WatchingLee2

Male Reads

Plot: In a deserted late-night gym locker room, the muscular and confident Connor Storrie seduces you with teasing words and touches, leading to a hot, drawn-out encounter where you eagerly suck his thick cock on the bench.

Warnings: oral

Word Count: 2.41k

Locker Room

Locker Room

The gym smelled like sweat, metal, and that sharp citrus cleaner they sprayed on the benches every hour. It was late—past ten on a Thursday night—and the place had emptied out except for the die-hards who treated the weights like religion. You were one of them tonight, shoulders burning from deadlifts, legs heavy, lungs still working to catch up. The locker room was quiet when you pushed through the swinging door, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like tired insects.

Connor Storrie was already there.

He stood at the far end of the row of lockers, back to you, peeling off a black compression shirt that clung to his damp skin like a second layer. You’d noticed him before—hard not to. Connor was the kind of guy who turned heads without trying: six-three, broad through the shoulders and chest from years of heavy pressing, tapered waist, powerful legs built from squats and sprints that made his quads and hamstrings stand out in sharp relief. His dark hair was buzzed short on the sides, a little longer and messy on top right now from sweat. A thin gold chain rested against the back of his neck, catching the light. Tattoos snaked down his left arm—geometric lines, a roaring lion on his forearm, and something intricate peeking just above his hip.

You tried not to stare. You really did. But your eyes kept drifting as you opened your own locker two rows down, the metallic clang echoing through the empty space.

“Long session tonight?” His voice was low, a little rough around the edges, like he’d been pushing himself hard and his throat was raw from it.

You glanced over. He’d turned slightly, giving you a full view of his chest—defined pecs glistening with a light sheen of sweat, dark nipples tightened from the cool air, a happy trail of dark hair leading down from his navel that disappeared into the waistband of his low-slung shorts. “Yeah,” you said, keeping your tone casual even as your pulse quickened. “Leg day kicked my ass. You?”

“Full body. Trying to hit a new PR on bench. Felt good, but my shoulders are fucked.” He rolled one shoulder slowly, wincing a little, then flashed that grin. It was dangerous—easy, confident, with a hint of something sharper underneath that made your stomach tighten. “You’re here late a lot lately. I’ve seen you around. Always focused, always pushing heavy. Makes a guy take notice.”

You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “Same for you. Guess we’re both night owls chasing the pump when the place clears out.”

Connor chuckled, deep and warm, and turned back to his locker. But not before you caught the way his shorts rode dangerously low on his hips, exposing the top curve of his firm ass and the two dimples at the base of his spine. Your gaze lingered. Heat pooled low in your gut. You focused hard on stripping off your own soaked shirt, tossing it into your bag, pretending your cock wasn’t already starting to stir.

The locker room was completely empty now. Just the two of you and the distant hum of the air conditioning vents.

You heard the soft thud of his shorts hitting the wooden bench. Naked. He was standing there completely naked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Most guys wrapped a towel around themselves immediately, hiding away. Not Connor. He stretched his arms overhead, back arching in a long, languid motion that highlighted every ridge of muscle along his lats and obliques. You couldn’t stop yourself from looking. His cock hung heavy between his thick thighs, thick even when soft, surrounded by neatly trimmed dark hair. It swayed slightly with his movement. Your eyes traced the thick vein running along the top.

When you finally dragged your gaze up, he was watching you in the mirror bolted to the lockers. His expression wasn’t shocked or annoyed. It was knowing. Amused. And unmistakably interested.

“See something you like?” he asked, voice quieter now, almost a murmur that carried across the short distance.

Heat flooded your face. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize.” He turned fully toward you, not bothering to cover himself at all. Droplets of water from the shower he must’ve taken earlier still glistened on his skin, tracing paths down his chest and abs. “I’ve been watching you too, you know. The way you move under the bar. That focused stare. The quiet grunts when you’re grinding out the last rep. Makes a guy curious what else you’re like when you let go.”

You stood there in just your shorts, heart hammering against your ribs. Connor took a slow step closer. Then another. The scent of his body wash—something woody and clean with a hint of musk—hit you, mixing with the raw smell of his exertion.

“I’m Connor,” he said, even though you already knew it from overhearing trainers call out to him.

“I know,” you admitted, voice a little hoarse. “I’m—”

He cut you off gently with a small shake of his head, stepping even closer. “I know your name too.” His eyes dropped deliberately to your chest, tracing the lines of your own hard-earned muscle, then lower to the growing bulge in your shorts, before coming back up to lock with yours. “Been wondering what you sound like when you’re not just grunting through reps. What those lips look like wrapped around something thicker than a water bottle.”

The air between you felt thicker, charged. You could hear your own breathing, shallow now.

Connor stopped less than a foot away. Close enough that you could see the faint scar on his left eyebrow, the way his full lips were slightly parted, the dark hunger in his eyes. “You ever think about this?” he asked, voice dropping lower. “Us. In here. After everyone’s gone. Just the sound of the vents and whatever the fuck we decide to do.”

Your cock twitched hard in your shorts, now fully hard and obvious. There was no hiding it. Connor noticed immediately. He reached out, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted, and brushed his fingers across your sternum, tracing a line down through the drying sweat on your skin. You shivered visibly.

“I’ve thought about it,” you whispered, the honesty surprising even you.

“Good.” His palm flattened against your stomach, feeling the ridges of your abs, then slid lower. “Because I have. A lot. Late at night after seeing you wipe that sweat off your face and look at me like you were starving for something else.”

His touch was light at first, exploratory, learning the map of your body. Then firmer, possessive. He palmed your cock through the thin fabric of your shorts, squeezing with just enough pressure to make you gasp sharply.

“Fuck,” you breathed, hips jerking involuntarily into his hand.

“Yeah?” Connor leaned in, kissing the side of your neck—open-mouthed, hot, his tongue flicking against your racing pulse. “Tell me what you want. Be honest. I want to hear it.”

You hesitated only a second, dizzy with want. “I want to suck you. Right here.”

Connor groaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through you. “Good boy. Knew you’d be like this.”

He guided you down onto the wooden bench between the rows of lockers. The surface was cool against the backs of your thighs. Connor stood in front of you, legs spread slightly for balance, his cock already thickening and rising under your stare. Up close it was even more impressive—long and girthy, heavy veins pulsing along the shaft, the head flushed a deep red and already leaking a shiny bead of pre-cum at the slit.

You reached out with a slightly trembling hand, wrapping your fingers around the base. He was scorching hot, solid, throbbing in your grip. Connor let out a low hiss of pleasure as you stroked him once, twice, feeling him harden to full mast—easily eight inches, thick enough that your fingers didn’t quite meet.

“Look at me,” he ordered softly.

You did. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with lust. One big hand came down to cup the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there with steady pressure. Encouraging. Claiming.

You leaned in and licked the head slowly, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum. Connor’s thighs tensed immediately. You did it again, swirling your tongue around the sensitive crown in lazy circles, then took him into your mouth—shallow at first, just the head, sucking lightly while your hand worked the thick base.

“Shit… that’s it,” he murmured, voice gravelly. “Been thinking about those lips wrapped around my dick since the first time I saw you. You look even better than I imagined.”

The praise sent a bolt of heat straight to your own aching cock. You took him deeper, inch by inch, relaxing your throat until he bumped the back of it. You breathed through your nose and swallowed around him, the tight heat making Connor’s hand tighten in your hair.

“Fuck, you’re good at that. Warm, wet mouth just swallowing me down.”

You started moving—slow, deliberate pulls, your tongue pressing flat along the thick underside where you knew he’d feel it most. Saliva built up quickly and dripped down your chin onto the bench. The locker room filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth working him: slick pops, rhythmic sucking, and Connor’s deepening groans. His hips rocked gently, fucking your mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts. He wasn’t rough, but he was taking what he wanted, using your mouth with confident ease.

You pulled off for a breath, strings of spit connecting your lips to his glistening cock. You stroked him firmly, twisting your wrist at the head, before diving back down—deeper this time, nose brushing against the trimmed hair at his base as you deepthroated him fully.

“Jesus Christ,” Connor growled, head tipping back against the lockers. “You’re a fucking natural. Choking on my cock like you need it.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations traveling up his shaft. Your own cock was leaking steadily, a wet spot growing on the front of your shorts. You wanted to touch yourself but kept your hands on his thighs instead, feeling the powerful muscles flex under your palms.

Connor pulled out suddenly, breathing hard, his chest heaving. His cock bobbed in front of your face, shiny with your spit. “Stand up for a second.”

You rose on shaky legs. He kissed you immediately—deep, hungry, his tongue sliding against yours like he wanted to taste every inch of your mouth. His hands roamed down your back, squeezing your ass cheeks firmly through your shorts before shoving the fabric down roughly. Your cock sprang free, slapping against your stomach, hard and dripping.

“Nice dick,” he said appreciatively, wrapping one big hand around you and stroking lazily, thumb circling the head to spread your pre-cum. “But tonight I want to focus on using that pretty mouth until you’re dripping with me. That okay with you?”

You nodded, dazed and desperate. “Yeah. Please.”

He sat back down on the bench and pulled you between his spread thighs. This time you sank to your knees on the cool tiled floor. The position felt even more submissive, more intimate. Connor leaned back against the lockers, one arm draped casually behind his head like he was relaxing after a hard set, the other hand guiding you back onto his throbbing cock.

You sucked him eagerly now, head bobbing faster, taking him as deep as your throat would allow. You alternated between long, slow strokes that let you savor every inch and quicker, messier bobs that had spit running down your chin and onto his heavy balls. You dipped lower to suck one ball into your mouth, rolling it gently with your tongue while stroking his shaft, then switched to the other.

Connor’s breathing grew ragged. “You’re gonna make me lose it if you keep that up. Fuck, your tongue feels incredible.”

You returned to the head, sucking hard while your hand pumped the base in tight twists. His thighs started trembling around your shoulders. You could feel him getting close, his cock swelling even thicker against your tongue.

“Not yet,” he panted, pulling you off again. He stood up, towering over you, and tapped his wet cock against your lips and cheeks. “Open wide. I want to fuck your face a little.”

You opened obediently. He slid back in, gripping your head with both hands now, and started thrusting—deeper, more insistent, but still controlled. You relaxed your throat and let him use you, eyes watering with the intensity, spit and pre-cum dripping everywhere. The sounds were filthy: gagging, slurping, his low grunts.

“Such a good fucking mouth,” he praised between thrusts. “Taking every inch like you were built for my cock. Anyone could walk in right now and see you on your knees for me.”

The risk sent another thrill through you. Your neglected cock throbbed painfully. Connor noticed and reached down to stroke you roughly while continuing to fuck your mouth. The dual sensation was overwhelming.

Finally, he couldn’t hold back. “Gonna come. You want it down your throat?”

You hummed desperately around him.

“Swallow every fucking drop.”

His hips stuttered. His cock pulsed hard, flooding your mouth with hot, thick ropes of cum. You swallowed convulsively, milking him with your tongue until he was spent and shuddering, a deep groan tearing from his chest.

Connor pulled out slowly, still half-hard, and helped you up. He kissed you again, slower this time, tasting himself on your tongue. Then he spun you around, bending you over the bench, and dropped to his knees behind you.

“My turn to taste you,” he murmured, spreading your cheeks. His tongue licked a broad stripe over your hole, making you moan loudly. He ate you out with the same confident hunger—licking, sucking, tongue-fucking you open while his hand reached around to jerk your aching cock.

It didn’t take long. You came hard with a broken cry, painting the bench and floor beneath you. Connor kept licking you through it, then stood and pulled you back against his chest, both of you breathing heavily.

“Next time,” he whispered against your ear, voice husky, “I’m bending you over this bench properly and fucking you until you can’t walk straight. Sound good?”

You laughed breathlessly, still floating. “Yeah. Next time.”

Thank you for all the support on the stories for the month of May. As we approach June, I have decided to focus on Male stories for some time beginning. This does not mean that stories with female readers will not return they are just on a lil hiatus.

Also for the month of June I’ve decided to highlight different men than our usual roster to keep things fresh and exciting.

Below is the calendar for June.

June 1 - Locker Room (Connor Storrie x Male Reaader)

June 8 - Don’t Make Me Say It Again (Austin Keil x Male Reader)

June 15 - I Gotta Go Daddy (Clark Reid x Male Reader)

June 19 - I Made You (Chris Evan’s x Male Reader)

June 21 - Milk Me (Austin Keil x Male Reader)

June 22 - Between Us (Devin Franco x Male Reader)

June 29 - Tuesday Flex (Cooper Barnes x Male Reader)

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: While waiting for your kids in the pickup line, you and your fiancé Jordan decide to have some backseat fun before the time runs out.

Warnings: smut

Word count: 1.64k

Before Pickup

You shift in the passenger seat of Jordan’s black SUV, the leather warm beneath your thighs from the late-afternoon sun. The pickup line snakes ahead of you for what feels like miles, a slow crawl of minivans and sedans idling under the school’s brick archway. Your two kids—Mia in third grade, Leo in kindergarten—won’t be released for another thirty minutes at least. The digital clock on the dash reads 2:47 p.m. You sigh, fiddling with the hem of your sundress, the thin cotton already sticking to your skin in the humid spring air.

Jordan’s hand slides from the gearshift to your bare knee, fingers calloused and warm. He’s dressed casually—black T-shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, the fabric doing nothing to hide the thick slabs of muscle underneath, the same body you’ve traced with your tongue a thousand times. His gold chain glints at his collar, the small cross pendant resting right where his pecs meet. A faint sheen of sweat already beads along his hairline, his fade haircut crisp, that neatly trimmed goatee framing full lips that are currently curved into a smirk. The tattooed sleeve on his right arm flexes as he squeezes your thigh.

“Baby,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “this line ain’t moving for shit.”

You laugh softly, but the sound catches when his thumb strokes higher, brushing the edge of your dress. “Jordan. We’re literally surrounded by parents.”

“Tinted windows,” he counters, glancing in the rearview mirror. The back seats are empty, the third row folded down for groceries you never got around to putting away. “Nobody can see in. And I’ve been hard since you climbed in wearing that little dress.” His hand drifts higher, fingertips grazing the lace of your panties. “C’mon, fiancée. Let me fuck you right here. Thirty minutes. Plenty of time.”

Your pulse jumps. Heat floods between your legs at the filthy promise in his tone. You’ve done risky shit before—quickies in parking lots, his truck at the beach—but never with the kids’ school twenty yards away. Still, the way he’s looking at you, dark eyes hooded, lower lip caught between his teeth… you’re already wet.

“Jordan—”

He doesn’t wait. He kills the engine, unbuckles, and climbs between the seats with that easy athletic grace, muscles rippling under his shirt. “Backseat. Now.” It’s not a request. You follow, heart hammering, knees sinking into the leather as you tumble after him. The moment you’re both in the back, he yanks the door shut. The world outside disappears behind smoked glass. It’s just the two of you, the faint smell of his cologne—sandalwood and something darker—filling the confined space.

He pulls you onto his lap, your dress riding up around your hips. His mouth crashes into yours, tongue sliding deep, hungry. You moan into the kiss, fingers threading through his short hair. His hands are everywhere—palming your ass, squeezing, then sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin fabric. Your nipples tighten instantly.

“Fuck, you’re so goddamn pretty,” he growls against your lips. He tugs the straps of your dress down, exposing your bra. One quick flick and it’s gone, your tits spilling free. He ducks his head and sucks one nipple into his hot mouth, tongue flicking hard. You arch, grinding down on the thick ridge of his cock straining against his jeans.

“Jordan… we have to be quick—”

“Nah.” He pops off your nipple with a wet sound, eyes gleaming. “We got time. I want you dripping before I even get inside you.” He lifts you just enough to shove your dress to your waist, then hooks two thick fingers into your panties and yanks them aside. The cool air hits your soaked pussy and you shiver. He groans at the sight. “Look at that pretty cunt. Already soaked for me.”

Two fingers plunge inside you without warning. You cry out, clenching around the sudden stretch. He curls them, stroking that perfect spot while his thumb circles your clit. The wet, obscene sounds fill the car—your slick coating his hand, his heavy breathing against your neck. You ride his fingers shamelessly, hips rolling, tits bouncing with every thrust.

“That’s it, baby. Fuck my fingers like you’re gonna fuck my cock.” His voice is gravel. “Gonna fill this tight little pussy right here in the school parking lot. Make you cum so hard you forget your own name.”

You’re close already, thighs trembling. He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, and you shatter—clamping down hard, a sharp cry escaping as your orgasm crashes through you. He keeps pumping, drawing it out until you’re shaking.

Before you can catch your breath, he’s shoving his jeans down. His cock springs free—thick, veined, the head already glistening with pre-cum. The gold chain sways between his pecs as he strokes himself once, twice. You can’t help but stare. Every inch of him is carved muscle: the heavy slabs of his chest dusted with dark hair, the ridged abs glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the deep V of his hips disappearing into the dark trail leading to that gorgeous dick. Tattoos cover his skin—delicate leaves curling over one shoulder, script across his ribs, the bold ink on his arms shifting as he grips your waist.

“Turn around,” he orders. “Hands on the seat.”

You obey, bracing yourself on the back of the front seats, knees spread wide on the leather. He kneels behind you, yanks your panties down to your ankles, and spreads your ass cheeks with both hands. His tongue drags up your pussy in one long, filthy lick. You whimper, pushing back against his face. He eats you like a starving man—sucking your clit, tongue-fucking your hole, groaning into your wetness. Another orgasm builds fast. You’re panting, forehead pressed to the cool leather, when he pulls back and lines up.

The blunt head of his cock nudges your entrance. He doesn’t ease in. He slams home in one brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt. You scream—pleasure and the perfect burn of being stretched so full. He’s so deep your toes curl.

“Fuck, yes,” he hisses, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So goddamn tight. This pussy was made for me.”

He sets a punishing rhythm, hips snapping forward, balls slapping your clit with every stroke. The car rocks slightly. You don’t care. All you feel is the drag of his thick cock inside you, the way he angles to hit that spot that makes stars explode behind your eyes. His chain swings against your back with every thrust, cool metal contrasting the heat of his skin.

“Jordan—oh god—harder—”

He obliges, pounding into you. One hand snakes around to rub your clit in tight circles. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel you squeeze me.”

You do—exploding around him, walls fluttering, milking him as pleasure rips through you. He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, grunting, sweat dripping from his chest onto your back.

He pulls out suddenly, flipping you onto your back on the seat. Your dress is bunched uselessly around your waist, legs spread wide. He hooks one of your knees over his shoulder and slides back in, deeper this time. The new angle makes you sob with pleasure. He leans down, mouth on yours, swallowing every moan while he fucks you slow and dirty.

“Look at me,” he demands. You do—his face flushed, lips parted, eyes locked on yours. “You’re mine. This pussy is mine. Gonna fill it up right here where everybody’s waiting for their kids.”

You claw at his back, nails digging into the hard muscle. His pace picks up again, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing. You cum a third time, thighs shaking violently. He growls, hips stuttering.

“Gonna cum, baby. Gonna pump you so full.”

You lock your ankles behind his back, pulling him deeper. “Do it. Fill me up, Jordan.”

He buries himself to the root and comes with a guttural groan, cock pulsing hot and thick inside you. Rope after rope floods your pussy, so much it leaks out around his shaft. He keeps grinding through it, pushing his cum deeper, until you’re both trembling.

For a long minute you just breathe, foreheads pressed together, his chain cool against your sternum. He kisses you slow and sweet, the opposite of how he just fucked you.

“Thirty minutes,” he murmurs, checking the clock. It’s 3:07. “We still got time.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You’re insatiable.”

He grins, that cocky, golden smile you fell in love with. “Only for you.” He pulls out slowly, watching his cum drip from your swollen pussy. The sight makes him groan again. He reaches into the center console, grabs a handful of napkins, and cleans you both up with surprising gentleness. Then he helps you fix your dress, smoothing the fabric down your thighs while you tug his jeans back up.

You climb back to the front seats just as the line finally starts to move. The bell rings in the distance. Parents begin pulling forward. Jordan starts the engine, one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on your thigh again. His thumb strokes the inside of your knee, right where his cum is still warm and slick between your legs.

Mia and Leo come running out moments later, backpacks bouncing. They pile into the back seat, chattering about their day, completely oblivious. You turn around to greet them, cheeks still flushed, pussy aching in the best way. Jordan catches your eye in the rearview mirror and winks.

“Love you,” he mouths.

You smile, thighs pressing together, already feeling the next round of his cum leaking into your panties.

“Love you more,” you whisper back.

Plot:

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.12k

Photoshoot

The studio door clicks shut behind you, and the overhead fluorescents flicker once before settling into their usual low, warm buzz. It’s a small space—exposed brick walls, a single cyclorama backdrop rolled down to pure white, and a couple of softboxes you positioned yourself an hour ago. You’ve shot a dozen campaigns here, but none of the models have made the air feel quite this thick before the first frame even clicks.

You’re checking the tether cable when the knock comes. Three firm raps. You open the door and there he is: Brady Potter.

He’s taller than the headshots suggested—six-two, maybe six-three—with shoulders that stretch the seams of a plain black hoodie. Dark hair falls in loose waves over one eye, and when he pushes it back, you catch the sharp cut of his jaw and the faint shadow of stubble he clearly didn’t bother shaving off. His eyes are a quiet hazel, almost golden under the studio lights, and they flick over you once, quick but thorough, before he smiles.

“Hey. You’re the photographer?” His voice is low, easy, like he’s already comfortable in the room.

“Yeah. Come on in.” You step aside. He smells like something clean—cedar and a hint of citrus—as he passes. The hoodie comes off in one fluid motion, revealing a white tank underneath that clings to the lean muscle of his chest and the faint ridges of abs you can see even through fabric. He drops his bag by the makeup chair and stretches, arms overhead, tank riding up just enough to show the dark trail of hair disappearing into his waistband.

You swallow once and force your gaze back to the camera. Professional. You’ve done this a hundred times.

“Wardrobe’s on the rack,” you say, gesturing. “First look is the gray sweats and nothing else. Client wants that effortless-athlete thing.”

Brady nods, already peeling the tank over his head. The motion is unhurried. You watch the way his back flexes—wide lats tapering to a narrow waist, a small scar just above his left hipbone—and then you make yourself busy adjusting the softbox angle so the light will skim across his skin instead of flattening it.

He steps behind the screen anyway, but the fabric is thin and you catch the silhouette of him kicking off his jeans. When he emerges, the gray sweats sit low on his hips, waistband folded once, no underwear line visible. Bare chest, bare feet. The V of his pelvis is sharp, shadowed, leading the eye exactly where the client paid for it to go.

“Ready when you are,” he says, voice still casual.

You lift the camera. “Chin down a little. Weight on your back foot. Good. Now tilt your head like you’re listening to someone just off-camera.”

The shutter starts clicking. Brady moves easily—small shifts of weight, the roll of a shoulder, the slow flex of his arms when you ask for them overhead. Every pose feels natural, like he’s not performing so much as existing under your lens. Between frames he glances at you, not the camera, and the corner of his mouth lifts like he knows exactly what the light is doing to the cut of his obliques.

“Eyes on me,” you say, quieter than you mean to.

He does. The hazel catches the rim light and flares gold. Your finger hesitates on the shutter. Just a heartbeat. He notices.

“Like that?” he asks, soft.

“Yeah. Perfect.”

You move him through the first set—standing, sitting on the stool, leaning against the brick with one arm braced. Each time you step in to adjust the angle of his jaw or the fall of his hair, your fingers brush skin that’s warmer than the studio air. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he leans into the touch a fraction, like he’s testing how long you’ll let it linger.

By the third outfit change—black boxer briefs this time, nothing else—he’s sweating lightly. A single drop slides down the center of his chest and disappears into the waistband. You’re close enough to smell it, salt and skin and that same cedar cologne.

“Hold that,” you murmur, crouching to get the low angle the client specifically requested. The briefs are tight. The outline of him is unmistakable—thick, half-hard, pressing against the fabric like it’s deciding whether to commit. You swallow again and keep shooting.

Brady’s breathing has changed. Slower. Deeper. When you stand back up, he’s watching you instead of the lens.

“You’re good at this,” he says. Not a throwaway line. His voice has dropped half an octave. “Most photographers hide behind the camera. You don’t.”

Heat crawls up your neck. “Just doing my job.”

He steps off the mark, closing the distance until the camera is the only thing between you. “Mind if I make a suggestion?”

You lower the camera. “Go for it.”

“Last set. No clothes. Just the light and whatever happens.” His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. “Client won’t see those frames. They’re for us.”

The word us lands low in your stomach. You should say no. You should keep it professional. Instead you hear yourself answer, “Okay.”

Brady hooks his thumbs in the waistband of the briefs and pushes them down in one smooth motion. He steps out of them and kicks them aside. Fully naked now, cock heavy between his thighs, already thickening under your stare. He doesn’t cover himself. Just stands there letting you look.

You raise the camera like it’s armor. Click. Click. The shutter is the only sound for a long minute. He poses without direction—hands loose at his sides, then one drifting up to push his hair back, then lower, brushing over his own chest like he’s remembering your earlier touches. His cock lifts, fills, until it’s standing proud, flushed dark at the head.

You’re breathing through your mouth.

“Put the camera down,” he says quietly.

Your arms obey before your brain catches up. The camera hangs from its strap against your hip. Brady closes the last step. He doesn’t grab you. He just lifts one hand and brushes his thumb along your lower lip, slow, like he’s checking if you’ll pull away.

You don’t.

His mouth follows—soft at first, almost polite. Then the tip of his tongue traces the seam of your lips and you open for him. The kiss deepens instantly, wet and unhurried, like he has all night. One of his hands slides to the back of your neck, holding you in place while the other finds your waist and pulls your hips against his. His cock presses hot and hard against your stomach through your thin shirt.

You make a small sound into his mouth. He smiles against you.

“Been hard since the second you told me to look at you,” he murmurs, voice rough now. “You feel that?”

You nod. Your hands have found his chest without permission, palms sliding over warm skin and tight nipples. He shivers when you thumb one.

Brady walks you backward until your ass hits the edge of the makeup table. He lifts you onto it like you weigh nothing, spreading your thighs so he can step between them. The kiss never breaks. He tastes like mint and something darker, and his hands are everywhere—under your shirt, pushing it up, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they pebble. You arch into him.

He pulls back just far enough to tug your shirt off, then goes for your belt. The clink of the buckle is loud in the quiet studio. He doesn’t rush. He peels your jeans and underwear down together, letting his knuckles graze the length of your own cock as he frees it. You’re leaking already. He wraps one big hand around you and gives one slow, experimental stroke.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Yeah?” He does it again, thumb spreading the slick at your tip. “You like my hand on you?”

You nod frantically. He kisses you again, deeper, while his fist works you in steady pulls that make your toes curl against the table legs.

When he finally drops to his knees, you nearly lose it right there. Brady looks up at you through those lashes, mouth inches from your cock, and licks a stripe up the underside like he’s savoring it. Then he takes you in—wet heat, no teasing, straight to the back of his throat on the first go. You grip the edge of the table hard enough to hurt. He hums around you, the vibration shooting straight to your balls, and starts moving. Slow. Thorough. Like he’s got nowhere else to be.

One of his hands slides between your thighs, fingers circling your hole without pushing in yet. Just pressure. Promise. You spread wider without thinking.

He pulls off your cock with a wet pop, lips shiny. “Gonna open you up first. That okay?”

You manage a shaky “Yes.”

Brady stands, kisses you once more, then reaches for the small bottle of lube you keep in the supply drawer like he already knew it was there. He warms it between his palms, then presses two slick fingers against you. The stretch is careful, patient. He curls them, searching, and when he finds your prostate you jerk and moan loud enough that it echoes off the brick.

“Right there,” he murmurs, almost to himself, and rubs it again. A third finger joins the first two after a minute, scissoring gently, opening you until you’re rocking back onto his hand, chasing the feeling.

He pulls his fingers free and slicks his cock—thick, long, the head glistening. He lines up, one hand on your hip, the other guiding himself. The blunt pressure against your hole makes you inhale sharply.

“Easy,” he says. “Breathe.”

You do. He pushes in slow—inch by inch—until the head pops past the ring and the rest of him sinks deep in one smooth glide. The burn is perfect. He bottoms out and stills, letting you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans. “So tight around me.”

He starts moving—long, dragging strokes that pull almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. Every thrust nudges your prostate and sends sparks up your spine. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging in. Brady’s rhythm is steady, controlled, but his breathing is getting ragged. Sweat slides down his temple.

He hooks one of your legs higher on his hip, changing the angle, and suddenly he’s hitting deeper, harder. The table creaks under you. Your cock is trapped between your stomachs, leaking steadily, and every thrust rubs it against his abs.

“Brady—” His name comes out broken.

“I’ve got you.” He reaches between you and wraps his hand around your cock again, stroking in time with his hips. “Come on. Want to feel you come on my dick.”

The words tip you over. Pleasure coils tight and snaps. You come hard, pulsing over his fist, stripes of white landing on your own chest and his. Brady groans at the clench around him and fucks you through it, pace faltering now, chasing his own release.

He buries himself deep one last time and comes with a low, drawn-out sound, hips stuttering as he fills you. You feel every throb, every hot pulse. He stays inside you while he softens, kissing you lazily, tongue slow and sweet.

After a minute he eases out, careful, and grabs a clean towel from the stack. He wipes you both down without a word, gentle now in a way that makes something in your chest tighten. Then he leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Next time,” he says, voice husky, “we skip the camera altogether.”

You laugh, breathless. “Next time?”

Brady’s grin is slow and filthy. “Yeah. I’ve got the studio booked again tomorrow. Same time.”

He pulls his sweats back on, leaving the waistband low enough that you can still see the V of his hips and the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. You’re still half-naked on the table when he picks up your camera, checks the last few frames, and whistles low.

“These are gonna be good,” he says. “But the ones we didn’t take? Those are better.”

You watch him shoulder his bag, the same easy confidence he walked in with. At the door he pauses, looks back.

“Lock up when you’re done. And drink some water.” A wink. “You’re gonna need it.”

The door clicks shut behind him. The studio lights buzz on, indifferent. You sit there a moment longer, skin still tingling where he touched you, the ache in your ass a warm, secret reminder.

Tomorrow, you think, already reaching for your shirt.

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: You call out sick from work, and your boyfriend Jordan Torres, dressed in a sexy open white nurse’s coat and tight white-and-red striped briefs with a red stethoscope, decides to “cure” you through intense nurse/patient roleplay, thoroughly examining and fucking the sickness out of you with his fingers, tongue, and thick cock until you’re wrecked and bred.

Warnings: smut, roleplay

Word Count: 2.25k

Sick Day

You groan into your pillow, the soft glow of your phone screen the only light cutting through the dim bedroom. It’s barely past nine in the morning, but you’ve already fired off the text to your boss: Hey, won’t be in today. Woke up feeling like shit—stomach’s killing me, probably that bug going around. Sorry. You hit send, toss the phone aside, and sink deeper under the covers with a satisfied smirk. No meetings, no deadlines, just a whole day to yourself. And to Jordan.

Your boyfriend has been up for hours already—you heard the shower running earlier, the low hum of his playlist—but the apartment has gone quiet now. Too quiet. You stretch, letting the sheets slip down your bare chest, and wonder if he bought the act. Jordan Torres doesn’t miss a thing. Not when it comes to you.

The bedroom door clicks open.

You crack one eye open, and the sight hits you like a shot of pure heat straight to your groin.

Jordan stands in the doorway like he stepped out of the filthiest nurse fantasy you’ve ever had. The white lab coat is unbuttoned and hanging loose off his broad shoulders, the short sleeves of the tight white tee underneath stretched obscenely over his massive biceps. His chest is on full display—tanned, carved muscle glistening faintly under the morning light, the dark ink of his tattoos stark against his skin. You catch the word “BRAVE” inked across his sternum, the intricate sleeve of roses, hearts, and script crawling down his left arm, and the bold blackwork swirling over his right. Lower, the coat parts to reveal white nurse briefs with bold red stripes hugging his thick thighs and the obscene bulge of his cock. A bright red cross sits right over the pouch, like it’s marking the spot you’re going to worship. A red stethoscope hangs around his neck, the tubing trailing down between his pecs and disappearing into the waistband of those sinful briefs. His short dark hair is still damp, styled in that sharp fade he knows drives you crazy, and his dark eyes lock onto yours with a predatory gleam.

“Well, well,” he says, voice low and velvet-rough, that faint accent curling around the words. “I heard my favorite patient called out sick today. Can’t have that, can we? Nurse Jordan Torres is here for a very… thorough house call.”

Your cock twitches under the sheets before you can even form a reply. He’s already in character, and fuck, it’s perfect.

You play along, letting your voice come out weak and needy. “Nurse… I feel terrible. Feverish. Aching everywhere. Think I need a full exam.”

Jordan’s lips curve into a wicked smile. He steps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click, and the room suddenly feels smaller, hotter. He’s carrying a small black medical bag you’ve never seen before—props, you realize, and your stomach flips with anticipation. He sets it on the nightstand, then perches on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. The coat slips open wider, revealing the hard ridges of his abs and the dark trail of hair leading down into those briefs.

“First things first,” he murmurs, plucking the stethoscope from around his neck. The metal diaphragm is cool as he presses it to your chest, right over your heart. “Deep breaths for me, patient. Let Nurse Jordan listen to that racing pulse.”

You inhale shakily, and he leans in close enough that you can smell his clean skin and the faint spice of his body wash. His free hand rests on your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles through the thin sheet. The stethoscope slides lower, tracing over your nipple, and you bite back a moan.

“Mmm, heart rate’s elevated,” he says, voice dropping. “And these nipples… so sensitive already. Classic symptom of acute horniness. We’ll need to address that.”

“Fuck, Jordan—” you start, but he cuts you off with a firm finger to your lips.

“Shh. In this room, I’m Nurse Torres. And you’re my very sick, very needy patient who’s going to take every inch of my treatment like a good boy.” His eyes darken. “Understood?”

You nod, throat dry. “Yes, Nurse.”

“Good.” He sets the stethoscope aside and peels the sheet down slowly, exposing your body inch by inch. When your cock springs free—already half-hard and leaking—he lets out a low whistle. “Look at this. Patient’s exhibiting severe swelling in the genital area. We’ll have to take your temperature… internally.”

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a bottle of lube and a small packet of gloves, but he doesn’t put the gloves on. Instead, he slicks two thick fingers and circles your hole with teasing pressure. “Relax for Nurse Jordan. This is standard procedure.”

You spread your legs wider, hips tilting up instinctively. “Please… I’m burning up inside.”

He pushes one finger in, slow and deep, curling it just right against your prostate. You gasp, back arching. “That’s it,” he coos, voice dripping with mock professionalism. “Tight little hole clenching around my finger. Fever’s definitely centered right here. Gonna need a bigger thermometer to get an accurate reading.”

A second finger joins the first, scissoring you open with practiced ease. Jordan’s free hand strokes your cock in lazy pulls, thumb swiping over the head to spread your pre-cum. “Such a responsive patient,” he praises. “Look how you’re dripping for me already. Bet you’ve been lying here thinking about Nurse Jordan’s thick cock curing you all morning.”

“Yes—fuck—yes, Nurse,” you pant. The roleplay is melting your brain. Every word feels filthy and perfect.

He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, his tattooed arm flexing with the motion. The coat has fallen completely open now, and you can see the massive outline of his cock straining against the white briefs, the red cross stretched tight. You reach for it, but he bats your hand away gently.

“Ah-ah. Patients don’t touch the equipment until Nurse says so.” He leans down, breath hot against your ear. “But since you’re so cooperative, I’ll let you watch me prep the cure.”

Jordan stands, shrugging the coat off his shoulders but leaving it draped over his arms like a cape. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the briefs and shoves them down just enough to free his cock. It slaps up against his abs—thick, veined, the head flushed dark and already glistening. A drop of pre-cum beads at the tip, and he strokes himself once, twice, eyes locked on you.

“See this, patient? This is your medicine. Eight inches of hard nurse cock, specially formulated to fuck the sickness right out of you.”

You whimper, hole clenching around nothing. “I need it, Nurse Torres. Please… I’m so empty.”

He climbs back onto the bed, knees bracketing your hips, and slicks his cock with more lube. The stethoscope still dangles around his neck, the tubing brushing your skin as he lines himself up. “Gonna take your temperature now. Deep breath.”

He pushes in—slow at first, the fat head breaching your rim and stretching you wide. You moan loud, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping the white coat. Inch by inch he sinks in until his hips are flush against your ass, balls-deep, the red cross on his briefs now pressed against your skin.

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he groans, breaking character for just a second before catching himself. “Nurse Jordan’s thermometer is reading critical levels. Gonna have to thrust hard to bring that fever down.”

He starts moving—deep, rolling strokes that drag over your prostate with every pass. The coat flaps around his body like a filthy lab jacket, his muscles flexing, tattoos shifting with every thrust. You’re lost in it, the slap of skin, the wet sound of his cock pumping into you, the way his dog tags (when did he put those on?) jingle against his chest.

“Harder, Nurse,” you beg, legs wrapping around his waist. “Cure me. Fill me up.”

Jordan’s pace turns punishing. He grips your thighs, spreading you wider, pounding into you so the headboard knocks against the wall. “That’s my good patient. Taking every inch like you were made for Nurse Jordan’s cock. Gonna flood this tight hole with my special medicine. You want that? Want me to breed the sickness out of you?”

“Yes—god, yes—breed me, Nurse!”

He flips you suddenly, manhandling you onto all fours without pulling out. The coat drapes over your back as he mounts you from behind, one hand fisting the fabric like reins. His other hand reaches around to jerk your cock in time with his thrusts. “Look at you—ass up, hole swallowing me whole. Such a perfect little patient. Bet your boss has no idea you’re in here getting railed by a professional.”

You push back against him, meeting every thrust, the roleplay fueling the fire. “I called out just for this… just for your cock.”

Jordan growls, the sound pure sex. He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, stethoscope cold against your spine. “Then take it. Take your cure.”

He fucks you like a man possessed—fast, deep, relentless. Sweat slicks both your bodies, his abs slapping against your ass, the red stripes of his briefs rubbing your skin raw in the best way. You feel the pressure building, that familiar coil in your gut.

“I’m gonna—Nurse, I’m gonna cum—”

“Do it,” he commands, voice rough. “Cum on Nurse Jordan’s cock. Let me feel you milk me.”

You shatter, spilling over his fist and onto the sheets with a broken cry. Your hole clenches hard around him, and Jordan curses, hips stuttering. “Fuck—good boy—here it comes—”

He buries himself to the hilt and unloads, hot pulses flooding deep inside you. You feel every throb, every spurt, his cock twitching as he fills you up. He keeps thrusting through it, pushing his load deeper, until you’re both trembling.

But he’s not done.

Jordan pulls out slowly, watching his cum leak from your wrecked hole with dark satisfaction. “Temperature’s down… but we’re not finished with treatment yet. Roll over, patient. Time for round two.”

You obey on shaky limbs, cock already twitching back to life at the sight of him—coat rumpled, briefs shoved down to his thighs, cock still hard and shiny with lube and cum. He strips the briefs off completely now, kicking them aside, and climbs on top of you again. This time he sinks down onto your cock in one smooth motion, the heat of his ass enveloping you completely.

“Oh shit,” you hiss, hands flying to his hips.

He grins down at you, riding you slow and filthy, the coat flaring out around him like wings. “Nurse Jordan’s gonna take your vital signs from the inside now. Feel how hot my hole is? That’s the cure working both ways.”

You thrust up into him, meeting his rhythm, watching his cock bounce against his abs, the red cross nowhere in sight but the memory of it burned into your brain. His tattoos flex and shift as he rides you harder—roses on his arm, the script on his ribs, that bold “BRAVE” across his chest. You reach up and pinch his nipples, and he moans, head falling back.

“Fuck, patient—you’re so deep. Gonna make Nurse cum again just from your cock.”

You sit up, wrapping your arms around him, the coat bunching between you. Mouths crash together in a messy kiss—tongues sliding, teeth nipping. He keeps riding you, grinding down in tight circles that make your toes curl.

“Tell me how good it feels,” you demand, breaking the kiss just enough to speak. “Tell me how much you love curing me.”

Jordan’s eyes are glassy with lust. “Love it—love stretching around your thick cock. Love feeling you throb inside me. Gonna ride you until you fill Nurse Jordan up too.”

You flip him onto his back, the roleplay blurring into raw need. The stethoscope tangles between you as you fuck him hard, his legs over your shoulders, coat splayed open beneath him like a white sheet. Every thrust punches the air out of his lungs.

“Cum for me, Nurse,” you growl. “Show me how well the treatment works.”

He strokes himself frantically, and seconds later he’s shooting across his own abs, painting the “BRAVE” tattoo white. The sight sends you over the edge. You bury yourself deep and cum again, pumping load after load into his clenching ass.

You collapse together, panting, sweat-slick and spent. Jordan’s arms wrap around you, the lab coat half-covering both your bodies now. He nuzzles into your neck, pressing soft kisses there.

“Feeling better, baby?” he murmurs, voice soft and fond, roleplay slipping away.

You laugh breathlessly. “Best sick day ever. But… I think I might need another treatment later. Symptoms could come back.”

Jordan chuckles, the sound rumbling against your chest. “Nurse Torres is on call 24/7. Anything for my favorite patient.”

He stays inside you a little longer, both of you basking in the afterglow, the red stethoscope still draped across the bed like a trophy. You trace one of his arm tattoos with a lazy finger, the roses and hearts and “XOXO” that always make you smile.

“Love you,” you whisper.

“Love you more,” he replies, kissing your temple. “Now rest up. We’ve got all day for follow-up exams.”

Plot: You slip into a late-night gym steam room for solitude, only to find yourself pinned and thoroughly topped by celebrity model Zane Phillips in a haze of heat, sweat, and raw, relentless desire.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 1.33k

Steam Room

The heavy cedar door thuds shut behind you and immediately the world shrinks to heat, vapor, and the low hiss of water dripping onto volcanic rocks. You’ve come here after midnight on a Wednesday because the gym is nearly deserted and the steam room—tucked at the far end of the locker-room corridor—feels like a private secret. Towel knotted low around your hips, you step into the thick white fog and let the door seal you inside.

You’re not alone.

Through the swirling mist you make out a single figure sprawled along the upper bench, long legs stretched out, head tipped back against the tiled wall. Broad shoulders, defined pecs glistening with condensation, dark blond hair darkened by steam and pushed carelessly off his forehead. Even half-obscured, the silhouette is unmistakable. Zane Phillips.

You freeze for half a second. You’ve seen his campaigns—underwear ads, cologne editorials, that one shirtless editorial spread where he looked directly into the camera like he already knew exactly what you were thinking. You never expected the fantasy to materialize in a public steam room at 1:17 a.m.

He doesn’t open his eyes at first. Just breathes slow and deep, chest rising, the towel around his waist riding dangerously low on the sharp cut of his hips. Then, without moving anything else, his lips curve.

“You gonna stand there all night or come sit down?”

His voice is low, smoke-rough, the kind that vibrates in your sternum. You swallow once, hard, and cross the small space. The heat presses against your skin like a second body. You choose the bench directly below him—close enough that your shoulder would brush his calf if you leaned back.

He finally opens his eyes. They’re the pale green-blue of sea glass, lazy and predatory at the same time. He looks you over without hurry: face, throat, chest, the obvious tent starting to lift the front of your towel.

“Thought I recognized that walk,” he murmurs. “You were in the weight room earlier. Kept glancing over.”

Heat floods your face that has nothing to do with the steam. “I didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice.” One long leg bends; his foot plants on the bench beside your shoulder so his knee hovers near your ear. The movement makes his towel slip another inch. “Question is… what are you gonna do about it now that you’ve got my attention?”

Your mouth goes dry. You can smell cedar, eucalyptus, clean sweat, and the faint musk that’s unmistakably him. Your hands itch to touch.

He doesn’t wait for an answer.

Zane slides down to your level in one fluid motion, thighs bracketing yours as he straddles the bench facing you. The towel parts completely now; his cock—thick, heavy, already more than half-hard—rests against the inside of your thigh. He’s bigger than you pictured, veins prominent under flushed skin, the head glistening from steam and precome.

He grips your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip. “Open.”

You do.

He doesn’t kiss you yet. Instead he feeds two fingers into your mouth, letting you taste salt and skin while his other hand tugs your towel free. Cool air hits your erection for a split second before his palm wraps around it—firm, confident, stroking once from root to tip.

“Good boy,” he murmurs when you moan around his fingers. “Knew you’d be eager.”

He pulls his hand free, replaces it with his mouth. The kiss is filthy from the first second: tongue sliding deep, claiming, teeth catching your lip just hard enough to sting. You grab his shoulders—muscle shifts hot and slick under your palms—and he growls approval into your mouth.

When he breaks the kiss his lips are swollen, pupils blown. “Turn around. Hands on the bench.”

You scramble to obey, knees digging into the cedar, ass presented. The position feels obscene in the best way—exposed, offered, steam curling around your thighs like smoke. Zane’s hands are immediately on you: one splayed across your lower back, pressing you down so your chest brushes the warm wood, the other kneading the curve of your ass.

“Fuck, look at you,” he breathes. “Spread wider.”

You do. Fingers dig into muscle, parting you. Then his tongue—hot, wet, deliberate—licks a slow stripe from your balls to your hole. You jerk, gasp, knuckles whitening on the bench.

He doesn’t tease for long. He eats you out like he’s starving: firm circles around the rim, then the point of his tongue pushing inside, fucking shallowly while his thumbs hold you open. Every pass makes your cock leak against the wood beneath you. You’re shaking, thighs trembling, trying not to rut back too desperately.

When he finally pulls away you whine at the loss.

“Patience,” he says, voice wrecked. You hear the crinkle of a packet—condom, lube, both apparently stashed somewhere—and then the blunt head of him nudges your entrance.

He doesn’t slam in. He works you open inch by slow inch, letting you feel every ridge, every vein, until his hips are flush against your ass and you’re both panting.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “So tight. Breathe for me.”

You do your best. He stays still until your body softens around him, then draws back—almost all the way out—before sliding home again in one smooth glide. The drag is perfect, overwhelming. You moan loud enough that it echoes off the tiles.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He sets a rhythm that’s steady at first—deep, rolling thrusts that make your eyes roll back—then faster, harder. The sound of skin slapping skin mixes with wet, filthy noises and your own broken gasps. His hand snakes around to fist your cock, stroking in time with his hips.

“You feel so fucking good,” he mutters against your shoulder. Teeth graze your neck. “Been thinking about bending someone over in here for weeks. Never thought I’d get this lucky.”

The praise hits harder than the angle. You push back to meet him, chasing more, and he rewards you with a particularly brutal thrust that nails your prostate.

“Right there—fuck—Zane—”

He likes hearing his name. His grip tightens, pace turning punishing. Sweat and steam make everything slick; his chest slides against your back, nipples hard points dragging over skin. One hand braces beside yours on the bench, the other jerks you faster.

“Gonna come for me?” he rasps. “Want to feel you clench around my cock while you spill.”

You’re already close—too close. The heat, the stretch, the way he’s hitting that spot on every stroke—it’s too much.

“Zane—please—”

“Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a fist: whole body locking, vision whiting out, cock pulsing thick ropes over his fist and the bench while your hole clamps down hard. Zane swears, hips stuttering, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, guttural groan. You feel him throb inside you, filling the condom in hot pulses that seem to go on forever.

For a long minute neither of you moves. Just harsh breathing, the drip of water on rocks, the fading throb of pleasure.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom in the small trash bin by the door you hadn’t even noticed. Then he’s back, turning you gently so you’re sitting on the bench again. He kneels between your thighs—actual fucking model on his knees in front of you—and kisses you slow this time. Lazy. Satisfied.

“You good?” he asks against your lips.

You manage a shaky laugh. “I’m… yeah. Really good.”

He grins, that same cocky, devastating grin from the billboards. “Good. Because I’m not done with you yet.”

He stands, offers you a hand up. “Shower’s through there. Then my place is ten minutes away. Bed’s bigger. Got more condoms.”

You stare at him, heart still hammering.

“You coming?” he asks, already walking backward toward the door, towel slung low again, looking every inch the fantasy made flesh.

You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

“Yeah,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m coming.”

Can’t believe we finally made it to May of consistent posting. This doesn’t even feel real but once again thank you guys for all of the support. Below I have listed all the post scheduled for May. Hope you are ready 💙🩵

May 4 - Sick Day (Jordan Torres x Male Reader)

May 10 - Service (Micheal B Jordan x Female Reader)

May 11 - Photoshoot (Brady Potter x Male Reader)

May 18 - Before Pickup (Jordan Torres x Female Reader)

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.

Plot: You sneak into the moonlit woods where Joe Manganiello waits to pin you against a tree, claim your mouth, and fuck you raw and relentless until you’re both trembling and spent.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2k

Aggression

The text came at midnight, like it always did. No greeting, no pleasantries—just coordinates and a single word: Tonight. You stared at your phone in the dim light of your apartment, heart already hammering against your ribs. Joe Manganiello. The Joe Manganiello. Six-foot-five of pure, sculpted aggression wrapped in Hollywood skin, the man who made werewolves look tame on screen and made every guy in the room feel small just by breathing. You’d met him once at a private after-party in L.A., a friend-of-a-friend situation where his hand had lingered on your lower back a second too long. One whispered conversation in a shadowed hallway, one shared look that promised violence and need, and suddenly you were his secret.

You didn’t ask questions. You never did. He was married in the public eye, or at least the world thought so. But in the dark, in the places no cameras reached, he was something else entirely. Something feral.

You drove north for two hours, the city lights giving way to black pines and winding roads that smelled like damp earth and coming rain. The coordinates led you to a turnout off a forgotten state highway in the Catskills, a gravel path that disappeared into the trees. You killed the engine, stepped out into the cool night air, and your boots crunched on leaves as you followed the faint trail he’d described once before. Moonlight sliced through the canopy in silver blades. Every snap of a twig made your pulse jump.

You’d worn what he liked—tight black jeans that hugged your ass, a thin gray hoodie that did nothing to hide the way your body tensed with anticipation. No underwear. He’d told you that last time, growled it into your ear while he was still buried inside you: Next time, nothing underneath. I want access.

The clearing appeared suddenly, a small hollow ringed by thick trunks and ferns. And there he was.

Joe stood in the center like he owned the fucking forest. Black tactical pants stretched across thighs thicker than your waist. A black compression shirt clung to every ridge of his chest and abs, the fabric damp with sweat already. His dark hair was tousled, beard trimmed sharp, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked. At six-five and two-hundred-forty pounds of gym-forged muscle, he looked like a predator that had stepped out of a nightmare and into your wettest dream. His eyes—those piercing brown eyes—locked on you the second you stepped into the moonlight.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and rough, the same growl that had once made Sookie Stackhouse weak on television. But this wasn’t acting. This was real.

You opened your mouth to answer, but he crossed the distance in three strides. One massive hand slammed against your chest, shoving you back against the rough bark of an oak. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. His other hand gripped your jaw, tilting your face up to his.

“I said you’re late,” he repeated, thumb pressing hard enough to bruise. “You know what that means.”

Your cock was already half-hard in your jeans. “Yes,” you breathed.

“Good boy.”

He didn’t kiss you. Joe Manganiello didn’t do soft. He claimed. His mouth crashed down on yours, teeth scraping your lip, tongue forcing its way in like he was trying to devour you whole. You tasted mint and something darker—whiskey, maybe, or just the raw edge of him. His beard scraped your skin raw as he bit down on your lower lip hard enough to draw blood. You moaned into his mouth, hips bucking forward instinctively, and he laughed against you, low and cruel.

“Greedy already.”

His hand dropped from your jaw to your throat, squeezing just enough to make stars dance at the edges of your vision. The other hand yanked your hoodie up, exposing your chest to the cold night air. Calloused fingers pinched your nipple, twisted, pulled until you gasped. Then he was shoving your jeans down in one brutal motion. They pooled at your ankles, leaving you bare from the waist down, cock springing free and already leaking.

Joe stepped back just far enough to look at you. His eyes raked over your body like you were meat. “Fuck, look at you. Hard for me before I even touched your dick. Pathetic.”

The words should have stung. Instead they made your cock twitch, a bead of pre-cum sliding down the shaft. He noticed. Of course he did.

He reached down and wrapped one huge hand around you—not stroking, just holding, squeezing until it bordered on pain. “This is mine tonight. Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you choked out.

“Louder.” His grip tightened.

“It’s yours, Joe. My cock is yours.”

He growled in approval and released you. Then he spun you around so fast your cheek slammed against the tree bark. Rough hands yanked your hoodie the rest of the way off, tossing it aside. You were naked now except for the jeans tangled around your boots. Exposed. Vulnerable. Exactly how he wanted you.

Joe’s body pressed against your back. You felt every inch of him—the solid wall of his chest, the ridged abs, the massive bulge in his pants grinding against your ass like a promise. His breath was hot on your neck.

“Been thinking about this all week,” he muttered. “Filming that bullshit action scene, all I could picture was bending you over and splitting you open.”

One thick finger traced down your spine, over the curve of your ass, and pushed between your cheeks without warning. No lube yet—just the dry press of his fingertip against your hole. You clenched instinctively.

“Relax,” he ordered. “Or I’ll make it hurt worse.”

You tried. He didn’t wait long. The finger breached you in one thrust, knuckle-deep, stretching you open with zero mercy. You cried out, the sound echoing through the trees. Joe chuckled darkly and added a second finger immediately, scissoring them roughly, searching for that spot inside you that made your knees buckle. When he found it, he pressed hard, rubbing in tight circles until your legs shook and you were leaking steadily onto the forest floor.

“Listen to you,” he taunted. “Whining like a bitch in heat. You love this, don’t you? Love getting finger-fucked in the dirt by a man who could break you in half.”

“Yes—fuck—yes,” you gasped.

He pulled his fingers out abruptly, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. You heard the sound of his belt buckle, the zipper, the rustle of fabric. Then the heavy slap of his cock against your ass.

You’d seen it before, but it never stopped stealing your breath. Nine inches of thick, veined perfection, the head already flushed dark and glistening. His balls hung heavy beneath, full and tight. He stroked himself once, twice, smearing pre-cum over the length.

“Beg for it,” he said.

You didn’t hesitate. “Please, Joe. Fuck me. I need your cock. Please—”

He cut you off by spitting directly onto your hole—once, twice—then lining up. No condom. Never with him. He liked feeling you raw. The blunt head pressed against your entrance, stretching you wider than his fingers ever could.

“Breathe,” he growled.

You tried. He didn’t give you time.

With one brutal snap of his hips, he buried half his cock inside you in a single thrust. The burn was immediate, white-hot, tearing a scream from your throat. Your hands scrabbled at the bark, nails digging in. Joe didn’t stop. He pulled back an inch and slammed forward again, feeding you another thick inch, then another, until his hips were flush against your ass and every inch of him was buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he hissed between gritted teeth. “So goddamn tight. Like you were made for this.”

He gave you three seconds—three measly seconds—to adjust—before he started moving. Hard. Fast. No warmup, no mercy. Each thrust punched the air from your lungs. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the clearing, obscene and loud. His balls smacked against yours with every drive. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises; the other fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could bite down on the side of your neck.

You felt every ridge of him dragging against your prostate. Pleasure and pain blurred into one overwhelming wave. Your cock bounced untouched against your stomach, smearing pre-cum everywhere. Joe reached around and slapped it once, hard, making you yelp.

“Don’t you dare come yet,” he snarled. “Not until I say.”

He fucked you like he was punishing you for existing. Deep, punishing strokes that rearranged your insides. The tree bark scraped your chest raw. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto your back. His grunts were animal—low, rhythmic, matching the brutal pace.

“Take it,” he growled against your ear. “Take every fucking inch like the cockslut you are.”

You were babbling now, words spilling out without thought: yes, harder, please, Joe, fuck me, own me. He rewarded you by shifting his angle, hammering directly into your prostate with every thrust. Your vision whited out. Your legs gave way, but he held you up with sheer strength, one arm banded around your waist like a steel bar.

After what felt like an eternity of relentless pounding, he slowed—just enough to pull out completely. You whimpered at the loss, hole gaping and twitching.

“On your knees,” he ordered.

You dropped instantly, jeans still tangled around your ankles. The forest floor was cold and damp against your skin. Joe towered over you, cock glistening with your spit and slick, veins pulsing. He fisted it and slapped the heavy length across your face—once, twice—leaving wet streaks on your cheek.

“Open.”

You opened wide. He fed you his cock in one long slide, straight to the back of your throat. You gagged instantly, but he didn’t pull back. He held your head in both hands and started fucking your face with the same aggression he’d used on your ass. Tears streamed down your cheeks. Drool spilled from the corners of your mouth. He groaned above you, hips snapping, balls resting on your chin.

“Look at me.”

You forced your eyes up. His face was a mask of raw lust—jaw tight, nostrils flared, eyes burning. “Beautiful,” he muttered. “Fucking beautiful choking on my dick.”

He used your throat for another minute before pulling out with a wet pop. Strings of saliva connected your lips to his cock.

“Up. Hands on the tree.”

You scrambled to obey. He spun you again, this time facing the trunk, and kicked your legs wider. Then he was back inside you in one savage thrust, deeper than before. The new angle let him grind against your prostate on every stroke. His hand wrapped around your cock finally—big, rough palm stroking you in time with his hips.

“Come for me,” he commanded. “Now.”

You shattered. Your orgasm ripped through you like lightning, cock pulsing in his fist as you painted the tree bark and the leaves below with thick ropes of cum. Your hole clenched around him rhythmically, milking him. Joe snarled, hips stuttering, and then he was coming too—flooding your insides with hot, heavy spurts. He didn’t stop moving, fucking his load deeper into you, claiming every inch.

When he finally stilled, he stayed buried inside you, chest heaving against your back. His lips brushed your ear.

“Good boy,” he whispered. “My good fucking boy.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, his cock softening slowly inside you, cum starting to leak down your thighs. Then he pulled out carefully, almost tenderly—such a contrast to the violence of minutes ago. He turned you around, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed you. This time it was slower. Deeper. Possessive in a different way.

“You’re mine,” he said against your mouth. “Whenever I call. Wherever I say. Understand?”

You nodded, dazed and floating. “Yes.”

He helped you pull your jeans up, wiped the worst of the mess from your skin with the hem of his shirt, then stepped back. The moonlight caught the satisfied smirk on his face.

“Next time,” he said, voice already rough with promise, “I’m bringing rope.”

He disappeared into the trees without another word, leaving you leaning against the oak, legs trembling, hole aching and full of him. The night air cooled the sweat on your skin. Somewhere far off, an owl called.

You smiled into the dark.

Plot: In the smoky shadows of a 1935 Clarksdale juke joint, you—a married Black woman—surrender to Stack Moore’s ruthless hunger, letting him claim your body against the alley wall while your husband gambles obliviously inside, his cum still dripping down your thighs as you return to your seat marked and unrepentant.

Warning: smut, cheating

Word Count: 1.61k

Sinner

The juke joint pulsed like a living thing that humid Delta night in 1935, the air thick with cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, and the raw wail of a blues guitar slicing through the crowd. You stood at the edge of the dance floor in your best dress—deep crimson that hugged every curve of your brown skin, the fabric clinging to the swell of your hips and the heavy bounce of your full breasts. The gold band on your left ring finger caught the lantern light every time you shifted, a quiet reminder of the man waiting for you back at the house. Your husband. The one who’d brought you here to “loosen up” before disappearing out back with his dice buddies an hour ago.

But Stack Moore didn’t give a damn about any of that.

He’d been watching you from the bar since the moment you walked in—tall, broad-shouldered, skin like polished mahogany, that sharp jaw and those dangerous eyes that promised sin and salvation in the same breath. Everybody in Clarksdale knew the Moore twins. Smoke was the quiet one. Stack… Stack was the storm. The one who smiled like he already owned you, vampire or not, the rumors never mattered when he looked at a woman like she was already naked.

He pushed off the bar now, whiskey glass dangling from long fingers, and cut straight through the dancers like they weren’t even there. The crowd parted. They always did for Stack.

“You look like trouble wrapped in Sunday best, darlin’,” he drawled, voice low and rough as gravel under bare feet. His eyes dragged down your body slow—over the way the dress strained across your chest, the curve of your waist, the thick thighs pressed together beneath the hem. He didn’t even try to hide it. “Married trouble. That ring real heavy tonight?”

Your pulse hammered. You should’ve stepped back. Should’ve flashed that band like a shield and walked away. Instead your mouth went dry and your cunt clenched at the way he said “married” like it was a dare.

“It’s real,” you whispered, voice barely cutting the music.

Stack’s grin widened, all teeth and wicked promise. “Good. Means I get to ruin something that ain’t mine.” He leaned in, breath hot against your ear, the scent of him—smoke, bourbon, and something darker, colder—flooding your senses. “Your man know you been eye-fucking me all night, pretty black mama?”

Heat flooded your face. Your nipples tightened against the thin cotton of your dress. “He’s… out back.”

“Perfect.” Stack’s hand settled on your waist, thumb stroking the underside of your breast like he had every right. “Means we got time.”

He didn’t ask. He never did. One moment you were standing there trembling, the next his fingers were locked around your wrist and he was pulling you through the side door into the sticky night air. The alley behind the joint was narrow, shadowed by crates and the overhang of the roof. Moonlight barely reached. The distant thump of the band vibrated through the brick wall at your back as Stack spun you around and pressed you against it.

“Stack—” you started, but his mouth crashed down on yours before you could finish. Hungry. Demanding. His tongue pushed past your lips like he was claiming territory, tasting the fear and the want all mixed up on your tongue. One big hand slid up your thigh, shoving the dress to your waist in one rough motion. The cool night air hit the soaked cotton of your panties and you whimpered into his mouth.

“Fuck, you wet already,” he growled against your lips. His fingers hooked the gusset aside and two thick digits sank straight into your cunt without warning. You cried out, the sound swallowed by another bruising kiss. He pumped them deep, curling, stroking that spot that made your knees buckle. “Married pussy this sloppy for a stranger? Shame on you, baby.”

Your head fell back against the bricks. “My husband—”

“Don’t give a single fuck about your husband,” Stack snarled, scissoring his fingers wider, stretching you open. The wet squelch of it was obscene in the quiet alley. “He left you dripping and lonely. I’m just doing what he too weak to handle.” He bit your neck, right above the collar of your dress—hard enough to leave a mark you’d have to hide tomorrow. “Gonna fuck you right here where anybody could walk out and see this pretty black wife taking my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around his fingers at the threat. God, the risk—your husband maybe thirty feet away rolling dice while Stack finger-fucked you against the wall like a whore. It was filthy. It was perfect.

He pulled his hand free, brought those glistening fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a low groan. “Sweet as sin. Now get on your knees.”

You dropped before you could think. The gravel bit into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care. Stack was already unbuckling his belt, the heavy weight of his cock springing free—thick, long, veined, the dark head already leaking for you. Bigger than your husband’s. Meaner. You licked your lips.

“Open,” he ordered.

You did. He fed you his cock in one slow thrust, stretching your jaw wide. The taste of him—salt and musk—flooded your tongue. Stack’s hand fisted in your hair, careful not to mess up the pin curls you’d spent an hour on, but ruthless in the way he used your mouth. He fucked your throat in shallow strokes at first, letting you adjust, then deeper, until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base and your eyes watered.

“Look at you,” he panted, hips snapping. “Married woman on her knees in an alley sucking vampire cock like it’s communion. Your man ever make you gag like this? Nah. He don’t deserve this throat.”

You moaned around him, the vibration making his thighs flex. Spit dripped down your chin onto your cleavage. Your hand slipped between your legs, rubbing frantic circles over your swollen clit through the soaked panties.

Stack noticed. Of course he did. He yanked you off his cock with a wet pop, strings of saliva connecting your lips to the glistening head. “Greedy. Get up. I ain’t coming down your throat tonight—I’m painting that married womb.”

He spun you again, face to the wall this time. Your palms braced against the rough brick. He kicked your feet apart, ripped your panties down your thighs, and lined up. The fat head of his cock nudged your entrance—hot, insistent. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. The other reached around to pinch your clit.

“Beg,” he whispered against your ear.

“Please, Stack—fuck me. I need it. My husband never—”

He slammed home in one brutal thrust.

You screamed. The stretch burned so good, his cock splitting you open, bottoming out against your cervix. He didn’t give you time to adjust—just pulled back and drove in again, setting a punishing rhythm that slapped skin on skin loud enough to carry over the music if anyone was listening.

“Shit—tight as a virgin,” he grunted, pounding you. “This pussy been starving. Look at you—black ass bouncing on my dick while your man’s inside losing money. You my sinner now, baby.”

Every thrust rocked you forward, breasts scraping the bricks through your dress. Your nipples were diamond-hard. Juice ran down your thighs. Stack reached up and yanked the front of your dress down, freeing your heavy tits. He palmed one roughly, rolling the dark nipple between his fingers while his cock wrecked you from behind.

“Gonna fill you up,” he promised, voice ragged. “Pump this married cunt full of me. Let you walk back in there leaking my cum down your legs. Let your husband smell another man on his wife.”

The words sent you over. Your orgasm crashed through you so hard your vision whited out—walls clamping down on his cock like a vice, gushing around him. Stack cursed, hips stuttering, but he didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, then kept going, chasing his own release with short, deep strokes that had you babbling nonsense.

When he came it was with a guttural groan, cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum flooded your pussy. So much it overflowed, dripping hot and sticky down your thighs the second he pulled out. He kept you pinned there a moment, breathing hard against your neck, fingers still lazily circling your oversensitive clit.

“Clean yourself up,” he murmured, finally stepping back. You heard him tuck himself away, buckle his belt. “But leave the mess between your legs. Want you sitting next to your husband with my load still warm inside you.”

You turned on shaky legs, dress still bunched at your waist, tits out, thighs shining with cum and your own slick. Stack looked you over—slow, satisfied—and smirked.

“Pretty little married sinner,” he said. “Come find me again when that ring starts feeling too tight. I’ll fuck the guilt right out of you next time too.”

He disappeared back into the shadows of the alley like he’d never been there. You fixed your dress with trembling hands, wiped the spit from your chin, but left everything else exactly as he’d left it—cunt throbbing, full of another man’s seed, heart racing with the knowledge that your husband was still inside playing dice.

You stepped back into the smoky light of the juke joint a different woman. Stack’s cum trickled down your inner thigh with every step. The gold band on your finger felt heavier than ever.

And you didn’t care.

Plot: You attend a high-stakes dinner to secure a major brand collaboration with Roman Reigns, where his subtle, sweet flirting quickly escalates into an invitation to his hotel suite. There, he seduces you with the promise that sealing the deal with rough, intense sex on the bed is “just business,” and you give in to both your desire and the opportunity, letting him fuck you senseless until the contract is yours.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.51k

It’s Just Business

The silk of your dress clung to every curve like a second skin, the deep emerald green catching the low light of the restaurant and making your skin glow. You’d chosen it carefully—professional enough for an intern pitching a multimillion-dollar brand collab, but just revealing enough to remind Roman Reigns that you weren’t just another suit in the room. The neckline dipped low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts; the hem skimmed mid-thigh, showing off the smooth length of your legs in strappy black heels. You knew exactly what you were doing. The deal had to close tonight. Your future at the agency depended on it.

Roman Reigns sat across from you like a king on a throne, broad shoulders filling out the tailored black button-down that stretched across his chest. The top two buttons were open, revealing a glimpse of smooth, tattooed skin and the thick column of his throat. His dark hair was pulled back into that signature bun, a few loose strands framing the sharp angles of his jaw. Those eyes—deep brown, almost black under the candlelight—never left you.

“You look stunning tonight,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, the kind of tone that made your stomach flip even though you’d rehearsed this meeting a hundred times. He lifted his glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly. “That dress… it’s doing things to me I probably shouldn’t admit over appetizers.”

You laughed, soft and practiced, crossing your legs under the table so the slit in your dress parted just a fraction. His gaze dropped immediately, tracing the exposed skin of your thigh before sliding back up to your face. “Flattery won’t get the contract signed any faster, Mr. Reigns.”

“Roman,” he corrected, leaning forward slightly. The movement made the fabric of his shirt pull tighter across his pecs. “And I’m not flattering you, sweetheart. I’m stating facts. You walk into a room and every man in it forgets why he’s there. Including me.”

Heat bloomed low in your belly. You’d watched hours of his promos, studied the way he commanded arenas, but nothing prepared you for the real thing up close. He was massive—six-foot-three of solid muscle that made the chair beneath him look small. When he smiled, slow and predatory, the dimple in his cheek softened the edge just enough to make your pulse stutter.

The waiter brought the main course—seared scallops for you, a massive ribeye for him—and Roman waited until the plates were set before he continued.

“Tell me again about this collab,” he said, cutting into his steak with precise, powerful strokes. “Your company wants my name on a fitness line. Apparel, supplements, the whole package. But I don’t sign just anything. I need… incentive.”

You launched into the pitch you’d memorized: market projections, target demographics, the exclusive limited-edition “Tribal Chief” collection that would sell out in hours. He listened, nodding, but his eyes kept drifting. They lingered on the way your breasts rose and fell with each breath, on the delicate gold chain that disappeared between them, on the curve of your hip when you shifted in your seat.

“You’re good at this,” he murmured when you finished. His fork paused halfway to his mouth. “Smart. Driven. And damn, the way that dress hugs your ass when you walked in…” He shook his head, chuckling darkly. “I’m supposed to be focused on numbers, but all I can think about is how those heels would look wrapped around my waist.”

Your breath caught. The flirtation had been subtle at first—compliments on your ideas, questions about your career—but now it was blatant, laced with heat. You felt it between your thighs, a slick warmth that had nothing to do with the wine.

“Roman…” you started, trying to steer back to business.

He leaned in, voice dropping to a rumble that vibrated through your bones. “Relax. I’m just admiring the view. You’re a beautiful woman who knows what she wants. I respect that. Hell, I like it.” His eyes flicked down again, slow and deliberate. “A lot.”

Dessert came and went. He paid without letting you see the bill, then stood, offering his hand. When you took it, his palm was warm, calloused, swallowing yours completely. “My hotel’s two blocks away. Penthouse suite. We can go over the final details somewhere more private. No waiters. No distractions.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, sending sparks straight to your core. “Unless you’d rather call it a night and let the lawyers handle the rest?”

The implication hung heavy. You knew what he was offering. You also knew the agency had been chasing this deal for six months. If you walked away now, the internship could turn into nothing. And God, he was looking at you like he already owned you.

You swallowed. “Lead the way.”

The elevator ride up was silent except for the soft ding of floors. Roman stood close enough that you could smell his cologne—something dark and expensive, cedar and smoke. His hand rested lightly on the small of your back, thumb tracing lazy circles over the silk. Every touch felt electric.

Inside the suite, the city lights glittered through floor-to-ceiling windows. A king-sized bed dominated the room, crisp white sheets turned down like an invitation. Roman poured two glasses of whiskey from the bar cart, handing you one.

“Sit,” he said softly, nodding toward the edge of the bed. You did, crossing your legs again, the dress riding higher. He didn’t sit. He stood in front of you, towering, and loosened the top button of his shirt. “You know why I really brought you here.”

Your heart hammered. “To discuss the contract.”

A slow smile curved his lips. “Partly.” He stepped closer, big hands sliding into his pockets. “But mostly because I’ve been hard since the moment you walked into that restaurant. That dress… the way your tits look in it… the way your ass sways when you move.” His voice stayed gentle, almost reverent. “You’re fucking perfect, sweetheart. And I want you. Bad.”

You set the glass down, fingers trembling. “Roman, this is… I’m here for the deal. Not—”

“I know.” He dropped to one knee in front of you, still somehow eye-level because of his size. One large hand settled on your knee, warm and steady. “And I’m a man of my word. The contract’s already signed in my mind. But business is business. Sometimes you have to sweeten the pot.” His fingers traced up your thigh, slow and teasing, stopping just beneath the hem. “Let me make you feel good. Let me show you how much I want this partnership. How much I want you.”

His touch was soft, almost worshipful, but his eyes burned. You felt yourself leaning into it, thighs parting just a fraction.

“This is wrong,” you whispered, even as your body betrayed you.

“Is it?” He leaned in, lips brushing your ear. “Or is it just business?” His breath was hot. “You want the deal. I want you. We both get what we need.”

Your resistance cracked. He was so close, so big, so undeniably hot. The scent of him, the heat rolling off his body, the way his hand felt on your bare skin—it was too much. You needed the contract. You needed him.

“Okay,” you breathed.

The moment the word left your lips, something in him shifted. The sweetness stayed in his voice—“Good girl”—but his hands turned possessive. He stood, pulling you up with him, and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. His mouth was hot, demanding, tongue sliding against yours with a low groan that vibrated through your chest. One massive hand cupped the back of your neck, the other gripping your ass hard enough to make you gasp into his mouth.

He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed. “Take the dress off,” he ordered, voice rougher now. “Slow. Let me watch.”

You reached for the zipper at your side, sliding it down. The silk pooled at your feet, leaving you in black lace bra and matching thong, garter straps framing your hips. Roman’s eyes raked over you, dark and hungry.

“Fuck,” he growled softly. “Look at you. These tits…” He palmed one breast, thumb flicking the nipple through lace until it pebbled. “So full. So soft.” He leaned down, mouth closing over the lace-covered peak, sucking hard enough to make your back arch. His teeth grazed you, then he switched sides, devouring you while his free hand squeezed your ass.

You moaned, fingers threading into his hair, pulling the bun loose so thick black strands fell around his face. He straightened, shrugging off his shirt. The sight of his bare chest—chiseled abs, tribal tattoos swirling over smooth brown skin, the sheer width of his shoulders—made your mouth water.

“On the bed,” he said. “On your back.”

You obeyed, heart racing. He followed, crawling over you like a predator. His weight pinned you deliciously as he kissed you again, deeper, messier. Then he sat back on his heels, hooking thick fingers into your thong and dragging it down your legs, leaving the garters in place.

“Keep the heels on,” he murmured, almost sweetly. “They look too good on you.”

He spread your thighs wide, big hands gripping the soft flesh. “So wet already,” he praised, voice low. “All for me?” Two thick fingers slid through your folds, circling your clit before pushing inside you—deep, stretching you open. You cried out, hips bucking. He pumped them slowly at first, curling to hit that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes.

“Roman—oh God—”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Say my name.” He added a third finger, scissoring, stretching you roughly while his thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit. The wet sounds filled the room, obscene and perfect. “Gonna make this pussy come before I even get my cock in you.”

He didn’t stop until you shattered—back bowing, thighs shaking around his wrist, a broken moan tearing from your throat. Only then did he withdraw his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking them clean with a low groan.

“Delicious,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Now I want more.”

He stood just long enough to shove his pants and boxers down. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, veined, the head already glistening. It was huge, easily nine inches, curving slightly upward, and your mouth went dry at the sight.

“Roman…” you whispered, half awe, half nerves.

He stroked himself once, twice, smirking. “You can take it. I’ll make sure of it.”

He climbed back over you, lining up. The blunt head nudged your entrance, then pushed in—slow at first, letting you feel every inch stretch you open. You gasped at the burn, nails digging into his shoulders. He paused, kissing your forehead almost tenderly. “Breathe, baby. You’re doing so good.”

Then the sweetness fractured. He snapped his hips forward, burying the rest of his cock in one brutal thrust. You screamed—pleasure and pain twisting together—as he bottomed out, balls pressed against your ass.

“Fuck, so tight,” he growled. “Gripping me like you were made for this.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a punishing rhythm. The bed creaked under the force. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs. His hips snapped hard, skin slapping skin, the wet squelch of your pussy echoing.

“Roman—too much—fuck—”

“You can take it,” he grunted, one hand pinning your wrists above your head while the other gripped your hip hard enough to bruise. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? The deal sealed with my cock buried in you.” He angled deeper, hitting your cervix with every stroke. “Say it. Say ‘it’s just business.’”

“It’s—just—business,” you sobbed, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm built fast and vicious.

He laughed, dark and satisfied, then released your wrists to hook your legs over his shoulders. The new angle let him pound even deeper. Your heels dug into his back. Sweat slicked his chest, dripping onto your breasts as he fucked you like an animal—relentless, powerful, every muscle in his body working to ruin you.

“Look at these tits bouncing for me,” he snarled, leaning down to suck one nipple hard, biting just enough to sting. “So pretty when they shake like that.”

He flipped you suddenly, manhandling you onto all fours. Your face pressed into the pillow as he re-entered you from behind in one savage thrust. His hand fisted your hair, yanking your head back so he could growl in your ear.

“Arch that back. Ass up higher. That’s my good girl.” He spanked you—hard—then again, the crack echoing. “This ass was made to be fucked.” His pace turned feral, hips slamming into you so hard the headboard banged the wall. One hand reached around to rub your clit in rough circles while the other kept your hair in a tight grip.

You came again, screaming his name, pussy clenching around his cock like a vice. He didn’t slow. “That’s two. Gonna give me one more before I fill you up.”

He pulled out, flipped you onto your back again, and drove back in. This time he hooked your legs around his waist, grinding deep, circling his hips so the head of his cock rubbed that perfect spot inside you over and over. His free hand wrapped around your throat—not choking, just holding, thumb stroking your pulse.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let me feel you milk my cock.”

The orgasm hit like a freight train. Your vision whited out. You clenched around him so hard he groaned, deep and guttural.

“Fuck—yes—good girl.” His rhythm stuttered. “Gonna come. Gonna flood this pussy. Take every drop for the deal.”

He slammed in one final time, hips flush against yours, and came with a roar. You felt the hot pulse of him—thick ropes filling you, spilling out around his cock as he kept grinding through it. His body shuddered, muscles flexing, sweat dripping.

For a long moment he stayed buried deep, breathing hard. Then the roughness melted. He kissed you softly—sweet, lingering—brushing damp hair from your face.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice back to velvet. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, dazed and sated. “No. God, no. That was…”

He chuckled, pulling out slowly. A rush of warmth followed, his cum leaking down your thighs. He watched it with dark satisfaction before grabbing a warm cloth from the bathroom and cleaning you gently.

“Stay the night,” he said, sliding under the sheets and pulling you against his chest. One thick arm wrapped around you possessively, the other stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. “The contract’s yours. Fully signed. But tomorrow… we can talk more business.” His lips brushed your temple. “Or we can do this again. Your choice.”

You nestled closer, body still humming, the city lights painting golden stripes across his skin. You’d come for a deal. You’d left with so much more.

And somewhere in the haze of pleasure, you smiled.

Plot: Returning from your mother’s funeral, you’re stopped on a Mississippi backroad by twin brothers who own the woods, leading to an intense encounter against a tree that eases your grief before your flight home.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 2.8k

Double Trouble

The Mississippi heat clung to everything like a second skin as you gripped the steering wheel of your rental car, the engine humming low along the narrow dirt path that cut through the overgrown woods. You’d buried your mother two days ago in the same tiny cemetery outside Clarksdale where her people had been laid to rest for generations. Chicago felt like another planet now—cold glass towers, the Loop’s constant roar, your sterile apartment that never quite felt like home. But this place? This place was all red clay and cicadas, Spanish moss dripping from cypress trees like funeral veils. You were heading back to the airport in Memphis, one last stretch of backroad before the highway, when the path simply ended.

Not with a sign. Not with a gate. With two men.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the lane, identical in height and build, both dressed in dark denim and worn work shirts that stretched across broad chests. One leaned against the hood of a battered black truck parked sideways across the road, arms crossed, a slow smirk already curling his full lips. The other stood a half-step behind, jaw tight, eyes shadowed under the brim of a faded cap. Twins. You knew them by reputation even before you rolled the window down—the Smoke and Stack brothers. Local legends. Owners of half the backwoods acreage around here, the kind of men who didn’t ask for right-of-way; they owned the right-of-way.

The one in front—Stack, you guessed from the easy, predatory grin—pushed off the truck and sauntered closer. His skin was deep brown, smooth under the sweat sheen, and his eyes were a warm amber that caught the dappled sunlight like whiskey. “Well, damn,” he drawled, voice low and thick as sorghum molasses. “Look what the Delta dragged in. You lost, Chicago?”

Your heart stuttered. The black dress from the funeral was still on—simple, knee-length, the fabric sticking to your thighs from the heat. You’d kicked off your heels for the drive, bare feet on the pedals. “I’m just trying to get to the interstate,” you said, keeping your tone even. “GPS said this was a shortcut.”

Stack chuckled, resting one large hand on the roof of your car, leaning in so you caught the scent of him—cedar, smoke, and something darker, like bourbon left in an oak barrel. “Shortcut’s closed, baby girl. This whole stretch? Ours. Smoke and me, we got papers on it since our granddaddy passed. Nobody drives through without permission.”

The other twin—Smoke—shifted his weight, arms still crossed. He was identical but different in the eyes: darker, stormier, like he was calculating every possible outcome. “Stack,” he muttered, voice a low rumble. “Let her go. She’s got somewhere to be.”

Stack didn’t even glance back. His gaze stayed locked on you, traveling slow down the neckline of your dress, lingering on the way your breasts rose with each breath. “Nah, Smoke. Look at her. Fresh off a funeral, eyes all red-rimmed and pretty. Grief makes a woman soft. Makes her need things she don’t even know she wants yet.” He reached in through the open window, thumb brushing your jaw with surprising gentleness. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

You swallowed, pulse hammering. “Doesn’t matter. I need to get home.”

“Everything matters out here,” Stack murmured. His thumb traced your lower lip. “Tell me.”

You told him. He repeated it like a prayer, rolling the syllables around his tongue. Behind him, Smoke exhaled sharply, but he didn’t move to stop his brother. Stack’s smirk deepened. “Pretty name for a pretty widow’s daughter. You been crying all week, huh? Bet that pussy’s been aching for something real to hold onto instead of tears.”

Heat flooded your face. “Excuse me?”

Stack’s laugh was soft, filthy. “Don’t play shy. I see the way you’re squeezing your thighs together. That dress riding up. You been driving with all that grief between your legs, clenching around nothing. We can fix that.”

“Stack,” Smoke warned again, stepping forward finally. His hand landed on his brother’s shoulder, but there was no real force behind it. His eyes met yours—reluctant, yes, but burning. “She’s not one of the girls from the juke joint. She’s grieving. This ain’t right.”

Stack shrugged him off without breaking eye contact with you. “Grief’s the best time, twin. Makes everything feel deeper. Hotter. You gonna stand there and pretend you don’t want to taste her too? I know you. I felt you get hard the second she rolled up.”

Smoke’s jaw flexed. He didn’t deny it.

Your mouth went dry. Part of you—the Chicago part, the sensible part—wanted to throw the car in reverse and floor it. But the road was narrow, trees crowding both sides, and something low and liquid was already pooling in your belly at the way Stack looked at you. Like he could see straight through the black fabric to the black lace panties underneath. Like he knew exactly how empty you’d felt since the hospital calls started.

Stack opened your door without asking. “Come on out, baby. We ain’t gonna hurt you. Just gonna make you forget that cemetery for a little while. You can still catch your flight. We’ll even drive you to Memphis after.”

You should have said no. Instead, your legs moved on their own, heels dangling from one hand as you stepped onto the warm dirt. The hem of your dress caught on the seat, riding higher. Stack’s eyes dropped instantly.

“Goddamn,” he breathed. “Look at them legs. Smoke, you seeing this?”

Smoke’s gaze flicked down, then away, but not before you caught the hunger. “This is fucked up,” he muttered, but he didn’t stop his brother from crowding you gently back against the side of your car.

Stack’s body was solid heat. He caged you with his arms on either side of your head, hips pressing just enough that you felt the thick line of his cock already straining against his jeans. “Tell me you don’t want it,” he whispered against your ear. “Tell me your little clit ain’t throbbing right now thinking about two big country dicks stretching you open while you cry it out. I’ll let you go if you say it like you mean it.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t say it.

Stack smiled against your neck. “That’s what I thought.” His hand slid up your thigh, slow, giving you every chance to slap it away. You didn’t. Calloused fingers found the edge of your panties, tugged the lace aside, and brushed through slick folds that betrayed you instantly. “Fuck, Smoke. She’s soaked. Dripping down her thighs already.”

Smoke was closer now, close enough that you smelled the same cedar on him, mixed with something sharper—gun oil, maybe. His reluctance was cracking; you saw it in the way his hands flexed at his sides. “Stack… she just buried her mama.”

“And she needs to feel alive,” Stack shot back, voice rough as he circled your clit with two thick fingers. You gasped, hips jerking forward. “Feel how tight she is? Clenching around nothing. Bet she’s never had twins before. Bet that pretty pussy’s never been this full.”

Your head fell back against the car roof. Stack’s mouth found your throat, sucking a mark just below your ear while his fingers pushed inside—two at once, stretching you with a burn that made your knees buckle. “That’s it,” he groaned. “Ride my hand, baby. Show Smoke how bad you need it.”

Smoke’s eyes were dark now, fixed on where his brother’s fingers disappeared into you. His breathing had gone ragged. “Fuck,” he whispered, almost to himself. Then louder: “If we’re doing this… we do it right. Not against the car. Too exposed.”

Stack laughed against your skin. “Always the careful one.” He pulled his fingers free—shiny with your wetness—and sucked them clean right in front of you. “Tree line’s ours too. Big old oak about twenty yards in. Perfect height. You can hold onto the branches while we fuck you stupid.”

He didn’t wait for agreement. One arm scooped under your knees, the other behind your back, and he lifted you like you weighed nothing. Smoke followed, silent but close, his hand brushing your calf as they carried you off the path into the shade of the woods. The air was cooler under the canopy, moss soft underfoot. The oak was ancient—trunk wide enough that your back would fit perfectly against it, low branch just high enough for your hands.

Stack set you down gently, then spun you so your front pressed to the rough bark. “Hands up, baby. Grip that branch.” His voice had dropped an octave, all playfulness burned away. You obeyed, fingers wrapping around the thick limb above your head. The bark scraped your palms. Stack’s hands yanked your dress up to your waist in one motion, then dragged your panties down your legs. He tapped your ankle until you stepped out of them. “Good girl. Keep those legs spread.”

Behind you, you heard the sound of belts unbuckling. Two zippers. Two heavy cocks springing free. You glanced over your shoulder and nearly moaned at the sight. They were identical there too—long, thick, dark, veins standing out, heads already glistening. Stack’s was slightly curved upward; Smoke’s was straight and heavy. Both bigger than anything you’d taken in Chicago.

Stack stepped in first, pressing his chest to your back, cock sliding hot and heavy between your ass cheeks. “You still with us, pretty? Still grieving but wet as fuck?” His hand came around to cup your breast through the dress, thumb flicking your nipple until it pebbled. “Tell Smoke it’s okay. Tell him you want both of us.”

You met Smoke’s eyes. He was stroking himself slowly, reluctance still etched in the tight line of his mouth, but his cock was leaking for you. “I… I want it,” you whispered. “Please.”

Something in Smoke snapped. He closed the distance in two strides, dropping to his knees in the moss right in front of you. “Lift her leg,” he told his brother, voice hoarse.

Stack hooked one of your knees over his forearm, opening you wide. Smoke’s mouth was on you instantly—hot, hungry, tongue dragging through your folds like a man starved. He sucked your clit hard, two fingers plunging inside you again, curling against that spot that made stars burst behind your eyelids. “Tastes like heaven,” he growled against your pussy. “Sweetest grief I ever ate.”

You cried out, hips bucking. Stack’s free hand covered your mouth gently. “Shh, baby. These woods got ears, but they’re ours. Scream into my palm.” His cock nudged your entrance from behind, thick head pushing in slow—inch by inch—while Smoke kept licking you from the front. The stretch was obscene. You were full already and he wasn’t even halfway. “Relax that pussy,” Stack groaned. “Let me in. That’s it… fuck, she’s gripping me like a vice.”

When he bottomed out, hips flush to your ass, you felt every ridge, every pulse. Smoke’s tongue never stopped, flicking your clit in time with his brother’s shallow thrusts. The dual sensation—Stack’s cock dragging against your walls from behind, Smoke’s mouth devouring you from the front—had you shaking within minutes. Your orgasm crashed over you without warning, pussy clenching so hard Stack cursed and had to hold still.

“Goddamn, she just came on my dick,” Stack laughed breathlessly. “Your turn, twin. Switch.”

They moved like they’d done this before—seamless, practiced. Smoke stood, cock shiny with your slick. Stack pulled out long enough for them to spin you around, back still to the tree but now facing Smoke. He lifted you this time, both hands under your ass, and lowered you onto his cock in one smooth glide. “Fuck,” he hissed, forehead dropping to yours. “So wet. So perfect. You okay?”

You nodded frantically, legs wrapping around his waist. The bark scraped your shoulders through the thin dress, but the pain only sharpened everything. Smoke started moving—deep, rolling thrusts that hit your cervix on every stroke. Stack pressed in behind you, chest to your back again, but this time his fingers found your asshole, slick with your own juices. “Gonna take both of us, baby? One in this pretty pussy, one in this tight little ass?”

You’d never done that. Never even imagined it with two men built like them. But the words tumbled out anyway: “Yes—please—”

Stack worked one finger in first, then two, scissoring gently while Smoke fucked you slow and deep, keeping you stretched and open. When Stack finally pushed his cock against your back entrance, the burn was intense—too much and not enough. He went slow, whispering filthy praise the whole time: “Breathe, baby. Let me in. Good girl, taking both your country boys like you were born for it. This pussy and this ass belong to us now.”

When he was fully seated, both cocks buried to the hilt inside you, the fullness was overwhelming. You felt them rubbing against each other through the thin wall separating them. Smoke’s hands gripped your hips; Stack’s wrapped around from behind to hold your breasts. They started moving in tandem—Smoke thrusting up while Stack pulled back, then reversing. The rhythm was relentless, perfect, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing under the oak.

You came again, harder this time, vision whiting out as your body spasmed around both of them. “That’s it,” Smoke growled, finally letting go of all reluctance. “Milk us, baby. Take every drop.”

Stack’s teeth sank into your shoulder. “Gonna fill this ass up. Gonna breed you right here against our tree so you feel us the whole way back to Chicago.”

They didn’t last much longer after that. Smoke came first, cock pulsing deep in your pussy, hot spurts painting your walls. Stack followed seconds later, groaning your name like a curse as he flooded your ass. The sensation of both of them coming inside you at once sent you over a third time—smaller, but deeper, your whole body shaking between them.

For long minutes, they just held you there, still buried inside, catching their breath. Sweat slicked all three of you. Your dress was ruined, bunched around your waist, bark marks on your back and shoulders. Slowly, carefully, they pulled out. Cum dripped down your thighs in thick rivulets. Stack kissed the back of your neck; Smoke cupped your face and kissed your mouth—soft, almost tender.

“You still gotta catch that plane?” Stack asked, voice rough.

You laughed weakly, legs trembling too hard to stand on your own. “In theory.”

Smoke’s thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. “We’ll get you there. But first…” He glanced at his brother, a rare smile cracking his serious face. “We got a creek about half a mile in. Clean you up. Feed you. Then maybe… round two in the truck before we put you on that plane.”

Stack grinned, already pulling his jeans up but leaving his shirt off. “What he said. Grief ain’t gone yet, baby girl. But we got all afternoon to fuck it out of you.”

You let them carry you deeper into the woods they owned, the oak tree standing silent witness behind you—bark scratched, moss disturbed, the scent of sex and Mississippi pine hanging heavy in the air. By the time they laid you down by the creek and started all over again—this time with your dress completely gone, their mouths and hands everywhere at once—you’d already missed the first possible flight.

You didn’t care.

They took turns eating you out on a flat rock by the water while the other sucked marks into your breasts. Then they bent you over the hood of their truck right there in the clearing, Stack in your pussy this time while Smoke fucked your mouth, feeding you his cock until you gagged and drooled. They made you ride them both again, one in each hole, while you braced your hands on the warm metal. Every orgasm they pulled from you felt like it was peeling another layer of grief away, leaving you raw and new and aching in the best way.

By the time the sun started dipping and they finally drove you to Memphis—windows down, your head in Stack’s lap while Smoke drove, both of them still touching you lazily like they couldn’t stop—you realized something.

You weren’t going back to Chicago the same woman.

And part of you—the part that had been empty since the funeral—hoped the next time you needed a shortcut through Mississippi, that dirt road would still be blocked.

By the time you reached the airport drop-off, your thighs were sticky again, lips swollen from their kisses, and both men had your number saved under “Ours.” Stack leaned in through the window for one last filthy kiss, tongue fucking your mouth like a promise. “Next funeral or not, you come back, baby. This land remembers. We remember.”

Smoke was quieter, but his hand squeezed yours through the window. “Drive safe. And if you need us… call. We’ll clear the path.”

You watched them drive away in the rearview—two identical silhouettes against the Delta sunset—and touched the fresh bite mark on your inner thigh hidden under your ruined dress.

Three thousand miles to Chicago suddenly felt very, very long.

But you knew you’d be back.

Thank you so much for the love shown on March stories. There is one more story for the month of March for my sinners fans 😉. It set to release on March 30th 4PM PST/7PM EST. But before March ends I leave you with the following stories scheduled for April.

April 5 - It’s Just Business (Roman Reigns x Female Reader)

April 6 - Sinner (Stack Moore & Black Female Reader)

April 13 - Aggression (Joe Manganiello x Male Reader)

April 20 - Morning (Ethan Dolan x Male Reader)

April 27 - Steam Room (Zane Phillips x Male Reader)

Plot: After a sweaty summer basketball practice in the Bronx, you follow the cocky, “straight” Dominican shooter Paniwaterss back to his apartment, where his subtle flirts quickly turn into raw, possessive sex as he claims your ass with thick, relentless Dominican dick while growling filthy Spanglish praise in your ear.

Warnings: smut

Word Count: 1.85k

Dominican Shooter

The summer heat in the Bronx hit different after a full-court run. It was late July, the kind of sticky afternoon where the asphalt on the court off 183rd smelled like hot tar and fried empanadas from the corner cart. The sun was still high, baking everything in that golden-orange glow, and your tank top clung to your chest like a second skin, soaked with sweat. The pickup game had been brutal—ten guys going hard, trash talk flying in Spanish and English—but you held your own. Especially against him.

Paniwaterss. Everybody called him Pani, the Dominican shooter. Six-three of pure Caribbean muscle, caramel skin gleaming under the lights, those tight basketball shorts riding low on his hips, showing the deep V that disappeared into his waistband. His durag was still on, curls peeking out, and that gold chain with the tiny Dominican flag pendant bounced against his collarbone every time he drained a three. He wasn’t just good—he moved like the court owed him money, cocky but smooth, the kind of guy who made the whole block watch.

You were grabbing your water bottle off the bench when he jogged over, shirt slung over one shoulder, abs flexing with every step. That heavy Dominican accent rolled out low and lazy, thick like honey and rum.

“Coño, papi… you killed that shit today, eh? That crossover on me? Mmm, you got me watchin’ real close, you know what I’m sayin’?” He grinned, teeth bright against his skin, and wiped his chest with the shirt. His eyes—dark, hooded, always half-lidded like he was thinking dirty thoughts—dragged down your body for a second too long. “You lookin’ good out there, bro. All that sweat… damn. Legs strong like that? A nigga could get used to the view.”

You laughed it off, but your stomach flipped. Pani was “straight.” Everybody knew it. He talked about the girls from the Heights, the one he took to the club last weekend, how she rode him till the sun came up. But lately the flirts had been stacking up. Little comments after practice. A hand on your lower back when he guarded you. The way he called you “papi” like it tasted good in his mouth.

“Whatever, man,” you said, trying to play it cool even though your dick twitched in your shorts. “You were the one showing off with those step-backs.”

He stepped closer. The heat coming off his body mixed with the summer air—clean sweat, that cheap Axe body spray he always wore, and something warmer underneath. His voice dropped, Spanglish slipping in easy.

“Ay, no lie, though. You got me thinkin’, eh? All that runnin’ up and down… you built nice, bro. Real nice. I ain’t even gon’ front.” He licked his bottom lip, slow. “My crib right around the corner on Grand. AC workin’. Cold Presidente in the fridge. Come cool off before you melt out here like a damn helado. Just us, no cap.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve gone home. But the way he said it—voice low, accent curling around every word like smoke—made your pulse thump in your throat. You nodded.

“Bet.”

His apartment was a third-floor walk-up, the stairs creaking under your sneakers. The second you stepped inside, the AC hit like a blessing, but the heat between you two stayed thick. He kicked the door shut, tossed his keys on the counter, and peeled his shorts down just enough to adjust himself—casual, like it was nothing, but you caught the heavy bulge straining the fabric of his black compression shorts.

“Coño, it’s hot as hell even with the AC,” he muttered, grabbing two cold beers from the fridge. He handed you one, fingers brushing yours longer than necessary. “Sit, papi. Relax. You earned it today.”

You sat on the old leather couch. Pani didn’t sit across from you. He dropped right next to you, thigh pressed against yours, still shirtless, still glistening. The TV stayed off. The only sound was the low hum of the AC and the traffic outside on the avenue.

He took a long swig, throat working, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then he turned, eyes locking on yours.

“You know… I keep tellin’ everybody I’m straight, right?” He chuckled, but it was dark, husky. “Girls, parties, all that. But damn, bro… when I’m guardin’ you out there? When you bend over to tie your laces and I see that ass in them shorts?” He leaned in, breath warm against your ear. “A nigga start thinkin’ shit he ain’t supposed to. Like… how you would feel. Under me. Takin’ it.”

Your beer almost slipped. His hand landed on your thigh—big, calloused from years of ball, thumb rubbing slow circles.

“I ain’t gay, you feel me?” he whispered, accent thicker now, voice dripping sex. “But for you? Shit… I might make an exception. Just once. Just to see if that pretty mouth and that fat ass feel as good as I been dreamin’.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. His free hand cupped the back of your neck and pulled you in. The kiss was hungry—tongue sliding in like he owned you, tasting like beer and summer and pure Dominican heat. He groaned into your mouth, low and filthy.

“Jum… sabe rico, papi,” he murmured against your lips. “Taste so fuckin’ good.”

You were hard before he even touched you. Pani noticed. His palm slid up your thigh and squeezed your cock through your shorts, stroking once, twice, slow and teasing.

“Look at you… already leakin’ for me, eh? Straight nigga got you this bricked up?” He laughed soft, cocky. “Take ‘em off. Let me see what I been missin’.”

You shoved your shorts down. Your cock sprang free, hard and throbbing. Pani’s eyes darkened. He licked his lips.

“Coño… mira eso. Nice and thick. But mine bigger, you know that already.” He stood up, pushed his own compression shorts down, and yeah—his dick was a monster. Long, veiny, dark caramel with a fat head already shiny with precum. Dominican pride in every inch. He stroked himself once, slow, showing off.

“C’mere, baby boy. On your knees for your shooter.”

You dropped. The carpet was rough on your knees but you didn’t care. Pani’s hand tangled in your hair, guiding you forward.

“Suck it, papi. Show me how bad you want this Dominican dick.”

You took him in—hot, heavy, stretching your lips. He tasted clean and salty, precum coating your tongue. Pani’s head fell back, durag still on, gold chain swinging.

“Ay, mierda… just like that. Good boy. Deeper—coño, yeah. You been practicin’ on them toys thinkin’ about me, huh? I know you have.”

He started slow, hips rocking gentle, but the dirty talk never stopped—thick accent, Spanglish pouring out like he couldn’t help it.

“Fuck… your mouth so warm, bro. Wet like pussy but tighter. Swallow me—sí, así. Good fuckin’ boy. You look so pretty with my dick down your throat. My straight ass never had head this good… shit, you makin’ me weak.”

Saliva dripped down your chin. He wiped it with his thumb and fed it back into your mouth around his cock. Then he pulled out, strings of spit connecting you, and slapped the heavy length against your cheek.

“Enough. I want that ass. Turn around—hands on the couch.”

You obeyed, ass up, chest pressed to the cushions. Pani dropped to his knees behind you, big hands spreading you open.

“Jum… look at this pretty hole. Pink and tight. Been waitin’ for Dominican dick, eh?” His breath ghosted over you right before his tongue—hot, wet, relentless. He ate you like he was starving, moaning into your ass, accent muffled but filthy.

“Mmm, sabe rico… so fuckin’ sweet. You clenchin’ on my tongue already? Greedy little bottom. Relax for me, papi. Let me open you up.”

Two thick fingers joined his tongue, scissoring, curling, finding your prostate and rubbing until your legs shook. He spat on your hole, worked it in, third finger stretching you wide.

“You ready? Tell me you want this Dominican shooter to breed you.”

“I want it,” you gasped. “Fuck me, Pani—please.”

He stood, lined up, and pushed. The head popped in—burning stretch, so full you saw stars. He didn’t stop. Inch after thick inch slid home until his hips met your ass and his balls rested against yours.

“Coño… tight as fuck. Virgin-tight for me, huh? That’s my good boy.” He stayed still for a second, letting you adjust, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Then he pulled back slow and slammed in—deep, hard, perfect.

The rhythm built fast. Skin slapping skin, the couch creaking, his gold chain jingling with every thrust. Pani fucked like he played ball—focused, powerful, relentless. Every stroke nailed your prostate, sending sparks up your spine.

“Take this dick, papi—take every fuckin’ inch. You feel that? That’s Dominican power right there. Stretchin’ you open so good. Your hole grippin’ me like it don’t wanna let go. Shit… you creamin’ on my cock already? Nasty boy.”

He leaned over you, chest to your back, one hand wrapping around your throat—not choking, just holding, possessive. His lips brushed your ear.

“You mine tonight, you hear me? Straight or not— this ass is mine. Say it.”

“It’s yours—fuck—Pani, it’s yours!”

He growled, hips snapping faster. The slap of skin was obscene, wet and loud. Sweat dripped from his chest onto your back. He reached under you, stroking your cock in time with his thrusts—rough, perfect.

“Gonna nut in you, bro. Fill this pretty hole till it’s leakin’ Dominican cum. You want that? Want me to breed you like my little secret bottom?”

“Yes—please—cum inside me—”

He fucked you harder, deeper, grunting in that sexy accent.

“Ay, coño… aquí voy, papi. Take it—take all this nut—mierdaaa—”

His cock pulsed, hot ropes flooding you so deep you felt it in your stomach. He kept thrusting through it, milking every drop, until you were shaking and spilling over his fist, ass clenching around him so tight he cursed in Spanish.

He didn’t pull out right away. Just stayed buried, breathing hard, kissing the back of your neck soft now.

“Damn… that was better than any pussy, no cap.” A lazy laugh. “Don’t tell nobody, eh? But… we doin’ this again. My shooter need his favorite receiver after every practice.”

He finally slid out, cum trickling down your thigh. Pani wiped it with two fingers and pushed it back inside you, possessive.

“Keep it in there, baby boy. That’s mine now.”

You collapsed on the couch, spent, glowing. Pani grabbed the remote, turned on the TV like nothing happened, and pulled you against his chest—still naked, still sweaty, gold chain cool against your skin.

“Next practice… wear them gray shorts again,” he murmured, accent sleepy and satisfied. “The ones that make your ass look fat. I got more where that came from.”