

“Come on, Daddy,”  you whisper, body sent into another star-studded orgasm as he continued to hit your G-spot and stroke your clit. With the last few thrusts, Leon came hard inside you. You could feel his cum fill you up, making the aftershocks from your orgasms that much more intense.

Sliding out of you with care, you let out a cry at the loss. “Shh, I got you,” Leon’s deep voice came from somewhere beyond the stars. Warm blankets met your sweaty body, as you felt a wet rag between your thighs. Opening one eye, you saw Leon cleaning you up with gentle hands. Those same hands that just made you cum three times, and twice on his cock. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, with a kind smile. 

“Would you like a shower?” Leon asked. 

“Not yet,” you shake your head, grabbing his hand, pulling him back into bed. 

With a chuckle, Leon slides in behind you, curling you against him, so you are surrounded by him. “As you wish,” he said, kissing your temple. 

Giving yourself enough time to enjoy the aftereffects of the best orgasms you’ve had in a long time, if ever, you wait until you're sure Leon was asleep. Oh, so carefully sliding out of bed, you freeze mid-stride when he makes a sound. Looking back at his sleeping form, breathing even, you were satisfied he was still asleep. Putting on his shirt (you wanted a souvenir) and your jeans, you hold your heels, corset, and clutch as you make your way back to your own room to shower. A part of you wanted to exchange numbers with Leon, maybe even last names, but you made it a point never to get too attached to a random hookup, and as amazing as he was, that’s all Leon could ever be. 

Closing your door behind you, you do a happy dance at how satisfied you still feel. Sniffing Leon’s shirt, you wonder if you could find the same cologne to keep his smell on it for longer. 

The next day, Alena flew in with the rest of the bridal party, ready to start her week of Alenapalooza. Coming downstairs, in a tight white tank top and baggy jeans, you grin when you see your best friend. 

“Alena!” you yell, running across the lobby for a long bouncy hug, as if you were apart for months and not days. You were so excited to tell her all about Leon and the most amazing sex you’ve had in your life. “I have so much to tell you. I met the most amazing Daddy last night.” 

“Great, but first, you remember my dad?” She said, stepping to the side, leading you back to a man who seemed oddly familiar. “Daddy, you remember my best friend.”

As he turned, you realized the man from last night was the father of your best friend. “Pleased see you again, sir,” you said, hoping it didn’t come out as squeaky as it sounded to your ears.