#spoiled.stanley

Stanley: Definitely has a humiliation kink! A man like him, who's gone through special training in the army, is used to the harsh treatment along with the ridiculing shouts of his superiors. Who's to say that hasn't influenced the way he treats you in bed!

Stanley loves to squeeze your cheeks between his fingers and his thumb while a wad of spit drips from his mouth onto your awaiting tongue. More often than not, he'll have your face pressed against the floor, his foot on your head, while calling you names that bring tears to your eyes.

"Slut." "Whore." "Barricks Bunny."

He has you begging for him to fuck you with his cock. Slapping you across the face while calling you a "needy slut" for being so wet. Pulls at your hair, while slapping his hand across your ass as punishment for cumming without permission.

"What do you say?"

"Thank you, sir."

Humiliation kink that overlaps his need to dominate you!

Ryusui: Likes to be humiliated occasionally! I don't really see him as the one humiliating his darling. He loves you too much to be mean to you! He might occasionally tease you if you make a mess or when you're needy and desperate for him. His teasing doesn't come off as mean, not when his eyes absolutely shine at you, with the proudest smile on his lips!

Ryusui indulges in humiliation kink every so often. He'll be on his knees, hands pathetically clutching your waist, as he buries his face between your thighs. He'll beg and beg you to let him taste you on his tongue, but you'll deny him. He'll beg like a child who's been told no at the store. Tears spring to his eyes as he promises he'll be good.

"Please," he whines, holding your foot in his hand and kissing your ankle tenderly. "I promise I'll behave."

Xeno: Xeno is a pathetic man who hates to lose and will do anything to win, so I'm a firm believer that Xeno is a switch for many kinks and roles! I believe he switches between being humiliated and doing the humiliating!

Slap him, spit on him, press your foot against his cock so he writhes in pain, and maybe even press your cunt against his face and tell him to clean you up! He's your to do as you wish! Call him "worthless" and "loser," and he'll cum while crying! Loves to be gagged and tied up, not being able to do anything while you ride his cock for your pleasure only!

If Xeno is doing the humiliating, he often starts with you on your knees, your tongue cleaning up the dirty leather of his shoe. He'll sit there silently, his cold eyes following your tongue, leaving you to wither in your own insecurity. When he decides that enough is enough, he'll move his foot, angling it to push your chin up so you can look at him.

"You'll take what I'll give you," he says as he loosens the belt at his waist. He stretches the rough leather in his hands, then signals you to rest against his desk, your pretty white underwear soiled by your neediness. "You'll count every single one, and you'll thank me."

"Yes, sir."

The truth was that Stanley never had an ambition of his own. No true desires bound him to any one inanimate object or person, except for Xeno. But Xeno was reaching for the stars while Stanley had yet to open his eyes to them, or to anything around him. Even as he blindly followed Xeno, Stanley had known for a long time that it was only a matter of time before he could no longer keep up. A matter of time before he'd be left alone in their small hometown, searching for what to do with his life, while Xeno set off to chase the stars.

Do you know who's always there for young adults like Stanley, who wander aimlessly through life, searching for their contribution—their purpose—in the world? In a matter of a week, Stanley had his life packed into a duffel bag, squished between two strangers in a shuttle marked "U.S. Marine Corps."

In the U.S. Marine Corps, Stanley Snyder was damn good at what he did. Everything came to him instinctively—second nature, not something to be learned. Not when he had already been shooting railguns with Xeno before he could understand fractions.

While everyone around him struggled to assemble their weapon, Stanley had already armed and disarmed it for the tenth time. By the time they armed themselves, Stanley would have shot them all right in the head. And that's exactly what he did, well, at least with the cutouts standing off in the distance. Each shot was precise, aimed at the head, heart, and, if he was feeling like putting on a show, right in the family jewels. For a brief moment in his life, Stanley had found his place outside his hometown—away from Xeno.

Xeno was smart in his own world of chemistry and mathematical equations, but in this newfound environment, Stanley was smart in his own right. He didn't need to calculate the position of his sniper rifle's muzzle to kill the bastard in front of him in cold blood. It was instinct. He could feel it in the rush of blood through his veins. He could feel it in the malicious throb of his cock beneath the camo of his pants as his finger hovered over the trigger.

It wasn't a desire. At least he wouldn't call it that. The feeling was difficult to describe to Xeno over the phone, to fathom it in words, or at least to sugarcoat this feeling in a way that didn't make him sound insane. The sensation it would bring him was not one he actively sought, but it came with the job, and when it was brought to him in a silver platter, who was he to refuse it?

The feeling was like a drug. It sends his heart reeling, pounding, and surging with a sick twist of emotion. His eyes were often clouded by a daze of bloodlust that left them bloodshot and shaking. Breathing in this euphoric state was difficult. He was always panting and foaming at the mouth, even though he never felt more alive. This feeling… it was like being on the brink of cumming, and it didn't help that his cock always strained against his uniform. Like a hunter and a buck in their sights, Stanley found pleasure in killing.

This newfound insatiable appetite proved useful in his line of work. The souls of those he killed didn't torment him, but they tormented everyone around him. Night terrors and gruesome thoughts plagued them, while Stanley didn't even remember the name or face of the life he had taken the day before. This psychopathic ability to feel no remorse is what skyrockets him through the rankings. From a rookie, to private, to sergeant, to lieutenant, and what would've eventually been captain.

The Navy Corps had become him, so much so that he hadn't given any thought to life after his service. In a bitter truth, Stanley didn't plan on ever leaving the Navy. Not because he loved it so, not because it was the only place on Earth where he could shoot a man between the eyes without repercussions. It was because he always thought it would be where he would die. Dead in a ditch far from home, with his bloodied dog tags the only means of identification. But reality was rather cruel to him. Or maybe this was justice—karma for all the lives he's taken.

When Stanley left his small hometown, he was eighteen, with nothing to live or die for. Thirty years later, he's back, and nothing has changed, except that the navy sent him home broken, leaving everyone else to fix what they've damaged. Badly healed bullet wounds, stitches that never healed properly because Stanley refused to stay put, scars along his back, and a bad leg that draws more attention than he ever wants. He couldn't hide it even if he wanted to. Not when it causes a limp in his steps or random jolts of searing pain that have him wishing he had died instead.

Thirty years, and the world has changed too much for him to comprehend. He feels like the geezers he used to make fun of when he was younger. The type of men who would spend their days loitering in diners, flirting with the waitress who doesn't get paid enough to deal with their shit. Men who would drink to their hearts' content, poisoning their livers, and drunkenly lecture him and Xeno about the cruelty of society.

In those years he was gone, his little hometown wasn't so little anymore. Houses, stores, and restaurants he had never seen before left him lost in the very streets he had walked with Xeno. Everything was too modern for him. Too much of a hassle to bother learning. It had all changed, except for the diner in front of him. Its dirty red-and-white stripes stand out against the tacky, modernized chain restaurants it's crowded between. The dingy neon blue "OPEN" sign flickers every millisecond, and just acknowledging it makes Stanley feel a migraine creeping up.

Standing in the pothole-infested parking lot, leaning against his motorcycle, he can vividly remember the smell of the burnt ashes and the nicotine that lingers in the diner from years of smoking. Through the grimy windows, he can see the patrons' sleaziness. Greasy and sweaty, not to mention already smelling their foul breath and musky body odor from outside. He's already imagining the debauched conversations he'll find himself in the moment he walks through the entrance.

Taking one last hit from his cigarette, inhaling the carcinogens that have yet to catch up to him, he pushes himself off his bike. Smothering the cigarette under his right boot, hands in the pockets of his jacket, he walks slowly to the diner, hiding the limp in his left foot. Pushing through the diner's doors, he hears a bell ring above him.

Stanley was blunt, a skill you needed if you were friends with Xeno, who, if given the chance, would talk your ear off. But over the years, as his rank rose, he not only remained blunt but grew to be utterly, disgustingly honest. He spoke his mind, and it was hardly ever pretty.

Being as foully honest as he was, he hurt others. The truth had always been known to hurt, but the way Stanley presented it made it seem as if his hand was pulling at one's heart. Cupping the beating organ in his hand and squeezing it just to hear the cries that came with it. Truth after truth, he could see the pain gloss over his victim's eyes. Teary-eyed, lips trembling, the glint of life killed for the fun of it. The feeling that surges through his body when he hurts others is only second best to killing. It didn't stir him the way killing did, but it was more of an appetizer, a sort of tease for his soul. Like foie gras, killing wasn't an acceptable meal, so he had to settle for the appetizer.

There are many appetizers to choose from—different ways to hurt someone. Words or the action of it, his hands ache to curl around someone's neck, the tips of his calloused fingers digging into the skin and muscle until the skin turns blue. His cock twitches at the thought of hearing choked gasps and winded cries, throbs at the idea of tears running down one's pained and terrified face. What once was a reality is now but a sick fantasy. He's back in his hometown, not a warzone. The only thing within arm's reach is the hostess in front of him.

"Pigs in a blanket and makeup on a pig, what's next?"

Stanley doesn't let the poor hostess finish her greeting before he sets her bursting into tears. Not that he cared. What he truly cared about was watching the shock flash across her face. How her smile slowly crumbled from her whorish lips, into a trembling pout.

And her eyes! Oh, those wretched attention-seeking eyes look so much prettier filled with tears.

Big fat tears run down her face, and with a snotty nose, she keeps sniffling, reminding him of a snorting pig. Stanley had a knack for pointing out insecurities. A knack for hurting others. A hunger for tears, and the hostess wasn't enough. He doesn't care that he'll eventually be kicked out of the diner if he continues to feed his sick appetite. He'll go to a bar next, then another, until he's banned from every place in his home.

It's like a game to him. Speedrunning through the waitresses, each eliciting a different reaction, but it doesn't satisfy him. It doesn't leave the taste in his mouth that he craves. Tears are shed. Profanities shouted throughout the rather silent diner. It might not be exactly what he ordered, but it'll do for now.

You'd think that after the second waitress he sent crying, they'd kick him out, but it's amazing what money can do for a sleazy owner. From his seat, he can still hear the sniffles of the waitresses he left in tears behind the swinging door—the only barrier that hides his prying eyes from his feats.

How many waitresses does it take to get his order in?!

For a moment, he thought he was poisoned. Drugged. His heart palpitated. His lungs squeezed, and his sight blurred around him, all except for you. You walk into the diner, unaware of the hungry eyes watching you from afar. You're muttering angrily to yourself, your dirty Converse stomping on the ground, an oversized bag over your shoulder. Your clothes were nothing special. Baggy jeans with an even baggier shirt that swallowed you whole, leaving nothing to anyone's sick imagination.

Your pretty lips pout, for whatever reason Stanley doesn't know. What he does know is you're not like the rest of them, that much is clear. You're young. Older than when he left all those years ago, but nearly half his age now. Your plump, soft, youthful skin… he wonders what it's like under his coarse skin.

Would you tremble like a fawn, look him in the eyes as he wraps his hand around your throat?

Oh, and those angry eyes of yours! Oh, how pretty they would look shimmering in your tears of pain.

He knows nothing about you, but instinctively, he knows everything there is to you. The way you carry yourself is awkward, just like a fawn. Unsure about the world around you, ready to drop to your knees, and onto your stomach when anything startles you.

Is that why you're hiding your body from me, sweetheart? You think that makes it easier to hide from me?

The other waitresses whisk you away before you have a chance to see him. They grab you by the arm, pulling you with an eagerness that makes you trip over your own feet, which he can't help but laugh sadistically at. He sees your ears perk at his laughter. You lift your head ever so slightly, turning around, and just as you're about to meet his eyes, you're pushed behind that damned swinging door.

He hears it. Hushed whispers he knows are all about him—the man of the hour. The eyes of the pig with makeup he insulted flicker toward him through the little window on the swinging door, still weeping, and Stanley laughs mockingly. His lips curl cruelly, an unlit cigarette between his teeth. The commotion in the kitchen dies, piquing his interest. He leans back in his seat, arms stretched along the red leather, and his legs part open like a whore. You walk out, and it looks like you're walking straight towards his booth. You're not doing anything out of the ordinary, but you do have a cute scowl on your face, and the sight of it has his cock throbbing.

"Hey, girlie," he whistles at you. Your steps falter for just a moment, almost as if you're contemplating stopping, and you ultimately don't. He whistles again, and this time you roll your eyes at him.

In that split second, you gave him more than he could dream of. In that moment, the millisecond your eyes rolled back, you painted him a picture of how your eyes would look once he got his hands around that cherubic neck of yours—deprive someone long enough of oxygen, and their eyes will roll back.

"I'm ready to place an order."

You walk closer and closer to him, and just as he thinks you're stopping at his booth, you walk right past him, muttering an unapologetic "off the clock."

Doubt begins to swim in his mind. A perfect fawn would've dropped to its knees before him, eager to please him to secure its safety, but you didn't. You barely acknowledged him, giving him nothing but a bit of unabashed attitude to accompany the growing boner in his camo cargos.

Is this really how it's going to go?

Sitting at a diner, waiting for his order to be taken, when all the waitresses are all but afraid of him. Stewing in his own doing, he had nearly missed you walking by him, but this time, you're different.

The wretched clothing you came in with is gone, replaced by the ugly uniform of your job. In Stanley's eye, it wasn't all so bad. With those baggy, ripped jeans gone, he can see the skin of your legs—soft and velvety, and so easy to bruise.

The skirt isn't as form-fitting as he wished it were. It hides your curves, leaving Stanley's mind free to imagine what your body really is like. Not to mention, the skirt is a little too long for his taste. The thin striped fabric ends just above your knees. It's longer compared to your whorish coworkers, who are one bend away from flashing the place.

The blouse hangs around your form, not as much as your own shirt does, and all the buttons are fastened.

A pity…

His eyes are traveling along your back as you walk away from him once more. The diner fills with a squeak from the hinges of the swinging door as you head back into the kitchen, where the hushed whispers pick up and die again as you walk out.

Finally!

You walk toward him with a skeptical look in your eyes, and his chest swells with pride.

Such a careful gal, aren't you? You really are my fawn!

You walk closer and closer, and how could he not just swallow you up? Like an eagle's eyes, he notices everything about you, every inch of your appearance, whether each choice was intentional or not. Like the cute pout on your lips, which just stirs the little big fellow in his cargos.

Your pretty lips aren't drenched in that ugly, bright red color that seems to be infecting the lips of all the other waitresses—no! Your docile lips shine just lightly under the fluorescent lights of the diner. No sticky gloss on your lips. Just the wet shine of your tongue licking your lips, which shows just a faint red—but the red is all natural! Red like the blood on his hands. He can see faint bite marks on your lips where you tugged the skin with your teeth, pooling the pretty flush of red.

"Hello there, I'll be your waitress this evening." Your voice isn't chipper or lewd like the others he sent crying. It's monotonous. Bored. Cute in a way that he can't wait to break. "What can I get started for you?"

"Why the long face, sweetheart?" he teases, his voice rasping with each word. He leans back, letting his muscles press against his black compression shirt. It's cute watching as your tired eyes try to be discreet while you take him all in.

Fuck, never seen a real man before, sweetheart?

"You'd be cuter if you tried smiling."

"Give me something to smile about, old geezer." You spit at him. Not physically, but in a hypothetical sense that he wasn't expecting it. Words you'd never hear from a fawn! You lured him into a false sense of security. You're no longer pouting at him, but sneering at him, and he doesn't know which is cuter.

"Is that how you talk to a customer?" he growls at you. He sits up straighter in his seat, his left leg dragging.

"Only to perverts like you." His eyes follow you as you glance at his crotch. Most men would be embarrassed to pop a boner, but not Stanley. He has no sense of morals. He's shameless. In the way only someone with a big cock can be. "Shocked you can even get it up still. Did you pop a Viagra before you got here, or what?"

Firecracker

You're a firecracker. With a bit of fire, you're explosive. Sparking everything around you in all of your glory, like the Fourth of July.

My lil' Firecracker

Bright, loud, and colorful. So full of life and spite, you're radiating it. Every sound from your pretty lips is lighting up his heart and mind with red, white, and blue.

He's stunned. Speechless. He fucking hates it. Hates that he loves it.

Oh, my lil firecracker. Your flame will eventually go out, and the pretty color of your sparks will cease.

"Tell me what you want. I've got other tables to get to." You're tapping your feet impatiently at him.

The nerve!

His eyes flicker just briefly at your feet, the ones that sound like fireworks to his soul. The dirty converse shoes you were wearing when you came in were still there. Dirt and grime cover its soles.

"Y'all got liquor here?"

"The bar is down the road."

"Burger and a Coke."

"That all?" your words slur together, as if you don't have the time for this poor veteran who has served for his country.

"Not unless I can order something off the menu," he smirks at you, flaunting his dirty mouth as he holds his cigarette between his teeth. His foot touches yours, and he pretends it's accidental, but you both know it's not. Not when the tip of his combat boots rubs along the exposed skin of your ankle. He caresses it with his bad leg, which makes his touch even more pathetic. He has limited control of his leg, which is obvious in how stiffly it glides along your ankle.

Stanley's touch doesn't last for long, not when his leg spasms and the pain shoots up his lower back. He's been stabbed and shot at, but the pain that he feels in his leg doesn't compare. A deep hiss leaves his lips as the cigarette slips between them. It falls right into his lap, and the lit end is put out by none other than his crotch. His hands clutch the edge of the table desperately as the pain throbs.

His eyes are squeezed shut as pain courses through his body. He can hear your feet walking away, and like the firecracker you are, you don't leave without making a show. "Fucking old man."

Stanley doesn't make your shift any easier. You're his firecracker, but he keeps it fair, as fair as he can make it. Having his own waitress running around reminds him of back in the day, when he was training his own recruits. Barking orders in their faces. Spitting on them whenever he felt like it. Kicking them when they were already down. All of it was acceptable, but he can't do that to you. So he does the next best thing.

"You forgot the ketchup." Stanley tugs at your wrist, stopping you from leaving as quickly as you got there.

There's no escaping me, firecracker.

"You didn't ask for ketchup," you retort to him, pulling your hand free from his mean touch.

"Who the fuck doesn't eat their fries with ketchup?" he pushes his plate back towards you.

You can only trick him once before he's quick to learn. He knows you're not the fawn he thought you were. You're not going to lie down and take his words, nor are you going to give him those pretty tears of yours so easily.

He's feeding fire to your small fuse, ready for the sparks. He can see it on your face. You're ready to pop. His cock twitches in anticipation, but it doesn't come. A look of obedience flashes across your face, not because of him, but because of what's behind him. Your pretty mouth, ready to whistle, purses. You bite your tongue, silently grabbing his plate of food, then muttering an insincere apology and running back to the kitchen. Through the reflection in the napkin holder, he can see the owner of the place standing not too far behind him, and it all makes sense.

You come back running out not a second later, and of course, you're a brat.

"You think you're smart, don't you, sweetheart?" he's amused by your little act of defiance. You handed him his plate again, this time with a ridiculous amount of ketchup on the side—more than the soggy fries on his plate.

"Anything else, sir?" You ignore his comment, pretending to be the perfect waitress.

You're ready on your feet, swaying on the tips of your shoes, heel to toe, waiting for Stanley to dismiss you, but he doesn't. He taps the glass cup on his side with his finger, silently and arrogantly. You snatch the cup from his side and ask once more, "Anything else?"

"There's a lot more I want, but unfortunately, it's not on the menu." His eyes flick from your peeved face down to the exposed skin at your collar. His tongue wets his lower lip as he rests his gaze between your thighs. With your manager right behind him, you force a tight-lipped smile before storming off. Seeing your cute expressions stirs Stanley up, and it only urges him to fire you up even more.

With his picky requests and finicky palate, you're the only waitress in the diner who's running back and forth like a chicken with its head cut off.

"I said light ice."

…

"No onions."

…

"Meat ain't cooked right."

…

"It's got your hair on it, doll."

His cock grows harder and harder, straining against his pants, as your frustration becomes visible on your face and body. Your cheeks flush with an irritable red, your mouth pouts and trembles, and your tired, sore legs drag with every step across the dirty tile floor. You're on the brink of tears—perfect!

"Too bland." Plate in hand, you walk back to the kitchen defeated.

Oh my cute firecracker, about to pop, aren't we?"

The hinges on the swinging door squeak loudly, and Stanley sits up on his seat, ready for his meal.

What excuse should I go with this time?

You place the plate directly in front of him, but you're not alone. A man older than Stanley stands beside you. If Santa were a cook, this man would be him. He's wearing an apron, dirty with grease and other stains he doesn't want to know about. He's got wrinkles all over his kind face that's temporarily replaced by a stern look.

"Heard you got a problem with my food?"

Fawn or firecracker? What exactly are you, my sweet girl?

Stanley's lips twitch in silent anger, body seething as you hide behind the cook. Tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek, lips tugging to the side, Stanley gives in.

You won this round.

"Looks perfect," he says through gritted teeth.

"Glad to hear," the cook says with mock kindness. Stanley watches in silent rage as the cook pats that charming head of yours, and it's as if you betrayed him. Blushing at the affectionate touch, you bless the cook with your precious, genuine smile. "Enjoy."

Did you not like the game we were playing?

It doesn't matter how long Stanley stays at the diner; the cook never leaves. It's ten minutes till close, and all the other waitresses and cooks have left. With a keen sense only years in the army can give, Stanley knows that every time you step out of the kitchen and back to his booth, the old cook watches carefully through the little window. He can feel the old man's gaze on you, shielding you from Stanley. There's so much he wishes he could do, but limited by the witness that refuses to go away.

It's a minute till close, and Stanley happily listens to the impatient tapping of your foot as he bites into the soggy fry. You're leaning against the barstool facing his booth, arms crossed over your chest, and you're staring daggers right at him.

"You do know we close in a minute, right?"

"You're trying to rush me?"

"I have places to be."

"Oh? Like where?" Stanley muses. A smirk tugs at his lips as he pushes the nearly empty plate in front of him. You instantly pounce on the chance. You lean over his table, reaching for the plate he deliberately places out of reach.

"That's none of your business," you grit.

It's adorable seeing you struggle. You're on the tip of your toes, reaching for it. Your chest presses against the table, and your cute ass sways. The material rides up just enough that Stanley could easily take a peek, maybe even a cop a feel. His greedy, perverse hand inches slowly away from his lap towards your thigh. His hand is steady, fingers in the midst of your skin, and then he hears it.

"Hey!" It's not your voice, but the cook in the back. It's deep and filled with a fake warmth. "If you see the poor girl struggling, give her a hand."

How could you do this to me, firecracker?

Begrudgingly, Stanley pushes the plate closer to you, and you're quick to snatch it from him. Carelessly, you throw the check at him as you rush to take his plate to the back.

Defeated, Stanley places the cash on the table. He waits a moment, hoping you'll come out the back, but after five minutes, you never do. It breaks his heart. He thought he'd see that pouty face of yours once more. Send him off into the night with something to ease the ache in his balls.

The gravel of the parking lot crunches loudly under his boots. He doesn't walk far from the diner, not when his foot is starting to act up again. He can feel the random spasms of pain spreading through his leg, and in an instant, he's on his knees in agony, clutching the gravel between his fingers, nails raking up the dirt beneath.

"Hey!" your voice calls out behind him. Amid his pain and the joy of hearing your voice, he doesn't note your tone. He turns his head eagerly towards you, only to be met with loose change.

"No tip?!" You're shaking in anger, and Stanley's in a dilemma. Pain surges through his body, and he can't get up to put out the sparks flying out of you.

Red.

Your anger is clear in the way you're yelling at him. Your voice is deafening in the silent night. Your arms fly into the sky as you continue to spark. He's heaving on the ground, forced to stay silent by his own body. Blood pooling at his lips where the coins had hit him.

White

The throbbing in his dick is gone. The tension he had been saving pulses out of the angry tip. He can feel his cum trapped between his briefs and pants.

Blue

The neon sign that had irritated him earlier turns off behind you.

"Keep the change, old man. You clearly need it more than I do."

Firecracker.

Firecracker.

Firecracker.

Oh, my lil' firecracker, wait till I get my hands on you…

A/n: Soooooo, how are we feeling? A bit of a slow burn, am I right?!

Sadly, no smut this chapter! This chapter was more of a buildup for the main course...I guess you could say it's a bit of an entrée! We'll get to see more of the tension between the two in the next chapter! Also some smut scenes!

As always, let me know your thoughts! I love it when yall engage with poor ol' me!

Tags: @lavend3r-anon, @riarian (I believe you wanted to be tagged? If I misunderstood, lmk!)

Want to be tagged? Just ask!

He's lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as his cock stirs to life. A wave of guilt and shame consumes him, but it's not enough to stop his hand from traveling south. He rubs himself through his slacks, too lazy to undress after another mind-numbing conference with the US Army. His palm glides up and down, pressing just enough to feel something other than guilt.

He can hear it all, enough to feel like he is in the hotel room next door. He imagines he's sitting in that random, odd chair facing the bed in the center of the room, watching as Stanley has his way with you. He'd be sitting there, fisting his cock as Stanley continues to roughly pound your wet, needy pussy that he can hear from the walls. Wet skin on skin, muffled plap-plap-plap that he can only imagine how loud it really is without the wall acting as a barrier.

He wonders how much of a mess you're making on the bed. To hear your wet cunt through the walls, with Stanley's balls smacking against your ass, all the while you're wailing like a dumb whore. You and Stanley had been at it for hours, leaving Xeno to try to imagine what position Stanley is wrangling you in. With how eagerly you're crying, the wet sloshing of your pussy, he's imagining Stanley is rubbing your pussy silly. He can hear the moment your pussy has had enough. A quiet stream of water trickles from your pussy, wetting the bed while Stanley's words confirm Xeno's hypothesis.

"We got a squirter."

Xeno listens whenever he's given the chance. This perverse act continues for months, whenever he's given the chance to pry. One night, when he's staying over at Stanley's home as a guest, he takes it a step too far. Slightly prodding the bedroom, just a silver light lighting the dark hallway where Xeno is sitting on his knees with his weeping cock. He's in awe of the reality of Stanley's strength, to be able to hold you in the air, locking his arms behind your bed while his cock shows no mercy to your cute pussy. It's as wet as he imagines it. Your thighs are covered in your own shiny slick, and a puddle of your orgasm below your feet. With every mean thrust, he can see streams of fluid squirt wet the floor even more.

All good things come to an end, and Xeno's caught. In reality, Xeno was caught months ago, but was oblivious to the fact that you and Stanley fucked like animals for his pleasure. Stanley has you spread out in his lap, ankles wrapped around yours, spreading your lips apart, revealing to Xeno the cum pouring from your pussy.

"You're up, Xeno," Stanley shouts out to a friend, who doesn't take the bait right away. Xeno's sitting frozen in place in the hallway, wondering if it's a trap. "I know you're there, Xeno. Don't make my girl wait."

Xeno pushes the door wide open, standing there in shame with his cock out. It's not like Xeno has never fucked before, but it's been so long that Stanley has to walk him through how to fuck you just right. A threesome with Stanley and Xeno means getting whiplash from the difference in treatment. Stanley is rough, mean, and loves to mock you, slapping your pretty face and ass. While Xeno, on the other hand, praises you for being such a good girl for him. He loves to eat your pussy, even if it's messy with Stanley's cum.

Taking Stanley in the ass and Xeno in your pussy, means getting fucked deeper onto Xeno's cock from the force of Stanley's thrust. Every little threesome ends with jerking their cocks in your hands. They press their cocks together, letting you rub them together, your pretty lips switching back and forth between their heads, eagerly waiting for their cum on your tongue.

Stanley:

Stanley loves the full nelson! Whether it's the traditional full nelson or standing, he absolutely loves the control it gives him. It's a position that allows him not only to be in control but also to dominate you! You have nowhere to run when you're trapped in his arms!

Stanley will have you locked in a full Nelson with his arms wrapped under your knees, forcing your thighs to your chest and your ankles right by your head. With your thighs spread apart, wet pussy exposed for all to see, his cock hammers into you. Thrusting his hips up and down, forcing the tip of his cock to kiss the entrance to your womb, teasing it with his seed.

With every feverish thrust, his balls clap against your ass, and with just a push of his hand, he tilts your head down so you can watch as your needy cunt swallows his cock eagerly.

He loves it when you become cock drunk in this position, and it's obvious when you become a toy in his arms. Your body slumps into his arms, your head rolls back, and you begin your mindless cooing as he teases you.

Another of Stanley's favorites is the Pinball Wizard. It's another position in which he can dominate and maintain his control over you, but it also gives him the advantage of seeing your lewd face.

His fingers dig into the sides of your thighs, teetering on the edges of your ass, as he maneuvers your body like a toy. He holds your lower body up with his strength alone, pulling your dripping cunt closer as his hips thrust his cock into you, staring into your eyes with a smug look, seeing you unravel by his hand. With your puffy clit staring back at him, he switches to holding you up with one arm, while the other rubs at your clit, teasing you cruelly when you squirt against his hand.

Honorable mention: Doggy Style and Reverse cowgirl. What man wouldn't want to see his partner bounce on their cock! Also, a perfect position for some spanking!

Xeno:

Xeno loves the classic Cowgirl, but not to be confused with reverse Cowgirl! He loves the vulnerability this position offers, as well as its duality of control! I think Xeno can be a bit of a switch! Some days, after another boring day at NASA, he just wants to lie and let his darlin just bounce on his cock, with little work needed from him. To have you in his arms, his mouth on your breasts, while you use him for your pleasure.

And other days, when work comes home with him, and he's absolutely riled with pent-up tension, he can take it out on you. He'll bounce you up and down on his cock, his fingers dig and claw at your ass while he ridicules and mocks you in your ear. Easy access to discipline you with his hands smacking against your ass, and even tease your tits with his teeth, tugging at your nipple.

Xeno loves to have duality in his positions, and the spooning position is a great example of that! He can crudely lock your face with his arm around your neck, pulling your arm behind your back, while he frantically thrusts into you from behind, or he can also gently kiss the crevice between your neck and shoulder while kneading your tits, while he lovingly thrusts from behind. Soft, loving, and nurturing, or mean, rough, and cruel, it doesn't matter because he'll end up cumming inside of your tight pussy either way.

Honorable Mention: Mating press with a version of Xeno that wants to baby trap you *Cough* Pathetic Old Man Xeno *cough*

Senku:

If you're having sex with Senku, you're likely in a Lotus position with him. It's an intimate position, with you sitting on his lap and your chest pressing against his. It's a messy position, with your limbs tangled together. Not to mention your forehead resting against Senku's as you gaze softly into his eyes. He loves seeing you lose all sense of reason as you become one with him.

Senku holds you in his arms, kissing you messily while you shake your hips against his cock. He holds onto your ass desperately, rocking you up and down, while he looks up at you in total adoration. It's intimate, but it also puts him in a position that exposes how weak he is around you. He holds you in his lap, putting you higher than him so he can admire you.

Another rather intimate position, Missionary! Sex with Senku is often soft and loving. Slow, deep thrusts that end with his cum spilling onto your stomach. But the few times it isn't, such as jealous sex or angry make-up sex, it's a rather easy position to communicate that. The tempo of his thrusts becomes fast, sloppy, and erratic. His hands that often hold yours are now trapped on either side of you, with a look that reveals his frustration. He can still feel your chest against his while spitting into your mouth or even choking you with his hand around your throat.

Honorable Mention: Elephant! An amazing position for lazy sex! But also for some rough sex!

Also, something that should be included for all three of them, but not really a position…SHIBARI!!! I feel compelled to write shibari with Senku or Xeno…

Xeno's a bit of a cuck at first when it comes to double-teaming. His stamina and libido aren't as high as Stanley's, who's got pent-up frustration he needs to release, and why not take it out on his pretty gal? You're so obedient to him, eager to please.

Xeno sits off to the side, watching as your back is pressed against the end of the bed, knees on the ground while Stanley fucks your throat. His thighs are on either side of your head, holding himself upright on the bed as he snaps his hips forward, pushing the red head of his cock to the back of your throat, and his heavy balls smacking against your chin.

The noises that echo in the bedroom only excite Xeno even more. It's loud, drowning out the sound of his slicked cock as Stanley's hips smack against your face. Drool and slobber run down your mouth, tears cascading from your eyes, as you gag around his girth. You're gagging and gagging until you're choking on the sperm that shoots down your throat. When Stanley finally eases himself off your mouth, a thick mixture of your drool and cum strings and clings to his cock.

Stanley doesn't leave, only reaching for the pockets that hold his cigarette and lighter. He walks to the bed, making himself comfortable, watching as Xeno finally approaches your limp body, staring at your fucked expression.

"You're too rough on her, Stan," Xeno says, not scolding him but admiring. His palm cups your face, and his thumb wipes away the drool and cum that Stanley didn't clean. With a sadistic smile on his face, he kisses your lips. "You're going to break her."

"Isn't that what you want?" Stanley asks with a coarse laugh.

You become a toy in their hands, and they act like kids fighting over who gets to use you until they realize they can share. Stanley holds you up right in his lap, stretching your asshole while Xeno fucks into your needy pussy. Every frantic thrust from Xeno only fucks you harder and deeper onto Stanley's cock.

Xeno tries to keep up as best he can, going only for so many rounds before he's tapping out and enjoying the show once more. Lying on bed, with your head between his legs, face getting fucked onto his cock. He can see your wet lips pressing against his balls, teary eyes staring up at him without a thought behind them.

"Just like that, sweetheart." Low, teasing, and obnoxious, it aggravates you to no end. He's looking at you with a lazy, smug smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upward, flashing his canines at you.

"Shut up." Your voice drips with venom, your obvious distaste for him manifesting in your words. Your breath is heavy, eyes glaring at his, which gleam with amusement at yours.

"Quit stalling," he says with a chuckle. Lighting the cigarette between his fingers, he blows smoke into your face, laughing as your face wrinkles from the smell. "Admit it, it's too much for you."

You don't have a moment to bark back at him, not when his large, calloused hands clasp roughly around your ass. The slap of his hands against your skin echoes loudly in the cramped backseat of your car, almost drowning out your heavy breathing as you continue to grind against his lap. Your hips stagger, losing the teasing rhythm you've set as his hands grope your ass. His biceps flex, lifting you slightly as he kneads your skin, pushing the hideous skirt of your work uniform higher and higher until your lacey underwear is visible through the fishbowl windows of your car.

Stanley sets his own rhythm, moving you like a personal toy for his pleasure. Your body weighs nothing in his arms, moving your hips up and down against his bulging erection, straining against his rough denim jeans. He slams you up and down, hearing you mewl and whine in his ears as you clutch his shoulders for support.

"Cmon', girlie." His hands smack against your ass. Not once, not twice, but until you're crying into his shoulders, your pretty ass red with his handprint. He smacks you as if you're an animal he's trying to herd into a pen. But it was too much for you. You weakly raise your hips, only to collapse back into his chest, weakly humping against him. "Where did all your spirit go? Weren't you going to show this old man how you take it?"

He presses his lit cigarette into your thigh, extinguishing the flame as you writhe away from him. With both hands free, he takes yours in his, guiding them to the buckle of his belt. He watches as you struggle with his belt, fingers fumbling nervously together. It takes you an embarrassingly long time to undo his belt and to pull the zipper of his pants down, easing the tension from his cock.

The moment you entered their home, Stanley and Xeno knew you were a bad influence on their daughter. They were beyond disappointed the moment their daughter walked through the door, and you followed behind her. It was every father's worst nightmare to see their daughter dress the way you do. Shorts cut too high, the bottom of your ass peeking out. Top cropped, and not to mention a neckline so deep that they could make out the cute lacey print of your bra.

"Good evening, Mr. Snyder and Mr. Wingfield," you greet them both. You take their hands and shake them politely, but they can see through your little facade. It's small, something they almost dismiss—the way you lightly clasp your chest together, making your breasts a little larger, more appetizing. They would have brushed it off as nothing if it weren't for the way you smile at them, eyes shining with a hint of playfulness they shouldn't entertain. "Thank you for letting me stay the night."

"The pleasure is all ours," Xeno smiles warmly at you, eyes flicking between you and the lace peeking out from your chest.

You were asleep, oblivious to the two men looming over you. Stanley had already taken their daughter back to their bedroom, leaving you prey to whatever the two men decided to do to you. It's almost as if you wanted it, unconsciously, silently asking them to use you. With your face pressed against the end of the couch, mouth agape and drool running down the sides, and your legs spread, easy for Xeno to slide between.

Stanley stands off to the side, his cock already freed from its confines and hardening in front of your clueless face. You looked so sweet, with your eyes closed, and that soft smile on your lips, but Stanley and Xeno know the truth. You were a slut begging to be fucked.

Stanley grabs a hold of your limp arm—the very one that you used to shake his— and wraps your fingers around his cock. It's not as tight as he wants it to be, but it'll do for now. He moves his hips languidly, soft and slow, not to wake you, at least not yet. His hard dick in your soft hands, and the tip already oozing his sperm, lightly tapping against your lips with every thrust. It's intentional, every thrust bringing the crown of his cock to your lips, smothering it in milky white—this surely isn't the first time you've had cum on your lips. Strings of his cum mixed with your drool stick to his dick, making a mess of your pretty, plump lips.

Xeno, on the other hand, had a much more delicate task. His thin, cold fingers are trailing up your legs, feeling the softness and the warmth of your body before settling at the front of your shorts. It's a tedious task to unbutton and unzip your shorts, then pull them down to your ankles, all whilst not waking you. He manages it, and he whistles at the sight of the lacey underwear sticking to your puffy cunt. The lighting wasn't the best at the moment, but even he could see the wet patch in your underwear. It highlights every fold in your pussy, even your swollen clit bulges through the material. Carefully, Xeno lifts your ass up enough to get himself comfortable between your legs.

Xeno leans in closer, pressing his nose along the fold of your pussy, through the material of your underwear, and sniffs like an ill-mannered dog. His grip on your thighs gets tighter, digging the tips of his fingers into your skin while he loses himself in the smell of your pussy. The wet material of your underwear presses against his lips, and he'd be a fool not to kiss back. Ghostly kisses, enough to taste you on his lips but not enough to wake you.

Already wet for him, Xeno doesn't have to prep your pussy for his cruel fingers. Pulling your thin underwear to the side, slick strings snapping once he's moved it far enough, he can finally begin his fun. Testing the waters, he pushes one finger in. Xeno and Stanley expect a response from you, but nothing. No squirming or whimpers, as if you couldn't feel a thing. But Xeno? He can feel how tight you are—squeezing warmly around his finger.

He adds another finger, and this time you react. Your face twists, lips curling in a cute frown, before the feeling of Xeno's fingers slowly becomes natural inside of you—your body accepting the intrusion. Both his middle and ring fingers are inside of you, thumb hovering over your clit, ready to pay attention to the little nub. The pace he sets is slow, matching Stanley's thrusts. They're enjoying the moment of the little slut on their couch, being none the wiser of what's happening to her.

Soon, they get bored with the slow tempo, and Xeno's fingers start picking up. Your wet slick has traveled down his wrist, and now with every feverish thrust of his fingers, your pussy plap-plap-plap in response. Your mouth is still agape, but now, cute noises greet Stanley's cock. Besides the wet noises of your lips kissing the tip, the most tantalizing, honey whimpers and moans slip through your lips.

It's a delightful surprise for Stanley and Xeno when they witness your pussy squirting on Xeno's hand, and your eyes snap open. They watch in anticipation as your eyes glance down towards Xeno, who's switched from fingering you to lapping your cunt, eager to get you to squirt on his tongue, and to Stanley, who's standing beside you with his cock centimeters away from your lips.

"Wh—" your voice, silenced the second Stanley's thrust went deeper than it did before. It slipped easily between your lips despite the gagging from your end. Your limp hand that he had used to thrust into, grips tightly onto his thigh. Whether as a way to ground yourself or a meek attempt to push him away, it doesn't matter. Stanley was all muscle. He could carry three times your weight without breaking a sweat. He's not letting you go, not until he and Xeno have their balls wrung dry from your cunt.

He gives you a second of mercy so he can plant himself over you. Knees planted on either side of your head, and your slobber connecting his cock and your lips together. He cups your face in his hands, ready to fuck his cock back down your throat, but your needy voice stops him.

"Mr. Snyder," you call out to him, out of breath, your chest heaving, and your eyes tiredly staring up at him.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Your cheeks flush at his words, and your gaze drops.

"I want your cum," you say sheepishly. You part your lips, wide open, your tongue sticking out, ready to accept everything they want. Without a second thought, Stanley stretches out your throat. Pushing himself deep inside, ignoring your cries and gagging, fascinated that he can see his dick protruding from your throat.