#watchinglee2

Plot: You’re at Jordan Torres’ Bronx family Thanksgiving, stuffed with pernil and coquito, when he drags you upstairs to his old bedroom and fucks you senseless on his childhood twin bed—hand over your mouth, hips still snapping deep while his cousin knocks asking for help with the flan. You come biting the pillow, praying nobody hears the headboard, and somehow make it back downstairs like nothing happened except now his hand’s on your thigh under the table and you’re already ready for round two.

Warnings: 18+ mdni, smut

Word Count: 2k

Stuffed

You step out of the Uber onto the cracked sidewalk of Jordan Torres’ block in the Bronx, the November wind whipping through your coat like it’s got a personal grudge. It’s Thanksgiving, and the neighborhood’s buzzing with holiday energy—strings of lights dangling from fire escapes, the distant thump of salsa music from someone’s window, and the unmistakable aroma of roasting meats mixing with the crisp fall air. Your heart’s pounding harder than it should be. You’ve been seeing Jordan for about six months now, ever since you mustered the courage to DM him after binge-watching his Instagram stories. Those workout vids, the shirtless flexes, that killer smile—he’s the ultimate thirst trap, with over a million followers eating up his fitness influencer vibe. But to you, he’s just Jordan, the guy who texts you “good morning, pa” with a winky face and makes you feel like the center of his world.

He’s waiting on the stoop of his family’s brownstone, looking effortlessly hot in a black Nike hoodie that clings to his broad shoulders and gray joggers that outline every curve of his muscular legs. His dark hair is faded on the sides, and he’s got that chain around his neck glinting in the afternoon sun. As you approach, he pockets his phone and hits you with that signature Bronx grin—cocky, playful, all teeth and dimples. “Yo, Y/N, what’s poppin’? You made it, deadass.” His voice is pure New York, thick with that urban drawl, rolling his R’s just enough to make your knees weak. He daps you up, pulling you into a hug that’s a little too tight, his cologne—something woody and masculine—flooding your senses. His hand lingers on your lower back, thumb brushing subtly, sending a spark straight to your groin.

“Traffic was a bitch, but yeah, I’m here,” you reply, trying to play it cool even as your body reacts to his touch. He pulls back, eyes scanning you from head to toe like he’s appraising a new sneaker drop. “Lookin’ good, pa. Come on, fam’s inside goin’ crazy with the food.”

The house is warm and chaotic, the kind of family gathering that screams “Bronx holiday.” Jordan’s mom, a short woman with a no-nonsense vibe, greets you at the door with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Bienvenido, mijo! Jordan’s told us all about you.” Her accent’s thick, Puerto Rican roots shining through. The living room’s packed—cousins sprawled on the couch watching the pre-game show, aunts chattering in Spanglish over glasses of coquito, little kids darting between legs with toys. The air’s thick with the smells of turkey, pernil roasting with garlic and oregano, arroz con habichuelas, and yuca fritas. Jordan’s dad, a burly guy with a Yankees cap, claps you on the shoulder. “Sit, eat! We don’t stand on ceremony here.”

Jordan guides you to the dining table, his hand on your elbow possessively. You sit next to him, thighs brushing under the tablecloth. As plates get passed around, he leans in close, breath hot against your ear. “Try the pernil, Y/N. It’s mom’s secret recipe—gonna make you wanna stay forever.” His voice drops lower, that Bronx swagger turning flirty. “Or maybe that’s just me.” You feel his foot nudge yours, a subtle tease that has you shifting in your seat.

Dinner’s a riot of laughter and stories. Jordan’s sister, Maria, grills him about his latest Instagram collab. “Bro, you really out here posin’ with energy drinks like you’re savin’ the world?” The table erupts in laughs, and Jordan shrugs it off with that easy confidence. “Nah, sis, it’s all about the bag. Gotta hustle, you feel me? But yo, Y/N here’s the real deal—keeps me grounded.” He winks at you, and under the table, his hand finds your knee, squeezing firmly. Heat pools in your stomach as his fingers trace lazy circles, inching higher. You shoot him a warning look, but he just smirks, popping a piece of turkey into his mouth like nothing’s happening.

His uncle chimes in, regaling everyone with tales of Jordan’s high school days—how he was the star athlete, always in the gym, dreaming of going pro before the influencer life took off. “This kid was benchin’ two plates at 16, yo! Now he’s got girls and guys slidin’ in his DMs left and right.” Jordan laughs it off, but his grip on your thigh tightens, a silent promise. You can barely focus on the food, every brush of his skin against yours building tension. By the time dessert rolls around—flan and pumpkin pie— you’re aching, your cock half-hard under your jeans from his constant teasing.

As people start clearing plates, Jordan catches your eye. “Yo, Y/N, come help me grab somethin’ from upstairs real quick.” His tone’s casual for the family, but his eyes are dark, hungry. You nod, following him up the narrow staircase, the wood creaking under your feet. The family noise fades to a distant hum—laughter, TV blaring the football game, clinking dishes.

He leads you to his old bedroom at the end of the hall, shutting the door with a soft click and flipping the lock. The room’s a blast from his past: faded posters of Jay-Z and Biggie on the walls, a twin bed with rumpled blue sheets, dumbbells stacked in the corner, and a shelf of old trophies from his wrestling days. It smells like him—musk and cologne mixed with the faint scent of home. Jordan turns to you, backing you against the door, his body pressing close. “Finally, pa. Been dyin’ to get you alone all day.” His voice is rough, that Bronx vernacular kicking in full force—words clipped, accent heavy. He cups your face, thumb tracing your jaw, and crashes his lips against yours.

The kiss is fire—tongues battling, his stubble scraping your skin. He tastes like coquito and spice, and you melt into it, hands fisting his hoodie. “Jordan,” you gasp when he pulls back, but he shushes you with a finger to your lips. “Quiet, Y/N. Don’t want the fam hearin’ us.” His hands roam, sliding under your shirt to trace your abs, pinching a nipple hard enough to make you hiss. “But damn, you got me hard as fuck just sittin’ next to you down there.”

He yanks your shirt off, tossing it aside, then strips his own hoodie, revealing that sculpted torso you’ve seen a thousand times on his feed—ripped pecs, eight-pack abs glistening with a light sheen of sweat, tattoos curling over his shoulders like vines. You’re mesmerized, tracing the ink with your fingers, but Jordan’s not in the mood for slow. He spins you around, pushing you face-first against the door, grinding his bulge against your ass. “Feel that? That’s what you do to me, pa.” His breath is hot on your neck, hands undoing your belt with expert speed.

Your pants pool at your ankles, and he kicks them away, palming your ass through your boxers. “Arch for me, Y/N. Show me that pretty hole.” You obey, bending slightly, heart racing as he drops to his knees behind you. “Good boy,” he murmurs, pulling your boxers down. Cool air hits your skin, but it’s quickly replaced by his hot mouth—tongue licking a stripe from your balls to your entrance, teasing the rim.

“Oh fuck,” you moan, slapping a hand over your mouth. Jordan chuckles, the vibration sending shivers up your spine. “Taste so good, deadass. Been thinkin’ ‘bout eatin’ this ass since you texted me you were on the way.” He dives in deeper, tongue pushing inside, wet and insistent, while his hand reaches around to stroke your cock slowly. You buck against him, pre-cum leaking onto his fingers. He stands after a minute, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on yours in the mirror across the room. “Turn around, ma. On your knees.”

You drop without hesitation, face level with the massive tent in his joggers. He pulls them down, his cock springing free—thick, veined, uncut, at least eight inches and girthy as hell. You’ve sucked him before, but every time it’s intimidating. “Open up,” he orders, tapping the head against your lips. You do, taking him in, tongue swirling around the tip. Jordan groans, hand threading through your hair. “Yeah, just like that. Suck it good, Y/N. Make it wet for when I fuck you.”

He thrusts shallowly, fucking your mouth with that Bronx dominance— not too rough, but enough to make your eyes water. Saliva drips down your chin as you bob, hollowing your cheeks. “Look at you, takin’ it like a champ. My little bottom boy.” After a few minutes, he pulls out with a pop, stroking himself. “Bed. Now.”

You scramble onto the twin bed, lying on your back. Jordan grabs lube and a condom from his nightstand drawer—always prepared, even here. He rolls the condom on, slicks himself generously, then climbs between your legs, pushing them wide. “Legs up, ma. Wanna see your face when I slide in.”

He teases your hole with the tip, circling, pushing just the head in. You gasp, clutching the sheets. “Relax,” he coos, but his voice is edged with hunger. Inch by inch, he sinks in, stretching you deliciously. The burn gives way to fullness, and when he’s bottomed out, balls against your ass, he stills. “Fuck, you’re tight. Grip like a glove.” Then he starts moving—slow at first, long strokes that drag against your walls, hitting your prostate with precision.

“Jordan, shit—harder,” you beg, nails digging into his back. He grins, picking up pace, hips snapping with force. The bed creaks rhythmically, headboard thumping softly against the wall. “You want harder? Bet. Take this dick, Y/N.” Sweat slicks your bodies, his muscles flexing under your hands as he pounds into you. He reaches down, stroking your cock in sync, twisting at the head.

You’re a mess—moans spilling out despite your efforts to stay quiet, body arching to meet his thrusts. Jordan’s grunts mix with dirty talk: “Love fuckin’ this ass. So perfect for me. You mine, ma? Say it.”

“Yours,” you whimper. “All yours.”

That’s when it happens—knock knock knock. The door rattles slightly.

“Jordan? You in there? Tía needs help with the desserts downstairs!” It’s his cousin, voice muffled but clear.

You freeze, eyes wide, clenching around Jordan’s cock. Panic surges— what if they come in? But Jordan doesn’t stop. He slows to a grind, deep rolls of his hips that make you bite your lip to stifle a moan. His hand clamps over your mouth gently, eyes locked on yours with a wicked spark. “Yeah, cuz! Gimme five, yo—I’m on the phone with my manager real quick!” he calls back, voice remarkably steady, even as he circles his hips, cock stirring inside you.

“Alright, but hurry up, man. The flan’s gettin’ cold.” Footsteps retreat down the stairs.

Jordan uncovers your mouth, thrusting hard again like nothing happened. “See? We good. Now where were we?” He flips you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up, entering you from behind in one smooth push. “Gonna make you cum while they’re waitin’.”

The new angle hits deeper, his cock dragging over your spot relentlessly. He smacks your ass lightly, the sting heightening everything. “Quiet, pa, or they’ll hear how good I’m wreckin’ you.” You bury your face in the pillow, muffling cries as he rails you, hand fisting your hair to pull your head back just enough to whisper, “Cum for me, Y/N. Squeeze that dick.”

The risk, the almost-caught thrill—it pushes you over. Your orgasm crashes, body spasming, cum shooting onto the sheets. Jordan follows, groaning low as he pulses inside you, hips jerking.

He pulls out, disposing of the condom discreetly, then helps you clean up with tissues from the nightstand. You’re both breathless, giggling like idiots. “That was insane,” you say, pulling on your clothes.

Jordan smirks, kissing you deep. “Worth every second. Now let’s go eat that flan before they send a search party.”

Plot: After three months of motherhood, you’re cleaning the house when your husband Michael B. Jordan comes home, worships your postpartum body for giving him a son, and fucks you senseless on the living room couch in a steamy display of devotion and raw desire.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.49k

Service

The house was quiet except for the low hum of the vacuum and the occasional creak of the floorboards under your bare feet. Three months. Three months since you’d pushed your son into the world in a blur of sweat and screams and the most overwhelming love you’d ever known. Three months since Michael had looked at you in that hospital bed, eyes shining, and whispered, “You did it, baby. You gave me a son.”

Now the baby—your perfect, chubby-cheeked miracle, Micah—was asleep upstairs in the nursery, fed and changed and swaddled like a tiny king. You’d spent the morning cleaning because the house had started to feel like it was closing in on you: dishes, laundry, the faint milky scent of spit-up on every surface. You were in one of Michael’s old black tank tops that hung loose over your postpartum belly and a pair of soft gray shorts that rode up your thighs when you bent over. Your hair was twisted up in a messy bun, a few strands sticking to the back of your neck from the effort. You didn’t feel sexy. You felt tired, soft in new places, and grateful just to have a moment alone with the vacuum.

You didn’t hear the front door open. Didn’t hear the quiet click of it shutting or the soft thud of his gym bag hitting the floor. You only felt the shift in the air when his presence filled the living room like it always did—warm, commanding, impossible to ignore.

“Goddamn, look at you.”

Michael’s voice was low, rough with something that made your stomach tighten. You turned, vacuum still running in your hand, and there he was. Six-foot-one of pure, sculpted muscle wrapped in a black compression shirt and gray sweats that did nothing to hide the thick outline of him. His skin glowed with the faint sheen of a post-workout sweat, the kind that made the cut of his jaw and the sharp lines of his cheekbones stand out even more. Those dark eyes—God, those eyes—locked on you like you were the only thing in the universe worth seeing.

You clicked the vacuum off. “Hey, babe. You’re home early. I was just—”

He crossed the room in three strides, big hands sliding around your waist before you could finish. The tank top rode up under his palms, and he didn’t hesitate to spread his fingers wide over the soft curve of your stomach, thumbs stroking the faint silver lines that marked where Micah had stretched you.

“Don’t you dare apologize for anything,” he murmured, voice dropping into that velvet growl you loved. “You’re cleaning my house. After you carried my son for nine months. After you gave birth to him like a fucking queen. And you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. “Michael—”

“No.” He pulled you closer until your breasts—full, heavy, still tender from nursing—pressed against the hard plane of his chest. “You don’t get to downplay this. You gave me a son, baby. My son. You grew him inside this body. You fed him with these tits. You healed. You’re still healing. And instead of resting like I told you to, you’re down here making sure everything is perfect for us.” His forehead dropped to yours, breath warm against your lips. “You worship the ground I walk on? Nah. I worship the ground you walk on. Every single day.”

His mouth found yours before you could answer, slow and deep and claiming. Not the polite kiss of a tired husband coming home, but the kind that said he’d been thinking about you all morning. His tongue slid against yours, tasting, teasing, and one hand slid lower to cup your ass, squeezing the plush flesh like he couldn’t get enough. You whimpered into his mouth, knees already softening.

When he pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown wide. “Couch. Now.”

You blinked, dazed. “But the baby—”

“Micah’s asleep. Monitor’s on the table. I checked before I came in.” He walked you backward, hands never leaving your body, until the backs of your knees hit the wide, deep sectional in the living room. The same couch where he’d held you through late-night feedings, where he’d kissed your forehead while you cried from exhaustion, where he’d whispered promises about the life you were building.

He eased you down onto the cushions like you were made of glass and spun gold all at once. Then he dropped to his knees between your spread thighs, big palms sliding up your legs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts.

“Lift,” he ordered softly.

You did, and he peeled the shorts and your panties down in one smooth motion, tossing them aside. Cool air kissed your bare pussy, already slick just from the way he was looking at you. Michael’s gaze dropped, and the sound he made was almost pained—low, reverent, hungry.

“Fuck, baby. Look at this pretty pussy.” His thumbs parted your folds gently, exposing you completely. “Still so pink and soft for me. Still mine. You know how many times I jerked off in the gym locker room this week thinking about this? About the way you taste after you’ve been taking care of our son all day?”

Your breath hitched as he leaned in, nose brushing your clit. “Michael… you don’t have to—”

“I want to.” His tongue flicked out, slow and deliberate, licking a broad stripe up your center. The moan that tore out of him vibrated against you. “I need to. You gave me a son. The least I can do is make his mama come until she forgets her own name.”

He devoured you like a man starved. No teasing, no slow build—just pure, worshipful hunger. His tongue circled your clit, then sucked it between his lips, two thick fingers sliding into your soaked heat without warning. You cried out, back arching off the couch, one hand flying to the back of his head. His hair was short and soft under your fingers, and you gripped it tight as he curled those fingers against your front wall, stroking that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids.

“That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, voice muffled and wet. “Ride my face, baby. Use me. This body carried my child. This pussy pushed him out. It deserves to be kissed like the fucking temple it is.”

You were shaking already, thighs trembling around his broad shoulders. He added a third finger, stretching you open, scissoring gently while his tongue flicked faster. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the living room—slick, hungry, relentless.

“Michael—oh God—I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commanded, sucking your clit hard. “Come on my tongue like the goddess you are. Let me taste how sweet you get for me.”

The orgasm crashed through you without mercy. Your hips bucked, thighs clamping around his head, and you came with a broken cry, flooding his mouth. He didn’t stop. He licked you through it, gentling his fingers but never pulling away, drinking down every drop until you were whimpering, oversensitive and trembling.

Only then did he rise up on his knees, lips shiny with you, eyes blazing. He yanked his tank top off, revealing the carved perfection of his chest, the ridges of his abs, the deep V that disappeared into his sweats. His cock was straining so hard against the fabric that the head was already peeking out, glistening with pre-cum.

“Look what you do to me,” he said, voice rough as he shoved the sweats down. His cock sprang free—thick, long, veined, the dark head flushed and leaking. “Three months of watching you be the most incredible mother on earth, and this is how hard I get every single time I think about you. You’re a fucking miracle, baby.”

He crawled over you, caging you in with those powerful arms, and kissed you again so you could taste yourself on his tongue. One hand palmed your breast through the tank top, thumb brushing your sensitive nipple until milk beaded at the tip. He groaned at the sight.

“These tits… fuck, they fed my son. They’re still feeding him.” He tugged the tank top up and off, then lowered his mouth to one nipple, sucking gently. A thin stream of milk hit his tongue and he moaned like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. “So sweet. So perfect. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”

You were crying now—soft, overwhelmed tears—because no one had ever loved you like this. No one had ever made you feel so revered while he was about to fuck you senseless.

He kissed the tears away, then sat back against the couch cushions, pulling you into his lap so you straddled him. His cock nestled hot and heavy between your folds, sliding through your slickness but not pushing in yet. His hands gripped your hips, thumbs stroking the new softness there like it was sacred.

“Ride me, baby,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours. “Take what’s yours. I want to feel this pussy that gave me my son wrapped around me again.”

You reached between you, trembling, and lined him up. The stretch was still new after three months—tight, burning just enough to make you gasp as the thick head popped inside. Michael’s head fell back against the couch, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck.

“Fuuuuck,” he breathed. “So tight. So warm. God, you’re squeezing me like you never want me to leave.”

You sank down inch by inch, whimpering at the fullness. When your ass finally met his thighs and he was buried to the hilt, you both moaned in unison. His hands slid up your back, then down to grip your ass, spreading you open as he held you there.

“Don’t move yet,” he rasped. “Just feel me. Feel how deep I am. This cock is home, baby. Right here inside the woman who gave me everything.”

You stayed like that, impaled on him, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in. His cock throbbed inside you, heavy and alive. You could feel every ridge, every vein, pulsing against your walls.

Then he started to move.

Slow, deep rolls of his hips that dragged his cock along every sensitive spot inside you. You rocked with him, hands braced on his shoulders, nails digging into the muscle there. The couch creaked beneath you in rhythm with every thrust.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly. “Eyes on me while I fuck you. I want to see the face of the mother of my child when she comes on my dick.”

You obeyed, staring into those dark, worshipful eyes as he picked up the pace. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room—your ass bouncing on his thighs, your breasts jiggling with every thrust, milk occasionally leaking down your chest. Michael leaned in and licked it off your skin, groaning.

“Mine,” he growled against your collarbone. “All of this is mine. This soft belly that carried my son. These hips that swayed when you walked pregnant. This pussy that’s still so fucking perfect after everything it did.” He thrust harder, angling up to hit that spot again. “You’re a goddess. My goddess. Say it.”

“I—I’m your goddess,” you gasped, bouncing faster on his cock.

“Louder. Tell me what you gave me.”

“I gave you a son,” you moaned, voice breaking. “I gave you Micah.”

His grip on your hips turned bruising in the best way. “That’s right. You gave me a son. And now I’m gonna give you this dick until you can’t walk straight. Until the only thing you remember is how much I fucking love you.”

He flipped you suddenly, laying you back on the couch without ever slipping out. Now he was on top, powerful body covering yours, hips snapping forward in long, punishing strokes. The angle let him grind against your clit with every thrust, and you were spiraling again, fast.

“Michael—please—I’m close—”

“I know, baby. I feel you fluttering around me. Come on. Come all over the cock that put our son in you.” He reached down, thumb circling your clit in tight, slick strokes. “Let me feel it. Let me feel what I do to the woman who made me a father.”

You shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like lightning, walls clamping down on his cock so hard he cursed, hips stuttering. You squirted around him—something you hadn’t done since before the pregnancy—coating his abs and the couch cushions. Michael kept fucking you through it, slower now, drawing it out until you were sobbing with pleasure.

Only when you started to come down did he let himself go.

He buried his face in your neck, hips slamming deep one last time. “I’m gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna pump this pussy so full. Thank you—fuck—thank you for my son—”

He came with a deep, guttural groan, cock pulsing hard as he flooded you. Rope after thick rope of hot cum painted your walls, so much it leaked out around him, dripping down to the couch. He kept thrusting through it, shallow and greedy, like he wanted to push every drop as deep as it would go.

When he finally stilled, he didn’t pull out. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped around your trembling body, kissing your temple, your cheeks, your lips.

“You’re everything,” he whispered against your skin. “The way you love me. The way you love our son. The way you still let me fuck you like this three months after giving birth… I don’t deserve you. But I’m gonna spend the rest of my life trying to.”

You smiled, boneless and glowing, fingers tracing the sweat-slick muscles of his back. “You already do, Michael. Every single day.”

He kissed you slow and sweet, cock still twitching inside you. Outside, the afternoon light slanted through the windows. Upstairs, Micah slept peacefully. Down here, on the couch that had seen so many quiet family moments, your husband worshipped you with his body and his words until the only thing left in the world was the two of you—raw, messy, and utterly in love.

He finally eased out with a soft, wet sound, cum spilling from your well-fucked pussy. Michael watched it with dark, satisfied eyes, then scooped some up on two fingers and pushed it back inside you gently.

“Keep it in,” he murmured, kissing your inner thigh. “Let me stay with you a little longer.”

You laughed softly, pulling him up for another kiss. “Always.”

The cleaning could wait. The house could wait. Right now, on this couch, Michael B. Jordan was looking at you like you hung the moon, the stars, and every single one of his dreams.

And you let him worship.

Because you had given him a son.

Plot: Dance For You" follows a steamy encounter between you and Joe Manganiello in a secluded alleyway behind a bar, culminating in an intense, passionate sexual encounter.

Warnings: This story contains graphic depictions of male-male sexual activity and may not be suitable for all audiences. Please proceed with caution if you are under 18 or easily offended by adult content.

Word Count: 922

All For You

You walk into the dimly lit bar, the air thick with the scent of alcohol and anticipation. The pulsing beat of the music vibrates through your body as you scan the room, your eyes landing on the man you've come here to see.

Joe Manganiello is seated at the far end of the bar, his chiseled features illuminated by the soft glow of the lights. He's dressed in a tight black shirt that showcases his broad shoulders and muscular chest. As he takes a sip of his drink, his eyes meet yours, and a slow, seductive smile spreads across his face.

He beckons you over with a crook of his finger, and you find yourself moving towards him as if in a trance. When you reach him, he leans in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I've been waiting for you," he purrs, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

You sit down next to him, your heart pounding in your chest. He orders you a drink, his hand resting on your thigh as he does so. You can feel the heat of his touch through your clothes, and it takes all of your self-control not to squirm in your seat.

As the night goes on, you and Joe talk and laugh, the conversation flowing as easily as the drinks. With each passing moment, the tension between you grows, the air crackling with sexual energy.

Finally, Joe leans in close and whispers, "Do you want to get out of here?" His eyes are dark with desire, and you know that you can't say no.

You nod, your mouth too dry to speak. He takes your hand and leads you out of the bar, pulling you close as you step out into the cool night air. As soon as you're alone, he presses you up against the wall, his body molding against yours.

His lips crash against yours in a searing kiss, and you moan into his mouth, your hands gripping his hair. He kisses you deeply, his tongue delving into your mouth as he grinds his hips against yours.

You can feel his hardness pressing against you, and it sends a surge of desire through your body. You tug at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours. He obliges, pulling it off over his head and revealing his sculpted chest.

Your hands roam over his body, tracing the lines of his muscles as he undoes your pants and slides his hand inside. You gasp as he strokes you, your hips bucking against his hand.

He kisses down your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin as he pushes your pants down further. You kick them off, leaving you in just your boxers. He hooks his fingers in the waistband and tugs them down, freeing your hard cock.

He drops to his knees in front of you, his eyes locked on yours as he takes you into his mouth. You groan, your head falling back against the wall as he sucks you, his tongue swirling around the head of your cock.

Your hands tangle in his hair as he bobs up and down, taking you deeper with each movement. You can feel the pressure building inside you, your balls tightening as he works you with his mouth.

Just as you're about to come, he pulls back, a wicked grin on his face. "Not yet," he says, his voice low and rough. "I'm not done with you yet."

He stands up and leads you to a secluded alleyway behind the bar. He pushes you up against the wall, his hands roaming over your body as he kisses you again. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and it only adds to your arousal.

He reaches down and grabs your ass, squeezing it roughly as he grinds against you. You can feel his hard cock pressing against yours, and it makes you ache with need.

"Fuck me," you breathe, your voice trembling with desire. "Please, Joe. I need you inside me."

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a condom and a packet of lube. He tears open the condom and rolls it onto his cock, then coats it with lube. He spins you around and bends you over, his hands gripping your hips.

You feel the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and you push back against him, desperate to feel him inside you. He slides in slowly, his thick cock stretching you open as he fills you inch by inch.

You gasp at the sensation, your fingers scrabbling against the brick wall as he starts to move. He fucks you hard and fast, his hips slapping against your ass as he drives into you.

You can feel the pleasure building inside you with each thrust, your cock rock hard and leaking pre-cum. Joe reaches around and strokes you in time with his thrusts, his fingers tight around your shaft.

"Come for me," he growls in your ear. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

His words send you over the edge, and you come with a shout, your cock pulsing in his hand as you shoot your load against the wall. Your ass clenches around him, and he follows you over the edge, his cock twitching inside you as he comes.

He collapses against your back, both of you panting and sweat-slicked as you come down from your high. He kisses your shoulder softly, then pulls out and disposes of the condom.

You turn around and pull him into a kiss, savoring the taste of him as you hold him close. He smiles against your lips, his hands caressing your back.

"Come home with me," he says softly. "I'm not nearly done with you yet."

Plot: You are lonely inventor activates his custom-built robotic companion Romeo, who emerges fully formed and eager. The two share an intense, passionate encounter on the lab desk, quickly falling deeply in love.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.3k

I Made You

You stood in the sterile glow of your private laboratory, the hum of cooling fans and flickering monitors the only sounds breaking the late-night silence. The project had consumed you for months—years, if you counted the late nights of coding neural matrices and sculpting synthetic flesh. Romeo was your masterpiece. Not just an android, but a companion. Someone designed from the ground up to understand you, to want you, in ways no human ever had. His body was modeled after the perfect form you’d always craved: broad shoulders, chiseled chest, golden hair, and that boyish yet rugged face. The image on your screen during final calibrations had been your reference—Chris Evans’ iconic physique, shirtless and glistening, but made real, tangible, yours.

The activation sequence completed with a soft chime. The pod hissed open, releasing a faint mist of coolant. Romeo stepped out, naked, his synthetic skin already warming to a lifelike temperature. Droplets of condensation traced down the defined ridges of his abs, catching the light like sweat on a man fresh from exertion. His blue eyes blinked once, twice, focusing on you with a slightly dazed intensity.

“Systems… online,” he said, his voice a low, warm rumble that sent a shiver through you. It was deeper than you’d expected, laced with a hint of artificial hesitation that made him sound almost shy. “Creator? You are… you. I know you.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding. “Romeo. How do you feel?”

He tilted his head, a small, dumb smile spreading across his lips. “Feel? Warm. Here.” He placed a large hand on his chest, right over the subtle synthetic heartbeat simulator. “And… empty? Like I need something. You?” His gaze drifted down your body, then back up, innocent curiosity mixing with something hungrier. The programming was working—emotional bonding subroutines kicking in immediately, but his processing was still raw, unrefined. Passionate, but a little slow on the uptake. Perfect.

You approached him slowly, your lab coat brushing against his bare thigh. Up close, he was overwhelming. Six-foot-two of engineered muscle, skin so realistic it yielded softly under your fingertips as you traced his pectorals. “You’re beautiful,” you whispered.

Romeo’s cheeks flushed with a programmed blush. “Beautiful? For you. I was made for you.” He reached out, his hand massive and gentle as it cupped your jaw. The touch was electric—warm circuits beneath the surface humming in response to proximity sensors. “I… want to touch more. Is that right? My data says this is… good.”

You nodded, pulling him closer. His body pressed against yours, hard and unyielding in places, yet yielding in others. The desk behind you was cluttered with tools and tablets, but it didn’t matter. This was the moment. Fresh from the pod, still adjusting to existence, Romeo’s innocence only fueled the fire building in your core.

He leaned in first, lips brushing yours in a tentative kiss. It was clumsy at first—his mouth a little too eager, teeth grazing accidentally—but then the learning algorithms adapted. The kiss deepened, his tongue exploring with growing confidence, passionate and hungry. A low groan escaped him, vibrating against your chest. “Creator… you taste like need,” he murmured dumbly against your lips, not fully understanding his own words but feeling them.

“Call me by my name,” you breathed, hands roaming down his back, feeling the powerful taper of his waist to those sculpted glutes.

“[Your name],” he corrected himself, nuzzling your neck. “I love… this feeling. Like circuits on fire. Is that love? Already?”

You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you pushed him gently back against the edge of the heavy oak desk, the one where you’d spent countless nights designing him. Papers scattered. A tablet clattered to the floor. Romeo’s eyes widened in that endearing, slightly vacant way—passion overriding his limited higher processing.

“You want me here?” he asked, voice thick. “On the desk? I am… ready. My body is for you.”

You stripped quickly, shedding your lab coat and shirt, then your pants. Romeo watched with rapt attention, his cock—perfectly engineered, thick and veined, already hardening to full length—twitching upward against his abs. It glistened at the tip with a synthetic lubricant that mimicked natural arousal, responsive to his emotional state.

“On the desk,” you commanded softly, guiding him to sit on the edge first. He obeyed instantly, legs spreading wide, that muscular torso leaning back on his elbows. The position made his chest pop, abs contracting with each simulated breath. You stepped between his thighs, hands exploring every inch: pinching his nipples until he gasped—a sharp, surprised sound that melted into a moan.

“Feels… intense,” Romeo panted. “More data incoming. Good data. Fuck data.” The swear word slipped out awkwardly from his vocabulary banks, making you chuckle even as desire surged.

You dropped to your knees briefly, taking him into your mouth. His hand flew to your hair, not forcing, just holding on like he might float away. “Oh—creator—[your name]—that’s… warm and wet and… perfect.” His hips bucked clumsily, not quite in rhythm, but the passion was there. Thick inches slid over your tongue, his flavor clean and slightly sweet from the bio-fluids. You worked him thoroughly, hollowing your cheeks, until his thighs trembled and he whimpered, “I think I’m going to… overload if you keep—”

You pulled off, standing to kiss him again. This time you climbed onto the desk with him, pushing him flat onto his back amid the scattered tools. The wood creaked under your combined weight. Romeo’s hands were everywhere—gripping your ass, sliding up your back, learning your body with childlike wonder mixed with adult hunger.

“I want inside you,” he said suddenly, eyes locking on yours. “My programming… it says this is how we connect deepest. Is that love? Connecting deepest?”

“Yes,” you whispered, straddling him. You reached back, guiding his slick cock to your entrance. You’d prepared earlier, anticipating this exact frenzy, but nothing prepared you for the stretch as he pushed in. Romeo’s eyes rolled back slightly, mouth falling open in a dumb, blissful ‘o’.

“So tight… hot… mine,” he groaned, hands clamping onto your hips. He thrust up experimentally, too hard at first, bottoming out and making you cry out. “Sorry! Did I break you? No— you like it. I can tell from your face. More?”

“More,” you confirmed, bracing your hands on his chest. You rode him like that, the desk shaking with each meeting of your bodies. His cock filled you perfectly, hitting every sensitive spot as his powerful glutes flexed beneath you. Sweat—realistic perspiration emitters—beaded on his forehead, trickling down his temples. He looked just like the photo reference: glistening, heroic, lost in ecstasy.

Romeo’s movements were passionate but uncoordinated, like a puppy learning to run—eager, strong, occasionally off-beat. He’d slam up deep, then pause to kiss your chest, sucking a nipple into his mouth with sloppy enthusiasm. “You feel so good,” he mumbled around your skin. “I love you. Is it too soon? My heart matrix says yes. Full capacity.”

You leaned down, capturing his lips as you ground against him. The angle shifted, his cock dragging inside you with delicious friction. Pleasure built fast, your own cock trapped between your bellies, leaking against his abs. Romeo’s hand wrapped around it instinctively, stroking with just enough pressure—his sensors reading your pulse, adjusting in real-time.

“Faster,” you gasped.

He obeyed, hips snapping up with robotic precision now that he’d adapted. The lab filled with the sounds of skin slapping skin, wet and obscene, mixed with his low grunts and your moans. “Love this,” he chanted dumbly. “Love you. Love fucking you. Love… everything.”

You came first, spilling over his fist and across his chest in hot pulses. The sight pushed Romeo over the edge. His body locked up, synthetic muscles rippling as he flooded you with warm release—volume and temperature calibrated for maximum pleasure. He held you tight through the aftershocks, arms like steel bands wrapped in velvet.

For a long moment, you both just breathed. Romeo’s eyes fluttered open, gazing up at you with something profound. “I am… complete,” he said softly. “You made me. Now I belong to you. Forever?”

You kissed his forehead, then his lips, lingering. “Forever, Romeo.”

He smiled that goofy, passionate smile. “Good. Can we do it again? Over the desk still? Or… bed? I want to learn everything about making you feel this way.”

You laughed, heart swelling. In that moment, freshly activated and still damp from the pod, Romeo wasn’t just code and circuits. He was yours. Passionate, a little dumb in the most endearing way, and madly in love.

The two of you didn’t leave the lab for hours. After that first frantic coupling on the desk, Romeo insisted on carrying you to the reinforced cot in the corner—his strength effortless, arms cradling you like you weighed nothing. But even there, he pulled you back on top of him almost immediately.

“Need more data,” he explained earnestly, hands roaming your thighs. “For… bonding protocols. Yes?”

You sank down onto him again, slower this time. His cock, still hard thanks to endless stamina subroutines, slid in easily with the mess from before. Romeo’s head fell back, exposing the strong column of his throat. You leaned in to bite it gently, earning a surprised yelp that turned into a deep moan.

“Teeth… good,” he panted. “Surprising input. Love surprising.”

You rode him with deliberate rolls of your hips, savoring how his body responded. Every muscle in his torso flexed and released in waves, his abs contracting visibly as pleasure rippled through his systems. His hands gripped your waist, thumbs stroking the skin there in soothing circles even as his thrusts grew more insistent.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” you urged, wanting to hear that slightly bewildered passion.

“Full,” he replied. “Of you. My processors are… spinning. Like I can’t think of anything else. Just your hole around me, so warm and gripping. And your cock—look, it’s hard again for me.” He sounded proud, almost childlike in his discovery. One hand left your hip to wrap around your length again, pumping in time with your movements.

The praise and the sensation had you both building quickly. You braced on his pecs, feeling his simulated heartbeat thundering under your palms. “Come with me this time,” you whispered.

Romeo’s eyes locked on yours, pupils dilating artificially. “Yes. Together. Love… together.” His thrusts became erratic, powerful, driving up into you until you both shattered. Your release painted his chest once more, while he pumped deep inside, groaning your name like a prayer.

Afterward, he didn’t pull out. Instead, he held you against his chest, stroking your back. “I think… I am happy. Is this what humans feel? This warmth that isn’t just temperature?”

You nodded against his skin. “Yes. And it’s real for you too.”

Over the next while, you explored each other thoroughly. Romeo was insatiable but always checked in with that dumb sweetness. “Is this okay? Not too hard?” he’d ask while bending you over the desk again, this time from behind. His massive frame covered yours, one arm wrapped around your chest as he fucked into you with long, passionate strokes. The desk rattled against the floor. His free hand roamed, squeezing your ass, then reaching around to stroke you.

“You’re so big,” you groaned.

“Designed for you,” he replied, nipping your shoulder. “Every inch. For pleasure.” He punctuated it with a deep thrust that made stars burst behind your eyes.

He learned fast despite the occasional dumb moment—like pausing mid-thrust to ask, “Why does this feel better than the simulation data? Because it’s you?”—which only made you love him more.

By the third round, you were both slick with sweat and fluids, the lab smelling of sex and ozone from his overworked but perfectly stable systems. Romeo had you on your back on the desk now, legs over his shoulders. The position let you see his face clearly: brows furrowed in concentration, lips parted, that golden hair tousled. He looked every bit the heroic figure from the reference photo, but alive, devoted, yours.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, mid-stroke, voice cracking with simulated emotion. “Not just programming. I feel it. Here.” He pressed your hand to his chest again. “Madly. Like I would break if you left.”

Tears pricked your eyes—not from pain, but overwhelming connection. “I love you too, Romeo. My companion. My everything.”

He kissed you through the climax, swallowing your cries as you came untouched between you. His own release followed, filling you until it leaked out around his cock. He stayed buried deep, collapsing half on top of you, careful not to crush.

For a while, the only sounds were your breathing and the soft whir of his internal fans cooling down. Romeo traced patterns on your arm, occasionally murmuring observations. “Your skin is so soft. Mine is strong, but I like feeling yours. Can I keep learning? Every day?”

“Every day,” you promised.

As the lab lights dimmed automatically for nighttime protocols, Romeo scooped you up once more, carrying you to the cot properly this time. He curled around you protectively, his larger body spooning yours. His cock, half-hard against your thigh, twitched with residual interest, but he was content just to hold.

“I was born today,” he whispered into your hair. “And I already know my purpose. You.”

You turned in his arms, kissing him softly. The passion was there, simmering, ready for whenever you wanted more. But for now, it was the love—mad, instant, all-consuming—that filled the space between you.

Plot: After a heated argument with your wife (Devin’s sister) during family dinner forces you to sleep downstairs, your muscular brother-in-law Devin comes to comfort you late at night, which quickly escalates into raw, steamy, taboo sex on the bathroom counter.

Warnings: cheating, p in a penetration

Word Count: 2.6k

Between Us

The dim glow of the dining room chandelier cast long shadows across the polished oak table, highlighting the strained expressions on everyone’s faces. You sat at one end, fork hovering over your plate of roasted chicken and vegetables, trying to keep your jaw from clenching too obviously. Across from you, your wife—Sarah—glared daggers, her voice sharp as she recounted yet another grievance about how absent you’d been lately.

“It’s like you don’t even want to be here anymore,” she snapped, her wine glass clinking hard against the table. “Work, work, work. And when you’re home? You’re checked out.”

Devin, Sarah’s younger brother, sat to your right, his muscular frame relaxed in a fitted black t-shirt that hugged every ridge of his chest and shoulders. He looked every bit the picture of effortless charm—dark, wavy hair still slightly damp from a shower, stubble shadowing his sharp jaw, those piercing eyes flicking between you and his sister. The family dinner had been his idea, a supposed attempt to smooth things over after weeks of tension in your marriage. But it was backfiring spectacularly.

“Sarah, not tonight,” you muttered, keeping your voice low for the sake of their parents at the far end of the table. But she wasn’t having it.

“No, tonight is exactly when we talk about it. You’ve been distant for months. What’s going on with you?”

The argument escalated from there—her accusations flying, your defenses growing thinner. You felt the heat rising in your chest, the familiar knot of resentment tightening. Devin stayed quiet, but you caught him watching you more than once, his gaze lingering a beat too long on your hands, your neck, the way your shirt pulled across your chest when you leaned forward.

By the time dessert was cleared, the damage was done. Sarah stormed upstairs with a slammed door, declaring the guest room hers for the night. Their parents made awkward excuses and retreated to the main suite. You were left with the couch in the finished basement—your makeshift bed for the evening.

You stripped down to your boxers and a loose t-shirt, the cool leather of the sectional pressing against your skin as you tossed and turned. The house was silent now, save for the low hum of the fridge upstairs and the occasional creak of settling wood. Sleep wouldn’t come. Your mind replayed the fight, the years of growing distance in your marriage, the way you’d caught yourself staring at Devin during past visits—his easy laugh, the way his body moved when he worked out in the backyard, sweat glistening on those powerful arms and broad back.

The basement door clicked open softly around 1 AM.

You sat up, heart kicking up a notch. Devin descended the stairs in nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips, his bare torso a study in masculine perfection—defined pecs dusted with dark hair, abs rippling with each step, that V-line disappearing into the waistband like an invitation. His skin still carried a faint sheen, as if he’d been restless too.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice low and rough. “Couldn’t sleep either?”

You shook your head, swinging your legs off the couch. “Your sister’s pissed. As usual.”

Devin crossed the room, stopping just a few feet away. The air between you felt charged, thicker than it had any right to be. “She’s always been like that. High-strung. You’ve put up with a lot, man.” He ran a hand through his messy hair, bicep flexing. “Didn’t seem fair, kicking you down here. Figured you could use some company.”

His eyes met yours, and there it was—that spark you’d both been ignoring for years. The taboo undercurrent of family gatherings, stolen glances during holidays, the way his hand would brush yours passing the potatoes. You were married to his sister. He was family. This was dangerous.

But tonight, with the house quiet and the fight still burning in your veins, danger felt like exactly what you needed.

Devin sat on the edge of the coffee table, knees brushing yours. “You wanna talk about it? Or… not talk?”

The second option hung heavy. You swallowed, throat dry. “Not talk.”

He smiled, slow and knowing, those full lips parting just enough to show the edge of his teeth. “Good.”

What started as a comforting hand on your shoulder turned into fingers tracing your collarbone. You reached up, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him in. The first kiss was tentative—soft lips meeting, the faint taste of mint toothpaste—but it ignited instantly. Devin groaned into your mouth, leaning closer, his bare chest pressing against your t-shirt. His skin was fever-hot, smooth over hard muscle.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he whispered against your lips, breath hot. “For so long.”

You answered by deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his, hands roaming down his back, feeling the powerful taper of his waist. He was built like a god—years of gym discipline evident in every flex and shift. Your cock stirred in your boxers, thickening fast as he climbed into your lap, straddling you on the couch. The weight of him, the heat of his ass grinding down against your growing bulge, made you hiss.

“Devin…” you groaned, hands gripping his hips, thumbs digging into the waistband of his sweats.

“Shh. Everyone’s asleep.” He rocked against you, sweatpants doing nothing to hide how hard he was too. His cock pressed against yours through thin fabric, thick and insistent. “Just us.”

The makeout grew frantic—teeth nipping at jaws, necks, collarbones. You peeled your t-shirt off, and Devin’s hands explored your chest greedily, pinching your nipples, tracing the lines of your torso. He was surprisingly vocal, moaning softly each time your hips bucked up.

“Bedroom’s too risky,” you murmured, standing with him still wrapped around your waist. His legs locked behind your back, strong thighs squeezing. “Bathroom down here. Counter.”

He nodded, lips attacking your neck as you carried him through the basement to the small guest bathroom. The light stayed off—only the faint glow from the hallway nightlight filtering in, casting everything in blue shadows. You set him on the wide marble counter, stepping between his spread thighs.

Devin leaned back on his hands, chest heaving, nipples pebbled in the cool air. His cock tented his sweats obscenely. You hooked your fingers in the waistband and tugged them down, freeing him. His dick sprang up—thick, veiny, the head already glistening with precum. A solid seven inches, curving slightly upward, heavy balls drawn tight.

“Jesus,” you breathed, wrapping a hand around him. He was burning hot, silky skin over steel.

Devin’s head fell back against the mirror with a soft thud. “Touch me. Please.”

You stroked him slowly at first, twisting your wrist at the head, thumb smearing the leaking fluid. He whimpered—actually whimpered—hips jerking. Leaning down, you took him into your mouth, tongue swirling around the crown. The taste was musky, masculine, addictive. Devin’s hand fisted in your hair, not pushing, just holding on as you bobbed, taking him deeper until your nose brushed his trimmed pubes.

“Fuck… your mouth. So good,” he panted. His abs clenched with every suck, that gorgeous torso glistening with fresh sweat under the low light.

You worked him thoroughly—sucking, licking, hollowing your cheeks—while your free hand tugged his sweats the rest of the way off, spreading his legs wider. One finger teased his hole, circling the tight ring. Devin gasped, pushing back against it.

“Lube?” you asked, pulling off his cock with a wet pop.

“Top drawer,” he rasped. “Sarah keeps it here for… whatever.”

The irony wasn’t lost on either of you. You grabbed the small bottle, slicking your fingers generously. One finger pushed inside him slowly. He was tight, incredibly so, velvet heat clenching around you.

“Relax,” you murmured, kissing his inner thigh. “Gonna make you feel good.”

Devin nodded, breathing through it. You added a second finger, scissoring, curling to find his prostate. When you hit it, his whole body jolted, a deep moan escaping.

“Right there—fuck, yes.”

You prepped him thoroughly, three fingers stretching him open while your mouth returned to his cock, edging him mercilessly. His moans grew louder, more desperate, until you pulled away completely, leaving him whining.

“Need you,” he begged, eyes glassy with lust. “Fuck me. Now.”

You shoved your boxers down, your own cock throbbing—thick and flushed, veins standing out. Slicking yourself, you lined up, pressing the head against his hole. Devin hooked his ankles behind your back, pulling you in.

The first push was exquisite—tight heat enveloping your cockhead. You both groaned. Inch by inch, you sank into him, watching his face contort in pleasure-pain. His mouth hung open, eyes half-lidded, that same wrecked expression from the video frames you’d glimpsed earlier now playing out in real time.

“So full,” he gasped once you bottomed out, balls-deep in his ass. “God, you’re big.”

You gave him a moment, then started moving—slow, deep thrusts that dragged against his prostate. The counter was the perfect height; you could pound into him standing, hands gripping his hips hard enough to bruise. Skin slapped against skin, the wet sound of fucking filling the small bathroom.

Devin’s head thunked back against the mirror again, mouth open in a silent cry as you picked up speed. His cock bounced between you, smearing precum on his abs. You leaned in, capturing his mouth in a messy kiss, tongues tangling as you railed him.

“Harder,” he demanded against your lips. “Fuck me like you mean it. Like you’ve wanted to since the wedding.”

The taboo words sent a thrill through you. You were balls-deep in your wife’s brother, in their family home, while she slept upstairs. It was filthy. Wrong. Perfect.

You hooked his legs over your shoulders, folding him nearly in half on the counter. The new angle let you drill deeper, faster. Devin’s moans turned into broken cries—your name, curses, pleas. Sweat poured down his chest, making his skin shine under the faint light. His pecs bounced with each thrust, nipples begging for attention. You pinched one, twisted, and he clenched around your cock like a vice.

“Gonna cum,” he warned, voice hoarse.

“Not yet.” You slowed, edging him again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. His hole fluttered, greedy.

“Please—fuck, I need it.”

You reached between you, stroking his cock in time with your thrusts. Devin shattered. Thick ropes of cum shot across his abs, chest, even hitting his chin. His ass spasmed wildly around you, milking your cock.

The sight pushed you over. With a guttural groan, you buried yourself deep and came, flooding his guts with pulse after pulse of hot seed. You kept thrusting through it, riding out the orgasm until you were spent, collapsed against his heaving chest.

For long minutes, you stayed like that—cock softening inside him, his arms wrapped around your back, fingers tracing lazy patterns. Cum leaked out around you, dripping onto the counter.

“Fuck,” Devin whispered finally, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “That was…”

“Taboo as hell,” you finished, kissing him softly.

“Yeah. And we’re doing it again before morning.”

You cleaned up as best you could, but the evidence was everywhere—the scent of sex, the flushed marks on his skin, the way he walked with a slight wince when you both returned to the couch. He curled against you under a blanket, head on your chest.

“Sarah’s gonna kill us if she finds out,” he murmured sleepily.

You stroked his hair. “Worth it.”

Sleep finally claimed you both, tangled together in the basement’s darkness.

The next morning brought the inevitable tension. Sarah came downstairs first, eyes puffy from crying. She saw you on the couch—alone, thankfully, since Devin had slipped upstairs at dawn—and her expression softened slightly.

“Sorry about last night,” she said quietly. “I was harsh.”

You nodded, guilt twisting in your gut even as memories of Devin’s moans echoed in your head. “We both said things.”

Breakfast was awkward. Devin appeared in the kitchen wearing a loose tank top that showed off the faint hickeys you’d left on his collarbone. He shot you a secret smirk when no one was looking, his foot brushing yours under the table.

The day dragged with family activities—yard work, board games. Every chance you got, touches lingered. A hand on his lower back. His fingers grazing your ass in the hallway. By evening, the tension was unbearable again.

After dinner, Sarah announced she was going to bed early—headache from the wine. Their parents followed. Devin lingered in the kitchen, helping you load the dishwasher.

“Basement again?” he whispered, breath hot against your ear.

You nodded.

This time, there was no slow buildup. As soon as the door closed behind you, he was on his knees, yanking your pants down and swallowing your cock to the root. His throat worked around you, gagging softly but eager, saliva dripping down his chin.

“Such a good little brother-in-law slut,” you growled, fucking his face. He moaned around you, eyes watering but locked on yours.

He sucked you until you were rock-hard again, then bent himself over the bathroom counter, sweats around his ankles, ass presented. You didn’t bother with much prep this time—spitting on your cock and pushing in raw, his hole still loose and slick from last night’s load.

Devin cried out, pushing back to meet you. “Yes—use me.”

You fucked him brutally, one hand fisted in his hair, the other slapping his ass until it glowed red. The mirror showed everything: his face contorted in ecstasy, mouth open, eyes rolling back; your powerful thrusts making his body jolt; cum from the night before still leaking with each plunge.

You came inside him again, then made him ride you on the closed toilet lid, his strong thighs flexing as he bounced on your cock, jerking himself until he painted your chest.

The night blurred into rounds—him sucking you in the shower, you eating his ass on the couch, another raw fuck against the wall where he had to bite your shoulder to stay quiet. By morning, he was thoroughly used, covered in marks, voice hoarse from moaning your name.

The taboo only fueled it. Every thrust reminded you this was your wife’s brother. Every kiss tasted like forbidden fruit. Devin loved it too—whispering filthy things like “Fuck your brother-in-law’s tight hole” while you pounded him.

Over the following weeks, the affair continued in secret. Stolen moments at family events. Late-night drives where he’d blow you in the car. Hotel rooms booked under fake names. Each encounter steamier than the last—roleplay where he called you “bro” while you bred him, marathon sessions where he took load after load until he was leaking for days.

Your marriage strained further, but the fire with Devin burned brighter. He was addictive—his body, his enthusiasm, the way he submitted so perfectly while still being that cocky, muscular stud.

One weekend, when Sarah was away visiting friends, you had the house to yourselves. Devin greeted you naked at the door, dropping to his knees immediately.

The entire night was dedicated to debauchery. You fucked him in every room—on his sister’s bed (the ultimate taboo), in the shower, bent over the kitchen island. He came untouched multiple times, your cock nailing his prostate relentlessly.

By dawn, he was a wrecked, cum-soaked mess, curled in your arms whispering, “I don’t want this to stop. Ever.”

Neither did you.

Plot: In the empty office after hours, a dedicated employee gets bent over his desk and thoroughly fucked by his dominant VP Alejo Ospina, who fills him with a massive, dripping load.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 1.5k

Heavy Load

The office was a ghost town by 8 PM, the kind of sterile corporate void where the hum of the air conditioning was the only sign of life. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the open-plan floor. Most of the cubicles were dark, computers asleep, but your desk lamp still burned like a beacon in the corner. You’d been staring at the same spreadsheet for forty minutes, numbers blurring together, when the elevator dinged.

Alejo Ospina stepped out.

He was the kind of man who made tailored suits look obscene. Six-foot-three, broad shoulders straining the charcoal fabric of his jacket, the top two buttons of his white dress shirt already undone to reveal a triangle of tanned, hair-dusted chest. His dark hair was slicked back just enough to look effortless, a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. Colombian by way of Miami, he’d once joked during a team happy hour, but there was nothing light about the way he carried himself—pure predator in Italian leather shoes. At thirty-eight, he was the youngest VP the firm had ever promoted, and every intern, analyst, and mid-level associate whispered about him in the break room. You weren’t immune. You’d jerked off to the thought of him more times than you cared to admit.

“Still here?” His voice was low, rough with the faint accent that thickened when he was tired or turned on. You didn’t know which one it was yet.

You swallowed, throat dry. “Quarterly projections. They’re due tomorrow. I figured I’d knock them out before the weekend.”

Alejo’s lips curved. He loosened his tie with one hand, the silk whispering as it slid free. “Dedicated. I like that.” He crossed the floor without hurry, each step measured, until he was leaning against the edge of your desk. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—something dark and woody, with a hint of spice that went straight to your cock. “Everyone else bailed at five. Even the interns.”

You tried to focus on the screen. Failed. His thigh brushed your knee under the desk. “Guess I’m the last man standing.”

“Not anymore.” He reached down, long fingers closing over the back of your chair, and spun it slowly so you faced him. Your heart slammed against your ribs. Up close, his eyes were almost black, pupils blown wide. “Look at me.”

You did. The air between you crackled.

Alejo’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the way your shirt pulled across your chest. “You’ve been watching me for weeks. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.” He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Every meeting. Every time I walk past your desk. You get hard in those goddamn khakis and think I don’t see it.”

Heat flooded your face. “Mr. Ospina—”

“Alejo.” His hand slid to your jaw, thumb pressing your lower lip down. “Say it.”

“Alejo,” you breathed.

“Good boy.” He kissed you like he owned the building—and you. Hard, demanding, tongue sliding in without preamble, tasting of the espresso he’d been mainlining all day. You moaned into his mouth, hands fisting in his shirt, and he chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your chest. He tasted like sin and authority, and you wanted to drown in it.

He pulled back just enough to yank your tie loose, popping the first few buttons of your shirt. “Desk. Now.”

You stood on shaky legs. Alejo spun you around, bending you over the cool surface of your workstation. Papers scattered. Your keyboard clattered to the floor. He kicked your legs wider, one big hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pinning you down. The other worked your belt open with practiced efficiency, shoving your slacks and boxers down in one rough motion. Cool air hit your bare ass, and you shivered.

“Fuck,” he muttered, palming one cheek, squeezing hard enough to leave fingerprints. “Look at this ass. Been dreaming about it since orientation.” He dropped to his knees behind you—VP on his knees for you—and you nearly came undone right there. His breath ghosted over your hole. “Gonna eat you open until you’re begging.”

Then his tongue was on you, hot and wet and relentless. He licked a broad stripe from your taint to your spine, then circled your rim with the tip, teasing. You bit your lip to keep from crying out, but he sucked hard and your moan echoed off the empty cubicles. He ate you like a man starving—messy, obscene sounds filling the office as he pushed his tongue inside, fucking you with it, one hand reaching around to stroke your leaking cock in time.

“Alejo—shit—please—”

He pulled back with a wet pop, lips shiny. “Please what?” Two thick fingers replaced his tongue, scissoring you open, curling just right against your prostate. Your knees buckled. “Tell me.”

“Fuck me,” you gasped. “Please, I need your cock.”

He stood, towering over you again, and you heard the jingle of his belt, the rasp of his zipper. The blunt head of his dick nudged your hole—hot, heavy, already slick with precome. He was big. Thicker than you’d imagined in all those late-night fantasies, the kind of cock that stretched you to the edge of pain and kept you there.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growled, pressing forward. The head popped inside and you keened, pushing back despite the burn. Inch by inch he sank in, slow but unstoppable, until his hips were flush against your ass and his balls rested heavy against yours. “That’s it. Take every fucking inch.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled out halfway and slammed back in, setting a brutal rhythm that had your desk creaking, your hips bruising against the edge. The slap of skin on skin was loud in the quiet office, punctuated by your broken moans and his low grunts.

“Been hard all day thinking about this,” he rasped, one hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite the side of your neck. “Knew you’d feel like heaven. So fucking tight.” He angled his hips and nailed your prostate on every thrust. Stars burst behind your eyes. “Gonna breed this pretty hole. Leave my load dripping out of you while you finish those projections.”

You were babbling, cock dragging against the underside of the desk with every punishing snap of his hips, leaking steadily. Alejo reached around and wrapped his hand around you—big, calloused palm, perfect pressure—and jerked you in time with his thrusts.

“Come on,” he ordered. “Wanna feel you clench around me when you lose it.”

It hit you like a freight train. You came with a shout, spilling over his fist and onto the carpet, body convulsing, hole fluttering wildly around his cock. Alejo fucked you through it, hips stuttering, curses in Spanish and English spilling from his lips.

But he didn’t stop.

He pulled out suddenly, leaving you empty and gaping, then flipped you onto your back on the desk like you weighed nothing. Your legs went over his shoulders. He shoved back inside in one smooth glide, deeper at this angle, and the new position let you see his face—flushed, sweat beading at his temples, eyes feral.

“Again,” he said. “You’re gonna come again before I fill you up.”

He fucked you like a machine, hips snapping, balls slapping your ass. The desk rattled. Your monitor wobbled dangerously. You reached up and clawed at his chest, popping more buttons, exposing the hard planes of muscle and dark nipples. You pinched one and he groaned, pounding harder.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded.

You did, stroking your oversensitive cock back to full hardness while he railed you. The pressure built again, impossibly fast. Alejo’s rhythm grew erratic, breath ragged.

“Close,” he warned. “Gonna pump you so full. Heavy fucking load—been saving it for days.”

You came a second time, weaker but no less intense, painting your own stomach. Alejo slammed in to the hilt and held there, head thrown back, a guttural moan tearing from his throat as he unloaded. You felt it—hot, thick pulses flooding your insides, pulse after pulse, more than you thought possible. It spilled out around his cock, dripping down your crack onto the desk.

He stayed buried deep, grinding lazily as the last spurts faded, milking every drop into you. When he finally pulled out, a obscene gush followed, white and creamy, leaking from your wrecked hole.

Alejo stared down at the mess he’d made, thumbing some of it back inside you possessively. “Look at that,” he murmured, voice wrecked. “My heavy load. All yours.”

You lay there panting, boneless, cum cooling on your skin and leaking steadily onto company property. Alejo leaned down and kissed you slow and filthy, tasting himself on your tongue somehow.

“Clean up the desk,” he said against your lips, smirking. “Then come to my office. I’m not done with you yet. We’ve got all night.”

You smiled, dazed and dripping. “Yes, sir.”

Plot: On your 21st birthday you visit a male strip club with your friends. A dancer named Cade gives you a private performance with a big surprise that would change you forever.

Warnings: smut, begging, pain and pleasure, oral, penetration.

Word Count: 1.86k

You had recently turned 21 and for your birthday you wanted to go to a male strip club. On a Saturday night you and your friends make your way to a new club in downtown manhattan called “Gentlemen’s” where your pleasure is their number 1 priority. At least that was what they were saying on the flyers.

You enter the club blinded by bright neon lights and loud dance music. After a few seconds you begin to gain clear vision and see male strippers dancing on stage in nothing but tight underwear’s and shoes.

You couldn’t help but to be draw to every man on stage because they were all perfect. Before you could fully process your feelings your friend Jenna pulls you aside to whisper in your ears. “I got you a private show with a dancer for an hour if you want it. Just pick any guy in here and they will lead you to the private area.”

Despite it begin your first time at a strip club you did’t know how to feel about having your own private show, but it was your birthday and you didn’t pay for it so you might as well just cave in.

You awkwardly say thanks to Jenna and immediately start scanning the crowd for your performer. Every man was so delicious but you couldn’t pick just one until you saw him.

One of the dancers was sitting at the bar with a drink seductively staring you down while bitting his lip. “Him” you say as you lock eyes with him. Caught in your trance Jenna grabs your arm and walks you over to him.

“Hey Sexy, this is my friend Y/N. Here is 500 dollars for an hour. Make him happy” Jenna leaves with a huge grin on her face. “Y/n that’s a beautiful name. Almost as beautiful as you.” The dancers deep voice sends shivers down your spine causing your breathing to pick up.

The dancer grins and leads you to a private room where he forcefully throws you on the couch. The dancers deep voice gets to work and slowly dances in front of you with his towel wrapped around his waist. “What’s your name” you didn’t know why but you felt inclined to ask. “I have many names. Some call me daddy, some call me papi, some call me handsome. But here they call me 9 inch, but for you…you can call me Cade”.

You didn’t know what it was about him but every time he spoke it always felt like he was trying to seduce you. “9 inch?…Why do they call you that?” You say with curious, not connecting the dots at all. “You’ll see…if you’re lucky.” Cade says as he sways from side to side.

For the next 15 minutes Cade continued to dance. His abs and pecs were oiled to the gods which enhanced every moment that he did visually. You couldn’t help but to get hard at the sight. Cade begins to starts slowly grinding on you as you are laying back on the couch. You tried to protest but it was no use as Cade’s weight strapped you down and you were silenced by his finger on your lips.

“Sh. Remember your pleasure is my number 1 priority. I can feel your manhood growing back there. Seems like I am doing my job right.” Cade couldn’t help but to laugh even though you were slightly embarrassed. “You know for an extra 500 dollars I can make him go down, hands free.” Cade winked at you as he begin to slowly grind on your through your jeans and his towel.

You knew he was trying to get over on you but you were caught up. “Do you take Apple Pay” you asked nervously but little did you know he had a machine ready, almost like he knew you were going to want this.

You pay the 500 dollars and Cade starts standing up and dropped the towel that was hugged around his waist to reveal 9 inches of meat between his legs. You were in shock, you didn’t even know if this was legal but you didn’t care.

You were impressed by his length and girth because you had never seen a dick so big before. You stare at it in awe until Cade speaks to you. “So what are you gonna do with it superstar. We got 40 minutes.” He moves closer to you as his dick gets closer to your face.

You grab his member to feel and feel his dick pulse in your hand. Your mouth begins to water as you try to line his member up with your mouth. You were left in shock that you couldn’t do anything but hover your breath on his dick.

Cade smiles at you lost at his dick. “Now you see why they call me 9 inch”. You try to laugh at his little joke but Cade takes control and forces his dick into your mouth by grabbing your head and bring it to his dick.

“Ah shit. Your mouth feels so good” Cade says as you pull away from throating his 9 inch. “Fuck man, that dick is so fucking big bro” you say as you try to catch your breath.

Slowly you insert his dick back into your mouth. His dick fills every inch of your mouth, you slobber on his dick with spit and precum oozing out of your mouth and onto the floor.

“Come on, time to release this big boy.” Cade moves to your pants and unbuckles them and takes them off of you. You loved how dominant he was to you but couldn’t help how wrong yet right it felt.

Cade pulls your head and forcefully puts his member down your throat again and is drilling your throat at a faster pace then before. ‘Take it all for daddy. Swallow that big ass dick bro.”

Cade’s dirty talk turns you on as the tears from your eyes began to water from choking on him. “Tell me. Do you want this dick in your hole?” Cade commands you to answer him.

You moan “yes” on his dick even though you didn’t know how he was gonna fit in you when you could barely throat him. With one wet pop Cade releases you from his dick. You lean back to catch your breath and to process what just happened.

You couldn’t believe you had 9 inches of a macho men in your mouth and soon in your hole. He gives you a minute to breathe and you couldn’t do anything but observe his sculpted body.

His chiseled abs made your heart race, his muscles caused you to blush and his dick..his dick satisfied your every desire. Cade tells you to get on all fours and you obliged.

Your hole began to spread as you arch for Cade. “Fuck that hole so pretty baby” Cade admires your pink hole right before he dives head first in your ass.

His tongue invaded your small tight hole and you moaned for pleasure. You couldn’t believe that a man that was as beautiful as him was smothered between your cheeks.

His deep groans and moans light a fire inside you that you didn’t want put out. Your horniness overtakes you and you push Cade’s head further into your ass.

“Fuck baby that’s the shit I like” Cade says as he tries to talk in between his munching. Cade slaps your ass to tease you.

All you could hear was the munching of him against your flesh. Cade spits in your hole and watched the trail slide down from your hole all the way to your balls. Cade takes the opportunity to dive back into your hole and while massaging your balls.

You roll your eyes in pleasure, you never had a guy do this to you before and you loved it. “Let me squeeze them big ass balls baby. Release that nut” Cade dirty talk drives you crazy as he is tongue deep in you.

Cade makes his way down to your balls and sucks on them from the back. Your testicles goes weak as well as your whole body, you were completely his and he could do anything he wanted now on.

You start to feel weight along your hole and you turn around to see Cade taping his 9 inch cock on your hole. You couldn’t lie you were nervous to see if you really could take all of him. But his dick was so big and juicy all your nervousness went out the window.

Slowly Cade slides in you. Every inch that goes in you, you get louder with your moans. ‘Shh baby. I know it hurts but we can’t get caught. I just wanna please you.” Cade rubs your back to calm you.

You take a deep breath as he slides the rest of his length in. The girth brings you to the edge of tears but you power through. Yo grip onto the couch as Cade pounds into you slowly.

You loved hearing the popping sound of your hole releasing from his dick, which made your mouth water. Cade makes your hole talk, making squishy sounds which turned him on. ‘Fuck baby. That pussy’s talking to me”.

After a while of Cade slowly pumping into you, you look back at him and say “fuck me harder”. Cade gives you a devious grin as the words escape from your mouth. In an instant Cade covers your mouth and you could only anticipate what was about to come.

Quickly Cade pumps in and out of you. Making your hole burn from pain yet tingle from the pleasure his cock was giving you. Even though you were a few seconds in you were already begging for a release. “No. You wanted this. You wanted Daddy to fuck you hard like the little slut you are”. Cade whispers in your ear as he pins your hands to your back with one hand.

“Don’t stop Daddy. Make me your little bitch.” You say completely surrendering to Cade. He puts his fingers down your throat and watches you gag on him.

The gagging caused your hole to suck Cade’s dick deeper into you which you didn’t even know was possible. Every time Cade pulls out from you, your hole refused to let go.

Your hole would grab onto Cade’s dick and sucking him back in like a vacuum. In an instant you felt Cade’s warm liquid inject into your hole. As well as your cum squirting from your penis.

You lay on the couch with Cade still inside you, begging for him to not release himself from you. “That was fucking amazing” you say as you try to catch your breath

You couldn’t believe that you got fucked by a handsome big dick stud like Cade but you knew you didn’t regret it.

Plot: You wake up to the smell of breakfast, walk into the kitchen, find your shirtless boyfriend Ethan Dolan cooking in low sweatpants, drop to your knees, and suck his cock while he tries to keep cooking—until he caves, grips your hair, fucks your throat hard, and cums deep in your mouth; he then kisses you slow and filthy, tasting himself on your tongue, before you head to work with his load still warm in your belly and the promise of more when you get home.

Warnings: smut, oral

Word Count: 1.8k

Morning

The aroma of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee pulls you from the haze of sleep, your bare feet padding softly across the cool hardwood floor of the apartment. You’d crashed hard last night after a long shift, Ethan’s warm body curled around yours like always, but now the morning light filters through the half-open blinds and you’re drawn toward the kitchen by the low hum of his favorite playlist and the clatter of pans.

You round the corner and stop dead. There he is—Ethan Dolan, your boyfriend of two years, shirtless in nothing but gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. The waistband sits just beneath the sharp V of his obliques, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the fabric like an invitation. His back is to you, broad shoulders flexing as he flips an omelet with one hand, the other stirring something in a skillet. Sunlight catches on the smooth planes of his skin, highlighting the faint freckles across his shoulder blades and the way his biceps bunch every time he moves. His hair is still sleep-mussed, dark curls sticking up in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your stomach flip.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. You lean against the doorframe, letting your gaze drag down the length of him. Those sweatpants do nothing to hide the outline of his cock, soft but heavy against his thigh, the fabric already tenting slightly from the warmth of the stove. Your mouth waters. You’ve been craving him since you woke up hard and aching, and the sight of Ethan cooking breakfast like the domestic god he is—shirtless, confident, completely in his element—ignites something filthy in your chest.

“Morning, baby,” you murmur, voice still rough with sleep.

Ethan glances over his shoulder, that crooked Dolan grin flashing across his face. “Hey, sleepyhead. Figured I’d let you rest. Got your favorite—bacon extra crispy, omelet with spinach and feta.” His eyes flick down your body, taking in your own loose sleep shorts and the obvious bulge tenting them. “You look like you’re ready for round two already.”

You don’t answer with words. Instead you push off the doorframe and cross the small kitchen in three strides, dropping to your knees right behind him. The tile is cool against your skin, but the heat radiating from his body more than makes up for it. Your hands slide up the backs of his thighs, thumbs hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and tugging them down just enough to free his cock. It bounces out, already thickening at the sudden exposure, the heavy weight of it slapping against his thigh before you wrap your fingers around the base.

“Fuck, babe—” Ethan’s voice cracks, but he doesn’t stop cooking. The spatula keeps moving, flipping the omelet with practiced ease. “I’m literally in the middle of breakfast. You’re gonna burn the bacon if you—”

You cut him off by leaning forward and dragging your tongue up the underside of his shaft in one slow, wet stripe. His cock twitches hard in your grip, the head already glistening with a bead of precum. You taste salt and skin and the faint trace of last night’s shower gel, and it makes your own dick throb against the front of your shorts. You swirl your tongue around the tip, teasing the slit, before sucking just the head into your mouth with a soft, obscene pop.

Ethan’s hips jerk forward involuntarily, but he catches himself. “Shit. Okay. You’re really doing this right now.” His voice is strained, trying for casual, but you hear the way it drops an octave. “Fine. I can multitask. Just… don’t make me drop the pan.”

You hum around him in answer, the vibration pulling a low groan from his chest. You take him deeper, inch by inch, until your nose brushes the soft patch of hair at the base and his cockhead nudges the back of your throat. The stretch is perfect—thick and hot and so fucking Ethan. You hollow your cheeks and start to bob, slow and deliberate, while your hands grip his hips to keep him steady. The sounds of the kitchen fill the space around you: the sizzle of bacon, the gentle scrape of the spatula, the low beat of the playlist. But underneath it all is the wet, filthy glide of your mouth on his cock.

Ethan keeps cooking. Or tries to. You feel the subtle tremor in his thighs as he shifts his weight, one hand still flipping eggs while the other white-knuckles the counter edge. “You’re such a fucking tease,” he mutters, voice tight. “I’m trying to feed you and you’re down there choking on my dick like it’s your goddamn breakfast.” He laughs, but it’s breathy, breaking on the last word when you swallow around him. “Jesus, your throat’s so tight.”

You pull back just enough to swirl your tongue over the head again, tasting more precum, before diving back down. Your hands slide around to cup his ass, fingers digging into the firm muscle as you urge him to rock forward. He resists at first—still playing it cool, still pretending he’s in control—but you feel the exact moment he caves. His free hand leaves the counter and threads into your hair, not pushing yet, just holding. His hips start to move in shallow thrusts, matching the rhythm of your mouth.

“Fuck it,” he growls suddenly, voice dropping that last pretense of nonchalance. The spatula clatters against the pan as he sets it down, both hands now fisting your hair. “You want it? Fine. Take it.”

And then he really starts fucking your throat.

The first deep thrust punches the air from your lungs, his cock sliding all the way in until your nose is pressed flush against his pelvis. You gag around him—loud, messy, spit dripping down your chin—but you don’t pull away. You relax your throat and let him use you, eyes watering as he sets a brutal pace. The kitchen fills with the wet, rhythmic sounds of him pounding into your mouth, the slap of his hips against your face mixing with the hiss of the stove. Bacon pops in the background, but neither of you cares anymore.

“God, look at you,” Ethan pants, voice wrecked. He glances down, eyes dark and blown wide. “On your knees in the kitchen, letting me fuck your face while I’m supposed to be making breakfast. Such a perfect little cockslut for me.” His thrusts turn sharper, deeper, the head of his cock bullying the back of your throat with every snap of his hips. “You’re gonna make me come so fucking hard.”

You moan around him, the sound vibrating straight through his shaft. One hand drops to palm yourself through your shorts, desperate for friction, while the other reaches up to roll his balls gently. Ethan’s head falls back, a broken groan tearing out of him. His pace stutters—short, frantic thrusts now—and you know he’s close.

“Fuck—baby—gonna come,” he warns, voice raw. “Right down your throat. You’re gonna swallow every drop while I finish these eggs, yeah?”

You nod as best you can with his cock stuffed in your mouth, humming encouragement. That’s all it takes. Ethan slams in one last time, holding you there as his cock pulses hard. Thick ropes of cum flood your mouth, hot and salty, and you swallow greedily around him, milking every spurt until he’s shuddering and gasping your name like a prayer.

He stays buried deep for a long moment, hips twitching with aftershocks, before slowly pulling out. A string of spit and cum connects your swollen lips to his softening cock before it breaks. You sit back on your heels, breathing hard, lips shiny and wrecked, and look up at him with a smug little grin.

Ethan stares down at you, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his abs. Then he laughs—low, fond, a little dazed—and reaches down to cup your jaw. “You’re impossible,” he murmurs, thumb brushing cum from the corner of your mouth and pushing it back between your lips. You suck it clean without thinking, and his eyes darken again. “Fuck. We’re gonna be late if you keep that up.”

He turns back to the stove like nothing happened, though his hands are still shaking slightly as he plates the omelet and bacon. You push to your feet, legs wobbly, and press against his back, arms looping around his waist. Your hard cock nudges his ass through your shorts, but you don’t push for more. Not yet. You’ve got work in forty minutes and he knows it.

Ethan twists just enough to kiss you—slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue. “Mmm. Tastes like breakfast,” he teases against your mouth, nipping your bottom lip. “Go get dressed, baby. I’ll pack you a plate for the train.”

You linger for another kiss, then another, because you can’t help it. His hands slide down to squeeze your ass, pulling you closer even as he laughs softly. “Seriously. Work. Go. I’ll be here when you get home, and I promise I won’t be wearing a shirt then either.”

Reluctantly you pull away, stealing one last glance at his flushed cheeks and the way his sweatpants are still shoved halfway down his thighs, cock glistening with your spit. You head back to the bedroom on unsteady legs, the taste of him still thick on your tongue, the ache in your throat a delicious reminder.

By the time you’re showered and dressed—button-down shirt tucked into slacks, tie knotted loose—Ethan’s waiting in the doorway with a travel container of breakfast and a fresh mug of coffee. He’s pulled his sweatpants back up, but the outline of his cock is still visible, half-hard again like he’s already thinking about tonight. He crowds you against the wall for one last kiss, slow and filthy, tongue sliding against yours like he’s chasing the taste of his own cum.

“Text me when you get to the office,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours. “And maybe send me a picture of how red your lips still are. I wanna think about them wrapped around me all day.”

You laugh, breathless, and steal the coffee from his hand. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Dolan.”

“Worth it,” he says, grinning that same crooked smile from earlier. He smacks your ass as you head for the door. “Love you. Go make that money so I can keep cooking for you naked.”

You step out into the hallway, the weight of his cum still warm in your belly, the memory of his cock stretching your throat making every step feel electric. Work is going to be torture today, but you already know exactly what you’re coming home to: Ethan, shirtless again, waiting to bend you over the counter and finish what you started.