Tanae-24-She/They On A Break

He can't help himself and he doesn't want to fuck things up. Sundays with you feel like the promise of something real, something mundane and stable. So, every time he finds himself gliding through your pulsing heat he wishes for more than whatever a sistuationship is supposed to entail. The crack of his hips pulls a chorus of sounds that make him swear that some kind all powerful being has to exist. There's no way one doesn't when you can't help but make him want nothing more that to spend the rest of his life right here between your thighs. He grabs your love handles and the soft skin against his calloused hand reminds him that he can’t stay, no commitment he remembers. So, he fucks into you harder, and mutters "You take me so good baby. Cum for me? I know you've got one more in you yeah?" One turns into two, two into three and next thing you both know its early into Monday morning and you're too tired to do anything else but sleep at that point, exhausted and fucked out of your mind-

"-you good?" He notices you sleepily recounting last night as he gets out of the shower. He looks at you with concern, typically hardened eyes soft, just for you and for a moment you both catch yourself feeling way more emotions than you should be feeling for a situationship.... perhaps those feelings showed up a long time ago.

“too many people,” he grumbled into that warm twill of skin beneath your neck the night before — that area that smells most like you, unrefined of perfume and lotions scented of gilded iris and praline amber, but just you. “fuck no.”

you had given him a short whine and clutched tighter onto the index finger of his hand that laid directly upon the area of your womb with a small fist, “they’re decorating you though — you’re gettin’ three medals koo’, y’gotta go.”

fuck the medals. ornate and encrusted with gold and silver, admired and respected for shoving a bk-1 claymore into the sweat ridden flesh of another soldier or bulling the barrel of 98k sniper rifle past their teeth until the slimy pads of their tongues got corded inside of the cable of their throat — könig likes to watch that split second of panic fill their eyes, gives him an refreshing kick of adrenaline, before his index finger is pulling back the trigger and making brains splatter against the canvas of a wall . . . a picasso of red and pink, no, a könig. made uniquely by him, for him, not anyone else.

getting a medal for doing so, sure, he’ll take it, however, not in front of six hundred people. ridiculous.

but, he’s forced to — by you and the general.

he’s forced to stand beside you and hear the incredulous whispers of his colleagues’ wives and friends ask if ‘that’s him?’ ‘is that really him?’

“he’s the one that . . — oh, oh wow.”

“jesus f. christ, why does he look like that?”

“you don’t talk to him, honey, right? do you?”

then there’s you. sweet, precious you. you remain a step ahead of him at all times, his own, select, darling bodyguard. your head reaches his mid torso, the difference span of his fingers against yours racks up to about three inches, and you’d probably tip over with the weight of it if he were to let you hold one of his guns but, you’re cute. you squeal and clap, bouncing on the tip of your toes after his medals are collected, outstretching your arms for him until he’s there, blanketed, within your embrace.

you give him a small kiss, a treasured one, over the fabric of his veil and murmur that you’re proud of him, you’re happy for him. and really, fuck the medals, they don’t compare to you. not by a long shot.

könig’s ready to go, and you see no point in staying after he’s gotten his praise, nevertheless, you’re stopped right before exiting through the doors.

by some fucking . . rookie — his name is something stupid. lars . . . lester . . laird. könig recognizes him sometimes on the field. he’s not bad, but he’s not good neither. the greens of his eyes twinkle when he looks at you. he congratulates könig, compliments his work, says something fairly funny because you give a giggle. könig notices it, but he doesn’t think you do, laird seems to like that — your laugh, that is. because he quips something else and you giggle a little louder, give that precious snort near the tail of it. shrewdness frays the edges of his smile . . it begins to teeter the blurred line of flirtation and könig feels the familiar skip of his heart. it starts to hammer against the cage of his ribs, sends his mouth dampening with an influx of saliva.

“—but i’m sure you’re used to it right? colonel here always gone, gets lonely, no?”

his inquiry makes you give a small hum. you genuinely seem to think about it. “sometimes. but i know he’ll always be right back,” you lean back into him after answering. könig’s a pillar — a man carven of stone. to establish a boundary, a strong arm circles around your hip . . his forearm rests within the sink of your waist, drawing attention to the flowing silk of your evening gown. it’s pink and flowing with a thigh high slit and cowl neck. könig waits . . and he waits, until he sees it — the flicker.

with the weight of his arm, your dress obeys the laws of gravity and the neckline dips a little lower, flaunting off the crease that splits your plump tits into two.

laird asks another question and waits until you hum again and lift your eyes up towards the ceiling to ponder an answer before his own gale down to take a small peek.

könig thanks him — truly, he does. he gives him a reason to draw both his arms back. his left, the one holding you rotates behind himself so that you’re shielded behind the great expanse of his shoulders and to protect you from the few feeble splatters of blood that shoot out into the air and onto könig’s cloak after his right arm ricochets back forward with enough strength to rival a bullet bouncing off of steel. the sound of knuckles colliding with a nose bridge is loud — soft music is screeched to a halt, the entire venue goes silent.

with a quiet spout, “dummer hurensohn,” könig takes hold of your hand and steps from over laird’s unconscious body, uncaring if a heavy boot knocks against the side of his head as he does so. your heels quickly pitpat after his strides, and weirdly, you’re quiet. you remain silent on the drive home, when you both step over the threshold, when you shower together, and as könig rubs an exfoliating sponge across the scope of your body. you don’t speak and könig doesn’t make you. he lowers himself up then down on the pull-up bar, muttering his count with each one. he sees you, seated upon your shared bed, both legs laid down and folded at the knee, soles of your feet pressed up against one another. you thumb with the dangling chain of your gold anklet, twirling it around and ‘round your little finger, prior to letting it go for just a second, then doing it again.

he keeps staring at you — your face is blank, eyes dim, muscles relaxed.

then the plump cushion of your bottom lip starts to billow.

“awh, no, no, no.”

it’s a demand.

mightily, he falls down onto his feet and is at the bed in two long strides. you’re still pouting when he leans down, swoops a sturdy arm underneath the bend of your knees and at your lower back. he takes a seat, you upon his lap, and like a babe, he holds you so, “no pouting. kein schmollen.” he touches it, with one large, scarred finger — delicately presses upon your lip, as if it were a peds candy dispenser, capable of slotting back to its normal shape.

“you shouldn’t have hit him, könig.”

“i did what needed to be done.”

“he’s probably dead.”

behind a hood of ink, eyes of blue waves glimmer with relish — akin to the golden rays of the sun against the foamy brine. “mm.” he says nothing more.

you huff and straighten yourself out until you’re seated upright, facing him and legs spread around his hips. “this is serious. what if you get fired?”

there it is — a smile. a big one. it creases the corner of his eyes. he stares at you as if you were but a wiseacre child, thinking you know everything. “not going to happen, kleine.”

“mm.” it’s your turn now. you look away from him, still frowning, still pouty.

könig doesn’t understand. why are you upset? his mouth twists in a firm scowl, “. . . looked at your tits. stupid fucker — i’d do it again,” he bites out.

“hittin’ him doesn’t make it right.”

“don’t care.” huffing, he looks down at your breasts himself. yeah, he can see why laird gravitated towards you. they’re pretty . . sit nice and full, even with no support. you wear just a camisole and shorts to bed tonight, both are textured with some sort of scallop fabric, and laced with pink along the edges with a bow threaded snug in the middle of the top trim. könig palms one and you give a small inquiring croon. when he starts to roll it within his heavy paw is when you go to smack his hand away. “no,” you grumble.

“ ‘s my tits,” he grouches in reply, lifting his hood a few inches above his lips. lowering his head, he then begins to suckle a line of wet, tongue filled kisses along the globes of them. “not yours, neither.”

“y’so,” your back curves in and you grasp for balance with your hands on his knees when he sharply tugs your camisole down so that they spill from over it and into his awaiting mouth and hands. “so mean, koo’.”

“es ist mir egal.” i don’t care.

he doesn’t get you. you’re nice, too fucking nice. you confuse him, bewitch him, mystify him, entrap him in your hold, your smile, your voice, your touch. he engulfs his mouth around your nipple — nearly devours your entire tit. it’s as though he’s trying to swallow you whole, you wouldn’t doubt that he is. you mewl as he frees it from his lips with a slick pop. he doesn’t even swallow his tongue back inside of his mouth, like a weir, saliva drips from the tip of it as he pants and hauls it over to your other breast to lave it across the opposite nipple. it’s soft, puffy . . cute. “mm,” you sigh and with a hand, coast it underneath his hood, scratching your nails across the short strands of hair near the nape of his neck. “b-be . . more . . nice.”

again, he pops off to murmur one word — a gruff “no.”

the fucking nerve of that guy. the nerve of you. there isn’t a person you belong to on this earth that isn’t solely him. könig’s put a lot of work into this, a lot of long nights and even longer days, trying to better the more worse parts of himself, all in efforts to have you. he’ll be damned if some rookie, some fucktwat of an amateur attempts to come in and mess it all up — innocent flirting or not. “my tits,” he shifts, turns on his side, lets you fall back against the bed with him atop of you. “my ass. my pussy. all of you, mine.”

his fingers find the crotch of your shorts. he slips them underneath the fabric at your mound until it squidges into a slim line and fits between the fat, pudgy lips of your cunt. your gasp is quiet, reflexes forces you to lift your legs up and hold them at the knees. “mmm,” he grunts at the sight and with his opposite index finger, stokes it quickly from left to right across the chubby skin of them, watching how your pussy jiggles and quivers. “pudgy. fett.” fat.

warmth whelms the surface of your cheeks, “you’re gross,” you whimper.

he knows.

decent, refined men don’t smack pussy just to watch it bounce off of their palm. they don’t lean their head down and make out with a clothed clit, suckle and nibble on labias until they’re a second away from nutting in their sleep bottoms. you’re a whiny thing — hiccuping and whimpering, pulling at his hood until it goes askew. it’s always sudden . . . you never know when he’s going to take it off because könig doesn’t ever know himself. he realizes that he needs to tonight though, if he wants to eat you out the way he wants to, fuck you the way he wants to, he needs all obscurities out of the way.

it’s torn off and tossed upon the lamp on the nightstand.

he hears you give a little coo of happiness. you’re tugging on him harder now, wrapping your legs around his neck, curling your pretty toes against his shoulders. “greedy thing,” a finger probes against the hole of your cunt through the fabric of these tiny, little sleep shorts. “feels good?” he drags it up to your clit then back down, pressure firm.

you inhale, eyes closed, palms weakly cupping your tits, “mhm.”

you’re so sweet. you’re so good. you need a man like him by your side . . someone a little bit more mean, more rough and vile. balances out, no? that’s how it goes. opposites attract and what not. könig knows he needs you, too.

when you relax again, he takes that split chance to pop another firm smack against your pussy, knocking you out of that space of contentment. you wince and give another sweet whine and really, okay, he’ll stop. tugs your shorts to the side, slips his tongue right where you need him most. he swallows the horribly sweet sap of your love within the back of his throat — fucks his tongue sloppily inside that little hole, splits it open, forces it to gape and take, take, take. the bulbous knob of his crooked nose knocks against your clit as he does, he makes sure to sway his head from side to side occasionally, nuzzles, makes sure she gets some well needed attention, too.

“o-oh,” your voice is stuck in your throat. you keep trying to speak but they sound like little squeals. “oh g— . . oh god.”

“mm ,” he coarsly murmurs. “süsse muschi . . rub it, princess. rub it on m’tongue.”

you know what he wants you to do. you’ve both done this before.

your legs fall, feet planted flat against the bed, and you rise to your toes and lift your hips when he elevates his head an inch then keeps it still. könig lets you do the work, makes you stroke your pussy across the open plane of his wide, long tongue, up and down. already so delirious — your mouth is brimmed with drool, eyes closed, you work shyly at first . . slow and careful, “h-hah,” you breathe, quiet and tender. “daddy . . mm, d-daddy.”

when he closes his mouth to swallow, he lets his lips enclose around your clit, nice and tight. “mmmm,” you whimper and push yourself faster, holding onto his hands that he gives for stability. “d-don’ stop . . koo, don’stop.”

“i won’t,” he breathes. he needs your cum on his tongue just as bad as you want to give it. with an extended opened mouth comes an immoderate amount of drool — it dribbles off of it, makes your pussy that much more of a mess, the sounds are disgusting. wet and slick, slimy and thick. “mmph . . fühlt sich gut . . . no? pussy’s crying,” the volume of his voice is but a mere rumble, he’s cautious of you, doesn’t want to fuck up your pace too much. “needs cock in her.”

your tummy trembles. your nails, layered with smooth acrylic, long, and sharp, burrow inside the stoutness of his flesh and soon, you’re cumming — thighs quivering and pussy creaming onto the welcoming mat of his tongue. he groans, you sob. “yeah, good girl,” fiercely, he swallows it, licks into you for more, similar to the way a person would bury their tongue inside of a canister for more meringue. “good girl, good girl.”

you fall flat onto your back and he’s on you without another second lost. sweat shorts are kicked down strong thighs and soon his hands are parting your legs wide enough to accommodate his stature. “ptuh.” you watch him spit . . marvel the mostly healed scar that runs about four inches diagonally across the thin skin of his lips flex as he does so. he polishes it across the thick, long column of his cock, smooths the pre cum down, cups his balls, “mm, keep still.”

one of your legs is thrown across the ridge of könig’s shoulders, the other remains pinned to the mattress. you watch as he strokes his cock between your lips, dowsing it with his saliva and your cream. “filthy, lil’ pussy . . cock hungry, isn’t she?”

you react to his words — clench and another ripple of slick blesses the tip of his cock. at his responding chortle, you cover your face and shake your head, “könig.”

“ja, ja . . i know. papa knows.”

when he first pushes into you, you groan and turn your face away to pull the fabric of the comforter between your teeth. big. so big. too big. his face dips in low in order to bury it against your neck and in him doing so, he effectively bends your leg back further against your shoulder — god, it burns. he doesn’t stop. he sheaths himself in, nice and deep . . basking in warm, gummy tightness. he feels at home. “oh f-fuck,” you sound about two seconds away from crying, soft, sweet voice thin and warbled. “ungh.” he suddenly slams in the last inch, lets his fat, woolly balls plop against your winking hole, indulges in the pulsing rigged cordage of your insides. “god, yes. fuck, yes,” he rolls his hips, nice and slow and this is where you melt and finally give in. “yes, yes, yes.” könig saves lovemaking for special occasions. anniversaries, your birthday . . veterans day.

he can never help his instincts — the ones that demand him to fuck and fuck and breed. with his weight, he keeps you still after his hips pick up an immediate, smooth, quick momentum.

god it’s so good. you feel so good.

his balls plap against the soft skin of your ass and he keeps you still with only a hand. he’s so big, in every sense of the word.

“f-fuck,” you sob, arm thrown across the back of his neck, face buried in the crook of it. “deep . . daddy— . . shit, awe.”

könig thinks of how pretty you are. how sweet you are, how kind, and precious and dear. he thinks of the looks you’re prone to receiving each time you step out of the house, how much you love him. “like that, eh?” he asks quietly, reaching a hand down and away to let it firmly fall back onto your ass. he smacks it again and again. “feels good for m’kleine, mm?”

your toes crack when they curl, it nearly hurts. “y-yeah,” you squeak beneath shallow breaths. “k-könig, please.” you don’t know what exactly you’re pleading for — him to slow down? no, you’re already on the brink of something phenomenal. you need him closer, you think. he’s already as close as can be, both your sets of tits pressed up against one another but, you need him even closer. you squeeze him tighter.

“muschi’s . . sloppy,” he huffs a heavy breath. “hear her? — n-nice an’ wet. ekelhaft.” disgusting.

the headboard pounds ceaselessly against the wall. you lift your hips, beginning to meet him halfway, making your pussy swallow him to the base. könig groans out a loud sound — similar to a snarl. “yes, yes, yes — good, little fuckin’ pussy . .”

the both of you feel you creaming — making a hell of a mess. it smears across the front of his balls, drips down the puckered button of your ass.

his breath is against your ear and yours against his. you whimper and cry and squeak. he pants and huffs and groans. the air seems vapid. you can’t suck in enough, even though you try your hardest.

his cock is fat, your pussy lips are fatter. they split far apart to take all that he provides and it leaves open access to the throbbing, wet nub of your clit which the thick patch of his pubes stroke against. “good girl,” he groans. “good, little girl — mm, jus’ give it . . give papa yr’cum. make me a mess.”

your eyes lift on their own accord — they lift and then they cycle back inside of your skull when you feel the fat mushroomy tip of his dick kiss the sensitive ridge of your cervix . . once, twice, thrice. “uungh god,” you breathe. you’re completely out of it, voice gone, brain empty, breath lost. he adores you like this and you know it. there isn’t another reason that’d make sense as to why he’d be fucking you this way. “m gonna . . d-daddy, ‘m gonna cum,” you sound scared almost, as though you’re fearful of it. so, könig kicks it into high gear — maintains his pace though implements a pivot of his hips with each stroke in to caress his cock across that tender of nerves angled near the roof of your squelching cunt.

that’s enough for your legs to seize, for your back to arch, arms squeeze that much tighter around him. forthwith, his cock is forcibly pushed out of your cunt with a lewd ‘pop!’ as a vulgar scene of liquid is gushed from out of your gaping, little hole. “aaaahh.” he drags it out through a low chuckle and taps his tip within the mess, willing more of it out. “mm, there it is. there we fuckin’ go.” he’s pushing himself back in before it completely diminishes — fucks you with more vigor, more strength. you’re so sensitive. tremble all over, bite onto your own fingers to muffle your squeals and blubbering of overstimulation.

“ja,” he heaves. “ready for it? . . gonna . . j-ja, fuck.”

with firm circles of his hips, könig presses himself up flushed against you, soon allowing his cock to erupt eight, long jets of cum deep inside your womb. “hng . . . mein gott.” my god. his dick swells with the influx of it, balls jump in time with each one that gets released and buried inside the warm depths that is you. and he doesn’t even stop there — continues to slowly sway his hips back and forth, as if he were trying to work it in deep, make sure it sticks. you feel the product of his love, of his adoration, and care, and sweetness. it’s thick and hot, white and runny . . dribbles out of your battered pussy when he pulls out with enough slowness to rival molasses off a spoon — seems like it hadn’t wanted to leave. he kisses you and you kiss him back, weak though enthusiastic. you feel how tight he holds you and he doesn’t have to say it because you know it regardless. mine.