simon riley laying low in a small coastal town after an OP x naive tourist having a port day who doesn’t realize that the boat will absolutely leave without you if you spend all afternoon canoodling with the big, brusque behemoth who won’t let you check the time on your phone when he has you spread out on his lap in some local tavern and grinding down on his thigh until the sweat on your upper lip drips down your neck and he licks it up. but he’s more than happy to let you spend the night in his hotel room until you’re able to catch a flight to the ship’s next destination
It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.
Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”
That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).
Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether.
It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.
But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold.
And it happens that way with your heart too.
There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine.
It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.
The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.
You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.
They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them.
Then, to him.
He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down.
Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence.
Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun.
You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him.
It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again.
And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time.
That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he.
It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—
It grows.
It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat.
You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache.
He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy?
Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee.
You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.
You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day.
Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.
What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you.
It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side.
“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”
He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.
You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present.
That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it.
And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips.
The only problem is—
Now he knows who you are.
You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger.
But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in.
It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.
Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.
His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could.
“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.
You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return.
“Sorry?” you croak.
He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”
You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”
You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.
For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way.
The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out.
And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle.
Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable.
You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.
Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.
His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you.
At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.
Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it.
“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?”
That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress.
“For real?” you repeat.
“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you.
“Oh.”
You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu).
This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died.
It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat.
You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely.
The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.
But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land.
What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?
Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection.
But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous.
You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you.
Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town.
To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory.
Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.
You have to shut your mouth before you—
“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. When was your last date?
Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”
He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight.
You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch.
What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch.
He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design.
“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm.
“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now.
You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.
The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose.
You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.
He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts.
He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy.
If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat.
That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that.
He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory.
Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread.
You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons.
When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—
He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again.
“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching.
“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”
“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks.
Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut.
They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface.
Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.
“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.
“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.
He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”
Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath.
Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels.
He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—
You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him.
What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.
“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day.
Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly.
When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin.
“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.
And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”
“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”
It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you.
“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling.
And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do?
You nod.
“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.”
When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone.
You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up.
So be it.
What use is there in protecting something that’s already his?
can we have snippets/ ideas about ur new babyshark fics!!! i cant waittttt to read them
i think they will be the first non x reader fics from you i have read? which a) excites me to no ends bc it brings me one step closer to pretending you have a book lol b) allows me to project myself onto emma (so happy we r finally seeing black girls in more traditionally feminine, submissive roles)
ahhhhhhhhhhh pretending i have a book LMAO yeah fair 🥲 but here are some that i added to today! i have a lot of lil ideas (under 8k), but these are the big boys (likely will be between 15-40k when finished):
unless teeth devour it, it rots—soft au; pre-canon to canon.
She meets him on a run. This new thing she does to destress from the demands of school, the novelty of a move to a different state, but when she wobbles her ankle and ends up as his patient, the boundaries of their relationship begin to shift.
fille en aiguilles (de fil en aiguilles)—mafia au(sorta).
Emma is sent down to get Park when he doesn't answer his page and finds him with a man—one he's patching up under the table. Things begin to unravel after that.
dirty velvet—pre-canon. sugardaddy au (sorta).
Emma's funding for med school falls through—budget cuts, insufficient funds; clerical errors—and Park overhears when he's at the university on day off to talk to the department head about an alumni dinner. He approaches with the perfect solution to both of their problems.
werewolf dom who can smell when youre ovulating and uses this to decide when would be the perfect night to get you a little too drunk to notice that he didn't put a condom on
werewolf dom who can smell when youre ovulating and uses this to decide when would be the perfect night to get you a little too drunk to notice that he didn't put a condom on
thinking about an accidental witch!reader accidentally tying themselves to a very dangerous Ghost
maybe you read too many fairytales as a child, maybe your grandmother was too indulgent, maybe you were too much your father's child, too focused on doing things the "right" way, but you'd been small and hopeful and you'd mixed together your herbs and borrowed your mother's lighter and scrawled in messy pink crayon your spell for a prince charming.
he'll fall in love at first sight
he'll love me no matter what
he'll find me no matter where i am
he'll take care of me
he'll kill dragons
and when dragons had felt too specific you'd crossed that out, amended your magic:
he'll kill monsters
you burned your paper with your herbs, said your magic words, and promptly forgot to go and play with the neighborhood cat. you grew up, you met many people who were definitely not prince charming, you forgot about magic. you forgot that just because you can't see the threads of the universe, doesn't mean you can't alter them.
so when ghost finds trying to get your cigarette to light outside the pub, you don't pay him any mind. it's only when his own lighter flips open that you look up from your hands at the smile that twists at your acknowledgement. the fingers that are illuminated in the dark are wet, pungent with iron. he clicks his tongue when your stomach clenches nervously, when you peak around to see the feet laying still beside the bins.
"don't worry about 'im," he'll chuckle, blood smearing across your cheek as he brings you back to the light and holds you there, cigarette dangling precariously from your lips until the smoldering end brings you back to the pinch of his fingers on your jaw, "did ya a favor didn' I? 'e's been botherin' you, yeah?"
you don't know, can't see the face, couldn't say if it was a friend or a stranger resting peacefully with the garbage.
Another click of the man's tongue, his thumb wiping through the blood on your cheek, eyes sparkling with glee. "Messy ain't ya, need a bath when ya get home."
His laughter will follow you out of the ally, promising that the man will be soon to follow.
He'll find you no matter where you are, he'll love you no matter where you go, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way.
cw/ kinks. non/dubcon. brief description of harassment (from a stranger), abduction, naive! reader, established relationship, toxic! simon, drugging, manipulation, primal play, violence and hostility, fear play, dacryphilia, fingering, brief mention of blood, nausea and dizziness, fingering, size difference, belly bulges, pussy and ass eating, unprotected sex, rough sex, edging, squirting, ass play. simon is a BAD boyfriend, very dead dove. SMUT
synopsis. you dont listen to your boyfriend's warnings to keep safe, and so he shows you what it's like to be kidnapped.
a/n. this is dark. if you are uncomfortable or the warnings trigger you, feel free to scroll. consume media with your own discretion. know yourself and your limits.
simon didn't like to think he was controlling of his girlfriend.
he knew how men operated, though. saw sweet, bubbly things like you and immediately their minds would fill with the urge to corrupt such purity.
a bartender, you once were before he whisked you away. having endured constant leers and gropes from drunken bastards would've made simon believe you'd learned from experience to keep your guard up, but you hadn't. not even close, actually. your survival instincts were dreadful in all regards.
the night you met, simon'd just left the pub you worked at a few minutes after you did - intending to head back home after meeting old friends - when he'd found you, soft and trembling with your purse clutched to your side as a man held you up against a brick wall. as the stranger's grimy hands groped sloppily at your tits, you were crying and begging for mercy. "i just want to get to the bus, sir… p-please don't hurt me."
the man obviously had no intentions of letting you go, and so simon acted. grabbing the fucker by the back of his dirty flannel, and throwing him to the ground hard enough for his head to connect with the concrete with a sick thud. then, he looked up at you, shivering and in deep shock, with several buttons of your uniform top undone.
"face the wall and cover your ears, girl. don' look 'till i tap you."
his voice came almost unnervingly quiet, but it brooked no argument. you didn't resist. the least you could do, since this man had rescued you, was obey his command to disassociate from the violence he was about to rain down on the other man. you press your trembling palms flat against your ears and turn to look at the brick wall, faintly hearing repetitive, dull thudding of fists on muscle and flesh. then, the occasional muffled, sickening crunch of a bone.
you pinch your eyes shut tightly and try to imagine a different scenario. the beach. you always liked the beach. waves crashing in the distance, the sun kissing your skin, the scent of salted ocean...
you feel a hand on your shoulder and snap out of your thoughts. the man who harassed you is nowhere to be seen, but there's a puddle of blood on the ground where he used to be. your stomach churns. he's wiping his hands on his dark jeans, his knuckles bruised from hitting your attacker.
"y'alrigh'?"
you blink up at him upon hearing the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering for a moment as you try to make sense of all the recent turn of events. being harassed, getting saved, your attacker getting beat into a bloody pulp.. no, you're not okay. your brain is foggy and your heart is pounding so hard that it echoes through your ears. he leans down to be level with you and holds onto your arms. not in a restraining way, though. his grip is loose and comforting.
" 'm sorry if i scared you," he murmurs, looking down at you calmly, but earnestly.
he's breathing heavily from adrenaline and his body's worked up like a tight coil, but he's still very gentle with you. soft for someone whose hands are still sticky with blood. you nod slowly, your breathing regulating once your body understands you're safe with him. he rubs your arms to stop you from shaking.
"you're shaking like a leaf. must be cold." he mumbles, shrugging off his jacket before you even nod. it smells delightfully like his cologne when he drapes it around your shoulders, a clean and woodsy scent that reminds you of cedar trees.
" 'm simon." he adds after a beat. "whas' your name, girl?"
you tell him your name softly, and he repeats it right after, wanting to make sure he's got it right. "s'pretty, suits you well." he says smoothly. he still hasn't let go of your arms, thumbs brushing back and forth like he's trying to ground you. he looks at you a little too long than a stranger should, eyes searching your features. you sniffle a little, staring up at him with big, watery eyes. "t-thank you..."
"d'you needa ride home?" he asks tentatively, seeming to be a little unsure if he's overstepping, but determined to protect you nevertheless. "s'late. your bus'll be another half hour, if that. wouldn't be man o' me to leave y'standing here."
you nod softly, "o-okay. uhm yes, please. i don't wanna be out here anymore."
he leads you towards his truck, opening the door for you and putting his hand on the top so you don't bump your head by accident. he then buckles your seatbelt for you, knuckles brushing the top of your thighs as he clicks it in place.
"th-thank you, simon" you say as he gets in on his side and turns the key in the ignition to start the car.
" 'course" he mutters, putting his hand on your thigh casually. "couldn't leave you like that."
a smile spreads across your face and you find yourself even more comfortable with the strange man. and so you start talking. perhaps a nervous tic due to a rush of sudden emotions flowing through you; or a dislike for sitting in silence, but once it starts, it doesn't slow down for a second.
you tell him everything. your full address. apartment number. that you live alone. that your roommates moved out and you haven't replaced them yet. that your bedroom window's always sticking open and that your landlord won't call someone to fix it, and it makes you nervous sometimes because you're a heavy sleeper.
you don't even notice the way his jaw tightens as you speak, knuckles going white around the steering wheel you're telling him information he could use to rob you, kill you, force himself on you, like nothing. all the more, you're wide eyed and grateful, holding onto the sleeve of his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
he looks over at you. "shouldn' be trustin' people so easy," he says with an edge in his voice. "i could be a bad man. coulda only got rid of that prick to have you to m'self."
you blink, a frown crossing your lips. you don't seem to be scared by his question, more upset at the suggestion that he could be bad. in your mind, you've labeled him as your savior. "you're not one of the bad ones."
he stares at you, trying to make sense of your words. you seem confident that he's the epitome of a white knight. he wants to be angry at how easy that came out of your mouth, but he can't be when you're staring up at him like that. he's a sucker for a pretty face.
he sighs and turns his gaze back to the road. "just sayin' you oughta keep your guard up more, girl. y'don't know me."
you don't take your eyes off him, feeling a little drop in your tummy when he takes his hand off your thigh. "i know enough, though. you helped me. that's what's important."
he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. you watch the streetlights flicker across his face as he drives, and you feel the uncomfortable feeling in your body give way for warmth. he parks in front of your building fifteen minutes later. "this it?" he questions, having committed your address to his memory subconsciously after you'd told it to him. he'd been able to drive here with no assistance.
you give him a quiet nod, unbuckling your belt and looking up into his eyes. something in you feels like you should give him something for doing all of this for you. maybe a hug? however, you didn't want to overstep, and you find yourself awkwardly patting his shoulder instead.
you curse yourself under your breath for your evident lack of social skills, hoping he doesn't think you're as strange as you seem. not wanting to hang around longer than you're welcome to, you wave to him like he's your boyfriend dropping you off after a movie. simon watches you disappear inside with an unreadable look on his face.
you're halfway through unlocking your apartment door when something makes you turn back. the street's quiet, his engine still idling. you jog down back down the stairs all the way down to the path toward the curb, the sleeves of his jacket flapping over your hands.
he rolls the window down as you approach. "what're y'doing back here? go to bed."
you pant, breath puffing in the night air. "i... it's just, d-do you want tea? or... or dinner? i know it's late, but i feel bad just letting you drive off after all that."
simon blinks at you. he can't believe what he's hearing.
you shouldn't be inviting a strange man into your flat at this ungodly hour. he's probably not entirely sober either. if he wanted to hurt you, he could, with zero effort. men with his size usually send most people bolting the other direction.
you rush to fill the silence. "you saved me, and i just- i mean, it's the least I could do, right? i make really proper sandwiches. and tea. everyone compliments my tea. i'll put sugar in it. do you like sugar, simon?"
he should say no. but you're looking up at him like he's sunlight after a storm, eyes wide and hopeful. he doesn't have it in him to turn you down. not when you're already clutching his sleeve and tugging at it like you expect him to follow.
"do i like sugar." he echoes in mild disbelief, cutting the engine. "okay, i'll come in. just for a bit."
you smile so big it makes your cheeks hurt. the second he's out of the car, you're tugging him eagerly back up the stairs with you.
you live in a cozy little walk-up that contains a mess of throw pillows and mismatched mugs and other clutter; it's obvious you're a little hoarder. there's cute trinkets everywhere showing you've done your best at bringing the dull London apartment to life, but you've failed to capture one consistent aesthetic. it's charming, nevertheless.
"sorry it's messy," you chirp, dropping your keys into a bowl shaped like a cat and kicking off your shoes while he helps you out of his jacket. "i didn't have time to clean up. didn't think to, either. i hardly get any visitors. all my family live outside town." he kneels in front of you after, undoing your lace-up boots delicately to put them in the corner. you thank him with a little grin, offering him house slippers right after.
he blinks down at them. "they've got bunny ears."
you giggle, a soft sound, like windchimes. "i've got bear ones too if you want."
God almighty.
he accepts the bunny slippers.
you make him tea first, bustling around your tiny kitchen like a little homemaker. he offers to help, but you frown at him like he's personally insulted you. "no, no, you sit. i'll take care of you." he can't remember the last time anyone said that to him. probably never.
you chatter as you move around the kitchen, barefoot now, he notices. you've already forgotten he's not a stranger. you rave about your favorite teas, how you like your eggs, and ask him if he wants toast or an english muffin. you even hum a little as you stir something in a pan.
every now and then, you drift closer to him, touching his arm to get his attention or leaning against the counter beside him while something cooks. simon can't tell if it's nerves or attraction (or some dangerous mix of both) but your sweetness is starting to eat away at the last of his restraint.
you make him a plate, serve him like it's the most normal thing in the world to cook for a man who could've easily snapped your neck twenty minutes ago. "hm. thank you."
when he's finished, you sit beside him on your couch, pulling your knees up and crowding close into his space, you keep offering him bites off your fork even though he's got a whole plate in his lap. and he lets you. lets you curl into him as you browse for a movie. lets you tuck a blanket over both of you. lets you sigh happily as your head lolls against his shoulder.
you're asleep on him. a stranger. he's about to move you off gently, but then you whimper quietly, pressing closer in your sleep, and your fingers twitch in the fabric of his shirt. you're holding on.
he exhales slowly and sinks deeper into the couch. he's decided he'll stay for tonight. just to keep you safe in case some slimeball creeps through your faulty window.
you jolt awake with a little gasp, embarrassed immediately, but simon doesn't flinch. he cracks one eye open and grunts.
"you slept here."
"reckon i had to," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep. "y'never moved off me."
"oh my gosh," you sit up. "sorry! i really didn't mean to, i just- my shift was so long and i was so tired- let me make you breakfast. do you- would you want that?"
he looks at the visible eagerness to please etched into your features. the minute he huffs out, "yeah that sounds lovely." you rush to your feet to start working. you're halfway through pulling eggs from the fridge when you realize you haven't asked him what he actually likes, so you turn back, holding the carton against your hip. "do you want your eggs fried, simon? or i could scramble them. or i could make them poached."
he's sitting on your couch still, big hands rubbing at his face, hair a little mussed from sleep. he looks far too at home in your space for someone who walked in for the first time just hours ago. "whatever you like," he says through a yawn, leaning back and stretching lazily until the hem of his shirt rides up over his stomach. simon doesn't miss how your eyes follow the movement and linger.
when you set the plate down in front of him, consisting of eggs, toast, beans, sausage, his brows lift. "that's well nice," he mutters, almost to himself, before picking up the fork. you hover a little, chewing your lip. "you think so?"
he takes a bite, chews, swallows, then looks straight into your eyes. "yeah. i like it a lot."
it shouldn't make you as warm and fuzzy as it does. you grin and go to sit opposite him, sipping tea while he eats. simon's not saying much, but you can feel his gaze on you more than the steam rising from your mug. he's in no rush to leave. in truth, you don't want him to. this sweet stranger has already begun to carve a soft spot into your heart.
simon had told himself, at first, that he was just checking in on you. but every time he tries to stop, you beg him to promise that he "won't act like a stranger" and to visit you as much as he liked. that you were lonely and his visits made your day. how safe you felt with him (as you kept reiterating). you begin to rely on him more and more.
you warm up to him even more each time he comes over. you start calling him "si." you bake him sweets. you tell him every thought that pops into your head and giggle at your own jokes. you look up at him like he hung the stars.
he told himself you needed protection. that's all. but it wasn't long before he was letting himself into your apartment without knocking and doing things around your house. fixing things and cooking for you and doing chores like it's his apartment. your feelings for him grew stronger and stronger each and every day, and before you knew it, odd jobs and work in your living space turned to him coming home with flowers everyday.
kissing your face.
murmuring sweet talk.
asking you out on a date.
and finally, making you his girlfriend.
you're sprawled across his lap on the couch, still in your soft pajamas, your cheek pillowed on his shoulder. you squint up at him, face scrunching. "you know, I liked you right away. I knew you were safe."
he knows damn well he isn't, and you don't. he's buried it away far enough so you don't have to see it. nevertheless, simon leans down, kisses your temple, his hand splayed over the curve of your back to curl you closer to him.
you're still just as naive as the day he found you crying by the bus stop with that god-awful lost look in your eye. you're too nice, trusting, and living like nothing in this grimy, spit-on city could ever touch you.
you're lucky it was him that found you, not someone else. lucky it was his truck you got into. it's his body you fall asleep on. he sees the way people look at you when you're walking alone, headphones in, no sense of danger in those pretty eyes. he has to recognize it for you every time; filthy pricks eyeing you up like you're nothing but meat.
"luvie," he warns one morning, voice gruff as he adjusts the strap of your little bag over your shoulder, "you've got to stop smilin' at every fuckin' bloke who makes eye contact with you, alright? it's bait."
you blink up at him all dewy-eyed, utterly unfazed. " 'm just being friendly," you say, "you're so dramatic sometimes."
his jaw tightens. " 's not dramatic. you walk around and keep battin' y'lashes, someone's gonna get ideas."
and every day, it's something new.
you leave the pub after dark because your shift ran late and he told you to call him but you didn't want to "be a bother." you give a man on the street your number because he "seemed lonely" and "was really polite." you let some random cab driver walk you to your door after a night out because "he offered and you didn't want to be mean." you let out a sigh when he scowls at you, unimpressed by your clear nonchalance regarding the situation. with a tilt of your head, you say: "you worry too much. nothing happened! nothing ever happens."
simon crosses his arms, standing in your kitchen. he's watching you pour cereal like nothing's wrong, as if you didn't nearly lead a man up to your apartment (thank god he was there and scared the fucker off) two nights ago. it's interesting, because you'd invited simon up to your place back when he was a stranger. but back then, he thinks grimly, you'd been vulnerable. shaken. grateful. you'd given him your trust because you felt safe in that moment, not because you were handing it out like sweets to anyone who smiled at you.
"d'you even understand how close that was?" his voice is low and stern.
you glance up, blinking. "i said i was sorry..."
"it's not about sayin' sorry," he interrupts. "it's about learnin'. fucking hell, i told you not to entertain men off the street. what part of that didn't sink in?"
a sigh leaves you, and you wilt like a puppy being scolded. you do love how simon protects and dotes on you, but you don't like the condescending tone in his voice when he chastises you. you're a grown woman, and you know what you're doing. "obviously, if a man tried to make a pass at me, i'd stop him." you say, but that's exactly the problem. simon knows you wouldn't be able to.
you wouldn't react fast enough or firmly enough before the wrong kind of man took your hesitation as an invitation.
he pushes off the counter, advancing on you. "obviously?" he echoes, incredulous. "you don't bloody know, that's the whole point. you keep thinking blokes will back off if you say no, but you don't see it, christ- half of 'em won't give a toss what you want."
"you're always mad at me lately!" you respond defensively. "i don't mean to-"
"i know you didn't mean to," he cuts in, dragging a hand through his hair. "you never mean to, love. that's the problem."
you gaze down at your bowl, blinking hard, and his gut twists with guilt, but only for a second.
"d'you think I like getting calls from you where you're cryin' in the middle of the fuckin' road?" he asks. "do you think I like picturein' what could've happened if i got there a minute too late?"
you drop your spoon with a clatter, the sound loud in the tense kitchen. your voice is filled with frustration and panic that threads through every syllable. "i'm not a child, for gods sake, i can handle myself!"
his chest heaves, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "no, you don't!" he snaps back. "you don't know how fast someone can ruin your life. you don't know how little it takes for someone to see you as prey and act on their urges while you make it so fucking easy for them! you think you're being nice and sweet, but you're just… you're just asking for trouble, and i can't fix it before it finds you!"
you're heated. "you're just scared that because i'm not living in fear every second, i'm prone to getting in trouble. i know when something's unsafe, simon! i can be polite without enticing men!"
"polite?" he laughs bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief at your sheer stupidity. you are not understanding the situation at all, and no matter how many times this happens to you; how many close calls you have, you still don't take your safety, or your life, seriously. he tries to spell it out for you. "polite gets people in your bed, gets them on top of you without your permission. polite doesn't keep you alive! you think just because you smile or answer them nicely, they'll go away? they won't."
"and you keep allowing it to happen over, and over, and over."
you feel your chest tighten, heat rising in your face. he looks at you for a long moment, the tension between you strung taut. "just stop trying to control me. i know what i'm doing. i was surviving before i had you, wasn't i?"
it finally clicks for him.
no matter how many times he tells you...
no matter how hard he warns.
you're not going to really understand until you really experience it. until danger has it's teeth-bared close.
he doesn't tell you that, though.
simon exhales sharply, running his tongue over his teeth. his deep blue eyes rake over your stubborn face.
a beat of silence.
then, "fine. well. guess we'll see, then."
"…what's that supposed to mean?"
"nothin'," he says too easily, backing off a step. "eat your food."
a heavy, musky pile of fur is pressing down on you, soft, with the faint scent of smoke and something animal. it's the first thing you register before the cold hits. the air is biting, sharp enough that it stings your cheeks with every gust of wind and numbs your fingers, even though they're gloved. you blink, but your lashes feel clumped, stuck with the wetness of half melted snow.
you push your hands out of the furs clumsily, joints stiff and sore like you've been lying still for too long. everything feels wrong. too quiet, too far away. the ground beneath you isn't a floor; it's hard and uneven, scattered with a thin crunching layer that snaps when you shift your weight. snow. you're in snow.
you sit up too fast and your stomach lurches. you have to catch yourself on your palms, breathing slow to fight the black creep of dizziness at the edges of your vision. you don't recall falling asleep here, let alone anything that's happened in the last several hours. a chunk is missing in your memory.
you remember walking, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, breath fogging in little clouds. you remember…
your head throbs. a strange chemical tang is lodged in your sinuses, something sour and artificial that makes your stomach turn if you inhale too sharply. "where..." you blink, scanning your surroundings. the forest closes in on you on all sides, tall and dense. it's muffled here, sound swallowed up by the snow and the tree line. no hum of traffic, no voices, no power lines. Only the brittle snap of branches shifting overhead.
you turn in a slow circle, your breath puffing in the air. nothing up ahead. not a path. or houses. or a road. you're alone.
until.
there. footsteps, somewhere behind you, muted but distinct, a deliberate crunch-crunch-crunch that doesn't align with the frantic beat of your own pulse. then it stops. then comes again.
it's not steady, in a rhythm you can follow. just there. a crunch that's far too deep rooted to be the random settling of ice or the soft fall of snow from a branch. someone's putting their weight down. you whip your head toward it, but the trees all look the same. black spines, white drifts, shadows stitched between them. you squint until your eyes sting, but you can’t discern any movement.
the sound stops. your ears strain in discomfort with the silence. when there's no noise around you, you can hear your own heartbeat in your head, a slow, dragging thud. "it's nothing..." you mutter. "it's nothing. a deer... maybe a fox." you take an unsteady step forward, snow crunching under your boots. boots that you weren't wearing before you got here.
crunch.
you freeze. the breath you were about to take stalls halfway, sticking in your lungs. the sound is a lot closer than it was before, but when you turn to scan the darkness again, the trees loom too dense in every direction. you can't tell if it's twenty feet away or seven. every instinct you have starts clawing at you. move, move, move... but your legs feel lead-heavy, locked in place. your fingers tighten around the edges of the furs draped over your shoulders, bunching the fabric up.
crunch.
this time, behind you.
your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your fucking feet. you twist again, but you still can't see anything. the cold air is starting to taste metallic in your mouth. there's nothing around you but the sound of your breathing and the footsteps, stopping and starting, circling. you begin backing away, boots slipping a little on the ice. your eyes keep darting between the trees, trying to catch something; a shape, a flash of movement, a face.
then it comes. not one step, or two, but a multitude of them, plowing straight toward you from behind. as the sound fills your ears, your instincts finally take the reins. your fight or flight comes full force. you run.
you don't even think about direction, just away from the noise, away from the beast tailing you. your breath starts coming out in ragged clouds. the furs are heavy, but you can't make yourself drop them, not when you can already feel the sting of the wind on your exposed skin.
somewhere behind you the footsteps speed up.
you're tearing through the snow like it's the only thing between you and death, every muscle in your legs screaming at you to stop, to slow down, but you can't. if you slow down, it's over. the crunch of boots behind you is relentless, eating at the distance you're trying to claw back with every step.
you keep trying to look over your shoulder, desperate to see them, to know, but the dark swallows everything. the trees blur into one unbroken wall of black, and all you can hear is the sound of your own breath paired with those heavy, deliberate steps that quicken rapidly. you whip your head forward just in time to trip over something half-buried under the snow.
your skull comes in contact hard against something solid and unmoving, the pain blooming so fast and hot it steals the air from your lungs. white bursts across your vision, your ears ringing like they've been stuffed with static. the cold seeps instantly into your knees and hands where you've hit the frosted ground.
panic claws its way through the fog in your head and forces you to move. you lurch upright, dizzy, the world spinning hard enough that you have to grab at the nearest tree to keep from going down again. you don't even know if you're running in the same direction anymore, but you don't care. your legs take over, sprinting so hard you can barely keep your footing. "move..." you gasp to yourself, willing yourself to pick up speed again. nevertheless, the widening thud of those boots in the snow is gaining.
the resounding steps behind you are fast in a way that doesn't make sense for something that big. your lungs are on fire. your legs keep threatening to give out. you hear them closing in. you try to push harder, but your foot catches again, your balance tips, and you stumble so badly your body can't even recover before- hands.
massive hands. they catch you like you weigh nothing, one clamping around your middle, the other hooking under your arm to yank you fully off the ground. your legs kick, scraping snow out of the air, but your boots never find purchase again. the grip is unshakable as they drag you back against something solid, living, breathing, and far, far stronger than you.
the noise behind you changes. less crunching snow now, more of a deep, steady inhale, like whoever has you is taking their first real breath of you. you thrash so hard it feels like you're tearing something inside yourself, your voice shredding as you scream. "LET ME GO! s-stop it! who are you?!" your yells come out raw, high-pitched, so loud your own ears ring. you kick wildly, boots slamming into shins as your heels dig into flesh behind you for leverage. your fists flail to punch at whoever's holding you back.
they don't make a single sound.
you twist and lurch in his grip, but the chemicals still humming in your blood make the world lag a fraction behind your movements. but you fight anyway because the alternative is unthinkable.
the huge man barely stumbles as you slam both elbows back into him. he shifts his weight and you're suddenly turned, your shoulder wrenched hard, boots skidding uselessly over the ice-slick snow before he drives you into the ground, snow flying up around your head.
his knees pin your hips before you can twist away, one giant hand fisting in your coat to keep you from bucking. the other catches your wrist mid-swing and slams it into the ground beside your head.
you scream again, the sound cutting through the trees. you try to twist your head to bite him, to do something, but that's when his hands shift, both of them sliding to your throat. not squeezing the windpipe, but worse. the sides. the soft spots. vulnerable places where the blood moves fast to your brain.
it's instant. your pulse jumps and your vision sparkles. the fight or flight in your body explodes into frantic, jerking panic, and your nails rake at his wrists, your heels dig trenches in the snow as you buck and twist. the world tilts violently, black spots flickering in the corners of your eyes...
you're making wildly unpleasant, desperate little sounds, half-sobs, half-groans, but the hands on your neck don't shift. the beast holds you there, the grip like a vice until your arms feel heavy, until your legs stop kicking quite as hard, until the pounding in your skull turns hollow.
the dark seeps in from the edges. your lungs burn, and your head feels like it's filling with warm water. slowly, your body betrays you, weakening even though you're begging yourself to keep fighting.
the last thing you're aware of is the faint sound of his breath and the sharp wind of the winter above you as everything fades to black.
you come to slowly.
your head is pounding and your mouth is uncomfortably dry from lack of saliva production, though you're unsure if it's from chemicals in your system or if you're just severely dehydrated. how long have you been out this time? when was the last time you ate, or drank water?
as you sit up, the first thing you notice is the smell. wood smoke from a fireplace burning somewhere in the background. leather. mahogany candles. your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the room and you see log walls, a rough-hewn ceiling beam above you.
you've been taken to a cabin.
for a moment, you're delusional enough to think maybe you wandered here yourself, that someone found you in the snow and patched you up. there's something wrapped expertly around your head; a bandage, and when you touch it, your fingers come away faintly tacky.
blood, from your fall.
you swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting creaky floorboards. your balance is unsteady and the pounding in your skull causes the room to sway, but you force yourself up.
shuffling towards a table, you search for some kind of clue as to where the hell you are, maybe your captor left a device laying around for you to call simon and the police.
fuck, simon. he must be anxious out of his mind. you don't know when you were captured, but your boyfriend goes crazy when he doesn't hear from you for extended periods of time while you're out without him. but now, when you should've been at home with him a long, long time ago, he's either called the police or gone looking for you himself. you can imagine him checking everywhere you usually go like a lunatic.
your heart aches at the thought of never seeing him again...
someone's watching you.
it takes your eyes a second to land on him. the beast lurks in the far corner of the room, standing perfectly still with his broad shoulders brushing the walls, face swallowed in shadow and the thick balaclava covering his face. you're not able to discern how long he's been there. but you're sure it wasn't just now. "please…" your voice wavers so bad it's barely sound. "please, i don't... my boyfriend is crazy about me, okay? h-he's gonna find me and then he'll kill you for kidnapping me!" you shake your head, tears stinging before they even fall.
he doesn't answer.
you take a step back, palms lifted like that might somehow make you smaller, safer. "just- i'm hurt. i can't-" your voice breaks again, and you swipe at your eyes uselessly. "i just wanna go home. i won't tell anyone."
the movement from him is sudden. just a few long strides and he's in front of you before your brain even catches up. his huge hand clamps around your bicep and you gasp, tripping over your own feet as he hauls you backward. "no, no! please, stop, i didn't do anything wrong! i'm sorry, please don't hurt me!" you kick at the floor, nails digging into his wrist, but it's like fighting a stone pillar. he doesn't make a sound.
you hit the bed hard, the mattress dipping under your weight. he follows instantly, using one hand to press you flat against the blankets like it's nothing. he uses his weight to pin your hips down, while one hand splays flat on your chest.
"get off me! my boyfriend will find me!" you keep reiterating your certainty that simon will come to rescue you before this beast does anything to you. it just sounds like you're deluding yourself. simon is tactile and told you about his stories in the military and his days of hunting where he tracked creatures miles upon miles. but as you remember being outside, there was nothing around you at all. you're in the middle of nowhere with a blizzard sure to hit within the week. your captor took you conveniently so finding you would be impossible, realistically.
your voice dissolves into sobs, messy and gasping. you twist hard, try to roll to your side, but his hand on your chest shoves you flat again without effort.
it's pathetic, how weak you are against him. every jerk of your body is countered before it's even fully started, every scream muffled by the thud of your own heart in your ears. in contrast, his breathing is slow and measured. he behaves as though he has all the time in the world.
he didn't restrain you because he didn't need to. he holds you down with that one hand effortlessly, and you try to grab for his mask in a desperate attempt to uncover the psychopath who's doing this to you. but oh, that earns you punishment. he slams your hand back to pin it against the bed, maneuvering both your wrists into one hand and placing it roughly over your head. he's calculated. knows how to grip you hard enough to bruise, but not enough to break your bones.
your captor tilts his head just slightly, studying you. the movement chills you worse than any words could have.
his free hand moves. cupping your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.
then, it slides down. down. down. to your waist, peeling up the furs he put you in and your work top you'd been wearing when he'd chloroformed you. you let out a cry and desperately attempt to squirm away, but his hand and body pinning you don't allow you. he shoves your shirt and bra up in his fist till they bunch at your collarbones, exposing your breasts. your nipples pebble immediately when the cold air hits them.
his thick, calloused fingers find your breast, roughly squeezing the soft mound like dough. your nipple, already stiff, gets caught between his fingers, rolled and pinched until you can't hold back a strangled whimper. his hand is so large that it engulfs your breast entirely, leaving no part of it untouched by his groping. he seems to relish in the way your body yields beneath his touch, the supple give of your skin and tender tissue molding to the contours of his palm. "fuck! stop it, get off me, you psychopath! you c-can't just kidnap me and ngh- damn it-!"
his other hand, still wrapped around your wrists, tightens slightly in a wordless warning. you can feel the strength in his fingers and know instantly that any resistance on your part would be futile. maybe even dangerous, with how unpredictable he is. still, your instincts drive you to squirm and try to pull away from his touch, your body recoiling instinctively from the undesired fondling.
he seems to pity your feeble struggles, a soft scoff leaving him. leaning in closer, his masked face hovers over the exposed flesh of your breast. he lets go of your wrists to raise his mask above his mouth, attaching his lips to one of your nipples. the sensation sends jolts of revulsion and unwanted arousal through your body. "mngh, no oh my gosh, stop it! please no more-"
he flicks your nipple upwards with his tongue, leans down, and engulfs the entire bud in the wet heat of his mouth. you gasp, a shock of sensation shooting straight to your core as he suckles and nibbles at the sensitive peak. his tongue swirls around, tormenting it until it's rigid and achy. he can't get enough of the way your body responds to his touch in shivers or little flinches.
tears leak from the corners of your eyes, dripping down onto the pillow beneath your head. he takes his time torturing you, lavishing each breast with the same attention. your captor's tongue and teeth work your flesh, alternating between tender suckling and sharp nips.
when you thrash, his grip on your wrists tightens warningly. he pauses, his masked face lifting from your breast. behind the fabric, you feel the weight of his displeased gaze. without warning, his lips move sloppily down your body, open-mouthed kisses laving over your cool skin.
he lets go of your wrists. no need to hold them down any longer; you're not capable of fighting back against him at your full strength, and now, when you're panicked and disoriented from hitting your head and the chemicals in your system, you're defenseless. he stops at your skirt, unbuttoning it with nimble fingers before dragging down the zipper, then the waistband, with his teeth.
the man leans down, mouth hovering over the sensitive skin just beside your pussy, dragging wet kisses down your thigh slowly and agonizingly. he keeps you spread wide, pushing your skirt to your ankles and following the movement with his mouth.
once your skirt's on the floor and his mouth is at your ankle, he drags a wet trail of kisses up your calf and sinks his teeth into your flesh, holding in place until you scream. he digs harder, harder, rupturing a blood vessel with his maw, and when he pulls back, there's a bite mark blossoming on your skin along with a trail of blood.
he makes a grunting noise that indicates his satisfaction, and licks your blood off his mouth. a snide grin stretches across his pink lips. he doesn't hide his enjoyment of your discomfort, and your expressions serve as encouragement for him to continue. his tongue drags along the trail of blood dripping down your leg, cleaning it up and sucking on the bite mark he left while you wriggle in place. your body is caught in such a strange mix of pleasure, pain, fear and arousal.
he begins to move back down again, making his way down your leg; nipping, sucking... all while keeping his gaze fixed on your screwed up face. you aren't being noisy anymore. the screaming and begging display your terror, and if you're able to control it, he isn't scaring you well enough.
that means you could get yourself kidnapped again by not taking this seriously. and the next time your captor might not be your boyfriend in disguise.
he stops between your thighs once more, noticing the damp patch that's begun to grow on your soft cotton panties. he pushes two thick fingers at the seam of your cunt, making your body jolt and your hands to fly down to the intrusion between your thighs. "wait-"
he huffs and knocks your hands away carelessly, intrigued by the considerable patch of wetness that's gathered between your legs. certainly you're not getting off on this.
you stare up into your captor's eyes. if you weren't so disoriented, you'd realize they're an exact copy of your loving boyfriend's; from the thick lashes to the striking color. he rubs three of his thick fingers against the cotton covering your hole while thumbing around for your clit. he wants better access to you. his free hand grabs the waistband of your underwear and tugs it up hard so it grinds into your dripping pussy. you scream at the sudden mildly painful sensation of the crotch of your panties pushing up between your swollen pussy lips.
slowly and silently, his thick fingers nudge the cotton into you while his other hand keeps the band of your underwear pulled tight. "mmh! what are you- no, it hurts, no more! please," you gasp, your mouth parted in half choked whines that you aren't able to hold back. every twitch of your body only makes him adjust his grip, jerking the elastic higher and harder as the soaked fabric rides against your clit so sharply you gasp. "not there, it's pressing there!"
as his chest rises and falls raggedly, his fingers drag back down, three of them broad and heavy against the damp strip, pressing until the fabric is shoved right between your cunt, molding it together.
"mmh! please, please, it feels weird-" he interrupts you by tugging it up sharply, making you break off into a scream. any more and the fabric will tear from how much tension it's enduring. he licks his lips once he feels the way the cotton is soaked through as the fabric rolls against your folds.
thick fingers curl around the edge of the fabric between your thighs, tugging it cruelly until your pussy lips spread under the pressure, and there's no barrier anymore, only cotton plastered to you so tightly it might as well be your skin.
"you're hurting me!" you swing your arms up at him uselessly, hoping they'll connect with flesh, but he leans down and grabs a fistful of your hair roughly to stop you. tears spark in your eyes from the pain, and your arms raise up quickly to fly to your head. you can only hope he doesn't yank hair clean out of your scalp. the message that he's not one to be trifled with is understood.
you arms drop, and he lets go of your hair to pat roughly at your cheek as one final reminder. as a weak sob bubbles out of you, he returns to rocking the soaked gusset of your panties side to side, dragging the cloth across your clit in slow, merciless friction. every noise you make causes his eyes to flit up to your face. he's feeding off the sounds you can't swallow down.
you're dripping, slick spreading along your thighs and pooling beneath you. guilt ebbs at your conscience. how could you be enjoying ministrations from him - a man violating you - while your boyfriend must be out there, worried sick? regardless, your body reacts against your will, jerking against the bed as he keeps you strung open while he toys with you. he rubs and rubs and rubs until you're shaking under him, your panties nothing but a soaked rag grinding your hole raw.
your captor finally gets tired of simple teasing. the hand holding your waistband shifts, yanking it sideways with no warning at all. The soaked fabric snaps against your skin before it's wrenched aside. you're bared to the cool air, your folds glossy and swollen. you squeal and kick at his chest, your foot finally giving purchase as it collides with his shoulder. somehow, you budge, maybe even harm the goliath of the man, as his grip had loosened enough for you to use your other foot - you reel both back and kick hard at his chest to knock him back a little more, then you run.
you bolt off the mattress and scramble to your feet, heart hammering. every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out of here. you kick off your skirt to help you, momentum carrying you forward - but before you can make it three steps, a massive hand wraps around your ankle. "get off!" you scream, twisting wildly, but he yanks hard. the sudden pull throws you off balance and your body pitches forward. you hit the floor hard, your forehead colliding with the cold surface with a dull thud. dizziness blooms instantly, stars exploding behind your eyes.
strong hands clamp under your arms, lifting you effortlessly. your body arches involuntarily as he hauls you through the air, your legs kicking, your ears are ringing so much from shock and pain that your screams come out muffled. unfazed, he tosses you onto the mattress hard enough to make your body bounce against the frame. you land in a tangled heap, arms flailing weakly, hair splayed across the pillow. "i-i can't, please p-please stop… just a second," your skirt is now in a heap on the floor, leaving you more exposed to him than before. you'd done nothing but anger your captor further and make yourself more vulnerable.
he looms over you again, his broad frame swallowing the small space. you're completely at his mercy once more. "shouldn'ta done that, girl." he finally uses his voice. you lift your head weakly at the vaguely familiar sound. the gravel, the baritone... it matches simons.
you must've hit your head too hard again.
he drags two thick fingers through your seam, spreading you open with the pads just to look. your thighs try to snap shut, but he's already there, pressing them down, watching the way your hole flutters when he teases the slick around it with nothing more than the edge of his fingertip. simon smears your slick higher, splits your folds apart with two fingers, and you squeal, half-panicked, half-overheated, your hands flying down to clutch his wrist. "pl- fuck, please be gentle for a moment, i-i need just a second."
it does nothing. he ignores your weak little attempts at holding him off and pushes, one long finger nudging, testing your hole. and then, without any warning at all, he shoves both digits inside.
you choke on your breath. it's too much, it's so much, the stretch immediate, your walls gripping so tight around the intrusion of his fingers inside you. your hands tighten desperately around his wrist. "please! it's too much, i know you can hear me, stop it!" he only exhales a rough grunt, jerks his hand out of your grasp, and uses the heel of his palm to slam your thighs wider apart until your knees are nearly to your chest.
now there's nowhere to run. he can get deeper.
his fingers piston forward again, filling you to the knuckle in one thrust. he drags them back out to the tips, then forces them back in roughly, again, again, again, until your belly clenches and you can't breathe from the stretch. your lack of sexual experience becomes evident as two fingers alone have you writhing and ready to plead for mercy. you hadn't had sex with simon yet; he'd been so respectful, wanting to take his relationship with you slow. the two of you had only touched on the surface - frotting, panted french kissing, and he'd let you cum on his tongue once after eating your pussy slow and gentle during a movie night.
he'd never rushed you, never pushed, never even slipped his hand beneath your clothes without asking first. that was your simon. that was the man you were falling deeper and deeper in love with.
this wasn't him. this was someone with his voice, his face, his hands... a cruel copy of your sweet boyfriend.
and to think your last conversation with him had been an argument.
your body seizes around his fingers. he pumps harder, rougher, until your juices begin coating his knuckles. his free hand slides up between your thighs, thumb finding your clit without hesitation. there's no gentleness in the way he touches you, no patience in the way he circles. it's rough, paired with pinching and dragging the little bundle back and forth. your hips buck wildly, half away from the sensation, half toward it, but it doesn't matter. he follows, rolling it between his fingers while his other hand drives those thick fingers into your hole. scissoring, twisting... pushing against the softest parts inside you that your own fingers have never been able to reach.
he sucks his teeth and speaks for the second time. "cunt floodin' my hand. must be a pervert, t'get off ta' thing like this." your response is a pathetically pitchy moan. you can't find it in yourself to muster a defense, because he's right, isn't he? you're sick... a pervert... to be gushing for a faceless degenerate instead of fighting him like your life depended on it. he twists his thumb against your clit a little rougher, your head tossing against the sheets. "it... mmhn, 's... 'it's n-not my fault!" that earns a scoff from him.
he spreads you wider with his fingers, toys with the folds at the edge of your hole just to push them back in again. he's trying to see how far you'll open for him before you break.
when you're writhing so hard your whole body lifts off the bed, he pushes deeper, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers fuck you into the sheets, pumping into you roughly and quickly. you clamp your puffy walls down on him with a scream, white covering your vision. you're certain you're at your limits... but he tears his fingers out of you.
it makes you sob out loud, hot and frustrated tears spilling down your cheeks before you even realize you're crying. your hands shove at him weakly, and your voice comes out cracked and furious, "l-let me go! i hate y - hic - this, i-"
he knows exactly what this is. you're not broken like he wants, you're just furious that he ripped your orgasm away. that means his work isn't done.
simon grabs your wrists in one big fist, yanking you back down flat to the mattress. then, his other hand pushes your shoulder over so you roll until your face is pushed into the cold pillows and your ass is tipped high. your thighs clamp shut in panic again, but he forces them apart, spreading you wide so he can watch where you're open and dripping for him. your pussy is glossy and twitching from the ruined build-up with your underwear still rucked to the side. yet you keep trying to wriggle away, tears wetting the sheets beneath your face. "get off me, stop it! just let me go- ah!"
with a sudden surge forward, he buries his face into you like a man starved. his mouth seals over your hole, tongue shoving deep without hesitation, lapping up everything you've spilled out already. he moans at your taste, the sound rumbling against your core as his tongue flattens and curls, dragging through your folds.
you shriek into the sheets as his palms spread over the fat of your ass to hold you still. his nose grinds against your swollen clit while his tongue plunges sloppily inside, and you can feel his jaw working, can hear him slurping shamelessly, sucking your juices into his mouth.
you're wailing, trying to shove yourself up on your hands and knees, but the weight of him forces you into the bed, giving you no wiggle room. you didn't want to stop fighting, but even if you got out, where would you go? there’s a snowstorm and surely there's no phone signal... you're locked in with the beast.
his tongue drags down further, tracing the seam of your ass, hot breath spilling against the tight ring before he pushes, filthy and unashamed. "oh my- ahn, not there, please, it's dirty!" your cry shatters into breathless moans as he presses his mouth against your rim, tongue teasing the rim before descending back to the dip between your holes then dragging back down to your folds again. "mm. shu'up." he mumbles into you.
simon switches back and forth, slurping at your pussy until you're squealing, then shoving his tongue against - and in - your ass. he can't decide which one he likes more. you're dripping all over his chin, his stubble coated in a combination of his saliva and your arousal. but he hadn't forgotten about punishing you for trying to escape earlier, so he focuses on your ass, biting the plush flesh of your left cheek until iron fills his mouth and adds to your sweet taste on his tongue. you sob and kick back at him pathetically, just for him to dive in again.
thick thumbs spread your folds apart for his tongue to push into your pussy, twisting, writhing like he's fucking you with it. every plea that breaks out of you only makes him more ravenous. simon slaps his tongue against your hole, sucking hard enough to make you jolt, then laps up the mess drooling out of you while you moan indecently
he lifts his head, then he's spitting onto your ass, spreading it with his tongue, and diving back in. "mmnh! i s-said not there, you- fuck, no more!" your cries fall deaf on his ears as he works his mouth gluttonously on you, tongue darting between your hole and then laving over the wet outside. then he drags his fat, heavy tongue back down and sucks so hard on your clit that your orgasm from earlier resurfaces instantly. but again, he pulls away with a wet smack and leaves you throbbing, your body screaming at the loss.
"no! please, please, please, i can't, i can't take it anymore!" a rough hand fists in your hair, shoving your head down into the mattress again to shut you up, your cheek smushed and your cries muffled. by now, everything is swollen and achy or painful for you. you can't tell if your head or your cunt from two denied orgasms feels worse. your captor unbuttons and tugs down his pair of faded trousers, tossing them to the floor to join your skirt in a heap. he's holding you down so you can't see what he looks like. his boxers come down to his knees next, and you can hear him begin to palm himself heavily, the lewd slap of his fist milking his cock echoing through the room.
you try to twist and look back at him, but his grip tightens, shoving you deeper into the bed. he curses lowly while fisting himself above your messy pussy before he settles in behind you. again, he lets a thick glob of saliva drop from his tongue to get you even sloppier. the slick drip runs down between your folds, and he smears it with the fat head of his cock, spreading it around.
your voice cracks through the pillow, panicked and begging, "j-just... at lea-least -sniff- at least use a condom, please." you don't even get the full plea out before his cockhead slaps against your hole, cutting you off. he does it again, smearing himself through your slick and letting his fat, flared tip drag between your ass cheeks mockingly. it circles your rim, descends down through your folds, presses against your swollen clit in messy passes until you're gasping into the sheets.
with no warning, he pushes inside you with one brutal thrust forward, splitting you open around the thickest part of him. he stretches you raw and impossibly wide in a single thrust. you scream as his cock drives all the way inside, your body clamping down around him like you're going to tear apart. he groans gutturally, shoving until his hips are flush against your ass, his cockhead nudging so deep inside you it makes your belly jump. the pain of two fingers stretching you out doesn't even come close to the excruciating stretch and burn of a cock that feels like the size of your forearm.
every inch of you is stretched to its limit. unable to form a single thought, your hands claw uselessly at the mattress in an attempt to anchor yourself away from him and off his cock. meanwhile, he just holds there, thick and throbbing inside you. he lets you squirm on his cock while he cages you down with his weight. after watching you flail stupidly for a moment, he gets tired of toying with his food. his big palm spreads over your stomach and presses up, firm, forcing your belly against his cock.
an undistinguishable sound that combines a cry, moan, and scream leaves straight from your throat as you feel the hard shape of him inside you through your own stomach, every vein and ridge outlined under his palm as he stirs your guts from the inside.
"haa, i'm g-going to… oh no!" your thighs start shaking uncontrollably and your gaze fuzzes up again suddenly. the coil in your belly from before resurfaces way too fast, and when it snaps, you gush - squirting helplessly all over his cock, the sheets beneath you soaking instantly. "oh fuckin' hell, squeezin' me so damn tight," he groans, rutting his hips to stir deeper and coax more out of you. his palm rubs in circles, pressing down harder to exaggerate the swell, to force your pussy to clench around him while the wet gush continues to splatter down his pelvis.
delirious from the fullness and the overstimulation, you begin babbling nonsensically. with your pussy squeezing him so hard your walls spasm around the fat length of him, he's not sure how much more he can take. "mngh. loosen up, girl. y'chokin' m'cock." he pants, trying to get you to relax by pressing your belly up more, thumb stroking over the bulge of his cock inside you.
he thrusts once, grinding the head against your cervix. "listen to that," he mutters. "squirting 'round me like a proper whore."
"'s too big! i can't take any more!" you wail. "you're gonna break me, please, i c-can't-"
he drags his hips back slowly, thick cockhead catching at your hole, then slams back in in one brutal stroke.
he stays still for a long moment, letting your belly rise and fall rapidly under his palm as you quiver. he's memorizing the way your insides clench and pulse around him to adjust to his size.
then, finally, he moves - every shift of his hips pushing his length inside you deeper and scraping against the swollen walls of your pussy. the first push of his hips rattles you entirely. you feel so stretched that you can hardly function. you squeeze around him, wailing. every convulsion of your walls pulls him impossibly deeper. his palm presses harder against your stomach, forcing you to feel exactly how full you are.
the burn of his cock dragging through your walls is overwhelming, the stretch so raw you can't even control the way your nails tear at the sheets. "c-can't-" your voice comes out weak because your throat is raw from crying, but his response is nothing more than a low, guttural groan. the sound of your desperation feeds him. he doesn't slow down. instead, he drags back until only the swollen head is keeping you stretched open, then rams in again, hips slamming flush against your ass with enough force to make the mattress creak.
your body jolts forward with every thrust, your cheek grinding against the now-damp pillow since your hot tears have been smearing into the fabric. the initial discomfort of being stretched out blooms into an aching pulse that makes your body feel blissful even when your mind screams at you to resist. simon rewards every involuntary move of your hips with a rough thrust.
sliding lower, his hand leaves your stomach. you think for one moment he might ease up, but he doesn't. thick fingers pinch your clit, rolling it between calloused pads with the same rough impatience as before; he can't decide if he wants to torture you or rip an orgasm from you by force. the double assault makes your hips buck wildly, your cries pitching higher as you try to twist away, but his cock is already locking you in place, stretching you wide around him.
"ah, shit - hear that? sloppy cunt can't get enough of me stuffin' it." he says, voice gravelly, more a growl than words. his fist grabs at your hair, yanking your head back enough for your body to arch. "look at you, cryin' and leakin', but still pushin' back for more." you can't keep your voice down, your pleas splintering apart until they sound like nonsense. it doesn't matter, because he's not listening. his cock batters at your insides, thick shaft dragging mercilessly against every sensitive place inside you, each thrust driving your body closer to a place you don't want to go again.
he changes his angle suddenly in one rough adjustment of his grip on your hip, shoving your ass higher and your thighs wider. the new position drags him deeper still, scraping along parts of you untouched until now.
"tha's it," he grits out, breath harsh in your ear. "body knows what it wants. no need f'you to keep pretendin' not to be a cockwhore." his words make your stomach twist, embarrassment clashing with the unbearable fullness until you can't tell which hurts more. as your stomach turns at the shame of finding pleasure in this despite your lack of consent and the fact that you're simon's, one of his big hands slides down again, a finger prodding at your other hole. the first push of his fingertip has your body jolting violently, a strangled scream muffled against the sheets while his finger forces its way into your ass.
his finger twists. the stretch makes your whole body seize. you're crying in earnest as he works his finger, curling, fucking your ass in time with the brutal rhythm of his cock splitting your pussy open.
your body can't keep up with the assault, cock pounding your cunt, finger stretching your ass, thumb still rolling your swollen clit whenever he wants to hear you shriek louder, which you do. he takes out his finger to slip a second inside harder, all while his cock continuously bullies your soft insides as they squish around his cock.
he takes his fingers out from inside you again to smear your leaking juices with his hand; up your backside, getting it wet by dragging it over your hole before stuffing in a third finger. your whole body lurches forward, choking on your own breath as he works you open there too. "p-please, please, not another, I'm begging! please, not there, it hurts!"
"quit your fuckin' whining." his thrusts turn brutal, each one snapping your body forward against the sheets. you're unable to keep track of what part of you is hurting and what part of you is melting from the way he won't stop. he takes his hand off your clit out of nowhere just to grip your jaw from behind, dragging your face up until your mouth is open for him to lean down over you, hot breath spilling onto your cheek as he snarls into your ear. "open up. stick y'tongue out, too."
you let out a weak cry. "p-please… i will if you take your fingers out of my a-!" he shuts you up with closing his mouth around yours, his tongue tangling with yours messily. his saliva and yours mix each time he swirls his tongue around yours, slurping and sucking on you while he ruts into you with no rhythm, cock battering your cervix until your stomach is tight and bulging where he's dragging you open.
you moan into his mouth without meaning to, muffled cries swallowed by him. as you're forced to kiss your captor, you think of simon - sweet, careful simon, who never kisses you like this, who never shoves his tongue down your throat. you try to pull back to get a breath, but his grip on your jaw is iron, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet him.
remembering simon makes your belly twist worse, makes you sob into his mouth because you feel an insurmountable amount of guilt. it's like you're betraying him, but your body doesn't care.
he bites your lip and pulls back, spit stringing between your mouths. "aw, hear that?" he mutters, nosing at your cheek and then licking a broad stripe over the skin to taste your tears. mocking them. "messin' yourself for me like a bitch in heat. bet your boyfriend's never pulled it outta you like this."
he pounds inside harder, upward, and you cum messily around him with both holes clenching around him tight, slick soaking your thighs and his cock to make every thrust wetter, louder, nastier.
your body jerks violently as he continues stretching you open while his cock thrusts incessantly into you. he keeps your jaw trapped in his hand, not letting you hide. his gaze is locked on every expression break across you; the roll of your eyes backwards, you biting hard on your lip to stifle moans, the way your lashes flutter when he hits too deep.
regardless, he keeps dragging you back every time you start to collapse forward, holding you suspended on the thick stretch of his cock like you're nothing but a sleeve for him to use.
your body's given up. you're cockdrunk to the point that all you can do is squeal brokenly as he forces you back down, rutting into you like he wants to hollow you out and keep you stuffed forever. he hitches your hips higher by banding his arm round your thighs, now curling and pumping his fingers in your hole while holding you suspended while he rams up into you. helplessly, you dangle there while he uses your body to chase his own release. "gonna cream this lil pussy full," he drives in harder, harder, rutting with a desperation that's more animal than human. "gonna knock y'up, make y'carry me in ya every fuckin' day after this. that what y'want? huh?" he jerks you back harder.
your insides clench and gush again, helpless, the thought making your head spin. another orgasm tears through you before you can even answer. the sound you make is raw and embarrassing, high and broken, as your cunt milks around him.
his hands squeeze bruises into your hips as he holds you open, keeps you stuffed full. "y'hear that? y'cum when i tell you m'gonna breed you. thas' what your body fuckin' wants." he says, then shoves deeper. he keeps your ass arched, fists in your flesh like handles, slamming you back to meet his thrusts until you're nothing but a wet hole clinging around him.
"not done," he snarls, yanking himself free with a gush of slick. then he hauls you up, flips you onto your back, and drives in again, pinning you under his weight. you squeal at the sudden manhandling as he flips you and drives back in, fucking you on your back. he holds your thighs up against your chest, forcing you to stare at his face even through your blurry tear-filled vision. "look at me. I want you to remember."
your mouth falls open as he forces your face toward his, and his mouth slots against yours messily, wet tongue tangling with yours as you moan into him, dizzy and humiliated and so far gone you can't stop yourself.
"you're gonna remember who did this," he mutters hot against your lips between kisses, "every time you're out late all on your own. every time this pussy gets all slick. every time your little boyfriend tries to touch you, you're gonna feel me instead. me. right here." he says curving his cock to hit the deepest parts inside of you repeatedly.
the last few thrusts are deep, punishing, until his body locks hard against yours and he grunts through his teeth, cock pushing up deep inside you. hot, heavy spurts flood you so much you feel it spilling instantly, leaking down your ass, but he keeps pumping it in, dragging you down tight onto him, refusing to pull out. cum leaks out with every slam, spilling down onto the bed, and he groans, angling his hips to push it deeper, to force more of him into you until you're stuffed past the brink.
he locks you there, cock swelling and throbbing while he pours another hot load into your womb, fucking it into you so none goes to waste.
Older!Price who purposely got you pregnant takes you bird watching (and fucks you on the riverside).
cw: 18+ mdni, smut with plot, dub-con, outdoor sex, the are clothes on, Toxic!John, :p, breeding kink, age gap (Price late 40s, reader late 20s), reader is a little dumb, daddy kínķ (? pa used), pregnant!reader, dad bf John, pet names (baby, buttercup, lovie)
You came to John, balling your eyes out, about a month after your first interaction, telling him the news he already knew was coming.
Like he hadn’t informed you before shooting his thick load deep inside your snug cunt, he was going to get you pregnant. Like he hadn’t kept you sat on his cock to keep you plugged up and then sent you back to your aunts and uncles walking with a limp, cum filling your underwear with every step home.
Nonetheless, he consoled you, completely satisfied that you were pregnant with his child. Told you not to worry, and you could hide away from your parents and whoever else for as long as you needed, no need to get rid of the little thing. John would take care of everything.
And Price kept his word.
Let you meekly enter his cozy house, only a duffle in hand. Had you in his lap and sleeping from tiring yourself out from the drive, crying and building uo such a courage to tell him the news. And then when you’d gotten settled hes made sure you’d eaten 3 or 4 times a day, even if it was light since you still had morning sickness. Rubbed your back when you had bad nausea, got you exactly what you were craving— kept both set of lips satisfied. You’d wake up with the older man between your thighs.
“It’s still the unstable period,” he breathed out, spitting a glop of spit onto your already aching cunt, “So I can’t give you exactly what you need.”
he dipped a finger into your tight entrance. You whimpered his name, his tongue finally having its long awaited first meeting with your pussy. The older man runs his tongue through your folds, grunting as you get wetter, slowly thrusting his finger, “Papa’s gonna make you feel real nice birdie, don’t worry.”
The months slipped by, you didn’t have to worry about anything. Not your parents, not your friends, just living with John. You’d lost your phone somewhere along the way, you were worried. Maybe you should go back and explain, but Price told you it was okay. You’re just becoming an adult, you need some time apart from everyone. To think for you and the baby.
The pregnancy didn’t feel real till you felt the heavy grow on your stomach, your breasts growing slowly but surely and you need to eat anything you could get your hands on. There were lots of days spent reading, sleeping, drawing, cooking the fresh hunt Price had just skinned. And then others, in John’s lap as he read, letting him fuck to sleep, and hiking along the trails John loves so much to see the birds he adores.
There are lots of books about birds in John’s house, diagrams and binoculars, sketches of different birds John had seen around the world. Price knew a lot of facts too, about their wings and different mating calls, how to capture one if they… needed help.
“Can I go with you one day Price? To see them?”
He gave you a soft smile through his thick beard, kissing your ankle as he rubbed the soles of your feet from the other end of the couch. “Interested in you old man, hm darlin?”
You blush, covering your head with your arm, you mumble, “You’ve always been interesting to me Price.”
It took everything in the older man not to fuck you into the couch. He nibbled at your ankle before kissing it once more, letting out a little breath. Price can feel his cock throbbing through the jeans he’s in. Just a little more. Hold off a little more.
John got you new boots for hiking, they weren’t the cutest but they’d word. “Meant to keep you comfortable ‘nd t’get dirty, not cute.” He gruffed out, his hand on your back as you inspected them.
“But I’d be nice if they were right?”
And you look at him with those big brown eyes that sends goosebumps up his arms. Like you’ve encapsulated the moon in your brown eyes and Price had stolen it to keep for himself.
He taught you the ropes, it wasn’t a long or uphill hike (not that they’re any less harder), but you were pregnant and John was old so if worst comes to worst, you’d be able to find help quickly. Price taught you it was important to take your time, and to drink enough of water.
It was supposed to be a cute little hike.
You’re new boots were on and they fit perfectly, John had you’d gotten yourself a camera to record the scenery and the few birds John had spotted out, the sweat was fucking up your curls you’d proclaim but John still found his pretty girl absolutely stunning inbetween the shadows of the trees and sunlight. And to top it off, John was holding your hand almost the entire time.
Patting your ass and telling you how good you were at bird watching, leaving such long and sensual kisses only your cheek when you listened which made you stomach tie into knots and you rub your thighs together.
How could you ever have known, Price was gonna bend you over right at the river side after eating a much needed lunch, your skirt pulled down to your knees. He had you squealing and cumming so fast on his thick fingers, he was more than eager to get inside you.
“Pa’s takin nice care of you, hm baby?” He huffed, getting up on his knees and rubbing his swollen red tip against your slobbering pussy, “Need you to help your old man f’me lovie.”
Price is thick, too fucking big for his own good. He’s wide and splits your the velvety walls by inch by inch. He squeezes the fat of your ass, kneading it in his hands, “Come on baby, take it- shit- know you can take it.”
All you can do is keen, panting and gripping onto the picnic blanket and grass for any type of help as your hole attempted to swallow him, “Mmgh- so much Price- fuuuck so much!”
And when he sees you wiggling your hips forward, he gives your ass a harsh slap, “You’re takin it, don’t. fuckin. run.” He presses your head into the ground, the arch of your back even bigger than before as he slowly rutting himself deeper inside you till you can feel his big balls against you.
You feel like your choking at the feel of him completely filling you, gasping and trembling around him.
“Bloody pretty little thing, can’t believe you’ve become all mine.” He grumbles, slowly rolling his hips and slamming his cock into to the hilt from behind, his stomach on your back and keep you still. The hairy man sticks a thumb in your mouth, opening it open to spit in your mouth.
“Such a messy fuckin pussy, is this what you needed? Huh? Needed your Pa t’fill your cunt up and give you a baby?”
All you can do is moan and take it, drool coming out your mouth from the thumb he forced in your mouth, clawing at his jeans as he snaps his hips into yours. He comes down to meet you, sucking your earlobe, his beard tickling your face. “Should just get you pregnant again right here. Gonna look so pretty round with our baby lovie.”
Prices hand come underneath your shirt, squeezes them in his palm. Fondling your breasts that are just barely being held up by your bra. He hisses when he feels you tighten around him, thrusting into you faster.
“These gonna be filled with milk soon, all for our babies yeah? Shit, gonna have to help you milk them myself.”
His hand moves further down, his large hand on your belly and slightly lifting you so your stomach isn’t touching the ground you can’t help but keen.
“We both gotta be- hah- more careful about that buttercup,” he grunts, thrusts unyielding, every smack of his thighs against your ass louder and louder, he rubs your tummy, “our baby’s in here.”
And maybe somethings wrong with you, getting fucked by the riverside, rushing water masking your moans and cries. You pray no one catches you but you it makes the whole thing thrilling, your pussy fluttering around his cock. More slicking drenching his member.
But Price doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm. Sitting on the heels of his feet, dropping you down on his cock.
“Ang- oh shi- Pa- Pa!”
Price hums in delight, watching you tremble and whine, eyes at the back of your skull as he pounds into you. His grip on your hips are tight as the loud sound of skin slapping against skin fills the forrest, you creaming his cunt. “Feels so goood, nngh- so- hck- ‘s so muuch!” You keen.
The older man’s jaw is clenched as he fucked you, his sensitive tip brushing against your spot over and over, his pre cum filling you more and more.
“Thaaats it honey, just a little more. Takin your Pa’s dick like a champ.”
Your hands grip his, the pit in your stomach releasing itself once more, creaming Prices cock and milking him for dear life. He grumbles a string of curses, hugging you tight as ribbons of cum fills your overstuffed cunt.
His lips kiss your neck and so tenderly, his breath against your face. He slowly pulls out, pulling your soiled panties to catch the leaking cum from your hole. “That’s my good girl,” and his lips finds yours a filthy French kiss as his hand fins your swelling stomach.
“Gonna be such a good mama, buttercup.”
a/n: is John isolating you till the baby is born and you don’t realize it? Well— (and don’t wear skirts when you’re hiking because of bugs, this is all fictional). But we shall call this reader buttercup. She’s so cute with older price idk.
18+ | smut. age gap. infidelity/cheating (not between price and mc). power imbalance. corruption/coercion. dubcon. under negotiated kink. price's (very) twisted version of daddy kink. manipulation. grooming. predator/prey dynamics. Dom/sub undertones. painful sex. size difference. alcohol consumption. if anything that flirts a lil too close to noncon fauxcest gives you the ick, then this is probs not the fic for you
The first thing he says to you is:
if you were mine, you'd be tucked in bed already instead of drinking alone in a goddamn bar—
Despite it being the most ostentatious thing anyone has ever said to you, it's full of mockery, too—an infantilising barb drenched in ownership, possession. As if you're a trinket to be kept; a child in need of supervision. A firmer hand, perhaps.
(and those gruff words cause two problems for you: the first is that you're not sure if he means it in a parental way—an innocuous sentiment from an overbearing, but well-intentioned, father angry on your behalf—or a bald, albeit gruff, pickup line from a man with stress lines older than you.
the second is that you're not entirely sure which one you want it to be more.)
AO3.
You know of him, of course.
It's rare that anyone at your work doesn't know his name by now:
John Price.
But what you've scraped together is all surface-level wisdom gleaned mostly through sight alone—the way he walks through the resort like he owns it; the broad stretch of his shoulders wading through the crowd, the thick bundle of muscles in his thighs when they flex before he sits at the table unequivocally known as his; the shape of his hands, the dusting of hair on his knuckles, when he grips the tops of his trousers, tugging the fabric taut before he takes his seat—and whispers. Things you pick up like small baubles, little trinkets and shove into your pockets when people talk about him like he's a minor god—half in reverent, the rest in fear.
(Powerful men just seem to awaken a primordial sense of self-preservation, but considering his penchant for unrelenting submission and an unquestioning respect in almost everyone he meets, their malformed sense of awe and terror makes sense.)
But all of this knowledge comes with the prickling awareness that he isn't the type to waste his day in the bar he finds you in.
That this, his presence alone, is an anomaly. A burgeoning enigma.
You've been loitering around enough upscale resorts to recognise patterns. Distinguish habits. And he has been reliably steadfast in that regard—in fact, this is the first time you've seen him shirk his own rules and do something beyond the norm of his constant, unchanging routine.
He's been part of the upper echelon since he set down in Cape Cod for the season, often found in the exclusive lounge—a place that's restricted to platinum cardholders only (where the annual membership fee costs more than twice your salary alone). You've never had a reason to speak to him, or even an opportunity—not when he's part of the untouchable group that's individually catered to by only the most experienced staff. Hand-picked delegates with their own form of prestige.
You've been steadily limping through a degree, and picking up odd hours cleaning guests' suites at the local motel when you weren't getting roped into your dad's get rich quick schemes. Spending the bulk of your free time in this empty bar after hours where all the underpaid, overworked employees congregate, and the guests without memberships can get a drink. It's not a lounge. Not even advertised as one. On a map of the manor house turned country club, this place is listed simply as a cocktail bar. Floor-level. Off the shoulder of the entrance and lobby. A stopgap for weary travelers to start spending their money before being sucked into the haze of affluence that never fails to loosen even the most miserly of men's tight fist.
Simply put: it isn't a place for him. He's not the sort they let loiter in the lobby even if his room isn't ready. No—he’s ushered into a private lounge where he has a personal bartender to cater to his wants as soon as they appear. Being paid just to feed his burgeoning appetite.
But somehow—
He's here.
Just—standing there. Watching. Taking up too much space in what has slowly become your sanctuary to people-watch and learn secrets about a man you'd never get within five feet of—until now. Until he's glowering at you with an intensity that makes your stomach churn—leaving you feeling like you've been caught doing something wrong. Twisting in shame and embarrassment; whole body tensing up in preparation for a blistering chastisement for your mere existence having the gall to smudge his periphery.
And he does chastise you. Unmoors the connecting threads keeping you tied to reality with just a handful of words—ones that come with a bite, a pinch of anger, as if the mere idea of you being here was somehow unacceptable to him.
if you were mine, you'd be tucked in bed already instead of drinking alone in a goddamn bar—
Despite it being the most ostentatious thing anyone has ever said to you, it's full of mockery, too—an infantilising barb drenched in ownership, possession. As if you're a trinket to be kept; a child, one in need of supervision. A firmer hand.
And it's—
It's strange how easily it disarms you, making you almost breathless from the panoply of emotions running through you all at once—anger at his gall, embarrassment, want (that sticky, awful thing simmering between your hips; a bubbling heat crawling up your throat)—until you're left feeling, speechless and gaping at him, trying to unravel the thread but it's buried under the muck. Hands slipping over the knots you keep trying to untie, dazedly wondering if he means it as it comes out—a disapproving father seeing the smudged shape of his own daughter in you. Angry on your behalf, like a well-intentioned father. Paternal instincts rearing. Or is it a—a wanting thing. Mine, he said. If you were mine…
Mine—in a fatherly way: anger bracketed inside something innocuous and parental. Pater patriae. Filial piety. You're young enough that you could be his daughter, too. Be the kid he had when he was barely sixteen and just a child himself. Kids raising kids. You can see it lingering in the stress line around his face. The subtle, soft streak of grey at the corner of his mouth, dusting at the arch of his left temple. Feel that fatherly anger like a fist pressing against your navel. Dad-like disappointment—the kind you've only ever known from Disney Channel.
(words buffeted by a deep sigh. puppy-dog eyes, wide and wet and pleading because dads on television were always softer than velvet, always wrapping up their kids in tight hugs, so free with every single i love you that you'd felt the burn of jealousy when they'd turn around, rolling their eyes. dad, you're embarrassing me—)
It could be that. Just that. Someone else's dad looking at you and seeing some version of his kid in the way you slouch on the chair, fingers tapping a tuneless rhythm on the old, alcohol-stained wood. A poor imitation of someone who belongs to him echoed back through the lonely reverb of an empty bar.
Heartaching. Baby, dad is so disappointed in you—
But there's want there, too. A greedy, ugly thing that twists over his expression when he glances at the too short dress you're wearing. The heels that make you feel older, braver, than what you really are. A competent adult who drinks martinis at the bar. Who actually uses the free gym membership and sauna that comes with the privilege of scrubbing tiles for fourteen dollars an hour. Put together in the way that you so obviously aren't.
The look is hideous, though. Too full of hunger, too red with anger, for it to just be desire. Tangled up between the two; caught alongside need and ire.
The way men who want things they shouldn't have—and can’t have—sometimes look. Proprietary. Ravenous. Fury darkening along their brow from the denial of what they crave despite it being right there. Theirs for the taking, if only everyone else in the room would look away—
You're not sure which one it is, and it should be obvious. You should know. But there's so much space between those two things—a chasm stretching out in the middle—and you're not sure if he's angry at you for existing, for tempting him, for making him want, and salivate, and grit his teeth to fight the urge to sink them into your skin, branding you for all to see; or for looking like the quixotic image of a daughter, his, and sitting alone in a bar he'd never set foot in willingly.
Half of you wants him to look and see you. To want you. Your skin, salt-touched and sweat-slicked, under his hands. His for the taking.
But the other half wonders what it would be like to live out that Disney Channel fantasy where you can roll your eyes, lovingly, at the antics of your dad. Where all of the lines are coloured in with affection and warmth instead of stale cigarettes in an overflowing ashtray and your life shoved inside a tattered old suitcase as your father chases the American dream without ever realising it's a fallacy. One that only exists when he's asleep.
Home is a motel. It's the back of a 1967 Monte Carlo. It's a trailer park you're too embarrassed to bring your friends to. It's half-remembered birthday dinners and i owe you one’s from the tooth fairy. Your dad buying you a Lilo and Stitch piggybank just to bust it open himself when he needs cash for a pack of cigarettes. Empty beer bottles littering the floor. Tiptoeing around a man's fury. Staring into open windows on your way home and wondering what it'd be like to live with them instead.
Life is being dragged around to different resorts and five star hotels as he works his charms on the rich, hoping to score business deals and partnerships and investments instead of handouts. It's why you're here, after all. A cover story in case anyone looked too closely at the man who squirms his way inside members only lounges despite not having one of his own. Pyramid schemes where money passes from one hand to the next, and each person skim just that much more off the top.
You doubt his kids, his daughter, ever had to sleep on a mattress littered with burn holes.
Envy, you think, is just the ugliest thing—
But it doesn't sit with you for too long before he's sliding into the stool beside you after disassembling your entire being with just a handful of words. Barely even offering a greeting beyond a shallow grunt of acknowledgement, one tightly wound inside the careless effort made to flag down the bartender with a quirk of two, thick fingers.
Says more words to her than he does to you after that, really; rasping out an order for two whiskeys, neat, and promptly waves away your bewildered, half-hearted protests with a growling, low:
“you'll drink what i pay for, sweetheart.”
And you do, of course.
You drink the whiskey because he said so—commanded, really, in an authoritative bite that cinched around your throat like a collar, adding to the bitter burn of the alcohol searing down your throat before it settles like hot coal in the pit of your stomach. You drink what he places in front you, a wilful adult reduced to little more than a meek, stammering child in the face of waspish authoritarianism, and let him dictate the conversation around who you are, why you're here, stuck in this eighties time capsule moonlighting as a resort—
(and furtively, the pitch in his tenor dipping into an angry little rasp: does the man you came here with know that you're drinking your night away to Labi Siffre's soft croons in a room that reeks of smoke, lemon cleaner, and cheap plastic—)
But despite the prying, intensity of his interrogation, he never once, not even thinly veiled behind a hedging question, asks if you're single. If you're interested in him.
And you suppose that doesn't matter when you've been watching him wander around the resort like he owns it for most of the week, stealing shy, blistering glances at the middle aged Adonis for girls with daddy issues (as your friend calls him; or—like, the modern day Selleck or Reynolds, y'know? a walking, talking sex dream for dumb, needy little losers who need, at minimum, three pills a day just to function—an upper, a downer, and a middle man to keep the room from spinning, y'know?). She says all of this even though there's a ring on his finger—a neat, tidy line of solid gold—and her words are always whispered below the chatter of Mrs Price like it was a faint echo in a crowded cathedral. Heads bowed together, gossiping, as the choir sang.
It doesn't matter, though.
Not only is he so far above you in social class—separated by tax brackets, credit score, affluence, power and prestige—but he's also older. Much older. A few years older than your father, even. And married.
A married man.
Untouchable.
(if you were mine—)
Or should be, but he's sitting at the bar, nestled in a breath too close, buying drinks for a little slip of a thing, a nothing in terms of social hierarchy, barely on par with the slew of maids he hires to clean his house. A scrap. Spare parts. The ninety-nine percent. Word of the Day calls you and your ilk banausic. Boring.
If the statistics are correct, he can find thousands of yous anywhere he goes—all young, idealistic little things aching for heartbreak and agony after the crash of a life-changing ecstacy—
and that's exactly what he would be to someone like you: a paradigm. misery and euphoria wrapped up in one. the other (blink and you'll miss her) woman that he indulges in (for the weekend), sharing secrets and fantasies and what-ifs that make the ground beneath you tremble from the quiver in his voice.
a neat, tidy little distraction that he'll sever at the root before it can become a problem. a nuisance.
men like him need someone like you every once in a while because they crave that nuance in their routine, giving life. they need someone who idolises the ground they walk across to reinforce his stature, his life.
like a little fawn wandering up to a hunter clothed in camo, oblivious to the long, thick finger on the trigger, and offers an artless salvation in the middle of the forest. a moment of peace and serenity before he squeezes down and hangs her head on his wall, another trophy he can admire every time he walks into the room: a grand spectacle of conquest and a little death as he regaled the tale of that time a little doe sought him out for comfort,
the dumb fuckin' animal.
and that's what you are;
—a dime a dozen. And probably cheaper by the dozen, too: wholesale discounts, less tedious and time consuming to grab a handful and run than to barter over a single, insignificant grain.
And it's not as if he isn't aware of this. You can see it echoed in the pinch of his mouth beneath all that fur: the way he growls at you, not to you. Expects compliance and respect without giving it out in return. Demands perfection only to delight in watching you fall short of the mark (elbows on the table, slouched posture, common accent: tick, tick, tick)—the reason for the severance, you see; he's not heartless, just pragmatic, and it bleeds into everything he does. Even breaking hearts when he's used up girls like you until they're wrung dry. Nothing left to give except desperation and pity. A mess he leaves behind because he's never, not once, had to clean up after himself.
Trash for the maid to drag out the back, kicking and screaming but locked behind several non-disclosure agreements, as he ushers in a new, shiny you through the front door.
You always told yourself you wouldn't be that girl: another nameless, faceless entity for his wife to bleed over. For him to forget when he finally exorcises his demons and comes home, begging for forgiveness.
They were nothing, he'll swear, and he'll mean it, too. Nothing at all compared to her, the one he just wasn't ready for.
His children won't ever know your name, but they'll know what you've done. Who you are. What you are. They'll hate you with a quiet, burning passion. The slut who ruined a family: an easy girl who just wanted an easy life. Easy money. The harlot. The whore.
His wife, the Madonna.
You can see it all laid out like a map in your head, each point a new hurt, another moment for you to bleed until you haven't any blood left to give. Wasted on a man who, in three more years, won't even remember your name or what you tasted like or why he wanted you so badly in the first place.
You won't be that woman.
But when his hand drops below the table, and becomes an unseen weight on your skin, a heat burning through the thin fabric of your dress—heavy and firm and full of promises he’s probably the only man you'll ever meet who’ll keep them—you let it stay there for the next three drinks he buys (bought and paid for), and say nothing at all—
—nothing, except okay when he finishes his drink, and jerks his chin towards the door with a gritty, soot-stained, c'mon.
(Because between the harsh cut of his jaw gnashing as he fusses over the lack of good fuckin’ whiskey, you come to the rather quick, mortifying realisation that he thinks you're someone else entirely—Something else, really.)
and at the core of it all, it's a little clichè—
an older man preying on a young, pretty thing who is old enough to know better, but hungry enough not to care.
A punchline to an untold number of jokes—a comedic parable of what happens when men with too much influence fall victim to vapid, empty-headed vixens just coming into the zenith of their sexual awakening.
Power lies in the split of their thighs, and they'll learn this at the expense of a man who is all too eager to foot the bill. Fresh-faced youth sinking their newly formed adult fangs into the wallet of a man who ought to know better.
The basis of every rich man's dream (and eventual nightmare) because for every rich man, there's always several opportunists looking to find a hole in their ship to fasten their greedy lips to and bleed dry. A leech; a single-minded entity eager to slake their appetite on stolen goods.
And his just happens to be you:
the prettiest parasite he'd ever seen, and someone he's all too eager to help break their baby teeth.
—and utterly untrue;
to you, his money is the least interesting thing about him.
stupid fucking animal, you think, but let him slide his knuckle beneath the strap of your dress, anyway; delighted and sickened by the scrape of rough skin across the soft curve of flesh where your neck slopes into the ledge of your shoulder. Callouses toying close enough to the rabbit-quick jerk of your pulse that you're sure he can feel the tremble of it echo through the crowded cathedral of your skin.
For as much as he seems to think this is commonplace for you, enough not to warrant any significance, you aren't the parasitic distraction he expects you to be.
Maybe the problem with having a leech for a father, a money-sucker trying to blood-let this entire room dry, is that his disgrace is tattooed into your dna. The natural conclusion to the statement of: like father is, irrefutably, like daughter, after all.
Why else would you be dressed the way you were if you weren't looking for a man to suck dry, too?
But as the dress—a cheap knockoff from Ross that made you look older, more weathered and jaded than what you were—slips from your shoulders, and pools around your ankles, there's no artifice in the tremble of your limbs as you bare yourself to an older man in an empty poolroom.
The scraps at your feet seem to highlight the contrast of what he expected and what you are in an unmistakable, bolded slant. Unmissable, really. And if it wasn't the shake in your fingers that gives you away, or the flash of fear set deep in the canyons of your wide, artless eyes, pupils blown; vacillating between trepidation and terror that isn't man-made, it would be the stark difference in thread count.
Him, in a tailored suit of warm coffee coloured tweed trousers and a subtle, off-white dress shirt, and Italian leather Oxford's; you, standing partially nude in nothing but a bra and panty set that you snatched off the clearance rack at Marshalls. Laura Ashley. And you mutter a silent hail mary that it isn't the pink and black satin abomination from Juicy Couture.
Under the low light of the pool house, you can see the moment it dawns; realisation cresting through burnt umber. A slight inhale through the thin gap of his parted lips. A flash of teeth as he bites back a snarl, chokes on a ragged growl that brims, brumous, in the back of his throat.
The expectation of an easy lay with an even easier girl fading into consternation, a brief, waylaid contrition over the man he has become, one willing to stand in front of a young woman and brand her, silently, as a whore; then condemnation as the result of his silver-spooned upbringing edges through the guilt.
He sucks in another breath; a seething whisper of air through clenched teeth. The featherlight tickle of his fingers on your skin becomes a shackle. A punishment for not playing your part.
The problem is this:
You're not the only one who has been staring across a crowded room. The moment you caught his eye, he curated a fate for you, a life in whispers. Every moment designed—from a furtive look reaching across the dining room (man in the throes of a midlife crisis coming out in a chuff, the quirk of his lip as if he heard your friend, as if he knows; then: bet he likes to be called daddy), to simmering in your own fantasies as you watched him wander around the golf course. The architect to your fall.
You're in this world, his world: invitation only, under pretense. Forgery. Your father is rarely good at anything, but the one thing he does excel at is flattery. Bribery. Got his golden ticket through subterfuge, and needed to drag along his daughter as a cover story in case someone examined the cracks in his veneer a little too closely. Friend of a friend, this world is told; the reality, though, is that your father, himself, is a parasite clinging to his richer, more affluent host.
(Someone you've yet to meet with him squirreling away at odd hours, begging for scraps and handouts and hoping his get rich quick scheme of the hour will work on someone here.)
In the interim, you've been pingponging between stations—sipping free coffee in the tea room, watching grown men squabble over golf, and tally up net worths with your friend in a bitter, scathing game of spot-the-nepo-baby. Having fun on the sidelines while stealing guilty glances at middle age Adonis.
His jaw tightens with the knowledge that this isn't a burgeoning appetite for richer men slinking out from the cracking facade of your artless tremble, but a blooming unease in gutless pale-pink:
old enough to know better, but curious enough to try—
"Lets take a swim," he grunts, hoarse and charmless. If anything, he seems a little out of his depth. A little shaken, like a naughty child sneaking out of the kitchen with his hands covered in cookie dust.
And then, after a moment, a brief pause, he adds: "sweetheart," but it comes out as a growl. Condemning and wanting all at the same time.
censure for the loss of the should-be whore who enticed a good man from his wife's cold bed; anger at the quivering woman who wants him not for his money, but just to feast on the pale strokes of his design. art in grizzled fur and aged, jaded wisdom. an untouchable man softened by age around his belly and thighs. hunger for food instead of power.
You wonder, then, if he's ever done this before.
This, that is, with someone like you. Insubstantial. Non-transactional. Charity. Desire unfolding, furling open for the idea of who he is, what he represents rather than the number in his bank account.
Inching apart for gruff, authoritative masculinity; a father figure for dumb girls whose dad's never taught them not to wander up to the predator that wants to hang them on a pre-existing hook to gawk at only when impressionable company is over. Aching for discipline despite having done nothing wrong, as if indivisible sins could be stripped away under the firm rap of a rough, worn hand.
Daddy issues—one that comes with shaking limbs and an unfounded, unquenchable need to be freed on their knees; baptised with a collar around their neck, a little chain that says daddy's girl.
It dangles on tenterhooks, the truth of what this is suspended between you like a spun web. A fragile gossamer of silk, easily broken and destroyed with the slightest touch—
And that's what he gives you: touch. His fingers sloping down the shape of your body until he reaches the soft skin of your waist, digging in. A slight pinch, a pressure: a warning and a promise all-in-one. Then his palm falls, glueing to your flesh. The bend of his wrist. His arm slipping around your back, hand anchored on the opposite hip he branded with the bite of his nails. A tug, and you're pressed against his body: cheap polymer sticking to laundered silk. The heaviness of him bleeding through the tweed slacks, nipping at your belly.
His belt is cold against your bare skin, the buckle digging in. He tips his chin when you shiver, and pulls you closer when you try to wiggle away.
"take it off, sweetheart," he commands, but it's spoken like a suggestion. A choice.
He's good at that, you think, numb fingers already wrapped around the expensive cut of leather before you've even made up your mind. But that was always part of the appeal, wasn't it?
The true problem is that you've always been—
Different.
Mercurial, more insightful, well-read people would correct in a whisper, the word accompanied by a nod when you finally break down and confess that sometimes you didn't really know what you were feeling, only that you felt it a lot. Always. An inevitability. There, in the back of your head; an itch you were helpless to scratch. Moods swinging with a high, looping arc that it was difficult to keep up with, to remember which side it fell on. Too much, and always all at once. A constant, insistent pressure. Euphoria to desolation in a fingersnap: a marionette on strings controlled by a hand that wants and yearns and needs and has to have, no matter the cost; and another that fears, that trembles and shakes.
They two united by the collarbones of indecision; choice.
Maybe that's why you were drawn to him.
A man who made choices as easy as breathing, and who often did so for an entire room. Ripping away agency and the ability to pick because in the core of himself, he knows he's always right. Control, a necessary thing; something he has to have, not something he wants. Needs, like oxygen.
And he wasn't wrong when he deduced that you were a parasite—in fact, he was very correct in that regard—but what he failed to realise was that you were the type that ached for an imbalanced symbiosis: the kind that wanted to be necessary to its host. Needed by its host. Predator and prey living in tandem, like a pet frog a tarantula kept in its burrow.
He doesn't give you the respect of autonomy. No—he takes it away. Shapes it in the palm of his hand, and makes you wear the reforged remnants like a collar around your neck.
Nothing, from the onset, has ever been a choice of yours. He took the seat beside you without asking. Pulled out pieces of yourself without giving you the freedom to hand them over willingly. And now, with his arm around your waist (the plain, gold band glinting in the gauzy ceiling light), he doesn't give you an opportunity to choose.
He simply tightens his arm around you when you strip him of his belt, the trousers slipping down his legs. Leans over you until the wry curls around his chin graze the electrified skin of your temple; murmurs: "hold your breath, darlin'," and then drags you off the ledge and into the deep end.
Under the water, he's nothing but a pale blur above you.
Some god of old in peach-tinged skin; a distorted smear of impartiality and emptiness as the waves lengthen over his image, wobbling the edges until it's a symmetrical mess of flax and wet, raw topaz. His eyes, somehow, are the same dark blue as the waters that press in around you, reshaping the look on his face into something indivisible, unknown. He just—
Stares down, down at his disciple, into the wide-eyed helplessness of your chlorine burnt gaze. Fingers tense around your waist, immovable even as you start to claw at him, legs kicking under the water in a sluggish arc as you fight against the harsh, aching squeeze of your lungs screaming for air.
He doesn't let you up until the fruitless kicking of your legs stops and the strangling hold you have around his neck falls lax. Maybe there's something on your blurred, wave-washed face that convinces him you've had enough, throat aching, taught against a mettle you never wanted to meet, because the harsh grip on you softens, and with his guidance, you begin to float. A submerged buoy coming up on a ragged, choking gasp—his name sputtered out between coughs, and—surreally—laughs.
A hacking, broken giggle.
He indulges you with a low, growling hum. Kicks off against the slimy tiles at the bottom and leans back, letting you come to rest, to float, on the broad, wet spill of his chest. There's something almost tender about the way he wades through the water with you clinging to him, letting you stifle your giggles into the soft padding of his chest, feeling the material of his shirt glue to his skin beneath your mouth, the springy press of thick, matted hair flattened beneath. It's domestic. Parental.
above the water: a father teaching his baby girl how to swim.
below: his cock thickens in his soaked trousers, throbs against the melting, burning split of your thighs bracketed around his hips, his hands gripping the underside tight. the water is cool, but all you can feel is an unbearable heat bubbling between your legs; a white-hot ache that makes you huff and squirm, and hide your shame in the quick thud of his pulse.
It's different from anything you'd ever felt before. The affection, the easy, paternal clutch. The silken, throbbing heat of a man between your thighs—
When your dad taught you how to swim, he did so by tossing you into the deep end without a floaty or a life-vest. Barked at you to stop playing around as you drowned. Dragged you back to the steps of the pool in the motel with his hand clenched around the scruff of your neck before tossing you back in again with a grunting try again.
this is how my dad taught me, he barked when you sobbed, arms thick with baby fat curling around your aching stomach, gagging on pool water and misery. now I know how to swim.
But Price says, go on, jus' like this, and shows you how to slowly cut your limbs through the water with your body safely held against his chest; each stroke easier, more effortless than the last until the gruff words spoken in a vacuum of two bodies overrides the jerky, graceless survival instincts your father awakened in you at the age of four. Held and taught. Praised and acknowledged. The silken good girl brings you back to that day, sitting in the front seat of your dad's Monte Carlo as he grumbled about the clogging, oppressive heat of Florida, and sent wayward, clumsy glances at you at every intersection as your sobs tapered out into sniffles. The stiff, awkwardness of him grunting don't tell the others when he hands you a McDonald's kids meal and lets you eat it at a playground with rusting monkey bars and hardened gum glued to the bottom of the swing seats.
You wonder if he knows, and then more acutely, sharply—how. How would he know. He wasn't there. You've met him, officially, less than four hours ago.
(unofficially—god, get a look at him, hey, look, look, i bet he's fucking loaded—three days ago)
But there's a deliberateness to the way he cuts through the water, offering little praises when your feet kick slowly, matching his pace. A lazy crawl around the pool that is supposed to be closed for the night and inaccessible, but he had a key tucked into his pocket. An inevitability, maybe. Or something preplanned, like he knew your friend would flirt with the cute poolboy today, and take him up on his offer to hang out tonight. That she would shove a dress that barely fits into your arms and pout until you agreed to go for drinks because it's not fair if she's the only one having fun.
a wink, coy and sweet. go on, she urged, slightly mean because she knew how much you hated being alone when your moods dipped this low. maybe you'll get lucky, too.
Lucky. Like your dad and that once in a lifetime invitation to the men's only lounge, smoking cigars and drinking expensive wine and scotch, and gambling away money he didn't have.
It's too much of a coincidence—in both regards—and the pendulum keeps swinging, unsure of which reality is the truth. He gives nothing away, either—even when the odds pile high: remains the perfect image of a man used to getting what he wants, either by his own machinations or the innate injustice of the world falling in his favour once again.
You want to ask, but it sounds crazy no matter which way you shape the question, so you swallow it. Let it burn through your esophagus like the whiskeys he made you drink, the smoke that sticks to his skin when you press your nose into the flesh beneath his jaw, and breathe in the sea-slanted, smoke-cured scent of him. Wood—charred oak and rotting sycamore. Earthy—damp soil; waxy, decaying mushrooms crushed in the meat of your palm. Pine resin. The remnants of wet forest after an autumnal storm. Comforting—like warmed milk and honey. Like stale sweat, ashes; a heavy, warm hand on your forehead breaking through the fever dream when you were eight and sick with chicken pox. Gonna be okay, honey. Canned soup heated over the stovetop in an old, ill-used copper pot. Tinny, like licking your fingers after holding pennies in your fist all day. Sour with sweat.
He smells like home. Like winter nights on a worn couch; Home Alone playing on a grainy television—the red light from the VCR cutting through the dark. Christmas lights the neighbours put up shining through the window and catching on the screen in a smear of red and green and gold. Safe, too; but edged with a veneer of loneliness. Waking up on the couch at midnight to the stutter of the tape rewinding on its own, the moving playing from the beginning again—a Pepsi commercial flickering past as you rub your eyes and peer into the kitchen towards the microwave, trying to read the blurry time stamped in neon red. Alone in the living room, left with just the hum of the refrigerator to fill the silence, and a warm, thick throw tossed over your body.
You're not sure why he brings this strange, childhood melancholy out of you—hazy daydreams; sunbleached polaroids from a time you vaguely remember—but as you dig your fingers into his shoulders, feeling the meat, the muscle tense and release beneath your palms, you're reminded of that lingering yearning for a simpler time; halcyon drenched nostalgia: when everything was both everlasting, neverending, and ephemeral all at once. Time is, somehow, more fluid than the sand you syphoned out of the damp clenched of your palm and into a plastic bottle of safekeeping. A token of each beach he dragged you that you barely remember now.
In this moment, in his arms: weightless. Featherlight. Everything stripped away, peeling off like layers of old paint until the old wood peeks through. Your problems, your worries, hefted onto the bulk of his shoulders, carried in his arms as he kicks around the pool in lazy arcs; eyes fixed on you in something that's both coddling and possessive. A proud dad, eager to bond with his daughter; a starving man, staring at a feast—
His hands, skin slightly softened from the chlorine and cooled by the pool water, slide up the back of your thighs until the long, sloping ledge of index finger and thumb press against the swell of your ass. He doesn't look away from you as his fingertips dip into the sensitive crease between your inner thigh and the folds of your cunt.
He isn't even touching you, not really, but it quickens your breath into something gasping, needy. Each inhale tinged with the shallow trail of a whine, a whimper; wanting more than the slight grip he has on your ass cheeks, spreading you wide as the waves lap at your clothed skin, thumbs toying with the frayed lace of your cheap panties, tutting under his breath because you should be in silk, baby—
You grind against his soft belly, seeking friction with each clumsy, artless roll; tucking your mewls into his chest as he tightens his hands on your flesh, fingers pressing into fat, into muscle until it aches. But he doesn't do anything. Nothing more than just nudging you along on this stuttering, fever-touched desperation to feel something more than this unbearable emptiness. He holds you open, prying your folds apart through the thin, worn fabric with a grunt, but doesn't touch you more than that even when the mewls turn to whimpers, to pleads. Begging for more as the whine in your voice echoes through the empty room, dancing in tandem to the rough grunts, the splash of water sloshing into the edge of the pool. The slick, sticky sounds of your pussy rubbing into his belly—
"such a needy little thing, aren't you, mm?" He bites the words into your shoulder, tracing the line his knuckles made when he shed the cheap dress from your skin. Gnawing at your skin with blunt, warm teeth.
He turns in the water, one hand sliding up to brace against your spine, the other digging into your thigh; securing you in his hold in a quick, effortless motion that makes your head swim before he tenses, muscles flexing, and then lifts you up out of the water, and onto the cold tile lining the ledge of the pool.
The air is cooler out of the water, away from the warmth of his embrace, and you feel goosebumps prickle along your flesh. A shiver snaking down your spine. But this strange, overwrought feeling has less to do with the cold, you think, and everything to do with the way he looks at you. How he just stops, perched between your spread knees, and just stares. Full of heat, want; hunger. The man devours you with his eyes, flickering from the droplets sliding down from your temple, to the way they rain down off your chin and onto your breasts; to the split of your thighs, drilling into the thatch between them where the gusset of your sodden panties clings to your folds.
But as the man feasts, the father tilts his head to the side, radiating warmth. A pleasant buzz hums down your spine as you take in the look of approval, of pride, that brims in dark blue. Daddy likes the way you look; likes how sweetly you sit for him as he rubs his thumbs into the knobs of your knees, soothing the nerves that bubble as the man eats.
Good girl, the touch says, but the hunger in his eyes flays the skin from your bones; every inch of you feeling more sensitive than it's ever been before, stinging like a sunburn under the heat of his stare.
And it should be empowering, you think, to look down at him like this; but even with the slight difference in height now tipped in your favour, the top of his head comes up to your collarbones. Like this, you feel impossibly small next to him somehow—like a child being held up, gaining height in the arms of a parent. Small, in an insignificant way. A fragile way. This shivering, exposed little thing cradled in his palms; entirely at his mercy, his whims. Playing dress up in adult skin.
His head tilts like he knows the ugly thoughts in your head; can see through the centre of you, cutting through flesh and bone until everything is stripped away. Nothing but sensation in his hands; a thing made of hideous wants and terrible needs—to wrapped tight in daddy's arms, safe and sound; and fucked until you forget your own name.
Shame, desire. The two coalesce in the pit of your belly as his lips twitch into a clandestine smile as he softens the edges of his gaze, pulling back the man until the father remains.
"it's okay, baby—"
But as much as he can sand down the want in his eyes, he can't soften the rasp in his voice, and it catches on the coo, coming out as a low growl. Mangled in the pit of his throat; muscles tensing, unsure, because he's a man who either commands or yells, and it doesn't know how to handle something this soft.
There's an apology in his touch, a gentleness to the way he slides his hands up to the bend of your hips, over the softness of your belly. Soothing a hurt you don't really even feel, but one you know a younger, lonelier version of you would have. Might have pouted, even, with tears in your eyes; too sensitive, too nervous, around men who spend most of their time snarling instead of smiling. Unsure how to handle rejection, disappointment; or a touch that didn't carry a slight bite of pain.
And it's the subtlety of that action, performed without much thought (or too much, rather), that threatens to unmake you. Unravel you at the seams because there's playing pretend in the sanctity of your mind, tucked away inside a secretive, unknown place where no one can see the raw, oozing wound of a broken, lonely child yearning for parental affection, and clutching onto whatever scraps it finds, and—
And this:
"c'mon," he nudges, guiding you the same way he did when he re-taught you how to swim; the innocuous sentiment poisoned by the way his hands curl between your knees, forcing them open wider to fit him as he leans forward, eyes dark, his heavy. Staring at a place the skin he's wearing isn't supposed to peek.
You know the idea behind it. This. The word that shapes itself on your lips, sitting behind your teeth. A different sort of play; new roles shifting in the empty husks the old ones left behind.
But—
Crossing it, in reality, feels so much heavier than it did in your daydreams.
"Price," you start, words edged with a worming, writhing thread of unease. You've never uttered his name before, never tried to break this game of pretend, and his head jerks up sharply in admonishment for bruising the unspoken rules, eyes narrowing into slits, nostrils flaring. A threat: do not enter, do not say more. But your insiding are squirming through the bite of shame and uncertainty, and you suck in a tentative breath, and ease out, on a whisper: "I don't know if—"
The problem, however, is that when you toy with a man who feels more comfortable in a position of unquestionable authority, he'll inevitably just rip the choice from your hands when you refuse to bend to his whims.
Shush, baby, he coos, as soft as he can, but the look in his eyes is mean. "Just lean back for me—”
It isn't a question. He's not asking for permission—he doesn't have to. In his head, it's already a given. Implicit. Nothing he does to you right now would be anything short of consensual. Your acquiescence to this surrendered at the door when he dragged out a key from his pocket, hand low on your back, and nudged you inside. The steps you took over the threshold were all the assent he needed.
You wouldn't be here if you didn't want it.
And it's beyond the parameters of dominance and submission—where there is, always, an unequivocal thread of mutual respect, and negotiations on conduct and rules; setting the stage in partnership, rather than tyranny. Even the designs of free use are mutually agreed upon.
But this, you know, is spitting in the face of all of that.
It's ownership. Possession. He's making decisions for you with the expectation that you'll follow them through without question. Subservient to your King, always.
You think about pulling away from him, closing your legs and keeping him out. Running away—
But that's easier to digest in your head, where he's nothing but an insubstantial figure. In reality—
Price is a big man. Physically imposing. Dominating. Despite the softening of his flesh with age, you felt the undercurrent of muscle beneath the furried body he let you float on. Cling to. The heavy, thick muscles slabbed over his shoulders, his chest. His belly. His thighs. Even now, with his hands sliding off of your body, palms coming to rest on the ledge of the pool as he hangs his head and waits, you can see the shifting of those muscles beneath his soaked skin.
The rise and fall of his barrelled, furry chest both a safe haven and reminder that not only would you easily fit inside his ribs he carved himself open and stuffed you inside, squeezed there against his heart and sticky organs, but he's bigger than in a way you can barely begin to articulate. Physically—a given; but beyond the stretch of his body, the thickened bands of his arms flexing as he waits, a touch impatient, he has years on you. Experience you can't begin to unravel, to understand.
All it took for him to get you to this point, shaking between him, was less than a handful of words—and barely any of them complimentary.
A crook of his fingers. Meagre scraps of his attention. The dissemination of your walls, as easy as peeling paint from trim after it's being soaked in paint-thinner; unveiling the aching, bruised child that yearned, hungered, for something. Comfort in pieces—small morsels to entice your appetite; and now: panting like a dog for more, tongue lolling out to lick the only hand that touched you and didn't hurt—
Easy. Maybe he saw the threads from across the room. The broken, scared little thing playing pretend in adult skin; desperately in need of a guiding hand. Malleable. Pliable. And too socially insignificant to say no and have your refusal stick.
If anything happened, you'd be the whore who lured a good man from his wife's cold bed. A leech. A parasite.
He knew your role from the moment you glanced at him, trying to be coquettish but missing the mark—a coltish, wobbly-kneed doe nuzzling cold metal. Too stupid to see that the object you were seeking comfort from was the barrel of a gun.
Until it was too late.
You swallow, but your throat is dry; skin rubbing together painfully with the motion. The brief hurt, the lingering sting, almost feels like a portend, but you should know better now. It's hindsight—that what you wanted, what you flirted with, and what you get are sometimes mutually exclusive. The man, the father figure. Maybe they can't exist in tandem without one devouring the other.
"Come on," the man barks, impatient now. But the father figure softens his gaze, leans forward to press a chaste kiss to your forehead, breathing in the chlorine and sin that clings to your skin. Mouth warm, beard wet. "Come on, baby," he rasps, and his hand falls to your thigh, nudging. Urging. But it's a farce, this idea of choice, because the man won't take no for an answer and the father would be disappointed if you tried.
And you lean back when that hand slides from your thigh to your belly, pushing. Insistent. Your palms squelch against the slick tile when you press them down, bracing as your knees spread around the wide stretch of his waist. A loud squeal fills the hushed, reverent silence of the room when he curls his hands under your knees and pulls you forward. Eyes locked, drilling into the cut between your legs as you part slowly for him. For the man, the father you never had—
"god, baby—" he grunts, the words sounding like they were torn out of his throat. Carved from flesh, wet and gutteral, still sticky with blood and spit. "Fuckin'—look at you—"
There's not much to see, not with your thighs this tense and the scrap of cheap fabric covering your cunt, but he doesn't peel his eyes away from you once, devouring the little tease of your flesh moulded to sodden cloth like it was a feast. Gorges himself on it, too; chest heaving, furried beneath the clinging cotton of his shirt, muscles pulling taut. Coiling as he sinks low into the water, now levelled with your knees.
"Go on," he rasps, and that touch of cruelty from before edges into his words like he can't help himself. Lips curling into a snarl beneath damp curls. All tenderness tucked away as the man prowls around you like a stalking bear, huffing, grunting. "Show daddy that sweet little cunt."
You can tell from the wry, almost indulgent lilt that he's tired already of making this same demand, and when you boxes you in, it tastes like finality in the back of your throat. The opportunity to run, to flee, squashed in his paw as he braces against the ledge of the pool, and dives in, head cutting between your thighs, forcing them open wide. There's nowhere to go, and the man is too hungry to listen to reason—
"god—" his nose pushes against the gusset of your panties, and you mewl despite the trembling unease that curdles in your belly. Still unsure if you want this at all; but your head is a separate entity from your body. Reluctance doesn't bubble in your blood when he shifts his hand beneath his chest, and pushes your panties to the side, groaning low and wrecked at the sight of you bared before it. Wet, wanting. You wish it was just pool water, but you know, when he ruts his long, broad nose into the crease of your folds, breathing in deep and ragged, that it isn't. That it's all you. All heat.
(and the furtive, terrible desire to make daddy proud—)
He knows when he tastes you, too. Tongue cutting a long, hot line up your cunt, slick gathered up on the broad, flat spread of it, and rubbed into his teeth, the roof of his mouth. His pretty, baby girl—
Soaked for him.
"m'gonna eat this cunt," he promises, words whispered into your swollen, slick folds. Muffled by the tremble of your thighs. You can't look away from him as he speaks, as he anchors his other hand against your thigh, pushing it open wider for him to fit. The other snaking closer, middle finger slipping between your folds, the back of his hand rubbing against the tile as he teases your slick hole. "And then m'gonna fuck you. Gonna give you the cock you've been achin' for, mm, and you're gonna beg daddy not to cum inside your pussy."
You can see it, too. Him, holding you down—hand against the scruff of your neck as he pounds his cock into your cunt, barely stretched or wet enough to take him without it being a little painful. A constant, dull ache behind your naval as he splits you open on the fat swell of him. A hard, too deep grind that'll leave you sore and bruised for days afterward. His cum, when he yanks your thighs apart and stares down at your battered cunt, will be slightly pink when it spills out of your swollen, stretched hole. The rim inflamed, maybe even torn—
A sick, twisted thing will fix itself in the quirk of his mouth as he coos about daddy making you bleed.
poor little thing, he'll say, and it'll almost sound like contrition but the wicked gleam in his eye will give him away as he watches you stumble out of the room, limping because his cock is too big and it hurt you too much to take him the way you did.
But you will. You'll take whatever he gives you even if it hurts.
And when he laves his tongue over you again, you lean back with a shuddering breath, legs spreading wider, and say,
okay, daddy.
Your friend doesn't say anything when you wander back to bed in the early hours of the morning, unsteady on your feet; dazed and liquid. Wearing nothing but a rich, cable knit sweater that's too expensive, too luxurious, to be yours. Smelling of chlorine and cologne. A slight limp to your gait—beard burn aching between your thighs—as you climb into bed with her on a quiet, fractured exhale.
Her arms loop around your shoulders, pulling you close to her side as she mumbles out a question drenched in sleep about where you've been.
“Nowhere,” you murmur back, voice scraped out of your throat. “Just—”
“Come on, Dolly,” she huffs into your crown, dredging up that old childhood nickname from when you fought her over an American Girl Doll. Something that changed as you grew, like the stretch marks of your childhood still pasted over your skin. The Dolly Parton to her Kenny Rogers. “Don't lie to me—”
“Just drop it, Ken. I don't—” you can still taste him on your tongue. Feel the warm metal of his ring on your skin when he ran his hand up and down your thighs. Cupped your breast in his palm; the uneven heat of a single line on his knuckle a constant reminder of just how far down you've fallen in a matter of hours. Bent to his whim with a growl, a nudge. Pretty paper crane in his hands; brassbound morality crumpling like a sheet of paper between his worn, rough fist. “I just wanna sleep, I think. I just want—”
She shushes you quietly, whispering out a softened okay that melts into the starchy sheets, and your stomach churns as you wonder what she'd think if she knew. It's one thing to fantasize about a taken man, to make catty remarks about a wife you've never seen before (you're younger and hotter, doll) with a sly, green-eyed glint—a messy fever dream—but another entirely to actually be seduced by a gruff man using little more than a handful of words.
Barely any effort at all and you went, willingly, despite being so sure you'd never be that person, that girl—
You feel restive despite the exhaustion. Unsettled. Windswept, almost—like you spent all day floating in the sea, your face angled up towards the sun, instead of crying beneath an older man as he fucked you, forcing you to take every fat inch of a cock that was too big for you.
And maybe the idea of that, of taking a man into your body who doesn't fit, is a little more metaphorical than physical—even though you feel sick to your stomach, nauseous, and your belly aches behind your navel where the head of his cock bullied deep.
It's guilt, you think—or an abstraction of shame. You weren't supposed to be that woman but all it took was minimal effort from a man you used to dream about as a child until the embers of that adolescent yearning left stretch marks across your shiny, new adult skin. Decades later, and you're still smouldering. Aching.
The problem is that he didn't treat it like a transaction. Like it wasn't just sex. Something changed after he pulled away, letting his spent cock slowly slip out of your tender, bruised body. Instead of getting dressed, leaving things as they were with perfunctory nod and a goodnight, appetites sated for the moment, he gathered you in his arms, pulled you against his slick, hairy chest, and pressed his mouth to your temple. It was more of an exhale than a kiss, but you felt the brush of his lips, the warm, silky feeling of them sliding along your sweat-slicked skin. Tasting and feeling and just—
Just breathing you in.
Even when his hand slid down, cupping your wet, sticky sex, it was somehow less intimate than the way he looked down at you, eyes wide open, just taking you in—
And then taking you apart.
A soft interrogation as he fossicked around your sleepy head, rummaging through the muck until he knew everything—from your first memory, your biggest fear, your happiest moment in life to what your favourite foods and colours were: weaving threads of emotional intimacy (that you liked being held in his arms after sex), physical (you liked when he grazed your slit with his beard and tongue; the dual sensation of rough and soft making you whine), and everything else in between until he had the entire tapestry of your life cradled in the palms of his hands. Silken webs woven under the soft hum of the generator, and filled with the lingering scent of sex and chlorine. In the middle, he started a new anchor point, and let you stitch in pieces of himself in conjunction with your own. Soldered together with parts of two people who couldn't have been more different from each other, but worked in this strange, tentative microcosm knit along the edges of an empty poolroom.
In the moment, with your head resting against his chest, it was easy to crack yourself open, to let those long-held secrets slip out into balmy air, echoing on the slick, condensation drenched air before dispersing into the steam wafting off the water. Swallowed by the quiet. The trickling drip drip drip of water sliding off your skin and onto the tile.
Easy. And dangerous.
You consider chalking it all up to happenstance. Sleight of hand: the man hides the father figure in the cuff of his sleeve; makes you call him daddy in the bloom of a pale-blue dawn when no one can see the twisted artifice of taking any scrap of parental affection you can get—even if it comes from the rough slide of a thick cock. A broken adult still clenching around a childhood dream.
But maybe it should have stayed that way.
Dreams are, after all, inconsequential in a way real men are not.
Ken curls her hands into the plush knit of your borrowed sweater, tugging sleepily at the fabric until her head is shoved into your neck; the slope of her nose dragging over your pulse. The flutter of her lashes tickles your skin and you wonder if she can smell it on you. Guilt and sweat. Sex and chlorine.
It was a mistake, you whisper into her crown, words caught between denial and a plea. It was a mistake and it won't happen again.
She hums, warm breath ghosting across your jugular in a sweet line. I know, she rasps out groggily, only half awake as you beseech her for forgiveness that isn't hers to give out. Go to sleep.
But when you sleep, you dream. And the problem with dreaming too much is that it becomes difficult to differentiate between fantasy and reality—
Fantasy is tumbling out onto the patio with Ken’s fingers laced between your own; blinking sleep-soaked eyes against the foggy glare of the sun as it smears across a pale blue dawn.
Everything feels dreamlike: a hazy spill of light; fog thick in the air, dense with humidity. A warm morning—the kind that glues to your skin and causes the heat to bead sweat down your back, your palms; makes everything feel syrupy and intangible. Ephemeral.
Ken peels her sticky, warm fingers away from your hand, glancing eagerly towards the pool house where the man she disappeared with last night lingers in the doorway, a long, blue net clasped in his hand. He grins wide when he sees her.
“I'm just gonna go say hi,” she mutters, and huffs at the glance you send her, one laced with askance. “Oh, shut up, dolly. He's cute, okay? And it's harmless.”
Your room is on the ground floor, perched across from the outdoor pool, and the sprawling valley of green that makes up the first of many golf courses situated on the resort. Ken doesn't bother using the door—she grabs her tote, and slips over the railing with a quick wink in your direction, hastily throwing a quick see you later over her shoulder that melts into the thickening humidity.
You follow her lead, convincing yourself you're just going to lounge near the pool all morning. And for the most part—it works. There's a stack of magazines on the table beside the lounge chair, and a book someone left behind.
You don't expect to see him today. The pool is public, and the golf course is beginner level—silver membership—and you spend the morning and most of the afternoon sipping on virgin cocktails, eating sun-warmed fruit, and pretending as though you couldn't still feel him between your thighs, on your skin. Ken shows up for a handful of minutes to check in on you, her eyes bright, slightly flushed with a tinge of warmth that has little to do with the sun, before she darts off again to meet with the pool boy during his breaks.
And for the most part, it's fine. A neat distraction. But it's between waving off Ken and sinking back into the same stagnant relaxation that he appears, shattering the silly, childish game of pretend that you've been playing with yourself.
He's dressed for a game, wearing tweed trousers in a shade of off-white and a short-sleeved polo in the same colour—tucked in; cinched with a plain, brown leather belt.
He looks good. Even better, somehow, in the misty light of a warm, foggy afternoon than he had yesterday under the glow of artificial lights. Almost like he was made for daylight. For soft, warm golds. Sun-touched.
You pretend you're not staring. Watching him just—
Stare back.
Intense. All heat. He hasn't looked away once—was watching you before you even noticed him, really. Looking down the length of the pool, eyes shaded beneath the bucket hat he's wearing. Endlessly dark, wanting.
The look he pins you with is ravenous. Hungrier in the daylight. It's here, in the open, where there's no mistaking what he is, what he wants, and as he tips his head towards the lobby, a pointed look that's more of a summoning, a command, than anything else, you shift in your chair and look away. Pull the book higher up until the words of Coco Mellors drowned out the sight of him limned in the light of the soft yellow sun—
The long, silver club arcs high in the air, cresting over the book you've turned into a shield until it knocks into his shoulder where he lets it rest for a moment. The only thing you can see over the pages and beyond the pale smear of a gauzy blue sky. Tap, tap…
Your knuckles ache. You're holding the book too tight but you're overcome, suddenly, with the urge to squeeze it tighter. To anchor yourself to something, anything, until he walks away because you feel restless—weightless. As if his presence, that subtle, unshakeable sense of authority, will make you float, obey, whatever command he makes of you. He unmoors you, and you need, above all else, to stay tethered. To stay present.
Morality is not bendable. It is not fickle. You will not follow him into the shadowed alcoves of the resort, dancing to his whim. Will not let him pretend that he's making a monastery of your body when he advertises it so clearly as a bordello.
You're stronger than your impulses, than the desire to feel those fingers gliding across your skin again; baptismal and condemning all at once—too much like coming home. Like being found.
You won't—
You promise yourself, feeling sore and bruised in the lounge chair, that you won't follow him, won't let yourself be corrupted by a fleeting scrap of affection from a man you haven't decided yet which role he's meant to fill.
But this oath is just a dream.
The reality is that you find yourself on your hands and knees in a linen closet during breakfast as he brackets himself around your pliable body, and tries to fill the aching hole of a loveless childhood with the thick split of his cock.
Mouth searing across your nape, whispering the words you wanted to hear your entire life, but they're Frankensteined together with the deplorable filth of a man trying to bully his stupid fat cock into a too tight baby fuck cunt—
(you're so good, sweetheart; takin’ me so well, aren't you? ‘course you are—you can take it, all of it (every fuckin’ inch)—‘cause you're a good girl, you're my good girl; my (tight, wet) baby, aren't you?)
It's still just as painful as it was last night—if not more. An ache deep in the middle of you; a raw, open wound being pried open, sticky with blood and serous. A constant, stabbing hurt—
But it's easy to slip into a dream, to blur the lines of fantasy and reality until it's a muddled mess of melting baby fat and charring bone; to push back into that unrelenting ache, moaning as he grinds his cockhead against a place inside of you that burns like a knife wound.
so good, you say and maybe you even mean it, too. but it's good the same way swallowing through a sore throat is. ripping a bandaid off. blowing on skinned knees. digging your fingers into your temple to claw apart a headache simmering just behind your brow. a good kind of pain. a soothing sort of hurt.
good—in an abstract sort of way: (a mother's hand on your forehead when you're sick; a tight hug).
but he isn't satisfied with halves or quarters. he’s a man with appetite, someone who loves to eat more than anything else. consume without purpose—have just to have.
his hand is a heavy weight against your nape, fingers tensing into muscle, tendon. squeezing until the air wheezes out on every shallow exhale. each gasping breath he allows you to take is a reminder of how little you matter beyond a plush, soft body and a warm, wet cunt for him to sink into.
his touch is suffocating. dizzying. a pain you can barely breath around, but to be baptised is to drown—
go on, say it, say it—
you can't.
“feels so good—”
whatever shame you can abstract from the broken, bruised remains he leaves behind when he finishes with you (daddy, dad, and god leaning back on his haunches; cock softening—wet and sticky—on his thigh, eyes riveted to the tender mess of your ruined cunt leaking the come you begged him not to pour inside) is left on the tile in a smear of pearled pink.
a mess for someone else to clean.
(And as you stare across the patio, watching two shapes stand close together under an awning—locked in a heated conversation, his hand darting out to grasp her forearm, preventing her from leaving; an abstract shadow of anger (where have you been?) and icy diplomacy (nowhere, love; don't you dare walk away from me)—you come to the slow, stomach churning realisation that this is what you've always been.
Just someone else's mess. Their problem. A project for them to fix—a broken doll on a shelf, clearance rack discount, and oh, you poor thing.
All you need is some TLC, they say with a nod, decisive. Wiping the grime from your button-eyes with the sleeve of their shirt. Touch gentle, tender—like you're something precious. Something fragile. Fixable. We can have you looking brand new in no time.
They promise they'll patch up the holes, the fraying threads, brush off the dust—an easy fix, dolly, don't you worry—but they soon realise the mess is bigger than they expect when they crack you open, unveiling all the rot inside that a simple spit-shine won't fix.
Staring across the sloping green valley of the golf course to where he pulls a woman who isn't you into his chest to whisper in her ear (there's no one, it's just you), you can imagine how it would unfold so vividly in your mind—
With that pretty gold band on his finger, digging them into your skin, your flesh; wrapping his worn, rough hands around your bones. Cracking your ribs open only to discover that this isn't just playing pretend for you. That the rot is bone deep. Has been metastasizing inside of your marrow for longer than you can remember.
Peeling his fingers out and finding his skin, that pretty little wedding ring, covered in a thick, putrid ooze; the necrotised slurry of everything you sealed inside. Wiping it off with a grimace, a damning fuck, sweetheart because you were supposed to be an easy fuck and nothing more. Something to lure him away from his wife for the weekend—a pretty, dumb distraction to sink his cock into. Whet his appetite before he went home on Monday and played the dutiful, loyal husband all over again.
And now you're under his nails. Staining his skin. A liability.
The men who tried to fix you in the past just handed you the tattered pile of rot and left you to stuff it back inside and sew yourself up. But him—
(he leans down, bringing his lips to her ear: only you, love)
He'll crush the pile under his boot. Have someone else drag you out to the trash, kicking and screaming. Empty, hollowed out. You'll stuff yourself with the money he'll give you for your silence and fill in the cracks with guilt.
And soon, you'll be back on that shelf waiting for someone else to try next—)
He calls for you again that night, but you don't answer. Leave the summons rotting beside the single red rose he had someone tuck beneath your pillow, and slip down to the bar instead.
You wash your mouth out with whatever they place in front of you, and pretend you're not pining. That you're not thinking about him all alone in whatever hotel room he bought for the night, sitting on the bed or pacing around the room, smoking cigars, drinking whiskey—waiting for a knock that'll never come. Not anymore.
Not ever.
dumb fuckin’ animal, you think, but let a man pull you over to his table where all his friends are sitting, spilling out around empty bottles and the thick stench of cheap cologne, anyway.
“This is my new friend,” he says with a grin. “She said her name was Dolly. Everyone say hi to Dolly.”
It's echoed in a slurred chorus of warm beer and scattered shots of rum. They all seem friendly enough—as welcoming as cheap alcohol will allow—but you hesitate, hovering, a touch unsure, at the edge of the table until the man, whose name you don't even know, won't even remember, drops heavily into his seat with a huffing little come on, sit.
He sends a careless kick against the leg of the chair beside him, and it reels backwards with a loud, sharp squeal into your thighs.
All you can think, staring down at the polished wood of the seat is that John would have pulled it out with his hands. Left them there, against the back, until you sat down. Tucked you into the table, his chest warm and big and firm against the back of your head.
have a seat, sweetheart—
The man doesn't say anything like that. Come on, he grunts, sliding a tall, orange coloured drink your way. Have a drink.
You take the seat. Take the drink. Let him loop his arm around the back of your chair, tugging you closer into his side as his friends laugh over something you can barely make out under the heavy, thrumming pulse of music.
It makes your head ache, but you smile around the throb of it because this is what you're supposed to do, isn't it? Be the kind of girl who would let his hand slip under the table, and fall on your thigh. Climb higher and higher until he's teased himself into a frenzy of need while you sit there and get talked at, never to. Pretty doll he takes back to his room where you'll go through the motions without a word; laying there, silent and still, and let him fuck you on his bed, feeling nothing at all because you’re just a doll dragged off the shelf for a bit of play—at least until something else snatches his attention, and then you'll be left on the floor. Forgotten. Unwanted. A mess to take out before sunrise, sneaking through the halls wearing the clothes from tonight.
The feeling of disgust and shame will only choke you when you think about it too much, so shoving it into a box, keeping it stuffed in the back of your closet, is just easier. Then you can chalk it up to a silly girl making a silly mistake.
It's expected of someone like you, after all.
To fuck, to get fucked. To take what doesn't belong to you only to be left behind. Watching from the patio as a man and his wife fall back into each other while the ruiner is left, forgotten, on the sidelines. Always the other woman, never the first choice.
Young and dumb and—
Easy.
It's what he thought of you, too, isn't it? An easy lay. A simple fuck. Someone he could buy for one night. Poor and cheap and so fucking easy—
He didn't see anything special when he looked at you—just an imaginary price tag he could try and talk you down on. Worth less than the soot beneath his boots.
Just another lonely, broken thing—the kind of girl men like him could find anywhere they go. Thousands of yous easily becoming notches on his bedpost.
The whore. Homewrecker—
His hand falls to your thigh, fingers tightening as he leans in—all smiles, too wide and too white—and whispers: “hey, uh, want another drink? I can get you something—”
“—oh, hey—” another voice cuts in, a pale hand falling between you and the face that keeps inching closer, shattering that white, dizzying spell of bad choices and boyish charm. “You're Ken’s friend, aren't you?”
You've only ever seen him from a distance, but up close, you can see why Ken’s into him. He's cute. Boyishly handsome in a manicured way.
“Yeah,” you say, pulling back. “I am. Is she—”
Ken appears at his elbow—a flushed, giggling spill of Dolly! that he catches easily with a grin.
Seeing her feels a little bit like waking up. She's just so—present. Grounding. The sight of her makes you pull that much further away from the guy you just met, sliding to the edge of the chair until his hand slips off of your thigh.
Ken catches your eye, her brows raising.
“God,” she says, giggling into his date's shoulder. “Look who just showed up—”
You don't turn because you know. Because you can feel his glare burning into the bare skin of your shoulders where the fabric of the thin, cheap dress doesn't cover. The air is perfumed with the stench of burned flesh—rendered fat, and charring bone—and the earthy scent of burning tobacco. Robust and full—so different from the stale cigarettes that blooms off the skin of the man as he slides his arm around your shoulders, desperate to reel you back into that atmosphere of easiness that permeated from you. An easy lay, quietly slipping away from his grasp as your friend shows up, and her date slides between the two of you, shattering the spell and bringing you back to reality.
He's not ready to let his conquest go. “Hey, man, we're kinda busy here, so, uh—”
“Yeah,” Ken's date mutters, rolling his eyes. “Gonna be real busy when he decides to come over here—”
“I don't know who—”
Ken reaches out, and the moment she touches you, his words buzz into static, lost under the heavy pulse of music. Her fingers slide down your cheek, touch soft and sweet and grounding. There's no judgment in her eyes when she looks at you—just that same childlike adoration that's reflected back at you each time you stare at yourself in a picture with her.
“You look thirsty, Dolly. Why don't you go and get a drink, huh? Maybe clear your head.”
“I'm not really—” you start, but she shakes her head, cutting your protests off with a little pinch to your cheek.
The meaning is clear enough. She doesn't approve of the guy whose touch you can barely feel as he tries to compete for your attention, fingers grazing the strap of your dress, his voice a distant echo softly calling out dolly, doll, hey, doll like you're a dog he's trying to make come to heel. Her distaste shows in an obvious, sour twist of her lips, her brows raising when you catch her eye, the unspoken really, Dolly an admonishment that makes your cheeks sting as if you've been slapped.
She doesn't know you fucked him—middle aged Adonis, a living dream for fucked up losers with daddy issues, isn't he, Doll?—and that, to her, sending you over to him, a married man, would just result in harmless flirting (at worst) and a reason to get you away from a guy she heavily disapproves of (at best). She doesn't know that you saw him and his wife together less than a few hours after you took him inside your body, letting him make a home out of your flesh. Adulteress; luring a good man away from his wife.
Or that the only reason you're here is to escape him—
A man who isn't supposed to be here, in his bar. A place he doesn't belong, doesn't fit in. He's supposed to be with his wife, or—
Or picking up a new, shinier you for the night. Anything but standing at the bar, glaring at the hand still sliding over your skin. You can feel it—feel his eyes on you. Drilling into the back of your head, the nape of your neck. A silent command that you feel rather than hear—can sense it like some primordial, instinctual thing. Primal, in a way; a prickle on your skin. A churning in your guts. The silent, authoritative come here without words. A soundless summons that makes you want to roll over, show your belly. Obey.
A quiet get over here—
And you could ignore it. Could very easily turn around, waving Ken off with a little don't wait up and lean back into the other man's pull of self-mutilation. Catharsis in cleaving off strips of skin; each piece falling to the floor of his hotel room as you undress your flesh so you can douse yourself in shame. Self-immolation with a foreign touch. Fingerprints on your body, inside it, that doesn't belong.
You can already feel them, too. On your thigh, your shoulder. Beer-warmed breath ghosting over your cheek. Come on, drink up, dolly.
But as Ken drags her fingers away from your cheek, smudging the imprint left behind—you're so hot, dolly, fuck—you know nothing will hurt you as much as he ever could.
a man you tore yourself open for.
“Yeah, you're right,” you say, swallowing down the bitter sting of betrayal when her eyes light up—harmless, she thinks; you'll go and flirt with and admire a married man who won't touch you like the boy beside you, whose fingers are digging into your skin. “I could use a drink.”
Price doesn't take his eyes off of you when you approach and makes no move to meet you halfway—content to have you come to him, but you don't.
You lean against the ledge of the counter, keeping several, empty stools between the brooding figure consuming the corner and yourself. A measure of safety, maybe; self-preservation. The look on his face is rich with anger—the kind that makes no promises of a quick, sweet death if you come within striking distance. Full of barely leashed fire; a deep, teeth-chattering fury that wilts some of confidence still lingering inside of you, leaving behind the bitter sting of unease as you wonder if coming even this close was a good idea.
He makes no effort to soften the scorching ire that brackets his expression despite the fact that you—eventually—obeyed his command: little deer venturing guilelessly into the ravenous bear's den. If anything, he seems angrier.
Even from across the counter, you can see the muscles in his jaw tick when he clenches his teeth. His fists, too, ball up tight. Knuckles blanching when he leans down, bracing on his forearm as he mutters something to the bartender—the only time he pulls that intense glower away from you.
He's too far away for you to hear the exchange, and more unease prickles along your nape as time continues to stretch, ticking by. Slowly morphing from escapism to compliance to a strange waiting game you can't make sense of, the rules becoming unclear, marred, because you obeyed, didn't you?
Sort of.
You keep your eye on him as the bartender pulls away to make what he ordered, taking in the way his eyes narrow when he glances back at you, the anger still potent. Still heady. You can't really understand it, though—approaching a married man who wasn't supposed to even be in this bar was bound to cause whispers. Rumours. Did he really expect you to saunter over to him and play your part in the open like this? To wander up to him, in full view of a crowded bar, and make a spectacle of your broken parts for everyone to gawk at. Debasing yourself just to soothe a bruised ego—
His irritation folds, something else leaking out from the splinter of his churlish ire—amusement over this newfound reticence of yours, undoubtedly—and he shakes his head with a scoff, muttering something under his breath with a wry twitch of his lips.
You've built yourself around the evolving moods of your father—a fortress to protect against the anger, the irritation, the quicksilver shift between sodden dolor and euphoria, a confluence of malignancy where the bulk of his schemes manifested—but in all that knowledge, in all of that crafting and building, and every safeguard you've made to prepare for each one, the look on Price's face is singularly foreign. Unsettling alien in the way it merges together—some strange amalgamation between anger and malcontent, and a third, implacable mood you've yet to discern.
Greed, maybe.
He's looking at you now the way a starving man would look at a feast. Just as hungry, as wanting, as they are overwhelmed with choice. Indecision lingering between that primal urge to devour, to sate themselves.
Under that stare, the appraisal that seems to dig deep into your marrow until the heart of you is cracked open in his palm, you feel exposed. Raw. Adrift—
John raps his knuckles against the table twice before pushing off. The look on his face makes your belly churn with a deep, unending sense of foreboding as he slinks, quietly, purposefully towards you. It's just your imagination, you think wildly, edged with a touch of unease, hysteria: just your mind playing tricks on you—
But the look on his face is very real.
The low light of the bar bathes him in heavy shadows that drape over the peaks and high arches of his facial topography, darkening the valleys and canyons that make up the hollow symmetry beneath. Cut lines of leashed fury tucked in the crevasse of an artificial disappointment. A facsimile of discontent, fatherly anger—or rather, a pantomime. A man playing pretend because real or feigned, he knows you'll ache over it, anyway.
And you do.
The sting bubbling beneath your skin. Shame blistering. It's unfair, really, that you're this susceptible to manipulation—ruined by a man before you were old enough to understand the consequences of his revolving, intangible presence in your life, and how it would shape you into this needy, quivering thing that burns at the slightest touch from the cookie-cutter shape of a father.
You want to apologise for transgressions of a married man. Prostrate yourself at his feet until the sunlight catches the band of his ring like a prism, heat melting the metal until it drips down, and sodders your guilt across your flesh.
He draws closer until his front is inches from your back. Lingering over your shoulder as you curl your fingers around the glass of whiskey the bartender puts down in front of you.
“Don't know what you're gettin’ into,” he draws, words a soft growl in the back of his throat. The sudden clench of his teeth catches most of the fire, but you feel the heat all the same.
Your heart jumps. You feel it lodged in your throat when you swallow. “What am I getting into, John—”
His hand falls to your hip, the scorching heat of his palm bleeding into the thin fabric of your shawl. Goosebumps prickle along your skin, blooming outward from where he grips you tight.
“This,” he rumbles, low and deep, fingers cinching tight on your waist like he's allowed. “Don't be coy, sweetheart. You know exactly what you're doing.”
“I don't.”
“No?”
You want to argue the point suddenly. Defend yourself because none of this was your fault—
But his hand slides down your hip, grip tightening as his fingers begin to pull at the fabric of your dress, bunching it up into the cradle of his palm until your thigh is bared, leaving you exposed. No one can see you with your back turned to the bar, hidden against the counter and the bulk of his body, but fear—a snaking, looping tendril of want—cinches your throat until all you can eke out through the pulse of paranoia and desire is John, please—
His lips graze your nape as he shushes you quietly, unbothered by the panic etching across your face, the hushed pleads for him to stop, just please stop John—all of which he ignores, bringing his other hand up, around your waist, and lowering it until it's tucked neatly between your thighs, sex cupped in his warm palm.
Your breath comes out in a stutter.
“Think you do, sweetheart.” His finger grazes over the wet gusset of your panties, drawing a thin line across your clothed slit. “Was it that boy that made you this wet, mm? Got you soakin’ your panties through like this?”
He presses his teeth into your skin, then, biting down on your flesh as he growls or is it my come leakin’ outta you still, mm?
“John—”
“Think he'd fuck you like I do?” He hums the words into the indents on your skin, tongue snaking out to lave at the deep wounds. “Hmm? Think he'd be able to give you what you need?”
“He isn't married—”
He stills behind you, becoming a solid wall of warm flesh and bone, and you want to take the words back. Swallow them down. It's what you should have done—just let them rot in your throat instead of spitting them up because you know your role. You've known it from the start. This—
This changes everything. Shatters the understanding that puddled between the two of you, trickling down from each interaction where he pretended his wife wasn't waiting for him, and you acted as if the ring was just for show.
John grunts, then, and you feel sick. Nauseous. “I didn't mean—”
He cuts through the deluge of excuses that threaten to pour out of your mouth when he slips his finger beneath the fabric of your panties, and sinks it inside your cunt. “My poor baby,” he's cooing as the walls around you warble, beginning to narrow. “I thought you knew,” he murmurs, and it makes you feel miserable. “Been feelin’ neglected, mm?”
“No, no, I haven't been. I just—”
His finger slowly slides out, leaving you clenching down on nothing. Empty. A pitiful whine slips out before you can clamp your teeth on it.
“Drink your whiskey, baby—” he lets your dress fall, keeping it held up on his wrist as he reaches for the glass of whiskey the bartender placed down, and brings it to your lips with another coo, another too-rough murmur that burrows deep in your belly. “Go on, love. Drink up—”
He doesn't give you much of a choice, and you swallow it down, choking on the scorching liquid when he slides his hand over your slit until he's cupping you in his palm again.
“—Go on,” he urges on a low, charring rasp. “And daddy’ll give you what you need—”
“You can take it.”
The words growled out from between his clenched teeth are meant to be reassuring. And to some capacity, you suppose they are. But they do nothing to soothe the burn, the stretch, of him splitting you apart like this on his cock.
More’n you can handle, he promised when he shoved you into the washroom of the lobby, and bent you over the sink before dropping to his knees, adding: but this is what my girl needs, isn't it?
And it is.
All you can do is cling to the dingy sink as he shoves himself up against you, rutting furiously between your thighs. Taking what he has to give like the good girl he promised to make you be.
And good girls take his cock to the root.
No exception.
So, that's exactly what he'll have you do. Willing or not.
It shouldn't thrill you as much as it does. To be owned, possessed, claimed by a man twice your age (turned forty eight last month so we came here to celebrate, he'd rasped between a generous pull of his cigar, words drenched in nicotine; you'd nodded so hard, your neck started to hurt), but fuck. It does. Pollutes you from the inside out. Fills you with that ugly sort of want. The kind that looks at men who offer platonic, paternal affection and sees an object of desire instead of a patriarchal placemaker.
It blooms in the hazy drag of alcohol and bad choices; a contact high off of all the cigars he'd smoked since he pulled you down to your knees, and barked at you to get him ready.
The cigar flashes in the mirror when he takes another drag, ashes falling carelessly over your spine. His personal ashtray to use as he sees fit. It's demeaning. Gross. You arch your back for him, spine locking in a pretty bow so he has a place to keep it all, glued to the sweat that pools in the cradle of your dimples of venus.
The butt of it wedges between his lips, splitting them wide in a snarl—all teeth gleaming in the low light. Predatory as he takes his fill of vices offered to him on a platter.
His other hand curls over your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to pop your blood vessels, bruise your bone. Possessive, unyielding. He doesn't have to grab you so hard, but he does. Holds steady, keeping you anchored in place as he feeds you his impossibly thick cock.
Taking it and admiring seem to be all you can do in his grasp, staring up at the hazy image of his wide hips swallowing you whole with enough room to spare on both sides to fit your fists comfortably on the knobs of his hip bones. His big hand holding you tight. The other one alternates between reaching for the cigar and the whiskey he'd kept on the sink next to the one he has you leaning over.
The thick, coarse hair dusting over his arms; the thatch above is groin that curls over the softness of his stomach.
He's attractive. Beastly. The sort that reeks of undomesticated man; rancid, heady in the way a grizzly bear smells of rot and the wilderness. Masculine. Not like the boys you're used to. Soft skin. Peach fuzz. Chiselled jaws. Toned.
No. He's rugged. Animal.
The thought alone makes your toes curl.
“Think that boy could be fuckin’ you like this, mm?”
“N–no—!”
He brings both hands to your waist, cruelly pulling you back into the hard thrust of his hips. It forces the rest of his cock into your cunt, and you keen with the sharp burn of the stretch. A reprimand, you know. He seems like the sort who sometimes confuses affection with pain, moulding it into a multifaceted weapon to suit his needs.
And right now, it's a punishment. Don't lie.
Or, rather—tell me what I want to hear, or else.
“Just you—just you—” you stammer out, barely clinging to the edge of the sink as he wrecks you. Ruins you. You're not used to this. To bring used. Everything in comparison feels so tame, so gentle. The way he takes you apart is new. Daunting. Uncharted territory.
Thrown around like a ragdoll. A seal in the jowls of a great white.
“Just me, mm? That why you came here instead of coming to me?”
“It was a mistake,” you slur, dropping your head onto your forearms. “I just needed—I needed—”
He hums low in his throat. “Needed someone to take care’a you, mm? That it?”
The words are muffled around the cigar when he speaks, the slur in his voice sending shivers down your spine. Heat—white hot, electric—buzzing through your nerves.
“Yeah—”
“Yes, what?” He corrects you with another sharp rut. The force of his hips slamming into you sounds like a smack. It's pain. Pleasure. The duality knocks something loose inside your head—common sense, maybe. Self-preservation. Whatever it is, was, the absence of it, a stopgap, unleashes the flood keeping you pinned. Docile in his arms.
Untethered, you chase more of that paradoxical painpleasure. Squirming back into the wide bracket of his hips, eyes rolling when his cock bumps into something that makes your cunt clench tight. Belly fluttering. Filling with heat.
So close, you think. Chanting it in the back of your head as you roll your hips in kittenish gyrations. Head thrown back, eyes flickering up. Pleasure blooming whitehot through you veins—
His hand slides through the ash piling on your spine, glued to your skin with sweat that beads, pooling from exertion. The fever. From the sweat that drips down his brow, falling onto your back. The worn, rough graze of his skin skimming over your flesh makes you whimper, gasping into the cradle of your arms when his fingers reach the curve of your shoulder. He curls them over it, tips catching on your collarbone as he digs in tight. Using it like a ledge to bluntly slam his hips into your ass, balls slapping against your skin.
Your belly aches. Too full, too much. Too deep. You yelp, jerking your head up, eyes wide, to catch his gaze in the grimy mirror. His mouth is twisted to the side. Displeasure dripping off of his temple.
You remember yourself, then. Bowing your head in a soft, sinful supplication.
“Y–yes, daddy—”
Your demured submission is met with another roll of his hips that grinds his cockhead into your cervix. Tight, bellyaching flits that makes your toes curl.
It burns. It hurts. But you swallow the whine brimming in the back of your throat because you know he wants it to sting. This is a punishment. Your pleasure is secondary. A fact you're all too cognisant of, but even as an afterthought, it still ruins you.
“Been cravin’ this, haven't you? Struttin’ around like a bitch in heat. Waiting for someone to snatch you up, mm?”
“Yes, daddy, yes—”
He takes his hand off of your hip, pulling it away only to make up for the loss of momentum, control, by digging his fingers sharply into your shoulder, tugging you into each punishing thrust.
“Gonna give you what you need, love,” he growls, and when he brings his hand back down, you feel the wet butt of his cigar dampen your skin. It rests pinched between his fingers as he ruts into you, and the thought of that—of him holding his cigar and your waist to piston his cock into you, as deeply as he can go, giving up neither—shouldn’t shatter you, but it does. The carelessness of the action, the surety he has that he'll lose neither his nicotine nor you—a mere vessel for him to sink his want into—sends a ripple of pleasure dripping down your spine.
Being used like this is euphoric. It shouldn't be. The amalgamation of shame, humiliation, and pleasure burn through you. Made worse when he leans down, lets his soft, hairy belly push against your spine, and draws the cigar to your mouth.
“Open up,” he grunts, pushing the wet butt against your teeth. “Y’gonna hold it f’me. And if you let it drop—” the fingers buried into your shoulder are pried off, his thick, burly forearm shoved under your skin, tucked tight against your neck. Punishing. You can't breathe. Your eyes roll—
But like a good girl, your mouth falls open for him. The cigar is pushed inside. Your jaw clamps shut, teeth digging into the damp paper, tasting the malt sweetness of tobacco. The velvet drag of smokey nicotine.
Sweat clings to his skin, dampening your temple when he nuzzles his jaw over you, sucking wet, scorching kisses into your jaw.
“If you let it drop, m’gonna put you over my knee and spank your ass so hard, you won't be able to sit for a week.”
You whine around the thought of it. His hand on your skin—the sting, the ache. It's not something that ever sounded appealing to you before, but coming from his mouth, the rasping, burrowing words uttered in that deep, fraying tone, are enough to rewire every staunch belief you've ever had until it's putty in his hands. Moldable clay he can build, shape, into whatever image he wants—
—and mould, he does. Twisting you into a receptacle for him to pour his need into; to burrow deep beneath your skin until each breath that trembles out of your heaving lungs is shared. An entity forming, writhing as it takes shape inside the brackets of a condensation-drenched mirror: the beginning and the ending of him cradled around the whole of you, merged into a single, blurry line. He catches sight of it, too; gaze turning molten. Intense.
Look, he snarls, bending down until the entire stretch of his front is glued to your spine, hand closing over the skin of your nape in a tight, painful squeeze that forces your chin to lift, to watch through lachrymose eyes as the hazy shapes from before transform, painting a picture of primal debauchery. One of a man—indistinguisable from kin or conquerer, man or father—hunched over your body, taking with a force that rattles the porcelain beneath your chest, and punches each noise, every breath, every sound, out of you, these breathless little ah, ah, ah’s that make him answer with a groan, echoing a call back to you.
You see yourself being taken, being fucked by a man so much bigger than you, so much older and stronger and powerful—from the broad stretch of his shoulders, the soft give in his belly, his wide hips, his thighs, the sheer length of him able to tower above you and cover you from head to toe when he lays his thick, hairy chest across your back. Consuming you utterly. Too big in a way that feels wrong. In a way that itches under your skin. Rubs at your nerves until their raw and chafed and fraying around the edges because he looks so much like a man, like a—
A dad.
It's the shape of him, maybe. The outline. A hazy image of a man—an authoritative figure hunched over you, uttering raspy praises under his breath, things like good girl and bein’ so good for me, sweetheart. Things that almost sound like good job and i’m so proud of you. Everything that shouldn't be said at the height of intimacy—a dark, swirling ugliness tucked inside brackets, wrapped around parentheses. Unspoken, but there. Present in a way that's unmistakable. Unmissable.
Look at you, he burrs, bending down to suck biting, painful kisses, nips, over the stretch of your shoulders. Such a pretty little thing f’me, mm.
Takin’ me so well—
The image in the mirror is catastrophic: lips peeled back in an expression that could just as easily be misconstrued as pain as it could pleasure, teeth sunk into the fleshy give of a cigar still smouldering, still burning in your bruised, sore mouth. A grizzled, barrel-chested beast of a man burring behind you, head hung low as he grips your hips and uses you, battering his cock so deep inside, it aches.
He isn't soft about it. There's no tenderness in his touch. It's frenzied. Rough. Your reflection blurs with each thrust; the pistoning motion driving you forward several inches until your forehead kisses the glass, just to wrench you back into the wide spread of his chest, his belly sliding over the small of your back.
This is the definition of being taken. Being used. Fucked. It's hideous. Primal. There's no finesse. No artifice. It's messy, wet. Soaked skin clinging together. Sweat pours from his face, dropping onto your back. His furried thighs stick to the backs of yours, hairs getting tangled in the spill of slick and sweat. It's hot. You feel overheated. Feverish. He’s a furnace behind you, surrounding you. The air is thick, syrupy. Dense with the smell of sweat and skin and sex—
It's heady, dizzying. Too much. But he doesn't stop. He doesn't slow. There's nothing sweet in his touch. In the way he grunts above you, growling out wants and desires into your crown, the words mangled in the thick of his throat. Praises that sound too much like scuffing rocks over dried soil, crushing rotting wood in the palm of your hand; gritty—lithic, harsh—to ever be mistaken for sweet nothings or sublime poetry. It's too rough. Knotted with burls and jagged splinters, and full of chatter marks. Cutting, too—
Snarled words forced out between clenched teeth. Look at you, so fuckin’ eager for my cock and pussy was made for me, wasn't it? Ugly, brutal things shaped by the hands of a lapidarian. Good girl, gaggin’ for my cock—
Polished enough that they cause heat to pool in your belly, but they're porous. Rough. Scraping sharp, chiselled edges along your soft insides until it catches, weeps. A wound leaking shame into the molten pit of pleasure—a euphoria that sometimes makes your breath hitch, like swallowing back a sob. It feels good. It feels so good, but there's a pinch. A pressure. A sting—the pebbled words you gulped down tearing at your flesh, but the heat is hot enough to cauterize the wound, though it leaves behind a scar. Swollen flesh pulsing with shame, tucked behind a wall of make-believe, indifference. Scar tissue.
Go on, he demands, forearm sliding beneath your chin. Choking. “Go on and come for me—”
Come around my cock—
The thick burl of his arm forces your head up, up, and in the mirror smeared with thick condensation, the true scope of his obsessive need to consume, to devour, you whole sharpens into a dizzying, breathtaking clarity:
the look on his face, in the molten sapphire pools of his lidded eyes, shifts when he looks down at you. staring at your back, your spine, as if you were the hook which he hung the entirety of his pleasure, his absolution, on—the only thing that can slake his substantial appetite.
It's a terrifying, heart-stopping thought. To be on the receiving end of that paralyzing look is enough to tip you over the edge and into the arms of a release so heavy, so full, it's almost nauseating—
(But nothing compares to when he shifts his grip on your hips, holding steady as he pounds into you, and the moment he rediscovers the ring on his finger is reflected in the mirror. Etched inside the lines of his face, coloured inside the margins, is a breathtaking fury that brims up from the depths, chasing the receding tendrils of an unfettered, underfed devotion—)
despite swell of your release ripping through you—making you clench tight, desperate, around his cock, electrifying every single nerve ending until it's saturated in a molten euphoria, liquid pleasure—every instinct hums to life, buzzing with the unmistakable, atavistic urge to flee, to run from the thing that looks at you and snarls mine—
but,
(his teeth sink into the side of your neck with a growl. fingers digging into your hips, dragging you backwards, back into his cock, his chest. palms stretching wide across your belly when you try to leave, to crawl away from that earth shattering, cataclysmic look—)
“where'd you think you're going?”
His tone pitches low, sated but not quite full. Still wanting. Possessive. He sucks bruising, blistering kisses across your shoulders, sinking his teeth into the spots the man touched, and growls:
I'm not finished with you yet.
His fingers slide behind your scalp, pulling you up onto your toes and into his chest as he bends down to meet you halfway, lips peppering over your cheeks, your jaw, trailing to the puffy swell of your mouth still wrapped around the cigar. A low good girl, good fuckin’ girl for me slinking out as he slowly peels it from between your teeth, soothing the ache in your jaw with his thumb.
John's mouth takes its place, his tongue delving between your teeth. A rough, devouring kiss—an eating. Consuming. All teeth and tongue. The sting of his beard on your cheeks, chin. Scraping at your skin until it starts to burn.
You feel dazed, dizzy. Barely cognisant, barely here; unmoored—as if the ground beneath you has opened wide, forming a chasm under your feet. It's just his touch, his hands that keep you from falling. Hold you steady, suspended in place.
“Such a good girl,” he grunts, teeth grazing your bottom lip. “Aren't you, mm?”
“J–John—”
“Go on,” he presses, pulling you tighter into his chest, into his hold until you melt into the broad spill of him stretched around you. Floating in the bracket his arms make as he hums low in his throat, timber felling into a smokey, guttural growl, words charred. Dark. “Tell me you're daddy's good girl—”
Ken is asleep when you stumble into the room and there's a sharp, acute sense of deja vu that folds over you at the sight of her on the bed. A yearning that brims up inside of your chest—boneweary; aching—and you almost answer it, follow that familiar, comforting path. A place of sweet succor. Deliriously empty. A sanctuary where you can rest your eyes for a moment, and escape the lingering feeling of being hollowed out. Scorched.
But you go to the bathroom instead. Turn the shower on as hot as it will go—until the room is cobwebbed in thick swaths of fog and the glass is drenched in condensation too thick for you to see the mess, the travesty, staring back at you—and sink down against the tile, letting the scalding water rain down across your skin.
It isn't purification. This isn't a baptism. It's—
His come drips down your thigh. Thick, and milky white on your skin; tinged a pearled pink from your blood. Pretty, he'd grunted the first time he saw it ringed around his cock, drying on your skin. Just like a ripe, sweet cherry—
You can taste him on your tongue. Ash and whiskey. Tobacco. Malt and sage and sweetgrass. Salt-touched from the sweat on his upper lip, clinging to his beard. Feel it on your skin still, too. Coarse hair scratching your cheeks. Your neck. His rough hands pulling at you, cinching your waist tight between his worn palms. Callouses digging into your hips, scraping your flesh. Tugging you against him. Into him. Ride me, baby, just like that, mm. Bucking up from below. Your hands clenched on his shoulders; the dusting of hair smattering across his collarbones tickling your palms. His belly sliding over you. This is all you needed, huh? His hands cupping your breasts. Your throat. Squeezing tight. Just needed your daddy to fill you up, mm?
Your skin itches, prickling with the ghosts of his touch. The way he stretched you, filled you. Fucked you deep—too deep. Cockhead drilling into the seal of your womb; battering your cervix with each full, deep press of his hips. Spilling inside of you each time—gonna let daddy fill you up, mm? Must be so lonely, sweetheart. Maybe you just need daddy to give you some siblings, huh—
He's in your head. Tattooed along your gyri—his fingerprints lingering in every synapse. Wiggled in so deep, you could cleave through every limb, every muscle, and still feel him embedded inside you.
(a cancer.)
The only saving grace is that you don't expect to run into him again.
He got what he wanted, after all—a pretty thing coming undone on his tongue, wrapped tight around his cock as you whined and writhed and tried to push him off of you, out of you, begging him not to come—and so did you:
a man, caught between daddy and dad; a father figure to breathe his sorrow, a silent apology, into the bracket of your thighs when his come leaked out, tinged pink, and a man who twisted your body into whatever shape he liked best, using you until you couldn't remember how to say no anymore.
You feel both sated and sick—a sore, aching mess caught between nausea and dread (biting off more than you could chew; a child stumbling around in her mother's stilettos, lips painted clownishly red), and grown, aged and new, even though you walked into that room as an adult, old enough to buy your own drinks, and sublet an apartment of your own. Different, in a messy, sticky sort of way. Raw from shedding your old skin.
a baptism in the nicotine-tinged spit of an older man.
Ken blinks sleep out of her eyes as she reaches for the sugar at the dining table your father picked, yawning behind the stretch of her hand. You stare at her for a moment, feeling a strange, surreal sense of loss. Everything looks the same, but you feel different. Fractured, somehow. A new you in your old body.
(like he made you leave more than just a smear of pale-pink behind on the cold tile—)
Maybe it's the consequences of toying with older men. For not playing the part he assigned to you originally—the whore who would be chirping at her next victim after washing away the evidence of her last host.
For trying to make something sacred and safe out of a married man, as if the ring on his finger, the one that burned when he wrapped his hand around your throat to hold you still as he pounded his cock inside of you, was inconsequential in face of your naked wants.
Broken childhoods can only excuse your ugliness for so long.
But it's fine, you think, even if your stomach churns and your palms sweat around the mug of coffee you can't bring yourself to drink. You got what you wanted—if only for a little while.
Lessoned learned—
Or they should be.
But after stepping outside of his role, he seems determined not to go back.
He stands in front of the table, looking down at you, and it's such a perfect moment of symbolism, that you almost feel awed as you stare at the shadow he casts over your untouched omelette.
Dressed in brown corduroy trousers, and a seashell dress shirt that cost more than the rented suit your father promised to return three years ago, he looks like a staple piece; a figurehead of luxury. Everything tailored to perfection. Cut with his measurements in mind.
But it's not his clothes you're staring at, but the pale, slim hand curled around his forearm.
It's easier to render someone's existence into little more than a guilty afterthought when they don't exist within the brackets of your physical reality, when they're incorporeal and watered down; a ghost on the edges of your periphery, easy to ignore. To banish. To make up slights to feed the flimsy excuses you whispered to yourself while her husband groaned into your cunt—
Your dad jumps in quickly, obviously to your paroxysm of conscious; offering a seat to Mr and Mrs Price—an honour, of course, to have them at his table, and wouldn't you know it, he was just thinking about how good the two of them looked together, admiring them from afar because, gosh, Mrs Price, your husband is quite an accomplished man and a genius when it comes to business ventures, which he, himself, is interested in, too, maybe Mr Price would like to hear a bit about it, as such a highly regarded man of business—and you swallow down the nausea that dredges up again as she gives him tight-lipped smile drenched in a cold, polite indifference, before casting a shrewd, and rather pointed, look at her husband.
But he isn't paying much attention to her displeasure. No. He seems to be relishing in yours even if he hasn't yet graced you with his gaze, or given you any modicum of attention.
You can feel it, the arrogance, roiling off of his shoulders, the same ones that carry the deep, jagged red lines from your nails as the command of fight him off, beg him not to come inside you edged a little too close to reality. A futile one, of course; easy dismantled with the tight grip of his hand around your throat, a snarl brimming the back of his.
don't leave a mark on daddy, baby—
He cut himself off then, but as he tucks himself into table as if he wasn't the reason for the ache between your thighs, the rest fills in with a simmering, sinister whisper: or my wife will see.
You feel flayed. Hollowed out. A feeling that's made worse when Mrs Price sets her eyes on you, and they immediately narrow into suspicious slits. The only saving grace from the guilt that chokes you alive is that she doesn't linger. No. Her disdain is aimed at Ken instead.
Despite yourself, you can't help wondering if Ken was the type Price usually went for. If there was something about her that drew a wife's ire quicker than you. Jealousy, in this context, at this abhorrent table with an adulterer, a spiteful wife, a whore, and a leech, is unfounded—especially when it's directed at the only innocent one here—but you feel it tightening inside your guts all the same. Another shame to add to the rest; sin after sin after—
"...and this," your dad says, a loud proclamation that cuts through the terse glare Mrs Price keeps on Ken (and the bemused look Ken sends your way in response), and draws everyone's attention back to you when he motions with his hand, an easy sweep. "Is my daughter."
It's then that Price finally looks at you, takes you in. But where you'd expect the haughty conquest of a man whose machinations put his wife and whore at the same table, eating the same waxy eggs and drinking cool, bitter coffee, you instead find a brief, but deep, thrum of anger that clots over the sun-touched blue of his eyes, darkening them into a murderous slant of unpolished sapphire; a swelling, blackening azure of a Mediterranean storm.
The suddenness of it, and maybe the ugliness, too—a soot-stained smear covering all the warmth you'd felt last night when he curled his hand behind your head and dragged you in for a kiss softer than the cashmere sweater he gave you before (more tender, too, than the rasped arms up he uttered as he slipped it over your head; or when pressed a featherlight, gentle kiss to your forehead when it popped through the opening before sending you to your bed); leaving you sated and sore but more whole, settled, than you felt in a long, long time.
But it's gone, peeled away from you and angled at your father as he beams in some facsimile of pride—undoubtedly having just lied about what university you went to and what job you have, if only to bolster his own status of a man who breeds promising upspring.
And as your dad continues with another lie ("my daughter's a good girl, ivy league, aren't you, kiddo?"), you realise what it was that set him off:
daughter.
It's on this word that his jaw clenches. The he placed on the table curls into a fist, knuckles blanching under the strain. It's—
It's a powerful feeling, really. For a man to be so covetous of you, enough that's plain to see the lines of greed, of jealousy, etching into the divot of his brow, the sour mark of his mouth when he frowns. Fingers curling, holding himself back from—
From lashing out, maybe.
From snatching you up, cradling you possessively to his side.
Powerful—and intoxicating. Enough that it makes you deliberately press your thighs together, just to feel the ache he left behind. Delighting in the sting, the burn; letting it balm the guilt and shame that eats at you still.
Your squirming catches his attention, and he stares at you again as your dad prattles on. The look on his face is full of barely stifled want, a naked hunger; burning sapphire. A look so scorching, that makes Ken gasp beside you.
Mrs Price, drawn to the noise, glances sharply over to her. Disapproval makes her lips tilt downward, angling the corners to the ring of Tiffany Blue diamonds draped over her slender neck. The hue almost matches Price's eyes, and your stomach churns at that subtle realisation.
"Well," she says, her voice low and rich. Saccharine as she looks away from Ken, and back to your dad. "Hopefully one day our daughters can be as accomplished as yours."
Daughters.
You knew, of course. In the back of your head. In the sleepless nights spent tossing and turning, mind reeling over what you were ruining, the thought of a close-knit family brimmed. Dark and awful. Those poor kids. But now the thought makes you sick for another reason. And it's silly. He's a grown man, married—it's almost a given that a man as traditional as he is would have children already. Probably married Mrs Price at nineteen, too. It shouldn't rankle you this terribly, shake you this much, to think of him as a father, and not just—
Whatever he was to you last night. This week. Filling in the margins of something you didn't ask for. Didn't seek out.
And maybe a little bit of it is envy. Jealousy. Taking away the man, and the father you're left with is something out of a hallmark movie—coddling, gentle; softening his words even though the natural grit in his voice won't let him. Patient and reverent and so goddamn doting—
Good girl, he'd said, and you can easily imagine his hand on your head, thumbs stroking your skin as he doles out easy praise.
But the thought of that, too, of being related to him by blood, makes your stomach churn just as viciously because you want him with a fury that makes your throat ache, scorched and bruised swallowing back the fire that threatens to leak out—want more of that paternal warmth, too—but not enough to give up the way he felt inside of you. How he growled your name when he came, muffled by your hand pressed against his jaw, fingers curling over his lips. Trying to keep him from kissing the pleads of no, don't come inside me, daddy from your lips.
A game; playing pretend.
It feels like there's a war inside of you; the ache left behind from his cock is the sweetest, most awful thing you'd ever felt, but it wouldn't be complete if the hurt wasn't balmed by the warmth in his voice as he murmured arms up, baby and so good for me, sweetheart. His lips against your forehead. Safe and sated. The two knitting together until they become a single entity.
It's wrong to want this, to feel this way. To want a man to be two things at once, polar opposites: a lover and a father; a comforting hand that soothes and heals and gives out affection as easy as breathing—
But to also be held down, taken apart, and bullied into a soft, melting submission by those same hands. The ones you want to slip the clothes off of your body, hungry for your bare skin; but to redress you afterwards. Arms up, baby.
(a sick, sick, terrible thing, and you think you hate Price a little bit for dragging these ugly, buried wants out into the naked daylight only to taunt you with the idea of them; his daughters, protected against the world that will hurt them the same way it hurt you if it gets a chance, and his wife, her hand still curled around his arm—)
It's more petulant than you want it to be when it slips out, a soft, chiding: "daddy," something you've never called your father before, but it's worth the temporary embarrassment when Price jerks his head up, eyes burning, narrowing when your father makes a noise, dismissive and pleased at all once. "Stop it, you're embarrassing me."
The man is angry, jealous; but your father is proud.
"Oh, honey—"
Price makes a noise in the back of his throat, cutting him off. "Well," he starts, and his hand flexes, tensing. The look he gives you is nothing short of murderous. "You're in luck, sweetheart—" your heart lurches, a hopeful, yearning squeeze, but he glances pointedly at his wife, and you feel bile climb up your throat. "You're looking at their new nanny."
She's just as bewildered as you are when she turns from Price to Ken, then slowly, carefully, to you. "Oh. I hadn't—" she swallows, and tries to smile but it comes out as a grimace. "I hadn't realised we needed one—"
"Ivy league nanny," he cuts in, leaning back in the chair. The picture of ease, as if he hadn't just shocked the table into an uncomfortable silence. "Quite a catch, isn't she? The girls will love her."
"Yes," she agrees after a moment, her smile pained. Forced. It's clear that she won't—or can't—interrupt her husband, no matter how utterly disagreeable she finds his decision. Finds you. A nanny to his children—someone they barely know. How utterly absurd. "What a lovely surprise."
"Been thinkin' about it since you—" as Price motions lazily towards your father, something in his cadence makes the back of your neck prickle; "—mentioned her all those months ago. Couldn't let the opportunity to snatch her up for myself—my daughters—pass. You won't mind, of course—she'll come stay with us, be closer to the girls—" Mrs Price nearly chokes, but John doesn't look her way; "—easier for everyone," he finishes, decisive. Firm. His word, at the table and the world at large, is final. Non-negotiable. He wants it, he said it, and so, it must be true. And if it isn't yet, it will be.
In the wake of that irrefutable finality, the table quiets, digesting his words slowly. Ken looks confused (her elbow presses into your side, hissing why didn't say something under her breath), and your dad tries, and fails, to bring the conversation back to focus, making prying remarks about pay and wages and how proud he is of you, his daughter, all of which are ignored by both of the Prices'—John, content to stare at you over the rim of his mug, ignores her attempts to get his attention, and she lapses into a stiff, uncomfortable silence; her face slipping back into the cold disdain from before. Guarded, almost, as she slips her hand away from his arm and into her lap.
You're not sure what to make of this sudden revelation, either. You had assumed that you both got what you wanted—him, a fantasy come to life: a pretty thing wrapped tight around his cock; and you, something to stuff inside the wound inside of you, to balm the ache of a lonely, affectionless childhood in the arms of a man who could be both things to you at the same time, and neither all at once.
To you, another wound you'll feel when you're older and wiser and realise that there wasn't any victory in conquering (in being conquered) by a man like him—just more hurt, more trauma that would ache before it scabs over, scars. A twinge you'll feel sometimes when you think back to this moment and wish you never met him at all because men like him like to consume, they devour, and when they're finished, there's seldom anything left over the salvage. Ruin to you, but to him—
It was supposed to be another dime in his pocket, another notch in his bedpost. Something to reminisce about later, when he went out searching for something else. Trying on new yous for size just to see how they fit. Insubstantial. Temporary. Impermanent. What you had with him wasn't transactional—it was wish fulfillment and nothing more. A stopgap. Not something to be dragged into the light of day.
You thought you were both just playing your parts.
But this—
This changes the dynamic. Reshapes it into something new. A new role for you to fill where he parades you around in front of his family, and they all pretend that they can't smell the putrefying residuum of a lonely, starving child oozing out of the wound in your chest. Where he'll fuck you in his martial bed when they leave the house, and make you call him daddy. And you will because once you let a man like him make a choice for you, it'll never end. Never stop.
But that's what drew you to him in the first place, wasn't it? And there's really no one to blame for this but yourself—after all, you should have known better.
Power is a wonderful thing in the hands of people who know how to weld it, and his are worn enough to tell you that he does it often. And usually at the expense of everyone except himself.
You just didn't expect it to happen to you.
The unctuous spill of your father trying to scheme more favours under the guise of thanking Mr Price for everything he's done follows them as they leave the table.
Feeling slightly dazed, numb, you watch them go, lingering on the firm hand Price keeps around her arm, jaw clenched tight as she mutters under her breath. You can imagine the things she must be saying to him (really, John? not even the pretty one?) from the venomous glare she angles his way when they reach the door, but he doesn't spare her a glance, just pushes her towards the exit as the pool boy Ken has been seeing—Kevin, you think she said—spots him, and offers a wide grin.
Ken lets out a small noise as they exchange a few hushed words.
"You should have told me you were fucking Mr Midlife Crisis," she whines, pouting. "What gives? And please tell me he has an equally rich, equally fuckable best friend, or something—"
"I'm not fucking him," you murmur, ignoring her snort of disbelief and the churlish yeah, right as you watch John slip his hand into his pocket, and drag out a wad of cash that Kevin takes with a grin.
And for the most part, it's true:
You're not just fucking him. And as the pieces of whatever he's planning, whatever schemes he has for you, begin to fall into place, it becomes clear that you don't just fuck a man like John Price without consequences.
he’s dangerous, your dad says afterwards, thumb running over the curve of the lounge card Price let him keep (with a Duchenne smile, one too wide for his face: all yours, he'd told him, but his eyes were on you). There's something in the lines etched across his face—an uncertainty, almost. Dark corners touched with guilt. He looks at you, then, and you know that the hazy figure who lured him here—some silent partner, interested in his schemes—was Price.
Gets what he wants, he adds, tentative. Meek. You've built your life around his moods. Made a home out of his anger, his misery. But you've never seen him look quite like this. So shaken. So rattled. As if the wool was being ripped from over his eyes, and he wasn't sure what to make with what sat in front of him.
“He always does. And he's, uh, he’s a pretty rough bastard to negotiate with. Knows things, y’know?” Something uneasy swims over his expression, shuddering through the guilt. The uncertainty. “Don't know how the fuck he knows what he knows, but he does. And if that don't work—well, the big fucker who follows him around like a goddamn shadow can be pretty persuasive.”
And then—
“but, uh, you'll be fine, kiddo. John, he—well, he loves his girls. I didn't know he was even listenin’ when I was talkin’ about you, though. Might've, uh, embellished your accomplishments and how great you were with kids, but you'll be fine. Sweet little gig until you get another job offer somewhere else—”
it takes a while for everything to really sink in, but you can't really be too mad—fathers have sold their daughters for a lot less, after all.
Before he leaves, he tells you that he'll send for you in three weeks.
"Got things to take care of first," he murmurs into the back of your head, the hand on your belly slides lower, keeping you secure on his lap in the private lounge. "When m'done, I'll send for you. First class—you'd like that, wouldn't you?"
His wedding ring gleams under the gauzy, golden light when he drags his hand further down until he reaches the tops of your thighs. The other rests lazily on the arm of the velvet green chaise. A tumbler of whiskey cradled against his pinky, ring finger, and thumb; a lit cigar sits between his index and middle.
A man comes to refill both whenever he gets too low without a word. A silent presence. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't acknowledge that you're not the same woman John showed up with.
Money, you realise, can buy indifference. A cold, impartiality. Frigid ignorance. The men in the room, the same ilk as Price, all look away when he gropes you openly, immodest and unashamed.
"And don't bother packing anything," he rasps, rolling his mouth across the back of your neck, the thick tangle of wry curls scraping across your skin until it smarts, a little sting. "I'll buy whatever you need."
You know his game. Remember, vividly, the way he handed over more cash than you'd make in a day working to a man your friend was distracted by. Know, deep down, that this is a dangerous thing. Thrilling, of course, in a way you can't begin to unravel; but deadly.
A man who buys people, morals, so effortlessly is not the same as the boys you'd tease in college—the men you'd flirt with when your dad turned his back. Shunning them the moment they bowed, keeled over, and teased you back. It was more thrilling to chase than it was to have, but with him—
There's no just teasing, no just fucking, a man like him. Not without giving something of yourself up—a trophy for him to hang on the wall.
But still. Still.
"Gonna spoil me, daddy?" you breathe, pushing against his chest, a light tease—just to feel the rumble of his low growl against your spine. The heat of him searing into your skin.
"m'gonna treat you like a goddamn queen."
There's a sting against your nape, the burning pinch of teeth as he bites down on your skin, as if to embed the words into your flesh. Make them true.
His hand slides down, fingers slipping between your thighs to tease the bare skin of your mound. Spread 'em for daddy comes in a sneering growl. The men around you politely avert their eyes when you obey his command, letting his hand slip between them as your hushed gasps reshape themselves into low moans, little whimpers.
You might be more like your father than you realised because you can't stop the oily, greedy sense of victory from blooming in your belly; the ugly want that rages, hungry for more of what you don't deserve. Pushing back into his chest as if you could absorb the feeling of him against you through osmosis, keeping it tucked inside to soothe the loss of him for the next three weeks, waiting for whatever plans he has to come to fruition.
But, as it turns out, you don't have to wait very long.
The news comes a week later.
Mrs Price, after snorting clonazepam and drinking a bottle of wine, slipped on the slick tile of their indoor pool, and drowned.
It's branded, officially, as an accident, but whispers lurk in dark corners of a deeply unhappy woman in a loveless marriage—one soon to be dissolved had it not been for the untimely tragedy.
Price started divorce proceedings a month ago, they say. Something she just—hadn't taken very well. Accidents happen, though, and the investigation is closed without much pomp; Mrs Price is laid to rest only a few days later.
He calls you in the days between the wake and burial, and though you didn't really know her, know their marriage, the absence of any sorrow in his voice as he speaks around cold, indifferent facts—give the girls a week to mourn, send tickets for the airline afterwards; a dinner to introduce everyone, but, oh, they're fine; eager to meet you, of course (a shock, really: you hadn't known they knew you at all)—and they sink in your belly like a stone.
It isn't your place to dwell on the mechanics of their lacklustre marriage and whatever might have led him to you, and her—
well.
You ask, though. Just a bit. Mostly hedging around the edges, skirting the periphery of what happened that night, and where he was (busy with work, the girls at their grandmother's for the night). He seems faintly amused by your subtle prying, humming into the phone about how he'll feel better when he finally has you home until it's all put to rest, and you pretend the nervous flutter in your belly when he calls is excitement instead of dread.
A terrible tragedy. That's all—
and the dreams that plague you at night are just that: dreams. even if each time you close your eyes, all you can see is the smear of a man—a vague, gauzy entity of smudged pale peach and brown—leaning over you, holding you down; submerged in a watery kaleidoscope of Tiffany Blue as the waves breaking over his long, thick forearms cutting through the surf gleam like diamonds on his skin before they disappear beneath your chin.
—and really, you were never much of a swimmer to begin with (too many bad memories shaped by your father, after all), so it doesn't mean anything at all when you start to avoid pools and open water after getting that call.
It's just—
Pragmatic, is all.
The problem is this:
Your daddy didn't do anything to protect you, he muses, fingers beneath the hem of your new dress. Offered you up like it was nothin’. Ain't that a shame?
The quiet, shaken yes spills from your lips when he sinks his finger inside of you—right to the knuckle.
“‘course you think so,” he drawls, twisting his hand until the unease in your belly evaporates into pleasure. Into need. “Knew right then that a sweet girl like you deserved a better dad.”
Didn't you, he prods, low and dangerous. Edged with something you can't place. Didn't you baby?
“Yes—” you eke out, moving against his hand, chasing the pleasure his touch brings because it's better than the alternative—than thinking too much about what he's saying. What it means.
Something you'll consider later, maybe. When you're all alone in his house, wearing his ring. You'll think about it, and then him—how he looked beneath the water: dad, daddy, and god—and you'll choke on the chlorine in the back of your throat—
“Forgettin’ your manners already, mm?” he asks, and there's flint in his tone. A thin line of steel cutting along his words that makes your toes curl in the kitten heels he bought for you when the plane landed. It's a demand, even though he shades it as a soft coo, and gentle nudging. “Go on. Say thank you.”
And you do. Spread across his lap in the back of the car, clenching around two thick fingers as a man you met briefly as Nik hides his expression behind dark sunglasses, pretending as if you weren't coming undone against the soft silk of his bosses slacks, you sob your gratitude into the thick column of John’s throat. Choking it out as he works you over the edge and into that sweet oblivion where he's still just a man, and this is all—and has always been—a choice you made in the low light of a bar.
“Thank you, daddy—”
"Like it?" He asks, and draws you closer to his side when you nod, still taking in the cosy home he brought you to.
Meeting him might not have been aleatory but when he moves away from your temple, nose trailing downward over your cheek until his lips whisper over yours, the world seems to set itself back in motion. Antiphonal heartbeats blooming in tandem.
This, this, feels like waking up. Like coming home.
As if he hears your thoughts, he pulls you closer to him, swallowing the gasp that tumbles from between your lips; taking your breath into his lungs.
Me, too, it says. Me, too.
"Good. Now—" he presses his lips to your cheek, a sweet kiss to anyone looking but you feel the bite of his teeth scraping against your skin. "Go say hi to your sisters, and tell them we're goin' out for dinner. Gonna celebrate me brinin' 'em home a new mommy—"
(and sometimes, when you close your eyes at night, you don't even dream about a pool.)
i'm literally the priest's favorite sacrificial lamb because i am so docile and sweet and i hold very still when they put the rope around my neck and i trot along so happily while they lead me to the altar and they do not even have to tie me down because i lie so very still and only bleat once or twice in my lovely lamb voice and when the knife comes down it cuts through me like butter and i offer no resistance and i bleed so prettily all over my new white wool and my guts all unspool like the most beautiful shining yarn and my eyes are animal and dumb and hold no accusation and every time i die i come right back as another little lamb because the priest loves me so so much and he always chooses me for the sacrifice every time and he always places one hand on my small and twitching nose to calm me while he lifts the knife and he doesn't do it for the other lambs only me because i'm his favorite
john price who’s a perfect gentleman in bed…at least, on the surface.
he knows how thick he is, and he insists on pulling two orgasms from you before he even thinks about fucking you. and isn’t that sweet, how concerned he is with your comfort?
but deep down, he really only does it because of the way it puts you just this side of overstimulated when he finally slides home. you’re absolutely soaked, dripping with the juices of your release and still shaking with the aftershocks of the second climax when he notches the fat head of his cock against your twitching hole.
he groans when he meets no resistance, your body too lax and weak to do anything but let him in on one filthy wet, sinfully slow push forward. you don’t even get a chance to suck in a breath before he settles his weight on you, fucking into your drooling, oversensitive pussy.
